#is it even a micro fic anymore?
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Prompt 31 - Lock
@jegulus-microfic January 31 Word count 1755
This is it folks. I'm quite emotional. I really hope you all like it.
For my biggest fans @weirdtinkerbellversion @thedvilsinthedetails and @beautyoftheships I love you guys.
Previous part First part
All he could hear was white noise. His brain couldn’t process James’s words. His eyes found the bottle of wine, and he automatically poured himself a glass and downed it.
He grasped the edge of the counter with both hands and felt his body shake.
James remained silent, not wanting to push him.
Regulus bit back tears and turned around, putting his protective mask in place, leaving his face devoid of emotion.
“So that’s it for us then?” He stared at James with dead eyes, his voice a bored monotone. It made James shiver.
“I don’t want it to be.” Tears dripped down his face. “Reg,” He croaked. “I love you. I want to be with you. Lily told me this life-changing news,” He looked at his watch. “Four hours ago.”
“So, you didn’t know anything while I was arranging my return to England?” He sounded cold and accusing. He tried not to care. James shook his head.
“No, Reg. I swear. I’ve only just found out.” James looked at him, features full of heartbreak. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Not even Sirius knows.” This shocked Regulus almost as much as finding out James was going to be a father.
He smelt burning. He spun around and pulled the ruined dinner out of the oven. He threw it on the side and bit down on his lip.
“James, I need you to go. Please.” His mask had slipped. It would be only moments before he broke down.
“Reg—“
“Please, James. I need to figure out if this is the life I want. Kids were never my plan, and now…” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so he let it sit.
“I’m so sorry, Reg. Nothing ever seems to go right for us. Does it? I really hope that changes.” His voice was thick as he continued. “Please remember whatever you choose, I will always love you.” With that, James left. The door hadn’t even banged shut before Regulus was sobbing.
———————————————————————————
James’s chest hurt. What should have been a hopefully pleasant evening had turned into yet another nightmare. He looked up at the skies and called out to whoever might be listening.
“Could whoever is writing our story please give us a break?!” When he got no answer, he walked back to his empty house. Even Leo had gone out.
His phone buzzed.
‘Hey. Reggie just texted me and said you’d gone home already. Take it it didn’t go well then? Wanna meet for lunch tomorrow? Usual place?
Love ya
xxx’
He sent back a quick, ‘Yeah, sounds good to me. See you at noon x.’ He decided the best thing was to go to bed and deal with everything in the morning.
***
James heard the sound of thundering boots coming up fast behind him. He began to turn, but before he could see what was happening. There was an almighty thud. He looked down at the pavement and sprawled across it. Hair in a wild mess was Sirius.
“Trip over your laces again?” James said flatly.
“Yup.” A muffled reply came from the heap on the floor. James snorted loudly as he bent to pick his friend up.
Miraculously, Sirius had gotten away with only a slight graze on his cheek.
“Is it true? Am I going to be an Uncle!” He shook James vigorously in his excitement.
“I suppose so, I guess,” James said as he tried to escape Sirius's grasp.
“I’m godfather!” He burst out, bouncing up and down.
“Sirius, we’re not even religious.”
“Fine, fairy godfather, whatever. Either way, I bagsy it.” James sighed and clapped him on the back.
“You got it, you absolute crazy man.” He bent down and tied Sirius’s laces for him.
“Awww, you’re gonna be such a good dad.” He gushed as he wiggled his foot, checking out his shoelaces.
“Come on then, let’s go get lunch. I had some amazing news to tell you.” James chuckled as he threw his arm around Sirius’s shoulder and continued down the street to the little cafe on the corner.
Sirius didn’t stop babbling about all the baby things he’d googled and spouted off so much information that James felt his chest tightening in panic.
“I think he just needs time, you know.”
“Hmm, what?” James had completely zoned out, picking his sandwich to pieces.
“I said, he just needs time. It’s a lot. But I really hope he picks you, mate.” Sirius said, taking James’s hands away from his decimated sandwich and squeezing them gently. He didn’t want to get his hopes up again, but he didn’t fight very hard.
***
He was painting when the door went. He nearly fell off the ladder as he hurried downstairs to answer it. He was covered in paint, so he tried to touch as few things as possible.
He yanked the door open, slightly red-faced, and lost all his breath when he saw Regulus standing there.
“Hi,”
“Hi,”
“I’ve made my decision.” Regulus blurted out, not waiting to be invited in. James felt his mouth go dry.
“And?” His tongue was like sandpaper. He couldn’t take the suspense.
“I’m in,” Regulus said confidently. “Nappies, late night feedings, helping them plot their revenge on the school bully. All of it. I’m in.” Without warning, James flung himself at Regulus. He gathered him up into his arms and spun him around. He was bursting with joy.
He suddenly dropped him and ran into his office. He rooted around in a draw and rushed back to Regulus, who was still waiting at the front door.
“I got you something.” He held out the small box.
“What the fuck! James! Are you proposing?” Regulus’s eyebrows disappeared into the curls that hung over his forehead. James’s eyes widened.
“NO! No, No,” He opened the box. “It’s just a key!”
“Oh,” Regulus sounded disappointed. James made a mental note to put a pin in that for later.
“And what lock does this open, James? Your heart?” A playful smirk settled on Regulus’s mouth.
“It’s a key to the house. So you don’t have to knock any more, you can come and go as you please. And—” He took a deep breath. He’d been preparing for this. “And if you’d like to—No pressure, by the way—But if you’d like to, I’d love it if you moved in with me.” Regulus took the silver-coloured key from the box and held it in his hand, staring at it, flipping it over in his palm. He looked up at James, a sweet, shy smile on his lips.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll move in with you. Being away, I forgot how obnoxious Sirius is. I’ve had to buy earplugs to block out his nighttime noises.” He pulled a face, gagging slightly. James grabbed him in his arms again and lifted him into the air.
“I love you,” He whispered across Regulus’s lips before closing the gap.
Only when he set a breathless Regulus back on his feet did he remember he was covered in paint. He looked in horror at the cream-coloured paint splattered all over Regulus’s black coat. Regulus looked down as well.
“Is that paint?” His eyebrow shot up as he questioned James.
“Yeah, sorry. I was painting the room that’s going to be the nursery. Er, put your coat in the wash, and you can borrow one of mine. I’ll just go get changed.” He ushered Regulus inside and shut the door. Being very careful not to touch him again.
Regulus shrugged off his coat.
“Did you get it finished.? He asked matter of factly.
“Er, no, I didn’t. I barely even started. Only done about half a wall.” Regulus pulled his jumper off and started up the stairs. James chased after him and into his bedroom. But Regulus wasn’t there. “Reg?” He called out as he tried and failed to figure out where he’d gone.
“I’m in the baby’s room. Where are you?” Regulus called back. James hurried out of the bedroom. Clearly, he’d gotten the wrong idea.
Regulus, roller in hand, was making a start on the wall that James had started. He’d already accomplished more than he had and didn’t have a lick of paint on him. James leaned against the door frame, watching the man he hoped to spend the rest of his life with painting his unborn child’s room.
He didn’t think there were enough words in the world to describe how much he loved him.
———————————————————————————
Nine months later
“James, he’s beautiful.” Regulus hadn’t expected to feel this way when meeting baby Harry for the first time. The tiny raven-haired boy slept soundly in James’s arms. James grinned the biggest grin Regulus had ever seen on his face. He turned to Lily. “He’s amazing, Lily. How are you doing?” She looked exhausted, but she still had a smile for him and a cheeky wink.
“You know me. Cup of coffee, and I’ll be right back up.”
“Do you want to hold him?” James asked him as he slowly rocked the baby to and fro.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” Regulus said quietly. His palms felt sweaty as he looked nervously at the tiny, delicate bundle that was nestled in James’s arms.
“You’ll be fine. Here.” James stood and awkwardly transferred Harry into Regulus’s arms.
He looked again at the tiny baby and felt a protective love surge through his body.
Harry fussed in his arms, and he instinctively began to sway. Harry opened his little mouth in a perfect O and settled back down. He was so in love.
There was a quiet tap at the hospital door, and Sirius’s face popped around it.
“Can we come in yet?” He whined. James nodded.
“Yeah, of course you can.”
Sirius rushed in, followed more slowly by Remus. They crowded around Regulus so they could get a good look at the baby.
“Look, Sirius,” Regulus said, pulling his gaze away from Harry to look at his brother. “Isn’t he perfect?” Sirius wrapped an arm around him.
“Yeah, Reggie, he is. Now give me a turn!” Reluctantly, Regulus handed him over and went to stand next to James. James pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around him as they watched Sirius and Remus quietly argue over how long Sirius got to hold him before it was Remus’s turn. Lily had fallen asleep. She was exhausted after the long labour. It was peaceful.
James leant his chin on Regulus’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“How you doing, Papa?” Regulus’s heart melted.
#January 31#jegulus#jegulus microfic#james potter#regulus black#james fleamont potter#regulus arcturus black#sirius black#remus lupin#regulus x james#james x regulus#regulus and james#harry potter#lily evans#lock#is it even a micro fic anymore?#its a bit long#hope you all enjoy#bit emotional if im being honest
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switching the positions
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
summary: a collection of micro-fics chronicling the days of a very eventful week in the lives of you and joel miller (inspired by ariana grande's positions)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-outbreak, established relationship, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, unprotected piv, rough sex, oral (f&m receiving), 69ing, mutual/guided masturbation, edging, mild exhibitionism, consensual somnophilia, squirting, rimming, unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pregnant sex, panic attacks, mentions of parents, mentions of food
word count: 16.2k
moodboard by my sweet girl @cavillscurls ♡
a/n: whew, my pride and joy, a whole two months in the making. tysm to everyone who voted on the poll, and especially to @dinsdjrn for helping me tie this whole thing together and mya for listening to me yell about this for weeks. as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated!
SUNDAY
"Boy, I'm tryna meet your mama on a Sunday."
“She’s gonna hate me.”
“She’s not gonna hate you.”
Oh, you know this woman is going to hate you. It’s not that parents don’t like you. On the contrary, you actually get along great with people’s parents. Your friends’, your old roommate’s, your coworkers'—hell, even your own. It’s just that moms, specifically, can smell fear, and Joel’s mom is going to smell the terror wafting off of you from a mile away.
Not that it’s personal or anything. You’re pretty sure she’d hate anyone dating her baby boy. It’s like, a boy-mom thing. Still doesn’t make you feel any better about your boyfriend’s mom potentially hating you.
“Whose idea was this dinner again?” Because if it was Joel’s, then he can still reschedule or fake an illness or, better yet, call the whole thing off.
“Baby, you know it was hers,” he replies from his spot at the edge of the bed, where he’s been watching you pace the room and throw half the closet on the floor for the past hour. You shoot him an exasperated look.
“But did you have to say yes? Isn’t it kind of early for me to be meeting your mom anyway?”
He looks at you like you have ten heads, but you ignore him, debating two shirts in the mirror, then deciding they’re both terrible and adding them to the pile on the floor.
“It’s been a year and a half. If we wait any longer, she’ll be meetin’ you at the weddin’,” he sighs, running his hands frustratedly down his face. You pause your closet tornado to stare at him, wide-eyed, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, I think it’d be good for y’all to meet, is all.”
Good for who? Certainly not you. Honestly, this dinner could have serious repercussions for your relationship. It’s entirely possible she could convince him to break up with you after the night’s over. Or that you’re a bad role model and shouldn’t be allowed around Sarah anymore. Your stomach lurches violently at the thought. Then, it hits you—
“Okay, yeah, that’s fair enough—but have we thought about who’s gonna watch Sarah tonight? We can’t just leave her by herself, and I’m sure your mom would totally understand that,” you try to reason but, again, Joel’s not going for it.
“She’s 14 years old, I think she can handle a couple hours alone,” he deadpans. “Baby, c’mon, it’s not gonna be that bad. Please? Is it really too much to ask for the woman I love to meet my momma?”
You soften at that. Logically, you know he’s right and it’s not fair for you to keep giving him such a hard time. You’re also pre-judging someone really special to him, and now you feel like the shittiest girlfriend in the world.
“You’re right. I know you’re right—I’m sorry,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re not sure why you’re feeling so insecure about all this. “I just want her to like me, you know?”
He nods, lips quirking into a small smile, and pats his lap. You fall into his arms and he rocks you for a moment, kissing your hair, then your cheek. The anxiety’s starting to subside and you’re grateful for him, your sweet boyfriend who never asks you for anything. Your eyes meet his, and he leans in to kiss you softly, deeply, then pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“I know ya do,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “And she will, alright? Just give her a chance like she’s givin’ you one.”
So, for Joel, you do. Turns out his mom is lovely and wonderful, just like her son, and now you have a lot to make up for.
MONDAY
"Then make a lotta love on a Monday."
It’s early and yet, somehow, you’re already awake and feeling like it’s going to be a good day. There’s no alarm clocks blaring, no feet stomping up and down the stairs. Just sweet, blissful sunlight, and it feels so good this morning. Warm and wet and, god, right there—please, keep going right there.
You reach out to feel its light against your hands and between your fingers, and it hums, sending sweet vibrations up your arms, all the way down to your thighs. Heat starts to bloom in your belly as the sun rises higher, burning hotter and hotter, and your fingers tense, tugging at its soft rays.
Everything feels so much wetter now, and there’s no way you’re not sweating right through your shirt and into the sheets. Even your underwear is soaked, your cunt pleasurably slick and dripping as you pant softly into your pillow.
Then, all of it suddenly intensifies and you’re enveloped by a wet, dextrous warmth that circles and circles, dipping into you, fucking into you, and suddenly, you’re so, so close—
And then you’re cumming with a loud sob, hips bucking with every spasm until something broad and strong splays across your stomach and pushes you back down into the sheets.
It's…you realize it’s Joel. Balmy and beautiful like the morning sun. He groans as you gush into his mouth, lapping up everything you give him, and you’re vaguely aware of the bed shifting under you as he grinds his hips into the mattress for relief.
“…B-baby? What—what’s going on…,” you slur sleepily, hands tugging harder at his hair as he continues to suckle your clit through the aftershocks. You whine at the oversensitivity, and he pulls off to press one last kiss to your heat before throwing the sheets off behind his head.
His eyes meet yours and, fuck, he looks wrecked. His hair is in complete disarray and his eyes are a little wild…and then there’s the giant tent in his boxers and that delicious wet spot that makes your mouth water. He doesn’t respond—just crawls up your body to crash his lips against yours, licking into your mouth, and all you can taste is yourself when his tongue brushes against yours.
You moan into his mouth as he grinds into your sensitive core, then parts from your lips just long enough to pull your sweat-soaked shirt up and over your head. The cool morning air feels like heaven against your feverish skin and, with the sheets gone, you can feel a cool breeze coming through the open window, amplified by the oscillating fan next to the bed.
Christ, he must be so pent up by now. Your brain is finally starting to clear from its post-sleep fog, and now you’re wondering how long he’s been between your legs, eating you out like you’re the heartiest breakfast he’s ever had in his life.
But that train of thought is quickly derailed when his lips find a new home around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth and circling his tongue around the nub until it hardens. The delicate skin feels especially tender, and you whimper quietly as the roughness of his beard scrapes against you. Your fingers thread back into his hair and you tug, urging him back up so you can feel his mouth on yours again.
“Joel, fuck me,” you murmur against his lips, and his breath hitches. “Wanna feel you—please.”
The sensitivity must’ve already subsided because your hips are steadily meeting his and you’re feeling so desperate to have him inside you. His cock feels heavy as he rubs himself against your slick cunt and, while the fabric provides the most incredible friction when it grazes your clit, you want him bare immediately.
“Now…ngh—now,” you whine, and you’re stunned he still has the patience to tease when he pulls away slightly to smirk down at you.
“Needy girl this morning, ain’t ya?” His voice is thick with sleep and so much desire, and it makes your still locked-down pussy clench painfully. “S’alright, baby, ‘m gonna give it to ya.”
Wrenching his boxers down, he grips under your legs to push both of your knees to your chest before nudging the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. He inches in just the tip and immediately lets out a whoosh of air.
“So fuckin’ tight, Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, working himself in and out of you until he’s buried to the hilt, the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushing against you just right. He lingers for a brief moment, grinding into you deeply, languidly while you adjust to his girth.
"S'good. Feels good," you murmur, sighing contently. He's brushing that spot he can only reach when he fucks you like this, so you lock your ankles behind his back, silently telling him to stay. But it feels a little selfish, and you can feel how much he's holding back.
"Baby...I gotta move," he pants, trembling with the effort it's taking not to lengthen his thrusts. Pulling out slowly, he presses back into you deep enough to nudge that spot again, and your vision goes hazy. "Promise, I'll take care of ya—"
You moan in unison as you flutter around him, and he takes that as the go-ahead to continue, his cock reappearing wetter and shinier after every stroke. His skin is glistening, too, slick with sweat that runs down his temples and pools where your bodies connect.
The heat of him is addictive and it's everywhere—blooming in your chest, blazing between your legs, and igniting something fathomless inside you. But somehow, it's still not hot enough. You know he can give you more, your blindingly beautiful sun.
Wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders, you squeeze your thighs into his sides to pull him flush against your body, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest. The steady rhythm matches his thrusts perfectly, but he's groaning so sweetly in your ear that you have a feeling it won't for long.
You belatedly realize how hard you're clenching around him, suddenly so close to tumbling over the edge for the second time this morning, and he redoubles his efforts to follow you.
"L-like that, keep going just like that," you encourage between sharp exhales. "That—that's it."
He braces a hand next to your head on the pillow to stabilize himself, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist, grounding yourself to him. His eyes meet yours fondly before he buries his face into the crook of your neck to do the same, panting heavily against your skin.
Soft, brown curls tickle your cheek, and you turn your head to nose into his hair, breathing him in. He smells earthy like freshly-mown grass and sawdust, and it fills your lungs, surrounding you just when you need it the most.
You gasp in his air, hips swiveling into his desperately as you chase your release. He's slamming directly into that spot now, pushing your knees back into your chest to reach even deeper, but his thighs are starting to tense.
"'m not gonna last long," he admits breathily, all but folding you in half so he can brush his lips against yours. "S'too good...gonna make me cum so hard."
"Please...please, please." Fuck, you want to feel it. To feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up so good, so much. "Joel, cum—please cum."
So close, you're so close. Your soft sighs have evolved into something louder and higher-pitched. Too loud for this early in the morning, and enough to wake up the entire house if you're not careful.
Joel seals his mouth over yours, swallowing every noise that escapes your lips as he pounds into you with purpose, dragging against your walls, and it's...fuck, you're—
Gushing, sobbing as you cum, and he groans, long and drawn out, immediately following you over the edge. Releasing your legs, he digs his fingers into your hips to hold you in place, keeping his cock buried deep inside you as you milk him dry.
"Fuck me," he exhales shakily, pumping into you twice before pulling out and collapsing on top of you. "Good fuckin' morning."
A breathy laugh bubbles out of your chest, but you immediately cringe at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you and onto the sheets. You wedge a hand between your bodies, reaching down to swipe your thumb between your folds and procure a glob that you suck wetly into your mouth.
"Very good fuckin' morning," you smile cheekily at the look of awe on his face. He shakes his head, chuckling as he wraps you up in his arms and rolls you over onto your sides. His chest expands into you with a massive yawn, and you're helpless but to mirror him.
"How much time we got until the alarm?" he mutters sleepily, sounding like he could pass out at any moment. You're craning your head back to check when—
The damn thing starts blaring before you can even catch a glimpse of the time. Not that you need to now—it's 6 a.m., your mortal enemy. You glare at the clock like it personally offended you, and Joel only chuckles, pulling you back down with him.
"Snooze it," he murmurs, mouthing damply at your neck, his hands exploring your soft, bare skin. "We still got time."
You barely hear him, already lost in the feeling of his fingers skimming up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He leans over you to hit the button himself before returning to you, kissing you like you've both got all the time in the world.
Neither of you makes it to work on time.
TUESDAY
"Cookin' in the kitchen, and I'm in the bedroom."
The oven is broken. Probably. The stove, too. It’s really not your fault—all you did was turn some knobs and stand there, but for some reason, none of the burners are catching and the oven sure isn’t cooking this chicken like it’s supposed to.
You don't even like chicken but, for some ungodly reason, you've had a wicked craving for it lately. And Joel loves it, so. That explains why you’re in the kitchen, getting side-eyed by a very skeptical 14 year old, trying to cook a nice dinner for her very overworked father. It’s not going well.
“Did you hear it click when you tried turning it on?” Sarah asks patiently, and now it’s your turn to look skeptical.
“Uhh, the knob or the stove?” You eye the appliance dubiously like it’s doing whatever it’s doing on purpose. She laughs pointing to one of the burners.
“So, when you twist the knob, gas comes out of here,” she taps the grating around the burner, “and the clicking creates a spark that ignites the gas so it lights. Then, voila, you’ve got a working stove.”
“Oh,” you reply dumbly, looking back and forth between her and the stove until she finally gets the hint.
“Fine, fine. I can do it,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. And of course, the stupid thing works with zero issues when she does it. You give her a grateful smile before throwing the dirtiest glare you can muster at the oven.
“What do we do about that one? I guess I could try cooking the whole chicken in a big pan, but I can’t guarantee we won’t all die from food poisoning…,” you trail off, starting to feel a little useless.
It’s not like you’re completely inept in the kitchen. You can use a toaster or a microwave like a damn pro, and even the blender if you’re feeling especially adventurous, but you’ve never made a big meal like this before. Sarah likes to cook when you’re not ordering out, which admittedly is most of the time, so this was supposed to be something special for her, too.
“It’s the same general concept,” she says, still kind and patient as ever, squatting down to show you a different set of knobs. You observe her for a moment, missing the start of her explanation, because it’s times like these where you can see so much of Joel in her.
It’s that spark in her eyes when she gets to share bits of her well-earned knowledge. To use her expertise to teach someone something brand new. Joel gets the same look when he’s trying to teach you guitar. His eyes shine when you finally get a chord down, and he downright beams when you can finish an entire bar by yourself.
You must’ve zoned out for too long because she’s suddenly waving a hand in front of your face, smiling her dad’s sweet smile as she waits for your focus to return to the task at hand.
“Shit, I’m sorry. What did I miss?” you ask sheepishly. She nods to the oven, already lit and heating up to the required 400 degrees Fahrenheit for cooking baked chicken.
“All good! It’s set for whenever you’ve got the food prepped. You just have to wait for it to hit temperature—it’ll beep when it’s ready,” she says, walking around the kitchen island to grab her backpack.
…Wait. She’s leaving?
“Woah, wait, where are you going? You can’t leave yet,” you plead, still desperate for her help. “What if I burn the house down?”
“You’re not gonna burn down the house,” she snorts, already at the door tugging on her sneakers. “Just remember to turn off the burners and you’ll be fine. And save me some food!… Unless everyone gets sick, then maybe don’t.”
You shoot her a look of absolute betrayal, and she laughs, opening the front door and waving over her shoulder.
“See ya later! Good luck, I believe in you!”
And then she’s gone, and you’re left alone with your misery and a bunch of random ingredients you still have to magically make into a meal.
You slump against the counter, lamenting the loss of your sous chef until the oven beeps, scaring the shit out of you. Oh, great. You’ve barely even started seasoning the chicken. It can’t be that hard, right?
Twenty minutes later, you’re standing in front of a very peppery-looking raw chicken—which is officially disgusting again, you changed your mind—wishing you had just ordered Boston Market and lied about making it yourself. Lesson learned for next time. Like there’ll be a next time.
Well, at least no one can say you didn’t try. You throw a bunch of mixed vegetables into the bottom of the pan like the recipe says and pop it in the oven, setting the timer for 40 minutes and hoping for the best.
Glancing at the clock above the sink, you realize you’re cutting it close on time. You told Joel to be home by eight, which means he’ll probably actually get here at nine, and it’s already 7:30. Yikes. Time flies when you’re trying not to fuck up a dinner that was doomed from the start.
The last piece of the puzzle is thankfully the easiest. Now, mashed potatoes are definitely something you can make. Boiling water? Piece of cake. Pouring in the instant flakes from the box and adding butter? Done and done.
There’s no way anyone’ll be able to tell you didn’t make them from scratch unless they check the trash and, anyways, the instant stuff is better. You’ll go down with that ship.
Now for the pièce de résistance: the perfect evening attire. A cute, 50s-era apron you thrifted two weeks ago that’ll go over the teeny, tiny Victoria’s Secret lingerie set you’ve been hiding in the back of the closet.
Joel will probably think it’s hilarious, once he stops drooling. Hopefully you’ll even make it to dinner, otherwise, the stress of this entire afternoon was a totally moot point. But he’ll have to be a good boy and finish his food before he can have dessert—apple pie you definitely didn’t make, and you laid out on his bed like the best fucking treat he’ll ever taste.
You end up with enough time to take the chicken and veggies out of the oven—the meat thermometer tells you it’s cooked through and that’s good enough for you—and stir up the mashed potatoes before you have to head upstairs to get everything else ready. So far, surprisingly, so good.
You’re in the middle of patting yourself on the back for a job well-done, with time to spare, when you hear the front door open. At eight fucking thirty. This would be the one day Joel gets home early and, by the sounds of dishware and cutlery clinking around downstairs, he’s already discovered your big surprise.
“Baby, you up there?” he calls up the stairs. “What’s all this?”
Well. Guess it’s showtime. You finish tying the apron around your waist before giving yourself one last once over in the mirror. Everything fits perfectly, just like you knew it would, and the food’s done, for better or worse. So there’s no need to be nervous, right? It’s just Joel. Your Joel. He’d love it no matter what, even if it all ends up being total shit.
Taking a steadying breath, you head down the stairs, letting your appearance serve as his answer. The apron rubs scratchily against your skin, a reminder of how naked you actually are underneath, and you let your confidence in Joel’s inevitably wanton reaction make you brave.
And he doesn’t disappoint. His eyes rove over you greedily, from the pout of your lips to the tiniest slip of your nipple peeking over your bra, all the way down to the soft, bare skin of your legs. Yeah, no need to be nervous at all.
“Just a little surprise I cooked up,” you smirk a little deviously as you reach the bottom of the stairs. He’s on you in a second, hands exploring your body eagerly, impatiently, as he leans in to kiss you, but he’s halted by a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. Can’t have dessert yet. There’s a whole meal waiting for you—I made your favorite.”
He chuckles, gingerly pressing a kiss to your finger instead before leading you backward into the kitchen.
“Well, let’s get started then. I’m starvin’,” he says, looking hungrier than you’ve ever seen him. You return his gaze, suddenly feeling ravenous yourself.
“Good. It’s dinner time.”
WEDNESDAY
"Wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle."
Spin class sucks.
There’s really no need for the music to be this loud. And it’s bad. They say it’s supposed to amp you up for rigorous exercise, but it’s just giving you a headache.
It’s also about a thousand degrees in here, and you’d be leaving a massive pool of sweat on this seat if you were even allowed to sit on it. The whole concept of spinning makes no sense, and you’re starting to think it’s actually just a dance class on stationary bikes because no one in their right mind would ever ride a bicycle like this.
It’s embarrassing, for starters, and you’re surrounded by hot people that are way better at it than you are. You didn’t even know you could gyrate on a fucking bike until today, and they all somehow make it look sexy. Like they’re legitimately having a great time. Having fun.
But not you. The music might honestly be doing you a favor by drowning out your pathetic attempts to breathe. You’re starting to get a little lightheaded and feel like you’re about to be sick.
No workout is worth this. You can’t even pretend to follow the instructor’s directions, because you can barely hear her over the speakers. She probably can't even hear herself, yelling into the void of shitty EDM remixes, and expecting everyone to pick it up. If you’d known this was just some fucked up version of leg day, you would’ve skipped it.
There's no sneaking out early, either. You took the bus and Joel won’t be here to pick you up for at least another half hour. Honestly, you'd rather walk home and let that be your exercise for the day, but unless you plan on jogging along the highway, you're shit out of luck.
The beat abruptly picks back up, startling you out of your personal pity party, and then everyone's asses are in the air again, hips swiveling so perfectly in sync that it has to be choreographed. You're getting the hang of it now that you're realizing the routine just repeats itself, but it still feels mildly exploitative.
It doesn't help that your class is starting to draw in a crowd, likely attracted by all of the revealing athletic wear on display. At least you got that memo. Whoever had the bright idea to put a huge glass wall at the back of the room was either a genius or a pervert. Probably both, depending on who you ask.
Once the hardest section of the choreography passes, you look behind you to check the time, praying more than you think has passed, but you're sorely disappointed. And the crowd outside's only gotten bigger.
Don't these assholes have anything better to do than stand there drooling over a spin class? You continue to glare at them over your shoulder through the next part of the song, looking a little ridiculous grinding into your seat as you silently tell them all off.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch one of them off to the side laughing, but when you turn to send an even harsher look in their direction, you realize you recognize him.
What a dick. If you'd known he was going to be this early, you definitely would've snuck out and waited outside instead of becoming another piece of eye candy for a bunch of gym rats.
Joel looks a little too pleased with himself, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like he’s enjoying the view as much as the rest of those creeps. Well, if he wants a show, then you’ll give him one. Now that you’ve gotten the movements down, you can put all of your energy into making him wish there wasn’t an entire glass wall separating him from you.
That one, grueling section of the song loops back around, and this time you put your all into it, arching like you’re supposed to, swiveling your hips into the seat with all of the muscle control you’ve got. Your shorts ride up your ass at the change in movement, probably giving you a wicked camel toe, but you let them. You can only imagine the look on Joel’s face now.
The song starts to wind down, finally coming to a stop, and you lower yourself back onto the seat, panting with the exertion of the past 45 minutes. Turning back around, you notice the crowd has mostly dispersed, save for a few stragglers and Joel, who’s panting almost as hard as you are.
Your eyes drop to his pants, and you quirk an eyebrow. His breathing’s not the only thing that’s hard. He looks a little wrecked and, suddenly, this whole workout thing feels like it might’ve been worth it after all.
You hop off the bike and retrieve your duffel from the back of the room, teasingly flicking the glass in front of his face before exiting with the rest of the class.
"Ready to go?" you ask brightly, still feeling high off the endorphin rush. He doesn't respond, looking a little dazed as he watches a droplet of sweat run down your neck, past your collarbone, and right between your breasts. "You doing alright there, bud?"
You laugh, enjoying your revenge a little too much, reveling in the way his jaw tenses and the muscles in his neck twitch angrily. It’s about to be a very interesting ride home—or it would’ve been if you’d made it that far.
On the way out, you pass an out-of-order men’s room, and he yanks you inside, locking the door behind you.
It's a little surprising he's this pent up after the night you had, especially with the sheer amount of sex you’ve been having lately—not that you're complaining. But what's even more surprising is that he's choosing right now to rectify it, basically in public where anyone could overhear or walk in on you. It's...really out of character for him. You thought he'd at least make it to the car.
“Joel, what the—,” you yelp as he lifts you up by the waist to settle you on the edge of a sink. It's clear his patience has completely run out because, within seconds, he's dropping to his knees, burying his face in your heat. "—fuck."
Your legs immediately try to close around his head, but he forces them back open with enough strength to overextend your already abused hamstrings. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but the pain, combined with his blunt nails biting into your thighs, sends delicious jolts right to your core.
You exhale shakily, burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks a damp patch into your shorts, just slightly lower than where you need him. Your hips buck, urging him higher, but he doesn't allow that either, shoving them back down onto the hard porcelain beneath you.
Should've known it wouldn't be that easy. He's handling you aggressively, rougher than you would've expected, and that's when you realize he's mad.
"Bet ya thought that was real funny, teasin' me like that," he growls into your clothed pussy, licking up the seam to swirl wet circles where your clit throbs under too many layers. "Don't feel very nice, does it?"
His eyes meet yours as he sucks a little harder, and you whimper, tugging at his hair in a silent plea for him to take your shorts off and eat you out the way you both want him to. But he's going to drag this out and you know it.
Joel loves a little payback and has the patience of a saint unless he's pushed past his limit. To your detriment, you shoved him over that line with the stunt you pulled earlier, so now you'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to let it go.
Switching tactics, you tempt him with what he could have if he just gave in. Your fingers dip beneath your waistband, and you sigh as you slick them up against your folds before dipping them inside. You're already soaked, and so tight, even around two of your own fingers, and you tell him as much.
"No, it doesn't feel nice...but I know something that will," you pump your fingers in and out of yourself, the muted sound of wet squelching reaching your ears. "Hear that?—," you gasp, hips lifting off the sink as you accidentally graze something spongey and sensitive, "—t-that's all for you."
And it works like a charm. Your shorts and underwear are pulled off in a single, hard tug, his tongue fucking into you before you can even fully inhale, and you choke out a strangled moan instead. He eats you out like a man starved, his nose nudging your clit with every dip of his tongue, and it feels so potent, you practically see stars.
Your combined slick and his saliva are starting to leak over the edge of the sink but he catches every drop, and the way he slurps you up makes your cheeks burn. Joel's a lot of things when he's between your legs—enthusiastic, generous, and a little sloppy, but he's never wasteful.
Two thick fingers prod at your entrance, and then he's pressing them into you, the slide snug, but easy with how wet you are for him. Finally, finally, you can feel your orgasm building, and you're sent reeling when his tongue fucks into you between his fingers, filling you up—it's...yes, right there—
But he abruptly pulls his mouth away, still not done making you pay.
"Damn right, it's all for me. Ya think those jackasses watching you weren't thinkin' about this?" he growls, his fingers slowing to leisurely stroke your walls as if they weren't about to throw you over the edge a moment ago. "Think they could make you feel this good? Make you cum like I do?"
Your pussy flutters pathetically around him, and the false look of sympathy he gives you makes you want to cry out of sheer frustration.
"Gonna need an answer if you want me to keep goin'," he drawls, still close enough that you can feel his breath, hot against your cunt.
You bite down on your bottom lip, just hard enough to momentarily distract yourself from the aching between your legs so you can respond, but you're taking too long. His fingers have all but stopped, so you panic.
"Fuck those assholes. Fuck all of them," you grit through your teeth. He quirks an eyebrow, marginally picking up the pace of his fingers.
"Fuck 'em, huh? That what you wanna do?" He's teasing you, and even though it's obvious, you fall right into his trap, anyway. Blanching, you shake your head furiously.
"N-no—no, no, no. Just you, only wanna fuck you," you gasp, frantically trying to convince him of something you both already know to be true without a shadow of a doubt. It's honestly impressive that he can work you like this and, even more so, that he's the only one that can.
"S'okay, I know...I know. This right here—," he gives your clit a few kitten licks, the pads of his fingertips rubbing that perfect spot inside you, "—s'mine."
Then, he's burying his face back between your legs, redoubling his efforts, and it's so fucking sloppy. Wet and hot, and hungry, as if edging you has the same effect on him.
You feel him groan into you as you start to tighten around his fingers, loud enough that his chest rumbles with it, sending sweet vibrations up your thighs. The sound of his belt jingling, then hitting the floor vaguely makes it past the blood rushing in your ears, but his broad shoulders and head bobbing between your legs are blocking your view.
All you can see or hear is the frantic movement of his arm, his hand working up and down his cock, and the sound of skin slapping on skin. Fuck, that's—so hot, you're so close. So fucking close—
But he's got one last edge left in him.
You're throbbing so violently that for a second you're terrified he ruined your orgasm, but no, you're still teetering on the cusp, thighs quaking so hard, you can’t believe you haven’t crushed his head between them already. At this point, the smallest touch, even the tiniest puff of air would send you hurtling over.
He's still jerking himself off, sounding delirious as he separates his mouth from you to speak.
"Need to hear ya s-say it...," he pants, and you cry out, angrily reaching down to roughly shove his face back into you, but he resists. Spurred on by your reaction, he only fucks into his fist faster. “Nobody else gets to taste ya like I do…do they? Say it. Say it and I'll…ngh—let you cum,” he moans lowly, possessively.
Joel sounds completely gone. You never could've imagined dry humping a fucking stationary bike would set him off like this, or that a bunch of dumb muscleheads would make him this jealous. He's so lost in it, in you.
But the way he's looking up at you right now—it's like he really does need you to do this for him. To tell him that it’s just him, and it’ll only ever be him. It’s the truth. No one else has ever made you feel the way he does, with his mouth and hands, or his heart, and they never will again.
You whine, shaking your head pleadingly, ready to tell him whatever he wants to hear. Anything for him to put his mouth back on you again.
"T-they don't—no one else gets to, but you...only you," you keen as he seals his lips around your clit, all of his fears and insecurities finally soothed. Your head tips back, the feeling of his hot tongue laving over the sensitive bundle of nerves and his thick fingers—three of them, now—dragging against your walls exactly what you need.
You cum frighteningly quickly, your orgasm so powerful and overwhelming that you start to black out. Your eyes squeeze shut, and then it’s all just pleasure—the tension in all of your limbs slowly bleeds out with every spasm of your cunt, and something wet…so wet, splashes against your inner thighs.
Joel groans louder than you think you’ve ever heard him, the sound practically punched out of his chest as he licks broader lines up your pussy, sucking and slurping, and what…what is that? Why the fuck are you so wet? He—did Joel cum on you, and you didn’t even notice?
But that’s impossible because now his body’s completely seizing up, the hand around his cock stilling as he spurts thick ropes of cum across the bathroom floor. Or at least that’s the image your brain conjures up, unable to see it for yourself.
Your vision’s only just beginning to return to you, and you immediately look down to see what actually happened...and fuck. It was you. Joel’s head is resting on your thigh, nuzzling into your soft, very damp skin, and he's looking up at you in awe.
“Shit, baby…,” he pants, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his hand. "Ain't ever seen you do that before."
You blink blearily, lips parting as you take him in. He's a goddamn mess. His face and beard are soaked, and his shirt is splattered with what you can only assume is your release. You fucking squirted? In a dirty gym bathroom?
"What the fuck?" you mumble, still dazed and a little in disbelief at how your first, and probably last, trip to the gym went. You shake your head, clearing up the brain fog enough to quickly process the past two hours, and now you're in shock. "Joel, what the fuck?" you ask again incredulously.
He has the nerve to look sheepish where he's still happily nestled between your legs post-orgasm, and you bop the top of his head with your palm, eyeing him expectantly.
"Wanna explain what all of that was?"
"Look—," he starts, lips quirking down into that little frown you know so well. "If you'd've heard the shit those fuckers were sayin' about ya. Probably would've said worse if I hadn't told 'em to fuck off before they got into some real trouble."
"Wait, you were the reason they all took off? Joel," you laugh because suddenly it all makes sense.
You just learned the hard way that a grumpy, jealous Joel means getting edged until you black out. Pretty good knowledge to have for future reference, to be honest. Now that you're not sobbing with his head between your legs, it all seems so silly.
"What, did ya expect me to just stand there and let 'em talk about fuckin' my girl right in front of me?"
"I mean, no, but...I dunno, maybe just take the compliment next time and don't threaten a group of scary, muscular men," you chuckle fondly, cupping his wet cheeks in your hands. "Okay? It basically just means you have a hot girlfriend. Congratulations!"
But he only grumbles in response, still pouting like a child. You bend down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and he sighs, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
"What if, when we get home, I show you some of the techniques I learned in my class?" you murmur into his hair. He tilts his head back, eyeing you skeptically.
"Baby, we don't have a stationary bike," he says, brows furrowed in confusion. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes dropping to his lap.
"That's okay. We won't need one."
THURSDAY
"You can't imagine what I'm 'bout to say. You really wanna know? You'll have to wait. (It's a surprise, surprise.)"
Blue, blue, blue. Just do it, just be blue! It's a great color—the best color, maybe even your favorite color.
You keep chanting at it, loudly and in your head, but the plastic stick doesn't seem to appreciate your encouragement. It just stares back at you, blank and unhelpful.
How much longer do the instructions say you have to wait? One to three minutes, that's it? It feels like it's already been two hours, but it's actually only been...30 seconds. What the fuck.
Maybe if you shake it, it'll develop faster. It's basically like a polaroid, right? And Outkast has never steered you wrong, so. You lean over from where you're still sitting on the toilet, pants around your ankles, to test your theory but it's too late.
It already has an answer for you. ...Wait, what? Both of the lines are blue. So...does that mean you're extra not pregnant? You snatch up the pamphlet again, actually reading through the directions this time, and your stomach drops. Pink was never even an option.
Two blue lines. Pregnant.
You knew this week was going a little too well.
Those random bouts of nausea, the weird cravings, the fucking breast tenderness. They didn't need to mean anything. They shouldn't have meant anything.
Fuck. Fuck. What are you supposed to do now? You're way too young to have a baby. Well. Okay, that's a massive lie, but still, you're definitely not ready to have one. Or to be…pregnant. You shudder at the thought.
Swollen ankles, morning sickness, mood swings. You’re already a walking rollercoaster of emotions, and your back hurts from just existing. No, you can’t do this.
It's not about the finances, either. You and Joel both have steady jobs and could make it work if you wanted to, but do you want to? Will he? He’s not your husband, not even your fiancée, so there’s no reason for him to stick around. It’s not his burden.
There's just too many unanswered questions. And Joel's already someone's dad. He did the whole baby thing by himself and got it right the first around.
Sarah's perfect—fuck, what is Sarah going to think? Stupid, this was so stupid. You thought you were being so careful. Sure, Joel cums inside you basically every time you have sex, but that's totally beside the point.
You take those dumb little pills at the same time every day, just like you're supposed to. Except…when’s the last time you had a period? Did you even get it last month? The month before?
Shit, that wedding—when was that wedding? Your coworker’s, the rich one who decided to have a fucking destination wedding in Hawaii a couple months ago. It was decadent. You and Joel were super drunk the entire time and fucked like rabbits for three days straight.
Fuck.
Don't cry. Do not cry. Joel will probably be back from picking Sarah up from soccer practice any minute, so you need to hold it together. Maybe you just won’t tell them, at least not until you’ve had more time to process everything and decide what you’re going to do.
But, god, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, and even more so on your face. They’ll know something’s off the second they look at you, and you won’t be able to talk yourself out of it. You’ve always been a shit liar.
Tears start to fall without your permission. You slump slowly to the floor, pants still around your ankles, and curl up into a ball, willing it all to go away—the tiny clump of cells growing inside your belly and the regret of being so careless, of letting yourself get caught up in a serious relationship in the first place. This isn’t something you can just wish away. It’s life-changing and nothing will ever be the same again. Was it really worth it?
No, no. Of course, it was. Snap out of it.
If only it were that easy. Sobs wrack your entire body, and you can barely hear yourself choking on them, unable to hold them in anymore. Your eyes squeeze shut as you desperately try to block out your reality, but it seeps up your nose and into your mouth, salty and unignorable.
Blood rushes in your ears and you realize belatedly that you’re starting to hyperventilate, but you can’t stop. You’re drawing in too much air all at once and it’s making your vision go fuzzy. It’s all just too much. Anger, sadness, and fear consume you until you’re screaming with it, desperate to expel it from your body any way you can.
So, you don’t hear the front door opening or Joel and Sarah running up the stairs, completely panic-stricken.
Joel reaches the ensuite bathroom first and all but breaks down the door, but he’s met with the sight of your half-naked body in a heap on the floor. Immediately, he turns to block Sarah from getting in.
“Hey, hey—no,” he says firmly, wrapping her up in his arms to keep her from seeing past him. “You’re not goin’ in there. Ya gotta give us some time, alright?”
She looks up at him, scared and visibly shaken.
“What if—do you think she’s okay in there? Was she hurt…d-did you see her?” she asks softly, eyes wet. “Can I see her?”
“Not right now, kiddo,” he mumbles, kicking the bathroom door shut behind him before leading her out of his room and into the hallway. “‘m sorry.”
The crestfallen look on Sarah’s face is the last thing he sees before he closes the door on her. But he has to ignore how badly it feels to keep her away from you, at least until he can figure out what the hell is wrong and how he’s going to fix it.
Your cries have quieted since earlier, but not nearly enough to ease Joel's fears. He can still hear you through the door, hiccuping softly, and opens it gently this time, entering slowly as if he's trying not to spook a scared animal.
It doesn't work as well as he'd hoped. Your head shoots up, a small gasp escaping your lips as you dizzily pull your pants back up.
"Easy there, s'okay. Baby, s'just me, don't worry," he murmurs, dropping to his knees on the floor next to you, but you flinch away. You can only imagine the hurt in his eyes, and the mental image tugs at your heart. "I need ya to tell me what happened. Did ya hurt yourself?"
Yeah, you could say that.
You shake your head, the only thing you're capable of doing in the state you're in. Trying to speak would be useless after all the screaming you just did and you can't bear to look him in the eye.
"Hey, talk to me. If somethin's the matter, I need to know, 'specially if we gotta get you to the hospital," he says, reaching out to touch you.
His hand grazes your shoulder, and your body jerks so viscerally that you slam your knees into the bottom of the sink. You let out a tiny whimper of pain right as you hear something small and plastic hit the ground next to you.
Oh, no. Shit. You desperately try to kick the test out of reach, to cover it with your body—anything to keep him from seeing it—but his fingers wrap around it before you get the chance. He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth and you feel your whole world shattering.
That's it, then. Even just a glance at those two blue lines will have immediately told Joel all he needs to know. Now he'll leave and he'd have every right. This is all your fault.
Your cheeks are wet again, but this time you can't bring yourself to care. Turning away from him, you curl back into a ball, ignoring the angry throbbing in your knees as you wait for him to yell or throw the test, or finally get up and walk out.
But he doesn't. Instead, you hear him delicately set the test back on the sink and then he lays down behind you on the floor, wrapping his arms around you and pulling your back into his chest.
His heartbeat is fast. It's racing against you and, yet, somehow his breathing is still so calm. The calm before the storm, you're sure of it. You tense, anticipation sitting heavily on your chest and lungs, and he can feel it.
His lips press into the back of your neck and even though the action is so tender and so Joel, you still can’t convince yourself that maybe you’ve misjudged this entire situation. Or that you’ve misjudged him.
“Sweetheart,” he sighs, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. It hasn’t escaped your notice that he isn’t calling you baby anymore. You can’t tell if that’s for your benefit or his. "Tell me what you're thinkin'."
Time feels like it's moving in slow motion. You really don't mean to ignore him…it’s just that you’re not thinking anything. Lying there in his arms, your mind goes blank, giving in to the white noise of his heartbeat syncopating your own fragile rhythm.
But somehow he seems to understand you completely, filling the silence himself. His voice lulls you into a false sense of security, or…no. No, that’s not right. It’s real. His security, his safety, is real and reliable, proven and palpable.
“Listen to me—I need ya to hear this, alright? I want whatever you want and if ya don’t want this, we’re not doin’ it,” he says firmly, like he means it with every fiber of his being. You do hear him. But your heart and mind are still rebelling, begging you to see their own senseless logic. Joel won’t stop until he convinces them, too.
“But if ya do…if—,” his voice trails off, cracking almost imperceptibly. At least, to anyone else but you. “—if ya wanna do this with me, then ‘m with ya. Every step of the way, ‘m with ya.”
Then, for the first time since those blue lines appeared in your life, you feel peace. And it's all him. He’s given you a choice—one you knew you always had, but never thought to factor him into. You didn’t think you deserved to involve him. But he does. He deserves that choice, too.
The floodgates open and soon you’re sobbing uncontrollably again, but this time it feels cathartic. Like he’s freed you from a prison of your own making. You find your voice, wet and shaky.
“Joel, I’m scared,” you weep, turning in his arms to finally meet his eyes. And there they are. Brown and beautiful and clear, unclouded by fear and regret, and you let them make you brave. For him and your tiny clump of cells.
“What if I can’t do this? What—I…,” you hiccup through the disjointed thought, “—if I give up…if it’s just too hard...”
“S’why there’s two of us,” he bends down to murmur soothingly into your cheek, lips brushing against the corner of your own. “But ya can’t push me away anymore. If we do this, then we do it together,” and that lances straight through your heart, obliterating all doubt and setting your decision in stone.
Together. You’re in this together.
“Okay,” you croak, sniffling as he wipes away your tears. You repeat it, clearer this time. “Okay.”
FRIDAY
"You might think I'm crazy, the way I've been cravin'. If I put it quite plainly, just gimme them babies."
Doctors' offices have no business being as scary as they are. Bare and sterile, and not an ounce of color to be found anywhere but those creepy posters of in-depth diagrams of the human body. Gross.
You fight the urge to turn around and head straight back to the truck but, as if he can sense your plan to make a run for it, Joel places both hands on your shoulders and leads you toward the reception desk.
“C’mon, we got this,” he says quietly in your ear, likely reassuring both of you. “We go in, they tell us you ’n the baby are healthy, then we get out.”
You grimace. The baby. That’s still so weird. There’s literally a tiny being growing inside you, eating your food, and sitting on your fucking bladder. It’s like that thing in Alien that bursts out of people’s chests.
Great. Well, that’s officially off the list for movie night later, which Joel promised you'd have if you got your check-up without trying to escape. Technically, you’re doing great so far. And it’s an extremely tempting offer.
Movie nights at the Miller house usually include a trip to 7/11 for popcorn, soda, and a box of your favorite candy. Those annoying cravings you’re just now realizing are because you’re pregnant would be extremely satiated by that.
You’ll also get to curl up on the couch with Joel all night in a childless house because Sarah's staying at a friend’s. Win-win. But first, you have to make it through this check-up.
Everything up until you’re inside the actual examination room isn’t actually so bad. The receptionist is nice enough, even though you can tell she deals with a lot of first-time moms by the way she treats you with baby gloves, and the wait time is less than 10 minutes.
Yeah, you’ve totally got this. Or at least you did until the doctor shows up with an ultrasound machine and lifts your shirt to squeeze that freezing cold goop all over your stomach. You look up at Joel, scared and a little bewildered, and he takes your hand in his, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. The screen lights up with what you assume is a real-time view of the inside of your belly and, after that, it’s all sort of a blur.
Six weeks. They tell you that you’re already six weeks pregnant, so you definitely conceived at that dumb wedding. At least you’ve got a story to tell. You’re also entering that fun stage where your nausea’s mostly cleared up, but now you’ll either be super tired or super horny at any given time.
You try not to laugh when you feel Joel’s hand subtly twitch in yours. Of course, he perks up at that. Honestly, you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t going to enjoy it, too. Immensely.
Then, comes the big one. The entire point of this doctor’s visit, and the reason you and Joel are gripping each other so tight, you’re cutting off the other’s circulation. But it’s good news. Luckily, it's all good news.
Your tiny clump of cells is healthy, you’re healthy, and you can go home now, equipped with all of that very calming knowledge. One day, you’re going to have to stop calling them a clump, but you’ve decided today is not that day.
“Told ya it wouldn’t be so bad,” he teases as you walk out to the truck, still hand-in-hand.
But his eyes betray his tone. There’s a seriousness to his joy, and you can see it so clearly in the way he’s looking at you like you’ve given him the greatest gift in the world. It makes you feel warm and…important. Loved. He continues, his voice tinged with something a little softer.
“Thank you…for goin’, I mean. S’good to know that everythin’s alright. That you’re alright.”
You stop next to the car, meeting his gaze with what you hope is the same amount of love and affection you see, and throw your arms around his neck.
“Thanks for taking me, and just…being here. Like, really being here, not just showing up so you can say you did,” you say earnestly, and he leans down to kiss you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close.
“‘Course, baby. Don't have to thank me for that,” he mumbles against your lips.
Not ready to separate from him, you deepen the kiss, running your tongue along his bottom lip until he opens for you and licking into his mouth freely. He groans as you press him into the side of the truck, his hands trailing down your sides to grip the plush of your ass through your jeans.
You can feel him starting to stiffen against your belly and that carnal hunger the doctor warned you about takes over, the need to feel more, more of him overwhelming you. He’s just so solid everywhere.
Your fingers skim underneath his shirt to feel his stomach flexing beneath your palms, and you roll your hips into his, gasping into his mouth at the friction. You’re so caught up in his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, that you don’t hear the group of people passing by on the other side of the truck.
But Joel does. He begrudgingly pulls away from you, hard as a rock and panting heavily. You whine at the loss, and he twitches against you in response.
“C’mon, baby, I’m not fuckin’ you in a goddamn Planned Parenthood parkin’ lot,” he chuckles, leading you to the passenger’s side of the car. He smacks your ass when you resist, and you shoot him a wounded glare. “Uh-uh, none’a that. ‘m takin’ you home. Owe ya a movie, don’t I?”
You perk up at the mention of his promise from earlier.
“You sure do. And candy, and popcorn, and soda,” you list off, easily distracted by the prospect of shitty junk food. You bounce into the car, shifting the seat to recline as far as it’ll go. “What are we watching?”
“Whatever you want, baby."
Well, he did say he’d give you whatever you wanted. And for a while, it was the movie—you’d even picked out your favorite. But you only manage to get about 20 minutes in before Joel's arm around your shoulder and chest under your cheek become an unignorable distraction.
Now, you want something else.
You don't bother teasing or playing coy, not when he’s so solidly pressed against you, just begging to be had. Your body rises and falls with every breath he takes, and it’s so visceral, being close enough to touch and taste him, and yet not doing either.
His neck looks especially delicious under the faint, fluorescent lighting of the TV, and your lips press wetly into the underside of his jaw, sucking delicately as your tongue darts out to taste him. His breath hitches, but he shows no other signs of being affected at all.
Taking that as your cue to up the ante, you drop your hand onto his lap to tug at his belt, but he catches you before you can make any progress. You tilt your head back to look up at him, brows furrowed in confusion, but he just smirks, eyes still locked on the TV screen.
"You wanted a movie, didn't ya? Thought ya loved this one," he says teasingly. "You can wait a couple hours—I know ya can."
Yeah, you can, but that doesn't mean you want to. He was so into it in the parking lot, so what happened between then and now? You didn't think he liked this movie that much, but apparently you were mistaken.
Settling back into his side, you try to shift your focus back to the movie, but then the hand on your shoulder starts to play with your hair. His fingers graze your neck, and you're back to squeezing your thighs together in frustration.
He has to be doing this on purpose. Riling you up so much that once the movie’s finally over, you’ll be putty in his hands. Well, two can play that game. If he won't let you touch him, then you'll just have to touch yourself.
Your eyes flutter closed as you run your fingers down your belly, slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your shorts to drag your fingers up and down your slick folds. God, you didn't realize you were already so wet. You gasp softly as you trail upward toward your clit, but Joel's voice startles you out of your reverie.
"Should ya be doin' that right now?"
There's a tinge of warning to his voice, and it burns hot in your veins. You open your eyes slowly and he's finally looking at you, his attention drawn to your fingers still moving under the fabric.
"Well, you weren't gonna. What, are you—," your middle finger brushes against that sensitive bundle of nerves and you bite back a whine, "—you...ngh—gonna stop me?"
The hand that was gently stroking your hair shifts back to firmly grip the back of your neck, squeezing just hard enough to make your fingers stutter. He leans in, his voice dangerously low in your ear.
"No, I'll let ya keep goin'. But you're gonna do exactly what I tell ya to, ya got that?" he murmurs, watching as your hips begin to swivel into your own sweet friction. "'n if you're good for me...," he trails off, eyes dropping down to where he's slowly jerking off his hardening cock through his jeans. "...I'll give ya this. We got a deal?"
You want him inside you so badly, you almost say yes before he's even done talking, but then you have a wicked thought. A counteroffer, of sorts.
"I'll take your deal. But—," you start with a devilish smile, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. "Only if you touch yourself, too. Want you to fuck your hand like you're fucking me."
"Deal," he says without hesitation.
"Deal," you smirk, removing your hand from your pussy for him to shake, your fingers sticky and glistening.
He takes your proffered hand but, instead of shaking, he wraps his lips around your slick digits, sucking you off each one and groaning at your taste. What you wouldn't give to have that tongue in your mouth. Or buried in your cunt. Pulling off with a lewd pop, he nods at your lap.
"Take your fuckin' pants off. Now."
Shit, he doesn't have to tell you twice. You quickly shimmy out of your shorts and underwear, and wait for his next instructions. You'll be a good girl for him. The best girl he's ever had and ever will.
"Spread 'em. Show me how wet you are for me," he mumbles, kicking your legs apart.
You spread them as wide as you can. The cool night breeze filtering in through the open window meets your center, and you're suddenly aware of how much wetter you've gotten since you started. It almost makes your mouth water. You don't think you've ever been this turned on by your own body in your life.
Slick coats your thighs, seeping into the couch, and he looks pleased. You can see he wants to touch you just as badly as you want to touch yourself. Your knee bumps into his thigh and he hooks your leg over his, holding you open.
"Shit, would'ja look at that," he breathes out in awe. "Prettiest pussy I've ever seen."
Your cunt visibly clenches at the praise and he hisses in a breath through his teeth, resting his hand on your thigh so he can lean over your body. He lingers for a moment like he's admiring you laid out for him like this, but then moves a little closer and spits a thick glob of saliva right onto your clit.
Your jaw drops, a loud gasp torn from your chest when he grabs your hand, using your fingers to gather it up and swirl it around your swollen nub. Shit, if he keeps going like this, you're going to cum and fast.
Dropping your head back onto his shoulder, you rock into your fingers, slipping through the mess he's made of your pussy, and your body starts to feel like a rubber band about to snap.
"Wanna taste you so fuckin' bad. Fuck you on my tongue 'til you're nice 'n ready for me," he growls, pressing your fingers harder onto your clit. "S'that what you want? Wanna cum in my mouth?"
You turn to bury your head into the crook of his neck, nodding frantically as you cry into the soothing warmth of his skin. You're going to cum. Fuck, fuck, you're going to cum. Your eyes start to roll back as you feel it crescendo, and then—
Then, he releases your hand, cruelly and unapologetically.
"Not yet, baby. We both gotta be patient, don't we?" he teases you again, and your eyes snap open.
What the fuck. No, you're not letting him edge you again. It was fun and all at the gym, but you're way too far gone to be playing games right now.
And how isn't he a total wreck? Both of his hands are on you, even though that wasn't part of the deal, so he can't be taking care of himself.
Your eyes drop down to his lap, and wow. This man has more willpower than you ever could've imagined. He's so hard, you can see the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband of his pants. And it's leaking everywhere, twitching and angrily dribbling precum all over the fabric.
He looks...so fucking good like this. Fuck, you want him so bad. But that means getting back on track, and it's obviously on you to make that happen. Clearly, he's more affected by all of this than he made it seem.
"Joel, please, just tell me what to do," you plead. You'll beg if you have to. Whatever it takes for you to finally get what you want.
"Alright, alright," he concedes, taking sympathy on you, likely reaching his limit himself. "'m gonna let you make yourself feel good, baby. Don't'chu worry."
"Great," you grit through your teeth. "Then start by taking your fucking pants off."
He chuckles at his words thrown back at him, but listens, regardless. His boxers and jeans are pulled off in two hard tugs, and his cock bounces against his stomach, thick and wet, and unfairly far from your aching pussy. The hand on your neck moves to gently caress the side of your cheek.
"Gonna start nice 'n slow, ya got that?" he says, biting back a groan as he wraps his fingers around his neglected cock. He starts to pump himself, and more precum leaks out. "Watch me."
But it didn't need to be said. You're already enraptured by the way he strokes himself, slow and steady, swiping his thumb over the head on every upstroke. He's panting softly, trying to keep his hips from jerking up into his fist, but you can see how much effort it's taking not to.
"C'mon, baby. Gimme one finger—your middle finger, all the way in," he commands, his voice as tight as his grip.
You tear your eyes away from him while you run your fingers through your folds, still slick with his saliva and your own desire, and then sink your finger into yourself knuckle by knuckle. It doesn't feel like much, and you both know it, but at least it's something.
"Now, follow me," he says, watching your hand as intently as you're watching his.
You rock your finger in and out slowly, just like he said. Because you're his good girl and good girls do what they're told. It’s already a sticky mess, your finger creamier with every thrust, and he groans out his appreciation.
"Good girl. Add another one. Not too fast, now."
Finally, you get some real relief. Slipping your index finger in alongside your middle finger, you feel that little bit of stretch you've been aching for and you can't help but whimper.
His lips part, brows furrowing as his hand speeds up. His eyes are locked on where your sopping cunt is sucking in your fingers greedily and, fuck, he's even more of a mess now. Sweat dripping from his temples, chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back.
So hot. So fucking hot. It's scorching, the way your cunt feels around your fingers as you fuck into yourself a little faster. They're rubbing your walls just right, your palm grazing your clit after every stroke, and his hyper-focused gaze makes it all feel that much better. You want to hear him say it again. For him to tell you how well you’re doing.
"—ngh...i-is this good?" you whine, knowing how pathetic you sound, but forgetting to care.
"Perfect, baby. You're perfect," he rasps, unable to keep his hips from snapping up into his fist as the sweet sounds of your wet squelching reach his ears. "So fuckin' good for me."
Preening hard at his praise, you push a little too deep into yourself and graze something mind-numbing that almost hurts with how good it feels. You cry out, curling your fingers into it again and again as you bury your face back into his neck. His arm tightens around your shoulder and he leans over to press his lips soothingly against your forehead.
"That's it, baby, just like that. Doin' so well," he groans, lips brushing against your skin. His strokes are frantic now and you know he can’t last much longer. "Need ya to gimme one more. Just one—last one, promise. Then I'll give ya whatever you want."
Nodding quickly, face still cushioned against his shoulder, you add your ring finger, and fucking hell, you’re so full. You stretch your fingers apart, pumping them in and out the best you can, and they drag against that spot—every spot—with how tight you are. But somehow it’s not enough. It’s not Joel’s cock, so it’ll never be enough.
Everything’s drowned out except for the wet sounds of skin on skin, and Joel’s voice, still just above your brow, talking you through your almost painful pleasure. He’s panting, whispering tender words that you can’t hear so much as feel with those soft, perfect lips.
“…tell me when you’re close, baby. Can’t feel ya, gonna need you to use your words,” he barely chokes out, staving off his orgasm, waiting for you.
It’s already close, but you’re only teetering, stuck in a constant loop of almost there, and need more. You can’t reach where you need to, but Joel can. So easily and all you have to do is ask. He said he’d give you whatever you wanted.
But you didn’t realize he was already at his limit, and you don’t get the chance to tell him before he’s babbling, delirious with the need to cum.
"'m sorry—fuck, 'm sorry. Need...to—ngh, fuck, need to cum inside you...fill you up...," he moans, and he sounds upset like he can’t help himself, not anymore.
Abruptly, so much quicker than you can fully process, your fingers are yanked out of your cunt and replaced by his cock, and the thrust is so harsh, he hits exactly where you need him to without even trying. The whine building in your chest erupts as a wail as you immediately lock down around him, sending him over the edge with you.
Full. God, how can you feel this full? You’re so unbelievably aware of him cumming inside you and there’s so much, he’s already leaking out of you. And he almost seems angry about it. Your hips are roughly tilted up so he’s fucking down into you, eyes unfocused, and snarling like a wild animal.
And still so mouthy.
“You got no idea how good ya look right now. Fuckin’ glowin’,” he all but slurs, drunk on the idea of keeping his seed inside you. “S’that my baby in you, makin’ ya glow like that?”
"Oh...oh, god, fuck, Joel,” you whimper, your aftershocks still milking him dry. “Christ, y-you trying to knock me up twice?"
It’s like that alone makes him redouble his efforts. You’ve never seen him like this before, but you like it. Something primal in you wants this as badly as he does.
"Fuck yeah, baby, gonna pump you full'a twins."
Holy shit. You’re not sure if you’re still cumming or if you just came again, but you feel an entirely new rush of pleasure and he hisses out a breath through his teeth like he can feel it. Not long after, sensitivity starts to set in for both of you and he stills, seated deeply inside you, chest heaving and eyes shut tight.
His hands squeeze where they’ve been aggressively gripping your thighs before he reluctantly pulls out, but he keeps your hips tilted up as he drops to sit between your legs on the cushion below.
“There a reason I can’t lay down like a normal person?” you laugh, wiggling in his grasp. “Joel, come on, put me down. I’m already pregnant.”
“Just gimme a minute,” he mumbles, suddenly sounding so solemn. He turns his head from where it's resting on the side of your knee to kiss your damp skin. “Didn’t know I was knockin’ you up the first time, just…lemme have this, alright?”
Your eyes soften. How this man can be such a sap after fucking you like that is beyond comprehension, but if he wants this, then you’ll let him have his moment. It’s kind of sweet, anyway.
“Okay,” you reach up to brush your fingertips along his cheek. It's incredible, really, all of the things you see in Joel's eyes right now. That in this single, fleeting gaze, you can see forever. "Put a baby in me.”
SATURDAY
"Can you stay up all night? Fuck me 'til the daylight. 34, 35."
You’re convinced Joel tastes especially good in the mornings. There’s a hint of sweat to his skin, so naturally bitter and heady, maybe even a little tangy. It’s fucking delicious.
And he’s always hard in the morning. His cock is the perfect alarm clock, always reliable and super effective, whether it’s pulsing against your thigh or rutting into your ass. It’s your favorite way to wake up, but there’s usually not enough time to enjoy it to the fullest.
Not with work and Sarah, even Tommy showing up for breakfast unannounced. But it’s Saturday, which means you can keep your lips wrapped around him for as long as you want, make him cum as many times as you want, and taste him to your heart’s content.
He probably won’t even wake up, at least not right away. Joel sleeps like the dead, especially on the weekends, and it’s been a long week. Even now, as you suck the tip into your wet, very eager mouth and swallow him down halfway, he barely stirs.
That’s more than okay with you. You’d be happy to lie in bed, head pillowed on his stomach, keeping his cock warm between your lips while you wait. Relishing how fucking good he tastes and how your jaw pleasantly aches as you adjust to accommodate his girth.
But, soon enough, your jaw isn’t the only thing aching. The slick mess you’re making in your underwear right now is getting hard to ignore, but you don’t want to let him go. He’s velvety smooth against your tongue, dribbling salty precum down your throat, and his unconscious body is starting to respond to you more and more with each passing moment. This is your favorite part.
He lets out a soft grunt, twitching into the inside of your cheek, and your efforts become a little more concentrated and a lot more obvious. You try to forget about your soaked underwear and the pleasurable whoosh in your belly in favor of sucking a little harder, letting saliva pool in your mouth as you slurp loudly around the head.
His hips jerk up, surprising you enough to gag you, and that only makes your mouth and pussy wetter, the heat building in your core almost unbearable now. The moan that escapes you sends a drawn-out series of vibrations straight down to his balls that pulls even more noise from him, and your head steadily shifts with the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
He's starting to rut into your mouth, whimpering, and yet somehow still asleep, and it makes you feel powerful to have full control over him like this. To command his pleasure without any interruption or intervention, making him fall apart entirely at your mercy. You kind of hope you can get him to cum like this, to be his alarm clock for once.
Turns out only half of your wish is granted, but you don't realize it until Joel's fingers are threading into your hair and abruptly tugging you off. He's definitely awake now, but he also definitely didn't cum. Bummer. You try sucking him back into your mouth, but he tugs you harder even as his hips chase you.
"Joel, what—?" you glare up at him, but upon seeing him, you feel a little bad for your reaction. He looks so sleepy, still a little dazed from his unconventional wake-up call, blinking blearily like he's doing his best to stay awake. Your expression softens.
"Sorry, got a little carried away," you murmur sheepishly. "But, um, you taste really good, so if you wanna go back to sleep, I can just keep—"
You're cut off by a hand trailing down your body, following the curve of your ass to dip inside you. He smears the moisture around your entrance, pushing two fingers into you, then pulling out to hold them up to his face. You watch him, enraptured by the way he inspects your wetness, how it strings between his middle and ring fingers.
Then, he surprises you even further by sucking them into his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he groans around them before slipping them out totally clean. His cock jerks next to your face and you belatedly realize you're drooling.
"Fuck, so do you." He's fully awake now, eyes clear, but dark. Hungry.
"Huh?" you ask dumbly.
"Ya taste really good," he mumbles, his voice low and so sexy, still thick with sleep. You feel your cheeks heat up. Oh.
"C'mere, baby," he tells you, patting his chest. You crawl up his body and lean up to kiss him, assuming he wants you to taste yourself in his mouth, but he stops you. "Other way, sweetheart."
Your brows furrow in confusion as you try to work out exactly what he's asking for. Even though you've been awake and riling him up for what feels like hours, your brain clearly hasn't caught up yet. His eyes are unreadable, fingers tense at his sides. Like he's just itching for you to understand.
"Need you to figure this out—know you can do it," he rasps needily. "C'mon, smart girl, what do I want?"
And then it hits you. He's not asking you to sit on his chest, not really. He wants you to sit on his face. Needs you to. Sprawled out on your hands and knees where his spit-slick cock would be just within reach, bobbing temptingly with every breath he takes.
God, you want to. The idea of Joel fucking you with his tongue while he's fucking into your mouth makes you clench so hard it hurts. You bite your lip, meeting his expectant gaze.
Okay. Okay, you can definitely do that. Especially when he looks so...eager. It also has the double advantage of combining mind-blowing sex with a well-rounded breakfast. You have a feeling you'll both be full after this.
"Just so I have this straight—," you splay your fingers across his stomach, trailing down to wrap tightly around his length and tug upward until a single, perfect bead of precum leaks from his slit, "—you still want my mouth here."
Your eyes stay locked on his as you bend down to lick it off, lingering to suckle the tip and tease your tongue just under the ridge. When he doesn't immediately tug you off, you take him deeper, preening at his harsh intake of breath.
You don't want to press your luck, but he tastes fucking incredible, somehow even better than he did earlier. Maybe it's the way he's watching you, captivated and attuned to your every movement.
He’s already starting to buck into you, shallowly, now an active participant in his own pleasure. His knuckles are nearly white with how hard he’s fisting the sheets, teeth gritting as he fights the urge to rush you.
But his patience is wearing thin. Just a few thrusts later, he tugs you off with what feels like dwindling restraint, and your dazed, glassy eyes don't do much to help.
You look wrecked, and you know it. Lips swollen and slick with saliva, your lashes wet with unshed tears from the effort of taking him. He reaches out to trace your bottom lip with his thumb, hissing when you catch the tip between your teeth.
“Yeah...ngh—yeah, keep doin' that. Suckin' me just like that," he breathes raggedly. "And sit that pretty pussy right here—"
Then, without warning, he's suddenly manhandling you into position, throwing your leg over his head, and maneuvering you until you can feel him panting heavily against your cunt.
“Down, baby, let's go. Wanna taste ya. Now.”
Blunt nails dig into your skin and your hips stutter, dipping low enough for your clit to brush his bottom lip. It’s enough for him to get a taste of you. For him to finally snap and decide he’s done waiting.
Joel yanks you onto his face, licking a wide stripe from your clit to your entrance, his tongue immediately finding a home in your pussy. The motion knocks you off balance and you fall forward, his cock just inches from your mouth.
Bracing a hand on his stomach, you wrap your other around him and he groans throatily in response, the sound deep and muffled as he licks into you with increased fervor. And his noises only grow in volume, vibrating against your folds and sending jolt after jolt into your very sensitive bundle of nerves.
His mouth feels so fucking hot, and the coarseness of his beard burns, making it hard to concentrate on what you’re desperately trying to accomplish. You’re already panting, hiccuped breaths puffing teasingly and cruelly against him until he’s pulsing in your grip.
The promise of him throbbing just like that down your throat makes you focus just long enough to take him back into your mouth, intent on sucking him down as far as your body will let you. But, by now, any sense of self-control he might’ve had before is totally gone. His hips buck clean off the mattress at the tightness of your lips around him, and he all but chokes you with the force of it, the size of him.
And, fuck, you love it. The way his stomach tenses, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t tell where your body ends and his begins, not when he’s fucking into you every single way he can. His tongue spears into you and your pussy rhythmically squeezes him every time his cock grazes the back of your throat.
You’re audibly gagging around him and it’s filthy as hell, but you can tell how much it’s turning him on. Christ, can you tell. Maybe you were genuinely worried you’d suffocate him at first but, now, you probably couldn’t stop yourself from grinding into his face even if you tried. And that's exactly what he wants.
"...Harder—mmph, c'mon, baby," you feel him groan into your cunt, urging your hips even lower. "—ride me harder, harder."
How—he...fuck, he's...? Everywhere. He's everywhere. You struggle to do what he told you, to use him for your mounting pleasure, but it doesn't fucking matter anymore. You're helpless but to let him do whatever he wants to you.
Joel’s devouring you. Roughly grabbing your ass, moaning pathetically into you as he pulls your cheeks apart for better access. It’s almost like you can feel him swelling between your lips, and you try to pull up for just a second of respite.
But, then, he abruptly shifts. His mouth lowers to suck gently, yet fleetingly on your clit twice, then he licks a wide stripe back up to your entrance. Except, he doesn’t stop there. Instead, he continues his path up, gathering your wetness as he goes, and swirls his tongue around your other hole before sucking hard. And it sends you reeling.
Jesus fucking Christ, that’s new. Fuck, and it’s—so...so good. It’s indescribable, how he feels right now. How he sounds—slurping you up, whimpering desperately like he’ll cum at any moment.
And he’s loud, drawn-out moans escaping from so deep within his chest, they climb their way from that tight ring of muscle straight up your spine, where you can vaguely feel his arm snaking around you to claw at your back. You can’t think anymore—you’re done thinking.
Now, it’s just him trapping you in place, the three fingers he’s suddenly pumping into your spasming pussy, and his cock, now abandoned and leaking on his stomach. It’s so much, bordering on too much, and you can’t hold yourself up anymore.
Your head drops unceremoniously onto the puddle of precum and it smears across your cheek as his hips urgently roll into nothing. But you don’t even notice. Not even when your eyes roll back and you start to babble deliriously, your orgasm building quickly in a place between your legs you can’t even begin to explain.
“Joel…JoelJoelJoel—I…you…,” you slam a hand down on the mattress as your thighs start to quake violently. “…cumming—‘m cumming, fuck—fuck.”
It doesn’t just crash over you, it rocks you to your core. Everything below your waist locks down, squeezing his fingers so tight, you swear you can feel each individual knuckle. Your jaw drops, parting around what feels like a silent scream, but you can’t be totally sure because soon, Joel is groaning so gutturally, you can’t focus on anything else.
At least, until he cums completely untouched right into your face. And he cums hard. Thick spurts cover your lips and chin, landing haphazardly on your cheek, and your tongue darts out to taste him, salty and sated and perfect. Exactly what you've been waiting for.
His thighs tense intermittently, a few more drops dribbling out of his slit, and you crane your neck, letting your tongue flutter over his head. As it pulses weakly against your lips, Joel gasps out your name, burying his face in your swollen pussy again.
Lazily, you swivel your hips into his mouth despite the extreme overstimulation, hiccuping soft moans and nearly succumbing to the easy pleasure. He gently caresses your clit, enveloping you with a dextrous warmth that simultaneously makes you jolt and crave the sensation.
Neither of you want to stop. Truthfully, you'd let him do this to you all day, drawing orgasm after orgasm from each other the way you have been all week. But exhaustion's starting to set in and you're not sure your body can physically take any more.
Joel slaps your ass and you huff out a soft laugh, deciding it's time to separate so you can get cozy with him again. The perfect end to your surprisingly athletic, lazy Saturday morning in bed.
“You gonna stop anytime soon, or do you just live there now?” you pant teasingly, grimacing as you slowly lift your head off his stomach.
Shit, you’re a mess. You’re practically stuck to him, his cum drying on his stomach and your face, and you can feel the stickiness of his saliva mixed with your juices dripping between your legs. His hand trails from your ass down to your inner thigh, painting mindless patterns on your sullied skin.
"Sure don't seem like ya want me to stop," he chuckles tiredly, managing to suck your clit chastely one last time before you jerk your hips away.
His head finally drops onto the pillow below him, and he lets out a disgruntled whine when you toss your leg over his head, plopping down on the bed beside him.
"Yeah, well, one of us has to have a little self-control or we're not leaving this bed today. And you, uh, look like you could use some tidying up,” you snort, scratching your fingertips against his already crusting beard. He mimics the motion on your leg, and you swat his hand away, rolling your eyes fondly.
It would be disgusting if it were literally anyone else but Joel but, here in this bed—your bed—it feels so natural. Like it’s totally normal that you’d be covered in each other’s releases, having a silly conversation on a Saturday morning as if you’ve done this all your lives.
“Might wanna look in the mirror, baby. I’d be more’n happy to keep lookin’ at ya like this, but—,” he leans up to wipe a streak of cum off your bottom lip. His hand lingers, cupping your damp cheek, and you instinctively lean into his touch. “—you probably need more cleanin’ up than I do.”
You eye each other for a few seconds, taking in how truly disgusting you both are, before bursting into fits of laughter. You’re smiling so hard, your skin tugs under his drying release and that makes you laugh even harder.
“Alright, alright, filthy girl,” he jokes, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “Lay down, I’ll take care of ya.”
He sits up and slowly slides off the bed, yanking your legs out from under you as he goes. Still giggling, you flop onto the damp, cotton sheets with an oomph and immediately take the opportunity to stretch out your sore limbs. You nuzzle into your pillow with a soft mewl, practically purring as you try to soak up the warm morning rays streaming through the gaps in the curtains.
You glance over at Joel as you continue to nest like a gigantic cat, but he's already watching you, paused in the doorway to the bathroom. His eyes rove appreciatively down your naked body and you observe him quietly, deciding you'll let him stare for as long as he wants to. There's no rush. Sure, you're still a mess and probably have the worst bedhead imaginable, but despite it all, he makes you feel beautiful.
When he returns with a cool, damp washcloth a few minutes later, he's much cleaner and you're only a little bummed that the evidence of your explosive morning is gone. He's gentle and attentive as he wipes the remaining streaks off your cheeks and chin, and bends down to kiss you once your face is officially cum-free.
Okay, maybe you lied earlier. This is your favorite part. Joel taking care of you, choosing to express his affection through his actions and touch. You sigh into his mouth, melting into the first real kiss you've shared since waking up, and it takes his tongue tangling with yours for you to realize he tastes minty. He's always so delicious.
Trailing further down, he wipes his release off your stomach, pressing his lips to each freshly-cleaned inch of skin, and then crawls between your legs to wash away the mess he made of your thighs. Your eyes start to flutter closed at the repetitive shift in sensation, his hands lulling you to sleep, until the washcloth hits the floor with a dull splat.
Well, that was over way too soon. But you quickly forgive the horrible transgression once his warm, welcome body sinks into the bed next to you, and his tousled head of hair and beard nuzzle into your stomach.
He mouths at your skin, his lips pressing sweetly around your belly button, and it tickles, making you laugh as you thread your fingers through his curls and scratch his scalp affectionately.
After a moment of comfortable silence, his hand splays warm and broad next to his head. His expression shifts and he looks unexpectedly pensive. Uncertainty creeps into your chest before you can logic it away, even though you know without a doubt that he wants this. His lips begin to move against your stomach and it takes a second for you to realize he's saying something, almost too quietly for you to hear. But when it finally registers, all of that fear completely fades away.
"Hey there, kiddo. It's me, your daddy," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin as soothing as his words. He has the tiniest smile on his face, and it's growing wider by the second. "We're all so excited to meet ya. Me, your momma, your big sister, your uncle...we already love ya so damn much."
The room starts to blur into a wash of colors and figures, and shit, you're crying. But how could you not be? He's...talking to your tiny clump of cells. To your baby—who can't possibly be bigger than a pumpkin seed—with so much adoration, it makes your chest ache.
You're trying so hard not to tremble or sniffle or breathe too heavily so you don't startle him, but that doesn't exactly work out. A few stray tears make their way up your nose, and you snort around your next inhale. Classic, clumsy you.
Joel's head shoots up like he's been caught and his cheeks flush that beautiful shade of burgundy you love so much. You don't want him to stop, but he looks so embarrassed like he thinks he's done something wrong. That couldn't be further from the truth.
"I'm just emotional from the hormones, it's totally fine. I'm totally fine," you give him a reassuring, watery grin. "Keep going. I think they like the sound of daddy's voice."
He chuckles and reaches up to wipe your tears away, gently cradling your face in his hand before he slides it back down to your belly. He continues where he left off, just like you asked, but you have a sneaking suspicion he would've anyway. Joel's just one of those men who was born to be a dad. It comes as naturally to him as breathing.
“Heard that? That's your momma, kiddo. She's....well. She's somethin' else. Strongest, most lovin', person I've ever known and fuckin' sharp as a tack," he smiles up at you, eyes crinkling and bright as the goddamn sun. "And she's beautiful. She even sounds beautiful, don't she? Hopin' you'll come out just like her."
You scoff affectionately, shaking your head as you share a look that tells you he knows exactly what you're thinking. If this baby pops out without his brown eyes and curls, you're going to be so pissed. You teasingly tug his hair, willing him to take it back, but he won't. If your baby's getting anything from the two of you, it's stubbornness.
Then, before you can blink, there's a sudden tone shift. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, and he turns his head so he's speaking directly into your belly. An exchange just between a father and his child.
"Wanna know a secret? S'just between you and me, though, alright? Don't go tellin' your momma," he says nosing into your soft skin, his voice barely above a whisper. You watch him curiously, squeezing his hand to get his attention, but his focus remains on your stomach. "'m gonna ask your momma to marry me. Think she'll say yes?"
Your heart stops and it feels like all of the air's been sucked out of the room. That's—fuck...that's one hell of a secret to share with your baby. You can't even imagine the kind of trouble they're going to get up to if they're already keeping secrets like that.
His eyes flit up to meet yours, but they're not questioning or expectant. He isn't wondering what your answer will be. He just looks peaceful. Blanketed in an easy calm because he already knows what you're going to say. Of course, he does.
Propping his chin on your hip, Joel quietly observes your reaction while he strokes the back of your hand with the rough pad of his thumb. You wonder what he sees on your face and in your body language right now because you're positive it's not the elation or excessive joy anyone else would expect.
You're not squealing or jumping up and down, or whatever newly engaged people usually do. No, that blanket of easy calm is more than big enough for both of you, and it feels safe and warm, just like you always knew this moment would.
And you wouldn't want it any other way. Lying here together after possibly the most eventful week of your lives, filled with so much sex and love and family, and deciding that you want to keep doing this together, over and over. Forever.
You guide his hand up to your lips, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to his palm, before placing it over your racing heart. That tiny smile returns to his face and he crawls up your body so he can kiss you properly, conveying his love better than words ever could.
It's still way too early for your baby to kick or give their daddy any sort of sign that they heard his question, but you're sure they wouldn't mind if you answered for them. It's a no-brainer, anyway.
"Yeah, I do."
thanks for reading! 💕
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller smut#joel miller fluff#joel miller angst#joel miller#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal characters
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Disposable Heroes
Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four AO3 link
A/N: hi yes so sorry for how late this is, it turned into a huge monster of a fic that I’m still working on but I figured posting the first part wouldn’t hurt. This is based on this post by @liightsnow, @acowardinmordor, and @00biscuit while back and I decided to expand that concept a bit and here we are. I'll be tagging anyone that seemed interested in the concept at the end of the fic! Warnings are below but I just wanna say that Steve is struggling with his sexuality in this one so most of it comes from that. This will absolutely have a happy ending, just not right now. Enjoy the angst!
Tw: internalized homophobia, homophobic language, mentions of canon violence, dissociation, panic attacks
———
It’s a Sunday afternoon when he realizes it. Steve is sitting on his couch, eating a shitty frozen meal and watching a random movie on TV when it hits him. The kids haven’t asked him for a ride in two weeks. Two Saturdays have passed and there was not one call— either on the phone or over the walkie— from any of the kids. Not even Dustin, who has seemed to make it his life’s mission in the past couple years to annoy Steve into an early grave.
It’s not like he hasn’t seen them at all. He still practices basketball with Lucas on Thursdays, even though the season is long over. His weekly dinners with Claudia and Dustin are still going strong every Wednesday. Joyce seems to invite him over for dinners every couple weeks. From the outside, everything seems fine. And maybe it is, but Steve’s noticed things.
See, he’s not as stupid as people think he is. He may not be academically smart but he can read. However, instead of books, it’s people. He can read their micro-expressions, notice little signs in their body language that help him understand the person. He can tell when people are nervous when they avoid eye contact, can tell how anxious they are when they distract themselves by picking at their fingers. It’s how he’s so good with the kids. They’re in the stubborn stage of their teenage years, the time in which the only answer you’ll get is ‘I’m fine. Leave me alone’. But he can tell if there’s something on their minds, if there’s something eating away at them.
He can tell that Mike’s anger and pointed barbs are directed towards himself, how he’s struggling with something he can’t quite admit to himself yet. How Max is frustrated with her body, with accepting help, because she’s always had to rely on herself and putting that much trust in someone else has never been an option for her until now. How Lucas is trying to find joy in doing something he loves again, because his love for basketball has been ruined by Carver and his trusty band of assholes. How Dustin is trying to deal with almost losing Eddie, how he’s processing the feelings of almost losing a brotherly figure along with one of his friends. How Will is hiding part of himself, struggling to accept it in the same way Mike is. How El is trying so hard to find her new normal, to adjust to getting her life— her father— back.
There’s another thing he’s noticed, however. It’s that the kids are obsessed with Eddie. Steve from a couple years ago would feel jealous of Eddie, and would try to hold it against him. Now, though, Steve just feels… sad. The kids constantly talk about how cool and badass Eddie is for still being himself despite all the shit Hawkins has thrown at him. They talk about how Eddie takes them places, gets them little trinkets for their nerd game, and takes them fun places. Eddie does all these little things for the kids, lets them just be kids, and really, Steve can’t be mad at him for it. He tries to let them have fun, but his constant worrying overwhelms them. It brings them down. Eddie doesn’t do that. He joins right in with them, basking in the fun and letting himself go. Steve… can’t. Not with all the shit he’s seen. Letting his guard down is something he can’t afford to do anymore.
He sighs down at his meal, chucking it on the coffee table as he loses his appetite. His glasses land next to the disposable plastic tray, sliding across the finished wood surface from the force of his throw. He rubs harshly over his face, hands digging into his eyes until he sees stars.
Steve knows he’s not perfect. Hell, it took an interdimensional monster trying to kill him in order for him to realize that he could be a better person. That the only person truly able to change his life is himself. He used to think he had no choice in his life— whether it was his parents' high expectations of him or his friends trying to mold him into their perfect little plaything— but he knows better now. He knows that he shouldn’t have become King Steve, that he shouldn’t have hurled all his hate and anger towards other people who didn’t deserve it. He knows he shouldn’t have called people names or slurs, that he shouldn’t have spray painted lockers or ripped up books or shoved people against hard asphalt. He knows that, but knowing it was wrong doesn’t erase the fact that it happened. That Steve did those things and hurt people.
Part of him knows that his past is what made the kids turn towards Eddie. Why wouldn’t they? Steve was a bully, thought he was hot shit in school and made it everyone’s problem. Eddie was simply himself. His unabashed, unashamed self. He stood on cafeteria tables, made dramatic speeches, and shared his opinions to anyone and everyone who would listen. He’s so genuine and so, so much better for the kids. He teaches them how to be themselves, how to shove off the hate and embrace their weird side. He’s perfect for them, and Steve knows deep down that this is good for them. The kids need a good role model, one they can rely on, and Eddie has his herd of little sheep to teach and protect. It’s perfect. They’re perfect.
Steve remembers the time last week at the Byers-Hopper house when their little obsession truly became real. They were waiting for the bread to finish baking in the oven, and Steve saw that Will was seated alone in the living room. Joyce and Hopper were in the kitchen, talking and keeping a lookout so the bread wouldn’t burn. Jonathan and El were listening to music in his room, the synth and guitars echoing down the hallway. So, Steve decided to finally talk to Will. It’s not like they don’t talk ever, just… not much. Will is quiet, blends into the background, and Steve never felt like the kid would be comfortable with him trying to get in his business. However, he needed to ask the question that had been on his mind for a while.
Steve sat down on the couch next to him, keeping a fair amount of distance between them, and rested his elbows on his knees. Will was reading a comic, the cover full of bright colors and words, not paying attention. Steve sighed, pushed his glasses up, and ran a hand through his own hair.
“Hey, um… can we talk for a sec?”
Will startled a little, like he didn’t realize Steve was there, and closed his comic. He nodded, and Steve tried not to feel bad about the hesitation in his eyes.
“Is there something going on that I don’t know about? Like with the others?” Will’s eyebrows furrowed, a confused expression taking over his face.
“Um.. what do you mean?”
“Just… have I done anything to them to make them mad? I just… I don’t know, I feel like I’ve done something but I don’t know what,” Steve confessed. He must have looked as distraught as he felt, because Will seemed to soften at his explanation a bit.
“Why do you think that, Steve?” Will asked softly, and Steve had a moment of realization that Will seemed years older than he looked. Steve sighed, and explained that the kids haven’t really been hanging around him much and instead like to spend time with Eddie. He’s quick to clarify that he doesn’t mean anything bad by it, just wants to know what happened. It was Will’s turn to sigh, and he looked at Steve with something akin to sympathy.
“Steve, I don’t say this to be mean but… Eddie just relates to us more, you know? He shares more interests with us, and he seems to get us better,” Will expressed. His eyes widened and he hastily added, “it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you! Just… it’s nice to have somewhere else to go, you know?”
The rest of the evening was spent with Steve silently eating his dinner, Will’s words echoing through his head as he munched on half-burnt bread.
Steve decides then, TV dinner half-eaten and work vest still on his shoulders, that he’s going to make this better.
The next day, Eddie comes into Family Video to pick up some movies, definitely for a movie night judging by the titles— he seriously doubts a metalhead would willingly watch The Goonies, The Dark Crystal, and Ghostbusters by himself on a Saturday night. Eddie bounds up to the register, movies in hand, and does a dramatic bow as he presents them to Steve.
“I wish to borrow these, my liege,” Eddie declares, his voice deep and in a horrible mockery of an English accent. Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, unable to hide the small grin on his face at the other man's theatrics.
Eddie looks so effortlessly pretty, his hair tied back in a ponytail and his tattoos exposed through the large arm holes in his homemade tank top. Steve shakes his head to get rid of those thoughts and takes the movies to check them out, ignoring the late fee balance on Eddie's account. A glance at the man in front of him, who is bouncing on his toes and looking around the store, gives Steve an idea.
“Hey, is Hellfire still going on?”
Eddie snaps his attention back to Steve, looking a little startled to be asked such a thing.
“Uh… yeah, it's still going on. We have to play in Gareth’s hot ass garage since school is out but we’re making it work. Why d’you ask?”
“Oh, uh… the kids complained awhile back that they didn’t have a good spot to play anymore and I was just wondering,” Steve explains. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, and Steve can feel him staring. Can feel him looking at him closely. Too closely. He clears his throat and looks back down at the counter, pushing his gold, wire-framed glasses further up his nose. “I uh… I actually wanted to offer up my place? My parents aren’t home much”— more like never— “and I’ve got plenty of space for the gremlins and the other guys. Plus, my A/C works and I’ve got a shit ton of snacks. I’ll stay out of your hair and-“
“Actually uh…” Eddie cuts him off with a strained voice. Steve looks up to find his face contorted like he ate something sour, and he knows what his response is going to be before he opens his mouth. Eddie wipes a hand over his mouth before shoving it in his pocket. “Yeah, the other guys just… really wouldn’t want to be there.”
Steve nods— tries not to let the denial sting— and looks down at the movies in his hands. Ignoring how they shake, he sets them on the counter and slides them towards Eddie.
“That’s okay man, I get it. I need a break from the little horrors anyway,” he huffs out, the words digging their way into the pit in his stomach. He puts on his best customer service smile and looks up at Eddie, finding him looking a little wary. Eddie hesitates, as if debating with himself on whether or not to say anything, before rapping his knuckles on the counter in a little rhythm and picking up his movies. An awkward smile finds its way to his face, and Steve thinks it strange and out of place. It’s so.. un-Eddie-like. The pit grows deeper.
Walking backwards towards the entrance, Eddie throws a little salute his way before turning and swinging out the door. A belated “see ya, Harrington” drifts through the closing door in his wake.
Steve slumps over the counter when he’s gone, holding his head in his hands and feeling the childish urge to cry make its way up to his eyes. Even after everything— after walking through hell together, dragging his lifeless body out of the Upside Down as his blood dripped down his back and soaked through his clothes, standing vigil at his side until he woke up two weeks later— Eddie still seems to hate him.
But Steve… he feels the opposite. He has this overwhelming desire to be with Eddie. To hang out with him in the back of his van, drinking sodas and eating snacks as they look out over Lover’s Lake while the sun sets. To talk to him until the early hours of the morning until there’s nothing left to say. To go for drives late at night and listen to his loud music on the radio while holding hands over the center console. He has feelings for Eddie he’s never had before. Not for any past romantic conquests nor any girl. Hell, not even for Nancy. He’s never felt this intense need to be near someone before, and it scares him. It truly terrifies him.
He’s not homophobic— his platonic soulmate is a lesbian, for Christ's sake— but the fact that he feels this way is just… wrong to him. How is Steve Harrington, ladies’ man and charmer extraordinaire, into dudes? What is he, like, half gay? It just doesn’t make sense, doesn’t seem right, for him to feel like this. He sighs into his hands, digging his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. He can’t be thinking about this now, he can’t be thinking about this at all. He needs to shove it in the box in the back of his head where all the hard feelings go, waiting and festering to be dealt with later. He needs to, but he doesn’t know if he can.
Fuck, he needs to talk to Robin. Shit- can he though? What if what he’s feeling is a fluke or something? What if it’s just in his head because he’s desperate? What if Robin thinks he’s making fun of her and won’t take him seriously? It’s not fair of him to throw all his problems on her, even if he thinks she could help. It’s not her job to look after him, to take care of him. He can do that himself. He can figure this out himself.
Distantly, the words of Richard Harrington play in his ears. About how being gay is wrong, how it’s a disease. How it’s a sickness that slowly takes over until there’s nothing left. How it’s a disgrace.
He remembers sitting in the living room with his parents on a rare occasion in which they were home, watching the news channel as it talked about an epidemic spreading through young men. His father scoffed at the screen when they started talking about potential cures.
“Cures? They should just let those fags die. They brought this on themselves, you know. Typical of them to complain about the fucking consequences,” Richard had spat out at the block TV, standing to refill his bourbon. Steve had clenched his fists at his side, his already stiff posture straightening still. He felt angry at his fathers words, something pure and burning in his gut.
He didn’t know what it was at the time, but maybe he should’ve known. Maybe him being queer shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it feels. Maybe he’s always known and just couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Maybe that anger he felt at his father’s words was partly on behalf of himself, too.
A wince shudders through him as he remembers how that night ended.
Steve had stood up from the couch, watching the dark liquid flow into the crystal glass in his father’s hand.
“What’s so wrong with being gay? I don’t understand how you could just.. hate people like that. Hate them for just existing,” Steve countered. His father had frozen at his words, slowly setting down the decanter with a solid ‘thunk’ against the metal tray where it belonged and turned to face him. His face was slowly gaining a reddish hue, a sign of the anger rising within him.
“What did you just say?” He demanded, voice scarily calm but laced with an icy rage. Steve swallowed.
“What… What's wrong with being gay, sir?” Steve hesitated, voice failing him. Richard had downed the glass of bourbon before throwing it at Steve, the crystal shattering on the mantelpiece behind him and sending shards flying.
“What’s wrong, Steven, is that you think it’s okay. No son of mine will think like that, not on my watch,” his father boomed, taking long strides towards him. Steve didn’t dare move, only watched his fist grow nearer as he punched him high on his cheek. He fell to the floor, arms trying to protect his head but it was no use. Richard had ripped his arms away, gripping the front of his shirt and making Steve hover above the ground.
“I didn’t raise a fucking fairy, Steven,” he spat. “A faggot.” Steve recoiled, physically feeling the vitriol his father aimed at his face. Richard had sneered, pulled him close and whispered, “Never forget that, Steven,” before shoving him harshly onto the ground and walking away. Black had clouded the edges of his vision, and he laid on the plush rug until it cleared up. He looked over, found his mother silently watching the TV and sipping her wine, and begged with his eyes for her to help him. To say something. Anything. She didn’t, and Steve had to haul himself off the floor, grasping the couch when his vision swam, and stumbled his way to his room.
The rest of that weekend was spent in his room, gingerly cleaning his face and the couple places where glass had cut him on his arms with a wet washcloth and soap. It was the first time he had ever gotten a concussion. He was fifteen.
He remembers replaying the fight over and over again, feeling like those barbs were directed towards him, too. In hindsight, maybe they were. Maybe his father just knew. Knew he was queer long before Steve ever did. Maybe that’s why he’s always so angry with him, so… disappointed. A groan escapes him and he runs a hand through his hair. He’s been thinking way too damn much for it to be this early in the day.
God, he really wishes Robin was here. He knows he can’t talk to her, but it would be nice just to have someone here to keep him from spiraling and drowning in his thoughts. He pushes himself off the counter and goes over to the cart where the returns sit, hoping that busying himself will occupy his thoughts. He sets a few on the shelves when what Eddie said earlier barrels into him full-force.
“Yeah, the other guys just… really wouldn’t want to be there.”
Jesus fucking Christ, he’s stupid. Of course the other Hellfire guys wouldn’t want to be at his house, they probably still see him as King Steve. Most people do, nowadays. Only the ones he went through hell with know he’s different now, that he’s changed. So really, he can’t fault them for being against the idea of Hellfire at his house. He wouldn’t believe it either if he was in their shoes.
Then again, wouldn’t Eddie or the kids try to convince them he’s different? That he’s not a dick? Shit, he’s been through four apocalypses, three concussions, and survived Russian torture— surely they would give him the benefit of the doubt, right? He’s dropped the bad influences out of his life, found better friends, better family— or can he even say that anymore?— to be with. Wouldn’t they try to stick up for him? Or... is he just not worth it?
Steve clenches his eyes shut, willing his bubbling emotions back down, and grips the movie in his hands so hard the plastic begins to creak. The little voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like Robin, tells him to breathe. He does. Deep inhale, hold, long exhale. Over and over and over again until he’s calm, until his head is clear.
He knows what he needs to do now: apologize. If it's one thing Steve Harrington knows, it’s how to apologize. Hell, he’s done it more times than he can count. He knows how to repair burnt bridges and how to get past the tough exterior of a person to pull at their heartstrings for sympathy. He knows the key; he just has to make himself useful. If he can provide things for the kids, for Eddie and the Hellfire crew, then they’ll want him around. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it is with his parents, with school, with his past friends, and now his current ones. He vaguely recalls his junior year art teacher saying that, "once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, but thrice is a pattern." Which means this, this is something he has to make right.
With a plan solidified in his mind, he goes back to work refilling the shelves with movies, brainstorming ideas to get his family back.
Over the next week, Steve becomes a one man show. He offers up more rides, more movie nights, more free reign of his house and his pool and his car and his money and himself just to make the kids happy. He picks up extra shifts at work just to get extra spending money for them, knowing that they go through twenty bucks in no time.
But… it doesn’t work. Because bit by bit, ride by ride, movie marathon by family dinner by game night by post-nightmare phone call, it becomes painfully clear. Everyone puts on a mask around him. One that says they’re happy to see him, that they’re glad he’s here, but he knows it’s a lie. This, really, shouldn’t be much of a surprise. People don’t stick around him much, so why did he think this was any different?
Maybe it’s because he was finally himself around them, he finally opened up and showed a bit of his true self, and was still rejected. Still pushed away. He wasn’t cowering behind a mask this time, he was just Steve. But it wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough.
To their credit, it starts off slow. Casual comments that are cut off quickly, kicks under dinner tables and pointed throat clearing. It’s one instance during game night where it all clicks.
The Monopoly board is spread out before them in the Byers-Hopper living room. Steve, of course, is losing. He’s not good with investments and savings and he keeps landing on the goddamn ‘jail’ space but he doesn’t really care, not when he’s finally having fun with the kids. He groans when the dice make him land on one of Mike’s properties, shuffling his fake cash to pull out the tax money.
“C’mon this game is totally rigged. How the hell am I losing to a bunch of teens?” He grumbles as Mike proudly snatches the money from his hand. Max snickers from her place beside him, her pale blue eyes rolling as she looks at him.
“You know, if you actually used your brain then maybe you wouldn’t be losing. Ever think of that?” She quips, and Steve huffs. Leave it to him to be called out by a fifteen year old.
“I’m surprised there’s even a brain in there to begin with,” Dustin states. He’s seated across from Steve. “I mean, why else would he have-“
His comment is cut off by Lucas smacking his arm. Dustin looks at him like he’s about to protest when Lucas raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly from Dustin to Steve and back again. Steve can’t hear from his position so far away, but he swears Dustin mutters “shit” before crossing his arms and looking down at the board. Steve looks around at the rest of the group, noticing how none of them seem to want to look at him, choosing to focus rather intently on the cardboard before them.
The rest of the game is filled with awkward silences. Steve can feel them looking at him when he’s occupied, and it makes him feel like shit inside.
It’s on the drive home when it hits him. He is the one that doesn’t fit into their group, into their family. They’re slowly but surely removing him and replacing him with Eddie. With someone who fits. With someone better. It hits him so hard, so fully, that he has to pull over on a quiet street to sob in his empty car.
The first time it's fully solidified in his mind is at a barbecue at the Byers-Hoppers house. Robin can’t come, her aunt from up north is visiting for the weekend and she has to stay home. Steve walks through the house, planning on saying hello to Joyce before joining the party outside. He finds Joyce talking low to Eddie in the kitchen and he pauses in the doorway, watches how Joyce laughs at something Eddie says. How she places her hand on his arm as her eyes crinkle with the weight of her laugh. Eddie is smiling, open and wide, with a flush high on his cheeks that stains his skin pink. His dimples are on full display and it takes pure willpower for Steve not to go and poke at them, to settle his thumb in the divot of his skin.
Joyce leans close to Eddie and says something under her breath, making him blush purely red now and shush her, causing another wave of laughter to ripple through the both of them. The kitchen is filled with warmth, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the sheer cream-colored curtains that line the two windows as laughter fills the room. It’s light, it’s happiness, it’s love. It’s something Steve hasn’t felt in years.
Steve knocks on the doorframe, waggling his fingers in greeting. They both turn to look at him, and all that warmth from before flees the room. If he hadn’t just seen the thin rays with his own two eyes, he could have sworn even the sun went down as well. He feels a stab of pain in his heart, so sharp it makes his breath stutter. He fights to put a smile on his face, briefly clearing his throat and praying his voice doesn’t sound as faint as he feels.
“Hey, Ms. Byers. Eddie,” he greets. Steve runs a hand through his hair, just to give himself something to do. “Just wanted to say hi before I go outside.”
Eddie’s face has gone completely slack, the only thing convincing Steve he didn’t hallucinate the entire exchange earlier is the flush that had yet to leave his cheeks. In fact, Eddie looks even more red now that he’s made his presence known. Joyce, to her credit, has a small polite smile on her face.
“Thank you, Steve, that's very kind of you,” she replies. She casts a glance at Eddie out of the corner of her eye, something Steve has noticed a lot of people do to each other when he’s around. “You go on outside now, okay? I’m sure the kids are missing you.”
Steve holds back his remark of “yeah, I actually doubt that” and nods, leaving the two of them in the kitchen as he continues down the hallway. He tries hard not to let the harshness of their quick whispers dig further into his already injured heart.
Once outside, he’s greeted by no one. Dustin and Lucas are discussing something rapidly to one another, Dustin gesturing wildly with his hands as Lucas nods along and adds details. Max and El are sitting on a lawn chair together, Max seemingly teaching El how to braid her hair. Mike and Will are sitting in the grass a bit away from the group, shoulders touching and heads bowed together as they talk quietly to one another. Steve smiles softly at them, knowing.
He makes his way over to Hopper, who is manning the grill with a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. Steve waves and gives him an awkward little smile, and Hopper nods his head, pointing towards a cooler with his beer. Steve grabs one, popping it open and taking an, admittedly, big first swig. Hopper doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, and Steve looks out over the people he still considers his family. He catches Dustin’s eyes, hoping to have someone to talk to, but the kid only looks away and continues his conversation.
So now Steve is here by himself, slowly nursing a beer, and trying to keep his emotions in check.
It’s just that… he doesn’t know what he did. Was he too overbearing or did he not care enough? Was he too pushy or too distant? Was he just annoying them? Was he just an inconvenience? Did they ever really like him or did they just put up with them out of necessity? Or because they felt bad?
He takes another sip of beer, hating the way it tastes on his tongue but it’s better than the bile slowly rising in his throat. All he wants is for someone to see him, to see who he truly is and like it. To stick around. To stay.
And it’s true, he does have Robin, but sometimes she can’t give him what he needs. Call him a romantic but Steve wants that love, that connection, that intense feeling you get with a partner. He craves it more than anything. He wants to touch, to taste, to feel someone else.
Eddie. He wants Eddie.
A voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Kid, will you go get me a plate for the burgers?” Hopper asks, his gruff voice shoving all of his mushy thoughts aside. Steve nods, sets his beer on top of the cooler, and makes his way inside. He silently dreads ever walking in that room again, dreads having to feel the chill from before. However, the scene in the kitchen is drastically different this time. Joyce is by herself, Eddie nowhere to be seen, and is mixing together slaw in a big tupperware bowl.
Steve knocks on the frame again and is met with a small smile from the older woman. It’s infinitely more warm than the one he was met with when he got there, and he thinks it’s partly due to the lack of a certain metalhead in the room. Joyce sets down her spoon, wiping her hands on a nearby towel, and holds her arms out.
“C’mere, honey,” she murmurs, and Steve tries not to let her soft tone get to him. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of everyone. He walks forwards into her hug, leaning down a little to wrap his arms around her properly, and sighs when she rubs her hands up and down his back. Steve clenches his eyes shut, taking in stuttering breaths that he knows she can hear but thanks every god out there that she doesn’t comment on it. She taps her hands twice on his back and pulls away, reaching up to push some of his hair off his forehead and Steve wills himself to not lean into the touch too much.
“Sorry for not saying a proper hello earlier, I was a bit preoccupied. Eddie- well, that’s not my thing to tell but he needed some help with something and… well, you get it,” she smiles, laughs a little, and Steve smiles back.
This. This is what he wishes he could have with his parents. This lightness, this love. He never will, he knows that, but the little moments like this with Joyce, the way she hugs him and cares for him, are ones he treasures. Ones he wishes he could have everyday. Joyce is a wonderful mother, and part of him wishes he could have her as his own. Hell, she’s been more of a mother to him in the four years he’s known her than his mother ever has. But he knows that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair of him to put his parental issues on her or anyone else. So he doesn’t, and shoves his hands in his pockets instead.
“It’s okay, Ms. Byers, I get it. Sorry to interrupt you two, though,” he apologizes. She waves her hands in a shooing motion.
“Oh don’t apologize for that, honey, it’s okay,” she smiles, then hesitates. “I do want you to promise me something, okay?” Steve nods, and Joyce places her hands on either side of his face. “Promise me you’ll be careful with people, be gentle. Not everyone can be treated the same, some people… they’re special.
“Sometimes, it’s better to listen. Promise me, Steve, that you’ll always listen, okay?” She asks, and Steve has to swallow before he responds.
“I promise, Ms. Byers,” he replies, and she pats his cheek. Her smile has grown, and her eyes have softened.
“I love you, Steve, you know that, right?” Joyce asks, and it’s like the world has stopped moving. He didn’t know that, not really. Sure, he knew she liked him but he didn’t know she…
He doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until Joyce coos at him, wiping away a few stray tears that have escaped with her thumbs.
“I-I didn’t know you- I’m sorry, I don’t-“ Steve stutters out, but Joyce shushes him.
“You don’t have to apologize, Steve, it’s alright,” she insists. Her thin arms pull him into another hug and he buries his face in her shoulder. The angle is a little awkward, but it’s a comfort Steve hasn’t had in ages so he stays. “It’s gonna be alright.”
Her small hands rub up and down his back as he holds back tears. He regulates his breathing, taking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly, until he’s sure he won’t cry. He pulls back from the hug and wipes at his eyes, sure that they're red-rimmed and a little puffy, but Joyce only smiles that warm smile and pats his cheek again. Steve smiles at her, the first genuine smile he thinks he’s had in awhile, and it feels good. To smile and know it's real.
Joyce turns to the counter behind her and picks up a plate, handing it to Steve. His brows furrow, and he hesitantly takes the offered crockery.
“How did you-“
“I had a feeling,” she interrupts him with a wink. “Now go on before Hop burns the yard down.”
Steve smiles and goes back outside, handing the plate to Hop and ignoring his grumble of “took ya long enough”, before picking his beer back up and taking a much needed swig. A few minutes later, they’re all eating. Eddie has joined Dustin and Lucas in their rambling, all three of them loudly talking over one another. Steve watches them; wishing, wanting, yearning. Joyce bumps her shoulder into his, making him swivel his head to look down at her. She smiles, almost knowingly, and Steve blushes. He clears his throat and looks away, focusing on fixing his burger rather than whatever the fuck that was.
He sits alone away from the group, catching occasional glances from Joyce, Dustin, and Hopper. Joyce is concerned, he can tell that much, and part of her almost looks sad. Dustin looks conflicted, like he can’t decide if he wants to be mad from a distance or just come right up to Steve and say it to his face. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he did the latter. Hopper, to Steve’s complete unsurprise, looks uninterested and, frankly, fed up with this whole situation. Steve doesn’t blame him, he is too.
After the food is gone, and dessert is served, Steve heads inside to help clean up. He washes dishes quietly with Joyce, while she dries them and puts them away. As he finishes up the last plate, Will comes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom? The party wanted to play some board games, is that okay?” He requests, and Steve can feel Joyce soften beside him. She smiles.
“Of course, honey. Make sure you ask the girls what they want to play, too, okay?” Will rolls his eyes and smiles, a mannerism Steve notes he definitely got from Mike.
“Got it, Mom,” he replies, and runs off. Steve turns back to the sink, realizing he’s been scrubbing the plate well past the point of clean, and rinses it off.
“I um.. I think I’m going to head out, Ms. Byers,” he begins. He hands the plate to her. “I’ve got a shift tomorrow and uh… I don’t want to intrude or anything.”
He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t want to repeat the last game night, where everyone kept glancing at him like he was a bomb set to explode at any moment. He doesn’t say that he can’t handle their stares for any longer than he already has.
“Oh, are you sure? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want to,” Joyce offers, but Steve shakes his head.
“I really should be going, sorry.”
“Alright, dear. Let me walk you out,” she insists, moving to take off her apron.
“I’ll walk him out, Joyce, don’t worry about it,” Hopper's gruff voice interrupts from the doorway. Steve swallows and nods, drying his hands off on a towel. He looks at Joyce, seeing her share a glance and a smile with Hopper before looking back at him. He smiles, finally beginning to think that maybe… maybe things will be okay.
“Thank you, Ms. Byers. For everything,” he expresses. He leans down to give her a hug, her arms quickly hugging him back.
“It’s alright, dear. You come to me if you ever want to talk, you hear?” Steve pulls away from the hug.
“I will, promise,” he hesitates. Steve looks down at his hands, shaking from where they’re clutching each other, and takes a breath. “I… I love you too.”
He looks up right as Joyce pulls him into another hug. He laughs a little, and she pats his back before pulling away with a “be safe”. Hopper clears his throat from the door and Steve takes a step back, nods to Joyce, and follows the other man outside.
They step out on the front porch together, and Steve is prepared to continue walking to his car when Hop places a hand on his shoulder. He stops, and turns to find the man looking at him seriously.
“Son, I want you to promise me something,” he grumbles, and Steve begins to feel a strange sense of deja vu. While Joyce’s tone was soft, Hopper’s is deep and leaves no room for hesitation. He vaguely has a thought that this is what his father would have been like if things were different. If he were different. Steve nods.
“Promise me you’ll fix our shit, alright? I don’t wanna get in the middle of… whatever the hell this is but promise you’ll be better, okay?” He commands, and all the thoughts Steve had earlier about thinking things would be okay fly out the window.
“Y-yes, sir,” he stutters out. Hop claps his shoulder, mumbles a “get home safe”, before pulling a pack of smokes out his pocket and lighting one up. Steve turns, shoves his shaking hands in his pockets, and walks to his car.
Getting in his car is a blur of unconscious actions. He’s driving down a barely lit backroad when he registers that his eyes are stinging, and something warm and wet is dripping down his cheeks. He pulls over on the side of the road, shifting his car into park, and he sits there. He reaches up with a shaky hand and wipes his cheek, his hand coming back wet and shining in the faint glow of the moon. The sight breaks him, and an ugly sob rips its way out his throat. He chokes on an inhale as tears fight their way out, and he hugs his arms around himself as a sad semblance of comfort. His forehead finds purchase on the steering wheel, and his tears stain the leather before dripping on his lap.
He cries because he knows he’s the problem, that he’s the one fucking up. He cries because everyone thinks so, everyone knows. The kids know. Eddie knows. Joyce knows, but she’s just too kind to say it to his face. Hell, even Hopper knows. He cries because he doesn’t know what he did wrong. He cries because he doesn’t think anyone really wants him to fix it.
It’s the second time on a drive home from the Byers-Hopper house that he has to pull over and cry.
He struggles to inhale a deep breath and sits up, harshly wiping his tears away with his hand, uncaring that it rubs his skin raw and red. Sniffling, he puts his car in drive and goes home. Toeing his shoes off at the door is the only thing he thinks to do before he stumbles his way upstairs and collapses on his bed, snuggling into the thin comforter and falling into a fitful sleep.
After a slow shift at Family Video the next day, Steve returns to the darkness of his home with a plan. He can still be useful. They may not have to know, but he can still do something to help. To try and save them before they need to be saved. He can be a preventative measure for them, can stop them from getting hurt before they even know they’re in danger.
He shrugs off his work vest, throwing it on his desk chair as he searches his closet for an old sweatshirt. He finds one, the front adorned with white block letters that read ‘Tigers Swim Team’ and tugs it on. His nail bat finds purchase in his hand as he tucks a flashlight in his back pocket. The walkie Dustin gave him is hooked in his belt loop, just in case. He leaves all the lights on in the house and shuts the door, skirting around his house to begin his walk in the woods.
After four bouts with the Upside Down, he doubts that they’re in the clear, that it’s finally over. He thought it was the first time, then the second, and by the third he was skeptical. Now, though, he doesn’t know what to think. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a round five, or six, or seven. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if it never stopped. But each and every time, they were unprepared. They were surprised, and it nearly cost them every time. But if Steve could prevent that surprise, give them all a heads up before it becomes a big problem, then maybe— just maybe— it’ll come in handy. He’ll come in handy. He’ll be useful again.
So, he walks the woods of Hawkins. His feet crunch the dead leaves piled underneath trees as he trudges through the woods. The flashlight shines long shadows on the ground in front of him, lighting up the pale gray bark of trees and making the eyes of rodents and raccoons shine amber and red.
A rustle sounds a few feet away and he jumps at the noise. He pauses and stands still, listening for the shrill chittering of demodogs or the heavy, thudding footsteps of a demogorgon. He waits, and his flashlight reveals a small fox walking out from behind a tree. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and continues walking.
His feet carry him to Lover’s Lake, the water lapping lazily at the shore with the warm summer breeze. Out here, the lights from town are distant, making the stars shine brightly and reflect in the water. Steve stands there, watches as the artificial light of his flashlight reveals the small ripples on the surface of the water, and waits.
He waits for a lumbering figure to emerge out of the murky depths, to claw its way onto the shore and stalk off into the woods. He waits for chirps muffled by water and splashing to sound in his ears as four-legged creatures swim to the beaches. He waits for the screeches of demonic bats to echo off the trees around him as they fly out of the water and take to the sky. He waits, but it never comes. The lake stays silent.
So he walks.
He follows the road leading to the lake out, letting it take him to the highway that leads out of town. His feet stop as they come across a crack in the road, the crack he took in the other world to get Eddie home safely. The crack that is closed over with black tar, leaving a dark line on the ashen gray asphalt. He remembers clawing his way out of that crack, Eddie’s lifeless body over his shoulders as he slowly bled out.
Nancy had driven her station wagon over, opening the back so he could lay Eddie down as they rode to the hospital. She had asked Steve to drive so she could patch him up, but he refused. He couldn’t leave Eddie, not when he finally got him out. Not when he was barely hanging on. So she threw the first aid kit she had stashed in her car at him and drove to the hospital. Steve had done his best to stop the bleeding, the stark white cloth immediately turning red when he pressed it to Eddie’s skin. They almost lost him. But they didn’t. He’s alive.
Eddie. Eddie.
His head swivels to the forest next to him, the one that leads straight to the trailer park, and he runs. He jumps over fallen trees, feet thudding against the dry earth and leaves as his breath picks up. Orange street lights shine through branches as he draws nearer, and he only slows his pace when he breaks out from the line of trees. His feet swiftly take him to the sight of Eddie’s old trailer, the vacant lot standing out against the fullness of the park. The wooden front steps are still there, partially broken and shifted. The grass has yet to grow in fully, bare spots of dirt showing through the green. His shoes crunch on the gravel as he takes a step closer, inspecting the ground and poking at it with his bat as if it would move. As if the gate would open up just by him being here.
It doesn’t. Steve steps back.
He turns to leave the park, eyes wandering and finding a familiar cream-colored van parked at a trailer a few rows away. Eddie and his Uncle were granted a new trailer for their trouble, really the bare minimum they deserve after all the shit they went through, but they took it in stride. Eddie and Wayne spent the first few weeks after spring break making it into their new home once Eddie was released from the hospital, and Steve had done his best to help them out. But he knew they needed time alone, time to heal, so he let them be. He hasn’t been back there since then.
He kicks a stray piece of gravel, watching as it tumbles a few feet away and disappears into the grass, as he makes his way out of Forest Hills. Houses blur by as he walks the residential streets, only stopping when his own comes into view. Steve sighs, and walks up the concrete driveway, through the large wooden doors, and into the silence of his house. He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes, reveling a little in the dirty footprints he leaves behind on his mothers’ ornate runner that covers the length of the hallway. The analog on the stove tells him it's a little past three in the morning, and he sighs. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, he fills it up with water before shuffling out of the kitchen. He flops on the couch, sips his water, and waits.
He waits for the sun to peek over the trees in the backyard, casting long shadows on the curtains that cover the windows and glass doors. He waits for the warm rays to shine through the large window in the living room, the one that faces the road, and light up the rug that rests under the coffee table in soft hues of yellow. He sits his empty glass on the table. He waits. And he gets up.
He goes upstairs, changes his shirt, and grabs his vest. Steve slips the walkie off his belt loop and places it on his desk, the flashlight landing right beside it. He props the bat next to his chair, and Steve looks at it, looks at the bent nails sticking haphazardly out of the wood and how it splintered in places from too much force. How some of the nails are covered in dried, blackened goop and dirt. How it's sharp and dangerous, a weapon. How it’s chosen to protect.
At this moment, Steve feels like the bat. The rough wood is his exterior, the splinters through it are the cracks. The holes in his facade. The places where people got too close, where people hurt him. The nails are what makes him strong. They’re the kids, Joyce and Hop, Eddie and Robin. They’re his family. They mold him into a weapon meant to protect, to keep them safe.
But just like Steve, the bat isn’t needed until it’s necessary. Until the world is ending. But until that time comes, the bat is left out of sight. It’s hidden away, moved from place to place just in case, but never used. Never wanted.
Steve walks out the door.
His shift at Family Video passes by like every other day, slow and full of know-it-all customers that never seem to understand that he can’t magically summon movies out of his ass whenever they ask. Robin comes in around lunchtime, and they spend the rest of their joint shift making fun of the ridiculous movie covers that adorn various romcoms. He goes home alone, sheds his vest, and once again walks the town of Hawkins.
He does it again the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until it’s been a week and Steve hasn’t slept for more than a couple hours a night. He doesn’t mind, just means there’s less nightmares to wake him up before sunrise.
Less nights where chittering and the thuds of heavy footsteps strike fear down to his core. Less nights where the chill of fog and night air pierce his skin, warring with his senses against the hot breath hitting the back of his neck from deadly flower-shaped mouths. Less nights where the harsh scraping of monstrous nails against rusted metal and the echoey bangs of heavy, meaty bodies against solid bus walls fill his ears. Less nights where he can feel the thick, choking air of the tunnels, can feel the wispy particles filling his lungs and coating the inside of his mouth.
Less nights filled with muffled Russian echoing in his ears, the harsh texture of rope around his wrists, arms, and chest. Less nights where the sickening crunch of fists against bone and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth linger for hours after he’s awoken, shallowly breathing and pleading to be let go. Less nights where he can feel the blood in his teeth, coating his tongue and dripping down the back of his throat, and he has to run to the bathroom to puke the phantom feeling away.
Less nights he wakes up alone, empty house hollow around him. Less nights he cries to himself in the silence of his room, wishing, hoping, yearning for something. For something to happen, to change. For something to get better. For him to get better.
On the eighth night, he finds his feet have taken him to the edge of Hawkins. The brown road sign reads ‘Leaving Hawkins! Come Again Soon!’, and it stares at him from a few feet away. He looks past the sign at the stretch of road that disappears around a curve, trees following the line of asphalt and distant street lights lighting up their leaves with an orange glow.
He thinks about what it would be like to leave Hawkins, to pack up his clothes in his car and leave town. To follow the road and go around that curve, to not worry about ever coming back. No one needs him here, not anymore, so what’s holding him back?
Maybe this will fix him.
Robin might miss him for a bit, probably curse him and his whole family when she figures it out, but she’ll move on. She’ll find someone better. Hell, she’ll probably go to Eddie too. They already have some sort of secret friendship thing going on between them anyway. Really, he wouldn’t blame her.
Eddie probably wouldn’t care. Shit, he might even throw a party celebrating the fact that he’s gone. Steve snorts at the thought, closing his eyes and taking a breath.
Would it really be so bad if he just disappeared?
But then there’s the kids, left behind with no one to protect them. Sure, Robin and Eddie and Nancy are here, but Nancy is off to Emerson in the fall, Robin surely bound to follow in similar footsteps, and Eddie has made it well-known that he’s getting the hell out of here. If everyone is gone, who will be here to protect them when it comes back?
He rakes a hand harshly through his hair, pulling a bit at the ends and hating how greasy it feels on his fingertips. He can’t think like that, he’ll just worry himself into a panic and that’s the last thing he needs right now; a panic attack on the side of the road. He turns around, walking back towards town as the sky fades into light. He gets home right when sunlight begins burning the tops of the trees and collapses on the couch, sleeping until his noon shift.
He’s exhausted when he gets home, having to close up Family Video after a ten hour shift by himself, but he knows he can’t sleep. Not now. So he does what he usually does now when he gets home and grabs his essentials for his rounds, something that’s become routine for him.
He shrugs off his work clothes, replacing it with what has become his patrol outfit; the old swim team sweatshirt and a faded, ripped pair of light blue jeans. The sweatshirt is filled with holes, the baggy sleeves having caught on briars and branches alike, that allow the white of his shirt to show through. The jeans share a similar fate, the knees scraped up and the denim fraying from the unhemmed edges.
His white Nikes are stained a gray-ish brown from the nightly treks through the woods, small bits of leaves and debris sticking to the laces and in the grooves of the tread. The flashlight finds its place in his back left pocket, an extra pair of batteries landing in his front pocket after an incident a few nights ago where his flashlight died on him out in the middle of nowhere— he was forced to stumble through the woods until the sun began to rise and he was able to find his way back home. He didn’t sleep that night.
The nail bat is crusted with dried bits of mud sticking to the slowly rusting metal, shredded bits of leaves and undergrowth tangled in a green and brown mass. Clumps of dirt litter the floor under the bat, and likely mark a line in the hallway from his room down to the front door. Steve hopes it's still there if his parents come home.
It’s dark outside, only the street light at the end of the driveway illuminates the concrete and stepping stone pathway to the front door. Steve steps out on the front stoop, taking a deep breath of cool summer night air, and starts walking.
He walks out onto the street, uncaring at this point if anyone sees him or not. What does he have to lose? Hopper would probably tell him he’s stupid— something he’s well aware of at this point— and tell him to go inside. Or maybe he would drive him home, take the bat, and leave.
A small, traitorous part of Steve wants Hop to find him. Wants him to ask what the hell he’s doing walking around at night alone in the dark. Wants him to coax him in his old beat up truck and take him back to the Byers’ house. Wants some of Joyce’s hot chocolate as he sits on the couch and explains what he’s been doing, what’s been going on. Ask, desperately, why everyone hates him. Wants them to tell him he’s wrong, that no one hates him. That it’s just a misunderstanding.
But it doesn’t happen. All of that is a lie.
It’s a lie Steve has secretly been telling himself under the cover of darkness alone in his bed, lying awake and exhausted but unable to sleep. It’s a lie he tells himself when he sees any of the kids so he can act normal, act okay. It’s a lie he tells himself when Eddie grins at him, wide and gleaming, eyes sparkling with the afternoon sun beaming in from the storefront windows.
It’s those grins, those looks Eddie gives him sometimes that almost convinces him the lie is fake. Like Eddie is sharing an inside joke with him, only Steve doesn’t know what it is. Eddie doesn’t come around often but when he does… god, it’s like he’s the only one in the room.
Eddie looks at him with his whole body, always focusing on him so wholly and touching in some way. A hand on his bicep, an arm slung around his shoulder, even his arms wrapped around his waist one time. He was friendly, they were friends, until he wasn’t. Until Steve did something stupid that he still can’t figure out and Eddie is avoiding him.
The crunch of gravel under his sole brings him back into his head a little. He looks up, finding the pale orange glow of a lamp through a trailer window, and curses. His feet have brought him to where his mind always seems to go these days: Eddie.
He stands outside of the trailer, watching the way the little bits of weeds around the base shift and sway in the wind. The sky is filled with patches of clouds, light gray ripples standing out against the black sky from the glow of the moon. Steve isn’t completely sure how he got here, only that he started walking and didn’t really… stop.
Wayne’s truck is gone, leaving only Eddie’s cream-colored van among the gravel and grass. Which means Eddie is home and, judging by the light in the window, awake. Steve has a fleeting thought that he should turn around, walk back home, and try to forget he ever came here. Try to forget that he didn’t mean to, that his head and his heart are traitorous beings that have conspired against him to bring his body to the one place— one person— where he isn’t welcome. He tries to move, to will his legs and his feet to catch up with his brain and the urge to run. But they don’t. They stay frozen to the ground, rooted in place as if they belong here. As if he belongs here.
A voice cuts his thoughts off, one that he could pick out in a crowd full of people. His eyes snap to the front door of the trailer, now open and spilling warm light onto the wooden steps that lead down to the gravel drive. A figure grows near, tall and lanky and Steve feels like he’s trapped. His thoughts get louder, yelling and screaming at him to run run ruN RUN RUN-
Hands on his shoulders. Eddie’s face in front of him.
Eddie looks panicked, his dark eyes wide and dancing around as if searching Steve's face for… something. He must not find it, because the two little lines between his brows appear and his mouth starts moving. It’s all muffled, like he’s trying to talk through glass. Steve blinks.
“-ington? Steve,” Eddie’s pleading voice finds his ears as he shakes his shoulders, the fog in his head dissipating as the strained way his name falls from his lips. Steve hums. He blinks again.
“Oh,” he breathes out, voice barely louder than a whisper. Eddie is here. He’s in front of him. He can see him. He’s here and he can see and Steve shouldn’t be here he needs to go-
“Stevie, are you okay?” The fear in Eddie’s voice cuts off his train of thought— something that seems to happen a lot nowadays— and Steve feels every sensation return to his body. The heavy hands on his shoulders, soft and warm and missing their signature rings. The distant chill of the night air on his exposed bits of skin seeping away at the small amount of space between them. The faint puff of air on his face from the man before him. The fact that all of those things are from Eddie.
Steve clears his throat, swallows. Tries to focus his eyes on Eddie’s face.
“I’m fine, Eddie. I um.. sorry,” he trails off. He tries to smile, at least give something to reassure him, to keep him from asking questions. Steve doesn’t think he could answer them.
To his surprise, Eddie lets out a breath of relief, the fear dissipating from his eyes as they clench shut and his head drops. His shoulders move with his lungs as he takes a breath before looking back up at him.
“Jesus H. Christ, you scared the shit outta me, Steve. Thought…” he trails off. His voice wavers. “Thought you were gone. Like… like her.”
Oh. Chrissy. Fuck.
“Shit- sorry, Eds, I didn’t even realize- fuck, I’m so sorry,” Steve pleads. He takes in his surroundings, realizes he’s been standing out here, alone, for who knows how long. He needs to leave. “I-I should go.”
Eddie’s brows furrow, and he tilts his head. “You don’t have to leave, Stevie, it’s fi-“ he cuts himself off.
Steve looks up at that, unsure of when he stopped looking at Eddie, and takes in his pinched expression. The one that’s trained to the ground. The one that’s trained towards-
“What the fuck is this?”
Shit.
“I-it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” He begs, voice sounding unfamiliar even to his own ears. It’s raspy and breaks after a few words. When was the last time he really spoke to anyone today?
“I don’t wanna hurt you, Eds, I really don’t- please, believe me,” he pleads. “It’s just for protection! I don’t-“
“Why are you covered in mud, Steve?” Eddie cuts him off, voice strange and cautious and his hands tighten their grip on his shoulders. Steve knows he doesn’t look the best, knows that his clothes are dirty, but he looks down at himself anyway. His eyes focus on a leaf stuck to his shoelace. He shrugs.
Eddie moves in front of him, a quick thing that Steve suspects is him shaking his head. He mumbles something he can’t hear, voice only a rumble in his throat but Steve knows enough to know that people only talk under their breath when they’re mad. When he’s done something wrong.
He pulls away. Eddie’s hands drop off his shoulders.
“I-I should go. Sorry for bothering you, an-… and keeping you awake,” Steve stutters out, clearing his throat when his voice breaks. He chances a look at him, finding concern written on Eddie’s face. It softens when they make eye contact, and Eddie shakes his head.
“I wasn’t asleep, Stevie. Don’t really, uh.. sleep much, these days. I usually just wait around for Wayne to get home to catch a couple hours. Doesn’t feel safe here by myself, you know?” Eddie confesses, mouth turned upwards in a small, sardonic smile. Steve nods. He does know, he’s never felt safe in his home. With or without people. He’s been going through it for years, long before the events of ‘83. He doesn’t say any of that though, doesn’t think he has the right to.
Eddie steps towards him, closing the bit of distance Steve made between the two, and rests his hand on the arm holding the bat.
“Come inside, Steve,” Eddie requests, voice low and soft. Eddie’s smiling at him. It’s that soft, small, Eddie smile. One that Steve has only seen a handful of times. It’s asking him to say yes, and Steve… he’s weak. So, so weak.
“Okay.”
Eddie’s smile grows.
His hand wraps further around his arm, tugging him towards the open trailer door and Steve feels betrayed that now is when his feet decide to move. He follows Eddie, watching the way he’s glancing at him the entire time. Eddie pauses at the doorway.
“Steve,” he whispers, and Steve looks at him. His hand travels down his arm, causing goosebumps in its wake despite the layer of fabric between their skin. It pauses over the hand still gripping the bat, thumb brushing along his knuckles. “Let it go.”
Steve looks at him, searches those dark brown eyes for fear or hate or anger but finds none. He only finds care. Concern. Love.
It’s terrifying.
He loosens his grip and Eddie takes it from him, the comforting weight of the bat replaced with the warmth of Eddie’s hand. He props it just inside the door to the trailer and leads him over the threshold by the grip on his hand. He’s led over to the couch where a hand on his back urges him to sit down. Steve does, and instantly sinks into the well-worn cushions.
“I’ll be right back, okay? Just gonna get you some water,” Eddie informs him, squeezing his hand briefly before releasing his grip and turning the corner to venture into the kitchen. Steve watches him go, the way the baggy and worn band shirt hangs off his frame. The way his sweatpants are bunched up at the ankle as if they’re too big for him. The way his hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head that swings a little when he walks away. Even now, he’s beautiful.
Shit. He’s so gone for this man.
Eddie returns with a glass of water and flops down on the couch beside him, pressing the cool surface of the cup into his palm. He takes it with a shaky hand, his other joining it to help stabilize the glass. It doesn’t work.
He takes a small sip of water, the liquid feeling like heaven against his dry throat. They sit in silence until Steve finishes half the glass. Then, Eddie speaks.
“Why were you outside at two in the morning, Stevie?” His voice is gentle, and it makes Steve want to cry. He swallows.
“I- I don’t know,” he deflects, lies. Anything to not talk about it.
The harsh sound of a mock game show buzzer startles him, and he turns to find Eddie with his hands cupped around his mouth. Steve grins and lets his head drop, and Eddie nudges his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, focusing on the surface of the water in his hands.
“I have to keep them safe, Eddie,” he confesses. Eddie stays silent, hand gently rubbing his forearm. “It’s what I need to do. What I have to do.”
Silence stretches between them, then, “who, Steve? Who do you have to keep safe?”
‘You,’ he wants to say. ‘You almost died. It’s never been that close before, not in the four years this shit has been going on. You and Max almost died, and I wasn’t there to protect you. I wasn’t with you and Dustin to keep you both safe, to help fight off the bats and urge you through the gate. I wasn’t with Max and Lucas and Erica, wasn’t there to fight off Carver and save Max just a little bit earlier. I wasn’t there, but I should have been. Carver should have beat me to pieces, not Lucas. It should have been me the bats got to, not you. It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.’
Hands fall over his as Eddie takes the glass from him. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking that bad in his revere, causing the water to spill over the sides and onto the brown carpet below them. The glass thunks on the coffee table before Eddie rests his hands over Steve’s, stills their shaking.
“Hey, talk to me, Stevie,” he practically begs. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Steve looks at him, sees the worry in his eyes, and wets his lips with his tongue. Doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes flicker down at the movement. He clenches his fists.
“Please don’t tell Robin,” he pleads. If she found out about this, if she knew, he wouldn’t be allowed outside alone ever again. She would worry about him, keep him under lock and key to make sure he wouldn’t do anything stupid. She would stay with him during the night, insert herself firmly by his side until she was sure he was okay. She would make him sleep in his own bed, trapped between his own walls. Trapped in his own house. He can’t stand that place, can’t handle the echoey walls and empty rooms. Can’t stand not being able to do anything for anyone. Can’t stand to be useless.
He’s just wasting time right now. He shouldn’t be here, talking to Eddie, when he could be checking the gates. He should be out there trying to save people, not himself. He should be trying to save his family. He could already be too late. It might have already come back while he was distracted and they could all be gone. It could have been waiting until he was occupied, waiting for an opening to strike. They could be in danger right now. They could be dead.
“Alright, I can do that. I won’t tell her but… Steve, why-“ Steve cuts him off by standing up on shaky legs, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Steve?”
“I need to go, Eddie, I need to- they could- I need to go,” the words tumble out of his mouth, words he isn’t quite sure even make sense but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out.
Steve walks over to the door, eyes locking on the bat propped there, before he hears Eddie stand up behind him. He turns to find Eddie holding his hands out in front of him like he’s trying to placate a wild animal and, at this moment, he kinda feels like one. His heart is beating too fast and he can feel his breathing quicken. His throat closes up as panic claws its way upwards and clouds his vision, muffling his hearing. Eddie’s mouth moves but Steve can’t hear it through the cotton in his ears. He backs towards the door, hating the fear in Eddie’s eyes as he does so.
His back hits the wall next to the door and he turns, hand finding the rough wood of the bat almost instantly, before he runs out the door. The small “sorry” he lets out is an afterthought, thrown over his shoulder right before the trailer door slams shut behind him and his feet crunch on gravel as he runs towards town.
His blind panic takes him to Dustin’s house first, finding all the lights turned off save for the faint glow of the hall night light through sheer curtains. He stays there for a minute or two, waiting for the sign of flickering lights. Nothing comes.
A couple streets over, he stops in front of Lucas’s house, finds the same thing. Dark. He stands there and waits. No flickering. He runs.
The Wheelers. Dark. He waits, no flickering. He runs.
The Byers-Hoppers. Dark. Waits. No flickering. Runs.
Max. Dark. Waits. Dark. Runs.
Robin. Dark. Waits. Dark. Runs.
His house. Light.
They’re safe. He collapses.
He sits heavily on the front stoop, bat falling to the ground and knocking against the concrete with a thud. His knees come up to his chest and his arms wrap tightly around them as he rasps for breath, the air coming in short, quick bursts. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of his calves, hard enough to leave bruises. His forehead rests heavily on his knees and his eyes sting, welling with tears as the fear slowly fades away.
He sits outside, struggling for breath until the sun begins to rise, and waits. When the sun finds its way over the trees, he makes his way inside to get ready for his opening shift.
The bat finds a new home in his trunk.
Taglist: @tea-beloved @starry-eyedlune @hyperfixationgoddess @zerokrox-blog @nicovania @invisibleflame812 @chaoticvictorianspirit @justforthedead89 @dacremontgomeryay @vhelt @adhdsummer @nerd-and-nervous @i-have-three-feelings @mimicori @remuslupinisthevoiceofgod @solliesolesito @romanticdestruction @vanillatwist @bowl-o-queerios @grimmfitzz
(If you want to be added or removed please let me know!)
#steddie#stranger things#pre steddie#eddie munson#steve harrington#stranger things fillet#stranger things drabble#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#things get better for Steve i promise#hes just having his angsty time right now#robins part is next tho so stay tuned for that#disposable heroes
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(y/n) being there for Shoko when no one else is even after her boyfriend Gojo got sealed
Pairing: Shoko x bestie!reader; Gojo x girlfriend!reader
Word Count: 1k
Synopsis: Shibuya brings even a strong and collected woman like Shoko down to her knees. Especially when you, the only person who seems to truly care about her, ask her about her well-being when your boyfriend just got sealed....
Warnings: bestie - energy incoming, I know I said I'm not able to write hurt anymore, but I feel sooo sorry for my girl Shoko and she's so underrated, that's why she definetely deserves her own fic okay😭 also added Satoru and even more hurt to this lol, just a cute lil micro fic so don't expect that much of a plot line
„I thought you quit smoking some time ago.”
“What the hell is your lazy ass doing here? Aren’t you supposed to die on the battlefield like everyone else?”
“Huh, seems like I didn’t get that message.”
Your sly grin paired with the sheer amount of crimson that covers your frame makes Shoko’s blood freeze in her veins in an instant.
“Why didn’t you come earlier, idiot? Can’t you see that you’re about to die?”
“I’m not dying when you are around, babe.”
You lean against the mirror of the abandoned public toilet you and Shoko are in, watching in silence as she puts out her cigarette in the marble of the expensive looking sink behind you.
What a hell of a day. No, what a hell of a life. You came here with no real plan, just following after Satoru to get him going. Well, you definitely didn’t expect your boyfriend to get sealed in front of your very own eyes. Just like you didn’t expect to find the corpses of Kento Nanami and your student Nobara Kugisaki, laying in pieces on the cold ground of this cursed train station. Fuck, not even you were enough to protect them, not even the infamous girlfriend of Satoru Gojo was enough to stop this fucking madness.
“You look like shit”, Shoko comments dryly, her eyes fixed on the multiple wounds that special grade curse inflicted on you in his beach sphere.
“Just like you. When was the last time you’ve slept, Ieiri?”
It should scare her, the fact that she can’t put a finger on a single night this month. Since Geto and Haibara left, she always remained in the shadows of the friendship that used to exist when times seemed to be easier. Not even you were able to fix that. You, who came like a ray of sunshine in her life. You, the girlfriend of Satoru since being in your first year. You, the only person who seems to really care about her. No, not even the fact that you survived this hell is enough to get over the fact how many people died that night.
“I don’t know”, Shoko finally mumbles.
Why the hell do her eyes start to water, slowly but surely taking her sight? She’s been through some shit since being a jujutsu sorcerer, never belonging anywhere due to the fact that her reversed technique is too important to get risked. People come and go, countless lives ended on the table of her office, even the one of her lover. But this night…
Nanami and Nobara’s deaths, Megumi and Ino almost losing their lives, all the others she hasn’t heard a single word from since they left a few hours ago, her oldest friend sealed until who knows when.
And then there’s you, sitting in front of her severely injured, barely able to make it to her. You are here.
And it seems like you are everything that’s left.
“Hey, don’t you dare to cry. Or I…”
The big lump forming in your throat stops you from speaking any further. God, how much you hate the concept of crying, how useless shedding some tears is. But at this moment, with the dark circles underneath your best friend’s eyes in front of your sight, with the singing fact that you might not be able to ever see your boyfriend again, you begin to crumble.
“Fuck, you can’t believe how glad I am you’re here, Shoko.”
There you sit, staring into each other’s glossy eyes while your hand grabs hers roughly.
“How are you feeling?”, you breathe out.
“I feel like shit, (y/n). I feel like all I do is sitting in the dark while everyone around me dies. I feel so fucking lonely and useless”, she blurts out, her head sinking into your lap with her hands holding onto your uniform for dear life.
The girl who always looked so cool, the girl with enough sass for whole Jujutsu High. Even though you were constantly able to tell because of the numbness in her orbs, you never thought that she feels this bad. Your best friend, the person you spent most of the time with aside from Satoru.
Satoru, Shoko…You feel like dying from the inside, tears now running down your very own cheeks like a waterfall.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save them. Not Kento, not Nobara, not Suguru. Fuck, I wasn’t even able to protect my own boyfriend…I-I…I wasn’t even able to say goodbye”, you cry out.
“B-but…I have you, right? After all, you’re my bestie for life…”
Her bloody eyes dart towards you, a weak smile forming itself on her lips.
“Don’t you dare to cry about that white-haired idiot. Do you really think he lets himself get sealed and just stays in there? He’s just as annoying as you are, (y/n).”
You huff while shaking your head, a little giggle escaping your lips.
“And yes, you have me. I’ll always have your back.”
“And I’ve got yours”, you reply in an instant.
“You’ll never be alone, Shoko. I’d rather crawl back to you like the biggest idiot than leaving you alone in this hell. It’s somehow better with two, isn’t it?”
Shoko lifts herself off your lap, wiping her tears away in the most unlady-like manner you’ve ever seen. All these years, she always felt alone in a room full of people, always out of place even though being told over and over just how important she is. But you…you see so much more in her than just a useful tool. No, you look at her as a friend, you look at her with true curiosity in your eyes, like you care about her well-being.
You’re standing by her side no matter what.
“I hate to admit it, but somehow you right I guess.”
Tags: @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee @lovelyluna1 @froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain @risuola @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345
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#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#jjk hurt#jjk hurt/comfort#jjk shibuya arc#shibuya arc#jujutsu kaisen shibuya arc#shibuya incident#shibuya#jjk shibuya incident#jjk season two#jjk season 2#jujustu kaisen#ieiri shoko x reader#shoko ieiri#jjk shoko#jujutsu kaisen shoko#shoko x reader#jujutsu shoko#jjk ieiri#ieiri#shoko my girl#gojou satoru x reader#gojo x reader#jjk gojo#jujutsu gojo#gojo saturo#gojo satoru
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I miss you. Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts (ofc)
Photo from Pinterest
Title: I miss you.
Author: Tory / @tkwrites
Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts (ofc)
Warnings: Mostly fluff, mentions of smut & p in v, but nothing particularly graphic.
Summary: After their longest separation of the summer, Quinn and Sarah reunite.
Word Count: 3,000
Comments: You all happened to pick the piece I had the most progress on for my next post, so good on you! This is way beyond the timeline I’ve posted so far. I have so much more planned for their summer, so stay tuned.
Thank you for all the support for this fic. I sometimes have to remind myself it isn’t a dream. Please let me know what you think, and if there’s anything in this series you’d like to see. Sending all the love.
I miss you.
A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot
Sarah was at the aquarium, taking samples from the tanks when her watch dinged with a text.
She knew it would be from Quinn. It was mid day in Michigan, about the time he finished with his morning workouts. He'd be headed home for lunch before whatever plans he had for the evening. She would call him on her break. It was their daily routine while they were in this less than ideal summer situation.
When she finally got the samples set to be tested and out of her gloves and lab coat, she pulled her phone from her bag.
“I'm taking my break,” she told Joshua, walking outside before he could respond.
Miss you like crazy, Quinn had sent along with a picture of the sun glinting off the water of their lake. Call me when you're free.
The phone didn't even have a chance to ring before his voice filled her ear, “hi.”
“Hey, that was quick.”
“I was already on my phone,” he said, “answered as soon as it popped up.”
She giggled.
“What are you up to today?” he asked.
She heard a chair scraping against the floor.
“Working,” she said, leaning against the building, letting the warmth from the brick soak into her back. “I'm testing our tanks for invasive micro algae.”
“That sounds thrilling,” he said.
She wondered if he was going outside when she heard a door shut. Maybe he was going into his room.
“It's tedious,” she agreed, “but if we catch it early we don't have to deal with a full on bloom later, which is a bitch to clean up. How about you?”
“Gym this morning,” he said even though she knew that part of his schedule.
“How’s your stick defending coming along?” she asked.
“Good,” he said, smiling that she remembered he was focusing on that today. “I finally managed to strip the puck from Jack pretty consistently.”
“Look at you go,” she praised. “What’s on the calendar for tonight?”
“We're going out for Penn's birthday.”
“That sounds fun.”
“More fun if you were here.”
“We both know that's not true,” she chastised. “I'm the worst at a party.”
“Well, it would be more fun for me.”
She snorted.
“Plus it would mean I could leave early.”
“You can still leave early.”
“Yeah, but it's easier when you're there.”
“I'm beginning to think half of this relationship is just the convenience of getting you out of social situations.”
He laughed.
She smiled at the sound. “God, I miss you so much.”
“I know. Me too. You're sure I can't fly you up for a weekend?”
“As much as I would love that, I don't want to interfere with family time.”
“You're not interfering with family time,” he insisted, “they'd be here too.”
“I mean,” she bit her lip, even though he couldn't see her, “I'd want you all to myself, and that's not fair when you don't see your family much as it is.”
“You want me all to yourself?” he repeated, his tone light and teasing.
“I do.”
“And why would you want that, Sarah Roberts?”
Her cheeks flamed, but she persisted, “so I don't have to just dream about you being inside me anymore.”
He groaned. “You dream about that?”
“For the past week,” she admitted. “I dream about it every night and then I wake up and you're not here.” She sighed, “and then I just have to try to figure it out by myself.”
He was booking a ticket to see her. She couldn't say something like that and expect him to just stay in Michigan. If she didn't want to come here, he'd go there. Or they could meet in the middle somewhere.
“I hear Utah’s beautiful this time of year,” he said.
She laughed. “Utah?”
“Yeah. We could meet in the middle. You know, see some red rocks.”
She hummed, grinning.
“Or I could just come back to Van and we could spend the weekend in my apartment.”
“Now that you say it, Utah does sound pretty appealing.”
Her tone was teasing, but he still found himself groaning.
“Come on," she said, "you could hike in some shorts and I can fantasize about your thighs all day.”
Quinn felt his face get hot, instantly glad he'd come out to the porch.
He knew she had a bit of a fetish for his thighs. He didn't understand it, but if it got her hot and bothered for him, he didn't really mind. “I can just do squats in my boxers like that one time.”
A few weeks after they started sleeping together, she was lounging in his bed the night before a game. When he thought she’d fallen asleep, he slipped on his boxers and did a round of squats, trying to keep his legs nimble. It was a routine he'd built in college and he didn't sleep well if he didn't do it, even now.
“Your thighs are so sexy,” she had said as she watched from the bed.
They'd had sex again, and she asked for reverse cowgirl, something they hadn't done yet. She rode him gripping his thighs so hard he was surprised he didn't have bruises the next day. He loved watching her back and feeling her at a new angle. Loved that after she came hard - fluttering around him, and milking him dry - she collapsed against him, back to chest, breathing hard. It was one of the hottest things he’d ever experienced.
Sarah often thought and dreamed about that night when they were apart - how his powerful thighs flexed under her grip when she rode him that way. It was a surefire way to get her riled up. The next time she saw him, she was going to lick him from knee to hip.
Something nagged at the back of her mind. “That's still taking you away from your family,” she said, “and I don’t want to disrupt your training.”
“Sar, my family gets it. We went from seeing each other every day to living in different countries. They know we miss each other. Besides, it would just be a weekend. I could fly in on Friday night and come back on Monday morning. I'd really only miss one day of training.”
There was a pause before she said, “Friday afternoon.”
“What?”
“I work a half day on Friday, so you should come in the afternoon.”
“Done.”
“Joshua's giving me the evil eye," she said as he looked at her pointedly through the window even though it had barely been ten minutes. "I have to get back to work.”
“That micro algae doesn’t wait.”
She laughed.
"I’ll let you know when I book my ticket.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
Three days. Only three days.
Sarah was already in the parking lot when Quinn texted that his flight had landed. She’d come straight from work, not wanting to go home, even if it meant an extra thirty minutes in the cell phone lot.
Relaxing in the reclined drivers seat, she waited for him to tell her he was ready to be picked up.
After reading the same page four times, she tossed the book into the back seat. The thought of Quinn being by her side for the first time in 24 days was too distracting.
Closing her eyes, she thought about kissing him. She couldn’t wait to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, no need to feel rushed, or worry that someone might come home earlier than expected.
The ache in her belly and the empty feeling in her mouth intensified.
Walking down now.
When she pulled up, he threw his bags in the back and threw himself into the passenger seat before she could get out to hug him.
“Welcome back,” she said with a grin.
He returned it as he leaned over the center console to kiss her cheek, “I missed you so much," he said, catching a whiff of her perfume.
As much as she wanted to kiss him right there, she knew the airport pickup lane wouldn't be the best place. There were already a few people looking at them. So she put the car in drive and started into the city as they talked about his flight.
He took her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. The need in her stomach deepened.
The city slipped by as she drove. She somehow got to his street, though she didn’t remember making any of the turns.
Just as she was turning into the parking garage, Quinn remembered, “Oh, we can’t go to my place.”.
Sarah looked over at him, crestfallen. “Why not?” They were so close.
“They’re doing some kind of roof repair. I told them these dates were fine at the beginning of the summer, but didn’t remember until I got a notice from the building last night,” he said.
“So we go to mine?”
“I booked us a hotel so we wouldn't make your roommates uncomfortable,” Quinn said.
A smile melted onto Sarah’s face. He was so thoughtful. He made her feel seen and understood, loved and cared for. It was somehow more evident through their separation. He called every day, and always remembered what she was working on. His attention spelled love to her.
“What hotel?” she asked.
He pulled it up on his phone. It was a bed and breakfast he’d asked his mom to help him pick out. It was a ways out of the city, along the coast.
“Oh,” Sarah said, “we’ll have to stop by my place so I can pack.”
“You didn’t pack already?”
“None of my skincare and stuff, that’s already at your place."
Even knowing this was his fault for not telling her last night, Quinn found himself wishing she had somehow known so there wouldn’t be another delay to finally be alone together out of the car. Having her so close, and not kissing her was driving him wild.
After another twenty minutes that felt more like fourty, he followed her up to her apartment like a lost puppy.
When the door swung shut behind him, he finally - finally - wrapped his arms around her, sighing when she returned the embrace. He’d been waiting so long, too long.
“Are your roommates home?” he asked, nuzzling his nose into her neck.
“Jane might be,” Sarah said, backing into her room. She felt like she would explode if she put off kissing him one second longer.
The door to her room clicked shut, and Quinn pinned her against it, crushing his mouth to hers. He needed - he needed - God, he needed her. He’d been dreaming about it for too long without having her near enough to satisfy any of his hunger.
This arrangement wasn’t going to work for another year. Either she’d have to come to Michigan, or he’d have to stay in Vancouver. Maybe they could split the summer between the two.
The kiss was all at once passionate. Falling together into the heat of a moment that had been building for weeks apart and minutes separated by a car console.
His hands wandered over her body. He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable having sex here, so he brushed it aside and went on kissing her, refilling the Sarah shaped well inside him. He had been surviving on fumes and memories for far too long.
“I missed you so much.” he said against her mouth.
She pulled back so she could look into his eyes. They looked hazel in the light filtering through the sheer green curtains. “I’ve missed you too. Thank you for coming.”
“Like you could have stopped me after telling me you were dreaming about me,” he teased, leaning in to skim his lips over hers.
He often dreamed of her while they were apart, but the night after her admission, his dreams had been so intense that the next day, while they were out on the lake, Jack started teasing him for moaning and crying out in his sleep.
“Sarah,” he’d mocked, his voice thrown into a dramatic, porn star moan. “Oh, Sarah!”
Everyone else in the boat laughed.
None of them got it. Some of the guys had girlfriends, but they were all either living together or, at the very least, in the same state for the summer. Quinn was the only one separated from the woman he loved by several thousand miles.
When he'd told the family he was going to Van for the weekend, Jack had sighed dramatically and said, "finally I can get some sleep."
Quinn had flipped him off.
Sarah’s hands wove into his hair, and pulled his mouth flush to hers. Kissing him was…
Kissing Quinn was a symphony. Plush lips and warm tongue, the bitter zing of coffee mixed with the tart sweetness of cream in his mouth, the softness of his hair, the very real warmth of his skin, the smell of his cologne. God the smell of him, she’d missed it so much.
The door to the apartment opened and closed and the moment popped like a delicate soap bubble. Someone was home.
Quinn pulled away and pulled his bottom lip into his mouth.
“I should pack,” Sarah said, nearly whispering.
“Sarah?” Jane asked, “I saw your car. Are you okay? I thought Quinn was coming in today.”
Sarah turned and opened the door, “he did. I’m just packing before we go for the weekend.”
Quinn leaned around her to smile at Jane.
“Oh,” she said. “Have fun then.”
Sarah pulled out her weekender bag and threw some things into it. Truthfully, she did have things packed in the car, but they weren’t things for polite company when they would likely be going out to dinner instead of ordering doordash to his apartment. She needed some more normal clothes and her toiletries for this different weekend that he had suddenly sprung on her.
“See you Monday,” Sarah said, waving as they left.
Quinn collapsed onto the bed as soon as they got through the door. His backpack thudded off the side, and he didn’t even care.
“Tired?” Sarah asked as she crawled on the bed to lay next to him.
Rolling onto his side, he wrapped his arms around her. “Yeah. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be raring to go.”
“It’s fine,” she said, brushing her hand up his forearm.
“But, we’re supposed to…”
“We’re supposed to be together,” she said gently, leaning in to brush her lips over his. “I’ve missed having sex with you, but I’ve missed cuddling, and talking face to face, and sleeping in the same bed with you too.”
Her voice was gentle and it put him in a kind of trance, relaxing him all over.
“You don’t mind?”
“No. We’ve got all weekend, and frankly I don’t want our first time back together to be sloppy tired.”
Letting out a relieved sigh, he pulled her against him. “I love you,” he said into her hair.
“I love you too, Quinn.”
When he woke, Sarah wasn’t with him. He looked around and found her on the balcony, reading her book. She looked so beautiful there, with the ocean behind her, and the breeze gently mussing her hair. He dug his phone out to snap a picture before she realized he was awake.
Glancing at the time, he was surprised to find he’d slept for two and a half hours.
He hauled himself out of bed and walked to the open sliding glass door, “why are you out here?”
She jumped, “Jesus, I didn't even hear you get up.”
He laughed.
She put a marker in her book. “I had to get up to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t want to wake you up getting back in bed, so I came out here.”
“Come back inside,” he said, extending his hand. The hair on the left side of his head was pushed up, and he looked adorable: warm and sleepy.
She followed him, slipping the book onto the breakfast table as they passed.
“No more waiting,” Quinn said quietly, pulling her against him.
“No more waiting,” she agreed before she pressed her lips to his.
Every time they had been together that summer, it had been rushed, racing to get to the end before anyone walked in on them. This kiss, though, this kiss was slow and passionate. It made Quinn’s knees weak. A small noise escaped his throat.
Sarah giggled against his mouth.
“Don't make fun,” he chastised, backing up until his legs hit the bed.
She pushed on his chest so he fell back. Scooting to the pillows, he tore off his shirt, desperate to have her skin against his.
“I'm not making fun,” she said, as she straddled his hips, “I'm just glad that it still works.” She reached for the hem of her top and stripped it off.
His eyes grew wide. The bra she had on was light purple with a lace panel covering the center of each breast. Other than that, it was sheer.
He gulped. “Have you been wearing that all day?”
She nodded, leaning down to kiss him.
Thank God he hadn't known that before. He would have certainly done something stupid if he did.
They took their time, slowly making love in a way that had been taken from them since May. They held eye contact, and touched with reverence.
When at last, he collapsed on top of her, his face in her neck, Quinn mumbled, “I am never going this long without seeing you again.”
She laughed and agreed.
After a few minutes of his weight fully on hers as they caught their breath, Sarah tapped his hip. “I need to get up,” she whispered.
“No,” he whined teasingly.
“Yes,” she insisted, wriggling underneath him.
He rolled to the side with a groan, and watched her pad to the bathroom.
After cleaning up, she went back to the bed, ready to lay down and be held by him.
He brought her against him. They were both still a bit flushed, and she relished the feeling of his heated skin against hers.
“I'm so glad you're here,” she said quietly.
"I'm so glad you're still mine," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“It’s not like I threatened to leave.”
“I know.” He paused, adjusting to slot one of his legs between hers. “I just - I know it hasn’t been easy.”
“Nothing worth having ever is.”
Bonus scene here.
Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist
To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist
#quinn & sarah snapshots#quinn hughes#quinn hughes fic#quinn hughes imagine#quinn hughes x oc#quinn hughes fan fic#nhl imagine#nhl fanfiction#hockey fic#hockey romance#quinn hughes fanfiction#quinn hughes x ofc
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Wolfstar Micro Fic - @wolfstarmicrofic prompt: Dark AU - 742 words
Amber eyes glow in the dim light, glaring through the rusted cell bars. Sirius smirks back. “Well,” he speaks cooly, “not much of a talker are you?”
Lupin doesn’t say anything, just holds his gaze unyielding but Sirius isn’t phased by it. Frankly, if he weren’t useful Sirius wouldn’t give two shits about Lupin outside of a slight morbid curiosity. “I have a proposition for you-”
“Fuck you,” Lupin spits, voice is hoarse from however many months he’s been locked up.
“Oh, so you do speak? That’s good because I have a job for you.”
“I don’t work for death eaters.”
Sirius arches an eyebrow, lips curling. It’s cruel, but it’s oh so easy. “Really? Because the ministry says otherwise.”
It’s enough to get Lupin to lunge at him, or at least attempt to. He’s surprisingly quick as he lurches forward in a blink of an eye, but just as quickly he’s slumped back with a hiss as the shackles yank him back. Sirius doesn’t flinch, but he does eye the chains curiously. He’d heard the rumours, had his own suspicions in school about the quiet kid who disappeared every month like clockwork. It’s hard to make out in the dingy light, but there’s a distinct redness around Lupin's wrists where the chains rub his skin, too aggressive to be a normal pressure injury.
Sirius flicks his attention back to Lupin. “I didn’t hurt them,” he’s mumbling to himself, almost unaware of Sirius’ presence anymore, “I wouldn’t do that, I didn’t - I couldn’t-“
“I don’t particularly care for the details,” Sirius cuts off his addled rambling. Lupin’s eyes jerk back to meet his. “What I care about, is whether or not you want my help.”
“I don’t need your help. When I get out-”
“You think you’re getting out that easily? Your kind don’t get trails. And even if they did, who’s going to believe you? Everyone who’d testify for you is dead.”
“Dumbledore will-”
“Dumble cleared Snape and landed him a cushy teaching job with a snap of his fingers. If Dumbledore wanted you free, you would already be free.”
Lupin blinks at him and Sirius can’t help but feel a little bad as Lupin’s face seems to crumble. It’s pitiful almost, to think that Lupin was delusional enough to hope that hypocrite and manipulator would stoop to save one of his discarded pawns.
He pushes past it though - Dumbledore has failed him and his brother and Lupin and the Potters and countless others. He and Regulus have been able to pull themselves up and figure out their own way. The others weren’t so lucky. And Lupin? Well, that stands to be seen.
Sirius steps closer, so close his face is almost touching the bars. “I would like to utilise your skillset, I believe you may be of value to achieving a goal of mine.”
“You’ve already lost the war.”
“Well, that’s true if you assume the Dark Lord is actually dead.”
Lupin's eyes harden, jaw clenched. “He is dead. Lily and Harry they - he has to be-“
“Physically yes his body was destroyed,” Sirius drawls, “but do you honestly think a baby destroyed the soul of the darkest wizard in existence?”
Lupin lets out a hollow laugh. “So what? You want me to help resurrect him? You think I’d just disregard all of my morals - every sacrifice me and my friends made? I would rather rot in here for the rest of my life before helping you.”
Sirius cocks his head to one side, lets Lupin rant until he runs out of steam and deflates like a puppet with cut strings. His passion is admirable - as stubborn as he would expect from a former Gryffindor prefect-turned-Order-member. And it is a little reassuring, loyalty like that is hard to come by.
“Quiet the contrary. See my brother and I have reason to believe the Dark Lord had collateral in case this very situation ever arose. And we intend to destroy it.”
Lupin studies him slowly, gaze drilling into him like he’s reading every aspect of his being. “Why me?”
Sirius doesn’t answer that question, just smiles. He turns on his heels and slowly makes his way down the corridor, footsteps echoing off the walls like the ticking hands of a clock. “Keep an out for strays,” he calls over his shoulder, “Cats, dogs, that sort. Full moon is only a week away and they are greater allies than you might assume.”
#remus lupin#sirius black#wolfstar#marauders#micro fiction#complete#oneshot#maddy writes#wolfstar fanfiction#marauders fanfiction#remus x sirius#wolfstar microfic
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i wrote a hinny "micro"fic inspired by today's @hinnymicrofic prompt, august 5th - dementor. it is not really a microfic (not even close), sorry.
You can read it here on AO3 if you prefer.
warning for mild sexual content.
1999, october
Ginny's tried baking chocolate brownies and chocolate silk tarts; she's not great at it, everything she makes comes out looking like the surface of the moon, all hard and cratery, and none of it seems to cheer him up: he's still standing in the shower til the water's long gone cold; she comes home and he's sitting on the sofa in the dark like he didn't notice the sun went down. After a couple of weeks he asks her to stop.
"I'm stuffing chocolate in my face all day at work," he says. "Getting a bit sick of it, actually."
So she makes curries, and stir-fry, and a mushy attempt at her mother's lamb stew, but he pushes them all around on his plate until they're cold and scrapes them into the bin.
"Sorry," he says, and it's like a thump to the chest from a bludger.
He's been stationed at Azkaban. The Aurors have driven all the old guards away with a squadron of patronuses; Harry said they lit the rough sea so brightly that he could see the rotted hull of an old shipwreck on the rocks just under the water, for a moment, before they chased the dementors off into the sky. But the nasty things keep coming back, sometimes one and sometimes dozens, in sieges that last for days. It's delayed the workers fixing up the bars, modernising the plumbing, righting all the toppled-over headstones in the cemetery.
"Kingsley's got this theory," Harry explains, sitting on the edge of the sofa in a way that suggests he's going to get up any moment, "that all the—what happened there left a sort of residue, and they like it."
So Harry's been there, in the residue, sitting on his broomstick in battering wind and waves that crash with such force that their spray reaches up the highest tower and grabs at the parapets on the top. Casting his patronus over and over while dementors curl through the air around him like clouds of black smoke.
That's how she imagines it.
"So you're just thinking of me all day," she teases him, and he laughs without smiling, without touching her, and then gets up to oil his broomstick.
That night she gets into bed naked and still all damp from her shower, and he crawls on top of her right away, lips on the rim of her ear. Then tongue on her collarbone. She digs her fingers into the muscles of his back, closes her eyes, and imagines that she's taking all the dead things the dementors must dig up in him, sequestering them inside herself where they can't hurt him anymore.
But when it's over he's quiet again and keeps to his side of the bed.
"Do you still hear your mum and dad?" she whispers after she's caught her breath.
His back is turned and she's not sure he's awake until he answers, "No. Not really anymore."
"What is it, then?"
He rolls over and looks at her with the blankets pulled up over his mouth and nose.
"A few different things," he says.
The next afternoon she tries to keep busy, but she keeps thinking about those eyes, colorless in the dark bedroom and full of something she doesn't quite understand. She's immediately embarrassed but she can't help herself: she conjures a patronus of her own and sends it to him, no message, just her nimble silver mare galloping toward him across the sea.
When he gets home, he tells her (with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows squirming) that he'd rather she not do that again.
"It's just distracting," he mutters.
That night in their bed all his little kisses are like apologies on her skin—or so she imagines. They're soft and deliberate and he's quiet the whole time.
"If you met a dementor tonight," he asks her afterward, still catching his breath, "would you still hear Tom?"
"No," she says instantly, and squeezes her eyes shut. Fred's staring eyes show up in the dark, and so do Harry's skinny legs hanging over Hagrid's elbow, but she's not sure if it'd be either of those things.
When she opens her eyes he's still looking at her, waiting.
"It wasn't even that I heard him," she says. "It was that I felt…"
All of that desperate, humiliating love she'd had for him, her only friend, author of those kindnesses that had faithfully scrawled themselves across the pages whenever she needed them, who had understood things about her that she hadn't even known about herself, who had seen her silly little heart and told her that it was beautiful. All that had gushed from her and out into the train compartment and into the ink-black maw of the dementor and she'd been so terrified and so ashamed that it had still been inside her all this time.
She doesn't say that. Eventually he falls asleep.
All that week it rains, a miserable rain that isn't really trying, just drizzling off and on interminably, and she can't stop thinking of him out there in the middle of the sea. Grey above, grey below. Hunched on his broom, wand outstretched, wringing out drops of happiness from some memory of a summer day with her—maybe. The awful truth is that she just doesn't know what it's like out there.
"So," she blurts out, when he's just coming home and stripping off his uniform robes, "are you just going to slink around like a kicked kneazle and not talk to me?"
He's frozen with his robes pulled over his head. They muffle his voice.
"Talk about what?"
"About—" she realises she's raised her voice and brings it down. "—all this we've been going through."
He frees himself and takes a minute straightening his uniform over the coat hook. When he looks up at her, he seems genuinely baffled.
"Have we been going through something?"
She just walks off and turns on the shower. She doesn't even know what to say.
She goes to bed in pyjamas. He puts out the lamp with a mumbled goodnight. The house is empty when she wakes up, disoriented in the feeble light and the rain drumming, and she feels like she must have heard something, like someone's in the house. She slips her wand off the bedside table, silently, and sets her bare feet on the floor.
The Patronus walks right through the closed bedroom door.
It ducks its antlers under the ceiling fan, which surprises a chuckle out of her, and comes up to nuzzle its face against her temple. It can't touch her, she doesn't feel it, but all the hairs there prickle and stand up, electrified with its presence. She brings a hand to the side of its long face and strokes the air.
"Hi," she breathes.
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"It was never not you."
A Wolfstar micro-fic
~~~♤~~~
And there Sirius was: his clothes and hair dripping from the rain, his eyes wide and his hands curled tightly into fists.
He was shaking, Remus couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from the fear. Probably both.
"I'm sorry." Sirius whispered again, "You don't have to accept it. I know I haven't given you very many reasons to. But I am. I swear I am. These last twelve years have been torture for me, Moons. I'm sorry I let you down. I don't expect you to forgive me or to let me make it up to you, but I hope you'll give me the chance to try."
Remus stayed silent.
He wanted to tell him everything, wanted to confess that a life without Sirius was never a life at all. He wanted to tell him that it didn't matter how long he needed to wait, he would always wait, he would wait for Sirius until the end of time if he needed to.
Remus knew Sirius wanted an answer. He wanted to know if Remus could ever be friends with him again.
But it was more than that. Remus didn't want to go back to the way things were, to the nervous touches and shy silence. He wanted more, he wanted everything. If he had to endure more time without Sirius than he'd ever spent with him then he didn't want to waste another moment.
But how could Remus explain the emotions swirling inside of him?
How could he explain that his love of anything in this bleak, dull world came from his love of this man?
How could he explain that he started smoking again just to keep the panic attacks at bay? That if he closed his eyes it was almost like they were kids again, young with nothing to lose but each other, sharing a cigarette under the light of the half moon.
How could he explain the weight he had lost? He'd spent years timing his meals with Sirius' to make sure he was actually eating, and once that was gone he couldn't seem to bring himself to do it anymore.
How could he explain that he couldn't manage to step foot in the library or the three broomsticks again, knowing he would scan the tables for his old best friends?
How could he explain that he still searched for Sirius in the strangers passing by? He searched for shining silver eyes and jet black hair, for muggle rock band shirts and the glint of the white gold in his jewelery.
How could he explain the pain in hearing Sirius' name whispered by people around him? The pain in reading about him in the papers.
And how was he to explain the nightmares that had consumed him? When he woke every morning for the better half of a decade with Sirius' name falling from his lips, the memory of his touch like ghosts on his skin.
Would Sirius understand the desperation crawling up inside of him? Would he understand this hunger, this need to have him close and never let him go again?
But even if he knew how to say all of this, he knew he couldn't get the words out. Staring at Sirius, seeing his emotions so raw and his heart laid out for Remus, it was too much.
So he did the only thing he could think of
He leaned forward... and kissed him.
Sirius didn't startle the way he'd expected him to. He didn't jump, didn't shy away or stand confused and still.
He kissed him back.
And there was that desperation Remus had felt for nearly twenty two years, since the moment he first laid eyes on Sirius.
It was gripping clothes and tears mixed with raindrops and oh so utterly perfect.
"I love you." Remus whispered, he knew he should have waited, but they'd done their waiting hadn't they? "I love you, Sirius. I love you so fucking much."
He kissed him again, relishing in the mumbled 'I love you too' against his lips.
And in that moment, in this rain, he knew he would never feel anything as strongly as he did now. A love to overpower the twelve years of grief and regret and betrayal. A love to make him whole again.
"I'm never letting you go." Remus told him as they lay together later that night, Sirius tucked safely in his arms.
"Good, because I think I'd die if you did." Sirius whispered back.
"How long have you known?" Remus tucked a strand of hair behind Sirius' ear, "That it was me you loved."
Sirius smiled, a bright smile that made Remus' chest tighten,
"Moony... it was never not you."
~~~♤~~~
#marauders#harry potter#marauders era#marauders headcanon#remus lupin#sirius black#wolfstar#remus x sirius#wolfstar headcanon#wolfstar microfic#wolfstar feels
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I remember a post I saw back when the digital ticket came out (or I think it was back then?) which talked about how lautski in abstinence camp and in nerdy prudes were so different because of the fact that they met in completely different situations. In abstinence camp, they were both the odd ones out. it seemed like they were the only ones sent there for reform, while everyone else was just? there for the fun of it? they were the only ones who could understand each other, and were on equal ground. Steph wasn't "The Mayors Daughter" she was just a horny teenage girl. and Pete wasn't "Micro Peter" he was just a horny teenage boy.
Meanwhile, in Nerdy Prudes, its...a bit more complicated than that. Steph is popular. Pete is a loser. Steph is the mayor's daughter, she has power, and pete...doesn't. Neither of them are as free to be themselves as they were in abstinence camp, Stephanie has a reputation to uphold, and Pete needs to worry about being bullied. Different situation, different dynamic. (This is also brought up in If I Loved You. Steph says she would never go for a 'geek', she accuses him of using her to move up and gain status. Pete calls her a 'mean girl', which is the trope Steph represents [kind of. for the sake of this post we're going to pretend its that simple])
This is also something ive noticed in a lot of Michie fics? in canon, at least specifically in npmd, it would be pretty fucked up. pretty much anyone can admit that. Though something that I've seen happen a lot is the shifting of their dynamic. Max is no longer "The Bully" and Richie is no longer "The Victim". They are both put in a situation where they are on somewhat equal ground, and their dynamic changes because of that. I guess thats part of what interests me about both of them, not even as a ship but as indivisual characters.
What else is there to Max other than being the bully, the villain. He isnt alive long enough for any sort of depth to be given to him, and seeing what happens whenever any characters (not including miss holloway) dies and comes back to life, there is a sold chance that his ghost is a 'corrupted' version of him. His ghost fully plays into the role he was given, The Jock, The Bad Guy. One of his lines in npmd (the song) is "The jock you demonized" and thats what happened to him. After he dies, he isn't a person anymore, he is a caricature. What all of the characters are forced to become, The Mean Girl, The Nerd, The Horny Teen, The Victim, The Evangelical. And after his death. he fully embraces it. We dont get to see whatever depth he might have had to him, as we got to see with all the other characters as they became more fleshed out.
And Richie, bless his soul, never got to be more than the victim. He existed solely to die. The first scene in the musical, the first thing that we saw of him was his death. He was doomed from the beginning to always be the first out. He was never meant to live past the first act. His purpose in npmd was to die, so he never got to be more. But what would he be in another story? One where things were nicer, one where he wasnt forced into a role, one where he could just be himself?
What would any of them be?
#starkid#hatchetfield#Lautski#npmd#Nerdy Prudes Must Die#Max Jagerman#Richie Lipschitz#I had to stop myself from making a whole fucking essay here analyzing all the npmd characters help#this is all over the place this was meant to be two paragraphs#and then I got carried away#sorry if this is a bit long I have Thoughts about all these characters#Oh God I didnt even get into Ruth#Or into pete or steph properly#or grace
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𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 ⎹ 𝓢.𝓞.
❝ ғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ⤻ killing stalking / kinktober 2022 / @dollsanime-library
❝ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs ⤻ sangwoo oh x hostage!reader ( f! )
❝ ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⤻ nsfw! none of my writings are meant for anyone under the age of 18, and any minors interacting will be blocked on site.
❝ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ⤻ this is a dark fic. suggested kidnapping, if you know sangwoo then you know how toxic he is, forced freebleeding, humiliation & degradation, noncon, fingering, period smut, lots and lots of blood play & graphic descriptions of blood, masturbation ( him ), face fucking ( and not the way you think ), name calling ( bitch, mostly ), facial
❝ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ⤻ 1.9k / mini musing
❝ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴇ ⤻ i do not consent to having my work reposted / translated / stolen in any capacity for any reason. please reblog and leave a comment to support content creators! my work is very rarely proof read so mistakes may be present. all characters / pairings i write for are 18+ with no exceptions.
“Made another fucking mess?”
you yelp in surprise— you hadn’t heard Sangwoo come in. sitting on your knees in the laundry room, you scramble, nervously, to stuff the crimson stained sheet into the machine before he stomped inside, heart pounding hard in your chest. “Y—you scared me,” you stammered, attempting to redirect his attention away from the laundry, “you’re home earl—“
“You bleed all over the bed again?” he scoffs, shoving both hands into his pockets, glaring down at you. there was so much hatred in his eyes— or was it hunger?— as he looked you over, and then glanced at the machine. “Do you want to get kicked back down to the floor again?” you shake your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he steps forward, squats down, and grabs you by your face, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the supple flesh of your cheeks. you whimper and cower in submission, falling back on to your bum on the floor with your back flat against the washer door and his eyes narrow. “No? You want to keep being my little lapdog?”
“Y—yes.” no. not at all. you wanted to go home; you wanted to run as far and fast away from your captor as your legs would take you, but you knew he might just slice your tongue in half if you ever said that to him. so, you played your part. “P—please let me sleep in the bed… I like when you hold me…” pouring honey in your tone, you plead with him, but he only squeezes your cheeks tighter, “I’ll be more careful!” you yip, clenching fists against the wooden floor. your nails scrape against it, splintering micro shards. “I— I— won’t bleed on the sheets anymore, I promise!” but how could you help it? Sangwoo had shredded every pair of panties he bought you, and then berated you when he had to buy more, until finally, he grew tired of it and stopped buying them. you’d tried to wear the destroyed pairs, but it only angered him. i decide what you can and can’t cover, he’d said as he threw them all away, don’t forget that pussy is mine.
what Sangwoo said was law— you’d come to terms with that.
however, trying to control the blood when you weren’t even allowed underwear, but if it would make Sangwoo stop hurting you in this moment, you’d say whatever he wanted to hear.
Sangwoo wasn’t convinced, or he didn’t care, because he was still just staring at you.
the silence was deafening.
“Sangwoo—“
“Spread your legs.”
your eyes widened at the request, knees turning inwards, trying to close even tighter, but his free hand and one knee were already prying them apart, jamming in the gap to keep them open. you blush, madly. even though your skirt draped between your open thighs, you knew they must’ve been streaked, faintly, with drying blood. Sangwoo’s eyeline falls to them, and then he wrenches the skirt out of the way, ruffling it up on to your lap and you flinch— expecting some certain cruelty. “Are you ashamed of yourself?”
nodding, you nibble on your lip. could you help it? no. but, did Sangwoo have a way that made you feel two feet tall, disgusting, and utterly pathetic? of course he did.
“Let’s see.” he mumbles, before he releases your thigh and clamps his hand over your sex. you choke on a surprised cry when both fingers hook into you, curling fiercely, pumping knuckle deep inside you. Sangwoo’s jaw tightens, his brows furrowing, “That’s not shame that I feel in that cunt,” he growls leaning closer, and you bite your tongue to force the moans to the back of your throat, closing your eyes tightly. snorting through your nostrils, you try to stay as quiet as possible, but it was so damn hard when he was fucking you so rough with his fingers. “That’s lust, isn’t it?”
you shake your head, but you can’t avoid the avid clenching around his knuckles as your walls spasm.
“Shameless and a little, fucking liar.” he spits, using the grip on your face to shove your head back against the washer. the contact is solid, and you see stars behind your lids for a solid second as the base of your scalp stings, and you exhale, your eyelids flittering. “You should feel filthy, you know? Instead, you’re moaning like a bitch in heat while you bleed all over my nice, clean floor.”
“I—I’m sorry!” you whine, but it comes out garbled and broken.
finally, after several more, brutal thrusts, he wrenches his fingers free and you jerk at the sudden emptiness, cringing when you feel more rubies drip on to the floor under you. you’re already panting, eyelashes wet with what would’ve been tears had he tortured you any longer, and you squint as you look up at him once you notice he hadn’t spoken in a moment or two.
what you see truly turns your stomach.
his hand is soaked in crimson, smeared and sparkling from the tips of his fingers to the base of his wrist, and he’s just staring at it, expression unreadable. he’s stood up now, feet flat on the floor in front of you.
“I—I—“ but you didn’t know what to say. should you apologize again? should you say nothing?
the corners of his lip twitch, etching them upwards in a sleazy smirk. “So disgusting—“ but he moaned it, a breathy and husky utterance, and he releases your face to shove his clean hand into his sweatpants, fishing his cock out. your face was sore, and your head was throbbing. when he pulls his manhood free from its fabric confines, you see just how hard he is, and you feel your stomach flip. he could be absolutely cruel when he fucked you, and you didn’t know if you had it in you today— your body might simply give out. the bloody extremity lingers closer to his face, and he tilts his head slowly from one side to the other, examining the webs that drew taut when he spread the soaked digits. but, he was doing something else, too. inhaling, deep. smelling you. taking in the scent of your blood on his fingers. he brings them even closer, his tongue lazing out to drag along his bottom lip. “Heh…” he exhales.
for a moment, you stared, frozen, expecting him to lap at the blood, but he doesn’t. he wraps his bloody fist around the base of his cock and drags it, slowly, up to the tip, squeezing hard as he goes. he groans, blissful, smearing cerise over his sex. “Ahh…” you bite your lip, trying not to stare.
but Sangwoo smirks, arching a brow as he strokes himself, “Doesn’t my cock look so good covered in your blood, bitch?”
you don’t want to see it, and you force yourself to avert your gaze, staring at the wall with your cheeks on fire.
Sangwoo grits his teeth, patience as thin as ever, and grabs a fistful of your hair at the crown of your head with his free hand and uses the grip to drag you forward, “Watch me.” he snarls. you wince, following close to his fist to avoid any painful snatching, and obediently open your eyes. you’re much closer now, face only inches from the swollen head, and he chuckles, raspy, when your eyes widened. he’s slathered your blood over every inch, and is furiously fucking the red fist, hips pistoning in a rhythm you recognize all too well— mercilessly Sangwoo. “Your pussy’s nice as slippery when you bleed like this, bet even my big cock would just slide right in,” he grunts , staring down his torso at you. “Maybe I should pound it out, but I think I might drown in it— fuck.” his jaw tightens, as does the grip on your hair, and you bend to him, inching on your knees to get even closer; just as long as he stopped pulling on your scalp. “Eager, aren’t you, whore? Why don’t you get a closer look?”
with that, Sangwoo guides his length to drape it over your countenance. his warmth always astounded you; for someone so cold, his blood was always boiling. what’s worse is that you can smell yourself on him. sealing your lips tight and closing one eye, you stare up at him with the other, and see just how wickedly he’s smirking. “Feel that?” he mutters, clamping his hand against his cock, creating a canal against your face, “How fucking hard I am right now?” you nod, and his hips start to rock. he was right; his cock was solid and pulsating with a primal need that could only be bloodlust. smearing his manhood over your face, it slides between that and his palm— before long, he’s adapted that same, familiar and cruel pace. “I’ve never been this fucking hard before,” he’s starting to pant— on the brink of an orgasm, you knew, “you did this, you know. The smell of your blood, hng, the feeling of it on my fingers…” Sangwoo tilted his head back, mouth hanging open as he bucked his hips, chasing his high, “This feels so fucking good, so intense.”
your hands were on your thighs, digging your own nails into your skin to keep from pulling away from him, even as he came undone and drizzled warm release over your visage. the musky scent of his cum cocktailing with your blood was enough to make you dizzy. you close your eyes and let him guide your head by the tight vice on your roots, rubbing his cock against it until he was spent and panting, before he shoved you back with a satisfied groan. “Fucking hell.” he said after a moment, pressing his palms on the top of the washer and leaning forward against it to catch his breath. “I think I’m going to have to make you bleed for me more often.” he takes a moment, getting his breath under control, before he gave the top of your head a rough pat, which you cowered beneath. “Clean up your mess and get those sheets washed, they better not stain or I’ll tie them in knots around your neck.” you flinch, but nod obediently, finally opening your eyes again. his release was already getting tacky with the blood on your cheeks, and you swallow hard around the lump in your throat, watching him swagger out into the hall. “And hurry up, I’m starving.”
#oh sangwoo#sangwoo x reader#sangwoo x you#sangwoo smut#oh sangwoo smut#killing stalking#killing stalking x reader#killing stalking x you#killing stalking smut#sangwoo oh#oh sangwoo x reader#oh sangwoo x you
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Hello....if u are still accepting requests can u please consider writing a sam/darlin fluff in ft. darlin being ticklish.
And dont feel pressured to write .Only if u r stiill accepting requests.Thank you for all the fics.
❤
Sounds fun! I am still, technically, accepting requests for Micro Fics. And also my pleasure! Hope you're enjoying them all!
—
I stumbled into the house with a groan. The door slammed shut behind me when I fell against it. I sunk to the ground and just sat there, face screwed up, left hand holding my right shoulder—as if that alone was enough to get it to stop aching. It wasn't.
Zip!
"Darlin'? Oh my G—what happened?!" Sam demanded. I heard the weight of his knees hitting the hardwood floor.
"Just a security job," I said. "God, why did I tell David I'd actually give it a shot again?"
"I know you were doin' a security job, darlin'. Why do you look like you got in a fight? I thought these gigs were usually boring."
"Usually being the operative word."
"Wait, you actually got in a fight?"
I scoffed. "You could barely call it a scrum, honestly. But some dumbass hit me so hard in the shoulder that it dislocated—after I'd been on my feet constantly for twelve hours. I'm used to standing and walking for a long time, but twelve hours is pushing it even for me."
"Do I need to reset that shoulder?"
I shook my head. "David relocated it for me. Just aches like hell now. It'll be fine come morning."
Sam shifted his legs so he wasn't kneeling, but instead sitting by my knees. "How'd the fight break out?" He began inspecting the bruises forming on my skin.
I shrugged. "Some idiots got aggressive. One shoulder-checked Milo so Milo shoved him back and then the fists started flying and... well. You can guess what happened after that."
Sam blinked at me. Slowly. "... No. I can't."
I snorted. "Tiny scrum broke out. Milo, Booker, and Arden with four huge, semi-drunk morons on them. The second David and I got involved it ended pretty quick," I said. "But not before one of them cold-clocked me in the shoulder." I rolled my shoulder and grimaced. "I'll be fine. It'll ease out when I shower. No biggie. Honestly, it's my feet that are killing me. Standing for twelve hours is the worst."
Groaning, I closed my eyes and leaned back, thudding my head against the door.
I barely noticed Sam undoing the double-knotted laces of my boots and slowly loosening them. It was impossible to miss him taking them off as he cradled my calves and lowered each foot back to the ground.
"Shin splints?" Sam asked.
"Oh, God, yeah," I muttered. "I mean, they're not bad, but my lower legs ache almost as much as my feet."
Sam hummed and shuffled over the floor to face me head on. He picked up one of my legs and started to massage the muscles of my lower leg. I felt the warmth of his hands through my skinny jeans. I made a face. "You're using healing magic?"
"Just a trace," he replied. "Just enough to soothe the shin splints."
I sighed as he moved onto the other leg. "That feels good," I said softly.
Sam chuckled.
After a bit, he moved from my shins and calves to my feet, massaging them deeply.
I sucked in a sharp breath and jerked.
Sam stopped. "What is it? Did I hurt you?" he asked, looking a little frantic when I peeled one eye open.
I shook my head. "Tickles."
I regretted the word the word the moment it left my mouth. Sam didn't usually have a lopsided grin, but the one that formed on his face was full of mischief.
"Ohhh," he said. "My darlin' is ticklish?"
I pulled my legs closer to me. "No."
Quick as a flash, he had my foot in an unbreakable grip.
"No. Sam—don't you dare—no." Unfortunately, I was smiling.
Sam tickled my foot.
I shrieked and kicked—hard. Running on pure instinct.
He kept tickling me while I thrashed, trying to free myself from his hold on my foot without hurting him. "Sam—Sam—Sam!" I shrieked through my laughter. "Stopitstopitstopit!"
He laughed along with me.
When I finally couldn't stand it anymore, instinct took over.
And I shifted.
The sudden transformation of my foot into a paw was what I needed to free myself of Sam's grip and I scrambled to stand on all fours, panting hard, trying not to bare my teeth in a threat even though my instincts were in defense mode.
Sam grinned, sliding back on the floor a little to accommodate how much bigger my wolf form was than my human one. "Hey there, darlin'," he greeted. "Been a while since I saw that pretty coat of yours."
I huffed out my nose.
"Still ticklish as a wolf?"
I shook my head.
Sam chuckled. "Damn shame. You've got the purdiest laugh."
I rolled my eyes, which only served to make him laugh harder.
#answered#Star does Micro Fics#Redacted ASMR#Redacted Audio#Redacted Sam#Redacted Darlin'#Sam Collins
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"You have your father's eyes"
Quick micro fic based on a comment from this post I made. Thank you sm for the idea, @gods-graveyard
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Barty looks up into the mirror, the reflection staring back at him one he despises. He looks so much like his father, too much like his father. He bows his head staring down at the sink, he can't bear to look anymore. It's so unfair that he holds so much resemblance to the cruel man, his mother's features but a ghost on him.
He looks up, head still down towards the sink but he's looking in the mirror once more. He's staring into the reflection of his eyes, the most vile colour of brown stares back at him. He winces, gripping the sink 'till his knuckles turn white to refrain from punching the mirror. He wants to claw his own eyes out and squeeze them 'till the pop.
He thinks about Evan's eyes, so unique and alluring. One a beautifully light jade green and the other a soft baby blue. Both colors he's come to favor over the years. When he looks into Evan's eyes he feels serenity, his personal safety. However, when he looks into the reflection of his own, he feels unease, it makes him physically ill.
Before he can even think he slams his head into the mirror, the glass immediately shattering upon impact. The glass pokes into his skin, blood falling down his face into the sink. He curses at the sting, yet the pain is relaxing in a way.
He takes a second to calm himself, knowing he'll have to go meet Evan soon. He turns on the sink letting the chilling water run over his hands. He cups his hands letting them fill with water soon splashing it onto his face. He lets out a short breath feeling content enough, then reaches into his back pocket for his wand. Grabbing it out he points it at the mirror first to fix it with a quick "reparo." Then he cleans up his wounds, quickly missing the sting. Finally, he points the wand at each of his eyes individually using "colovaria" to change the colour from a vile brown to a striking green.
He never wants to hear, "You have your father's eyes," again.
#marauders#marauders harry potter#barty crouch jr#angst#reese writes#graphic depictions of violence#mention of blood#tw sh destructive behaviour#he slams his head into a mirror#barty crouch jr needs a hug#barty crouch sr sucks ass#evan rosier#rosekiller
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I want to take a second to talk about Mary Sues as I understand them. And by Mary Sues, I mean all variants unbound by gender or style.
People used to discuss Mary Sues a lot back in the early 2000's. There were litmus tests all over defined by superficial qualities like hair/eye color, number of love interests, whether a tragic backstory existed, etc. Readers would run up to strangers with hate reviews if an OC didn't meet their standards. It was common to accuse disliked canon characters of being Mary Sues too. There were lists of works that were considered guilty of Mary Sue creation assembled for mockery. The whole thing became a form of public bullying and I think it scared a lot of creators into not trying anymore. I suspect it's a huge part of why we keep getting y/n and other open self-insert fics these days.
At some point, the public shifted. People attempted to defend Mary Sues by equating them with all power or romance fantasies then claiming the only reason such characters would be vilified is sexism toward a female default archetype. By doing this, most people stopped examining the phenomenon altogether--not only in understanding what the actual common factor in Mary Sues is, but why Mary Sues are alienating to readers.
That answer was a cop out. I promise that Mary Sues are just as off-putting with characters of any gender, demographic, orientation, whatever. And frankly it doesn't matter if your character is the most generically designed, unassuming, non-tragic shlub of all time--they are still capable of being a Mary Sue if the structural issues remain.
Mary Sues are normal among developing writers. I've certainly made Mary Sues before. They were cringe af and occasionally I discuss them behind closed doors if I want to make someone laugh. Created them in dead earnest as a teen and holy fuck it was parody level. Everything I talk about is as someone who is 0% free from sin lmao.
Before I give my definition of what a Mary Sue is, I need to explain something about characterization that is often overlooked.
There is micro, individual characterization and there is macro, population characterization. Worldbuilding requires characterization too. You need to look at a group's motives, influences, psychology, resources, etc. the same way you would for individual characters while allowing room for varied experiences. You need to know the cause/effect of societal development. It isn't something you can just wave away as 'because I said so' because that dehumanizes the entire population, which makes the world less believable/immersive. A less believable world in-turn strips individual characters of experiences and perspectives that shape who they are. This has a flattening effect and makes characters less believable and relatable too. Tradition, style, and genre def shape how much detail is needed but some degree of macro-characterization is necessary.
With that said, I'd argue that Mary Sues are characters who (rather than having behavior believably shaped by experiences or operating within the parameters of the world they inhabit) define themselves for how they are exempt. It doesn't matter if the exception to cause/effect is positive or negative. Mary Sues are also prone to being the most at what they do. Most ordinary/boring counts. Mary Sues will warp the experiences, perspectives, and desires of other cast members around themselves like black holes without it being acknowledged as abnormal by the other cast members or the narrative. Cause and effect in relationship building through behavior/choices does not apply, a Mary Sue does not start from zero like a regular person. Lore and stories revolve around Mary Sues exclusively even when it doesn't make any sense for that to be the case. Every significant thought or experience of other cast members ties back to Mary Sues too. Positive or negative, Mary Sues are likely the only and most meaningful relationship characters will have. Design elements (when present) tie to exceptionalism and lack of cause/effect.
Being a chosen one or someone with unrivaled power/influence in a particular arena isn't enough to make a character a Mary Sue if it is cohesive within the world. These things also tie heavily to characterization in response to situations as well as the dynamics with others/characterization of others. The existence of Mary Sue tends to preclude any alternate meaningful relationships or experiences for other cast members, and again--Mary Sue is specifically not shaped by experiences in credible ways. They don't experience meaningful internal change. They're pretty much always right or always wrong. And having an exceptional or rare experience (ex. someone did an experiment with odd results on a character) isn't enough to cause a Mary Sue either if that experience or exception remains consistent within the overall worldbuilding/macro-characterization. So ex. if there were similar experiments being conducted on or by others, that would go a long way to addressing exceptionalism.
Isekai characters who come from one world to another are not inherent Mary Sues, because the isekai character still carries and is shaped by both their previous life experiences and the life experiences of their new environment. The source world is still part of the overall setting that shapes them. In-universe reality warpers also don't count as Mary Sues because reactions to reality warping tend to be organic and not normalized by the narrative.
There are degrees in how much a character is or isn't a Mary Sue, but lack of cause/effect, absolutism, and exceptionalism are big. The reason Mary Sues are bad storytelling is because they are not credibly human (figurative), diminish the humanity of other cast members, and diminish the humanity/construction of the entire world simultaneously. They lack believable consequences for any choices made--be they positive or negative. Stakes/tension are skewed as a result. Mary Sues tend to be static and they not only break immersion, they alienate readers because it's a form of destroying a world and cast the audience is invested in. There is no reason for random strangers to love Mary Sues. Mary Sues don't come across as authentically alive in any capacity, but more as poorly done caricatures of life.
And the thing is, they often don't work for wish-fulfillment fiction either. Wish-fulfillment (when the reader imagines experiencing the story in the role of protagonist) gets passes on certain technical elements necessary in empathy-based storytelling (when the reader forms opinions of cast members as distinct people) or intellect-based storytelling (the reader is exploring a philosophical or medium-based concept).
In wish-fulfillment, it is very important that the writer creates a main character who many audience members can project themselves onto. Usually such characters are left somewhat underdeveloped to facilitate this. Whether it's a power fantasy (reader imagines having luxury/influence), a romance fantasy (reader obtains an ideal partner), or even revenge fantasy (reader has an outlet for anger without consequences)--in wish-fulfillment it's important that not only the author but a wide range of readers can share in the fantasy. While it's possible to get limited success with some Mary Sues here, I think the extreme, specific, hyper exceptional nature of Mary Sues often distracts. Again, wish-fulfillment finds strength in how well it shares fantasies with audiences. If the audience is so caught up that they can't effectively project themselves onto the Mary Sue (being hyper aware of the Mary Sue's artificiality), that isn't going to work. If the fantasy doesn't resonate with audiences, it won't go as far either.
Imagine taking James Bond and giving him natural purple eyes and hair in a world where no one else has that. He'd never lose a single fight or struggle to escape peril, never wreck one of the fancy cars he's given, never have a single advance rejected. Bond is a power and romance fantasy character no doubt, but his limits are significant in keeping him from being a Mary Sue. There are plots and relationships that have nothing to do with him beyond details in the mission he was assigned and those keep things immersive.
All this said. If you're telling a story for yourself, and only yourself--doesn't matter if your character is a Mary Sue. Once you bring other people in, you have to think about what you're trying to achieve as a storyteller in terms of interpersonal communication. That includes whether the experiences you're crafting for readers are effectively realized.
Mary Sues are a normal part of learning. They aren't immoral or unforgivable. Mostly they invoke a self-centered mindset supposing the entire world/everyone in it revolves around you in some way. Again, I've made 'em lol--think immaturity is a big part of the practice. But in a story where everything revolves around you, that doesn't necessarily share well with readers who aren't you who are still the heroes of their own stories.
Making Mary Sues is a craftsmanship issue. It's like trying to build a chair only for one leg to come out wobbly. It can be your favorite chair sure, but that doesn't make it well-crafted. Certainly no one owes you money or praise for it. Hell, they wouldn't owe those things if it was a perfectly crafted chair but not the chair they were after.
Part of what motivated me to write this is because I've seen certain creators with wobbly chairs. They've slapped on carvings, stains, and all kinds of features--but the chair still wobbles like a motherfucker. These creators don't understand why more people aren't buying their chair. They think people must hate them personally or the material their chair is made from then fly into rages accusing audiences of moral deficiency. It's hit a level of bullying in its own right.
To people like that I say:
Your chair wobbles. It'll do way better if it doesn't wobble. The wobble is fixable. Strangers are not obligated to fawn over your wobbly chair. There isn't something wrong with them for not wanting a wobbly chair. Wobbly chairs haven't done well historically either. You're not an exception, just one in a very long line of wobbly chair makers. Some of those chairs were made of the same material you're using. Some were different. It isn't about the material or your staining, your carvings, any of that. It isn't about you either. Your chair can't support itself--let alone someone trying to sit in it. Even if your prospective customers couldn't make a better chair themselves, they can tell when shit's unsteady and they don't want that. Of course you're making wobbly chairs before you make sturdy ones because you're still figuring chair construction out. This is just a part of the process you haven't mastered yet. It takes attention and practice. If you spent half the energy you use yelling at other people honing your craft instead, you'd probably have better sales.
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Perfect - A Jily micro-fic for @thegobletofweasleys Jily Week
Day one: angst vs fluff
It’s the perfect Saturday afternoon. The sun’s out, birds are chirping, and Lily has just burnt the Greek Vegetable Casserole she was making for her first official date with her best-friend. Well best friend-turned-boyfriend but is also her best friend. It’s complicated in the very best way.
As a guilty perfectionist, she wants to make the right first impression, even though she has known the bloke since grade school.
He’s here. She knows it's him with the way he knocks, three times with a two second gap with each knock. “Shit”, she whispers, in caution that he doesn’t hear her. She is still in her PJs and her apartment reeks of overcooked food, what a chaotic mess. “One second”, she says, a little louder this time as she opens the door.
“Hey, Lils”, he grins enthusiastically. The kind of grin that brightens her insides.
He is holding tulips, various different colors, her favorite. “I - ugh - got this for you” he says as he enters the flat, a slight blush creeps up on his face.
She can’t handle this anymore. His eagerness gives rise to her guilt. “James, it’s a mess - this date - I wanted everything to be perfect and it’s not even minutely close”, she utters sorrowfully.
He keeps the tulip bouquet on the table at the entrance table and comes to her instantly, taking her in his arms. The entrance door left ajar.
She looks at him. “I was trying to make a casserole, the kind you like, but I burnt it,” she winces.
“You cooked something difficult for the first time, for me? He asks astonishingly.
“Yes”, she says, shying away from his piercing gaze.
“Lils… that’s - I .. awesome - you never cook”, his hand is now on her face, brushing away a strand of hair.
“I look like a disaster”
“I love disasters” he smirks, hazel eyes twinkling behind squared frames. “Lily, you’re perfect as is. Dinner cooked or not. Dressed up or not. I just want to be with you” his grip around her tightens, their lips only inches apart.
“I do too”, she affirms, rising to her tiptoes to close the gap between them.
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Hello awesome humans! I was wondering if you know any good fics featuring either guy with a small dick. Preferably he is insecure over it but the other shows him how much he is loved small dick and all. Thank you <3
Hi! Here are some fics featuring small penises...
29 Micro Penis Appreciation by Samara Lilly (M)
Day 29 of Ineffable Kinktober: Micro Penis Appreciation
Compare by risky_writing (M)
It started with drinking, but they hadn’t even had much.
It started with the End of the World not happening.
It started with the Arrangement.
It started with often-invented reasons to cross paths with Aziraphale.
It started in the Garden, at least it did for Crowley.
you've reached your limits by waxing_crescent (E)
It wasn’t that he forgot. It was simply—his life got away from him, and he didn’t keep track of his personal-grade miracles anymore, and when he did, he probably got the number all wrong. It was still quite impressive, that number, and so he didn’t bother.
And then it turned out it wasn’t even that impressive in the first place.
Story of his bloody life.
Or, the one where Aziraphale has a kink, and Crowley accidentally indulges him.
Small Cock Appreciation Society by cheerios_and_wine (E)
Crowley is the founding member. Aziraphale's is the member.
Aziraphale was dizzy with how much he wanted to have Crowley naked in his bed, and here Crowley was, stripping down in his room while he tried to settle the slight shake in his fingers. He undid the button of his trousers and slid the zipper down. Was he moving too slow? Maybe Crowley thought he was teasing them, trying to put on a little show. The nervousness crowded his mind but he drew in a slow breath and nudged the fear away again. It would be alright. This was Crowley, watching him with so much desire he could practically feel it like honey dripping over his skin. Crowley would accept him.
Aziraphale breathed out and pushed his trousers and pants down to his thighs in one go. There was a half second of silence as Aziraphale waited in strained anticipation for Crowley to see.
"Oh, thank GOD."
75 by theoncomingdoodah (E)
Most couples don't keep track of their sexual encounters, down to the minute.
Crowley and Aziraphale aren't most couples.
- Mod D
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Ooh, for the micro fic, can you use "Pretty"?
i certainly can! here's a little something grounded in neither space nor time that i imagine is probably set 1-2 years post-smoke break. includes mentions of OCs liam (erin's post-smoke break bf) and faye (james's post-smoke break gf).
[in reference to this writing ask game that i reblogged earlier!]
Erin finds it easy to forget that she’s dating someone else – told him she loved him and everything only a month ago for Christ’s sake – when she watches James. She’s very good at watching James. If there were a sport for it, she’d be professional. She could get a degree in it. Honours for never getting caught. Extra credit for the most sublime affectation of nonchalance that you could imagine, all while her eyes skim across his face, along his hair, his cheek, his neck. Top marks.
He’s pretty. Not in a pretty boy kind of way. Not just in a pleasing to the eye kind of way. In a kind of way that makes her feel totally delusional just to look at him, like really look at him. He’s just so very James – shoulders sometimes a little hunched, hands sometimes stuffed into his pockets, the edges of his mouth sometimes (always) on a downward trend until they are curving up and up and he smiles and it feels like the fucking sun. Like basking in a late summer golden hour, wishing always to live forever in that moment, liking it all the better because she can’t.
She thinks sometimes she’s the only one who notices. No one else thinks he’s pretty. Well – maybe his girlfriend does. But she can’t really imagine Faye thinking it quite like that. Not like Erin thinks it. Not like Erin feels it – overwhelmed sometimes, basking in him in only the kind of way she thinks she can do.
She watches him and wonders – how would his cheek feel under her hand and how would he kiss her again and what words would he say now, after all this time. She sometimes forgets that she ever got to do any of that. Maybe if she remembered she wouldn’t long for it so much. Maybe if she remembered, she wouldn’t watch him.
Or maybe she does remember. Maybe that’s why she can’t stop.
Sometimes she wonders if he watches too – is he thinking about her when he stands across the room, when he looks her way? Does he take the seat across from her, always now, all the better to see her face?
It’s to create distance, that’s all, is what she tells herself. He never sits just next to her. Not anymore. But sometimes she looks up, eyes skimming over him as if it means nothing, as if she’s not thinking about how long since she last did it, as if she’s hoping no one is noticing that she’s looking at him quite so much, and she’ll find that his eyes are skimming too. No, more than skimming; concentrated right on her face.
And when their eyes meet, it’s always look away, look away as fast as you possibly can, all while a zip of embarrassment and something more – adrenaline – finds its way just as fast through her limbs.
Sometimes she thinks she’s gonna lose it, just totally lose it, thinking about him like this. Like he’s hers. Like he is exactly who is meant for her. Like the next time he even comes close to her, she’s going to totally lose it and kiss him. Like she’s going to confuse this absolutely bonkers fantasy, like she’s going to totally fucking embarrass herself thinking that he wants this too. He doesn’t. She would know. She would know for sure, if he did.
If he cared about her at all, she wouldn’t be wondering. Wouldn’t be thinking about it like this, fixated and distracted and biding time until she can next bloom again under his gaze.
Sometimes she wonders what it’s all for – all of this desire. What does she hope for? What does she want? Does she want him to know? The thought sounds humiliating. Does she want him to want her too? Yes. But she doesn’t know where to put it, all this wanting. Because, laid bare, at the end of it all, she’s not quite sure what’s left. Sometimes she thinks she can see the smoke figures of their future, hers and James's, if there ever was going to be one; one slight breeze blows it all away.
And Liam. Liam. He’s not smoke. He’s real. And, with him, she’s never left wondering. She’d be so foolish not to choose that.
It always happens this way – when James visits Derry – Erin gets so tired, feels so run ragged from all of the waiting. Waiting until she can see him again, waiting until she catches his eye again, waiting until she gets a wee, tiny shred of evidence that maybe she’s right for reading so much into it. Waiting for the next hit of a glance like her fucking life depends on it. It’s really feeling like her life depends on it.
And when Liam, her sweet fella, asks her how her trip home was – was it good? – she will only say that it was “Fine. You know how it is,” and then slip ever more shoddily, ever less surely back into her usual life, counting down the days until the next time.
#gone are the days where i could churn out a couple of these in a night#going to try to do one a day at least#derry girls#james maguire#erin quinn#jerin#my fic#ask#ask game#cranberries ask game#i am realizing now that i have written on a similar kind of theme before and probably did it better then but here i am again anyway#clearly i like the pining and seemingly unrequited infatuation
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