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alltheirdamn · 7 days

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DECLINED | Mechanic!Joel x f!reader

*The Bet*

Summary: Joel makes you a bet during a night out. Rating: 18+ Explicit Word Count: 3k Warnings: Pre-outbreak AU, mechanic!joel, established relationship, mentions of alcohol, banter, teasing, semi-public sex, unprotected piv sex, oral (f! receiving), edging, ROUGH sex, squirting, hair pulling, choking, cum eating, facial, light spanking, light face slapping, heavy kissing, explicit language, pet names (darlin', cowboy, babydoll), brat taming (kinda?) A/N: This is just pure FILTH. Eat it up, kids, I know you love it.

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Friday nights always meant date night with Joel. With Tommy babysitting Sarah and the work day done for you both, he insisted on taking you to his favorite bar on the outskirts of town. You were looking forward to a night alone, especially when you had a surprise up your sleeve. Earlier in the week, you came across a boutique in downtown Austin that sold very…niche t-shirts…and couldn’t help buying one. Putting the finishing touches on your makeup, you stepped back and admired your outfit. You had on the tiniest pair of cut-off denim shorts hugging your ass, a pair of worn black cowboy boots, and a fitted tank top with Cowboy Pillows written across your chest. It was perfect, and you knew it would drive Joel crazy.

Joel stopped dead in his tracks when you came waltzing out of the house and toward his truck; the hand holding open the passenger door tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Staring you down with a fire lit behind his big puppy dog eyes, Joel shook his head in protest.

“Absolutely the fuck not, babydoll,” he swore. “Take that pretty ass back inside and change.”

You stood before the truck with your arms crossed and the biggest pout forming on your lips.

“Did you even read my shirt, cowboy?” You asked, moving your arms to reveal the words stretched over your breasts.

“It’s very cute, darlin’, but you ain’t goin’ out like that,” Joel grumbled.

“Why?” You frowned.

“I ain’t tryna get arrested tonight. ‘Cause if one man lay eyes on those perky tits, I’m killin’ them.”

You strode toward him, pressing your body against his. His hands found their usual spot over the swell of your ass, his fingers prodding into the supple flesh hidden under the denim. You hummed as his mouth dipped to your ear, his teeth grazing over the shell as his voice dropped low.

“Why don’t we just stay in?” He breathed. “Wanna take you right back in the house and fuck you ‘til you can’t walk.”

“You promised me a night out, Joel,” you whined.

He made his way down your neck, peppering you with open-mouthed kisses before responding to your demands.

“Fine,” he muttered against your skin. “Get your sexy ass in the fuckin’ truck, and let’s go.”

He released you and climbed into the truck with a mischievous grin. Joel quickly pulled you across the bench, tucking you into his side as he pulled out of the driveway and toward the bar. You brushed your hand over Joel’s thigh, your fingers creeping up to the zipper of his jeans. He shifted in the seat, spreading his legs a little wider to welcome more of your touch.

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, babydoll,” he warned.

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

His hand shot out before you could drag his zipper down, bringing your fingers up to his mouth to place gentle kisses along each digit.

“I’ll make you a bet,” he smirked, turning his head to look at you.

“What kind of bet?”

“No touchin’ each other tonight. The first person to do it loses.”

A giggle bubbled out of you as you considered his offer. Knowing Joel, he’d lose before you stepped into the bar. The idea of teasing him all night already had your thighs clenching tight, the friction of the denim against your aching clit nearly too painful to bear.

“What happens to the loser?” You asked.

“Loser gets to do whatever the other one wants.”

The truck slowed to a stop as the streetlight turned red, and you moved closer to reel him in for a deep kiss. If this bet was going to happen, you wanted all the attention before you set out to win the bet. Joel’s tongue brushed over your lips, coaxing your mouth open wider and deepening the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, tangling your hands in his hair to hold him closer.

“You’re on, cowboy,” you grinned, pulling away as the light turned green. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

“We’ll see ‘bout that, darlin'.”

The bar was mildly crowded for a Friday night. Most of the patrons were older men sulking around or flirting with the bartenders. Soft country music floated out of the jukebox in the corner, and you found yourself swaying your hips to the melody. Joel watched you as you danced, his eyes never leaving your body unless he caught wind of another man admiring you from afar. You laughed each time he scowled at them and upped the movement of your hips just to get a rise out of him. Watching him try to hold back from touching you was cute, his hand nearly crushing the beer he was nursing.

After your third drink, the tipsy feeling started to settle in, and self-restraint was slowly phasing out of your body. Joel noticed the shift in your mood as you perched yourself on a barstool. You tried to hide the way you clenched your thighs, chasing the friction of the denim rubbing against your aching clit. Leaning in as close as he could, Joel lowered his head and chuckled.

“Doin’ okay, babydoll?” He whispered in your ear, his mouth a breath away from your neck.

You shivered at the phantom touch; he was so close, yet not close enough.

“Stop it,” you exhaled. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Not playin’ fair?” He questioned. “You ain’t been playin’ fair since you walked out the damn house.”

“Aw, poor baby,” you feigned sympathy. “Am I driving you crazy with my lil’ outfit?”

“You have no fuckin’ idea, darlin’.”

Scootching off the barstool, you tilted your head toward the vacant pool table. Joel’s eyes followed the motion, raising his brow at your silent invitation.

“Y’wanna play?” He asked. “Hope you’re ready to lose, darlin’.”

“You talk a big game, cowboy. You’re on.”

You grabbed a cue stick and waited for Joel to rack the balls and center them on the green velvet table. He grabbed his own stick and gestured to you to start.

“All you, babydoll. Let’s see it.”

You rounded the table and leaned over to line your stick with the cue ball. Inhaling on the pull of your stick, you exhaled and drove it into the cue. The sound of the resin balls breaking shattered the music in the background, their triangle formation scattering across the table. You managed to sink two striped balls into the left corner pocket and rose to assess the damage. Joel stared at you, impressed, nodding as he lined up his stick with the cue.

“Y’got stripes, babydoll. Solid’s are mine,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the ball.

You watched, mesmerized, as Joel’s shoulder muscles moved fluidly with each extension of his arm. With a strong drive of the stick, Joel sunk the four ball into the right-center pocket. Giving you a cocky grin, he rounded the table again, this time directly facing you. He stared up at you, his eyes dark under the furrow of his brows. You bent over the table's edge, propping your face onto your hands and shimming your shoulders slightly. Joel’s eyes snapped up to your chest, fixated on the way your breasts pushed together.

“Not fair,” he gritted before sending his stick into the cue ball.

The ball scratched on the table, missing the solid he aimed for. You smirked at him, sticking your tongue out as you skipped around the table to settle into position against the table. You eyed Joel as he moved to stand behind you, and you rewarded him with pushing your ass out further. Giving your hips a little wiggle, you sent a forceful shot into the cue, sinking the nine ball and ricocheting it against the twelve ball, sending it into the right corner pocket.

“Damn,” Joel mumbled, tracking your body as you lined up for your third turn.

“Didn’t think I was good, huh?” You laughed.

“You’re good at everythin’, darlin’.”

The dip in his voice vibrated up your body as you pressed your legs against the table to line up for the next stroke. Joel leaned his hip against the corner of the table, folding his arms as he watched you aim your stick at the cue.

“C’mon, babydoll,” he whispered, drawing your focus away from the shot and causing the cue ball to sink into the pocket rather than the fifteen ball you were gunning toward.

“You play dirty,” you grumbled.

Joel crowded you, his body inches from yours. You arched into the distance between your bodies, barely keeping your chest from brushing his.

“I bet those panties are already soaked, huh?” Joel teased.

You gave him an innocent smile, ready to deliver the final blow to his restraint. Rising onto your toes, you kept your mouth close to his ear.

“They would be if I were wearing any, cowboy.”

You pulled back to see Joel’s nostrils flaring, his eyes roaming down your body and back up.

“Bathroom. Now.” He demanded.

“But we’re still playing,” you whined, gesturing to the pool table.

Joel’s hand shot out to your waist, dragging you to his body.

“Fuck the game. Need you in that bathroom now so I can fuck that sassiness outta you,” he growled.

“I’m not sassin’ you, cowboy. You’re just a sore loser,” you taunted.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, babydoll. You either walk to the bathroom right now, or I fuck you on that pool table in front of everyone.”

“Maybe I want a crowd,” you shrugged with a coy grin. “Bend me over right here, cowboy. Show them who’s yours.”

“Bet you’d like that, huh? Have all them eyes on you while you scream my name and soak the table. Y’wanna show everyone how good y’take my cock?”

“Do it,” you smiled.

Joel’s hand traveled down your ass, squeezing it hard enough to make you yelp before smacking it hard. A few heads turned at the sound, their wandering eyes scrutinizing you and Joel. Even though Joel could be all talk, you knew he wouldn’t actually fuck you in front of everyone, not when he was the most protective and selfish man there was.

You were too turned on to fight it now. Turning toward the bathroom, you glanced over your shoulder and smiled as Joel watched you walk to the dimly lit hallway of the bar. You didn’t have the care to notice heads turning to stare at you as you passed, the excitement too strong as it coursed through your veins. You barely had a hand on the door when you felt a warm body pressed against your back, and Joel was quick to shove you inside the one-stall bathroom. With a quick turn of the lock, he had you pinned to the ceramic sink and his mouth crashing against yours. While you tangled your fingers into his messy curls, Joel worked at your shorts, tugging the tight denim down your hips and thighs. He broke away from your lips, staring down at your bare sex as you spread your legs slightly.

“Fuckin’ christ, babydoll,” he exhaled. “Can’t believe you been keepin’ this from me all night.”

“Like what you see?”

Joel wrapped two strong hands behind your thighs and lifted you onto the edge of the sink. You gasped at the shock of the cold against your bare ass, bucking your hips forward to search for his warmth. He lowered himself onto his knees, keeping a firm grip on your thighs as you settled your calves over his shoulders. Peering up at you between your parted legs, Joel gave you a wicked grin before brushing his nose up your inner thighs.

“You know I won, right?” You questioned as his tongue pressed against your throbbing clit. “Technically, I should be calling the shots.”

Joel glared up at you, his pupils blown wide under the red lights of the bathroom.

“Y’can call the shots all you want later,” he mumbled. “Right now, you’re mine.”

You cried as his tongue dipped inside you, his jaw working overtime to pull each pitiful sound from your body. He drew circles around your slick folds, purposefully avoiding your aching clit. You whined every time his tongue brushed close to it, that agonizing surge of pleasure coursing through your body. Music from the bar drifted into the bathroom, layering over the frustrated cries leaving your lips.

“Stop teasing, cowboy,” you panted, bucking your hips against his tongue.

“This is what ya’ get, darlin’,” Joel spoke against your wet cunt.

“Please,” you begged.

He pulled away entirely, leaving you chasing the orgasm you never got. Spinning you toward the mirror, Joel worked at freeing his cock with one hand while pressing the other hand into your spine. You flattened against the sink, your hands pressed against the mirror. Glancing up, you met his eyes in the mirror, watching as his lips twitched into a devilish grin. That was all the warning he gave before he drove into you in one fluid stroke.

“Fuck!” You cried, your head falling between your shoulders.

Joel’s hand wound around your hair, twisting it into a ponytail and yanking your neck back until you strained against his grip.

“Nuh uh, babydoll,” Joel grunted. “Watch me while I fuck you.”

You locked your eyes with his through the reflection, watching as his face twisted into something carnal. He pounded into you with enough force to make the sink underneath you creak with the weight pressed against it. Joel kept a relentless pace, dismissing every whine and sob falling off your lips. He reached around you with his other hand, wrapping his hand around your throat and squeezing tight. You heaved in a breath as your vision blurred, the pleasure mixing with pain every time he slammed into you.

Your orgasm started surging up through your core, snaking into your bloodstream and becoming unbearable to hold back. You choked out a sob, your thighs quaking as the pleasure built inside your stomach.

“Joel,” you choked.

“Y’need to cum, babydoll?” Joel taunted, driving into you hard.

His cock hit the right spot over and over again until he felt your cunt clenching around him. He pulled out at the exact moment your orgasm exploded through your body, liquid gushing out of you and down your thighs. Joel growled in approval, sinking back into you as the aftershocks sent tremors through your limbs.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praised. “Keep takin’ my fuckin’ cock. I ain’t done yet, babydoll.”

His hand was still gripping your throat, his fingers applying more pressure to cut off your ragged whimpers. You clawed at the edge of the sink, entirely at Joel’s mercy as he wrecked into you harder…faster. He didn’t lie when he said he was going to fuck the sass out of you; you were helpless in this moment.

But you fucking loved it.

“So. Fuckin’. Good.” Joel punched out each word through every thrust.

Joel released your throat and wrapped both hands in your hair, using it to guide your hips back against his cock. You were so full of him and so sore, but you couldn’t deny the pressure swelling inside your stomach. You gasped for air as each thrust grew stronger, his cock assaulting you until you spasmed under him and let your orgasm rush out of you.

“Fuck! Fuck… fuck… fuck,” you chanted, chasing the throbbing pulse inside your body.

Warm liquid drenched his cock, the lewd sound of his hips meeting yours echoing around you. Joel pulled out suddenly, leaving you hollow and soaked. Wrangling you to your knees, Joel pumped his cock over your open mouth, grunting out your name as his release painted your tongue and lips. Bending down to eye level, Joel lapped up the cum dripping off your swollen lips before bringing his hand up to slap your cheek. He rubbed a hand over your face, smearing your makeup around, leaving you a fucked-out mess.

“Y’look so pretty like this,” he hummed, pulling you in for a hungry kiss. You whimpered into his mouth, his tongue intertwining with yours.

“I love you, babydoll,” he sighed, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“I love you too, cowboy,” you preened.

You were used to him being rough—dominant—but this possessiveness was intoxicating. You wanted more.

“I think I should sass you more often,” you giggled.

“You enjoy bein’ fucked like a bratty lil’ slut?” He smirked.

“Love it,” you exhaled, dragging him back to your mouth.

Joel helped you back into your shorts after you both took a moment to breathe. You turned towards the mirror and admired the complete mess that you were; your hair was mangled into knots, your shirt was askew, and your face was covered in streaks of mascara, smeared lipstick, and drool. A giggle bubbled out of you as you tried to tame down your hair and wipe away some of the makeup coating your rosy cheeks. Joel grabbed your hand, tugging you away from the mirror.

“Leave it,” he whispered. “Want everyone to see how filthy you are.”

“Seriously?” You gaped.

Joel nodded his eyes, his eyes coasting over your body.

“Seriously, babydoll. Need to show them you’re mine.”

“I think they already know,” you said pointedly. “I’m pretty sure I was loud enough to break the jukebox.”

He chuckled at your statement, tapping your ass and guiding you toward the door. Dropping his mouth to your ear, he softly kissed your neck before twisting the lock open.

“C’mon, darlin’. Let’s go home so y’can have your way with me.”

“I’m going to make you pay for this, cowboy,” you warned. “I'm going to have you on your knees begging for it.”

“I’ll happily worship you all night, babydoll,” he smiled, kissing your cheek before guiding you into the hall and out to his truck.

#mechanic!joel #joel miller x f!reader #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #pre outbreak!joel #one shot #drabble #this is just filth

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myfandomrealitea · 4 months

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Pre-emptively blocking people is good for everyone.

Seriously. The amount of times I see people whining or laughing about being blocked when they 'haven't even done anything' just tells me that not many of you know its actually a really good way to properly curate your online space, and its not something to be offended over.

Blocking is a form of protection. Its also a form of mutual protection.

Especially on websites that don't offer more extensive or usable filtering, tagging and avoidance options. Twitter, for example.

Blocking isn't some personal insult. Its a method of saying; hey, we clearly shouldn't interact, so I'm gonna build this soundproof wall between us to make sure we can't.

To use The Salmon Analogy, if I run a restaurant based on salmon as the main ingredient, and you're allergic or or severely dislike salmon, me refusing to serve you isn't a personal sleight. Its me recognising that you can't or really don't want to eat salmon, and its me protecting you from an unpleasant experience and myself from you inevitably screaming at me for serving salmon.

If you are someone who enjoys 'objectionable' content, such as gore, and you stumble across an extremely anti-gore blog, its absolutely a viable option to pre-emptively block them. Maybe your paths never would've crossed, but its better to ensure they don't than potentially wind up the victim or hate or harassment.

Blocking is an absolute sure-fire way to ensure that you do not see something you do not want to. It should be used as liberally as you want to.

#sephiroth speaks #myfandomrealitea #fandom #not discourse #proship #proshipping #reality #blocking #blocking blogs #blogs #tags #tagging #pro blocking #online curation #the salmon analogy #the salmon is a metaphor

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vigilante-3073 · 3 months

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Cuddle For Warmth

Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

Summary: Cold nights and shared sleeping bags.

TW: Fluff, pre-established relationship, cuddling.

The group had been traveling down the same road for days, slipping into the woods at night when they needed to set up camp. Daryl found himself getting antsy as more time passed without a solid form of shelter.

He didn't like being out in the open for long periods of time, especially with Y/N. Daryl worried about her more than himself at times, ensuring that she was always in his line of sight.

Daryl was not clingy by any means, but he couldn't keep himself from worrying.

He knew how dangerous the world had become and he couldn't help but be protective. Y/N was his one good thing in the world and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to her.

Their relationship had formed slowly over time, definitely not something that anyone would have expected. Y/N had always been kind to everyone, but she seemed to pay particular attention to Daryl.

She told him once that he made her feel safe and he believed her.

Daryl had never been good with words, but he showed his love for her in a variety of different ways.

He taught her how to survive on her own in case they were ever separated, paying particular attention to hunting and shooting. Daryl wanted her to be able to protect herself if there was ever a situation where he couldn't.

Daryl always made sure she was warm enough while also ensuring that she had enough food and water. He would even give her some of his portion when rations were limited.

Daryl was also one for physical touch, whether it be his arm draped around her waist at the campfire, his lips pressing quickly to her forehead before stepping away or his hand holding onto her's as they walked.

Daryl found it reassuring to know that she was there.

...

Y/N rolled out her sleeping bag by the fire before slowly crawling inside. She left the zipper open as she turned onto her side.

Daryl moved behind her, sliding into the sleeping bag with his chest pressed against her back.

"Lift your head," He muttered.

She lifted her head, allowing him to lay his arm across the ground for her to rest her head against.

"Thank you," Y/N said softly, Daryl grunted.

His arm wrapped around her waist securely, holding her close to himself as the fire crackled softly beside them.

Y/N rested her hand on his forearm, sliding her palm downwards and intertwining her fingers loosely with his.

"You're cold," He muttered.

"I'll warm up," Y/N replied, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the comforting warmth already seeping into her body.

Daryl laid awake long after she had fallen asleep, listening for noises in the surrounding area.

It was like he couldn't turn his brain off when there was a possibility of danger with Y/N involved. His attention was pulled back to her as she shifted in his arms.

"I can hear you thinking," She mumbled without opening her eyes, "Glenn is on watch, we're okay," Y/N assured.

"I know," Daryl said gruffly, arm tightening around her waist to pull her body closer.

Y/N turned in the limited space the sleeping bag provided, looking up at him with tired eyes. Daryl lifted his hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You need to sleep," Y/N said, he nodded.

She pressed herself against his chest, fingers slipping underneath his jacket before she slid her arm around him.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a content sigh as her head rested against his chest.

...

Daryl blinked his eyes open, surprised to find that he had actually fallen asleep for a few hours. The fire had dissipated, leaving only a small flame and bright red coals.

Daryl shifted, lifting his arm from around Y/N's waist as he slipped out of the sleeping bag carefully.

Her eyes fluttered open, turning onto her back as she blinked up at him, "Where are you going?" She mumbled.

"Just grabbing a drink. Go back to sleep," He said, lifting the warm material of the sleeping bag further over her shoulder.

Daryl dusted off his knees as he stood up, making his way over to the car and opening one of the backpacks. He pulled out a crumpled water bottle, taking a few sips before tucking it away.

Glenn sat on the hood of the car, a rifle held in his hands as he listened.

"Anythin'?" Daryl asked, Glenn shook his head, "Not a peep. I wake Rick in an hour to switch off," Glenn said.

Daryl nodded, he felt like he wasn't contributing when he had the privilege of sleeping through the night, but Rick had insisted that he take a night to rest.

"You two are really cute together," Glenn stated.

"Thanks," Daryl muttered.

"I think everyone deserves to have a love like that... One that makes life worth living again, you know?" Glenn said.

Glenn couldn't have been more right. Daryl would give his life for that woman in a heartbeat and he couldn't imagine a future without her in it.

Y/N was absolutely everything to him.

Daryl nodded, returning to his sleeping bag and laying down behind Y/N. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to his chest.

"Are you okay?" Y/N mumbled, hand finding his under the material of the sleeping bag.

"Yeah, I'm good," Daryl assured.

#daryl dixon x reader #twd daryl #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon imagine #the walking dead daryl #daryl x reader #daryl x female reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixion imagine

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bedoballoons · 3 months

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Hello!

I really love your writing! This is my first time making a request :^)

Can I request kaveh, tighnari and whoever else you want to include reacting to the reader (preferably m or gn) showing them a guestroom in their house/teapot that they decorated just for them? I'm imagining alot of blushing pre-relationship vibes but established relationship would also be very sweet so it's up to you ^^

No worries if u dont like the prompt and would rather not do it. I'm excited to read more of your work regardless!

AHHHH THIS IDEA IS JUST CHEFS KISS!! This is your first request and it's literally incredible!! Thank you thank you! It's a honour to write your first one so I hope you enjoy it!!

─⊰⁠⊹ฺ❄️𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤⊰⁠⊹ฺ❄️

{༻~A safe place~༺}

CW: Fluffy! GN! Reader! Pre-relationship blushing and cuteness!!

(Includes: Tighnari, Kaveh, and Kazuha!)

𑁍༄Tighnari:

"Alright, now!" You stepped aside as Tighnari moved his tail, uncovering his eyes so he could finally see the surprise you had waiting for him...you'd been decorating and placing everything for days now, even making some of the furniture by hand just for him to have a perfect room in your teapot. Now you'd know if he liked it or not...and your heart was racing with anticipation!

"You did all of this...for me? I don't even...I don't even have a sarcastic remark to make. This is perfect.." He walked inside the room, examining everything even closer, you'd managed to find books on herbology he didn't even know existed and there was a incense burning on his new desk that smelled calmly of flowers...even a small picture of him with you and Collei. No one had ever put so much effort into a place for him or thought of everything like you had.

His cheeks suddenly blushed at the realisation of how much he'd be here now, never wanting to leave a place so perfect for him...a place with you, "I don't know how I could ever thank you enough."

You felt your heart skip a beat, "Just stay around for awhile...?"

"I absolutely will."

𑁍༄Kaveh:

"You really didn't have to make me anything. I was just kidding about the whole giving me a gift makes me sleep better thing, I promise. It's something Alhaitham said and I...well it doesn't really matter but-"

"Kaveh, this has nothing to do with that. This is a gift that I wanted to give you because I like you alot and I think this will make you really happy...or at least I hope it will." You opened the door for him before he could answer you, hoping to distract him from your almost confession about liking him alot...you still didn't know if he liked you back, though maybe this gift would make it clear?

It took him a second to adjust to the new sight, to realise just how big of a gift this truly was.."I- did you decorate this room...just for me?" His mouth hung open in shock as his eyes scanned the beautiful place you'd made for him. Every inch of it decorated to his like, no even better then his liking and he didn't think that was possible. He could cry in happiness, "I am in such awe right now, I don't even have words"

"I definitely understand that feeling, especially when I'm with you." You looked away, your cheeks on fire...you'd never been so bold about your feelings before and this could be coming on stronger then needed, but you couldn't back out now.

"How so?"

"I-...Kaveh..."

"Yes?"

"I like you.."

𑁍༄Kazuha:

"And we are here!" You removed the blindfold from his eyes, ready to show him his new room, the place you'd made just for him whenever he needed it...which you silently hoped was alot. It had everything he could need, sword racks and empty books for his poems, a cozy fireplace for when he returned from a cold rainy adventure and a vase of flowers that made the whole place have a soft floral scent.

His cheeks were dusted with a light blush and he almost appeared to be in a trance...maybe he didn't like it? "Kazu? If you don't like it I could always change it-"

"It's been a long time since I had a place I could truly call home, yes many of my adventures have lead to places with the feeling of home...but to truly have a place I can return to any time I'd like... I'd forgotten how it felt. Please know I love it all, you've done a wonderful job and I thank you for this...for giving me a home." He turned to you, his eyes almost dazed and his smile sweet and sincere...you could have kissed him right then..

Your cheeks went bright red, that thought aching to become a reality, "No need to thank me, having you here is enough thanks in itself. I hope you will use this room often, I would...love to spend more time together."

"As would I with you."

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚~Have a nice day~*⁠.⁠✧

#genshin impact #genshin headcanons #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #genshin x you #tighnari x you #tighnari x reader #tighnari fluff #tighnari headcanons #kaveh fluff #kaveh x you #kaveh x reader #kaveh headcanons #kazuha x reader #kazuha headcanons #kazuha fluff #kazuha x you

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elliehase-blog · 2 months

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The Valentine's Surprise

It’s just a random day in February and Roman bursts through the door, bringing a blast of cold air from outside into Virgil’s room.

“We have a problem!”

“Hm,” Virgil replies without looking up from his book.

“It’s an emergency,” Roman says more emphatically.

Virgil lifts an eyebrow slightly. “Is the house on fire? Should I run for my life?”

“Much worse.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roman unceremoniously flop down on the armchair next to him, burying his face in his arms.

“We have no date for Valentine’s Day,” he says in a tone of voice in which other people say, ‘I only have six months to live’. “Why do I think of this so late every year? Why? Why is Valentine’s Day always so sudden?”

Virgil smirks behind the pages. “Yes, it’s hard to believe that they put it so spontaneously and completely arbitrarily on February the 14th again. Is it no longer possible to rely on anything in life?”

Roman fishes for a pillow and throws it in Virgil’s direction. “Not funny, Mister Sarcasm!”

It becomes more than clear that Roman, with all his pre-Valentine’s heartbreak, isn’t going anywhere else. Virgil struggles with himself for a moment before finally putting the book aside and turning to Roman.

“Why are you bothering me with this anyway? Patton seems to me the right side to contact for your problem.”

Roman sighs deeply and tragically. “No, it has to be you,” he confesses and comes finally to the point. “You’re the one who can push this problem into focus.”

‘Ah’ thinks Virgil, only mildly surprised. No one ever comes to him for advice. Especially not Roman.

“Listen, Princey, weren’t we all agreeing on not psyching ourself out over some day and instead celebrating love in all its forms?”

He knew that the topic would come up again, no matter how well Roman coped with the whole thing on the outside. You don’t have to be a genius to realize that his thoughts still revolve around Nico Flores and the unclear relationship.

“Ugh.” Roman sighs again. “It’s just…,” he starts to explain and his voice sounds husky, as if he had a cold. “I’m Thomas’s romantic side and I should do something, right? Valentine’s Day makes me sentimental, and I want to throw around grand gestures, but… What’s the point of embracing love if you never get anything back?”

That was too much of an exaggeration, even by Roman’s standards. Virgil would like to make a sarcastic remark again, but he can’t. Not when Roman looks like that, so worked up and hurt. It always causes a strange tug in his chest that he can’t quite explain.

“Wow, that’s a gloomy way of seeing it.” Virgil swings his legs over the edge of the couch and stands up. “Come on, you stayed already for too long in my room. Breathe, okay?”

Roman allows Virgil to grab him by the arm and carefully escort him out of this dark corner of the mind.

“Better?”

“Better,” Roman agrees, but still sounding a little helpless.

It’s unbearable.

“Okay, you know what, let me show you something.”

Almost energetically, Virgil manoeuvres them in the direction of the stairs. It’s kind of surprising how little defensive Roman is about all of it. Usually, he is protesting and whining a lot more. For now, he just raises his arms in a questioning manner.

“Virge, what-” he stops abruptly. Roman has the widened, panicked gaze of a deer on the highway that suddenly and abruptly finds itself in the middle of the headlights of an approaching truck.

“Oh my goodness! Are you kidding me?! What’s… Why…?”

Virgil bites his lower lip, amused. “My pet spider wanted a friend, and you’re always into battling monsters, so…”

“No, no, no… No!”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Unconditional, requited love.”

Roman looks at Virgil, then at the spider and his tiny self, and finally back to Virgil again.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Virgil crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. To be honest, he’s just a little smug about it. You can’t choose where Cupid’s arrow will land.

“What can I say, you make my spider feel special and awesome.”

The corners of Roman’s mouth twitch. It looks like a smile he’s suppressing. “I will tolerate this nonsense,” he says benevolently. “But it’s not at all solving my problem.”

Virgil should walk away now, leaving Roman behind with nothing but his self-doubts and fears. That’s at least what the old anxiety would do. Damn it, he is not the one who is usually comforting people! But then again… it’s all about family, right? At least, that’s what Patton would say.

“I can’t believe that I have to point it out.” Virgil sighs and feels a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Love always comes around for us when we least expect it. You don’t have to force anything, Roman. Accept and acknowledge what you already have. There’s a lot of affection in different ways and forms around you. You’re just not seeing it clear.”

It’s strange to have said it out loud after it’s been rumbling in his stomach like an ulcer. Strange and relieving at the same time.

Virgil clears his throat. Anyway, it’s not that he meant anyone specific. What matters is, that Roman’s face suddenly lights up with a warm, knowing smile. It makes Virgil feel a whole lot better too.

"I knew I could count on you," says Roman softly, and no one is commenting it.

💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️💜❤️

I hope you enjoyed the small (not beta-read) story. I apologize in advance for any grammar or spelling mistakes my german brain wasn't seeing.

#sanders sides #sander sides fanart #sander sides fanfic #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #valentines day

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awoogahonkhonk · 4 months

Text

There’s actually a lot of TWST characters who I think would (or wouldn’t) partake in the devils lettuce sooo here are some TWST weed Headcanons.

~~~

Also, Ik they teens. Teens, don’t do drugs. But I did as a teen and am still not of age, high while writing this soooo yeah. Please remember that this is fiction and these are fictional characters.

Note: not all characters are in this list. If I didn’t add a character it’s either cause I had nothing of substance to say about them or I don’t know the character enough to make a proper headcanon. Also if I say something wrong I’m sorry I’m not a connoisseur I just do what I get.

Warning(s): General talk about weed, Yuu is a stoner(maybe idk) in this, cursing, unedited and written by someone under the influence

~~~

Riddle Rosehearts: As much as I want him to, and I think he would actually benefit from it, he wouldn’t. Especially pre overblot but also post. And it’s more than it’s against the rules. All he knows about marijuana is what he’s learned from the anti drug PSA’s his moms had him watch. And he hates the smell. And his fragile lungs can’t take smoke. And he doesn’t trust edibles or like the taste. So, as much as I want him to just give it a chance and chill tf out, it’s a firm no.

Trey Clover: He’s impartial. Doesn’t like smoking, or getting high in general but he doesn’t have anything against others doing it. May smoke in group settings but rarely. He will 100% make some fire weed brownies if you ask. Also, number one guy to be with if you get the munchies.

Cater Diamond: I think he’s tried it, had a bad high, and never touched the stuff again. Might be convinced to try again with some close friends but only if they know what they’re doing. Also, acts like he knows what he’s doing but ends up hacking up a lung.

Ace Trappola: Yeah why not. He’s down to try anything once. Actually likes being high with people, like him and Deuce and Yuu have reg smoke sessions and he loves it. Just likes the feeling idk. I don’t think he smokes alone tho. Likes flavored pens.

Deuce Spade: Will attend every smoke session and get a second hand high but will rarely actually participate. He thinks he has to be the responsible one while Yuu and Ace get high off their asses. But he’s not against smoking a little every once in awhile.

Leona Kingscholar: For sure dude. Someone is almost always on something in Savanaclaw so he’s been around his fair share and tried a couple things. Doesn’t like the smell from joints cause yk beast man heightened everything. So he prefers edibles or pens. Pens still stink to him but not as bad. Casual stoner. It helps him sleep when everyone in his dorm is all riled up over nothing. Gave Ruggie his first edible but was not happy when he had to take care of him after he greened out. (I have so many nsfw thoughts about Leona and smoking with Yuu omg don’t)

Ruggie Bucchi: Like I said, first time he had an edible he greened out. In his defense, the dosage was way too much. Leona kinda forgot he wasn’t as tolerant as him. He didn’t really want to do it again after that but he figured out smoking was easier cause he could gage where he was better. So now he’s a lil stoner. High Ruggie = ravenous Ruggie. Like Fr you’d think this kid was starving the way he was shoveling shredded cheese into his mouth, straight out the bag.

Azul Ashengrotto: Just gonna make a blanket statement now, none of the mer students smoke. They aren’t technically supposed to have lungs and filling those lungs with smoke is just painful. So he doesn’t smoke. He’ll do an edible every so often, usually to help him sleep, but that’s it. IS the campus dealer tho. He knows a guy. He knows quite a few guys actually. Hooks everyone up, for a price.

Jade Leech: Never has, never will. Has absolutely no interest in it. Doesn’t like not being in control of himself. Will be around when others get high though, he thinks it’s hilarious. Especially when people do too much and get sick.

Floyd Leech: Complete opposite of his brother. Will get high anytime, anywhere, with anyone. It hurts to smoke, like I said previously, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying. It’s actually getting better. He also thinks smoking looks cooler than edibles. High Floyd is a very cuddly monster. Will squeeze anyone who gets close enough. Just be thankful that he’s too out of it to use his full strength.

Vil Schoenheit: Will loudly advocate against it and ban his dorm from doing it but probably has a secret stash somewhere. Only Rook knows about it. He’s stressed ok?! You try being a famous actor/model/fairest in the land.

Epel Felmier: My boy wants to. He really does. He thinks it looks so cool, and if Yuu can do it so can he! But the smoke burns his lungs and edibles taste bad. But that doesn’t stop him from trying!

Idia Shroud: OKAY so there are two ways I could write this. Cannon how he probably is, or headcannon how I want him to be and see him as. Cannon, he probably talks a big game but actually knows jack shit about drugs of any kind. And is kinda scared to try. But he will, to seem cool. Ends up coughing up his heart but he tried and that’s what counts. And now he can officially say he’s ‘done weed’. Headcannon, Idia as a little loner stoner. It calms his nerves and makes it easier to talk to people. Usually if he’s out of his dorm, he’s high. He’s also high when he’s in his dorm. It helps him sleep and he thinks better with a lil weed in his system. May have developed a small codependency but that’s okay(no it’s not seek help). Mr wake and bake.

Malleus Draconia: Weed? Like, dandelions? What? He’s so confused when someone offers. Why would you smoke weeds? Lilia has to explain it to him three different ways before he gets it. He’ll try, but please give him an edible. It’s for your own safety. His lungs could probably take the smoke but if he ends up taking a hit too big he will cough up flames and not little ones. Very spacey once he’s high. Will stair at the ceiling for hours and say absolutely nothing.

Lilia Vanrouge: Has, will, wants to rn actually. Lilia lived through the 70s, he’s done almost every drug known to man, and probably some not yet known, at least once. Why not? He can take it. Doesn’t smoke often but also does? Idk how to explain it. Likes flavored cartridges more than anything else. The weirdo who fucks with cotton candy. He gets bad cotton mouth tho so… I mean, if you believe in the vampire theory like I do…👀

Silver: The first time he smoked was with his dad. He walked in on Lilia and a bong when he was like 15 and Lilia was like cmon m’boy. Now, he’s concerned that Lilia wasn’t more careful and exposed him so young but that also means he has an okay relationship with weed. Like, he’s able to make his decision firmly due to plenty of experimentation. He hates smoking and edibles generally but will absolutely body some weed brownies.

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yangcherie · 4 months

Note

i am obsessed with your writing. really. i would love to read your view on a shadowheart trying to win your heart when she realizes that the other companions also want you. be as fluff or smut as you want! (and of course you don't need to write anything you don't want, really, no pressure) 💕🩷

one step ahead

pairing: shadowheart, background cast x gender-neutral!tav (reader.)

content warnings: alcoholic consumption, lightest bit of suggestive. reverse comfort. religious trauma (shar.), pre-selune shart.

author’s note: i don’t quite know. this is the first time i wrote wothout being high so ahm. this might suck. Uh. so sorry, dear... begging the nines for this to flop. praying hands emoji.

Before discovering:

You’re a darling thing – considerate, easy to like.

Shadowheart vies for your heart, confident she’s the only one. The party is big and Farûn even bigger, surely, they will not take this one thing away from her? She doesn’t take it seriously at first, the way they touch you, look at you, speak of you. No, she ignores it, continues to court you with soft flowers and fold and prayers of blessings upon you. You’re a priority to her, first and foremost. The only thing she has besides Shar’s teachings.

You like her. The way she feels about you is nothing if not refreshing, rid of lust. So you laugh with her, thank her so prettily for her gifts. She’s confident.

After discovering:

It comes to her late at night. She is not the only one who gives you flowers and gold and prayers, it seems. What meager she has to offer the others are extravagant with. She begrudgingly stumbles upon the possibility that you might’ve served more as a distraction than a lover, you’ve been challenging her faith and focus.

Have you swayed her? The same way you have seemingly swayed the other ones in the party?

If there’s one thing Shadowheart has discovered about herself, it’s that she does not like to share. But you are not hers. And is then she begins to descend into thoughts she does not like, about how it would feel to stake a claim over you.

You become more of a trial to overcome, something to have a crisis over.

Shadowheart purses her lips, sulking by the fire. She’s alone, thankfully – but the night is not peaceful for her, as it may be for the others slumbering around. The wind bites at her legs and something akin to heartbreak and envy chews at her heart as she stares at your tent. An abandoned, emptied bottle of putrid wine lay on its side near her.

It should be alarming, how quickly she’s taken to a different sort of nightly activity; chasing away her thoughts of you with wine and whisky instead of praying. She’s half-convinced you’re a hidden disciple of Lady Shar, with the way you invoke loss so easily in her. You must be a test of faith – one she is losing.

If she is bound to lose, she will not go down without tooth and nail. She’s opted for trying to sweep you off your feet, bouquets of orchids, opening her heart to you. Unfortunately, for every endeavor, you’ve tugged an endearing smile at. You’ve sung her praises on how darling of a friend she was – and she had been laughed at, patted on the back with sympathy by those in the party.

She wonders if you’ve even paid mind to how her advances have faltered. How she had herself distanced from you.

Shadowheart huffs, petty. Your heart has been something hotly-contested amongst the camp – for fuck’s sake, amongst everyone you cross, from drows and tieflings to cambions and lords alike. She knows it, she sees how those in the party - especially that damned vampire, drink in your bodice. The lilted curve of your smile. The bob of your throat. She sees how they could just maim one another for a chance at you, and she cannot blame them for their hunger – but it does not soothe her misery.

The idiots make it a competition of sorts; how far they could skirt around their affections without being caught — but Astarion seems to be winning. It is no secret to everyone, of the trysts you share with the vampire. It haunts her; how in the absence of light, he leans over you, pins you to the ground and sinks his teeth into the soft, welcoming flesh of your florid neck. He licks and savors the sanguine off of your skin whilst you whimper in pain beneath him.

During those nights, she cannot help but stay up, even long after the vampire has sauntered off, leaving you bloodless, limping. She strains her ears to listen to you breathe stiltedly. What she wouldn’t give for the chance to eat you up, whisper pretty things to you even as you push against her and whimper.

(During those nights, it is where she cannot help but truly resonate with Lady Shar’s teachings. Embittered, speared with loss with the fact you have plenty of beds to warm, hearts to hold – but none are hers.)

In the morning, she alone fusses and casts a light heal over you, brushing over your wounded neck, ignoring how Astarion will make an innuedo of your taste to irritate his fellow, seething companions. She will ignore how you flush.

Shadowheart is not blind – even the most foolish of fools could see she is not the only one to vie for your heart. She kicks around in the dirt, disgruntled, raking a hand through her otherwise pristine hair. You are a ridiculous conundrum, an enigma that puts her faith, her control at a losing trial — a groan is forced out of her. She would kill to have anything else on her mind but you, you, you, you, who has swarmed and consumed much of her waking thoughts.

Damn you. Damn you for all you are. You must be a cambion amongst the likes of Haarlep with the way you’ve ensnared her.

Before the cleric can run off with gritted teeth, however, a weight is settled on her shoulder from behind. Mortification is quick to take over her, a chill like winter in Icewind Dale, or worse, High Ice, crawling on her spine.

“Hey, you.” Your voice softly greets her. You do not wait for her answer, she figures when you decide to sit down on the log and huddle up to her as a comforting anchor, unaware to the flushed grimace on her face.

It is a brief thought that passes; what if the Nightsong Lady was watching her right at this moment? How will she ever explain this in her prayers? Should she beg that the Lady spare you? She gapes like a dehydrated fish on land when you burrow yourself further to her side and meet eyes with her.

You do not know you look how ambrosian you are at this moment. You are warm. You are soft and you are alone. Right in front of her, nestling into her, even – unknowing that she is on the prepice of some circle of hell, one riddled with indecision. Should she swoop you off your feet, profess her affections to you and press her mouth to yours until you’re stupid enough to let her bed you for the night?

Or should she gather you in her jaws and bite voraciously hard enough that you will turn limp? Spare you from what is her maw? The pit of her want she could condemn you to?

(But hers must be more merciful than the rest’s, surely? Would you prefer it to be her that destroys you?)

She is now convinced, you are the greatest trial of forbearance and endurance Shar has thrown her way.

“Shadowheart?” You murmur worriedly, a few seconds later to her silence, the fire casting a sultry, welcoming flush over you. She watches as you reach a hand up to your own face; undoubtedly thinking, why is she staring at you like you’ve burnt down the entirety of Faerûn? Shadowheart swallows, jittery; she cannot bear to tear herself away from your embrace.

“Why... why have you come here? To me?” It is all she manages to wrench out of her dry throat. Her waist trembles when you wrap an arm around it. She wishes to ask more; what are we? What am i to you? What do you want from me? Why are you doing this to me—?

“You looked lonely, was all.” You yawned, something ladened with slumber. She could not fathom the thought that this, whatever you were doing, could be casual to you. Was it an everyday occurence for you to ensconcing with whoever you deemed warm enough? “You could do with some company.”

Company? Does she deserve it? You could be with Karlach or Halsin, right now. Their arms were built to sweep you right off your feet. Or Astarion, surely? Was her company so special to you, you had refused your nightly tryst with him?

No, the rational part of her hisses. You’re thinking too highly of yourself; and what it says is true. She’s nothing more than some elf, one who cannot even string herself together.

It’s an uncomfortable silence – though it seems onesided, with how you flutter and cosy up to her despite how stiff she is. Somewhere in between, she feels a frown on your face pressed to her shoulder. She swallows, a prayer of repentance and a lash against her back is what she deserves. She’s a fool. There is no other but herself to fault if she was to fail the trial you pose.

“Shadowheart,” you mutter, more fiercely, another question on your mouth. She reveres the image of you, with your brows are wrinkled with worry for her. “Are you okay?”

But if the punishment is inevitable, she might as well just enjoy the buildup, right?

The cleric shakes her head, the witty response she has wilting when the instantaneous tightening of your arms around her fills her with the most innocent surge of need she’s ever felt – and her body wraps its arms around you before her mind has a say on it.

“Y-You torment me, you know?” She says, breathy, unnerved. The way you look at her and search her eyes for anything that could give her away has her breathless, and she can’t quit decide if that’s a good thing. It feels dirty, almost as if you’re looking for sin in her. She has plenty to go around.

“Why?” You ask, pushing on.

“You confuse me.” Shadowheart shakes her head, allowing the warmth of your palm to slide on her face. She graces it with her own. Shar cannot be watching, damn her. “So much.”

She continues, clutching onto your fingers, “I cannot be with you, I cannot – but gods,” she chokes, lips quivering once. “you make it so hard to stay away.”

You flush at it, what she means. Shadowheart follows. She wonders if you can hear it, the thrum of her heart, a testament of her sin, her unforgivable wrongdoings. She wonders if you know she’s starting to look at you as more of a salvation then a trial. You feel like it.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask, so gently, so reassured. You even tuck her hair behind her ears and it makes her flush with delight. “What makes you so sure you cannot be with me, hm?”

“Why me?” It clicks to you why she had asked that earlier. You frown, smoothing your thumb over the apple of her supple cheek. Her voice trembles. “You could have anyone you wanted, you know. Soldiers, or dukes. But you, you act like this towards me; and I’m just me.”

She does not say how afraid she feels that she could taint you with sin.

“And I like you for you.” You interject; and the butterflies in her stomach seem to triple, despite her eyes burning with exhaustion. “You are more than enough for me. You are wonderful to me.”

“You’re fine, we’re fine. I want to be with you.”

(She wonders if you mean for the rest of your life or this night only.)

Your words ring in her mind. She wonders if you want her to the same extent she does with you. But whatever — she’ll deal with it in the morning, the talk, the regret, the prayers, her reward and consequences. For now, she will let you soothe down the mess she’s made of her hair and hold her, entangle yourself to her as if to share warmth in place of the dying fire.

She could be enough for you, she could take care to not damage you with what she is. And she’s sure that she deserves this, snugly rocking in your arms, even for a night or two. And maybe you deserve a pretty flower again.

If she cannot have you, she can at the very least make sure you have her.

#shadowheart x reader #bg3 x reader #not my proudest work #i need to hit a smoke to function sad face emoji sigh #hope this flops amen

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skzsauce01 · 5 months

Text

What Was I Made For

Synopsis: College is hard, but it's even worse when you're a pre-med student and it's even, even worse when you don't want to go into medicine. Fortunately, the ghost that haunts your apartment is more kind, more annoying, and more helpful than you ever thought possible. College AU, ghost AU.

Warning: alcohol, bad parental relationship, mentions of death

Word Count: 6.2k

Pairing: f!reader x ghost!Kim Seungmin

A/N: Good luck with exams and classes!

“Honey, I’m home,” you call. The handles of the reusable grocery bag you picked up from a club booth at the beginning of the semester are already starting to fall apart, so you’re forced to flip on the light switch with your shoulder blades. You glare at Seungmin, who is lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Could you at least pretend to help?”

“What’s the point? I can’t even eat whatever you bought.”

You sigh and set down your haul onto the tiny kitchen island that doubles as a dining table. When you make a big production of taking out your groceries, Seungmin still doesn’t look up. Despite his inability to eat food, he usually shows some interest, if only to judge your snack choices.

On the counter, bananas in a plastic produce bag to prevent fruit flies, and a new roll of paper towels. On the top shelf of the fridge, a tub of Greek yogurt that Seungmin makes fun of you for liking. Assorted salad mixes in the crisper. A whole rotisserie chicken and a carton of eggs on the middle shelf. In the cabinet goes a party-sized bag of barbeque chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies you don’t want to discuss how much you paid for, and a box of protein bars.

You take the last item out of the bag and hide it behind your back. You hover over Seungmin. “Guess what I got?”

“A bag of potatoes that will grow spuds because you can’t finish them all.”

“That was one time! Try again.”

He guesses wrong again and again, so after the fifth attempt, you hold your prize in front of his eyes. “A better vegetable peeler, just like you told me to. Are you proud of me?”

For a moment, his sullen eyes brighten at the memory of you struggling with your old peeler. He watched with great amusement as the flimsy blade repeatedly got caught on carrot skin and you grew more infuriated with each catch. In the end, you gave up and ate the skin, fuming with each bite of your meal. Seungmin laughed so hard, you thought he would lose control of his physical form and slip through the floor.

He sighs, all of the joy escaping through his lips. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, it’s just one of those days.”

“We all have them. Hey, why don’t we do something tonight? I’m done studying, so we can watch a movie or play Mario Kart or something.” You plaster a smile on your face. “Fun, right?”

“You’re never gonna get into med school if this is how you work.”

Despite his admonishments, he sits up and swings his legs off the couch to make room for you. He didn’t choose an activity so Mario Kart it is. You leave your peeler on the coffee table and grab your joycons. When you flop beside him, tossing the blue one in his lap, he grumbles as he’s jostled around.

“I don’t even wanna go to med school,” you remind him. He already knows since it’s all you complain about these days as the MCAT draws closer, but that’s never stopped you from repeating yourself.

“Wow, what a problem. I’d die to go to med school.”

Without thinking, you snort. “Too late for that.”

Seungmin has been dead for nearly two years. The old apartment complex burned down in an electrical fire, and due to the housing demand in the area, the university quickly built a new one in its place. Sure, you suspected it was probably haunted, but rent was on the cheaper side, especially for a single room, so you moved in and learned about your unofficial roommate during your first night. You thought you were going to faint when you saw a stranger leaning over your stack of practice books, and you thought you were going to be killed when he simply said, “I was also pre-med.”

“Sorry,” you meekly say. Why is the Mario Kart music so cheerful? It would be worse if it was sad, but the upbeat tune just makes your mistake more poignant. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he interjects. “Doesn’t matter. You better not pick Birdo this time.”

While you normally would have fought him six ways from Sunday for Birdo, you choose Yoshi instead and pick his favorite circuit to start off the night. He makes no comment about your sudden generosity, but you both know the reason. There’s no such thing as pity in this household, but apologies are aplenty.

When you come back from your anatomy lab the following day, whatever guilt you felt is gone when Seungmin holds up your pack of cookies with a disapproving look. You must have forgotten to put it back in the cabinet before you left. Either that or Seungmin rummaged around your belongings when the roommate contract stated that he could not and would not.

“You seriously paid for these?” he says.

“They’re good! And artisan,” you huff as you snatch the package from his hands. You hope you didn’t crush any cookies in the process. “I support small businesses.”

“They haven’t been a small business or artisan in, like, twenty years. How did the cat dissection go?”

You reach for an overpriced cookie and snap off a piece with more force than necessary. “Fine. A little gross, but I guess I’m used to that by now. You wanna see the pictures I took?”

He tries to feign nonchalance, but his body seems more substantial, less ghost-like as you scroll through your camera roll. Even though he oohs and aahs at the most inappropriate images—you really don’t think the digestive structures of a cat deserve that much admiration—you can’t help but smile. He hasn’t looked or sounded this lively in weeks. You thought it might have been your snark rubbing off of him, but he always has a biting remark at the ready, remedied only with his good-natured demeanor. Of course, that demeanor has been slowly crumbling, so to see him be his usual self again feels good.

Satisfied, he lets you take your phone back. “Sometimes I miss lab. I hated doing the lab reports though; have fun with that.”

And just like that, your happiness goes out. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. I should study before work. You wanna help me out? I hate physics.”

Look, if your roommate were a pre-med student, had unlimited time, and no other obligations, you would force them to help you study, too. Plus, Seungmin loves MCAT practice, so it’s a win-win.

To your surprise, he doesn’t jump at the opportunity like he typically does. Under normal circumstances, he would be scouring the living room for where he last left his flashcards. Instead, he says, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“A break? You, of all people, suggest that I take a break when you were just telling me about my bad study habits? Who are you, and what have you done with Seungmin?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you wanted to do physics that badly.”

“I don’t. This is weird from you though.” However, after a moment of contemplation: “Whatever. Pick a show to watch. I’m gonna draw.”

He selects House because he’s still Seungmin after all. This is the show that inspired him to go into medicine, and is, as he’s mentioned many times before, “the greatest show on the planet.” It’s entertaining, you admit, and you do like seeing all of the obscure medical cases Dr. Gregory House solves, but it’s a grim reminder of your parents’ dreams for you. With the dialogue of the characters echoing in your head, you sketch a frog sitting on top of a stack of pancakes. You initially bought your tablet for note taking, but it really is much better as a tool for art.

“It’s always animals, plants, or dessert now,” Seungmin remarks, craning his head to get a better view while you continually pull your screen away. “What happened to your big fantasy pieces?”

“Rule one: no looking until I say so. Rule two: no questions unless I say so. Remember?”

He ignores you. “You used to do a lot of those things when you first moved in. With the crazy landscapes, guys with abs in crop tops, cat-ear ladies with fancy dresses, villains who you definitely wanted to—”

“I get it!” Your face is blazing. He makes your artistic—purely artistic—interests sound so much worse than they are. “I’ve just been busy with life, so I don’t have time to work on them anymore. Anyway, animals, plants, and desserts are cute.” In a smaller voice, you add, “And they make me happy.”

Just like pictures of a flayed cat makes him happy.

He goes quiet and lets Dr. House fill the air. While he pretends to be engrossed in the show, you turn back to your sketch to fix your frog’s eyes to be less downcast. No sad frogs allowed.

You don’t remember exactly when the dread began, but you do distinctly remember glancing over the syllabus for your genetics course and wanting to collapse. Each item was manageable by itself, but the totality of the class, of your future classes, of your future hurtled at you at full force. For so long, you convinced yourself you could do it. You would complain the whole time, but at the end, you would be addressed as ‘Doctor’ and you would be happy. Your parents would be happy, so you would be happy and realize that it was all worth it.

Even if you cried every night, it would be worth it.

You took a deep breath, looked at the list of assigned textbooks, and pulled out your credit card. You went through more dire situations than this stupid course. This would be easy enough.

Two weeks after the art fiasco, you finally test out your new vegetable peeler on potatoes. Your friend gave you five for free since she was having trouble finishing the large amount she bought. While you stand over the sink, humming a song your neighbor has been practicing for the past week, Seungmin is hunched over the coffee table, doing something secretive with flashcards. He’s been working on a new set of them since the art fiasco, which makes no sense since you have a perfect set of a thousand that you bought online. But no, he has been toiling day and night to create handmade ones. You don’t even want to know where he got the supplies.

Well, you already know where and how, but if your neighbors come knocking, you know nothing.

In fear that you’ll “ruin the surprise,” you have been forbidden from even stepping foot onto the living room carpet. Really, there’s no point because you can get a glimpse if you lean across the island. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes on the growing pile of potato skins. You have five potatoes worth of fries to make.

Ten minutes later, when you have moved onto slicing, Seungmin declares that he’s done. He places the baking sheet you left on the island onto a chair and triumphantly sets down his masterpiece.

When you pick up the topmost one, you can’t help but smile. Alongside the words “absolute threshold” is a cartoon rabbit with alert ears. Tiny music notes are dotted on the top edge of the card.

“To make your studies less stressful,” he says.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re always some degree of stressed but nevertheless thank him. The flashcards are adorable, even if Seungmin’s drawing skills aren’t the best. “Newton’s first law” has an indistinguishable creature kicking a ball, and “law of independent assortment” features some of the strangest plants you have ever seen.

“I love them.”

“What do you think of my art skills? Better than you, right?”

You laugh and turn back to your cutting board. “You should’ve considered art school instead of med school. Professional artist Seungmin,” you muse. “I can see you in galleries and museums.”

“Don’t forget the history textbooks. Why didn’t you consider art school? You would be perfect for video games or something.”

For some time, you did consider art school. You spent the first two years of high school daydreaming about sitting behind an easel, translating a model’s likeness onto paper. Perennial paint splatters on your jeans, permanent charcoal stains on your fingers—that was the only way you wanted to study human anatomy.

“My parents. You know how it is. Can you season the fries in the bowl?”

While Seungmin dumps copious amounts of salt, pepper, and whatever random spices he picked from the cabinet, you reflect on your teenage self. A part of you knew that drawing would only be a hobby, but another part kept hoping your parents would come around. When Hyunjin’s parents announced he was going to study chemistry, your mom wondered why he didn’t choose art when he was such a good artist. In fact, half the neighborhood, whose children went into STEM fields one way or another, were shocked he chose chemistry. Of course, if their own kids had opted for non-STEM majors, they would have been livid. Just like your parents had been.

“Did you ever think about not going into medicine?” you ask as you add more potato slices into the bowl.

He adds a swirl of oil to the mix. “No. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I volunteered at the hospital in high school, got an internship at a clinic here. I was studying for the MCAT and then…”

And then the university’s outdated housing killed him. It sounds horrific when phrased like that, but it’s more truthful than “Promising Young Pre-med Student Kim Seungmin Dead After Apartment Fire,” as the city newspaper headlined. His student ID photo smiled earnestly at readers, and a recent picture showed him posing in a lab coat.

It hits you then. Seungmin is dead. You knew this logically; you saw the articles, passed by the vigil, and signed the student letter demanding better accommodations. Then you forgot his existence until you applied to live in this building and when he appeared in your bedroom, you forgot about his death. Despite witnessing him walk through walls and tiptoeing around his deceased status, Seungmin has never really been dead to you. He’s your roommate who sleeps in the living room, your study partner who loves all things related to biology, or your friend. He’s too alive to be anything else.

“Did you preheat the oven?” he asks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your body went on autopilot, and now the baking sheet is covered in pale potato sticks.

You glance at the dark oven and head over to do what you should’ve done twenty minutes ago. “My bad.”

“You’re the one eating these. Can you even finish all this?”

It’s far too much, but what else were you going to do with five potatoes on the verge of going bad? You suppose you could have not accepted them from your friend. “I can try?” you say, more to convince yourself than him. “I’m no coward.”

“Really? Then why do you hide when we watch horror movies?”

“That’s different. Mario Kart while we wait?”

“I call Birdo.”

Despite his declaration, you’re the one playing Birdo while he settles for Waluigi. Seungmin gloats when he hits you with a red shell, laughs when you fall off the track, and celebrates when he gets first place. He’s practically corporeal, alight with hopes and dreams you wish were your own, but he’s only the echo of the past. Meanwhile, blood flows through your veins and oxygen into your lungs, yet you’re stuck in a potential future you don’t even want.

At the end of fall, between your human biology midterm and that stupid philosophy paper, you break. It’s during one of your MCAT practice exams, so you at least can cry at your desk. You can’t even cry without guilt; your mind immediately starts trying to reread the problem you’re stuck on through your tears, as if trigonometry will solve your crisis.

It feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest. Every time you think you’ve calmed down enough to begin again, another wave of sobs overcomes you. Just holding your pencil makes your throat tighten.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin’s voice is slightly muffled by your bedroom door, but you doubt that a thin piece of wood concealed your cries.

You choke out, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“... No.”

You swing open your door with sardonic fanfare, spreading your arms like a ringmaster. Seungmin makes no comment about your swollen eyes or your sniffles. You almost wish he had.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. He takes a tentative step into your room, and when you nod, he lets himself fully in. It’s been several months since he’s last been inside. Unmade bed, cluttered nightstand, paper-strewn desk—nothing much has changed. He sits on your chair, resting an arm on top of the throw blanket you’ve thrown over the back.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say after a moment of silence. “I hate class, I hate work, I hate my life. A breakdown has been long overdue.”

You stare at the floor, afraid to meet his gaze now that he’s seen you like this. Ever since you discovered Seungmin, you’ve crafted the perfect blasé attitude to accommodate your new living circumstances. He leaves you alone sometimes and stays cordoned off in the shared spaces to give you privacy, but you don’t break apart in your apartment for good reason. You’re open and raw like a bloody wound. Will he want to patch you up with bandaids, or will he pick and prod?

Pick and prod, you pray. Make some flippant remark about how easy you have it, how he wishes he could be in your position instead. Because if he does, then the situation must not be that bad.

Softly, Seungmin says, “What can I do to help?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “I don’t know… I should probably get back to studying anyway.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” you snap. Seungmin at least has the decency to look sheepish. “The MCAT’s in July, and I don’t even understand half the things I’m supposed to know. I’m barely getting C’s in philosophy and art history because of it. That’s so humiliating.”

“Have you thought about, you know, not going to med school?”

A harsh laugh rips out of your throat. “Every single day. But it’s too late. I’ve already wasted four years, so what’s another four?” That doesn’t even include residency.

“You’d hate it.”

“Story of my life.”

The room goes quiet. Maybe you were too severe with your words, but how else do you explain it?

“What if you became a medical illustrator?” he abruptly suggests. “You’d know exactly how to draw everything. It’s perfect for you. And it’s still STEM-related.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s in STEM. Your parents laid out your options very clearly: doctor or disappointment. Some career choices were less disappointing than others, but they would still be disappointments.

“I need to study,” you say.

He stands up from your rightful seat at your desk. Softly, so very softly, he says, “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Thank you.”

He shuts the door behind him and leaves you with your despair. True to your word, you return to your practice exam, this time without crying. Your mouth is dry the entire session, but you don’t dare drink any water in fear that rehydration will trigger your tears. It’s stupid but keeps you holding on.

When you check your answers and review terminology, you refer to the set of flashcards Seungmin made for you. He didn’t expect you to use them, but his drawings have helped you better memorize the definitions. You shuffle through them, occasionally trying to figure out the relationship between whatever Seungmin drew and the word written. Other times—but not enough for your liking—you know exactly what they mean.

The rabbit from “absolute threshold” stares at you with lopsided eyes, and Mendel’s warped pea plants grow beneath your fingers. The whole world blurs.

A month after move-in, after too many beers and barbeque chips, you asked Seungmin, “Why do you haunt only me? You can travel through the whole building, but you’re only ever here.”

He gestures at the room with a sweeping flourish. “This used to be my apartment. Sort of. They changed the floor plan, but this is the approximate location of where I lived, so when you moved in, it felt like fate.”

“Ah, a med school sufferer to keep you company.”

He laughs, but it sounds insincere. “How drunk are you right now?”

You glance at the row of empty cans you lined up on the counter. One, two, three, four, five. Five and a half, if you count the one in your hand. “Pretty drunk, I think.”

“So you won’t remember what I tell you, right?”

“Probably not,” you lie. “What is it?”

With a sad smile on his face, he says, “I haunt you because it’s like seeing someone live the life I could’ve had. Would’ve had.”

Your outburst doesn’t go forgotten, but you and Seungmin dance around the topic with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. You show him your grocery hauls, he scolds you for buying expensive cookies. The two of you play Overcooked instead of Mario Kart and pretend that Overcooked will strengthen your friendship instead destroy it even further. Seungmin is really bad, embarrassingly so.

“Are you going to the party this weekend?” he asks as he drops onions all over the floor. There’s no health department in the game.

“I would ask you to be more specific,” you say, “but we both know I’m not going to any parties. Go chop the onions.”

“You need friends.”

“I have friends. Who do you think keeps us giving us potatoes?”

He scoffs. “That’s not a friend. That’s an enemy. We need more dishes.”

While you wash a stack of dirty dishes, Seungmin dashes between prepping ingredients and watching the timer on the soups. As expected, he doesn’t take the pot off the stovetop quick enough, and soon enough the whole kitchen is in flames. You scream at him to get the fire extinguisher, he wades through the sea of onions, and the level ends with a single gold star.

You set your joycon down and lean your head back. “Three stars or nothing” is your motto when playing Overcooked, but perhaps you can make an exception for Seungmin.

“Why’d you ask me about a party?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Seems like a college student thing to ask. And a college student thing to do. Go to parties, I mean.”

“Not for us.” You stretch your arms and legs out, knocking your socked feet against the coffee table. “When have you ever seen me willingly leave the apartment?”

“Never,” he admits, “but you should enjoy your youth.”

Whatever mutual agreement you thought you and Seungmin had does not exist. You have long known that you would have to sacrifice your twenties for your future. There would be good moments among your struggles, but so many of your memories would be of test prep and studying. As your parents so eloquently put it, “You can draw after you retire.”

“That’s funny coming from you,” you say. You wave a hand in front of his face and observe the way his eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you really Seungmin?”

“Do you know any other ghosts?”

“Do you actually regret dedicating so much time to studying?”

“No. I mean, I went out when I could, but you…” He mindlessly thumbs the buttons of the controller as he tries to find his words. “Well, maybe I do a little bit, but it was fulfilling. Or was going to be anyway. You’re miserable. I’ve never seen you without dark circles or eye bags.”

How needlessly observant of him. “Thanks. It’s the quintessential college look.”

“Take care of yourself.” He raises his joycon and nods at the TV. “Let’s go again. Three stars only.”

And just like that, you and Seungmin go back to pretending as if everything is fine, like the last few minutes were idle chatter about the weather. You yell instructions at him, and he retorts back with something snarky; all is well.

You suppose you should have realized why Seungmin asked you such out-of-character questions two weeks ago. Death anniversaries don’t typically go onto your calendar, but you could have made an exception for Seungmin. How did you forget? As you walk down the stairs, a wave of guilt washes over you.

The annual university-held vigil occurs on campus, but the apartment complex has their own small affair in the courtyard. Framed photos of the victims huddle together at the base of a half-wall. Already, there are several flowers and notes strewn about, and you add your own carnation to the pile. You have a note as well, and it burns your hand as you debate whether to leave it or not.

Twelve people died that night. “Only” twelve, as some papers reiterated. Twelve out of three hundred doesn’t seem too horrific given the state of the fire, but that’s still twelve people dead. Plenty more got injured trying to escape, and they aren’t honored at this memorial. The living don’t get commemorated—they live with the memories of the day, and that’s remembrance enough for the public.

“Hey.”

No one else is around, so you say, “Hey,” back to Seungmin. He disappeared for a few hours, and you assumed he would be gone until sunrise. In the days leading up to his death anniversary, he has grown increasingly depressed, looking vacantly out the window and mouthing words to himself. You idiotically thought he was just having one of those days.

“How are you holding up?” you ask.

“Fine, I guess. Good turn out this year,” he remarks as he kneels down to pick through the gifts. “The construction workers didn’t even show up to work because of superstition or something.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, it’s just…” You wave the folded notebook paper in your hand. Maybe you should’ve bought some stationery after all. “Read this later. I’ll see you whenever.”

You gently place it beside your carnation, return back to your apartment, and lock yourself inside your room. It’s too quiet, and you’re too restless. Your head tells you to do practice problems to burn off your energy, but all you’ve been doing as of late is listen to your head.

As you sketch an anatomical heart—underneath a completely necessary and painstakingly accurate rendering of a male torso—your bones say that this is right.

To Kim Seungmin, a star that went out too soon—

You deserved so much more than this. I don’t even know what else to say because nothing feels more appropriate.

I’m living in your old apartment—where it used to be, at least—and I can’t help but feel that I’m living the life you should have had. Sometimes I can feel your presence when I’m studying. I can hear you reciting definitions and shuffling flashcards. When I’m really losing my mind, I can see you sitting on the couch watching House episodes with me. It’s comforting and terrifying.

You already know this, but I don’t want to go to med school. I hate it and I hate being a disappointment to my parents, but I hate being a disappointment to you the most. You should be in my place, so I thought I should try and complete your dream for you at the very least. I’m already miserable, so I should make the most of it. For a while, I thought this would make you happy, but it’s been making you sad and worried recently. I thought if I could make you happy, then it would be worth it, but I’m realizing it’s not, but I’m too scared to leave this path. Sometimes I don’t know who I am without med school looming over me, and it

I wish we would’ve met earlier. You’re an amazing person, full of light and kindness. The world is darker without you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done and for everything that I didn’t do because you deserve so much better than whatever you’ve been given.

“Do you want to talk?”

Seungmin’s upside down face appears between you and the iPad you have been holding up with both arms. Philosophy review is simultaneously boring and maddening, but you have a final to be studying for. You should’ve started much earlier, but twenty-four hours of cramming has not failed you when it comes to general education elective courses yet.

“Not really,” you say as you push his face out of view. He’s corporeal at the moment, so your hand meets resistance rather than going right through. “I’m busy.”

“Did you apply for a ‘biomedical visualization’ program? That’s a medical illustrator thing, right?”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s thrilled. Since the memorial, you began looking into medical illustrators as a backup plan. You only meant to learn about the basic requirements, but curiosity got the better of you, and you attended an online informational session. Seungmin overheard bits and pieces because of how thin the walls are, you got cagey when he asked, and he put his endless hours of free time into detective work.

“I didn’t apply. I’m just looking around. Now go away.”

“The living room is a communal space. So you’re considering it then?”

You don’t respond and bring your iPad closer to your eyes. To read the tiny notes on the margins of your classmate’s notes, of course.

Seungmin cackles and claps his hands. “You are! This is good! Why are you so morose?”

“Because you interrupted my studying? I have less than ten hours to cover three months of content.”

“You’re deflecting. Are you worried about your parents?”

“Morose and deflecting,” you murmur. “Two gold stars for your vocabulary usage.”

“Are you?”

You shut your eyes, envisioning the stern faces of your parents when you announce over dinner your plans to spend your life not being a doctor. Their expressions morph from confusion to anger to grim when they realize how serious you are.

Are you serious about this? You’re not even sure yourself. It feels like you’re in high school again, holding onto a shred of hope for a future you aren’t allowed to have.

“What if I lie to them?” you say. “I tell them I got into a school that’s super far away, go there, and return when I’ve firmly established myself as an illustrator or whatever I end up doing. It’ll be too late for them to do anything.”

“That’s one way to do it. But wouldn’t it be better if you were upfront?”

You groan and turn back to your classmate’s notes. What is it like, you wonder, to not be crushed by the weight of approval? What is it like to know you won’t be scorned for your choices? No matter what you do, someone—your parents or Seungmin—will be upset.

“Upset” is a very mild way to describe your parents’ reactions. After six cans of celebratory beer—you passed all of your classes this semester!—you called your parents to tell them good news. Somewhere between the silent congratulations and questions of your home arrival, you blurted out, “I think I’m gonna do biomedical visualization. Medical illustration. Art. It’s still medical-related, but not a doctor.”

And after a lengthy discussion filled with shouting, you’re not allowed to come home this year or ever again. CALL ENDED flashes on your screen, but you grip your phone so tightly you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips. Your whole body is tense, flushed with indignation and shame. No tears come. You expected something like this but nothing to this extreme. Their words echo in your ears.

Ungrateful. Selfish. Disgrace.

Logically, you know you’re none of those things, but you can’t help but feel they’re at least a little bit right. You sink into your desk chair and wait for the inevitable knock on your door. To step out of your own accord would be mortifying.

“Are you okay?” asks Seungmin.

“I’ve been disowned in every way except legally,” you answer as you let him inside your room. “What do you think?”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s…”

It’s not fine, but your mouth started saying so by default. You perch on the edge of your bed and stare at the stack of practice books that have been untouched for two days on your dresser. They would belong better under your bed where they’ll be out of sight.

Suddenly insecure, you ask, “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You’ll still help me peel potatoes and let me know when my artisan cookies are on sale?”

He chuckles. “The only way you can get away from me is by moving or by graduating. I’ll be here. Instead of nagging you to study, I’ll critique your anatomy.”

“That’s against the rules.” Nevertheless, you smile at the thought of Seungmin hyperfixed at your artistic renderings and comparing them against pictures from a textbook. “Thanks.”

Seungmin smiles back, and he radiates so much warmth that you forget it’s winter.

EPILOGUE

“Honey, I’m home,” you call.

You nearly trip over the door sill in your heels but catch yourself in time. Wearing heels to commencement is a bad idea for more reasons than one. Clutching your friend’s graduation bouquet, you flip on the light switch with the back of your hand and glance over your apartment. Other than the dozens of boxes scattered across the living room and kitchen, nothing else belongs to you; goodbye coffee table you stubbed your toes against too many times; goodbye peeling school-issued couch. You half-expected to see Seungmin lying on it, staring at the ceiling like he used to.

“Seungmin, where are you?” When he doesn’t answer, you try again. “Anyone home?”

You wander around the small apartment, checking behind doors and furniture like you’re playing hide-and-seek. He’s nowhere to be found, and you go through the apartment again in a frenzy. He could be in a different part of the building, but he always knows when you’re looking for him.

“Where are you? Seungmin, this isn’t funny! I know you can hear me.”

It takes twenty minutes, but you eventually realize he’s gone for good. No goodbyes, no hugs, no teasing—he just waved you off to your ceremony and shut the front door. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help you move out, but you thought he would still be here when you returned. He researched additional art classes for you, suggested works for your portfolio, and consoled you whenever you were overwhelmed. It’s a knife to your heart that he’s not here.

In between tears that you don’t allow to fall from your eyes, you carry your boxes of belongings to your car. You have a new place to call home, but two perfectly nice housemates and a dog aren’t good replacements for a ghost who annoyed you from sunrise to sundown.

I hope you find this note eventually. I know we have the rule where I’m not supposed to go through your belongings, but since we’re not going to be roommates any longer, I hope you’re not too mad. Completely unrelated but you’re really good at Mario Kart. So good. Birdo was designed specifically for you.

Congratulations on graduating. You’ve worked hard this year. Could have worked harder sometimes but you did it! Relax a bit during your gap year and enjoy your youth. Those art classes will be easy for you. Biomed visualization will be easy after pre-med studies.

Stop rolling your eyes and sighing. You know I’m right.

I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I know you wanted it, but I don’t think I could have handled it. The truth is that I was ready to go a couple months ago when you started compiling your portfolio. For two years, I didn’t know why I was still here. At first, I thought my unfinished business was about the circumstances of my death. (Stop wincing. I’m dead. It’s a fact.) Then the administration stepped up. They did the bare minimum, to be honest, but at least changes were made. When you turned up, I thought I was supposed to fulfill my dream of going to med school. Turns out, I still have no idea what exactly why I was here, but seeing you live the life you want and choose the future you want makes me feel like business is finished.

To L/N Y/N, a star that will keep shining for decades to come—

I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done so far. There are so many opportunities waiting out there for you, so don’t be afraid to take any chances. I’ll be with you always.

318 notes · View notes

grave-z-boy · 7 months

Note

are you comfortable with writing about a transman? if so id like to see arthur morgan comforting ftm!reader, maybe calling him a "good boy" to make him happy x

Arthur Morgan x Trans!male!reader

Summary: Reader runs into an old family member and is desperately in need of comfort afterwards. (Once again making excuses to be sad and transgender)

Words: 1264

Warning: hurt/comfort, pre-transition reader is referred to as “dead” and “little girl” by reader, reader threatens his cousin, shitty family members.

A/n: shorter fic cuz I've been banging my head against the wall trying to get the rest of my writing back.

Masterlist

“You need to eat.”

You glanced up at Arthur, the fire between the two of you illuminating him in a orange glow. Your food had gone cold, and you didn’t mean to be wasteful, but today was…a lot. You shifted uncomfortably on the large rock you'd perched yourself on.

“‘M not hungry.”

You heard him sigh as you stared down at your plate.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong or are you just gonna sit there and sulk.”

“It's nothing-”

It was something, it was definitely something. You went into town on your own, bright and early so you could be in and out of the shops and get back to camp while the sun was still up. That was the plan, pick up some spices, and oddly enough a picture frame, Arthur had asked for it but he said it wasn't for him, probably gonna be a gift of some kind, you didn't think too much about it.

While you were making sure you're satchel was still secure, you heard a familiar voice.

“D/n?” he called from across the street.

You froze, but just for a moment, you tried climbing onto your horse as fast as you could by you were stopped by a firm grip on your shoulder. Turning, you saw him, right in front of you, your cousin, your asshole of a cousin, Damian.

“Well I'll be damned, it is you!”

Taking a breath you said, “Do I know you?”

“‘Do you’- d/n stop playing around!”

His voice was loud, loud enough to garner unwanted attention from those around you.

“I don't know no d/n sir, you've got the wrong man, now you best take your hand off me before you lose it.”

He backed off, a small apologetic yet nervous smile on his face, “sorry, you just uh, look an awful lot like my little cousin.”

Finally mounting your horse, you looked down at the man. You didn't say anything, just holding his gaze in yours for a long moment before giving him a quick nod and riding off.

You rode out of town faster than you should have, gaining various shouts and complaints from the townspeople who'd nearly stepped in your way.

As you broke out into the open road, your mind swelled with thoughts.

D/n was dead, she’d been dead a long, long time and you really didn't need reminders of her life, especially not the parts she hated.

You didn't want to hate your cousin, you just did. He was an ass and so was the rest of his family, you guess that technically included you too, but you never really felt like they were your family- even when you were little. You were different, so they treated you different. You never knew what tipped them off so early. Maybe you played with the boys too much, or you were too rough with the girls. Whatever it was, they knew before you did, they considered their daughter dead before she was, and they treated you like you killed her.

You liked being dead now, you thought you wouldn't have to worry about your family anymore, they had a whole funeral for you and everything, you figured that they'd move on, that if you did run into them, they'd take you as a ghost and nothing more. Your cousin was always an asshole though, and could never quiet get with the program, that made y'all alike in some ways, but mostly it just drew a bigger rift between you and your family. Everybody loved him, but they hated you, wasn't that funny?

You skid to a stop right outside of camp, zoning back into your surroundings just in time. Hoping off your horse, petting her for a short moment before tying her to a post.

It didn't take long for Arthur to find you, having only been in camp a couple of minutes before he spotted you. Before he even reached you, he could see the grim look on your face as you sat on your cot, glaring at the ground.

Arthur sat next to you, rubbing your back with his hand for a short moment. Arthur wasn't really a touchy person, not in front of people at least, a soothing touch on the back was as close to a kiss as you'd get with this many people around.

You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for a short moment before starting back down at the ground below.

It didn't take much for him to convince you to take a ride with him, especially when he offered to let you ride his horse with him, you appreciated it, knowing that yours would have bucked you off the moment you saddled her after you nearly ran her through camp. You almost felt bad- when you climbed on the horse behind Arthur, watching him avert his gaze from anyone who looked in your direction.

He wasn't ashamed, you knew that, he was just private, didn't like it when people paid too much attention to your relationship, or you at all for that matter.

You rode together for a long while, once you figured the road was clear enough, you wrapped your arms around Arthur and rested against his back, you felt him tense, then ask if you were okay, you nodded, he relaxed after a moment, quietly continuing down the road, he knew you weren't alright, not fully, but he figured talking could wait a couple of hours.

Now you're here, you sat on a rock while Arthur set up camp, when you mumbled an offer to help, he shot it down, reassuring you it was fine.

By the time food was cooked, the sun had set completely, the fire being the only source of light.

“- I swear I just…ran into somebody today.”

You could here the faint clink of silverware against the bowl as Arthur set it to the side.

“‘Somebody’ like who?”

You sighed.

“Like my cousin, Damien, ran into him in town today.”

You weren't fully sure you told Arthur about Damien, but when you looked up at him over the fire you could see a look of annoyance on his face, so you had to at least have mentioned him and his aggravating exploits.

“It's stupid, I just… I don't know. I thought that I would never run into them again, or maybe that they wouldn't recognize me if they did. But he called that little girl's name and it just felt like my heart had stopped.”

Starting down at the dirt, you heard Arthur push himself up off the ground, the dirt crunching beneath his boots. Then he was sitting right next to you, the stone just big enough to hold two queers at once. Meeting his eyes again, you opened your mouth to speak, but all that came out was a long, tired sigh.

“I know, “ he said, his voice so calm and soft, a tone reserved for those that deserved it, “come here, boy..”

And you did, leaning your head on his shoulder, buried in the nook of his neck, your arms just barely around him in an effort. He wrapped his arms around you far tighter, pulling you into him, feeling your shallow breaths as the day's events replayed in your mind.

“That's it, good boy,” he muttered.

A small smile formed on your face. You hummed in contentment, squeezing him a bit tighter, forcing a small chuckle out of him.

“You liked that?” you nodded, he laughed again.

“It's helping..”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

#arthur morgan x male reader #arthur morgan x male!reader #Arthur Morgan x trans!male!reader #red dead redemption 2 x male reader #red dead redemption 2 x male!reader #rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x male!reader #x male reader #male!reader #male y/n #male reader #red dead redemption 2 #✮ — z boy

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waltzingwithspirit · 7 months

Text

PICK A CARD: MESSAGES FROM MAHADEVI (CREATOR OF THE UNIVERSE)

Top Left: 111 ; Top Right: 222; Bottom: 333

Disclaimer:

This is a general reading take what resonates and leave the rest

No one is allowed to copy my work under any circumstances

DM for a personal tarot reading

All personal readings are paid.

HAPPY RADHA ASTHAMI 🤍♥️🤍

🌸111🌸

Be grateful for all that you have. Be grateful for all that you have been blessed with. You may think you lack, but the truth says otherwise. You have the warmth of the sun, coolness of the moon, you have water to drink, you have food to eat, you can walk among beautiful scenery. You have all that you need, so don’t look for more. If you have a guitar, play a song instead of dreaming about building a boat. You have all that you need and more. Be creative, once you start focusing on what all you do have, you’ll feel much richer. I am hearing you should spend time with your mother, help her in her work, be sweet not rude, it will go against you. Walking in nature barefoot will bring you tremendous results, especially if you are having troubles with rahu or shani. If you are taking sone sort of therapy /any healing sessions it will be successful, in 3 months you’ll notice a difference. Give service to cows and animals in general, this good karma will bring you recognition and even fame for some of you. Some of you need to cut your hair, even just a little bit to let go of the energy. Others need to start sadhana and grow their hair out. REGARDLESS take good care of your hair, it’s important. Keep it braided if you need to conserve energy. Wear more orange and red, and don’t let a day go by without writing how you felt today, why you felt that way, and end it with a gratitude list. Not just you, I am seeing your entire family successful, if you have been considering a family business or have one, this is a good sign. Comment ‘Mahadevi’ to Claim! 🌙 DM TO BOOK A TAROT READING 🌙 🌻 Thank you for letting me read for you 🌻

🌑222🌑

Okay so listen, you know you have a choice, you have the choice to speak up your idea in the meeting, you have the choice to say ‘No’. You always have a choice. You are not tied down by chains, you are not tied down at all except by your mind. No cages exist outside your mind. It is your greatest friend and has the ability to be your greatest enemy too. How do you want it to serve you? That’s again a choice. Make the right one. Choose freedom. Choose expression. Don’t let others walk over you, tell them you have plans and you can’t help them today, its okay. HAVE THE COURAGE TO ASK FOR WHAT YOU WANT. If you never ask, you’ll never know. You think you don’t have much to offer so you become the person who doesn’t need anything, and that not doing anyone any good. DEMAND YOUR RIGHTS. Ask for what you want. You want your partner to come watch you play violin? ask him, have the courage. You are a lion then why do you pretend to be a sheep. You could be born in the year of the horse as well. Some of you are lion yoni. Behave like yourself, the more you astray, the more depressed you feel. You want adrenaline, and you are scared of the same. Trust me, if you let loose you won’t run wild and return home safe. You are somewhat terrified of what could happen if you let yourself be, since you’ve never been, you can’t comprehend and with the fear of uncertainty, so you are always on edge, to say what you actually want to but never do and they are out the door. Other have a pre-conceived notion of you that you want to keep, honey its not healthy you have to let that go before it swallows you complete. Your fire has been watered down, its time to bring it back. Comment ‘Mahadevi’ to Claim! 🌙 DM TO BOOK A TAROT READING 🌙

🥀333🥀 If you have been seeing a humming bird, or after reading this if you see one, don’t be surprised. They are a sign that you are taking everything too seriously, even things that shouldn’t be taken that way, you have forgotten to stop and smell the roses. It seems like you are someone who has a responsibilities on their shoulders, and you just can’t seem to relax. Between all things mundane, you have forgotten to keep track of your soul’s purpose. Many of you don’t know why you are here. You world is limited to the material realm. You are being told to take time out for honoring your soul’s purpose. One of them is ‘Joy’. You are not here to be in a low or neutral emotional state, you are hear to feel joy and spread joy. It could come from any number of things, from just taking a day off or making time for your hobbies or laughing your ass off. You are here to be curious and be filled with wonder and awe. All these responsibilities are making you anxious, you can’t sleep, you can’t eat, and all you do is think all the time, about business and about family and that’s all your life is, you aren’t even in there. I am not saying you shouldn’t focus here, you should these are key areas of life but take a step back, take some time for yourself. HEVAY BURN OUT ENERGY. This isn’t even burn out, you are toasted and done, most of this is coming from the fact that most of your day you do things put of compulsion, you don’t want to do them, but you do. Figure out how to honor your soul’s purpose, and find joy in things or simply do what brings you joy. There is work that need to be done within the family dynamic as well. One step at a time and step starts with you. Comment ‘Mahadevi’ to claim! 🌙DM to find your Soul’s Mission🌙

- EL TAROT

#pick a picture #pick a pile #pick an image #pac reading #pick a card reading #pick a photo #pac tarot #free tarot #pick a card #ask response #channeled reading #channeled message #kaali #padma lakshmi #mahadevi #hindu #krishna

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joebrrrow · 1 year

Text

Refunds || Joe x F!Reader (NSFW)

You were no stranger to Joe’s hijinks.

word count: 3,237

warnings/contents: blowjob, daddy name-calling (i'm sorry joe i'm just saying what we're all thinking), dom!joe/sub!reader dynamics, rough sex (i'm sorry joe), choking, full mind-break, degradation (but also, like, praise), bimbo behavior-fication, dirty talk

author’s note: crawling out of my hole to give you this filthy filth in celebration of the bengals going to the AFC championship! now excuse me i must go take a cold shower and get to my scheduled exorcism because i need church after writing this.

don’t be shy to like and reblog if you enjoyed. as creators say, likes are amazing but reblogs go a long way in sharing my work. thank y’all!!!!!

For more of my smut, read Sturdy. For fluff, check out Capturing You, because your girl can do both. <3

enjoy under the cut!

No matter what, Joe was a winner to you.

And you never really let it get to your head too much, especially when you were watching him from the stands, whatever the team’s score was. You were endlessly proud of him, win or lose, because you’d been there from the very beginning. Even when he was still at Ohio State and barely even saw the field, you gleamed with pride. But honestly, it had been pissing you off a little bit—and you’re typically mild-mannered, some might even go as far as saying meek—to hear everyone doubt Joe, and the whole team for that matter.

“It’s just trash talk, baby,” Joe would soothe you the moment you heard about all this bullshit about neutral sites, ticket sales. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and reached over to close your laptop, cutting out the noise in a way. “If that gets to ya, you should hear what some guys say on the field.” He cracked a grin and that made things better.

You tried out logic for a while. It wasn’t like pre-selling tickets to a matchup was unheard of; it was basically customary in any sport. Even protocol. And that satiated you for now. You didn’t notice, but Joe actually liked seeing a little bit of that fire in you—this newfound willingness to prove someone wrong. You were always someone who didn’t care too much about what others thought, which was why he wanted even more to win against the Bills on Sunday, just for you; because as much as you were proud of him no matter what, he also liked your praise just as much. He wanted to make you proud.

So come Sunday, when it was the fourth quarter and the Bills were too behind to catch up to the Bengals’ score and that timer was running out, you couldn’t hide how happy you were for him. You watched him from the stands with a big stupid smile on your face because this was who Joe Burrow was—your Joe. He was a winner, a champion, and the sooner people started to realize that, the better. And what a helluva way to prove them wrong with just four words:

“Better send those refunds.”

—

You sat there, mouth slightly falling open. The bright light of your phone’s screen illuminated your face in the otherwise dark parking lot, at a gas station somewhere in the outskirts of Cincinnati, about five minutes away from yours and Joe’s place. You were catching up on all the social media, retweeting things, reposting stories, acknowledging everything you could that was singing Joe’s praises because goddamn if he didn’t deserve it. And that was when you caught this clip of Joe’s postgame interview.

Better send those refunds.

You were no stranger to his hijinks. You loved how fired up he got after a great game and an even better win. You loved how he was slowly opening up to the media, showing a little more of the goofy person you know him to be (though you secretly wished he’d kept it all for you). But this… Something was different about this.

You were suddenly startled by Joe opening the door to his car, entering the driver’s seat and handing a plastic bag over to you. Without much thought, you grabbed it. “What’s this?” you asked.

He snickered at this. “Your snacks, sweetheart.” Oh, that’s right—you had run out of your celebratory post-game Oreos at the house and wanted him to grab a quick pack.

With a chuckle, you played it off. “Thanks.”

He started the car and began pulling out of the parking lot, but not without question. “You good, baby?”

“Yep,” you croaked out. You turned beet red and thanked God it was dark outside so he couldn’t see. You both laughed about how your voice broke just then.

A few seconds passed before you spoke again. You willed up some confidence. “It’s just… You know, I can’t let it go. About how they were selling those tickets before they even knew who was going to play in the Championship.”

“Ah, I know, babe.” He reached over and patted your knee. “But that doesn’t matter, ‘cause we’re gonna be there next week.”

“I know, I know, but… What was it you said at that interview after the game? ‘Give the tickets back,’ or something like that?” You purposely watered down his words, wanting him to correct you.

“Nah, nah, you’re butchering it,” he said, laughing. “I don’t remember what I said, really.”

“Oh, c’mon. You remember,” you insisted teasingly. “I bet you had it bubbling up. You thought of it last week, probably, and kept rehearsing it over and over again so you got it right by the time you had to say it.”

Joe scoffed, reaching over and ruffling your hair. “Where’s this comin’ from, bug?” His sweet little nickname for you. He always treated you like you were small, and you liked that. But you didn’t want to sink into it, not yet—you wanted this first.

“Just say it. You remember what you said.”

“Hmm.” At a red light, he stopped the car and looked over at you. His perplexed expression was smoldering even when dimly lit crimson.

Biting your lip, you waited.

“I know what I said,” he finally confessed.

“Yeah?” you squirmed a bit in your seat. The light was still red.

“I said, ‘Better send those refunds.’”

“Mmm.” You couldn’t hold back your whimper. It was involuntary. Sometimes it shocked you, still, the effect that Joe Burrow had on you. Even after all these years. But you caught yourself and added, “Mmmhmm. That’s what you said.”

He didn’t let you get away with it, though. He never did.

As the light turned green, Joe slowly accelerated forward; you were the only car on these quiet streets. He said nothing. You bit back your smile as you looked out of the window, pretending like nothing happened.

Then, you felt it. He brought his right hand down from the wheel to pat your knee again, but it wasn’t a silly pat this time. He started rubbing his huge hand on your knee, slowly lowering it to your inner thigh. You thought his touch was going to burn a hole in your leggings. But you weren’t done.

“Better send those refunds,” you repeated, somewhat more enunciated, voice a bit breathy. But you didn’t want to make it obvious that his touch had already gotten to you; that you’d already been soaked from the moment he got back in the car. You let out a soft chuckle. “I mean, it’s true. They knew better than to doubt you.”

“Hmph.” Joe seemed to be satisfied by your words.

“I mean, right? God, this should show them that they’re stupid for even thinking about selling those tickets in the first place, whether it’s protocol or not,” you continued. His hand on your thigh just kept moving higher and higher. Your next words came out with a slight gasp: “You’re the fucking best, Joe. And if they don’t know that by now…”

When his hand finally snuck between your thighs, thumb rubbing against your warm pussy over your leggings, you let out a slutty moan. “Daddy.” It was, like that whimper earlier, involuntary. Conditioned.

“Shh. Tell me.” It was the first time you’d heard his voice in a minute, and it was suddenly colored so deep, lustful.

You knew what to say. “I just think you’re—you’re the best, daddy.” Your confidence had waned off a bit, replaced by this slightly bimbofied persona only he knew how to dig out of you. “And you’re so right… they better send those refunds.” You nodded, biting down hard on your lip as he rubbed your clit in circles. You looked at him even if he wasn’t looking at you back; his focused expression as he drove was all you needed to keep getting wetter and wetter.

But you were suddenly disappointed as you felt the car slow down and pull into your house. Those were the fastest five minutes of your life. You wanted it to be like the last time you got frisky in the car, Joe so desperate that you pulled off to the side of the road and fucked you right there. You supposed this was better, though; you could both get out of your clothes easier and didn’t have to wrestle with a pile of winter coats. (It was summer the last time you had car sex; your tiny shorts were easy to pull off.)

“Let’s go,” Joe spoke, stepping out of the car. He was calm as you both headed inside the house.

You dropped off your coat and bag on the wall hook by the door and pathetically set the plastic bag on the kitchen island, feeling his presence somewhere behind you. You looked up at him, biting your lip, seeing him standing in the doorway. He’d taken his shoes and coat off already, just in his warm-ups. When you caught his gaze, his ocean blue eyes looked expectant of you.

“Yes, daddy?”

That was enough to set him off. He walked over to you, towering over you and backing you up against the kitchen island. You gulped, looking up at him. You loved when he made you feel small.

“Better send those refunds.”

You feigned confusion. “Huh?”

Abruptly, he grabbed you by your waist and turned you around, bending you over the counter. He had a fistful of your hair and his cock pressed hard against you, and you felt him breathing in your ear. “I said, you’d better send those refunds.”

“Y-yeah,” you nodded, looking at him through your peripherals, brows curled up. Your mouth hung agape, moaning as he reached his free hand down and grabbed your ass. Just from this, your head was already swirling with dumb pleasure. “Right away, daddy.”

He turned you around and pulled you onto your knees by your hair. You braced yourself by grabbing his thighs and didn’t dare break eye contact from him. Even if his bulge was right in your face. This was the first time in a long time, since the beginning of today, that he’d gotten a look at you. He smirked; you knew he thought you were gorgeous, he didn’t have to say it. This was about him.

“Suck my cock.”

You did as you were told, pulling down his sweatpants and not even allowing yourself a second to admire his length. You took the shaft in your hand and directed the tip of his cock into your mouth, closing your eyes as you expertly began sucking him off. There was no slow burn here; that already happened in the car.

Joe still had your hair in his hand, and it gripped tighter as you blew him. “Mmm. Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he growled. He broke eye contact from you for a moment to lean his head back and close his eyes, focusing on the sound of you gagging over his cock. You took him as far as you could then fucked the back of your throat with the tip of his cock, which was slick in your drool. Your hands held onto his thighs as you whimpered with your mouth full. Even though he wasn’t looking at you, you didn’t break eye contact from him; it made you so wet to watch him go all primal.

Then he grabbed two fistfuls of your hair to make pigtails. You knew that he wanted to control your mouth, so you held your hands behind your back like a good girl and you let him throw your head back and forth against his cock. Your eyes welled up with tears.

He looked down to watch you as he fucked your throat, and he looked so proud to own you. It made you want to be even better at being throatfucked, like you would go to college and get a degree in being a good throat to fuck if you could. You wanted to serve him in that way. You made filthy, wet gagging noises, and babbled when you could; your face was coated in your own drool.

“Alright, get up,” he said, pulling his cock out of your mouth and hoisting you to your feet by your pigtails. He let go of your hair and you sighed in slight relief from the new lack of tension.

“Y-yes daddy,” you gurgled out. Your makeup was ruined, but you still looked pretty to him. He kissed you messily, grabbing both of your cheeks with one hand of his squeezing your face together. Then he gave your face a nice, solid slap.

“You gonna be a good girl for daddy, huh? You gonna take this dick?” he asked, breathless.

You whimpered and nodded. “Yes,” you whimpered. “I want it. I want it so bad. Please.”

Satisfied with your pleading, he forced you on your stomach, bent over against the kitchen island. He pulled down your leggings and lifted your jersey up, and as you watched him over your shoulder, you caught his smirk. Of course you were wearing his number. You knew he liked seeing you wear it and loved fucking you in it even more.

With one hand on your back and the other on the base of his shaft, he slowly directed the tip of his cock inside of you, not shy to groan as he felt how wet you were. “Fuck. Look how wet you are,” he said, tone as if to humiliate you, but you loved it when it came along with praise. “You’re fucking soaked. Are you that much of a slut that seeing me win gets you this fucking soaked and slutty, sweetheart?”

You whimpered, finding yourself almost begging for him to slide in all the way. “Y-yes, daddy. I’m a slut,” you barely got out. Your words were somewhat nasally and high-pitched; you were almost full bimbo at this point. “Please. Please.”

He chuckled at this, pulling back out. He rubbed his tip along the wet, slick slit of your cunt. “Please what?”

“Daddy. Daddy, please fuck me. I can’t take it,” you begged. “I’ll—I’ll get on those refunds right away, daddy. I should’ve known better.”

Joe growled. Satisfied, he shoved deep into you, and held his cock there; you felt his balls graze up against your clit.

“Ah!” you moaned. You braced yourself against the kitchen island, staring at the Oreos.

Then, Joe started to fuck you.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and everything went black. You bathed in the pleasure that was his cock pummeling your tight little pussy. You loved how rough he was being. You were losing yourself. You were being owned by Joe Burrow. You were his piece of pussy, and only that.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” you moaned in conjunction with each thrust of his as he took you from behind.

His hands gripped tightly on your waist, letting out primal groans as he fucked you hard. He wasn’t holding back, and you loved it. “Oh, c’mon, baby. You better get to it,” he spoke, breathily, and yet confidently. “You were gonna do something for me, weren’t you? Before you went all brain-stupid and cock-slutty for your daddy?”

You hated how easily his words came out when all you could think about was his dick obliterating your pussy. The words were jumbled in your head: “Refunds, better send.” And they came out repeatedly in whines. “Refunds. Daddy. Send. Yes. Fuck. Me.”

One of his hands left your waist and you almost began sobbing at that lack of contact only if he didn’t reach up and grab your throat, pulling you up from the cold marble of the kitchen island so you could stand up a bit and watch him fuck you. He held your throat tightly, and you looked over your shoulder as best as you could to catch a blurry image of the most handsome fucking man you’ve ever seen hammer into you. He shoved his thumb in your mouth and you sucked happily. You repositioned your hands on the counter to hold yourself up and continue to be a good slut. His other hand spanked your ass.

“That’s right, baby. Better send those refunds like the stupid fuckin’ bimbo you are,” he growled out, words accented with that smirk you knew he wore while he fucked you. “Take this big fuckin’ daddy cock in your wet, tight little pussy, baby.” His hand left your throat only to dig under your shirt and grab your tits, tugging that bralette down and off your tits. He roughly pinched your nipple and you whined out. Your tits bounced freely in rhythm with his incessant, merciless fucking.

“D-daddy,” you whined, desperately.

“Aw, what’s that? You can’t say anything?” There he was again, pulling out coherent sentences while you babbled.

You’d gone full bimbo by this point. You were far gone, and your only compass was his dick inside of you. You knew nothing else about fuck-all until his cock was drained inside of you, and you would be a good slut-servant until he was done.

But goddamn, you were about to cum. “I—” you whimpered out. “If you keep fucking me like that, daddy, I’m gonna cum.”

He laughed at this. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm. Put your—daddy, please—”

You didn’t have to finish your sentence. Joe knew what you needed. His hand left your tit if only to grab your throat again, and his other hand held onto your waist, keeping you still. Otherwise, you’d squirm away from him. He knew you were uncontrollable when you came.

“What’s that, baby? Use your words for daddy, c’mon.” He smirked.

“I’m gonna—�� you cried out.

He timed his thrusts with these next few words, feeling close to climaxing himself: “You’d. Better. Send. Those. Fucking. Refunds. You. Fucking. Slut.”

And with that, you came hard all over his cock, clenching your tight, wet walls around him. “God, daddy! I’m cumming! Yes! Don’t stop!” You closed your eyes and indeed, squirmed around a ton, and he had to hold your waist to keep you still.

“Fuck. I’m gonna cum, too, baby.” He grunted, wrangling and fucking you at the same time, and at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, shot his white hot load deep inside you. You felt him filling you up, the warmth of his load sinking deep into your stomach. You both slowed down, breathing hard.

With him still inside of you, you slumped forward, laying your top half down on the counter. You looked over your shoulder up at him, then cracked a grin.

And he broke into a smile, too, gleaming with pride. He’d never admit it, but you turned him into such an animal. It was even sweeter when the clouds had all cleared and all you both felt was bliss.

You lifted a heavy, lifeless arm to reach across the counter. You pulled the plastic bag closer and took out the package of Oreos. Barely functioning and breathing hard, you put all your effort into ripping that stupid, plastic seal off the package, revealing three rows of double-stuffed sandwich cookies. You pulled one out and offered it over your shoulder to him. “Want a celebratory Oreo, champ?” you asked.

He took it with a snicker. “Yeah, sweetheart. I sure do.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow x reader #myfics*

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loslentesdepedrito · 9 months

Text

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Three

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Two

Next Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Four

Word count: 9.6k+

Chapter summary: Jack faces the consequences of his actions, and his past once again, haunts him and you. (Picks up directly from ch. 2. The flashback scene is bold and italicized.)

Rating: 18+ no explicit content but I'd rather not have minors read these types of subjects. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles.

Warnings: ANGST, language used by the characters is harsh and contains strong emotions, mentions of cheating, toxic marriage, no explicit content, but suggestive, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease. (I hope I didn’t forget anything, it’s been years since I wrote this.)

A/N: Some of 2017 references. Huge, huge, huge apologies for the late chapter! Long story short, a colleague had to take emergency leave, and I stepped in to manage a project that will be presented in two weeks. My work is pre-written, this one in 2017, but I have to add the translations, and I love making the graphics, even if it takes me way too long. I'll be out of the country for the presentation, but I'll try my best to upload something before then. Thank you to everyone for their patience, and I hope you enjoy this part!

She's pregnant?... She's pregnant... Jack's mind whirls with a mix of surprise and jealousy, the revelation hitting him like a freight train and igniting an uncontrollable fire within his chest.

"Did you fuck him while we were married?" The question escapes Jack's lips, driven by irrationality and a mix of hurt and anger. If he were more collected, he would have realized the insensitivity of such a question, but his emotions are spiraling out of control.

He doesn't even get to hear what you have to say because, in an instant, Jack gets up from his chair in a sudden burst of emotions and sends it flying backward into the wall.

His thoughts and emotions collide, just like the chair and the wall, and he feels like he's drowning in a storm of feelings he can't control. Jack constantly thought about you and his child, but without knowing the gender or having a name, his child remained an elusive figure in his mind. A fleeting thought that now lingers is how he always referred to your child as his little angel, never imagining how close to the truth it was.

Just as he discovers the existence of his son, he's confronted with the harsh reality that you've moved on. In the purest sense of the word, you have moved on. She's truly moved on, he repeats in his mind. The pain is overwhelming as he realizes you married Javier, probably raised Ángel with him, and now you're expecting another child—a child that belongs to another man.

Jack had hoped that maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance for him, you, and his child to form a family together. But that hope has been crushed. He knows deep down that you would never leave the family you've built, especially not for someone who treated you like an afterthought.

His heart aches at the knowledge that you have built a life without him. You're carrying another man's child, and it cuts deep into his soul. The thought of you and your husband raising a family, laughing and sharing moments together, stabs at him like a knife.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that he missed out on so much. That he wasn't there to witness the joy of your pregnancy, to see your belly swell with the life you both created. He can only imagine the moments he lost, like not being able to go to the obstetrician with you, to witness the miraculous sonograms that reveal the tiny life growing inside you.

Tears sting his eyes as he recalls the sonogram of Ángel that you had given him, and how he carelessly threw it to the floor in a fit of anger. The regret now gnaws at him, realizing he'll never be able to relive those moments he cast aside.

A heartbreaking sense of loss envelops him, knowing that he wasn't there to hear Ángel's heartbeat resounding in the clinic. He wasn't there to hold his son for the first time, and thank you for giving him such an extraordinary gift. It's like watching a movie of his own life, but he's only a viewer, a stranger to the beautiful moments he should have been a part of.

He knows he hurt you, and Jack knows he doesn't deserve your forgiveness. But he can't help but wish for the chance to make things right, to be there for you and Ángel, to be the man you need him to be. Yet, deep down, he knows that ship has sailed.

Ya treated her like gum stuck to the sole of your boots, a cruel voice whispers in his head. Why would she ever wanna be with ya again?

As the emotions continue to swirl inside him, Jack glances at Javier, your husband, the man who has taken his place in your life. The sight of the wedding band on Javier's finger is a cruel reminder of the life they've built together.

That coulda been me, Jack thinks bitterly. I coulda been the one to marry her, to raise our child, to create a family.

But it's not him, and he can't change the past. He can't go back and be the man he should have been. All he can do now is face the consequences of his actions and accept that he missed his chance.

His heart weighs heavy with regret and sorrow, knowing that he let go of something precious. Your laughter, your smile, your love—all lost to him now.

But amidst the storm of emotions, there's one thing that remains crystal clear: he has a son, Ángel, a part of him that he didn't know existed. And while he may not have the chance to be the father he should have been from the start, he can still try to be there for his son now.

Jack knows that he can't change the past, but he can choose how to move forward. He can decide to be a father his son deserves, to be a better man, even if it's not the fairytale ending he once dreamed of.

"I meant it. I'll get tested." Jack finally says. It's a small step, but it's the first one toward building a relationship with his son. He knows it won't be easy, and there will be obstacles to overcome, but he's willing to try.

You look at him, your eyes filled with tears. Honestly, when you first contacted him, you didn't know what to expect. But the fact that he's willing to take this step means something to you.

Jack replies, his voice resolute, "I want to be there for him, even if it's late. I want to be a part of his life."

Javier, still seething with anger, glances at Jack cautiously. He's protective of you and Ángel, and he won't let anyone hurt you again. But he also knows that this is a difficult situation, and he's willing to give Jack a chance to prove himself.

"I hope you mean it," Javier says, his voice stern but not without understanding. "Ángel deserves a father who will be there for him."

"I do," Jack says. "Sorry, I overreacted. I've been going to therapy, I swear." He lets out a dark chuckle. "I'm just... it's hard."

"Of course, I'll get tested, and I hope to God- I'm a match." He adds sincerely.

"Thank you, Jack," you say, your voice softening, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have implied in any way that Ángel's illness is your fault because it's not. But thank you for doing this- it means a lot to us."

Just then, Dr. Navarro enters the room, breaking the tension. "Woah," he exclaims, looking at the scraped wall. "I never noticed that before. We'll have to get maintenance to fix it."

After Jack agreed to get tested, Dr. Navarro sent him to get a physical to determine if he was in good condition to donate stem cells. Jack passed the tests with flying colors and was then sent to get tested for HLA markers. The doctor explained to Jack that this would determine if he was able to donate his cells to Ángel.

As he leaves the pathology department with his sleeves rolled up and a cotton ball taped to his right arm where the puncture was made, he's taken by surprise to see you waiting for him at the front desk. With his grey suit coat draped over one hand, he quickly tries to adjust his appearance, but the look on his face betrays his attempt to appear composed.

"Here." You say, handing him a red heart candy lollipop.

"Where did you get it?" He laughs, touched by the sweet gesture. Jack reaches out to take the lollipop, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

"From Mrs. Kroos." You say, pointing behind you.

His brows furrow, giving away his confusion.

"The lady that works at the front desk loves Ángel, and she knows he loves these candies. So she always gives him a few whenever she sees one of us. But be careful, don’t drop it. I won't give you another one.” You warn.

"I'll guard it with my life, sugar." Jack clutches the candy tightly, cherishing this small token of kindness from you. His eyes soften, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. It's as if, for a brief moment, he's transported back to the early days of your relationship.

To steer his thoughts in another direction, he examines the lollipop's wrapper, fingers absently tracing its red heart shape. But his eyes instinctively draw to your stomach, where the faint curve is evident beneath your clothes. It's a closer look than he's had before, the first time he's seen it up close since learning of your pregnancy this morning. His eyes linger there, and you can feel him searching for words to say or questions to ask.

"How far along are you?"

"Five, almost six months." You reply, your hand instinctively resting on your baby bump.

He stays silent, unsure of what to say.

"Oh," he recovers, "Do you know what you're having?"

"Another boy." You answer with excitement.

"Oh." He clears his throat, trying to hide any hint of disappointment.

"That's good. Congrats." Jesus, Jack, can't ya quit bein' an ass for just one minute?

As you stand before him, Jack can't help but feel a pang of pain. It's envy and jealousy, but it's also the sadness for what he missed out on with you and his son. The family he could have had, the love he could have shown and the joy he could have shared are now experienced by Javier, not him.

"Excuse me for a moment." He says suddenly, and you hear his voice trembling. He nearly runs to the restroom, needing a private space to let his feelings pour out.

Inside the stall, Jack allows himself to cry, and release the pent-up emotions. The tears are a mix of sorrow for the time lost and the regret of not cherishing the moments he had with you and your first child. Memories of the past flood his mind—moments he should have cherished, words he should have spoken with love, and gestures he should have made to make you feel valued. It's a cathartic moment, a release of the pain and the realization of what could have been.

As he wipes away his tears, Jack takes a deep breath and leaves the stall. He washes his hands and gets a good look at himself through the mirror. He prays you won't comment on his red and puffy eyes, but as expected, your concern for him is evident as soon as you see him exit the restroom.

"Everything alright?" You ask, worried about his sudden departure.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Jack replies, his voice still shaky but trying to regain composure.

Shortly after, you both take a deep breath and in a moment of eagerness on Jack's part and haste on your own, you attempt to speak at the same time, your words overlapping:

"Can I mee-"

"Do you want to mee-"

Jack's desire to meet Ángel is unmistakably clear in your eyes.

After a moment of contemplation, you speak first. "Yes, you can meet him," you say, voice filled with caution, "But we have to be careful about how we approach it. I think we have to take it slow with the official introduction."

Jack nods, understanding the need for caution. "Yes, ma'am. I get it. I don't want to do anything that might upset him."

"We'll take it one step at a time. Maybe we can start by introducing you as a friend, someone special to us. We can see how he reacts and take it from there. But you have to promise not to push him away," you continue, your gaze locking with his, "As a parent, I know the love one has for their children. I know you will always love the baby boy you lost, but you cannot compare him to Ángel. Each child is special and deserves their own place in your heart."

Jack takes a moment to absorb your words, realizing the truth in them. "You're right," he says, his voice softer now, "I don't want to make the same mistakes again. Ángel deserves better than that."

"He does," you affirm, "And I think you'll be a positive influence in his life. Just take it one step at a time, be patient with him, and be there for him. It won't be easy, but I think it's worth trying."

Jack nods, grateful for your understanding and guidance. "Thank you," he says sincerely, "I really appreciate you giving me and Ángel a chance."

"I want what's best for my son," you say, your love for Ángel evident in your eyes, "And if that means having his biological father in his life, then I'm willing to support it."

"Thank you," Jack repeats, his heart feeling true hope for the first time in years.

"C'mon. He's on the 16th floor." You say guiding him to the elevator.

This time Jack is more collected in the elevator. Not that he's any less nervous, in fact, his heart is pounding with anticipation. Because he can't believe that after all these years, he has the opportunity to meet his son.

As you guide Jack down the hospital corridor towards the elevator, he takes in his surroundings. The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow, and the muffled footsteps echo through the hallway - that's what Jack tries to focus on. Ideally, he would reach out to take your hand in his, and that would settle his racing heart. He gives it a little more thought and correctly assumes that you would probably smack him, so he decides against it, not wanting to upset you. Again.

You can sense his nervousness as you walk beside him, and it amuses you how, in the past, you would have done absolutely anything to make him feel better. Yes, a part of you feels for him because there was a point in your life when you were in love with him more than anything, more than you had been with anyone. But another part of you is screaming, Don't care, don't let him in, remember all you went through?

The truth is, it feels almost unfair that you still have the instinct to comfort him when he never extended the same care or compassion toward you. It's a reminder of the one-sided nature of your past relationship, where you gave your all, but he held back. You hate that reminder. You hate how he made you feel. You hate how he made you act. You hate how he still makes you feel when you think about your past.

You try your best to settle your thoughts as you walk together toward the elevator. Therapy had been helpful after the divorce, but it took a backseat when Ángel got sick. Now, considering how you feel around Jack, you realize it's time to prioritize your emotional well-being again. You make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Dr. Ordoñez soon, even if it means being on the phone for an hour and sitting on an uncomfortable hospital chair during the session.

You'll soon be co-parenting with Jack, and you want to get to the stage where you don't appear like you want to kill him. If it weren't for your son, you would have been just fine never seeing Jack again, but you don't want your son to resent you or miss out on having a relationship with his biological father.

Ángel already has a father and a wonderful father at that. Javi has been a fantastic father as well as a good husband. He loves Ángel, which is why, when you discussed Jack, he felt that his son shouldn't be denied the option to have another parent.

You both keep walking, and when you make it to the elevator, you press the button, and the polished metal doors slide open with a soft ping. Jack places his hand on the door, and with a gracious gesture, he extends his other hand, signaling for you to walk through first. It's a small gesture, but it stirs a mix of memories and emotions within you. Before the divorce, you would have melted at such chivalry. His southern charm seemed to vanish right after you married. You had hoped that Jack would return to the man you were once head over heels for, but now, with hindsight, you can see a field of red flags that you had overlooked, perhaps purposely. Looking back at your relationship with Jack, there are moments when you can't help but cringe at your own behavior, realizing you held on desperately, not wanting to let go. Your yearning for him to love you was so intense that you settled for the bare minimum, hoping things would change. But as you stand there pressing the button to take you to the 16th floor, you can't help but acknowledge how much has changed, how much you've changed. You've known how you felt about him for years, but looking at Jack now, without any remnants of love in your heart, brings you a sense of liberation.

As the elevator door glides open with a soft ping, you step out, and Jack follows closely behind, his footsteps echoing lightly as you lead the way down to the front desk. The receptionist warmly smiles as she recognizes you and, with a press of a button, she buzzes you in without any need for further verification or questions. This special perk is granted due to your frequent visits to receive food and welcome visitors.

Unfortunately, you know the path to Ángel's hospital room like the back of your hand. You could be blindfolded and make it to room 43 without bumping into any obstacles- that's how long your son's been here.

You make your way through the corridor, the hallway branching into two sides. Rooms 1-20 are on the left, and rooms 21-45 are on the right. You direct Jack to the right, to room 43, where Ángel is.

The walls are adorned with a burst of bright colors, courtesy of the children's paintings. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the left, where three adorable minions holding bananas are doodled. Next to it, a watercolored rainbow stretches across the length of the wall.

As you continue to room 43, your gaze shifts to your favorite artwork on the 16th floor- a bright red bear wearing a dapper top hat and a crooked, thick mustache. One eye is bigger than the other one, but you love it. To the left of the bear, there are princesses in their glitter-covered gowns. The last piece of the row is Spiderman. He's shooting webs, and his hand is drawn in the classic pose - his right hand extended with his index and middle fingers bent, touching his palm.

I haven't seen this one before, you think, as you notice mouthwatering donuts, likely drawn by an older child. Each donut has different glazes and toppings, so realistic that they almost look good enough to eat, leaving your taste buds tingling. Weird pregnancy cravings.

Every inch of the corridor is decorated with these precious works of art. The sight brings a smile to your face as you think about the children who must have carefully crafted their art with love, making this corridor bearable to walk through.

As you walked past the 30's, admiring the colorful artwork adorning the walls, Jack's mind was filled with thoughts of his son. ' Does he have her hair or mine? Whose eyes does he have? Lord, I hope he has her nose.' He couldn't help but subconsciously trace his nose's bridge.

You steal a glance at Jack while walking to Ángel's room, and his expression says it all. His brows are slightly furrowed, and his eyes dart around. His neck seems a bit tense, and you can see his jaw clenching and unclenching. Esta comiendo ansias. (He's worrying too much.) You think, looking at the mixture of eagerness and anxiety written all over his face.

"We're almost there." You tell him, your voice gentle, as you approached the 40's.

43. Jack's heart skips a beat as he sees the number on the door. It's as if time stands still for a moment before his heart starts racing with nervous excitement. A million thoughts rush through Jack's mind, and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes. I'm going to meet my son. All those years of longing, of wondering what his child would be like, of yearning for a connection he thought he might never have - it's all happening.

As you reached for the doorknob, Jack's hand was slightly trembling. Don't trip, don't say something stupid, he mentally coached himself, trying to calm his nerves. With a mix of trepidation and hope, Jack stepped into the room behind you, taking in his surroundings. The room felt a bit cold, but the soft sunlight streaming in from the window cast a gentle glow over everything.

The room had that familiar hospital scent, a combination of antiseptic cleaners and the comforting aroma of fragrant flowers placed in vases around the room.

He hears a movie playing in the background and looks at the TV to see little yellow characters with overalls he doesn't recognize. The animated movie's sounds mix with the soft beeping of medical equipment. He can see Javier getting up from the couch to the right of his son's bed, and your husband sends Jack a small, discreet nod of acknowledgment. You step in front of Jack, giving him a reassuring look, and he waits for your cue, staying near the door.

From this angle, Jack can't see Ángel; he only sees you and Javier to the right of the bed. He moves slowly, staying hidden beside the wall, not wanting to startle his little boy. He can't help but feel his heart pounding in his chest, his emotions swirling in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

"Mi niño, estas despierto?" ("My boy, are you asleep?") You call out in a soft, tender voice.

"Sí, no se quiere dormir. Quiere minions." (Yes, he doesn't want to sleep. [He] wants minions.) Javier replies playfully, his eyes widening with a playful expression as he tickles Ángel, eliciting sweet laughter from the boy.

That sound, Jack thinks, it's the most beautiful sound I've heard.

"Se llama Despicable Me, Jav." ("It's called Despicable Me, Jav.") You correct him with a soft smile.

"Es lo mismo." ("It's the same.") Javi playfully groans, earning a swat from you.

You look at your husband, and he knows what you need to do. Javi gives you a smile and gives your hand a squeeze. With his reassurance, you turn back to Ángel.

"Papi, queremos que conozcas a alguien." ("Baby, we want you to meet someone.") You tell your son as you gesture toward the corner where Jack is waiting.

You send Jack a look, and with a deep breath, he steps forward. His eyes immediately draw to Ángel, like a moth to a flame. Time seems to stand still as Jack takes in the sight of his son. He's perfect, Jack thinks.

Ángel is a sweet little boy, with jet-black hair that curls gently at the ends. Behind his black-rimmed glasses are a pair of brown eyes that mirror Jack's. At that moment, Jack feels an indescribable connection, an everlasting bond. He's the perfect combination of both of us, but I think he resembles me a little more, he thinks, his heart happy that his phenotypes seem to have won.

As he steps closer, he notices Ángel's nose and lips, traits that are identical to yours.

A rush of emotions overwhelms Jack as he looks at his son. His heart swells with love and joy, but there's also a twinge of sadness at the time he missed. His eyes start to water, blurring his vision a bit, but he tries to blink the tears away, wanting to see Ángel clearly, to memorize every precious detail.

"Hi!" Ángel cheerfully says, and that breaks Jack's dam. He starts crying, unable to contain his tears.

"Mami," Ángel whispers, leaning to your side, "¿Por qué está llorando el señor?" ("Mommy, why is the man crying?")

Jack's voice wavers with emotion as he speaks, "Sorry," he says, his voice cracking slightly. He tries to wipe his cheeks and regulate his breathing, "I'm sorry."

"Ángel, this is Jack. He's a family friend." You introduce.

"Hey, buddy," Jack manages to say, his voice still trembling, "Sorry 'bout the tears, I just... I found out a lot this morning."

Ángel stares for a second and then reaches for his bedside drawer. He pulls out a mini-wrapped Crunch bar and extends it towards Jack, saying with a caring tone, "It's okay, Mr. Jack. Here, this will make you feel better. I love chocolate, and this is my favorite candy." He smiles warmly as he extends the mini Crunch bar towards Jack.

Jack is touched by Ángel's kindness and accepts the chocolate with a grateful smile, "Thank you, Ángel." Pull it together, Jack, don't start cryin' again. He mentally lectures himself, fighting back the feelings threatening to rise again. "This is my favorite chocolate too." He says honestly.

"Here, I brought this for you." Jack says, his heart pounding with anticipation. He removes the jacket from his free arm, revealing a medium-sized gift bag that he had kept hidden underneath. Damn, how long has he been hiding that? He's had the coat in his hand since I saw him after the blood draw, you think, touched by Jack's thoughtful gesture.

Ángel turns to look at you and Javier for permission, and you both give him an encouraging nod.

Jack hands his son the red gift bag, and Ángel eagerly receives his present. Excitement dances in the little boy's eyes as he quickly removes the tissue paper. Jack can't help but overthink, What if he doesn't like it? Is he too big for-

Ángel gasps, and Jack's heart sinks for a moment, fearing the worst. But then, a radiant smile lights up Ángel's face as he pulls out a teddy bear, dressed in overalls and a black cowboy hat. The bear's dark brown coat is fluffy, and there's a heart stitched on the front pocket of the bear's overalls, right in the middle.

"Cool! Thanks!" Ángel exclaims, clutching the teddy bear to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Jack's worry melts away as he watches Ángel kiss the bear's hat. "It's perfect!" Ángel shouts, looking up at Jack with gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you so much!"

Relief washes over Jack, replaced by overwhelming joy at the sight of his son's delight. It's as if Jack's heart has grown tenfold, witnessing his son's happiness.

Jack's heart swells with happiness as he sees the joy on his son's face. He can't help but smile back, his eyes glistening with tears of joy. "You're welcome, Ángel," Jack says, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm glad you like it."

"My dad gave me a Spider-Man teddy, now Spidey has a cowboy friend!" Ángel cheerfully exclaims, proudly showing off the Spider-Man build-a-bear that Javi had gifted him earlier this year. You don't miss the way Jack's face falls a little at his son calling Javier his dad.

Ángel shares all the details of when Javier gifted him with the Spidey teddy, and you watch as Jack listens attentively to every word. A mix of emotions is evident in his eyes - happiness at finally meeting his son, but also a hint of sadness and longing for the title of "dad" that Ángel has already bestowed upon Javier.

You give Jack a reassuring smile, silently telling him that it's okay, that Ángel's heart is big enough to love both of them eventually. Jack sees your expression and shifts his focus back to his son. He may not have the title of "dad" right now, but he's building a connection with his son, and that's what matters most.

After finishing his story, Ángel immediately turns to you and Javi, his eyes filled with hope. "¿Se puede quedar para c-o-m-e-r?" ("Can he stay to e-a-t?") He spells out the word, not wanting to vocalize it in case his parents don't agree, and wanting to avoid any potential disappointment for Jack. He doesn't want Jack to feel unwelcome or like he's being kicked out by not being asked to stay for lunch.

You can sense that Ángel has taken a liking to Jack and wants to spend more time with him.

Javi smiles warmly at his son, understanding Ángel's hesitation. "Claro que sí, mijo." ("Of course, my son.") He says, not wanting to deny his son this request. You notice the joy that lights up in Ángel's eyes, grateful for the opportunity to spend more time with Jack.

Turning to Jack, you extend the invitation, "Jack, would you like to stay for lunch?"

"Of course, thank you." Jack replies, and Ángel's face lights up even more at his response.

"Danny and Heidi dropped off Pozole earlier." Javi informs.

Pozole, why does that sound familiar? Who are Danny and Heidi? Jack thinks.

You exclaim with delight, "I love your cousin and his wife, and I love Pozole!"

"And Ángel does too. He gets that from you," Javi says, giving you a small kiss on the cheek before going to the table across Ángel's bed. He reaches for the bag with the Tupperware containers, clearly eager to eat.

As Javier opens the bag, he can't help but playfully tease, "You know I'm more of a menudo guy."

"I know. Your only flaw…" You jest.

Jack observes the easy love between you and Javier, feeling a bittersweet sense of heartbreak. He can't help but compare the deep connection you share with Javier to the time when he was your husband, witnessing the loving moments that once belonged to him.

Javier opens one Tupperware, and the air fills with the rich, savory scent-a tantalizing blend of chicken broth, hominy, and a mix of earthy spices and aromatic herbs. Suddenly, the smell transports him to a distant memory, back to a time when he was your husband.

It was a cold winter evening in December, one of your favorite times of the year when you could savor warm and comforting food and drinks. Tonight, you had finally convinced your husband, Jack, to try Pozole, one of your favorite dishes. You gathered the ingredients and set to work in the kitchen, hoping to create a special meal for him.

The pot was filled with water, and you added onions, garlic, salt, and chicken, allowing the savory aroma to fill the room. In your blender, you carefully blended the sauce, a perfect mixture of chile ancho, chile guajillo, garlic cloves, onions, vegetable oil, oregano, and salt, mindful of not adding too many chilies so it wouldn't be too spicy for Jack, just enough for flavor.

As the broth boiled, you took the time to prepare the fresh toppings, washing and slicing the lettuce, jalapeños, white onion, lemon, cilantro, and radishes. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the simmering Pozole and your music was playing softly in the background.

With the hominy added to the pot, the Pozole was nearly ready. You carefully ladled it into bowls, adding the toppings to each one, making sure to skip the jalapeños in Jack's bowl to avoid any spiciness.

When Jack came home, you could tell he wasn't having a great day. He didn't greet you, not that he usually did, and there was a hint of frustration in his expression. But you hoped that your efforts would brighten his mood.

"Hi, Love. Welcome home." You said with a smile, hoping to receive some affection in return.

He glanced at you briefly, barely acknowledging your presence. "Yeah." Was his only response.

You tried not to let his lack of enthusiasm affect you and continued, "I made something different for dinner tonight. Pozole, one of my favorites. I hope you'll like it."

Jack glanced at the simmering pot on the stove, but his expression remained indifferent. "Right, you said you would."

As you took the bowls to the dining table, you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. It seemed like no matter how much effort you put into making him happy, he rarely showed any appreciation or love in return.

He sat down to eat, and you watched eagerly for his reaction. But as he took the first spoonful, his face turned red, and he exclaimed, "You said it wasn't spicy!"

You insisted, "It's not, honey! I made sure to adjust the spices for you."

"Well, Darlin'," he emphasized mockingly, "I can't feel my tongue." He grumbled, looking at you like he was angry, and you rushed to get him some milk to ease the heat.

"I'm so sorry, Jack. I really thought it wasn't spicy." You apologized, feeling disappointed in yourself. The excitement and anticipation you had felt earlier were quickly replaced by a sense of sadness as your efforts had once again fallen short.

"I'm never eating that again." He declared, pushing the bowl away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your heart. You had put so much love and effort into preparing the meal, hoping it would bring a smile to his face, but instead, it seemed to have added to his frustration.

Feeling hurt and upset, you excused yourself to the kitchen, wanting to give him space to cool off. The music playing in the background continued. ‘Miro tus ojos y no eres feliz. Y tu mirada no sabe mentir. No tiene caso continuar así. Si no me amas, es mejor partir. Desde hace tiempo ya nada es igual. No eres la misma y me tratas mal. Y ante mi Dios te podría jurar. Cuánto te quise y te quiero, todavía. Adiós amor, me voy de ti. Y esta vez para siempre. Me iré sin marcha atrás porque sería fatal. Adiós amor, yo fui de ti, el amor de tu vida. Lo dijiste una vez, me lo hiciste creer. Cómo me duele perderte. Me resignaré a olvidarte. Porque me fallaste’ ('I look you at your eyes and you're not happy. And your gaze doesn't know how to lie. There's no point in continuing like this. If you don't love me, it's better for me to go. For a long time, things haven't been the same. You are different and you treat me poorly. And before my God, I could swear to you. How much I loved you and I love you, still. Goodbye, my love. I'm leaving you, and this time for good. I'm leaving without turning back, or else it'd be fatal. Goodbye, my love. I was the love of your life. You said that once, you made me believe it. What a pain it is to lose you.I will resign myself to forget you. Because you failed me')

If only you had paid more attention to the lyrics and your feelings, maybe you would have confronted the problems earlier. But at that moment, all you could do was try to salvage the evening and find a way to communicate with Jack.

Knowing it would only take a few minutes, you decided to make Tennessee Meatloaf. On one of your early dates, he had mentioned it was one of his favorite dishes, and you had learned how to make it, even though you weren't particularly fond of the smell. But if it could bring a smile to his face, you were willing to endure it.

The Instant Pot hummed with gentle pressure, and you took a moment to close your eyes, relishing the memories of how Jack used to love this dish. The way he'd smile and compliment your cooking, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation. But those moments felt distant now.

When the timer beeped, you carefully released the pressure from the Instant Pot, eager to serve the meatloaf to Jack. As you lifted the lid, the hot air brushed against your fingertips, causing you to unintentionally scream, "Fuck!" You rushed to run your hand under cold water, trying to soothe the burn. In a hurry, you grabbed the first aid kit and quickly tended to your wounded hand, the pain causing your eyes to sting.

After handling your injury, you quickly retrieved the meatloaf from the pot – tender, juicy, and with its strong aroma enveloping the room. Placing the dish on a nice plate, you added a generous drizzle of your homemade barbecue sauce, its tangy and smoky scent blending with the meaty smell.

With the meatloaf now ready, you gathered your courage and returned to the dining table, placing the dish before Jack. As he glanced at the meal and noticed your injured hand, a flicker of recognition, concern, and guilt passed through his eyes before he quickly masked it with indifference.

You sat down next to him, your heart pounding with nervous anticipation. He glanced at you, and though his anger had softened slightly, he still seemed guarded. Nonetheless, he gave you a small thanks, a brief glimmer of acknowledgment that you held onto like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry about the Pozole," you said, trying to break the silence, "I really wanted to make something you'd enjoy."

"It's fine." He mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

You reached for his hand, and he didn't pull away, but there was a noticeable lack of warmth in the gesture, a warmth that hadn't been present in your relationship for a long time.

You felt a knot forming in your chest, wanting to reach out and connect with him, but it seemed like he had built an impenetrable wall around himself. Still, you couldn't bear the thought of leaving things unresolved.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to gently probe, "Is everything okay, Jack?"

He let out a sigh, seeming almost annoyed that you brought it up. "I just had a rough day at work. It's nothin'."

Your heart sank. This was the pattern, the wall he always put up whenever something was bothering him. You felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, never knowing how to approach him without setting him off.

"I wish you would talk to me, Jack. We're supposed to be partners, and I want to be there for you." You said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He glanced at you, his eyes softening for a split second before the coldness returned. "I ain't need you fixin' everythin' for me, okay? I can handle my own problems." His jaw clenched, and you knew he was struggling with his emotions.

"It's not about fixing everything. It's about being there for each other, supporting each other through the good and the bad. That's what a marriage is supposed to be."

He scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Yeah, well, maybe I don't need that right now."

Your heart ached at his words, feeling the distance between you grow wider. You tried to hold back the tears, not wanting to show him how much his indifference hurt you.

He stood up and walked away, leaving you sitting at the dining table, eating by yourself.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, and began clearing the table, putting away the uneaten Pozole and the Tennessee Meatloaf you had made with so much hope.

After tidying up the kitchen, you mustered the courage to follow Jack to the bedroom. As you entered, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered, staring at the floor. He seemed lost in his thoughts, distant and closed off.

You went to his side and gently massaged his shoulders, "I'm sorry about earlier. I'm here for you, no matter what. I love you, Jack," you said softly, looking into his eyes with love and concern, "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. But just as quickly, he shut down again.

His response was unexpected and detached, "Get on all fours. Face down."

You knew you could say no, but you didn't want to. You wanted his love, even if it meant emotionless on his part. Your brow furrowed, but you did as he commanded anyway.

After both of you were done, he told you to go pee. When you came out of the bathroom, Jack was already asleep. He slept with his back towards you.

As you lay in bed that night, you cried yourself to sleep. Silently, not wanting to wake him up. You were in a deep sleep as a result of your body being overworked, the stressed cooking made you, and from crying. You thought you felt him wrap his arms around you and heard him mumble a sorry into the top of your head, but you were sure you made it up.

Out of all the things Jack was, he wasn't oblivious. He knew how much he hurt you. He knew he was an ass, but he couldn't bring himself to reflect on how much he hurt you tonight.

He heard your stifled sobs earlier, and each one was like a dagger in his chest. The pain he inflicted on you was a weight he could hardly bear. But when the sobs finally ceased and silence settled, he assumed you had drifted into sleep, offering him the opportunity he needed.

With cautious movements, he shifted closer to you. In the darkness, he could make out the contours of your face, the lines of worry etched by his actions. Gently, he rolled over and reached for you, pulling you into his arms. Seeking solace from the very person he had hurt.

Wrapped in your embrace, he stroked your head lightly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns through your hair. He pressed a soft kiss onto the top of your head, his lips lingering there, trying to convey all the apologies he couldn't find the words for. At that moment, he wished he could erase the pain he had caused, the detachment he had shown.

"Sorry," he huffed out, "I'm so sorry, my love." He whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. He wished he could be better for you, offer you the love you deserved, but his own monsters held him back.

Yet, even as he murmured his apologies in the darkness, his touch carried a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was as if he sought redemption through this secret exchange because he wasn't ready to confront the reality of facing you in the light of day. He wished he could hold you close, to make the pain he inflicted vanish with a simple embrace. But he knew that true healing required more than just whispered words; it needed a change he wasn't sure he was capable of making.

After his silent confessions, he released you from his gentle hold, allowing the fragile connection to slip away as he turned. He rolled onto his previous position. The weight of his guilt and remorse remained, but so did the weight of his fears. And as he lay there, his back turned to you, he faced his own darkness, unsure how to bridge the gap between the man he was and the man he needed to become.

You start talking with Javi about the food, and Jack watches you converse with your husband as you serve the food together, and his heart hurts watching the domesticity.

At the same time, you're caught in a whirlwind of memories, and the rush of them makes your movements stutter. In your distraction, you accidentally cut yourself with the aluminum foil, and some loose lemon juice gets in your wound. A small sound of pain escapes your lips, and Javi immediately drops what he had in his hand, rushing to your side. He gently cradles your hand in his, concern etched on his face.

"Amor!" ("Love!") Javi says, his voice laced with worry. His eyes flicker between your wound and your face, trying to gauge the severity of the cut.

Jack's heart clenches seeing you in pain. He wants to rush over and take your hand in his. He wishes he could be the one to hold your hand and soothe your hurt, but he knows that's not his place anymore, and it kills him.

"Mami, ¿está bien?" ("Mommy, are you okay?") Your son asks, equally concerned as his dad. He moves closer, his little brows furrowing.

"Yeah, sweetie, I'm just overreacting." You brush it off, though your eyes betray the pain you're feeling. You're trying to hide the memories that caught you off guard, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere for your son and Jack.

"You're not, you got hurt." Javi insists, his eyes fixed on your wound.

"Sit down." He commands, his tone still gentle but leaving no room for argument. He guides you to a chair, his larger hand engulfing yours, and he reaches for a nearby first aid kit. His fingers move with practiced ease as he cleans the wound with antiseptic, his touch gentle and attentive. He then wraps a band-aid around your finger, his movements unhurried, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

Your eyes start to water, the flood of memories of Jack and Javi overwhelming you. You can't help but recall the countless times Javi has taken care of you, both the physical and emotional wounds, much like he's doing now. His actions carry the weight of all the love and comfort he's provided over the years. He's always been there for me. Not like- you stop yourself before full waterworks begin.

"Mi vida, ¿te duele?" ("My love, does it hurt?") Javier asks, his voice full of care, taking your hand into his. His brown eyes search yours for any hint of pain, and his brows furrow with genuine concern.

"No, nomás me acordé de algo. I'm okay." ("No, I just remembered something. I'm okay.") You whisper, trying to assure him, your voice barely above a breath. It's not just the cut that's causing your distress; it's the memories that were triggered by the simple act of serving food. You had moments like these, but they hadn't been present in a while.

"Segura?" ("You're sure?") Javier asks, his concern palpable, his gaze unwavering. He wants to make sure you're truly okay.

"Ya se me pasó. I'm okay, I promise." ("It already passed.")

Javi knows you well enough to sense when you're not entirely okay, but he also knows that this is something you'll want to talk about later in private. For now, he respects your need to maintain normalcy in front of your son and Jack. He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss, his lips warm against your skin, a silent promise of his support.

"No te muevas. I'll serve the food, cariño." ("Don't move. I'll serve the food, dear.")

You nod and then turn to the reason for your tears, "Jack, are you sure you want Pozole? I don't know if you remember, but you already had it once."

Jack's face drops slightly, his mind racing, Oh God, she remembers what I did. He approaches you, whispering an apology, his voice laden with regret. "I do want it. I'm so sorry." He murmurs, looking like he might cry.

You can't bear to look at him right now, so you shift your gaze to Javier.

Javier adjusts the hospital bed table to Ángel's height and gets ready to serve. He starts with Ángel, ensuring his plate is prepared just right, with no onions, just as he likes it. He places the bowl before him, "Provecho, mi niño." ("Have a good meal, my boy.")

"¡Gracias papi!" ("Thank you, Daddy!") He was going to wait for everyone to start eating, but his hunger for having a light breakfast gets the best of him.

Javi quickly arranges the larger table, despite your offer to do it. He only guided you to sit at the table and served you a bowl of Pozole. The sight of the soup with radish on top made your mouth water.

“I'll give him some of Ángel's container. Ours has four Chiles de arbol," Javi says to you, glancing over at Jack. "It’ll be too spicy for you,” he smirks.

Jack takes it as a challenge. “I’ll have some of yours.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Remember what happened last time? It was too spi-“

“No really. It’s fine,” Jack insists, a determined look on his face.

Javier serves his and Jack's food and all eyes shift to Jack. Ángel is eating his Pozole with ease, but his gaze flickers between his meal and Jack's reaction.

As Jack takes the first spoonful, he tries to maintain a facade of composure. However, within moments, his face turns a noticeable shade of red, and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He manages another spoonful, but as he swallows, a sudden fit of coughing overtakes him.

You quickly move to the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of milk for Jack.

As Jack's face turned redder, Angel looked worried. "Are you okay, Mr. Jack?" he asked with genuine concern.

"I'll be fine, bud." Jack managed between coughs, his pride momentarily overshadowed by his son's concern.

Observing Jack's struggle, Javi's expression remained calm, a knowing look in his eyes as if he had anticipated this outcome. He leaned towards Jack, "Told you you couldn't handle it." He doesn't say it loudly, only loud enough for Jack to hear, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Jack ignores Javier and rasps thanks for the milk, and quickly drowns it. His tongue stops throbbing, and he goes for a third spoonful before Ángel stops him.

"Maybe you should try some from my Tupperware. I only want one bowl," Ángel kindly suggested, not wanting Jack to suffer from the spiciness of the food his dad served.

"Yeah, I think that's the best idea." You quickly chimed in, turning to Javi with a decisive look that left no room for argument.

Javi got up and served Jack another bowl, this time from Ángel's portion so it would be less spicy for Jack. If it were entirely up to Javi, he might have made Jack eat the spicy pozole, but Ángel's compassion for Jack was clear, so Javi complied.

Jack nodded to Javi and then turned to Ángel, his voice sincere as he said, "Thank you, buddy."

This bowl was spicier than the one you had prepared for him in the past. Jack's mind had become clouded by anger, causing him to exaggerate and latch onto your cooking as an excuse for his emotions. If he were to eat the pozole you made exactly as you had prepared it before, he would have no issue. It was as if his anger demanded a tangible reason to be directed at you, and this distorted perception had twisted the reality of your dish. Now he realizes his mistake, and it makes him hate himself all over again.

Ángel was engrossed in the movie he was watching, providing Jack with the perfect opportunity to voice something that had been on his mind for a while. “He has your nose. Good,” Jack chuckled.

“Yeah, and let’s hope this one also has her nose,” Javi said, his hand gently caressing your stomach.

"Hey," you interjected, "Both of you stop hating on your noses, right now. It's ridiculous."

As Jack glanced at you, memories of your past flooded his mind. I remember when she used to tell me how much she loved my nose whenever I said I hated it.

"Right. I almost forgot how much you love my nose." Javier said suggestively, breaking Jack's train of thought.

You felt flustered by Javier's comment, and Jack's emotions churned into a mix of fury and jealousy. He couldn't help but feel anger at the casual way your new husband had commented on your sex life. Jack's hands clenched slightly under the table, his fingers flexing as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He averted his gaze, focusing on his plate as a way to regain his composure.

Ángel's laugh pulled him out of his trance, and Jack's head instinctively turned to him.

"Look," Ángel said between laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "the security guard from Binky Nelson Unpacified kinda looks like you, Mr. Jack!"

Everyone's gaze shifted to the subject of Ángel's amusement, and soon, laughter filled the room as the uncanny resemblance became evident. Jack couldn't deny the similarities: the mustache, the sideburns, the pair of boots, and a cowboy hat. Jack got up from the table and took a seat next to his son's bed.

"You're right," Jack chuckled, "Even the cowboy part is spot on, but I've got a ranch." He shared with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Actually?" Ángel's amazement was noticeable.

"I ain't kiddin'," Jack responded with a grin.

Ángel gasped in delight, exclaiming, "I love ranches!"

"Well, maybe once you're out of the hospital, we can all go," Jack suggested warmly, glancing at you and Javi. He made sure to add, "If it's okay with your parents."

The idea seemed to energize Ángel, and both you and Javi agreed. Your son's face lit up.

Your son cheered before a realization struck him. "But we have to go before or after Coco because I haven't been to the movie theaters in so long, and I really, really want to watch that movie," Ángel's words tumbled out in excitement.

"You can come with!" Ángel extended the invitation, his excitement contagious. "Mami? Papi?" ("Mommy? Daddy?") Ángel turned to you and Javier, seeking your approval.

"Yeah, if Jack wants to." Javi responded, giving his approval.

"I'll be there. You just name the time and place, bud." Jack assured Ángel with a genuine smile.

Jack's attention shifted back to the TV, and his eyes zoned in on the cowboy hat. "Oh! You need a hat like mine." Jack suggested.

"I do?" Ángel's curiosity was piqued, his eyes widening as he considered the idea.

Without hesitation, Jack reached up and took hold of his own Stetson, lifting it from his head. "Would you like to try it?" he asked, enthusiastic about sharing a special moment with his son.

Ángel's face lit up with a mixture of surprise and delight. "Can I really?" he asked, his excitement practically palpable.

"Of course!" Jack replied, his smile widening. Jack carefully placed the hat on Ángel's head. He was mindful of the size difference between his head and his son's, so he adjusted the hat to ensure it wouldn't slip over Ángel's eyes. The hat found its place at a jaunty angle, mostly resting on the back of Ángel's head.

In Ángel's excitement to grab the mirror from his bedside table drawer, he moved a bit too quickly, causing the Stetson to slip down over his eyes. The weight of the hat threw his glasses off his face, and Ángel exclaimed, "¡Ahh, mis lentes!" (Ahh, my glasses!")

Ángel's muffled laughter came from beneath the hat, as he tried to push it back up. "It's heavier than I thought." He admitted with a sheepish grin, his glasses now resting on the floor beside him.

Jack picked up Ángel's glasses and handed them back to him, he thanked him with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Jack."

Jack settled back into his seat, his smile lingering. "We'll just have to get you a hat your size."

"I'm so ready to get out of here," Ángel remarked, his excitement apparent.

"Speaking of getting out of here, I'll be back," you announced, rising from your seat. "Ángel ran out of towels, and it's better to go up to the housekeeping desk."

"I'll go get them." Jack offered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll go get them." Jack reassured you.

"I'll be back, buddy." Jack told Ángel, his voice soothing as he shared a brief exchange of smiles with his son.

Jack left the room and was on a hunt for towels. He had no idea where the housekeeping desk was, but his eagerness to be useful had spurred him to offer to pick up the towels.

After a short search, he spotted a desk and rushed over. A teenager in a bright blue polo shirt, wearing a badge reading 'volunteer', caught his attention.

"Good afternoon, sir, what can I help you with?" The boy asked politely.

"Afternoon," Jack began, almost instinctively tipping his hat before remembering it was with his son, "Would you happen to know where I can get some things from housekeeping?"

"I can help you with that, sir." The volunteer responded, a touch of enthusiasm in his voice as if Jack had just made his day.

“Perfect! My wife asked for towels for my son. He's in room 43.” Jack stated, happy that he wasn't completely useless.

The volunteer tapped away on the computer keyboard. “For Ángel Peña?”

Jack swallows hard and nods. Fuck, Jack thinks. It should have been Ángel Daniels. My son should have had my last name.

The boy leaned back in his rolling chair and opened a cabinet. He retrieved three large towels and handed them to Jack. Thanking the teenager, Jack turned and walked away. Lost in thought, he looked down as he walked, and when he turned the corner, a familiar voice reached his ears.

“Oh, I didn’t know you remarried. Again. Because surely you’re not talking about my girl.” Javi said with his jaw clenched. “She’s not your wife anymore, Jack. She’s my wife.”

Please feel free to comment and reblog! I truly do love reading them! I promise I'll try to engage more!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm

The song used in this chapter is called Adiós Amor. I was obsessed with Christian Nodal in 2017, and when I wrote this, that song was extremely popular.

If you've read this far, thank you, and have a great day 🤎 (I hope this uploads because I had everything ready to go until I accidentally hit undo. I wasn't able to recover my draft, yay! I definitely did not want to throw my computer for a while :)

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undreaming-fanfiction · 10 months

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Sorry for being gone for so long, I haven't been feeling great both physically and mentally, so that was awesome...anyway:

Look, Eddie wasn't that picky when it came to companions. He wasn't much of a catch either - as a bard, it was already expected of him to cause chaos, but with his choice of songs, the result was less of a bardic inspiration and more of a "turn everyone against each other" or "make everyone extremely horny". Which...actually worked when they needed to avoid combat, but by ancient gods, he didn't need to see that group of orcs going at it.

Anyways. Eddie wasn't picky, but Steven Harrington was becoming a bit too much for him.

First: he was a rich kid. Eddie was a proud trash raised in a cottage that barely held together and he had no patience for people who never washed their own laundry (not that Eddie did, well, not too often, but still).

Second: he was effortlessly handsome. Annoyingly handsome. Bad hair day? Steven fucking Harrington didn't know those. His moles were placed in perfect places. Eddie had nearly invisible freckles and his only moles were - embarrassingly enough - near his groin and if you squinted hard enough, looked like a daisy petal. So uncool. But uncool was a word Steven Harrington apparently lacked in his vocabulary.

And third...this. Just...all of this.

Eddie didn't want to think of himself as a prejudiced person, he really didn't. But there were two things he didn't like in this world: lawyers and necromancers.

And Steven somehow managed to blend both of those into a horrible combination that just. Fucking. Worked.

Eddie was strumming on his lute and watched Steven open a bag full of old bones, yet another unlucky trader, adventurer or whoever had died in the woods before them. He placed them carefully on the ground, arranging them - admirable knowledge of anatomy, Eddie would give him that - and muttered an incantation. Green light, weird whooshing, some sparkles, yadda yadda and the skeleton reassembled itself. It sat in front of Steven and they started working in hushed tones over a pre-prepared contract. Eddie could only make out phrases as "a work opportunity," "being dead must be boring," "do you have any family that could use a percentage of the spoils from this quest" and the best of all, "no pressure, if you'd rather be left alone, just say the word." From what Eddie had seen in last few weeks, very few of them did say the word, and if they did, Steven would honor his word and bury their remains where they desired.

It was a really decent thing to do and Eddie hated himself for even admitting it.

One discussion about details ("do you want to be only reassembled when needed or would you like to accompany us the whole time?") and a bony signature later, Steven carefully stuffed the newest party helper (Arthur, Steven made sure to remember all of their names, another fucking decent thing!) in the bag and stretched himself next to the fire.

Eddie couldn't help but glare. That fucking guy. Built like a fighter from carrying half of a cemetery on his back, pretty, rich and for some reason also awfully nice and moral. Eddie wanted to barf.

"You know," smiled Steven and Eddie's traitorous stomach did a triple flip with a botched landing, "I love seeing you like this. Calm. Strumming those slow melodies. You look really pretty, too." He laughed to himself and turned onto his back, staring at the stars. "Well, you look really pretty all the time, especially when you're trying not to be bitchy, but these times you look the prettiest."

Eddie almost dropped the lute. Almost swallowed his own tongue as well. "Are you trying to kill me, Harrington?" he sputtered. "Don't you have enough to resurrect?"

Steven just shook his head, smirking. "That's a thought. But no. Breach of ethics - I'm pretty sure killing someone to resurrect them wouldn't make them want to join me. Plus, I was thinking less of a "fight for me" and more like "fuck me, possibly date me" - interested?"

Eddie stared at him with large eyes, moving his lips without any sound. "Uh...well, sounds good to me," he said, not very intelligently, but his brain was chanting kiss those moles pull that hair shut him up kiss him like right now maybe. "Do you...have a contract for that?"

Grinning, Steven - no, Steve, he asked to be called that several times and maybe this was the right time to give in to his wish - pulled Eddie to the ground with him. "For you? I'm sure I can draft something."

When Gareth, Robin and Chrissy arrived back from their supply run the next morning, they found Eddie and Steve curled against each other, fully clothed but very obviously satisfied. Robin just snickered and whispered to Steve that she wanted details, all the dirty, sticky and scandalous details, but Gareth just rolled his eyes. "And here I thought you disliked the guy when you said "Fuck him," he nudged Eddie as he unpacked healing potions.

Eddie closed his eyes and hummed a new melody that came to him with Steve's touches and gentle words. "It was open for interpretation," he laughed and reached for his lute.

#steddie #steddie au #steddie drabble #steve harrington #eddie munson #fantasy au #fantasy drabble #chrissy cunningham #gareth emerson #robin buckley #stranger things #stranger things drabble #not proofread we die like my will to exist

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maxinemaxmayfield · 5 months

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sink your teeth before i disappear explicit | 4k | steddie | 18+ only

steddie, pre-relationship, established ronance, panic attacks, flashbacks, virgin!eddie, sharing a bed, cuddling & snuggling, interrupted masturbation, mutual masturbation, hand jobs, biting, marking

“I’ve never really slept with anyone before,” Eddie admits quietly, not sure if Steve is even still awake. Steve turns around awkwardly, trying to keep Eddie’s arm wrapped around his waist as he rolls over to face him. “Like… sex, or just actually sleeping next to someone?” OR Sharing a room leads to sharing a bed leads to sharing... more

[read on ao3] read on tumblr below

WEDNESDAY

“So they would rather you sleep in a bed with Nancy? ” Steve asks in disbelief as he stacks the returns.

Robin rolls her eyes at him. “Duh. They don’t know I’m of the, uh, lavender persuasion,” she reminds him, lowering her voice with a quick scan of the store.

It’s fairly quiet, especially for a rainy Wednesday during summer break. Just a couple of teens milling about through the stacks, trying to decide on a movie.

“And I’m pretty sure they still think I’m secretly dating you… though they have finally learned to stop asking.”

Robin’s parents had managed to secure a modest cabin by the lake for the long weekend. Steve could never quite get it straight – Robin’s mom’s brother’s wife… or was it her cousin’s husband? Nevertheless, someone who was somehow related to Robin had a cabin they weren’t using, and rather than leave it sitting empty, they had invited her parents to use it. Robin had agreed to go if she could bring a friend or two… which quickly turned into three, because she just couldn’t take Nancy and Steve and leave Eddie all alone for the weekend. And they were all thick as thieves after what happened during spring break.

“Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to be sharing with Eddie,” Robin says, tossing Steve a meaningful look. God, he regrets telling her about his ill-advised crush.

Come Thursday evening, they pack into two cars and drive up to Lake Michigan, looking forward to spending their days swimming and their nights around the fire.

– – –

THURSDAY

The cabin isn’t anything fancy – a simple wooden structure tucked between the trees – but it’s right on the lake, has its own small dock hosting a tiny row boat that looks like three passengers would probably capsize it.

Robin shows them around the cabin, pointing out her and Nancy’s room, her parents’ room, and finally, tucked back in the corner behind the kitchen, Steve and Eddie’s room.

Their room is the only one with separate twin beds. Steve isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Everyone leaves to get settled in their own rooms, and Steve stands there with his old sports bag in hand, shifting from one foot to the other.

“So, uh, which bed do you want?” he asks.

Eddie throws himself down on top of the bed furthest from the door, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “This one – you can protect me from any evil entities of the night.”

“Unless they come in through the window,” Steve points out, setting his things down on the bed nearest the door.

“Well, shit,” Eddie groans, eyes darting between the window and Steve. “Don’t fucking say that!”

Steve laughs and throws himself onto his own bed, propping himself up on one elbow.

“So, Harrington, do you snore? Tell me now, so I can prepare myself," Eddie says.

“Nah, but I do sleep in the nude.”

Eddie’s smile falters and Steve can’t help but smirk. He doesn’t offer up any more information, letting Eddie dwell on whether or not he was joking.

“I, uh, I sleepwalk, sometimes,” Eddie tells him, and then falls silent, dropping back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling like he might find a script there.

“Should make for an interesting night,” Steve says, trying not to laugh when Eddie’s eyes flick over to him before going back to the ceiling. “C’mon, let’s go see if they need help with dinner,” Steve says, pushing himself off the mattress and holding out a hand to help Eddie up.

It’s still raining after dinner, so they sit around the little fireplace, playing board games and listening to music until it’s time to turn in for the night.

Steve stands next to his bed for a moment, looking down at the pajamas he’d packed. He glances up, but Eddie’s busying himself with removing his rings one by one and setting them down on the nightstand.

Steve strips out of his shorts and t-shirt, hesitating at the edge of his boxers, wondering if it’s worth it for the bit. Eddie’s back is to him. He makes his decision, leaving them on and climbing into bed, arranging the covers to hide his boxers but show as much skin as possible elsewhere.

Just to mess with him.

When Eddie turns back, he lets out something between a yelp and a squeak.

Steve pulls back the blanket with a flourish, watching Eddie’s eyes go wide and then narrow when he realizes what’s underneath.

“You dick.”

“I mean, I usually would sleep naked, but I thought I’d be modest for the sake of my temporary roommate,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

Eddie climbs into his own bed, burrowing under the blankets. “Well, don’t change your habits on my account.”

Steve chuckles and turns off his bedside lamp. “I’ll keep that in mind. ‘Night, Eds.”

“Night.”

– – –

FRIDAY

Luckily, the rain has cleared up by Friday morning, the sun peaking out from behind the clouds and warming their skin.

After breakfast, they don their swimsuits and head out to the edge of the lake. Nancy and Robin drag out a deck chair and curl up side-by-side, while Steve walks out onto the dock, turning around just before he reaches the end.

“You coming for a swim?” he calls to Eddie, arms spread wide and displaying the expanse of his chest.

Eddie plops himself down on a towel next to Nancy and Robin. “Are you kidding? The water’s freezing.”

“Whatever, you big chicken!” And with that, he turns around and dives, cutting through the surface of the calm water.

Eddie sits back and watches the gleam of Steve’s back as he slices through the water with ease, years of swimming making him more graceful in water than on land. It’s mesmerizing.

“You might wanna pick your jaw up off the ground,” Robin quips, looking at him over the frame of her sunglasses. “Once you’re done ogling, I mean.”

Eddie huffs, shaking his head. “What? No! I’m not – Steve’s just–”

Nancy leans around Robin to fix him with a dubious look. “Oh please, don’t even deny it.”

“This is bullying. You’re bullying me,” Eddie accuses, crossing his arms over his chest. “Two against one isn’t a fair fight.”

He doesn’t hear what Nancy says next, because there’s a disturbance out in the water. Steve has stopped swimming smoothly and seems to be thrashing, struggling against something they can’t see, trying to get back to shore.

Eddie’s throat closes up with panic.

He jumps to his feet, shouts out and points, and Robin and Nancy are on his heels as they run out to the end of the dock.

Just like that fateful night on Lover’s Lake, Nancy doesn’t hesitate. She jumps in and swims towards Steve, methodically, uniform strokes spurring her forward. She reaches him quickly and pulls him the rest of the way to the shore.

He’s sputtering and shaking, on all fours as he reaches the grassy edge of the lake, and Robin’s right there beside him, wrapping him in a towel, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, speaking to him in soft, calm, hushed tones.

Eddie stands to the side, heart racing, chest tight. He feels useless, a spare part, unsure whether to come closer or give them space. All he can do is watch helplessly, a cruel parallel of when Steve was pulled through Watergate. Flight or freeze, never fight.

Coward.

Robin is placing Steve’s hands flat on the earth, helping him ground himself, still babbling away about where he is and what is going on around him. Eddie is in awe of how she always knows what Steve needs in these moments.

“The vines… grabbed me,” Steve mumbles, breathing fast and shallow. Robin drapes herself against his back, contrasting with deep and slow breaths, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Steve, we’re at Lake Michigan. No gate here, we’re not even in Hawkins,” Robin reminds him again, patience of a saint. “We’re safe, we’re safe, I promise you, we’re safe. It was just a plant.”

“Nancy –”

“– pulled you out of the water, she’s right here,” Robin says, pointing her out.

“And Eddie –”

“– is also right here, he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.” Robin turns to Nancy and Eddie. “Can you help me get him up? I’ll take him inside, give him something warm and something sugary, it should help with the shakiness. And then he’ll probably need to sleep for a while when he comes down from this.”

Eddie swoops in to support one side of Steve and the three of them hoist him to his feet, leaving the lake behind them.

Steve’s voice drifts through the darkness later that night. “Hey, Eds, you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

There’s silence for a while, not awkward, but comfortable. Until Steve breaks it.

“Can I… would it be alright if I laid in your bed for a bit?”

Eddie nods before he realizes Steve can’t see him. “Yeah, of course.”

There’s a rustle, footsteps, and then the mattress next to him dips as Steve slides under the blankets. Heat radiates off his chest.

It’s a small bed, so they don’t have much choice for positions. Eddie ends up curled around Steve’s back, an arm thrown around his waist to stop himself from rolling off the edge.

“This is nice,” Steve whispers, wrapping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist and pulling him tighter around him. Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before speaking again. “Is it weird if I say I was kind of hoping we’d have to share a bed this weekend? I just… I hate sleeping alone.”

Eddie chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “Don’t you usually sleep alone?”

“Yeah.”

Steve doesn’t expand on his answer, doesn’t offer anything more. They lie there pressed together, letting their breath synchronize.

“I’ve never really slept with anyone before,” Eddie admits quietly, not sure if Steve is even still awake.

Steve turns around awkwardly, trying to keep Eddie’s arm wrapped around his waist as he rolls over to face him. “Like… sex, or just actually sleeping next to someone?”

Both, but he feels a bit stupid admitting the first one to Steve Harrington, renowned lady’s man. He’s heard enough rumors to know the guy gets around. And, well, Eddie isn’t exactly spoiled for choice in Hawkins, Indiana.

“I mean, I've had sleepovers and shit, slept next to people but… never, I dunno, cuddled?” The last part comes out as a question, like he isn’t sure if that is actually what they’re doing.

Steve moves closer then, right up in Eddie’s face, tucking his own arm around Eddie’s waist. “And do you like it? Cuddling?”

Eddie’s not sure if it’s embarrassment or the body heat coming from Steve that makes his face feel so warm. “I, uh, I think so.”

“Well, maybe you need a bit more experience to make sure,” Steve says, mischief in his voice. And with that, he rolls onto his back, pulling Eddie with him so he face-plants right onto Steve’s bare chest. Two solid arms come up to wrap around him, one landing between his shoulder blades and the other settling in the dip of his lower back. Steve buries his face in Eddie’s curls and hums.

Eddie shuffles a bit, turning his head to un-squish his nose from Steve’s pec. The hand between his shoulder blades moves up to card through his hair, fingertips pressing deliciously into his scalp and sending tingles all the way down to his toes.

Eddie’s head is spinning, overwhelmed by the smell and feel and sound of Steve all around him. He yearns for all of this to mean something, but he’s seen Steve with Robin – how close they get, how easy it is for Steve to throw an arm around her and pull her in for a hug, press a kiss to the top of her head or tip of her nose, how they cuddle up on the couch when they watch a movie. And they make sure everyone knows that it’s strictly platonic. So why would this be anything different?

He can enjoy it for tonight, though, so he burrows back down into the hair on Steve’s chest, tracing the line of muscle underneath with his finger. He feels Steve shiver and shift, run his hand back down Eddie’s neck and trace over each vertebrae of his spine through his thin t-shirt, getting slower and slower until his hand slips from Eddie’s back completely, coming to rest on the mattress behind him as his chest rises and falls, even and slow, dozing off.

Eddie presses soft, barely-there kisses to the skin beneath his lips for what feels like hours until his eyes droop and he, too, drifts into sleep.

When he wakes, Steve is gone and he can hear the shower on. He grabs the pillow that still smells like Steve and buries his face in it, pretending it’s only to help ease the crick in his neck.

– – –

SATURDAY

“I don’t know what else to do, Robin!” Steve whines, exasperated. “If I get any more forward with my flirting, I’ll just be straight up asking him to blow me.”

Robin wrinkles her nose at him before going back to applying sunscreen to her legs. “Why don’t you just ask him out, like a normal person?”

“I don’t know how to do that with guys, Robs, much less one who’s my friend!”

It’s true, he knows how to hit on girls he barely knows, asks the odd guy in a gay bar to go out back with him. But Eddie? It’s different.

“Why are you being so difficult? Go inside right now and say, ‘Eddie Munson, would you like to go on a date with me?’ That’s it!” Robin hisses.

Steve flops down onto the wooden dock, squinting up at the sun. “This coming from the girl who took three months to ask out Nancy Wheeler.”

Another voice drifts over, drawing nearer. “Yeah, but at least she actually fucking did it.” Steve turns his head to the side and shields his eyes, watching Nancy sit down next to Robin and dangle her toes into the water. “Steve Harrington, stop being a big baby and just go ask him.”

He sticks his tongue out at the both of them and reaches down, cupping some water in his hand before flinging it towards the girls, spraying them with the cold water of the lake.

- - -

At first, Eddie can’t figure out what woke him. He takes stock of his body - he doesn’t need a piss, he’s not too hot or cold, he doesn’t think he had a nightmare. So he turns his attention to the room, and that’s when he hears it.

It’s too familiar of a noise for him not to figure it out immediately, especially when paired with heavy breaths coming from the other side of the room.

Oh.

He cracks open an eye, and the room’s washed in cool, dim light from the moon outside the window. He can just make out the outline of Steve, lying on his back, hand moving rhythmically under the covers. His head’s dropped back, mouth open slightly, neck stretched out like it’s begging to be bitten.

Eddie feels arousal rush through him and he squeezes his eyes shut again, trying not to move or draw attention to himself. He doesn’t want to make this any weirder than it already is.

But he can’t stop himself from hearing it.

There’s a sharp inhale, followed by a string of little ‘ah-ah-ah’ sounds, and then –

Eddie must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe he died in the Upside Down and this is his eternal torture, because he swears it, there’s no mistaking it – a long groan followed by “Eddie.”

He can’t help but peek over, sees Steve grab a handful of tissues from his nightstand and clean himself up, tuck himself back into his boxers and roll over, facing the opposite wall.

Eddie’s ears are burning, his mind on a loop, playing those sounds and Eddie, Eddie, Eddie over and over again.

He wants to scream, wants to sing, wants to go jump in the lake, wants to run back to Hakwins, wants to climb into Steve’s bed and grind against him. Shit, there’s a thought.

He adjusts his pajamas, hoping Steve doesn’t hear the creaky springs. He wills himself to calm down, but his dick has other ideas, aching for relief.

Eddie glances over at Steve’s bed again. He’s quiet now, breathing slow and probably sleeping. And hey, if Steve did it, why can’t Eddie? Fair’s fair and all that.

Slowly, carefully, he rolls onto his left side and reaches his right hand down the front of his pants. Fuck, he’s so hard and he can still hear Steve’s voice ringing in his ear. His breathing is shaky and he keeps glancing back to check that Steve’s still not moving.

But Eddie’s never been good at staying quiet, muttered swears spilling from his lips as his breath comes quicker. He manages to swallow Steve’s name, biting his lips together and exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Eddie?”

He freezes. This isn’t the chorus of whispered Eddies in his head… this is a question, and it’s real.

Steve’s awake.

He debates not even answering, just pretending to be asleep, but then he hears the other bed creak and Steve’s feet hit the floor, like he’s about to cross the room and check on him. So he turns his head.

“Yeah?”

Steve’s sitting on his bed facing Eddie, both feet on the floor like he was about to stand. “Were you… touching yourself?”

“No, I –,” Eddie starts to lie, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, what it even means. Steve reaches for the lamp and switches it on. If he looked good in the cool light of the moon, he looks incredible in the warm wash from the lightbulb.

“You can keep going. If you want,” Steve offers. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and Eddie wants to feel it sweep across his teeth.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Steve as he rolls over and takes himself in hand once more, looking for any sign that Steve was kidding or pulling some kind of sick prank. But all Steve does is watch him back, eyes darting down to Eddie’s hand moving under the sheets.

“You – can you move the covers?” Steve asks, his voice pitched slightly higher than Eddie’s used to hearing.

Eddie tries to push them down with his free hand, kicking with his feet to pull them down past his hips, but they just tangle and twist instead. And then Steve’s standing, crossing the short space between them and reaching out for the sheets.

“Can I–?”

Eddie nods, and Steve slides his fingers under the edge of the blanket. Steve’s knuckles brush against Eddie’s stomach and he can’t help but shiver at the sensation, thinking of where else he’d like Steve to touch him.

The night air is cool after the heat that had built under the covers, and Steve kneels at the foot of the bed, still watching like he’s mesmerized. Eddie slows his movements, props himself up on one elbow.

“Steve.”

Steve’s eyes snap up to his, pupils blown and mouth slack.

“Just – fuck – c’mere,” Eddie whines, and Steve doesn’t hesitate. He darts forward, hovering over Eddie’s body, one hand cradling the side of Eddie’s head.

Eddie surges up, kisses him hard and messy, and Steve dips down to meet him. Eddie feels a hand close over his own, tightening the grip and urging him on faster.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” Steve pants against his lips, and Eddie thinks that his name in Steve’s mouth is the prettiest sound in the entire world.

Eddie can’t stop his hips from bucking up into both of their fists, desperate and aching. “Fuck, fuck, Steve… bite my neck?”

“What?”

“Bite my neck,” he repeats, dropping his head to the side to get his point across.

Steve ducks down, licks and sucks and grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin there, but he doesn’t bite. And Eddie’s getting close.

“You can… you can actually bite, like, with teeth,” Eddie manages, and that seems to do it, because the next thing he knows, he feels Steve’s teeth sink into the flesh of his neck, just beneath his ear, and his tongue sweeps over to soothe the marks no doubt left behind.

Eddie slings his free arm around the back of Steve’s neck, holding him there, letting him nip and lave in turn until Eddie’s gripping the sheets and biting back a shout as he comes over both of their hands.

“Shit,” Eddie breathes into Steve’s hair, arms drooping over the edge of the bed like wilted flowers. “Holy shit.”

“Shit,” Steve agrees. “You okay?”

“Fucking fantastic, actually. You?”

Steve laughs softly. “Pretty damn good. Sorry for waking you.”

“Oh, you are wholeheartedly forgiven,” Eddie says. Not that he was mad about it in the first place, but Steve doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll just, uh…” Steve stands and makes a move towards his own bed. Eddie catches his wrist.

“You don’t like sleeping alone, right?”

Steve shakes his head.

“So sleep here. With me.”

– – –

SUNDAY

When Eddie wakes up, the sun is shining through the window, brightening the room. The sounds of voices and dishes drift in from the kitchen, along with the smell of bacon. His stomach grumbles.

Eddie tosses on the first some-what clean clothes he can find, gathers his mess of frizzy curls up in a bun and heads out the door, ready to eat a frankly disgusting amount of breakfast.

Robin’s parents are just rinsing their plates when he arrives, getting an early start out on a hike up the edge of the lake apparently. He slides into one of their vacated seats, grabs a plate and loads it with pancakes and bacon before dousing the whole lot in syrup.

It isn’t until he shoves the first huge bite in his mouth that he realizes Robin and Nancy are staring at him bug-eyed and slack-jawed.

“What?” he asks, through a mouthful of food.

They both shake their heads frantically, Robin throwing a look at her parents who are busy discussing whether or not it might rain later. Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Everything is quiet apart from the sound of Eddie’s fork scraping on the plate and Mr and Mrs Buckley’s voices, until they tell them all they’ll be back in a couple hours and close the door behind them.

“What the actual hell!”

“Jesus Christ, did you get attacked by a vampire?”

There’s an explosion of shouting from both Robin and Nancy, while Steve doubles over laughing.

Eddie’s baffled. “Fuck are you talking about?”

“Dude! Your neck!” Robin says, handing him a large metal spoon.

He moves it around, trying to get the right angle, and finds a massive, distorted red and purple splotch on his neck. His eyes immediately fly to Steve, who is just managing to get his giggles under control.

“Hey, man, don’t look at me. It was your idea,” he says, sipping some coffee from his mug. “I was just following orders.”

“Ew,” Robin says, pushing her plate away. “Way to ruin my appetite.”

“Bullshit, Buckley, you were done anyway.”

Eddie raps his knuckles on the wooden tabletop, drawing their attention back to him. “Uh, you’re all acting suspiciously cavalier about this.”

Robin and Nancy glance at each other. “We had a bet going,” Nancy says. “About how long it would be until it happened."

Eddie gapes at them, not even sorry that he still has some half-chewed pancakes in his mouth.

“I am gonna insist you cover that up before my parents get back, though,” Robin says. “I don’t wanna deal with their awkward questions about where you got it.”

“God, I hate you all,” Eddie says, piling more pancakes and bacon onto his plate.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie smut #stranger things #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #virgin eddie munson #i've been sittin on this one for a long time whoops #my fic

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