#the boys can’t cross over until they’ve lived | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

azsazz · 6 months

Text

The Magic Number

Kinktober Day 28: Hockey Player!Azriel, Rhysand, & Cassian x Reader [Overstimulation]

Summary: Req from godsend @vellichor01 : For the hockey idea, I love the idea of Azris or poly!batboys using you 😏😏 as their good luck charm the night before the championship game

Warnings: Smut, oral (both f and m receiving), use of toys (vibrator), fingering, anal, double penetration, foursome.

Word Count: 5,258

Notes: I'm having one of those moments...

_________________________________________

“C’mon, you know how this goes,” Cassian drawls, stroking a thumb across your cheek. His words are soft, kind, but the heat swallowing the color of his eyes is anything but. It makes your cunt pulse. “Been our lucky charm all this season, can’t break the streak now, can we, baby?”

You hum, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. Excitement stirs your gut as you stare up at the three, large hockey players taking up the expanse of your tiny living room. Azriel leans against the door they’d just come through, his hazel gaze pinned on you. Rhys is perched on the edge of your desk, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit as serious as the captain of the hockey team should be. And Cass stands before you, his stature demanding and hot. They make you ache to your very core. “What’s in it for me?” You tease, batting your lashes.

“I can promise you at least three earth-shattering orgasms,” Cassian responds, pointing from Rhys to Azriel, then to himself.

Your face contorts, nose scrunching at his words. “Only three?”

Cassian’s eyes glitter. “Think you can handle more?”

You tilt your chin up in defiance. You know you can handle more. Have spent weekends locked away with them, ripping orgasm after orgasm from you until you’d lost count, had been nothing but a sobbing, shaking, wet mess beneath their lips and fingertips.

“I just don’t know if that’s enough anymore, boys,” you sigh dramatically, pulling your chin from his grasp. “You get all of this luck and I get to be sore for days? How is that fair?” You’re lying, and they know you’re lying. You’re not just terrible at it, but you love being sore for days, feeling where their cocks have abused your cunt with each step you take. You love the marks that their needy, manhandling hands leave on your skin, the bruises from their teeth and lips. You bite your own, shoving that thought from your mind.

“What do you want then, darling?” Rhys purrs, pushing himself from the desk to make his way closer. Azriel follows on an unspoken command, until they flank Cassian’s sides. They loom over you like Gods, and you have to crane your neck back to peer up at them from your spot on the couch. Fuck, they look absolutely stunning. How you’ve managed to bag the three star players of the hockey team, you’ll never know. Rhys’ voice takes on a huskeir note, violet eyes simmering with molten desire as he continues, “Want to tie us up and take what’s yours? Want to watch us fuck each other? All we need from you is one orgasm each, darling, and we’ll win the championship game tomorrow, I know it.”

His words make you shiver. Is that what you want? To be in charge for the night? You’d been doing this with them for the entire season, but the thought had never crossed your mind. You’re usually too cock drunk to form a coherent thought.

But the way that they tower over you, looking down at you as if you’ve changed their entire world, makes your stomach flip. They’ve always taken care of you, all three of them, and it’s more than nice, being guided into positions that put your pleasure first. They know you better than you know yourself. Sexually, they know you inside and out. They are the epitome of men right now, burly and large and oh so fucking irresistible. It makes you want to open your mouth and part your legs, let them have your way with you.

You just might.

You look from Rhysand to Cassian, Cassian to Azriel. They’re fresh from practice, hair damp from showers at the rink, tight shirts stretched across broad shoulders with the exception of Cassian, he would never wear a piece of clothing again if he had the choice, and comfortable gray sweats hang low around their waists like they know what it does to you.

Godsdamn what it does to you.

“Come on, baby,” Cassian all but whines when you don’t respond. “What can we do to convince you this is for the good of the team?”

Nothing. They don’t have to do a damn thing to convince you of this, because you know. Somehow, the three hockey players you’ve found yourself fucking this season decided that you were their lucky charm, having won each and every game after they’d shared you. It’s something of a pre-game tradition now.

But it’s still fun to tease.

“I don’t know,” you coo, leaning back in your seat. You slip your toes between Cassian’s wide stance and prop your feet on the coffee table behind him. “I think that Tarquin on the Sea Lion's is pretty goo—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Azriel growls, eyes so dark it makes your thighs quiver.

“What if, this time,” Rhysand leans down, planting his hands on either side of the couch, trapping you. His sultry voice awakens goosebumps on your skin, his breath hot in his ear as he leans down, lips brushing the shell. “We stuff you with our cum, then shove a little plug up that tight little cunt of yours to secure our luck. You’d like that darling, wouldn’t you? To be stuffed with us until after the game? Keeping you nice and full?”

You nearly bite through your lip holding in a moan. Your head threatens to teeter back on your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull as a full shiver wracks your body in the best way. Holy fuck do you love it when they talk dirty to you, planting new ideas in your head, things beyond your wildest dreams.

Cassian’s adding, watching you struggle with a smirk. “When we win, I’ll eat it out of you.”

“Isn't showing up to the game enough?” you ask innocently, thighs pressed so tightly together they’re shaking with effort. But you’re being strong. There’s still room to play with them.

“No,” they all answer in unison.

It’s Azriel who takes a gentler approach. It’s a little surprising. He’s normally the quietest of the three, saving soft spoken endearments for when it’s just the both of you or when the other two have fallen into post-orgasm cat naps.

He kneels before you, hands brushing up your bare legs in what is supposed to be a soothing manner, but the motion only makes you hotter. Wetter. He’s looking at you with sincerity, like he might actually believe that you’re going to refuse them.

As if that would ever happen.

“What do you want, love?” he asks, so gently it nearly makes your heart crack. The strokes of his thumbs on your skin match his tone, tender.

“I want you to kiss me, Az.”

He can do that. He spreads your legs to slip between, using his grip on the meat of your thighs to pull you closer. You’re the same height as him, sitting on the couch as he is kneeling, and you don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his neck, fingers burying deep into those dark locks. His touch wanders to your face, caressing your jaw before pulling you into a slow, sensual kiss.

Your body bursts with pleasure. His tongue strokes softly against your own as he parts your lips. It’s a tentative motion, but becomes more sure when you whimper softly into his mouth. Azriel’s fingers grip loosely to the nape of your neck, pulling you even closer to him. So close, that you can feel the erratic pounding of his beating heart pressed against your own.

You can feel Cassian and Rhysand’s heated gazes on the both of you. It feels all too good, having their attention like this. Knowing that with the slightest of moves on your part, they’ll all be harder than stone. It eggs you on, kiss going from slow and steady, an exploration of each other’s mouths, to something hotter, rougher. Azriel sucks on your tongue and nips at your lips. Your fingers tug at his hair as your spine lengthens, pressing yourself closer to his chest.

Kissing Azriel is like being shrouded in shadow. He consumes you, body and soul. It’s the best kind of kiss, one that calms you when you’re anxious, a strong and steady presence. You can lose yourself for days in the taste of his lips, the feeling of his sure posture against yours.

Cassian takes hold of you quickly, inserting himself into the kiss you and Azriel find yourselves lost in. You make a noise of surprise. Having both of them licking into your mouth is no easy feat, but somehow, the men seem to know exactly what to do, as if they’re as in-synch now as they are on the ice.

Slowly, Azriel edges himself away from the kiss. He pries your fingertips from himself, no matter how much he loves the way you cling to him. He places them on Cassian’s shoulders, where you curl them harshly into his tanned skin and force him closer.

Kissing Cassian ignites a fire in your soul. It’s passionate, brash, and full of love. There is no doubt in your mind that this man was made for you, to walk through that fire for you, to reach your innermost self. He’s a warrior on and off the ice, in love and in life. He will fight for you no matter what, and you love him for it.

It’s always fun having Cassian like this, all needy and hot. His cock is swollen against the loose fabric of his sweatpants, and you can tell he’s not wearing underwear when you grind your hips against his, drawing a guttural moan from his lips. You drink it down greedily, keening in response. You’re getting just as desperate now, needing to feel their cocks in your cunt, filling you up with their cum until you’re so full you could burst.

But Rhysand is untangling you from Cassian with a look that leaves no room to argue. You’re panting, staring up at Cassian with a wildness that says this isn’t over. He grins, the sharps of his canines glinting in the lamp light.

“Go, get ready,” Rhys orders the other two, and you cling to him as he lifts you into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist as he strides towards the door.

Instead of walking through it, he’s pressing you into the wall next to it, dipping down to devour your mouth in one fell swoop.

Kissing Rhys makes you feel like a Queen. He’s demanding, showing you exactly what he wants. It makes you want to submit, fall to your knees and please him as he sees fit. It’s reassurance and confidence and pleasure in its finest form. He makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, like your soul belongs to something more. You would bow for him, and he for you.

He hooks his knee up, settling your weight onto it as his fingers find the hem of your shirt. His mouth is a distraction for his hands, gliding the fabric up and over your head, breaking the kiss for only a fleeting moment before he’s grabbing you again and plastering your front to his chest as he strides towards your room.

You’re lost in the way his tongue dances with yours. You love to hear his words, silky and playful, skilled with years of business classes, his backup if hockey doesn’t work out someday.

Rhys places you on the bed, breaking the kiss, but before you can even whimper your displeasure, Cassian’s boxing you in, fitting himself between your legs as you slide backwards. He follows like a hungry lion, devouring you with his gaze.

“Enjoyed that, didn’t you, darling?” Rhys grins, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes are wide, but you can’t remove them from Cassian’s wolfish grin as he prowls towards you, backing you into the headboard. “But look what Cassian’s got for you.”

“First, you’ll cum on my toy, then on Az’s fingers, and then on Rhys’ tongue,” Cassian presses his words into your mouth, rolling his hips against yours. It makes you cling to him desperately, and he smirks against your lips. You lick over his straight teeth, tasting his tease. He parts himself from you, sucking at the sensitive skin between your jaw and ear. His tone is low, filled with desire and gravel that scratches the right parts of you when he continues. “And then, when you’re crying and begging, maybe we’ll give you our cocks. If you think you can handle it.”

Your body wracks with a shiver so violent Cassian’s façade falters. If it weren’t for your reassuring hand clawing across his bare shoulders, he would’ve asked you if you were alright.

So the charade continues. You want to fight back, want to push them to the edge like they are you, because if they’re going to insist on fucking you for the good of their game, no matter how badly you want it, you’re going to make them work for it. You don’t hand out this kind of luck without some effort.

“Maybe I won’t give you my cunt at all,” you pant, chest rising and falling against Cassian’s. It feels like he’s crushing you, body pressed firmly to your own. You can hear Rhysand digging around in your drawer, looking for the pastel colored vibrator you have stuffed away. Azriel watches you with a heated gaze that sharpens at your words, pinning you to the bed just as effortless as Cassian is. “Maybe the sex after a loss is better than after a win.”

Azriel all but growls, taking the chance to climb up on the bed with you and Cassian. You remove one of the hands you have buried in Cassian’s thick locks, reaching out to touch Azriel. You want them all, love when all of their attention is on you like this. Your thighs try to clench but Cassian’s hips pin them wide and he gently rocks into you, nipping at the skin around your bra strap before taking it between his teeth and pulling it from your shoulder.

You rest your palm against Azriel’s cheek when he’s near enough, and though his serious gaze doesn’t soften, he leans into your touch, pressing kisses to your palm. “Baby, I think we both know that isn’t true.”

Gods, does he make you melt. They all do, stripping down and baring themselves to you. Each one of them is tall, tan, and muscular. They are Gods kneeling before you, worshiping you in every way.

You want that to start now.

As if reading your mind, Rhys places the pastel wand into Cassian’s awaiting grip. His grin turns into something feral as he rips your panties from your legs, fingers curling between you and the mattress to unhook your bra.

Azriel takes over, hands palming at your breasts as he moves the clothing. Cassian clicks the vibrator on and your legs want to close in response. You’re so fucking wet you know that you’re glistening for them, and with the speed at which Cassian sets your little toy, you won’t last very long, especially when the other two crowd around you and all three men stare down at you like you’re something worth devouring.

“Is it true?” Cass asks, but he doesn’t wait for your answer, pressing the buzzing toy to your already throbbing clit when you begin to speak. Your words sizzle into a moan, your body arching into the vibrations, hips wriggling as you chase the feeling it’s stirring in your gut. Az and Rhys hold you down, and they all watch in pleasure as Cassian plays with you. “You think losing sex is better?”

Normally, he’s all fun and games, built for edging you until you take control and sit yourself on his cock, but today, with the taunts in the air and the looming game at the back of their minds, he’s more eager to draw as many orgasms from you as he can. He needs to stuff you so full of his cum, right down until the minute he dares step foot on the ice for the championship game. He needs to see you in the crowd, hardly able to sit because your cunt is that sore, cheering them on with their cum still leaking out of you.

“N—No,” you manage to get out, but you hardly know what you’re babbling about. You cling to Rhys and Az, who mouth at your breasts as you writhe, pinning your arms to the bed. Your back arches as Cass finds that spot, the vibrator stimulating your clit with such an intensity, heat rushes to your core like a dam breaking. “Cass, ah—please baby, yeah, yeah, right there!”

“Right here?” He asks, and dread fills your body. You know that voice, and you chase the orgasm as fast as you can before he— “Or down here?” You cry out in frustration as he moves the wand lower, a buzz dulling as he slicks it against your opening.

“Az,” you whine, because you need more than just the toy. They’ve fucked you relentless, ruined everything for you, and now it’s no longer enough, not even when they’re away from you. “Need your fingers. Please!” You cry out when Cassian returns the vibrator to your clit, holding you still as you writhe.

He doesn’t hesitate, cock straining away from his body. He’d been ready for you since he awoke this morning, but practice had taken precedence before he could find his way to your apartment to fuck the bones from your body. He’s the most superstitious of the three, and not even your teasing he takes lightly.

But he’s conditioned to need you, more than he needs his shooting hand before game days. He doesn’t know how or when this started, but he’s not complaining. He loves it, in fact, thinking about you all wet like this when he’s in the thick of the game, when he’s thinking about starting a fight or stuck in the penalty box. He’s also the most worried about it all, taking many nights pulling you aside to talk about the arrangement. To make sure you feel loved instead of used. To show you how much you mean to him.

So, he doesn’t play around when he puts those skilled hands to work, plunging one into your cunt, then two because the first slides in easily. You cry out when he curls them, the shadow of a smile curving his lips in the most beautiful way.

“Hey,” Cassian pouts, “It doesn’t count as three if you and I are both doing it.”

Azriel doesn’t look away from you, watching as you come undone from the incessant buzzing and him stroking the bundle of nerves inside of you. He wants you to break his skin with your nails, burst his eardrums with your screams, drown him in your cum. “Then make it two.”

Cassian’s hazel eyes glint and he’s turning the setting higher.

“Rhys, down on the bed,” Azriel demands after your second, earth-shattering orgasm. The captain of the hockey team does just that. You shiver at Azriel’s words. He’s usually quiet, but when he takes over in the bedroom not one of you strays from his commands, his low voice making those words even sexier. He kisses you softly, helping mauver your body so you’re straddling Rhysand’s face. “Cass, head of the bed, legs open.” He turns back to you, hazel gaze pinning you in place as Rhysnad’s rough hands begging trailing patterns across your thighs. Your cunt nearly drools on him, and your muscles tremble with the effort to keep yourself from sinking down onto that tongue of his. “Baby, I want to see you suck Cassian off while you ride Rhys’ face. You can do that for me, can’t you, pretty girl?”

You keen, falling into his touch around your throat. You need to kiss him, need to sink yourself down and feel the ridges of Rhys’ tongue, his nose digging into your clit. You need to taste the precum beading at Cassian’s ruddy tip, taunting you. You need to feel Azriel’s mouth on yours first, though.

He allows you one kiss. It’s slow and sensual on his side, desperate on your part. He doesn’t allow you to turn up the heat, keeping you pinned in place as Rhys guides your hips down. You squeak against Azriel’s lips at the first touch of Rhysand’s tongue, already grinding your hips against his eager mouth.

Azriel’s fingers slide from your throat, gathering the hair at the base of your skull. Slowly, he guides you down to Cassian’s cock. It’s wet, leaking against his tight abs as he pins his hands behind his head, watching you with fire in his eyes.

You steady yourself with hands on his thick thighs. Your body is already convulsing with pleasure, three orgasms and a handful more to go is what you’d been promised, but as Rhysand grazes his teeth across your sensitive clit, you cry out, hot breath fanning across Cassian’s cock. It twitches as he flexes.

“You’re okay, baby,” Azriel coos, fisting Cassian’s cock, helping you steady yourself so you can take it into your mouth. Rhys’ pace is unhurried, but it still makes pleasure blind your gaze, eyes prickling with sensitivity. “C’mon, be a good girl and take his cock.”

You feel nearly boneless already, hardly able to hold yourself up as Azriel escorts Cassian’s throbbing cock into your mouth. You lick his slit and he hisses, head banging against the headboard as you suckle at his tip. His musk bursts across your tongue, heady and strong and utterly Cassian. You can’t help but moan, licking around the head, dragging down the silken skin as Azriel presses you onto it. All the way until he’s hitting the back of your throat.

“Relax, baby,” Azriel whispers, planting soothing kisses to your shoulders. It’s almost overwhelming how all three of them can be so gentle right now, when they’re finally getting what they need. Your need for them is overwhelming. You can see it now how well they work as a team, impeccable both on and off the ice.

You love it.

Your jaw falls slack at his soft words, and he’s pushing your head down, Cassian’s cock stretching your throat. Both men groan at the sight, and Cassian’s fingers find your cheek, caressing your face.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just like that,” Cassian praises, and you whimper in pleasure. Rhysand swirls his tongue and nips at your clit and you’re seeing stars, body wracking hot with the onslaught of an orgasm.

Cassian bucks and you choke, but you love it. They make you feel so full, even though your cunt aches with the need. You know you’ll get it soon enough.

Azriel leaves you in Cassian’s care while he settles himself behind you. You can no longer see him, but he dips down, spreading your cheeks to lap at your hole. You startle and moan languidly at the sensation, melting into the three of them further.

You can hear him spit, and then his finger is breaching your ass.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, curling his body around your own. The heat of his chest to your back is comforting, and you try your best to uncurl your muscles. “That’s it, just like that baby. Gooood girl.” His finger drags against your walls and you shiver, rocking back against the sting until he’s three fingers in and you’re moaning wanton around Cassian’s cock.

You cry when Azriel removes his fingers, but he’s pressing up to his knees and slicking his cock between your sopping wet cunt and Rhysand’s tongue. Oh, that feels fucking incredible, your sensitive clit burns at the heat of his cock, cunt quivering from the three orgasms already.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whimper sliding off of Cassian’s cock with a cry. Tears stream down your face and Cassian’s brushing them away softly, swiping his thumb across your lips to clear the string of saliva away. Azriel’s teasing your entrance, holding your hips steady as Rhysand shuffles up the bed, his own leaking cock brushing against your cunt. You’d collapse on top of him if it weren’t for Azriel holding you up.

Rhys takes your face in hand, kissing you firmly, proudly, sharing the taste of you with him. He’s showing you how wet you are for them, how good you’re being, but you still make a noise when the tip of his cock brushes against your throbbing clit. “You can do it, baby,” he reassures, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “Want to fill our darling girl with our cum. You want that, too, don’t you?”

Fuck, you do. You really, truly do. You want to taste it, feel it, bathe in it until there’s no question in their minds that you aren’t theirs. Some day, this lucky streak might end, but until then, you want to be stuffed with them, feel their heat inside of you, filling every part of you to the brim. You want to swim in them, and them in you. You need it like ice needs the cold, like the Velaris Bats need a championship.

“Yes,” you find yourself clawing at his muscles, drawing Cassian nearer by his cock as Azriel’s head slips into your ass. You groan, body sucking him in as you stare into the depths of Rhysand’s violet eyes.

The three of them consume you, and you, them. Once Azriel works himself in with a grunt, hips settled against yours, Rhys is nudging his cock into your dripping cunt. Your breathing goes a little ragged, but his lips are on your neck and you use that and Cassian’s cock as a distraction from the stretch.

They give you as long as you need to adjust, hands all over your body you can hardly focus on one thing. Why do that when there are so many delicious things happening at once? Your hand wrapped around Cassian’s girth, jerking him up and down while you suck and spit on the head of his cock. He groans in approval. You begin rocking back on both Rhysand and Azriel, letting them know with your loud noises that you’re more than ready for their cocks. Rhys’ mouth is attached to your breasts while Azriel’s sticks his fingers around your torso to flick at your clit.

Rhys and Azriel go from moving in synch to fucking into you, opposite in pace. Rhys pulls out while Azriel pushes in, one of them always filling you. It’s great, both of their cocks hot and heavy inside of your tight, wet holes. You shiver when their heads bump into each other through your walls, moaning around Cassian’s cock.

“Fuck, baby,” Azriel says, brushing the hair back from your shoulder. His movements are quickening, and heat rushes through you once again, your body bucking between theirs, following that feeling off of the edge. “Just like that.”

They fuck you through it, until you can hear the wet slaps of their hips against yours again, until your blackened vision clears, your movements lazy and slow as you grip Cassian’s cock like it’s the only thing holding you to this existence.

“I’m almost there,” Rhys hisses, and he and Azriel are moving in time again, both of them pressing into you so deeply you can’t even breathe. They’re filling you up, hitting all of the right spots, and you can’t help the stream of tears and cries that fall from your lips. You might cum again, you think, as Cassian slides down to comfort you with his soft lips against your skin.

“I’m cumming baby, f-fuck, yeah, I’m cumming pretty girl,” Azriel groans, pistoning his hips faster. The grip he has on your cheeks is biting, spreading them wide for his viewing pleasure as his strokes turn jerky. “Godsdamn, baby, I’m a lucky man.”

You body clenches and Rhysand chokes, following his friend. He holds you tightly, eyes squeezed shut in bliss as he fucks him cum deep into your womb. “Holy fuck, darling. Fucking made for us,” he grunts. The erratic pressing of their cocks filling your holes has you cumming again, milking you of another orgasm.

“Fuuuuck,” Cassian mutters in awe as you blink through tears to look up at him. His hand caresses your jaw and he looks utterly destroyed by you and he hasn’t even gotten his chance yet. “Four orgasms? What a good girl, giving us all that.”

You whimper, nuzzling into his touch as Azriel pulls slowly out of your ass. You cry out, grip going firm where you clutch to Rhysand’s shoulders, missing the loss of him already. But Az is kissing up your spine, scooping the cum already leaking from your hole only to stuff it back inside of you, swirling his fingers through the thick, white cum.

“One more baby,” Rhysand coos, pressing kisses to your wet cheeks. You don’t think you can move even, you can hardly even keep your eyes open right now or your breathing controlled, allowing the three of them to manhandle you onto Cassian’s broad chest.

You collapse against him, cum leaking from both your cunt and your ass, getting his hips and thighs all messy with it. But he loves it, loves holding you to his chest like this, looking down at you as you snuggle into him like you could fall asleep in bliss in a matter of breaths.

“Let me give you my cum,” he whispers into your hair and your body trembles with his words. You’re utterly spent, but your body needs his cum mixing with the others just as badly as they need the win.

You nod against his chest, stroking a lazy hand down his torso. “Be gentle with me.”

He is. Cassian holds you close, rocking his hips in a steady, soft motion while you cling to him. He seems to be in no rush, but your cunt aches with every drag of his large cock, and you start writhing against him, a little uncomfortable but not yet willing to force him to stop.

The others’ cum helps slick the way, and Cassian’s soothing words kissed to your forehead keep you somewhat calm. He lets you dig your fingers into his skin as hard as you need to, especially when his grip spans across your hips, pinning you to him so he can fuck into you as he chases his orgasm.

“Doing so well for me, baby. Gonna fill you up and get you all cleaned up with the others,” he murmurs, and it’s then you notice he’s silently asked Rhys and Az to leave. The shower is going in the attached bathroom. You can hear the cap of the body wash opening. “We’re going to take such good care of you, baby, for all those orgasms you gave us.”

You sigh in response, much too tired to muster words. You tilt Cassian’s head down for a soft kiss instead, and then he’s panting against your mouth and fucking into you as he cums, swallowing your tender whimpers and moans.

“There we go, baby,” he coos, keeping his cock shoved in that pretty cunt because he knows you like that. He strokes your hair, letting you loll with the rhythm of his chest. “Helping us win the championship. Our little lucky charm.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Kinktober Taglist:@bunnymallowo@jeannineee@icey–stars@hannzoaks@harrystylesfan2686@azriels-shadowsinger @alysena2 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @impossibelle @glitterypirateduck @reading-moongirl

#polybatboys #poly!batboys x reader #hockey!bat boys #acotar modern au #hockey au #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel x cassian x rhysand x reader #azsazz kinktober 2023

1K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 8 months

Note

ur james roommate fic (amazing btw) just gave me an idea

what about pre relationship marauders and there all roommates or something or maybe just one of them a roommates with reader but they all like her and they are all watching a movie like “hey were is she” and one of them answers oh she’s just gone round her mates for a film night or something

then a few hours later she comes stumbling in drunk in a tight as hell dress and heels and they get shocked cause she’s normally so quiet and now here she is giggling and making all these jokes and she was out at a club and who is the lady???

if not that’s totally fine bae 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Thanks for requesting lovely!

cw: intoxication

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 967 words

“Think we ought to check up on her?” James asks halfway through the film.

Remus doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about. “Why?”

“It’s getting late.” James frowns out the window, where darkness has well and truly settled. “She’s never out this late. Wouldn’t we be pretty shit roommates if she was dead in a ditch somewhere and we didn’t even know?”

“What the hell do you plan to do, Prongs,” Sirius drawls, “send out a search party? It’s hardly eleven.”

James looks like he’s thinking a search party’s not such a bad idea. “She said she was going to her mate’s place, and I’m pretty sure it’s book club night. Maybe they’re just going late.”

Sirius scoffs. “You mean to say that on a Saturday night, she got so caught up talking about books that her meeting ran long?” He shakes his head, but his smile is fond. “What a fuckin’ nerd.”

Remus cocks an eyebrow, jutting his chin toward the television. “We’re in on a Saturday night. What does that make us?”

James laughs as Sirius huffs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the couch. “Least we’re not talking about books.”

By the time they finish their film, each of the boys is dead tired. Still, no one argues when James proposes starting another, an unspoken current of worry keeping them in the living room as the night wears on with no sign of your return.

A couple hours later, James and Sirius have both fallen asleep, James drooling slightly on the top of Sirius’ head, when Remus hears keys in the door. Sirius stirs as your keys twist this way and that. There’s a stream of muffled curse words before you finally get it, the lock sliding free and the door swinging open.

“Merlin,” Sirius breathes at the sight of you, rousing James. Remus is inclined to agree.

You’re in a tiny little dress that Remus would have never been able to picture in your closet, the bodice tight and the hem barely skimming past your buttcheeks. You teeter in the door on high heels like a newborn fawn, unphased as if that’s the way you’ve been getting around all evening. You curse quietly when your shoes make a clacking sound against the floor, reaching down to slide them off. Remus can tell from the way you flex your feet that they’ve been hurting you. You start toward your bedroom cautiously, on tiptoe, and it’s a testament to your unusual state that you don’t notice the boys until you’ve nearly passed them on the couch.

“Oh,” you say, still quiet as though you’re afraid to disturb some unseen sleeper. “You’re up. Hi!”

A laugh bubbles up out of Sirius. “Hi, gorgeous,” he says. “How was your night?”

“Ugh.” You grin, shoulders drooping as your eyes go wistful. “It was amazing. How was yours?”

“Not bad.” Sirius can’t seem to stop smiling, and James is the next of them to find his voice.

“Angel,” he says, blinking as though he’s not quite sure he’s actually woken up, “are you drunk?”

You go shy, and Remus’ heart warms with incandescent, aching fondness at the sweet sheepishness that touches your smile. “Just like, a tiny little bit,” you giggle, like you think you might get in trouble and are thrilled with your rebellion.

James shakes his head at you, mystified, and Remus scoots over, patting the spot next to him on the couch. “C’mere, love, talk to us for a bit.”

You’re happy to comply, though not quite as happy as Sirius when you stumble on your way over and he gets to put his hands on your hips, guiding you to a sitting position. You cross your legs under you, and James flushes as each of the boys try to look anywhere other than your exposed underwear. You lean your shoulder into Remus slightly; he leans back.

“What’d you get up to tonight?” He raises his eyebrows, delighting when you blush. Your lipstick has worn down to the liner, and you’ve got some sort of dark makeup smudged beneath your eyes. It takes everything in him not to brush his finger under your lashes and fix it. “We thought it was book club night.”

“No, we pushed that ‘til tomorrow,” you say. “Tonight was real club night.” You let out a little laugh, and Remus grins more because of that than the joke itself.

“I didn’t know you liked going out,” James says. “You haven’t done it in all the time we’ve lived here.”

You make an incredulous sound. “Sure I have.”

James’ eyebrows shoot straight up to his hairline. “When?”

You shrug. “I mean, not all the time. Once a month, maybe.” Your lips curve upward in a look Remus has never seen on your face before. It’s making it difficult to breathe. “What, you just always assume I’m in my room if you don’t see me leave? S’that it?”

“Sorta,” James mumbles, and Sirius grins at you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and stealing you from Remus.

“We’ll be more careful not to underestimate you in the future, sweet thing,” he promises, eyes half-lidded in that way that always reduces you to a blushing, stuttering mess.

You don’t seem affected this time. “Good,” you reply, batting your lashes at him. Sirius blanches.

James laughs at him. “Alright, I’ve got to see you in action,” he declares. “If we go out next weekend, will you come with us?”

You tilt your head consideringly. “Sure,” you say, “but I don’t think many guys are going to come up to me if I’m with you lot. You’ll scare them all away.”

Sirius scoffs. “Yeah, I’d fucking hope so.”

“That’s alright, love,” Remus says. “We’ll find some way to make it up to you.”

(cont)

2K notes · View notes

eldritch-thrumming · 2 months

Text

galaxy brain shit incoming

robin has to move when her mom marries wayne munson. it’s not that bad, her new stepbrother, eddie, is pretty cool and has decent taste in music. they actually have a lot in common. but the new school doesn’t have a gymnastics team like her old school did, so now she has no choice but to join the cheerleading squad if she doesn’t want to lose her mind here in a sea of endless blondes with their dad’s credit cards.

she thinks the cheer team’s captain is gonna be the worst of them all. she’s only been here two days and already she’s heard the rumors about ‘stevie’ and who she’s fucked and who she hasn’t and what parties she threw over the summer. robin’s rolling her eyes all the way to the gym for tryouts.

so imagine her surprise when stevie actually turns out to be steve, who’s honestly not so bad. he asks her to do a full routine and when she does it without breaking a sweat, steve smiles at the pretty blonde sitting next to him behind the folding table before saying “welcome to the team.” the blonde sitting next to him is also smiling, totally ignoring the other two teammates sitting behind the table who are clearly upset with steve’s choice. but all it takes for them to shut the hell up is steve holding up his palm, effectively silencing them. they cross their arms and say nothing else.

steve and the blonde—chrissy—seem to be working as a team… co-captains, even. they run their practices like boot camp and honestly? it’s a lot more serious and demanding than robin could have thought. they practice together constantly, watch training videos, and even start having sleepovers. robin doesn’t miss the weird stuff happening between steve and her idiot step brother, who can’t help but show off every time he sees that steve is over. but robins a little preoccupied with trying to figure out if chrissy likes girls or not.

until steve comes to robins doorstep, crying, talking about his college girlfriend, nancy, who dumped him because he wasn’t “serious” or “studious” enough. and robin’s not the greatest with feelings or comfort or words so all she can do is wrap steve in a blanket and cuddle him on the couch. she gets up to fix them a snack and when she comes back, eddie’s snuck into the living room and taken her place on the couch and steve is laughing for the first time all night. she gives them half an hour, camping out in the kitchen, before she walks in on them and interrupts their first kiss. eddie’s got a shit eating grin on his face and steve’s blushing so red robin thinks if she got a little closer she’d be able to feel the heat radiating from his cheeks.

the three of them spend friday night and all day saturday watching movies together. they’ve just ordered pizza when steve turns to robin and asks her if she’s ever gonna make a move on chrissy cause chrissy hasn’t stopped talking about robin since tryouts at the beginning of the year. robin grins and goes to invite chrissy over for their second movie night in a row.

then they go to nationals or whatever and win their competition and robin and chrissy get to kiss for real with the trophy in their hands. when they head back to the locker room with steve, they run into eddie with a bunch of tulips—steve’s favorite flowers—in his hands… and robin rolls her eyes at the gooey look in steve’s eyes. robin and chrissy, holding hands, leave the two boys to do whatever it is two boys do after a cheer competition.

#steddie #steddie ficlet #is this anything lol #buckingham #sorry to nancy for catching strays here

788 notes · View notes

steddiealltheway · 2 years

Text

Rockstar AU in which Corroded Coffin is slowly becoming more and more famous to the point that Dustin and Mike are STRESSING that after this next concert, the tickets will go through the roof with their pricing. So they have to go now.

Lucas isn’t as big of a fan, but he still wants to go. And Will takes any opportunity he can to hang out with Mike so he joins in on the need to go.

They all realize that they can’t drive, and someone will have to take them.

So they go about nagging Nancy who outright refuses no matter what they bribe her with. Jonathan apologizes because he has work that night and can’t call out.

All the boys agree that there’s no way they’re asking their parents.

Dustin reluctantly offers up Steve as their last option.

“No fucking way!” Mike yells. “He’s so fucking lame and probably doesn’t even know what Corroded Coffin is! I’d rather have my mom take us!”

Lucas points out that if Mrs. Wheeler goes, she will tell all the other moms about it, and the lead singer and guitarist Eddie Munson is known for his… unhinged theatrics.

Will hesitantly says, “I wouldn’t mind if Steve goes with us.”

Mike’s eyes snap to him. Will shrugs. Dustin prays that this will be enough.

“Fine.” Mike gives up. “But if they kick us out because of him, I’ll never let you live this down!”

“Mike, that doesn’t even make sense,” Lucas comments.

“He hasn’t even agreed yet,” Dustin reminds them, already heading out the door to ride over to Steve’s and ask. The others trail behind him.

“Like he’ll have any other plans,” Mike sneers.

The ride over is filled with Mike making rude remarks and the other boys asking what his fucking problem is.

“I just don’t want Eddie thinking we’re lame!” He finally confesses, praying that the cool air is enough to blame for the flush on his face.

Will catches his eye, and Mike nearly falls off his bike. Luckily, he can play it off since they’ve made it to Steve’s.

Dustin is ushered forward because he’s the favorite. He knocks and Steve almost immediately answers.

“Steve! Dude! How are-”

“Nope,” Steve immediately says, jutting his hip out, leaning against the doorframe.

Dustin gapes. “I didn’t even ask anything.”

Steve crosses his arms and looks around the group. “I know that look. It’s the ‘we need a babysitter’ look. I’m not doing it this time.”

Dustin pushes past him and the others follow behind him into the house.

“Hey hey hey! I didn’t even- take off your shoes at least!” Steve yells after them.

Will already has his shoes off while Mike rolls his eyes at Steve, begrudgingly taking his shoes off. Lucas apologizes. Dustin doesn’t even bother to untie his shoes.

“You have to take us to this concert. You owe me,” Dustin says.

“Owe you for what?”

“For… for telling me my hair looked good at the snowball dance!” Dustin exclaims proudly, complimenting himself on his improvisation skills.

All the other boys rapidly agree with Dustin while Steve tries to argue that it did look good. The conversation derails quickly into a general argument until Mike unexpectedly speaks up, “Alright! Enough.”

He digs through his backpack with alarming urgency and pulls out a picture of… Eddie Munson?

“We need to see him. This may be our only chance! And when I tell you that you were my last option, I mean that you were my last option. I would rather have my fucking dad take us! But they insisted it be you. You have to understand that begging you like this- this is rock bottom for me. But I beg you. Please take us,” Mike finish dramatically thrusting the picture into Steve’s hands.

“Dude, why the fuck do you have a picture of Eddie Munson in your backpack?” Dustin asks and the other boys join in egging him on.

They’re all oblivious to Steve’s little crisis over the image of the metalhead until he suddenly announces, “I’ll do it. I’ll take you guys.”

Dustin immediately yells and hugs him. Lucas and Will hug each other as Mike snatches the image back and stuffs it into his backpack again - face beet red.

“Wait, when is it?” Steve asks breaking the hug.

Dustin stammers out a few, “Well, it’s funny that you asks… so funny actually. Hilarious. Funniest thing I’ve heard all day…” All the boys make their way to the front door.

“Dustin…”

“It’s tomorrow night at ten! We’ll be here at nine!” Dustin yells immediately rushing out the door and slamming it behind him.

The boys all laugh as the rush to their bikes, hearing Steve yell, “Always the goddamn babysitter!”

-:-:-:-:-:-

Nevertheless, Steve rushes into his car at 9:05, while Dustin and Mike scream that they’re going to be late as if it’s the end of the world. About ten minutes into the ride, Mike finally notices what Steve is wearing.

“Uh, Steve. Please tell me you have something on under that,” Mike groans.

Steve glances down at his yellow sweater and asks, “What’s wrong with this?”

This sends Mike spiraling while Dustin laughs, “You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

Steve shakes his head. Dustin joins in with Mike’s breakdown.

When they get there, Steve realizes what they mean. In the venue - that is on the surprisingly smaller side - there isn’t a single person who isn’t sporting either a t-shirt from the latest album Hellfire or wearing all black.

Steve sticks out like a sore thumb. The people around him give him looks, but he doesn’t really care since he’s never heard of Corroded Coffin. Besides, with him standing a few rows away from the stage, there’s no way the band would spot him.

The opening band is alright and gets the crowd really going to the point where Steve can see why none of the kids wanted one of their parents to bring them. He gets lost in the general vibe of the place, reminding him of a way more intense version of the big high school parties he used to go to. He knows Dustin would kick him in the shins if he told him that.

Once the opening band walks off stage, the lights go out, startling the audience. “What the hell-” Dustin says before loud chords play out with a flash of lights.

Steve catches Will and Mike holding hands in one flash and in the next they’ve broken away with red faces.

Steve would laugh fondly at the pair, if there wasn’t a sudden spotlight on Eddie Munson. And fuck he’s gorgeous. His eyes flicker over the crowd, and Steve swears that his eyes narrow when he looks toward him, but there’s no way he can see anything in the spotlight.

He sings into the mic, and Steve’s heart beats a little faster. Thank you kids for making him take them here.

A few songs in, Steve is relaxing into the music which isn’t his usual taste, but there’s something about Eddie that… makes him want to hear more.

There’s an odd pause between songs when Eddie begins talking to the audience. He pulls his hair in front of his mouth and is… oddly adorable. He seems to get flustered by the crowd while simultaneously radiating with all the praise.

He introduces each band mate and gives them a look before saying, “They’re going to kill me for this, but we’re going to do something new tonight.”

One member - Gareth - gives Eddie a look like not again.

The audience waits in anticipation for Eddie to announce whatever scheme he’s thought up. “Ladies, gentlemen, and everything beyond and in between… we’re going to invite someone to the stage.”

Steve laughs as Mike and Dustin fight to get Eddie’s attention.

Eddie takes his time, holding his hand above his eyes to block out the stage lights and actually observe the audience. Eddie laughs darkly into the mic. “I won’t lie to you guys. I had this person picked out from the moment I saw him. Welcome Mr. Yellow Sweater to the stage!”

Steve’s heart drops in his chest and everyone around him turns to him as if they’re going to murder him - especially Mike. Dustin, Lucas, and Will, on the other hand, excitedly shove him along, ushering him to the stage.

Steve makes his way to the edge of the stage and looks up to see Eddie holding his hand out. Steve takes it and perfectly scales the stage, ending up right up in Eddie Munson’s personal space. “Well, hello there, pretty boy. What’s your name?”

Steve is thankful that only he can hear Eddie’s words. “Steve,” he manages to choke out.

“Steve, please tell me you spilled something on your shirt and this was the only thing left for you to wear,” Eddie says.

Steve looks down at his sweater once again because hey, what’s wrong with his sweater? He shakes his head.

“You keep getting better and better…” Eddie looks him up and down.

The drummer yells, “Eddie! The fans are getting restless. Get on with whatever this is!”

Eddie shoots him a apologetic look and tugs Steve towards the microphone. “Everyone, meet Steve the exact person I pictured when writing this song.” The crowd begins screaming as a few notes ring out. Steve has never heard this song in his life but it somehow sounds familiar.

Eddie pulls a stool forward and whispers, “Take a seat, sweetheart.”

Steve immediately sits down and prays that his face isn’t as red as he imagines it to be. Eddie shamelessly eyes him up and down as he sings some song about a place like Hell called The Upside Down with demobats, strange vines, and what sounds like the budding romance with a stranger.

It’s weird as fuck, but somehow Steve just gets it.

As the final notes ring out, Eddie looks off as if he’s recalling some memory or trying too. He shakes his head and says to the audience, “Let’s give another round of the applause to the poor soul I dragged up here.” The audience roars with applause that confuses the shit out of Steve, but luckily it drowns out Eddie saying in Steve’s ear, “Meet me after the show at the back right door.” He cocks his head towards the back at Steve’s left.

Steve immediately replies, “Okay, but I have four kids with me.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“They’re my… friends.”

Eddie stares at him in disbelief and huffs out a laugh. “You’re full of surprises, Steve. I’m happy to meet them.”

Steve nods at him not knowing what else to do and makes his way to the edge of the stage and hops down. As he makes his way back to the kids he can’t help but think what the fuck just happened.

All the boys are yelling, asking what he said to him and why did he choose him and is he nice and…

“He said he wants to meet us after the show,” Steve says first.

“What did you say to him?!” Mike shouts.

“I told him that we couldn’t because Wheeler here has a strict bedtime.”

All the boys’ jaws drop, and Steve is actually afraid Mike will murder him. “I’m kidding. I said we would,” Steve says nonchalantly leaving out the part where Eddie had rendered him speechless after asking to just see him.

The rest of the concert passes pretty quickly, and Steve tries not to get his hopes up that the winks Eddie gives the audience are all directed at him.

As Eddie wishes everyone a goodnight and makes his way off stage, Steve’s heart starts pounding in his chest. Mike and Dustin are frantically trying to appear cooler than they are while Lucas and Will try to muffle their laughter. Steve guides them towards where Eddie had told him to go, going directly against the flow of everyone exiting the venue.

Steve looks around, making sure no one else is following them and pushes the door. It swings open and Steve steps through expecting some sort of security to be blocking him but… there’s no one.

There’s a loud shout of “Holy fucking shit!” chanted over and over again down the hall, with more people joining in. Steve follows the noise cautiously until he gets to a door that is slightly cracked. Sounds of squealing, laughter, and floorboards creaking - from what sounds like people jumping up and down - ring out through the crack.

Steve pushes the door open and is met with a startled shout that comes from none other than Eddie Munson. “Man, you’ve got to get better security in this place,” Steve says without thinking but Eddie’s bandmates are nodding in agreement and shouting out things like “That’s what we’ve been telling him!”

Dustin pushes past Steve and gets down on one knee to bow and say, “My lord,” he stands up and continues, “I am Dustin Henderson. Huge fan.” He holds out his hand and giggles as Eddie bows back and shakes it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Dustin. Never change.”

Dustin’s smile widens into what is an almost terrifying grin of joy. Steve turns to find Mike gaping at Eddie, frozen in place.

Eddie smiles at Mike and asks, “And you are?”

“Mike,” the boy chokes out. He clears his throat. “Mike Wheeler.”

“Good to meet you, man,” Eddie says, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing briefly.

Steve’s heart warms at the interactions, he turns around to find Will and Lucas nearly hiding behind him. He nearly tells them to get a grip, but he knows what it’s like being under Eddie’s gaze for the first time and can’t blame them.

“Eddie, this is Will and Lucas,” Steve introduces them as if Eddie’s one of his friends or something.

Will blushes when Eddie shakes his hand, and Lucas makes a comment about loving his work which Eddie thanks him for.

“Well,” Eddie says, “I can’t wait to speak to you guys more, but I’m going to request a few minutes with Steve here. If that’s alright?” Eddie holds eye contact with Steve who looks at the other kids first - who are all urging him to say yes with their eyes - then he nods his confirmation. Eddie tries to hold back a smile. “I hope the rest of my band can provide entertainment that isn’t lame.”

“Hey, fuck you, man! What do you mean your band?!” Is the general response from the other members before the four boys are firing questions at them.

Eddie pulls Steve into a small dressing room and closes the door. Steve doesn’t know what he’s expecting but it certainly isn’t Eddie’s response. “I’m so sorry, dude. I- I don’t what came over me up there,” Eddie’s face has dropped and he’s fidgeting with his rings looking endearingly awkward. He continues pacing and going on, “I just saw you, and, really, stage Eddie is a huge flirt, but I’ve never singled someone out like that before. And you clearly aren’t even a fan. Are you a fan?” Eddie questions, eyes narrowed, invading Steve’s personal space.

“I am now,” Steve replies, glad that his charm has suddenly made a reappearance. Eddie blushes and he pulls a strand of hair in front his face. Steve finds him absolutely adorable.

“I guess I just wanted to apologize... again. You’re just... so familiar, and I needed a closer look. Because... I meant what I said about you. You’re exactly who I pictured and... Fuck, I’m coming on way too strong right now.” Eddie sits down in an uncomfortable looking foldable chair, burying his face in his hands.

“You know,” Steve says slowly approaching Eddie, “I hadn’t even heard of you or your band before those kids showed up at my door yesterday.”

Eddie sarcastically replies, “Thanks.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, that- that’s not what I mean. I mean... I almost didn’t take them here. I truly didn’t want to.”

Eddie looks up and smiles amusedly at Steve. “You’re really digging yourself a deeper hole right now.”

“I-” Steve sighs and grabs the chair closest to him, drags it directly in front of Eddie, and immediately sits across from him, so they’re eye to eye. “I wasn’t going to until Mike showed me a picture of you. And something in me told me I needed to go; you know? That I somehow had to meet you. And that song, man, it was so fucking weird-” Eddie snorts. Steve continues, “But I understood everything you were saying as if it was... weird deja vu or something. I don’t know.”

Eddie holds eye contact with him for a few moments, searching his eyes for any lies. He shakes his head and sighs, “I know exactly what you mean. But maybe we’re both crazy.”

“Maybe,” Steve replies. He boldly grabs Eddie’s hands and holds them in his. He glances down at their hands and smiles. Then, he catches sight of his watch and more specifically the time. He shoots up. “Shit! I have to go. The kids’ parents are going to absolutely kill me if we don’t head back soon.”

Eddie stands and nods at Steve. Neither of them wants to leave each other’s company. Steve frantically looks around and spots a pen. He scribbles his home number onto Eddie’s arm and rushes out of the room. “Guys, we need to head out.”

“What? Why?” Mike asks, and man that kid needs to keep that attitude in check.

“Check the time,” Steve suggests. The boys look at their watches.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dustin says then turns dramatically towards the group. “Gentlemen, it was lovely meeting you, I can’t wait to see you again one day.” He nods his head and rushes out the door. The other boys hurriedly say their goodbyes and rush out.

Steve holds eye contact with Eddie for a moment then hurries after the boys. He wonders when he will call.

(Oh gosh... is this... unfinished??? I meant to finish it. Anyways, Eddie definitely calls Steve and when they meet up again Steve is like “How the hell do you still have my number on your arm?” and Eddie nonchalantly replies, “I got it tattooed so I wouldn’t lose it.”)

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #slight byler #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie rockstar au #homophobia doesn't exist in this universe #simply does not

3K notes · View notes

sorchathered · 2 months

Text

Jake and Bradley are talking very animatedly at the table as Phoenix crosses the mess hall, ushering her to move quickly so she can join in.

“Shhhh!!!! You’re too damn loud Rooster, someone is going to hear!”

“Oh shut up, we don’t have much time until he gets over here. Nat!! We need your opinion.”

“Oh God, what? I just wanted to eat my lunch in peace.”

Bradley peers behind her and then ducks his head to whisper at her.

“We think Bob has a girlfriend.”

She rolls her eyes at them and Bradley flails his arms towards Jake-

“Seriously! Hangman tell her!”

“Ok so he hasn’t come out with us in almost 3 weeks and then today-“

Bradley cuts him off because he thinks he can see the WSO entering the mess hall.

“Today he stepped out of the showers and is COVERED in scratch marks and bruises. So unless he suddenly joined fight club he’s definitely seeing someone.”

They all snap their mouths shut as Bob sits down at the table with his lunch, looking them over like they’ve all grown three heads, Natasha attempting to stifle giggles as she tries to eat her salad.

“Hey…guys…What’s going on?”

He looks bewildered and the boys are looking anywhere but at him, Nat clears her throat but still can’t seem to stop her giggles.

“Bob, why don’t you tell us what you’ve been up to the past few weeks, apparently the boys are sad that you don’t come out with us anymore.”

Jake is trying to signal for her to shut up, Bradley meanwhile looks like a deer in headlights.

“Is that why yall are being so weird? Seriously? I went out of town last weekend to pack up my storage unit in Lemoore and this weekend I’ve been moving in to my house with my wife. Yall are welcome to come by when we get it all settled, I’m sure she’ll want to host some sort of get together, she lives for that stuff.”

Jake drops his fork, blinking several times to process and Bradley is catching flies with his unhinged jaw, neither of them seem to be able to process what he just said meanwhile Natasha is cackling.

“What’s their deal?” Bob says to Nat and she just claps him on the shoulder.

“Oh Bob, those poor boys thought you were sweet and innocent, just wait until they find out about the kids.”

“YOU HAVE KIDS?!”

#top gun maverick #bob floyd #warm up #I’m bored #secret wife is my favorite trope #Bob fucks #top gun maverick fanfiction

221 notes · View notes

honeyedmiller · 10 months

Text

Forbidden Fruit | Joel Miller

pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader

warnings: dbf!Joel, age gap (reader is 26, Joel is in his late 40s), no-outbreak!Joel, smut with literally barely any plot (f oral receiving, fingering, squirting, m oral receiving, grinding, [sorta] unprotected piv), pet names, cursing, no use of y/n. 18+! minors do not interact!

word count: 5.8k

synopsis: you return back home from college after graduating with your Master’s degree, and Joel Miller is surprised to see how much you’ve really grown up.

ik the coming back from college trope is so overdone for dbf but I’m sorry I can’t help it. this was also not revised. sorry for any mistakes.

Joel Miller.

Brooding. Stern. Not much of a talker. Joel Miller was more of an observer. And boy, did Joel Miller notice how much you’ve grown.

Joel was your dad’s best buddy. You know, the one where they’d throw barbecues together, invite each other over to watch their favorite sports teams, go on fishing trips together, the works. They’ve been best friends since your dad first moved into the neighborhood. You were twelve then, and Joel loved that his daughter, Sarah, had someone around her age (you were five years older) to accompany her.

Since both of your mothers weren’t in the picture, you and Sarah bonded over that aspect of your lives. She was a sweet kid, and when Joel asked you to babysit her from time-to-time, you had no problem doing that for him.

That was years ago, though, and you’d gone off to college once again to pursue your Master’s degree. Your dad was so proud of you. Good grades, driven, responsible, good head on your shoulders—except the only irrational, illogical thought that kept crossing your mind:

Wanting Joel Miller.

You yearned for the middle-aged man. But who could blame you? He was tall, broad, strong, and not to mention, insanely handsome. Not in the typical silver fox type way, no. He was ruggedly handsome, with a seemingly permanent frown when he was around you, dark brown eyes that could get you to confess your sins, tan skin that glistened deliciously in the sun, a strong nose that was carved out by the Greek gods, dark and thick curls, greying patches of stubble, and a Southern drawl that could drop you to your knees in an instant.

Your yearning for him had always been on the back burner, but you’d always thought of him to be a handsome man. Someone nice to steal glances at here and there, and snicker to your friends about how crushing on someone forbidden as him was truly exhilarating.

Something changed between you two the last time you came home, though. You’d just graduated with your Bachelor’s degree, coming back home for the summer before applying for your Master’s that same year in the fall. All the burning gazes he’d offer your way went unnoticed at first, until you caught him staring one time and he didn’t even bother to look away. He kept his needy eyes locked on you, running over your body fully before snapping his eyes back up to yours. Then it went from looks, to subtle touches. His large hand on your lower back, yours wrapped around his bulging biceps, his brushing against the outside of your thighs, knees touching, so on and so forth.

Needless to say, you spent that summer with your hand between your legs countless times, whispering his name like a sinful confession when you came.

Your stomach twisted when your dad pulled up to your neighborhood. You gazed at all of the cookie-cutter houses, eyes peeled for a certain Miller brother as your house came into view. He wasn't outside, which caused a twinge of disappointment. You nearly rolled your eyes at yourself, because what the fuck. He's your dad's best friend, for god sake.

“So I was thinkin’,” Your dad starts, pulling his truck into the driveway of your house. “Do you want to have a party for graduating with your Master’s?” Your dad’s smile is sincere as he looks at you, and you offer him a small nod.

“Sure.” You say. You’re not big on parties since you did plenty of that in college, so you kind of wanted to settle down now and chill out. You were twenty six after all, and these days, you were much more into small kickbacks or get-togethers rather than parties. But, to your dad, a ‘party’ just meant a neighborhood barbecue mixed in with a pool day.

It was sweet that he wanted to celebrate you and your hard work, and you knew he loved to do stuff like this for you… so why the hell not?

“Perfect!” He slapped his hands against the steering wheel. “I’ll call Joel up and tell him we’re throwin’ a barbecue.”

Your cheeks flushed pink at the mention of his name, but your dad didn’t notice one bit. You clambered out of the passenger seat, helping him get your bags from the bed of his truck.

“‘Matter a’fact, I think Miller is home right now. Go ‘head and get settled in, I’ll go get Joel.” Your dad said, and you nodded. You couldn’t ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at the thought of finally seeing the man who’s been occupying your mind after two years.

You’ve definitely changed a lot within those two years, mentally and physically. You felt as if you were a bit more mature, your mind sharp and witty. You definitely had more of a ‘grown woman’ presence to you, especially in the way you dressed and carried yourself. Physically, you learned how to perfect your makeup in a sense that could literally lure anyone to you, and you’ve been working out a ton. It was noticeable, especially how plump your backside now was.

After you lugged your bags upstairs, you decided you needed a shower. You’d been on a plane all morning, so you just wanted to wash it all away. It didn’t take long for you to rinse off and wash your hair before you started rummaging through your bag to pick out something to wear. You ended up choosing a cream colored ribbed halter top with Levi jeans that made your ass look fantastic.

You knew the way you were dressing was intentional, so you might as well at least try to impress Joel just a smidge. You slicked your hair back into a neat bun, putting in your small gold chunky earrings once more and slipping on the gold bracelet your mom gave you. That was the one thing she left that you cherished, even if she wasn’t in your life anymore.

You gave yourself a once-over in your full body mirror before slightly nodding once to yourself, making your way out of the bedroom. You heard to deep chuckles coming from downstairs, and you’d recognize both from anywhere. Joel was over.

You made it to the bottom of the staircase before your dad perked up at the sight of you.

“Hey pumpkin! Hope you feel refreshed now.” He smiles, and you huff a laugh at the nickname.

“I do. Thanks dad.”

“Well well well, if it isn’t Miss Master’s Degree.” Joel chimed in, and you shifted your gaze to his. Fuck, he looked good. His hair was slightly longer and styled messily sideways, but it suited him. He wore his usual attire—plain gray shirt with dark blue jeans and his boots. He held a beer in his hand, and the neck was pointed right at you.

“Hey, Mr. Miller.” You toss him a tight-lipped smile, and he waves his hand at you.

“C’mon kid, you know it’s Joel. Being called Mr. Miller makes me feel kinda old.” He jokes, and you quirk your brow.

“Who’s to say you aren’t already?” You tease, crossing your arms over your chest. That allowed your breasts to look more voluminous, and it caught Joel’s attention for a couple of milliseconds. To an outsider, it would’ve looked totally innocent. But you knew better.

“You wound me, darlin’.” He held a hand over his chest, pretending to look hurt. You crack a small smile, wondering when the hell he got so friendly toward you. Usually, he’d have a frown on his face when he talked to you and grunts for words to match.

“So, is the party this weekend okay?” Your dad asks, moving his gaze back to you.

You nod in agreement. “It’s perfect.”

Saturday rolled around quickly, and now you were getting ready for your party. Guests would be here within the hour or so, so you sat at your vanity in your room in your plush robe after have just taken a shower. You styled your hair to a pretty blowout, and now you were working on your makeup. You were just about to apply your lip liner when your dad knocked on your door.

“Kiddo? I’m gonna run to the store to get some last minute stuff. Joel’s here if you need anything.” He says through the door. How convenient.

“Okay!” You shout back, and continue to line your lips. You heard the front door shut loudly, and a minute later, heavy footsteps came up the stairs. They stopped outside of your room, and you quirked your brow expecting Joel to just knock already.

“You can come in, Joel.” You said, shaking your head a bit. Your room door opened slowly to reveal the beautiful man, and you eyed him through your vanity mirror.

“Sorry, didn’t know if I’d be disturbin’ ya.” He shrugs, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. You clenched your legs together at the sight.

“Well, you’re not.” You shrug back, continuing to finish lining your lips.

“Well don’t you look pretty.” He says, shuffling further into your room. He’s by the end of your bed now, hand on his hip with an extended knee propped out.

“Thanks. So do you.” You tease, and his breath catches. You smirk slightly, opening a tube of your favorite nude lipstick before applying that.

“Y’know, you oughta be real proud of yourself, gettin’ your Master’s n’ whatnot.” He starts, and you halt your movements to look at him through the mirror again. You turn your body in your chair to fully face him, and his eyes roam over the loosely tied robe that clings to your body. The fact that you might not have anything underneath drives him fucking wild.

You see him eyeing you, so you stand up and saunter just before him. You stare up at him, head cocked to the side.

“Means I’m twenty thousand dollars smarter.” You say, and his gaze locks on yours. The tension is nearly unbearable, and fuck do you wish he’d just make the first move. Maybe it’s his morals that have him screaming ‘don’t do it’ in his head, and honestly, you have to give it to him. You’re his best friends daughter; someone who should be completely off-limits. Not to be messed with. Forbidden fruit, if you will.

“‘N what does that twenty thousand dollar smarter brain tell you now?” He leans down more so your faces are only inches apart.

“Tells me that you might have an attraction to me. You know, with the way you look at me, imagining me under you while you take care of me. While I say your name like a—”

“Fuck, darlin’, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into.” He snaps, and truthfully, he doesn’t either. This is dangerous territory, but you’re a grown woman and you could decide for yourself what you wanted and didn’t want.

“You know, Joel,” You purr. “You can say all you want that you don’t want this, but I see the way your eyes burn holes in my body. It’d be crazy to say yes and give in to what we both want, but it’d be even crazier if you lied and said you didn’t want it.”

You’re challenging him, and he didn’t like it. He was so used to being the one in control, and now that you had him wrapped around your finger, he was losing what little he had left.

“How much time do you think we’ll have?” He asks, looking up at the ceiling. He can’t believe he’s about to give into the temptress that you are, but like you said, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it.

“Dad left ‘bout ten minutes ago. I’d say another thirty or so.” You shrug, and he tips your chin up so your gaze meets his. Your arousal was so strong that you felt the wetness stick to the apex of your inner thighs. It made you want to squirm.

“You sure this is somethin’ you want? Don’t think you can handle it, darlin’. Since you’re so used to those college boys.” He spits the last word, and you hum.

“Show me how a real man’s supposed to fuck me then, Joel.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“Aht aht, not so fast now. Gotta warm you up first. Take off your robe and go lay down.” He instructs, and you couldn’t believe this was happening. You’d been dying to get his hands on you. You tried your hardest to keep your composure, so you simply stepped back from him and slowly untied your robe. You let it drop to the floor and pool around your feet. You looked back up at him as you made your way to your bed, laying your head on your silk pillowcase.

“What a fuckin’ sight you are, baby. You belong in a museum.” He admires your body from above, and usually, you’d feel confident in bed with other boys looking at your body. But this was no boy. This was a real man, and Joel Miller at that. The fucking neighborhood dilf that everyone wanted to sink their claws in, but he never let them.

He knelt down on your bed between your legs, spreading your thighs further apart so your glistening heat was in perfect view of his line of sight.

He smacked his tongue against his teeth three times as his hands trailed up further to the apex of your thighs.

“Already this wet n’ needy n’ I haven’t even touched ya. How ‘bout that, hm?” Joel may’ve lost control in the teasing beforehand, but in bed, he gained it all back. Now you were the one wrapped around his finger, needy for him. You know he wanted to you to beg, but you didn’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet, at least.

He moved his thumbs up to your puffy lips, spreading them apart to get the most intimate view of your pussy. You looked down at him admiring you, and it sent a shiver down your spine. No one’s ever looked at you like that—taken their time to admire what they were about to have. Joel was slow, careful, like he cherished you and your body. Like it was sacred.

He tilted his head to the side as his eyes snapped back up to yours, like he was waiting for you to beg him. Again, you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of something you both wanted, so you tilted your head right back.

“Not gonna use your manners or anything?” He scoffs, and you huff a laugh.

“I have a vibrator in my nightstand that can do the job just fine, Mr. Miller.” You tease, and oh, he doesn’t like that.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat, y’know that?” He shakes his head and you toss a saccharine smile his way. You’ve got him riled up, and you just needed to tip him over the edge.

“I didn’t, Mr. Miller.” Was all you said before he smacked your pussy lightly once. The action made you moan and clench around nothing.

“No you didn’t my fuckin’ ass.” He spits onto your pussy, before delving himself into your folds. You toss your head back and let out a breathy moan, his tongue already completely coated in your slick. The muscle glides over your folds easily, finds its way to your clit, and traces tight circles around it.

“Fuck, oh my god.” You whine, gripping onto your bed sheets.

“Taste fuckin’ delicious, baby.” Joel moaned against you, continuing his relentless torture with his tongue. He moved his tongue from your clit down to your entrance, licking around once before entering you. His rough hands moved up from your thighs to your breasts, fingers teasing and pulling your sensitive peaks. Your started to squirm against him, and he smacked your breast softly.

“Stay. Still.” He warns, and you moan. This man and his tongue is going to be the absolute death of you. Then, his tongue slips out of you and dares to go down even further—a place no one has been before. You choke on a gasp as his tongue circles your hole, licking over it a few times slowly before gliding all the way back up to your clit. He brings one of his hands down from your breasts to your pussy, and he separates his mouth for a second before coating his ring and middle finger with your slick before sliding them into you.

The stretch of his two fingers was so much more than your own could offer, and it felt fucking good. He looked down at you for a split second, eyes half-lidded and burning with desire. His irises were nearly black, as he watched you with your brows threaded together and jaw slack, enjoying the feeling of his fingers pumping in and out of you languidly.

“That’s it, princess.” He encouraged, before moving his mouth back onto your clit. He sucked on it softly, generous enough to give you just the right amount of pressure that you needed. His expert fingers and tongue moved in such perfect sync that you felt yourself getting close already. Joel didn’t let up, keeping his pace steady for you. He felt you clench around his fingers, and he moaned against you in encouragement.

Within seconds, the heat in your core flooded your body head to toe in release, moaning out Joel’s name ceremoniously. He removed his mouth from you but kept his fingers in you, moving them slowly. He maneuvered himself so he was hovering over you, grabbing your jaw to prop it open.

“Open your mouth.” He said, and you immediately obeyed. He spit directly into your mouth, tasting his own saliva mixed with your arousal. Heat flooded your core again as the faint feeling of his fingers started to move faster.

“Fuck, Joel–” You gasped as he sped his movements up, a dark look taking over his eyes. A sickly sweet smirk made its way onto his lips as you felt a pressure build in you again, but it felt different this time. This time, it was one like you needed to pee.

“Joel, stop, I feel like I need t–” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before that strange sensation built up so rapidly that clear liquid gushed from your core. You moaned loudly, the sensation making your whole body tingle.

Joel chuckled darkly. “Well look at that. The princess can squirt.” Before, you would’ve wanted to wipe the sickly satisfaction that was strewn on his face, but after him making you cum the way you did, you couldn’t say shit.

Your body was still trembling from the aftershocks of the orgasm, ragged breath and all. Joel started to unbuckle his belt, tugging at his pants until they were around his ankles. The confinement of his cock in his underwear was nearly painful, and he couldn’t wait to see your lips wrapped around him.

“Y’gonna watch me please myself or ya gonna help me with this… situation? Unless you don’t wanna ruin your lipstick, princess.” He gestures down to his bulge, and you nearly roll your eyes.

“Lipstick’s re-applicable, Mr. Miller.” You maneuver your weak body down to the floor and on your knees in front of him.

“What’d I tell you about calling me that?” He grabs your chin between his thumb and index finger harshly, jerking your head up to meet his gaze. He looks sexy like this, all riled up while he waits for you to make him feel good.

“Oh c’mon, Joel, you’re still the neighborhood dilf regardless if I call you that or not.” You laugh, moving your hands up to tug at the waistband of his boxers.

“Christ woman, you really test my patience y’know that?” He scoffs with a lopsided grin, shaking his head. His mind was swirling with thoughts of how grown up you were now; how mature you’ve really gotten. He was a nasty man taking what he wanted from you and you were a nasty woman for letting him. The secrecy made it all the better, and truth be told, Joel hasn’t done anything this exhilarating in a very long while.

You both came to a silent mutual agreeance that this was nothing more than a casual fling; something you both could fulfill your needs with. Which, honestly, was perfect for you. You weren’t looking for anything and you’d be damned if that thing was with your father’s best friend. This was to get the mutual pining out of the way, and for Joel to show you how a real man should fuck you.

You tugged his boxers down, freeing his painfully hard erection. Joel wasn’t small by any means—he had girth and an impressive length. He’s by far the biggest you’ve ever had, but that wasn’t stopping you from showing him how you could handle him.

His tip was dark pink and leaking pre cum, waiting to be cleaned up by your tongue. You looked up at him as he cocked an eyebrow at you, silently challenging you to go ahead and take it all.

You close your eyes for a split second before opening them again, taking his heavy cock into your hand and giving the silky flesh a few tugs. A low grown emerges from his chest, eyes closing in pure ecstasy. You decided to play nice and not tease him too much, so you leaned forward and gave his tip a few kitten licks to gather the pre cum on your tongue.

Joel inhaled a sharp breath as you licked down his whole shaft on each side, coming back up to kiss the tip. You used one hand to steady his length before putting him slowly in your mouth, inch by inch before your nose was met with the coarse curly hairs at the base of his cock. His tip hit the back of your throat, but you swallowed around him as best as you could before you had the urge to gag.

“Good god, woman— fuck.” He hissed, jaw going slack and eyes pressing closed in pleasure. You hummed against him as you raised your head back up, going back down again at a slow pace at first. You eventually found a steady rhythm, making sure to pay some mind to his balls too. He was a panting mess above you, trying so hard to keep it together but barely managing. He kept repeating your name over and over, so much so that it almost sounded like a whine. The arousal between your legs pooled up again, fast. Hearing a grown man whine for you and what you were doing for him made your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. You’d never considered yourself a dom, but things like this really fucking turned you on.

You licked up the side of one particular protruding vein on his cock up to the slit of his tip, and he lost it.

“‘M’not gonna fuckin’ last if y’keep doin’ that.” He sighs, gripping your comforter.

“That’s the whole point.” You said, doing that move a few more times before he stilled, hips bucking up into your mouth as he spilled his cum down your throat. You swallowed every last bit of it, moving your mouth off of him with a ‘pop’. You stood up using his knees to elevate yourself, naked and no longer self conscious of being in such a state in front of him.

“We should probably cut it off here. People will be arriving soon.” You say, stepping back to pick up your robe and tie it around yourself again. You looked at yourself in the mirror, and truthfully, you looked much better than you thought you would. You just needed to fix some slightly runny eye makeup and your lipstick.

“Yeah,” Joel nods as he stands up, tucking himself back into his boxers and pulling his pants back up. He re-buckled his belt, straightening himself out before turning to you. You met his gaze through the mirror, and with dark eyes and a smug smile, he steps up behind you before putting his hands on your hips. He leans down so his mouth is level with your ear, and whispers so softly to you that it sends violent chills down your spine. “I’ll ruin every single man for you once I’m buried in that pretty cunt. That’s a promise.”

He walks away without saying another word, leaving you absolutely dumbfounded.

The party was in full swing, neighbors that you hadn’t seen in years at the function. It was nice to see and catch up with everyone, but you couldn’t ignore the heavy ache in your core. Joel’s words kept replaying in your head, and you’ve had half a mind to just drag him upstairs and have him fuck you then and there. But, life wasn’t always fair.

You spent all afternoon telling the whole neighborhood what you majored in, what kind of jobs you were looking for, moving plans, so on and so forth. You lived in a small community just outside of the city, so everyone was in everyone’s business here.

Joel kept mostly to himself for the whole party, except for the same burning gaze he always gave you when no one was watching, and the occasional touch on your lower back that would make you go rigid. He was especially fixated on your legs, which he couldn’t help but imagine being wrapped around his waist as he fucked you senseless.

Today, you wore shorts that showed off the plump curve of your ass, and a loose white linen short sleeve button down with the first couple of buttons undone. Your hot pink bikini top was peaking out from it which gave the simple outfit a small pop of color. You’d purposefully lean over to talk to people who were sitting, or bend down at the waist to get drinks from the cooler because you knew he was watching.

You kept your cool though, because that’s all you really could do at that point. You had to pretend that the older Miller brother’s face definitely wasn’t buried between your legs hours prior, or that he definitely didn’t make you squirt for the first time, or that you definitely didn’t have your lips wrapped around his cock.

By the time the party dwindled down, it was nearly midnight. You were escorting the last of the guests out with a genuine ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before heading back to the backyard where your dad and Joel remained.

Your dad was hammered, which in all honesty, was pretty funny. He’d rarely ever get drunk like this so you know he was going to sleep good tonight.

“Hey dad, why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest. Joel and I will clean up what’s left out here.” You suggest, putting a hand on your dad’s back.

He mumbled something incoherent before smiling down at you. “Okay sweetie. You’re right. I’m gonna… gonna… yeah. Do what you said.” He nods and you stifle a laugh as he drags his feet to the glass sliding door.

“Let me help you old man.” Joel chuckles as he helps your drunken father upstairs and safely into his bedroom. You clean up the small amount of trash left, thankful that your neighbors are decent people and throw away their own messes. You find the weather around you to be still and warm—perfect for the jacuzzi. You strip yourself of your shoes, shirt and shorts, leaving you in nothing but your skimpy bikini. The bottoms were nearly swallowed by your ass, so you’re kind of grateful that your dad went upstairs to sleep off his fun day.

You settled yourself in, groaning softly as the warm water settled your bones. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the concrete, enjoying the peace and quiet.

That is, until the sliding glass door opened and closed again. You didn’t open your eyes, but the sound of heavy footsteps neared you. The back porch light was turned off, so the backyard was completely submerged in darkness before the jacuzzi lights turned on. A pretty, soft purple glow shone throughout the space, the jet suddenly coming on as well. Bubbles started to form, and that’s when you opened your eyes. You were surprised to see Joel stripping down to his boxers, two beers in hand.

He climbed in next to you, handing you an uncapped beer. He didn’t say a word as he settled, clinking the neck of your beer bottle with his own. You both took a swig, and you set the beer bottle down before you dissociated while looking at the purple bubbles.

“Did you have a good party?” He asked, setting his beer bottle down too.

“I did.” You nod, looking at him. Just like that, the tension was back. You were sure the arousal was a sticky mess on your bikini bottoms had you not climbed into the jacuzzi. Even the soft flesh between your thighs was drenched. The heavy ache was low in your belly, and you really wanted Joel to get rid of it.

“Please tell me you want me right now as much as I want you.” You say, and Joel was taken aback by your bluntness. Might as well just say it straight up, right? No point in beating around the bush now. Hunger flashed through his eyes, and he swallowed thickly.

“Yeah, I do.” His voice was merely a whisper above the loud bubbles.

“Good.” Was all you said before you moved your hand down to his boxers, palming his semi-hard cock through the soaked material.

“I love when a woman knows what she wants. It’s sexy.” Joel admits, and you toss him a smug smile.

“That’s because I want to see how a real man should be fucking me, Joel.” You said, and he pokes his tongue out to lick his lips.

He swiftly grabs you, pulling you on top of him. His cock was now fully hard, and at the right angle, your clit caught onto it through the fabric of your bikini bottom. A low moan escaped you, tossing your head back. Joel’s heavy hands settled on your hips below the water, moving down to your ass to securely rest there. He gave it a squeeze before rutting you forward, grinding your aching core on his cock. You both sighed in pleasure as you continued to do so.

Your eyes snapped open as you looked at him, showing him you wanted him in you sooner rather than later. His eyes flickered from your gaze to your lips, which he’d been wanting to kiss but he didn’t know if that was crossing a boundary. You made the initial move and moved forward, pressing your lips to his.

Joel was surprisingly gentle with the kiss, threading his fingers through your hair. You kept grinding your hips into him, earning a throaty moan from him.

“Joel,” You pulled apart from his lips quickly. “I need you. Fuck, I need your cock so bad.” You beg, finally breaking. He smirked at you and you stood on your knees so he could pull his boxers down, freeing his erection once more. You just pulled your bikini bottom to the side, teasing his tip with your slit before he stopped you,

“Wait,” He said, and you halted your movements. “Are you on the pill?” It was nice that he was checking, because any dumb college boy you’ve hooked up with would’ve just been okay with buying you a plan B in the morning. Luckily you were smarter than they were, and thought about contraceptives way in advance.

“I have an IUD.” You say. He nods and lets you continue your teasing, before he pulled you down for another kiss. This time, you lined him up with your entrance before sliding down on him slowly, both of you swallowing each other’s moans. You were lucky the jets and bubbles were loud, or else anyone could’ve easily heard you both.

You went all the way until he was buried to the hilt, and you gripped this thick locks in pleasure. The stretch was fucking delicious, and you immediately began to move. You took the pain with the pleasure, the mix of both adding to the fuel of the fire that was your arousal.

You rocked your hips back and forth, and Joel was nearly choking on his own breath. “Fuck, baby, you’re so goddamn tight.” He hissed, tossing his head back. You used that as opportunity to kiss his neck, pulling more moans from him. He steadied your hips as he pulled you up and nearly off of him, before slamming you down on his cock again. You had to cover your mouth from nearly screaming out loud at the sensation. He continued this pattern, fucking up into you quickly as he captured your mouth with his. He swallowed your moans, one arm braced around your lower back as the other one held your neck securely.

The friction from the quick movements was enough to make you cum without warning, and your body trembled against his as he kept fucking up into you.

“Feels so fuckin’ good, Joel. Fuck you’re so big.”

“Yeah baby? Gonna ruin this little pussy. It’s mine.”

Fuck, that was dangerous territory, but his dirty talk spurred you both on as another orgasm was building up in your core again. Joel felt you fluttering around him, and he breathlessly chuckled. He nipped the flesh above your bikini top on your breasts, sure to leave a mark there for the following few days.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, fuckin’ your dad’s best friend like this. Wonder what he’d say if he saw us both right now.” Joel groaned, chasing after his own orgasm.

“He’d–he’d k-kill us b-oth.” You stuttered as Joel’s cock hit a spot inside of you that had you fucking seeing stars.

“That’s it, there you go baby,” Joel felt as you clamped down on him, urging you on. “Cum with me.” Was all he said before your second orgasm ripped through you, his seconds later.

“Good girl.” Was all he said before you lifted yourself off of him a minute later, the loss of his heavy cock in you something devastating. You were heaving messes, the Texas night heat getting to you both.

Your dad really would kill you both if he ever found out about this. Well, more like he’d kill Joel, and you’d be banished from the family forever.

This whole ‘forbidden fruit’ thing was truly the most exhilarating thing you’ve ever done in your life, but surely with Joel it was just a one time thing…

Right?

#joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller smut #Joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x afab!reader #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal imagine #joel miller imagines #joel miller x y/n #no use of y/n #the last of us fanfiction

712 notes · View notes

augustjustice · 2 years

Text

When Steve’s parents finally come back to Hawkins several months after the end of the end, they cut Steve off fairly quickly.

There have been rumors, you see, from the few of their friends still left in Hawkins. About the company Steve keeps, galivanting all over town with that Satan-worshipping murderer Munson. And when they finally arrive back at their large, cold house and Munson’s the one who answers the door, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers and one of Steve’s old basketball t-shirts? Well, what their son has really been up to becomes all too clear to them, and, careful not to make a scene that the neighbors will hear, they find Steve and tell him that he’s out in no uncertain terms.

Not wanting either of them to get caught in the cross-fires of his dad’s anger, Steve grabs as many of his belongings as he can and goes without much of a fight, at Eddie’s insistence following his van in the Beemer all the way back to the Munson trailer.

Steve moves in with Eddie and Wayne. It isn’t even really a conversation; Eddie just takes it as a given fact, and Steve feels compelled to argue, but every time he starts Eddie cuts him off with a reminder that they’ve practically been living together anyway, shuffling back and forth between the trailer and Steve’s big empty house. “What, big boy, you gonna rebuff my advances now?” Eddie asks, teasing but laying on just a subtle enough guilt trip he knows Steve won’t be able to say no. He’s a pushover that way, always caves to the people he cares about. Eddie can’t help but love that about him.

They don’t leave Hawkins. It’s hell, sometimes, what with Eddie’s reputation, and the whisperings now that Steve no longer lives in the big Harrington house. But they saved this town from hell itself, and that makes them both develop a certain stubbornness about it. Plus, the kids are still in school, and there’s an unspoken certainty that Steve won’t leave until they do, even with the threat over and the Upside Down gone.

But the general atmosphere makes finding gainful employment hard. Eddie still has a few connections at the shop in town, Thacher Tire, with the folks who weren’t susceptible to the things other people said about Eddie to start with. They recommend him to the guys at a garage a few towns over about thirty minutes away. Not completely outside the scope of rural Indiana gossip, but distant enough most people don’t recognize Eddie right away, don’t put the pieces together between his name and the boy who was plastered all over the six o’clock news.

Steve, without making any mention of it, had quietly applied to Indiana Tech, certain he wouldn’t get in.

By some miracle, he’s almost certain, he does, enrolled with a declared major in elementary education. Steve hasn’t quite settled on what path he wants to take, mulling over teaching as well as guidance counseling, but it’s a start. It’s something. He transfers his home campus to the same one where Eddie’s new shop is and quits his job at Family Video, working there agonizing with Robin off at college.

Eddie picks him up off the ground and spins him around when he tells him, despite Steve’s laughing protests.

“I knew you could do it!” Eddie crows, triumphant.

“You did not, you didn’t even know I applied,” Steve argues, still laughing.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Stevie? I’m secretly a telepath,” Eddie taps the side of his head, grin wide and mischievous. “Can’t keep secrets out of this steel trap, I know everything.”

It’s Steve’s turn to tackle him in a playful hug, wrestling a minute before he pulls out his “winning move”: tugging Eddie by his belt loops into a kiss.

“It’s not even like it’s that big a deal,” Steve says once they’ve parted, shrugging. “Since it’s only part-time for now.”

He leaves the reasons why unsaid, but Eddie hears them loud and clear, anyway.

“Me and Wayne will chip in,” Eddie assures him.

“You don’t--that’s not--” Steve starts to argue, cut off when Eddie presses a finger against his lips.

“Can’t get rid of us now, Stevie boy. You’re family, now. Which means we’re in this together, right? Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

Steve huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I really hate it when you use my own arguments against me, Eds.”

Eddie grins, all-teeth. “I know.”

Steve opens his mouth again, and Eddie can sense the lingering guilt and shame in the line of his shoulders, the way he hunches in on himself as he no doubt to mounts another argument, trying to discourage Eddie further. That won’t do.

“Now you know how it felt,” Eddie cuts in gently, “when you used to offer to pay for shit all the time.”

“That was different,” Steve tries to insist.

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Different how?”

Without missing a beat, Steve replies, a bit of a grin starting to curl at the corners of his mouth, “Because, technically, I was stealing that money from my dad.”

Eddie can’t help but let out a bark of helpless laughter, any tension breaking.

So Steve accepts the “this is what we’re here for” argument, especially once Eddie makes clear Wayne won’t have it any other way, but he can’t quite convince Steve to bump up his status to full-time, not yet. Steve won’t let the Munsons pay his full way, is insistent he nail down a job, too, so they compromise with what they’ve got.

Steve looks for a job in downtown, not far from the school and Eddie’s work. There’s a beauty salon on one corner hiring and Steve figures what the hell? He hasn’t gone to cosmetology school, but he knows hair, and he’s gotten decent at doing Robin, Max, and El’s nails at sleepovers. Plus, he’s willing to learn, and that has to count for something.

His niche hair care product knowledge is enough to get him the job on the spot with the promise that he can apprentice a bit, learning as he goes.

Though it’s only part-time, the job turns out to be a perfect fit. Not only has he got the skills, but he’s friendly with a good personality and doesn’t mind indulging in a little small town gossip when it isn’t about him and his boyfriend. The clients quickly grow to love him, many starting to ask for him by name.

Steve and Eddie commute together, trading off who drives and saving on the gas money. The drive isn’t so far that they can’t drop Dustin and Max off at school on their way to the garage and campus respectively. (”At least until they get their licenses,” Eddie teases. “God, don’t remind me.” The mournful way Steve buries his face in his hands makes Eddie cackle.)

Their schedules keep things pretty hectic. They grab food together at the diner on main street during Steve’s free period and Eddie’s lunch hour. On the days Steve has night classes, Eddie hangs around the college library, using his boyfriend’s student ID to check out a few thick fantasy novels to keep him busy. The ladies at the salon all know Eddie by name from the times he’s been the one driving and picked Steve up, asking after Wayne when he sticks around to chat for a few minutes while Steve finishes up. When Steve has day classes and is free by early afternoon, he does his homework on the old leather couch in the garage’s lobby while he waits for Eddie to get off work. Sometimes Eddie finds him dozing off on the sofa. Sometimes Steve finds Eddie doing the same at a library table.

For the sake of safety, they’re discreet enough in public most people don’t catch on; Steve suppresses a snort every time one of Eddie’s work buddies has called Steve his “roommate.”

“Yeah, I’m some roommate,” Steve says drily later, when they’re alternating making out in the back of the van and splitting a joint between them.

“Best roommate I ever had, sweetheart,” Eddie leans in and catches Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth.

A few folks have cottoned on, however. One of the other mechanics is an old friend of Wayne’s from the war and their post-war protest days, and shares Eddie’s uncle’s stoic open-mindedness, asking after Eddie’s “fella.” The owner of the salon calls Eddie Steve’s “special friend” with a twinkling sort of knowingness, but she means well enough.

But, there’s other types of knowingness, too. Frankie, the middle-aged woman at the garage who gives the boys a nod with a twinkle in her eye on her way out when she catches Eddie practically throwing himself into Steve’s arms in the parking lot. Serenity, the punk stylist with multi-colored hair and piercings down her ear that mentions her own roommate to Steve with a Cheshire cat smile. Teddy, the shy 17 year-old taking classes while he’s still in high school with an eye on the cosmetology school who asks Steve if he can put in a good word for him at the salon.

“Did Robin tell you about that club they’ve got up at Emerson?” Steve asks one night over their dinner of cheeseburgers and fries. “The...GLA?”

“GSA,” Eddie corrects, “yeah, she told me. Gay-Straight Alliance, right? What about it?”

Steve hums, thoughtful.

“Maybe I’ll try to start one, next year. At Tech.”

There’s a delicate anxiety that ripples in the air between them, but there’s excitement, too, at the idea.

Eddie’s smile widens.

“That’s a great idea, Stevie.”

Friday nights are reserved for Corroded Coffin concerts, the boys rushing from work to the Hideout to make it in time for Eddie’s gig. The crowd is still modest, but growing, Eddie’s reputation, both tainted and reformed, a bolster that drew people in. “I mean, yeah, sure, but it’s the talent that got them to stay. Seriously, who could look away when Eddie’s the front man?” Steve is quick to insist whenever someone brings it up, hair teased and wearing his own band shirt proudly. By Saturday afternoon, the kids are all piled in around the coffee table for Eddie’s latest campaign, Steve setting out snacks and crowding around the table with them to watch, keeping up a commentary of snarky or confused asides just to rile Mike up. On Sundays, Steve cuts coupons at the Munson family dinner table, glasses he realized he needed a few weeks in to trying to make out the class blackboards slipping down his nose.

In between, he studies for long hours on the couch, determined not to mess things up this time. When he gets too tired, the words starting to blur on the page and his frustration becoming visible, Eddie will take the textbook from his hand and read it out loud to him, Steve tucked up contentedly against his boyfriend’s side.

Robin calls twice a week, spending at least an hour on the phone with Steve as she gives him the latest rundown on college life and how she and Nancy are faring. The rare times they all manage to be home at the same time, Steve and Eddie cook together, sharing a family meal with Wayne. They go to every one of Lucas’s basketball games they can manage, and Eddie has even made the special trip back to Hawkins to go alone when Steve can’t make it due to night school. His half butchered attempt to recount what happened afterwards always makes Steve giggle.

The following Christmas, Eddie buys Steve a pastel pink polo shirt he knows cost too much. Steve decides it’s the best piece of clothing he’s ever gotten, more aware of its worth than he had been of anything else hanging in his closet before. Eddie can barely get him to wear a coat over it even though it’s snowing outside.

They come together, like disparate pieces of a puzzle, to form this mosaic of a life they’ve built for themselves.

Steve thinks about it, one morning, as he watches Eddie pouring coffee into Steve’s ‘World’s Greatest Mom’ mug and Eddie’s own personal favorite, the one with the rainbow on the front. About picket fences and cross-country RV road trips with a gaggle of kids in the back.

This isn’t that, exactly. Not the life Steve had pictured for himself, clinging on desperately to a dream that comforted him when the world seemed dark. Certainly not the life his parents’ had wanted for him, if anything the exact opposite.

Maybe he’ll have the fantasy someday. Not the typical suburban nuclear family version of it, sure, but a version all his own.

And maybe he won’t. Steve wouldn’t trade it for this, anyway, even a second of it.

Because, for once, in his life, he’s happy. Tired, sure, and always unbelievably busy, but incandescently happy.

When Eddie turns and places Steve’s coffee in front of him, black with two sugars just the way Steve likes it, he catches Steve’s gaze. His eyebrows draw together at Steve’s expression, smile confused.

“What’re you staring at, big boy?” Eddie wipes at the corner of his mouth. “I got drool on my face or something?”

“Nothing,” Steve murmurs, still sleepy-eyed as he pulls Eddie down into a kiss, “just love you.”

“Yeah?” Eddie exhales the word against his lips, breathless like he still doesn’t quite believe it. “I love you, too, baby.”

Maybe they’ll move out of Hawkins, some day, when the kids finally graduate and scatter, follow Dustin to University of Chicago or wherever he ends up. Maybe they’ll take up an apartment near Nancy and Robin on the East Coast, or spend a summer with Jonathan and Argyle in San Fran, having a wild, queer time.

But, those are thoughts for the far distant future. For now, they’re happy. Safe. Satisfied.

Home.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #my stuff #my things #my writing #something something building a life for yourself against the odds in a small town in the 80s #it sounds angsty at the start but i promise this is happy #more impossibly long not!fic from yours truly

2K notes · View notes

eyesofshinigami · 4 months

Text

It Takes Time

Rating: G

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, implied pre- S4 relationship, minor talk of injuries, tiny bit of angst, boys being soft

Prompt: For @shares-a-vest "Love is about healing each other's wounds"

WC: 1116

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 16

Even amongst the many horrible encounters with the Upside Down Steve has had, this last one was probably the worst. Steve had done everything he could to keep Eddie out of his mess, the one thing that he could never be honest with his boyfriend about, and yet Eddie had still gotten dragged in somehow.

And almost died for it.

Steve still can’t believe that it’s over. It’s finally over. Sure, his nightmares are even worse, having held the person he loved bleeding out in his arms, but they made it. They lived. They got Eddie to the hospital and after surgeries, a medical coma, and a laundry list of therapy appointments for both of them, they finally made it home.

Home is now the little house on First Street. It’s not much to look at, but it’s theirs.

Kind of like them, really.

Steve is the one that brings Eddie to the house once he’s released from the hospital. He told the kids that they could come by in a couple of days, after they’ve settled in and had a chance to collect themselves. Wayne had brought over a few things right before, and he told them he'd be back in a few days as well to check on them, just a phone call away if they needed him. It was enough to make Steve tear up.

“Come on, baby, we’re here,” he says, leaning over to kiss Eddie on the cheek. His boyfriend had fallen asleep on the drive over. Steve couldn’t blame him; he could feel tiredness settling into his own bones. He’s not 100% either, but Steve won’t be able to rest until he knows Eddie is comfortable, taken care of.

Eddie stirs and blinks his eyes, smiling when he realizes where they are. “Home?” he asks. He hasn’t gotten to see it yet, but he’s heard Steve talk about it enough. At Steve’s nod, Eddie grabs his hand and holds it for a minute. “Ours. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”

Steve smiles back. “Yup. Let’s get inside. I can show you around after we take a shower and get settled, okay?” Eddie lets out a hum of agreement and opens the car door.

They make it inside, slowly and carefully, Eddie’s eyes wide as he takes it in. Wayne and the Hopper-Byers had pitched in to give them the bare bones to start with, like a couch and a table with chairs. The only thing Steve had been adamant about getting himself was the bed, a brand new queen that they could share. When Eddie sees it, he lets out a little choked noise. “We have a bed. Our bed. It’s ours.”

“I made sure of it, baby.”

“Can we lay down together? I can’t wait to try it out.” Eddie reaches out and runs his hand along the comforter, a soft blue to go with the dark gray sheets Steve had picked out. “I know we’re not up for anything naughty, but… it would be good to lay down with you.”

Steve can’t help but kiss him. “After our shower. I have to change your bandages, too.”

Eddie squints at him. “And yours too.” Steve goes to protest, but Eddie shakes his head and crosses his arms. “Nope, you’re not getting out of it.” He wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him close, and Steve can’t help but notice how their scars mirror each other. “If you’re going to take care of me, I’m going to take care of you, okay? We’re in this together, isn’t that what you said?”

Steve nods. He remembers the way his heart jumped into his throat when Dustin and Max came scrambling into Family Video yelling about Eddie. He remembers how he wrapped Eddie up in his arms and kissed him softly, not caring who saw, after Eddie dropped the bottle when he realized that Steve had come for him. “We’re in this together, baby. I’ve got you,” he’d said.

“It is. You got me, Eds.”

Eddie smirks at him, giving him one more kiss before he pulls Steve into the ensuite. It’s pretty tiny, barely enough room for two nearly grown men, but they make it work. They strip down and climb into the shower. Normally, they would fool around a little bit, but they’re both so tired and worn down and still healing. There will be plenty of time for shower sex later, when they’re both not quite so broken and rundown. Instead, they take turns washing each other, careful of still healing wounds and old hurts alike. Steve handles Eddie like he’s made of glass, something precious he’s worried about breaking under his hands. In turn, Eddie takes his time and works the knots out of Steve’s back, days and weeks of worry built up in his muscles.

It feels like the first time Steve has been able to breathe in years.

Once they’ve dried off and both put on sweatpants, Steve pulls out the first aid kit that he’d bought right after he had started getting the house together. Eddie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, instead they both quietly get to work.

It shouldn’t feel like second nature, patching each other up. They take turns tending hurts and rubbing creams into healing wounds, bandaging each other up as they go. There’s something that’s macabre and intimate about it, Steve thinks.

“I’m sorry.”

Eddie looks up from where he’s wrapping another bandage around Steve’s torso. “What for, sweetheart?”

His vision gets a little blurry, the wall of emotion hitting him. “That this happened to you. That you got hurt, that all of my…” the word bullshit clogs in his throat. “All of this made you hurt. You got hurt because of-”

“Don’t even, Steve. You didn’t do this to me.” Eddie cups Steve’s face so that Steve has to look at him, even with tears streaming down his face. “I just wish I could have helped you sooner, sweetheart. With Starcourt. With the junkyard. All those things you felt like you had to hide from me-”

“To protect you. To keep you safe.” Because you matter. Because I love you. Because you were the port in the storm of all these terrible things that kept happening to me.

“And you did, even at the end when you dragged me into that hospital out of the jaws of death. Baby, I wouldn’t even be here without you. But I’m here. We’re here.”

“We’re here,” Steve repeats, leaning close to press their foreheads together.

Even scarred as they are, they will heal from this. It’ll take time, and hopefully it’s the end for real this time, but Steve’s not alone.

#les writes things #steddie #steddielovemonth #rating: g #established relationship

169 notes · View notes

3d-wifey · 5 months

Text

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 13

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 9.9k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @coriolanussnowswife Chapter Summary: I've moved the arena around a bit, but nothing major; nothing starts until day 2 1: Blood rain 2: Giant poisonous bugs 3: Toxic Fog 4: Monkies 5: Jabberjays 6: Beast 7: Unknown 8: Unknown 9: Fire 10: Flood 11: Unknown 12: Lightening A/N: this bad boy is 10k, one more chapter b4 we go into mockingjay!!!!!!

Present (XII)

THE ARENA; SECTION 5 (12:23 pm-12:59 pm)

The smell of freshly rained earth lingers around them as they traverse the jungle, and Finnick thinks of you.

During the countdown, he saw you. He locked eyes with you, and, stupidly, he thought that would be enough to tide him over. Just one last moment between the two of you before performing for the cameras. But if that were true, he wouldn’t have looked for you as soon as he reached the Cornucopia—before that, even. When he surfaced from the water, over Katniss’s shoulder as he grabbed a weapon, out of the corner of his eye when he was looking for Peeta; desperate for a glimpse of you.

And when he finally found you—no, when you found him—your voice carried his name to his ears like a gift. He didn’t need to think; his body was automatically attuned to you like a compass. He had his trident poised and ready to defend you from whatever he considered a threat—a knee-jerk reaction. But when he turned, there was only you.

You looked at him as though there was a taut rubber band between your bodies, and you had to use all of your strength to resist giving in to that pressure. The desire to run to you was instinctive.

What would that have accomplished other than showing Snow their hand early? It’s not like he could have swept you up in his arms like he wanted to. He couldn't hold you close and make you promise that you'd come back to him, whole, healthy, and his. Being that bold this soon in the Games would benefit no one. Not when you still had to be separated.

He had almost stopped to watch and make sure you made it out with Johanna, but, as you subtly reminded him, he had to stick to the plan. Plus, seeing you drive your sickle through the head of a man at least two times your size definitely reassured him that you could handle your own.

Not that he didn’t know you could bring a man to his knees. He’s had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of your firm hand enough to—he shakes his head, scolding himself like a misbehaving dog.

Not the time, Odair.

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.

Even now, he’s thinking about how it felt to sleep next to you for the first time in eons—head against your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat as you hold him in your embrace. If he closes his eyes, he can feel sure fingers carding through his hair and dull nails scratching softly along his scalp.

But he can’t close his eyes. No, he needs them open to dart between Katniss’s sprinting form and over his shoulder as they run for their lives through this fucking jungle.

They’ve covered a good chunk of land in a relatively short amount of time. He’d say it’s taken them about ten minutes to cross a mile, maybe more. He’d be more confident in his estimate if they weren’t traveling up such a steep incline.

Around this point, Finnick decides they’ve put enough space between them and the Career pack that it should be okay to take a short break. He can feel Mags’s heart pounding against his back. Not ideal for a woman this close to ninety.

“Okay, hold up. Hold up.” He calls out, and they all come to a stop. He bends at the knee to help Mags down. “Okay. You alright now?”

He lowers himself to the ground, holding her hand as they sit down. “Okay?” He asks, and she nods, frail fingers gripping his tight as her other hand pats his bicep. Adrenaline makes her shake a little, but she waves off his concern. The four of them sit for a second, gathering themselves.

“God , it’s hot.” Peeta pants and Finnick senses that the oppressive heat might be more to blame than the hike. It’s like he’s choking on it; the air is so heavy that his nostrils don’t feel big enough to inhale it. He breathes in through his mouth and it’s only marginally better. He’s soaked. Something stings as it drips into his eyes and he genuinely can’t tell if it’s saltwater or sweat. “We gotta find fresh water.”

Water. Finnick looks around for any indication of nearby drinking water, listening in for a river or stream. He’d even take a pond. Water would be amazing, preferably without a high salt concentration.

Unknown insects chirp around them in unison; it sort of sounds like a snake. It’s so loud that he’s almost able to ignore the weight of Katniss’s stare. It’s not even like she’s glaring. It’s nearly bird-like how she appraises him—waiting for him to act like the predator she thinks he is.

Three cannons fire in quick succession. The others look to the sky, but he stares at the tree over Katniss’s shoulder. Any one of those cannons could be you. He holds back a flinch at the thought. You’re not dead. No. No, you wouldn’t do that to him. He's only just gotten you back. And even after two years apart, the two of you are so deeply intertwined that Finnick’s sure his own heart would give out when yours stopped.

With a derisive snort and a shake of his head, Finnick says, perhaps a bit manically, “Well, I guess we’re not holding hands anymore.” His chuckle is met with disapproving silence. Too soon?

Katniss regards him with a look of contempt. Definitely too soon then. “You think that’s funny?"

No, not particularly. He thinks. But what else is there to do but laugh at the absurdity of it all?

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.” He lies. Sometimes, it feels like that’s all he’s capable of. Even now, in the midst of this death sentence, he still can’t be honest about you. He can’t afford to be. Not until he knows you’re safe.

“Good to hear.” With a sly grin, Finnick observes Katniss taking a machete out of her quiver, seemingly more as a threat than a precaution. It’s promptly wiped from his face when she says your name. “Does she know that? If that’s the case, you should have killed her back at the Cornucopia. She didn't even have a weapon. It would have been easy for you.”

“She’s our ally, Katniss." Peeta attempts to caution her or maybe admonish her; Finnick doesn’t know. And he doesn’t really care, honestly. Not with how focused he and Katniss are on each other. He can’t even acknowledge Peeta defending you, as odd as it is.

Unbidden and without provocation, the mental picture of him killing you takes shape. If he wasn’t already so lightheaded from the moist air, he’d be nauseous at the idea. Is she trying to get a rise out of him by bringing you up? Is that what this is? Or is she—is she threatening you? Whatever the hell her angle is, whatever tactic she’s trying to maneuver, he won’t let a threat against you stand—empty or not.

“You know, Katniss. You really shouldn’t speak on things you know nothing about.” He shakes his head as he ignores Mags’s warning grunt, mouth curling in that frosty way of his that entices those who are stupid enough to mistake a predator baring its teeth for a smile. But Katniss isn’t stupid. This is a language she’ll understand—the language of hunting animals. Her back straightens. His remains deceptively lax. “I mean, can't say that’s ever ended well for you, can we?”

“Are you threatening me, Odair?”

“Threat—” He can’t help but laugh because, honestly.

This is the girl they’re laying down their lives for? The girl you’re laying down your life for? Emphasis on ‘the girl’, because she’s too naïve to be an adult.

People like her—they're too busy fighting shadows to figure out what’s casting them. Too focused on watching their backs that they don't bother wondering why they have to watch it in the first place—and she’s supposed to lead them to salvation?

He wants to laugh. Instead, Finnick bites his cheek. Maybe he’s bitten into another pipe dream.

“No,” he scoffs. “I’m saving you.”

“Saving? Please , you don’t care about anyone but yourself—”

“Let’s keep moving.” Peeta rises to stand in between them, stopping to give Katniss a long look that she doesn't return, before marching forward and taking the machete with him. The two of them size each other up. For someone so emotionally stunted, her thoughts are broadcast clearly on her face.

He can see her weighing her odds against him in a fight, whether her speed with the bow is any match for him and his trident, and Finnick’s weighing how much longer she can stand being a team player. He’s not cocky enough to not consider her a threat; she’s a fighter—but, then again, so is he. That’s not what’s staying his hand. Her survival is their only way out of here—not to mention how disappointed you’d be in him if you found out. He won’t be the one to snatch this chance away from you. Not unless she throws the first punch.

He subtly shifts his grip on his weapon into something more defensive, and she gives him one last withering look, or her version of it, before following Peeta.

He wishes you were here with him. For several reasons, but in this particular moment, to show Katniss how wrong she is. Show her how much he does care about you and how much you care about him in turn. Is it childish that he feels the need to prove anything to a teenager? Maybe. Probably. Most likely.

He bends down to help Mags onto his back, scowling at Katniss’s retreating back.

It’s definitely childish, but still. He sighs. You’d understand. All the more reason to wish you were here. He knows things were touch and go—more go than touch, really—between the two of you at the time, but would it have killed Haymitch to pair the two of you together? Johanna and Blight are more than capable of playing escort for those two brainiacs.

To be fair to the other man, Haymitch had no way of knowing if Finnick would succeed in reconnecting with you.

He takes a moment to really think about it. Namely, how much anger you’ve been harboring over the past two years and the way you drove your sickle through that man’s skull. He tilts his head, squinting. What’s that saying about a woman scorned?

Pairing you together may not have killed Haymitch, but it certainly could have killed Finnick.

His train of thought is violently cut off by Peeta crashing head-first into the force field.

SECTION 11 (12:49 pm-1:12 pm)

“We’re almost at the edge of the arena,” Johanna calls down to your group, climbing halfway down the tree before jumping the rest of the way.

“What does the arena look like?” Beetee asks, pushing his glasses up for what must be the tenth time since you all decided to stop and get your bearings. The sweat on his face provided no traction to hold them in place.

“One big ass circle and we’re almost at the edge. Other than the beach, there’s nothing but jungle.” She sighs, stomping over to where you sit on the ground. Beetee gives a clinical nod.

“How close is ‘almost’?” You ask, handing her axe back.

“I’d say at most a quarter of a mile. We’re closer to the edge than we are to the Cornucopia.”

“What do’ya suppose’ll happen if we hit the edge?” Says Blight in his heavy district brogue, so different than any you’ve heard before. You had asked Johanna about it at some point—the contrasts of their voices. She explained that Blight was born further north than she was, practically on the border of Seven.

It’s not like everyone in Eleven speaks the same, but there’s at least some level of similarity that can be distinctly found in Eleven—in the southernmost districts in general. It shares a likeness with Eight and Ten. The same notes that you can sometimes hear in Katniss and Haymitch’s voices, but not in Peeta’s.

“Most likely? I’d imagine some sort of boundary or force field.” Beetee informs you all.

“Regardless. We won’t know until…” Wiress starts, trailing off as something you aren’t privy to catches her attention.

“—Until we’re upon it.” Beetee finishes for her.

You clear your throat. “I’d say it’s best we don’t find out ‘less we have to.” You drawl, dropping the Capitol accent you’ve been forced to assimilate for what you realize will be the last time. You replace the over-enunciation and grating lilt with slanted vowels and a melodic tempo.

“We can probably head in a little more and then cut to the left or right,” Johanna suggests and you realize she’s talking to you. Not just you in the sense of the whole group, but you specifically. You glance around. They’re all looking at you. It seems you’re the de facto leader.

When the hell was that decided?!

“Right. Well,” you clap your hands, picking your sickles up as you rise, “let’s get a move on. We need to go further while there’s still daylight. Then, we'll find a place to set up camp."

Hopefully.

Blight takes the lead, getting a headstart at cutting through the tightly packed vegetation with his machete.

“C’mon.” You smile down at Wiress as you help her up. She returns it gratefully and Beetee offers her his arm before they trail behind Blight. As you and Johanna carry the flank, you eye the long gash along his shoulder blade that’s steadily bleeding. Your main objective is to get these two to the pickup point, but you’d prefer if you got them there in one piece.

Chaff had said he’d be teaming up with Woof and Cecelia. As well as the morphlings, if they can find them. Unlikely, since they’re masters of stealth. You remember how they didn’t stray far from the camouflage section. You had asked Peeta about the swirls of color on his arm while you were training and he told you it was supposed to be a sunrise that the female morphling painted. She’s apparently fond of them. With skills like that, you know they’ll only be found if they want to be.

The morphlings. That’s like if you only referred to Haymitch as ‘The Alcoholic’. You scold yourself mentally for using such a needlessly cruel nickname for them just because everyone else did. Either one of your parents would’ve pinched the skin off of you if they knew that.

I can’t keep calling them that. It's probably an odd time to do so, but you decide it’s high time you learned their actual names. Before now, you had very little reason to since you rarely interacted with them. Yet, even if they hadn’t been rebels, they still deserve the basic respect of being acknowledged as people, not just in conjecture with their addictions. You don’t expect to be BFFs after you make it out of the arena, but you’d like to, at least, be someone who knows and uses their real names.

“Thanks. For what you did back there.” Johanna takes you out of your musings, swinging her axe to and fro on her other side. “Taking that guy down for me. You didn’t have to.”

You scowl at the reminder, pretending to be focused on navigating your steps along the tricky jungle floor instead of looking at her. You didn’t want to think about that. How killing him was the first solution that came to mind. It’s not that you’re naive enough to think that talking him down was even an option. He wasn’t on your side. He wasn’t one of you. He had made his own bed of flowers by turning down Haymitch’s offer. But why couldn’t it have been Gloss or Enobaria that killed him? Why did it have to be you? Why not you? “I know I didn’t.”

“But you did, and,” she sighs, jutting her jaw to the side as if it’s taking a lot out of her to say this, “and I’d probably be so minced that the hovercraft would have to make multiple trips to get all the pieces if you hadn’t stepped in, so...thank you."

You smile at her awkward discomfort, ignoring the glances she shoots you out of the corner of her eye and acting oblivious to her increasing agitation.

“Are you gonna say ‘you’re welcome’, or what, asshole?” She scoffs.

“You’re welcome, Your Highness.” You knock your shoulder into hers and she knocks yours right back.

“I owe you one.”

You laugh. “God, I hope not.”

SECTION 5 (1 pm-1:34 pm)

The force of the blow is enough to send Peeta flying backward, knocking them over so fast that Finnick can barely register that he’s not still standing.

“Peeta’s not breathing!” Katniss cries and it’s a blur of motion as he moves into action, his body acting on autopilot. “Peeta’s not breathing!”

Prop Mags up against a tree. Check for a pulse that isn’t there. CPR. Tilt his head at an angle. Pinch his nose—a stiff hand to Katniss’s sternum—pinch his nose, blow air into his deflated lungs. Ignore the arrow pointed at his head. Put his body weight behind each pump. Push his will into the unresponsive body. From his shoulders, down his biceps, and into the heels of his hands, to where Peeta’s still heart lies.

C’mon, Peeta. C’mon, c’mon.

“C’mon, Peeta!” He can feel the anticipation of the viewers boiling in on them from all angles, his hair standing on end as he tries to pump Peeta’s heart for him. If they lose Peeta, they lose Katniss. If they lose Katniss, they lose the revolution. If they lose the revolution, they’ll lose, they’ll lose, they’ll lose—“Come on! Come on!”

He’s got no idea why they haven’t called it yet, why they haven’t blown the cannon, despite his heart stopping before he even hit the floor. Maybe they’re hoping, like he’s hoping, that Peeta will come. The fuck. On.

A small gasp, a cough and—

Finnick falls back on his haunches, hands on his hips and panting as the muscles in his arms buzz. He’s lightheaded again from supplying so much of his air to Peeta. And the heat isn’t doing anyone any favors.

“Be careful. There’s a force field up there.” Peeta huffs and Katniss chuckles, half-hysterical, before dipping down to kiss him. Finnick pauses in the middle of a much-needed inhale, watching the two with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, my God. You were dead. You were dead. Your heart stopped.” Katniss sobs as she drapes over Peeta, shrill and so resoundingly real that Finnick blanches for a second. He’s never seen her hands waver when drawing her bow, but they tremble now as they hold Peeta close.

Huh.

“It’s okay.” He assures her, still smoldering and smoking a little. “It’s working now.” She helps him up, still sobbing. Or maybe choking? Choking on her sobs. Peeta looks upon her with concern.

“Katniss?” Peeta prompts, starting to look increasingly panicked and Finnick can’t handle them both freaking out.

“It’s okay. It’s just her hormones.” Finnick is slow to stand, looking them over quizzically. “From the baby.”

“No. It’s not—” She cuts herself off with more choke-sobs. There’s something here—something he couldn’t see before. Something he hadn’t considered concerning these two, concerning Katniss. That something is familiar. What does it remind him of? It’s nagging at the back of his skull. That staunch fear, the protectiveness followed by the open gasping relief. He recognizes it. Where, where, where—

“She can't possibly care about him that much."

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

Of course, he recognizes it—that familiar, desperate love. He’s felt it.

Katniss glares at him, snotty and defensive, and he stares, mystified. He shakes his head, pulling himself from his revelation-induced stupor. The two lovebirds hug each other like they’re the only things holding each other up. And with their current states, they might as well be. To give them some privacy, he walks over to check on Mags and finds her knowing gaze. He can’t have been the last one to know this love story isn’t much of a story at all, right?

SECTION 3 (6:50 pm-10:20 pm)

Finnick rolls his trident back and forth between his hands as they all wait for Katniss to come back from scouting in the trees. Mags cracks open and eats another one of the nuts Katniss has been using and substantially cooking by bouncing them off of the force field to show the rest of them where it is, considering she can hear it. He has no reason to believe otherwise; there’s no evidence to indicate she’s lying, but Finnick doesn’t buy that she can hear it just because of her hearing aid. If that’s the case, why hasn’t she mentioned it before now? He has no reason to call her out on it, so he won’t. Any advantage they have in the arena, the better.

He can feel the water evaporating out of his body like a sponge being wrung dry. He feels like a beached whale. They can’t have been in the arena for that long, but the heat—it’s not the kind he’s used to. The sun in Four has nothing on this. He’s never been so thirsty before, not even in his previous Games. They all perk up when she comes back down, hoping beyond hope that she’s seen drinkable water. That hope is crushed when she shakes her head.

“The force field…it’s a dome. We’re at the edge of the arena.” She wipes her sweat-slick hair out of her face. "I couldn't find any signs of fresh water.”

They all sit in dehydrated silence. The human body can only go on for so long with no water. Food, while an amazing plus, won’t be a real problem for weeks. And between the nuts and all the fish they could catch, it’s a problem with a simple solution. Without water, however, they will almost certainly die in five days, with their organs starting to shut down in three. He's seen it back in Four. Dead men brought back from sea shriveled and arid. He always imagined it must be torture to be surrounded by all that water and unable to drink any of it.

Now, it looks like he might find out.

And with that depressing thought, Finnick moves forward. “It’s getting dark soon. We’ll be safe with our backs protected.” Knowing the consequences of touching the force field, they’ll be able to use the arena itself as a weapon. “We should set up camp. Take turns sleeping. I can take first watch.”

“Not a chance.” Katniss scoffs.

He tilts his head.

He knows the heat is just making everything worse, only fueling his irritability. But he is so over her and this teenage snippiness. Peeta’s so easygoing that he honestly doesn’t mind his company; he can see how the two of you became such quick friends. But Katniss? She is a remarkably hard person to like.

How much longer will she treat him like a criminal? As far as he’s concerned, the only thing he’s guilty of is giving her the impression that she has authority over him in any way, shape, or form.

Burying the blunt end of his trident into the ground, he uses it to leverage himself up.

“Honey,” he mocks, his voice long-suffering and chiding, like he’s explaining something that really should be common sense to a child who's a little behind the curve. Which, honestly, doesn't seem too far off. “That thing I did back there for Peeta? That was called ‘saving his life’. If I wanted to kill either of you, I would have done it by now."

He holds her eye before he rips his weapon out of the ground. He’s too tired to have a stupid argument over this, so he nimbly picks his way over to Mags so they can start making camp.

When the Capitol anthem blares throughout the arena and the insignia projects across the sky, Finnick watches with rapt attention. He inhales sharply, watches, and waits.

Portraits of the dead flash beside the full moon. The man from Five that he killed, the man from Six, both from Eight, both from Nine, the woman from Ten and then…it stops. There’s the Capitol seal again and then nothing. No more portraits light up the sky; your portrait doesn’t light up the sky.

You’re still alive.

You’re alive. He knew that. He did. He did. He would have known, he would have felt, otherwise. After all, you had promised him, hadn’t you? In those scant few hours in the early morning before the Games, you both promised to do everything in your power to get back to each other. Promised to see this through, knowing what future waited on the other side—a future together.

He knew you were alive, but the confirmation is—

He lets out the breath he’s been holding, tension easing from his shoulders.

“Seven,” Katniss says.

“Mhm.” He acknowledges.

Seven victors. His brows furrow. The two from Eight, Woof and Cecelia. The male morphling. All dead.

But he’s still alive. And so are you.

SECTION 1 (12:55 am–3:26 am)

In the white, spectral fog of the jungle, Johanna smacks something big and hairy off the back of her hand. Are the bugs even real?

She wouldn’t put it past the Capitol to mutate them—control the mutts to crawl all over them and kill them in their sleep. But that’s too boring a death, too kind. Plus, it doesn’t make for good television. And eating bugs would probably make the audience more squeamish than child murder.

Thanks to you, they at least had something to eat. Berries, mushrooms, and, oddly enough, leaves. Not much, but it was something. But there was still the water issue—meaning there was none. They hadn't stumbled upon anything they could drink. No ponds, no rivers. Not even a fucking puddle.

She and you both agreed that there had to be water in the trees; it was too humid for there not to be. But with no way to collect it, they were all shit out of luck. Luckily, depending on how long it takes to get here, they’re expecting a rain cloud. It was the only logical assumption after they heard lightning strikes not too far off. Makes sense. Short of a sponsor gift or the magical ability to make salt water drinkable, there’s little for the victors to do in terms of battling dehydration.

If this rain doesn’t pull through, she’ll be tempted to tell you to bite the bullet and request a spile or something. Though she understands why you haven’t done so yet. Just the thought of begging those simpering morons to empty their pockets to help keep her alive makes Johanna shiver and she doesn’t even have the same history with them that you do. Knowing your fans, they’d probably get off on you debasing yourself.

Johanna knocks her head against the tree she's leaning on. She offered to take the first watch because she needed time to think. It was smart of Katniss to want you as an ally. It's easier on Johanna's part too, because at least you can take care of yourself.

And, had the rebellion not been afoot, it would've guaranteed Finnick as an ally too. Maybe Peeta is the one who picked you because Johanna doubts the girl on fire is sharp enough to think that far ahead. Or mature enough to pull her big girl pants on and notice anything around her that didn't actually revolve around her.

Johanna is woman enough to admit that she's jealous. Jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of when it's entirely warranted. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her family, not really. Because the Capitol just adores them. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her self-autonomy, her dignity, her innocence while in bed with a stranger. Katniss hasn't lived with the grief of what she's experienced long enough for it to turn her bitter or make her find an escape through substances.

And yet, here they are, protecting her even if it kills them. No, Johanna reminds herself. They're protecting the rebellion. Katniss just happens to be the face of it.

It’s almost pitch black. Without the sun to shine through the dense tops of the trees, the moon could hardly pull its weight. But it’s been dark for so long that her eyes have adapted a bit. They slept closer to the force field than she would have liked, but she understood your logic. No one can sneak up on them from behind with the force field at their back.

She digs the sharp metal part of her axe into the dense ground, pulling it out, and hacking away again.

She looks over to where the others are sleeping, Nuts and Volts guarded on either side by your and Blight's sleeping bodies. At least they aren't completely useless.

Even if Katniss hadn't wanted them as allies, they would've had to guard them anyway. Haymitch made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they're the brains of this operation. Or at least Volts is. She zeros in on the spool of wire he clings to in his sleep.

She isn't one hundred percent sure how they plan on busting them out of the arena, but it probably has something to do with that. Or at least, it better. He nearly lost his life trying to get it. And she nearly lost her head trying to get him.

They need to meet up with Finnick, but she has no idea where his group is. It's not like they can just bury their heads in the sand and wait for them to show up. The plan rides on them all being together at the pickup point.

A drop of water wets her scalp and then another. It, like everything else in this place, is uncomfortably warm—bordering on hot. But beggars can’t be choosers. The drops of water feel heavier, but that could just be her imagination.

Rain? Finally.

She’ll wake the others up once her vocal cords stop feeling like she’s starting a fire every time she talks. It slowly but steadily picks up—drops landing on her forehead and dripping down her nape. She tilts her head back and opens her mouth and the dry, cracking chasm that she used to call her throat trembles in anticipation of the oncoming relief.

When it touches her tongue, she recoils. Thick, bitter, and metallic. It's only then that Johanna realizes the warm liquid isn't water. She holds out her hand to catch a drop and it stains red.

Blood.

And, as if the Gamemakers were waiting for her reaction, the sprinkling of rain turns into a downpour.

“Get up!” She screams, scrambling to her feet. “Get up! Get the fuck up!”

You wake up, alert, with your weapons in hand. Springing to attention like you were never asleep to begin with. When you see no enemy you can fight, your vigilance gives way to confusion. The other three are slower to rise until the blood starts pelting them like coins.

They stumble up, much like she did, but they don’t know. They don’t understand what’s falling from the sky.

“Don’t drink it—!” She tries to warn them and gets a mouthful of tacky, festering blood for her troubles. It’s thick and greasy and viscous and slippery, so the remnants of it stay behind when she tries to spit it out. It coats the back of her throat, creeping its way up her nose and slicking in between her molars.

“Blood!” The last thing Johanna can see before her vision goes red is your blurry face going from stark relief to abject terror as her words fully sink in. “It’s–it’s blood!”

From then on, there’s no room for coherent thought. Instead, Johanna gets stuck in a cycle of gagging on blood, spitting it out, and heaving in the fucked up, muggy, contaminated air, only to start it all over.

She tries to shield her eyes, but the blood creeps underneath her hands like its goal is to take out as many senses as possible. The sound of it sliding off the top of the canopies and hitting the ground is deafening; it almost drowns out your attempts to call out to Johanna. But calls for each other are only answered with blood.

They all flounder about, tottering around on unsure feet. Johanna wipes her eyes and tries to squint around it. But it’s no use. Even if her eyes weren’t compromised, the blood falls so thickly that it curtains everything around her.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t realize she’s only seeing three red silhouettes instead of four.

She gives up on her eyes and works to save her lungs instead. She cups her mouth and nose, coughing and hacking so hard that it feels like her chest is on fire. She breathes through her nose and immediately stops when it burns her nostrils. She breathes through her mouth and it’s somehow worse to taste the sickeningly sweet iron-rich mist. She gags and breathes and gags again.

She still can’t see, but she crouches down low, hesitant as she pats the ground. Trembling hands feel around for her axe, but, apparently, everything feels like an axe handle if your eyes are closed. She can’t afford to let another victor catch her in such a vulnerable position. She may be blind, but she refuses to be defenseless.

She doesn’t find it.

They must stay there, stumbling around fully blind and half-mad for hours before a masculine shout accompanies the sound of a heavy body hitting the ground. So loud it overtakes the sound of blood that isn’t hers rushing in her ears, the sound of the rain. They must have flown before they crashed, must have been thrown back to be that loud— the force field.

“Blight!”

A cannon fires. And then. It stops. All of it. The rain, the yelling, the torture. The heat and the smell remain, if not made worse by each other. Johanna can’t figure out which one is making her stomach roll more.

“Everyone—” she gathers the blood in her mouth, along her cheeks and tongue, and spits it on the ground with disdain. She can feel the frothing, light pink saliva and drool dripping down her chin from doing the same thing three dozen times already. “Everyone alright?”

Surprisingly, the voice that calls back first is Beetee’s.

“I–I managed to hold on to Wiress. Blight, however…”

She knows not to expect Blight’s voice and that’s a pain too tender to prod at yet. You, however, don’t respond. And, unlike Blight, there’s no reasonable explanation for your sudden silence. She calls your name, but there’s no reply. There is, however, a spark of panic in her chest right next to her heaving lungs, but Johanna only heard one cannon.

She doesn’t know if the heat encourages it or keeps it at bay, but, just that fast, the blood is starting to congeal. Johanna pries her eyes open and it’s almost like they’re still closed. Now impossibly darker, the jungle is a nightmare. Made even worse by the fact that you aren’t here. She lurches up to spin in circles, shouting after you as Wiress keeps mumbling something. She staggers around, cutting herself off by coughing up the blood that’s managed to get into her chest. There’s nothing, no sign of you or where you could have gone. You are not here.

It’s like you disappeared.

A spotlight shines down on them—No, on Blight. On his cooling body. The hovercraft claw descends open-mouthed, dipping down to pick him up. Beetee pulls Wiress away before she can wander closer. Johanna watches as they take him away.

Blight is thirty, she thinks. Blight is a burly man with a big beard to match. Blight has a wife, a son. Blight’s from Zone Q, the same zone kids used to make fun of for the funny way they talked. Blight had always been kind to her. Blight now hangs limp, covered in blood. Skin singed and smelling of burnt hair. This is the last thing he will ever be.

He’ll never see the culmination of the rebellion he was willing to give his life for. He wasn’t the sharpest axe in the, well, anywhere. But…it would have been nice to give him the District Seven sendoff he deserved.

She gives herself a shake. They need to find you.

“Come on, get up.” She waves the remaining two up with her axe. “Let’s go."

“Tick, tock.”

“Where?” Beetee attempts to look at her from under his blood-smeared glasses.

“Tick, tock.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our group has been dramatically cut from five to three—”

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock!”

“—And what the fuck is her problem?!”

“I think she might be in shock.”

“Right. Of course. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.”

There’s an odd clicking coming from the right and some hindbrain prey instinct warns Johanna away from it. She practically drags her damsels in distress behind her as she scours as much of the jungle as she possibly can in the dark in her search for you. Down to where the sand starts, back to the edge, and then off to the left—away from the clicking. They can’t be as quiet as she would like to be, considering Beetee’s heavy steps and Wiress’s insufferable mumbling. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, fucking tock.

How the hell did she get stuck with Nuts and Volts, of all people? You and Blight have left her alone and now, Nuts is even nuttier than before, and Volts—

“I can’t—I can’t go on. I must, I need to rest.” Beetee gasps. She glowers over her shoulder at his weak form. He raises a hand before falling on his ass. She groans, stomping back to stand over him. Even in the low lighting, he’s a sorry sight. Alarmingly pale, even for someone from Three, he looks like he might faint at any moment now.

“And what the hell is wrong with you?”

“My wound—I believe I’ve lost a fair bit of blood.” He gestures minutely behind him, and she squints at his back. He grunts as she positions him a bit better in the moonlight and his entire left flank is warm with his blood. The wound hadn’t seemed that serious earlier, long but superficial. What does she do if he’s losing more blood than any of them realize? She isn’t trained in medicine and it’s not like they can just request some kind of aid. If you were here, maybe. They’d have much better luck getting a sponsored gift if you were the one asking for it.

“Great. That’s just lovely. You know, this is exactly what we need right now.” She paces. Kicks a rock. hurts her toe. “Fuck. Fuck!” Johanna drives her axe into a nearby tree, yanking it out to only hack at it again. They’ve been searching for you for over an hour and there’s no telling where the hell you’ve wandered off to.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know! I don’t—!” She throws her hands up, not even bothering with rebuffing Wiress when she sways into her with her ‘tick, tock’ shit again. She groans, head hanging low. The plan has been monstrously derailed already and it hasn’t even been two full days yet. “I don’t know.”

Hopefully, you’re closer to finding Finnick than they are.

SECTION 2 ( 1:40 am-2:26 am)

You finally come to a stop, feet tripping over gnarled roots and fallen logs. You cough, blowing blood from your nose like snot. You’ve gotten far enough away from the rain that you can almost start breathing normally again. You look around you, turning in rough half-circles as you try to get your bearings. You’re careful to keep in mind the direction you’ve come from because the jungle looks the same as it has for the last mile and a half.

You want to rub at the stitch developing in your side, but you’re too afraid to take your hands off your weapons, even for a second.

That blood rain was unexpected, to say the least. Not to mention cruel. You’d never seen anything like it. The Gamemakers must have gotten a real kick out of that, knowing how readily y’all were waiting for rainwater, knowing how thirsty you were.

The blood doesn’t behave like it should. It’s made your hair dense and heavy, almost oil-slick somehow, despite the frizz from all the humidity. It dries on your skin in thick, itchy patches. Not unlike the aloe vera paste used in Eleven to heal burns and the like.

There’s no telling if the blood shower is heading in your direction or not. Can you handle that again? That suffocating force clawing its way past your esophagus, into your stomach, into your lungs—hot and thick? The taste is still on your tongue and for a moment, you’re in the eye of the storm once more. Fighting to see, to breathe, to live.

You gag and you push it down, but the longer the taste of iron soaks on your tongue, the harder it is to stop it. You gag again, hard enough that your belly cramps up. Eyes watering, you rock forward, nails digging into the wood of the handles as scorching stomach acid claws its way up your throat. You throw up what little you’ve eaten, and you despair, because it may not have been much but it was something.

You stay that way, hunched over, panting open-mouthed as more spit forms rapidly in your mouth just to drip down into the puddle of sick you’ve already left. You’ll be even more dehydrated than before. Your chest burns with acid reflux, your nose runs, and your mouth pools with drool you can’t afford to lose. You want to cry. But you don’t have that luxury. You want someone to rub your back, but you don’t have that either.

I wish Finnick was here.

You allow yourself that small moment of pity. You pull in a surprisingly cool breath before straightening up. You push your shoulders back, determined to march forward through whatever may be waiting for you because you know that on the other side, Johanna and the others need you. You walk forward, even though the idea of willingly entering that blood-filled hellscape makes your stomach lurch like a threat.

The blood still proves to be an issue without the Capitol’s input. Some of it drips down your face and neck like sweat, damn near blinding you all over again. You can only wipe it away with the back of your hand so many times. You're still trying to find a way to keep the blood out of your eyes when you hear it.

It's like when a bug flies too close to your ear but louder. Buzzing and clicking that makes the hair on your neck stand, foreboding.

You’ve never had much of a problem with insects, you weren’t allowed to. You can’t exactly claim ‘fear of bugs’ as a reason for not doing your job, even if you are six years old. After working around tracker jackers to pick various fruits, spiders climbing over you as you wade around the flooded cranberry fields, overzealous slugs as you pull carrots, to name a few, that fear dissipated. That’s not to say you love them, only that you’ve learned to work in proximity to them and ignore them if all else fails. You turn around, spinning in circles as the noise gets louder. You can’t ignore this so easily. You’re six again, trembling in fear as a peacekeeper directs you to a giant tree with an equally giant tracker jacker nest. That old fear makes a reappearance. It takes root, maturing from childish panic to fresh, genuine terror because something is coming toward you.

You hear flapping, wings. Your vision is still blurred from the blood and you're in a particularly dark part of the forest with barely any moonlight, but you can see it. Some kind of bug hurtling towards you faster than you can run. It’s massive—mutated, most likely—close to the size of a wolf. You duck as it dives at you, bulky mandibles snapping.

You’d rather fight the wolf.

It flies a few feet away before turning around and you curse the fact that you didn't pick up any long-range weapons. Where the hell is Katniss when you need her?

You’ve trained for months. Your stamina, your dexterity, your core and upper body strength. But especially your hand-to-hand combat. Woefully, you consider how well that translates into fighting a giant mutt.

For a split second, you get the urge to hide. That animalistic impulse to find a small space to burrow into that the much bigger animal can’t get you and to find it fast. You’ve felt this before in Eleven and in the Capitol. It’s only fitting that you’d feel it here in the arena too.

It hovers in the air for a moment. It's almost as if it’s thinking. As you both regard each other, it begins to feel like it really might be thinking. Just how intelligent is this thing?

It’s a beetle; you can tell that much, which means an exoskeleton. You’ll have to go for the head, the eyes. There’s no indication that it’s about to happen, it just charges you. And you realize far too late that it'll be impossible to get a clear hit at its head. You lunge to the side, but you aren't fast enough. You yell when its pincer strikes you in the side. You pitch over, rolling along the ground. You barely manage the precarious balance of covering your head and keeping your blades away from your body.

It's not done with you. But down here, you have a better chance of avoiding its bite.

The blood makes your grip on the handles slippery. You flip the one in your dominant hand upwards and keep the other one face down as it gets ready to charge you again. You roll under it, slicing upward along its stomach as it flies over you. You're quick to stand up as it wavers in the air, wings stuttering the longer it bleeds.

You’ve both weakened each other, but neither of you is dead yet.

Your mind is quiet. Only one thought echoes in the abyss back to you.

The head. The head. The head. Go for the head. Go for the head. Take the fucking head!

It swoops down at you, wobbling in the air, but still clicking. You kneel down with your sickles turned outward and cross your arms in front of your face. You wait for it to get closer until you can see its head peeking over the gap your weapons leave and straighten your elbows, decapitating it. You close your eyes as black blood rains down on you and its head and body hit the ground with two distinct thumps.

Its body convulses on the ground and its head stays still, but you don't have time to check if it's really dead. Like the man from Nine. More buzzes and clicks come from your right and you're running before you even register that your feet are moving.

You don't look behind you, you don't need to. You can hear them, closing in on you. You just keep sprinting, lungs burning in exhaustion as you push yourself faster. You don't know where you're running to, but you know you have no way of fighting off more than one.

There's a hill a few feet ahead of you, and you prepare yourself to roll down. You throw your weapons to the bottom and cover your head as you tumble down, scraping yourself on stray twigs and rocks.

You scramble to stand up at the bottom of the hill and look up in time to see the bugs hovering at the top. They're stopped by what looks like a force field. But that doesn’t make any sense. You—you just came from there. Suddenly, they lose interest in you like you were never there to begin with and they turn around. They bump into each other as they fly away, probably on their way to swarm someone else.

A piercing scream comes from the direction the mutated insects flew off to. Better you than me, you think and regret it immediately. That could be someone you care about. Chaff, Johanna, Katniss, Peeta.

Finnick, your brain supplies. You shake away the thought. You don't have to worry about that because he promised you.

"He promised me. He promised me." You repeat to yourself in a whisper.

You stumble back into a tree, chest heaving.

Once the adrenaline rush passes, another problem presents itself. The blood on your body has grown cold, so it's surprising to feel a warm rush of liquid on your side.

You look at where your jumpsuit is torn above your right hip. You stretch the fabric and see two holes about six inches away from each other. Twice the size of a bottle cap, one's a little above your hip bone and the other rests a little before where your back starts, both wider and deeper than you would like—but you don’t see muscle, which counts for something. They're rough, not perfect circles. Skin hangs haphazardly from them both, peeling away at the edges with jagged incisions going towards the middle. As if being punctured like a piece of paper wasn’t enough, they've been torn from the pincers still being buried in you and then violently ripped out after you fell.

Now that you're aware of them, they throb in sharp waves.

"Shit," you curse, breathing around the tears that bubble up from the pain. Your breaths are shuttered, halting. You're bleeding at a pretty steady pace and you won't last long with the wound out in the open. Especially if there's a creature out here that can smell blood. “Shit, shit, shit.” You whimper.

You scream as cramps rocket through your abdomen and the ability to be quiet is beyond your pain-addled mind, you can’t stop it. Luckily, it comes out of your dry throat more of a raspy croak than a real scream. You press a shaking, blood-soaked hand to your mouth anyway. You don’t know what other killer insects may be out here with you and you can’t afford to grab their unwanted attention just because you can’t control yourself.

Your medical knowledge isn’t extensive. Honestly, it’s a little below average for what’s expected in Eleven, but probably far more than what an ordinary citizen in the other districts would know. Not everyone can afford the services of doctors, especially if they live in the Shacks, so you were all taught how to help each other. You don’t know any of the fancy shit they probably teach in the academies, but you were taught how to heal with the land—old methods and practices passed down from before the Dark Days.

Your first thought is to clean it, but with what? You don’t even have clean water to drink. Your second thought is to pack it, if not with cotton then with aloe vera—it’ll ward off infection for a while, right? You have no way of disinfecting it, not by yourself and not with what’s available to you, so stopping the bleeding is the next best thing.

This may not be your environment, may not be your plants, but you learned a thing or two while training Peeta in the Edible Plant section. This is the perfect environment for natural, as natural as the arena will permit, aloe to grow. But it’s still dark. You can’t go looking for it, not by yourself. And you aren’t desperate enough to start begging your sponsors for help.

You sigh. You’ll have to settle for the bare minimum.

You pull both of your sleeves down where they detach at the shoulder and even that little movement makes your stomach cramp again. You flinch as the muscles underneath the wounds spasm, pumping out more blood.

You tie one end of both sleeves together, working past the hurt, and, God, does it hurt. But the hurt is unavoidable. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you’ve always told yourself. You let your mind drift, taking you somewhere else.

The hurt is unavoidable. The hurt is unavoidable. The hurt is unavoidable.

Sweat drips down your back, or maybe it’s blood, as you move the makeshift tourniquet around your waist. You lay a flat piece of the fabric on the wound and nearly black out as you tie the two loose ends in the back. You tie it again just for good measure, biting around a scream as you pull it tight enough to staunch the bleeding.

Your vision swims as you gasp in big gulps of air. Your hands shake from the pain and yet another adrenaline drop. Your legs feel weak, barely holding you up as you lean most of your weight against the tree.

You need a game plan.

Another canon fires.

You don’t know how long you sit there, eyes closed, head tilted back, pitying yourself. But by the time you decide to get moving, you notice something. Something’s…wrong.

Everything sways when you move your head up. You blink nearly twenty times before your eyes can focus again. You feel warm. Not warmth from the humidity. Not warmth from exercise. But warmth from a fever, a sickness. Nausea creeps upon you and, fuck, please, you can’t throw up again—you can’t . An injury this nasty will certainly come with symptoms, but you shouldn't have this kind of reaction. You try to remember what kind of bug it was. You remember it was a beetle, but you rack your brain for what it looked like. Your muscles spasm around your wound, reminding you how open and exposed they are even when covered with fabric.

You’ve got two plugs taken out of your side, you’re covered in blood, both real and synthetic, you’ve been poisoned, and you’re alone.

Alone. There is no sound other than your labored breathing because you’re alone. That’s the worst part somehow.

You’re slow as you lean down, wincing at the slightest movement, and snatch up your sickles. If just that is enough to sap you of your energy, then—

You can’t stay out here in the open where you’re vulnerable, no one to watch your back, no one to protect you. You’re an easy target, no help to the revolution like this. You take a few quick breaths to psych yourself up. You push off the tree, grunting as the smallest use of your abdomen aggravates the wounds. You hobble along, heading in the opposite direction of where you left Johanna and the others.

Hopefully, Finnick’s group is having better luck.

SECTION 3 (3:17 am-3:28 am)

Finnick is sure that there are certain moments that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. His reaping, the first person he killed, meeting you. These moments, these entries penned into the book of his life, define him. They’re all weaved into a tapestry, sewn into a quilt that illustrates his past and blankets his future. Who he is today, and who he will be tomorrow, is shaped by these moments. He’ll remain irrevocably changed by these events.

He’s sure this moment will be one of them.

The fog creeps behind them and he’s suddenly so glad you aren’t a part of their group. A spectral wall of wispy gas that observes their suffering with the same indifference as the Capitol does. Peeta is a solid weight on Finnick’s shoulder and he’s thankful for it. It’s a reminder, the weight of what he’s defending. He clenches his teeth against the fog's stray tendrils and their poisonous grasp, increasing his speed even as pain licks at his heels.

“Fhinnic’, Fhinnic’!” He skids to a stop, looking behind him at Peeta’s slurred insistence. He turns in time to see Katniss and Mags crash to the ground. He rushes over to them. Mags sits concerned next to Katniss who’s beginning to blister.

“It’s no use,” Katniss says. He kneels beside them and he can see she’s feeling the effects of the fog. Her left leg is getting stiffer and her face has begun to droop. “Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” The confidence in her voice is interrupted by the grimace on her sagging face.

Mags has been touched by the fog less than the rest of them, if at all. Probably for the opposite reason that Finnick seems to have the most damage, she’s small. By this logic, it should be easy for Finnick to carry her along with Peeta. It should be easy.

“My arms aren’t working. My arms, they aren’t—” From his shoulder blades down to his fingertips, the muscles in his arms are ruined. They spasm sporadically, jerking uncontrollably as they hang limp at his sides. He’s even relying on Peeta to hold onto his trident for him. “I’m sorry, Mags. I can’t, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He apologies. He keeps apologizing to her and he can’t see why, too focused on the wave of white threatening to seize them.

It’s all so quick. Mags has realized what Finnick himself is too stubborn to acknowledge. There’s a heaviness in his chest that he tries to swallow around but it only spreads to his throat. His throat gets tight. His senses feel heightened, his heart beating faster, lungs heaving harder, but he’s still trying to find a way out of this. His mind is moving at the speed of light, determined to fix it, determined to row this impossible boat upstream—thinking about everything but the only realistic outcome here.

They never talked about this. Never discussed the possibility. A situation where he would ever have to—it just never, never came to mind. He never thought to imagine it. And yet, she’s taking off the bracelet she’s wearing—his bracelet that she wore as a token for him. The same bracelet he made under her roof, under her knowing gaze. She slides it up his wrist, tightening it before grabbing his face between her weathered hands. She places a gentle peck on his lips and that’s when he realizes she’ll be leaving, whether he’s ready to say goodbye or not.

“Mags? Mags? Mags!” Tears blur his vision as she dodders uphill into the fog. Katniss grabs his wrist, stopping him from going after her. “Mags! Mags!”

“Finnick!” He can see her silhouette just past the veil of mist, convulsing violently before—a cannon fires. He sits there, desolate. He can’t tell if the numbness spreading through him is organic or from the nerve damage.

“Finnick, we have to go. We have to get outta here.” He’s slow to turn around and look at Katniss. “We have to go.”

Finnick climbs to his feet, accounting for Peeta’s weight, as Katniss drags herself behind him. He sniffs once, twice, three times.

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.

A/N: 1.) Blight's accent is the Canadian accent - specifically Letterman Kenny 2.) reckon the covey (Lucy Gray's group) traveled to the north from 11 to 12 during the 1st rebellion and got trapped in 12 after they lost. the Seam now has a distinct accent that sounds vaguely southern. 3.) i headcanon there's no singular southern accent in 11, using this map:https://fineartamerica.com/featured/vintage-map-of-panem-from-the-hunger-games-design-turnpike.html?product=art-print you can see just how much southern land it covers. So that's a mix of Creole, Irish, Mexican, and deep south roots. I'd imagine the mix of Creole, southern aave, and Spanish makes for a very particular accent. but if I had to pick one, it's closer to the southern drawl than the southern twang. 4.) the capitol accent basically the transatlantic accent 5.) You and Finnick think the same, since it was his idea to sleep next to the forcefield and use it as a weapon. yall literally think the same. also finnick wakes up the same way you do in the book when katniss screams about the fog. 6.) in the book, Lucy Gray is quiet but cunning. She doesn't have the "girl bossified quirky" demeanor she does in the movie and I blame Disney for that. As such, she doesn't have the "loud and proud/nothing affects me/cocky without a cause" attitude in my canon. What attracted Snow to her was that survivor instinct he saw in her that he felt he had. Everything that made Lucy Gray interesting to him can be found in Star (and Peeta.) I think Katniss's personality wise is so much like Sejanus's that it pissed him off. close enough to District 12, but not exactly. district eleven has the exact background that Snow wishes he had with 12. He has more control over Eleven, they're easier to control/oppress as opposed to the free-spirited District 12. With Star, he strives to fix what mistakes he made with Lucy Gray. my beta reader said "i agree honestly like i think thats also why people are misreading snow in the movie bc they don't actually understand lucy gray and therefore misunderstand why snow even liked her" 7.) eleven is mainly a black and indigenous North American (Canada, US, and Mexico) population

134 notes · View notes

someplace-darker · 2 years

Text

Wicked | Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington (Steddie)

Wordcount: 1.4k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pwp, marijuana usage, taunting, eddie calls steve 'princess', mentions of scars, steve is submissive (kind of)

Summary: Steve had shown up on his doorstep asking to smoke only to end up taking it like the pretty whore he is in Eddie’s bed.

A/N: ngl. this was a request from @h-llfire and it was supposed to be more filthy than it ended up being, so now it's porn with a bunch of longing stares and gentle touches.

“I need you to relax, Harrington.”

“I’m trying.”

Steve huffs, annoyance clear on his face as he tries to look past the bunched-up fabric of his sweater to see where Eddie is currently pressing into him so agonizingly slow. Eddie’s palms land on his stomach– an inch or two from the scars he gained during Watergate— and slide upwards, heated and greedy as they come to rest against his chest. Eddie’s thumbs slide over the boy’s nipples, applying the slightest bit of pressure until some of the tension in Steve’s body drains, hazel eyes almost black with the dilation of his pupils as he watches with a debased sense of longing.

It’s just the right amount of lax for Eddie to bury himself completely, a wicked sense of pride sprouting like vines in his chest when Steve keens, dick twitching where it lays flushed and weeping against his stomach. “You look good like this, princess,” Eddie murmurs, jaw clenching from the effort of his own restraint. Everything in his body is lit and it’s dangerously close to the base of the wick, something fiery and sharp ebbing at his subconscious.

“Too hot,” Steve pants, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and half-heartedly attempting to wrench it upwards. Eddie watches the brunette struggle for a moment, allowing him to remove his arms from the sleeves himself but stepping in when the collar gets stuck, laughing fondly under his breath. He moves his hands from Steve’s chest, one going under the boy’s neck to lift his head, the other tugging the rest of the clothing free and tossing it to the floor.

Steve hardly has time to form a ‘thank you,’ instead arching upwards when Eddie pulls back and fucks back into him in a way that punches the air from his lungs. It’s overwhelming, arms instinctively crossing over his eyes to eliminate one sense to focus on what the rest of his body was feeling. “Ah ah,” Eddie chides, ringed hand plucking the brunette’s arms away to gather his wrists and pin them upwards “can’t have you hiding those lovely eyes. Need you to watch.”

“Fuck, Eddie,” Steve says his name with reverence, his own tone shocking him. They had fooled around a handful of times, sure, but this is new. This is so much better than all the times the metalhead would pump his fingers in Steve’s ass, mouth suckling at the head of his dick until he came like that, high and completely blissed out with his boxers hanging off an ankle. The thought occurs then to Steve that it could be like this more often.

And Eddie?

His thoughts are brushed aside by Steve rolling his hips, choking out a moan when Eddie’s cock strokes against his prostate, skin tingling and part of him wonders if this is what Heaven feels like- if there is one. After all that they’ve seen, he’s starting to think there’s not. “Oh, baby, you’re just so needy for me, aren’t you?” Eddie coos, pressing Steve’s hands further into the pillow they’re resting on. The brunette’s eyes start to roll as an act of exasperation, but end up rolling into the back of his head in bliss when Eddie’s hand wraps around his cock, pumping in time with the rock of his hips.

Eddie thinks he can live the rest of his life like this. Truly- it’s not a half-assed sentiment that will pass after he cums, no, this is real. Of course, he can’t say it out loud when he’s hips-to-ass with Steve, who is writhing beneath him and trying his damndest to wiggle his wrists out of Eddie’s hold. It’s a bit comical the more he thinks about it, how Steve had shown up on his doorstep asking to smoke only to end up taking it like the pretty whore he is in Eddie’s bed.

“Jesus, fuck— you’re so cocky, Munson,” Steve grunts out, tapering off into a whimper when the other boy’s thumb presses lightly to the head of his dick. “I think I have a right to be, Harrington,” Eddie chuckles, bucking into the brunette once more “after all, I’m the one making you cry because of how good I feel inside you.” Steve scrambles to find a snarky remark to bite back with but fails to grasp onto a sentence, instead gasping, one hand finally escaping the hold and flying out to grab Eddie’s side with an aching grip. There’s sure to be fingerprint-shaped bruises later with crescent moon accents, and the idea of walking around with proof of their escapade has Eddie moaning low in his throat.

Steve’s mind is racing, there’s so many questions lingering in the back of his head but they’re all overtaken by Eddie- the way his hand is wrapped around Steve’s dick, the way he’s rocking into him at a steady pace, how his fingers are moving from his wrist to graze along his palm before eventually intertwining with his own.

“Let me hear you, Harrington,” Eddie mumbles, a fierceness that he didn’t know he contained bubbling through the surface of his emotions “too many thoughts in that pretty little head of yours. Don’t think, just feel it. Feel me.” Sweat beads along Steve’s forehead, hair damp and splayed out against the white pillow beneath his head. “Shit— I feel you,” Steve breathes between moans, all sarcasm and need to taunt draining from his body. He holds onto Eddie’s hand tighter, lifting his head in a desperate attempt to feel the boy's lips on his own, to learn his taste and memorize how his tongue presses against his.

Luckily Eddie catches on and meets him halfway, grinning into the kiss as their teeth clash unceremoniously, soaking up the moan that passes Steve’s lips and settles between their shared air. Pulling back to breathe, Steve takes the time to truly look at him, eyes flitting across his features because he wants to remember this. The curls framing Eddie’s face stick in some places, bangs matting to his forehead and Steve can’t help but unclench his grip on the boy’s side, instead opting to cradle Eddie’s face. Tracing the shape of his lips and dragging his index finger up the curve of his nose before he pushes some of the dark curls out of his eyes.

“You’re so good, Eddie. Gonna cum soon,” Steve slurs, grin dimpling his face and he wonders if he’s always been this sultry or if it’s simply just the fading buzz of weed in his system.

Eddie’s rhythm falters at the gesture, a choked whimper giving away just how close he is. Steve whines when the friction on his cock stops and the all-consuming pumping of Eddie’s dick inside of him slows, but then he’s being pulled up with the boy as he shifts. The brunette resists the urge to wipe the sweat on his palms off onto Eddie as he’s tugged into his lap, instead overtaken with just how fucking deep the change in position has left Eddie’s cock nestled inside his ass.

“Get yourself off, Steve. I know you want to,” Eddie smiles, hands wrapping around to his backside.

He’s right, he does want to get off. The warmth between the two of them is enough to make his dick jump, hips rocking forward as he raises himself up only to drop back down. Eddie’s face finds solace in the crook of Steve’s neck, groans muffled through the process of sucking purple marks into the brunette’s skin.

Eddie pulls Steve forward with every bounce, listening to the distinct sounds of panting morphing into whines that catch in his throat. "Come on, Harrington, doing so well," Eddie praises, lips pressing to his jaw. One, then two more shifts of his hips pushes Steve over the edge, eyes pinched shut at the overstimulation from his cock being trapped between their sweat-slicked bodies. Eddie can feel the rumbling from the brunette's groans against himself, teeth biting down onto the junction of his neck as he follows suit, spilling into the condom.

He allows himself a few more thrusts before he finally stills, continuing to hold Steve as close as he would let him, leaning back to search his face for any signs of discomfort. What he finds makes him snort out a laugh, the checked-out daze in Steve’s eyes matching the way he breathes heavily through his mouth, usually stylized hair now a mess of sweat and tangles.

Eddie reaches up to smooth some of it out, the corner of his mouth quirking once more “What were you saying about me being cocky?”

Steve shakes his head, clouded eyes focusing on Eddie’s warm gaze, lips twitching to mirror his “Shut up, Munson.”

#steddie #steddie smut #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things fic #steve harrington smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things #my writing #steddie fluff #I truly don't know how i feel about this piece but I'm gonna post it anyways

1K notes · View notes

sisterspooky1013 · 6 months

Text

Gaslight: You Send Me

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Note: when I started writing this story, I knew that Scully was going to have a memory of Mulder that would come to her in a dream, tipping her off to the fact that there was someone important she knew before her accident but couldn’t remember. I needed to be able to “see” this dream/memory, so it’s the first thing I wrote. I figure I may as well post it, so here is that memory you’ve seen glimpses of in full.

Scully plunges her hands back under the hot, soapy water and sighs. Her belly is full of good food and good wine, her heart full of hope and the promise of something exciting and new. She runs a scrub brush around the perimeter of a pan and then lifts it out to rinse it with fresh water before setting it on the drying rack beside the sink.

She smiles to herself at the adolescent buzz in her bones, the expectant tightening in her stomach. She’d forgotten how it feels in the beginning: sickly sweet and terrifying, the best kind of fear. From that first tentative kiss it’s only gotten better with each passing day, and she’s found herself almost embarrassed by the way her belly tumbles when he catches her eye across his desk and holds it for just a beat longer than necessary.

Even the invitation for this evening, dinner at his apartment, felt loaded and thrilling. They’ve kissed dozens of times, made out until her chin burned from his stubble, and, most recently, his hand found its way under her shirt. Not since she was sixteen and still a virgin has a boy feeling her up over her bra been so incredibly arousing that she touched herself later just thinking about it. But it’s not a boy, it’s a man. Mulder. Her Mulder. Her partner, now something more.

He’s in the living room fighting with the CD player. The selection of decidedly romantic albums he’d pre-loaded into the eight-disc changer had been abruptly interrupted by the Beastie Boys during their meal, making him blush and her laugh, and he is now presumably ensuring that they don’t suffer any such interruption during whatever he has planned for the rest of the evening.

She feels a rush of heat to her pelvis at the thought.

She’s ready. More than ready, beyond ready. She’s wanted him for so long, she can’t quite decide if this feels more like an ending or a beginning. Perhaps that’s not his intention for the night at all—he seems to be set on taking things slow. But seven years is slow enough, in her mind, and if he doesn’t make the move to activities beyond necking like teenagers, she will.

She hears the CD player click and whir, and the slow wail of soul music floats into the kitchen.

Darling you send me. I know you send me. Darling you send me, honest you do.

She sways her hips gently to the music, running her hands over the bottom of the sink to find forks and knives. She doesn’t hear Mulder enter the kitchen, but suddenly he is standing right behind her, his hands resting on her hips. Her heart leaps, and she forces herself to lean into him rather than stiffen and pull away. Seven years of habits die hard. He moves with her, threading his arms around her waist. His body feels warm and firm against her back, solid as a rock. He is her rock, her safe place, her one reliable thing in a world that’s always changing before her very eyes.

Mulder removes his arms from her waist and wraps his hands around her forearms, sliding them down and under the water until his fingers are interlaced with hers. She lets go of the butter knife she’d been scrubbing and he lifts their joined hands out of the water, crossing both their arms around the front of her body as he walks them two steps back into the middle of the kitchen. Dishwater runs down her elbows, but it somehow feels romantic rather than obnoxious.

Letting go of one of her hands, he twirls her around to face him, then pulls her body flush to his. His free hand finds her waist, and hers his shoulder, and they begin a slow dance. She glances up at him, feeling both charmed and foolish, and sees him smiling down at her with that familiar impish one-sided quirk on his mouth. Her heart swells and she looks away, resting her cheek on his chest. She closes her eyes and breathes him in: the orange-vanilla musk of his deodorant, the warmth of his skin through his T-shirt. His heart pounds urgently against her ear and she smiles, relieved to know that he is also at least a little bit nervous.

He presses his lips to the crown of her head and then holds them there, singing along to the music as his voice vibrates in his chest and his breath tickles her scalp.

At first I thought it was infatuation, but ooooo it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.

A flash flood of every emotion shocks through her veins, heightening her senses. Fear, excitement, arousal, love. Of course she loves him, and she hopes he knows even though she’s never been brave enough to tell him. She hopes he can feel it, as intuitive as he is.

He drops her hand, touching her chin with his still-damp index finger until she looks up at him. His pupils are bottomless pits, his mouth slightly parted. This way he’s been looking at her, not bothering to hide his wanting, is as potent as a drug. She rises up, using posture and tiptoes to bring her mouth close enough to kiss. And he does, again and again. Sucking at her lower lip, cupping her bottom eagerly in his palms, arching his pelvis into her so she can feel him stiffening.

They walk clumsily to his bedroom, kissing all the way. She tugs at the hem of his shirt until he removes it, then touches the button on his jeans. He hums, deep and throaty, and she suddenly becomes aware of how wet she is. She can’t wait for him to discover her, to see just how much she wants this. She pulls off her own shirt, unclasps her bra, and his mouth is wrapped around her nipple by the time her bare back hits his bedsheets.

He takes off her pants, looking up at her as he tugs them off her hips, and she can feel her own heartbeat between her legs. His thorough inspection of her panties with his eyes, and then his hands, and then his lips, is agonizing and perfect. He’s so deliberate, so thorough, as he is with all things. She can’t bring herself to rush him, as much as she wants to, but when he drags her panties down her legs, bunching up the damp fabric in his hand and licking his lips as his eyes rake over her vulva, she sits up and reaches for him.

“I want you,” she confesses shyly, feeling his abdominal muscles twitch against her fingers as she pops the button on his jeans.

There is a flash of regret on his face, but it’s short lived—there will be time for that later. She pushes her hand under his boxers and squeezes him firmly, enamored with the way his entire body slackens in response.

He stands at the foot of the bed, she sitting on the edge with her open legs bracketing his, and pushes his jeans and boxers down to his knees. She leers at him, openly gawks as she runs her comparatively tiny hand over the thick length of him, and then looks up with a coy smile. He laughs nervously, running his fingers through her hair and cradling the base of her skull in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, and now it is she who laughs.

“Right this second?” she asks, flashing her eyes to his stiff cock hovering inches below her chin.

“Always,” he says with a sigh. “Though I will admit that I’m partial to this view, yes.”

She blinks languidly, considering taking him in her mouth, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair.

“Lie down,” she directs him instead, and he does.

She drapes her body over his, their bare skin hot and electric as she wriggles up until his shaft is nestled in the valley of her thighs. She rocks her hips gently forward and back as he cranes his neck up to kiss her, humming and sighing. She’s so wet, and they’re so ready, he finds his way inside her without the use of their hands. She pauses to acclimate to the sweet, stinging stretch of him, taking minutes to kiss between each added inch until she sits fully impaled in his lap.

Mulder sits up, cradling her face in his hands and kissing her firmly, urgently, as her hips begin to flex.

“Fuck, Scully. I love you,” he groans, and she feels herself rise up to meet him.

“Mulder,” she whimpers against his mouth, a plea and a proclamation and a confession all at once.

She kisses him back, just as urgently, just as firmly. Her lips feel swollen and bruised, and her fingers dig into his neck as her hips snap, grinding her clit against him on each thrust. It’s frenzied, but still somehow feels so romantic she could cry. Because he loves her, and she wants this so, so much, and she never thought it was possible for them.

“I’m gonna come,” she whispers, and he places one of his hands on the bed for stability as she unravels around him, their open mouths held against one another.

He gasps and arches up into her, and she can feel him, hot and forceful. They continue to rock against one another until the height of intensity has passed, and then Mulder slowly reclines back onto the bed, taking her with him.

She rests her cheek on his sweat damp chest, her heart rate slowing steadily. She notices the music again, the same song that must be playing on repeat.

You thrill me. I know you, you, you thrill me. You thrill me, honest you do. At first I thought it was infatuation, but oooo it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.

She lifts her head, propping her chin on his sternum, and finds him looking at her. He smiles at her and she smiles back, then crawls up his body until he slips out of her. She kisses him once, twice, three times, then tucks her face into the crook of his neck.

“I love you too,” she says softly, her heart hammering again.

She feels his smile widen by the way his cheek presses into her nose. His hands rub wide circles on her back, and a wash of contentment overcomes her.

You send me. I know you send me. You send me, honest you do.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

66 notes · View notes

mychlapci · 5 months

Note

I would like to congratulate you, you have a Magnus anon, Optimus anon and Now me, horny drift anon

Listen man I just think after all the shit he's been through Drift deserves to be dicked down like no tomorrow.

Merformers right, now hear me out here, I'm a firm believer Mers can have more then one mate and that mate can have one then one mate.

So Drift, a mer that got hurt winds up moved into a tank with a angel fish, a octomer and a flying fish(fucking rodimus is fast as fuck bro)

Drifts 100% giving either swordfish or Koy fish vibes.

Anyway Drift gotta get used to em sometime right? He's agressive at first, snapping at anyone who gets close to him.

But over time as he heals he grows used to them, He spends time with them by the elves first..but slowly comes around, over time ya know they court one another and wind up as mates, which 100% would confused the fuck outta the staff.

Weeks Later Drifts in heat and oh boy did the staff fuck up, and that tank is to be left alone, why? Drifts getting stuffed with transfluid by Wing, Rodimus and Ratchet

Which over the next few weeks happens a lot. And yes the staff have taken notes..for reaserch of course, totally. Until Drifts all round and stuffed with a big litter of pups

YES i have a weird soft spot for wing/drift/ratchet/rodimus like it kind of lives in my head a little bit, though i rarely see any content for this legendary foursome (which i understand, honestly) so to tug on my strings like this… hrghhh

Drift accepting the rag-tag group of mixed species mers in his tank as mates and causing the facility staff to panic a little bit because oh fuck what if they fucked up. Because merformers are still new to them and they have no idea if mers normally pick partners outside of their genotype or what kind of repercussions on the ecosystem this would have (obviously mer go cross-species all the time, they just don’t know that). But nonetheless it’s too late for them to do anything, the four are inseparable and seem to have gotten deeply territorial. Soon enough it turns out it’s because Drift is going into heat and this means they can’t allow any outside threats in, even if they’ve known the facility staff for years now (instincts are difficult to reason with…)

After a while Drift literally can’t swim an inch without one of his mates snatching him up and fucking him until he’s shaking. Not that he minds, his gestation tank is at its happiest when full of transfluid. His valve is always throbbing now, eager to take in spike after spike, load after load, until he’s finally, blissfully heavy with pups, and getting pampered by his three mates at all times <3

#valveplug #merformers #pregnancy mention #i am collecting anons obsessed with specific characters

41 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 9 months

Note

hi mae!! i was wondering if you’d write poly!marauders x reader with some angst? maybe they’ve had an argument (they say something really hurtful to her) and reader wants to be left alone and they assume that she wants to break up w them? maybe some begging/pleading on their side pls

totally okay if you don’t want to write this<3 have a lovely day ml 🫶🏽

Hi sweetheart! Thanks for requesting and hope you're having a lovely day too :)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

It had started laughably small. Tensions had to have been high for awhile, you must just not have been able to see it, because you were all so ready to go off. Sirius had remarked that you’d left the living room a mess. You’d shot back that if he’d offered to make dinner, you might’ve had time to tidy. It had devolved into an argument about why you were so busy in the first place, even though he knew you’d been absolutely mobbed at work lately. You’d been getting more and more piled onto your plate, and you weren’t sure whether the higher-ups were testing you to see about giving you a promotion (or, Merlin forbid, firing you) or whether it was just a busy time of the year, but it didn’t matter because you loved your job and you’d do whatever it took to keep it. It didn’t matter to Sirius, either, apparently; what mattered was that you’d been spending more time at work, and when you weren’t there, you took your work home, always bent over your laptop instead of spending time with your boyfriends.

When Remus and James tried to smooth things over, they only ended up getting dragged in too, and soon you were fighting about whether you should tell your bosses you couldn’t handle your workload (you’d rather cut off your left foot) and how they didn’t understand how important this was to you (they claimed they did) and that you were prioritizing work over your relationship and that they were needy for making you choose like that, and on and on with voices rising and tensions heightening until Sirius all but yelled, “I don’t care what happens to you at work, you shouldn’t want that more than you want us!”

You’d gone quiet. Everyone had. Remus and James seemed to know that he’d crossed a line with you, but they didn’t correct him. Their silence was clear enough: they agreed.

Your body couldn’t decide between anger and anguish, and you’d worried that if you kept going, you’d scream at them. So you’d just said, “I can’t do this,” and left.

You’ve been walking around for over an hour now. Aimless circles around your neighborhood and the surrounding streets. Lamplights are flickering on as twilight turns to darkness, the nighttime breeze cooling the teartracks on your cheeks. You keep turning the whole thing over in your head, but you can’t stop fixating on the last thing Sirius said and the other boys’ wordless agreement. Selfishly, it’s the first part that troubles you most: I don’t care what happens to you at work. Your work is endlessly important to you. Before you met the boys, it was nearly the only thing you were living for. You’d put years into school and menial, boring jobs to get the one you have now. You love what you do. Do they not understand that about you? You don’t get how they can claim to care about you, and not care about this thing that is at the core of who you are.

Then there’s the second part. You shouldn’t want that more than you want us. As a statement, it’s true. But the implication is dead wrong. Because you don’t care more for your job than you do them. If you had to lose one or the other, you’d give up your job in a heartbeat. But as far as you know, you’re only at risk of losing one right now, so why can’t your boyfriends just sit tight for a couple weeks while you fight to keep it?

You’re hurting for yourself and for them, because how could they think that you don’t care about them? You feel like your heart is being cleaved in two.

When you arrive back at your apartment, you still don’t know what to do, but you feel calmer. You don’t really expect anyone else to have cooled down—Sirius especially, whose anger ignites quickly and takes time to burn out—and you don’t particularly want to keep arguing, but you will, until you all see each other more clearly. You’re ready to explain yourself better, to soothe and smooth over whatever you can.

But when you open the door, the silence startles you. It’s like someone has sucked the air from your apartment, the atmosphere stale and morose.

James turns from where he’s sitting on the couch, eyes widening. “You’re back.”

Remus appears, sitting up from where he’d been lying next to James, and Sirius emerges from your bedroom. Each of their eyes look as red as yours probably do, and the sight makes your heart feel heavy in your chest.

“Y/N,” Sirius says, and it’s not so much the croakiness of his voice as the fact that he’s not trying to hide it that raises alarms with you, “I’m sorry. I went too far, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say without thinking, even though it hadn’t felt okay at the time. You’ll say anything to get him to snap out of whatever this is, the misery in his eyes unfamiliar and terrifying.

“We shouldn’t have asked you to choose between us and your work,” Remus says, his features tight with something that looks like grief. “Do what you need to, just stay here with us, please.”

You hesitate, feeling like there’s something you’ve missed. You hadn’t been gone too long, had you? Had they been worried you’d been hurt or something?

Before you can ask, James reaches out a hand to you over the top of the couch, and you step forward to take it, giving him a reassuring squeeze as his eyes well with tears. “We love you so much,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel like someone has plunged a knife into your middle and twisted. “It’d feel so stupid to break up over the living room being messy. Let’s just talk this over, yeah?”

Your hand goes limp in his. “Break up?”

You get only blank looks in reply.

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“Wh—dovey, no,” Remus sputters. “But aren’t…we thought you were breaking up with us. Weren’t you?”

“Of course not!” You press a hand to your chest, just to make sure your heart’s still going in there. “I was upset, but not…I was never going to leave you over it.”

“You said you couldn’t do this anymore,” Sirius says, almost disbelieving.

“I meant the argument, not our relationship.”

“Oh, fuck.” James throws his head back on the couch cushions with a relieved exhale. “So we’re all still together, just in a fight?”

“Just in a fight,” you agree, and you’ve never been happier to admit to conflict. You start towards Sirius, throwing your arms around his neck, and you can feel his shock as he stiffens, then brings his hands to your back. “I’m sorry too,” you say, letting go after a moment and turning so you can see all of your boys. “I didn’t mean to make you all feel like you weren’t important to me. I just wanted you to understand that my job is important to me, too. And I’m getting really scared that if I can’t keep up, I could lose it.”

“Sweetheart.” James beckons, and you go into his arms, settling in. These are the kinds of arguments you like best; the ones where you all listen to each other, working towards a solution as people who love each other instead of opponents. “We don’t want you to lose your job either.”

“I don’t think this busy season will last much longer,” you say earnestly. “And if it does, I promise I’ll talk to someone and try to get a lighter workload. Do you guys think that you could give me a couple more weeks? I’ll try to be around more, but I just want…it’s important to me to be sure I’m going to be able to keep my job.”

Sirius huffs, going to sit in the chair across from you. “Well, it sounds so fucking rational when you put it like that.” He cracks a smile, and you return it hesitantly. “Yeah, I think I can manage a couple weeks. What about you guys?”

Remus hums his assent, and James nods eagerly, clearly ready to be done with the conflict portion of the evening.

“Sorry I scared you,” you say, guilt still a dull ache in your chest. You kiss James’ cheek, and the skin there tastes faintly salty, but a dimple forms as he smiles at you. “I’m not going to break up with you guys, ever, but I swear that if I’m ever thinking about it, I’ll be more explicit.”

2K notes · View notes

isawthisangel · 2 years

Text

domestic/relationship situations with steven/marc headcanons part two

find part one here

masterlist

word count: 900w

a/n: i will happily write a full length fic for any of these if you guys send me one of the prompts, or any different ones<3

Steven loves to cook and is usually home by the late afternoon, but sometimes when he has more work to do when he gets home and you have to work late, you end up ordering takeout. You guys have a hat with all the different takeouts written on pieces of paper inside for when you can’t decide, which is often.

On weekends you love nothing more than holing up in the flat to binge whole seasons of tv shows. Steven is all over this, making the sofa as cosy as possibly, collecting blankets and snacks and content to sit for hours with your feet in his lap or your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. Marc usually lasts about two episodes before complaining that he’s bored.

You suggest reorganising the bookshelves. This takes weeks. Steven is so meticulous about where his books go, even though it looks like a mess to anyone else, he can find the book he’s looking for in seconds when he needs to. You have your bookshelf, but your books have started spilling over, which is fine as long as they’re in the right section.

Honestly I could write an essay about this. Steven sat cross legged on the floor surrounded by books, stacking them into piles and trying to work out how best to organise them, brow furrowed. You giving up trying to help after a while, realising he has his own, very complicated system. Rearranging the plants and fairy lights around everything when it’s finally done. Smiling whenever he looks at it for the next few days.

Both of the boys like to rant when they’re worked up about something, but the topics on which they tend to get so upset about vary drastically. If Steven is upset about a new display at the museum, or Donna getting his name wrong yet again, Marc will be angry about something going wrong on a mission, stomping and swearing around the flat injured and covered in blood.

Similarly, you have to learn that they can’t be calmed down in the same way. Steven can usually be placated pretty easily by a cup of tea or a shoulder massage, whereas with Marc you have to let him burn out by himself. When he finally collapses into a chair and goes silent, then you can move in and start patching him up best you can, dropping kisses onto his skin at regular intervals until he’s fully relaxed.

Baths. Steven doesn’t usually have a bath, and if he does you’re in there with him. Marc, on the other hand, would live in the bath if you let him. He’ll soak until the water’s cold and all the bubbles are gone, half asleep with a contented half smile on his face. He’d never admit it, but he loves coming home to a bubble bath.

Sometimes when you wake up you find Marc asleep on the sofa, not wanting to have woken you up when he got in from a mission the night before. Despite your protests he continues to do this if he knows you have to be up early the next morning, even though you’d rather be tired and know that he’s come home safe that night.

Similarly to the laundry, you can tell who’s been shopping while you’ve been at work by the contents of the cupboards and fridge and how they’ve been organised. Steven will have a meal plan on the wall and all of the (mostly fresh) ingredients neatly stowed away. Marc will have filled the freezer up, and maybe bought some fruit and veg, if you’re lucky.

Steven one hundred percent gets distracted and dances with you in the kitchen when you cook together. Enough said.

Sometimes you’ll catch Steven before he rushes out the door, ever late, for work to fix his tie or his hair. This isn’t necessarily because it looks bad, you’re just after one more kiss before he leaves. If he’s caught on, he doesn’t say. If you’re fixing Marc’s hair or clothes before he rushes out the door it’s most likely because he’d lost track of time with you in bed that morning. You’ve been late countless times for similar reasons.

‘Laughter is infectious,’ sure, but Steven’s laugh is actually infectious. If he’s laughing, you’re laughing, it doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at or where you are. Similarly, Marc laughs so little that when he does you find yourself smiling regardless, relishing in the sound, trying to memorise it.

Steven is annoyingly good at presents, and you struggle to match the thoughtfulness of his gifts. Marc has a strict no present policy, which you happily disregard during every holiday, knowing that he’ll complain and then smile secretly afterwards, when he thinks you can’t see.

You try to eat breakfast and brush your teeth with whoever it is you wake up to every morning, schedules allowing. It puts you in a good mood in the mornings, and prepares you for the rest of the day. If you get frustrated at work you think about breakfast, or how you get to go home to such a loving environment that night. It usually makes you feel better.

tag list💌 @propertyofkingvalkyriealkyrie @later-gators12

comment to be added ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

#moonknight #moonknight fanfic #moonknight fanfiction #moon knight x reader #moonknight imagine #steven grant #steven grant fanfic #steven grant x reader insert #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector imagine #marc spector #marc spector fanfic #fluff #steven grant fluff #marc spector fluff #moonknight fluff #headcanons

399 notes · View notes

anonymousewrites · 1 year

Text

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 2) Chapter Six

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Six: Broken Code

Summary: Irene has returned, and Sherlock and (Y/N) face a puzzle that could destroy years of work.

One wakeup call, shower, and change of clothes later, Irene was sitting across from Sherlock and (Y/N) in the living room as John hovered awkwardly in the kitchen.

“So who’s after you?” asked Sherlock.

“People who want to kill me,” said Irene.

“Who’s that?” repeated Sherlock.

“Killers,” said Irene casually.

“Being more specific would be more helpful,” remarked (Y/N).

“So you faked your death to get ahead of them,” said Sherlock.

“It worked for a while,” said Irene, smirking.

“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore, us,” said Sherlock.

“I knew you’d keep my secret,” said Irene.

“You couldn’t,” said Sherlock.

“But you did.” Irene smirked. “Now, where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid,” said John.

“Then what have you done with it?” asked Irene. “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching us, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago,” said Sherlock.

A good diversion. Let them break into that instead of here, thought (Y/N). But I have a feeling Sherlock’s just going to hand it over to see what happens with this case.

“I need it,” said Irene.

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” said John, crossing his arms. “Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart’s. Then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.”

“Very good, John,” said Sherlock. “Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions.”

“Thank you. So, why don’t—Oh, for the love of God,” groaned John as Sherlock pulled out the phone and handed it to Irene.

Knew it, thought (Y/N). “What do you have on there?” they asked.

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful,” said Irene evasively.

“What, for blackmail?” asked John.

“For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be,” said Irene.

“I guess when you mess with powerful people you need to have security,” murmured (Y/N).

Irene nodded. “I like to slap them around, but I’d prefer them to not slap around me.”

“So, how do you acquire this information?” questioned Sherlock.

“I told you, I misbehave,” said Irene with a smirk and a wink.

“You accidentally got something that’s more danger than protection, didn’t you?” asked (Y/N), leaning forward.

Irene chuckled and smiled. It was softer, less conniving. If Sherlock was correct (and he would say he always was), he would say Irene seemed to like (Y/N). “Clever kid,” she said. “Yes, I did. Problem is: I don’t understand it.”

“Show us,” said (Y/N).

Irene reached out, but Sherlock held the phone out of her reach. “The passcode.” Irene just stared at him until Sherlock handed her the phone.

She frowned as she typed in a code. “It’s not working.”

Sherlock grabbed the phone back. “No, because it’s a duplicate that I made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers 1-0-5-8. I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.” Sherlock pulled out the real phone and typed in the code. The phone beeped angrily.

(Y/N) recognized it from his first attempt. This code wasn’t correct, either. And now only one try was left. If they got it wrong, the phone would destroy itself.

Dammit. Irene is clever. It’s impressive but annoying because she’s outplaying us. (Y/N) shivered. Moriarty outplayed us, too… Now that really ruined their mood.

“I told you that camera phone was my life,” said Irene. “I know when it’s in my hand.”

“You’re good,” admitted (Y/N).

“You did your best,” said Irene. She smiled playfully. “And I’m sure you’ll get another chance to prove your prowess.” She held her hand out, and Sherlock begrudgingly handed over the real phone. “There was man, an MOD official,” explained Irene as she unlocked the phone and began going through its contents. “I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it. He was a bit…tied up at the time.” She smirked before holding out the photo to (Y/N) and Sherlock. “It’s a bit small on that screen, but you can read it.”

(Y/N) peered at the email curiously. They wanted to know what all the hubbub was about. What was the email that was going to save the world?

007 Confirmed allocation 4C12C45F13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

(Y/N)’s mind automatically began dissecting and reassembling the string of numbers and letters in multiple attempts to decode the meaning.

“A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, though he was mostly upside down as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out,” said Irene. “What can you do, Sherlock, (Y/N)? Impress me.”

(Y/N) rearranged it. Seat numbers—Passenger jet—flight from Heathrow—007—They furrowed their brow. 007? Where have I heard 007? What’s that reminding me of? They were so absorbed trying to figure out what they were missing that they didn’t notice Sherlock beginning to speak.

“There’s a margin for error, but we’re pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore,” said Sherlock. John’s face was blank, and Irene had raised her brow. Sherlock nodded to (Y/N). “They get it.”

“Huh?” said (Y/N), blinking as they were pulled from their mind.

“It’s a flight,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, yeah, it is,” agreed (Y/N). They cleared their throat. “The numbers aren’t a code—they’re seat allocations. There’s no letter ‘I’ because it could be mistaken for a one, ‘K’ is the width of the plane, some groupings of numbers are seats grouped together, like couples or families. Only a jumbo jet is wide enough to need a letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more suspicious airlines.” They paused as their mind circled back to the 007 number and the memory it was triggering, but Sherlock nodded at them to continue. And they wouldn’t disappoint him. “Then there’s the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more. And assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from the Heathrow airport.”

They frowned. “But—007…Why is that bugging me?” they murmured.

John and Irene sat there, stunned. Sherlock grinned proudly. (Y/N) tapped the table angrily as the 007 number itched at them.

“Please don’t feel obligated to tell us that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available in the English language,” said Sherlock. He was supremely proud with how well (Y/N) had done. His brow furrowed slightly, though, seeing (Y/N)’s frustrated expression. Something was off, and they could sense it.

“Wow. You’re completely right,” said John. He held up his phone. “Flight 007 from Heathrow to Baltimore.”

“Damn it!” shouted (Y/N) suddenly. They stood up and turned on Irene, who was busy typing away on her phone. “No!” They grabbed for the phone, but Irene dodged.

The telltale whoosh of a message sending answered them, and Irene switched off her phone, shrugging. “Sorry, dear. You’re clever, but that wasn’t quick enough.”

(Y/N) turned to Sherlock, eyes wide. “Sherlock—007. ‘Bond Air is go.’ ”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. Mycroft’s operation. They had just explained his entire operation to a woman who could now bring the entire British government to its knees. Sherlock could see (Y/N)’s nerves getting the better of them, and he cursed himself for pushing them to continue the deduction. He should have realized something was the matter when they did and stopped the whole thing.

“Is something the matter?” asked John.

“Nothing that matters now,” said Sherlock. They couldn’t change what had happened. Hopefully, however, Mycroft would figure out a solution to save his operation. He waved a hand at John. “Just go to work.”

“Right…” said John uncertainly, but he left anyway.

“I should have realized. I should have stopped speaking when I realized something was wrong,” muttered (Y/N).

Sherlock shook his head and knelt by them. “No. It’s not your fault. I pushed you to keep solving the code. I should have noticed something was wrong and stopped you. I’m the one with more experience.”

Irene grinned. “I needed intelligent people, and you both delivered.”

(Y/N)’s narrowed, and they glared at Irene. That was it. They were going to destroy whatever she had planned.

A knock sounded at the door, and it swung open to reveal an government official. The repercussions of Irene’s actions were arriving.

“Have you come to take us away?” asked Sherlock, standing up.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said the official.

“Well, I decline,” said Sherlock.

The man pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sherlock. “I don’t think so.” (Y/N) looked over Sherlock’s shoulder as he opened the envelope and found to airplane tickets.

“Tata,” said Irene, smirking and waving her hand.

(Y/N)’s gaze was cold. They knew she’d be joining them soon. Unfortunately, it would be on her own terms. (Y/N) turned away and followed Sherlock to the dark car.

As they drove, Sherlock spoke, “There’s going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it, but rather than expose the source of that information, they’re going to let it happen. The plan will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheels turn. Nothing is ever new.”

No one answered, but (Y/N)’s mind was racing. There was more to this than just a bomb. Mycroft was cold and aloof, but he was smart. He’d have a way to not sacrifice so many lives. And they had probably ruined. (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. It just gave them more motivation to take down Irene.

At the airport, Sherlock and (Y/N) exited the vehicle and walked towards the 747 Jumbo Jet. Agent Neilson of the CIA stood at the base of the steps.

“Well, you’re looking all better. How’re you feeling?” asked Sherlock pointedly.

“Like putting a bullet in both of your brains,” said Neilson. He watched them walk up the steps. “And they’d pin a medal on me if I did.”

Sherlock’s hand went to (Y/N)’s shoulder and guided them into the plane. He wouldn’t let Neilson threaten them a third time. Inside the plane, (Y/N) and Sherlock walked through the corridors. Bodies were lined up in seats but…they were just that—bodies. They were dead.

So that’s Mycroft’s solution, thought (Y/N).

“The Coventry conundrum,” said Mycroft from behind them, and they turned. “What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead.”

“The plane blows up midair. Mission accomplished for the terrorist. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies,” said Sherlock in understanding.

“Neat, don’t you think?” remarked Mycroft.

“All of those cases. The girls not seeing their grandfather, the man claiming to have non-human ashes…” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as they realized those were some of the bodies Mycroft had commandeered. They looked at him. “The body in the boot of that car…Was that another ‘flight of the dead?’ ”

“At least someone sees the bigger picture,” said Mycroft sardonically as he looked at Sherlock.

“How’s the plane fly? Of course—unmanned aircraft. Hardly new,” said Sherlock.

“It doesn’t fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now,” said Mycroft bitterly. “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.”

“Your MOD man,” said Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, you,” said Mycroft. “A man desperate to show off setting a terrible example to a teenager and a woman clever enough to play them like a fiddle.”

“It’s not (Y/N)’s fault,” said Sherlock. “I pushed them.”

“No, Sherlock. I could have stopped…” murmured (Y/N).

“And yet my brother is the one who was played,” said Mycroft, sighing in disappointment.

“It’s my fault, too,” said (Y/N).

“Poor dear,” tutted the voice of Irene Adler behind them. “Sherlock, you should really look after them better.”

“I drove you two into her path. I’m sorry,” said Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk,” said Irene.

“So do I. There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on,” said Sherlock.

“Not you, Junior. We’re done,” said Irene. She passed him and went to Mycroft. “There’s more. Loads more. On this phone, I’ve got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world.” She smirked. “You have no idea how much havoc I could cause, and there’s exactly one way to stop me. That is, unless you to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother and his child.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and looked away. He knew he was beaten. He couldn’t throw his brother and his kid under the bus. They were his family, and as much as he preached that sentiment was foolish, Mycroft was protective of them.

“I have a meeting house nearby. We can conduct our…negotiations there,” said Mycroft.

“You better send for some paper and pencil. And some wine. We might as well make this fun,” said Irene. She smirked. “For me, that is.”

Mycroft and Irene descended the steps from the jumbo jet. (Y/N) paused before they went.

“Sherlock, if we could open the phone, that would solve everything, right? Mycroft would have information she is trying to hide, probably from other governments and organizations, too,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, but we have only one chance. Otherwise, the phone destroys itself.”

(Y/N) furrowed their brow. I have to figure it out, then. I need to win this. It’s my fault this flight can’t go. I need to do this. Their eyes were cold as ice as they followed Irene’s smug figure into the car. She’s not getting away with this. Screw her protection. I’m winning here.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

#a study of the heart and brain #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader #sherlock #sherlock x teen!reader #sherlock x teen reader #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #x teen reader #x teen!reader #found family #irene adler #the woman

39 notes · View notes