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believemedarlin · 4 months

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The Perfect Man

Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader (3.9k words) Also available on AO3

Summary:

“You know, if you combined all the men on the team… they’d make the perfect man.”

“What?” Emily sputtered into her wine.

Penelope giggled while JJ looked intrigued

***

A drunken night out with the girls leads to some interesting revelations.

***

“Let’s play Fuck, Marry, Kill.”

A round of groans sounded from the table, but Penelope Garcia was not to be dissuaded.

“Come on, ladies. It’ll be fun!”

Her best puppy dog eyes firmly in place, Penelope implored her friends and coworkers with a practiced look. You were holding strong until she brought out the big guns and pouted at you.

A mere ten seconds later you caved.

“Okay, fine,” You sighed. “But can we use kick instead of kill? I always hated that option. Why do you have to kill them when kicking would be just as effective in showing your lack of interest? No death required.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Penelope immediately agreed with a nod. “You know I’m a pacifist at heart.”

She turned to the other two women seated at the table, pout back in full force. JJ gave in first, patting Penelope’s hand with an indulgent smile and a nod.

Seeing that she was outnumbered, Emily shrugged. “Sure. But I’ll need another drink if we’re doing this. I haven’t played this since college.”

“I’ll get us all another round.” Penelope jumped to her feet to join her and they made their way to the bar, weaving through the other patrons.

It was a rare Friday night off and the women of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit had decided to go out for a much-needed night of ladies-only fun and frivolity. They had happily left the guys to sort out their evenings and escaped the second the clock struck five.

They were all a few drinks in at this point, which is most likely the reason Penelope had suggested the game. She always got a bit playful when she drank.

They returned a few minutes later, fresh drinks in hand.

Once settled, Penelope leaned in, an eager smile on her face. “Okay. Fuck, Marry, Kick. Henry Cavill, Ben Barnes, Zachary Levi. And go!”

Emily took a sip of her drink and wasted no time in voicing her choices, followed by JJ and you. You took turns coming up with more and more outlandish options, and pleasantly spent the next hour drinking and laughing with your friends.

You had just finished giggling over Penelope’s reasoning behind her choosing to kick Willy Wonka and marry Jareth the Goblin King so she could enjoy a night with Conan the Barbarian when Emily leaned in with a smirk.

“I’ve got a good one. Hotch, Morgan, and Reid.”

The table erupted in a chorus of ooohs and laughter.

JJ bit her lip in thought. “Okay, since we know them personally and I’m a happily taken woman, I’m going to change mine to kiss, because it’s weird to say I want to fuck any of them. So, uh, I’ll go with kiss Morgan, marry Reid, and kick Hotch. But only barely, because I do not want him angry with me.”

“Easy,” Penelope chirped. “Fuck Morgan, marry Morgan, and kick Reid and Hotch.”

You, JJ, and Emily burst into laughter, with JJ swatting Penelope on the arm. “You can’t double up like that!”

“Can too! My game, my rules. Besides, it’s special circumstances with Morgan as an option.”

Emily snorted, then grinned. “Hmm. I think I’d go with fuck Morgan, marry Hotch, and kick Reid.”

All eyes then turned to you as you stared into your drink, taking entirely too long as you overthought the options.

Eventually, Emily cleared her throat and you looked up to see her watching you expectantly.

“What?” You grinned sheepishly with a shrug. “It’s harder than you’d think!”

The ladies teased you good-naturedly until you finally said, “Okay, okay! Um, I think…”

You blew out a breath in a long sigh. “Fuck Reid, marry Hotch, kick Morgan. No wait… Maybe fuck Hotch, marry Reid?”

Emily and JJ cackled while Penelope put on a fake offended air. “Why you gotta kick my beloved cinnamon hot chocolate Adonis not once, but twice? He’s the perfect man!”

"I mean, a lot of women would think that, yeah, but not me.”

Penelope gasped and pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “Why, I never.”

You giggled with a shrug. “Sorry?”

“You’re forgiven.”

“What I want to know,” JJ chimed in with a mischievous grin, “is why you can’t decide between Reid and Hotch on who to marry?”

You buried your face in your hands to hide your blush. “I don’t know! Both seem like solid choices. I think they’d both make good husbands.”

Emily smirked. “Sure it wasn’t because you couldn’t decide which you’d rather fuck?”

Penelope and JJ burst into laughter again while you groaned into your hands.

“You all are menaces. I don’t know why I spend time with you.”

“Because we’re wonderful people and you love us.” Penelope teased.

“That’s debatable.” You mumbled.

“Oh, come on,” she leaned into your side and laid her head on your shoulder. “You know you adore us.” Penelope batted her eyes and you couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, I do.”

She cheered and called for another round of drinks.

The game wound down and devolved into a rather extensive list of men and women that each of the ladies wouldn’t mind enjoying some personal one-on-one time with.

You had been sitting in a comfortable silence for the past few minutes, chin in hand and elbow on the table, your mind pondering on something Penelope had said earlier. Your voice took on a contemplative tone as you mused aloud, “You know, if you combined all the men on the team… they’d make the perfect man.”

“What?” Emily sputtered into her wine.

Penelope giggled while JJ looked intrigued.

“Okay, just hear me out. Now, granted, everyone’s idea of the perfect man is different but for me… If we go by physical attributes first, you have to admit that each guy is objectively attractive on their own. I mean seriously, was it a prerequisite that everyone has to be outrageously good-looking to be a member of the team?”

The ladies heartily agreed with laughter and nods, but you gestured across the table to them. “I’m including you three in this too. Have you looked at yourselves? You’re all absolutely gorgeous.”

“Damn right, we are,” Emily exclaimed as she high-fived JJ.

You raised your glass to her and took a sip before expanding on your premise. “So by themselves, each man is handsome but combined…”

You tilt your head in thought. “For me, it would be Reid’s hair. I’ve always liked longer hair on a guy and have you seen those curls when he lets it grow out? And then add in Hotch and Rossi’s dark hair and … yeah. Next would be Morgan and Rossi’s facial hair. I don’t know about you ladies but I like a man with a bit of scruff, you know what I mean? Goatee or full beard or just a couple of days growth, hell even a good five o’clock shadow, as long as it’s maintained and not all scraggly, I like it. Oooh, remember when Hotch came back with a beard?

“Yeah,” you sighed, a bit more dreamily than you had intended, surely caused by the late hour and not the memory of a casually dressed, bearded Hotch. “Like that.”

All three ladies shared a knowing look, but you paid them no mind.

“Though there is something to be said about a freshly shaved face. It’s so soft…” You sighed again.

“And then there’s height.” You knew you were rambling, but with the alcohol fueling you, there was little chance of stopping you now. “They’re all at least 6 foot so the height difference is perfect for both cuddles and forehead kisses.”

At this, Emily snorted. “Forehead kisses?”

“Yes,” you snipped primly. “They are the pinnacle of non-lip-to-lip kisses and they are my favorite thing. They just make you feel so adored. Now shush.”

You shooed her and rested your chin back in your hand. “Let’s see… Eyes. Honestly, I think they all have lovely eyes. I’m not picky on eye color really but I think Hotch’s stand out the most to me. I mean, have you seen his eyelashes? It should be criminal for a man to have such beautiful eyelashes.”

Another round of nods and hummed agreements sounded from the table.

“You know,” you continue with barely a pause, “I’ve never been a fan of really buff dudes, which sorry Pen, but that’s kinda why poor Morgan got kicked twice.” You shrugged unapologetically at her.

“I’ve always preferred lean guys. Not scrawny but not bugling out his shirt, you know? Strong but not shoved in your face. But!” You sit straighter in your chair, index finger raised to emphasize your point. “That’s just looks. Personality-wise, I’m drawn to kindness first and our boys all have that in spades. And they each show it in different ways, but it’s always present.”

You met Penelope’s eyes. “And Morgan’s kindness absolutely overrides his excessive muscle mass. He’s honestly one of the kindest people I know, even if he’d deny it. He’s not humble about a lot of things, but he is about that.”

Your eyes dropped to the table as your finger ran along the wood grain. “I also like intelligence and while yes, first thoughts go to Reid, the others are all brilliant too. Like, Rossi is so wise! It seems like he always knows what’s going on with someone before anyone else, and always seems to know just what to say just when you need to hear it. And they each have strengths that I admire. I genuinely like each of them as a person and I’m proud to know them and am honored they consider me a friend. Honestly, I feel that way about all of you.”

“Aw!” Penelope sniffled. “That’s so sweet. We love you too, you know.”

You gave her hand a quick squeeze and took another sip of your drink.

“What about lips?”

You blinked at JJ. “Lips? I’m not sure. I don’t know that I look at them much.”

Emily tilted her head. “You seriously don’t look at men’s lips?”

“Not really? I mean, I notice smiles. And honestly, how did I not start with that? It’s usually one of the first things I notice about someone. Smiles make everyone look twice as attractive. Oh, and a sense of humor! Gotta love a man who can make you laugh.”

“This one is definitely Morgan,” Emily chimed in and you nodded in agreement while Penelope raised her glass.

“Absolutely. He always makes me laugh, but so do the others. Rossi is snarky, which I appreciate as a fellow snarker. I can’t tell you the number of times he’s made me hold back a laugh during a round table. Reid can be really funny, too. Especially when we’re making Star Trek or Doctor Who references that no one else gets. Except you, Pen, but you’re usually in your lair. And Hotch—”

“No,” Emily cut in. “No way you think he’s funny. The man barely smiles.”

You tsked and leaned in, your tone turning a bit haughty. “First of all, I think it’s a good thing that he holds those back because have you seen how handsome he is when he smiles? His whole face transforms and he has dimples. Dimples . It’s ridiculous and no one would be able to focus on work if he was blinding us with his smile all the time. And secondly, yes. He’s hilarious, actually. He has a dry sense of humor that gets me every time. And he is so straight-faced about it. I laughed embarrassingly loud once at something he said and I had to leave the room because I couldn’t stop giggling. And the man had the nerve to be smug about it later.”

You shook your head with exasperated fondness, not noticing the raised eyebrows and pointed looks the other ladies were sharing.

“Anyway,” You sighed and leaned back in your chair. “Morgan is my biggest supporter, Reid nerds out with me, Rossi gives the best advice, and Hotch makes me feel safe. All things that would attract me to someone. So, with their powers combined…” You spread your hands in a sweeping motion. “The perfect man.”

“Huh,” Penelope hummed. “You know, I kinda see it.”

“See?” You grinned triumphantly. “We really do work with amazing guys.”

A cry of ‘hear, hear’ sounded around the table and the four of you leaned in to clink glasses.

Emily settled back in her chair with a smirk, her eyes focused on you. “Okay, you waxed poetic about the guys. Now, what about us?”

You grinned. “You, my darling lady loves, all hold a special place in my heart. There’s no way I could choose. You are each the perfect woman.”

Another cheer went up and everyone downed their drinks, laughing merrily.

The outing wound down about half an hour later. You each stumbled your way outside, Emily and Penelope deciding to share a taxi.

You stood with JJ as you waved the other two goodbye; you waiting for your own taxi and JJ waiting for Will to pick her up.

“You know,” she said conversationally, her eyes on the street. “You mentioned Hotch quite a few times describing your perfect man.”

You blinked. “What? I did not.”

She turned to you with a wide grin. “Oh yes, you did. No denying it now.”

You sputtered, not sure how to reply.

She chuckled and laid a hand on your arm, just as your taxi arrived. “Seems to me like he ticks quite a few of the boxes for your perfect man.” She leaned in to whisper, “So what are you going to do about it?”

JJ winked as she stepped back to open the door of the car that pulled in behind your taxi and slid in. “Just think about it, okay?”

You nodded numbly, mechanically climbing into the back seat of the taxi while Will and JJ patiently waited to make sure you were safely on your way.

You mumbled out your address and barely noticed the drive home, arriving much sooner than expected, as your mind was focused on JJ’s words.

You shook your head as you entered your apartment, determined to think no more of it. It was just a silly statement born out of one too many drinks.

There was no way you thought of Hotch that way.

No way at all.

***

The rest of the weekend was miraculously quiet and work-free. You couldn’t remember the last time you had so much time to yourself, so you took full advantage of it.

As days off always tended to do, they flew by too quickly and Monday morning arrived before you were ready for it. You greeted everyone when you entered the department, nodding to Rossi and waving at Morgan and Penelope as you settled in at your desk.

No new case had come in, so today would be an in-office day catching up on paperwork and caseloads.

You were productive throughout the day, completing most of the pending work assigned to you, and you were feeling quite accomplished with the diminishing stack in your inbox.

Only a few minutes remained in the workday when you stood from your chair, stretching your stiff back, and made your way up the stairs to Hotch’s office to drop off an armful of completed reports.

You knocked on his door, only having to wait a second before he bid you enter.

He was focused on the open file in front of him and he didn’t look up until you spoke. “These are ready for you to review, Hotch.”

His eyes shot up to meet yours before dropping to the folders in your arms. He gestured to the corner of his desk nearest you and went back to scribbling notes on the report. “You can just leave them there, thank you.”

You set them down next to another stack and grimaced. There were multiple bundles of files littering his desk. While in-office days were great for clearing your desk of work, it unfortunately always added to Hotch’s workload.

“Looks like everyone had similar offerings for you today. Will you be able to leave at a reasonable hour tonight? I’d be happy to help with anything if you need it.”

Hotch finished the line he was writing and looked up at you through his long lashes, a small, shy kind of smile curving his lips. His cheeks were just a touch pinker than usual and you blinked because you’ve never seen that look on his face before.

He looked almost bashful, a word you would never have associated with Aaron Hotchner.

But damn, was it a good look on him. He really was a handsome man, wasn’t he? Kind, funny, successful, and a great father. He was practically the perfect man.

You froze and blinked again at the realization.

“Oh, uh,” his deep voice broke you from your thoughts. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got it covered. I shouldn’t be here too much longer.”

“Right, of course.” You nodded and prayed he couldn’t see the blush you knew was rapidly spreading across your face. “Well, good night, sir.”

You spun on your heel and opened the door, ready to flee as fast as your feet could carry you.

His low, murmured good night followed you out the door and you nearly shivered because holy hell, even his voice was attractive.

You quickly grabbed your things and nearly sprinted to the elevators, not wanting to stay one second longer around skilled profilers who could read you so easily, knowing they would spot your flushed cheeks instantly and want to know what caused them. Or worse, they’d already know, and that was not something you were ready to discuss with any of them at the moment.

You had fully intended on ignoring JJ’s words from Friday night, but after your reaction just now, you knew she was right.

Hotch was pretty damn close to fitting the idea of your perfect man.

Or maybe, the idea of your perfect man came from Hotch.

You sighed as you entered the thankfully empty elevator, finally admitting to yourself the truth that had been staring you in the face for longer than you’d ever care to admit.

You had it bad for Aaron Hotchner.

Oh, you were in so much trouble.

***

Aaron watched as you left his office, your face a delightful shade of pink.

His eyes followed as you rushed to your desk, snatched up your things, and darted out the door.

He hadn’t meant to overhear Prentiss and Garcia’s conversation that morning as they reminisced over their night out last Friday. He certainly hadn’t meant to linger when they mentioned you and your adorable—according to Garcia—rant about the perfect man. And he most certainly hadn’t meant to lean in rather eagerly when they whispered about just how many times his name had come up as an example during said rant.

He had been pleasantly surprised and somewhat stunned by the information. He’d never thought of himself as an ideal for the perfect man.

Sure, he supposed he had a few attributes that some women might find appealing. He had a successful career and tried to keep in shape, though that was more for his job than vanity.

But he never imagined that anyone would look at him and think that he was a paradigm of their perfect man. Least of all you.

You were a brilliant profiler, exceptional in the field and able to hold your own in a fight when needed, but you were also caring with the victims and their families. You were witty and kind and easygoing. You were someone who smiled freely and laughed readily and did your best to cheer and encourage the team on tough cases.

Not someone who would think of stoic, hardass Aaron Hotchner as the perfect man.

Still, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from drifting to the window of his office throughout the day, seeking you out.

He thought back to when you joined the BAU and how quickly you became not only an essential part of the team but a much-welcomed member of their little family. Everyone adored you and Aaron himself had to admit that you had wormed your way into his heart.

He loved the time he got to spend with you when the team got together to unwind after a case and the little moments of levity you all shared in between working. He recalled the times he managed to make you laugh and the occasions where he found himself chuckling as well. You were easy to talk to and more often than not, the two of you fell into conversation whenever everyone else was either asleep or preferred to be left alone on the jet going to and from cases.

He genuinely enjoyed your company and found himself wishing he could enjoy it more often.

His eyes wandered to the bullpen again, zeroing in on you almost immediately. Prentiss and Morgan were standing by your desk when one of them said something that made you laugh.

Your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth opened to release an enchanting sound of delight. Aaron couldn’t look away and had to admit that you really were quite lovely. Inside and out.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat looking at you but knew it was longer than appropriate. He shook his head and forced himself to focus back on his work.

He managed to shove all thoughts of you from his mind for the remainder of the day until a soft knock sounded on his door late in the afternoon.

He didn’t bother to look up from the report he was notating after giving a gruff come in until he heard your voice.

Aaron couldn’t keep his eyes from darting up to meet yours before dropping them to the large stack of files in your arms.

He gestured for you to place them on the corner of his desk next to the ones Reid had deposited earlier and thought that would be his singular interaction with you for the day.

But then your caring side came out again and you sweetly offered to help him, a proposition that both filled him with fondness and nervousness.

After all his wayward thoughts about you throughout the day, he wasn’t sure if being in close proximity with you was a good idea or not.

Aaron looked up at you again, the late afternoon sun enveloping you, enhancing your features, and his only thought was that he’d been wrong earlier.

You weren’t just lovely. You were stunning.

In that moment, he was completely captivated by you and his thoughts ran rampant as he cataloged every minute detail of you. Your beauty, your kindness, your brilliance, and all the little things that made you you . Everything that endeared you to him.

But his thoughts came to a crashing halt when he realized that he was staring at you. He felt his face flush and he stammered as he gently declined your help.

You bid him a good night, but Aaron couldn’t take his eyes off the spreading blush on your cheeks. It kept his attention until you were out of sight.

He blinked and dropped his eyes back to the forgotten report in front of him, a slow smile creeping across his face.

He may not have meant to overhear the conversation that caused him to think about you all day, but he was starting to be glad he had. It seemed it was all he needed to face a few truths he had been in denial about for a long while now.

He was completely and utterly smitten with you.

Now, he just had to decide what to do about it.

Aaron sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #jj jareau #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds fanfiction

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sluttywoozi · 2 years

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Whenever We Breathe Part Two

Summary: Wonwoo knows he's fucked up by avoiding you after you, him, and Seungcheol slept together. He doesn't know how exactly he can fix it, but he figures begging for your forgiveness might be a good start.

Rating: M (18+) | Word Count: ~5.1k (2k plot, 3.1k smut)

Part One

GN version

Warnings: not a threesome, best friends to lovers, swearing, pining, hurt/comfort, angry cheol (hot), shy switch wonwoo, weed mention, lots of talking during sex, grinding, cumming in pants, multiple orgasms, fingering, clit stim, oral f. rec., facesitting, slit/thigh fucking, condomless piv sex, creampie, cum eating, aftercare

Reader Notes: she/her pronouns used, has vagina and breasts

Fuck, oh fuck, Wonwoo’s made a terrible mistake.

He thought that day was the perfect opportunity to get to be with you without having to confess his feelings, but what he didn’t consider is that getting to be with you would make him want to be with you.

Wonwoo isn’t sure why that didn’t even cross his mind. Maybe because it was clouded with smoke and the disbelief you even said yes when Cheol made the offer?

God, it felt like a wet dream, literally, you were so wet, so fucking soft and hot and tight, and Wonwoo still regrets not coming inside you when he had the chance, especially since it was probably his last.

He hasn’t seen you in weeks, and he misses you like hell.

He supposes he can’t complain though, considering that it’s his own fault.

Wonwoo’s been avoiding you, skipping your weekly best friends sleepovers, making up excuses for dinner invites, responding to your texts far too late for a conversation to be possible.

He feels awful, and he knows you know he’s avoiding you, and he knows Seungcheol knows too.

He might be ready to beat him up soon, if the glare he’s sending Wonwoo right now means anything.

They’re sitting across from each other in the diner down the street from his apartment, and Seungcheol has been scolding him for the past seven and a half minutes. He only knows because he keeps glancing at the clock to escape Seungcheol’s glowering.

Wonwoo honestly feels like he’s in the principal’s office, with the way Seungcheol has his hands folded (clenched) on the table and the way he’s being berated.

“And if you didn’t think you could handle this, you shouldn’t have participated. You could have just watched, but no, you wanted to join and you wanted to go first, and now you haven’t seen her in weeks.”

Seungcheol takes a deep breath to continue, “Do you know how sad she is? She totally knows exactly what you’re doing, and she thinks it’s her fault. She thinks she did something wrong. We wanted her to feel better but you’re making her feel worse!” He finishes on a shout.

Diners in the nearby vicinity shoot Seungchheol a look, and he raises his eyebrows in response, staring back until they look away.

Normally, he’s much more polite, so Wonwoo must have really pissed him off.

“I’m sorry, Cheol, I really thought I would be okay. I didn’t realize how bad it was until you made her look at me while you were-,” Wonwoo looks around and continues in a whisper, “Fucking her, which by the way, what the fuck was that?!”

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck was that’?” Seungcheol mocks him.

“That was me making you realize how you feel! I knew you’d be jealous seeing me with her like that and I needed to rub it in so you’d finally fucking understand! You’re in love with her!” Seungcheol’s eyes are blazing, and Wonwoo’s starting to wonder if he should fear for his own wellbeing, but Seungcheol wouldn’t hurt him. He thinks.

He’s not ready to respond to that last part yet, needs some time to admit it to himself, but he knows he can’t just not say anything.

Especially if he doesn’t want Seungcheol to launch himself over the table and throttle him.

“I know I fucked up, and I’m sorry. To both of you. I’ll figure out how to fix it, I just need a bit more time,” Wonwoo pleads, trying to implore Seunngcheol to let him deal with this his own way.

“I don’t know how much longer she’ll wait. She’s talking about joining the dating apps again.”

The food arrives but Wonwoo doesn’t notice. White noise fills his ears, and he feels very dizzy suddenly, bracing his hands flat on the table for strength.

He tries not to remember all the short little dresses you’d wear on your internet dates, and the way you’d complain about their inability to make you cum, and the way he used to wish he even had the chance to fail.

But now Wonwoo’s had the chance, and he didn’t fail, he was successful. He made you cum, multiple times, fuck, he even helped make you squirt!

So honestly, what the fuck is he doing?

He is in love with you, and he can make you cum, and he’s your best friend, and you’re his.

And now he’s starting to feel like the fuckup wasn’t when he slept with you, it was not taking the chance to tell you how he feels after.

Shit.

How is he supposed to fix this?

Wonwoo has come up with a plan, and the first step is showing up at your apartment with your usual from the cafe you always go to together.

The rain wasn’t part of the plan, but Wonwoo figures his pathetic appearance may actually help his case.

He’s soaked to the bone, his glasses covered in drops of water, his body shaking like a leaf, his cold hands even colder than normal, but it’ll be worth it if you open the door.

And that’s a big if, because Wonwoo knows you know it’s him, and he’s honestly not sure you’re going to let him inside.

He wouldn’t blame you, after the way he’s been ignoring and evading you for weeks, but he really hopes you’ll at least give him a chance to explain himself.

He’s fully prepared to tell you everything, to lay his soul bare at your feet, to grovel on his knees for forgiveness, but he’s not too hopeful when you open the door and shout, “Are you fucking insane?”

You grab him by the collar and haul him inside, pointedly avoiding his gaze as you shut and lock the door before heading to the bathroom to grab him a towel. He drops the food and travel cup in your kitchen and waits for you to return. You stop at your bedroom on the way to get some clothes he’d left here, pointing at the bathroom until he obeys and scurries in, turning on the shower and starting to strip.

You stand at the door with your arms crossed, glaring into the hallway and waiting for him to hand over his soaked clothes, and he tries to avoid looking at your ass in your little pajama shorts. Now simply is not the time.

Not when Wonwoo’s never seen you so closed off before, to him at least. He worries he won’t be able to repair the rift he created between you, fears you won’t let him back in.

He steps into the shower, the heat scorching his freezing skin, and he tries not to shy away from the steaming stream of water, lets it be punishment for hurting you like this.

He stays until he can feel his fingers and toes again, then just a bit longer because he’s terrified to face you now that he knows you're sad and angry.

Eventually, Wonwoo gets a bit too warm and knows he can’t put off explaining himself any longer. Shutting the shower off, he roughly towel dries his body and pulls on the clothes you brought him, shaking his hair out enough that it won’t drip onto his shoulders before cleaning off his glasses with the edge of the shirt.

You’re puttering about in the kitchen, heating up the food he brought you, sipping at the drink, and whispering angrily to yourself, about him most likely. He doesn’t blame you, could curse himself too for mucking everything up this badly, and he can only hope you’ll let him tell you what happened.

Wonwoo lets himself linger in the hall for just a few more seconds before taking a deep breath and shuffling into the kitchen with his head lowered in penance. He stays silent, senses your eyes on him and hears your movements stop, and almost wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

But, knowing he owes you this, Wonwoo raises his head and meets your eyes meekly.

Fuck, you look so mad, and so hot. Under the anger and hotness is hurt, and he chooses to focus on that.

“Well?” You begin flatly. “What do you have to say?”

“Um,” he clears his throat after squeaking on the first attempt, “I want to apologize, and beg you to forgive me, and also I should probably tell you something.”

You squint at him, tilting your head back to stare down your nose, and Wonwoo tries to pretend your derision doesn’t turn him on.

“Go on, then,” you raise a brow, and Wonwoo lets out the biggest sigh of relief when he realizes you’re letting him explain himself.

“Okay, apology first. Well, the apology will probably have some of the thing I need to tell you so I hope that’s okay,” you nod slowly in confusion.

“I’m really sorry I shut down after we slept together. It was everything I ever dreamed of, except not really because I don’t just want to sleep with you, and also because Cheol was there, and I definitely didn’t dream about that. Not that I didn’t like it!” Wonwoo rushes to clarify, “It was great, and kinda nice not having to think for a bit, but when I pictured our first time, it was… just us.”

You stare at him, processing his words, your face softening incrementally, before you ask, “What do you mean, ‘everything you ever dreamed of’?”

Wonwoo’s eyes grow wide, knowing he’s at the point where he’ll have to explicitly tell you his feelings.

“Um, so the thing is I might possibly be in love with you and it’s also possible that after I got to be with you, I couldn’t stop thinking about being with you and made myself sad that I wouldn’t get to so I didn’t want to see you because whenever I thought about seeing you, all I could think about was being near you and touching you and getting to actually love you like I’ve always wanted to,” Wonwoo says in a rush, clenching his eyes shut at the end so he doesn’t have to see your face.

You stay silent for a while, considering his jumbled confession.

He peeks an eye open to find you deep in contemplation, your jaw set and your arms folded, and fears that he’s officially ruined the friendship.

“You’ve always wanted to love me?” you ask softly, quietly, like you’re scared of the answer.

He nods, keeps nodding, biting his lips between his teeth before speaking just as timidly, “Yeah, I’ve always loved you, sorry.”

Your face scrunches, eyes turning to a glare to hold the tears in, and you whine angrily, “Don’t be sorry, you idiot, I love you too even though you’re so fucking stupid.”

Wonwoo’s heart stutters, squeezes hard, then explodes, and he feels like he might pass out.

“Do you need to sit down?” you ask tiredly, waiting for his dazed nod to roll your eyes and walk over, tugging him by the arm to sit on your couch before crouching in front of him.

“You… love… me?” Wonwoo asks dumbly, eyes moving up sluggishly behind his glasses to find yours.

“Yes, Wonwoo, I love you,” you confirm gently, speaking slowly so he can understand you through the fog your confession put him in, grasping his tepid hands with your own.

“Wow, that’s so crazy,” he breathes, feeling almost as high as he did that day.

“I know, right?” you agree, pulling him closer until he shuffles off the couch to sit on his knees in front of you.

“So, what do we do now?” Wonwoo asks, truly having no idea.

“Um, I mean we should probably date right? And tell Cheol so he’ll stop being pissed at you. And maybe also have sex without him.”

Wonwoo loves those ideas, all three, but has a request for the order, “Can we do 1, 3, 2? He’s so mad at me and so scary, and I think I’ll have to grovel more for him to forgive me than I did for you.”

“Mmmmm I think you could afford to do some more groveling for me too, though,” you tease, playing with the collar of his shirt and smirking.

He feels lightheaded again and hopes you’re saying what he thinks you’re saying.

“Can I kiss you?” Wonwoo asks as he starts to lean in, waiting for you to tell him yes.

“Yeah, I think that would be a good start,” you mumble as you press your lips to his, your sentence trailing off into his mouth.

Wonwoo sighs, tracing your bottom lip with his tongue until you open for him, loosening his hands from yours so he can place both of them on your cheeks to pull you closer. You come willingly, climbing into his lap when he sits down and crosses his legs, straddling his hips and grinding down against his rapidly hardening cock.

Fuck, the pressure and heat of you feel amazing.

He hasn’t been able to jerk off as much as usual because when he closes his eyes, he can only see you, squirting and crying and writhing, and he cums way too fast for it to even be enjoyable.

He’s a bit scared that will happen with you, but he plans to make you cum a few times before he even gets his dick in you anyway, so it should work out fine.

Or at least, that’s what he thought before you started touching him, running your fingers up and down his abs, palming his pecs, squeezing his deltoids, and shit your hands are so warm and so soft, and he’s wanted you to touch him like this for so long, and if you keep grinding on him like that he’ll-

“Fuck, stop, stop, stop, baby, you have to stop,” Wonwoo pants, stilling your hips with an iron grip, pushing them away from his dick.

“What’s wrong?” you ask breathlessly, cupping his face and looking into his eyes even as he tries to avoid your gaze out of embarrassment.

“I was just really, really, really close to cumming,” he whispers, pursing his lips and hoping you’re not judging him.

“Oh. You don’t want to?” you sound confused, your brows furrowed and your hips twitching in his grasp.

“Of course I don’t want to, I wanna be able to fuck you,” Wonwoo explains shyly.

“Well, how long does it take you to go again?”

Wonwoo can feel his ears turning red and his eyes wavering behind his glasses as he stares at you in awe.

“Maybe fifteen minutes,” he replies, astonished.

You grin, pull his hands from your waist to slide them up onto your breasts, and dig your hips into his.

Wonwoo can’t stop himself from tipping his head back to rest on the couch, his neck suddenly too weak to hold up the weight as he feels himself start spiraling again. You’re so soft under his hands, so sweet, and Wonwoo wishes he could see you, starts tugging up your shirt until you get the hint and whip it over your head.

Fuck, you’re not wearing a bra, just like last time, and he tells himself to surprise you at home more often, then remembers he’s your boyfriend now and he’ll get to see you like this whenever you want him to, and that’s enough to push him over the edge.

His head spins as his cock jumps underneath you, spitting hot cum into his boxers, and he knows he’s being noisy, knows he’s groaning and moaning and possibly even whimpering your name, but he just can’t shut his mouth.

It feels too fucking good, the first fulfilling orgasm he’s had since you slept together, and now he knows for sure that cumming by himself could never be as euphoric as cumming with you.

His brain feels heavy, but empty at the same time, and his head tips forward to rest against your sternum as he catches his breath, air puffing out over your chest and raising goosebumps on your skin.

“Quick question,” you start with a thready voice. “How did you cum that last time? Both of your hands were busy.”

“I don’t know,” he tries to figure out how to answer without sounding pathetic. “I just- you- when you squirted, it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I don’t know, it was like I blacked out, and when I woke up, my cum was drying on your stomach.”

Okay, so he still sounded pathetic, but you whine, almost like you…

“Do you like that?” Wonwoo asks slowly, realization growing, “And you liked making me cum in my pants too, didn’t you?”

You squirm in his lap, and Wonwoo smirks, leans forward until you tip onto your back and he can plank above you. He drops a kiss to your nose and shifts up on his knees to yank his shirt off and push his wet boxers down, trying not to cringe at the cold air on his slick cock.

“You like knowing what you do to me, huh?”

Wonwoo trails kisses down your neck, letting his tongue dip into the hollow space between your clavicles before grazing his teeth over your skin.

“Well, baby?” Wonwoo waits for you to answer.

You stare him down, biting your bottom lip and squirming slightly, before answering, “Yes, I like it, Wonwoo.”

“I’ll tell you all about your effect on me then,” Wonwoo begins, nipping the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

“When you wear these tiny little pajama shorts at sleepovers, I have to keep a pillow in my lap all night, just because your thighs are out and pressed right up against mine,” he says through sucking kisses along your collarbone.

He grins at your shiver, continues, “Sometimes, I can’t tell you’re not wearing a bra until you hug me, and when I feel your tits on my chest, I have to pull away because I get too hard to hide it.”

Sucking marks down your sternum, Wonwoo keeps going, “I always take the couch and let you have my bed, even when you offer to share, because I know I’ll wake up hard or with dried cum in my pants if I get to sleep next to you.”

He slides back up to your mouth, swallowing your moan and biting your lip between his teeth before sinking down your body again.

“If you wake up hard tomorrow, can I suck your dick?” you ask, as if he’d say no, and he has to push his face into your stomach to contain the loud fuck he wants to let out.

“Are you in my brain? How are you my walking wet dream?” Wonwoo almost sounds annoyed, frustrated, and his kisses turn to sucking bites, leaving indents of his teeth all over your soft skin.

“Don’t get mad at me because you think I’m hot, that’s not fair!” you whine, arching your back into him and making his focus shift to your breasts.

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he lavishes your tits in soft kisses, sucking alternately at your nipples and squeezing the plush flesh with his fingers.

He presses his face into your chest and smushes your breasts against his cheeks, breathing you in, surrounding himself in you, and realizes there’s another way to be encompassed by you, a better way.

“Will you sit on my face?” Wonwoo asks, a bit scared you’ll say no.

You look down at him, smile softly, and reply, “Sure.”

Fuck, Wonwoo thinks he might die.

He tries to smile back before laying down next to you, waiting for you to finish stripping and climb on.

Shit, why didn’t he notice how wet your shorts were? There’s a visible dark patch, and he figures he was messy enough not to notice but fuck, is he noticing now. And of course, of course you’re not wearing panties. Wonwoo honestly thinks you were created to kill him.

What a way to go though, he thinks, as you send him a shy grin and straddle his hips, shuffling forward on your knees until he can grab you by the hips and pull you up to his face.

He groans when your scent hits him, groans deep in his chest, and you shiver at the air flowing over your soaked pussy. That makes you rest more of your weight on him, and Wonwoo can’t wait to drown in you.

You’re still holding yourself up though, looking a bit nervous, and Wonwoo wraps his arms around your thighs so he can smooth his hands up and down the length of them, soothing you slowly until you relax enough for your folds to brush his lips.

This is already the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and it only gets better when he rubs his nose over your clit and you grind into it.

Flattening his tongue on your cunt, he drags it from your entrance to the top of your pussy, laving over your bundle of nerves before sliding back down to dip inside you.

You taste even better than last time, no lingering traces of weed in his mouth to cloud your essence, and Wonwoo already knows he’ll do this every day if you let him.

It might just become his favorite hobby, if the way his cock is already hardening again says anything.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, pulling you down harder on his face, wanting to smother himself in you, and slides two fingers inside you from behind. You clench down immediately, whimpering above him and sinking your hands into his hair to tilt his head back.

He gets the hint, just holds his tongue out flat and lets you do what you want, lets you ride his face and his fingers, feels his cock jumping against his stomach.

“Wonwoo, another, give me another, please,” you ask breathlessly, crying out when he tucks his ring finger inside of you too, and curls all three into the patch of nerves deep inside.

He feels like he’s drowning in the best way, partially because you’re so wet, but mostly because he can’t hear anything, can’t see anything. All he knows is your pussy on his face and shit, he could probably cum untouched from this too.

You break before he does though, bowing over him, and now he can smell your cunt and your hair and your skin, and thank fucking god you’re already shifting away from his tongue out of sensitivity because he seriously could cum right now.

He helps you lift off of his face, and gazes fondly as you curl up on your side and catch your breath, staring incredulously at him.

“How are you so good at that?” you demand, eyebrows scrunched and eyes boring holes into him.

“I’ve been dreaming about you sitting on my face for years, that’s probably it,” Wonwoo responds matter-of-factly, dodging the pillow you lob at him in retribution.

“What, baby, you liked it before,” he laughs, avoiding the finger attempting to poke his belly.

“Yeah, that was before you made me cum so hard I lost all sense of time and space,” you mutter, shifting to rest on shaky elbows, staring at him contemplatively out of the corner of your eye.

Wonwoo’s still trying to recover from your previous statement when you say, “I think I want you to bend me over the couch and fuck me from behind.”

He chokes, sputters on nothing but air and the need clawing up his throat, forces his eyes shut and curses you, curses you forever, but not really because he loves you too much and he does want to bend you over the couch and fuck you from behind.

In fact, he thinks he’d both kill and die for the chance.

So he stands on wobbly knees, extends both hands towards you to pull you up, and drags you over to your couch. The arm is the perfect height for him to fold you over, and you pull a pillow to you so you have something to hold onto as he runs his cock up and down your slit.

“Can I try something first?” Wonwoo asks tentatively, “I think you’ll like it.”

“Yeah, just don’t put anything in my butt, I’m not ready for that yet,” your voice is muffled in the couch, your ass tilted up, and Wonwoo smooths his hands up your back to squeeze your shoulders, then back down to push your thighs together.

Placing each hand on a cheek, Wonwoo pulls your ass up and apart so you’re spread open, cunt glistening in the daylight, tempting him to take another taste.

He’s always wanted to try this and never thought he’d have the opportunity, though, so he needs to make the most of it.

And make the most of it he does, sliding his cock between your thighs and bumping the head against your clit, over and over and over, until your thighs glisten too and his dick is drenched in your wetness, until you’re squirming beneath his hands and whining, until he can see your entrance clench and release, tightening around nothing.

He thinks he can make you cum like this, but honestly, he’s getting too close, and if he wants to fuck you tonight, he needs to do it now.

Maybe he can hold out just a little bit longer though, he thinks, rubbing the head of his dick insistently on your clit until you claw at the couch and cum with a wail.

“In me, get in me, Wonwoo, I swear I’ll-,” your voice cuts out when he sinks into you, stretching your pussy around his cock and bottoming out in one stroke.

You squeak, and Wonwoo squeezes your ass in his hands before moving them to your hips and holding you to the arm of the sofa as he pulls back and thrusts in again.

“Good?” he asks, waiting for you to respond, “Yes, Wonwoo, fuck yes,” before starting to pound you into the couch.

You cry out every time he roots his cock inside you, and he moves a hand to press down on the small of your back, tilting your hips up more and angling his down, giving you searching thrusts until he hits something and you seize up around him.

Targeting that spot each time, Wonwoo fucks in and out of you at a steady pace, ignoring the way his balls are already full and starting to draw up, wanting to get you there one last time before he cums.

He knows just his dick won’t be enough, so he slides one hand around your hip and sinks it between your thighs, finding your clit with two fingers and starting the circles you seemed to like last time.

Fuck, you get even tighter, and wetter, whining and wiggling under him, trying to meet his thrusts but he’s going too fast, too hard, and your walls start to spasm around him, arousal gushing out of you and dripping down his dick as you cum.

And shit, Wonwoo wants to fuck you through it, he does, but he just can’t stop the tidal wave swallowing him, can’t stop the roaring in his ears or his eyes from squeezing shut, and he definitely can’t stop the way his cock twitches and starts to spurt white hot cum inside you.

It’s so much better than the orgasm he had before, and Wonwoo can’t stay standing, tips over until he’s spread out on top of you, his hip bones digging into your ass and his dick flooding you with what feels like weeks worth of cum.

By the time his cock has stopped jumping in you, you’re reaching behind to poke at him, whispering in a strained voice, “Wonwoo, babe, can’t breathe.”

He blinks his eyes open, still dizzy from his orgasm, and lets his body melt to lay on the floor by the couch. You stay on the arm for a second, and Wonwoo has to close his eyes again when he sees his cum starting to drip out of you, white globs seeping from your entrance and sliding down your pussy.

“Can I-” Wonwoo starts, but you interrupt him, responding tiredly, “Yes, please do it, whatever it is. I already know I’ll like it.”

He crawls over, trying to steady his breathing, and spreads your cheeks again, opening up your stretched pussy even more. Your entrance is still fluttering, and your walls probably are too, and he needs to feel you on his tongue.

He licks into you again, gathering up the cum on your swollen clit and guiding it back to your cunt, pushing it inside before lightly sucking at your entrance.

You still taste so good, even tinged with the salty bitterness of his cum, and he knows he’ll never get enough, shoves his tongue deeper, starts fucking you with it, rotates one hand so he can get his thumb on your clit, and with that, you tumble over the edge again.

Your walls weakly contract around his tongue, and he pets your bundle of nerves gently, bringing you down and licking you clean.

Wonwoo lets you recover for a bit, but eventually suspects you can’t move so he wraps you up in his arms and hauls you off the couch, settling on the floor with you in his lap.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, only a little bit concerned.

“Yeah, I just… I think you broke me,” you mumble into his chest, fatigue obvious in your voice, and Wonwoo tries to hold in his giggle, tries to stop the pleased grin from spreading his lips, but he’s not successful, and you swat feebly at his chest.

You get distracted by his pecs, caressing the firm muscle, and Wonwoo shivers, looking forward to coming up with more ways to distract you.

For now, he just tries to stand, finds his knees too shaky to carry both of your weight, and deposits you on the couch before hobbling away to get you a damp cloth and new pajamas.

He thinks he has another pair of boxers here too, and finds them in your top drawer along with some sweats and a big t-shirt for you.

He cleans you up, wiping softly between your legs and making you promise to pee soon, before dressing you and himself and plopping down on the couch, pulling you into his arms.

You’re warm, always so warm, and you smell so good, and Wonwoo loves you so much, and he remembers he doesn't have to hide it anymore.

“I love you, baby,” Wonwoo murmurs into your hair, cupping your cheek in his hand and rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Love you too, Woo,” you breathe, holding his gaze and puckering your lips to press a kiss to his thumb.

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Find my masterlist here

#wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x fem reader #wonwoo x female reader #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x y/n #seventeen smut #seventeen x you #seventeen x female reader #seventeen x y/n #svt smut #kpop smut #✨emily writes✨#svthub #kaili 🪢

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lesinquietes · 5 months

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Summary: With Dynamight’s help, you solved the crime. He isn’t quite finished with you yet, though.

Adult!Bakugou x Forensic Detective!Reader

⚠️ fluff. suggestive themes.

I Previous l Next l

You close the manila folder on your desk and lean back in your chair. A breathy, content sigh leaves your lips. The case has been solved. The evidence has been retained. All that’s left is to file the associated documents. Then, you can head home for the evening. Another job well done.

You gaze out at the cityscape. The sunset sprays beams of brilliant yellow and orange towards your office building, reflecting off the large glass windows. The streets are busy with people and cars. Soon, you’ll join the bustle, conforming for the sake of commuting home.

Sometimes, when you sit here like this, you consider how small everyone is compared to the rest of the universe. Most actions that seem supermassive are actually minuscule and insignificant. In the grand scheme of things, you wonder if the job you’re doing makes a difference. Maybe not wide scale, but arguably, Japan could stand to be safer. Heroes do a lot of the rounding up these days, but you think local detective work is still important.

“Hey.”

You perk up. Speak of the devil.

You glance away from the view to greet Katsuki Bakugou, the hero who spent his time protecting you throughout your most recent case. He’s leaning against the door, arms folded arrogantly over his chest. At once, a smile graces your mouth. As soon as you submitted your conclusion about the primary suspect — with enough evidence, to boot — the Captain of your force implored Bakugou to make an arrest. Of course, the rowdy blonde didn’t capture the villain without beating him to a bloody pulp first. Normally, you wouldn’t condone such behaviour; however, given that the murderer targeted random women every time he killed, you can turn a blind eye. Men like that don’t deserve mercy.

You adjust your position so that you’re sitting upright. You know he doesn’t care; you’re not sure why you do. When you’re satisfied, you raise your fists in the air and reply.

“We did it!”

The exhaustion woven into your words isn’t missed. Since gathering that first sample at the initial crime scene, you haven’t stopped working. He admires your drive to do what’s right.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Plenty more where that came from, though.”

“True.” You acknowledge, climbing to your feet. “But that’s one down.”

And Katsuki can’t argue with that. In fact, Katsuki finds he can seldom argue with you. It’s not that you’re always right; he thinks it’s because he likes listening to the sound of your voice. It’s unique. It’s calming. It’s something about you that he’s grown excessively fond of.

At last, he enters your office, like a moth drawn to fire. He’s still dressed in his hero garb. You notice there aren’t any scuffs on his pristine skin, indicating that his battle was rather one-sided. This is the first time you’re seeing him after the arrest. Everyone knows he doesn’t talk to the News team unless he has to; reporting to the public falls on the officers assisting his cases.

“You alright?” He asks, watching from a short distance as you gather your belongings.

“Definitely.” You verify. “You?”

“Whatever.”

That’s a yes. He doesn’t like to be upfront with his feelings. You’re beginning to understand his cues, though. It’s a shame this is the end of your time together; you would have liked to continue figuring him out. Perhaps another high-profile case will pop up and he’ll be assigned to you again. You can’t lie — you’re hoping for that to happen a little harder than you should be.

You throw on your windbreaker and take your knapsack in your hand. He hasn’t moved an inch from the front of your desk. It’s as if he’s been glued in place. The only part of him that’s visibly moving are his deep crimson eyes. He’s fixated on you. But unlike when you caught him at the crime scene, he won’t glance away this time.

“Dynamight, thank you so much for your work today.” You beam at him. “Without you, I—“

“Told’j’ya before, princess, it’s Katsuki.” He scoffs. “F’r fuck’s sake, talk t’ me like a normal person.”

You feel the heat spread across your cheeks. You’re praying he doesn’t notice your change in expression, but who are you kidding? Although the man acts like he’s emotionally unavailable, he picks up on more than you think. You flounder with your response.

“It’s just, we don’t really know each other like that, so I didn’t want to—“

“‘Course we do.” He lifts a critical brow. “You’re comin’ t’ dinner with me now that this shit’s over with, right?”

Mentally, your jaw is unscrewed and on the floor. Is this reality? The Dynamight — the rudest, most impressive motherfucker you’ve ever had the pleasure of working with — is asking you on a date. All this time, you thought his flirting was a game, while deeply regretting that you hadn’t made a move before your time with him was up. Discovering that your crush is mutual reinvigorates you. Before you fuck this up, you muster a reply.

“Uh… yes!” You giggle. “Of course I will!”

You don’t know how you manage to keep a steady tone. The only thing you can’t control is your face. Fortunately, he thinks it’s hella cute. Without considering who might be watching, he strokes your cheek with his thumb to coax back your attention. He nearly melts when you shyly meet his gaze, such a small, innocent smile gracing your lips. He knows it’s too soon to kiss you. He wishes it wasn’t. Instead, he offers you his arm. Your hand feels warm against his bare bicep.

He grabs your knapsack from you — a gentleman’s gesture that’s a little rough around the edges. Thankfully, the execution doesn’t bother you; it’s the thought that counts. Katsuki thinks that might be what attracted him to you. The way you conceptualize him is different. Last week, a woman scolded him for his use of language, even though he saved her purse from being stolen. Shouldn’t it be his actions that matter? Some days, he feels like he’s back in his teenage years, dealing with Best Jeanist’s strict teachings again. People need to learn not to judge a book by its cover.

He guides you out of your office with his hand secured to your lower back. You don’t miss the stares and whispers of your colleagues. You’ll have a lot to explain tomorrow morning.

“You like Indian food?” He inquires lowly, warm breath ghosting over your face.

“Sure.”

If you make it in.

#minors dni #katsuki bakugou x reader #pro hero bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #fem reader #adult bakugou #bakugou x forensic detective #afab reader #soft bakugou

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ourolite2 · 4 months

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ᨳິ petites idées!　　nsfw, smut. various genshin characters.　different animal alignments *round of applause* themes — gn!reader (w/ barely any specified anatomical context), hinted backshots/riding, obsessive/servile behavior, overstimulation/edging, cock warming, edging, brat taming (on both ends), subtle manipulation, restraints, usage of toys, immense dirty talk, slight corruption, mentions of going unconscious, mentions of straps, somnophilia (written consensually), + thigh humping- GYATT, there’s a lot… ༄

✦ 𝒟om doggo personalities who are experimental softies and pleasers who would do anything to ensure your satisfaction if you cajole them with the correct treats. Because these loyal little things desires will go miles for your recognition, it’s safe to assume that they’re a couple of sycophantic servants with their minds hellbent on quaffing down whatever is between your plush thighs, their poochie eyes soused with zeal as they lick you until your cum dissipates on their taste buds. They would be unduly stimulating, considering that you’d reach the pinnacle of pleasure once their tongue adulates your body as a reward for treating them with such kindness. Though it’s needless to say that they’re not all sunshines and rainbows, for some could be punishingly desperate if you haven’t returned the adoration, feeling a sense of regret pile onto their heart. They’d question your love for them, tears embellishing their miffed expressions as your walls fail to grasp around them considering how possessively they’ll pound inside of you, not caring about you being on your sixth orgasm — they’d just fuck you through another again and again and again. As long as you sincerely understand how much your attention means to them.

✧ “Feels good? Want more? C’mon, puppy.. do a trick for me? Shake? That’s a good pup.. Now, cum?” CHONGYUN, Neuvillette, CHILDE, Amber, ITTO, Navia, KAVEH, Yoimiya, EI, Furina, Kokomi, Candace, GOROU, + Thoma ordered you breathlessly and hopelessly as they watched your ass shake and undulate on their strap/dick, a spate of breathless moans eluding your lips during the process. Once the command has been established, your body would had practically collapsed onto the silk-infused duvets if it wasn’t from them holding you upwards so you could cum cooperatively and sequentially.

✦ 𝒮ub puppy personalities who will give their viability in order to retreat such amorous praises from you, so it’s safe to conclude that they’re just as obsequious as their dominant counterparts. Their adulation, overprotection and servile attributes deserve high-quality treats that would leave them compliant for the rest of the seasons. Although they’re practically brainwashed into maintaining your pleasure, whether it's with lecherous experiments that leave their vulnerabilities exposed for you to exploit and taint or smothering you with amaranthine gifts that they know you’d relish in, a puppy is still a puppy. It’s your job to give them more attention than anticipated, otherwise they’ll rebelliously defy you, purposely cumming without permission merely because you’ve demanded them to hold it. Their devotional minds are easily tempted into disorder, but they’re also prone to correction since their primary goal in life is to make you happy. Spewing panty apologies as you fuck them relentlesly, their whines and blabbers far from comprehensible, but you knew that this was more than enough to make them capitulate.

✧ “Mmnh- No, don’t wanna sit. Aren’t I your pretty puppy? M’ I a good puppy? I wanna- wanna.. up? Up, please? Please?” GOROU, Ayaka, Kokomi, NEUVILLETTE, Xingqiu, ITTO, Charlotte, + Ganyu implored somewhat comprehensively as spittle cascaded from the corner of their mouth, frantically grinding their hips against your crotch since they’re completely tempted to begin bouncing on your dick/strap like before. However, it would take much more than just polished, dewy, pleading eyes gleaming down at you to convince you to make them cum, let alone repetitive begging that should’ve been muted hours ago.

✦ 𝒟om feline personalities who innately presided over you once you’ve confirmed that you were theirs, therefore are outwardly self-possessed and assertive. While also experimentalists due to their insatiable curiosity, they’ll selfishly coax you into trying new things with them, their dilated, tantalizing eyes enrapturing you during the process. It would be a crime to tell such a guileless plea no, but your chafed wrists and desiccated throat wished you ruminated your words with healthier care. They expect to be lionized incessantly, even when your vocal cords lack the capability to produce anything that doesn’t resemble streams of whimper-like moans, even when they fail to grant you a millisecond of their time, even when you’re stuffed with a bullet vibrator that was on the highest setting available. You’d think that these personalities were insouciant towards your well-being, which discloses an intense suggestion of narcissism, but there’s an impending punishment awaiting for you if you were to speak of someone who isn’t nearly as important as them. Beseech them with mewls if you desire forgiveness, or else your skin will go pallid with the amount of cum suffusing with it, whether it’s theirs, which likely isn’t, or yours.

✧ “You call that apologizing? You’re still too comprehensible… Prove yourself better than that, little dove. Give me what I want, then I’ll have my pretty fingers in your pretty hole.” SCARAMOUCHE, Yelan, AL-HAITHAM, Wanderer, ZHONGLI, Lumine, Lynette, ROSARIA, Ayato, Beidou, YAE MIKO, CYNO, Tighnari, NINGGUANG, + Lisa retorts tauntingly as the vibrations of the toy intensified causing your legs to quake incessantly, your lips spew with squeaks, and your tears to prick harsher than the prickles of cacti. Instead of providing for any necessary comfort, they simply assisted your upcoming, and rather forced, orgasm by fucking you thoughtlessly with the cum-drenched bullet.

✦ 𝒮ub kitty personalities whose imprudence is genetically unbearable since these brats tend to overstep your boundaries solely because you told them not to do such. However, if you overlook their overbearing arrogance and overwhelming urges to poke at your wrong nerves, they’re simply adorable little things who wish to be doted on and coddled by you every second of their day, hence the excessive need to go overboard just for a lick of your attention. From innumerably rutting against silk-infused pillows with their doors ajar, their mewls disrupting your ability to focus on your work, to embellishing your tip/clit with taunting kitten licks before leaving you exasperated and needy. Have you considered teaching them a thing or two about patience? Forcefully shoving your dick/strap inside of them and ensuring that their moments are limited in order for you to tend to your work, disregarding the meaningless, ironic puppy-like whines against your shoulder, or the simmering sensations on your back as the regretful kitty in question excavated their claws into your back?

✧ “Mm-Master, let me cum... M’ a good kitty, right? I don’t… can’t- mmuh, pleaseplease.. C’mon? C’mon.. come on!” SCARAMOUCHE, Venti, LYNEY, Childe, Hu Tao, WANDERER, Venti, Eula, Zhongli, Wriothesley, HEIZOU, Mona, + Kaeya pleaded impatiently as your dick/strap fucked into them relentlessly resulting in them losing balance to the point where the only stability available is your hands which were grasping needily onto their waist. Each and every time cum threatened to spill from them, you’d halt your actions, which induced the blubbers and writhes significantly from the toy in desperate need of fulfillment as much as they’re deprived of punishment.

✦ 𝒟om rabbit personalities who are the clingiest when it comes to you and only you. Even with their timidity, they would bury it under the fabric of your shirt by hiding their heads underneath it, desiring to kiss along your mesmerizing skin without looking up at your puckish expression. Although they’re also willing to please and learn, they’re lack of understanding in certain fields causes hesitation, so you’re like guiding these poor souls. You’ve managed to misconstrue their brain into believing a plethora of artless ideals defines something rather lecherous, such as binkying in their lap as you ride/scissor them for ages, cum spluttering from your pretty pussy/tip as they spittle broken apologies and pleas due to understimulation. Meanwhile you’re the one that should be dying of thirst with the way those rabid sweethearts fuck you dry, whispering degrading nothings you’ve taught them to use in hopes they’ll eventually remmeber that it’s merely apart of foreplay. There’s not enough aftercare in the world to assist them, considering your first time with one of these individuals led to being fucked unconscious.

✧ “Mmmph- conejito… pl-please don’t sleep n-now, need you… want inside! Jusa lil’ more? Can’t.. just so mesmerizing when you cum all over my dick/strap..” VENTI, Chongyun (on them damn chilis), Hu Tao, XIAO, Lyney, + HEIZOU cried out subconsciously as they proceeded to weakly rut against your inanimate body, their mind muffled and muddled with a hazy lechery that could only be described as voracious. Even around the moment they were gradually comprehending your state, they had yet to snap out of it, even while the back of their mind is squealing to stop.

✦ 𝒮ub bunnies whose excitement and impatience is unbridled once you’ve mentioned that you were willing to please them when it’s needed, which ends up being hourly considering a rabbit’s inconceivable libido. In general, they need loads of attention considering how snoopy and energetic they are, let alone a tad brattish if they don’t receive what they want instantaneously. Though, when it came to it, much like their dominant counterparts, they were extremely modest during the first few weeks of training. Determining their favorite positions, beloved spots they adore being pleased with, or even going as far as coaxing them into behaving uncharacteristically if they want to make you proud. However, while being harebrained and impatient, they would bypass the preliminaries completely and lead as if they’ve invented foreplay, sloppily and selfishly binkying and grinding their hips against the surface of your thigh while you’re asleep. The overwhelming idea of you awakening and abasing them, which they weren’t even fond of before meeting you, was arousing them to the point where they brainlessly spittled their desires like forbidden affirmations.

✧ “A-And then—hmah! Sssh.. So much cum will be stuffed inside my mm-mouth. You’ll f-fuck my mouth, lips… c-call me mean names like.. b-boring bunny…” KABUKIMONO, Aether, Sucrose, Kazuha, Freminet, KAVEH, Shenhe, Nilou, LADY FURINA, Ei, + Layla + Xiao spluttered mindlessly as they humped the slight arch in your back considering that they’re straddling you, and yet you have yet to wake up, or so they assumed. With every grasp of your waist and aggressive thrust sent to your back, which was adorned by a series of rhythmic, sharp whines, your body jerked along with the bed, causing you to smile sadistically to yourself.

⑅ ourolite productions. all rights fucking reserved, do not plagiarize.

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zanykingmentality · 2 months

Text

do you want to be with somebody like me | leon kennedy x reader

SUMMARY: you've lost your friend at the bar. TAGS: alcohol, profanity / explicit language, first meetings, some humor, meet-cute, unresolved romantic tension, hints at depression LENGTH: 3.6k

[AO3]

Someone is singing awful karaoke. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, he’s singing, way off-tempo, and he doesn’t know any of the rest of the words, even though every few lines he insists he has the song memorized. Your friend is off somewhere, doing something—you thought she was getting another drink, but when you’d followed her through the crowd she was nowhere to be found.

So now you’re camped at the bar, running your fingers over the sticky wood of the bartop, unsure if you should get another drink or keep looking. You decide the best course of action is to stay in one place, so your friend can find you, and hope she didn’t also think the same thing.

The bartender in front of you’s got his lips twisted into a frown. He’s watching the guy on the tiny stage at the front of the room, belting notes that are nowhere near the real ones. You imagine this is his favorite song, and he’s livid to hear such a blasphemous rendition of it. The crowd is going wild. You—well, you would also be going wild, if you could find your slippery friend, because at your core you love deeply terrible things. Instead, you turn to watch while still leaning on your elbows over the bar, taking up space that people are clamoring to get into. Because you’re a nuisance like that.

A man sits at the bar next to you, and he runs a hand down his face. He’s nursing something on the rocks, in one of those nice glasses you always see mafia bosses drinking from on TV. It looks like crystal, even though it can’t be, because this isn’t one of those upscale bars that would shell out for nice glasses. He glances over at you and your eyes meet. On a whim, you mouth along to the song, This will be the day that I die.

The line repeats, and he mouths it back.

The guy on stage is falling over the mic, tripping over the friends crowded around him. It’s probably his birthday. He’s probably drunk out of his mind and hoping to get lucky tonight. You scan the crowd for your friend and can’t find her, again.

The guy in front of you follows your gaze and puts a fist to his mouth. He leans toward you.

“You a fan of this kind of stuff?” he asks you.

“No,” you answer immediately. You press your fingers to your mouth, wiping away the hint of a smile that had been there. God. You love bad singing.

You do not, however, love losing your friend in a karaoke bar full of drunk twenty-somethings with no impulse control. As a sort-of drunk twenty-something yourself, you’re all too familiar with the way your brains will latch onto anything. Your friend can handle herself, sure, but can you?

“Looking for someone?” the guy asks again.

“Yeah,” you say, and you have to lean in to be heard over the horrendous singing. How fucking long is this song? “My friend. You seen her?”

“Probably not,” he says. “I’ve been right here.”

“She’s like this tall, and she’s wearing all blue. Dark hair. You haven’t seen her?”

“No,” the guy says, “but I’ll help you look, if you want.”

You’ve half a mind to slam your head against the bartop, but you do not do that—in part because getting kicked out would greatly lower your chances of finding your friend, and would otherwise be totally humiliating. Nice of this guy to offer to help—in your experience, most guys would implore you to stay here. Which is a slippery slope to come back home with me, a guy you don’t know at all, and you are not really interested in getting murdered tonight. Point being that—at least this guy is asking to help. At least that’s something new.

“That’s okay,” you say, because as much as you may want to, you do not believe the best in people.

The guy gets up from his seat. It is immediately filled behind him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Might be easier to find her from my vantage point.”

…He is taller than you, you suppose. You scowl, but you don’t really mean it.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks.”

The guy stretches a hand out to you. “I’m Leon.”

You give him your name in return with a shake. Like you’re business partners, not two random people meeting in a club.

The two of you push through the crowd. The guy on the stage is finally wrapping up his butchered version of “American Pie,” which you are exceptionally excited for. No act can top his, you think. You will forever be in search of something as terrible as his pitchy, off-tune rendition of a classic song. Leon cranes his neck, looking for your friend, and you’re forced to watch the muscles in his chest contract and expand as he breathes. Must he wear a shirt so tight? Goddamn. Not that you’re checking him out or anything.

He leans down to breathe into your ear, “I don’t see her.”

You try, very hard, not to shiver. Weird.

Like, you can admit to yourself that he’s attractive, even in the dim lighting. You have eyes. But you also don’t know him, which means you should very much be on your guard. You keep reminding yourself of that, and yet…

There’s this look in his eye that makes you want to believe in him. You hate that. You hate when people are good, and nice, and kind—it’s so much harder to find people like that. They make you want. They make you hope.

“Damn,” you say. The two of you make your way to the back wall. You almost get swept away by the crowd as they part for the end of the song, and the guy on the stage is bowing and screaming something about college football. Someone shoves into your space, and Leon holds his arm out in front of you to push them away.

“Oh, wait,” Leon says, and he squints into the opposite corner of the bar. “Is that her?”

You stand on your tiptoes to peer over the crowd, but you can barely see. You make out a flash of blue in the corner booth, and you say, “Maybe?”

Leon leans down, and you repeat yourself. He’s very close.

You can not be falling in love with strangers again.

The crowd does not move for the two of you, but someone else gets up on stage—they’re singing a Kelly Clarkson song, and you wish them luck for all the belting parts. You and Leon shove through to the opposite corner of the room, where—lo and behold—your friend is leaning toward some guy sitting in the booth next to her, a guy you think you recognize, vaguely, from somewhere.

“Elsie!” You grip your friend’s shoulder in a vice-like grip. She whirls around to look at you, and says your name with a brilliant smile.

“Hey!” She puts her hand over yours and turns back to the guy in front of you. “You remember Daniel!”

No, you do not remember Daniel.

“Oh, yeah,” Daniel says. “We met at the racquet club.”

You do not go to the fucking racquet club. Who do you look like? Someone who can afford membership to the racquet club?

“The time I brought you with me,” your friend tries to remind you, nudging your side. You feel like you’re going insane. You have never been to the racquet club.

“I remember seeing you guys and thinking I had to talk to you,” Daniel says, staring at your friend. She avoids his gaze.

“Who’s that?” Elsie asks, nodding at Leon.

“Oh.” You turn back to Leon. “Thanks for helping me, Leon.”

He nods, his eyes never straying from Elsie and Daniel. Like he’s sizing them up or something. Assessing threat levels. Elsie pulls your arm, forcing your head down next to hers, and whisper-yells way too loud in your ear, “He’s hot.”

You know.

Elsie scoots over on the booth and pats the now-open seat next to her. “Leon, why don’t you sit?”

“Elsie,” you hiss. She meets your gaze with fake-innocence. Leon looks at you, then Elsie and Daniel, then you again, like he’s confused. He swallows; you watch the movement of his throat. The music is too loud, and the singing is just mediocre—not bad enough to be good. And it’s too hot. The press of bodies and sweat and alcohol closes in around you.

If Leon sits, there will be no space in the booth for you. At the other table, this really old guy in full safari gear sits and stares at the floor. You don’t think he’s moved in hours, maybe years. Daniel has an unreadable expression on his face. Lights dance across your faces. A spike of irritation at your friend stabs through your stomach.

“No, thanks,” Leon says. You look at him sidelong. He’s looking at you.

Elsie frowns for a moment, then decides, “We need more drinks!” She hauls Daniel to his feet. To you, she says, “Hey, so you’ll be okay on your own, yeah?”

You look between her and Daniel. “No, not really,” you say.

“I’ll meet back up with you outside later,” Elsie says. “Let’s go!”

“Wait—” you start to say, but she and Daniel have disappeared into the crowd. The Kelly Clarkson song is over, and the DJ’s put on some weird EDM abomination you can’t imagine anyone dancing, drinking, or talking to.

You look at Leon again, and he cocks his head.

“Sorry about that,” you say. “I guess I’ll just… head outside.”

“Want company?” he asks. At first, you don’t hear him, so you get on tiptoe to get closer to his mouth. He repeats himself.

“Sure,” you say. Because why not. You can only stomach so much betrayal in one day, the dramatic in you decrees. Why not.

Leon follows you out through the entrance, onto the balcony. The bar is situated on the second floor—the first floor, coincidentally, is dedicated to some other bar that you’ve never heard of. To be fair, you hadn’t heard of this one before either, before Elsie had called this afternoon and told you she needs to get drunk and make out with a stranger tonight. You suppose this is not an uncommon feeling for her, if the amount of times she’s complained to you about her experiences with men are anything to go on.

You rest your elbows on the railing of the balcony. It’s made of black metal; in the dark, it looks like there’s nothing under you. Leon stands next to you, mirroring your stance.

It’s not that high up at all, but the cool night breeze paired with the near-midnight sky makes you feel like you’re a speck in a much larger city than this, like you’re just one of many people escaping to a balcony from a crowded room. Through the open door, you hear the music shift abruptly to “Mamma Mia” by ABBA. You watch Leon nod along to the beat, and sudden affection thrums under your skin. That small movement is enough, you think, to get a read on him.

Because at first glance, Leon looks like someone you’d be scared of. He’s got a permanent scowl and furrowed eyebrows and a chiseled jaw, which is already a recipe for intimidation. It’s hard to tell if the reason your heart is pounding is because of fear or attraction. So the image of him—this handsome, dangerous stranger—bopping along to ABBA’s Swedish pop is so terribly cute that you can’t help but love him.

“What?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw before you pointedly look away.

“What?”

You should say something. Shouldn’t you? Make friendly conversation. He’s keeping you company, after all, when you would otherwise be staring at the sky feeling sorry for yourself.

“Tell me about you, Leon,” you say.

“There’s nothing interesting.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “Wow. So secretive.”

“There’s just not much to say about me.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Leon scowls. He looks like a pouting puppy.

So, rather than prying further, you start talking. It’s not something you have a lot of experience with, just rambling without end. You talk about a clue in the New York Times crossword that you hated. You tell him about how you met Elsie, and how you have never belonged anywhere, not once. About the time in college when you stayed up all night to watch the sunrise and how maybe that’s why you keep living.

He looks at you when you say that, a strange understanding in his eyes. Like someone who’s seen the sunrise for the first time and gets it now, too. You want to squish his cheeks between your palms.

“You,” he says, “have a lot of thoughts.”

“Don’t you?”

“I guess.”

You wonder what goes on behind those eyes. What kinds of things does Leon think about? What does he do for fun? You’re so curious, but you can’t ask—he’s drawn a line, and as much as you want to, you can’t cross it.

“You’re shivering,” Leon says.

Huh. You are.

Leon’s jacket falls around your shoulders before you can insist you don’t need it. Once you have it, you don’t want to let it go. It’s a nice damn jacket, with fur lining and big pockets. You hold it close around yourself.

“Thanks,” you say. Guilt pricks at you—now he’ll be cold.

Like he can read your mind, Leon says, “I run warm.”

This, somehow, is surprising to you. But also, it’s not. You suppose you hadn’t thought about it—not that you’d had time to. You’d only met him thirty minutes ago.

“So, Leon,” you say, “what brings you to the bar tonight?”

“A drink,” he says simply.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “You know, that’s a surprisingly rare answer.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Most people I know go out to party, or to get laid.”

“Oh. Well.” He doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. You wouldn’t either, if you were him. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it. You suppose the people you know are the worst kinds of bar-goers. The kind who never know where to stop. A beat later, he says, “Is that why you’re here?”

You forgot that you count as people too. “No,” you say. “I was here playing wingman for Elsie. My friend. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly,” he echoes.

You watch him, then, the way his lips are set together and his jaw isn’t clenched, per se, but hardened, the lines of it stark. The way his gaze darts to you when he notices you staring, then quickly away. He’s sizing you up still. Trying to figure you out. There’s an insurmountable wall of unfamiliarity that neither of you seem properly equipped to traverse.

“I wasn’t very good at it,” you say. “Playing wingman. If that wasn’t obvious.”

“It was pretty obvious,” Leon says. “So you’re anti-social, and you like crosswords. What else?”

Your face feels warm, right up to the tips of your ears. You chalk this up to the extra blood flowing to the parts that need desperately to stay warm, even though it’s not that cold out. He says it all huskily, like he’s confiding a secret in you. Like you are his hidden-away gem. He’s got big hands, you notice.

There’s not much else to say, you suppose, but you search anyway. You tell him about the things you like, the little doodles at the corners of your planner, the keychains dangling from your bag. The places you’ve lived. He listens like he’s never heard anything more interesting, hooded eyes and the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips.

He doesn’t seem the type to smile often. You’re not sure what you did to make it happen, but you want to do it again. You want to see a real smile.

“You have a nice voice,” he says suddenly. You flush. Is he trying to make you explode? Spontaneous combustion isn’t off the table here.

“You do too,” you say, unsteady.

He laughs at that—you think. It’s barely there, a quick exhale and a rumble in his chest you can’t really hear. “I didn’t think I did.”

“Well, you do,” you say, and because you are an embarrassment to your family name, you add, “Plus, you’re attractive.”

Leon’s eyes widen minutely. He opens his mouth to say something. Nothing comes out.

“Sorry.”

“No,” he manages. “That’s okay.” He presses a palm over the bottom half of his face, obscuring his mouth, fingers splayed across his cheek. He’s flustered. He’s flustered. What the fuck did you do to him? You broke him.

You grip the railing of the balcony and try not to feel so many types of ways.

“I’m, uh,” Leon starts again, then stops. He swallows, and you watch the hunted-animal movement of his throat. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Oh,” you say. He’s glad? Okay. That’s new. You clasp your hands, let go, re-clasp them. You think about his big hands. What do you say to that? “Well. I’m glad.”

Leon seems to be satisfied with this answer. He tilts his head back and looks up to the sky, the starless expanse above saturated with light pollution. His chest expands with a deep breath in. You’re tempted to press your palm to the center of his chest, just to feel the movement. God, how dare he be attractive.

“I haven’t been relaxed like this in a long time,” he says. You shiver. “What, still cold?”

“No,” you reply, “your jacket is really warm.”

“Would be warmer if you used the sleeves.”

“Oh, you got jokes, huh?”

“And if I do?”

You blink at him. “If you do?”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

This, somehow, delights you. He’s got jokes. You’ve got banter. It’s the closest you’ve felt to another person in a long time. You think of Elsie, probably sucking face in the bar proper, and you’re reminded that it’s okay not to want that—to want this, instead, learned easiness—or something like that. Maybe you’re just being hypocritical. After all, you don’t really know Leon.

But that’s okay too, isn’t it?

You’re not really making sense.

“Not much for me to do about that,” you say.

“You could laugh.”

You let out a half-hearted, obviously fake laugh.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, did that hurt?”

“So much. I’m wounded.”

“Get better jokes, then. I’m waiting.”

Leon’s face scrunches up in thought, like he’s shuffling through joke ideas in his head and not liking any of them. “You can’t put me on the spot like that.”

“Mm. Sounds like an excuse.”

“Hey.”

You’re about to say something else—something you hadn’t thought through, as always, but that you hope was funny enough—when Elsie stumbles out of the bar. Her heels clang against the metal of the balcony. You and Leon both turn to look: her lipstick’s smeared across her mouth and her eyeliner is smudged.

“Didn’t go well?” you ask.

She greets you with a cheeky grin, at odds with the state of her. “It was fucking fantastic,” she says. “I’ll never see him again.”

“Let’s hope not,” you quip. “Daniel's a good kisser? He goes to the fucking racquet club.”

“It’s a perfectly nice place to hang out.”

You make a face.

“I’m being serious. And anyway, I didn’t kiss Daniel.”

Elsie wobbles over to stand next to you at the railing. Leon tenses minutely.

“Who then?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Some guy. Don’t remember his name.”

“Sure. Fair enough,” you say. Elsie leans her head on your shoulder. “Think it’s time we go home.”

“Ugh. I don’t want to.”

“And yet, you came out here anyway.” You wind your arm around Elsie, who is a disaster in very different ways than you, but you’re all she’s got and vice versa. Leon’s jacket shifts around you, and you clutch it to you with your other hand. “We should get going.”

“Fiiine,” Elsie whines.

You release her and shrug Leon’s jacket off. Immediately, your arms erupt in gooseflesh, missing its warmth. It takes all of your willpower to hold it out to him. “Thanks for keeping me company, Leon.”

“Sure,” he says. He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open. “You got a pen?”

“For what?” You pat down your nonexistent pockets. You do not have a pen.

“Oh, found one.” He scribbles something on the back of a receipt, then takes his jacket from you. You blink and he’s swinging it back over your shoulders. Elsie retches behind you.

“What—”

“Keep it,” Leon says, “until we see each other again.”

“Huh—”

He takes the receipt and gently pushes it into the chest pocket of the jacket. “Get home safe.”

“Leon—” He’s already left, retreating back into the bar with a little skip in his step.

How rude of him to keep interrupting you. You wind your arms through the sleeves and are immensely, all-consumingly grateful.

“Home,” Elsie says.

“Geez, you’re so impatient.”

When you get home, you tuck Elsie into your bed and lay out a blanket on the couch for yourself. It’s then that you take the receipt out from the pocket of Leon’s jacket. It’s all crumpled up, and from a few months ago—a purchase of ABBA vinyls. This makes you smile.

On the other side, Leon’s scribbled his number, his name, and a Call me in cursive. Cursive. You’re obsessed.

You fall asleep, clutching the receipt in your fist, “American Pie” echoing in your head.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #leon s kennedy #roma's writing #leon is so cute.... he's like an angry cat #re4 leon

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inkdrinkerworld · 7 months

Note

idk if you’ve ever seen my mad fat diary but finn reminds me so much of your james that it literally makes me SICK. if you’re interested, i implore you to think about james with a chubby and insecure reader where he basically has to spell it out that he likes them and then reaffirm it with his actions (brings you flowers, sweets, invites you to watch him play rugby, asks you to hang out with your friends). idk if you can work it in but there’s a line where the main character is like “you don’t have to kiss me because you feel sorry for me” and he responds like “i’m not kissing you because i feel sorry for you?? i’m kissing you because i want to” and that with james is so ajhhhhh

I haven’t seen it!!! Cw: insecure chubby!reader, negative self talk

James likes you. He’s liked you since you first transferred to his business class to make up credits for your semester.

He’s made it clear, in his mind, that he likes you by always saving you a seat next to him, and always having flowers on your desk every Monday.

You don’t seem to get it though.

You’re both in a ‘fight’ right now, James had asked you to come to his rugby game with his friends and you had asked him why he goes out of his way to be that nice to you.

“Because I like you,” he’d scratched his head when he said it. “I thought you realized that ages ago.”

You had shaken your head, “You don’t like me James, you think you do. I’m not your type.”

James had frowned after that, insisting you were wrong and you’d scoffed and said something about your being undesirable and James had left you standing in the hallway.

You haven’t answered his apologizing texts for leaving you in the hallway and not walking you back to your dorm.

Your brain hasn’t exactly caught up with the fact that James likes you. It feels unreal. James is fit, he’s got just about every girl on campus flocking to him. Him liking you feels like a cruel joke.

Still, you get off your bed and change into his rugby sweater and a pair of jeans and head to the pitch.

You reach there when they’re warming up and you can tell James is off. His runs aren’t as perfectly timed as they should be and his throws are short.

“James was worried you wouldn’t show.” Remus whispers as he and Sirius come to sit beside you.

You chew your lip and don’t tell them that you’d been thinking about staying home.

“He really does like you doll,” Sirius says and you roll your eyes.

“For now. It’s better for us if we just stay friends. He’ll find someone better to like soon enough.”

Remus tuts, “In James’ mind, there is no one better. He’ll wait for you forever, if that’s what it takes.”

Neither of them say anything after that and you’re left with your thoughts again.

You do like James. You’ve liked James before he started bringing you those flowers every Monday. You’ve liked him before he offered to walk you to your dorm one night and just always did it after that.

He’s easy to like, you come to realise, because he does everything with purpose but also like it’s second nature. Like being near you and making sure you get home safe is something he’s always done.

The game is scrappy and James’ team win by a messy touchdown. Even after the game he’s sulking so you walk down to the pitch to greet him.

“Hi Jamie,” you’re in front of him and even behind the helmet you can tell his eyes widen. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

James takes off his helmet and sets it on the turf. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to get upset, but you can’t speak about yourself like that to me.”

He closes some of the distance between you. “Did you really mean it? Do you really like me?”

James makes a pitying sound in the back of his throat as he hears how uncertain you sound. “Since you sat next to me wearing those silly socks with the bears on them.”

His hands are on your cheeks, cupping them gently. “You’re the most beautiful, kind, gentle, amazing, thoughtful person I’ve ever met. Of course I’d like you.” He confesses and you feel the pinpricks of tears in your eyes.

“I like you too James, but what if you change your mind? What if you find someone else to like this much?”

James scoffs. “There’s no one else. Only you.” His forehead presses against yours and his eyes close.

“You’re it for me,” he says and you gasp.

“James,” he cuts you off.

“I mean it.” He pulls away for a moment. “Can I kiss you now? You’re wearing that cheery lip balm that messes with me head.”

“You don’t have to kiss me because you feel sorry for me.“

James groans, long and drawn. “Baby, you gotta get that mess outta your head. I’m not kissing you because I feel sorry for you. I’ll never kiss you because I feel sorry for you. I’m kissing you because I like you, yeah?”

James waits for your soft, ‘yeah’ and then melds your lips together.

#jamespotter #james potter #beefy!james potter #beefy!james #james potter x reader #james potter x black!reader #james potter x chubby!reader #beefy!james x chubby!reader #james potter x you #james potter x yn #james potter one shot #james potter fanfiction #james potter imagine #james potter drabble #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter fic

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incorrect-riordanverse · 6 months

Note

It's really disheartening that Rick Riordan stance on the war I understand that he wants to be neutral on this stance but in my opinion by becoming neutral he only worsening the issue as many Palestines are dying that are mostly children, how the majority of Israeli are supporting the Genocide of Palestine, and how the government is trying so hard (but miserably failing) to justified the genocide. I will hold him accountable for what he said on this issue as during this period the choice is basically "you are with us or against us."

Part of me wishes he will realize what he said was wrong and understand the bigger issue that plays at hand. I will criticism for his actions as how can a man who promotes LGBTQIA and representation of minorities and disabilities in his books turn a blind eyes to Genocide of people. However we can only wait and see on his next move.

One last thing about your previous you said you don't group Riordan with other authors where do you would group him with? Also this is more on an opinion base answer but many people are boycotting companies that support Israel there as been another post on Twitter on boycotting authors. Rick Riordan happens to be one of them. Do you believed that he should be boycotted with other authors or he should be properly educated and apologized for his previous statement? If you believed he should be boycotted what do tou have to say to those who might have the mentality of "separate the art from the artist"

thank you for this ask, and i completely agree with you! it is extremely hypocritical of him considering what he preaches for in his books. i think he’s convinced he has properly addressed the apartheid by using very vague language that can be applied to anything, and in doing so, he’s addressed nothing really.

your first question on who i would group him with— probably other authors who are doing the exact same as him in their virtue signalling. i always like to link my other blogs to each other, so i don’t think it’s a secret that i have a red queen account and i’m pretty passionate about that. unfortunately, victoria aveyard is another fantasy author who has literally wrote a whole four-book series on the uprising against oppression but is now playing neutral in her address of the apartheid. rebecca yarros is in the same boat, although i haven’t read ‘fourth wing,’ fans have said there are large themes of oppression within the book. so if i had to group riordan it would probably be in the ‘i-like-to-write-about-it-for-profit-and-praise-only’ group.

in terms of boycotting, i think that’s a great idea! i would also like to remind everyone that the percy jackson tv show is coming out in a little over a month, but disney is a huge industry financially supporting israel as well ($2 million in funding), which is obviously far more damning than a poorly written address by one person. there is a boycott happening for disney as well— and the pjo show will be released on disney + . i implore everyone to not watch it on that platform!! personally i will be pirating it online (idk if i’ll get into trouble saying that here but lol oh well), because im pretty sure the boycott is only for withdrawing financial support, not simply consuming media.

i feel like separating art from the artist only works if that artist is… like, dead, and you’re using that art and its values as a historical insight to how the world was during its time. you can still like a piece of work that has a problematic artist, you can engage with the work (to an extent). but separating art from the artist barely works because either:

to engage with the art is to support the artist in some way, so that artist is making money based on your interaction with that (particularly in the case for singers and streaming of songs)

that artists’ views and values are so rancid that it’s literally embedded within the text itself. to ignore it is harmful.

harry potter is my all-time favourite example to use, because jkr is the scum of the earth, and her views are entrenched in her work. a lesser known example is sarah j maas and her books (she’s also not as dogshit as jkr, but then again, its not hard to be a better person than her). i’m not going to bag on these people for liking things by problematic people (would be hypocritical of me), i just think it’s cowardly not to address it when you come across it, or at least admit to it. to simply write things off as ‘separate to the artist’ is like purposefully turning off your critical thinking skills.

on whether boycotting or an apology is enough— if riordan did apologise and used specific language and not the nonsense he had in that blog, expressed his remorse for his ignorance and then actually did or said something to support the people of palestine then, yeah. that’s fine and that’s how we learn ig. but he should educate himself, too many activists, people from the arab community and especially palestinians are expected to be all-knowing and to educate everyone else on an already draining and personal tragedy. it’s been exhausting for me, i can’t imagine what they’re going through. if riordan (or anyone) needs to be educated, he should do it himself, and (at least in my opinion) i don’t think the info is very hard to find now. it’s just about weeding out the misinformation.

i think boycotting is a good idea as of now. it can serve to be a catalyst for self reflection for many people. also, as much as i hate most online discourses, talking about it online needs to happen. i don’t want these authors to forget, for a moment, about the ignorance they posted online during a time of international crisis.

#sorry if this is so messy. its 3am where i am rn #i finished two exams today and my brain is deaddd #but ty for this ask!#i have sooo many opinions about the whole ‘separate the art from artist’ and when to boycott something #because usually im actually not a big fan of boycotting. i just dont think it works most of the time (at least recently)#boycotting as a way of ‘canceling’ someone is something i think is a bit silly for instance.#esp when people gonna forget about what that person did in like. two months at most #but i feel like this issue (especially for corporations funding millions of dollars into genocide) is big enough to warrant a call for-#-everyone to abstain financially from things #like it isnt someone saying some dumb shit online. theres a whole country being wiped out.#unfortunately so many corporations fund israel. an insidious amount. so just do ur best to navigate thru it #riordanverse #incorrect riordanverse #rick riordan #hoo #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #pjo #trials of apollo #toa #ask #anon #free palestine #percy jackson disney+#pjo tv show #rewriting

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bizaar · 8 months

Text

Endless Summer ✧

Part 1: Our Lips Are Sealed

Cruel Summer Masterlist

- Next

pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+ minors dni), virgin!reader, mentions of drug usage, swearing, bullying, self-deprecation, masturbation (f)

word count: 10k

a/n: so I may or may not have been writing a few chapters of a semi-raunchy little prequel to Cruel Summer, this is the same babysitter!reader at the beginning of her relationship w/ Eddie - reader is hopelessly obsessed in a totally uncool, sweaty palms sort of way and Carol Perkins is the meanest girl in school.

Carol Perkins has been talking endlessly about … something, for the better part of the ten minutes it’s been since you sat down with your lunch tray.

You aren’t exactly sure what about, because you’re not listening, you’re just sitting there watching her lips flap.

You might have felt bad about that even as recently as last week, but somehow you can’t seem to muster the feeling today.

Maybe it has to do with the recent events that have more or less soured your opinion of your so-called friend, or maybe it’s just that her conversations these days are not exactly the stuff of edge-of-your-seat intrigue, especially considering you can be fairly certain in the knowledge that whatever she is saying probably has something to do with her stupid boyfriend, Tommy Hagan.

Tommy said this, Tommy did that, oh my god Tommy is so funny, Tommy Tommy Tommy, who has been Carol’s singular topic of conversation for going on two years now, much to your agonizing boredom.

Tommy is fine, if you like snot nosed bullies who never matured past age twelve and whose idea of trying to divert attention away from the fact that he’s more into Steve Harrington than he is his own girlfriend is by feigning some kind of bullshit interest in you — decidedly not your type, especially when his idea of flirting is giving you a hard shove in the back and calling you Princess while Carol is sitting there in the crook of his arm.

Yeah… so not your type.

Then again, you never would have thought that was Carol’s type, considering her interests have always swayed more Han Solo than anything else — (read: The Empire Strikes Back poster she has secretly taped to the inside of her closet door) — but you know she would deny that to her dying breath if you dared to remind her of it, so you keep your mouth shut and do your best to focus on moving the watery canned green beans around your tray with a plastic spork while she talks and talks and endlessly talks.

You’re on probation with Carol after last week’s debacle in the quad, anyway, so you’re not sure she would even allow you to speak if you tried. You’re supposed to just sit there and listen to whatever it is she has to say and nod along dutifully without interrupting.

That’s your whole job here, nothing more, nothing less.

You wonder idly if she would even notice if you slipped away, whether she would keep on talking until someone worth noticing, like Tina or Nicole, arrived at the table and finally implored her to shut the fuck up. Once upon a time you might have done so yourself, but you haven’t been brave enough to speak so directly to Carol since the eighth grade.

One too many times getting your head bitten off has conditioned you to wire your jaw shut and tune it out, for the sake of self-preservation, which is exactly why you’d just stood there and took every bit of vitriol Carol had to give you that morning last week.

Rumors spread like a disease in this town.

Nicole said something about hearing Tommy talking big in homeroom about something that happened over the weekend at a party you didn’t attend, which Carol knows because she gave you such shit over it, but facts aren’t important to her when it comes to things like this.

Someone suggested that you’d tried to grab his dick or something, and worst still, that he was into it, and Carol went nuclear.

Never mind that Tommy was the one spreading the rumor around, all that mattered to Carol was that it was you he was trying so desperately to incriminate.

Literally anyone else, and it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. If somebody had said that it was Vicki Carmichael or Tammy Thompson, Carol wouldn’t give a shit. She’d throw her weight around, make a show of girlie dominance, and that would be that. But no, it had to be you.

Why oh why did it have to be you? You imagine she’s asking herself the same question.

You’re fairly certain she would be less angry if she thought Tommy liked boys than she is at the mere suggestion that he might be interested in you and you’re not sure if your ears are ever going to stop ringing after the way she’d shouted at you, in front of God and practically everyone in school.

Tommy just stood there, smirking, of course, everyone just stood there, even you stood helplessly staring at your sneakers, just waiting for it to end until you noticed another pair of dingy reeboks appear beside your own.

“Good God!” A voice as familiar as childhood rang out, loud enough to cut the air and silence her mid-stream, startling you into snapping your head to attention.

Suddenly, there stood Eddie Munson, like a knight in leather and denim, sidled up beside you like you were old friends or something and it was the most natural thing in the world, like this wasn’t the first time something like this had ever happened in the history of cool kids and losers interacting at Hawkins High.

Tommy and Carol were speechless, you were speechless — Eddie was not.

“What on God’s green Earth is making that awful racket?” He said loudly – theatrically – and then he turned his blinding attention to you, “Sounds like someone’s skinning a cat out here,” he mused, giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, like it was some kind of an inside joke between you, as if you were supposed to have any idea what that meant.

You stared back at him, wide-eyed and still too stunned to speak — you don’t know what you said following that if you even said anything at all.

You can’t remember, you don’t even remember what Carol said, what kind of vicious back and forth was volleyed between them before a staff member eventually arrived to break up the huddle and cart Eddie off.

Carol was pissed that you didn’t defend her, of course, and you’re still paying for that imagined slight with a concentrated cold shoulder from most everyone you know, but you can hardly make yourself care about being so summarily iced out like that.

Because Eddie Munson stood up for you.

You still can’t wrap your head around that. Nobody’s ever stood up for you like that before, nobody over the age of twelve, that is, but Eddie did.

That’s twice now he’s stepped in and saved you like that, and you have to resist the urge to shake the thought loose before it can take root in your mind – you can’t think about that right now, not with Carol sitting right there, but thankfully, she has not noticed the way your attention has begun to stray.

She’s too busy talking.

Deep down, somewhere in your subconscious, you know you ought to try and put a little more effort into listening to her, because she’s your best friend, even though she regularly puts you on probation like this for imagined slights.

Even though your friendship has conditions and stipulations that only seem to apply to you.

Even though you have nothing in common anymore except for the fact that you’ve been best friends since you were eight years old.

So, perhaps the better phrasing is you know you ought to try and put a little more effort into listening to her, because you used to be best friends.

Nostalgia is the ancient, flaking paste keeping the walls of your friendship standing, but the wallpaper has long since begun to peel to reveal the rot beneath.

Carol is still going on about who said what and who is dating who and all the latest gossip, talking at you more than talking to you, talking just to fill the air and you’re doing your best to at least try to pretend to look interested – really, you are – but there’s not much you can do to stop the way your gaze has begun to wander…

Because Eddie Munson has entered your periphery, Eddie Munson has suddenly jumped up onto his lunch table, Eddie Munson stood up for you.

Good God, indeed.

He’s standing on his table and violently demanding your undivided attention – not yours specifically, but rather the attention of anyone who just so happens to be bored enough to get caught watching his frenetic display … which is to say, you.

But you’re happy enough to let him have your attention, whatever he’s up to is bound to be vastly more enticing than anything Carol has to say. You’re not sure you’d be able to resist giving it to him even if you didn’t feel that way, if you were being honest – because you’ve had your eye on him from the moment you’d stepped in the lunchroom.

Not because you’re minorly obsessed with him or anything as uncool as that. Certainly not because you’re harboring a bizarre gargantuan little crush on him or that when you tune everything else out and let your brain switch tracks, it’s him your mind shifts to.

No, nothing so embarrassing as that.

He’s a rebel with entirely too much cause, standing tall on the flattop, talking big and proselytizing to his minions about something with all the fire and charisma of a bible belt preacher – you’re hopelessly lost on context, but you’re all but ready to convert to the church of Eddie Munson.

A shock of chills wracks your body as he raises his voice as the passion of whatever it is that’s got him going today seemingly overtakes him, and it’s almost enough to draw Carol’s attention, but considering this is not new behavior, most people tend to tune it out.

Normally you would lie to yourself and say you did too … normally, if it hadn’t been for the way you’d spent the night previous tossing and turning, restlessly caught in the throes of a decidedly raunchy REM cycle, the subject of which just so happens to be standing on a table across the room.

So what if you had a sex dream about him last night? So what if your skin is buzzing where you can still feel his hands pulling at you, the gentle fanning of his breath on the nape of your neck where it had felt so real...

“Sweet Girl,” he’d whispered to you in your dreams, on a wracked, heady exhale, voice thick and shot full of holes in a way you can only imagine it would sound – it sends a bolt of heat lancing through your core and forces you to shift in your seat and avert your gaze.

You are an island to your own fantasies, sitting there, feeling your heart throbbing between your legs, and trying to be subtle about the way you’re pinching your thighs together as you become a little hotter under the collar than you were a moment ago.

You wish you were still close enough with Carol to divulge the specificities of your dream in bowed heads and hushed sordid tones, but lately, you’ve started to feel like little more than an out-of-trend accessory, kept around simply for nostalgia’s sake.

Once upon a time, you might have been free to share, but you are entirely certain that were you to try that now, to lean across the table and whisper conspiratorially:

“Holy shit, you’ll never guess who I had the filthiest dream about last night,” you’d be immediately crucified, socially speaking.

Carol doesn’t care about the yearnings of your most secret self. Not anymore. Now she only cares about Tommy and who did what at Tina’s party and how embarrassing it was, and quietly sidling up to Steve Harrington.

She doesn’t have much use for you these days besides using you as a buffer to avoid submitting herself to the humiliation of doing things on her own.

You’re not friends, and your secrets are positively unsafe with her. You would cut ties if you had a little more self-respect, but high school is hard enough with bad friends, you know it would be that much worse with no friends.

The concept of starting fresh and trying to make new ones halfway through your sophomore year is a Sisyphean Hurdle you have no idea how to even begin to tackle, so you grin and bear it, and swallow any biblical yearnings you happen to harbor for the town pariah — besides, if you told her, all she would do is ask you what it is you think you know about anything raunchy before dutifully reminding you that you’re a virgin.

Actually, the technical term would be “still a virgin” and would be followed up with the demand to know “when you’re going to do something about it” — like somehow the untouched state of your being is a bad thing and that you are on a ticking clock.

You suppose it’s just one more patently uncool thing about you hampering her — her loser best friend doesn’t put out, has never had a boyfriend, never even been kissed.

You would remind her that it’s hard to put out when nobody knows you exist, but it would only be an exercise in her rattling off an endless list of names you’d so much rather eat glass than accompany anywhere socially.

So, you watch, fixated on the way Eddie stalks down the length of the table like a catwalk, very carefully picking his long-legged steps as he goes, and you might feel a little embarrassed about how poor a job you’re doing masking the blatant way you’re gawping at him, if it weren’t for the fact that you know you aren’t the only one watching.

Not that he would notice even if you were.

Who are you but Carol Perkins’s excessively boring beige shadow? Nobody notices you, because you’re not a real person. You're invisible. You don’t exist.

You don’t know when your stupid little crush began. Eddie’s always been there if you really think about it, a fixture in the background of the swirling miasma that is your social circle, suddenly much larger than it has ever been now that High School has become your habitat.

Hawkins is a small town, and Eddie’s lived here his whole life, same as you. He’s a year older, but that wouldn’t be enough distance to remove someone from your orbit under normal circumstances, let alone someone like him in a town like this.

Some part of you has always been mildly obsessed with him from a purely academic standpoint — forbidden knowledge is perhaps the most tantalizing thing to a young mind, and the mystery of Eddie Munson has always been completely off-limits to the likes of you.

You’ve known the Munson name since you were old enough to listen in on your parents’ conversations, same as anyone who has spent long enough in Hawkins to learn a thing or two about the local population.

Al Munson has always been something closer to a Universal Movie Monster than a real person in your mind, like Dracula or the Wolfman — the local boogeyman. Sure, he didn’t have a haunting playground nursery rhyme like Freddy Krueger, but the man was to be just as feared by schoolchildren and good Americans alike.

He was “bad news” — that’s what your parents always said — even now, you can still hear your father’s lecturing voice warning you that if you so much as spoke to a Munson you’d get instantly hooked on drugs, knocked up, and end up living out of a cardboard box by the time you are twenty.

Which is stupid, of course, because you’ve gone to school with Eddie since first grade and you’d seen him talk to plenty of people over the course of that time, none of whom had gone on to suffer such a dismal fate.

Still, there’s nothing so tempting as forbidden fruit – you’ve known that since you were old enough to recognize there was a difference between boys and girls.

Life went on as the notorious Munson patriarch finally went to prison, and with the streets safe again from the likes of the car-jacking drug-dealing town drunk, everyone was happy enough to force his son into the void he’d left in the zeitgeist.

People start to get bored when there are no local pariahs to blame all their misfortunes on. As far as the locals believe, Hawkins is not cursed by anything other than the Munsons.

You remember a time when it wasn’t like that, when your parents spoke about Eddie with a heavy dose of sympathy.

When you were little, it was “that poor kid,” but as you got older and Eddie started getting into more and more trouble, it became “stay away from that boy – he’s no good,” as if he was banging down the door for your attention.

You’re fairly certain he doesn’t even know you exist.

There wasn’t much danger in becoming corrupted by someone like Eddie Munson before Carol got popular, and that hasn’t changed just because you’ve won a golden ticket to the cool kid’s table… by proxy — you're more of an unwanted plus-one than anything else.

Not Charlie Bucket so much as Grandpa Joe.

But of course, you’ve never personally subscribed to the generalization that Eddie is evil or something.

He isn’t the boogeyman or Dracula or any of those things that go bump in the night, no matter what your raunchy little dreams might dictate.

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie isn’t even all that mean or scary, and maybe that’s just because he’d treated you so sweetly last autumn at Tina Burton’s Not-Quite-Halloween party….

You’re not supposed to be thinking about that, the first time Eddie came to your rescue. That memory is not safe within Carol’s proximity, but it is the ambrosia that has been singularly sustaining you for the better part of a year now. It is a shining jewel that you keep tucked safely in the spot behind your lungs, and you just can’t help but pull the curtain back to take a peek at it.

It was your first high school party.

You’d never partaken in anything before that night, never even been offered, but suddenly and unceremoniously finding yourself shoved up against Eddie in a game of puff-puff-pass, you let yourself be pressured into playing.

He must have realized you were nervous — maybe your fingers were trembling when he passed you the blunt, but suddenly, and for perhaps the first time in your life, he was speaking directly to you.

“Have you ever done this before?” Eddie asked you quietly, a heavy dose of concern shadowing the wry quirk of his brow.

It was startling, to realize the curse of your invisibility had so unceremoniously been lifted, leaving you suddenly exposed to a person you were never meant to speak to. You had to resist the urge to whip around and ask, “Who me?”.

Yes, you.

Eddie Munson was staring at you, asking you if you knew what you were doing.

Like something out of one of those anti-drug campaigns, you suddenly felt like you were caught in a situation you’d been preparing for your whole life: if Eddie Munson offers you drugs at a party, just say no kids.

Only you could not help but notice that he wasn’t nearly as scary or dangerous as McGruff the Crime Dog had led you to believe. In fact, he was entirely too enticing, and you were suddenly desperate to make a good impression.

You opened your mouth in the fanatical hope of saying something cool and casual — yeah, of course. You’ve done all kinds of shit — and were naturally horrified to hear the truth squeak out.

“No.”

Eddie’s brows crept toward one another forming a deep crease of concern between them, and suddenly you could read his mind - yeah, that’s what I thought, he seemed to say.

You watched as he stole a quick glance over his shoulder, and then licked his lips before leaning in, almost conspiratorially. Your heart was beating so aggressively in your chest that you were convinced he must have been able to hear it.

You still remember the way his lips brushed the shell of your ear when he whispered to you, how the fanning of his breath made you shiver with the tantalizing suggestion of nicotine and spearmint secrets.

“You don’t have to breathe it in if you don’t want to.” He mumbled, “Just puff it and pass — you’ll be fine.”

It was the last little bit that really did you in.

Not the overwhelming pressure of your peers insisting that just one hit won’t kill you, but the kind assurance from the person who provided the drugs that you didn’t have to partake if you didn’t want to.

It was the suggestion of a choice in your fate that ultimately lured you out of your field and into the underworld — sickly sweet pomegranate promises, dripping from his tongue to yours.

Just like your father and McGruff the Crime Dog and all those insufferable after-school specials had warned you, Eddie Munson turned his gaze upon you, and you were instantly hooked.

He passed you the blunt, and you tried not to get too stuck on the way his fingers brushed yours when you took it. You curled your lips in as you brought it to your mouth, and you puff puff puffed, holding your throat closed against any swirling wisps of smoke, subtly giving the impression that you knew how to handle your shit before you quickly handed it off to the next person.

It still burned in a funny sort of way, but nothing happened. You didn’t slip down the rabbit hole, and you didn’t burst into flames, though most importantly no one seemed to notice the wool being pulled over their eyes, and you dared to steal another cautious glance at Eddie.

His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a satisfied smile, and you bloomed under the approval of someone whose attention you never realized you so desperately craved.

Before you could think of something to say to extend that moment, even just a little bit, you watched your hopes get dashed to oblivion as he turned away from you, taking with him the bright light of his attention and leaving you shrouded in darkness.

Tragically, invisible again, just like that.

If only you could have been so lucky — trust Carol to call you out on faking it when you remained sober after three rounds of puffing and passing.

“You’re supposed to inhale, Dummy!” She shrieked, causing everyone in the circle to laugh at your blatant inexperience.

Everyone but Eddie, you would have noticed had you been able to look, but shame-faced as you were, you kept your gaze fixed firmly to the floor and you inhaled deeply on your next turn.

You coughed, of course, and choked on the musky smoke as it filled your lungs and seared them medium rare. It only took a handful of minutes before you quickly faded out of the room to the soundtrack of everyone laughing again.

The rest of that night remains a mystery to you to this day.

You don’t remember what happened after the game or how much longer the party lasted or even how you got home — you do remember how being under the influence set your mind to spinning, and how you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how long Eddie’s eyelashes were. How he wet his lips with a smooth pass of his pink tongue before he spoke and how good he smelled when he leaned in to whisper to you.

You also remember the way he looked at you every time he passed you the joint when your turn came around again, like he was actually seeing you instead of the person-shaped placeholder you’d become since bridging the gap from adolescence to adulthood, but you chalk that up to nothing more than a potent cocktail of narcotics and your ever-present desire to be perceived.

That’s not what stands out most about that night, however, because it’s not all you remember.

Somewhere, hidden back in the furthest reaches of your subconscious, you swear you can still feel the press of his body as he held you caged in the crook of his arm, with your head resting on his collarbone, tucked neatly beneath his chin.

You don’t know how, but you swear you know what his lips feel like, brushing the highest point of your cheekbone, and the long line of his nose bridge pressed flat against your temple with his breath gently fanning the side of your face.

You’re sure you can feel the deep rumble of his voice filling you with warmth, a low timber in his chest calling you Sweet Girl as he smoothes your hair back.

He told you everything was going to be okay, and you believe him to this day.

You don’t know how you know all that, but you do. You feel it with every fiber of your being in a way that is so goddamn real it can’t just be an effect of your stupid little crush and unchecked libido.

The things you remember from that night, and the things you don’t combined with a handful of particularly banal run-ins with him over the course of the last few weeks has left you itchy and starving for a fix, though not from anything he might be able to sell you.

That night at Tina’s party, academic fascination bloomed into something new, fueled entirely by teenage hormones and the need to be seen.

Like a door that once opened cannot be shut again, you find yourself more or less always thinking about Eddie.

Attention is the high you crave like nothing else, and you desperately want Eddie’s attention, his undivided, unfiltered, unwavering attention, fixed solely on you.

Selfishly, you want him to be as obsessed with you as you are with him, and it makes you feel like at any moment you’re going to implode on yourself like a dying star.

Your parents would be appalled.

Carol is still talking, and you’re still not listening, because Eddie is still going. And going. And going.

Eddie Eddie Eddie.

Your stomach does a cartoon flip-flop, and you hold a wheezy breath in your lungs when he vaults down from the end of his table furthest from his seat and closest to yours. Your eyes meet as he straightens up, and you avert your gaze immediately, feeling your face flush hot enough that you’re half surprised it doesn’t melt right off of your skull as you shift your focus back over to Carol.

Suddenly, Tommy Hagan is the most interesting person in the world, and you desperately want her to tell you everything about Tommy and Tina and who said what and how embarrassing it was.

You’ve changed your mind. Eddie’s attention is blinding – it makes you feel exposed, like he’s a spotlight shining straight through to your innermost self — your secret self, the one that thinks about him in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes you and deft fingers creep their way down your body, edging toward the wanting apex of your spread thighs and slipping past creamy slick barriers to pull soft, lilting breaths from your parted lips as Eddie calls you Sweet Girl … Sweet Girl...Sweet Girl until you’re going hot and cold, body wracked, seizing, and trembling and you have to clamp your jaw shut to stop the sordid sounds of your orgasm from escaping your lips…

Jesus Christ –

No, actually, you’re much more comfortable remaining a wallflower, letting someone else get wrapped up in that undivided, unwavering, fixed-solely-on-you attention.

Better to stand aside for someone made to withstand that kind of heat from someone like Eddie, someone edgy and cool, who gives the middle finger to the world and dresses the part — not some midwestern babysitter from a town no one has ever heard of.

He’s from that town that no one has ever heard of, too, you think watching Carol’s lips move and hearing nothing but your own heartbeat. You’re looking at him again before you’ve even realized your attention has begun to stray – your guts seize, because he’s looking too.

Your heart spasms in your chest and scrambles up into your throat, punching an airy breath out of you and flattening your lungs. Suddenly, you’re winded and desperately trying to catch your breath in a way that you hope is at least subtle.

Fuck.

There’s that blinding light, that feeling of indecent exposure — it’s like looking into the sun, and somehow you can’t bring yourself to look away.

You’re painfully aware of how you’re staring at him again, though this time it is because he has your eyes and he absolutely refuses to let go.

Somehow it doesn’t feel even the slightest bit aggressive, more like an understanding – he sees you.

He sees you.

Eddie Munson sees you, so that means you must be real, right?

You’re blushing, you know you’ve got to be bright crimson — beet red even. You’ve got no idea how Carol hasn’t already clocked your hormonal distress but thank God she’s too busy looking at her nails to look at you.

You dare to steal another glance, and when you do Eddie flashes you a brief, goofy smile, all crooked lips twisted up to one side, the faintest suggestion of teeth poking out. It’s contagious, that smile, and suddenly you feel the corners of your mouth twitching in response, daring you to try to resist.

“Hello? Ground control to Major Tom—”

Carol snaps her perfectly manicured fingers in your face, breaking the spell and bringing the quiet din of the lunchroom rushing back in on you.

It feels like getting swamped at the beach, swept off of your feet by the tide, and rolled in the undercurrent. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

“Are you even listening to me?” She snipes, scrunching her nose in aggravation.

You blink stupidly at her as she comes back into focus, but you don’t answer.

You very clearly hadn’t, and it feels foolish to try and lie about it because Carol loves to remind you that she always knows when you’re lying, and Eddie is still standing there.

You can’t stop yourself from looking, because of course you can’t, and he rewards you with that same big smile when you do. It makes your insides go tight and squirmy, and you have to clench your teeth to keep a straight face.

The change in your demeanor is unfortunately not lost on Carol.

She narrows her eyes, and you feel your heart seize with panic as she slowly begins to turn to see what could possibly be so important to hold your rapt attention. You have to grip the edges of your seat to stop yourself from reaching out across the table and pulling her back to face you.

And when she sees Eddie standing there, you brace yourself for the sky to come crashing down on your head.

Carol physically recoils - dramatically so - like she’s been suddenly doused in ice water.

It takes her a moment to recover, but when she does, she has nothing but vitriol for him, much to your chagrin.

“Take a picture, Freak, it’ll last longer.” She snaps.

Something indiscernible crosses Eddie’s features as his gaze flicks over to her from you and back again. His brows marry in the middle and he pulls a face that is tinged ever so slightly with something that looks a little too much like hurt than you're comfortable with and you’re suddenly possessed with a violent and desperate need to make him understand that you are not with her, despite how stridently untrue that is.

The flash of vulnerability makes your stomach go tight, especially when Carol continues.

“Seriously, what the fuck are you looking at?”

The hurt look is gone before it has time to even settle, and Eddie wrinkles his nose, quirking a disdainful brow as he stares poison daggers down at your friend.

She hates him and he hates her right back — circle of life. All you can do is desperately hope beyond hope that you’re not lumped into that circle by association.

“Nothing,” Eddie drolls, “Just wondering what Bulimia Barbie is doing wandering around without her Ken doll.”

Had she been facing you, you’re sure you would have seen her blanch.

He turns to make the stilted walk back to his seat at the head of his table, electing to take the floor rather than the table top this time.

Eddie gives you one last parting glance, and you pull a face that you hope looks at least halfway as apologetic as it feels.

It was a mean thing to say, if not entirely deserved.

There are a lot of ways to get under Carol’s skin, she’s never been exactly easygoing, but perhaps the quickest way to cut her deep is to do so by mentioning the eating disorder she’s been not-so-privately struggling with since the eighth grade.

She’d been devastated when word of it got out, and thoroughly convinced you were the snitch — you didn’t have the heart to tell her it was Tommy who’d let that information slip. Not that she would have believed you.

Carol makes a harsh sound of indignation in the back of her throat.

“Asshole!” She shouts, then twists back around just in time to see you watching Eddie go. “—and what the fuck are you looking at?” Carol bites.

You snap back to attention and do your best to curl in on yourself.

“Nothing.” You say quickly, only you don’t fool her for a moment.

“…Oh, gross —” she scoffs, “What, are you swapping eyes with the Freak?”

The adrenaline of being caught bursts in your midsection and fires lightning down to the tips of your fingers as she gapes at you, eyes as big as dinner plates and practically bugging out on stalks. She admonishes you with a disappointed utterance of your name, and your cheeks burn with shame.

“I was just being friendly.” You stress, averting your gaze and picking idly at your lunch despite how you’ve since lost your appetite.

“With Eddie Munson? Ugh — gag me!”

The unchecked disdain in her tone doesn’t sit right with you, because it’s not like she’s ever even said two words to Eddie that weren’t hurled as insults, and you can’t help yourself clicking your tongue.

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” you say.

Carol snorts out an undainty sound of disgust.

“He’s a freak.” She says flatly — so you keep saying, you think — “He worships the Devil or whatever — everybody knows that.”

There is nothing you can do to stifle the bitter snort of laughter from bubbling up out of you, a harsh sardonic sound that escapes before you can reign it in.

Carol gives you a hard look, almost like she’s daring you to disagree, and much to your own surprise, you evidently dare.

“No, he doesn’t,” you press, wrinkling your nose in a quiet defiance.

A brief flash of hatred colors her features, and you can’t help but feel that the curtain has been pulled back and you’re suddenly looking at her true self.

Suddenly, Carol is all but shouting at you as her eyes go bright and her skin flushes a blotchy crimson.

“Oh please, like you know any better, Little Miss Babysitter!”

She hurls it at you like a slur and you flinch as the intention strikes you.

You don’t know precisely when Carol became so mean, only that it happened sometime between the transition from seventh to eighth grade, right around the time she’d gotten her first training bra and started to notice how boys were noticing her — right around the time Tommy showed up.

Since that day, everything between the two of you has been a competition that she is determined to win, despite how clearly uninterested you are in participating.

Still, you feel the strangest sense of righteous indignation rising in you – she doesn’t know Eddie, never even bothered to try, and here she is condemning him right alongside everyone else just because it’s what’s currently on trend.

You want to ask her how that’s fair, how she would feel if the shoe were on the other foot, but you swallow the urge as you can suddenly hear the condescending tone of your mother asking you if you’d jump off of a cliff the same as everyone.

Because at the end of the day, you don’t know Eddie any better than she does, not with all your wishing and hoping and fantasizing, and certainly not after the way he’d looked at you at Tina’s party – Sweet Girl…

“Yeah okay, whatever,” You mumble, because there’s no point in arguing with Carol when she gets like this.

Only your submission doesn’t apparently sit right with Carol - her face twists into a displeased scowl as she snatches up the can of coke that is the entirety of her lunch and begins to raise it to her bubblegum pink lips before thinking better of it and setting it back down with a harsh sigh.

You don’t know what’s got her so flustered, or what you did to embarrass her so badly. All you did was smile at Eddie, it’s not like you invited him to come and sit at the table with you.

“Why do you care anyway?” She demands then, clearly not done fighting.

By now, you know the telltale signs of this game: she’s probing for a flaw, something you’re sensitive about that she can pick at until it’s raw and oozing and she feels better for having taken you down a notch.

All she needs is a scrap, something she can run with until it snowballs out of control.

But you won’t give her the satisfaction, not after the way she’d screamed at you so publicly last week.

“I don’t,” You say flatly, sitting up a little straighter.

“Then how come you’re defending him?” She posits.

You cross your arms.

“I’m not.”

“You are though.” She insists, like she’s caught the scent of something, and is trying her best to sniff it out. “You’ve got that stupid look on your face like you’re about to get all self-righteous or something. What’s the deal? Do you like him or something?”

Your heart seizes and suddenly you can feel color bleeding into your cheeks as your armor creaks under the stress of her accusation. How could she possibly know that?

Because she’s your best friend, she knows everything about you…

“No…” you say, though even you are not convinced by the quavering tone of your voice.

Carol stares at you, briefly uncomprehending before it dawns on her, and suddenly her eyes are blazing with malicious delight.

Shit.

“Oh, nasty!” She shouts, then gasps, mouth falling open in scandal, “You do! You totally do!”

“I don’t – I mean, I don’t even know him.” You stammer, kicking yourself for how your resolve has begun to waver.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not into him! Oh, that’s so gross!” Carol sneers, she is loving this all too much, “Oh, my God, look at you – you’re blushing!”

Your hands fly reflexively up to bracket your face, and you hate yourself for the heat you can feel billowing off of you, betraying you.

Carol squeals with malevolent glee and you know you must be sweating for the way she is looking at you, eyes bright, teeth bared, wet, and shining in a hungry grin like a predator getting ready to make a meal out of you.

“Oh-kay, that’s enough.” You say, trying and failing to be firm as you are suddenly unable to keep your voice from shaking as you speak.

She doesn’t hear you – that or she just plain ignores you because she is getting too much of a rise out of your misery.

“Jesus Christ, what are you, like, in love with him?”

“Carol – stop.”

“You are! You totally are!” She cackles, “Jesus Christ, you want to marry him and have a hundred of his freak babies!”

She is practically shouting and you are this close to panicking about it, glancing anxiously across the room to the table where Eddie is sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, talking and laughing with his friends about something.

You have to force yourself to believe that they aren’t laughing at you because there’s no way they could possibly be clued into your conversation with Carol … who has started play-acting that she is you, moaning loud and wantonly.

It's shockingly apropos in the worst possible way, almost like somehow she’d found the time to steal away, slip back into your bedroom where she knows you keep your diary tucked safely beneath your mattress, and read the mad scribblings you’d left smeared across the pages that morning.

“Oh, God–!” She cries, igniting a burst of cold anxiety in the pit of your stomach like a firework going off. “Oh, Eddie! Don’t stop! Right there – Yes! YES! YES!”

You could die. You could literally die.

People have started to look over at you, stare at you, and all of that would almost be fine if it weren’t for the fact that you are currently imploding like that dying star.

You can’t be certain if its a result of your friend’s whorish display or just the nagging feeling of someone staring at him (because if you weren't watching him like a hawk before, you certainly are now) but you watch in horror as Eddie’s attention snaps back over to your table, to you.

Your heart spasms in a bright bolt of panic, and you’re on your feet with a loud squeak of chair legs on linoleum – much louder than anything Carol had just kicked up. If people weren’t staring before, they’re certainly staring now, watching you frantically attempt to gather your things and make a break for it before your brain can catch up with you.

"Seriously? You're leaving?"

“I gotta go,” you say quickly.

“Oh, come on, I was just kidding.” Carol sighs, still sitting there wrought with mean giggles, “Where are you going?”

You can hardly hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. Your heart is hammering so violently against your ribcage that you can barely catch your breath to try and stammer out an excuse.

“I just remembered,” You begin, aimlessly, “I have this… thing I have to do for class, I gotta go work on it.”

You shove the last of your belongings haphazardly into your backpack and slide your lunch tray into the nearest trashcan – the entire tray, hitting the bottom of the bin with a loud thump that has the lunch lady shouting indignantly at you from the other side of the room.

You don’t linger to rectify your mistake or apologize or do anything of the sort, because your frantic attempts to escape the lunchroom have drawn more attention.

One cursory glance reveals to you that, devastatingly, Eddie’s entire lunch table has turned to watch you go.

You nearly stumble over your feet.

“Liar.” Carol shouts after you, “Where are you really going?”

“I’ll see you later!”

You twist at the waist and wave when she calls your name again, and you can’t help but get stuck on the way you notice Eddie leaning back dangerously in his chair, craning his neck back to watch you go in a way that makes your heart seize against your ribs.

His eyes go wide when he sees you looking, and he lurches forward to right himself again, briefly losing his balance and just about toppling out of the chair as he does.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You twist back around and pick up your pace, desperate to get out of there before anyone gets the bright idea to follow you.

You move through the halls without really knowing where you intend to go, but before you realize it, you’re in the gymnasium, stalking across the empty floor to tuck yourself back beneath the bleachers.

It’s not the most covert hiding spot, plenty of people come down here to make out and the braver, hornier couples around campus have been known to steal away and engage in the odd session of heavy petting or dry humping back here where they can get their rocks off more or less removed from prying eyes.

You’ve got no such plans to follow suit, despite the ruined state of your panties, as you scramble to slip out of sight with a gentle squeak of Chucks on clear coat.

Your heart is pounding as you pull your knees up to your chest, face absolutely burning over the way Carol’s stupid play acting has left you slick and throbbing with the memory of your stupid, stupid dream, but you bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts and violently will yourself to get a grip.

You pull your bag into your lap and begin rifling through its haphazard contents, desperately searching for some kind of a distraction – something to take your mind off of the lingering sensation of full lips and scarred fingertips and hot fanning breath – Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself.

You need your book, you need to lose yourself in thick text, hard science fiction, and worlds and histories and glossaries of outlandish names… only your book is not here.

Your well-loved, annotated copy of Dune, whose cover is hanging on by a thread with how many times it has been bent backward as you pour over the familiar text, whose pages are creased and dog-eared and littered with notes and doodles and all the little lines and themes you never want to forget.

It’s not here, even after you dig and dig and dig, even after you dump your bag on the gymnasium floor and spread all your things out in a neat fan in front of you. Your book is still missing.

Where the hell is your book?

You hardly get the time to stress about it much further than that before the school bell rings with a shrill, metallic clanging cry, startling your brain back into working action and sending you scrambling to shove all your things back into your bag.

You’re almost relieved. You’d been sitting there, just biding your time until Carol eventually sniffed you out and you would have to brace yourself for round two, but your schedules are thankfully far removed from one another.

She’s got Mrs. O’Donnell for fifth period, whose classroom lies mercifully on the other side of the school from your fifth-period chemistry class, and the ringing of the end of lunch bell is a Godsend, solidifying your escape and requisite safety from another bout of humiliation.

Your lab partner is a freshman, Gareth Emerson, who just so happens to be a newer addition to Eddie’s roving gang of minions. Somehow, that is much less terrifying than you’d half expected it to be when you first noticed him in the lunchroom, sitting tucked neatly into the chair at Eddie’s side and hanging on his every word.

It had just been nice to know that you’re not the only one so affected by him.

Still, you’d often wondered how Gareth was lucky enough to win such a coveted spot so early on in his tenure, considering Eddie Munson tends to be a particularly terrifying entity to the newest additions to the Hawkins High student body, but as you’d gotten to know him, you stopped wondering about that.

Gareth’s a sweetheart. He’s nice, funny, and reminds you a lot of your neighbor, Dustin Henderson, if he were a little older and just a little bit cooler, that is. It’s no wonder he’s so quickly found himself at a place of honor at Eddie’s side, how could anyone resist him?

You wish you could hang out with Gareth instead of Carol and the others.

You wish you could sit comfortably at lunch and talk about the things that actually held your interest, that you could make afterschool and weekend plans without a hint of dread, safe in the knowledge that a trip to the movies or to the arcade was simply that, with no ulterior motives or hidden agendas, no fear of being humiliated or abused for the amusement of the people who were supposed to be your friends.

You wish you could be real friends with Gareth, but Gareth hangs out with Eddie, and the thought of joining them at their lunch table is enough to send your insides twisting into acrobatics, so at the end of the day, you just have to settle with the friendship you have, limited to the confines of the classroom.

“Hey,” Gareth says, frowning quizzically at you as you unpack your things and hop up onto the metal stool beside him, “What happened to you at lunch? You looked like you were about to pop.”

Your insides clench with shame.

“You saw that, huh?” You mumble.

“Everybody saw that.” He scoffs, pulling a face.

Everybody. The word clangs around your ribs and you have to blink back the image of Eddie leaning so far back in his chair, watching you run from the lunchroom. Literally run, like some kind of scared little kid fleeing the monster that lives under their bed.

Great.

“What does she think you did this time? Sell her firstborn child for concert tickets or something?”

You sigh, slumping forward to prop your head up on your elbow and level Gareth with an unimpressed look.

“Nothing – I don’t want to talk about it.”

He takes the hint and offers you his hands in a show of surrender before turning back to the blackboard, where Mr. Kapz has stepped up and begun scribbling formulas with a hard squeak of chalk.

You watch without really seeing, trying to keep your mind from drifting too far with all your classmates sitting around you.

There is a cold lump in the pit of your stomach as a hundred different things whisk around your mind, all fighting tooth and nail for the limited real estate left in your brain with so much of Eddie stuffed up in there.

It’s always like that though, and it leaves you feeling particularly pathetic, thinking about yourself, sitting beneath the bleachers on your own, like the loser you are, hiding from your friends, wishing things were different, wishing you could be the person they wanted you to be, wishing you could be free of them.

You suck greedily on a sharp intake of air and shake your head to dislodge that line of thinking before it can take root and pivot to a much more pressing matter, for the sake of your own self-preservation.

“Hey, weird question,” You start, tilting your head down toward your shoulder and speaking in a loud whisper, “But have you seen my copy of Dune?”

Gareth’s brows are pulled tight over his eyes when you glance at him, and you are quick to elaborate,

“It’s all beat up and annotated…?”

“Yeah, no— I mean, sure I’ve seen it—”

You hardly let him finish.

“That’s great! Where is it?”

“...Eddie’s got it.”

It hits you like a fist to the gut, punching your lungs flat and forcing the air out. Your heart thumps a heavy beat like it always does when someone mentions Eddie and you feel your tongue go fat in your mouth.

“Ed-Eddie Munson?” You splutter, voice an embarrassing octave higher than normal, and barely manage to get the sound out over the way your throat is closing up.

You can feel your cheeks heating just from the sordid act of speaking his name aloud.

If Gareth takes any sort of hint from your bizarre reaction, he doesn’t let on.

“Yeah.” He says.

You blink back at him, waiting for him to elaborate and feeling your chest go tight when he doesn’t.

“…Why does he have my book?”

“He said you left it in the parking lot after you dumped your stuff last week—”

Oh, right…

In the wake of everything else that happened that day, you’d almost completely forgotten about that…

You’d been running late for school, having spectacularly slept through your alarm and been so rudely awakened by the thunderous hammering of two little fists, doing their best to bang down your bedroom door – Dustin, shouting at you to get your ass up out of bed.

You’d forgotten you were supposed to be carpooling that morning, and you're sure you must have broken some kind of a land speed record with how you burnt rubber to get the both of you to school on time. Gas pedal to the floor, you made the distance in five minutes flat.

You’d been too caught up in your sudden prospective future as a Formula One driver to notice how you were headed for disaster, jogging across the parking lot and trying to stuff your Walkman into your backpack as a wall of denim, patches, and studs stumbled haphazardly out of the open door of a semi-shitty beat-up panel van and directly into your path.

You barely had time to look up, let alone pivot to try and avoid the sudden six-foot obstacle before you, so naturally you collided, shoulder checking broad, leather-clad shoulder and knocking you sideways.

You managed to keep your feet and even catch your Walkman with an incredible feat of feline grace, but it came at the expense of your bag, which went tumbling topsy turvy, upchucking its contents all over the pavement at your feet.

Fantastic.

They stepped into your path, whoever they were, they crashed into you, but you still stammered out an apology, because how could they have been expected to look out for you when you’re running around under a cloak of invisibility.

Then, you dropped to your knees in an attempt to catch your pens and pencils before they could roll away. You fully expected to be ignored, to watch whoever it was that had just knocked your shit into the dirt skip off to class like you didn’t even exist, but when you looked up, there was Eddie Munson, crouched on the asphalt right alongside you with his head bowed toward yours, stacking your books and muttering his own apology.

It just about damn near knocked the wind out of you, suddenly finding yourself so close to him again after spending so long quietly yearning for his proximity.

You couldn’t help but breathe deep, trying to get a sense of him, refresh the waning memory you clung to – he still smelled the way you remember, like camels and spearmint gum standing out over the notes of whatever cheap cologne he’d obviously dusted himself in, and Old Spice.

It made your mouth water, and then go completely dry when he looked up at you, turning that honey-warm gaze on you and bathing you in his spotlight.

You weren’t invisible anymore, you were blushing, and you’d missed whatever it was he’d said to you – fuck.

You weren’t listening, you were staring into his eyes, at the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, at the plush spread of his lips, and the pink tip of his tongue darting out to swipe a slick sheen of moisture across them.

Somewhere, distantly, you could hear your Walkman still playing, Ann Wilson imploring you to get a little more lost in him than is rightly wise…

Oh, he’s a magic man, Mama…

And he was waiting for you to answer him.

Fuck. What the fuck did he just say?

“My fault…" Eddie mumbled thickly, "Didn’t see you there,”

Oh, thank God for that.

“Oh – God, are you kidding? It happens all the time.” You scoffed, dismissing the notion with a flippant wave.

It was almost a cool, collected thing to say, but then you just kept talking,

“Like. Way more than you would think,”

And talking.

“It’s actually kind of ridiculous how often people bump into me like that–”

And talking,

“Honestly, at this point, I feel like I should start wearing a bell.”

Shut up shut up shut up already! You screamed at yourself, but before you could well and truly condemn yourself for being such a goddamn awkward weirdo, Eddie’s face twisted up in amusement and he laughed out loud.

A little too loud for something that wasn’t even halfway to being a joke – he was obviously high, the whites of his eyes were tinged an angry swollen pink, hooded and nearly closed as he peered over at you with his face split up in that crooked smile of his, but it was still so wildly endearing you couldn’t help but giggle yourself.

You can’t believe you’d nearly forgotten that, that wonderful almost perfect moment of brushing fingers and traded looks and semi-meaningful silences.

If you really think about it, it makes perfect sense that he has your book. You haven’t seen your book since that day, haven’t even thought about it. It had been all but washed away under the bell clanging effect of what happened later that morning between classes, with Carol jumping down your throat and Eddie riding in to pull you out of her line of fire.

Good God! He shouts in your memory, and you can’t help but agree with him.

“Didn’t he give it back to you?” Gareth asks, brows marrying over his eyes.

You give your lab partner an incredulous look because never mind how this new information is ever so subtly breaking your brain, but why on Earth would you be asking after your copy of Dune if Eddie had already given it back to you?

The lack of logic there seems to dawn on Gareth just a tad too late to save face.

“Guess not, never mind,” he hums, twisting back in his seat to face the blackboard.

You sit, staring at nothing in particular as you try and fail to wrap your head around the concept of Eddie Munson carrying around your book.

There’s something incredibly personal about an annotated book, and you can’t decide if you ought to be embarrassed about that, hoping that he didn’t stop to take the time to read any of the inane things you’d written there.

Suddenly you’re wracking your brain to try and remember if you’d gone and scribbled anything too incriminating in the margins, whether you’d absently scribbled out a dopey “Mrs. – Munson” alongside all your little love notes to Paul Atreides. You imagine it written out in loopy script, replete with doodles of hearts and clouds and all the stupid cupid bullshit that is typically kept strictly within the pages of your diary.

You’re suddenly burning with hot, whorish shame as you think back to the pages you’d frantically scribbled on in the aftermath of the wet dream you’d woken from that morning, fingers trembling as you fought to get it down on paper before the vivid images and sensations slipped from your grasp and left you with nothing more than faint memories of calloused hands and full lips, burning your skin with the suggestion of phantom touches.

Yeah, you’re going to have to go back and revisit that when you get home this afternoon, thank God you’re not babysitting tonight.

You realize after a moment that in staring off into space, trying simultaneously to banish the feeling and relieve it, that you’ve actually been sitting, staring at Gareth, watching him wrestle with something like he’s trying to decide whether or not to let more information slip.

Truly, you’re not sure how much more truth you can stomach here in fifth period chemistry, sitting perched on your metal stool and trying oh-so-subtly to shift over to the edge and give yourself a little relief from the way that your heart is throbbing in your panties again.

Your guts seize like you’ve been caught red handed when Gareth twists back around to face you and ducks his head conspiratorially.

For lack of anything better to do, you mirror his movements and hope beyond hope that, if you’re blushing, he doesn’t notice.

“Okay, so…” he begins softly, “You didn’t hear it from me, but... he likes you,”

You do your best not to react as your heart leaps into your throat – you don’t dare to hope to know who he means.

“Who does?” You ask, playing dumb for the sake of your poor, nervous heart, because what if you’re wrong?

You’re probably wrong.

“Eddie does.”

Then again, maybe not… oh, shit.

Gareth continues.

“Like… a lot.”

OH SHIT.

Oh shit oh fuck oh sHIT be cool be cool be fucking cool!

It takes every fiber of your limited willpower not to react, because honestly, you could scream. This is what it feels like to have your wildest dreams come true.

Eddie Munson likes you, Gareth said, like a lot, he said.

Maybe it’s just the wrecked state you’ve been existing in from the moment you snapped into consciousness that morning, but suddenly you’re desperate, giddy, feeling the hard push of the urge to run and go find Eddie.

Find him and seize him by the shoulders and shake him and scream and shout and cheer and... and and and... and do what?

Confess your feelings?

Make some sort of grand declaration then drag him off somewhere to hop on his dick?

That’s what your ovaries are currently imploring you to do. Finally do something about that goddamn virginity of yours so Carol will climb down out of your ass.

But that’s ridiculous, right? And not at all practical, fantasizing about running off and trying to consummate what, as far as you can tell, is only a rumor before it can slip from your grasp.

Where would you even go?

Under the bleachers, where the braver, hornier couples go to rub up against each other and get their rocks off.

No, no that’s stupid… and yet?

You’ve heard the talk about Eddie, how he’s supposed to be easy or something — some part of you is pretty sure he’d be game to take you out to the back of his van if you went over and asked him nicely... just ask him nicely to lift your skirt and help you out with that pesky little virginal problem of yours, Christ, how embarrassing.

He’d probably laugh in your face if you did. How do you know for sure that he even really likes you? What makes you think that there’s even the slightest chance that your stupid crush on him could ever be reciprocated?

You’re not a real person, remember? You don’t put out because you don’t exist.

No, Eddie doesn’t like you, you decide in an instant, how could he? He doesn’t even know you.

Gareth is wrong, and worse still, he’s teasing you – he has to be. It is, after all, the opening line to the oldest joke in the Hawkins High popular kid book: so, Eddie Munson wants to take you to prom…what do you do?

It makes your chest hurt, and you have to pull your lips into a tight line to keep them from wobbling.

Ha-ha, real funny joke, tease the loser virgin for the big stupid crush she has on the local Freak.

“That’s mean, Gareth.” You say quietly.

“What is?”

You shake your head because you almost can’t bear to say it.

“Teasing like that. That’s not nice...”

He gives you a horrified look, like you’ve suddenly got bugs crawling out of your ears.

“What? No, Dude, it’s not like that at all!” Gareth stresses, “I promise I’m being so serious right now. Eddie likes you. He really likes you.”

It feels risky, but you can’t help yourself. Gareth’s a sweetheart, why would he lie to you?

“…Really?” You ask, ever so slightly embarrassed at how small and hopeful your voice suddenly sounds and trying so, so hard to play it cool.

“Yes… and it’s super goddamn annoying — no offense,”

You shake your head, because in the absence of the ability to form rational thought you rely on deep-seeded pleasantries.

“Oh, no, of course.” You say, “None taken … I think.”

You suddenly can’t make your brain work, it just sits there like a fat grey lumpy pile of worms in your skull. Part of you is suddenly so sure that you can smell the smoke wafting up off of it as it overheats in your attempt to jumpstart it again.

Eddie likes you. This is all really happening.

It takes you a moment too long to realize that Gareth is still talking, and a moment even longer to clue yourself back in to what he’s saying.

“— he’s been going around in circles trying to work up the courage to talk to you, but he’s chicken shit, so he won’t do it unless he has some bullshit excuse to make it all casual — giving you your book back was supposed to be his excuse, but that was clearly a bust,”

And then, “Also, he basically threatened to kill me if I said anything so just do me a favor and be cool, alright? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“…So why tell me?” you ask, almost startled by the sound of your own voice and how far away it sounds.

You’re having an out-of-body experience, that’s what this has got to be, sitting there, floating, watching yourself have this conversation with Gareth.

Eddie Munson has your book, Eddie Munson stood up for you, Eddie Munson likes you...

“Because he freaked when he found out we were lab partners and he’s being a huge creep pressing me for information about you, like he expects me to spy on you or something... Anyway, I figured with how fucking weird he always acts around you that you probably already knew.”

You shake your head and hope to God the movement doesn’t cause your eyeballs to fall out of your sockets. You can’t remember if you’ve blinked over the course of the last five minutes.

“I didn’t.” You squeak.

His eyes go wide and you watch the color drain from his face.

“Oh. Shit,” He says, “— well, like I said, you didn’t hear it from me.”

You didn’t hear it from anybody. As far as you’re concerned, this conversation isn’t actually happening. Any moment now you’re going to snap out of whatever fugue state you’ve obviously just slipped into, and you’re going to find that this is all a dream – only your thigh is going raw from where you’ve been subtly pinching yourself.

Still, you still don’t completely believe Gareth isn’t teasing you – this feels like dangerous ground and suddenly your guts are churning because you don’t know what to do with this information.

You don’t know how to make yourself understand that the one person who has always been wholly off-limits to you could suddenly be within your grasp.

Possibility makes you ravenous and you have to fight to resist the urge to seize Gareth by the front of his torn flannel shirt and shake him, demanding more more more, that he tell you everything there is to know about Eddie and everything he’s ever said about you among the safety of friends.

With a sharp pang, you realize that you’re suddenly violently jealous about the confidence he has to freely speak about the objects of his affections – evidently, you.

The thought has warmth bleeding through your abdomen and filling up your chest cavity. You’re floating again, and you’re suddenly so, wickedly pleased.

Carol would shit her pants if she found out.

The rest of class comes and goes without incident, and you don’t hear a word of the lesson.

You’re far too busy fantasizing about all your wildest dreams coming true, planning your future with Eddie, picturing your wedding and your first home together, growing old together, and all the road trips and holidays and milestones you’ll hit in between.

By the last twenty minutes of the lesson, you’re even toying with naming your children.

You’re disgusting and pathetic and so far gone for him in such a stupid, irresponsible way. Only there’s one tiny little obstacle standing in the way of all of that.

Gareth says he’s not brave enough to talk to you, not without good reason, which is so painfully endearing, but a real problem because that makes two of you – you can barely even look at Eddie, let alone fathom trying to strike up a conversation.

So, therein lies the problem. How on Earth are you supposed to marry him and have a hundred of his babies, as Carol had so eloquently put it, if neither of you can manage to buck up the courage to have a normal conversation?

The bell is ringing before you can decide how to become a human being again, you’re still more cloud than girl when you catch Gareth as he begins packing up.

“Listen, tell Eddie…” You start, feeling suddenly too shy to have his name in your mouth – it feels heavy on your tongue, forbidden, and you chicken out, “Tell him… that I don’t bite. If he wants to talk to me … then he should just come talk to me, right?”

Gareth rolls his eyes,

“I told him that, like, a hundred times… but I’ll tell him again. I’ll say you said so this time.”

The promise pleases you immensely, only there is one glaring issue with that plan. He was never meant to tell you how Eddie supposedly feels about you. You’re not supposed to know he likes you.

You bite your lip and feel your brows creep toward one another, forming a deep crease of worry between them.

“Is that gonna get you in trouble?” You ask.

Gareth opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again as the words fail to come, like he too had very conveniently forgotten that the information he’d just passed to you was decidedly not for you.

He hums thoughtfully, brows furrowed, and face pulled tight into a mask of displeased concentration.

What to do, what to do.

Finally, after a moment that feels like eternity, one you spend fidgeting with your fingers twisting them to the point of pain, holding a breath in your lungs almost like you’re afraid if you breathe he’ll take it all back.

Gareth shrugs.

“...well, I don’t see why he needs to know that I’m the one who told you… people talk.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

A hundred years and a short lifetime ago, you and Carol spent an evening trading secrets and the deepest desires of your heart, and you jumped up and down on her springy mattress, screaming along to the Go-Go's and promising one another that, just like the song said, your lips were sealed.

You can’t help but wonder if she ever really meant it, if she would have laughed and recoiled and teased you mercilessly if you trusted her with your secret feelings about Eddie Munson. Only you had made the same decision and elected not to tell her even back then, even when your secrets were still safe with her.

Can you hear them? They talk about us, telling lies, well, that’s no surprise.

People talk, Gareth said.

“They certainly do.” You hum, shouldering your bag and following him out the door.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #joseph quinn eddie munson #stranger things fic #endless summer fic #cruel summer prequel

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aureliaporter · 9 months

Text

family dinner

summary: ayato ropes his long term partner into meeting his family

a/n: he would so do this and i would so slap him for it >:(

cw: gn!reader, like one curse word, meeting the family (ayaka, thoma), mention of yeeting ayato off the cliff his estate is on, clingy!ayato

OF ALL THE ways you were expecting today to go, it was most definitely not like this. but of course, part of ayato’s schedule had finally cleared up, so you suppose it couldn’t be helped.

“(y/n)? could i implore you to be a dear and pass me the salt?”

you shot a scowl at your partner, passing him the salt with a sarcastic, “but of course, my lord. would you like the pepper as well?”

“that would be much appreciated, darling.”

you stared at him, trying to convey how very frustrated you were with him at this moment, but he merely smiled cheerily at you. unbelievable. you passed the pepper as well with a sigh, quickly schooling your features into pleasant indifference as ayaka’s gaze passed to you, her asking about you and her brother’s relationship.

that’s right. instead of taking you on a date to celebrate his night off, or even a stroll or just a quiet dinner together, he had decided it was time you met his sister. which would’ve been completely fine, if he’d just told you beforehand.

so now, you were in awkward conversation with your boyfriend’s sister and his best friend, who had also been invited - but of course ayato had told him just what kind of dinner this was. a half fancy, half casual, completely awkward and stifling dinner. or maybe you were the only one feeling the nerves.

“so, how long have you two been dating?” thoma asked, eager to escape the silence. ayato glanced at you expectantly, as if to tell you to respond.

“oh? did you happen to forget?” you asked ayato, leaning your chin on your hand. “it hasn’t been that long, really-”

“we’ve been dating for a year and four months,” he cut off, pouting at you. his eyes were pleading, as if asking you to punish him for this later on instead of now. you sighed, relenting.

“yeah, a year and four - nearly five, actually - months. he asked me out during the irodori festival,” you said, offering your partner a small smile at the memory. you may want to toss him off the cliff his family estate sat on at the moment, but you still loved him.

“oh, that’s so sweet! how’d he do it?” ayaka asked, leaning forward a bit. you exchanged a glance with ayato, wondering if he wanted to tell the full story. he had ended up embarrassing himself quite badly during it, if you recalled correctly.

“well, i took them on a stroll away from the city, and we watched the star shower that happened on the last night, remember?” he said, smiling at you. “and then i asked them, and they said yes. and they haven’t gotten sick of me yet,” he added, chuckling and nudging you with his shoulder.

you pursed your lips to hold back a laugh, recalling a slightly different version of events. thoma noticed, raising his eyebrows. “oh? is lord kamisato withholding information?” he asked, an amused smile tugging his lips up.

a glare from ayato made thoma cover his smile with his hand, but you plowed on through. “of course he is. have you ever known him to give the full story?” you asked, chuckling softly. ayato’s eyes widened, realizing what you were about to do.

“(y/n), if you have any love for me, you won’t tell them,” he pleaded, holding your hand between both of his. “i’ll buy you boba for three weeks straight. i’ll cancel all my meetings for the next week.”

ayaka and thoma both started laughing lightly at his blatant attempt of bribery. you smirked at your boyfriend, taking one of his hands to kiss his knuckles teasingly.

“i don’t know, hun. i feel like thoma and ayaka deserve the truth, don’t you?” you asked, pressing your lips together to hold back a grin.

he groaned, thudding his head on your shoulder. “please, (y/n), don’t you love me? you can’t go around telling people about that.”

you merely giggled softly, patting his back. “well, your servants already know, don’t they? what’s the harm if two more people find out?”

“my ego will be harmed.”

“it’s far too big to begin with, dear brother,” ayaka chimed in, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “it could do with deflating.”

he shook his head, holding you tighter. “no, it doesn’t need that. my ego is perfect,” he grumbled. you saw thoma and ayaka shared a glance. the head of the kamisato clan is practically a child.

“alright, then i won’t tell them,” you said, trying to tug ayato off of you. “your secrets are safe with me, milord. happy?”

he perked up, pulling back from your shoulder only to tug you into a hug. if he had a tail, you swear you’d see it wagging. “very much so, my dearest. in fact, i think it’s time we retire, hm?” he said, pulling you up from the table - most likely not wanting to give you any chance to change your mind.

ayaka and thoma waved at you two as you left, ayato leading you outside to the garden. he didn’t say anything at first, but he slumped against you, leaning on you from behind and making you stagger underneath his weight.

“did you have to tease me like that?” he asked, his arms wrapped around your shoulders. you could hear the pout in his voice, biting your lip to keep yourself from smiling.

“i don’t know, did you have to keep the fact that i was officially meeting your sister a secret?”

he kept silent, his hold around your shoulders slipping to around your torso. “.. no. i’m sorry,” he said softly, his breath tickling your neck.

you sighed, raising a hand to pat his head. he practically melted into your touch, enjoying the feeling as your fingers danced over his hair. “it’s fine. but next time you pull shit like this, i’m going straight to miko and publishing the story of how exactly you asked me out.”

he whined, clinging tighter to you. “fine, fine. i won’t do it again. just don’t go to miko, please.”

you chuckled, tugging at his hair to get him to whine again, this time in slight pain. “i won’t, alright? truce?” you asked, offering your hand to shake his. he ignored it, nodding and squeezing you tighter. “alright, let go before you manage to cut off my circulation,” you said, attempting to wiggle out of his hold. he grumbled but released you in favor of looping your arm through his.

“shall we go for that stroll you wanted?” he offered, smiling softly at you. you nodded, letting him lead you out of the estate grounds and along the path, lit only by the moonlight.

---

extra:

your combined laughter wound through the air as ayato tugged you along, a smile on his handsome face and his hair a mess from the wind. you tried to reach up to fix it for him, but he caught your hands, not caring for his current appearance and preferring to pull you along the beach. you both stumbled along, too caught up in each other and the star shower. then he was wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pointing to the sky. a gasp left your lips as you watched the millions of lights that whizzed through the sky towards the ground, mimicking rain. you didn’t even notice ayato moving behind you, stepping into the shallow water.

“(y/n),” he said softly, his voice calling your attention. you turned around, surprised to see him holding a small bouquet of flowers - small enough to fit in his sleeves.

“ayato?” you said, tone curious. what was with the flowers?

before he could say anything, he took a step forward, foot landing on a slippery rock and stumbling. you reached forward to help him, but before you could, he was landing in the water with a splash, clothes soaked, flowers hanging limply, and expression shocked.

“i..” he started, an embarrassed flush covering his face. you couldn’t help but chuckle, reaching down to help him up.

“ayato, i know you’ve a hydro vision, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get a cold. c’mon, let’s get you home,” you said, pulling him up and hurrying him back to the kamisato estate. when you attempted to leave, wanting him to rest and then to see him tomorrow, he merely clung to your wrist, pleading with you to stay. so you stayed until he was dry and in his nightclothes, the pair of you sitting on the edge of his bed.

“ayato, i should get going. you need to sleep, and there’s a lot of work with closing the irodori festival tomorrow,” you reasoned, looking up at him. he had been looking rather deep in thought ever since he’d fallen into the water, eyebrows constantly knit together. “ayato?”

he looked up, his expression now determined. “(y/n), i.. have something i’d like to ask. that i couldn’t ask earlier.”

you tilted your head at him, curiosity piquing. “alright. what’s up?”

he reached for your hands, holding them in his and brushing his thumbs over your knuckles. “(y/n), i.. i understand this may seem a bit.. out of the blue, but i have been thinking of this for a while. and i had it planned perfectly, to be honest. earlier, with the star shower, and the flowers, and the beach, and you.. and i was the only thing that wasn’t working right,” he said, sounding oddly self-depreciating for a moment.

“ayato..?” you started, worry painting your tone. “what are you getting at?”

he sighed, squeezing your hands. “(y/n), i.. i would be very happy if you’d do me the honor of courting me.”

silence wrapped around you two for a few seconds, you blinking at ayato as you attempted to form a response. eventually; “you do realize you could’ve just asked me on a date like anybody else.”

he shook his head, squeezing your hands again. “i wanted to be better than anybody else. but i messed that up, too.”

you sighed, tugging one of your hands out of his hold to cradle his cheek. “you’re an idiot,” you said, kissing his cheek. “i would’ve dated you if you sent thoma to ask me in your stead.”

“.. would you actually have?”

“no.”

“.. so we’re official?”

“yes. now go to bed. i don’t want you whining to me about how tired you are tomorrow.”

nevertheless, the pair of you ended up staying awake late into the night, talking until you both passed out. and when ayato whined to you the next morning, you merely passed him a cup of coffee, patting his head gently. who could hate a cutie like him?

ayato is my baby so i am implored to right fanfic about him. however its a slight crime i wrote for him before xiao since xiao is my forever bby but its okay its okay

anyways! hope you guys enjoyed once again! also holy shit im shocked at the love my last two got :0 thank you guys so much!! <3

#ayato fluff #kamisato ayato fluff #ayato x reader fluff #kamisato ayato x reader fluff #ayato #kamisato ayato #ayato x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #kamisato ayaka #thoma #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #fluff #slight crack #not really sure

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bakubunny · 3 months

Note

i must invade your inbox now. i wasn’t going to earlier but now i feel like ..not as bad lmao. ignore me if you need to !! you know me <3

tw: ddlg/age play vibes

i’ve been crawling back into my daddy kink hole, my dad bf hole, the dreaded fingers in my mouth, let my selfships take care of me nonsense. and i’m deep in this shindeku rut …thanks to some people 😤. do you perhaps have a crumb to spare about those two and their handle on thumb sucking. granted we (long ago) talked about shota and how he handles it, but i don’t think we touched base on izu , and def haven’t on toshi.

ok but i’m a hard believer in daddy toshi. i might even dust off a fic draft on it.

first of all, it may not have been in this context, but i implore you to check out my izu (and toshi) oral fixation hcs because i still hold to them.

hitoshi: if you're good and you don't suck your thumb, he'll give you his hand instead. otherwise it's pacifiers and teethers stim chews only i'm afraid. he likes indulging you and teasing you with his hands in that way because... well why not? it's cute watching you get worked up "for no reason."

izuku: he really does try to keep you from sucking your thumb if only because it reminds you of you sucking his thumb... and his fingers... and... fuck he's hard already. like i've said before, you so much as look at that man with his hand in your mouth and your eyes all dreamy, and he's probably ready to fuck you. so he follows a similar rule as hitoshi... generally it's pacifiers, etc. that keep his baby safe from germs, but if you're good....

also submitting the hc to you that izu (and sometimes toshi) loves it when you suck your (or his) thumb when he fucks you because you look so adorable. he can't help but fuck you harder and groan.

ok bye!!

#midoriya izuku #tw daddy kink #asks #x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #aged up characters #shinsou hitoshi #shinso hitoshi #tw age play

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vemaro · 3 months

Text

let’s not do anything hilarious

A link to the master post

Summary: Astarion Ancunin has two objectives whenever he comes to Baldur’s Gate. One: keep Tav happy. And two: keep Callum happy. As of right now, he is failing quite spectacularly at both. Callum vanished under his watch and his mother is in a state of panic. It’s been years since she’s worn that wrecked expression and he never wishes to see it again. The only way to fix that is to locate the boy and bring him to her as quickly as possible.

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (female Tav)

Word count: ~2200

Notes: I can’t seem to get myself to write the thing I want to write, the thing I keep telling myself I should write, so here we are again with a random tidbit. This time we get a little Gale time, featuring @necromosss’s Tav, Mira, stirring up some trouble. If you haven’t seen her art, go check out her blog. She turned me on to the Gale romance. I just hope I did Mira justice.

Enjoy!

…

This is the single most devastating moment of Tav’s life. Nothing could have prepared her physically or mentally for such an event. Her heart is pounding, her palms are clammy, and her skin is crawling with so much anxiety she could rip it from her body. Even then, that would pale in comparison to pain she feels a in her very soul.

“Oh my gods, where is he?” Her eyes meet Gale’s then Astarion’s respectively. “Where’s Callum?” When neither of the men provide an answer, only stare back with gobsmacked faces, she turns away to start searching. A hand touches her shoulder when she tries to move away and she flinches.

It’s only Gale, who lets go immediately. “Breathe, just breathe, Tav,” he says, keeping a calm and cool head.

She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Callum is missing. My son is missing.” Saying it out loud makes it feel worse. Tav clutches onto the fabric of her shirt above her frantic heart. “I should’ve been paying more attention to him. Or holding his hand. He’s so small, Gale. So small. What if someone took him?”

The wizard swats away the suggestion. “I’m sure he merely wandered off after spotting a sparkly bauble or colorful trinket.”

“But what if—”

He cuts her off. “We’ll find him.”

“But—”

He cuts her off a second time, firmly grabbing onto both of her shoulders. Her mouth snaps shut and she stares wide-eyed at her friend. “We will find him, Tav. But I implore you to take a deep breath.” Tav nods profusely inhaling through the nose and exhaling slowly through the mouth. Already some tension leaves her. “There. Much better.”

She takes another breath and at least now she can think straight. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her reassuringly. “Of course. I doubt he got very far. Why don’t you search the immediate vicinity? I shall search further up the road, and Astarion, you can—” It’s only now that they’ve both noticed their other companion is nowhere to be found. “Astarion?”

Curse that blasted vampire.

…

Astarion Ancunin has two objectives whenever he comes to Baldur’s Gate. One: keep Tav happy. And two: keep Callum happy. As of right now, he is failing quite spectacularly at both. Callum vanished under his watch and his mother is in a state of panic. It’s been years since she’s worn that wrecked expression and he never wishes to see it again. The only way to fix that is to locate the boy and bring him to her as quickly as possible.

Easier said than done.

He wasn’t at any of the stalls near where they were, nor inside any of the shops. It comes as no shock that no one noticed a small child with blue hair passing them by. If Astarion didn’t have to worry about accidentally exposing himself to the sun or drawing too much attention, this would be so much easier. Wave a dagger here, idle threats there and somebody would’ve seen something useful.

He makes a sharp turn down an alleyway when he spots a woman crouching in front of several stacks of barrels. She doesn’t notice him yet, her focus on something, or someone, hidden from his view. “Hello, little one. Are you lost?”

“Y-yes,” a small voice warbles.

He can’t physically see him, but he recognizes that voice. It’s Callum. Callum is over there, to his immense relief. Astarion’s first instinct is to shove the stranger aside, pick up the boy, and run like the hells, but it’s never that easy. This is Baldur’s Gate, the City of Blood, who knows if this woman has good intentions or bad. Astarion hangs back, sliding back behind the corner from which he came, a dagger at the ready, just in case.

He watches as she scoots a little closer. His hold on the hilt tightens. “Can you tell me your name?” she asks.

“No.”

The woman, a drow upon closer inspection, laughs at the timid yet blunt answer. “Smart boy.” Astarion wholeheartedly agrees. “I’m Mira. I’ll help you find your way home, alright?”

“I miss my Mama.”

She stands up and holds out a hand. “I know. We’ll find her together, promise.”

There’s a long pause as Callum thinks of what to do. “O-okay.” A tiny hand comes out from behind the barrels, latching onto her fingers.

She smiles down at him, hoping to coax him out of his hiding spot. “Okay.”

Astarion has no choice but to step in before they can leave. Thankfully for him, the alley is steeped in shadows, so if things get out of hand, at the very least he can close the umbrella in favor of fighting. Astarion clears his throat and slowly walks their way. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. He’s coming with me.”

The drow jumps, startled by his sudden appearance. “Stay there,” she whispers. She lets go of his hand, guides him back behind the barrels, and turns to face Astarion. She eyes him up and down. “Can I help you, sir?”

He puts on a charming grin and holds up his hand to show he’s not holding a weapon (it’s up his sleeve). “Ah, but you already did. You found my friend for me. Thank you for your services, but they are no longer needed. Good day.” He motions for her to leave.

She takes a defiant step back, closer to Callum. “Are you his father?”

Astarion resists a grimace, because it’s a stupid question and he can’t say yes. “No,” he grinds out. “I’m a family friend.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she challenges.

They’re maybe five feet apart, staring each other down, silver glaring up at red. “You don’t,” he deadpans. He looks past her, toward those barrels. “Come out, little bird. It’s time to fly home.”

Out pops that head of blue hair, followed by puffy, red-rimmed eyes. “Asty?”

“The one and only.” His eyes flicker back and forth between the boy and the woman every few seconds. He doesn’t want either of them out of sight. “You had us all worried sick disappearing like that, especially your mother. She’s looking for you right now.”

At the mention of Tav, the little comes out of hiding entirely. The drow woman still stands guard, hand shifting towards a rapier sheathed at her hip. “Mama?” he chirps.

Astarion nods. “Yes. I’ll take you to her.”

A few things happen all at once. Callum tries running towards him, only to be prevented by her. Astarion reveals the dagger up his sleeve because it seems he’s going to have to do this the hard way. Next thing he knows, a strong gust of wind blows him back against a brick wall and then there is a sword being pressed to his throat. The mysterious woman knows magic. And he dropped the dagger when he hit the wall. Perfect. Can this get any worse?

Naturally, he has to make light of everything, if not for himself, but for Callum’s sake. “Let’s not do anything hilarious.”

She presses the blade ever closer, making the cool metal touch just below his Adam’s apple. “Shut it,” she hisses. “I’m not going to let you hurt him.”

She thinks he’s going to hurt Callum? The idea is so preposterous, he could laugh. He restrains himself from doing so because something tells him she won't share his sense of humor. “This is just one big misunderstanding, dear. Lower your weapon and I will gladly explain everything away.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Do not take me for a fool.”

And yet she is a fool. “I would never dream of doing such a thing.”

“How about I just run a stake through your heart, vampire?” His smile drops as a crooked, snaggle-toothed smirk spreads across her face. “Better yet, I can toss you out in the sun over there.”

Well, shit. This is worse.

A gasp from the little boy turns both of their heads. He’s running away, running right past them, running as fast as his little legs can take him, with his arms extended out. “Mama!”

At the end of the alley stands Astarion’s beloved druid, looking regal under the light of the sun. And Gale’s there too, he supposes. “Callum!” She meets him halfway, deftly scoops him into her arms and squeezes him like her life depends on it. “I was so scared.” She cranes her neck to look him over. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

His voice waivers. “I saw a cat and I wanted to pet it, but-but it kept running away. Then I lost you.”

She closes her eyes and thinks of his warmth breath on her neck, his weight in her arms, his heart beating in his chest. “It’s okay.” He’s okay. He’s fine. “You’re not lost anymore. You found me.”

“I love you, Mama.”

Tav presses a kiss into his hair. “I love you, too.” She kisses him over and over again.

The tender moment is broken with an aggravated cough. “Ahem! Not to spoil this heartwarming reunion, but can someone please tell this madwoman to release me?”

The druid flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry,” she calls. She approaches the drow woman, though she still keeps a safe distance back. “Let him go. Please.”

She glares at her captee. “He’s a vampire!”

Gale tries to talk her down. “Ah, yes. We are well aware of this fact, Miss …” He trails off, gesturing for her to fill in the blank.

“Mira,” she says.

“Miss Mira.”

“Just Mira,” she corrects.

“Just Mira.” He slowly saunters over, placing a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “He’s actually a very good friend of ours and we’d prefer it if you didn’t kill him.”

“He was going to drink from your son!”

The vampire scoffs. “No, I wasn’t!” He pauses. “And that’s not his son!” The thought of Gale and Tav, together, makes him physically ill.

“Hush,” they both snap.

Astarion begrudgingly obeys. There is still a fucking sword at his throat and apparently he’s the only one bothered by it.

This is going absolutely nowhere. Tav steps a little closer so she’s behind Gale but next to Astarion. “Miss—” The other woman opens her mouth, so Tav quickly corrects herself. “I mean, Mira. Mira. I appreciate you looking out for my son, I’ll never be able to properly thank you for that, but there’s no one I trust more with him than the man before you.” She grabs Astarion’s wrist. “Please, release him.”

Mira’s eyes start on Tav then Callum, flit over to Gale, and finally land on the vampire. They’re all staring at her, hope shining in their eyes and it’s too much for her to bear. “Fine,” she groans before sheathing the rapier and crossing her arms.

Astarion brushes off some imaginary dust from his shoulders. “Thank you. It was about time.”

“You’re welcome,” she sneers back.

Tav’s hand is touching his face, turning his head by the chin this way and that, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

He shrugs, playing it of. “I’ll live.”

“Asty, I’ll make it all better.” Tav semi-reluctantly hands him over to Astarion, who readily accepts the boy. “I’ll give you a magic kiss like Mama gives me.” And he does, right on the cheek, and then Callum hugs him around the neck.

Astarion catches a glimpse of a beaming Tav over the boy’s shoulder and feels his heart melt with sentimentality. Gods below, he has gone soft over the years and these two are to blame. With a sigh, he pats the boy’s back. “Thank you, little bird. I think it’s working.”

So Callum’s fine. Astarion’s got him. Tav feels secure enough to turn her attention back to Mira. “Thank you for protecting my son. Please, let me give you something for your trouble.” She digs into her satchel and pulls out a small pouch heavy with gold coins. “Here. Take this.”

Mira stares at the pouch for a moment, but takes a step back. “It was no trouble at all. Keep your gold.”

The druid is a persistent one. “Then allow me to buy you a meal. Please. I do insist. Please.”

Mira is not immune to those big, doe eyes. She throws her hands up, resigning herself to her fate. “Sure. Why not?”

Tav’s face lights up. “Yes! Perfect. Thank you. I know this place not too far from here—”

“I’m sorry. You expect me to endure a meal sitting across from someone who just tried to kill me?”

Tav chuckles dryly. “I’ve done it.”

Astarion spins around. “What? When did you—” But then he stops mid sentence to cringe. “Oh … right …” She’s referring to the first time he fed on her. He was one gulp away from going too far. Tav passed out from the blood loss and he stayed up the rest of the night to make sure he hadn’t unintentionally killed her. The next morning she sucker punched him. It was very much warranted. “Have I told you how lovely you look in that color, darling?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

Mira leans over and stage whispers to Gale. “Um, so what’s the story behind that?”

He arches an eyebrow at the query. “To what are you referring to?”

She looks back over at the trio. Tav is fussing over both of her boys, repeatedly asking if they’re okay, they’re unharmed, they’re fine. Mira tilts her head in their direction. “Them.”

The wizard follows her gaze then sighs. “One lunch isn’t a sufficient amount of time to explain that … mess.”

“Is that so?” She clasps her hands behind her back and bites her lip. “Sounds like a good excuse to meet up again.”

Gale’s face burns bright red. “O-oh.” He starts fiddling with his coat, the buttons, the cuffs, anything to distract him from openly gaping at the beautiful woman currently speaking to him. “I-I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”

“It’s a date?”

He offers her a shy smile as a confirmation. “It’s a date.”

…

Thanks for reading!

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #tavstarion #dadstarion #tav bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #vemaro #wildweave #gale bg3 #bg3 gale

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