#He sewed the pockets himself!
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Where does Bruno hide his salt? Where do the rats go when thrown under his ruana?
Brief interaction with @encantoisawesome inspired this idea.
Look at that doting rat dad ❤️
#He sewed the pockets himself!#bruno headcanons#bruno and his rats#Bruno rat dad#bruno madrigal#encanto fanart#bruno fanart#encanto headcanons#encanto#By Nyda
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Dirty Dozen (ft. +2)
GN! MC x Pervert! OM Characters
(Cause y'all seemed to love the first one omg. Also TW: I made everyone wayy more sleazy and nasty than before so read at your own risk. MInors DNI)
Pervert! Mammon who likes to ask you for something specifically when your hands are full. "MC, lend me a few Grimm could ya?" He asks when you're in the middle of cooking.
"My hands are covered in cake batter, just take some from my back pocket."
"Are you sure it's there? Let me check both pockets." He isn't so much searching for coins as much as he's feeling and practically groping your ass. Seriously you start to wonder how it's taking him 20 minutes to find something that's right there.
Pervert! Solomon who keeps his room colder than usual when you come over for magic lessons.
"Is it too cold for you MC? I apologise, I kept it this way because some of the potions have bad reactions to heat but if you'd like-"
"I'm absolutely fine, Solomon. You worry about me too much." You smile at him reassuringly, not noticing how his eyes are so eagerly trained at your nipples perking up through your thin t-shirt.
Boner Bonus points if you allow him to hug you for some warmth. His fingers will definitely brush against your chest more than once.
Pervert! Beel who seems to make a mess whenever he's trying to help you in the kitchen. "I'm so sorry, MC. I didn't mean to spill it on your hands!"
"It's okay Beel, it's just some cream and syrup. I can just wash it off right away."
"But it's such a waste. Please allow me." He starts to thoroughly lick your fingers and you shake your head and let him knowing his fixations on food.
But he can't help it - you taste so good. He secretly wonders what you might taste like down there, drooling at the thought.
Pervert! Levi who has taken to sitting on pillows Japanese style while gaming and offers you the same. Sure enough you don't even suspect an ulterior motive.
"Did you get inspired by some human world anime again? Careful though - your legs and butt will start to cramp after a while."
"MC you're too gracious! Caring so much for an otaku like me!"
After you leave, he promptly takes the pillow you were sitting on and puts it in his bathtub. He's going to sleep on it ofc. Your scent on it helps him jerk off better.
Pervert! Belphie who now asks you to rub his belly till he falls asleep. "What's so funny?" He asks as you giggle at his request.
"Since when do you need help falling asleep?"
"I care about the quality of my sleep. And I sleep better this way."
Fortunately you believe him and don't suspect that it's because it's the closest he can get you to fondling his dick. He has such a difficult time holding in his moans and hard ons, every time your hands go even a bit lower than usual.
Pervert! Barbatos who got into sewing clothes as a hobby and specifically likes making them for you now. But you never understand why he needs to take same measurements over and over again.
"Oh? This is a different kind of design, MC. So the measurements will vary from before."
"Always making new things aren't you? You never fail to suprise Barbatos." You smile at him admiring.
The tightening of the tape around your chest and crotch are subtle. He can hardly keep it together when you praise him after all. But he has to if he wants to skim his hands over your body like this again.
Pervert! Diavolo who takes you on such long drives that you always doze off in the front seat, waking up apologetic for missing so much of the journey.
"Hahaha, it's okay, MC. We've been on this same road lots of times. I assure you, you didn't miss anything. And I like that you feel safe to sleep in my presence."
"But still, I'm so sorry, it feels disrespectful..." You apologize, not even knowing how hard he is in his pants right now.
Afterall, he can keep squeezing your beautiful thighs, maybe let his hands wander between them and imagine himself fucking you in the back seat as much as he wants, when you're asleep.
Pervert! Simeon who will have noone except you as his muse for art classes. And the themes just keep getting more erotic each time.
"Are you sure you're okay with this, MC? You don't have to do it if you're not comfortable-"
"Nonsense, Simeon. I feel super comfortable if it's you. You're a true artist after all." You say as you lay on his bed wrapped up only in bedsheets, exposing your entire back and legs.
If only you knew, this angel has thoughts dirtier than most demons. How he's practically fucking you with his eyes. How he's definitely going to jerk off into those bedsheets, moaning your name.
Pervert! Satan who loves teaching you things - standing right behind you, guiding your hands to make latte-art, or trying a new style of painting.
"That's it, nice and slow. Look how much you've improved, MC." He beams at the cute kitty in the coffee cup.
"All thanks to you, Satan. I can't wait to learn more from you." You smile at him earnestly.
He almost feels guilty for tricking you this way, but the way your hands feel in his, and your ass feels against his groin is so addicting. One of these days, he wishes could teach you to be on all fours and take his length in your pretty little mouth.
Pervert! Asmo who loves keeping your eyes on him and noone else. From elaborate performances to petty staring contests, he cannot have enough of your gaze.
"Oh you're turning red in the face, Asmo. Did I manage to flutter the heart of the Avatar of Lust?" You lean forward smiling.
"You're my only weakness after all, MC. It's your fault for making me this way." He almost moans.
You laugh and mock apologize at his antics but you don't know he's been grinding like an animal on his seat, and creamed his pants under your innocent gaze. Your undivided attention just turns him on so much.
Pervert! Lucifer who makes his desires too obvious sometimes. He'll regret it in the morning and take you to dinner to apologize but not until he's already done something dirty.
"Lucifer, it's 2 am. You need to throw away that coffee and sleep." You're practically dragging him to bed.
"Fine. I'll go sleep if you'll stay in my room tonight." He says knowing you'll comply. You care too much for your own good. He's not even going to let you sleep on the couch, no you have to stay wrapped up in his arms.
You might wake upto him groaning your name in his sleep and you might mistake it for a nightmare - not knowing how he's balls deep inside you in his dreams.
Pervert! Thirteen who likes how excited you get over her newest inventions and keeps making more things to call you over.
"And this little baby and can throw pie at people's faces without ever missing. Guaranteed headshot." She smiles proud.
"This would be so useful in a cafeteria food fight and then get banned right after its glory. But I so wanna use it!" You whine.
She loves how much you appreciate her inventions. She is secretly working on a 'pleasure' device scented like her to give you - she hopes you'll like it just as much.
Pervert! Mephisto who is actually taken aback by your duality. You're such a mischievous little imp usually but turn so well-mannered in front of Diavolo's esteemed guests.
"So even you can be prim and proper sometimes? If only you could maintain this on the daily." He huffs.
You laugh and mock-bow in front of him. "Of course, anything for you my dearest lord. Would you like to dance with this proper human while you can?"
He blushes at the sudden offer. Why you little- how dare you tempt him like this. You can't complain about him gripping you somewhere improper or too tight. You deserve this for your attitude.
Pervert! Raphael who is still navigating new feelings of lust he's never felt before he met you. Why his heart skips every time you fall asleep on his shoulder or why he felt a sudden warmth at the pit of his stomach feeling you breath so softly into his neck.
"Thank you for helping me tidy the classroom, MC. I didn't even know where the cleaning supplies were."
"That's alright. It's more fun with two people anyway and wait Raphael there's a bucket over the-" The fresh bucket of water already spilled splashing all over both of you.
You immediately fetched a towel to help him dry up but he couldn't stop staring at you instead. With the uniform sticking to your body like and the water glistening on your exposed skin - why was he so enthralled? Why does he feel a strange pulsing between his legs as you hover over him?
#obey me#obey me smut#obey me solomon#obey me satan#obey me asmo#obey me lucifer#obey me beel#obey me mammon#obey me simeon#obey me belphie#obey me barbatos#obey me diavolo#obey me leviathan#obey me thirteen#obey me Raphael#obey me mephisto
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Outlawed*
Summary: The fifth and final part to Knockout*
The one where Harry just wants to fight, and you just want to love him.
Word Count: 10k (folks...we made it!)
Content Warning: 18+, smut, blood, violence, brief use of a knife, pain kink, size kink
“Cherry?”
Instantly, your head lifts. The familiarly warm nickname sewing up the frayed seams of your heart and sending it into a tizzy.
However, instead of the handsome stranger you’ve come to miss, you find Owen. Eyebrow raised and expression curious.
With a quick clear of your throat, you pull your attention back. “What?”
“Cherry,” he repeats, nodding now toward the pastry in front of you. “Is it cherry tonight?”
You look down as well. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yup.”
“Hm.” His lips press together in thought. “I like the cherry. The way you make it, it’s…it’s sweet. But just a bit sour.”
“Yup...”
“It’s very good.”
“Thanks.”
His hands disappear into his pockets with a short nod of his head. “I know the customers really like it, too. Get comments about it all the time.”
“That’s good.”
“You could probably make it every night. If you wanted.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
There’s a bit of a tense lull now as you continue rolling the dough, and you notice Owen begin to shift just out of your peripheral. He doesn’t normally hover when you’re working, not unless he’s got something he’d like to talk about, and his lingering glances make your insides begin to itch.
So, you raise a brow, and look over. “Is something…wrong?”
“Hm? Oh, no. No, not at all,” he stammers. “I just…wanted to check in. See how you’re feeling.”
Curious, you straighten up.“Oh…why?”
“Well, I’ve just noticed how quiet you’ve been,” he explains. “And I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just…trying to get my work done.”
He steps closer. “I noticed your friend hasn’t been coming around as much. The sullen one, with the dark clothes and broody temper?”
And despite everything else, you can’t help but smile at the memories. “Oh, yeah, well…I don’t think he’ll be coming by anymore. Don’t worry.”
“Ah.” A brief pause. “Is it because of Jesse?”
Instantly, you lean back, pulling the rolling pin away from the counter in surprise. “What?”
“Jesse. The other boy who was in here,” he says. “The tall, snobby one in the fancy clothes? Kind of annoying?”
“I…yeah.” Your lashes flutter. “I guess, I mean. They don’t really…get along. But…it’s probably my fault, too.”
He hums to himself almost contemplatively. “You’re not back with him, are you? The Jesse one?”
“Uh…no. Why?”
“I just…I don’t like him,” he sighs, arms crossing over his apron. “I think he’s trouble, and truth be told, you don’t always look that happy when he’s around.”
And you know he’s right, although you are a little surprised that he noticed. “Oh…well, no. No, not at all.”
“Good. Good.” He nods again. “Honestly, you can do a lot better than him, darling. Especially considering everything else he’s involved in.”
Now slightly more startled, your head tilts. “What do you mean?”
“Well…you know,” he begins, moving even closer before lowering his voice. “I don’t want to talk out of turn, and I certainly don’t want to scare you, but…I imagine you already know a little of what he really does, yeah?”
And even though you should know better than to answer, and even though you have Harry’s stern voice ringing in your ear not to trust him…you nod.
“Right, well…I know how much trouble that might put you in,” he continues. “And I know that with the fighting, and the betting, and the outsourcing…I’d hate to see you get dragged down with him—”
“Wait, what? What outsourcing?”
After a quick glance around the rather empty kitchen, Owen sighs, and murmurs, “Look, I don’t know everything, but a few months ago, he approached me with a proposal. He explained about the fights, and about the betting, and said that I’d be making easy money. That it was a guaranteed win because his fighter never lost.”
And suddenly, the image of Harry in that ring – night after night, hit after hit – paints itself across the forefront of your mind. You lose your breath, chest constricting with the thought of all the pain he endures at Jesse’s hand.
“And from what I could tell, he was taking the betting outside of the fights,” he explains. “I don’t know where or to how many other people, but he was pretty confident. And truth be told, I started to wonder if he’d maybe rigged it.”
“Rigged it? How?”
He shrugs. “I’m not really sure. Maybe he was paying the other fighter to lose or maybe he was paying his fighter extra to make sure he always won. Either way, I said no, and he took his business elsewhere. I think he was afraid of getting caught.”
And it makes sense. Every little detail clicking into place as you recall that night at the match. Jesse’s threat and his insistence on Harry’s win. Harry’s refusal not to play his game.
You straighten up. “Right.”
“Look, I just…I don’t want to see you get dragged down with him,” Owen finishes softly. “You’re a good kid, and he’s…you can do better. You can do a lot better than him, and I hope you know that.”
And you do now.
“Thanks,” you murmur before placing the rolling pin down. “I know this is a bit last minute, but is there any way I might be able to leave early today? I think I need to go find him.”
“Yeah. No problem.” He checks his watch. “Joshua’s supposed to be coming in soon. I could have him cover for you if you’d like to leave now.”
“Really? Would that be all right?”
“Sure. The pies probably won’t be as good as when you make ‘em, but…” He throws you a smile and you laugh. “Do what you need to do. And if you need any help, just give me a call, okay, darling?”
Nodding quickly, you wipe your hands down the front of your apron before ripping it off. “Of course. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
You’re out the diner door in under two minutes, nearly sprinting to your car as you work out a plan.
You’re almost positive that outside betting goes against the league’s rules (although you wonder if an illegal, underground fighting society even has any rules at all). But especially if it means Jesse ends up making more money on each fight than anyone else actually involved. The fighters included.
And if Jesse truly doesn’t want anyone else to know, you might have just found your loophole. A way to get him out of the picture and still keep Harry safe.
You aren’t sure where to start. Truth be told, you aren’t sure what you’ll even say. But perhaps you don’t have to say much. Perhaps you only need Jesse to know that you know, and he’ll take care of the rest.
You head for the one place you know he might be. Your heart aches to call Harry, but without an address, a last name, or a phone number, you don’t really have very many options. You can only hope that he’ll find you once this is all over.
When you finally make it into the darker part of town, your pulse begins to pound. Slamming against the sides of your ribcage as you pull up to the familiar building and park. Right beside the only other car in the lot.
It’s not until you step out that you realize who it is.
“Well, well, well,” Jesse calls with a devious smirk, exiting his vehicle as well. “What a surprise, sugarplum. Come to watch tonight’s big fight?”
You take in a brave breath and begin toward him. “No. I’m here to talk to you.”
His brow raises, but he seems relaxed. In fact, far too relaxed for your liking. “I see. And can I assume this has something to do with your little boytoy?”
“Not quite. But it does have to do with you.”
“Ah.” He grins to himself before dramatically gesturing toward the warehouse. “Then, by all means.”
So, with a shallow exhale, you oblige, trailing after him and toward the front door just as you did the other night. It’s an eerie deja-vu.
And perhaps you should feel a bit more nervous than you do, but deep down, you know him. You know that he’s lacking any real emotion or regret, and maybe, that might just give you an edge.
After typing in the passcode, he leads you inside. The once glorious space now dark and empty. Sporting nothing but the large boxing ring and the stunning chandelier.
“I’ve gotta be honest, sugarplum, I don’t know what you said to him…but it worked,” he begins as you both walk further into the room. “I’ve never seen him fight like that before.”
You purse your lips together in an effort to resist screaming at him. “Well, that’s what you wanted, right?”
“It is.” He stops near the ring and turns around, leaning on it as he studies you. “And I knew you’d come through.”
“Great. So, you’ll leave him alone now, right?”
“As long as he wins, sure.”
“You mean, as long as he makes you money.”
His arms cross now, and that smug expression makes you want to slug him. “As long as he does what he gets paid to do, then there won’t be a problem.”
“Right. And as long as you can keep outsourcing the bets.”
For the first time, he hesitates, that arrogant grin slipping ever-so-slightly as he raises his chin. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I stutter?” You step closer, and you notice him tense. “The money that you outsource to other bettors. The money that you make – that Harry makes you – on these fights every time he wins.”
His jaw ticks. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“No? You wanna bet on that?”
And you don't think you've ever seen him so livid. Not even on his worst night when you were together, and your insides begin to wrench.
But before he can reply – before he can really do anything – a door opens. Allowing a rather bright stream of light into the warehouse as you and Jesse both reach up to shield your eyes.
And then...you see him.
Harry.
It takes him a moment to understand what he’s really looking at, but you catch the exact second he realizes. The way his face contorts and his fingers curl into his fist.
And you want to explain, want to take back everything you said and tell him the truth, but he’s already speaking up before you can.
“What the fuck is this?” he calls, and it’s so very angry. But he’s not talking to you.
He’s talking to Jesse.
Jesse merely rolls his shoulders back, attempting to settle back into his condescending façade. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“No?” He scoffs. It’s bitter and full of disdain. “Because anything you fucking say to her concerns me.”
Your heart skips.
Jesse, however, merely snorts to himself before glancing at you. “It’s a wonder you manage to get anything done on your own.”
Harry instantly strides closer, and you suddenly feel safer. Relieved to be near him again and desperate to feel him. To wrap yourself in his arms and never let go. To make things right.
But not once does he look in your direction. Instead keeping his focus on the man near the mat as he approaches. “Don’t fucking speak to her that way,” he nearly growls. “In fact, don’t speak to her at all.”
“Or what, hm?” The haughty cadence is back. “Do you really think you have any power outside of this ring?”
“I think I can knock your fucking teeth down your throat anywhere I goddamn please.”
“How incredibly barbaric.” Jesse’s brow cocks upwards. “Is he like this when he fucks, too?”
This question is directed at you, and no sooner has it left his mouth does Harry suddenly surge forward, grab him by the collar, and slam him back into the ring.
You gasp – or maybe you scream – before Harry removes one hand in order to send it flying straight into Jesse’s nose.
Blood is everywhere. Dripping from Jesse’s mouth, smeared across Harry’s knuckles, splattered along the concrete floor.
And you want to intervene. Want to do anything that might make you feel a little less useless, but Harry is delivering the second blow before you can decide.
“You fucking—” Punch. “—piece—” Punch. “—of shit.” Each comment is swimming in vile contempt, his expression livid and incensed.
You’ve never seen him this outraged. Didn’t even know a person could hold this much resentment, but it sends chills down your spine.
“Harry,” you murmur, taking a tentative step closer. “Harry, wait—”
“After everything you’ve fucking taken from me,” he sneers in Jesse’s face, “you wanna take her, too?”
Jesse’s only response is to suck in a large gasp for air that becomes gargled by the blood in his throat, and you feel sick.
“Harry,” you try again, grasping onto his other arm in an effort to tug him back. “Harry, wait, there’s another way—"
He brushes you off almost too easily. “And now—” Another hit, this time to Jesse’s stomach. “—you think she can save you? You think you can use her to get what you fucking want?”
He sends his busted knuckles straight into Jesse’s teeth, and your insides twist.
“Harry, stop,” you plead, yanking on him a bit harder. “I found another way, okay, please—”
“You fucking think…I’m gonna let you use her?” he seethes before pulling his arm back for the next hit. “You’re out of your goddamn mind—”
Without much thought, you suddenly rush around him, and place your hands on his chest. Wedging yourself between the two just before he can land the next strike to Jesse’s jaw.
It’s stupid and it’s impulsive and it’s rash, but it works. And it’s the only thing that seems to pull him back from that treacherous edge as his eyes find yours and his arm instantly drops.
It’s the first time he’s looked at you in days, and you want to cry. Because he’s staring at you like he’s never seen you before. Void of any emotion or understanding except for the realization that he doesn’t want to hurt you.
“Harry,” you whisper, and his name cracks from your throat. “Harry, please, I…I found another way. Okay? He…you don’t have to do this—”
“I know. I want to,” he replies, still rather hostile.
“But I don’t want you to,” you argue. “Okay, I think we can get out of this. There’s a way to get him out—”
“I don’t want a way. I want to fucking kill him.”
“Harry, you…” You suck in a quick breath and move closer, nearly gluing yourself to his tense frame. “He’s outsourcing the bets. He’s stealing money from the fights, okay, and we can get him out.”
He looks surprised for all of a minute before the look suddenly vanishes and he attempts to brush you away. “I don’t care. He deserves this.”
“Harry,” you nearly gasp, “if you do this, they’ll kill you. Okay, and I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you—”
His features soften, although he still begins to push past you. “You’ll be all right—”
“Stop, just listen—"
“Cherry,” he warns now, “get out of the way.”
“Harry, please, don’t do this. You can’t do this—"
“I don’t care. Move—”
“Harry—”
“Cherry, move—”
“I love you.”
He stops. Seems to freeze right where he stands, but you barrel on. Clutching onto his dark, familiar hoodie as though trying to grab at his heart.
“I love you,” you repeat in a strained whisper. “I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I lied, I…I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was helping, or…or doing what was best, but it wasn’t – I wasn’t. I wasn’t, and I’m sorry.”
He says nothing. Blinks. Doesn’t move.
“And I love you.” You suck in a shaky breath as the tears fight their way to your waterline. “I love you so much it makes my chest hurt, and I can’t lose you, and…and please. Please don’t do this.”
And you’ve never felt so vulnerable or afraid. And not because of his silence, but because you’ve never loved anybody the way you love him. And you’ll understand if he no longer feels the same or if he’s changed his mind. If he wants to punish you for your lie or for your attempt to say it now.
Instead…he moves to rest his hands over yours. Keeping them over his heart before dipping down…and kissing you.
And it fixes everything. Absolutely everything. Because it’s perfect and familiar and so incredibly Harry.
And you’ve missed him.
You feel an arm slowly snaking around your lower stomach, and you begin to smirk against his lips before you realize who the arm really belongs to.
It yanks you back, ripping you away from the man you love until you’re cemented against Jesse’s chest.
Something cold and sharp is settled against your throat, and you take in a quick gasp for air.
Harry attempts to remain calm as he’s forced to watch, but you can see the edges of his sanity coming loose. Jaw clenching, teeth gritting, brows furrowing. His shoulders are tense beneath his sweatshirt, his hands are balling into fists, and his head is cocking to the side like he’s debating whether or not to lunge.
Jesse merely laughs in your ear. “This is so fucking pathetic. And so goddamn cliché, sugarplum. Is this really what you want? Him?”
You squirm a bit in his hold, and Harry takes a brave step forward. But almost instantly, the blade of the knife begins to press further into the soft skin of your throat, immediately forcing Harry back with a dark scowl.
“Easy,” Jesse warns as you both go still. “Come on, now, I think you both know better than that.”
“Jess,” you pant, reaching for his wrist. “Jesse, please—”
“It’s so simple,” he continues, ignoring your attempt. “So fucking simple. Just win the match. Win the goddamn match and you get to go home."
“I don’t fucking care. Let her go,” Harry seethes. “This isn’t about her—”
“Except that it is.” Jesse’s smirk widens. “Of course it is. You wanted to leave to protect her, so you will stay to protect her. You made it about her, dear Harold. I’m only following your lead.”
Something shifts now in Harry’s expression, and it nearly ruins you. He looks…lost. So very lost and helpless. Like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do without you.
Jesse presses his nose to the side of your cheek, and you feel the warm blood smear across your skin. “So, if you wanna take this away from me, then I have no problem returning the favor.”
The knife is pulled taut to the curve of your throat, and you hiss, making Harry’s face pale.
And when his eyes finally flitter to yours, you realize what you have to do.
“Harry,” you whisper, nodding once. Subtle enough to go unnoticed by the man behind you before you smile gently. “It’s okay.”
You’re not sure he truly understands, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. He will soon.
So, you slowly lift your arm until you can bend your elbow, only to send it flying straight back into Jesse’s stomach.
It’s not enough to really harm him. In fact, it’s hardly enough to even surprise him, but it does distract him just enough to loosen his grip on the knife. Giving you the room you need to spin around in his hold and deliver your fist to his face.
The shock of the blow seems to do more than the strike itself. But he goes stumbling back, nevertheless, and the moment his arm has dropped from your waist, Harry steps forward and rips the knife from his hand.
Once it’s in his possession, he grabs onto your wrist, and wrangles you behind him.
“Don’t ever…” he begins, stepping closer until the tip of the sharp blade can rest just beneath Jesse’s jaw, “…put your fucking hands on her…again.”
Jesse says nothing. He merely stares through his swollen eyelids and bloodstained lashes.
“You’re no longer Harry’s sponsor,” you add. “And you’re no longer a part of the league. Do whatever you have to do to get out. Or we’ll do it for you.”
Harry smirks, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so smug.
When Jesse doesn’t answer, the weapon is nudged further into his bruised skin, forcing him to suck in a sharp breath as he finally grits, “Fine.”
Satisfied with his response, Harry lowers the knife, and steps back just far enough to let Jesse slip by. And the two of you watch as he stumbles toward the door without a single glance before disappearing into the parking lot.
Leaving you both behind.
The moment he’s gone, Harry turns to you, wraps his arms around your waist, and hoists you into the air. Keeping you snug in his embrace while you squeal and fling your arms around his neck for stability.
“Oh, that’s my fucking girl,” he nearly groans, and you laugh. “M’so goddamn proud of you, baby. Never seen something so fucking hot.”
You dip down until you can nuzzle your nose with his. “Well, I learned from the best.”
“Yeah? Good.” His grin nearly splits his face. “Can I please take you home now?”
And you nod so quickly, you’re nearly dizzy.
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, easy. Easy, sweet girl, deep breath. I’ve got you, yeah? Know it hurts, but it’ll be over soon.”
With a sharp exhale, you motion your head up and down, allowing Harry to pull your hand closer in order to continue dabbing the alcohol swab over the torn skin of your knuckles.
His tiny bathroom falls quiet as you sit on the edge of the sink. Him between your legs, attention trained on your bruise. And while the sensation is rather uncomfortable, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so cared for. So…fulfilled and secure.
And you realize, this is how you were always meant to feel.
With him.
“It’s gonna sting for a bit, but I’m almost done,” he promises, eyes softening when he sees your pained wince. “You’re being so good for me, Cherry, I’m so proud of you.”
You pout and it makes him chuckle. “You made it look so easy.”
“S’cause it wasn’t my first time.” He reaches for the gauze. “And we already know how I feel about pain.”
With a smirk of your own, you jut your chin toward him. “Yeah? And how are you feeling now?”
“Now?” His expression is wicked as he now leans just close enough to ghost his lips over yours. “Now…I feel fucking insatiable.”
You waste no time kissing him. In succumbing to his games and his endless teasing. You kiss him, and you don’t care if that means he wins, because you’ve never needed anyone or anything more.
And he’s so entertained by your desperation. His own bandaged hand finding your cheek as you sigh against his tongue and settle into this moment of adoration.
When he pulls back, you’re winded.
He goes back to work dressing your knuckles, wrapping the white gauze around and around until your torn skin is thoroughly protected.
And you watch him as he does this. As he sweeps his thumb gently along the ridges of your hand before bringing it to his mouth in order to leave yet another kiss.
“There,” he murmurs, trailing his lips across the fibers. “All better.”
It’s the most beautiful and romantic thing you think anyone has ever done for you, and your heart lodges in your throat. “Harry?”
“Hm?”
“…do you hate me?”
Surprised, he instantly straightens up and leans back. “What?”
“Do you…do you hate me? Because of what I did? What I said?” You attempt to ward off the influx of impending tears, but you can already feel the first one slipping free. “Do you think I’m a horrible person?”
His expression immediately drops as he reaches up to grasp onto your face once more. Thumbs brushing quickly along your warm skin as you sniffle. “Cherry…I could never hate you. Ever.”
“But maybe you should,” you whisper. “I hurt you, and I lied to you, and…and I don’t deserve you—”
“Baby,” he breathes, surging forward to press his forehead to yours in an effort to silence you. “Don’t ever fucking say that again, do you hear me? I know exactly why you did it, and I could never be mad at you for that. I was only hurt because I didn’t want to lose you. But you were only trying to protect me. I know that.”
“I said I didn’t love you,” you nearly croak. “I said I loved him. After everything you’ve done for me—”
“You had to,” he interrupts, and his understanding only hurts more. “Cherry, you had to. It was the only way, and I know that. I knew it then, too. You’ve only ever tried to protect me, and I wasn’t letting you.”
You grab onto his wrists and vow to never let go.
“And it’s not fair that you were put in that position,” he continues. “It’s not fair that you were forced to make that call, and it’s not fair that I dragged you into this. You were expected to choose between somebody you’ve known your entire life and somebody you just met. That’s not fair, and I never should have made you—”
“It wasn’t a choice,” you hiccup. “It was never a choice. It was always you.”
Those pretty pink lips pull back into the softest grin you’ve ever seen. “You were trying to save me, sweet girl. I know that, and I will never, ever hate you. I love you.”
I love you. The three best words you could ever hear, and your first sob wracks from your chest as you fling your arms around his neck to kiss him.
He kisses you back, but it’s soft. And sweet. And meant to convey exactly how he truly feels.
And it works because this is all you’ve ever wanted. Just him, and this moment, and those three words.
“Easy,” he warns through a strained breath. “Baby, careful—”
“Please,” is all you pant. “Harry, please, I can’t…I can’t wait any longer, please.”
And he nearly coos with amusement as he nuzzles his nose under your jaw in order to paint more kisses along your throat. “Can’t wait, hm? But what if I want to make this special?”
“It is. Is special—”
“Cherry,” he chuckles, “it’s all right. M’not going anywhere. We don’t have to rush, all right? S’been a long day and I don’t expect anything—”
“But I do,” you huff. “I’m ready, I want to. You’ve made me wait long enough.”
He laughs a little louder now, leaning back in order to see you. “I’m just trying to take care of you, sweet girl. We didn’t wait this long to throw it away because of him. I want this to be good for you. I want you to be sure that this is really what you want.”
And you appreciate the sentiment more than you’ll ever be able to explain. But right now, there is only one true way you want to spend the rest of this horrid day.
So, you lift your leg and hook it around his hip, pulling him back between your thighs with a pleading look.
In turn, he smirks, fingers returning to your chin with a playful squeeze. “Thought I was the insatiable one.”
“We’ll take turns,” you exhale before surging forward to kiss him again. Capturing his lips between your own and savoring the feeling you never thought you’d feel again.
And you can see his resolve crumble. Can see the way his eyes fall shut, the way his chest rises and falls beneath his dark shirt, the way his hands grasp onto your waist to keep you close.
He’s hungry. Ravenous. Losing the fight before it even begins, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Because now – now – he can have you. He can give you exactly what you want, can be exactly who he wants to be for you.
“Where do you wanna be, baby?” he asks through teasing nips to your neck. “The bed? The couch? D’you wanna go back to your apartment? Might feel more comfortable for you—”
“No, I don’t care,” you interrupt anxiously. “I don’t care, I just want you.”
He grins against your throat. “My greedy girl,” he murmurs, and your stomach flips. “Let’s go to the bed, yeah? Wanna lay you out and see you.”
And you want nothing more than to let him.
Regretfully, he pulls his lips from your skin and steps away, and you feel like you might die without him. But he’s quick to remedy this by taking your hand in order to help you hop down from the sink. Leading you out of the bathroom and through his apartment toward the bedroom.
His apartment isn’t what you expected. Although, truth be told, you didn’t know what to expect. It’s a bit bigger than yours, but there’s something…empty about it. Hollow, almost. The furniture is scarce, the colors and décor are few and far between. It doesn’t even look like anybody lives here, something he pointed out the moment you entered.
“Hardly spend any time here,” he’d said as you glanced around. “S’just a place to sleep, really. It’s never really felt like a home…until you walked through the door.”
And it was wildly cheesy, and perhaps a bit lame, but it was everything.
His bedroom doesn’t seem to be any different as he leads you inside. The walls are a dark grey, and his bedding is a similarly dark shade. He’s got one chair and one dresser. It’s quite clean, all things considered. No clothes lying on the floor or towels slung over the closet door.
It’s so very…Harry.
“Sorry,” he mumbles as your eyes flicker about the room. “Know it’s not very romantic.”
But you merely grin as you shake your head and grasp onto his hand. “Are you kidding? It’s perfect.”
His brow cocks up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You drag him toward the mattress before plopping down rather contently. “It’s so you. And I love that.”
And he only smiles before chasing after you and wrangling you into his arms.
It’s a faster dance from there. His hands and lips are everywhere they can reach. Slipping up the backs of your legs, ghosting over the curve of your hips, pulling at the zipper on your dress.
You merely settle in his embrace and allow him to take whatever he’d like. To touch and kiss each lingering thought away until all you know is him.
He’s careful but practiced. Treating you with the same adoration and gentle precision as he always has. And you’re so very thankful to feel so safe in his arms. A kind of security you weren’t sure you’d ever find in a partner the way you have him.
With anyone else you’ve ever been with, sex has always been transactional. A means to an end. This thing that you do to get off and nothing more. And despite your submissive preferences, there have been times when you truly felt powerless to your partner. Simply…there. Until they decided they no longer needed you.
But Harry…
He looks at you like your body is sacred. Like he’s undeserving of being so close to you. Of getting to touch you, hold you, feel you. Completely in-tune to every noise you make and every flutter of your lashes. Constantly on guard for your enjoyment and consent so he never goes any further than you want him to.
But you know, undoubtedly, that no matter how far he goes…it’ll never be enough.
You want his everything. His all. Anything he’s willing to offer, and you imagine you feel about as grateful as he looks to be here with him like this. To witness this kind of tender reverence.
He settles onto his back and pulls you on top. Placing you in a straddle over his waist until he can gaze up at you. “You okay, Cherry?”
You nod quickly – breathlessly – before resting your hands on his chest to brace yourself. “Just excited.”
His smile is boyish and charming, showcasing that familiar dimple that makes your cheeks warm. “Good. Want you to be.” He rubs soft circles into your hip before his brows furrow. “Y’know what I just realized?”
“Hm?”
“I still don’t know your name.”
And despite it all…you laugh. “I’ll tell you on one condition.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
You smirk. “I still want to be your Cherry.”
He chuckles as he squeezes your sides and drags you closer. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs as you dip down to kiss him. “Always.”
With a soft smile, you trail your lips from his cheek to his ear, whispering the forbidden name almost timidly.
And to your surprise, he only grins wider. “That’s beautiful, sweet girl. S’perfect, too. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
You feel the blood rush to your face as you bury your lips against his throat and gently tug at his skin. “Okay, all right.”
“I mean it,” he insists, palm slipping around the back of your neck to tug you back out. “Cherry, you’re beautiful. I don’t say it to say it. I look at you…and I feel like I can’t breathe.”
And maybe they are just words. Maybe they’re meant to make your insides twist and make your heart swoon. To be romantic and suave.
But you believe him. Because you can see in his eye just how much he means it. Can feel it in your stomach that he’s never been as honest as he is right now.
Further proving that everything in your life…has led you to him. Every decision, every regret, every mistake. It brought you right here, to this moment, in his arms.
You don’t waste any time on replies or longing looks. You kiss him, and you resume this frantic dance, and you beg him to make things better. To ease this ache in your stomach as well as your heart.
So, he does.
Nimble fingers pull at the zipper along your side, loosening your uniform until he can guide it up and over your head. Only stopping once to whisper, “S’this okay, baby? Can I see you?”
You nod almost impatiently. “Yes, yeah. Whatever you want, promise.”
“Hm. Careful what you wish for, sweet girl,” he hums warningly. “Or I might just take you up on that.”
The moment your frame is revealed to him, he nearly groans. Allowing his hands to smooth up and down your shivering silhouette as you anxiously wait for more.
However, instead of allowing him the time to indulge in your body, you begin to tug at his sweatshirt. Silently requesting he reveal himself to you, too.
He smirks. “All right, hold on.”
He barely has a chance to sit up before you’re reaching for his hem in a desperate attempt to remove it. Making him chuckle as he grabs onto his collar before swiftly pulling it over his head.
And you nearly sigh. Because he’s so ethereal to look at. Every ridge, and tattoo, and scar. The way he breathes, the way he flexes. You can’t help but reach for him, skimming your fingers down the dips and curves of his toned chest and stomach almost reverently as a breath catches in your throat.
And he lets you. Studying you closely while you study your hand. A moment of silence passing before he mumbles, “Baby?”
“Hm?”
He reaches up to tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “M’gonna have to stretch you a bit before we start, okay? Don’t want to hurt you.”
“Okay,” you answer almost too quickly. “That’s fine. I’m not worried.”
He seems amused. “I know you’re not, but I am. You know I’d never want to hurt you. And I just want to make sure we go at a pace you’re comfortable with.”
There’s an odd sort of fluttering in your chest as you scoot closer and slip your fingers into the curls on his neck. Stroking his roots in an attempt to soothe him. “I’m okay with any pace as long as it’s you.”
“Promise?”
You nudge your nose against his. “Promise.”
Finally, he seems satisfied. “Okay, sweet girl. Then can you lay down for me?”
You’re on your back before he can even finish the question, attempting to intertwine your fingers with his and drag him along with you.
“Cherry,” he laughs again, and the sound is like music. An orchestra of joy and infatuation that you can feel all the way down in your toes. “Can’t be that greedy, can you?”
“I can,” you pant, hips bucking up as he reaches for the silk around your waist. “Just please…”
“Please,” he repeats thoughtfully, pulling his focus to the material he’s slipping down your legs. “You really are my sweet girl, hm?”
Another nod. “Mhm.”
“Guess I have made you wait, yeah?” He discards of the delicate panties before smoothing his palm up the inside of your thigh. “Made you sit and be good?”
“Harry…”
“And you have been,” he muses, ignoring your mewling. “Been so good for me. Think I need to show you how proud I am. And apologize for being so mean to you. For making you go so long without.”
He moves to settle between your parted legs, one hand beside your head to brace himself while the other travels down the expanse of your stomach. Calming the trembling skin and leaving goosebumps behind until he reaches what he’s looking for.
He looks at your face first. Examines your expression and the flutter of your lashes. Stilling just long enough to listen to you breathe. “It’s okay, Cher. I’ve got you.”
You run your fingers through his hair and smile. “I know.”
His thumb is the first thing that finds you. Ghosting gently over your clit and down in order to prepare you. Ease you into the sensation.
You take in a satisfied inhale that melts into a whimper and he grins.
Pushing through your folds, he slows when he finds your arousal. Glancing down to see it for himself. “So warm, baby. Missed this.”
“Missed you,” you nearly whine, and he seems pleased.
The tip of his digit pushes in just far enough to tease you but not enough to satiate you. Leaving a rather hollow feeling in your stomach the moment he pulls back out.
You just about slump into the mattress. “Harry…”
“M’just trying to be gentle,” he says. “And I wanna take my time. Wanna really feel you. Remember this moment.”
Your heart swells. “How oddly sentimental of you.”
He shrugs before pushing the finger back inside. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”
Your back instantly arches from the bed when he reaches his knuckle. And the gratified look he wears seems to worsen this untamable ache.
“There you go,” he coos. “See? One’s not so bad.”
His pace is slow to begin. Torturous in a sense, but he knows that. He wants to work you up, make you squirm. Have your pleas falling from your tongue like water from the sky.
And of course it works, it always does. You weren’t sure what else you expected, but as he continues this steady rhythm, you feel your sanity slowly begin to come undone until you only have one choice.
“Harry…Harry, please, can’t…can’t—”
“What, sweet girl? Need more?”
Your head quickly motions up and down. “Please…”
“All right.” He pulls back before going again, this time with a stretch a bit more prominent. “Know you can handle two, yeah?”
And he’s right, you can, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t nearly ruin you to do so. Because while two is decidedly much better than one, it’s still not nearly enough. And more importantly, it’s not the one thing you really need.
You pull harder on his hair while you writhe beneath him. Eyelids growing heavy as the sound of his fingers driving into your pussy grows louder. “Harry, please—”
“Shh.” He dips down and trails his lips along your cheek. “Gotta let me do this, baby. Just a bit longer, yeah?”
“Can’t…can’t wait—”
“Yes, you can.” His tone is firm but kind. Encouraging. “Know you can. Let me make you feel good.”
He begins to go faster. Thrusting into your cunt until your pulse is racing at about the same speed.
And he’s beautiful. He’s so goddamn beautiful, it makes you dizzy. Hovered over you on the bed, muscles flexing with each roll of his arm. There’s a soft glow behind his head from the light of his window, illuminating his curls like a halo.
It’s rather fitting, you realize. After all, he is your guardian angel.
“Breathe,” he instructs, kissing down the curve of your throat before finding your chest. “Almost done, yeah? Doing so good for me, look so pretty taking my fingers. Know you’re gonna be so beautiful taking my cock, hm?”
Again, he dangles the image right in front of you, only to take it away before it can fully render. “Har—”
“Shh,” he says again, mouthing at the swell of your breast that’s being pushed up out of your bra. “Gonna give you another. Want you to be still for me, okay?”
With a rather disappointed huff, you oblige, watching as he scoots back just far enough to get a better visual.
Three fingers brings you to the gates of heaven. As does that look in his eye when he sees the way your pussy stretches around the larger digits.
You can quite literally see the groan leave his body as he stares at you, lips parting in mesmerized bliss.
“You okay?” he manages to ask through a strained exhale.
“Yes,” you pant. “Can take more, I promise.”
“More, hm?”
“Yes…yes, please…”
He only hums.
Seconds go by before you’re gasping for air. Nails scraping down his scalp in desperation as he works you open. He’s incredibly focused, proud of the work he’s doing, and of the way your body bends to his will.
“There we go,” he praises softly. “Just like that. So fucking wet, sweet girl. Know it must ache.”
“It does…it does, Harry, please—”
“Got an itch you can’t scratch, yeah? Need me to reach it for you. Need me to fix it.”
“Please…”
“Almost, baby, almost.”
You feel the fourth begin to push in and you suck in a sharp breath.
He stops. “It’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly. “Gonna take me like a good girl. Already doing so good, just a little more. Relax for me.”
You do your best to obey, allowing your limbs to fall limp beside you, despite the tightening of the coil in your stomach.
Even still, it works just enough to allow him more room. Slipping in the added digit until you see stars.
The pumping is loud and driven. Truly an exercise in restraint – for both of you – as the pace begins to quicken and the noises begin to increase.
Then, he brings his other hand into play, and brushes his thumb over your clit.
And you don’t mean to – you didn’t even realize you were so close – but you cum suddenly and with a rather lewd moan that makes his eyelids flutter.
“There,” he whispers, as though entranced. “There we go, good fucking girl.”
You can’t seem to get enough air in your lungs as you come down. And Harry chooses not to help as he finally removes both hands…and begins to pull you apart.
He exposes your clit to the colder air in order to dip down and ghost his mouth across the top. Releasing a warmer breath that sends chills straight down to your toes, making you squirm rather violently.
“Har…Har—” you gasp, fisting the blanket below. “Please, can’t…can’t—”
“Just wanna look at it,” he says simply. “S’so pretty—”
“Harry,” you whimper, writhing beneath his hold. “Harry, this is mean.”
“Mean, hm?” He smirks now and you want to die. “Well, I don’t wanna be mean, baby. Wanna be good for you, just like you are for me.”
You choose to take this as a sign to continue, sitting up just enough to reach for his belt and begin to tug it undone.
He laughs now, glancing down at your frantic fumbling with a knowing grin. “Cherry—”
“No,” you huff. “No, it’s my turn.”
To your surprise, he only hums. “Go ahead, then.”
You do, yanking the belt through each loop before tossing it aside and moving for his zipper. You don’t imagine you’ve ever worked so fast or so hard for something (specifically a cock) in your life.
The moment he’s able to wrangle his dark jeans down his legs, you’re dragging him back down. Ignoring his protests and his reminder that he still has one article of clothing left.
Instead, you work on ridding yourself of your own, unhooking your bra and tossing it into the same pile as his boxers.
And now, as you both settle into your nakedness together, every imperfection on display, you realize you’ve never been more content. Because baring your heart to him was far more vulnerable than baring your skin.
And because this is where you were always meant to be.
“Okay, baby, m’gonna start slow,” he repeats yet again, and you nod. “Just tell me if you want me to stop or slow down, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nearly whine. “I will, I swear.”
“Good. And…shit, a condom, do you…do you have a preference—”
“Pill,” you pant. “I’m on the pill, just go.”
“Are you su—”
“Yes, please. I need to feel you, Harry, please…please.”
“Okay, all right.” He takes hold of your hips and positions you where he wants you before settling between your thighs. “Deep breath, okay? Just keep your eyes on me, I’ve got you.”
Another nod – quicker, more frenzied.
He takes hold of his cock and your eyes nearly roll back. It looks so beautiful in his hand. Just as stunning as you remember, and even though you never imagined you’d find one so appealing, your mouth seems to water.
Your leg hooks around his hip, subtly urging him closer, and he obliges. Giving himself a tug or two before gently trailing the tip down your aching cunt.
He moves up and down to collect a bit of your arousal before he finds your hole and slowly begins to push inside. Sinking in about half an inch before checking with you.
You nearly scream. “It’s okay. It’s okay, keep going.”
“Are you su—”
“Yes.”
His mouth curls up into a knowing grin as he continues. Allowing his cock to slip even further into your waiting pussy while your walls slowly stretch open to accommodate him.
And you’re hardly afforded the chance to enjoy this newer sensation before he suddenly dips down to kiss you. Perhaps an attempt at distraction, although it’s hardly needed. Because now you aren’t sure what to focus on, what feeling to indulge in. From his lips, to his cock, to the way your stomach nearly caves in on itself.
“Fucking shit, baby,” he groans against your tongue. “Shit, you’re so tight…feels so good—”
“I know,” you agree. “God, please don’t stop—”
“No. Never.” He sinks in a bit further and you dig your teeth into his bottom lip. “M’almost there, you still all right?”
“Yes…yeah, I’m perfect. Perfect, promise—”
“That’s my girl,” he nearly seethes before he suddenly drives forward, sheathing himself all the way.
You both still the moment he’s fully inside, his face now disappearing into your shoulder as though to brace himself.
And you wrap your arms around his shoulders in a desperate attempt not to let go. Allowing your body the time it needs to understand this new intrusion and find pleasure with it.
When it finally happens, the stars align.
“Okay,” you pant, gently scratching at his back to garner his attention. “Okay, go.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Need more, Har, please.”
He pulls his hips back and the whimper you release is almost feral. But it seems to do wonders for him, because his expression twists into something desperate, and you feel your chest implode.
He settles into a soft, slow pace. In and out, in and out, in synchronicity with your eager pants for more.
And there’s too much happening all at once. Too much to watch, too much to take pleasure in.
The curls that drip down his forehead, the way his body looks as it connects with yours, the feel of his mouth going down your chest.
He’s everywhere all at once and somehow, it’s still not enough.
“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself. “Could taste you forever.”
He takes your tit into his mouth, tongue flicking at the pebbled skin before nipping at it gently.
You keen, arching from the bed until you nearly knock into him. “Har—”
He hums around your nipple, and you almost cry with frustration and pleasure.
Everything feels slow. Almost too slow but there’s something tender there. He’s not trying to fuck you, he’s trying to feel you. To mold your body to his and it’s rather effective. Because the way you crave him feels like heaven and hell all in the same second.
“Harry,” you whisper, practically deranged as you drag your hands down his chest. Nails tracing patterns down the tattoos across his abdomen. “Please…”
The noise he makes in response to your scratching is almost animalistic in nature, and you nearly flinch as you quickly lower your arms. Upset to have caused him any pain.
“No,” he groans, lifting up to nudge his nose under your jaw. “No, don’t stop. Keep going.”
“What?”
“Keep…shit—” His rhythm falters and you can almost feel the way his dick seems to twitch. “Keep going, s’okay. Want you to scratch me. Want you to hurt me, baby.”
And somehow, this reminder of his pain kink feels almost like a blessing. “Yeah?”
He nods faintly before attempting to resume his pace, and you happily take the lead.
Your fingers hesitantly return to his broad torso. Delicately tracing the muscles as they roll beneath your touch until you gingerly begin to press in. The sharp edge of your nails dancing across the expanse of his already torn skin.
In turn, he releases a strained noise that becomes lost beneath the grateful kisses to your collarbone. And you realize how much he truly enjoys it.
He gives you complete control of his body, of his pleasure. Because the harder you scratch at his scars, the more urgent his thrusts become. Until the sounds echoing around the room begin to echo between your ears. And the slapping of his hips into yours is inescapable.
“Feels so good, Har,” you nearly cry, lifting up just enough to kiss him quickly. “You’re so good to me. Always.”
“Shit.” His eyes about roll back before there’s a sharp snap of his cock into your eager cunt. “Always gonna take care of you. Promise—”
“I know,” you sigh. “I know, I love you.”
You say it now, and suddenly, everything changes.
It doesn’t matter if he’s heard you say it before or if he already knows because the look in his eye nearly guts you.
He’s so…happy. So incredibly happy and endlessly enchanted that he begins to grin. “You love me,” he repeats. Not a question.
You smile as well, and the sentiment seems to explode out of you. “I love you.”
And it’s perfect, this moment. This connection of two bodies and two souls into one. The way you stumbled through the dark until you found each other, and it makes sense. Everything makes sense now with him. Clarity in the truest form.
“I love you,” he echoes, and he means it. You can feel it in every thrust, every syllable, every brush of his lips against yours. “I fucking love you, Cherry—”
“Please,” you gasp, leg dropping to the bed while your arms follow suit. “Har, please—”
“Gonna cum for me again?” He begins to go faster, chasing after your orgasm. “Let me feel you around my cock, sweet girl, come on. Already feel so good—”
“Can’t…can’t—”
“Can’t what, hm? Can’t hold it?” It’s almost sadistic the way he speaks, but you know he’s merely enamored. “I know. I know, it’s okay. You can cum for me, don’t have to wait. Promise I won’t be mad.”
You aren’t sure what you’re about to do, all you know is that you never want this feeling to end. This moment, this security. You just want to touch him, and look at him, and taste him for the rest of your life.
He interrupts your silence as a request for something more, and he offers it in the form of his dominance.
He takes hold of your wrist and hoists it above your head, pinning it to the mattress before settling his weight atop your chest. Trapping you beneath him until you have no other choice but to indulge in everything he has to give.
And you do.
“Sweet little cunt is all mine, isn’t it?” he purrs, teeth nipping below your ear as his fingers intertwine with yours. Holding your hand as he keeps it caged to the bed. “Spent all this time just waiting for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes…yes, fuck, Harry—”
“You were so patient. So good.” He’s growing more determined – sloppy – and your head begins to spin. “God, but you just needed me, yeah? Needed me to make it better—”
“Better,” you repeat almost mindlessly.
“Needed me to erase him—”
“Please—”
“Leave my mark. My fucking mark—”
“Harry—”
“You were never his,” he grits, and you aren’t sure who he’s really trying to convince. “You were never fucking his, you were always mine. And he knew it—”
“Shit, I can’t…can’t—"
His other thumb moves for your clit and you feel tears fill your eyes. “Yes, you can. Know you can, baby, and you will. Always do so good for me, gonna take my cum, aren’t you—”
There’s a strain on your muscles from the way they’re being stretched above your head, but you realize there’s something satisfying about the subtle pull. And when it’s coupled with a firm pinch of the sensitive nerves between the rough pads of his fingers, you start to lose it.
“There – shit – there you go,” he inhales, glancing over your face before watching the way his cock slips in and out of your pussy. Dripping in your arousal and smearing across your thighs. “Take me, just like that. Feels so fucking good, sweet girl, keep going…keep—”
You cry out and writhe helplessly beneath him. Pulling your arms from out of his hold in order to sling them around his neck and cement yourself to his chest.
And you have no choice but to succumb to the pleasure before you feel him follow.
“Fuck—” He surges forward, burying himself in you completely, moans melting into your feverish skin as you cling to each other. “Shit…I love you. I really fucking love you, Cherry.”
You smile lazily before bringing his mouth to yours. “I love you, too.”
He kisses you. All through the moment and then some. Until the sun has disappeared and the moon has been hung between the stars.
And you know that you have never been happier than you are in this moment, right now.
Just you, and him, and a pussy full of cum.
“Darling, we've got some at table six, could you go check on ‘em?”
With a quick nod of your head, you readjust your apron, and grab the notepad Owen is sliding toward you before slipping from the kitchen.
You find the eager customers waiting just beside the counter and take their order with a charming grin and a promise to slip them some leftover pie.
The diner isn’t too busy tonight, and you’re grateful. Now that you’re on dessert duty, you spend a majority of your shifts working on new recipes and finalizing the specials for the coming week.
Truth be told, you rather enjoy this new task. It keeps your mind occupied and your thoughts from drifting.
And baking is your happy place. Your sense of calm amidst a sea of uncertainty, almost rivaling your own true source of serenity.
Harry.
Once you’ve returned to the kitchen, you sneak a glance at the clock. 12:06 A.M. He should be here soon. Probably tired. Perhaps a bit stressed. Hopefully no worse for wear than usual.
Fight nights always tend to leave you on edge. You know he’s more than capable of taking care of himself, but you can’t help but worry. It’s what you do best.
Still, you’re happy for him. Because while pies are your happy place, the boxing ring is his. He’s only ever wanted to fight – to make money, channel his anger into something good. And perhaps it’s not a sustainable lifestyle, but for right now, it’s what he wants to do.
And you respect his choice. You’ll respect any choice he makes, as long as he’s the one making it. Instead of it being made for him.
Besides, without Jesse there, you find that Harry tends to have a lot more fun. He leaves the fights with a busted lip but a bright smile, and it makes your heart swell until it feels as though there’s no more room in your chest.
Last you heard, Jesse left town. Harry refused to tell you what really went down at the club once the other members found out, but you decided that was probably for the best. No matter what fond memories you still have of your childhood friend, he’s not who he used to be. And you won’t ever be able to change that.
But for the first time in a long time…you’re okay with that.
The clock continues to tick the seconds away, and with each passing one, you grow a tad more anxious. Your guardian angel is late. At least by a few minutes, and you scurry about the diner as your thoughts race about a mile a moment.
And then, just as you’re readjusting the cake stands and tidying up the dessert display, you see it.
Your not-so-strange stranger is here.
He’s sitting in his favorite booth, fifth one down from the first row, directly next to the window.
He’s got his usual hoodie pulled over his head, obscuring any view of his face. His clothes are dark and seem to cover nearly every inch of his skin. His knuckles are wrapped in that familiar, white gauze, and are stained with streaks of red.
But he’s looking down. Staring at the menu on the table as though he doesn’t order the exact same thing every time.
And you grin wider than you have all day.
“Hi, Cherry,” he calls the moment his head lifts, allowing you a better look at his stunningly damaged face as you scurry closer. “Missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” you nearly giggle, slipping off your apron before sliding into the seat across from him. “How was it?”
“Easy,” he snorts, but there’s a sparkle in his eye. “And I have good news.”
“Oh?”
“M’off for the next few days. Thought you could come over…and not leave.”
You laugh as you reach across the table to take his hand in yours. “I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah? Good.” He glances down at your interlocked fingers almost fondly. “Hey, you know what I just realized?”
“What?”
Now, a mischievous expression begins to form. “I never introduced myself.”
And for some reason…you can’t help but laugh.
“So,” he begins, rather charmingly as he raises your hand in order to shake it formally, “hi.”
And you really fucking love him.
“I’m Harry Styles.”
I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE AT THE END!! This has been such a fun story, and SUCH a wild ride that I feel very lucky to have gotten to take with so many incredibly wonderful people!!
Thank you so much to everyone who's followed along and left the nicest comments or notes!! I cannot tell you what it means to me!!
Harry and Cherry will def be back for extras soon, but until then...I love you 🥹♥️ Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Previous Part:
~ Uppercut*
~ Full Knockout Masterlist
~ Main Masterlist
Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞
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II ║ Threads
Joel Miller x F!Reader
{ Part I: Seams | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: M
Summary: When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.
Warnings: Very spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N
Word count: 4.3k
Notes: This crept up on me and happened just as I was finishing up edits. I am so grateful, and I hope Threads is a fitting thank you gift to you all 😘 I’m thinking about doing a sleepover celebration, we shall see!
Joel and Pin are back ❤️ They're back because you guys have been so generous with your love, sending me so many ideas and hyping me up - I can't thank you all enough! This chapter is all thanks to Singer machine anon who bravely (affectionate 😉) shared their story of getting stuck under a sewing machine table. I hope you enjoy this one!
A treadle sewing machine is powered mechanically by a foot pedal that is pushed back and forth by the operator's foot.
If you're not familiar, here is a classic Singer treadle cabinet, which is no way big enough for the purposes of this story, so please exercise your imagination 😉
Joel hovers outside the Jackson Grocer’s, arms crossed, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible in front of the leafy display of butter lettuce heads.
It’s been a few months since he’s settled in, but sometimes he can’t get over how fucking nuts this place is. Looking at the shelves brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables outside, canned food and home goods inside, he could easily be standing outside the 24/7 mart in his old neighbourhood. There are even shopping baskets, for crying out loud - stacked neatly one on top of the other by the door.
A voice pipes up from his left. ‘Didn’t know you ate greens.’
Joel scowls. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why are you loiterin’, then?’ asks Tommy, picking up a couple of apples and examining them with exaggerated care.
‘I’m not loiterin’,’ he spits out the last word as if he’s above it, turning his gaze to the high street.
Tommy tosses him a cocky grin, head tilted at a knowing angle. ‘Yeah, you are. And now you’re makin’ eyes at Bob. It’s disturbin’.’
Glancing across the main thoroughfare at the welder’s shop, where the said proprietor is cutting up wooden planks on the porch, Joel grumbles sarcastically, ‘That’s right. Bob is just my type.’
At that very moment, right next to Bob's, the door of Main Street Outfitters creaks open, and Joel recognises Lucy instantly as she sneaks out on tiptoes. She skips down the stairs and wanders up the street in what appears to be another impromptu work break.
Joel’s already taken two steps towards the shop before he remembers that he’s not alone. Braking abruptly and bringing up one hand to scratch the back of his neck, he feels Tommy’s eyes on him.
He half-turns, and snaps, ‘What?’
The younger Miller brother shrugs, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Why are you going to the Outfitters again? Didn’t you just get those new jeans a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Thought I’d get a new shirt for your stupid baby shower.’
‘Joel -’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He throws his hands up in capitulation. ‘Baby showers are not stupid. Especially in the middle of an apocalypse.’
Taking another two steps forward, a thought stops him dead in his tracks again. He can practically feel Tommy smiling smugly at his back.
For fuck’s sake.
He doesn’t turn around this time, jamming his hands into his pockets and asks, ‘Can I bring someone? To the party?’
‘We know Ellie’s comin’.’
Whipping around, he growls, ‘Tommy -’
He laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Joel Miller makin’ friends in town? Maria’s right - you’re fittin’ right in, big brother.’
Rolling his eyes, Joel flips him off and stomps his way across the street.
Tommy calls out at his retreating back. ‘Say hello to Pin and tell her we’d love to have her come over on Sunday!’
When he steps inside, the shop is as empty as it was a fortnight ago. Joel shuts the door firmly, making sure the bell jingles, so his entry doesn’t go unnoticed.
Your voice, though muffled, comes promptly. ‘Lucy! Is that you?’
He heads towards the doorway that leads to the workshop. ‘It’s Joel, actually.’
‘Oh, shit!’
His eyebrows reach for his hairline - you don’t seem to be the type to curse. Concerned, he asks, ‘You alright back there?’
There’s a touch of panic in your reply, ‘Don’t come back here. Did Lucy sneak out again?’
On your instruction, Joel hesitates in the middle of the room, talking to air. ‘Yeah, saw her leave a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Goddamnit, Lucy!’
He shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Uh, you sure you’re ok? Should I come back later?’
There’s a resigned sigh, then a pause. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’
One end of his lips tugs upwards in a smile. ‘Why would I?’
‘Promise.’
At your insistence, he humours you, ‘Alright, I promise, sweetheart.’
‘Come on back.’
When he steps into the workshop, he doesn’t spot you immediately. The space is seemingly empty, everything standing still and in order. He sweeps his eyes across the room, starting with the shelving unit and the desk along the near wall, then trailing over the large timber work table in the middle, where a stack of folded shirts stands neatly.
His throat isn’t the only thing that tightens when he glances at the rug under the skylight -
‘Joel?’
Your voice draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a sewing station is tucked into a little alcove.
Joel doesn’t know much about sewing machines, but he can recognise a vintage Singer anywhere even without the name blazoned across its elegant body. His grandmother had one in her drawing room by a sunny bay window, and he used to watch her work on it when he visited every other weekend. For a disorienting second, he can almost smell homemade cinnamon rolls and black tea.
Little did he know that things were about to get a lot more disorienting than a pleasant childhood memory.
As he steps around the work table, the rest of the sewing station comes into view, fronted by a big window, the light streaming through the glass glancing off the black sewing machine on top of a classic treadle cabinet. What looks like a half-finished dress lies on the wooden work surface, which stands on quintessential wrought metal legs, and between them - his throat constricts with a slow swallow when he realises what - or rather, who - he’s looking at.
The words barely come out, as if his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth, as he makes his presence known. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’
To be fair, you’re not making things easy by any means. All he can see is your backside hovering in mid-air, the rest of you out of sight under the desk. It has built-in cabinets on each end, the right side of it backed up against the far wall, and a chair is pushed to the side.
Joel stops two measured paces away, staring down at the curve of your ass and the way your top rides up, baring the small of your back. His eyes linger on the soft skin between the shirt’s hem and the waistband of your very tight jeans.
Jesus Christ. Do you always have to be on your fucking knees in this workshop?
Your small voice jolts him from his daze. ‘Well, at least you’re not laughing.’
He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing. If only you knew how laughing is the furthest thing on his mind right now. ‘What happened?’
‘A spool rolled off and I went down to get it, but I fell on the treadle accidentally - I think my shirt is snagged in the band wheel. I can’t move at all, and this Singer is an antique - I can't risk breaking it.’
Unfamiliar with what you’re talking about, he probes, ‘And where’s the band wheel?’
‘Under the table, on my right.’
You wriggle your hips, perhaps to help him locate where you’re stuck, unaware that you’re not helping. At all.
He swallows thickly and implores you, ‘Stay still, sweetheart. I’ll take a look.’
It’s been two whole weeks since Joel Miller came into the shop. You’ve caught glimpses of him in between - Jackson is tiny, after all. He catches your eye as he ambles down the high street with Ellie, his gruff Southern accent carrying even in the mid-afternoon bustle, too preoccupied arguing with the teenager to notice you on the other side of the road. He’s in the cafeteria a couple of times when you arrive for a late dinner, nodding at you from a few tables over, while you work up the nerve to smile back.
Every time, he’s wearing the jeans you handpicked for him, which makes your chest swell and constrict at the same time with something like - pride.
You picked out the pair for him. You assured him that he looks good. And by the way he’s wearing his confidence on his sleeve, he’s certainly taken your words to heart.
Whenever you see other women eyeing him as he struts about town - which is entirely too often - it awakens an ugly possessiveness in you, one that twists your insides into grotesque balloon animals.
Fourteen damn days. Even in the privacy of your workshop, you can’t escape that man. The simple touch of denim provokes a visceral reaction from you, heat chases beneath your skin every time you pick up the tailor’s scissors. It doesn’t help that most of your daily tasks are not exactly cerebral, which gives this man all the more leeway to lay claim to your subconscious.
If you believed in magic, you would've thought you summoned him with the sheer energy you’ve spent thinking about him. But what kind of witchcraft conjured him up at the precise moment you get trapped like the bumbling idiot that you are?
One minute you’re reaching for the stupid thread, the next thing you know, you’re stuck, unable to move without the mechanisms of the antique Singer groaning ominously at your attempts to free yourself.
But maybe, it’s still better than Lucy finding you. She’d take a hammer to the sewing machine to get you out, no question - patience is not her strong suit - and she’d be laughing at you for days.
You hear the floorboards give behind you as Joel moves into the space, which isn’t much - when you’re sat down at the treadle cabinet, the wall is barely two steps behind.
The wooden table creaks above you as he braces one hand on the surface, and you startle at what sounds like the vicious crack of a vertebra.
‘Um - you okay?’
Joel grunts. ‘I’ll live.’
So you wait, thinking absent-mindedly how your elbows are starting to get numb. There’s a scruff of boots and what sounds like a brief struggle, before Joel sighs. ‘Back’s too stiff ‘mfraid. Gotta get on the floor to see underneath.’
Before you can squeak out a reply, there’s a boney click of what you presume is his knees as he crouches down, and an unexpected brush of denim on your left ankle surprises you. Forgetting where you are, you jump in reflex, hitting the underside of the table so hard that you screech in pain.
‘Shit!’ Joel cusses behind you, one warm hand landing on the side of your hip to steady you. ‘You ok?’
Up until this point, you’ve been too consumed with embarrassment by your predicament to even think about the position Joel found you in. But once the warm imprint of his palm registers through the denim, it hits you like one of those interstate trucks that you used to see out of your window.
You’re leaning on your forearms, ass in the air, and now - he’s behind you, getting onto his knees. You can’t decide if the back of your head or your pussy is throbbing harder as you stutter, ‘I’m fine, just - get me out, please.’
‘Alright, hang on, sweetheart.’
You swallow the childish urge to stamp your foot. He has no right going around dropping sweethearts all over the place.
There’s a throaty exhale as Joel lowers himself onto the floor, his knees bracketing yours to shift closer to you. You know he feels the shudder that chases down your spine when soft flannel grazes your bare back, heat spilling from his solid frame as he looms over you.
‘You say you’re stuck in the band wheel?’
Somehow, you manage to answer, ‘Yeah, to my right.’
He clears his throat. ‘I - uh - I’ll have to lean down pretty close to you to take a look, is that ok?’
You feel all the air leave your body, which is probably why your reply comes out far breathier than you intend it to. ‘Yes, Joel.’
And with those two words, Joel has a problem with his jeans. Again.
They’re too tight. Again.
There’s nothing he can do as his mouth goes dry and his cock hardens with a vengeance, his self-control slipping like sand between his fingers.
He was doing so good - well, he was more or less holding it together, as much as he could be expected to while kneeling behind you. And of course, his damn knees hurt, but so does his bottom lip which is caught in his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing when his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest.
He already has one hand on you, and goddamnit, it’s taking him all he’s got to hold back from gripping you with his other, to grasp the swell of your ass between his palms, to trace your curves up to the dip of your exposed waist, to bow his head and run his tongue along the arc of your spine -
And the jeans you’re wearing - fuck, they’re tight. He wonders idly if you wore them for him. His eyes follow the seam that runs down the cleft of your ass, the way the pockets stretch over your backside has his fingers twitching, thinking about how well you will fill his hands, and how the slow rub of denim will burn his skin.
He wants to hook his thumbs into the belt loops and pull you flush against the zipper of his jeans, where his cock is straining against - rub himself on you, grind on you, his thighs plastered to the back of yours -
‘Joel?’
Fuck.
He sways as he snaps out of his stupor, dangerously close to knocking into you, light-headed from the lack of blood to his brain. He chokes out, ‘Yeah, I got you, sweetheart.’
Get it together, you dirty bastard.
He’s careful to leave a couple of inches between his front and your ass when he bends his elbows and ducks so he can peer beneath the desk. His chest pressed flat against your lower back, he can see the bunched fabric of your shirt where it’s caught.
‘Yup, you’re right, your shirt is snagged tight in there.’
‘Can you untangle it?’
‘Think so, but I’ll need both hands.’ He pauses. ‘I’d better get on my back under you.’
You swear you’re going to black out.
‘Pin?’ he prompts when you’ve been quiet a beat too long.
‘I - um, what do you mean by going under me?’
‘If I’m on my back, I can use both my hands, like a mechanic under a car,’ he explains. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, I can find another way -’
‘No!’ you blurt out, wincing at the desperation in your tone. ‘I mean - whatever is easiest for you. You’re the one doing me a favour here.’
‘Alright,’ he says, placated by your reassurance. ‘On your hands and knees then, sweetheart.’
Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. Oh, come on. Can he hear himself?
Scraping together your last vestiges of control, you push up on your palms to make space underneath you. You have to consciously lock your elbows - your joints suddenly feel like barely set pudding.
‘Move as far to your right as possible so I can slide in.’
Shuffling on your hands and knees until you’re pressed up against the band wheel, you hear the brush of fabric on wood - must be his back against the floorboards as he slides in. To say it’s a squeeze is an understatement. His broad shoulders brush the front of your thighs as he inches in, and then, his face appears under yours, head between your hands.
His lips quirk. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’
Your breath hitches at his proximity, your wrists brushing the soft red flannel he’s wearing today. ‘Hi.’
‘You ok?’ he asks.
You’re this close to pouting. What does he think? There’s a telltale stickiness between your legs that you’re frantically trying to push to the back of your mind while you mmhmm noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t smell your want in the tiny, claustrophobic space you’re now both caught in.
You can only assume that he’s none the wiser, since the next thing that comes of his mouth is -
‘Climb on top of me so I can slide in closer to the band wheel.’
Someone might as well say your last rites. This is the end.
You’re taken aback when your limbs start to move on autopilot, because your faculties have well and truly abandoned ship. One trembling leg attempts to swing itself over the solid breadth of his body, but it wobbles like jelly, and your knee ends up connecting firmly with his stomach instead of landing clear on his other side.
At his grunted oomph, you panic and bang your head on the underside of the table again, which sends your whole weight sprawling onto his front with a yelp.
Joel cradles the back of your scalp with one hand. ‘Shit, you ok, sweetheart?’
The seams of your lashes sting, your head smarting with the impact, and you blink drily as your gaze focuses on Joel under you. He’s so close that you can see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, his breath hitting your face in warm puffs. Your glance at his lips, and with that one little motion, all goes quiet.
He watches you back, neither of you breathing, and in the stillness you realise that you’re fully straddling him, your palms pressing into the hard floor on either side of his ears. Your tits are crushed up against his ribs, his soft tummy warmly cushioned under you. Lower still, where your hips are nestled into the spread of his thick thighs, something stiff and long and insistent presses into you -
Your jaw goes slack when it dawns on you.
Oh god.
He’s hard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Joel breaks the silence, a pained frown on his brow as he shakes his head. ‘This is embarrassin’. Couldn’t fuckin’ help it, seein’ you in those jeans -’
Tongue-tied, you can only stare at him, wishing you were brave enough to say something. Tell him that you pulled extra shifts to buy this particular pair of jeans, knowing that they flatter your figure. That you’ve worn them almost every day these two weeks, hoping that he’d swing by again.
But you can’t.
So you pray that he can see what you can’t say by the way you’re looking at him, by the way your heart races wildly in your ribcage against his chest.
His voice cracks. ‘I understand if you want me to go -’
You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cut in, ‘Don’t.’
His warm eyes widen, something like hopefulness in the way he looks up at you. ‘You don’t want me to go?’
You press your body closer into his, filling in the gaps. ‘No. Please don’t, Joel.’
He leans forward, so close that you can feel the phantom burn of his silvered beard, his palms finding the meat of your legs, blunt nails biting into the denim.
He really should be ashamed of himself, at the way his cock pulses unabashedly, nudged right between your thighs as you stare down at him, lips parted. He’s hard enough that he worries if there’s a wet spot of precum on the front of his jeans - he can feel himself leaking through his boxers.
The wicked tip of your tongue traces a wet trail on your bottom lip, and he almost chokes on a half-buried groan deep in his chest. He knows that you don’t even know you’re doing it - and in turn, what that does to him.
It would be easy to close the two-inch gap between you. To kiss you, taste you, lick into your sweet mouth. All he needs to do is to cup the back of your head and pull you down, or crane his neck and press his lips to yours -
And Joel is someone who always follows the path of least resistance.
But - he wants to do right by you. He knows you deserve more than a quick fumble under a table.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Joel steels himself and brushes a chaste thumb over your cheekbone. ‘Let’s get you out of here, and then we can talk, ok?’
It’s almost perverse the way his chest warms at the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you give a reluctant nod, ‘Ok. Please be careful, the Singer’s really delicate.’
It’s hard to focus - his attention keeps drifting to how snugly you fit into his chest, between his arms, and it’s not a stretch to imagine a soft mattress underneath his back. It's funny how quickly his body has adjusted to creature comforts after months of sleeping on the cold winter ground.
Joel’s mindful that an antique sewing machine will be a pain in the ass to repair without the requisite parts, so he moves carefully, gently coaxing the band wheel back and forth to see how he can extract you. It doesn’t take long to loosen the grip of the metal teeth on your shirt, but he has to reach up and untangle the threads snagged into the mechanisms one by one.
He muses idly that this is not his method. These hands of his, with crooked knuckles that never healed right, where many a dagger, knife, gun, rifle have found a home - they break things, people.
When was the last time someone asked gentleness of him?
He wants to scoff. That’s not what he’s good for.
Despite himself, his throat rumbles with a hum of satisfaction when the band wheel finally lets go of your shirt, the Singer whirring to life as it spins freely. He gives you a lopsided smile. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’
You smile, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to move, which pleases him. He likes looking at you from this angle, relishing in your weight on him. He takes his time running his eyes over your face, his palms coming to rest on your knees.
You duck your head prettily. ‘Thank you, Joel.'
He gives you a playful shrug. ‘Well, I owed you one for these jeans.’
You roll your eyes in good humour. ‘Actually, I told you specifically that you didn’t.’
Joel basks in the lighthearted turn in the conversation, egging you on, ‘Well, in that case, you owe me one for this instead.’
‘That’s hardly fair -’ you chide him, punching him in the shoulder in a half-hearted rebuke.
Taking the opportunity, he grabs you by the wrist, the contact prompting a bodily shudder from you that he doesn’t miss. He smirks, ‘M’fraid I don’t play fair, sweetheart.’
You glare at him in mock sternness, bold enough to demand, ‘Fine - what do you want then, Joel Miller?’
For a split second, he hesitates, woefully out of practice at whatever it is that he’s about to do. Swallowing his self-doubt, he asks, ‘Tommy and Maria are throwing a baby shower on Sunday at their house - do you want to come?’
Your shoulders stiffen. Now, that you were not expecting. Your social anxiety bubbles between your ribs and looms over you like a spector. You sputter, ‘Um, I -’
You start when his fingers draw soothing circles on the top of your knees, as if seeing straight through the source of your apprehension. He reassures you, ‘Lucy is welcome to join too. The more the merrier.’
Your eyes soften. ‘Ok. I’d love to.’
The endearing way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles has you swaying towards him, his nose just brushing the side of yours - when the doorbell rings, cutting through the loaded silence.
In your haste to sit up, you knock your head against the table for a third time.
‘Ow!’ you cry. Even Joel flinches at the hard hit.
Lucy calls out, sounding dangerously close. ‘Pin? You ok, hon?’
‘Shit!’ You start scrambling backwards, bent over awkwardly, convinced that you’re one more blow away from a concussion. You’ve barely scrambled onto your feet when Lucy steps into the workshop, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as blood rushes to your brain.
She watches in amusement as Joel drags himself from under the sewing station, head cocked to one side. ‘Hi again, stranger. You really like our shop, don’t you?’
His shirt is rumpled from where you sat on him, bits of his curls sticking up. He rubs the back of his neck, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘I just swung by to, uh, invite you and Pin to the baby shower. Tommy and Maria’s. This Sunday.’
Lucy crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. ‘And it’s a tradition where you’re from to talk about weekend plans under a table?’
You narrow your eyes at her. ‘Luce -’
She winks. ‘You know what? I don’t need to know the gory details - but I’m in. See you Sunday, Miller!’
Joel huffs a chuckle as Lucy disappears into the front of the shop, leaving you two alone. You smile, suddenly shy for no reason, twining your fingers to stop from fidgeting. ‘Thanks again, Joel.’
He shrugs it off, a touch of boldness in the way he stands, hands in pockets, hips cocked. ‘Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.’
Instead of heading in the direction of the door, he takes two long strides towards you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, ‘Wear those jeans for me again on Sunday?’
Stunned, you gape at him as he turns with a crooked grin and walks off, dispatching a two-fingered salute at Lucy as he goes. Pausing by the threshold, Joel gives you one last wink that has your breath stuttering - but you only allow yourself to sag against the wall when the door closes behind him, your knees giving.
Lucy wastes no time skipping back into the workshop, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. ‘Alright, time to raid the party clothes rack, girl!’
You laugh - Sunday can’t come fast enough.
Notes: I had the best time writing this chapter - it was fun to flip the tables on Pin, not that Joel comes out completely unscathed!
I definitely have ✨ideas✨ for these two, but I'm enjoying keeping things loose, so I have no plans to turn this into a full-blown series just yet. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, comments/reblogs/asks are so so appreciated as always ❤️
#fuckyeahseams#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x fem!reader#joel miller imagine#joel miller fic#joel miller x female reader
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Salt and Pepper | Arthur Morgan / Reader
Word count : 1.4k
Summary : Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray. I saw a post on here about Arthur with salt and pepper hair and I couldn’t stop myself hehe.
Warnings/Tags : talk about death, getting old, Arthur loves his wife, no tb, Arthur and reader own a house, mention of past gang members, cursing, lots of fluff, self deprecation on Arthur’s side, bullets, mention of weight gain (in a positive way)
“Godamn ugly bastard.” Arthur huffed, his gaze piercing as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t meant to have himself a pity party this morning. In fact he was feeling quite fine this morning before looking in the small bathroom mirror. Waking up next to you always puts a spring in his step. Especially when he’s waking up in a real bed, underneath a soft quilt that you happened to sew in some free time. Mismatched patches and all, it was his favorite thing in the small home you two shared. Hell, you were becoming quite domestic ever since the house was completed.
But he wasn’t exactly expecting to find gray hair sprouting from his hairline. He wasn’t that old, was he?
“Jesus.” He sighed, inspecting further he realized it wasn’t one or two gray hairs, it was almost twenty. Hidden under his longer than normal locks after forgoing a haircut for the last couple weeks. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed them, especially with how much you loved to run your fingers through his hair. Although, he loved it just as much, maybe even more.
God, he needed to get rid of these before you saw them. He was sure you had some tweezers around here somewhere. He opened up your drawer, rifling around for your tweezers. Bingo. His hands gripped the small piece of metal, a triumphant smile on his face.
It was only once he looked back up into the mirror, determined to fix this issue before you woke up, that he noticed you padding into the bathroom. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you wrapped your arms around his middle.
“Mornin’.” You hummed, laying your cheek against his bicep, smiling sweetly at him through the mirror.
“Mornin’.” He said, clearing his throat.
“What do you need those for?” You asked, eyeing the tweezers in his hand. Caught red handed, he tried coming up with some excuse.
“Nothin’ sweetheart.” He said, giving you his signature smile, kissing your forehead. He slipped the tweezers into his pocket for safe keeping, at least until he had a free moment without you around. After all those years on the run and he could come up with nothing, Hosea would have been so disappointed in his lack of an answer. He swore he could hear the old man chastising him now.
“For a former outlaw you sure are an awful liar.” You tutted, shaking your head, slipping your fingers into his pocket and pulling out the tweezers.
“Well it ain’t my fault,” He huffed playfully, “Could never get nothin’ past you anyway.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. You removed your hands from around his waist, leaning back on the sink as you looked up at him.
“Spill.” You said raising an eyebrow, your arms crossed over your chest.
Knowing he’d been caught, Arthur hung his head, a low sigh leaving his lips.
“It’s just-“ He cursed, turning to look away from you, “Well I’m goin’ gray.” He admitted, not meeting your eyes.
“And?” You asked in such a nonchalant manner.
“And?” He asked looking up at you, his brows furrowed.
“So you have some gray hairs.” You said with a shrug, “You’re acting like the damn world is ending.” You chuckled softly, a smile tugging on your lips.
“Well-“ Arthur sighed, pursing his lips, he didn’t want to be vain but damn it, it did feel like the world was ending.
“Honey.” You said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Ain’t nothing wrong with some gray hairs.” You said, shaking your head, looking so goddamn patient as always. What he did in a past life to deserve you he would never know, he definitely didn’t deserve you in this one. You smiled, running your thumb over his couple day old stubble. He couldn’t help but sigh softly, leaning into your touch.
“Just makes me feel old ‘s all.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.
“Arthur.” You said softly, he opened his eyes. His bright azure pools looking into yours. “Getting old means we’re still alive.” You said pointedly, not missing the way your fingers trailed lightly down his chest.
He sighed softly, anyone who said he was the most like Hosea had obviously never had a one on one conversation with you. You had shared the same dry wit along with being just as wise as the old man. Sometimes he wondered if the two of you were more closely related than just being adopted by him as a kid.
As your hand settled over his heart, he couldn’t help but remember a time when you didn’t have this place. When his next breath had been an undeserved blessing. When you and Charles had pulled his broken body off that godforsaken mountain. You were right, he should be grateful for these gray hairs and new lines on his face. Should be grateful that he made it this far out west with you, where the air was dryer and slowly his lungs didn’t hurt as bad with each breath.
If anything he should be grateful that you’re here, here in this house. The house that he built specifically for you. That you’re not buried six feet under like most of the fellow gang members. That you didn’t catch a bullet like Lenny or Sean, how he wished they could have had the chance to grown old. Even as mouthy as Sean was, the poor bastard didn’t deserve that. Lenny was just a boy, foolish enough to be sucked in by Dutch’s silver tongue. He shook his head trying to clear any thoughts of the past.
God, along with the fact that somehow both of you still happen to be standing, the fact that you chose to stand by him after everything you went through makes his head swim. You could have left him at any point, hell he had begged you to leave after his death sentence. And yet, here you were.
“Guess you’re right.” He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.
“Course I am.” You teased, a smile spreading across your face. You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. He accepted your silent invitation, pressing his lips against yours. So soft and warm and inviting. He could feel you smile against his lips. That small smile warmed him from the inside out, nearly making his toes curl.
Jesus, he was lucky. More than lucky, he still couldn’t figure out how he had tricked you into marrying him. He wanted to be the best version of himself for you, he had made a promise to try every day to be a better man for you. You shouldn’t be tied down to a miserable old fool like himself.
As if you could read his mind, which he often suspected you could, your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Besides,” You began as you pulled away, “I like the salt and pepper look.” Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.
“Really?” He asked, raising a brow.
“Really.” You nodded, running your hand through his hair. “Think you get more handsome every day.” If anyone was getting prettier every day it was you. Your hair was longer, cascading down your shoulders in waves. No longer tied up in a tight braid or bun. You looked relaxed, at peace. You became softer once you both settled into your new lifestyle. Not just emotionally, although you still had that fire which had first drawn him towards you, like a moth to a flame. You were physically softer, your harsh edges smoothing out as you started to eat and sleep better. Your curves became more prominent, and he certainly didn’t mind having more to hold onto late at night.
Maybe you truly did feel the same about him. He had never known you to lie. A blush settled on his cheeks at the thought. He shook his head, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest.
“Yeah, alright darlin’.” He says taking your face in his hands, kissing you again before you had the chance to embarrass him further.
Maybe getting old wasn’t so bad if you had someone to grow old with.
#rdr2#arthur morgan#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan x reader#hosea matthews#red dead redemption#rdr#hihomeghere#dutch van der linde#Charles smith#Arthur died??not in my Minecraft server#john marston#fluff
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Astarion relationship headcannons that I cannot stop from absolutely ✨rotting my brain✨(SFW & NSFW)
Early on in your relationship, he would be absolutely caught off guard by any sort of affection, and would probably prefer much smaller forms; gentle brushes of your hands together. A passing kiss on the shoulder. Small acts of service like sharing a piece of food, fixing an out of place curl, adjusting the ruffles on his tunic, etc.
Once he becomes more comfortable, he'd search for more frequent displays of affection throughout the day, probably whining if he goes too long without a touch or a kiss or a hug. He'd pull you to him in front of the others in camp just to hear them snicker and groan at how disgustingly cute the two of you are. Cup your cheek and hold your gaze as his lips hover over yours to tease you before kissing you like he's out of breath and you're his only source of oxygen.
He'd hold you by the hips when walking through the city. Or the hand. Or the back of the shirt. The pocket. The beltloop. Anything to keep constant contact and subtly but not subtly show everyone you belong to him.
Clingy? Yes. Possessive? Secretly. But not really. He'd shoot eyes like daggers at anyone that looked at you with too much interest. He'd mostly keep quiet about it, the fear of upsetting you much more important to him than how he feels about the situation (absolutely to his detriment)
He'd probably try and teach you how to sew. How to fix garments, make new ones, hem pants and tunics, anything he'd deem useful information if for some reason the two of you were to separate or be separated (Not that he'd expect that to happen, or would allow it). He'd see it as a bonding opportunity, for sure.
In the beginning of your relationship he would still offer sex regularly, even though he'd still struggle with actually enjoying the act. He'd put all of his focus on you, your pleasure, how you're feeling, what you want, etc.
When you'd offer to reciprocate, he wouldn't know how to feel. He'd always been made to perform and give instead of receiving and it would take a long long time for him to become okay with it again. You'd be patient, though. And he'd appreciate it more than he could ever express in words.
Once he IS okay with sex again, my gods he'd out-do himself each and every time.
He'd do his best to make it as romantic as possible at first. A warm bath to soothe your muscles, candles, a good meal, a massage, he'd brush your hair, butter you up as much as possible before absolutely ruining you for hours on end.
That time of the month? No problem. He'd relish in your moon blood. Take his time with you. Little bites in your inner thighs so you're reminded of him the following day. Bruising kisses, exploring you with his tongue, tasting every last drop like he's starved. All the while being as gentle as possible with his hands and his words. Help clean you up, lest a single drop be wasted. Not on his watch!
He'd definitely be the type to talk you through your orgasm. Tell you how beautiful/handsome you are, cumming for him. Stare into your eyes and watch as you unravel completely. Kiss you so you're forced to moan into his mouth. He wants to taste your pleasure. Taste your desperation for closeness. And he'd deliver each and every time.
When it comes to his pleasure, I think he'd be relatively simple. Sweet kisses along his cold skin, enjoying the warmth of your hands and lips all over his body. He'd prefer you on top so he can watch you the entire time, or have you pressed tightly to his chest so he can hear your heart quicken and your blood rush through your veins. A symphony to his ears. Your life force, your sweet nectar, all driving him absolutely mad as you ravish each other.
I live and die by this, Astarion would be BIG into aftercare. Giving it and receiving it. Kisses, cuddles, cleaning each other up, picking out comfortable clothing for bed or just stayed pressed together in the nude.
Sleeping next to Astarion would never be truly sleeping NEXT to him. He'd bury his face in your breasts or neck. Or rest his head on your stomach and giggle at the gurgling noises it makes. Tangle his legs with yours, hold your hand, press your foreheads together, anything to be as close as possible. Eventually this becomes the only way he can sleep. The only thing to keep his nightmares at bay.
I hope you guys enjoy my lil headcannons. I'm sure they're not much different from others, but my gods do I think about these REGULARLY.
#bg3#baldurs gate 3#baldur's gate 3#astarion#bg3 fanfiction#astarion ancunin#astarion x tav#astarion headcanons
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you have me, you have me only
joel miller x reader
you get (minorly) injured on patrol. joel does his best to patch you up and not worry too much. | jackson!joel, hurt/comfort, wound-patching, some blood, a jesse cameo, joel being joel, all that good stuff. | 4.2k
a/n: part of the just and just as verse. not too soft but not too angsty, either. just another day after the end of the world, you know? thank you @mrsmando for your eyes on this! <3
___
"Almost there," you mutter. "Fuck."
The icy winter wind dulls the stinging in your palms to a numbness. The leather gloves you've had for half a decade stay tucked in your pockets. You don't want to ruin their lining with dirt and blood.
"How's the head?"
Jesse pulls up alongside you in a trot. The adrenaline from your patrol-gone-wrong pulses heavy at the top of your spine, your vision sharp and the whole world a little too loud around you as Jackson comes into view at the bottom of the hill. Your head, like the rest of you, throbs.
"I'll live."
He scoffs and his horse snorts as if agreeing with him. In truth, you're more pissed than injured, though it certainly looks like you lost a fight. Jesse's cheekbone will no doubt bloom purple tomorrow and his lip is still bleeding sluggishly. His jeans are splattered with gore, same as yours.
"Thanks for back there," he says.
You shrug and wince when it pulls at the skin of your side where you fell.
"You, too," you tell him with a grimace. "That was quick thinking with the brick."
You like him -- he's good at his job and he's a good friend to Ellie. You know Tommy and Maria are not-so-subtly training him to run this place someday if he wants to. As a patrol partner, you can't ask for much better. He knows all the routes and he's a good shot and his mom knows everything there is to know about everyone in town and sometimes he passes tidbits on to you.
But knowing your shit doesn't mean a damn thing in this world, sometimes. You can still get ambushed by infected on patrol and it can still fuck up your day.
He waves you off. "I just can't believe an elk chose our station to fucking die in."
"Tommy is going to shit himself when you tell him," you laugh. It pulls at your ribs. God, is there any part of you that didn't take a beating?
"He'll just be pissed he wasn't here."
Your horses reach the bottom of the hill and Jesse hesitates, the green scrap of cloth in his hand. The red one indicating an injured party peeks out from his pocket.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?"
"I'm fine," you say firmly. "I can patch up at home."
He eyes the cut on your forehead and your scraped palms but caves under your glare and waves the green flag.
"Joel makes the same face," he mutters. "Ellie does, too. Freaky."
The gates open and you grunt when you get off your horse, palms back to stinging.
"Joel's two expressions are pissed and annoyed," you say. “Not hard to pick one up.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead and it comes back tacky with blood. "Fuck."
"I don't think you'll need a stitch." Jesse holds his hand out for your patrol rifle and pats the neck of your horse. "I'll debrief and get these guys settled. You go home."
Normally, you'd protest. But you really just want to take a hot shower and sleep for twelve hours, so you nod and shoulder your pack carefully.
"Make sure you tell Tommy about beating a stalker to death with a brick," you call over your shoulder. "He'll be impressed."
Jesse laughs.
Snow crunches under your boots on the way home. Fuck, you're exhausted. The adrenaline fades with each step and the aches become sharp pains. There aren't too many people out today on account of the cold but you nod and wave, ignoring the double takes at the blood on your clothes.
It'll be a pain in the ass if you can't patch the ruined knees of your jeans. Maybe you can convince Joel to carve something for the woman down the street who can sew better than anyone in town. Finding new pants is damn near impossible.
You’re practically dragging your feet by the time you reach your house. The mailbox labeled Miller, the wind chimes gently swaying on the porch, all of it puts you at ease. You made it home.
The porch steps groan as you climb them and the front door opens from the inside as you reach the top. Joel steps out, hand still on the knob when he looks up and sees you. His eyes widen.
He was on patrol today, too. You left at the same time but he had a shorter route and must have gotten back a while ago.
"Are you coming to meet me?" you say with a grin that's genuine despite the way your body pulses with pain. He does this sometimes -- milling around the gate, chatting with people on the wall as he waits for you to return. You never really feel like you're home until you see his face.
Joel does not smile back. His eyes rake over you the same way he surveys a room, cataloging all of the important things. The gash on your temple, the rips in your jeans, the way you're favoring your left side. The blood, too -- it's everywhere, you're sure. Palms, knees, collar. Jesse helped you wipe your face before you rode back so that you could see without blood in your eyes, but you must look pretty fucking rough.
"Jesus," he says. His hand twitches like he's going to reach for you. "You okay?"
"I'll be better when I'm not standing out in the cold."
His nostrils flare and he heads back into the house, you on his heels. You dump your pack and sit down heavily on the bench to take off your boots. Joel beats you to it, lowering to one knee with a slight groan, fingers working at your laces.
Normally he'd ask how patrol was, how Jesse did, if you saw anything interesting. Instead, his cheek twitches like he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He unties your double knots with practiced ease and his silence fills the entryway of your house.
In another life, the sight of him on one knee would set your heart aflutter. As it is, you want to run a hand through his hair and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. You know him and this is how he handles it -- he chews on blame that doesn't belong on his shoulders until he can fix it.
"I'm fine," you say softly. You open and close your hands, resting them on your knees. You got most of the gravel out but there's dirt and god knows what else embedded in the tender flesh. Joel pulls off one boot with a firm hand on your calf and then the other before finally looking up at you.
"You wanna explain...this, then?"
His hand waves up in your general direction. There's no tremble in his palm but his brows are furrowed, his shoulders set in that way of his, like he's bracing for bad news. You have a rule about not lying to each other. So if you say you're fine, you're fine. Achey, bloody, and gross, sure. But you made it home in one piece and now you'll let him take care of you and he has to be okay with that.
But you don't mind reassuring him. He worries, and you know the feeling.
You shrug and fail to hide your wince. Joel wraps a hand around your ankle and squeezes lightly.
"I've had worse," you say. "I'll tell you about it if you patch me up."
He softens a little and sighs. It won't do anything to remind him that he can't go back in time and stop you from getting hurt. Joel knows he can't fix everything, can't keep everyone he loves away from harm, can't save the world. Won't, if it comes at the expense of the people in his heart.
But you can give him something to do -- a way to make it better. You could probably bandage your hands and your forehead and the rest on your own but it'll help him just as much as you if he does it.
Life in this world is a constant give and take. You have to be okay with some things, with cuts and bruises and ruined clothes if it means you survived. There's no safety, not anymore.
"Alright, c'mon," he says, standing with a groan. "Upstairs, 'fore you bleed on the furniture."
He holds out a hand for you to stand but you show him your mangled palm. Joel clicks his tongue and grips your forearm gently instead as you rise.
"Gotta clean that," he says.
"That's the plan." You leave your coat and pack behind in a heap and head for the stairs. "A hot shower sounds so fucking good right now."
Joel stops you with a hand on your elbow and you turn on the bottom step. He traces the cut on your forehead with light fingers and you try not to wince.
"Shower," he says. "I'll patch you up after." His tone leaves no room for argument.
You ghost your fingertips along his jaw and smile at him.
"Yes sir, Mr. Miller, sir."
More tension melts from his shoulders and he rolls his eyes at you. You laugh all the way to the bathroom, even though it hurts a little.
It's been a while since one of you returned from patrol with any sort of injury. Winter means the hoards are sluggish and easy to track and tends to keep groups of people from coming to the valley and making trouble. Today was bad luck and could have been much worse.
You both know how quickly all of the good in your lives can be snatched away. Everyone does.
But you just can't dwell on it. Joel knows it, too, and letting him fuss over you in that way of his will remind him. You're home. You're okay.
You leave the bathroom door cracked as you shower under the gentle spray. Your various injuries sting but you manage to clean the scrapes on your knees and hands and wash the blood from your skin and hair, the water rusty brown as it swirls around the drain.
Joel knocks when you're almost done and the hinges groan when he steps into the bathroom.
"Leavin' you clothes," he says, voice raised so you hear over the spray. "You okay?"
"Still alive," you call back. "Almost done."
The water starts to turn lukewarm so you switch off the stream and drag back the curtain. Joel is nowhere to be found but he's left you loose shorts so your knees are exposed and a big, faded graphic t-shirt that you brought home for him as a joke last year as well as fresh underwear and warm socks. You gently pat your skin dry with an old and scratchy towel and do your best with your hair before sliding them on.
Joel knocks again and this time he has the bag with all of your first aid stuff in his hands. The steam from your shower rushes out into your bedroom and you shiver.
He jerks his chin at the counter. "Wanna get up there?"
You haul yourself up with a groan and he stands between your knees, arms crossed and head cocked.
"What're we dealin' with, here?"
You look down at your messy palms and rattle off what hurts.
"Cut on my forehead, bruised rib, probably, fucked up hands and knees, and..." You look up and find Joel running a hand down his face. "That's it."
"You sure?"
You glare at him. He glares back. His eyes drift to your forehead gash.
"Cut could use a stitch."
He's still tense, you can tell, probably will be until he wakes up tomorrow and you're still next to him in bed. Until the wounds turn to scabs turn to scars. Maybe not even then.
"I think I've had enough cuts over the years to know what needs a stitch."
His eyebrows rise just a little bit, turning his expression from interrogative to exasperated, but he knows better than to tell you to do something when you’ve set your mind against it.
"They're offerin' medical degrees on the Creek Trails, now?"
"Joel."
He holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Let me feel your ribs."
You raise your arms a little and he slides his palms under your shirt and up your torso, pressing gently as he goes. Braless as you are, he brushes the underside of your breast, and your breath hitches. His eyes are soft with quiet amusement but he doesn't tease you.
"Your hands are warm," you murmur. He reaches the place on your side that took the brunt of the impact and you hiss.
"Sorry," he says. "Doin' real good. Deep breath for me." You obey and he withdraws, satisfied.
"Nothin' broken," he says.
"Told you."
He hums and pulls out the precious few disinfectant wipes from your first aid kid. You can get Joel to do a lot of things just by asking, but arguing with him about wasting supplies on you never works. He washes his hands in the sink and glares are you like he knows what you’re thinking.
"Forehead first, then hands, then knees," he says. "Okay?'
You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He grips your face with gentle fingertips to keep you still.
"How was your patrol?" you ask him.
He makes a noise low in his throat that's halfway to being a laugh.
"C'mon," he says. "You don't want to hear about mine. I know you're dyin' to tell me what happened."
The alcohol wipe stings as he swabs at your forehead and you tense. Joel's thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of your mouth and you press your knees into his hips.
Funny how you've had broken bones, been stabbed, shot, pretty much everything over the last twenty years but it's the small stuff that hurts the most. Stubbed toes, sliced fingers, alcohol wipes on shallow wounds. Some things just don't change.
"Okay," you say. "Well, you'll never believe it, but a damn elk decided to die in the station where the logbook is."
You tell him how you and Jesse rode up and saw the blood trail immediately and heard the moans and groans. You kept the horses on the other side of the fence and checked the first floor and the overlook, but the elk had weaseled its way under the collapsed staircase.
It smelled like death, rust and decay heavy in the air. The animal must have died just after the last patrol.
But it wasn't the problem. It was the group of Infected it attracted -- two runners and four stalkers. You have no idea where they came from but, since you were on patrol, the priority was eliminating them. The runners were easier, although one of them was responsible for the gash on your forehead when it managed to push you into the wall. You and Jesse cleared them quickly, one bullet each.
You thought you got all of the stalkers. One of them was munching on the carcass and went down fairly easily with your good aim. Jesse helped you clean your forehead so you both could clear the passage to get to the upper level and sign the logbook. The corpses went over the side of the station into the forest below. The Infected had eaten so much of the elk that it wasn't too heavy, though you both were sweating and dirty by the time you finished.
"Lemme guess," Joel says. You open your eyes as he carefully pulls the wound closed with two butterfly bandages before he gestures for your hand. He holds your wrist gently and tilts your palm side to side, looking for dirt. "There were infected inside the station, too."
"Look at you," you tease. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, intense as always. "It's like you were there."
"Smartass," he grumbles. The disinfectant stings on your palm, too, but you keep talking and keep your gaze on his face.
"Jesse climbed the rope up to the control room first but had to fend off a stalker at the top so he didn't see when another one grabbed my ankle and pulled me down mid-climb, which fucked my hands. The fall is how my rib got bruised and I tore up my knees fending it off."
Joel's cheek twitches. He wraps one of your palms in gauze and turns his attention to the other.
"Fuckin' hate those things."
"Me, too. When I got to the top, finally, Jesse was tugging a pipe from the head of a corpse. There was one more -- it jumped out of that supply room on the side, the one where Ellie found a bong, once, I think. I dodged it but my gun jammed and my hands were bleeding."
"Should've been wearing gloves."
You tap his leg with your foot and ignore him. Not taking your bait about the bong means he’s still pissed. "And then Jesse killed it with a brick."
"I taught him that," Joel grumbles.
He ties off your other palm and as soon as he's done you frame his face. Joel allows it, allows you to stare at him for a few seconds like you're memorizing him. You're telling the story like it was a fun adventure -- and it was. You're plenty capable and he knows it, too.
But you were scared. You don't tell him that right now, instead grounding yourself in the man in front of you. His hands are rough and dangerous to most, but tender and careful to you. The broad, firm line of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit.
The gash on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. His beard, greyer every year. You swipe your thumbs along his cheekbones and he sighs.
"Lucky me," you say softly.
You lean in to kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. His wide palms rest on your bare thighs and he kisses back with a kind of desperate firmness, as if he's proving to himself that you're real. That you're here in front of him, under his hands, in his care.
Joel drags his lips along your cheek.
"Knees," he says.
He steps back and releases your thighs with a squeeze. He treats more of your torn skin, a frown back on his face.
"I do want to hear about your patrol, by the way."
He shrugs. "Not much to tell," he says. "Didn't even get to shoot anythin’.”
You swing your foot back and forth, tapping the side of his thigh with every pass.
"But you had the nice route," you whine. "Tell me what the lake looked like."
"Quit distracting me," he grumbles.
"Like you don't have the steadiest hands in all of Jackson," you say softly.
He snorts. "Are you flirtin' with me?"
"I'm always flirting with you, Joel Miller."
You lied to Jesse earlier -- Joel has hundreds of expressions. He just keeps most of them for you. For Ellie, and Tommy, too. You know every one of them by now.
The look on his face now says he's thinking about kissing you again, maybe just to shut you up.
You grin at him. "Tell me about your patrol, now, seriously. Unless talking and using your hands at the same time is too much for you."
He smirks back. "Think we both know that ain't true."
"Now who's flirting?"
Lazy heat curls in your belly but fatigue stops it from turning into anything. Joel must see that in your eyes because he simply taps your chin with a knuckle and starts talking.
You start to slump as his Texas drawl wraps around you. He tells you how the lake was still, how he and Astrid saw bear tracks but no bear. How he found a tape for Ellie that he's going to give her tomorrow, how he wore his gloves today like you've been telling him to.
Some people might say that Joel is a man of few words. You thought he was the quiet type when you first met him, another stoic survivor in a world that demands hardness of everyone. But not shy, never shy. Just...waiting. Watching.
He and Ellie can shoot the shit for hours -- a dynamic they've fallen back into easily enough since they started spending time together again. He's funny, he's clever, he's annoying as shit when he wants to be.
And Joel is quite the storyteller. If you had to guess you'd say it comes from having to entertain Tommy when they were kids, from getting Sarah into bed on his own over and over. Keeping Ellie occupied, keeping her talking when things were scary and hard and fucking awful.
It's just another way he takes care of people.
"Still with me?" he says. You realize your eyes have closed. When you open them you find Joel looking at you with tenderness and a spark of amusement. The tense line of his shoulders is nowhere to be seen. "All done. Tired?"
"And hungry."
He washes his hands and throws away the various wrappers and blood-stained wipes.
"Sure you're awake enough to eat?" he teases.
You roll your eyes at him. He laughs.
"Joel," you say, catching his elbow. "Thank you."
"C'mon, now."
He looks like he wants to argue with you for saying it but reaches for you instead. He traces the cut on your forehead just like he did at the bottom of the stairs, brow drawn again. You can't tell what he's thinking as he drags his thumb down and around your eye, cupping your cheek fully for just a breath before releasing you and stepping towards the door.
"I'll heat some soup."
Dinner is quick and quiet, your energy sapped from you to the point of exhaustion. Everything aches, despite Joel's thorough care. When he suggests turning in early you don't protest.
He takes longer than you to get ready for bed. You slide under the worn duvet and wait, trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your bruised ribs throb in time with your heartbeat and when Joel finally turns off the light and gets in bed next to you in his threadbare sleep pants he practically hauls you into his embrace.
You go willingly, tangling your legs and laying your head on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You press your palm to his chest, fingers threading in the coarse hair. His heart thuds and it grounds you.
"I didn't get any good gossip off Jesse," you whisper. "On account of the whole surprise-infected thing."
He yawns. "S'pose it's a good excuse."
"Can I tell you something else?" you whisper. "A secret?"
Joel hums, lips brushing your temple as his hand snakes up your sleep shirt to press against your lower back.
Even though you know each other down to the bones, some things remain inexplicable. Parts of your pasts that linger in the darkest parts of you, the parts that stay shrouded until the moments like this. You don't have to be brave in the quiet hours of the night, entwined with him as you are. It's the safest place you'll ever be. Safe enough that you can crack open and let Joel in, let those steady and worn hands keep you together.
"I was scared today," you say into his neck. "When the stalker dragged me off the rope. I panicked, I --"
You don't tell him how your initial thought when you hit the ground was of him, how you closed your eyes tight and thought of your name from his mouth, of his smile when you come through the door. The stalker had its bony fingers digging into your ankle and you wondered if you'd ever feel Joel's hands on you again.
Death will come for you sooner or later and when it does it'll be Joel's face that you hold in your mind before it all ends.
But today, you kicked death until its stupid fucking mushroom skull caved in.
Joel presses his lips to your temple. You can feel his heart beating faster, as fast as yours. It's the only thing that betrays his own fear.
Wounds in this life often go deeper than the skin. When Joel comes home with bloody knuckles and shuttered eyes it's one thing to stop the bleeding, to bandage him and get him to eat something. It's another to hold him, to coax out the story, the fear. To follow him downstairs when he has a nightmare, to look for him in every room. It's all part of what you do as partners, as lovers, as people in this world. You take care of each other.
Neither of you can fix a lot of things. But you can ensure the scars heal into something light, something you can barely see.
You can hold each other in the dark.
"Scared me, too," he rasps. A secret for a secret. "Lotta damn blood."
You kiss the underside of his jaw. "Can't get rid of me that easy."
Joel pulls you closer, somehow, mindful of your side.
"Rest, now," he says. "You ain’t goin' anywhere."
It's a command, a promise. You hum your agreement and let sleep drag you under.
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based on an idea i had about steve getting a bad migraine from the sudden bloodloss after kas feeds from him
post-canon, steddie don't like each other, hermit kas, depressed brain injury steve, kinda gloomy, anxiety & compulsions
Steve cuts the engine with a sigh, feeling heavy and alien, like a lone survivor in a ghost town. He’s not a lone survivor, and Hawkins isn’t technically a ghost town because there’s still enough of them here to build it back up or to watch it crumble and cave in on itself, front row seats to the fourth wave of destruction.
Maybe the real ghost is Steve, actually, floating through his days just waiting for his brain to decide it’s had enough. Just waiting for the perpetual ringing in his ears to rise in pitch and frequency and for his skull to fucking crack open from the never ending waves of the never ending buzz.
Robin asks him about it a lot, notices how he will stop and listen to his body on every inhale that feels slightly wrong, or every movement that’s just a little too fast or just a little too sudden, the blood rushing into his head or out of it, the doctor’s words ringing in tune with the tinnitus: You watch that head of yours, young man, and do not hesitate to call emergency services when the headache won’t stop after a few hours, or when anything feels off, you hear me?
The truth is, he barely heard him then. Blood was roaring in his ears, the tinnitus still quiet, but his hearing still dull from impact and screams and shock wave after shock wave of the world sewing itself back together.
He sighs again, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel and trying to catch his breath. Taking stock of his head, the heartbeat he can only feel in his hands right now and nowhere near his temples, and the quiet little tap tap tap of his finger nails hitting the leather, wanting to make sure he can hear it. Wanting to make sure he doesn’t imagine the sound.
Always fucking needing to make sure.
Soon, he breathes a little steadier, convincing himself that getting out of the car won’t be the last thing he’ll ever do. It’s so stupid, too, that fear, all that anxiety living inside him just waiting to boil and spill over until he does something stupid just to spite it.
The cool breeze hits his face, working in tandem with his calming breaths to alleviate his obsessive thought spirals, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he does nothing but breathe for a minute there.
He’s up. He’s standing. He can walk through the forest to the vamp’s hiding place, it’s fine. It’s fine. Although standing so suddenly makes him aware that he hasn’t eaten much today, too busy hating everything about this town and helping to rebuild it anyway.
Forgetting to eat and drink is another thing that’s new to him. There’s quite a few things he forgets a lot, but those are the worst. Robin is always on his ass about that, but at some point he stopped telling her. It feels like he’s stopped telling her a lot of things. Maybe that’s something else that comes with severe brain injury, young man.
He feels plenty guilty about it at least — but not enough to tell her about all the horrible things that are happening to him, or the horrible things he thinks are happening to him. The Upside Down is gone, Vecna is dead. These bad thoughts, they’re all him. But knowing that doesn’t fucking help.
Pushing away from the car and turning around to lock it, Steve decides to wallow in self pity no longer and to just get on with it. As much as he hates it. As much as part of him wants to just go home and claim that he forgot about that, too.
It’s no secret that Steve never liked Eddie. The boy’s a hypocrite, he’s loud, he’s annoying, and he just likes to shame people as publicly as possible, spitting proclamations of conformity and sticking it to the Man while at the same time turning anarchy into despotism under the guise of rebellion — and he’s the dictator.
Or, he was. And Steve never cared about him or his larger than life attitude that was worse than any of the smiles Steve ever wore to fit in in high school. Steve mostly ever just wanted Munson to shut up and eat his lunch, stop pretending he’s better than any of them just because he liked different things.
Although it wasn’t even about liking other things, it was only ever about disliking. And shaming and denouncing. Steve always wondered what kind of a miserable life that dude must have lived, shaping himself not from what he liked but from what he hated. Creating an identity that left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth because it was so fragile and contradictory and, frankly, so fucking annoying.
Still, he’d never wished for Munson to get involved in all of this. He’d never wished for the man to die. And then to come back only to be turned into some kind of vampire, doomed to live an even worse existence than he did as a human, hidden away in some shabby cabin.
Steve feels a little bad for him now. For Eddie. Or Kas, as the kids like to call him because he never reacts to his name anymore, more monster than human these days, although Dustin is sure they can domesticate him into becoming his old self again.
“Like Dart, remember?”
“Dude, don’t compare our friend to your sick little creature.” That was Lucas, affronted and annoyed. Steve could relate, although…
“You gotta admit, he’s kind of a sick little creature himself now.”
“Steve!” they’d both yelled, and Steve just playfully shoved their heads back before going to grab a coke from the fridge.
And Kas, because vampires are apparently a thing even after the end of the world, needs blood to survive. The forests are void of animals most of the time, like nature has decided to give Hawkins an ultimatum before returning and the day hasn’t come yet. Maybe it’s something to do with electromagnetic fields, or maybe it was something else entirely leading them all to safety while Hawkins was turned into a war zone. Either way, there is nothing for him to feed here.
Kas can’t just stalk around the woods at night and drink up a deer or two. Nor can he go rob the blood bank at the hospital, they’re running low as it is anyway. That left them all with only one option that Mike so disgustedly pointed out back then: Kas needs their blood. And Steve feels just bad enough for him to play along.
So now he is out here playing blood bank for the monstrous version of a guy he never even liked, and his hometown is in shambles, and his head might actually sign the fuck off at any moment now, apparently.
Things are going great.
Saving the world is just… really fucking isolating.
Still he has no choice but to announce his presence with a firm knock on the door, the pattern easy but memorable.
“This is Steve,” he adds as his hand falls to his side, waiting.
Kas always takes a while to come out and open the door, hiding away from any noise like a feral cat. Steve can kind of relate — he and Kas don’t have the best relationship either. He has no idea how sudden vampirism works, but just like feral cats will be able to tell when someone wants to hurt them and when instincts should be kicking in, Kas seems to realise how little Steve wants to be here and help him. How little he wants to have his blood sucked out of his body leaving his limbs to feel numb and uncomfortably tingly.
Eventually, though, the door opens with a creek, just enough for a pair of eyes — too large, too wide, too wild — blink back at him. Steve just lifts his eyebrows, really kind of not in the mood to deal with this barely human vampire and his absolute lack of learning curve about this situation.
When he’s sure Kas has blinked at him for long enough now, he pushes open the door and shoves inside rather roughly, immediately feeling bad when he hears the slight whimper.
“Sorry,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets again and trying not to grimace at the stale, disgusting air in the cabin. “Jeez, you really gotta open a window every once in a while. Thought vamps were supposed to have heightened senses or some shit.”
Kas growls at him, mirroring Steve’s move and shoving past him this time, his shoulder slamming into Steve’s with painful strength. Glowering at the stupid vampire, he rubs at his shoulder before crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Listen, buddy, I can just leave and have you deal with your hunger, okay? No big deal for me, I even get to keep my blood.”
Kas snaps at him, showing his fangs and crossing his arms, too; a laughable copy of Steve’s own stance.
“Or you could just cut the crap and get on with it so I actually can leave again without taking shit from the peanut gallery. Your choice.”
The huff that follows is so indignant, Steve wonders if that could be what gets Kas out of Munson’s body and let the human win over the monster. Maybe indignation and annoyance is what will break the spell eventually, lift the curse just enough for Munson to get back into his old habit of monologising and spouting nonsense out of that big mouth of his.
Steve is half tempted to try, but he really does want to just go home and lie on his large couch with no sensory input whatsoever, tuning out the world and his anxieties that might be about to turn into compulsions just for him to gain a little control over everything again. So he squares his shoulders and takes off his jacket before tilting his head to the side, allowing Kas full access to his neck.
It’s always a little scary but still oddly fascinating, filling him with that same rush that came with witnessing all the supernatural shit over the past few years. Kas is the last remnant of all that, and somehow, buried beneath piles of rubble and trauma and the teenager he had to give up on being, Steve feels weirdly protective of that.
Not of Eddie. Of Kas. Of the monster that lies dormant. Of the last bit of danger in his life, because he doesn’t know how to live without it anymore — so much so that he has to make it up.
Maybe it’s a symptom of his self destructive tendencies, as Robin would call it. But Steve might be as fascinated with the vampire as Robin is with fire; so she doesn’t get to have a say in this.
There is always a strange intimacy in the way Kas approaches him. Slowly, carefully. Like a hunter his prey. Steve doesn’t feel like prey, not really, but a part of him wants to. A part of him needs to be prey again, if only for those instincts that manifest with a perpetual tremor and a restless feeling in his chest to be of use again. If only so he can have a point again. Something to fight that’s outside oh his own head.
Now, his point is standing still entirely and feeling those chapped but warm lips trail up and down his throat a little before Kas finds the right spot that won’t really hurt Steve, the right spot that will make it all go by quickly and without any hiccups.
Still he shivers, like always, and Kas holds him close when he finally bites down. Like always.
He stands motionless as he feels his blood flow alternating, rushing in his ears and his head, his heart thump-thump-thumping, putting up a fight against the strange intrusion. He hardly even breathes at all, focusing instead on his body and burying his finger nails in his palm for five seconds before releasing his hands and repeating the process three times before he gets it right.
But then his head is pulsing, his heartbeat slowing down as his vision briefly blacks out in the same way it does when he gets up too quickly, and his heart falls. It’s too much. Too sudden.
“Kas,” he says, but the vampire doesn’t hear him, drinking more and more of the blood that must be so thick with how little he’s had to drink today — something he only just remembered. “Kas,” he says again, more urgently this time; but still the vampire drinks.
And where before Steve had a clear vision of the door in the dark room — the light of day streaming in through the cracks and framing it almost mystically —, it’s spotty now. Just slightly off. Like something is missing but his brain is working overtime to complete the picture anyway, reducing the blind spot to merely an illusion. But Steve knows what’s happening. He knows what the sudden pulsating of his head means, especially when it’s followed by his vision just going AWOL on him.
No, he thinks as the situation really settles in, and he begins to push Kas away. Not like it matters anyway now; the damage is done. No, no, no, no, fuck!
He frantically shoves at the vampire now, blinking against the blind spot even though he’s painfully aware it won’t help. Kas breaks away from him, wiping his mouth and smearing his face and the back of his hand with Steve’s blood. If he looks just right, he can’t even fucking see it.
Heart falling further, Steve buries his hands in his hair and pulls, hoping that by some kind of miracle he can just pull the migraine out of his head before it can really settle. It’s his only chance. He can’t drive like this, he shouldn’t walk like this, and soon he won’t be able to do anything at all.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” be hisses, hearing the edge of desperation in his own voice and caring very little about that right now.
Kas is on him again in a second, and Steve waves him off, tries to shove him away but the vampire is stronger and persistent.
A high keening sound builds in Kas’s chest, and Steve knows he doesn’t really speak, doesn’t really use his words, ever — maybe he doesn’t know how. But the keening sounds more like a whine, and the way he pulls at Steve to look at him is as much an indicator of worry as he’s going to get.
But Steve doesn’t want Kas’s hands on him, wants to just get out and away before the pain comes. So he takes another step back and holds up his hands, hoping that the vampire will just fucking take a hint.
A little too quickly and a little too frantic, Steve shakes his head, his eyes flitting about the room to see if there’s still pieces of it missing or if phase two is about to start. He has about twenty minutes left before his body will be composed of nothing but skull-splitting pain that is only equal to someone ramming actual nails into his head — and even that would be preferable right noe, because at least that pain he wouldn’t need to explain. Or justify.
Another keening sound interrupts Steve's burgeoning spiral, and his eyes land on Kas, who really looks like a kicked puppy right now.
"I gotta go," he says, voice a little unsteady with apprehension and panic, but just as he's about to rush out of the cabin, Kas crosses his path and won't let him move.
A strong hand lands on his chest, and Steve really, really doesn't want to deal with that right now. He tries again, tries with more force to sidestep and push past him, but Kas won't let him budge.
"Let me go." But Kas doesn't let up. "Kas. Please. You gotta let me go, I gotta get home, I—“
The first flash of white in his peripheral vision catches him off guard, moving his focus away from the clawed hand on his chest and toward the flickering line that cuts through the left side of his vision right now.
Curious or worried or maybe just really fucking stupefied at having Steve act so weirdly, Kas inclines his head and ducks to catch Steve's eyes.
"Move," Steve says again, as assertive as he can manage with his brain and body scattered between following the flickering lights that are invisible to everyone else and the pain that is about to consume him, leaving him incapacitated for several hours at least.
Instead of moving out of Steve's space and allowing him to leave, Kas shoves him backwards with that superhuman strength he has now, forcing Steve to stumble back helplessly. Fear rises in him again, and it's a different flavour this time that mixes horribly well with the anxiety and apprehension and all the waves and waves of blinding panic he feels out of nowhere almost all the time now.
His knees buckle when they hit something rather violently, and then he's falling, landing on the worn couch with a breathless gasp, his instincts running wild. He needs to fight, he needs to run, he needs to get home and be safe and get the fuck away from this monster who won't let him go now. Steve doesn't know Kas as someone who will just take what he wants, but, well, he is Munson, in a way. So that tracks.
But instead of attacking him, instead of going for his neck again and sucking the rest of his blood, instead of beating Steve to a pulp to keep him pliant and unmoving and turn him into some sort of personal livestock, Kas just... sits down next to him. Hands in his lap. Worried look trained on Steve, who needs to catch his breath and calm down.
"Hurt."
It startles Steve. Kas has never spoken to him. But what’s more, Steve shouldn't be that obvious. He doesn't want to be that obvious, especially about hurting and being hurt.
So he shakes his head, his hands coming up to press into his eyes, hoping to get rid of the flickering lights even though he knows that once they stop, the pain will come; and it will come badly.
"'M not hurt," he says, lying through his teeth and the heel of his hand. "I just gotta go home."
"Hurt," Kas says again, and it's more assertive this time, less of a question. Like he's telling Steve rather than asking. Like he's making him understand.
He reminds Steve a little of Robin in that regard, and he almost has to smile. He would, too, if he wasn't so aware that it would become a horrible grimace, wavering and pale even by vampire hermit standards.
So he sighs instead, letting his hands fall into his lap and wringing his fingers. There are about ten, maybe fifteen minutes left. Not enough to get anywhere safe on foot, and he sure as hell ain't driving when his vision is halfway through its rendition of a TV without signal, zig-zagging in white and red and green, flickering and flaring and leaving him a little disoriented even when all he's doing is sitting on that dusty old couch.
"Hurt," Kas repeats for the third time, and Steve tenses, ready to snap at him to shut up, that he's not hurt yet but will be any minute now and that Kas should really just shut the fuck up and leave himself if he won't let Steve go anywhere.
But looking at those wide eyes, he doesn't snap. He deflates. His shoulders fall and his eyes close, which only makes the flickers worse, he feels.
“I’m… I’m gonna have a migraine," he sighs, letting that hang in the air between them, letting the words take up the whole room and suffocate him while he knows that they won't touch Kas. That he won't understand. Nobody does.
It's just a headache, Steve, get over it.
They leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and he's just waiting for the huff to come.
But it doesn't come. Instead, Kas just keeps looking at him; same worried expression, same unobtrusive posture, same everything. Right. He probably doesn't know jackshit about what that's supposed to mean.
So Steve explains. “I, well. I kinda can't really see right now, but that'll pass. That's when the pain comes. I won't want to move. No light. No noise. No nothing. And all I can do about it is wait it out, which is why I need you to let me leave..."
It's one of those moments where he hates that he's the only one of their group with a license; that he can't just radio with a code red and have someone come get him no questions asked.
"I just wanna go home, man," he sighs, hating his voice for the weak whine around the edges.
A beat passes between them, and Steve pretends like he's not counting the seconds. Like he doesn't notice that the flickering zigzag line is getting smaller and dimmer, and that agony is imminent.
"Here," Kas says then, and somehow it's both an offer and a command. "You. Here."
Steve blinks, the words not really translating through the tired fog of his brain.
"Huh? Sorry, uh, what?"
"You," Kas says, shuffling closer to him, like that sort of helps him translate what it is he wants to say.
"Me."
Kas nods, then motions around the room and pats the couch cushion, releasing a cloud of dust from it. "Here."
“You—“ Steve frowns. "You want me to stay here?"
The nod is decisive and in another world Steve would have called it eager, with the way Kas is shuffling on the spot.
"Kas," Steve sighs, rubbing his face, not quite sure how to make the vampire explain that it's gonna be bad. Really, really bad. The flickering shimmer is already waning, and phantom pains are already setting in, settling along his skull like little pinpricks of warning.
A clawed hand reaches for his wrist, making Steve flinch away, but Kas doesn't hurt him. He pulls Steve’s hand away from his face almost gently, slowly, and makes sure Steve looks at him.
"Safe." And he looks so genuine about it. He looks like he knows what that word means. "Safe."
With a sigh, Steve accepts his fate. Kas isn't gonna let him go anytime soon, and at this point Steve really doesn't want to face the gloomy weather outside, stuck as it is somewhere between drizzle and downpour and so endlessly grey for days.
Still he feels pathetic about it. Vulnerable. Exposed. Like a last bastion falling, the castle walls crumbling, the fragile house of cards finally falling, because suddenly this agony isn't something he keeps only to himself.
Even if it's only Kas who witnesses it. Kas, who’s endured worse than that, Steve knows. Brainwashing, manipulation, the agony of shaping human into vampire so excruciating his mind has gone into hiding still.
"Okay," Steve breathes at last, pretending that his voice didn't break on that single word. "Okay."
Kas hums, the sound resembling more a gurgle than anything else, and before Steve knows what's happening, cold hands are pulling him up and off the couch.
"Jesus," he mumbles, barely catching his footing and pulling away from Kas's grasp, but following nonetheless, not even thinking about fleeing now. "I'm coming, I'm coming, man, don't touch me."
Miraculously, Kas does stay away, walking just one step ahead of Steve, turning towards him every two steps to make sure he's still following. It reminds Steve of a mama duck herding her ducklings across the street and making sure they're all still there. It's weirdly endearing.
"Why do you even care?"
He doesn't get an answer, but that's no surprise, and he doesn't really mind either. It was more about wondering, about putting that question out there and letting it take up space for future contemplation.
Kas leads him to an adjoining room, the north-facing windows all barred shut, ripped and moth-eaten curtains drawn to block out the last of the light. Right. Fitting, for a vampire's lair.
The bed in the middle of the far wall is surprisingly large, though, and looks surprisingly soft. It's unmade, but that's just as well. There are no belongings in the room otherwis that Steve can make out, the framed pictures on the wall look as dusty as the rest of the cabin, so they can't belong to Kas. Or maybe he likes them enough to keep them, to claim them as his own now.
It’s a heartbreaking thought.
Stupidly and out of nowhere, Steve wonders if he could take care of this cabin. Dust it and clean it and only fill it with things Kas likes. Maybe things Munson used to like — surely the kids would know how to go about that. Or Wayne.
He's about to ask; about the pictures, about the stuff, about Wayne — if he's been around lately, if he's still telling stories to bring back the dormant Eddie parts of his modified and manipulated mind.
But just as he's about to turn to the vampire and ask, the blinding flickers disappear from his field of vision in the dark room, and within seconds something inside his skull bursts, leaving his body awash with pain that nearly has his knees buckling. A whimper escapes him that he tries to steer into a groan, but then his hands are flying to his head and he stops caring about how he expresses this immediate agony to the world.
Kas is on him again with a whimper, suddenly just as fucking tactile as his once-human form.
“Don’t touch me,” Steve rasps, wrenching himself free from the gasp once more. He really wishes Kas would stop touching him. "You want me to lie down here, yeah? Take your bed?"
Kas nods again, looking at Steve with those wide eyes that seem to glow in the dark — or maybe that's his migraine-addled mind seeing things where they aren't, making up for the blind spot and the flickering.
Steve looks away, the motion hurting his entire face, and he closes his eyes as pins and needles are moving along the inside of his face, pricking up against the skin but never breaking through.
"Right then," he whispers, his voice barely audible and still too loud, making his ears click and pressure collect around them, making him wonder if they're going to burst. "'M gonna lie down."
Struggling with the heavy blanket, Steve is close to giving up and just lying on top of it, but Kas is quick to help him once he realises that Steve needs it. He pulls back the blanket, still looking so damn stricken about everything, like he's genuinely worried about Steve. It doesn't make sense.
He doesn't have the strength for a Thanks or even a smile, but he nods just once, just barely, before sluggishly falling onto the bed and fumbling with the blanket once more. Every movement hurts. Every twitch of a muscle is too much, and just moving his pinkie is enough to douse his body in never-ending pain that travels from his skull all the way down.
Something Steve has always wondered is why migraines make his body shut down like that, leaving him in a state where all he can do is lie down and fall into a near-catatonic limbo until the pain has lifted enough to face the rest of the world again. Fighting inter-dimensional monsters and posing as a feast to demonic, modified monster bats was also agony. It also made him lose his footing and almost pass out from blood loss and pain, his back scratched open completely where the bats dragged him across rough stone.
Migraine pains don't really compare to those, though, and it scares him. Because he knows that's all up in his brain. His fucked up, mangled, thrice-concussed fucking brain he never got cared for because the government goons never took them seriously. Never took him seriously.
And now here he is, lying in a stranger's bed in a pitch-black room that's still somehow too bright, unmoving, too weak to even pull up the blanket, and hoping to pass out from it all. Hoping he won't hallucinate again this time. Hoping that he won't throw up this time, his body convulsing because it knows it shouldn't be feeling like this.
Throwing up from pain. There's really nothing more fucked up than that. Or, there is. Throwing up from pain and begging an invisible man to make it stop, only to realise hours later that the most painful migraines can also make you hallucinate.
He doesn't want that. He doesn't want any of that ever again, and certainly not in a strange, dark cabin with a vampire forged from a human he never even liked.
Tears spring to his eyes, but they're not the kind that'll fall and bring relief. They just stay in the corners of his eyes, his only way to express the waves and flares of pain washing over him, wishing he could just pass out now.
Kas tucks him in. Steve didn’t know he could do that. It strikes him as extremely non-vampiric even in this state he’s in. Steve doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as blink his eyes open as the pain travels up to his hairline and settles there, flaring over his forehead to his eyes and down to his cheekbones and then up again, a never-ending motion that he never stands a chance to get used to.
“Safe,” Kas says again, and it zings through Steve’s body with violent force that doesn’t match at all with the gentle tone he’s using.
Scrunching his forehead to stave off more words, Steve hopes that Kas will take the hint and know to shut up.
But he has no such luck.
“Here.”
“Shhh.” He shakes his head minutely, shushing the vampire with a barely there noise, keeping the damage to a minimal amount. “You can go,” he slurs, trying not to speak at all. “Please.”
A beat of blessed, blissful silence, before there’s shuffling again. Kas does walk to the door, but then stops in the doorway. Steve doesn’t want to look.
“No.” Kas sounds surprised about it. Mystified. Like he wants to leave but can’t.
What?
“Stay. Here.”
Whatever you do, just please be quiet about it, Steve thinks desperately. Instead of saying any of that, he shushes him again, hoping that the thump he hears means that Kas is sitting on the floor now. Though he doesn’t understand why.
Why do you even care?
“Safe,” Kas says again, whispering the word into the room, and it doesn’t zing through Steve this time.
With Kas refusing to leave and his pathetic state of existence so blatantly on display, and with waves and waves as his nerves fire signals to his overworked and tired brain, more tears sprint to his eyes. And this time they fall. Silently, and without a sob, without even a sniffle of acknowledgment. But they fall.
And Steve just wants to go home.
🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @hammity-hammer (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)
part 2 here
#steddie fic#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#kas eddie munson#dio words#kas takes care of steve fic#still not sure if this is tumblrable but it shall no longer stay between me and the discord thread girlies
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Eddie sews 'babygirl' onto the right back pocket of Steve's jeans but doesn't tell him, it's not huge but it's pink and noticeable from behind. It's been nearly 2 weeks and Steve still hasn't noticed, everyone else has. Robin had snorted her iced coffee all over herself and Mike had to excuse himself to the mall bathroom because he couldn't stop laughing.
Eddie had to slap a hand over Dustin's mouth after he said, "What's up with your butt, Steve?"
"What?" Steve tried to look over his shoulder to see what Dustin was talking about but Eddie quickly slung an arm over his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Steve is easily distracted with kisses.
"There's nothing wrong with your butt, honey, it looks great." And compliments.
Steve smiles and forgets about the whole thing. Eddie walks beside him with his hand in the back pocket that says 'babygirl'.
Steve notices it after 2 months.
#silly steddie for ur monday#steddie#stranger things#eddie munson#steve harrington#st4 vol2#steveddie
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MORE jon head canons. everybody cheered
-he has the most horrendous sneeze in like,, season 1. you can hear it through the entire archive. in s3 he tuned it down a bit and learned how to sneeze quietly but in s5 he was right back at it
-he enjoys debate and gets into arguments for fun, but the other people (obviously) never understand its fun for him and get angry
-he absolutely despises super markets
-he hates those little costumes you put on cats for halloween. he thinks theyre disrespectful to the cat because cats are just ‘So distinguished, Georgie youre humiliating him’
-mostly sustains himself off snack foods even though he can cook
-hes very cluttered and overuses the phrase “theres a method to my madness”. in his defense, there IS a method to his madness.
-^^despite this his drawers are actually kept pretty neat
-type of guy to get angry in clothing stores because people put back the clothes unfolded or folded wrong and does it himself
-occasionally uses text to speech on his phone and sends incomprehensible texts
-he has a trophy in his office as a gift from tim and sasha. its a golf trophy with the actual award scribbled out and “BOSS!!!!” written below it. not Worlds Best Boss. just BOSS!!!!
-knows a lot about bee communication and mating rituals for some reason
-likes seasonal candles, to the shock of everyone ever
-georgie sewed pockets into any skirts he has because he was so appalled that they didnt have any already
-knows how to pick locks. despite his history with breaking and entering, he just learned how to do this one because he was bored. martin was shocked to one day find him breaking into his own office
#tma#jonathan sims#the magnus archives#jon sims#magpod#timothy stoker#martin blackwood#tma spoilers#are the tim and martin tags relevant#i miss him guys..#tma headcanons#jeadcanons
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Steve was doing this for Robin.
He had to keep telling himself this. He could get through the day, the weekend, life, if he just kept repeating this to himself.
But an hour into their day, his pants ripped.
Not in a place it can be hidden, not a small one.
Right along his ass.
And because Robin insisted he’d be fine, he didn’t bring a bag with a change of clothes.
He could buy some, sure, if he wanted to spend $60 on special convention sweatpants that would be entirely too hot, unflattering, and ruin the costume Robin insisted he wear to match hers.
He was hiding in the bathroom currently, furiously texting Robin to let her know he was just going to stay there until it was time to leave.
She’d be mad at him, but she’d be more mad at herself for not letting him bring a change of clothes.
His pants weren’t even tight. Luke Skywalker doesn’t exactly wear tight clothes. He had no reason behind the rip other than the universe just hating him as much as possible.
Robin told him she would find someone to help, whatever that means, but he didn’t think that was possible without just buying new pants.
He stood in the corner of the continuously crowded bathroom, trying not to draw attention, but knowing it was incredibly odd to just stand in the corner of a public bathroom.
Ten minutes passed and a guy walked in with a backpack and a sign that says “Free Cosplay Repair” and Steve knew what Robin had done.
The man was pretty, and not dressed up, but seemed like he wished he was. Maybe it was difficult to repair if he was wearing some elaborate costume.
Steve didn’t know how this worked.
“Are you Steve?”
Steve nodded.
His voice was calming, and Steve instantly trusted him to fix the problem.
“Heard you’ve got a bit of a problem with the costume. Big or small?”
“Uh. Pretty big, man.”
“Ah. Tear along the ass, then. Happens all the time.”
He set his backpack down and started rummaging through the front pocket. When he pulled out a sewing kit, Steve realized he was going to have to get this fixed in a public bathroom with this very attractive man staring at and touching his ass for who knows how long.
“Um.”
“It’ll be better if you can take them off. I’ll be able to sew it much faster.”
Steve couldn’t just stand around in his boxers. That was not part of the plan or the agreement with Robin. People were coming and going from the bathroom at a rapid rate.
“Is there somewhere private we can go?”
“Awww, Stevie, feeling shy?”
Steve’s face was beet red. He was feeling a little shy, and being called out on it by a hot guy kind of made him think about being called out on other things in other ways and his brain was not doing well.
“My name’s Eddie. I come with my friend Chrissy to a bunch of these every year. We have a tent set up on the show floor for privacy, but you’d have to walk to it. I could walk behind you if you want?”
“Oh. Okay. Um. Sure.”
It was better than standing half naked in this bathroom.
So they left, and Eddie stayed right behind him, covering him from possible exposure to the growing crowd.
He would lean forward and direct him to the tent every few seconds, leaving goosebumps behind from how close he got to his ear to be heard.
When they arrived, Chrissy was finishing up with supergluing something to a mask. Eddie touched her shoulder and whispered something to her. She rolled her eyes and smiled at him before turning back to the person she was helping.
Eddie nudged Steve into their tent.
“Alright, shouldn’t take too long. Take them off, Luke.”
Steve rolled his eyes but followed directions. The faster this was done, the faster he could get back to Robin, who was probably so deep into the crowd by now that he’d never find her anyways.
Maybe he should just stay here. Learn to sew. Become a part of their traveling repair team.
They seemed nice enough.
Eddie got started immediately, and Steve was grateful for the privacy the tent provided. He sat down on a stool they had set up in the corner and put his hands in his lap, covering as much of himself as he could. He was definitely not confident in this place.
He’d embraced that he liked some nerdy things. He was fine with it.
But he was way out of his element here.
“You come to these a lot?”
“No. Just supporting my friend.”
“Explains not being as prepared as the pros.”
“I did try to be. My friend said I’d be fine. Don’t know why I listened to her.”
Eddie snorted. “She a friend or a…friend?”
Steve laughed so loudly, Eddie jumped. “Sorry. She’s very much not straight and I am very much not interested.”
“Is she Leia?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone will assume you’re together, you know?”
“Yeah, well. She said I had to and I owed her.”
“Must’ve done you a big favor.”
“You could say that.”
Eddie’s hands were moving quickly, and Steve couldn’t help watching in amazement.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“What? Sewing? Or conventions?”
“Both.”
Eddie smiled while he worked.
“Sewing since I was 11. I was in charge of fixing my and my uncle’s clothes since we couldn’t really afford new ones unless I outgrew them. Then in high school I did costumes for drama and cheerleaders. That’s how I met Chrissy. She was a secret nerd so she took me to a convention and I saw too many people crying over broken and torn cosplays so I started doing this.”
“For free?”
“Yeah. I already had most of the supplies on hand and I’m not using them all so why not?”
“That’s really…kind.”
He saw Eddie’s cheeks blush, but he didn’t comment.
Maybe he’d gain some upper hand here despite being half naked in a tent with a stranger.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It kind of is, man. Just take the compliment. It’s really selfless.”
“Okay. Yeah. I guess. Thanks.”
They settled into a comfortable silence and Steve really took in the tent. There were things hanging up that he vaguely recognized as D&D monsters from Dustin’s room.
“Hey, the kid I babysit is into that.”
“What?”
“The dungeons game.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! I think he even has that exact print in his room.”
“No shit? I made these. I have an Etsy shop.”
“You’re kidding. He’s gonna freak out that I met you.”
“Well, shit. Take one for him.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
“Yeah you could. I’m not letting you leave until you do.”
Steve felt his heart flutter.
Dustin was like his little brother and he loved him so much. Any time someone did something kind for him, it melted his heart.
He didn’t have time for feelings for a stranger.
Not at a convention where he was the outcast.
“I guess if you insist.”
“I do.”
Steve was a fucking mess. Emotionally, he was the type to get really attached really quickly. It’s why all of his relationships ended within weeks. He was ready to be completely committed and they never were. He fell hard and fast for anyone who showed him even a tiny bit of interest.
He had to get out of this tent.
“I’m not rushing you, but how much longer?”
“I’m almost done. Few more minutes. Doing okay?”
“Yeah. Just wanna find Robin.”
“Text her to meet you here. She knows where it is.”
“How would she know that?”
“I’ve met her a few times at other conventions and she always stops by to say hello.”
Robin knew this guy?
Suddenly, he realized what was going on.
She was setting him up.
“Take your time. She can wait.”
Eddie slowed his hands and looked up at Steve.
“Uh. Okay.”
“She’s a traitor who did this to me on purpose.”
“Ripped your pants?”
“Yes.”
Eddie stopped what he was doing completely.
“She ripped your pants on purpose? How would she have done that?”
“She pulled a seam out or something.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s trying to set us up.”
“Us?!”
“Yep. Sorry. I promise I don’t expect anything. She just does this sometimes. Thinks I’m lonely or whatever.”
Eddie searched his face for a minute, then looked back down at his work.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Lonely.”
Well, yeah. Robin didn’t get the assumption from nowhere. But he didn’t really want to admit that to a stranger.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Apparently, he was going to anyways.
“Hm.”
“Hm?”
“Mhm.”
Steve huffed out a breath.
Eddie stood suddenly and came over to Steve, pushing his shoulder back and his legs apart so he could fit between them.
Eddie’s hand cupped his chin, pulling it up so he could look at him.
Steve gulped.
He was feeling more than vulnerable at this point and wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Your friend must really love you to want to make sure you aren’t lonely.”
“Um. Yeah.”
“You know, I’m taking a lunch break in about an hour if you wanna hang around. I could use some company.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. One condition though.”
“What’s that?”
“You take the pants off again.”
Steve laughed and Eddie couldn’t help the smile he aimed down at him.
“You want me to eat in just my boxers?”
“Well, not just your boxers. That’ll be later at the hotel.”
God, this guy was good. Smoother than Steve’s ever been and he was known for his charming nature for years.
“You think I’ll come back to your hotel?”
“I know you will.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I only temporarily fixed these pants. The stuff you need is back at my room.”
“What if I don’t care about the pants?”
“All the more reason to leave them off when you come to my room.”
They smiled at each other.
Steve felt brave. He felt a little ridiculous. Most of all, he felt like he couldn’t pass up the opportunity literally staring him in the face.
He leaned up a bit more and waited for Eddie to lean down.
When their lips met, Steve knew he was completely fucked.
Robin had fucked him over and he’d never been so grateful.
#steddie#Steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#tumblr drabbles#inspired by the amazing people who walk around conventions fixing cosplay for free#and inspired by people like me who don’t have a clue what they’re doing but just there for the ride#I wrote this in my car in a parking garage in Orlando lmao#sorry for typos or if it feels ridiculous and rushed#it’s because it is
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Unless Skills
Useless skills that they have that doesn't apply to their dreams.
Aka me on my crack shit- Please Enjoy!
If you like my work please support me on Ko-Fi
Luffy
Giving Massages
This is very odd and no one knows were the hell this skill came from, But Luffy has great hands for massages. It's discovered by accident when his S/O says their back hurts and he reaches over and gives them a skilled massage.
He has damn near perfect hand strength and technique- while he will chatter your ear off while doing it he's hella amazing at it. Missed a secret calling as a masseurs.
Zoro
Fixing and Making Clothes
Zoro has always had to be a bit self reliant- so time using swords had made him learn how to fix up his own clothes or make them. Especially with how often he ripped or cut the seams of his shirts he could stitch them back no problem or if spare fabric was on hand create a new belt, trousers or headbands.
For his S/O he would sew whatever they pleased. If it ment making a teddy bear to a new shirt he could do it with total ease.
Sanji
He is an amazing poet
Maybe it's because he thinks so much about his wording for women, but Sanji is a fantastic poet. He has a unnatural smoothness for word play and styles.
Will write poems for his S/O and hide them in places he knows only they would look at or kinda sings the poems to them in private.
Buggy
He is an absolutely beautiful singer
Buggy has a naturally deeper singing voice then what his natural one would give away- as well as lacking the comical tone that follows his speaking voice. Sultry and smooth.
He only sings when showering or if he's mindlessly humming to himself. Will sing if his S/O ask for it however-
Shanks
Talented at doing hair
Maybe it's hid skills with a sword or just natural talent but Shanks is good at doing people's hair. Even though he doesn't so his own hair due to laziness he will maintain others.
One armed or not he is great with scissors or just a razor to give clean edges, a nice trim or more. Can even do braids with one hand or twist- Aka he's the hairstylist for his S/O as well
Mihawk
Skilled Ballroom Dancer
Being good on one's feet was important for swordfighting- so it isn't shocking that Mihawk is an amazing ballroom dancer. Mainly the Vienna Waltz-
Never uses the skill unless he is flirting or with his S/O. Teaching them how to dance in the empty ballroom back in his home.
Bonus!-
Crocodile
Great with Kids
This is a shock for everyone since the famed Pirate and former Warlord doesn't seem like the type to be good with loud children, However that is wrong. A zen with patients comes from Crocodile when dealing with children- That and the fact they utterly adore him as well.
His S/O will be surpsied to see him interacting so well with the kids on the street. Giving them pocket change to go get food or other things they may like- Opens up the idea of maybe adopting or having kids with Crocodile is a strong possibility.
#x reader#one peice x reader#one piece#one peice live action#buggy one piece#buggy the clown x reader#buggy x reader#one piece mihawk#mihawk x reader#hawkeye mihawk#one piece shanks#shanks x reader#red haired shanks#monkey d. luffy x reader#one piece luffy#luffy x reader#zoro x reader#roronoa zoro#one piece zoro#sanji x reader#one piece sanji#black leg sanji#crocodile x reader#one piece crocodile#op crocodile#one piece imagine#one piece fluff
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Random headcanons about Papa's
Primo
His bedroom is a second greenhouse;
No, really. He has a lot of plants in every room. Even in the office;
There's time for a nap every day in his schedule;
Knows herbal medicine better than anyone in the Ministry;
Loves tea and Italian pizza;
He also loves candy, but because of this his tummy often hurts🥺;
Pipo often gets cold, so he has a lot of sweaters and warm socks. I'll tell you a secret, he tied many of them himself;
Often reads books while eating;
He loves hugs so much! They don't have to have romantic overtones. A tight friendly hug is enough;
To the brothers and sisters of sin he is like a wise, kind and loving grandfather.
Secondo
Stone Face 24/7/365;
He has bad knees, so he walks with a staff;
Despite his menacing facade, he's so sweet;
He has a chinchilla named Chessie. He constantly pampers her with treats and carries her with him to work in his pocket;
Prefers sweet coffee with milk and tiramisu;
He loves his younger brothers so much, but he will never show it to them, because showing feelings is not courageous;
He has a huge sweater that Primo knitted and Secondo often sleeps in it;
You will be surprised, but he is not the type who likes one-night stands. He prefers to help himself than to take advantage of an unhappy girl in love;
After retirement began to spend more time in the library. He reads a lot of books just to escape reality;
Sometimes he watches melodramas and dreams that that same beloved will appear in his life...
Terzo
Everyone thinks he's a whore, but that's far from true;
Yes, in his youth he starred in several porn films and once participated in an orgy, but that is in the past... Most likely;
He just loves wine. And spicy food;
Someone told him about 30 years ago that he eats too much. Terzo still struggles with Eating Disorder;
He really loves flowers and often helps Primo in the garden;
Of course, he enjoys the attention of women, but not when they just want to sleep with him;
He is interested in sewing, especially toys. Every child in the Ministry has a special toy from Papa Emeritus III;
He also embroidered elements on costumes his ghouls;
He likes opera so much! And ballet. If he hadn't become the Satanic Papa and leader The Ghost Band, he would definitely have become an opera performer;
Sometimes he feeds stray cats that accidentally end up on the territory of the Ministry.
Copia
BEST RAT DAD EVER;
The only one who raised his ghouls himself;
Lover of good breakfast, lunch and dinner. And snacks. And afternoon snack. Oh, he often eats something. And drinks tea with condensed milk or juice;
That person who eats away his troubles with ice cream and watches sad films in the evenings;
His room is littered with comics, video games and various action figures (he especially loves Funko Pop);
In the evenings he goes to the infirmary to visit sick children and reads fairy tales to them. Sometimes he takes a couple of ghouls with him to entertain the children;
There are always sweets in the pockets of his cassock;
Yes, he is cute, shy and funny, but when he is angry... He is worse than the Sister Imperator. Don't make Copia angry;
He is simply an amazing cook. Everyone loves his peach pie with ice cream;
He has serious problems with sleep, so very often at night Copia can be found in the garden while he admires the starry sky.
#ghost bc#ghost band#papa headcanons#papa emeritus iv#copia emeritus#cardinal copia#papa emeritus iii#terzo emeritus#papa terzo#papa emeritus ii#secondo emeritus#papa secondo#papa emeritus i#primo emeritus#papa primo
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Heyyy I absolutely love your work!! Could I request a drabble of Bucky being completely smitten with the reader or a headcanon when the reader is sick??? Merci beaucoup mademoiselle🫶💖
Two Floors
PAIRINGS: 40's!James "Bucky" Barnes x Reader
WARNINGS: FLUFF, angst (if you squint), mentions of not haveing enough money
WORD COUNT: 1,759 (got carried away lol)
*not proof-read*
ENJOY!
“Oh c’mon doll, can’t leave a poor man hangin’,” he says as he runs to catch up with you. You roll your eyes as he comes to walk along side you.
“Buchanan, I told you to go annoy Rogers instead. I have much more important things to do,” you bite in his direction as you make your way through the streets of Brooklyn.
Graduating high school, a month ago with your best friends, Bucky and Steve, was something your dreamed of when you met the two boys the first time your moved into the old apartment complex.
Since then, the three of you have become inseparable.
But something eats away at your heart, a painful piece of emotion that just slowly chews away at your peace.
“You got a job already?” Bucky asks as he slides his hands into his pockets. You adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder and nod your head, “just a small secretary job at the library. Enough to earn something until I finally decided what I wanna do with my life.”
Bucky laughs and lets out a low whistle, “still that ‘always need to know whay my future is’ type o’ girl, yeah?” You shake your head and slap his arm, “quit it, Buchanan. Or I’m telling Winnie your being an ass.”
Bucky rubs his arm, a little sore from your slap. “My ma trusts you more than the Lord himself,” Bucky comments, the loosely swinging his arm over your shoulder.
You doesn’t push it away.
“That’s because I don’t go bring random girls back home and make them scream my name in the middle of the night,” you smirk as you reveal you know of his nightly activities.
Bucky stops, forcing her stop. The look on his face is horrific and you snort and slap his chest at his reaction. “How’d you-,” he starts, but you continue to laugh.
“Becca tells me everything, Buchanan,” you wink at him before you start walking again. He breaks out of his reverie and jogs to catch up with you, “doll, it ain’t like that.”
You laugh and shake your head, “do I look like I care who you mess around with, Buchanan?” He pauses and shakes his head, it looks like to you he’s a bit upset, “no, you don’t”
You were about to say something else, but something caught your eye.
You stop and gasp as you walk towards the window of the shop.
The great glass pane with the large painted letters on it does not stop you from viewing the contents inside of the store.
The dainty little locket sits at the back of the display, hiding behind all the extravagant jewels. You know that the owner would’ve expected people to look at the jewels.
But the locket, it hangs lovingly from a thin gold chain. The oval case rests just in between the collarbone.
You think it’s the most beautiful piece you’ve ever seen.
Bucky see’s you view the locket and how in awe you are in as you frame a picture of it in your mind.
“Why don’t you get it,” Bucky suggests, nodding at the piece of jewellry. You let out a sad laugh, “because it costs more than our parents’ rent combined, Buchanan.”
You bite your lip while still looking at the necklace, “a girl could dream.”
You sigh and pull away, “let’s go.”
-------
The Rogers’, the Barnes’ and your parents all stand in front of you as they sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for the eighteenth time in your life.
After they finish the song, out of key, you drag the simple knife down the cake, and they start cheering.
Your mother cuts up slices and hands it to everyone, you get up from the dining table and smooth out the wrinkles of the emerald green cotton dress your mother sewed for you.
The dad’s gather as they converse about the lastest sports, the mom’s are in the kitchen laughing as the cook dinner. Steve, Bucky, Rebecca and you sit in the living room.
You go against the opinions of Steve’s and Bucky’s as they complain about how high school was the worst time of their life.
“Look guys, you can’t say that,” you chastise them softly, “Becca, you’re in your junior year. It’s one of the best times you’ll ever experience.”
Becca nods, as Steve shakes his head to Bucky and Bucky mouths a ‘No’ in Becca’s direction.
“Buchanan,” you throw the couch pillow at him.
-------
“Hey, can I come in?” Bucky knocks on the window of your bedroom.
The party was over, and you’re parents went out to have a quick little dinner. They were upset because they didn’t want to leave you on your special day, but you knew how hard they’ve been working, and they didn’t have time to themselves. So you pushed them out the door and yelled a ‘have a great time’.
Bucky crouches on metal ridges that is your fire escape, waiting for your permission to enter your room.
You jump out of bed and raise your window a bit higher so he can fit in. “Are you out of your mind, Buchanan?” You whisper-yell at him.
He shrugs, “what? I live two floors above your doll, nothing to be worried about.” The wink he throws you way, makes you roll your eyes.
But there’s a place in your heart where it instantly becomes warm.
Because, even if Bucky was a player at times, he still caught your heart.
You did roll your eyes at his antics. But your smile was true from how playful he is.
You’d say ‘Quit it, Buchanan’, but in your mind you’d always whisper a ‘Don’t ever stop’.
You knew you were falling for Bucky, but you always forced those feelings down.
Because you knew, he won’t feel the same.
“What needed my attention so badly, that you had climb down to get here,” you cross your arms and narrow you’re eyes at him.
He smirks and sits on your bed, “well, I haven’t given you my present yet.”
You freeze.
You’re also confused.
“What? Of course you did, your family gifted me the Aesop Fable set,” you say as you walk to stand in front of him.
You vividly remember getting the gift, because it was something you have been telling Becca about for so long. And you squealed when you opened their present
But Bucky shakes his head, “no doll. They gave you, their gift. I haven’t given you mine.”
You pause, and you swear your heart starts beating a little faster.
“What”? You whisper, because you know you voice will crack if you spoke louder.
He pats the space next to him, “sit down, doll.”
You gulp and go sit down next to him, you obediently place you hands on your thighs as you wait for the next part.
Bucky gives a smile. But it’s different, you have never seen this look on Bucky before. The softness of his eyes, the way his cheeks are slightly flushed, the little crinkles at the corners of his lips as he maintains that smile.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny box.
The box looked like it was originally used to store a single chocolate ball, but the lettering on it worn out and the edges are a bit jagged.
You look at bucky with confusion, “what is thi-.”
He interrupts you, “just open it f’me, doll.”
And you do.
“Bucky, no.”
The locket stares back up at you, the gold glints under the light of your room.
“You-you can’t be serious, thi-this has to be a joke,” you turn to face him with tears lining your eyes. You heart has never beaten so fast in your entire life.
Bucky’s grin widens and nods, “got it this morning, just for you.” He says your name so softly that you think it might break if he said it to harshly.
You wrap your arms around his neck and push your head against his shoulder as you whisper your million ‘thank you’s’.
Bucky chuckles and rubs your back, “anything for you, doll.”
“Why, why me? Why this?” you shake your head against him.
“Because I gotta tell the girl, who lives two floors below me, that I’m in love with her,” Bucky pulls back and cups the back of your neck.
You gasp softly and furrow your brows at him, your shock so evident on your face.
“Gotta tell her that I’ve been after her since the day she moved into this building,” Bucky leans in and you follow.
How have you been so daft to not see this?
You close your eyes and stop until you’re a hair width’s away from Bucky’s lips.
“Gotta tell her how much I’ve been dreamin’ about her, and how she’s the only thing on my mind,” Bucky whispers, and you feel his breath hits your lips.
He softly places his lips on yours, and you move your hands to cup his face. You both move your lips in tandem to the other, as you try to feel more of one another.
He pulls away breathlessly and you follow suit.
“I’ve been meaning to do that for a long time, doll,” he chuckles and leans in to place soft kisses on your jaw.
You giggle and whisper a ‘me too’.
Bucky takes the locket from your hands and starts to put it on for you.
He soon as he done, he leans back and sees how beautifully the necklace sits just above the dip of your collarbone.
“Open it up,” he nods at the locket. You smile and follow his orders, you gasp as you see a picture of your seventeenth birthday, with the Rogers’ and Barnes’, at Coney Island. And the other side had a picture of you and Bucky at Prom.
You didn’t have a date, well you did but he stood you up. So Bucky stepped in and became your man for the night.
You look up at him and have no words to say.
“I-,” you start but can’t finish your sentence.
“I know, doll. I know,” he smiles. “Been saving those tiny pictures for a while, but it was worth it,” he leans in and presses his forehead against yours.
You close your eyes and relish this feeling that hangs in the air.
The feeling that you have been wanting to feel for so long now, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.
“Bucky?” you whisper.
“Hmm, doll,” he whispers back.
“I love you.”
“I love you, doll.”
💌💌💌
OMG! MY FIRST EVER ANON!!
HELLO NONNIE!!!
Love this ask, I've always had this idea in mind, but never really knew how to write it.
I guess this is just a messy way of writing it lol.
I hope this is what you were looking for nonnie!!!
Lemme know what you lovelies think!!
Till' then,
Stay Coquette-y,
Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x you#james bucky barnes#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x reader smut#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes and reader#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes fandom#bucky barnes fic
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cw: hospital/medical stuff mentions, unspecified illness or injury
“You wanna pick up some food on the way?” Caretaker asked, steering her car out of the parking garage and to the intersection.
Whumpee, sitting under a blanket on the passenger seat, watched the hospital disappear as they drove away on the mostly empty highway. He rubbed the pit of his elbow where a small bandage remained to stop the slight bleeding from a cannula.
It had been a long day. New bottles of medicine rattled in the pockets of his jacket when he shifted into a more comfortable position and leaned their head against the headrest. They had sat in the waiting room the whole evening before finally being admitted, and discharged only a couple of hours after. Caretaker hadn’t even tried to argue with the staff anymore. It always ended like this. Not enough beds and not enough people to take care of the ones lying on them.
Whumpee knew he was lucky. He knew he’d be safe going home with Caretaker. But it didn’t mean he didn’t keep dreaming about the day he’d be taken seriously. He’d receive proper care. Otherwise he’d just have to keep going back, over and over again. More pills, more bills, more wasted hours.
“Hello?”
“Oh, uh,” Whumpee blinked, realizing he hadn’t actually given Caretaker a response. “No, I… we should just head home. You’ve got work in the morning, and it’s already way past midnight.”
His stomach let out a loud rumbling sound just then, and Caretaker gave him a quiet look, which Whumpee pretended to not see. He could fix himself a bowl of yogurt at home. Caretaker needed sleep. She deserved it, after putting aside her own responsibilities just to stay with him again.
“What if I told you I already took tomorrow off?”
"What?" Whumpee turned to her, shaking his head. “Caretaker, no. You shouldn’t have.”
Caretaker shrugged. “It’s Friday, we get to have a head start for the weekend. Won’t that be fun?” Her smile faltered slightly and her voice shifted lower, to more serious. “The nurse said someone should keep an eye on you — and I wouldn’t want to leave you, anyway. You still need help.”
Whumpee knew that. He looked down, fidgeting with the hospital wristband. If he’d kept every one of those he’d got even during the past year, he could probably sew them together to make full sleeves for both arms. Money was already tight, as Caretaker worked to support the both of them, and Caretaker missing work because of Whumpee’s various appointments and frequent trips to the ER had had their effect on their income.
“Yes, but…” he said, the familiar tearing feeling of shame finding its place. “I thought we would call Friend or Sibling to stay with me while you’re at work. We have before.”
“Now we don’t have to.” Caretaker glanced at him, frowning. “Do you not… want me to stay?”
“Didn’t they say you can’t keep doing this anymore if you plan to keep your position?” Whumpee asked. “You like your job. I don’t want you to risk losing it because of me.”
“They will understand. I told them it is a family matter.”
Whumpee’s cheeks got hot and he moved his focus away from Caretaker again, watching out of the window instead. They were passing by shops, parks, and pubs, taking many turns in the little streets of their labyrinth of a hometown. Whumpee hadn’t even noticed they had left the main road, but he definitely recognised where Caretaker was heading.
“You didn’t have to lie because of me,” he mumbled, as Caretaker pulled into the parking lot of a local, 24-hour barbeque restaurant they both loved. “About it being a… a family thing.”
Caretaker turned to Whumpee, finally being able to give him her undivided attention as she turned off the engine, smiling softly.
“I didn’t.”
#i... wrote... something?#you have no idea how much my not fluent speaker ass struggled with vocabulary for a thing this short#gentle caretaker#caretaking#sick whump#comfort whump#medical whump#caretaker x whumpee#whump writing#whump scenarios#whump fic#caretaker#whumpee#whump#whumpblr#my writing
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expanding on the konig ask // it turned a bit nsfw sorry
könig would mistake your simple kindness as a crush.
he'd been slightly startled when you gently rapped on his office door to ask him if he wanted a cup of warm caffeine before breakfast since you're already getting one for yourself. (he hasn't a clue that horangi had practically begged for one too.)
then was the one time you'd offered to stitch the tear in his hood. he'd sputtered, completely taken aback by how brazen you'd been. "nein." he'd stiffly walked away apple-cheeked; hands balled into fists in his pockets. (no one knows how to sew for shit, you're the team medic of both bodies and clothing.)
then you bring him an apple pastry. the pencil (könig, please. we are in 2k24 use a pen) snaps in his hand when you choke out, "apfel strudel". his mother tongue rolling off of yours is truly too much and when you leave, he fists himself under his desk with the butchered words echoing inside his head. shame roils in his gut after— post-nut clarity hitting like nothing else— and with a snarl, he wipes the thick cum off of his hand on his pants while using the other to eat the treat that you so kindly baked for him. (the pastry was cold and made of tart green apples which he's hated since he was a lad.)
and now, with your head resting on his padded shoulder, dozing off. his tongue is tied in a knot and there's a lump in his throat because no one's ever really dared to be so forward with him. not only is he a walking pussy deterrent— what with his height and creepy, blank stare— but he's also a colonel; your superior. he can only have him under you in one way and that's under his command. so he makes his choice. once the helo lands back at base, könig taps the side of your helmet with his finger and mutedly asks you to meet him in his office.
"i am flattered, ja? but you must cease this behavior."
"sir?"
he clenches his jaw, crooked teeth gnashing together in determination. he won't let your pretty, round face deter him from his duty to his country, the team, nor you. it simply wouldn't be fair. he's your leader so it's up to him to put a stop to this. könig refuses to acknowledge the look of disappointment on your face. (delusional. you look confused because you literally have no idea what he's talking about.)
"the food—"
"you didn't like it? the apfel strudel?" he chokes on his spit when you say it and turns around to pound at his chest. he doesn't hear how you had told fender to not order that dessert. 'just because it's austrian doesn't mean the colonel will like it.'
he's fortunate to have such a tall backrest on his office chair because his cock is already at half-mast and your dulcet voice reverberating off the plain walls of his small office is doing him no favors. könig stands directly behind it and dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a hoarse command.
how tantalizing you are, so bold to be showcasing your talent in home economics just like a frigatebird puffing its chest out to attract a mate. his grip on the chair tightens, the leather protesting with a soft creak.
it's just a crush. time will erode these frail sentiments you've come to have for him (for him! an old, ugly man whose virginity has practically grown back since the last time he slept with someone was a paid sex worker years ago) and so he'll just ignore them.
(he doesn't. he fucks his pillow every night— jaw trembling and saliva pooling— thinking it's you taking him instead and confuses your s/o as a relative.)
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