#i might disappear again once i graduate
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Eddie Munson does do the whole rock star thing, but it doesn't quite go the way it did in the daydreams of a sixteen-year-old kid trying to stay awake in school.
He leaves Hawkins after the world doesn't end, gets himself out there, takes all the hurt and fear and fucked up shit and puts it into a handful of good enough songs to get himself signed.
It's not quite the genre he grew up with, not quite something any of his idols might have played, but only because it is so entirely Eddie, so influenced by where he's been and what he's seen that it kind of doesn't fit one specific influence.
It's new and it's good, is the point. Really good. And he skyrockets fast enough to give himself the spins.
He's recognizable and then he's famous and then he's too famous and too young to know what to do with it and too far from home and everyone he loves to really cope with it and it's just.
Eddie isn't built for it. Eddie hasn't even processed the fact that he was maybe supposed to die in that place, or the fact that he did watch people better than him actually die, but he's out here shooting to the top of the charts and being called the next big thing and it's too much.
It's just enough, at the end of it all, for him to self-sabotage his way out of being more than a one-hit wonder.
One big hit, a contract broken by the guys at the top with the fancy lawyers because Eddie has become the too much thing, just like always, and it's over as quick as it started.
He disappears, becomes one of those whatever happened to him? he was supposed to be the next big thing? stories that travel by word of mouth and then fade with the shift in conversation.
So what does happen to Eddie Munson?
He falls hard, he hits rock bottom, he crawls his way home to an uncle who deserved for Eddie to really make it, make him proud, have him financially set for life and get him into a real house with two stories and a garage to park the truck in, maybe even a yard for a dog.
He spirals and isolates and falls apart and stops letting himself make music at all and makes some personal choices that will probably have lasting effects on him for the rest of his life and then somewhere along the line a girl with hair like tangerines and terrible aim manages to smack him with her cane and says if I learned to walk again, so can you, asshole.
There are people in his life again after that, a reason to get out of bed and realize that he can make Wayne proud in more ways than the one he'd already fucked straight to hell.
Eddie watches a bunch of kids graduate high school and then he packs up and chases down some people who pulled him out of hell once before up in Chicago, crashes on Steve and Robin's couch until he gets himself a job painting houses and they can afford three bedrooms instead of just the two.
He cuts his hair, not short but shorter, and he gets more tattoos and itches for the guitar that sits in a case under his bed, ignores it. Itches for the pen in his hand, ignores that too.
He's still barely past his mid-20s and he still has some fucking around left to get out of his system, some finding out to accomplish doubly so, but he learns as he goes no matter whether it's forwards or backwards.
He falls in love and falls out of it, gets fired from jobs and tracks down new ones, gets into fights with his friends because they're all a little fucked up and codependent and weird but makes up with them for the same reasons.
The thing with Steve happens slowly, going from tolerating each other for the sake of knowing they'll always be on the same team to genuinely liking each other to discovering a care between the two of them that's a bit too strong to be normal about even if it still takes them a half-dozen so-called turning points to really name it and take it and keep it.
Eddie's 33 when they buy a condo together on the outskirts of Chicago two weeks after they fall into bed with each other for the first time, and he's over a decade on from being a kid who rose to the top too fast but it doesn't feel dissimilar, that sensation of a too-good thing that's bound to go wrong.
Only this time he doesn't try to sabotage it, tries the opposite, tries to hold it tightly in ways that would probably be too tight for anyone other than Steve Harrington with all his deeply intense feelings and inability to love at anything other than an eleven.
It's in the move that Steve finds a box of notebooks, snoops because it's who he is, and finds years worth of words that never made it past the tip of a pen but did, eventually, make it that far.
And it's not an easy thing, convincing Eddie that they're words worth sharing, because Eddie doesn't want it to be an easy thing. He can't let kind words shoved into his orbit by a beautiful man be enough to make it feel worth it, can't see a world where sharing his art doesn't end in another great big self-induced mess that he can't let happen when he's finally found something good.
He doesn't want to go on tour and get screamed at on stage and, besides, he's pretty sure the rest of the world doesn't want to scream for him anymore either, but then Steve has to go and remind him--
"You don't have to be the face of it. You can just be the words; you are so fucking good at being the words, Ed."
Which still isn't quite enough to be convincing, but it's a start in a solid six months of the words coming easier now that he has someone to share them with, someone to listen as Eddie plucks away at a guitar that sits out in the open now, free of dust.
It stops feeling like something shameful to hide, his music, and the thing is? It doesn't feel how it did back then either.
It's not an escape or a purge of violent energy or a distraction from everything he didn't know how to think about. Sure, it takes all of that into consideration because it takes the whole of Eddie into consideration, but more than anything it's just fun.
Like he's thirteen and still learning how to play the guitar, like it's just a hobby that never has to go anywhere, like it's just art that maybe deserves to be heard.
Everyone pitches in on ideas when they find out he's trying to come up with a pseudonym, and it's goofy and supportive and kind of the final straw in reaching out to old, burned bridges to see about any new artists looking for equally new tunes.
The first time Eddie and Steve catch familiar lyrics being sung by a new hotshot band on the radio, Eddie cries not because he's jealous or disappointed, but because it feels right.
He doesn't like being up in front of the crowds, had only ever walked across tables and made himself big and scary and loud out of self preservation, would always rather his biggest performances be for the people he knows really care.. Besides, after everything he's survived he's learned, albeit slowly, that he really likes the freedom of the quiet.
This way he still gets to say what he has to say, gets to throw his hat into the ring of an artform that he loves without selling his soul to a machine that tried to eat him alive (trust him. he knows what that feels like.)
Of course, someone is going to put 2 and 2 together eventually, the industry isn't as big as it looks and pseudonyms only pull so much weight when you went out in such a spectacularly messy and memorable fashion, but Eddie's got his condo in Chicago.
He's got the guy he shares it with in his bed.
He's got two cats and a windowsill full of plants he's going to keep alive this time, Steve, just you watch.
He's got his uncle settled in Indy these days, a small place with a small yard.
He's got music, too. Turns out even his own tendency to self-destruct couldn't take that away, huh?
It's what got him out of hell alive, after all.
#dot post#dot fic#eddie munson#steddie#one hit wonder eddie has lived rent free in my head for too long you guys have to join me in this before I lose my mind to it#rockstar!eddie#writer!eddie
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Beauty (Twisted Wonderland, Rook Hunt)
tiptoes into blog again but steps on a comically placed whoopee cushion and alerts the entirety of my eagerly awaiting readers
hey hi hi sorry this is 2 let you all know that i am ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i had 2 disappear 2 focus entirely on my studies bc i was due 2 graduate with honors soon and i needed 2 have ALL my work completed lol! anyways, im glad 2 say that soon i will be the proud owner of an early bachelor’s degree in pre-med. this honors thesis better look STUNNING on my fucking resume.
a/n: anyways YES im working on ur asks now that i have more free time yaaaaaaaaay!!! in the meantime enjoy this lol i wrote it entirely on a whim bc i saw the new rook card on twt and was like “hm. okay fine ass.” anyways let it be known i know VERY LITTLE about book 7 and Rook in general (ive seen spoilers but i don’t actively seek them out, plus i don't have the game anymore bc free palestine, fuck disney), so this might be ooc or an unusually placed scenario. please let me know how i can improve!
summary: rook’s back to his old self. he’s not sure of himself, but you have some choice words.
cw: suggestive!!!!!!!! minors DNI!!!!!!!!!, book 7 spoilers i think, gn!reader (specifics of reader’s physical attributes are not mentioned, but Rook uses the masculine French word for "dear"), NOT PROOFREAD!!!!.
MINORS DNI AS PER USUAL THIS IS SUGGESTIVE!! THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING MY BOUNDARY!!!
“Well, I admit… the version of me you see standing before you, cher, was not me at my prime…”
You stare curiously at the man before you. Unmistakably, this was Rook. Same French accent, albeit with a harsher twang, same upturned green eyes, same haunting, knowing smile. It was Rook, without a doubt. But, he was different. He looked different. His uniform wasn’t Pomefiore- it was Savanaclaw. His hair was longer and wilder, choppy bangs and uneven waves falling in his face and along his back. His skin was darker, a light tan present on his usually pristine, pale skin. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and crest of his cheeks, and a smattering of them was found on his shoulders and neck. He didn’t stand quite as tall; rather, he stood with a slight slouch. Bending forward just slightly, piercing green eyes peering at you from beneath the shadow of a wide-brim brown hat. Strangely, like this, he appeared considerably more predatory.
Suddenly, him previously being in Savanaclaw made sense.
However, this spurred a question in you. Not about his decision to change dorms, but about his words.
“What do you mean, not at your ‘prime’?”
You furrow your brows in confusion as you stare back at him, searching for answers. This Rook- with far more obvious muscle definition and hardened expressions- seemed quite at his fully-functioning peak. You step towards him, your eyes raking over his form, lingering at his rough, calloused hands on his hips, at his broad, freckle-covered chest, and at his perfect cupid’s bow, where a stray freckle laid. “Mon trickster,” he speaks, the sharp twang of his accent making you shiver. His lips rise into a knowing grin. Your eyes snap back up to his eyes, glued to you in irony. “It’s rude to stare.”
Your cheeks heat up only for a moment, but you wave him off. “Rook…” You start, giving him one more once over before glancing away again, not wanting to get too caught up in observing his proportions. “I don’t think this isn’t your prime. If anything…” You turn to him again, looking him in the eyes. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before hurriedly spitting out the words before you could regret them. “...I think you’re beautiful.”
You would expect Rook, of all people, to be unfazed by these words. However, he seems a bit taken aback, his eyes widening and his posture straightening, before he leans back forward again, his predatory smirk stretching wider across his face. “Merci, mon chéri, however, I do believe-”
“I mean it.” You quickly interrupt him, stopping him from beginning a self-depricating tirade of how unaccustomed he used to be to the concept of beauty. “I think you’re beautiful like this.” You face him head-on, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. This shouldn’t feel like confessing, but strangely, it does.
Now it’s Rook’s turn to blush. His smile fades, his eyes going from knowing to gentle curiosity. The warm redness of the blush spreads across his tan cheeks, accentuating the darkness of his freckles. Something about that is endearing to you, and for a moment, you are emboldened.
You step closer to him, to which he instinctively steps back, maintaining space while his senses are momentarily thrown off by his reaction to your praise. However, he doesn’t get to do that for long. He stumbles back into a stool, gripping onto its edge as he falls onto it, surprised. He would have known that was there, if not for your closeness and persistence. You move even closer, placing a knee between his thighs on the stool, boosting your height and leaning in to grab his face. He freezes, momentarily shocked by your bold actions, but he soon relaxes, his shoulders falling and his breathing returning to normal. He looks down, his eyes becoming hooded before he looks up at you again, his emerald gaze more alluring than before. He bites his lip before speaking, probably to distract you. Admittedly, it almost works. “Mon trickster…” He speaks again, and you wonder how anyone got used to hearing him speak, when such a harsh twang in a smooth accent contradicted so perfectly. He breathes shakily, a blush returning to his face. You deduced he was definitely trying to lure you in. “You’re being… awfully bold today. May I ask what’s brought this on-”
“Your imperfections are what makes your beauty!” You don’t shout, but you do raise your voice, ensuring his words are drowned out. Being this close to him makes you somewhat nervous, but you stand your ground, pressing your palms a little more into the flesh of his cheeks. He blinks at you confusedly, waiting for you to speak. You open your mouth to speak, but close it just as quickly, letting out a few false starts before sighing. You look away, taking a deep breath, before steeling yourself and facing him once more. Slowly, you let your eyes take in his face, until your gaze reaches his freckles, prominent against his tan skin. You find yourself stroking his freckles with your thumbs, gently tracing the nonsensical patterns in which they appear. You finally find your confidence again, and speak without thinking. “Your freckles and tan don’t tell me that you had bad or sensitive skin- they tell me that you loved the sun.” Your voice is so gentle it surprises yourself, not whispered, but low, and filled with a strange intimacy.
His eyes widen at your words, his lips parted. He breathes shakily, but something about it is genuine this time. His eyes remain fixated on yours, his thick eyebrows downturned in a strange mix of melancholy and yearning. You stroke his face more, and he relaxes, closing his eyes and letting you hold him. You begin to breathe shakily yourself, your body flushing with heat and your fingers beginning to tremble just slightly. You move your right hand from his cheek to his hair, not once lifting your palm. Your fingers gently move through his hair, holding the back of his head, and he leans into your touch, exhaling as your pinky brushes the back of his neck. You lean in as well, following him as he follows your touch. He opens one eye to peer at you curiously, gauging your next action. When you gently pull at his waves, his eye snaps shut again, and he disguises a moan as a throaty exhale. You speak again, led purely by the spur of the moment. “Your uneven bangs and wild hair don’t tell me that you didn’t care for it- it tells me that you took the time to let it grow, and chose not to restrict what was yours.” You say this close to his neck, your lips gently brushing against the shell of his ear. He shivers, gripping the stool harder.
You begin to pull back, keeping your palms to his skin. You move your right hand back to his cheek, where your left hand still rests on his other one. You pause for a moment before drifting both hands downwards, your palms and fingers tickling his jaw and neck. He leans his head back to allow you access, sighing quietly at the feeling. You gently trail your palms and fingers down his neck before finally resting at the base. You then gently drag your hands to his shoulders and squeeze them, looking up at him. His blush still remains, and his lips are still parted, his breathing still shaky. He gazes at you expectantly, as though eagerly awaiting your next bit of praise. You lean towards his face and press your forehead to his, looking down at his shoulders. “Your slouch does not tell me that you had bad posture- it tells me that you were shyer, and didn’t take pride in your appearance.” You begin to trail your palms down his shoulders, your fingers feather-light on his skin in their wake. He shivers at the gentle stimulation, closing his eyes again. His breathing gets heavier and shakier, and you begin to feel heat pool within you once more. You pull your head back, straightening up as your stare at him. Leaning your face close to his, you continue to trail your palms down his arms, your fingers lightly pressing into his muscles, mapping out the structure of his body. Eventually you lift your palms, using only your fingers to trail down his forearm, tracing the insides of his wrists. He hardly flinches, likely expecting this, but still shivers at the sensation. “It also tells me…” You continue, your lips mere inches from his, but not daring to move any closer, staring at his cupid’s bow and blonde lashes. Your fingers reach his hands, and you gently pry them from their grip on the stool, moving them to his lap, palms up. You trace your fingers along his rough, calloused palms and fingers, making shapes and patterns. “...That you took more pride in the things you did with your hands.” You press your palms into his and his eyes flutter open, not surprised to find you mere inches from his face. He exhales, his blush deepening. He blinks at you, knowing you still weren’t finished yet.
“Your imperfections lead me to your beauty. That’s why…” You trail off, lifting one hand from his palm and caressing his cheek once more. “...You’re beautiful.”
You begin to pull back, closing your eyes and quickly moving away, beginning to move your knee from between his thighs on the stool. However, he quickly grabs you, his fingers gripping the back of your uniform as he pulls you in. Your knee follows your movements, pushing into his inner thigh on the stool. He sharply inhales, looking down, before looking back up at you with hooded eyes. His eyes still look expectant, as though he still wants more.
“Mon trickster…” He says lowly, pulling you in further. Your knee presses harder against his inner thigh and your upper body closer towards his. He breathes shakily, moving one hand from the back of your uniform to the front, bunching some of it in his grasp. He tilts his head towards you, and you can feel his breath on your lips as your eyes lock with his. Heat flushes through your body again.
“Are there any other… imperfect beauties… that I possess, that you’d like to point out to me?”
rejoice! entertainment be upon ye!
a/n: okay but seriously, i hope u all enjoyed! i wrote this in like,, a few hours? for reference it is like. 5:45 am where i am as i type this LOLLLL! i was up lateee bc i no longer have schoolwork which meansss every spare second i have that im not working working, ill be doing these. anyways! please please pleeeeaaaasssseee leave a like, comment, and a reblog if u liked it! i love 2 know that u loved my work! ik its been a while but i promise 2 try 2 be more active… i swear!! oh, and leave an ask if u have any ideas about other things i should write!
#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland smut#minors dni#rook twst#rook x reader#twst rook#rook hunt#rook twisted wonderland#rook hunt x reader#rook hunt twisted wonderland#rook hunt twst#rook hunt x yuu#rook hunt smut#twst#rook hunt x mc
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Hi darling!~ (I'll immediately stop calling you that if you don't like it/don't feel comfortable lol) Lately your girlies been obsessing over the song 'Older' by Isabel LaRosa that's been going BADSHIT popular on tiktok so I thought I'd spill some thoughts~
Teacher!Vil X Yandere(ish)!Student!Yuu
Summary : Yuu who grew up with a bad father and gained heavy daddy issues gets attached to her teacher after he starts giving her the fatherly love and care she never got, always being nice and checking up on her. at first it's a simple silly crush on her teacher but after time it blooms into an obsession where she starts lusting after him and craves constant validation from him. In her eyes he's the perfect guy, he's older and has more experience, he could never treat her wrong. even though he may be colder from time to time she believes he has a soft spot for her. Poor Yuu when the teacher who she fell so madly inlove with doesn't return her feelings and begins distancing himself from her.... Or will he?..
(Your ending <3)
Surprise me sweetheart ♡
-Prev. 🥀🦋 / Now 🎋🪭
I really like that song, might become my newest obsession...
🖤🖤🖤🖤
Yandere Teacher Vil Schoenheit x Obsessed Student Reader
Vil definitely has that aura of an unbiased but caring mentor much like Crewel. He’s confident and quaint, praising you in any capacity thrills most who receive it. Granted it’s sprinkled with underlying insults and a general lack of faith. But for someone like you, who can barely get your own father to even look at you it means so much more:
So of course you’ll obsess over him
Putting him on a pedestal you’re willing to do anything for
Study and pass his class
Tell on all the naughty potatoes in class
Even framing the professor he’s wanted gone since the beginning
“Well done.”
“R-really?”
“Yes, I’m quite pleased you’ve proven to be more helpful than the other useless potatoes.”
“T-thank you M-Mister Vil!”
He doesn’t stop you or even act like he doesn’t reciprocate
A few light touches
A kiss or two
A nibble of the ear
Your friends warn you when they realize the love of your life is the degrading teacher of etiquette
“This isn’t a good idea…(Y/n) he’s like much older than you.”
“So? That just means he has experience!”
“He’s thinking about retirement!”
“Early retirement!”
“Nooo!”
Nothing really stops you from your newfound love
That is until he crashes the illusion himself
“Oh~Roi du Poison, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the misguided doe?”
“Please, they’re just a tool I’m sharpening. A potato I’ve decided is worth polishing…for the time being.”
It destroys you
What meaning of life is there if he doesn’t even care about yours
You stop showing up to school
You won’t leave your room
“Where is (L/n)?”
“Pft wouldn’t you like to know!”
“We’re not telling you. You don’t deserve to even speak to them.”
“Fine if that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll give your regards to them.”
“What?!” “Wait!”
Unbeknownst to you Vil is very much in love with you
But what did you expect?!
That he’d admit to actually being just as obsessed if not more so than you
He figured the best way to keep you close enough was by taking advantage of your emotional flaw
And while he wasn’t wrong,
he realized the way it’s been going is all too risky
Nosy obstacles friends of yours, suspicious coworkers, gossiping potatoes
It’s just too risky so he’ll promptly resign putting time and energy into his former hobby
Taking the world by storm he’ll disappear
Giving you the so-called space you want so badly
But he’ll be watching
Watching as you mend yourself together only to fall apart again with every new tragedy
Your grades suspiciously slip
Your house is going to be foreclosed
Your father disappears one evening becoming a missing person’s case
And finally, your dear poor friends suddenly die
Catching some sickness after investigating something they refused to tell you about in the forest
It’s there, where you’ve graduated and are at your lowest once again that he makes his move
“It’s been a while, (L/n).”
He’ll skew the events that day claiming the doe was someone else or that it was all a cover
And like that, he’ll slither back into your heart with his leash fully keeping you within his grasp
“For all that trouble, (Y/n) you’re irrevocably mine.”
#yandere x reader#yandere x you#lovelyyandereaddictionpoint#yanderexrea#yandere#yanderes#yandere twisted wonderland#yandere twst#yandere twst x reader#yandere vil schoenheit#yandere vil#yandere vil x reader#yandere vil schoenheit x reader#yandere x gn reader#yandere x gender neutral reader
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Fuck it. UA instructors as...things the staff from my college have done, I guess?
Because it's been three and a half years since I graduated and I miss that place every single day
Principal Nezu
Principal Nezu has everybody's names, faces, and quirks memorized before the first day of school. This is never acknowledged.
(Recovery Girl also learns everybody pretty much right away, but she interacts with them a bit more directly than Nezu, so it doesn't seem quite as weird)
Somehow Nezu manages to both be so chill and yet have no chill.
Nezu once texted Mic to ask if he was available for a call about some program at school and when Mic didn't answer within 15 minutes because he was DRIVING Nezu just called him anyway and was like "is this a bad time? I can call you back :)" Like, no,no, We're both here now, let's have this conversation now. Go ahead
One time Nezu pulled the Big Three out of their classes and brought them into his office to sit them down like he was about to have a Big Serious Conversation, and then he just says "Do you think...it would be possible for you to visit the first year hero classes...and tell them about your experiences? :)" Mirio and Nejire are both going "yeah, sure", while thinking why did we have to get pulled out of class like this was something really important? Amajiki is hyperventilating.
Power loader
Power Loader is like some kind of cryptid.
He just shows up when things need to be fixed, fixes them, and then disappears again. He never says a word. Don't question it, just be grateful and let him stay in his hiding place
Random knowledge. Whenever the rest of the staff has some random question that no one else can answer. Ask Power Loader. He knows. He always know. Don't question that either, he's just one of those kind of people
Power loader and All Might are the only two teachers who were asked to come to UA instead of having to apply
13
Actually 13 falls somewhere inbetween applying and being asked to join the staff, because she kind of created her own job.
She just had a meeting with Nezu one day to be like "Your students need an Unforeseen Simulation Joint! Here's what that means and why you need it" And Nezu went "... :) You're hired!"
All Might
Toughest person anybody knows. Can not handle spicy food.
Everybody loves him. Anybody who doesn't isn't cut out for hero school. This is not bragging, it just happens to be true.
All Might once listed one of his credentials as BAMF. (Izuku absolutely lost it that day)
While discussing I Island with Izuku, All Might very casually stated "My ex husband lives there" as if that isn't an Absolute Bombshell to drop You can't just Say That and NOT ELABORATE WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE AN EXHUSBAND!?!!???? (Izuku lost it even more that day)
Present Mic
Mic has a bad habit of talking a little too fast. Nobody's ever 100% sure what he said.
Also he swears. Like. A lot. Like, he would get in trouble as a student for swearing.
There is a drawer on Mic's desk that's labeled 'Present Mic's Top Secret Hiding Place' and anybody who notices it is just like ??? because it's clearly labeled and Not a Secret. But Mic is very scatter brained and will lose anything as soon as it leaves his eyesight. Having a specific place to put things help with that.
EraserMic
Married. But they don't really talk about it, and they don't act married in front of the students, so a lot of them don't realize it
It's actually surprising because they have pictures of them and their kids on their desks. All you have to do is go to the teacher's office. It's not a secret. It's right there.
There's a class for the second years on like, heroism and personal lives or something. Eraser and Mic get to teach part of that unit because they have experience being married heroes.
One year when Aizawa says that he's married to Mic one of the students asks him why
That same year, when Aizawa reveals that there is one teacher he will never be friends with (like, even more than all the other teachers), just because they have nothing in common other than working at UA, and the same student asks him if it's Mic
People assume Mic gets special treatment as Aizawa's husband. This is not true. If anything, he's more likely to get the short end of the stick and be asked to cover for Aizawa.
Eraser Head
Aizawa forgot that there was supposed to be a chaperone for the remedial licensing training and said he would probably be the one doing it. He was not. He sent Mic. Thus proving the previous statement true.
Bad at interpersonal relationships
Has a bad habit of mumbling. Students are never 100% sure what he said
At some point, the people around him start referring to doing anything overly rational as 'pulling an Aizawa'. Yeah. ...yeah...
#bnha#my hero academia#principal nezu#power loader#bnha 13#all might#present mic#eraserhead#erasermic
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The Comeback Kid
Summary: Jake never expected the one he got away to come back to him. He also never expected the reason why.
Pairing: Hangman x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of mental abuse, intimation. Abortion. Illness. Allusions to smut. Minors DNI 18+
...........................................
At twenty-one years old, Jake Seresin seemed to have it all. He was the starting quarterback for the UT Longhorns, president of his fraternity, on the Dean's list, and had guaranteed acceptance to the US Navy flight school program after graduation. To top it off, he had the most beautiful and amazing girlfriend. He had you.
Yes, life was good for Jake. Up until about six weeks after the Longhorns won the national championship. You disappeared from his life.
You stopped answering his calls. You had dropped out of school. You had moved out of your apartment. To make matters worse, your parents wouldn't tell him anything.
You had vanished without a trace.
Jake was forced to move on. To let you become a phantom, a skeleton in his closet. The one that got away.
It would be a full decade later before you crossed paths with him again in a sea-side, San Diego bar.
When he first laid eyes on you, he thought you were a ghost, and maybe you were.
You and the sins of his past had come back to haunt him.
At first, he thought he was seeing things. What were the odds that the girl he'd never gotten over had just happened to waltz into his favorite hangout?
He took a few steps closer, weaving through the crowd. The closer he got, there was no denying that green-eyed, dark auburn haired beauty in front of him was you.
Your eyes were scanning the room—looking for someone. Jake hoped that if might be him, but he didn't let himself get to attached to the idea. It had been ten years since he'd seen you.
Your eyes met his, and you moved through the crowd quickly and with purpose.
"Jake." You stated once you met him.
"Hi, Sweetheart." He greeted you. "Long time no see." His voice was still as smooth as honey. Even after a decade, he could make your knees weak.
"Jake, I'm not here to flirt. I have something important to talk to you about. Is there somewhere more—private we could go?" You asked him. You looked around the room and noticed some people watching the two of you.
Jake could tell you were serious. He'd always been so good at reading you. "Follow me." He said. He gently placed his hand on the small of your back and guided you out the rear doors of the bar and down to the sand.
His heart was racing. You'd come here looking for him. Maybe, just maybe, you'd missed him just as much as he had missed you. As soon as the two of you were alone, he was going to tell you everything he'd been holding back.
The two of you stopped at the edge of the water. He turned to you and smiled before opening his mouth.
"Sweetheart, you look amazing. I've —I've missed you. Why—why did you leave me? Why did you cut me off? I tried to find you but your parents wouldn't tell me how to get in touch with you." Jake babbled out the moment the two of you are alone. You could hear the hurt in his voice
You're taken aback by his words. You didn't know he felt this way. But how could you?
"I—I didn't leave by choice, Jake." You tell him.
"Wha—what do you mean?" He looks at you confused.
"You father—he told me I had to leave you alone." You say, dropping your eyes.
"What do you mean?" From the way he was reacting, you knew he had no idea about the threats that George Seresin had made against you all those years ago.
"Do you remember the night you won the national championship?" You ask him.
"Of course I do, Sweetheart." Jake replies.
"Do you remember what we did that night?" You continue.
Jake remembered that night fondly. He'd taken you back to his hotel room, and the two of you celebrated his victory tangled up in his sheets.
"Yes." He paused. You can see the gears turning in his brain, but all the dots aren't connecting.
"Well, the next day, I realized I hadn't taken my birth control. I didn't think anything of it until six weeks later." You say.
"Oh my god." He breathes out just as the gears clicked into place.
"You were pregnant." He states.
"Yeah." You admit. "I was afraid to tell you, and when I talked to my parents, they met with yours. Your father said that a baby would ruin your future. He gave my family ten thousand dollars for me drop out, have an abortion, and never speak to you again." You confess. Your voice is heavy with tears.
"So that's why you left? I thought I did something to make you hate me. I thought you didn't love me." Jake's voice cracks.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that alone. That shouldn't have been my father's choice. I would have been there for you. For the baby. We could have been a family!" Jake shouts. He isn't mad at you, you know that. He's mad at what was taken away from him.
He runs his hands through his hair as he paces back and forth across the sand. You've just dropped the first bomb of the evening on him, and his having a hard time processing. You can see the tears glossing over his eyes
"I didn't get the abortion." You tell him. His head snaps up to look at you.
"You didn't?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.
My parents and I moved to the east coast, and I had the baby. A boy. His name is DJ." You tell him.
"A boy? A son? I have a son?" Jake can't stop the tears now as he chokes on the words.
"He's nine, and he looks just like you, Jake." You tell him. He's silent for a moment, trying to process everything.
"Can I see a picture?" He asks. He's afraid you'll say no, but you don't. You pull out the phone and show him picture after picture of DJ.
"He's—He's amazing. Can I—why are you just telling me this now?" Jake asks. It's been years since DJ was born, and he wants to know why all of a sudden you've come back.
"DJ, he—he's sick." You are trying not to cry again. Jake's face drops.
There it is. The other life altering news you have for him. Not only does he have a child, but he also has a child who's dying.
"What—what do you mean?" You hear the worry in his tone.
"He has leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant. I'm not a match, and neither are my parents." You tell him.
"I came here to find you to ask you to get tested to see if you were a match. I wouldn't ask you if I had any other options. Please, Jake. I can't lose my little boy." You couldn't fight the tears any longer. They stream down your face as you beg him for forgiveness. To not let his resentment of you leaving him be the reason he won't help you.
He doesn't say anything. Wordlessly, he pulls you close, tucking you under his chin like he always did.
You buried your face in his chest and sobbed.
"I'll do anything you need." He whispers as he presses a kiss to your hairline.
He stood there slightly, taking it all in.
His father had paid you to disappear.
You'd had his child. He was a father. He had a son.
His son was sick. You needed his help. How could he deny you?
Jake took a deep breath. The idea of fatherhood had never crossed his mind, but now that it was right here in front of him, he knew there was nothing he wouldn't do to help his son.
I hope you guys enjoy this first chapter! As always, likes are great, but comments and reblogs are golden!
Tag List: @pisupsala @shanimallina87 @luckyladycreator2 @mak-32 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @rosiahills22 @roosterscock @roosterforme @hecate-steps-on-me @withahappyrefrain @arson-tm @sebsxphia @potato-girl99981 @caitsymichelle13 @lillyrosenight @callsign-hummingbird @inky-sun @writeroutoftime @afterglowsb-tch13 @heyoimjordy @phoenixssugarbaby @hypatia93 @bradshawseresinbabe @je-suis-prest-rachel @teacupsandtopgun @boringusername3 @starlightstories @daggerspare-standingby @utterlyhopeful-fics @talkfastromance4 @fighterpilothoe @t-nd-rfoot @phoenix1388 @abaker74 @gigisimsonmars @emorychase @wannabeschyulersister @greatszu @shawnsblue @tributetomrsniffles @tv-fanatic18 @angelbabyange @sadpetalsstuff @softmullet @cowboybarbie @shewritesfiction13 @sweetlittlegingy
Special shout out to @thedroneranger for helping me with this!
#top gun maverick#cherrycola27#top gun#jake seresin smut#jake seresin#lt. jake seresin#jake seresin x reader#hangman smut#hangman seresin#jake hangman seresin#hangman top gun#tgm fanfiction#tgm fic#tgm#top gun hangman#top gun 2
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Dinner and a Show
A/N: Ask and you shall receive, loves 🖤
English has always been your favorite subject. There’s something magical about the way twenty-six letters woven together in just the right combination can have a story coming to life, painting a picture behind your eyelids as your brain processes the lines on the page before you. It’s why you applied for graduate school as an English major.
But if your professor uses the phrase duality of man one more time, you might just blow your brains out.
You find yourself doodling random patterns in the corner of your notebook as your thoughts drift to a certain brooding brunette who would likely have much to say about Dostoevsky’s protagonist.
The unsub is a white male, twenty to thirty years old, with narcissistic personality disorder who struggles to reconcile his mediocre place in society with what he believes to be an above-average intelligence.
Your phone buzzing on the desk beside you breaks you out of your reverie, and you flip it over to see a notification from your bank. A grin threatens to split your face in half as you open your messaging app and scroll down to AH 🖤.
Were your ears ringing? I was just thinking about you 😍
Before you have a chance to lock your phone, the speech bubble pops up and taunts you with its three flashing dots. It disappears, reappears, and then your phone buzzes once more.
I know you have class. Pay attention.
Says the guy who just distracted me with a nice little pre-weekend deposit
Is that your way of saying thank you, brat?
You feel a familiar heat prickling the back of your neck and take a quick look around to make sure your classmates are focused on the lecture. Hiding your phone in your lap, you hunt through recent pictures until you find a specific photo: a shot of your body from the neck down, clad in a lacy red set that barely counts as underwear. Attaching the image to your text, you shoot back a response.
No Daddy... THIS is 🥰
Shuffling from all around you alerts you to the fact that class has mercifully ended, and you stand to gather your things, slipping your phone into the back pocket of your jeans. You make plans to meet up with a classmate at a coffee shop on Sunday to peer edit each other’s final papers for the course, then start your trek to the parking lot. As you approach your car, your phone begins vibrating incessantly and you tuck it between your ear and shoulder after accepting the call. “House of Hotchner’s whores, how may I serve you today?”
You receive an exasperated sigh in response, but you can hear the grin behind it. “What if it wasn’t me on the other end, hm?”
Climbing into the driver’s seat, you give your phone a moment to connect to the Bluetooth system before firing back, “No one else calls me, old man.”
“This old man can easily revoke the allowance he just gave you.” He speaks in a low murmur, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s making this illicit call from his office.
“Wow,” you laugh warmly, “you just went from Daddy to Dad in record time.”
“Please, for both of our sakes, don’t ever say that again.” Another laugh punches out of you and you relent, “Deal.” Then, after a beat, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
He sighs again, this time with true remorse. “No, angel, I’m sorry. We just got a case out in LA.”
“Alright, go save the world, Mister Unit Chief,” you tease. “I’ll do the hard work of keeping you entertained while you’re gone.”
His voice drops even lower, now tinged with a gruffness that sends a bolt of heat through your body. “Thank you, Princess. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I know you will,” you purr, knowing that the longer wait will make your reunion all the more satisfying. “Be safe.”
“Always.” You go to hang up the phone but pause when you hear him take a breath. “Princess?”
“Hm?”
“Get something purple this time.”
_____
Several hours and a stupid amount of money to be spent in one shopping spree later, you trundle up the stairs to your second floor apartment, arms laden with shopping bags. You let yourself in before closing and locking the door behind you, then head down the hallway to drop your purchases off in your bedroom. After a luxurious bath to wash the grime of the week away, you pull on one of Aaron’s t-shirts from your steadily growing collection and are preparing to settle on the couch to peruse takeout options when a knock sounds at the door. As if on cue, your phone lights up on the nightstand with a text.
Dinner’s on me, angel. Sorry I’m not there to enjoy it with you.
A pleasant warmth settles in your bones at Aaron’s thoughtfulness, and you open the door to find a delivery from your favorite Vietnamese restaurant and a bottle of Moscato to accompany it. After getting comfortable with your dinner on the couch, you hunt through your rented movies for the Fifty Shades trilogy and press play before typing out a response.
Keep spoiling me like this and I won’t know how to act
You’re my Princess- You deserve to be spoiled.
A giggle bubbles out of you and you resist the urge to kick your feet like a teenager with a raging crush. Instead, you opt for a much more dignified reply.
Thank you Daddy 🥰
With twenty minutes remaining in the sequel, feeling emboldened by several glasses of wine and the content playing before you, you send another text to Aaron.
I can’t wait to show you what I spent all your hard earned money on today 😘
He has yet to answer by the time the credits are rolling and you recall that, much to your dismay, he’s three hours behind you and probably still at the local precinct. Deciding that you’ll read to pass the time, you finish off your wine and put your leftovers in the fridge before heading to your bedroom. You open up a video call on your laptop and send an invitation to join to Aaron, then settle back against your pillow with your latest novel.
A few chapters in, you recognize that trying to distract yourself is a feeble affair when your eyes gloss over the same paragraph several times in a row. Giving up on the book, you place it on your nightstand and let your hands wander your body just as Aaron’s would. Wearing his shirt has you cocooned in his distinct smell, and you can’t help but close your eyes and imagine he’s there with you, touching you, teasing you. Desperately wishing it was his large hands caressing your curves instead of your own, you gently cup your breasts and roll your nipples between your fingers, hips arching upward of their own accord in search of some friction. You ignore the budding heat between your thighs, continuing to play with your nipples and enjoying the way the soft fabric of Aaron’s shirt heightens every sensation. Before long, soft pants are falling past your lips and your panties are soaked with your arousal.
One hand comes down to grip the edge of Aaron’s shirt as the other dips beneath the band of your underwear. You take it slow, drawing languid circles around your core, and you can practically hear the low rumble of his voice against the shell of your ear, telling you that You haven’t earned it yet. Sliding your middle finger between your folds, you try to imagine it’s Aaron’s thick cock, right where you want it but not giving in. He loves to watch you fall apart before he’s even inside you, letting your slick gather along his cock, the tip nudging against your clit now and then. The very thought has a low whine building in your throat, and you brush the pad of your finger over your sensitive button to draw out the fantasy.
Unable and unwilling to deny yourself any longer, you hook your thumbs into your panties and shimmy them down your legs, kicking them off across the room. Your middle finger circles your nub once more, and then you ease two fingers into your core until your knuckles stop you from pressing any further. You whimper at the sensation, pleased with the fullness but frustrated it’s just not right, aching for Aaron to work his magic on your body. Letting out a determined huff, you clamp down on your bottom lip and begin working your fingers in and out of your pussy in earnest, your other hand coming down to collect your slick and spread it over your nub. You dig your heels into the mattress, raising your hips to try and mimic the angle of Aaron fucking into you, steadily increasing the speed of your fingers as pathetic little mewls fall past your parted lips. Your whines turn into full blown moans, and your cries are rising in pitch when you realize you’re no longer alone.
“Got tired of waiting for me, huh, Princess?”
Putting a pause on your self-care, you blink the haze of arousal out of your bleary eyes and find Aaron seated at a desk, presumably in his hotel room. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the top two buttons of his crisp white button down undone and showing off a tantalizing sliver of chest. His mouth is set in a hard line in an attempt at disapproval, but even through the slightly grainy image you can spot the gleam in his smoldering eyes.
Using your foot to nudge the laptop between your legs, you give Aaron a clear view of your fingers resuming their path of easing in and out of your soaking wet pussy. You simper, “Just getting warmed up for you, Daddy.”
“What a good girl,” he breathes out, gaze locked on your core. “Turn towards me, let me see all of you.”
You obediently change positions, scooting your laptop back so he can see a majority of your body, and his breath hitches when he spots the shirt you have on. “Is that mine?”
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fluttering shut as your middle finger circles your clit, and nod. “I hope you don’t- fuck- mind. Smells like you.”
“Whatever makes my little girl happy,” he says, and you nearly purr at the name. When you open your eyes again, you pout at the sight of him still in the same position. He picks up on your disappointment immediately and asks, “What is it?”
“Can you-” Your cheeks grow warm with a sudden shyness and you duck your head before softly requesting, “Wanna see you, Daddy.”
He raises one eyebrow at you, arms crossed, fixing you with that look. “Daddy’s right here for you to see. Use your words and tell me what you really want.”
A shudder races down your spine at his commanding tone coupled with your thumb brushing over your clit, and you suddenly find your voice. “What I really want is your fingers in my mouth and your fat cock in my pussy but-” A wanton moan interrupts your thought as your fingers curl against the perfect spot. “Right now I’d settle for just seeing your cock.”
“Was that so hard?”
You smirk at him as he rises from the desk and moves to the bed, settling in a reflection of your position with the laptop beside him. “Not as hard as you are right now.”
“Bold of you to assume, little one.” He laughs at how quickly you’ve adopted your brazen attitude, the sound rich and warm as it fills every corner of your bedroom.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you challenge, slowly drawing your fingers out of your pussy.
You hear him unzip his work slacks, the familiar sound sending yet another bolt of heat to your core, before he growls out, “I can’t.”
“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, utterly mesmerized by the sight before you. Aaron is lazily fisting his rock hard cock, pausing to swipe his thumb over the head and gather the precum there before gliding his hand down to the base and gently squeezing until the vein on the underside is pulsing and your mouth is watering. Your body responds instinctively, walls clenching around nothing and desperate to be filled, your clit throbbing with need. Gathering the fresh wave of arousal dripping down your thighs, you press your fingers back into your hole and let out a frustrated cry. “It’s not enough.”
“Look at me,” Aaron says, his voice gentle but commanding, always in tune with what you need. You lift your gaze to meet his on the screen and he continues, “You’re not going to bed until we get you to cum, do you understand?”
You nod, and he praises you with a small smile. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Princess,” he begins, your eyes tracking his every movement as he slowly works his hand over his length. “You’re going to put three fingers in your mouth- go ahead, do it now,” he encourages, waiting for you to place your index, middle, and ring fingers in your mouth before continuing, “and get them nice and wet for me. Close your eyes and imagine they’re mine. Can you do that for me, baby girl?”
You close your eyes and mumble an affirmative around your fingers while your head drops into a nod, the taste of your own arousal bursting over your tongue as you swirl it around the digits. “Such a good girl,” Aaron coos, and you once again clench around nothing at the pride woven through his words. “You just love having my fingers in your mouth, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you cry, the sound muffled by your digits as drool slips out between the corner where your lips meet.
“Now take your fingers out of your mouth and let me see those beautiful eyes.” You do as he says, eager to please, and Aaron lets out a ragged, “Fuck,” at the sight of your lust-blown pupils framed by delicate lashes. “Slide your fingers into that pretty little pussy all the way, then hold still for me. Just like when I’m fucking you, yeah, Princess?”
Your mouth drops open and you take a shuddering breath at the stretch. “Now what?”
“You’re going to watch me and do exactly what I do. Your fingers, my cock. Got it?” A slow grin spreads across your face and you nod eagerly, understanding his premise. He slides his fist up the length of his cock and you ease your fingers out of your pussy, perfectly matching his unhurried pace. “Good girl,” Aaron breathes out, “just like that.”
He slowly builds up to a steady rhythm, the sound of his fist repeatedly meeting his pelvis joining with your fingers pulsing in and out of your sopping cunt to form a depraved symphony. You watch your lover on the other side of the country, transfixed by the way his typical stoicism is dissolving before you into guttural moans and hedonistic cries of your name. He bites down on his lip, determined to not break eye contact with you as you both fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut from pure pleasure. Aaron tugs his tie off and tosses it away, then hurriedly unbuttons his shirt, all the while working his fist over his length. Even in the dim lighting of his hotel room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his skin, and saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of running your tongue over every delicious inch of him when he returns home. You tell him as much, in vivid detail, and he releases a low groan that reverberates throughout your room.
“I’m so close, Daddy,” you whine, and you see his pace beginning to falter as well.
“I know you are, Princess. Doing so well for me,” he pants, now squeezing the base of his cock on every downstroke. With Aaron, you always come first- in every sense of the word. “I need you to cum for me. Need you to clench that pretty pussy around my cock so I can fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it, baby?”
“Fuck yes,” you cry out, feeling your walls clamp down around your fingers in response to his words. “Gonna be a good girl for you, Daddy,” you babble, “always wanna be your good girl.” Your entire body tenses and your breath stutters in your throat just before the coil deep in your belly snaps and a desperate cry of Aaron’s name bounces off the walls of your bedroom. His moans grow louder and longer, his cock feverishly thrusting up into his hand until he finally gives in to his orgasm, thick ropes of cum coating his hand and stomach.
Lying back in bed to give yourself a few beats to calm your erratic breathing, you quip, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous of a hand before.”
You hear Aaron’s warm laugh from a distance and then he’s filling your screen once more, now clean and fully sans clothing. “Trust me when I say the feeling is mutual.”
Propping yourself up on one elbow, you smile at the handsome man before you. “You know what my next purchase is gonna be?”
“Enlighten me.”
“A mold of your cock so I’m never without you.”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffs immediately. “Then you won’t need me anymore.”
“Of course I’ll still need you! Who else is going to fund my lavish lifestyle?”
He grunts, unenthused, the hint of a smile making his lips twitch. “Brat.”
You scrunch your nose in delight and grin at him. “Thank you for my little shopping spree today. And for tonight, of course.”
“My pleasure, angel,” he answers warmly. “Same time tomorrow, if our case continues on this trajectory.”
With a playful laugh, you tease, “You wish.”
He grows serious, mouth setting in a hard line. “I’m sorry, Princess, you mistook that for a question- it wasn’t.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Unit Chief,” you respond through a nervous giggle with a mock salute.
“That’s my girl,” he breaks into a soft smile once more. “Get yourself cleaned up, drink some water, and get a good night’s rest, okay?”
You nod obediently and blow him a kiss. “Goodnight, Aaron.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.” You go to exit the call, then stop when he calls your name, raising an eyebrow in question. “Save what you bought until I get home. I want to see you in my shirt again tomorrow.”
_____
Hotch taglist: @gothwifehotchner
#aaron hotchner#unit chief daddy#sugar daddy edition#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x reader smut#aaron hotchner smut#aaron hotchner imagine#criminal minds#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds smut#criminal minds fic#sugar daddy!hotch#aaron hotchner x y/n#hotch x female reader#hotch x y/n#hotch x you#hotch smut
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you wanting me tonight feels impossible || George Weasley
Title: you wanting me tonight feels impossible
Pairing: George x Reader
Summary: running into an old friend just might be the thing you need
Warnings: mentions of cheating but it does not take place between George and the reader!
A/N: here she is, the next part! Honestly writing this fic gave me major nostalgia vibes, to me it feels like a fic I would have written back when i first started on tumblr and honestly im not mad about it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Y/N?”
She turns at the sound of her name, eyes widening in surprise at who she finds standing behind her.
“Oh no way. George, hi,” Y/N greets. Her stomach flutters at the grin that spreads across his face, her mouth running dry at how good he looks.
The last time she’d seen George they were seventeen, and he was flying away from Hogwarts with Fred by his side. Most people had been laughing, overfilled with joy at watching the twins get one last prank over on old Umbridge before they disappeared into the night. And Y/N had been happy too, but she also found herself a bit mournful.
Her and George weren’t exactly friends she’d say, but acquainted in the way people from other houses were with each other after being in the same classes for seven years. They were friendly with each other in the halls and in classes, and the few times they’d been paired up for projects George had always been nice, and stuck around to talk with her about things unrelated to school or their coursework.
And like most girls in their school, she had a massive crush on him. Y/N had spent countless hours pining after the Weasley boy, doodling hearts around his name and imagining what it would be like to run her hands through his soft ginger hair.
So watching him fly away left her sad and mourning any chance she may have had with him.
To see him here now, older and more refined but still as handsome as ever, has her heart pounding, mind already going places she never thought it would go again.
“I thought that was you. How’ve you been?” George asks, holding his arms out for a hug. When she steps into his embrace he continues, arms wrapping around her middle. “It’s been ages, I never really see you around here.”
Y/N tries to keep her breathing even as George hugs her, not wanting to give away how much his casual touch is affecting her. She very much feels like that shy school girl she once was, no matter how many times she tries to remind herself that she is an adult now, and it’s perfectly normal for two acquaintances who haven’t seen each other in a while to hug.
“I moved abroad after graduation,” she explains as they pull away, hoping the blush on her cheeks isn’t obvious. “I was doing some work with magical creatures in Australia, but I started to miss home.”
Y/N decides to leave out the fact that what really prompted her arrival back to England was the discovery of her fiance in bed with a woman she considered to be her best friend, figuring that’s more of a conversation the second or third time they see each other. If they see each other again. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up.
“Don’t tell me you’re the new professor at Hogwarts?” George asks, a twinkle in his eye. When Y/N nods in affirmation, he laughs. “No way, that’s bloody brilliant. Fred and I are opening a branch of Wheezes up in Hogsmeade, I’m moving up there next week to run it. Looks like we’re going to be neighbors,” he finishes, nudging Y/N and giving her a wink.
“Guess so,” Y/N laughs, trying to dampen the butterflies in her stomach. “It’s actually quite a relief to hear that, I was a bit nervous about being up there with no company besides my old professors. I’m glad to have a familiar face around.”
George’s grin widens. “I’ve gotta run, but it was really nice to see you again, Y/N. I’ll see you again soon.”
Just as quickly as he was there he’s gone again, just like all of those years ago. But Y/N doesn’t feel sad. There’s just one thing she’s feeling, really:
Hope.
-
“Fancy seeing you here.”
The grin that spreads across her face is automatic at the sound of George’s voice, and Y/N has to take a few deep breaths to center herself before turning around to greet him. She’s excited to see a matching smile on George’s face, and it only fuels the butterflies that have started to flutter in her lower belly.
“George,” she greets, motioning to the empty seat next to her in invitation. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” George starts as he takes a seat, shoulder nudging Y/N’s. “I was starting to think you were just a figment of my imagination.”
She can’t help the flush that takes over her cheeks, hoping it can be chalked up to the heat in the room from the crowded bar. Y/N has been up at Hogwarts for almost a week now, and while getting ready for classes and settling into her new suite at the castle has been time consuming, she’s been avoiding heading into Hogsmeade. It’s not that she hasn’t been dying to run into George again, because that is definitely something she has thought about nonstop since their last chance encounter.
It’s more like she’s been scared to see him again, scared that whatever old feelings their chance encounter dragged back to the surface aren’t returned. That she has been dying to see him again while George was off living his life, not giving Y/N and their brief reunion another thought.
But even in just these few short moments since he sat down, Y/N feels all those fears fading away. George is the one who sought her out, the bar is crowded enough that she’d have been none the wiser if he snuck in and took a seat somewhere else to try and avoid her. And yet he is the one who came over, the one who took a seat and decided to settle in at her side.
Y/N can’t help but hope that this isn’t one sided after all.
“Things have been busy up at the castle,” she explains, not totally lying. With only one week left until students arrive for the start of the year, even Filch has been on edge - constantly mumbling to Mrs. Norris as he mops the Great Hall for the fourth time. “This is the first night I haven’t been so exhausted that I fell asleep right after dinner.”
George chuckles, taking a sip of the firewhiskey Rosmerta has just placed on the bar in front of him. “I know the feeling. We did a bit of a soft launch this week for the new store, thinking it would be less busy without all the students around so I would have a chance to work out all the hiccups and get my new staff trained, but it was crazier than anticipated. So now I’ve spent the last few evenings working overtime to get everything sorted for our actual grand opening next weekend.”
“Look at you,” Y/N teases, bumping their shoulders together in a playful gesture. “Never thought I’d see the day George Weasley was putting in overtime. You sure you’re the same George who used to sleep through transfiguration?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” he drawls, giving Y/N a wink that makes her heart flutter. “I’ll have you know that I retained more information by sleeping through McGonagall’s lessons instead of daydreaming during it.” He pauses then, a more serious look taking over his features. “But in all honesty, it’s so different when it’s something you’re passionate about - ya know?”
Y/N nods when George looks to her for confirmation, prompting him to continue.
“You’re right, in school I couldn’t be arsed to do more than what was required of me to not get kicked out. Though I guess it doesn’t really matter on account of the fact that Fred and I never finished anyway,” he pauses to chuckle and take another drag from his glass. “But doing everything for Wheezes, it doesn’t really feel like work. Like obviously at the end of the day I’m bloody exhausted and some days my whole body aches, but in the moment when I’m doing it, or when I stop to think about everything Fred and I have managed to achieve, I don’t really mind it at all.”
Hearing George speak so passionately about his work makes Y/N fall just a little bit more in love with him, and at the end of his speech she has to take a sip from her own glass to give her some time to think of something to say that’s not some kind of love confession.
“I’m really happy for you, George. You’re clearly passionate about what you do, and I’m glad that you found that for yourself.”
George’s cheeks flush, and he takes another sip to try and hide it. “What about you, Y/N? Have you found your passion?”
The way he mutters passion makes Y/N’s toes curl, and she prays to Godric that the shiver that runs down her spine isn’t noticeable.
“I thought I did,” she starts, shifting uncomfortably. She figured this conversation would come up eventually, but Y/N had been hoping she’d have more time to reconnect with George before airing out all of her dirty laundry. “The work I was doing in Australia was incredible. I could swear some of the creatures out there were straight out of a muggle fantasy novel, they were nothing like we’d ever learned about at Hogwarts.”
“So then why move back here?” George prompts when she hesitates to continue.
“I came home early from work one day, one of our dragon’s eggs had hatched, and my boss let everyone go home to celebrate. And when I walked in I couldn’t find my fiance anywhere, until I went into our bedroom to change and he was there. In bed. Railing my best friend.”
The noise George makes causes her to pause, and Y/N gives him a sad smile before continuing. “I loved Australia, but suddenly I just really needed to get the fuck out of there, you know? Like it’s a huge continent and yet the only way I felt like I could put enough space between myself and that situation was to leave. So when McGonagall reached out about the position at Hogwarts I said yes and didn’t look back.”
“Holy fuck,” George breathes after a moment of silence, draining the rest of the liquid in his cup. “I’m not gonna lie, Y/N, that was the last possible thing I thought you might say. But holy fuck.” He gives her a look, motioning for Rosmerta to refill their glasses.
“I’m sorry those dickwads did that to you, cheating is probably one of the worst things someone could do to you,” he continues once their cups are full again. “I’m sorry about Australia too, I can’t imagine having to leave Wheezes behind, it takes a special person to walk away from that.”
Y/N shrugs, desperately trying to trample down the butterflies in her stomach at George’s casual compliments. No matter how many times she tries to remind herself that George is just being a good friend, her brain can’t help but interpret his actions as something more.
“I mourned the loss of my relationship and Australia for a bit, but I don’t know. Something about being back home at Hogwarts just feels right.”Something about being here with you too, her brain adds unhelpfully. “I mean, if I had stayed in Australia I never would have ran into you that day,” she chides, playfully bumping their shoulders together.
The grin that spreads across George’s face is earth shattering, and he lets out a laugh as he raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers, Y/N, to old friends and new beginnings!”
As their glasses clink together Y/N can only hope that her new job at Hogwarts isn’t the only new beginning they’re toasting.
-
“Well I must say your workplace looks much more fun than mine,” Y/N jokes as she comes up behind George, giving him a grin as he twirls around to see her. “And miraculously it seems much louder as well,” she continues following a roar of laughter.
“Y/N!” George greets excitedly, his smile stretching across his entire face. “I was hoping I might see you here today.”
She can feel her cheeks flush, and takes a deep breath in to try and quell the butterflies in her stomach. “Of course, there’s no place I’d rather be on my first day of freedom.”
Since the day students arrived at Hogwarts, Y/N has barely had time to breathe - let alone sneak down to Hogsmeade. Between planning her lessons, actually giving those lessons, grading assignments and fielding student questions and visits to her office, the only thing Y/N has managed to do once she retires to her quarters in the evening is pass out face first into bed. And while her and George have exchanged a few owls here and there since their last encounter, nothing beats actually seeing him in person.
So when McGonagall asked for staff volunteers to chaperone the first Hogsmeade trip of the term, Y/N’s hand was first in the air. She’d much rather spend her Saturday meandering through the little village than facilitating weekend detention. And if she happened to wander into the new shop along main street that’s run by a familiar ginger boy - then so be it.
“I’m honored,” George responds. He gestures wildly with his hand, taking a step closer to Y/N so he can lean in closer. “Let me give you the grand tour.”
George leads Y/N around the shop then, pointing out different products and explaining what they do. He keeps a hand pressed to the small of her back to keep her close, and the heat of his palm sends tingles radiating through her body. She’s mesmerized by the way he talks about his work, and Y/N is almost too focused on watching his eyes twinkle that she’s not even sure what he’s actually saying most of the time. At one point he even leans in to whisper in her ear so she can hear him over the noise of the store, and the feeling of his breath brushing her cheek sends a wave of shivers down her spine.
It seems like only a matter of minutes before Y/N and George end up back where they started, and much to her surprise and joy, George doesn’t make a move to pull away. His hand stays firmly pressed against Y/N’s back, and she takes the liberty to lean in even closer to the ginger man.
“So,” George murmurs, lips barely brushing against her hair. “What do you think of the place?”
“It’s great, George,” she answers honestly, still in awe of everything Fred and George have managed to build over the last few years. “You can tell how much you really care about what you do, and the creativity George, your mind is incredible.”
A light blush coats George’s cheeks as he waves away Y/N’s praise. “Oh stop, it’s not like I’m a professor or anything,” he teases, giving her a nudge. “I’m just a silly guy with a brother and a dream - that’s all.”
“George,” Y/N admonishes, nudging him right back. “You really are brilliant, and anyone who’s ever made you doubt that is a git. What you and Fred have done is amazing, you’ve taken your passion for something and turned it into this empire that does nothing but bring joy to people. That took a lot of hard work, dedication and skill. It’s incredible George - truly.”
Neither one says anything, just letting Y/N’s words hang heavy between them. The noise of the shop has faded into the background, electricity so heavy in the air Y/N can feel it tingle on the tip of her tongue. George starts to slowly lean down just as she starts to tip her head back, their bodies moving closer of their own accord.
Eyelids fluttering closed, Y/N can feel George’s breath ghost across her lips - the only thought in her head a quietly whispered “finally.”
Just as suddenly as they came together, Y/N and George separate as a worried voice calls out. “Professor! Professor, come quick! John and Thomas are fighting again!”
“Duty calls,” George sighs, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Y/N’s ear. He lets his thumb drag down across her jaw, pausing momentarily to lightly grapes her chin. “See you soon?”
All she can manage in response is a nod. Taking one more moment to mourn what could have been, she rushes away from George, cursing those damn kids to hell.
-
“Excuse me professor - do you have a moment?”
Y/N’s hand pauses mid scribble, fingers practically snapping the quill she’s holding in half as she looks up to find none other than George Weasley standing in the doorway to her office. The smile that spreads across her mouth matches the one George is wearing and she pushes the papers she’d been grading, gesturing for him to come in.
“I think I may be able to spare a moment just for you,” she teases. Y/N stands up from behind her desk, watching George closely as she comes around to stand in front of him. “How in the hell did you get in here?”
George chuckles, stuffing his hands into his packers as he gives Y/N a shrug. “Turns out the secret passages Fred and I used to sneak out of the castle are just as helpful when trying to sneak in to it.”
Y/N tuts, shaking her head as if in shame. “George Weasley sneaking into Hogwarts. What would Fred have to say about that?”
“Fred snuck out plenty of times to go and see a cute girl, I reckon he’d understand me sneaking in to do the same.”
George’s boldness surprises Y/N, and she suddenly can’t make eye contact as her cheeks flush pink. A single finger comes to rest on the underside of her chin, slowly tilting Y/N’s face up so she and George are looking at each other once again. Her body feels electric as their eyes meet and a shiver runs down her spine.
“Hi,” George greets breathily after a moment of silence. The smile he gets in response causes a torrent of butterflies to erupt in his stomach and he can feel his heart pounding against his rib cage.
“Hi,” Y/N responds, voice barely above a whisper.
If you had told her all those years ago that someday she’d be standing here right now with George Weasley with his hand pressed against the side of her neck as his thumb skates across her jaw line she would have called you crazy. It seemed impossible that George would even give Y/N a second thought, let alone sneak back into the castle for just a moment with her. All of her dreams are coming true - and Y/N is too tempted to pinch herself to make sure it’s all real.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” George starts. The words move quickly out of his mouth, as if he’s trying to get them all out before he loses the confidence he has managed to scrounge up. “Like since that moment I saw you at the potion shop all those months ago. My one regret from our school days was that I never got the nerve to ask you out. And then when I never saw you in the shop or around Diagon Alley I figured I’d missed my chance. So when I saw you that day, standing in the middle of a shop I’d gone to hundreds of times over the years it felt like, I dunno it felt like.”
“A second chance,” Y/N finishes for him, voice lit with disbelief.
George grins, giving a small nod. “Yes, exactly like that. And suddenly you were every thought that occupied my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about running into you again, and the interactions we had in school, what might happen between us now that we’d be living ten minutes from each other. You were just on a loop in my thoughts.”
“It was probably stupid of me,” George continues, eyes never leaving Y/N’s. “We’d had one conversation after years of not speaking and we were never really friends at school but I couldn’t help but feel-.”
“Hope,” she finished again. “And it wasn’t stupid of you, George. Because I felt the exact same way. Seeing you that day made me truly believe that taking that job at Hogwarts was my opportunity for a second chance. A second chance at finding my dream job, of finding my true home, of finding true love. You made me feel that George and I-.”
Except whatever Y/N was about to say disappears from her mind, as George takes the opportunity to interrupt her this time. Without a second thought he finally closes the distance between them, their mouths slotting together so perfectly it was like they were made for each other. Her hands find his shoulders as his find her neck, angling them so he can kiss her deeper.
And there’s still so many things they need to talk about and figure out. But in this moment the only thing Y/N can think about is George, and this weird but beautiful thing they’re about to discover.
#george weasley#george weasley imagine#george weasley fic#gw#harry potter fanfiction#golden#midnights: an anthology
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Can I request Gojo x reader where they r in highschool and Gojo has a very big crush on reader who is as strong as him and is tall beautiful with long hair. But reader later gets into a relationship with another sorcerer ( gojo and yn classmate you name him) whom she loves. He is also handsome but has black hair and green eyes and personality like Nanami but he also loves reader dearly. Gojo was there when reader confessed her love to that guy and Gojo was heart broken 💔. Reader used to kiss her bf in public, buy him expensive stuff, go on dates etc. When gojo , yn and her boyfriend went on a mission she brutally massacred the curses when they hurt her bf and Satoru was always there just looking at yn with sadness. But then yn 's boyfriend cheats on her like when they graduate high school and become teachers . They break up and Gojo uses this opportunity. You plz continue the story but in the end they get married and r known as the power couple
The tale of the strongest couple
paring: Gojo x reader
words: 1,5k
warnings: angst, broken heart, betrayal
a/n: This is short. Sorry.
(bf/n) - Boyfriend's name
Your hair waved gently in the breeze as blue eyes saw your silhouette. Your body was wrapped tightly around the body of the boy you both went to class with. (Bf/n) was tall, but not as tall as Gojo. You could say they were opposites.
Gojo's hair was snow white, and his eyes were the color of the crystal blue of the sea in which pieces of light were immersed.
And (bf/n)? He had black hair and slightly dark green eyes.
He was like a combination of Gojo's best friend Geto and Nanami.
However, he was different from Nanami and Geto. They both knew you had a place in Gojo's heart. Such a big place that always makes him feel warm in his chest when he sees you. And they are really nice. They make sure that Satoru has a chance to show you that you are important to him. That's why they don't bother.
(bf/n)'s different. He doesn't care that there was always more between you and Gojo. Even if you were friends. Well, he fell in love and then left. Within a year, he already had three girlfriends.
You were his fourth girlfriend. He kept telling you that he loves you and no one else. That you are his only one who makes his life full of love.
Every time Gojo heard that, he thought he would throw up. It was such a well-rehearsed lie.
Gojo had a feeling that he might have you as a girlfriend because he thinks you're pretty, and being with you will bring him a pleasant life. Besides, you're both strong sorcerers.
Only problem was you were stronger than him.
You were so beautiful, you deserved more than he did.
But Gojo he couldn't force you to fall out of love with him.
He couldn't force you to fall in love with him.
Even if he loved you so much.
His hand with flowers for you slowly dropped the bouquet to the ground as you hugged your boyfriend.
The leg of the white-haired man accidentally stepped on a flower whose stem broke. Just like his heart.
His smile disappeared.
His eyes were dulled.
He walked away, turning once to see if you noticed him.
You were talking to your boyfriend. You didn't even look where he was standing.
But when he was gone, you looked at the ruined bouquet on the ground.
Shattered like his heart.
You were sorry that Gojo had lost his former glory. He was always able to brighten the atmosphere with a smile when you were going on a mission.
It was different now.
His face was so cold. Devoid of any warmth.
He was filled with indifference and sadness.
Why should he care? You don't love him anyway...
And you won't love him...
Your boyfriend does it for him.
He doesn't have to. You are lucky enough. And you don't need him to smile.
So why should he ever smile again?
What for?
Why should he smile when he can't smile at anyone but himself.
Therefore, his face was not shiny.
So many days since you've been with your boyfriend, his warmth has begun to fade.
Until now when you've been together for a few months, all you could feel from him was a chill that hit someone else every time Gojo was around.
Sad, lonely, unloved by the person he loves.
Even though you've always been so close, being with someone else makes their heart freeze. And the longer it goes on, the more it hurts.
At least he hoped his suffering would end somehow.
Maybe when his heart is frozen to feelings, maybe he'll feel better. When he will no longer be able to instill feelings for someone, especially love. Maybe then his sadness will become less? He just needed that answer. Can he become the least sensitive man in the world to escape his suffering and pain.
He can not.
Because you were more worried about others than yourself.
You protected your boyfriend, and you yelled at him when he wasn't doing anything. He was afraid of several curses.
Gojo never liked anyone arguing. But when he saw you arguing with your boyfriend, he felt like it was good for him.
He watched you move, with a small twinkle in his eye.
You didn't have the techniques he had, but you were powerful.
Your boy was strong, but he had a flaw. He was afraid of curses. And the sorcerer had to be crazy and not so afraid of death to think about it all the time.
The guy who hid behind the woman so as not to get hurt too much... And then went to another room to exorcise the weaker curses.
You and Gojo were left alone.
And he couldn't help feeling the ice crumble. Even though there was still sadness in his eyes that you were focusing more on your boyfriend than him...
He was looking at you instead of curses.
And he heard you screaming his name.
He was still sad. But, he thought he might still have a chance.
His back began to fall backwards and he fell to the ground.
You on his belly, watching as the curse that was attacking was stopped by an invisible barrier.
"Satoru-kun!" You screamed, tugging at his uniform to wake him up.
"(y/n)..." he murmured softly, and looked at you lightly.
He sat up and grabbed your arms lifting you up to hug you.
He put his hands on your back and hugged you.
You didn't mind.
He was your friend.
Besides, he'd been acting weird for so many days.
You must give him some consolation.
"I love you..." he whispered with his lips twitching.
His words have been with you forever. And when you went on dates with your boyfriend, you felt like he was so absent...
Gojo, on the other hand, was a little closer to you.
He smiled more than then.
But you still loved your boyfriend.
And he still had a broken heart that, being frozen in place, still beat only for you.
Until one day your heart froze too.
Especially when your cheek was burning from the slap you received from the boy you thought you loved for a year.
Until he finally showed up next to you with another girl. Hugging and kissing her.
Slapping you in the face as you walked over to him and started yelling at him.
Even though you were stronger than him and could have ended it sooner than he expected, you ran away.
Because a broken heart over betrayal hurts more than any wound.
Your only comfort was your friend who held you all night.
He acted like he'd never heard him confess his love for you.
You needed comfort. And you only got it from him.
Your heart has frozen completely.
Your whole strength was so cold. You fought with your might, but there was no pleasant emotion in you.
Your memories weren't nice.
And for the next few years, you would create new ones that would warm your heart.
And the person who did it was none other than Gojo Satoru, whose ice on his heart disappeared the moment he had a chance at your love.
His smile lit up yours.
And at his insistence, you became a teacher at Jujutsu High. To take from the kids some of their happiness that they have.
For so many years your heart has been mended by him.
And his smile made your heart beat to see his happiness.
He acted like you when you were betrayed...
He was sad, he felt that no one was with him.
Because he was heartbroken when you had a boyfriend.
Because he loved you during it...
And he still loves you.
Maybe if you gave him a chance?
Your head was on his chest as you cuddled up to him.
His hand held your head close to him. keeping you comfortable.
"What happened, (y/n)?" He asked calmly, looking at you from behind his blindfold.
"I just..." I muttered, my hands clenching the material around his chest.
"What's wrong? Mochi?" he asked gently.
You liked the way he spoke to you. It was a lovely name.
"I..." you reached for his collar and suddenly pulled him down.
Putting your lips gently on his.
Now you know...
You should have fallen in love with Gojo Satoru from the start.
He has loved you for so many years.
And he took care of you while you took care of others.
You should start writing The Tale of the Strongest Couple from the beginning.
What you started was wrong and painful.
If you had started with life with Satoru, you might have been happiest from the start.
You were now a powerful female sorcerer who is the girlfriend of the strongest sorcerer.
Until one day, some time after that, you felt something hard in the cupcake. And you pulled a diamond ring out of the cream.
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(had to google common kinks because my brain is dead lol sorry)
But
Starker + voyeurism?
Or
Starker + anonymous sex
Oooh let’s try anonymous (errr kinda I took it to a glory hole place)!
-
It started as a joke. It was definitely a joke.
Someone — Peter can’t even remember, because Thor and Bruce had reverse engineered some long lost Asgardian hard liquor and gotten every person in the compound, enhanced metabolism to Actual God to regular human totally shitfaced — someone had complained about the lack of sexual partner options available to bonafide superheroes.
Peter is 97% sure he did not make the original complaint, but less sure if he privately or verbally agreed with the overall sentiment.
Anyway, someone had complained.
Tony, who fell on the human spectrum of easily-shitfaced-from-Asgardian-jet-fuel but also on the unfortunately superhuman liver side, had indulged his one social drink and promptly disappeared to the lab.
A few hours later, the assorted and still standing heroes of Earth had been led on a little drunken excursion by Tony to the compound sublevels. The group arranged a wobbly and cheerful single-file line ordered by height and wove through the gym and past the boxing rings to the locker room style communal showers.
Peter, who did not have the advantage of height compared to the collection of his coworkers (friends?) who were still standing, had been one of the last to see what all the parading had been about.
The last shower stall had been partitioned into two, with shiny new floor to ceiling doors.
The new middle partition — proudly gestured to by Tony in his best Vanna White impression — sported a single hole in the wall.
“This dial here can adjust the size to your… needs,” Tony was saying, giving a practical demonstration of the lever that opened and closed the hole like the aperture function of a camera lens.
Peter would’ve taken notes, but the rush of the alcohol and the implications and the Tony of it all caught up and deafened him with white noise.
—
So, it was a joke. 30 or so assorted superheroes, Avengers and otherwise, knew that a gloryhole existed in the communal showers on level B8 of the compound.
Theoretically, any of them could use it.
Peter wondered obsessively if anyone had tried it, joke or not.
He found himself lingering after a hard workout or training session, eyes closed under the spray of one of the normal shower stalls, and senses on high alert for the echoey pad of footsteps to the end of the room.
Eventually his curiosity graduated and he found himself walking down to the partitioned and private stalls, too. Ostensively just to look. Just to see if one door was closed and not the other. Just to see if anyone might be paying attention and follow him down.
Not that Peter would use the hole with anyone. Probably.
He wasn’t even sure what side he’d pick, or what he’d do — again, not that he was thinking about it.
He absolutely, definitely did not let his exploration take him into the farthest side, the door shutting with a final-sounding soft close clink, the lighting going dim in the stall.
A small green light, unobtrusive but obvious once you knew where to look, had startled him. Occupied.
(He definitely did not enter the little stall five more days in a row until on the fifth he gathered the courage to drop to his knees to asses the height of the hole relative to his mouth and fiddle with the adjustment knob.
Tony was, if nothing else, always the perfect engineer.)
-
Peter was hyper-aware when he was sharing a workout with anyone else. Waited to see if they’d follow him into the locker room.
Sometimes they did and he showered knowing someone else was a stall away. But no footsteps ever wandered to the end of the line of shower stalls.
He wasn’t disappointed, exactly. It was just. Whoever had complained that superheroes couldn’t get laid easily was speaking the truth.
Occasionally he would be working with Tony in the labs, on the rare occasion they were at the compound at the same time, and find himself wondering if Tony remembered the superhero glory hole he’d created several floors below him.
He’d wonder if Tony ever tried it.
He’d wonder if Tony ever thought about Peter trying it. If he’d seen Peter stumble away from the drunken group field trip presentation with blotchy red on his cheeks.
He’d wonder if Tony knew the height was perfect for the distance from Peter’s knees to his mouth.
He’d wonder if he was going a little crazy about the whole Glory Hole Joke.
-
“If I sit in this chair for another minute my back is going to spontaneously throw itself out,” Tony announces from his lab bench.
Peter smirks at him, sparing a glance up from his pipette and beaker. A quip is on his tongue, the perfect time for an old man joke, but the words die in his throat.
Tony is stretching slowly from a sit to a stand, arms over his head, faded t-shirt scrunching up under his armpits to reveal a few inches of soft belly skin dusted with hair.
“Gonna go get a workout in before lunch. Dinner? Midnight snack? Honesty no idea where we’re falling in the meal spectrum right now.”
Peter swallows around his dry throat. “Dinner,” he says, though he also has no clue what time it is. “Probably.”
Tony jerks his thumb toward the elevator across the room. “Maybe I’ll see you down there,” he says.
It sounds so casual. Maybe he will. Peter wants to die a little with how much he wants to see Tony on Floor B8. A little further past the gym than Tony has in mind.
“Maybe,” Peter agrees, turning back to his pipette, which he’s pretty sure has been steadily dropping too much of the base into his reactive acid this entire time.
-
Peter spends 10 minutes cleaning up his lab bench and another 5 staring blankly at the elevator doors.
The cheerful and non-descript elevator AI asks him what floor he wants three separate times. Peter is glad it isn’t FRI or KAREN. They’d have called him out by now.
“B8,” he says.
He walks out of the elevator with purpose, resolved to head to the rowing machine and get a pre-dinner workout in with Mr. Stark, shake off his nervous and pent-up energy until it’s sweat out of his system.
There’s a small snag in his plan. Tony is running on the omni-directional treadmill, back to Peter. He has Starkphones in, completely sound proof.
Peter licks his lips at the sight of the sweat on Tony’s back, the way it causes his shirt to cling to his spine.
He makes a split second decision, borne maybe of too many late night fantasy scenarios to count. It’s easy to walk past the treadmill and cross to the other end of the facility, past the boxing rings.
It’s easy to walk down the line of shower stalls, the overhead lights pinging on instantly as he walks further and further, steps getting quicker.
It’s — it’s not perfectly easy, he has to stop and take a breath before he walks into the farthest partitioned side of the glory hole. But then it is done: the door softly closes, the little green LED flicking on, and all Peter has to do is sink down to his knees.
All Peter did was walk across a room but his heart is beating wildly like he just went stealth mode on a dangerous stake out.
The reality is Tony didn’t notice Peter even enter the gym. He might finish his workout and go up to his own expansive compound rooms to shower. He might shower here, the echo of water driving Peter insane with mental images, and never even glance down to see the subtle green light.
He might see the green light, know that Peter is there, and leave anyway.
Peter bangs his head softly against the wall, nose catching the human-sized opening awkwardly, and resigns himself to letting his legs go numb from the knees down while he waits with all his hope in his throat, anyway.
-
A soft noise, the woosh of the main locker room door, makes every hair on Peter’s arms stand up.
He swallows, pitching forward in his enclosed stall as if that will bring him closer to the source of the noise.
It could be someone else, though Peter has no idea who could be on the weekend roster.
There’s a rustle of clothing he barely needs to strain to hear. The soft thump of something hitting the ground. The hiss of the pipes, not on a human frequency, before the spray of the water gushes out of a distant shower head.
The shower is over quickly, Peter notes, though time has gone soft and slippy. He closes his eyes.
Footsteps. Toward him. The slight air sound of a door opening. The well-known click of the private stall door shutting.
Oh, god. There is someone across from him. Peter forgets to breathe for a second entirely and has to fight from making a sound as he chokes between two inhales.
He can no longer distinguish the small noises from the rushing in his own ears.
The first movement in the hole nearly startles him; just a play of shadows as someone gets ready on the other side.
Then: a cock. It slides through, half-hard, resting thick and plump along the bottom edge of the hole as it passes through. The owner of the cock feeds it all the way, the fat head bending downward and then bobbing up. Toward Peter.
Peter inhales; the scent is clean and his lungs struggle to fill all the way. He rocks forward, drawn to the half-comical, half-arousing reality of the anonymous cock through the hole.
Is it really anonymous? Statistically, Peter thinks it should be Tony. He was in the gym. Would he know it was Peter on the other side? Tony invited Peter down to workout, so the odds were decent the other way around.
Tentatively, Peter darts his tongue out to lick across the head of the cock. It’s flushed darker than the root, and the salty sweet of it blooms on Peter’s tongue.
He may have just licked Tony Stark’s fat cock head for the first time. The idea of it thrills Peter to his bones, his own cock throbbing against the zip of his jeans.
There’s a chance it isn’t Tony.
Peter licks a bolder stripe across the head, swirling around the ridge. His saliva glands are over active, he’s practically drooling already at the idea of this.
There’s a chance it’s someone else. Peter may never even find out.
His cock twitches at that, too. Fuck. He wraps his lips around the entire head, drenching it with his own slick excitement as he opens his mouth up further and slides down several inches in his eagerness.
He gags, pulls back, and returns immediately.
The man on the other side of the wall is silent, but a slight bang against the wall — the slap of someone’s hand to the partition, as if Peter’s already doing such a good job they can’t help it — makes Peter shove more of the warm cock between his lips to muffle any of his own noises.
If he moaned, he’s sure someone could pick out the octave of his voice and just know. They’d know Peter is twenty seconds into this and already drooling for it.
Tony would know for sure. The thought makes Peter palm his own cock, wishing he’d thought to unzip his jeans while he waited, but not wanting to stop to focus enough to do so now.
He would’ve felt so pathetic, waiting alone, pants undone and cock half-hard with anticipation. Now, he’s stuck curling his fingers against the denim of his fly and worrying he might leak precome through his briefs and jeans by the end of this.
He tongues along the bottom vein of the cock in front of him, marveling at the weight of it and at the stretch of his lips around it as they drag slickly up and down. The angle is decent, but still strange, his neck stiff as he tries to bob back and forth to take the entire thing.
The cock in his mouth is definitely fully hard now, pulsing and flexing against Peter’s tongue, the tip bursting an addictive drop of precome every few passes. The taste is such a contrast to the soap-clean skin of the length that every taste forces Peter to swallow back a moan.
His nose mashes slightly against the wall when he focuses enough to take as much as he can down his throat. It feels deliriously good, a sense of terribly slutty pride coursing through him every time his nose hits the partition over the hole.
He’s slid all the way down when the owner of the cock abruptly slides back out.
Peter’s mouth opens around an unvoiced protest, barely catching a whine from spilling out before the cock slides back in, fucking back between Peter’s parted swollen lips and down his open throat.
He does moan at that, deep and hopefully muffled by his mouth full of cock.
Peter catches on quickly: he can keep his mouth open, his forehead and nose pressed hard against the wall, and the stranger on the other end can simply fuck his mouth.
It’s so simple to stay still, dragging his tongue back and forth and dragging his hand over his own trapped cock while he gets efficiently face fucked. It’s almost dream-like, two pinpoints of focus — the stranger’s pleasure and Peter’s pleasure — taking up all the space in his brain.
A hand slaps the wall on the other side again, harder this time, the cock in Peter’s mouth tensing and pulsing before his throat is coated with come.
Peter comes in his own pants, hips frantically bucking as he swallows down several continuous seconds of anonymous come. He bangs his head on the wall, hard, trying to balance and keep his position at the same time.
When the cock slides out from between hips lips, dragging and lingering on Peter’s bottom lip for a moment before disappearing, Peter falls back against the tile and inhales sharply.
He waits for the click of the door on the other side of the wall and for the padding of the feet to disappear. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to try and figure out if he recognizes the sound and weight of the softly echoing feet.
He forgets about dinner, peeling himself off the floor eventually and floating all the way to his room.
-
In the morning, Peter is slow to rise, feeling heavy-limbed and not awake enough to revisit the previous night.
When he finally manages to roll out of bed and head to the communal kitchens, the line of Tony’s back at the breakfast bar greets him first.
Peter flashes to the sweat-soaked gym shirt from the night before and swallows around a suddenly dry mouth once again.
“Hey shortstack,” Rhodes calls from the other side of the counter.
Peter gives him a tired salute, covering for his slight startle, and heads for the fridge behind Tony.
“You two see any ghosts while you were rattling around this place all by your lonesomes last night?” Rhody asks.
Peter just catches himself from overpouring his orange juice onto the counter as the dots connect in his head. He never did look at the weekend security roster.
Surely Rhody can’t mean he and Tony were the only—
“Ghosts? No, just me and Pete, who ghosted me for dinner.”
Tony turns and grabs the freshly poured orange juice glass from Peter’s hands, catching his finger tips as he pulls it free and sparking heat up Peter’s fingers in return.
“For me? You didn’t have to,” Tony says, catching Peter’s startled glance with a too-wide smile.
He takes a wide gulp, only breaking eye contact to turn around and set the glass down.
Tony slaps the counter with a small, satisfied groan. “Delicious,” he says brightly.
Rhody rolls his eyes and turns back to his phone and eggs.
Peter stands still. The slap echos over and over again in Peter’s head as he flushes. Oh.
——-
WELL I said I was going to answer these on my phone and I did. Oops. Will edit and whatever on my computer tomorrow hahaha.
#starker#ask box fic#whoops this is like 2700 words lol#will clean up and probably thrown on AO3 tmmrw#prompts open :)
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Chapter 10: Little
Author's Note
Word count: 8.4k (whoops)
Read the rest on my Masterlist!
This would be easier if Damiano was’t saying all the right things all at once. A minute in between, or even a warning, would make the turn in conversation more bearable.
“There was a point, a couple months in, where I would have traded a lobe of my poor liver for you to be all clingy and needy in Little headspace. I miss being your Dom so fucking much, so fucking much.” He’s putting such emphasis into his words that it slightly strains his voice. “With your anxiety, having your Dom basically disappear…and we’d spent years building the dynamic into something that was both pleasurable and therapeutic. All that trust and I…the head fuck, I can’t imagine. I don’t want you to think that it wasn’t the most special thing in the world to me.” The sobs are coming so fast that you can’t inhale in between and end up literally choking on your own misery. It's the way a toddler with no self-regulation skills cried.
“I know, at points, I’ve done power play with other partners.” He’s wincing as he speaks, which is totally unnecessary. You just didn’t get the inclination to submit to anyone else.
“But I’ve just been stuck on the thought that you might have felt replaceable.” You shake your head and try to gather the air to speak. Instead of just embracing, an hand snakes under your blouse provides pressure through calming, even strokes along your back
“Felt impor – ortan –ant,” you manage, face tucked snuggly against his neck. Damiano sighs in relief.
“Good. Thank god.”
“Knew I mattered.” Although all the syllables come out right, the next phrase is such a struggle that it's almost indiscernible. “Knew…loved, not – not a…burden.” It was the way your well-intentioned, but often unequipped parents made you feel: like more than they signed up for. It's hard to articulate negatively about a good childhood. They bought roses for your middle school graduation, but you’d rather sit on the bathroom floor with the flu alone than endure your frantic mother or patronizing father. How could a kid they very much intended to have be emotionally over-demanding? Must be something wrong with the kid.
Except nothing made you feel more right than Dami kneeling on the side of a bubble bath, contentedly washing you with a baby-pink washcloth. He used lavender scented soap and smiled adoringly at how quickly you became non-verbal.
“Feel floaty, little one?” he’d coo, asking if you’d entered headspace just from this intimate act of service. No pain. No sex. The dynamic had reached a point where just his presence and intention was enough since Damiano, himself, was completely tranquil. It created a euphoric energy exchange, always nurturing. He enjoyed it, you blossomed, but that all came to a grinding halt as soon as the trust wore thin.
“Selfishly, I miss feeling in control, too. I tried to sublimate, but I couldn’t wait for the scenes to me over. It felt manufactured with new partners and just…wrong. Gross, even. Fuck, why am I saying this?” he groans. “I just wanted something to click so badly and it didn’t.
“S’okay.”
“I know this is asking for a lot. Really, I shouldn’t be asking for anything at all, considering living together is more than I realistically hoped for. You know what? I’m gonna shut up.” You shake your head, drying your wet face on the cotton of Dam’s shirt, only for it to be full of tears again. “Okay, I wish that — I want there to be a way that I earn your trust again, dynamic wise. I miss my little girl.”
That one physically hurts, like a side cramp from running after drinking too much water. The stabbing pain emanates deep into your torso because “yeaning” doesn’t begin to describe your emotions. You literally ached to be curled up in Dami’s lap while he hit his weed vape during The Little Mermaid. Of course, half an hour in, he was humming the melodies into your ear. Sometimes he even did voices or rocked back and forth to the beat of the songs, the soft pajamas he’s dressed you in pleasantly brushing your skin.
“I miss holding you and feeling the pure joy at convincing me to watch one of those Disney movies that are intolerable except for the music. You try to hide how excited you get and I try to act like I wasn’t gonna say yes to anything you picked.”
“Damia…” You ball your hands into fists, fingernails biting into the soft flesh. It's a bad habit, but an effective one. The little bit of pain keeps you present when you’d like to fawn. This wasn’t the place: rehab facility, in a previously sterile, closet–size room. The couple times you’d accidentally slipped into subspace semi-publicly had been scary. If you were meeting him on tour, Damiano was extremely intentional about creating a controlled environment, and if he didn’t feel confident, you wouldn't play.
Perhaps, without realizing it, the hand under your shirt is stoking at the same pace as an even breath. When one body was upset, the other subconsciously moved to calm it. All you needed was to breathe in time with his hand against your back, and allow yourself to fall into submission. Every cell in your being had been screaming for this, waiting months for Dami’s reassuring touch, but you couldn’t allow yourself to enjoy it. Hell, you shouldn't be allowing it whatsoever because based on recent history you’d end up hurt. Worse still, you’d feel helpless, which was an emotion you’d clawed your way out of with cut up hands and bleeding fingernails.
“I need to stand up,” you decide, clambering off his lap. It takes Dami by surprise and he hangs onto your wrists while you struggle to get your feet right. He can tell something is awry.
“Okay, you're standing. What now?” he asks in his gentlest voice. Speak. Fucking speak. Maybe you could go home and fall back into memory, pretend it wasn’t a temporary fix that would ultimately deepen the wound.
“Look at me.” You can’t stop your face from turning, so you squeeze your eyes closed and feel a rush of tears. “Look at me.” You pout your lip and shake your head, whimpering in distress. The lip pout was a dead giveaway, so you bite it instead and taste blood. The palms of your hands hurt, your lip hurt, your heart hurt. How was a person supposed to contain this much hurt and be unaffected?
“When we split you didn’t have another dom. How long did it take you to find one, y/n?” He caught on too easily. Your left leg begins shaking, quivering at the knee like it's about to give out. Your body tries to contain nervous energy. It’s too much. The sobs are so frequent you struggle to breath, coughing on snot.
“Did some piece of shit hurt you, piccola mia? What did they do wrong?” You choke on your own spit at the tone of his voice, covered in goosebumps. Damiano probably didn’t realize how dominant he sounded. His little girl making a mistake within a new dynamic wasn’t even a possibility to him. Had to be the dom’s fault because you were perfection.
“When you’re ready we can redo the scene and it’ll go exactly how you want. I’ll be so careful to replace that bad memory with a good one. Hmm?” You shake your head. There had been no bad substitute dom, because there’d been no other dom at all.
“Open your eyes,” he commands, tightening the grip on your wrists. Dami sits forward and pulls you between his spread legs. You stare at your left shoe. One of Princess’s hairs was on the bland, gray carpet, nearly camouflaged.
“I haven't submitted to anyone,” you whisper so quietly that not even crying can distort the words.
“Look at me.” It's another command, more forceful. His grip on your wrists aches, just enough to draw attention. Keeping the kicked puppy expression off of your face became impossible ten minutes ago, so when Dami looks, he sees. He’s absolutely devastated, then kicking himself for not putting two and two together.
“You’re going to be Little for a while. Sit on my lap.” Now that the decisions made, you’re so awash in relief that your oxygenation gets even more fucked up.
“Can’t breathe.” He makes the decision physically, too, and pulls you down to him. You go completely pliant, so sitting on his lap becomes laying on his chest. Dami turns both your bodies to fit semi-comfortably along the tiny bed. You peel off your shirt to reveal just a sports bra, worn to keep the boobage under control. Now all that matters was his warm hands on your bare skin. The shirt falls to the floor and Princess sniffs it out of curiosity.
“Let me change into a tank top,” he murmurs. It's a sign of respect, since he’d go shiftless any other time. “Loosen your grip. I’m just getting something from my dresser, you're okay, topolina.” Subconsciously, you’d wrapped your arms around Dami and established a vice hold, so he’d have to pry your arms apart to get away. It was a desperate move.
“Sorry.”
“You’re not allowed to apologize unless I ask, surely you remember that.”
“I remember,” you slip into Little Voice and watch Damiano’s from out under your lashes. It’d be so much quicker to get out of bed, but instead he props himself on his left elbow and reaches to open the drawer with his right hand. As a result you get to stay on his chest and listen to his heartbeat through the cotton.
Every movement is done together. Sitting up with a firm arm around your waist is done together. You even help him pull off the baggy t-shirt and unnecessarily smooth over the straps of his tank top. He’s gained muscle fast. Already you can see the difference in Damiano’s biceps and shoulders. It’d still be nice to see a healthy layer of body fat. Right now he’s a bit sinewy.
“They have a gym here.”
“You noticed,” he beams. Rather than answer his gaze, you stare at where your thighs touch and feel yourself get wet.
“Mm, you forget that I can feel what you’re thinking when you’re on my lap, michetta.” Why in god’s name did you wear cheap trousers and thin underwear? Even your ear’s burn with embarrassment.
“Awe, now did I say you were allowed to blush that pretty?” He takes the hair tie from your wrist and pulls your hair back, so he can see your face from all angels. “Does this feel nice?” Dami fingers combs your locks, stropping whenever there's a tangle until the full ponytail is clutched in his first. Then he pulls from the base of your skull. You're too braindead to provide resistance. Rather than pull your hair, Damiano ends up tilting your whole head back. You freeze, afraid it's your mistake.
Initially, all Dami does is breathe, and you can feel the air hitting your stretched neck. He just sits there, with your head craned back, enjoying the view of all your exposed skin, like a predator before butchering its meal. Just allowing this stance is an act of submission by you. His eyes fall to the notch at the base of your neck, across your clavicles, along the flat expanse of your breast bone, and landing on the line of your cleavage.
“Notice your breathing.” For the first time in several minutes, your awareness turns inward, away from your dominant. Was the pattern of your inhale-exhale normal? No. But was it panicked? Also no. You were panting, aroused by the knowledge of Dami’s eyes on your neck. It was a ridiculous reaction.
“‘S better.”
“Mhm.” The hand around your middle slowly rises to your throat. Damiano simply sets the bottom knuckles against your trachea, not applying any force, intricately observing your reaction. Then he folds the entirety of his warm palm around your neck, keeping tension with your hair. Finally he wraps his fingers around the column of your neck, leaving you in rapture. At any moment, he’ll apply force, restricting blood flow and subsequently flooding you in endorphins when his grip releases. Dami’s thumb tenderly rubs behind your ear lobe, the gentle sensation a precursor to some brutality that never comes.
“You are okay.” Using both hands, Damiano brings your head upright. As soon as he lets go you feel the weight of the world and yearn for his guiding touch.
“Signore?” you say his chosen Honorific in confusion. His careful hands are back, tucking your face securely between his shoulder and neck. One resumes the delicious tension with your hair and the other cups your cheek as he lays back down.
“So good at keeping your eyes closed, piccola. Remember I had to train you to do that? Now, you give in without me even asking. Such a perfect pet.” He kisses your forehead and rubs your bare back while administering the occasional validation. “Curled up just right, topolina. You are my sweetest little girl when you’re snuggly.” Just when you’re prepared to swan dive into subspace for the foreseeable future, Dami jostles your shoulder. “I need you to stay verbal.” You groan in protest, feeling disoriented as you search for words. They’re unreachable objects, floating around in your submissive mental fog.
“Ssh, shh. I didn’t want you to startle. That's my fault and I’m sorry,” he coos, stroking your hair with gentle pressure that coaxes you to lay down. “Take a deep breath. Mhm, that's just how I asked, piccola mia. You’re doing a really good job.”
“Brain off,” you groan. Damiano chuckles, but keeps his hand at the same pace. He’s good at that. As a dominant partner, his physicality often had a hypnotic quality.
“I’m sorry that I have to keep you at the surface. I wish it was different, that I could be a better Dom.”
“You…good Dom.”
“Three whole words? I’m impressed. I’ve seen you go non-verbal for so long I wondered if you’d talk the next morning.”
“Mm…nice.”
“Yeah, I bet that sounds nice right now. Maybe we’ll do that when I get home. This can be non-sexual for a while.” The bastard properly yanks your hair for the first time as punctuation, just enough for a violent full-body shiver and a little sting at the nape of the neck. It was your favorite.
“Fuck you.” Simultaneously, you stretch like Princess in the sun, coiling yourself tighter around Dami. “Fuck you and the way you smell.” Your nose was nudging against the back of his head, where all the sweat collected.
“I’m one day past needing a shower. Sorry, I know you only like that when you’re ovulating and feral.” And right now. He smelled grubby in a way you wanted to taste too. Would he notice if you licked him? With inhibitions compromised, you lick the nape of his neck, feeling the short hairs at the top with your tongue. Damiano startles and pulls away, shocked.
“Did you just lick me?” It's such a harsh reaction that you immediately regret it. Now that the cuddles have stopped, you feel uneasy with self consciousness. What kind of invasive, tone deaf pervert does what you just did? And here you’d lectured about boundaries.
Damiano’s face dissolves from shock into pity into regret. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing back and forth. Were you crying again? You couldn’t feel your face, or anywhere else on your body. He hasn’t given you permission to apologize. Even so, the words are almost bursting forth.
“You surprised me,” he explains slowly, speaking like you’re a confused child. It’s healing, to be talked down to, but not demeaned, in a world where your senses are in a constant state of being assaulted by information.
“Good surprise. I shouldn’t have jumped. I’m sorry, pet.” It was the second time he’s said ‘I’m sorry,’ while you weren’t allowed. “It’s been so long since I had the privilege of our dynamic and…” Dami looks out the window again, and sighs in thought. He pulls you close again and rolls over so he’s resting on top this time. With his familiar weight pushing you into the mattress, not wrapping your legs around his hips becomes a very conscious choice.
“You are uninhibited by shame in the expression of your submission.” A single finger on your chin brings your eyes to his and Damiano’s gaze is the only thing necessary to own your attention. “So strictly platonic might not work for us, because I will never put limits on your sexual expression.” The moment is so intense that you mentally beg for Dami to release it, but he grasps it with an iron-clad fist, willfully. “So things are going to be partially experimental, at your discretion, because hard boundaries are not comfortable for you. They are not where you thrive.”
You’re nodding along in wide-eyed agreement, dreading when this moment ends and you have to have an entire thought on your own. Dami is holding himself very still, rather than relaxing against you as is normal. It's undoubtedly because he’s hard. Wanting to feel that validation you begin to raise your knees, intending to wrap your legs over his hips and bring him close enough to eliminate any secrets. With a firm hand on your thigh, he stops the gesture, legs returning to the bed.
“Breathe,” he reminds, caressing your ribcage.
“I wanna apologize,” you whimper, embarrassed at your own horny behavior.
“No. Breathe into my hand.” Each inhale, you focus on the sensation of Dami’s skin against yours and his weight on your left side. “I will not allow you to apologize for organically acting out your desires. I am here to regulate your behavior. I don’t expect you to do it.” Damiano’s face begins to blur as you slip deeper into submission and try to claw your way towards the surface.
He resituates your bodies to lay facing each other. One hand is cupping your ribcage, the other rests at the base of your neck. The immediate adrenaline rush makes you more cognizant. Curious about all the movement, Princess hops on the bed, meowing a complaint that there is not enough room to lay between your torsos.
“I'm busy, babygirl,” he tells her. She meows again and turns her head away, as if she understands.
“Okay, brain turning on.”
“Just keep breathing. That’s all you have to do and you’re listening so well.” He rubs circles on your chest and in response your nipples get hard, even though the bra’s padding. “I love it when you touch me like this,” he muses. Gathering all your focus, you slip a hand under Dami’s tanktop and lay it on his sternum.
“Piccola mia, look at me.” He only has to ask once. “You are okay. I know this was just the beginning of what you needed.” Instead of crying as a response to everything, you access that little well of calm inside you, and find that there's steadiness to be had. “If we were to do a scene, you might not feel safe here, or you might feel uneasy afterwards. Also you need to drive home.”
“I understand.” You strain to kiss Dami’s nose.
“Breathe. You are okay.”
“I am okay,” you repeat back, automatically.
“You are okay.”
“I am okay.” You finally consider the words and nod in understanding. “I’m okay. I’m not actively trying to keep it together anymore. Holy shit, I actually feel alright,” you exclaim in surprise. He hums in agreement, and pulls you onto his chest. Being constantly reminded to breathe steadily has manually calmed your nervous system down. Your body physically knew that it wasn’t in a state of distress anymore, panic gone.
“Fiveish minute warning,” Damiano announces, like a nanny at a playground.
“No,” you grumble, getting a more secure grip and nuzzling.
“When you feel like you’re gonna turn into a sinkhole from all the pressure life is applying, find this feeling again. It’ll still be there. You don’t have to use it or owe it to anybody. Just have some peace and know I believe in your capabilities unconditionally.”
“I believe in you unconditionally.” Dami scoffs and pats the mattress.
“This bed we’re laying on, is in a rehab facility that I didn’t even get myself into. My brilliant, persuasive girlfriend tricked the entire Italian healthcare system and babysat me on the way here.”
“Technically I committed a crime, so don’t put me too high on a pedestal.” He frowns with just the right side of his mouth, eyes darting back and forth on the textured ceiling. “Hey…” You fold both hands on his chest to prop up your chin.
“Hey.”
“You’re missing the point.” He cocks an eyebrow. “We’re laying in a bed in a rehab facility that I tricked my way into together.” This earns a full smile and a suggestive lip bite. It's humanizing to view Dami from an angle that gives him a double chin, as he gazes down in adoration.
“That is a good point.” His eyes scan your face, repeatedly darting down to your lips. It is a very intimate position.
“Okay, so this is a question, not a statement.”
“Mhm.”
“Are you trying to get me to kiss you right now? Because I can’t tell.” You blush and break eye contact, laying a cheek to the cotton of Dami’s tank top. “Ah, fuck me. That’s a no. Fuck.”
“Not yet,” you whisper, tracing the lines of a cat tattoo on the inside of his bicep.
“I’m not trying to pressure you.”
“I know. It doesn’t come off that way.”
“Good because I don’t…I’m really happy with where we’re at and I don’t want to do anything to damage it.”
“You’re not, Damia and I don’t wanna…freak out and get snot all over you.”
“Are you kidding? That’s the first normal reaction you’ve had to all this. I’m relieved. Anger and tears are reactions I can understand.”
“I’ll be sure to yell at you next time.”
“You say that as a joke but it’d be nice to get it out of the way.” That comment rubs you the wrong way and you sit up.
“Do you think I’m just harboring secret rage, waiting for a moment where I can cause optimal damage to unleash it?”
“Wha – no. No, I don’t think that.”
“I haven’t held back on our phone calls or when we split up. I walked out of the hospital and I blocked all ways for you to contact me.”
“I know, I just feel like I deserve…more. More punishment.”
“That sounds like some shit you need to figure out with a therapist, not put on me.” Damn, subbyness gone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ugh!” You splay out on his chest once more, missing the simplicity of the previous moment.
“I ruined it.”
“You can’t be constantly debilitated by self-loathing because staying sober and putting our relationship back together isn’t gonna work with that weight. I don’t resent you the way you’re bracing for.”
“Why?” he presses.
“Because you are not the person I broke up with! Become that person again, and you will feel the wrath of a thousand hell demons. But this person –” you poke the middle of his chest with your pointer finger. “I fell in love with at 18 and continue to love. I know you didn’t act maliciously, or as your true self. Anger is just…so simple. Too simple.” He softens and traces his fingertips up and down your spine. “I will be an absolute prison warden about drug testing though.”
“Good, that’ll make me feel better. And I’m glad that you’re acknowledging the hurt I caused, even if it wasn’t my intent. Intent doesn’t heal the wounds.”
“Well, except…“knowing you didn’t mean to hurt someone takes away a lot of the betrayal, so it does matter.” You shift and sign in contentment. God, he really smelled unreasonably delicious. “Plus I’m a big girl, I can work through my emotions.” His fingertips massage your scalp in a way that damn near makes your eyes roll back. Instead, you shiver while he gathers your hair in a fist.
“My turn.”
“Huh?” Damiano flips you on your back again, but instead of keeping his head level, he lowers his face to your chest. You still don’t understand what's going on until his tongue licks between your cleavage, up to your collar bones. From there he kisses along your neck with tongue, pulling your hair to make the area more accessible to his mouth.
“Hnngg mm, Damia. Ahh, okay.” His tongue runs along the shell of your ear, making every body hair stand on end from the stimulation. “Huuuh, fuck. Not fair. Mm-mmm, not…not fair.” His chuckle is ridiculously sexy and he takes his time pulling away. “Not fair.” Damiano wears a self-satisfied smile, knowing he’s bested you, in addition to turning you on. Perhaps two orgasams before visiting wasn’t enough, because you actually consider lunging forward and kissing him hard. Maybe that's what he wants, to bait you into action without implicating himself. It's a challenge that he doesn’t mean to pose. Regardless, you take it.
“Princess?” You make a couple high-pitched trills and she jumps on your chest. Dami is surprised to have the focus pivoted away from him. Ever the attention whore, Princess rubs her cheek against his before settling down.
“Do you think she misses me?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Cause clearly, you miss me.” Sitting up, you brush the cat hair off your shirt and pull it on. Damiano makes a wounded noise in protest.
“Looks like you’ll have to lick something else now,” you quip. By that you mean an arm or the fabric of your top, not the lightning fast comeback Dami delivers.
“I would lick something else. Now, if you’d like. Happily.” He gestures to his bed and your cunt burns, despite cunnilingus not even being an option.
“You’re funny.”
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
“Pretty sure intercourse is against the rules. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
“I’m pretty sure that's what they think we’re doing right now,” he grins. Horrified, you yank the door open while Dami cackles. Luckily, he manages to catch Princess before she makes a run for it. Her short leash hangs on the bedpost closest to you. In a whisper, he repeats an earlier phrase while reaching for it.
“Did I say you were allowed to blush that pretty?” For a moment you’re speechless and sweaty. He sets Princess down and holds out the leash. Your mind is too preoccupied to realize that he’s offering it to you. Dami smirks as he steps out into the hallway. You try to think of some little gesture or a phrase that will do to him what he’s done to you. Everything that comes to mind is either not good enough, or too public. You’re fumbling and he loves to watch you lust for him.
“You want to have some gelato outside?”
“If you promise to be civil.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that does not suggest compliance. You decide to be crude rather than clever, pinching his ass right before he steps into the hallway. Damiano yelps and jumps half a foot in the air, as does Princess.
“Oops.” You skirt around him before he gets the chance to return the favor, skipping towards the stairs. The building was grand, with a high, intricately carved ceiling. Behind you, Dami was speed walking, Princess struggling to keep up. He ends up having to stop and scoop her off the floor, by which time you’re waiting at the end of the hall with a devilish smile. Maybe you were destined to play games of chase like this, until you trusted things enough to be caught.
His eyes scan the surroundings twice before growling, “c’mere.” You shake your head and hop down the steps as soon as he nears touching distance. It's not like Dami could grope you in the common areas where everyone gathered between meals and therapies, but this space was empty. You look over your shoulder, undecided if you’ll let him catch you, and he can see that indecision. Suddenly, it feels like a not so innocent game of prey and predator. Your focus oscillates between Dami and your feet walking backwards down the steps.
“Y/n, behind you!” You freeze and see a frail woman who could be anywhere from 40-70 years old with an amused expression. She was climbing up the stairs, minding her business, like a normal person.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Uh…sorry,” you cringe. First you flatten yourself against the railing, then realize she might need the railing. Already the woman has silently moved to the opposite side of the staircase. Dami’s nose is scrunched up in embarrassment, too.
“Lovely cat,” she murmurs so quietly only Dami realizes she's spoken.
“Oh, thank you!” His normal voice booms through the foyer in comparison. Damiano glances at Princess, as if noticing her for the first time, then sets her down. She meows just before her splayed paws hit carpet and looks up in apparent disappointment.
“Come on, Miss Sassy Pants.” Once he’s in lock step, you lean over and whisper, “do you know that lady?”
“Mm-mm, she’s new.” His tightly controlled expressions indicate the obvious, that notoriety is a taboo subject in the facility.
“Have people given you any trouble?”
“Thank god, no. The other patients have been in their own worlds for a while. Plus, no internet access, remember? Lord knows what they’re saying about me.”
“Really nice, genuine, complimentary things,” you deadpan.
“Oh, really? That's a relief.” The paparazzi were publishing every sallow picture after a night out they could get their hands on, and even better if there was a model in the frame. Alot of the pictures were with women he’d never slept with, and while simply hung-over, not high. Of course that didn't matter. The more they had to recycle material, the more preposterous the claims got.
“Last week they said you’ve been away managing a secret sex cult, not in rehab.” He scoffs as you walk towards the kitchen.
“Could be worse, I guess. Or less interesting.”
“Yeah…until the claims that it was mostly 16-year-olds started up.” Damiano stops in his tracks with an expression like he’s drunk sour milk. “But it got disproved in like a day! Fans started leaving horrendous reviews on the tabloid sites. Some of them were actually really funny…” You trial off, because Damiano is visibly seething. “Hey, literally no one believed it, Dam.”
“But the fact that they even thought it was acceptable to publish that, with absolutely no evidence, like it was news makes me sick. We always consciously avoided the groupie narrative and now…” He throws his hands up in frustration.
“Pop culture doesn’t differentiate between a womanizer and a predator because it's normalized that sex be coerced. That's on society, not you.”
“Maybe I’ll say something to that effect as part of my great rebranding. God it's just…” he stares at the carpet and scowls, mulling it over. “I don’t want to be angry, right now, while you’re visiting, this just really, really pisses me off.” After personally giving dubious and questionable consent in his mid-teens, the subject was a sore spot for Dami. He was very intentional about never doing that to someone else.
“Maybe you can sue them for character deformation? Use the publicity to bolster releasing an In Nome Del Padre type single?”
“Now there's an idea,” he allows a sliver of a smile.
“It would sure suck if paparazzi started harassing the journalist who wrote the article after seeing them in court.”
“Now that would be a great tragedy.”
“Perhaps there would even be a support group, for the fellow grievers.”
“I think that’s called a party.”
“I’ll bring the balloons if you bring the cake?”
“Deal,” he finally grins. “Christ,I can’t even…” Damiano shakes his head and sighs heavily. “Maybe I don’t miss the internet.”
“Porn.”
“Good point…But mostly I miss my camera roll.” You try not to turn red.
“Certain pictures on your phone make me very nervous.”
“They are very safe.” According to many technological precautions you didn’t understand, Damiano’s camera roll was highly secure. But more so you trusted that, as a Dom, he’d never let images of you being Little be viewed by anyone. Yes you were happily non-monogamous, but as dominant, Damiano fucking lived for the fact that he didn’t share your submission. The polyamory was completely separate from your personal daddy/sub dynamic.
What he got off on most of all wasn’t the nudes, or necessarily kink, but pictures he’d carefully orchestrated of you having sex together. After getting consent, he’d set up the phone camera with a random timer. Not knowing when the picture was going to be taken meant you couldn’t pose. Rather than his usual rhythm, Dami gave you as much stimulation as possible right out the gate, so you’d forget the camera by the time he found a slow groove. Then he’d rev the sex back up with tantric work, toys, dirty talk, and considerate angles.
The result were images of you sweaty, flushed, gasping, half cognizant, and blissed out. Either captured at a moment of tension, or the release right after. They were not pretty. If you were kissing it could be downright ugly. Damiano always looked just as fucked out, but he wore it like a sex god. Sometimes, the full body shots of you on top felt beautiful, but he never preferred those. Dami loved the gaping mouth, furrowed brow face you made when rubbing your clit against him the exact right way. He’d excitedly point out the crescent-shaped nail marks on his chest you left when dragging your slick pussy along his pubic bone for the sake of orgasmic friction. In real life, or in the pictures.
“You didn’t delete them?” Dami stops in his tracks, face revealing that he hadn’t thought about this until now.
“Should I have?” he says slowly.
“I guess not. I didn’t set up a contingency, so it wasn’t violating anything. I just thought since we were – are, that you wouldn’t want…I mean you had access to all – wait did you take pictures with other people?” Exchanging and creating sexual images with other partners wasn’t even a conversation because of the fame. Now your voice comes out wounded and accusatory at the thought of him sharing this practice during your time apart.
“Not…” He guides you towards the empty kitchen to finish the conversation, as you wear an expression of shock. Intimate photography had only existed between you two out of necessity, not because you forbade it with other partners. It wasn’t until he mentioned it that you realized this closed practice had created territorialism. You’d fallen right into the trap of monogamy – of wanting exclusive rights to Damiano’s sexual autonomy – at the first opportunity possible. The hum of the refrigerator and Dami’s hand on your mid-back bring you to the present. Princess is meowing persistently, probably because this is where her food is stored.
“You know what, it's almost dinner time. I’ll just feed her now so she’ll stop bothering us.”
“If it's almost dinner then I should go. Our time is up. I –”
“Y/n.” He holds you by the shoulders with intimidatingly intense eye contact. “I was not using sex in a healthy way. I was using it like drugs, okay? It was mostly inebriated and mediocre. Yes, I did photograph it on the rare occasion I was sober-ish and gave a fuck, but those photos never made it onto my phone. Pictures preserve memories. There was nothing about that time I wanted to remember, especially how I acted.” He crouches down to pet Princess, self-soothing, and you hop up on the counter for something to do. Dami pulls a little metal dish from under the fridge and her meows only intensify.
“I know, I know. It's happening. I’m getting your fancy dinner, babygirl.” He pulls open the door and the cool air hits your skin. “So I’ve been thinking about how our relationship is at a point where it's gonna evolve a lot.”
“Agreed.” Dami grabs ground, raw meat and a couple of plastic pump bottles out of the refrigerator.
“So even if we were to take a couple hours and hash our relationship all the way out,” he uses a measuring cup to transfer the meat to the bowl, “a week from now it might be…a totally different um, thing.”
“Right, and what’s that stuff?”
“Beef?” Damiano looks over his shoulder while washing his hands and raises an eyebrow.
“No, the bottles.”
“Oh! It’s fish oil, plus vitamins and supplements for her coat, her bones, her eyesight.”
“Princess, the immortal, spoiled feline.”
“That's the idea, yeah.” She circles Dami’s legs, meowing incessantly, until he sets her bowl down.
“But, I agree about how fast our relationship will be evolving. I guess, ideally we’d sit down each time it felt like something had shifted, but that sounds…”
“Like a lot?”
“Exhausting. Doing the full negotiation while you’re still in the early days of recovery sounds emotionally overwhelming to be honest. And I’d like to say, ‘can’t we just agree to love each other with dignity and reverence,’ but that seems naive.” Damiano thinks for a few seconds, putting things back in the fridge.
“I’m,” he gestures with his hands “sort of doing a reset towards my – well, our fundamental principles. Because I really wasn’t conducting myself in a way I was proud of for several months there. And I want to talk about it.” He takes the gelato container from the refrigerator and retrieves a spoon. “Or rather I’m willing to talk about it” Dami grumbles while fighting with the lid. He finally manages to remove it, revealing the creamy, light green color.
“Okay, this is gonna sound so cheesy, but I couldn’t eat gelato while we were broken up.” Using some grip strength, he digs the first spoonful out.
“Oh my gosh, Damia.” It’d been so long since you’d last felt butterflies. (Which you’d never outright attribute partially to him speaking in the past tense). Technically you were still broken up, but it didn’t feel like it. This was some uncomfortable in between, a limbo. However, Damiano didn’t call you broken up to his band mates, even though that label had definitely been put on your relationship in a mutual decision.
“What's that face?” he passes you a spoonful. The handle is warm from his grip.
“You didn’t tell anyone we were broken up, did you?” He can see from your smile that you aren’t upset, which just makes him bashful. It's a rare occurrence to see Damiano David bashful. “Hah! You’re adorable.” He stares at his shoes while you enjoy the first taste of gelato. “Mister megastardom is blushing.”
“No, I’m not blushing. Shut up,” he grins. “And I may have, possibly…um, avoided using that particular label as much as possible. So yeah, I have said it, but I’ve also avoided it, to be honest. Vic has gotten good at hiding the visible pity in her expression, but Thomas especially has a ways to go.” You pry a spoonful out of the container and feed it to Dami. He stands between your legs, hands resting just above your knees.
“I propose that we are officially not broken up.”
“So then we are…”
“Not broken up.”
“Okay…” His tone is unsure, but he allows one of those precious smiles that reveal his gums and offers another up more gelato. “So are we friends?” As it melts in your mouth, you contemplate the requirements for friendship. It became too painful to continue relationships with a couple of my friends who were super into the club scene and bordering on substance abuse. But Dami was sober.
“Or no? Needing to allocate all my focus to staying sober and repairing my mistakes may not make me a very good friend.” He’s self aware and gracious which makes the decision harder. You scoop the gelato with so much gusto that it nearly ends on the floor.
“But consciousness about substance misuse and commitment to repairing relationships are really vital to my friendships right now.” You raise another spoonful to his lips. This time it takes Damiano a second to accept it. “So I don’t know, but it's really important that I do know.”
“Hey.” In a comforting gesture, Dami slides his hands up your thighs and leans in to make more meaningful eye contact. “I don’t want to exhaust you with this, sweetheart. I –” his self-awareness kicks in and he takes a step back, hands purposefully occupying themselves with the spoon and container. “We are roommates and you’ve already told me, in detail, your boundaries on that.”
“On your sobriety! There aren’t supposed to be hard rules in relationships!” You're exasperated and Damiano isn’t offended. Instead, he taps your lip with the spoon as a reminder to open your mouth.
“We are intentionally repairing our bond to work towards a relationship.” You nod and take a deep breath, feeling calmer. The gelato is beginning to melt, runny around the edges. If it overflows the container will never get un-sticky.
“You should put that in the freezer.” He sighs and stops meeting your eyes. The top of the container is stiff. Damiano carelessly tosses the shared spoon into the sink and the metallic sound is so loud that it makes you jump. He spins around right away with an anxious expression.
“Sorry, sorry! That wasn’t intentional, I’m just not used to having a metal sink. It’s basically always filled with water for doing dishes. I wasn’t tryna be intimidating or some bullshit. I’m sorry. I –” whispering to himself, Dami says “what the fuck is wrong with you” He clips Princess back onto her leash and loops it over the knob on a cupboard.
“That wasn’t me trying to change the subject, Damia. I got yelled at so many times for letting the gelato melt that it's like a Pavlovian response.”
“Okay.” He relaxes his shoulders, resuming his previous stance.
“Okay,” you repeat with a small smile.
“We know how to do right by each other and we’re on the same page. You’ve updated your boundaries. As far as I know, mine are the same. I’m sure shit will come up, but we’re good at communicating.” Unexpectedly, serenity washes over you at once again reaching cohesion. It was a familiar sensation with Dami, to be grounded in the presence of each other. He takes a deep breath in as well.
“Nesting partners. It’s a label I’ve learned, but I know you’re not big into terminology.”
“No, tell me what it means.”
“It's the companion you live with. Not necessarily your primary.”
“Sounds like something from a documentary about birds.”
“It does,” you laugh. “Anyways, if you wanted a word for us, that’d be it.”
“Are you asking me to be your nesting partner?” Subconsciously, he leans forward out of excitement, hands sliding halfway up your thighs.
“And you’re willing to have David Attenborough narrate your every shit for National Geographic broadcasting?”
“Totally.” You suppress the urge to kiss Dami and instead pointedly look down at his hands, now creeping towards your hips.
“Well, then…”
“Shit, sorry. Sorry.” He stands upright, tries to put his hands in his pockets, then realizes these pants don’t actually have pockets. “I wasn’t trying to make a move or – I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it. I’m just really used to touching you.” Cue heartbeat skip.
“Trust me, I get it. Like when –”
The moment is interrupted by movement just outside of the kitchen. You push Damiano back by a hand in the center of his chest so things weren’t so intimate.
“Ah, there you are! Hiding from me!”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Dami defends, in a way you recognize as bluffing. A staff member, this time dressed in slacks and a wrinkled, blue button-up, walks into the kitchen. He’s amused, not frustrated, which is a small mercy. Maybe Dami doesn’t realize how close your bodies are, maybe he likes it, but you can’t get off the counter without running into him.
“Sorry, I’ll go.” You push him back again, and this time he finally heeds your request.
“Don’t worry about it. It's just behavioral therapy,” he murmurs, as you adjust your trousers self-consciously.
“Sounds pretty fucking important for an addict.”
“I would have to agree with y/n. I’m Dr. Rossi. I haven’t spoken with you personally, but I’ve heard so much about you from everyone.” He clasps his hands and looks at Dami expectantly.
“Right, so they’ll have my purse and stuff at the front desk. So I’ll just –”
“How late am I?”
“13 minutes,” he replies, looking at his expensive watch with a flourish.
“Eh, damage is done. Let me walk you out.” Dr. Rossi nods curtly, gesturing at you to go forth first. Ignoring this, Dami takes his time grabbing Princess’ leash in one hand and yours in the other.
“What do you mean ‘damage done?’”.
“They write me up if I’m more than 5 minutes late. Then there’s a worse penalty at 10 minutes. At 20 it doesn’t count and I get billed for a missed session. Plus they scowl at me for a couple days.”
“Damia,” you groan. He shrugs and nods hello to someone else walking a snow white cat on a neon green leash.
“That's Yeti. He’s a dog inside a feline’s body, plays fetch.”
“Okay, well thats fucking adorable, but you’re not gonna distract me from blowing off your therapist.” He sighs heavily as you reach the doors.
“It's one appointment. Everything here is scheduled. I get the purpose, but I feel claustrophobic. You make me feel the opposite of that. Plus, even with visitor privileges, I’m only guaranteed one half hour slot every two weeks.”
“Oh, your parents.”
“Uh, no. My mom can adequately berate me over the phone. I just fucking miss you and your energy.”
“But your dad…”
“She has him by the balls.” Damiano tries to shove his hands in his pockets again and looks at the floor. Sensing his stress, Princess sits on his shoe and gazes upwards. Only one of them feels like a caged animal and ironically it's not the one on the leash.
“Maybe I can talk to them?” He shakes his head, looking off to the side now instead of meeting your eyes. It was such an obvious tell.
“I don’t want you to spend your time doing that. In a way, I was the golden boy until this. I don’t know how she’s gonna react and I don’t want your feelings hurt on my account.” You momentarily consider proposing speaking to Damiano’s father, then realize that might feel like a betrayal to Andrea.
“It’s just a matter of time?”
“Yeah,” he agrees softly, pursing his lips.
“She’ll change her mind once you’ve been sober for a while,” you reassure, not knowing if it's true. He finally meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side, seeing straight through your empty platitude. Lost for words, you hug Dami, careful not to step on Princess’ paws. She seems content at the sight of her parents embracing. Or maybe you’re just deflecting your own emotions.
Three months ago you’d have called bullshit at anyone claiming Damiano would be setting a sobriety record, that being wrapped in his arms would feel so right and organic. You savor his smell and relax with an exhale as his hug tightens. For some reason the intrusive thoughts always bubbled up at greetings and farewells. The day's emotion, however positive, would probably result in nightmares tonight.
“I’m alive. I’m okay. I’m in love with you,” he murmurs, as if reading your mind.
“Ditto.”
“You don’t need to be okay.” Finally, amidst all the terror around Dami’s health, you ask yourself the question. Am I okay? Nightmares, severe and occasionally uncontrollable anxiety, mental stress from lacking a dom, general stress because of Damiano. A job that was supposed to be fulfilling, but made you too feel like a polar bear in a gray, plastic enclosure.
“What is it,” he murmurs.
“Shit, I don’t know if I’m okay,” you choke. The wave of emotion is so unexpected that it feels like getting jumped.
“I’m going to take care of you. It's a relief to have the opportunity to take care of you.” The inner peace from earlier is harder to access than you like. Maybe you’d have to ration it.
“I’m gonna leave before I turn into a mess again,” you speak into the fabric of his tank top. Princess cocks her head to the side, and you miss her persistent little presence with a pang in your gut. You pull away and squat down to bid her farewell, stroking between her ears.
“I’ll see you soon, Sassy Pants.” As you straighten up, it's obvious Damiano is deeply conflicted. “I don’t want to let you leave like this. I want to make it all better.”
“It is better. It’s not perfect.” You stroke his face, then his hair. It’s at awkward length, spiking up at random angles. This touch prompts Dami to rub his head self-consciously.
“It looks like shit.”
“It looks fine. You look good.” That, at least, earns a smile. It’s a better note to end on, so you decide to make your exit. Nervously slipping out was certainly easier than a ceremonious goodbye like this.
“I’m gonna go before you get a missed appointment fee.”
“Fuck the fee,” he responds ardently. You can feel the mood swing coming, but the volatility of his emotions makes them hard to read. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Damia,” you whine, heart clenching.
“Sorry, that was unnecessary. Drive safe.” He bows his head to avoid your eyes. Wanting to make the leaving a little sweeter, you peck his cheek.
“Bye Princess.” Less than a month and you won’t have to fight the urge to look back, because you’ll be walking out together. No more Orpheus and Eurydice. This is what ultimately sustains you as the heavy maple door falls shut. The sky – clear when you entered the building – is now plagued with clouds.
Notes: Whew! The longest chapter yet and we sure covered a lot of ground with these two. Cutting it pretty close posting this late in the day, but I made it. I got distracted by giving my taglist a makeover and quite probably making it worse. Oh well.
- XOXO, Eden
Get on my taglist! (hard edition)
@surelyfreedombound @shinshans @lonnybunnys @davianos-blog @hauntedpostpersona @lizzylynch1 @kammerstx @harryssshouseee @slavicgoddess133 @persona1read1ng @katyldamusic @whore4damia @the-chaotic-cow @icarodamiano @gr8rainbowpunk @elvirabelle @bright-shiningstar @maneslut @stardustingold @little-moonbeam-666 @que--sera--sera @dustyinkpages@lapauradelcheez@girlnred @ami--gami
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#cw: addiction#cw: power dynamics#maneskin#måneskin#damiano david#må#damiano#damiano maneskin#maneskin damiano#damiano david x reader#damiano david fanfiction#damiano david imagine#damiano david x y/n#damiano david x you#damiano david smut#damiano david fic
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𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬
Moments that Altered their brain chemistry
Warnings: Implied angst, implied sex (not explicit), implied death, mentions of injury/gore. Spoilers!
Eli • Gun • Daniel • Warren
𝐄𝐥𝐢
☁︎︎ Seeing Yenna for the first time
☁︎︎ Having to smile even when he didn’t want to
☁︎︎ The first time you held Yenna like she was yours
☁︎︎ When he got sick, but you took care of him
☁︎︎ Falling in love again
☁︎︎ Being intimate with you
☁︎︎ Watching your graduation ceremony
☁︎︎ Watching Yenna grow up
☁︎︎ Fearing you would disappear when he got you pregnant
☁︎︎ Getting married before he was thirty…
☁︎︎ Watching you slowly fade away much too young
☁︎︎ Sleeping in an empty bed once again.
𝐆𝐮𝐧
߷ Realizing he actually is in love and not just obsessed
߷ Realizing his lifestyle and yours clash and he can’t have both
߷ When he saw you after a year, and for some reason his heart still pounded like it used to
߷ The moment when your eyes met and he instantly knew you were disappointed in him
߷ Hearing you curse at him for the first time~
߷ Hearing you saying “yes” and “I do” in context
߷ Seeing and holding your child for the first time
߷ Holding your hand while you rock the baby to sleep
߷ Coming home late at night and still receiving your love and affection
߷ When he gained like, twenty pounds and suddenly asked stupid and oddly blunt questions about whether he should diet or not, and then proceeded to get into a squabble with Goo just to burn off some “fat” when in reality you insisted that he was just gaining more muscle, yet he insisted that he was already maxed out and he’d have to—
𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥
✪ Seeing his new body for the first time~
✪ When he realized he had friends in both of his bodies, who liked him either way
✪ The moment he realized he was just as protective over you as he was over his mom… and wondering what it meant
✪ When you saw him naked in the shower-
✪ Going out on his first date
✪ Freaking himself out when he felt his heart lurch towards you
✪ Learning how to kiss with you
✪ When he realized that you’d break his heart eventually…
✪ Absorbing in his first heartbreak
✪ When you reappeared in his life again, and the feelings were still there
✪ When he got down on one knee, and punctured his skin with a piece of glass because he was trying to propose in a gaddamn alley
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧
𑗎 When he realized Sally didn’t return his feelings (middle school)
𑗎 When he realized Sally returned his feelings (Not middle school)
𑗎 Learning the truth about the whole Hostel sham
𑗎 When he met Like-What and Hilarious
𑗎 When Amy and Natalie brought you home
𑗎 The dream he had about you~
𑗎 When he punched Max, not recognizing him and thinking he was hitting on you, and realizing his feelings might be changing
𑗎 The first time he was intimate
𑗎 Feeling safe and like he was being protected by someone else for the first time in…years
#Lookism#lookism manhwa#spoilers#lookism spoilers#lookism x reader#lookism headcanons#daniel park#warren chae#the mighty warren chae#Daniel Park#lookism webtoon#Webtoon#Park Daniel#Anime#Manga#x Reader#Scenarios#Headcannons#Gun#jung gun#lookism gun#park jonggun#Daniel x Reader#daniel park x reader#Warren x Reader#eli jang#Yenna#Jang Yenna#Sally#eli jang x reader
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Over the Years
Prompts: 'life changes' and 'growth'
Rating: K/General
Setting: begins in their childhood and ends in the ten year time skip.
Synopsis: Momo notices Toshiro's growth across the years.
AN: a collection of short and sweet moment for this month’s @yearoftheotpevent challenge. I thought to do a more metaphorical fic for this one, but I decided go with something literal in the end. Hope you enjoy it!
______________________
“What? Is there something on my face?”
Momo can only blink. It had to be because she hasn’t seen him in months, otherwise she would have definitely noticed during her lasy visit.
Toshiro folds his arms. “Seriously, bed-wetter, what is it?”
The dreaded nickname snaps her out of her stupor. “Don’t call me that!”
“Then stop starring!”
“I wasn’t.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, it’s just…have you gotten taller?”
It had been almost six months since she last saw him, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’ll have grown since then. However, this growth spurt is noticeable compared to others. He’d grown several inches, and now his forehead is in line with her nose. He barely has to tilt his head to meet her gaze. Something about that makes her heart clench in pride, but also nostalgia for times where he was much shorter.
Toshiro rolls his eyes. “So what if I have? Everyone grows taller.”
“Well, yes, but, um…” Momo presses a hand against her lips, trying to stifle the giggles that threaten to bubble up.
He glares and grumbles. “What?!”
“Nothing!” she says around a chuckle. “Please, ignore me! I have to see Ayumi-chan then I’ll –”
“What’s so funny?”
“Honestly, Shiro-chan, it’s nothing!”
“Don’t call me that, bed-wetter Momo!”
He might have gotten taller, but he’s still the same grumpy brat she knows.
_________________________________
She finds Toshiro lying in the grass under a tree, hands behind his head and head tilted back. He might be napping, or, judging by the fact his zanpakuto is at his side, he could be meditating. notices again weeks before her graduation.
Seeing him like this, with the usual furrow in his brow less prominent and his eyes closed, he almost looks like a different person. It’s different from when she would wake before him and see him still asleep on the many sleepovers she had with him. He’s still a child, older now with some of the roundness in his cheeks and eyes disappearing, but it’s more than that.
He’s using that stealth he once used to jump out and scare her to show his impressive footwork in zanjutsu, and the concentration he once reserved for competing in spinning top tournaments into studying every textbook after classes well before exams.
He’s changed, and she’s barely been there to see it’s full progression. Perhaps that was a downside to choosing to become a Shinigami, she didn’t get to see what had made him change. Why did she want to know such things? He hadn’t changed for the worst, if anything he’s matured.
Momo shakes her head; why is she thinking like this?
The bell sounds off in the distance. It hadn’t stirred Toshiro from his nap or meditation. It wouldn’t do for him to miss any of his classes.
She kneels by his side. “Shiro-chan…” she tries. “Shiro-chan, it’s time to wake up.”
His brow twitches, but he otherwise remains still.
“Shiro-chan, come on,” she says, a bit louder. She gives his shoulder a gentle shake for good measure. “If you don’t wake up, you’ll miss your classes.”
His eyes snap open and he flings himself up. She barely avoided being hit by him, leaning away and almost falling on to her backside. He stares at the ground and takes in deep breaths through his parted lips.
Had she startled him that badly? “S-Shiro-chan?”
He blinks, and after exhaling, looks at her. “Hinamori…”
Momo raises her hands in apology. “I’m sorry, did I frighten you?”
He says nothing, and judging by the lingering haziness in his eyes, he’s still not fully awake.
“I was looking for you, and I found you here. Were you asleep or…” At the second bell alarm, she gasps and scrambles to stand up. “Actually, that’s not important! We’re about to miss our classes if we don’t hurry up!”
That seems to snap Toshiro out of his daze. He’s quick to grab his zanpakuto and rise. Despite
They rush back toward the Academy. “Before, were you taking a nap or meditating?”
To her bewilderment, he considers his answer. “I was medidating.” Then, several steps later, “Why were you looking for me?”
Momo shrugs and grins. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. I’ve been hearing rumors around that the instructors are deeming you a child prodigy.”
“Who said that?!”
“I don’t know, I just overheard some classmates talking about it.”
“Since when do you pay attention to gossip? Besides, it’s not true and it’s not a big deal if it was.”
“But Hitsugaya-kun, it’s an amazing feat!”
Hearing his surname makes him falter, and a faint pink colours his cheeks. She chuckles. “Still not used to it, are you?” she teases.
“S-Shut up!”
"I can go back to calling you 'Shiro-chan' if you'd prefer."
"Absolutely not!" He turns his fast walk into a run, going ahead of her. She laughs as she catches up to him.
When she glances down to avoid a rock in her way, she notices his shoulder is only a couple inches lower than hers.
___________________________________
Ever since he started wearing the haori, Momo can’t tell if he’d grown again or if he’s just standing taller than before.
She wouldn’t be surprised if it’s only the latter. The haori has given him a greater presence, and it’s a piece of his uniform he must wear with the responsibility and respect the role of captain asks of him. She can see it having an effect on him, of wanting other to know he takes his new role seriously and
“Oi, you day dreaming back there?”
Momo almost drops her paperwork and stumble in her step, but is quick to recover and come to a stop. It’s only then she realises she’d been staring at his back while he walked ahead. What had they been talking about again?
“Ah, sorry Hitsugaya-kun, I lost focus.”
“It’s ‘Captain Hitsugaya’ now, Hinamori.” He fully turns to her. “It’s unlike you though. What’s on your mind?”
She tries to not show how much the question startles her. Where once he’d kick the dirt and say something vague to gauge if she was upset, now he just asks her. He’s become more direct in recent years.
Remembering the child he once and seeing how he’s grown to who he is right now makes her smile. She closes the gap between them with a smile.
“It’s nothing. I think I’m just trying to get used to seeing you dressed in a haori.”
___________________________________
Their eyes are almost level. It’s an odd realisation to have after he’s made his apology. Perhaps it’s the catharsis, the relief of having finally spoken to him again after months of absence and knowing neither of them hated or feared the each other.
She wipes away the last tear form her eye on her sleeve. He’d stopped crying long ago, but his eyes are still rimmed red and glassy. She’s only seen him cry three times, and it’s never been like this. She takes his hand.
“How about some tea?” Momo offers.
He only nods and lets her led him to the Fifth Division kitchens.
___________________________________
Around them is the ruins of the palace and their injured comrades being healed. Yhwach had been defeated, and the relief hangs palpable in the air around her. It should be a time of hurried decisions and coordinating how to transport everyone back down to the Soul Society.
But Momo can’t look away from Toshiro, and it seems he can’t look away from her either.
She doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing here, she in confusion and he as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t and was awaiting her judgement.
It’s the only time where he stands on the same level as her and she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. She can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it.
Toshiro stares down at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “What’s so funny?”
Hearing him speak a slightly deeper voice only adds to the strangeness of the situation. Perhaps she should be in awe or confused by his change in appearance and power. Maybe her immense relief is getting the better of her and it’s making her almost manic.
She calms herself enough to speak between chortles. “I’ve never seen you so tall! How did you get to be like this?”
His eyes widen and his mouth fall agape, making a strangled sound. It does nothing to stop her laughter, and she has to cover her mouth and half turn away.
He comes out his stupor and makes an irritated noise. “Enough of this! I’ll explain later! We have to focus on our duties!”
It would’ve been a sobering reminder had it not been for how he stomps away from her, arms swinging at his sides and shoulders high enough to hide the redness in his cheeks.
____________________________
Of all things, she only notices he’s grown taller when they both duck under a low hanging branch. Once he could easily walk underneath it and she would have to bow her head slightly to avoid her hair getting caught on the leaves.
She stares at him the whole time, even as she straightens and they continue towards his Granny’s house, only a short distance ahead. Eventually, with a deepened frown, he asks, “What is it?”
Behind him, the orange and red autumn leaves are a stark contrast to his white hair and blue-green eyes. It’s a moment she wishes she could capture, whether it be on her denreishinkai or in her sketchbook.
At her lack of a response, his brows furrow deeper and he comes to a stop. “All right, what is it? Is there something on my face?”
They’re at eye level now. She hasn’t grown an inch in the last four years, but he keeps getting taller. One day, she may really have to start tilting her head back to meet his gaze.
The wind chime on Granny’s veranda reminds her of why they’re here, and she’s quick to start walking again. “No.”
“Then why were you staring?” he asks
“You’ve grown taller,” she tries to say casually. “I only just noticed.”
He rolls his eyes with a scoff and a hint of a smirk. “Is that all?”
“Hey, this is the first we’ve seen each other since the reconstruction efforts began." Despite her indignation, she smiles. "Of course I’m going to notice changes in you after so long.”
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— for the hope of it all
requested by anon: any sarah character / falling for your professor / happy ending
pairing: diane sherman x reader
note: reader is not a minor so it’s legal bffs!
word count: 2100
The end of the year was approaching and it wasn't as exciting as it typically is. Graduation was soon and yet you couldn't find it in yourself to count down the days with exhilaration. You wanted to leave school finally, yes, but you couldn't leave her.
Miss Sherman had been your English instructor for the entire year now. You had never got too close to any teachers throughout the years, but Miss Sherman was different. Almost as if she wanted to get close to you.
You had spent many after school hours with her -even if you didn't need extra help on assignments or the lesson. You would stay to help her, and maybe even fake stupidity so she could teach you one on one.
Your many absences had nearly disappeared at this point. You wanted to come, every single day, just so you could see her.
The bell rang and the class cleared out. You rushed to shove your papers into your bag as the room become quiet. "Y/n, can you stay back for a minute, honey?" Honey. She always called you that. You could say she called everyone that or she was just saying it to be nice, but if you looked back on the way she addresses other students, you’d be lying.
You hummed your approval and once your shaky hands managed to shove your folder into your bag, you placed it on your back and walked up to her desk.
She looked up at you and smiled, for just a moment it was silent. And you think your brain might explode with these long stream of thoughts. She leaned her elbows on her desks and propped her head in her hands. She’s in the perfect position for you to kiss her, and you’re right there, and nobody else is around. But you quickly shake those thoughts away. That is extremely inappropriate.
“You seemed very lost in your thoughts today. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Her voice was gentle and her eyes softened as she spoke. Everything about her was so welcoming and she felt just like the feeling of coming home after a long day. “Are you okay,” she asked, seriously this time.
You cleared your throat and nodded. In fact, not okay. It was far too difficult to pay attention with the blouse she wore today. The cut, not risqué, but lower than usual. “I’m fine. I’m just really tired.”
“Are you sure you’re just tired, sweetie? You don’t seem like yourself. Very flustered and on-edge.” If she wasn’t being so sweet, you would’ve thought that she was out to get you.
You fiddled with the straps of your bag. A nervous habit that you picked up on. Her eyes adverted to your hands and she noticed how fidgety you were being. “Positive. My mind was just running a lot last night and I couldn’t seem to shut it off.”
“Alright,” she smiled. You knew she wasn’t fully content with your answer, but she decided to let it slide. “Well you know i’m here for you if you ever want to talk.”
“I know. Thank you, Miss Sherman. Bye, have a nice weekend.” You begin to walk back out of the classroom, just as your name was called again. You turned back around and she was closer than you anticipated.
She seemed to be unfazed by the closeness of it all, but you were sure that she could hear your pounding heart. “Almost forgot; there’s a paper due on Mon—”
And, fuck, she looked so pretty close up like this. You tried your hardest to hold yourself back, you really did, but you truly wanted to sleep tonight and you couldn’t if all you could think about is how would her lips feel against mine.
You did it. You stood on your toes, because she was just a little bit taller than you, and kissed her. Simple and sweet, but there was no denying that it happened.
She looked shocked, and you weren’t sure if she was appalled or flustered. She was certainly trying to find something, anything to say. But before she could, you were already running out the door. “Shit! I’m— i’m so sorry, Miss Sherman.”
Diane stood there, beyond puzzled. You didn’t even give her the chance to kiss you back. If only you had waited just a moment longer.
-
Diane found you walking home from the school. Often times, she took another root, but she was running late leaving today and there would've been too much traffic. She wouldn’t have been home for another two hours from now. There was a frown on your face, a difficult look for the older woman to ignore. She was only trying to help, really— "Y/n! Need a ride?"
You turned to look into the car. You were startled at first; an unfamiliar voice calling your name. But you saw darkened amber locks and soft brown eyes shimmering as a golden river. You didn't hesitate to hop into the car.
And you should’ve. You really should’ve hesitated. Because not even an hour ago you were kissing the woman.
Still, you discovered solace in the warmth of her vehicle. The forth month of the year was warm but the evenings still chilled out anyone with a shirt shorter than the length of their arms.
Diane still had difficulty noting the cause of your gloomy aura. She decided to ignore your sorrow face and focus on the road ahead. The conversation was directed elsewhere, and you could finally take a deep breath. "What happened to your car?"
You looked over at her again and she looked nearly glad that you were walking. That she so happened to catch you when she could help out. "It's in the shop. It broke down yesterday evening."
"You could've asked me to drive you home, you know."
You leaned back and sighed. Her seats were so soft, so much so that you could fall asleep. Yet, your eyes remained wide open. Your mind ran too fast and your heartbeat thrummed in your chest so loud that you could hardly hear the words coming out of her mouth.
"I didn't entirely know if we are on speaking terms." You looked at the window to give off the impression that you didn't care about the conversation being held. But you did care. You care so much about everything and nothing.
"Of course we are, y/n. I'm your teacher—"
"Miss Sherman—"
"—Diane," She corrected you, yet stern as if she were talking to a misbehaving student. She is. You have to remember that.
"Exactly, Diane. I think we both know that it's much more than that." Your house came into view and she pulled into the driveway. Neither of you decided to make a move and it was then that you discovered that you were allowed to leave. “Like that time you kissed my forehead, or how you only call me honey and sweetie. It’s so much more, Diane.”
It was left at that. Neither of you wanted to admit the solemn truth because you both knew what you were doing to each other was wrong. Nevertheless, neither of you could find it in yourselves to care of stopping.
You wanted her, and she wanted you. That was that.
-
The following day, your feet dragged down the hallway to the English room. It was as if your ankles were locked in weighted shackles.
You were the last one to walk in. Everyone was already seated and chattering. Still, Diane watched you as you sat down, only making eye contact for a mere moment until you broke it. Her expression was unreadable which had to have been worse than anything. You had to sit there while she taught, unable to focus on the story on the board because of your own romance with your forbidden lover.
You suffered in this torture until you eventually excused yourself to the bathroom. You just needed a break, and frankly, you weren't sure that you would go back to class.
You sat in silence and held back rivers in your eyes so your mascara wouldn't smudge. It was until then that you heard the bathroom door open again. You rolled your eyes, aware that anyone who goes into the bathroom is only using it to smoke it out.
Gentle footsteps walked towards the last stall. The one you sat in. Steps as soft as if the person was floating rather than stepping. "Y/n?" The voice called out in a hushed whispered. Contained and hastily, as if your name was forbid to say.
You stood up and brushed down the invisible wrinkles on your shirt. You made no effort to walk out of the stall. You wanted her to find you herself. "Y/n, is that you?"
A her knuckles knocked against the stall door, echoing in the empty bathroom. You clear your throat and finally spoke up, "Yes it's me." Still, you could not bring yourself to open the door. You didn't want to see the face that you were disallowed to have. It pained you too much.
"Can I come in," there was hesitance in her voice, "I just want to talk to you." Your throat got caught up somewhere in your vocal cords. You opted to just unlock the door and move to the side for her to squeeze in.
There was not enough space between either of you, yet you felt two world apart. She gazed into your eyes, you don't know what she was trying to seek in them, but you assumed she was feeling the same things you were. Lust, desire.
It was a matter of seconds before she was kissing you. Or you were kissing her. You couldn't remember. Everything was foggy and you were caught up in a haze of the sweet vanilla taste of her.
You pulled away when you were brought to your senses by her hand on your waist. You were mere inches apart and you just wanted more of her but there were things to be said. "I thought you wanted to talk."
"There are so many things that I want to say to you," she exhaled some air. Her warm breath tickled your face, "but let's start with this."
And then she was on you again, but you weren't mad at it. You encouraged it. Urged in on. You ached for her. When her hand brushed against the hairs on the back of your neck, you arched your body closer.
You parted your lips and her tongue did not shy away from entering, exploring every inch of you. You moaned into the sensation, tugged on her shirt for something for your hands to do.
After nearly seeing heaven, you both caught your breaths in parting. She brushed away the stray hairs on your face, looking at you with a smile that could only be described as love.
"If that's what wanting to talk to me means," you took a deep breath and gulped, hard, "then please never shut the fuck up."
She belly laughed at you but then the school bell rang and it sent her into a slight sense of panic. "Shit, the class." She pulled away and everything suddenly felt cold. "Meet me at my car after school." She fixed up her hair with a simple flattening hand and winked at you.
Then she was gone, leaving you there with a pounding heart and aching lips.
-
The end of the day came slower than you cared to admit. The hands on the clock passed as slow as if a snail was dragging it along. And you wanted to curse her for doing this to do.
Yet you still found yourself racing to the parking lot as soon as the obnoxiously loud bell rang in your ears. You never thought that you would want to hear that bell this badly before.
The redness on your cheeks pulsed and the cool breeze could not seem to settle that. Your heart beat; loud and heavy like a band banging on their drums. You could say that your rapid pulse was from walking so speedily, but you would be lying about that.
You could spot her leaning against her car with her arms crossed at her chest. She was grinning, ear to ear. A sly look on her face was prominent and helped you discover that she just wanted you.
You didn't know what had altered her perception on the relationship, but you didn't really want to know right now.
You walked up to her, body warmth radiating between you with the press against each other. You were her girl and you didn't want to hide that. She grabbed the back of your head and lightly pulled you closer by that. You touched her lips with your own, soft and sweet. And that was the moment you knew.
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Time For Finals - Eddie Munson
Words: 3.3k+
Type: Smut
Summary: You help Eddie study, but he gets distracted.
Warnings: Fem!Reader [no mentions of race or body type]. SMUT (minors DNI): fingering, dom!eddie, orgasm delay, pleading. A very long build-up to the smut (sorry).
I do NOT give you permission to repost my work. If you'd like to read my stories on other platforms, you can find them on my Wattpad and AO3.
By clicking to read more you are agreeing that you are over the age of 18 and mature enough to read mature scenes :)
It’s that time of the year once more. Time for Finals. It's weeks away, in fact.
You’re not one to really freak out when it comes to this. You’re a good student. Whereas for your boyfriend… Not so much.
Eddie is... different. You know it and you like to tell that to everyone that might be interested. He has failed to finish high school two times, but you really think that he is more than capable of finishing it. His biggest issue is simply that he doesn’t like to study. It's a common thing with many teenagers, and, because of that, you’re ready to help him this time.
Not too late after you two started dating, you’ve declared yourself as the one who will help him graduate this damned year. Even if it's just for him to actually have the graduation ceremony that he fantasizes so much about and all the other things he wants to do there - which list grows by the day, at this point.
But, here’s the catch. You don’t know why, but you thought that this task wouldn’t take too long to achieve. You thought that it would be easy. You just needed to help him ace his finals and you know he’s capable of doing all of that. So... what changed?
A dramatic whine rips through the bedroom's silence, making you roll your eyes. You look up from your History book to Eddie, laying in his bed and on his stomach with his face in between his pillows. You let out a simple sigh and wait for him to finish his dramatics.
“This is so boring.” He groans, voice muffled from the pillows.
“Eddie, come on.” You huff, “The more you whine, the more time we’ll spend on this.”
He doesn't move, but you continue to look at your boyfriend. He’s still with the clothes that he wore to school, so he probably isn’t that comfortable on the bed. His face has completely disappeared in the middle of the pillows and all you see, really, is his hair, funnily enough.
You continue seated next to his body, looking at him as if you’re counting how much time he will take to notice that you’re not giving up. That and whenever he’ll have to move around in bed because leather and spikes can't be that comfortable.
Almost right after you think that, Eddie has that exact problem and rolls on the bed to now lay on his back. His eyes find you right away and he offers you a sweet grin. The same one he uses to get out of trouble with you, every time.
“Can’t we do this like… tomorrow?” He asks, sounding sincere.
“That's what we agreed on yesterday.” You remind him.
Eddie closes his eyes in realization and lets out one of those dramatic breaths again.
“We have to do this.” You tell him softly, “And then we’re done. For the whole rest of the day.”
He reopens his eyes to look at you and think about his options while admiring your face. He scootches a little further from you and then taps the bed beside him, telling you to lay down with him.
You do as he wants, laying on your stomach beside him, not caring enough to smooth down your clothes, which most possibly have moved a lot with all of your sitting and laying.
Eddie turns his head to you while you hold yourself up by your elbows, and you set the History book in front of you, right by the pillows. You look back at him and admire his face as well, doe brown eyes looking right back at you.
“Can we do it tomorrow?” He asks again, his voice much, much softer, almost as if he’s trying to enchant you in some way. “Please?”
You stare at him lovingly, listening to his every word, and Eddie finds some sort of hope growing in his heart.
“No.” You tell him. “Finals are in 2 weeks, Eddie. I’m not letting you fail.”
“But what if I do fail?” He asks curiously, but, deep down, teasingly.
“I’ll be disappointed.” You tell him straightforwardly.
“There’s always next year.” He teases you, granting him a smack on the shoulder.
“You are graduating this year, don’t you dare say those things.” You say mid-smack.
Eddie sits up quickly, totally out of nowhere, and you look up at him. He looks down at you, masking his real emotions from his face with more of his theater skills. He has this sort of confused and hurt expression on his face.
“You wouldn’t wait for me if I failed this year?” He asks.
You smile at his performance and simply shake your head (insincerely) with a tight-lipped grin. Eddie’s jaw falls and he brings his hands to the left side of his chest, acting as if he’s clutching onto his cracking heart. He groans in fake pain and even frowns as if you had actually physically hurt him. The fictitious pain grows worse and worse every second as his heart shatters more and more.
You? Well, all you do is stare, really. And as the show continues, you begin to open back your history book in front of you. You change pages, back to where you left off 2 days ago.
Eddie falls back to the bed with, now, his broken heart and hands still clutching onto the pieces. You give him a look, and he doesn’t change his expression. The show is still going.
“Page 80, Munson. Let’s go.” You tell him.
He lifts his hands from his chest in defeat and sighs, slightly disappointed that it didn’t work to get you distracted enough. He extends his hand toward you, and you smile as you pass him the book. He grabs onto the history book and hovers it over his face as he begins to read.
You look at him as he does it and lay your cheek on your fist, trying to get comfortable.
“You studied those, right?” You ask him, “Like I told you to?”
“Of course.” He scoffs.
You smile and lean in closer to him. You lay your chin on his shoulder and he continues to read the pages he absolutely only read half off before dozing off to sleep 2 days ago.
“So you know everything?” You test him.
“Duh.” He sends you a look.
“Seriously. Is there something that you don’t understand? I can help.”
Now that makes him go silent. His eyes move through the page, moving from word to word, trying to remember if there was anything that made him confused when he first read them. The truth is, if he could, Eddie would say “a little bit of everything” but he knows that you need specifics to be able to actually help him.
He changes pages, and you look at him as he does it. You don’t speak, not wanting to distract him as he looks for what he needs.
“This.” He points.
You look over at the page he’s pointing at.
“I did not understand anything about this.”
Secretly, it’s what made him fall asleep all those days ago. The words didn’t make sense to him. The historical events were described in an unnecessarily hard way and, no matter how many times he tried to read them and understand them, he just didn’t. And that is what made him fall asleep.
You grab the book from his hands and quickly sit up. You sit on your knees, heels to your butt as you hold the book in your hands. Eddie stares at you sitting high, right next to his laying body. You stare at the pages with attention, and Eddie watches as a concentrated frown cutely overtakes your face.
“Okay.” You say to yourself, “So, I’ll give you an overall summary of it first, and then, I’ll add the details that probably will be on the test, okay?”
He nods at you.
You open your mouth and begin to speak. You make sure that the words you use are simple, almost as if you are explaining the whole thing to a child. Not in a demeaning way, of course, but in a way to make it seem just as simple as it really is without all of the small details.
Eddie listens to you attentively, and you continue to be so careful to not break his attention, looking him right in the eyes whenever you look down at your book to assure yourself that what you're saying is correct.
What you’re saying, in the end, makes absolute sense, and Eddie understands it right away. He nods for you to continue when you sometimes add a small question - a test to see if he is listening - and you keep on going.
“Did any of this make sense?” You ask him and he assures you with a nod.
You turn the page to start with the details. As you read quickly from your book where to start your new explanation, Eddie’s eyes scan you. Your thighs are exposed by your skirt. It has moved a little when you moved to sit up. He stares at the flesh like he’s in a trance while you sit there in silence.
He'll never get over the sight of seeing you in skirts. A blessing to anyone's eyes, really.
You open your mouth to speak again and look up at him to find Eddie staring. You snap your fingers in front of him, and he comes back to reality, looking right back up at your face. And, with that, you begin explaining the harder part of the historic event.
Eddie tries his best to keep up with what you’re saying, and you sometimes even repeat explanations of certain people’s involvement. He nods the whole way through.
You turn the page again and keep on with your explanation. Mid-sentence, you feel something warm on your knee. You don’t stop and just look down to see how, without looking, Eddie laid his hand on your knee. His thumb moves side to side, smoothing over your silky skin, and, still, you keep on going.
“And that is mostly it.” You finish.
You and Eddie move along. You ask him some questions here and there to make sure he knows the easier parts you’re learning, which, to your relief, he answers all of them correctly. And right as he finds another part of the book which he doesn’t understand, you do the whole thing you just did, again.
Eddie points at another page by the fifth time, and you patiently grab the book again and do as you’ve done before. This time, he isn’t paying attention. Eddie’s just nodding to what seems right to do so.
His hand has stayed on your knee for long enough for you to not even notice when he moves it slightly more to one side or another, you just keep on with your talking. Whenever you’re not looking at him, Eddie’s looking right at your thighs again or how your boobs look on the tanktop you’re wearing.
His hand moves away from your knee over to the inner side of your thigh carefully and slowly. His touch is warm and soft, you don’t say or do anything to stop him.
You change pages and lay down your book in front of you. Eddie’s hand lays still now at the top of your thigh, right at the start of your skirt. His fingers move discreetly and go under the fabric. You sit back straight before continuing to add the details.
You look over at Eddie as soon as you feel his hand already under the fabric of your skirt. You stop talking this time and bring your hand to grab Eddie’s wrist, but his hand doesn’t stop moving - his fingers still caress your skin like before.
“Are you listening to me?” You ask him and he nods, “Eddie, I’m serious.”
“Me too.” He says.
Eddie never had problems understanding this side of history, that’s why he chose this page in the first place. He’s a little mean for interrupting your tutoring, but not to the point of destroying his progress in history class.
“Then why is your hand in between my thighs?” You ask him, still holding his wrist.
“I just like having it there.” He shrugs, and you can’t help but chuckle. “Keep going, I was listening.”
With a sigh, you do as told and it doesn’t even take you a full pair of seconds to know how your studying plans have gone right out of the window.
Eddie's hand tries to move higher and higher up your thigh, and you continue to say everything that he needs to know. All just in case some words actually do get into his brain while he does this.
Eddie looks up to check on you, and you roll your eyes at him. His hand moves just a tiny bit more, and you move one of your thighs to the side, parting them and letting Eddie’s hand now move freely up and down the inside of your leg. As soon as he does it, you feel shivers run down your spine as his cold rings touch your inner thighs.
You move to a few other pages, and Eddie’s hand completely disappears under your skirt. You try to control your breathing, but feel his thumb smooth down your slit over your underwear. Your hands move to grab Eddie’s wrist again, but you stop yourself.
His fingers move on top of your underwear, at first, so light as if they're hovering, but, at one point, he finally makes some pressure. Your jaw clenches slightly, and Eddie’s grin reappears on his face. He lifts his fingers and grabs onto your underwear, pulling it to the side.
His pointer finger moves, without any hesitation, through your folds and moves up and down your slit. Your wetness quickly coats the pad of his finger, and the words have finally stopped coming out of your mouth. His middle finger begins to move with the other, collecting your wetness as it covers his digits.
Your eyes move back to Eddie, and his other hand moves to hold onto the fabric of your skirt.
“Move closer.” He tells you.
You do as told and move on your knees, letting the coldness of the room touch your uncovered pussy. Eddie’s fingers come back as you now are more than at his reach, sitting right at the height of his chest.
“Hold this.”
You hold the fabric of your skirt and, just like that, Eddie’s fingers slide inside of you with ease. You let out a weak breathy moan, and Eddie’s eyes watch as your cunt swallows his fingers. They come out glistening with wetness, and he groans out loud.
He moves his fingers in and out of you slowly, watching them disappear and appear again, enjoying the way your walls squeeze them. He hears you let out a gasp for each of the times his fingers reach inside of you. He knows you want him to start moving faster, but he can’t help but want to enjoy the view for a little while longer.
Your hips move to meet his fingers whenever they move upwards, and Eddie smiles at the sight. He meets your movements with his hand, just like you want it, and small moans start coming out of your mouth as pleasure finally starts to consume your whole body.
“Ride my fingers, baby. Go on.” He tells you.
His order makes you move faster, just at the rhythm you’ve been wanting since he started. Eddie helps you by moving his fingers with you, and the sounds coming out of your mouth begin to get louder. Eddie curves his fingers and matches their rhythm to your movements, blessing his ears with the squelching sound that breaks the lack of noise in the room.
Your moans begin to be louder as well, and Eddie slides in his third finger with ease. They go deep in you and appear shining with your juices all the way down to his knuckles. Eddie stares at all of it as if he’s staring at paradise on Earth.
“Eddie...” You moan breathlessly.
He smiles and speeds up. The sounds of squelching worsen, and your body warms as you first notice the sound, making you even wetter. You grip onto your skirt, and Eddie notices how your boobs move with your ups and downs under your tank top a little too freely. He, in a quick movement, pulls down the fabric from your cleavage and exposes your boobs, with a clear lack of a bra.
You prefer to take out your shirt, and Eddie gladly watches as you grab onto it. He holds the skirt for you but, right as you bring your hands up to take the tank top off and throw it, he speeds up his fingers.
You let out a loud moan, shirt now off but you’re still clinging to it. He speeds up more, and you breathe recklessly while looking down to watch as his fingers move at an incredible speed. He smiles as you begin to break under his touch and you open your mouth to speak, but that only makes him move his fingers quicker, making you lose yourself all over again.
“Mhm.... Ed-Eddie, please.” You try to say it out loud, but your words come out as a whisper.
“What, baby? What?” He mocks you with a fake caring tone, continuing to work his fingers inside you as if it’s no deal to move that fast.
“I- I.” You try to speak but you force your mouth closed to not let out a bunch of nonsense.
Eddie chuckles out loud at your lack of words and continues to move, watching as you grow impossibly wetter and eventually closer to your release. One of your hands moves over to his wrist, almost as if to stop him but you never begin to do such a motion, you just hold it as it moves.
“Can-Can I come…” You ask in a whisper, “Please?”
Your last work comes out as a loud moan as Eddie never slows down for your sake and watches as you shatter slowly. He smiles brightly at the sight of such a beauty, but he doesn’t answer you just yet.
“Eddie…” You moan in a pleading tone. “Please, please, please.”
You whine out the pleading, and he lifts his head from the pillows to move closer to you. He watches from up close how your body moves, how your boobs jiggle, and how your hips begin to lose a little bit of control under all of the pleasure.
“Please.” You say as you can’t exactly hold back any more.
He smiles up at you and sits up, slowing down his movements as he does it. He then restarts the rapid speed all over again with absolute no remorse. You moan out loud again, pleasure never really leaving you at any point, and he lays a kiss on your cheek.
You let go of your shirt and hold, with your free hand, onto his shoulder. He keeps moving his fingers as he leans in close to you, and that is when he whispers.
“You can come, baby.”
As soon as his words begin, he watches as you fall apart. Your moaning gets louder, your walls squeeze his fingers tightly, and, when his thumb moves to touch your clit, your body begins to spasm with the overstimulation.
He watches as your moans become whines and then soft mumbles. Your head is overcrowded with all the overwhelming pleasure, and your body is still going through the aftershocks.
You open your eyes to look at Eddie. You do it with hazy eyes, and a tired expression. He smiles at you and gives you a quick kiss. His fingers still move inside you, yet it's so much slower than before, that it almost doesn’t even feel right. You feel how sensitive you've grown to touch, almost to a point of oversensitivity. His touch makes you move slightly as he does move deeper or faster. Your oversensitive cunt hurts, but the pain under his touch is more than bearable. You moan into his kiss and he smiles before pulling away.
“Lay down.” He tells you, “I’m not done with you.”
My first ever Eddie fic!! It's really not my best work, by far, but I hope this was okay <3
Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson imagines#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie mundon x y/n#stranger things#stranger things imagines#stranger things smut#stranger things imagine#netflix
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This is a request from @minty-fox-candyyki
Billy Hargrove x Byers!Reader
Everything was perfect. You were seconds away from walking down the aisle. And the man waiting for you at the alter, was the love of your life, William Hargrove.
He has promised you the perfect beach wedding in California, and you were getting it. You were nervous, you both had just graduated. And could you do this?
"You're going to be fine, Yn," Jonathan says as you hug Joyce, Robin, Max, El, and Nancy before they begin to walk down aisle.
Your hand clasps with Jonathan's as Joyce gives you a smile and walks down the aisle. You wait for the music to start. The wedding march.
"You got this," Jonathan whispers as he takes your arm and you both begin to walk. You see Billy standing outside the tent, next to the altar.
You see him quickly wipe a tear away, no way was he going to cry from how gorgeous you looked, no way.
You give him and smile as you approach him. Once you reach the altar, Jonathan smiles at you before taking a seat next to Steve and Dustin. Steve and Dustin had shown up in matching tuxedos, and that was adorable.
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"Mrs. Hargrove," Billy says with a smile as he takes your hand for the first dance. You were now officially, Mrs. Hargrove.
You smile and took his hand, "Mr. Har-," you were cut off by some yelling. You and Billy turn to look and see a very angry man. Not just any man.
Neil hargrove.
"YOU MISERABLE LITTLE BIT,-" Neils words are cut off by Hopper dragging (with several punches that everybody would later agree never happened) the disturbee away.
You were shook up but weren't going to let it ruin your wedding, you had to fake a smile for Billy
"Are you okay?" Billy asks and you nod, "Yn, I'm serious, if you need to-,"
"-Im fine, are you okay?" You ask and he smiles before pressing a kiss to your nose. You pout and he presses a final one to your lips.
You and Billy had the perfect first dance, everything was perfect. Neil was gone, though the thought of what he had said still hung in the back of your mind.
But if you dwelled, well, you might ruin the wedding. Neil wouldn't get to call you a bitch and ruin the day. No, you were going to be happy, even if it killed you (preferably killed Neil)
But, cue a few hours you had disappeared. You couldn't help as tears formed while you hid next to one of the tables. Nobody would hear you over the music.
You swalliw the lump in your throat as tears pricked at your eyes, you let out a quite sob as you think. Think of everything,
Why did this have to happen? Everything has been perfect, until it hadn't been
It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't billys. There was only one person to blame. That didn't stop you from blaming yourself.
It had been a day for happiness, and look what happened. You ruined it, you were crying on your wedding day.
You didn't actually ruin it, Neil did.
You see a frantic Robin spot you before running off. Most likely to get Billy as your breathing quickened. You couldn't help the sobs that flowed through your soul, and out your eyes.
"Baby," you hear a comforting voice whisper before pulling you into a hug. It takes a few minutes of comforting before you can finally breath again
"We can go home early," Billy reassures. You shake your head and hold his hand. You drop your head to rest it against his shoulder.
"No, I don't want to let Neil ruin this. I will be fine," you reply and stand up with Billy. He kisses you goodbye as Robin finds you and helps touch up your makeup.
After a few minutes both rejoin the party, Robin smiles at you before running off to go find Vicky. Robin had wanted to kill you when she found out you had invited Vicky. Even though it was your wedding, that didn't prevent you from playing Matchmaker.
You see Joyce fixing Wills tie and walk over. Will gives you a smile as he sees you.
"How's the wedding?" You ask with a smile. Will smiles before telling you he is having fun, but he soon sees Mike and disappears.
"Are you okay honey?" Joyce asks with her soothing voice full of concern. You smile softly at her.
"I'm fine mom," you say and she smiles at you before getting whisked away by Hopper. You smile as you watch them dance before going to have your own dance with billy.
Everything ended well, except for the self doubt that slowly crept up on you as you and Billy arrived at the beach house that has been rented for the week.
"Welcome home Mrs. Hargrove," Billy says before picking you and up and carrying you over the threshhold.
"Are you happy?" You ask with a small voice as you both change out of your wedding attire and into some more comfortable clothing.
"Don't listen to what Neil said. When had he said one thing that was true, or done one ethical thing," Billy says before pulling you into bed.
You smile as he wraps his arms around you, God this was perfect. Billy snuggles his head into your neck as he holds onto your waist.
If really was perfect, Neil wouldn't be running the best day of Billy's life, or the best day of yours.
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requests are open! Check my pinned post for all of the people and fandoms I write for!
#billy hargrove fanfiction#billy hargrove fic#billy hargrove fanfic#billy hargrove#billy hargrove imagine#billy hargrove x reader#billy hargrove x female reader#billy hargove x reader#billy hargrove fluff#billy hargrove x you
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The Disappearance of Mark Heathcliff (Led Astray AU)
Mark is ten years old when he begins to wish he could disappear forever. God does not answer his prayers, but something else does.
Warnings: self-loathing, self-harm, vaguely suicidal thoughts, family issues, religious guilt, mentioned & attempted kidnapping, body horror, and gore.
(Can't believe I have to say this but don't reblog or like this if you are a 'proshipper' or break tmc creators' boundaries.)
6,464 Words. Ao3 Link.
Mark is nervous.
His parents have reassured him time and time again, but he’s still apprehensive about going to this new school at the start of fifth grade. His parents had bought a new house, and rather than delay moving until he finished elementary school, they decided it would be best to have him start fifth grade at a new school. They said this way he could make some friends in the area before going into middle school, but Mark hadn’t really liked the idea. He’d wanted to stay and graduate with the friends he already had, especially since he lived so far away from them now and would likely never see them again. He hadn’t even wanted to move in the first place, but he supposed he trusted his parents — and it’s not like he ever had a say in the matter anyways.
He sighs, adjusting the straps of his backpack as he waits for his father to unlock the car. He just hopes he makes some new friends quickly, this summer was lonely without anyone to talk to. He’s sure it’ll be fine, though, he had made plenty of friends at his old school, he’s sure he can make new ones here, too.
—
The other kids hate him.
Well, maybe they don’t hate him — hate is a strong word, afterall — but they certainly don’t like him, either. When he tries to talk to them, the conversation dies out, replaced with darting eyes and uncomfortable whispering. When he tries to play games with them, they stop and switch to another game they know he doesn’t like. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, he’s thought over every single thing he could have possibly done for them to dislike him, but he can’t pin down a reason why. Did he talk too loud? Speak too fast? Maybe he was just too much for them, he knows he gets a bit enthusiastic sometimes, but why didn’t they like him now that he was quieter?
He even stopped trying to talk to them for a bit, “giving them space,” as he’s heard before. He’s stopped trying to talk or play, and instead buries himself into a book during recess, but this only seems to make his classmates dislike him more. Everything he does to try and fit in just makes him stand out more, and he’s starting to lose hope he’ll ever make friends here. He’s even starting to believe they might truly hate him, because why else would they shun him every time he tries to be friends with them? He doesn’t understand, all he knows is that this is not the “fresh start” he was promised. He misses his old friends — his real friends, more and more each day.
—
He can’t find it.
He’s lost his math workbook, again, and he has an assignment in it due tomorrow, and he can’t find it anywhere. He rakes his hands through his short hair, and tries to take a deep breath, but still feels tears pricking at his eyes. His teacher had said if he kept failing to bring in his homework then it was going to become an issue, and Mark didn’t want that, couldn’t bear the thought of it. He’s always been a good kid, a good student, so why was everything falling apart now? This had never been a problem at his old school, he never got in trouble there, but there were new rules he didn’t understand — and not just with his peers. They were less patient with him, more demanding, and his parents said the pressure would only increase in later grades. He felt like he was drowning, sometimes, just barely able to make it through each day before something new was thrown at him.
He rifles through his backpack, binder, folders, and room for the fourth time tonight, his search still fruitless. He clasps his hands together, and once more he prays, prays that God would let him find it — it wasn’t really a huge request, so why wasn’t he getting an answer? Doubt trickles into his stomach, and it makes him feel sick. He shouldn’t be feeling this, shouldn’t be doubting God like this, but he couldn’t make it go away no matter what he does. This wasn’t good, Mark Heathcliff was supposed to be good, but he feels like he’s been doing a very bad job of that lately.
He grasps his hands together even tighter, fingers pressing into the space between bones so much it begins to ache a bit. Could God not hear him? He chews the inside of his cheek. This week they had taught about sacrifice in his religion class — about how God told Abraham to kill his only son, Isaac. About how Jesus suffered, how much pain He went through. Maybe that’s what Mark was missing, maybe he needed to show God that he was serious about how much He meant to him.
He swallows a lump in his throat, and brings his hands to his mouth. He bites down on the back of his hand, around the knuckle of his pointer finger, and it hurts. He cringes, stopping immediately. He hadn’t expected it to hurt that much, the area he had bitten down on burns faintly as the pain fades. There are condemning marks left on his hand from where teeth dug in, and he rubs the skin harshly, trying to make them fade quicker. Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. He gingerly threads his hands together once more, and sends another prayer to God, hoping that this act would prove his devotion.
He repeats his cycle of rummaging through every place his workbook could be and praying, now with the addition of biting his hands, with more and more fervor each time. He grows frustrated, no, angry — why wouldn’t God listen to him? Why wouldn’t his parents and teachers listen? Why did nobody ever just listen to him? He finally gives up, tears in his eyes and hands aching as he gets ready for bed.
A few days later, his religion teacher reads aloud a passage from 1 Corinthians, about how the body is a temple, and must be taken care of. She reads another about the prophet Elijah defeating the false prophets of Baal, how they cut themselves with swords and spilled their own blood but their god did not answer. His teacher tells them that God didn’t listen to people that hurt themselves, and Mark feels sick. No wonder God hadn’t answered him, he was selfish. Shame roils in his gut for the rest of the day, but he can’t stop thinking about the feeling of teeth sinking into the flesh of his hands.
—
He can’t do this.
It’s been hours of staring at pieces of paper with words that swim in his head, trying to find ways to answer them but he can’t. He doesn’t know why, he’s trying so hard, and he knows the answers to these questions, but he just can’t. None of his sentences make sense, so he erases them and starts over, but he forgets what he was going to write, so he rereads his textbook, but he’s already read it, and he can’t read it again without losing focus, so the words swim off the page and he can’t make sense of it anymore, and by the time he figures out how to word what he wants to say, it’s hours later and he’s exhausted, and he knows it shouldn’t be like this; he knows something is wrong.
But when he tries to tell his parents, he never knows how to explain it, and they just tell him to keep trying because “it’s not that hard,” but it is. He knows he’ll never get them to understand, though, so he tries again anyway, hoping that maybe they’re right, and this time he’ll be able to do it right. He never manages it, no matter what he does differently. Now it’s 10:15 pm, he still has three whole assignments left, and they are all due tomorrow. He’s tired, his head keeps falling to the table and startling him awake, and he knows there’s no way he’s going to finish them all tonight. But his parents won’t let him give up.
They’ve gone to bed now, leaving him alone in the dining room, but he knows if he goes to bed now they won’t take any of the excuses he gives them in the morning. They will call him lazy, and a liar, and all the things that hurt him because it’s not true, but they don’t seem to care. They don’t care how much it hurts him, they don’t care if what he says is true, they don’t believe him. Anger burns in his throat, hotter than the shame he wears on his shoulders, filling the hollow pit in his stomach with a raging ocean. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair, he’s trying his best, and his parents always say that as long as he’s trying his best nothing else matters. But his best isn’t good enough for them anymore, and he hates it, hates himself, hates them. Maybe he doesn’t wish he could disappear, maybe he wishes they would disappear instead.
He wishes his parents would die.
He’s still, for a moment, so startled by the thought taking root in his mind that he loses awareness of everything else. In the blink of an eye, the shock gives way to a searing, all-encompassing guilt. How could he even ever think that towards another human being, let alone his own parents? He gasps for air, not realizing he had stopped breathing, and curls into himself tightly; drawing his feet up onto the chair and tucking his knees underneath his chin. Tears slip down his cheeks, and he can’t seem to catch his breath as he stifles his sobs so his parents won’t hear him. His fingernails leave indents on his knees from where he digs them into his skin, and he half-wishes he would bleed.
Mark is a terrible person. A terrible son. How could he wish for his parents to die?
He rips the sinful thought from his mind like uprooting a weed from a garden, and frantically replaces it with a haphazard, almost frenzied prayer.
He’s sorry, he loves his parents, he should be so grateful for everything they give him, he doesn’t deserve it, but they love him anyways, he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry, it wouldn’t happen again, he would never let himself think like that ever again, he would do anything, he’s sorry, he loves his parents, he would be lost without them, he would be lost without God, he’s sorry, he would do better, he just needs to try harder, just like his parents said, he just has to listen to them, he’s sorry, he deserves something horrible to happen to him, he’s been so ungrateful, he’s been so selfish, but he hopes God will forgive him anyways, even though he doesn’t deserve to ever be forgiven, because God loves him, and God would understand, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry it hurts.
He knows, now, that hurting himself will not make God listen, but he cannot help biting into his palms and wrists. He is disgusted with himself, and he wants to never think those sorts of things ever again, so he will use the pain to remind himself not to. He digs his teeth into his skin, closing them tighter, and tighter, until he cannot bear the sting of pain anymore, and releases it with a choked whimper. As soon as the pain fades, he bites down again, somewhere new, and repeats his self-flagellation.
After what seems like an eternity, he calms down enough to breathe without his breath hitching, or new tears to shed, and he goes still. He looks down, eyes vacant, and sees his hands are littered with angry red indents left by his own teeth. He sniffles, and drags his gaze up to the clock, seeing it is now 12:08 am. Three hours past his bedtime. He feels hollow, drained of everything from the effort of feeling so many emotions at once, and he decides this simply isn’t worth it. He slides his chair back and stands up, flicking the lightswitch off and beelining it for his bedroom, barely able to keep his eyes open enough to see where he is going. He doesn’t bother to brush his teeth, or change his clothes, or do any of the things he usually does before bed. He just crawls onto his mattress, hides under the covers, and tries desperately to forget the past hour and just fall asleep, to have just a moment of peace before the disappointment and anger he will face tomorrow morning.
He does not succeed, and gets little sleep anyways.
—
His parents are fighting again, and as it usually is these days, their argument is centered around him.
He’s been lying recently. At first it was just a panicked fumble, a hasty, “Yes, I finished my homework,” or, “I forgot it at home, but I can bring it in tomorrow,” nothing more than a rushed excuse in hopes it would distract whichever adult he was talking to long enough for them to forget it. He hadn’t even realized it was a lie at first, because he was planning on finishing his homework and handing it in! He just… needed more time, and didn’t want to admit he wasn’t done with it yet.
It wasn’t until later that the realization he had actually lied dawned on him, dread flooding his veins with ice as he sat at the dining room table, fist clenched around a pencil, pressing lead into the paper so hard the point had broken off. His head felt scrambled by the barrage of thoughts that accompanied the revelation, running rampant through his head as he tried despairingly to think up a penance for his transgression, and a solution to his newfound problem. The mere thought of admitting it to his parents had made him flinch, his own scorching fear rendering that option impossible. So he had decided to hide it — if nobody found out he had lied, then it wasn’t hurting anyone, was it?
In the end, he had managed to finish the assignment and turn it in the next day, just as promised. No harm, no foul. It was almost vindicating it a way: he had proved he wasn’t a liar, not really. He knew he just needed more time, but the adults wouldn’t let him have it, so he took it himself. Was there really anything wrong with that? Was it lying if he delivered on his promise in the end? No, Mark decided, he was learning that adults weren’t always right about things, and when they were wrong he would take matters into his own hands. That’s what he told himself that night, shoulders hunched and wide eyes staring into the dark when he was supposed to be asleep. Liars are sinners, but he was no liar.
But the time he had spent working on that one assignment had cut into the time he had to work on the others, and after just a few days he found himself in the same position. He knew the solution, he knew he could lie, but this time he knew he was lying, and it made his skin crawl with a prickle of shame.
This repeated, until he had lied more times than he could count now, and he was finally caught. He had told his teacher he had, in fact, turned in his assignment, she must have just lost it. He had planned to turn it in the next day, to slip it into the assignments bin while nobody was looking. He had not expected his teacher to spend hours looking for it, only for her search to be futile. He had not expected her to hold him back after class, eyes narrowed into a glare of suspicion .
He had broken easily, immediately confessing with eyes fixed on his shoes, voice barely audible as he admitted he had lied to her. She was furious, hours wasted for him, she had said, and he had never felt so ashamed in himself, queasiness coiling in his gut as she chewed him out. He couldn’t even remember most of it, he felt sick to his stomach even recalling a moment of it. He had never considered that this might happen, that his lie could ever affect someone other than himself, and remorse poisoned every fiber of his body with blistering anguish. He had felt like the floor had vanished from beneath his feet when she had informed him she was telling his parents. Despite his despondent pleading, endless tears, and choked apologies, she had refused to change her mind, and dismissed him to go to his next class.
The rest of the day seemed to drag on infinitely, leaving Mark hollow besides a horrible buzz of shame and dread. He had almost considered hiding from his father when he came to pick him up, but decided that was much more trouble than it would ever be worth. From the moment he got home, he delayed the inevitable. He had half-hoped that maybe if he said nothing, and prayed hard enough, that his teacher would miraculously forget to call his parents, and they would never know. But she had not forgotten, and he was called later that night to the kitchen by his mother with a tight, almost pained expression, and his father with crossed arms and furrowed brows.
His parents had not been happy.
He curled up on his side even tighter as he heard the word liar be whisper-shouted by his father. They thought he was asleep, that he couldn’t hear them, but he could hear almost every word through the cracks in his bedroom door. His pillow was drenched with tears and snot, and he felt utterly pathetic. He prays for his parents to stop, for him to be able to fall asleep, for him to sink into his mattress and never wake up.
Then again, why would God answer the prayers of a sinner? His parents had been right: he was a liar, and God does not love liars.
—
There is a boogeyman in Mandela County.
That’s what the newspeople call him, at least. He steals children, they say, whisking them away into the night never to be seen again — and nobody knows how he does it, who he is, or if it’s even a human being at all. There have been all sorts of rumors from the kids at school: aliens, demons, even an evil laboratory kidnapping children for their experiments. Mark isn’t really sure what he thinks of it all — he’s far too old to believe in monsters under the bed, and he’s more of a skeptic to things that stray from his faith. Whatever the case, the adults don’t seem to know what it is either, keeping a closer eye on the younger kids, and sending out broadcasts that make Mark feel sick with worry.
They say it’s taking children as young as newborns to as old as six. Sarah is five, and their parents have talked in hushed whispers about moving again, for her safety. He sits with her now, using a binder as a surface to write on so he can keep an eye on her while he does his homework, just like his parents told him to. She plays with her dolls on the carpet in front of the television, chattering to them as she weaves a story only she can comprehend. As Mark watches her, he almost feels… jealous. She’s been the favorite since she was born, and it’s not that he wants her to disappear, no, he loves her far too much for that, it’s just that…
Mark is too old to be taken by the boogeyman. He’s ten years old, far beyond the target age-range. Yet every night he almost wishes it would take him anyways; away from school, away from his parents, and bring him somewhere he didn’t have to worry about anything. He doesn’t know what happens to the kids that are taken, nobody does, but at this point he doesn’t really care. If something terrible happens, then maybe he would deserve it. It isn’t fair, that it could take Sarah instead of Mark. Sarah doesn’t deserve to be taken, she’s never done anything wrong, but Mark deserves to disappear, he wants to disappear. He’s pretty sure his parents wouldn’t even miss a liar anyways, and they would still have Sarah, so really it would be the best for everyone, wouldn’t it? Mark would get to disappear, and nobody else would be upset by him ever again.
He watches over her, and he feels an envy for something he knows he shouldn’t want.
—
There is someone in the house.
Mark holds his breath as he hides under the dining room table, squeezing his knees to his chest so tightly his body aches. He had been staying up late again, working on homework he would never finish, when the television turned on by itself, and a far-too-large hand pushed itself through the screen. There was no time for him to do anything else but kill the lights, throw himself under the table, and pray.
His lungs burn, but he doesn’t dare to take a breath. He can’t risk making a single noise, not when a living shadow lumbers through his home, head nearly scraping on the ceiling as it trudges past his hiding spot, achingly slow, each step it takes feeling like it shakes the very foundations of the house. He cannot breathe, so instead he prays, pleads that whatever it is does not find him. He has no idea what the intruder even looks like, he hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but what little he did see is enough to set his pulse hammering against his ribs. His heartbeat is so violently loud that he’s already half convinced it will hear him anyways, and spindly arms will reach down to rip him out of his shelter and tear him to shreds.
Achingly slow, it claws its way past him, and Mark squeezes his eyes shut, too terrified to look at what might be his doom. His head is filled with images of monsters, demons, and a faceless Boogeyman that haunts his town like a phantom. He hears more shuffling, more thuds, each one makes him curl into himself even more, but they slowly sound further and further away. He just barely opens his eyes, and he nearly sobs in complete and utter relief. It has gone past him, shambling out of the dining room, and into the hallway. It had not noticed him. He finally allows himself a breath when he is sure it is out of earshot, stifling the sound with his hands. Joy floods his veins, he is alive. That relief crashes like a vase to the floor when he hears the click of a doorknob turning, and the accompanying creak of a door being opened.
It had gone to the hallway, he realizes. The hallway that leads to Sarah’s room.
He unfurls from his hiding spot stiffly, urgency thawing out the sheer panic that had kept him frozen. Whatever that thing is, he was not going to allow it to hurt her. What if it really was the Boogeyman, and it took Sarah away? He couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let that happen.
He creeps down the hallway, pulse pounding in his chest as he slides his sock-covered feet along the wooded floors. His legs are shaking, and he feels like he might fall to the floor at any moment, but he keeps going. He briefly looks to his parents’ room, considering waking them up, but if it’s already opened Sarah’s door, then by the time he wakes them she might be gone. He has to face it alone. He steels himself, placing a hand upon the doorframe of Sarah’s room as he looks inside, and has to choke back a scream at the sight of something far too tall to be human hunched over Sarah’s bed, reaching something that must be a hand towards her. He almost backs away, frightened out of his mind just by seeing something so obviously inhuman, but instead he steps into the room, and opens his mouth to speak.
“What are you doing?” he croaks, his voice strangled by fear.
It turns to face him, and what small amount of bravery Mark had mustered up is gone in an instant, replaced by a soul-devouring terror. Although it is dark, there is enough light seeping in through the window for him to make out the features of the monster clearly. It has no lips, just a gaping mouth carved into an uncanny smile, filled with far too many teeth. Its lower jaw is split into two, weaving together and undulating in a way that almost resembles an insect’s mandibles. Its face is smooth, catching light in a way that makes it look as if it has molded clay in place of skin, sculpted around a blank eye on one side of its face. The other eye is set within a void, a glowing pupil flickering to focus in on his face.
It cocks its head to the side, considering his question, before it speaks, “I am taking her away.”
He can’t breathe, he feels as though his ribcage has collapsed in on itself, and he’s forgotten how to even inhale. Its voice digs claws into his head, static erupting in a horrid cacophony of incomprehensible noise, and he would raise his hands to clamp over his ears if he wasn’t petrified, if his arms weren’t so weak. His gaze is locked on it, but he remembers the reason he ever entered the room in the first place, and his eyes flit over to her. Sarah is asleep still, clutching a stuffed animal as she slumbers peacefully, blissfully unaware of the danger looming above her. It strengthens his resolve, and he remembers how to breathe, wheezing in a weak breath, as he looks the monster in the eye once more.
“L-le-ave,” he demands, voice cracking, “Le-ave her alone. T-take someone el-se.”
Its pupil flickers, and it blinks its vacant eye, perplexed by his request. “Who else would I take?” it inquires.
Mark can feel its gaze burning a hole through him as it awaits his response, and he scrambles for something to say. He has a feeling if he does not answer its question correctly, something terrible will happen, and it will take Sarah anyways. This vague fear sends his mind racing, half-formed thoughts clambering around the inside of his head, as though his brain is overturning each of his memories for something, anything to save his little sister. He remembers many, many things at once, but the recollections he latches onto the most are those of guilt. Of shameful lies, clenched teeth, crushing despair, and unanswered prayers. He remembers coveting a fate he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have. He remembers a wish he made as his little sister puppeteered toys in front of the very television the demon before him had emerged from. He knows his answer. He hopes it is one the monster will accept.
“Me,” Mark breathes, “T-ake me inste-ad.”
The Boogeyman, for that’s what it must be, drags itself towards him — hands that are gnarled and twisted like the roots of a tree pulling its sunken body forwards. He notices its chest is see-through, and he can see what look like ribs, but on closer inspection appear to be segmented insect legs. He gawks at them as they twitch and writhe, before snapping his attention back to its face. He forces himself to stay still as it lowers its head, arms creaking as it bends itself down until its eyes are level with his own.
“Why?” it implores, voice still buzzing with static, but no longer unbearable.
“Be-because I-,” Mark swallows, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to-to be here anymore. I-,” his voice warbles, and his breath hitches, but he continues. “I w-want to dis-appear, I’m a-a bad person, and I d-don’t want to stay here,” he gasps, fully crying now. “I d-on’t deserve to sta-y here, I d-on’t w-ant to stay here, please,” he wails, voice muffled as he buries his face into his hands. His chest heaves as he trembles, barely holding himself together enough to stay upright. He had never admitted his wish to anyone else before, and it felt like the dam he had built around it had finally burst, forcing him to feel the full brunt of the emotions he had locked away for so long.
He feels something drape itself across his shoulders and back, and can’t even find it in himself to recoil. He leans into the touch, letting it guide him through the doorway, and out into the hall. The weight on his back distorts, shrinking until it feels more like a real, human hand, now resting on just one shoulder. He looks to the monster, and sees it has condensed itself into the form of a man, no longer craning down to fit under the ceiling. He crashes forwards, burying his face into its side and wrapping shaking arms around it. He doesn’t care anymore, if it’s going to take him then he’s going to be selfish, and take as much comfort from it as he can get. It pauses, evidently not expecting Mark to cling to it. He feels a trickle of dread, had he made a mistake? He expects to be shoved away, for it to change its mind, but instead he feels an arm wrap itself around his shoulders, resting upon his back tentatively. He sniffles, and leans further into it.
They stay like that for a moment, before the monster starts to walk, and Mark forces his legs to move along with it, stumbling to keep in step with the other. It does not rush him, simply waiting for him to match its movements, almost like it wants him to copy it. It leads him out of the hallway, and he follows it blindly, not bothering to check where it is taking him. He doesn’t care, as long as it’s away, far away.
After a short while it stops, and stays still — but they had not walked for nearly as long as Mark had expected, he’s pretty sure they hadn’t even left the house. Mark forces his head up, blinking tears out of his eyes to look at their surroundings. It has brought him to the living room, right in front of the television. It makes sense, that it would take him away through the same thing it had come from. He supposes this is it, then. Something crosses his mind, and he balks, suddenly, tugging on its arm.
“Where… where are you going to take me? What will… happen to me?” His voice is small, he is already resigned to his fate, but he wants to know what his doom will be before he commits to it.
It tilts its head, gaze boring into him. “I am going to make you like me. And then we will go to the others,” it states.
The words catch Mark off guard. He isn’t sure what he had been expecting it to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “So… I’m not going to die?” he asks haltingly, almost apprehensive. He isn’t even sure which answer he wants to hear.
“No,” it vows, “you will not die, but you will be different.”
Mark can’t help but feel a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. He doesn’t know exactly what it means by ‘different’ but he doesn’t care enough to question it. He can guess well enough what it means anyways, with the way that it had looked before he agreed to go with it. He shivers as he imagines his jaw breaking in two, and his eyes becoming blank and lifeless. He shoves the images out of his head, and reaches out to grasp one of its hands to ground himself. He can’t let himself second guess his decision now — he has a feeling it would not react kindly to that. Besides, he was doing this for Sarah, whatever was going to happen to him didn’t matter.
The thought makes him realize that he should probably make sure the monster understands what he wants from it in return. “...What about Sarah? You… aren’t going to take her, are you? Just me?” he rasps, barely able to even make his voice audible.
“No. Just you,” it affirms, “unless you want me to take her as well?”
“No! No, I don’t- I don’t want that,” he yelps. “Just me, not her.”
“Then I won’t,” it assures, turning its face towards the television. Before it can so much as step towards it, Mark stops it once more.
“Will it hurt?” he whispers, the question itself feeling like a condemnation.
It freezes, stiffening like a statue as it considers the question. “I don’t know,” it admits.
Mark looks down, staring at the floor as he considers asking more questions, before deciding he doesn’t want to know more. Instead, he grits his teeth and squeezes its hand, trying not to show how much its answer scares him. It seems to take this as a sign that he is ready to go with it. It squeezes his hand back, then pulls away, prying its hand from Mark’s as it steps forward. Mark takes his hand back, but watches with curiosity as something occurs to him. How did it even fit in the television? Even in its more ‘human’ form, it towered over him, surely it couldn’t just cram itself through, right? He supposes he’ll just have to wait and see.
It straightens itself out, and then its body lets out a series of cracks as it begins to jolt and shake, and it buckles forwards. Mark suppresses a shout at the sudden noise and movement, then stares, transfixed, as its body breaks apart even further.
Mark can see its bones bend, twist, and snap under the thin cloth covering its form — its very skeleton seeming to fold in on itself as though being pulled apart by invisible hands. It hardly even has a shape that could be considered close to human as it drops to the floor and crawls towards the screen, its form distorted and broken beyond recognition. It’s the most horrific thing Mark has ever seen, and although he hastily darts his hands up to cover his eyes, the afterimages of it flash in his mind’s eye. It is as mesmerizing as it is repulsive, like watching the inner workings of some ghastly machine. Mark cringes at each sharp crack and wet tear of muscle, until finally it goes quiet.
He peeks out from behind parted fingers, only to be met with an empty room, the television still blaring white noise. He blinks, bringing his hands back down as he slowly inspects the room for any sign of the creature, yet finds nothing.
Had it… left him?
Just as he feels his heart sink to the floor, the television’s static changes pitch, and something emerges from it. Mark feels a sense of deja-vu as he watches a hand claw itself out of the screen, but unlike before, it is turned upwards. Its palm is open, inviting him to take hold of it once more. An offer, waiting to be fulfilled.
He hesitates — how could he not? He knows, deep in his bones, that whatever was beyond the screen would change him; that the static would devour him wholly and his life would never be the same. If he would even have a life at all, the monster could very well be lying to him. He considers, briefly, going back on his promise. He imagines running down the hall, bursting into his parents’ room and waking them up, taking solace in the inherent safety adults provided. But this is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? If he went to them, things would just go back to the way they were before, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that.
He reaches out, and grasps its hand tightly, his palm tingling from where it touches the skin of the monster. It reminds him of static electricity. It tugs his hand through the screen ever so gently, and his hand is swallowed by prickling white noise.
Static ripples up and down his arm, electricity coiling in his tendons and nerves as it boils in his veins. It does not hurt, but it surges under his skin, overwhelming as it floods his nerves with noise and colors and all sorts of things that should not be held within human flesh. He can hear an endless cacophony of radio channels and transmissions, the signals reverberating with his skull and skittering into nothingness. His teeth ache as they buzz in their sockets, and he feels the need to clench them tightly, lest they rattle themselves out of his jaw.
He can no longer feel his own hand, as if his flesh and bones have unraveled into radio waves and beams of light, no longer bound to such a simple, human shape. Despite this, he can still feel the monster holding it, as if it is grasping the concept of his hand, rather than a physical object. He thinks it might be the only thing stopping him from falling apart into nothingness. It is reassuring, a beacon of stability amongst the overwhelming chaos he has plunged himself into, and he tries to hone his attention to it and it alone.
The sensation is unbearable, just barely bordering on a painless agony, but he surges forwards anyways. He shoves his head through the screen, and falls. Down through the screen, far away from his home and humanity, he falls, but there is something there to catch him. He has no body, no mind, he is nothing more than a tangled, writhing mass of channels and currents and light, but he does not fall apart. He is cosmic dust, held together only by the gravity of a star as he is remade anew, into something whole again. He opens his eyes, that are not quite eyes, and an angel stares back at him.
Mark Heathcliff disappears — leaving no trace other than unfinished homework on the dining room table, his little sister’s door left ajar, and a television pouring out an incessant hiss of static.
#the mandela catalogue#mark heathcliff#tmc six#self harm#body horror#tmc led astray au#foster's writing tag#VERY proud of how this turned out im sooo glad to have it finished
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