#queue ever heard of scrabble? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grabthemhorns-old · 4 years

Text

Asmodeus/MC - Obey Me! fluff

Language of Love

Asmodeus/gender neutral MC

Fluff

Happy birthday Asmo! Just some little fluff for you 💜

---------------------------------------------------

Mammon was the first to notice.

He’d always been observant, interested, taking in the chorus of his brothers and most significantly, you. His heart was bared, but you didn’t claim. Because you’d already found another. And so he watched, soaking in your happiness from afar. For that’s all that really mattered.

The first thing he sees is the way you laugh, but not for just anyone - for Asmodeus.

It was different. Relaxed, painted a pitch that matches your smile; a smile that always reaches your eyes.

Eyes that track the way Asmodeus moves, as if trying to find an opening so you can fit. You wonder if he holds you, will you? Or will you just be a number, a conquest.

The thought pushes down words that you’re desperate to say. But they’re stuck. Stitched to lips that he hasn’t yet kissed. Although, the intention flits back, forth, suspended between you both from a thread, coaxing, to see who will break it first.

A part of you wonders why? Are you not good enough to even be a mark, in an endless scrabble of names.

But regardless, you enjoy the sensual words, the light touches, the tension, the glances, away, back, a gentle game whose rules you thought you’d read. But what if they’d never been written?

You’re on his arm, walking to The Fall, and you both stride in past the queue. But as the doors open, Asmodeus hangs back and lets you step forward, a hand to back, eyes on you, eyes on him.

But you were first.

He dances, but he doesn’t chase the spotlight, because it’s firmly fixed on you. As is he.

He talks, but words direct their company towards you, and suddenly, they’re transfixed. For a moment, you wonder if he can charm for you, or to you.

There is something both subdued - but alight - about him when you’re there. Are you dampening his fire, you worry. You tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, and see him blush, his soft laughter almost lost in the sea of music, but it still finds its way to you.

You shiver as he takes your hand, fingers slowly twisting together before you, his face half hidden beneath the lock of hair that falls again as he dips his head, but looks up.

At only, you.

He says nothing, but you’ve never seen him so bare, stripped, unravelling before your eyes, piece, by piece.

Another piece falls when you walk into his room. Beside his bed sits an exquisite frame, and you always remember it holding a beautiful portrait of Asmodeus. A candid, but exquisite picture in the flower garden, in his demon visage, his smile touched by the moon.

But now, there is a picture of you.

Your fingers trail over the silver of the frame as he hangs up his scarf and starts running the bath he’s about to take.

“How long...” Your words fall away. There are many ways you could finish that sentence. There’s only one you want to say. But does he want to hear?

Asmodeus pauses when he realises what you’ve seen. It’s covered in an airy laugh. “Oh that? Ages.” He touches your arm, hand sliding up, up to your shoulder, until fingers glance your neck. “I clearly need to bring you into my room more often.” The words chime playfully, but-

-then his hand is gone.

You can still feel it linger as you stare at the photo. It’s not even that good. Just one of you laughing in the RAD dining hall, probably complaining about the ridiculous uniforms. Again.

He’s standing at his dresser, taking off his earrings. But he’s not looking at his mirror, he’s looking at you.

“I hope you enjoyed tonight,” he says, a fragility to his voice you’re unsure of.

“I enjoy every night with you.” It slips out, and he pauses, hands poised with a handful of earrings. “And day.”

You step closer, watching another piece, fall.

“Really?” The insecurity falls off his lips, and you’re there to catch.

Lightly, you cradle his face, the touch washing away his doubt that you realised had quashed his light. Not you.

Your thumb brushes across his bottom lip as you catch his eyes, just before you kiss.

The earrings fall from his hands to hiss on the floor as he bumps the dresser, as he lets you collide, body to body.

He tastes just like you’d imagined. Sweet, hot, like you can taste light, like you can taste love, twisted around tongues, unsaid, but spoken in a thousand different ways.

And you realise then, as he pulls back to catch breath and just study you, like you’re the only thing he can ever see, that he’s been speaking so loud, but you’ve only just heard.

“Really,” you say, reaffirming, reassuring. Stripped away is the Asmodeus that paints everyone’s eyes, their expectations and want. Gone is the visage, so carefully crafted to match the title of Lord of Lust. You gaze at the insecurity, at the love painted by fear, doused by doubt.

You blink. Looking twice.

Love.

You were the last to notice, but you wonder as you kiss him again, again, nails dragging along his scalp as you hold, as you both laugh through the kiss, that so was he.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo x reader #asmodeus/reader #obey me fanfic #obey me fic #happy birthday asmo

220 notes · View notes

kotorswtor · 4 years

Text

Heck with it, we’re posting this. Here’s the Episode 0 to a Mando/Force-sensitive OC series I’m working on. Master post and/or coherent formatting to follow once I’m not on mobile.

The Mandalorian had a foundling, a commission to return it to its kin, and despite himself, no plan and no clue for how to proceed.

Initial attempts to identify the Child by species failed. The Armorer had suggested that its strange abilities were characteristic of a people called the Jedi, and he’d undertaken research on them as a starting point. Information on these sorcerers was thin on the ground, though, and scarcer yet when one tried to separate fact from wild confabulation. The historical enemy of his people, like his people, had been lately persecuted by the rise of the Empire. Few had relevant knowledge even before the propaganda campaigns and the fear of reprisal complicated the search for answers, and for those who did, reticence was a hard-to-break habit. A university librarian on Raltiir, who had laughed harder than he thought strictly necessary, corrected his assumption that all Jedi were knee-high, gundark-eared, and green. Like Mandalorians, they could be drawn from any race. While that absolved him of the need to locate a tribe of beings that no resource he consulted and no subject-matter expert he contacted had ever seen before, it created a new problem- the search parameters had exploded from no one to potentially anyone.

Later that evening, while the bulkheads of the Razor Crest vibrated in sympathetic outrage with the Child’s complaints because he had prevented it from dropping everything not bolted down into the vac-head for the fourth time that day, it occurred to him that he might have an idea of whom to consult next. He’d met the contact early in his hunting career, and it had ended so bizarrely, he’d done his best to block it out of his memory in the meantime. But discomfort was becoming second nature, and any lead was preferable to scrabbling around for the single grain he needed in two tons of scorching Nevarran sand.

The job had looked a little suspect from the start. As advertised, it was a straightforward, preferably live apprehension of a human female, about fifteen standard years old, from an off-grid farming commune on Dantooine’s sprawling, empty Khoonda plains. At first he’d ignored it; the assignment was far enough out of his way that the pay barely compensated for travel time, fuel, and the likelihood of being obliged to wait out checkpoints or inspections along the route. The file sat in the back of the queue over several weeks, the number of subcontractors and sub-subcontractors of record metastasized, and the payout on offer steadily grew. In his experience, the former indicated probable Imperial involvement, and the latter meant that the job was more complicated than advertised. Eventually he ran out of more attractive prospects. A job that began as a well-organized, cooperative engagement on Alzoc-3 devolved into a barely-salvaged, chaotic scramble. After that, a solitary, simple gig, even one with a long commute, sounded like a welcome change.

He put the Crest down on a cracked, rutted landing pad. The precipitously-tilting remains of a sunken, four-spired compound loomed over a brick-bordered expanse of weeds that might’ve been a temple precinct in ages past, an expanse of fallow hills and neat, square tracts of farmland. Standing on the loading ramp, he surveyed the area, first with a set of quadnoculars, second with the infrared sensors in his helm. He found no present or recent indications of sentient activity- deeply suspicious at the height of planting season. He slung the Amban over his shoulder, ran a quick mental check on his other armaments, and set off in the direction indicated by the tracking fob.

The further he progressed into the settlement, the more unsettling the scene became. Not only were there no workers about the usual chores, he saw no livestock, heard no wild animals. For once in his life,the sight of survey droids or automated harvesters might have been welcome, but there were none to be found.

His prior intelligence-gathering had indicated that the Sandral stakehold was a haven for deserted troops, refugees, and asylum-seekers, fleeing the last gasp of the Clone Wars or the magma-like subsumptive spread of the Empire. That information seemed suspicious; usually communities of bucolic non-combatants didn’t put up enough resistance to warrant a large and growing bounty. Now he saw that he wasn’t looking at a pacifist enclave so much as a competent, well-prepared army under siege.

Something crunched under his boot. He lifted his foot to find a human scapula and the blasting cap from a buried explosive. Flowering weeds were already sprouting in the crater. He looked up and noted that the landscape was dotted with similar scars. Fifteen careful paces later, a toe scuffed against the chitinous shell of a very large dead arthropod. Similar fragments carpeted a dip in the ground, hard packed earth covering what he guessed had once been the entrance to a nest. A neat stack of bundles wrapped in shining fibers and assembled on one side of the hollow were, he belatedly realized, not bales of livestock feed. He passed the blast-scarred head of a cistern. The jagged line painted over the cover and the reek emanating from under it indicated that it had been repurposed as a mass grave.

The tracker led him to a squat, sprawling compound sunken into the top of a hill. He made a wide circuit around the facility, noting fortifications, armaments, and a faint infravision impression of the sentients inside. The disarticulated carcass of an Imperial troop transport sprawled across the landing pad on the roof, and the massive front door had been welded shut. A small service bay door to the rear looked like a more likely prospect.

He had a breaching charge placed and partly armed when the door to the compound shot open from under his hands. A human adolescent, raw-boned and hollow-eyed, slid out and squinted into the light. Her hair was darkened and matted down with sweat, and between the grime and healing bruises, her natural skin tone was hard to determine. Even from behind his helmet, he could tell that she hadn’t had the opportunity to bathe or change clothes in a long time.

“Atash Anteros?”

She scowled and flapped her hands at her soot-smudged, much-mended tunic “No, the queen of Naboo, can’t you tell?”

A wail rose from inside the house. Sighing, she shut the door again, abruptly cutting it off.

She peered into the void of his visor for a long moment with beskar-gray eyes. “I know why you’re here,” she said finally. “Let’s get on with it.”

Unsettled and uncertain whether his blaster was the better thing to be grabbing, he reached for the binders on his belt.

She spat something that sounded midway between a cough and a curse. “Do unarmed children usually give you much trouble?”

He shrugged off the taunt in silence, reclaimed and stowed the explosives. She blundered past him with the unsteady, wobbling gait of someone who’d spent a long time in confinement. His hand hovered by his holster.

“You want a fight, so that this feels worth your effort.” she commented without turning around. “Given the armor, that tracks. Should have come earlier.” She jerked her head to the side. A combine thresher, cockpit shot out and internals still smoldering, was augured into an embankment a few yards away. He counted several pairs of stormtrooper limbs caught in its tines

The sheer surreality of the scene outweighed his usual professional reticence ”How much earlier?”

She shot a bleary, quizzical glance at the horizon. “Siege started in earnest, what, about ten weeks ago? Maybe closer to twelve. This is my first trip outside in about four.” She sidestepped the buckled remains of an Imperial helmsman’s cuirasse embedded in the dirt. “Can’t say much for the re-landscaping that’s been done in the meantime.”

Her blithe demeanor was undercut by evident exhaustion. She stumbled and nearly fell three times on the way back to the ship. He threw out an arm to catch her each time. Each time she acknowledged the gesture with a sharp nod.

They arrived within sight of the Razor Crest and he keyed in the remote-unlock sequence on his vambrace, watching her carefully for a sudden change of bearing. “No holding cell on the ship. You’ll be placed in carbon freeze.” he said.

If anything, she looked even less poised to fight or flee. Maybe just more tired. “It will be nice to sleep, finally.” she replied, earnestly wistful. “I’m so tired of…” she tilted her head to indicate the heaps of wrecked machinery and disturbed turf and the half-toppled temple “...all of this.” She faced the tumbledown remains of the temple and bent forward slightly in an approximation of a bow, then looked to him to lead on.

He ushered her up the loading ramp and into the ship. He thought she’d belatedly made up her mind to fight when she stopped a few steps into the hold with her hands out, fingers splayed; it turned out that she hadn’t adjusted to the sudden reduction in light. He guided her toward and around into the mobile freezing unit with one hand on her shoulder and the other close to his blaster.

She edged forward. There was the resistance he was expecting. He caught her arm and pressed her back into the freezing chamber’s frame with an annoyed grunt.

Her free hand darted out in a blur, and found a sliver of bare skin under his vambrace, between his gauntlet and the sleeve hem of his hauberk. Her fingertips connected, and a silent, invisible explosion ripped through him. His ears buzzed. The deck tilted and fell away from beneath his boots. The hand that should have unholstered and fired his pistol in a fraction of a second refused to respond.

He heard her breathing, her heartbeat alongside his. His familiar, comfortable armor grew crowded and airless, as if she’d not so much destroyed as infiltrated it, crawled into it with him. Sparks bloomed behind his eyes and resolved into images from elsewhere: a procession of motley Guild hunters, Imperial infantry and featureless, faceless suits of black armor collided with farmers and artisans. Torrents of plasma fire and arcs of strange glowing, chakram-hilted staves cut through a poisonous haze of weaponized fertilizer and pesticide. Light artillery cut ragged wounds into farmland already scarred by improvised fortifications and hastily-excavated graves.

He jerked his hand away with a yelp and slammed down the button to engage the carbon freeze.

“Beroya, Returcye’mhi.” she murmured through the hissing gas. Maybe we’ll meet again, Hunter.

“Huh?”

The asset’s features froze into a coldly direct, level stare. She wouldn’t be able to clarify how a ragged Outer-Rim dirt farmer learned to speak the language of his people. He sagged against the control panel, chest heaving, dashing at his visor with shaking hands.

What the hell are you? he mouthed silently between gasps.

The rush of blood in his ears reassembled itself into her voice. I don’t know. We’ll see.

Fighting a gut-stab of pure panic, he ventured a furtive glance at the carbonite slab. She stared, as before.

He bit off a curse and stumbled back to the cockpit. The slab remained in the chamber, and he avoided even walking past it for the duration of the four-day flight to Dubrillion.

He dug back through his archives of old chain code data. Twenty years was a long time; she might be anywhere. She might be dead. The problem of the Child entirely aside, a small part of him hoped she was. He’d spent a long time agonizing over whether...whatever she’d done, whatever she might have seen when she touched him constituted a breach of the Creed. He hadn’t told the Armorer or anyone else, out of fear of the consequences, fear of ridicule because an unarmed serf who was barely strong enough to stand had counted coup on him, fear that he’d finally taken one too many hits to the head and the whole impossible episode had been a hallucination.

After a very long gap in her record, there was a ping on Doniphon, then Kestis Minor. Most recently, a derelict orbital station near Telos IV. He held out his hand. The Child persisted in its experiments with jamming a spare tracking fob into the Razor Crest flight controls, up its nostrils, and into the corners of his visor. He offered a doll he’d improvised out of a hydrospanner and a string of jingling metal washers tied with shreds from his cape, and the Child made the trade with a shriek of glee. With a deep breath and a few decisive taps on the terminal, he programmed the tracking fob, then laid in a course on the navicomp. They were bound for Telos.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #mando/oc #atash anteros #Mando/Atash #my fanfic #oh god this is my first shot at fiction in about five years *hyperventilates into hands*#building in little easter eggs for my KotOR friends has been fun #narudare

23 notes · View notes

magnoliasinbloom · 5 years

Text

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

We consummated our legal marriage that night, and any other night he was able to sneak away from Rupert and Angus. The contract was laid next to Mother Hildegarde’s letter, inside Davie Beaton’s black-bound casebook. After a few weeks, I had mostly learned my way around Leoch. I spent my time in the surgery, the kitchens, and the garden, fully accepted as a participant in castle life. Spring was now upon us, despite the chilly June mornings.

The Gathering had arrived; tacksmen and tenants from all over who owed fealty to the MacKenzies were arriving in droves. Some stayed in the castle itself, most camped outside on the grounds. I was kept extremely busy tending to wounds and varied illnesses. The healer in me reveled at fulfilling my calling, my life’s work.

In the meantime, I met with Jamie whenever I could, stealing moments in the stables, in the forest, and once in a dark stairwell. We were careful to be polite to each other in public, no more. I eyed the girl Laoghaire with suspicion every time I interacted with her, mostly in Mrs. Fitz’s kitchen. She kept on about her impending marriage to Jamie, and I worried about what would happen when we would be forcefully called out about the truth.

The night of the Gathering, I was informed, I would be a spectator up in the gallery with most of the castle’s unmarried women. The great hall was reserved for the tenants and their wives, who would be pledging an oath to Dougal as chieftain of clan MacKenzie. Jamie had confessed to me that he did not mean to swear fealty to Dougal—to do so would be to set himself up as the likely future leader of the clan after Dougal died. The MacKenzie laird was recently widowed, I’d heard, and had no male issue of his own, only three daughters who had remained behind at his estate. Jamie was the closest male kin of age, but many of the tenants present at the Gathering would not consider him suitable for succession. But if he refused to swear the oath… he could face death.

“’Twould look like an accident, Sassenach,” he said quietly, tracing patterns on my back as we lay on the cot in the surgery. “I could be speared at the tynchal, suffer a gruesome head injury playing shinty, or have my throat cut in some dark corner.”

I turned towards him at this, alarmed. “Jamie, you can’t possibly—”

“We have to face it, mo nighean donn. While I live at Leoch and am of sound body and mind, I must swear. ‘Tis a dangerous game we’re playing now. I have Murtagh to watch my back. I shall think of something beforehand, dinna fash.”

I stood amongst the women in the gallery, in the nicest gown I owned, which had come with me from Paris, and a new pair of shoes, a fichu, and hair ribbon, courtesy of Mrs. Fitz. I scanned the crowd eagerly for a glimpse of Jamie. He was usually easy to spot—a full head taller than most men and the fiery thatch of his hair. But there was no sight of him yet. I did see Geillis Duncan, standing by her husband; he was a rotund, serious man, but seemed amiable enough.

With the beating of drums and the fanfare of bagpipes, Dougal walked ceremoniously through the middle of the hall, all the way to the raised dais. He cried out, “Tulach Ard!” which the men repeated in a roar, raising their cups to Dougal. I knew he had begun with the battle cry of the MacKenzie clan, but he addressed the room in the Gaidhligh; I did not understand most of it, and Mrs. Fitz must have seen my face so she stood next to me and translated in a whisper.

“He is welcoming the men to Leoch, hoping that they had safe journeys. While he hopes the men never have to draw iron, if they do he couldn’t hope for better men to defend the honor of the clan,” Mrs. Fitz said. I nodded along, and Dougal kept speaking. “Only the crazy would challenge the MacKenzie, and he is proud to be their laird. Luceo non uro! That means—”

“I shine, not burn,” I finished for her, smiling. “That I understood.”

“’Tis the motto of clan MacKenzie,” she said, loudly over the din of the cheering men. I saw the door to the great hall open as she spoke, and finally Jamie made an entrance. He was faithfully shadowed by Murtagh, who glanced furtively around him and trailed Jamie into a corner of the room. He drew more than a few glances, and I felt my heart race with nerves.

The rest of the men formed a loose line, taking turns to pledge loyalty to Dougal. The clansmen quieted down, and the first stepped forward. He bent on one knee, drawing his dagger upside down and holding it up, like a cross. His oath, which was given in English, read: “I swear, by the cross of our lord Jesus Christ, and by the holy iron that I hold, to give ye my fealty, to pledge ye my loyalty to the name of clan MacKenzie. And if ever I shall raise my hand against ye in rebellion, I ask that this holy iron shall pierce my heart.” He kissed the blade, stood, and sheathed it once more. Dougal held out his hands and the clansman kissed them as well. Dougal nodded in approval and offered the quaich for a drink to seal the man’s oath.

The next man came forward, and repeated the oath word for word. “Are all oaths the same?” I asked Mrs. Fitz.

“Aye, dear, and so’s the drinking. ‘Tis a good thing the laird can hold his drink, or he would be fair sloshed by the tenth man.” Dougal drank deeply of the ceremonial cup for every oath pledged him, and showed no sign of faltering. I grew restless, wondering what Jamie had planned to keep himself safe. The seemingly endless line of men progressed as the sun marked its path across the flagstones. After awhile, Mrs. Fitz went back to the kitchens to supervise the final touches on the feast. I offered my help, but was gently rebuffed, the lady insisting I remain behind and enjoy myself.

“Who kens it, lass. Mayhap ye find yerself a husband at the Gathering; it has happened many a time before!” She winked and was gone in a swish of skirts.

Find myself a husband, indeed. Where was he now? I leaned on the parapet of the gallery, and met his gaze. He stood towards the end of the queue; he was dressed in his kilt, a basket hilt sword at his side. Murtagh stood beside him still, good man. I watched in trepidation as he slowly made his way to the front of the hall, closer and closer to Dougal. As he approached, the air became tense, and I found it hard to breathe. The sudden silence in the hall was deafening.

Jamie knelt for a moment at Dougal’s feet. After a few beats, he stood and his hand went to the dagger at his side, but Jamie did not draw it yet. “Dougal MacKenzie,” he began. “I come to ye as kinsman, and as ally. I give ye no vow, for my oath is pledged to the name that I bear.”

At this, an alarming number of men reached for their own weapons, and I heard the song of steel against scabbard. My breath caught in my throat; the threat was now imminent.

Jamie took one step closer to Dougal, and continued. “I give ye my obedience as kinsman, and as laird. And I hold myself bound to yer word, so long as my feet rest on the lands of clan MacKenzie.” He stood his ground before Dougal, his gaze on the laird’s grey eyes unwavering. The silence was prolonged; everyone seemed to be holding their breath like I was. I saw Jamie’s hand grip the hilt of the dagger, ready to go down fighting.

Then, Dougal smiled, and reached for the quaich beside him. A collective gasp of relief went up from the crowd, and Jamie’s face broke into a grin. The clansmen erupted in cheers and whoops and even whistles. The bagpipes struck up again as the men drank. Jamie’s plan had worked. He had offered obedience, not fealty, but Dougal seemed willing to accept that. For now.

* * *

“Come here, Sassenach.”

Jamie lifted me by the waist onto the surgery trestle table. He rucked up my skirts, finding purchase on my thighs. My own fingers scrabbled to remove his sporran, which fell to the floor with a thump. We didn’t bother undressing further; he drew me to the edge of the table, pushed his kilt aside and buried himself in me. I gasped at the sudden intrusion, but it quickly became familiar once more. Jamie thrust hard, kissing my neck. I tipped my head back, overwhelmed by feeling.

We had managed to steal away from the festivities, taking advantage of the fact that the men were getting sopping drunk, including his usual guards. Dougal had waylaid Murtagh, and we had agreed to meet in the surgery quick as we could.

I gripped Jamie, biting my lip to keep from screaming. He panted in my ear, close to completion. My own cries were muffled against his shoulder, when a loud bang startled us and made Jamie tighten his hold on me even as he whipped his head around. I looked over his shoulder—Angus was at the door.

He stared at us in disbelief while heat rushed to my face. Jamie quickly pulled my skirts and his kilt down; he turned to face his cousin, shielding me behind him while I got to my feet.

“Angus, please,” he began, pleading.

“Is this how you honor yer oath? By going against Dougal’s wishes?” Angus sneered. “Ye can have all the fun ye like with this one after ye wed. But wed ye must.”

Jamie cursed. “It is not merely fun, ye dinna understand—”

“Aye, I understand fine. But Dougal will not.” With that, Angus thundered up the stairs back to the great hall, back to the laird. Jamie turned to me, his expression panicked.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach. I must go after him.” He clutched the dagger at his belt, and made his way to the surgery door. “Stay here. If Murtagh comes, do as he says. Promise me, Claire.” His eyes were desperate.

“I promise,” I said, sick with fear for him. For us. Jamie followed in Angus’s steps, the tread of his boots soon lost in the winding stone staircase that led to my surgery.

I wrung my hands, wondering what would be worse—if Murtagh came for me or not. I paced for a few minutes, before coming upon a solution. I took a deep breath to steady myself, and strode purposefully to the set of shelves by the wall. I found Davie Beaton’s The Physician's Guide and Handbook, black-bound and gilt-stamped. I rifled through the pages and pulled out Mother Hildegarde’s letter and our marriage contract. I reached for the glass bottle where my ring was hidden, uncorked it, and shook its contents into the palm of my hand.

Clutching both documents against my chest, I raced up the stairs behind Jamie, heading for Dougal’s study.

- -

A/N: Blessed be the Outlander Wiki and lots of dialogue from s01!

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #the midwife 2.6 #poop's hit the fan...

181 notes · View notes

facethroughthemirror · 5 years

Text

Not The Setting For Anything Illicit, And Yet...

Characters: Donald Doyle, Sarge, Dr. Grey Relationships: Doyle/Sarge

Modern AU, implied cheating, praise kink, lewd content. It’s absolutely illicit, so be warned! This isn't nearly as good as my one other smutty piece I've posted, but whatever, I had a goal in mind. Stay tuned for the surprise.

Sarge’s first name (as well as some of his dialogue) were provided by @airrichan !

For day one of @rvbrarepairweek, and crossposted on ao3!

The secluded little house is mostly quiet at this time of day, the mid-morning sun up and shining in through the windows. The cat’s asleep in a windowsill someplace in the house, and the dog’s very graciously wandered off to rest somewhere in the kitchen. Close enough to do his job if he’s needed, but far enough away that he was truly on a break. There’s a documentary about the dangers of residential living in the Victorian era playing on the television, they’re currently talking about how the metal eyelet turned the corset into a more dangerous garment by allowing them to be laced tighter.

It’s certainly not the setting for anything illicit, and yet…

“I-I… a- ah ! Oh goodness… mmn…!”

There’s a small pile of clothing on the floor, discarded rather carelessly, as two bodies move against each other on the sofa. They’ve actually long since lost track of the documentary they’ve been watching, which would actually disappoint one of them if he hadn’t already seen it. Instead, he’s squirming underneath the solid weight of his current partner, right hand grasping at the cushions beneath him while his left presses against his mouth, the smooth surface of his wedding ring cool against the heated skin of his face.

“Don’t be shy now, darlin’. Ain’t nobody around to hear you.”

A much more calloused hand grips his wrist to pull his hand away from his mouth, drawing another gasp, this time followed by a whimper as his partner drops his wrist and twists fingers firmly into ginger hair, giving a less-than-gentle tug. It pulls his head back just enough to allow easier access to his neck, but his partner doesn’t quite utilize that yet. Instead, it just serves to coax hazy blue eyes up find to gray ones.

“You make such pretty sounds, Don. Be a shame to keep ‘em all to yourself.”

“Ah… y-you… ah! ” He yelps against a roll of his partner’s hips. Good lord, the man sounds just like his wife. … oh goodness gracious, is it awkward to compare someone to your wife while you’re being intimate with them during her very noticeable absence? Well, yes, it’s certainly awkward, why did he even think that was a question...

His partner, suddenly, finally seems to take advantage of the access to his neck, and bites at it before he speaks. “... I know that look. You’re thinking about something too hard. Let’s see if I can’t get you to refocus--” Another roll of those hips, and his partner grins. “--Right here.”

He howls as the other man brushes a particularly sensitive spot inside of him, and he flails, planting a hand against the red undershirt shielding his partner’s chest from open air while his free hand scrabbles uselessly against the cushions. He grabs at whatever he can get ahold of, but while his partner keeps up his pace, he’s really not getting a very tight grip on anything. But damn it if he isn’t trying.

The other man chuckles, adjusts his angle to keep his attention on that spot. “That’s better.”

“O- Oh , Aaron--!”

They continue on like that for some time, in no particular hurry, even as the documentary on the screen ends and the next one queues up to play. It’s slow, leisurely. Almost lazy, even. There’s no frenzy, nothing driving them to speed up the pace and rush toward a finish.

“Hello?”

Neither of them, it seems, had heard the door open two rooms over, nor did they hear the new arrival setting her things down and taking off her shoes and jacket. They do notice, however, when she appears in the doorway into the living room. And when the redheaded partner finally turns his head and notices his wife standing there, he does give a startled, panicked yelp. He jumps, though he can’t go anywhere with it, considering that his lover is still solidly on top of him. Her hand is pressed to her own mouth, eyes wide with surprise as she glances between the men currently defiling her sofa. Well, the slipcover on top of it, anyway. But she’s strangely silent, especially for her.

“D-Darling! Y-You’re h-home early…” He swallows, tries to weakly push his current lover off, but it does absolutely nothing, and he settles back onto his elbows in defeat. He can’t formulate a further response, or even think to start trying.

Finally, however, she drops her hand, and reveals the bright smile behind it. Her eyes find the man on top of her husband, and she cheerfully greets him. “I didn’t realize you’d be over today, Aaron!”

“Can’t say I planned it. Figured it’d be a surprise.”

“Well, it certainly is! Although…” The woman breezes over, settling herself cross-legged on the coffee table beside them. Her smile is less serene and a bit more predatory as she reaches over to bat Aaron’s hand out of her husband’s hair, and replaces it with her own, twisting ginger locks around pale fingers. “I believe I told you to behave yourself before I left, precious thing!”

“I-I… n-now, Emily, that’s… th-that isn’t--” He has no words. His mouth works mostly in silence, only a few half-formed squeaks escaping him as his face goes redder and redder. This is all happening, he registers, not only while their boyfriend is still inside of him, but while he himself still has quite a noticeable erection. This doesn’t make it worse, but it certainly does not make it any better.

However, the man above him just chuckles, addressing their newly-arrived audience. “Care to join us, little lady? Maybe let Don make up for not listenin’ to ya.”

“M-Me?! Y-Y- You --”

Emily simply laughs, and releases her grip on her husband’s hair in order to pet at it instead. “It does take two to get into this sort of trouble, dear!”

“Well, you didn’t tell me to behave.”

“... mm, he’s quite right, darling!”

“W- What ?!” He sputters uselessly for a moment more, then slumps down off his elbows almost miserably and covers his face. They’re both the worst. He loves them so, so much, but they are, objectively, the worst. “Th-This is entirely unfair. I-I’m… I-I’m being unfairly punished.”

“Aww, my poor little thing.” Emily leans over, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We’re being so mean to you, aren’t we?”

“Mmn… y-you certainly are.” He peeks through his fingers at her, just enough to confirm that she’s seen him doing it, before he lowers his hands entirely and lets his head fall back, turning his eyes upward toward the ceiling. “J-Just a-awful.”

“My poor, pitiful thing!” She clicks her tongue sympathetically, flowing up from the coffee table into a standing position in order to start pulling her scrub top over her head. She discards it onto the floor, well away from the men’s clothes, works on the bottoms as she continues to speak. “Now, really, you know we’re expecting company this evening, and you’re absolutely defiling my slipcover!”

“Just toss it in the wash. Clean it right up. Who’s comin’ over?” Aaron inquires conversationally, leaning back slightly in order to finally discard his undershirt. “Didn’t realize you were havin’ company.”

“Oh, Vanessa and Carolina are dropping by for dinner! It��s been so long since we’ve seen them!” She finally discards her scrubs entirely, unhooks her bra one-handed and pulls it off to drop into her pile. “I’d say you’re more than welcome to join us, but, well. My poor, poor slipcover.”

“Got group tonight anyhow. Pickin’ up Grif on the way.”

“Oh, it’s just so lovely to see you two getting along, you know!” While they’re speaking, their partner shifts against the sofa cushions. He accidentally lets out a needy-sounding little whine, prompting them to look down at him, before Emily reaches to pet him again. “Are we ignoring you, treasure?”

“Y’did sorta interrupt us,” Aaron points out. “Bet he’s real eager to finish.”

“Hmm, I think you might be right~” Emily toes the larger pile of discarded clothing out of the way in order to settle on the floor beside the sofa, leaning back in to pepper kisses across her husband’s chest while reaching down to wrap a hand around the more sadly-neglected part of his anatomy. His reaction is immediate, and he sets to squirming again. She giggles brightly, peering up at him. “Aw, there we are!”

“E-Emily…!”

Above them, Aaron starts moving again, and the squirming worsens, the whines and soft cries starting back up as sensation starts to overwhelm him again. He’ll start babbling any moment at this rate, and he knows that that amuses both of them to no end. He’s subjected to their torment for what seems like hours, with Aaron keeping that rough, steady pace and Emily smiling a little brighter each time another pleading little sound escapes him. When he starts to tremble, whether from his quickly-approaching climax or from the overstimulation sure to follow, he isn’t sure, he registers the sound of Emily speaking.

“You’re such a good boy, precious thing. You’re doing so well for us, aren’t you? Such a good little thing for us.”

He can’t resist it when she does that. He knows it, she knows it, and he knows she knows it. Aaron’s not much for saying things like that, not when Emily’s there to do it. So at least he’s being spared on that front: he’s not sure he would be able to handle it if they both started in on him like that.

“Would you like to finish for us, little thing?” she coos, slowing her hand and giving him a possessive little squeeze. “You’re so pretty when you let yourself go, you know. I want to watch. Do you want to let me see?”

He nods, almost frantically, and he hears Aaron chuckling above them, though at the moment, he pays that no mind. Emily’s laughing too, and she leans up to kiss him, as possessive as ever as her hand speeds back up. When she breaks it off, she leans in close to his ear and purrs, “Come for us, little thing.”

Her voice shoots a jolt of pleasure down his spine, sending him tumbling and flailing over the edge as his mind stutters to a halt. He doesn’t notice Aaron finding his own end above him, or Emily letting him go, or even Aaron climbing off of him to go dispose of his condom and clean up. When he comes back to his senses, Emily’s still settled beside him on the floor, patting at his stomach with a warm, damp towel, cleaning up the mess he’d made. He can’t see Aaron anymore, but he also can’t really think too critically at the moment, so he doesn’t really question it yet.

“Are you back with me, darling?” Emily chirps brightly, reaching up with her free hand to brush his hair off of his forehead for him. “You were quite out of it for a little while! Poor thing, you really needed that, didn’t you?”

He nods, tired and foggy, and she giggles, popping up to give him a soft kiss on the forehead. He feels her petting his hair gently, and leans his head into her touch. It helps to clear his head just that little bit more, and he’s able to focus on what she’s telling him. “Aaron’s taking a quick shower. And we still have plenty of time to wash our poor, abused slipcover before dinner! But after we get you taken care of and cleaned up.”

“... I-I’m… a-alright,” he manages, focusing on her and nodding. “I-I’m fine.”

“Well, let me get you some water anyway. Maybe a snack? Definitely a snack!” Two fingers pressed less-than-gently against his throat. “Your heart’s racing like a hummingbird , darling, you don’t feel faint, do you?”

“N-No…” Does he? He just feels foggy still, he’s not terribly sure.

“Good! But we’ll keep an eye on you for the moment, I think, sweetheart. Come on, let’s sit up, I’ll get you some water and… maybe a chocolate bar?”

He just nods, and sits up while she breezes off toward the kitchen, still entirely naked, he notices. He won’t argue with chocolate, and besides, Emily knows what she’s doing when it comes to aftercare: she takes it quite seriously. And he knows that she’s likely going to be checking in with Aaron until he leaves, probably for the rest of the evening. When she returns, she pulls the throw blanket down to cover him, and presses a kiss to the top of his head while she helps him start on his water and chocolate bar. He notices, for the first time since he and Aaron had started, that the documentary series has long-since ended. The television’s been turned off entirely. But he doesn’t mind: he can watch it later. For now, however, he just settles in and lets her help him recover.

#rvbrarepairweek #Red vs Blue #rvb #sarge #sarge rvb #Doyle #general doyle #donald doyle #doyle rvb #rvb fanfiction #rvb fanfic #red vs blue fanfic #red vs blue fanfiction #not for kiddos #malarkey #my shitty writing

9 notes · View notes

iamnotoriginalphil · 7 years

Note

jopper prompts: enemies to lovers au(and write smut!11xo)

Hey, anon. I promise I didn’t forget about you. I’m sorry. Life got overwhelming and i needed to take ab real for a while. I’m back now. I hope this was worth the wait.

Joyce walked down the hallway of her school. Her hair was dripping on her mud-stained shirt and her face was like fire. People scrambled to get out of her way, refusing to be caught in her wrath. She slammed open her locker, the sound reverberating along the hallway. People flinched away.“Hey Joyce,” Karen said, walking up to her, ignoring the death glare she got in return. “What happened this time?”“What do you think? Fucking Hopper,” she growled. She grabbed her books and slammed the door again. Karen didn’t so much as flinch. “What did he do this time?” she asked, falling into step beside Joyce as she stalked down the hall.“He and his friends tripped me into a puddle, the fucking asshole,” she seethed.“Maybe it was an accident,” she said. “No chance in hell. They were fucking laughing at me as I walked by. No fucking way it wasn’t on purpose,” she replied.“Why would he do that, Joyce?” she asked.“Because he’s a dickhead,” she snapped, turning to face her friend. “Does there need to be any more reason than that?”“Why do you hate him so much?” Karen asked.“Because he hates me,” she replied. They walked to their class, ignoring the slightly wary stares from the other students.

“Hey slut,” Hopper said, sidling up to Joyce as she stood smoking under the bleachers.“Fuck off, Hopper,” she said, less bite than normal in her voice.“Is it true you’re knocked up?” he asked, smirking at her.“No” But she blushed and his smirk grew into a grin. He looked down at her stomach pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t believe Lonnie would ever touch you. I know he’s a scumbag but I’d be worried I’d be covered in dirt if I were him. It wouldn’t ever come off,” he said, his eyes roving over her face, enjoying the way she bared her teeth at him. “How about you go back to one of your whores?” she snapped, stubbing out her cigarette. “You’re one to talk. At least they’ve never been pregnant,” he replied, lighting up his own smoke. “That you know of,” She pushed past him.“What’s that mean?” he asked.“Ask them. You hear some interesting things in the girl’s bathroom.” She left him behind, watching her walk away. He growled and ground out his cigarette.

Hopper had moved to the city. She was sitting in a cramped home, a bundle of blankets in her arms. The baby inside babbled, his tiny fingers trying to grab her hair. Lonnie was in the other room, drinking from the beer she’d brought him. Hopper had moved to the city, always the golden boy of the town. And she was the town slut who got knocked up. She was married now, to the idiot she’d let in her pants, and could barely make ends meet. And Hopper was treated as some kind of god, making a good name for them. She’d heard through the grape vine that he going through police training. As if he were some moral pillar people should look up to. It wasn’t like he’d single handedly ruined her life.She’d been thinking about it. If Hopper hadn’t been such a dick to her, other boys may have wanted to go out with her. And then she wouldn’t have been stuck with dead end Lonnie because she would’t have been starved for affection enough to let him convince her to have sex. She wouldn’t have felt like she had something to prove. And then she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. Not that she didn’t love her son, because she did, more than anything in her life, but she hadn’t planned on having kids so early. She’d always planned on leaving Hawkins and living in a city, somewhere she could truly be anonymous. Not somewhere everyone knew her business and judged her every choice.

Hopper was back. Lonnie and her had been fighting. He’d thrown an empty bottle of wine at her and she’d heard it smash on the wall behind her. The boys were holed up in one of their rooms. She could hear Will crying through the wall. She was shouting and couldn’t get herself to stop. Until someone began knocking on the door. She opened it, ready to pretend everything was fine until she saw his face. He was unshaven and unkempt and she felt a thrill of pleasure shiver down her spine at the thought he wasn’t as perfect as everyone thought. She’s snarled at him, an actual snarl.Lonnie had stepped up behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder possessively, and if Hopper hadn’t been there she would have slapped it away. But he was so she lent back into the warm body behind her, refusing to admit there was a problem. “I got a call about a disturbance,” he said. Joyce frowned. There wasn’t the fight she was used to in his voice. It sounded… empty? “Must be the wrong house,” Lonnie said. Hopper grimaced at him. “From the shouting I heard from out here I would say you’re full of shit,” he argued. That was more the teenager Joyce had known. “We’re fine, aren’t we babe?” Lonnie squeezed her shoulder.“Couldn’t be better,” she replied. She relished in the dark shadow that passed over Hopper’s face. Lonnie slammed the door on him and led her back into the living room. “What’s that fucker doing back?” Lonnie growled, slumping down on the sofa. “I dunno, do I?” she snapped, walking down that hall. “Where are you going?” he called after her.“To see our sons, or did you forget they exist?” she yelled back. But all she could think about was Hopper’s return.

The next time she saw Hopper she was working. She’d notice him come in but had lost him among the shelves. She was working at the register, forcing smiles and small talk. She didn’t notice him enter the queue util he was standing before her and she was scanning a loaf of bread and some milk. He grimaced at her when she looked up and she sneered in return. She shoved the bread and milk into a bag, grabbing the money from his hand and forcing the bag into his hands.“What happened, Joyce?” he asked.“None of your god damn business, Hop,” she snarled. “You weren’t meant to still be working this shit hole. It’s for teenagers with too much time on their hands, not mothers,” he said. “Well, fuck, Hop. Sorry my life didn’t pan out as you wanted it to. Although I suppose I’d be dead if it had,” she growled. “Nah, I’d have made you happy with enough time with your kids,” he said before walking away. She blinked at his retreating back before the next customer coughed and she broke out of her trance.

She heard the women whispering behind her. Usually it was about her and her situation but their tone had changed recently. It wasn’t scathing and judgmental but sad and pitying. “His wife left him,” one of the women said.“Why?” another asked.“I heard when his daughter got cancer it got hard. And then she died and it all went to hell,” a third woman supplied. Joyce felt her stomach drop out of her body. Hopper’s daughter had died?Now it all made sense. Why he was being so nice to her, why he was back, why he looked so haunted. Maybe she’d been too harsh to him. But she hadn’t known. “Clarissa is going to dinner with him tomorrow night,” the first woman said.“Clarissa is a good person. If anyone can help it’ll be her,” the third woman said. Joyce laughed. Same old Hop, finding solace in the arms of a woman. She’d be surprised if this one lasted longer than a week. Then the women would have something to really talk about.

Lonnie had fucked off. It was hard to care, not with the way he’d treated her. He’d run of to the city with a girl barely out of high school, leaving her with the two boys. She’d spent the night with both boys sleeping in the bed wit her, hugging her boys to her. Will had cried himself to sleep. Jonathan hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t said a word all night. She’d made their favourite meal and let them stay up watching tv. She’d come home at the end of her shift, ready to pick the kids up from school. All of Lonnie’s things had been removed, sitting on the kitchen table, was a note, telling her everything. The affair, the other house, her own failure. She’d sat there, reading the words over and over, and the cried for her boys. Hop had been right. This wasn’t how her life was meant to turn out. So she held her boys extra tight, gave them extra tv time, didn’t nag them about homework. She tried to fill the hole their father had left. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

Joyce moaned, her head flung back in ecstasy. Her body was on fire, every nerve ending standing to attention. Her hands were gripping soft hair, her body writhing in pleasure beneath the weight of the larger body. She gripped him harder, her fingernails digging into his skin. She tugged on the hair and he growled. He nipped at her skin. She was sure she’d have marks tomorrow but by god she’d be leaving some of her own too. She tugged his hair again and he increased the pace.She could feel the wave building in her, reaching higher and higher. Her hips had lost all rhythm and she was crying out. He pounded into her, groaning into her neck. She could feel the reverberation all through her body. The wave broke and she was flying. She was so far out of her own body she barely felt him shudder above her. He collapsed next to her, heaving for breath. He was staring up at the ceiling, his arms behind his head. She watched the curtain flutter over the open window, the breeze cooling the sweat from their skin. “Joyce,” he said into the darkness.“Don’t,” she said. He drew in another breath. “Don’t Hop.”She got up from the bed and scrabbled on the floor for her clothes. She pulled them on, her back to Hop, still laying in the bed. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to right it. He reached out a hand to her but she moved before he could touch her. “This won’t happen again,” she said, and walked out of the room. She didn’t look back.

She was lying on the bed, the sheets tangled around her sweaty body. She was still trying to catch her breath, her heart beating faster than a humming bird. Hop had rolled off the bed and gone into the kitchen for something. Now was the time ti get up, put her clothes back on, and walk out with as much dignity as she could. He appeared in the doorway clutching two beers. He handed on to her. She looked at it and took a sip. He sat on the bed, tugging the sheets over his body. She turned away from him. She didn’t want this, had never wanted this. She should have left when she had the chance.“I met your Jonathan today,” he said into the silence.“You stay away from my boys,” she snapped. He held up his hands in surrender.“Calm down, mummy bear, I’m doing shit all. I was just going to say he was very polite,” he said.She huffed and took a swig from the bottle. They settled back into silence. She could feel him looking at her and tried to ignore it. Her skin itched where is eyes landed. She wanted to gouge those eyes out. Instead, she turned away, setting the beer on the floor and got dressed.

She’s tried so hard to leave quickly this time. She really had. But there was a child’s drawing pinned up and the bright colours had stopped her in her tracks. The family portrait was the most beautiful thing in the entire house. She hugged her arms around herself and looked at it.She couldn’t move her feet. She could hear her heart beat I her ears. She felt cold. “Sara was so proud when she gave that to me,” Hop said. He was standing right behind her. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. She turned to face him.“I’m so sorry, Hop,” she said. He looked down at her, surprise mingling with sadness. She reached out a hand, hesitant in all the space between them. His fingers wrapped around her’s and she let out a small sigh. She didn’t know how long they stood like that, together, joined by their hands. All she knew was in that time the universe opened up, the world thrown on its head. It was if she’d opened her eyes after a long sleep, taken a breathe after diving off the deep end. She kissed his cheek before leaving that night. She could still feel his skin against her lips, the way his beard scratched. Her heart thumped a little harder, a little more noticeable. She hopped her boys hadn’t heard her cry during the night.

“Why the store?” he asked her one night. She’d brought food and a bottle of wine over. When he’d asked she’d said they needed to keep their energy up. He’d laughed at her but accepted the food none the less. They were sitting with their backs pressed against the couch, on the floor. “It was the only place willing to let me work there. Donald has been very good to me,” she said, shrugging. He took a moment to look at her. “What?” she asked.“That can’t be enough with two growing boys,” he said. She felt her hackles raise.“We get by just fine,” she said. “What about,” he tried to say.“We’re fine,” she cut him off. He let it drop, letting silence fill the room.Later, once the meal was eaten and the wine drunk, she kissed him. She tried to push away the emotions building in her chest, the pressure building behind her eyes. He held her close, tenderly, as if worried he’d break her. For the first time they were slow. It wasn’t a race to the end, the fireworks weren’t the star of the show. He held her the entire time, pressing kisses into her skin. She clung to him, never wanting to let go.

Joyce was avoiding Hopper. It was common knowledge around town. Everyone assumed they’d had another blow out fight, something far beyond the usual snipping. She would avoid anything near the station, and every time he entered the store she’d duck into the back room and wouldn’t emerge until Donald came to get her. Hopper was going around town, looking like a kicked puppy. He’d try and get her attention, coming to see her every day, waving at her, frequenting where he knew she’d be. She was close to yelling at him to leave her alone. She wanted to hit him. Every night she went home to her boys, made them dinner and spent the evening with them. They were growing up so fast, she could almost see it happening. She didn’t want to miss out on anything.Ignoring Hop and his incessant need to be a part of her life was the best way to do that. He’d been a nice distraction. He always had been. She definitely didn’t feel her heart clench at the sight of him, or feel her stomach flutter when she thought about him. This was about her boys and doing best by them.

Hop cornered her in the car park after her shift. It had been a long day. Will had a cold and she hadn’t been able to take the time off to stay with him. Jonathan had missed school to be there instead. She felt like the worst mother in the world. And there was Hop, leaning on her car, looking every bit like the teenage boy who’d terrorised her in high school.She’d tried to push past him but he hadn’t let her open the door. She considered pushing him. She considered turning around and walking home. She considered kissing him. “What the hell do you want, Hop?” she’d asked, venom lacing her voice. “To know why you’ve been avoiding me,” he said.“Fuck you Hop. Not everything is about you,” she said, yanking on the door. He didn’t budge.“The whole town knows,” he said.“It’s not up to me what those busy bodies gossip about. Who’s to say any of it’s true?” she snapped.“I do,” he said. She looked at him, full in the face, for the first time. He looked… betrayed. He put out a hand to her, hovering over her shoulder, as if touching her was something he had to concentrate on. They both looked at it. She took a step backwards before he could make contact. He sighed and shrugged off the car. She watched him walk away, her gut twisting itself into knots. She ignored it and got in the car, driving home to take care of her sick kid.

Then Will disappeared. Her whole world had begun to fall apart and once again she became the two crazy. No one had believed her. Except Hop. And she’d clung to him, forcing them to stumble down the road to finding her son, her little boy. He’d gone with her into that Upside Down, given her boy his oxygen. He’d saved him. And suddenly avoiding him seemed like the silliest thing in the world. Because he’d been there. Because he’d helped. Because she owed her heart to him.

Once Will was home from the hospital she’d begun going to work again, taking up her old shifts. She was working extra time to pay the medical bills. Jonathan had gotten a job to help her and Will seemed back to normal. Her life was as perfect as she could hope. Hop would sometimes visit her in the shop, to check up on Will, to hear her talk, to check on her. Until the day he walked into the store, purpose in every step, grabbed her hand and kissed her in the middle of the breakfast cereal aisle. She opened her mouth to shout at him, say something, an arm raised to hit him in the chest. “Joyce, for once, just shut up,” he said and kissed her again. She rested her hand on his chest and let him.“I love you,” he whispered when they broke apart. She kissed him again and hoped he understood. The tightening of his grip suggested he did. For the first time she was the subject of gossip for something she was happy about. She couldn’t find it in herself to want them to stop. Because she had her boys, and Hop, and maybe this was exactly how her life was meant to turn out.

#jopper #jim hopper #hopper x joyce #Joyce Byers #joyce x hopper #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #smut #fanfic

22 notes · View notes