Ghost is not what the captain would call a gentle man. Everything about him carries weight. His presence, his stare, his skills, his callsign, his reputation. But most of all, his voice. Price has heard Ghost in all sorts of situations, from enemy interrogations to dropping some of the most driest sarcasm to ever grace his comms.
Ghost's voice, like the rest of him, is rough. Like the sound comes from mortar-blasted boulders grinding against each other in his chest and not vocal chords. When Ghost speaks, everything sounds like an ultimatum.
But that's what happens in the military. Show him a man surrounded by other soldiers that doesn't develop some obnoxiously loud, deep vocal affect and Price will eat his hat.
Which is why, when you, the new medic transfer on base, are tasked with administering this year's flu jabs he notices it almost immediately.
"Sleeve up, please, Lieutenant," you tell him. Ghost is sat in the little plastic chair in front of you with his arm fully exposed before you finish.
"Busy day, yeah?" Price nearly chokes when Ghost asks you that.
It wasn't just the fact that he was making conversation, but it was the sound of him. If Price wasn't looking directly at him when he said it, he would have thought there was someone hidden behind his Lt.
But no. It was him, speaking without prompt to you in a tone of voice that Price didn't even think the man was physically capable of.
The boulders in his chest are silent. His voice having moved from them up to some higher register. Like the years of chain smoking and yelling over weapons fire is an inconvenience for once. Ghost even clears his throat when you turn away from him for a moment. Subdued. Soft.
Ghost. Soft. Hell has frozen over.
"It always is," you reply oblivious to the anomaly in front of you, a little smile on your face as you swipe Ghost's bicep with a little disinfectant wipe.
Price watches how Ghost never takes his eyes off of you as you do your work with the same fascination as watching a dog wearing pants walk on its hind legs.
It quickly becomes apparent that this is not an isolated case.
One morning some time later has Ghost walking with him to his office going over upcoming itineraries. Both of them have their minds on the looming, still unconfirmed, deployment. When you turn the corner into the hallway with a stack of files in your hand, Price swears he sees the lights brighten a little bit just from how Ghost perks up.
"Mornin', ma'am." And all of the sudden his hardened veteran, skull mask wearing, second in command is gone and replaced by two meters of tender puppy-dog eyes and velvety voice. He's pretty sure if Ghost had a tail it'd be wagging.
"Good morning, Lieutenant. How many times do I have to tell you you don't have to call me that?"
"At least one more," Ghost all but purrs.
Price feels like he's witnessing something that should be behind an age verification.
You roll your eyes and pat his shoulder as you pass, disappearing down the hallway without a glance behind you. If you did, you would've seen how Ghost's head turned to watch you go.
The other time occurred when you weren't even around to hear it.
It was classified as a training incident only because of its proximity to the grounds. Very little surprises Price anymore, so he didn't bat an eye when he saw a soldier drive up in a humvee, get out, and then just dumbly watch the vehicle creep backwards, gaining speed until it crashed into a nearby prefab.
The car was fine, of course, but those inside the prefab when it made contact weren't so lucky, especially anyone in the falling radius of the shelves and full crates held inside. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one got flattened.
The soldier responsible was getting torn a new one while someone else called for medical support, just to make sure no one was dying or anything. The worst Price could see from here was some bumps and bruises, someone holding a hand to their bleeding head.
"What is it now?" Price asked as he stepped up beside Ghost who lingered from a distance.
"Bloody idiot kept it in neutral, not park," Ghost tells him, arms crossed. "Didn't use the—" The moment you pop into view, medic bag in tow, Ghost's voice shifts like a switch had been flipped and all of the sudden that rolling thunder tone is gone like it was never there to begin with, "—parking brake. Hopefully it won't be a mistake made twice."
Price registers the words in his subconscious, but most of his attention is still on the fact that you had Ghost switching up mid sentence. And you weren't even within earshot. Just the fact that you were in his eyesight had Ghost lowering his voice, lightening his pitch.
He watches you flit around, grabbing the bleeding person and setting them down to start cleaning them up. All of his attention on you. Price is pretty sure that an ant wouldn't be able to crawl within 50 feet of you without Ghost knowing.
Part of Price wants to nip this in the bud, take Ghost aside and tell him to drop it. All of them know what being in this task force means. Having a distraction like this has a higher chance of being a hindrance than a benefit. If there ever comes a time where any of the 141 are in a situation where his sacrifice is non-negotiable, there cannot be hesitation. All of them know this.
But when the captain looks over at Ghost, he doesn't think about sacrifice. He doesn't see a muzzled war dog whose leash is held in Price's firm grip.
For the first time in a long time, Price recalls a young man with dark brown eyes that had seen too much too young, hair so blond it’s almost white, and the strongest sense of loyalty he's ever seen in a fellow soldier.
Price would never describe Ghost as a gentle man. Never a sweet man. But he starts to think that maybe Simon is.
HE LOOKS SO FINE HELLOOO??? LITERALLY THE BEST THING HE'S EVER WORN. DARE I SAY TOP10 BEST MALE HERO COSTUMES, GOD BLESS WHOEVER MADE THIS I LOVE YOU 🙏🙏
i need y'all to know that whenever im reading a Wally fic I only always invision him with this outfit, idgaf.
Imagine “borrowing” the left glove of your man’s super suit for a bit while he’s napping and stitching a small band of embroidery thread around the ring finger. The thread is colored only slightly darker than the original color of the fabric. It was so inconspicuous that no one who wasn’t looking for it would notice. In fact, it takes your vigilante fiancé about a week to find it himself.
He has to do a little double take, momentarily forgetting what he was doing in favor of inspecting his hand. It’s not an accidental loose thread or anything, it’s an intentional alteration to his uniform, meant to be there. And it’s very clearly supposed to be a wedding ring, so he knows exactly how it got there. He just doesn’t know when. Oh, hopefully he hasn’t been oblivious to your handiwork for long. The thought of you thinking he knew about it and just didn’t care was agonizing. He cares, baby! He cares so much you wouldn’t believe.
It makes him giddy. You’ve marked him. What an adorable thing to do.
He was planning to get the ring tattooed onto his finger already, so he wouldn’t lose the real one out in his dangerous life of fighting crime. But even that would be under his gloves, invisible to anyone on the streets of the city. This, however, announced it loud and clear: sorry, but this vigilante is taken.
When he makes it back from the mission that night, he finds you lounging in your shared bedroom. You’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing on your laptop to notice him creeping in yet, so he gets a moment to just admire you. To his delight, he recognizes the fabric that clings to your body as one of his shirts.
You finally realize he’s there, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream,
“Hey Babe, was it a good night?”
“You want to marry me~” he croons.
“We are literally engaged,” you shake your head in fake-exasperation.
“I found your little gift,” he gives you the clue to why he’s got hearts in his eyes.
“Oh,” your smile gets bigger, “that.. I take it you like it?”
He takes your head in his hands, thumbs gently brushing the tops of your cheeks, “it’s perfect,”
He presses a cute little kiss onto your nose. He laughs as you open your eyes and whine about having expected a real kiss. Well, he’ll just have to give you one of those too, then… or maybe a few…
what's a book you read as a teenager that was so magical and personally profound to you it literally changed your life, doesnt matter if the book was actually well written or not. mine's probably the catcher in the rye
Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine. I think I must’ve been 9/10 years old? It’s the first book I remember being swallowed whole by. I was in love with all of it and I would get in trouble for reading it when I was supposed to be asleep. I’d hide it under my pillow and pretend I was passed out under my covers when my parents would come in to catch me.
I bought it again a few years back ‘cause I lost my original copy and it still made me feel the same way, even after so long.
Frakenstein by Mary Shelley, truly one of the best novels i’ve ever read. my annotated copy from high school is my most prized possession, i took it with me to college
and also fueled my fascination for Victorian science and medicine
sparks when skin brushes skin with our sweet stevie boy pls <3
sweet stevie boy. i wanted to try a meet cute here! so, here's running into steve (literally) :) <3 ily!
--
You've never been to this bowling alley before but if the crowd is any indication, it's a good one. Almost every lane is crowded but your friends manage to snag the last one. You walk by groups of kids, teenagers, families, all kinds of people on your way. One lane is louder than the others, the young people there laughing so hard that you smile as you walk by.
A boy with long hair is gesticulating wildly to his friends, bowling ball in hand.
"And then, right when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Principle Higgins sees me in the cereal aisle, cheerios fucking everywhere--"
Right as you're eavesdropping, one of the boys on the bench catches your eyes. He's leaning forward, hands on his knees, hair a mess like he's been running his hands through it. He's got a small smile on his face, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners as he listens to his friend. The kindness doesn't disappear when he sees you listening -- he just shrugs his shoulders a little, as if you're in on the joke.
And then the moment is over. You're ushered into your lane with your friends, and you begin to make a fool of yourself and having fun every second of it. Your eyes wander to the lane you passed, to the boy you looked at for just a second.
Maybe that's why you volunteer to refill the soda pitchers, just to get another look at him. It sounds silly in your head, feels ridiculous to think in this local bowling alley. But what's the harm?
You try not to stare too much as you wait for the nice man at the counter to give you the drinks, but the joy is infectious. The entire lane cheers as a girl with red braids gets a strike. You have to hide a smile in your collar.
"You're all set with these," the man says. You thank him, grab the pitchers and turn around.
And run into a solid mass of boy.
His hands are warm on your bare arms as he steadies you. By some miracle, no soda spill from the pitchers you're carrying.
"Woah," he says. "Didn't think you'd turn around that fast."
You look up from your hands and and into the same warm eyes you saw earlier. It's like everything moves slowly for just a few seconds: you only hear your own breathing, your heartbeat in your ears. And his touch on your skin: like sparks.
"Sorry," you say, coming back to yourself. "Did I get any on you?" He shakes his head and releases you. It feels like a loss.
"Nah." He flexes his hands. "Can I carry one of those for you?" You're about to say no but he keeps going. "Just so you don't run into anyone else." His grin is crooked and how can you refuse that?
"Okay," you say, dragging out the word in hopes that he catches on. He does.
"Steve," he says. "I'm Steve." He gently takes one of the pitches from you and shakes your hand. The sparks return. You tell him your name and he repeats it, softly and slowly in the loud room. "Well," he says. "Lead the way."
Synopsis: If Eddie had to pick between you and the sun, he’d be one nocturnal son of a gun. (If that ain’t love, then he doesn’t know what love is.)
Word count: 2.4K
a/n: Eddie !!!!!!!!!!! that’s all
Eddie remembers the moment perfectly.
The soft glow of your skin, pert smile with airbrushed edges. You were wearing the kind of wispy, gossamer dress that reminded him of Sandy from Grease, all romance; it was delicate, fresh against sickly-sweet humidity, and muted the arcade lights, transformed them pastel.
He remembers blinking several times, stock still and catching flies, remembers the heady scent of your perfume, faint jasmine, hints of cinnamon and heart notes, vanilla. He remembers the sliver of cool electricity when your arm brushed his, the way it travelled through nerve-endings, a trail of fire that melted his heart strings. He remembers feeling uncomfortably warm, even more-so blasé. Like if he doesn’t say something, do something, do anything, he’ll live through a lifetime of regret.
He doesn’t remember why he was there; something Dustin told him about a new high-score on Dragon’s Lair. He doesn’t remember what exactly he said to you; something loud, stupid, intriguing enough to garner your attention.
He remembers your laugh. Smooth and dulcet, almost intoxicating, the same shade as blushing peonies, the kind of sound that blooms flowers. He remembers you gazing up at him, soft smile like you’re trying to kill him, and he remembers you saying, “Why do you say that, stranger?”
A week later, when you’re on your first date together, you’d tell him he’d yelled: “You’re way too pretty to be here.”
You’d whisper it conspiratorially, through the milkshake foam on your shared straw, and he’d lean right in until his face was inches from yours. Your knees would knock static. His mind would short circuit. He’d murmur his response, something about how much he meant it, and you’d find yourself wondering how exactly the two of you had managed it.
This.
The fact that you’re so together it hurts, that gooey sort of love that dots i’s with little red hearts. Where he’s volatile and callous, you’re soft-spoken, tender hearted. And he’s all long hair and edgy piercings, thick rings that kiss goosebumps on your neck, your jaw, your earlobe. You don’t mind that you’re polar opposites. That you prefer your music acoustic, don’t particularly care for fantasy and Sci-fi, that one role-playing game he’s obsessed with. And though he far from minds it himself, something someone said at the last DnD meeting’s been on his mind, eating away at him.
You’re sprawled side by side, hips knocking on dry grass, when he finally bites the bullet and brings it up with you. It’s a particularly soupy afternoon in July, gelatinous heat that only allows for a single point of contact.
It’s your fingers, the way it always is, the cool metal of Eddie’s rings a welcome relief from the heat. Your other hand holds a popsicle, dripping condensation and sticky sweetness as you readjust to face him. The surface of your lips are wet, almost candied. Eddie tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss them. He fails.
“You’re quiet,” you accuse, furrowing your brow thoughtfully. “You’re never quiet. I’m the quiet one.”
Eddie reaches up to brush his thumb over your lips, catching cool lemonade, remnants of your cherry chapstick. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees, replacing his touch with a kiss. It’s a slow, drawn-out pressure, like he’s trying to make this last. “I’m quiet.”
Your nose crinkles against his. “Explain,” you say, drawing back to meet his gaze. His mess of long hair sticks to his cheeks, framing brilliant eyes with pockets of wrinkles, thick eyebrows and strong, masculine features.
“So,” he starts, somewhat tentatively, “the DnD kids were talking about us. Last night. Eddie the freak and the sweetest gal in Hawkins.”
You raise your eyebrows, lips puckered on the curved edge of your popsicle. “Like?” You ask, words muffled by ice crystals.
“Like…” Eddie falters, he frowns, he tries to find a delicate way to put it. He isn’t used to thinking things through. People don’t care about butchered sentences when you’re the outcast that’s doing senior year again (and again, and again, and again).
“…we’re different, not the usual, you get me?” he finishes awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Like, you’re the Chrissy Cunningham type. Should’ve ended up with that Carver kid, maybe someone else like him.”
“Jason?” You echo, making a face, “There’s no way. You think I should be dating a douchebag instead of you?”
“No, no, I don’t think that,” he corrects, turning completely, now, raw edge of his denim vest grazing your bare shoulder. He’s wearing a white singlet underneath it, biceps rippling hot static as they press into your skin. This close, you can count every crease on his forehead. Rough stubble smatters his jaw, the space below his chin, and his Adam’s apple looks biteable, bobbing against the column of his throat.
“The Hellfire guys do,” he adds, eyes widening, almost comically. “Freaks, weirdos, outcasts, whatever you wanna call us. You’re… I mean, to them, you’re like, forbidden fruit or something. For real. They don’t get it. But it got me thinking, you know? Because honestly… I don’t even think I get it.”
“What do you mean?” You ask with a frown.
Eddie raises his eyebrows, a rogue sense of danger colouring his irises. They transform smooth brown to deep ochre, the rich colour of dusk in Autumn. “Well,” he clears his throat loudly, using too-large movements to gesture at you. His hands slice a cool breeze through the air, he catches it in his palms before pressing them into your hip. There’s a dip as he finds the curve of your waist, up to where your shoulder hinges, featherlight touch raising goosebumps. “You’re you,” he continues, as though you should know what he means by that, “and I’m, well…”
He trails off with a devilish grin on his face, lowering his voice to a dull, sombre-sounding pitch. His hand has moved up to the delicate skin of your neck, figure inching closer until his bicep rests over yours. “…I’m a Hooded Cultist, according to the news, a good-for-nothing freak that lives in the shitty old trailer park at the edge of Hawkins. It’s like this: people are trying to forget about me. They’re failing.”
He pauses then, leaning closer still, spicy breath on your cheeks, hot kisses that supersede them. His lips trail fire down the column of your throat, and he’s bergamot and musk, that characteristic, Eddie smell that you love.
“You?” He mutters against your skin, hard, teeth-scraping kisses that tell you he means it, “You’re unforgettable. People obsess over you. I obsess over you.”
“S’all that matters,” you manage to mumble, fingers making a mess in his long hair. You’ve long since discarded of your lemonade popsicle, it drips condensation on the dry grass beside you. “Who cares about what they think? You obsess over me, I obsess over you.”
You can feel Eddie grin against your collarbones. He nips purple bruises along it’s osculate, soothing the raw skin with deliciously wet kisses. “You obsess over me?” He teases, drawing backward with a wild twinkle in his eye.
“Yes,” you decide, matching his smile with one of your own, far softer.
“Can you obsess over me tonight, too?” He asks then, reaching over your shoulder for the forgotten popsicle on the ground. He licks a clean strip along it’s edge, catching several blades of grass, some mud amongst sticky sweetness. Disdain twists your features, and Eddie grins, perplexingly endeared by the unimpressed frown on your lips.
“Gross, stop,” you whine, snatching it out of his grasp and tossing it over your shoulder. He teases a wink before cupping your cheeks, pulling you close to dot butterfly kisses on your skin. “What’s tonight?”
“Hellfire’s going to the movies,” he answers with a tentative grin, pulling away to better survey your features. “Wanna come?”
Your eyes widen, a rush of nerves disturbing your stomach. Eddie’s never invited you out with his friends, before; this feels like a big step, and you aren’t sure you’re ready to face it.
What if you don’t get along with them? What if the lack of common ground is glaringly obvious? What if you aren’t able to fill awkward silences; what if, what if, what if?
“Hey,” Eddie adds then, his voice a barely-there whisper, “they’re going to love you.”
You let out a timid breath, chewing your bottom lip absently. “You just said they don’t get us. That they think we’re too different.”
“They think we’re too different because they know you’re too good for me,” he answers softly, vivid features appearing uncharacteristically gentle, almost subdued. “It’s not you they have a problem with, it’s me.”
“Shut up,” you mumble lamely. “They love you.”
“And they’ll love you. Swear to God, swear to — swear to my God, Kirk Hammett, to the rest of fucking Metallica — swear to them that they’ll love you. They have to.”
—
Eddie spots Dustin first, wreath of curls bobbing wildly as he smacks his hand against an arcade game. The bright, fluorescent lights paint his skin technicolor, gangly-looking Mike scoffing down mouthfuls of popcorn beside him. Other members of the Hellfire Club float close by, pre-occupied by whatever machine is flashy enough to hold their interest.
“There they are,” he announces, nodding toward the group of freaks with a proud, endearing sort of grin. His excitement travels from your entwined fingers to your features, crescent moon smile on your face as you look toward them.
“Okay,” you say with a nod, doing a mental run-through of their names in your head. Short kid with a toothy grin is Dustin; he’s confident and loud, far easier to talk to than his quieter friend Mike. The one in the Hellfire tee is Chris, so the dumpy-looking guy beside him must be Matt. Lucas couldn’t make it, tonight, but he’s a tall, friendly kid that plays varsity basketball at Hawkins.
Eddie guides you past the ticket stand and candy counter, making a beeline for them. “OI!” He yells, entirely too loudly, “Your mighty leader is here, Hellfire!”
Dustin and Mike are first to react, matching grins on their faces as they turn toward you. When they register your figure beside Eddie’s, a flicker of surprise transforms their features; it’s fleeting, but it’s there all the same, and it’s enough for your hold on his hand to tighten. The kneading pressure is returned immediately. Eddie pulls you close, brushing a chaste kiss on your temple.
“Oh shit, uh, hey,” Dustin says quickly, eager to regain his composure, “you’re —”
“— my girl,” Eddie finishes confidently, sending you a heart-squeezing smile. “Babe, this is Dustin and Mike.”
You nod gently, soft features juxtaposing his vivid sense of ardency. “Right, yes. Dustin and Mike. It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Oh — yeah, yes —” Mike’s tripping over his words. You aren’t sure why. “You too,” he finishes with a wince, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
The rest of the introductions are similarly clumsy, though Eddie’s comforting touch is enough to render this detail insignificant. His chest presses heat into your back as he holds you against him, long hair tickling your ears, fingers firm on your waist. He keeps you achingly close as the group migrates toward the theatre, kisses chaste on your temple, less so on your cheek.
It’s once you settle into your seats that Dustin finally breaks the silence.
“I still don’t get it,” he announces matter-of-factly, fixing you a solemn look. “But at the same time, I do get it. Get it?”
He tears open a packet of sour patch kids then, angling it toward your figure with a toothy grin on his face. “Anyway. Candy?”
Beside you, Eddie leans forward, eyeing Dustin warily. “Henderson. Behave.”
Dustin rolls his eyes in response, shooting Eddie a pointed glare before shifting his attention back toward you. He shakes the bag of candy expectantly. “Here. I insist.”
You bite back an endeared smile, reaching into it to fish for the purple and green flavours only. Sweet, tangy sugar coats the tips of your fingers; you plop the candy into your mouth, voice muffled by it’s thick, gelatinous consistency. “What do you get?” You ask.
“You guys,” Dustin answers, gesticulating between you and Eddie. “That whole opposites attract thing, definitely legit. Used to think it was total bogus, I mean — c’mon, when Eddster told us he was taking you out, we were sure it was part of some elaborate prank —”
He falters then, disarmed by the daggers Eddie’s shooting him over your shoulder. “— uh, I just mean,” he corrects, wincing sheepishly, “that you seem like the kinda girl who’d go for someone like Steve Harrington. You know Steve, right? Total popular kid turned lame-o that works at Family Video? Actually, he’s been on the hunt for a girl—”
“Dustin,” Eddie interrupts through gritted teeth, well-aware of whether this conversation is going. “Your point, buddy?”
“Right, right, my point,” Dustin says with a nod, plopping a handful of sour patch kids in his mouth. “You and Eddie, I mean, it works.”
He pauses then, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “You should come out with us more often. To these Hellfire Club shindigs, I mean.”
Mike Wheeler, expertly hidden behind Dustin’s shoulder, picks this moment to add, “Definitely,” with an eager grin on his face, and then, “it’ll give us some street cred, having a hot chic with us.”
The words appear to leave his mouth of their own accord, because his eyes widen as soon as he finishes saying them, darting behind your shoulder to an unimpressed-looking Eddie.
“Oi,” he says with a frown, though it’s not due to what Mike thinks it is. “We don’t need street cred, Wheeler. We’re freaks, and we’re proud.”
He turns to his left, where the rest of the Club sit, and then back toward Mike, a fiery twinkle flickering over his irises. “Isn’t that right?”
“Hell yeah,” Dustin says with a grin, the rest of the members murmuring their agreement.
“Hell yeah’s right,” Eddie agrees, nodding his approval before settling into his seat. The old theatre is dimly lit, but his confidence glows bright, almost fluorescent against the pale, yellow torches.
You admire him for a moment. Another, one more until it sticks.
You say, “Hell yeah,” too, and lean in close to dot a soft kiss on his cheek. It burns before it ebbs, an ardent sort of implacable that’s sure to leave an imprint of your love on his skin.
Forever.
And Eddie adds this memory to his growing repertoire. He thinks, I’ll remember this moment as perfectly as the last.
5.6k words of Rooster being your super pretend boyfriend! A few swears, but it’s the Navy, goddammit! The fluffiness should make up for it.
“I don’t see why you just don’t take Rooster,” Natasha muttered, nodding in his direction next to Payback at the bar, both animated, arms describing manoeuvres like excited little boys. “You guys are friends, he likes food, he obviously likes beer. Probably likes ‘em if they’re free too,” she shrugged as if it was the simplest thing going around.
“Why would Rooster be remotely bothered to be my plus one to a wedding where he doesn’t know anyone?”
“You’d be there, you said your sister and her husband are going too. There are three people he knows,” she said simply. “He’s single and an easy lay. Could be the perfect twofer for you.”
congrats on 24k babe!! it’s a huge milestone and you should be so full of urself rn. your blurbs and fics are so raw and realistic it’s amazing. and dialogues? gladly :)
maybe a soft morning with dad!eddie and his s/o getting baby ready for the day?
have an amazing day!! <33
thank you very much!!! i made this fem!reader, i hope that's okay!!
The baby is unusually subdued this morning. Eddie has her in his lap as you sort through her clothes. You hold up a pink dress with white knitted tights. "These ones?" you ask him.
Eddie adjusts his hands very carefully, always so careful with her even eight months down the line. "Babe, you know what I'm gonna say."
You bite back a smile. "Just 'cos you think I'm good-"
"Great," he interrupts.
"-at dressing her doesn't mean I don't want your input."
You shift where you're kneeling on the floor in front of the bottom drawer of your dresser, hands sifting through baby clothes. "Why don't you choose?" you ask him.
He rubs the side of his face into the dark short sleeve of his t-shirt self-consciously. "I don't want her to look stupid."
"She won't." You look over the small range of dresses and shirts. You smile at the black dress at the bottom of the drawer and hold it out with the pink one. "Which one?"
"This feels like a trick question."
"Which one do you like best?" you ask him gently.
He's tentative. "The black one," he answers, squeezing the baby's hand in his. She makes a soft sound, neither happy or sad, just a sound.
He peers down at her, leaning away so her head has room to drop back. Their eyes meet and she beams.
"Do you want to dress her?" you ask. She's always well-behaved for him. You wish you could resent him for it.
"Yeah, I'll do it. Why don't you go shower, sweetheart?"
You climb up off of your aching knees and put her fresh bodysuit, dress and tights on the mattress beside him. He lifts his chin expectantly and you take his face into your hands to fend the dark curls off his cheeks. "Love you," you say.
"I love you," he says. When he smiles his single dimple appears. You press your thumb against it and lean down for a quick kiss.
When you return he's managed to dress the baby and dress himself, the two of them stretched out on top of the now made bed, chest to chest. You'd hate how easy it is for him if he wasn't such a doting partner and father, if his face didn't light up entirely every time you walk into a room like it does now.
"Do I get to choose your clothes, too?" he asks.
You smile, surprised. "You want to?"
"Yeah, I'd love to. Me and trouble have been discussing outfits."
"Mm, you sounded like you were deep in conversation," you say wryly.
Despite your sarcasm you're happy for him to dress you, and can't hold in your pleasure when he suits you up in tights and a simple thigh length dress, black as the baby's with a neckline just low enough to clearly display your necklace, a silver chain weighed down by the ring he'd given you on your fourth date. All because you'd said you liked it. He'd pulled it right off of his hand and let you have it then and there.
When you're dressed he hands you the baby. You tuck her into your chest and smile at him, perplexed as he pulls open the nightstand and unveils his camera.
"Gotta get a pic of my girls in their pretty dresses," he explains.
You hide your face in her hair. He protests loudly, nagging until you lift your head and pose for the picture. The flash clicks. "There. Perfect," he says.
"You haven't even seen the photo yet."
"Don't need to."
You huff a baby hair out of your face with a rueful roll of your eyes. He's ridiculously sweet.
The water is too hot when you splash it against your cheeks.
"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"
You reach out and turn the tap further to the cool side, scalding hot droplets dripping from your lips with every word you speak.
Beside you at the sink, Atsumu turns to look at you with his toothbrush hanging from his mouth. The corner of his lips curve up, foamy toothpaste clinging to the crease where his upper and lower lip (the latter slightly fuller than the former) meet.
"D'ya mean the fuckin'? Or...?"
You scrunch up your wet nose, bumping your hip against his.
"I'm only kiddin'," Atsumu laughs, craning in front of you to spit into the single sink in your bathroom.
Part of you wonders why he didn't wait to brush his teeth until you were finished cleaning yourself up, but another more selfish part of you enjoys having to share too little space between the two of you. Revelling in the forced proximity; basking in the heat that radiates from his bare skin and into yours as he brushes past you to pop his toothbrush back into his toiletry bag--the one that's found a home for itself on the edge of your bathroom counter over the past two and a half weeks.
"It was nice," he goes on to say, using the hand towel hanging from the rack on the wall to wipe at his mouth, leaving a little mint-coloured stain on the edge of the blue towel. "I'm glad I got to see everyone. Missed hangin' out with the old Inarizaki crew."
You splash another cupped handful of water onto your face.
They'd missed Atsumu, too. That much was obvious in the way that he'd commanded the attention of everyone in the little neighbourhood izakaya where you and so many of your former high school classmates--the one's that'd stuck around Hyogo all these years--had gathered earlier that evening for an informal reunion of sorts.
"Made me feel old as shit, though."
You laugh, breathy and bodiless, reaching for the towel hanging on the back of your bathroom door to dab at your face and wick away the water still clinging to your skin.
"You're not old," you chide, reaching for a tube of eye cream that rests on the shelf above your toilet. "Kita-san would be offended if he heard you say that."
"We're all old. I forget sometimes how long it's been since we all graduated, 'n then I see everyone again and hear about what they're all up to. Feels weird, s'all, bein' grownups or whatever."
Atsumu shuffles past you and back out to your bedroom, a hand on the small of your back as he squeezes by.
You finish your skincare routine alone.
Atsumu's already crawled under the covers of your bed by the time you eventually follow him, flicking off the light in your washroom as you step through the door. He's on his back, his phone held up over his face, casting a blue-green glow across his impossibly handsome features as he scrolls.
You tuck yourself under the covers beside him.
"Omimi's wife is pretty."
Atsumu doesn't look at you when he says it. Probably doesn't even think much of the comment at all. Your eyes flicker over to where he rests beside you, and see he's on Instagram, scrolling through a photoset that someone had posted from the bar earlier.
Atsumu had missed Omimi's wedding because of an away game, but you'd been there. Had met her on more than one occasion in the past few years since they'd started dating. It was Atsumu's first time meeting his former senpai's new wife that night.
"She is," you agree, because it's objectively true--even if you don't like the bitterness the words leave in your mouth, clashing with the minty aftertaste of your toothpaste. It's not a contest, you try to tell yourself instead.
You roll onto your side, pulling your knees up towards your chest as you watch him continue his scroll. He double taps the photoset before he navigates away.
After a few moments of tracing Atsumu's profile, he finally looks at you.
"What?" he asks, laughing a bit when he sees how intently you're looking at him.
"Nothing," you assure him--quickly but not too quickly, lighthearted but believable. He snorts and reaches over to rest a hand on your bare knee under the blanket, squeezing lightly while the other continues to scroll.
"Bokkun just texted me, said he ran into Shoyo-kun in Tokyo today. They're both heading back to Osaka next week, did I tell ya?"
Your heart seizes in your chest.
Your force the panic from your voice as you reply: "Next week? Isn't that early?"
10 days early, not that you're counting. Not that you've been keeping careful track of the exact day that the MSBY boys are due back in Osaka after their month of vacation. Not that you've been dreading the thirty first of August since the day Atsumu came home.
"Not really, Shoyo's movin' into his new place. Bo's goin' to help. Told 'em if they needed an extra set of hands I could come back a couple days early and--"
Your pulse pounding in your ears makes you miss the end of his sentence.
Atsumu takes his warm hand off your knee, and rolls over to plug his cellphone into the charger on his side of your bed. Once you hear the little chime that signifies the device is drawing power, he turns over and faces you.
It's quiet for a moment.
Atsumu reaches up and skims his thumb underneath your eye.
"Ya look tired."
He's right. You know he is because you feel tired. Weary. Bone-deep exhaustion running through you.
"I'm fine," you say with a gentle smile, leaning into his touch just as he pulls away.
"We had a good month, huh?" he remarks as he turns over to lay on his back.
The month isn't over yet, you desperately want to say. There are still 13 days left before you'll have to turn the page on the calendar affixed to the wall above your coffee machine. 13 days before the bag of toiletries won't be on your bathroom counter anymore. 13 days until this--whatever this has even been--has to end.
Atsumu doesn't do distance, doesn't want it, no matter how willing to make it work you are. No, instead he gives you August, and you take it because a month of him is better than a year without.
"Yeah," you say quietly, swallowing over the lump in your throat, "we did."
Tomorrow you'll wake up and there will be 12 days, and you'll still be tired, because tonight you'll lay awake and count the minutes that you're losing while Atsumu lays beside you in your bed and sleeps.
may i request and eddie munson blurb where reader is the class president or sumn and eddie being absolutely smitten for her🙈 idk i just like the idea of him being the no. 1 supporter of his girlboss gf
Oooh, Naylo, you are so right! He'd be so in love tbh
[Light anxiety, possibly ooc Eddie, tooth rotting fluff, also I imagine Eddie is like 6 foot five- hope this helps]
M'Lady
As class president, it was your duty to represent the entirety of the senior student body. It was also your duty to help encourage and inspire all students. It was your kind and caring heart that stole the vote; much to a certain jock's dismay. So at Hawkins high school's class of 1986 senior pep rally it was required that you give a speech or at least a comment.
Currently you were pacing back and forth outside the gym doors and trying to think of the perfect words to say. It wasn't like you'd graduated high school before and knew what happened after. In a way, it was scary not knowing what to expect after so many routine years of school, summer, school, etc.
"M'lady?..." His voice was behind you, teasingly singsonging that ridiculous nickname he insisted upon after you won the election," You'll wear a hole into the floor if you keep pacing like this."
"I hope so," You murmur and turn around to face Eddie, "Maybe then I won't have to speak in front of everyone."
Eddie obviously tries not to laugh, really he does, but a chuckle escapes him as he tenderly tugs you into a hug. His arms weave themselves around your waist, and you relax in his hold, resting your head against his chest as he sways you the slightest bit.
"You've never been scared to speak your mind before, what's the difference now, princess?" Eddie was lovingly concerned, which was evident as his chest quietly rumbles with the question, and if you were any further from him you wouldn't have heard it. Eddie carefully leans his cheek against your head, as his ring clad fingers trail up and down your spine. The gesture was so soothing, so you can't help but melt even deeper into his chest.
"I don't know what to tell them, I mean, everyone. I don't know." You sigh, fingers fidgeting with a pin on his lapel. It was still new, still a nice shiny gold color except for the bold red letters of 'Zelda'.
"Sweet girl," Eddies hums, leaning back and turning his head to affectionately kiss the crown of your head," You're over thinking this. Just say what you want to hear, and all that other encouraging bullshit."
"Wow, you have such a way with words, Munson." You huff out a laugh, and snake your arms around his neck, tilting your head back to look up at him. Eddie's smirk was cheeky, his dimples curving lines into his cheeks, as he looks down at you.
"Mhm, I know," Eddie shifts on his feet, leaning into you as he presses his forehead against yours," You look so hot today."
You roll your eyes fondly while he chuckles then dips his head down to kiss you. Eddie's lips were soft as usual, moving gently but purposefully against your own, as his strong hands grip your hips. However, Eddie started doing that thing where his thumbs massaged little circles into your hipbones. You hum into his mouth and he starts grinning again, pulling you impossibly closer to himself.
"I can't kiss you when you smile like that."
"Says the one moaning in the hallway." Eddie exaggerates a little too loudly, and his grin grows cocky as you lightly shove at his shoulders.
"You're the one grinding on me, freak." You tease him back, but his cocky grin doesn't go anywhere.
"You love me." Eddie insists as his nose brushes against yours, and his doe brown eyes now give you love sick puppy dog eyes.
"I do." You giggle at him, and move to kiss the half-hearted pout off his lips before trying to pull away so you can give your little speech to all the seniors.
Shy reader and Steve and reader is needy and wants affection but she doesn’t want to tell Steve. Idk if that makes sense but it would be full of tooth rotting fluff. I love you and you work bby💗
I love you! steve kisses 😭😭😭😭 ♡ shy!fem!reader | 1k words
"What's that look mean?" he asks eventually.
You lift your head out of your hand and shake your head. "What look?"
Steve pushes himself across the couch and raises his hand to your face. You aren't expecting it and you grow still despite how careful he is with you, his palm hot to your jaw and his index finger drawing a line, tugging up your lips.
"Smile," he mutters lightly. You do as he asks. His fingertip moves from the corner of your mouth to the well under your eye. "Hey, thanks. That's a really nice one."
He's not messing with you so much as being his usual frenetic self when you're alone. It's like all the frustration he carries with him dissolves – it dissolves you, the idea that he feels good enough when you're around to let himself really, truly relax.
"You looked mad," he says.
You blink. "I wasn't," you defend yourself quickly.
"No, I know you weren't. Don't know what was actually wrong, though. Care to enlighten me?"
Your eyes shutter closed as his finger graces the skin closest to your eye, your lashes ruffled by his movement. "Nothing."
And it is now. He's touching you. That's what you'd wanted.
It ends too quickly. His finger stops it's stroking path and his hand falls from your face. "Okay, good."
He stays by your side but you're not touching, not enough, the heat of his thigh to yours and nothing else almost mocking you. He slides his arm across the back of the couch.
It makes you sad in a strange way, worrying if there's a reason he chose to lean on the couch instead of you. It can't have been ten seconds of this when Steve is sighing dejectedly.
"There it is again! What's eating you, pretty girl? You can tell me."
You want to tell him. The words feel weird to say, is the problem. It's not that you think he'd say no to giving you some affection or that you expect him to know what you want, just that you worry you'll embarrass yourself by asking. You open your mouth and get stuck.
"Tell me," he whispers pleadingly, smiling. "Tell me, or I'm gonna annoy it out of you."
"Nothing is eating me," you say.
"Liar."
Steve drops his arm around your shoulders and tugs you close, his face suddenly nearing yours. "Tell me," he says, dipping down to your neck, "what's wrong." He kisses your throat and climbs right back up. "Please?"
His hair is out of place. You know you're more than allowed to make first moves and touch him the way he touches you and still the action of bringing your hand to his face is nerve-wracking, maybe because he's so close and staring at you with this intense, mischievous look. You tuck his hair behind his ear.
"It's nothing worth worrying about," you say.
He brings both hands to the slopes of your shoulders. With one hand he strokes a line up your neck, finger knocking together gently under your jaw. "Who says I'm gonna worry? And I'll decide what it's worth," he says, pouting.
"It's- it… doesn't matter," and again, it doesn't because you're getting what you wanted: his attention, his hands on your skin.
He wraps his arms around your neck until they're crossed and dives in, lip pressed to your neck as he starts to murmur, "Tell me. Tell me tell me tell me tell me," so fast it tickles.
You laugh at the feeling. He's half on top of you now, smushing his face into your neck and his chest to your chest.
"I'm gonna blow raspberries on your neck if you don't tell me," he says seriously.
"I just wanted this," you admit quietly.
He's silent for a second. "What, you wanted a hug?" he asks, sounding underwhelmed.
"Anything. Just," you close your eyes and tighten your arms where they wrap around his waist, "to be next to you."
"Why would you say that?" he asks, sounding so genuinely heartbroken that an apology comes instinctively.
"I'm so-"
"How do I top that? That's so romantic, I'm a little nauseous." He rubs the tip of his nose against the side of your face and you open your eyes hesitantly, find him looking at you with a steadying affection.
"Baby," he says. "Baby."
Your eyebrows pinch up at the starts. "What?"
"You know you can always ask if you want something," he says. He kisses you before you can answer, a firm, stern kiss, like he's trying to remind you.
You move back under his touch, lips parting ever so slightly. He responds happily, pushing kiss after kiss into your mouth until your lips tingle.
His hand has spread protectively over your shoulder and holds you tight.
He pulls away from the kiss and drops his nose into your cheek. "You can ask me for anything you want. You don't even need to ask. You should just take it."
You think about it, chest rising and falling against his. They share a similar rhythm. Rise, fall, rise. He's almost as breathless as you.
You turn your face under his slowly. Incrementally, long seconds of his skin sliding over yours until your nose touches his. You're tentative as you tap the tip of yours under his. He lifts his head.
"Go on," he says encouragingly, warming your lips.
You covet the slice of naked skin where his shirt has ridden up and trail your fingertips against it lightly.
He makes a small sound, taking your face into both hands as you hug him, both of you trying to pull the other impossibly closer.
When you finally kiss him, you catch his quiver in your mouth.
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader/Popular! Reader (She/Her)
Warnings: swearing
Synopsis: Eddie cashes in his I.O.U
Y/N notes: shorter than Eddie
Did I base Y/N’s friends off of my shitty friend group in High school? Yes. Yes I did.
A lot of you guys wanted this so I hope you like it! There won’t be another part after this, I think I managed to end it on a good note:)
summary: steve’s beauty marks have been occupying your mind all day, and you’re fighting the urge to tell him that
warnings: none!
an: poorly written at 3 am and absolutely not proofread. saw a tiktok trend about beauty marks being the kisses from a past life and i immediately thought of steve, and here we are.
♱
Sometimes loving Steve Harrington ached. In your heart, sure, you constantly felt like a swarm of butterflies were trying their best to beat their way through your ribs and sternum. But also in a way that made your whole body thrum. Kind of like when you jumped off a diving board for the first time when you were a kid. Where your body is all tense and you’re scared breathless but that just makes it all the more exciting.
Sometimes you love Steve Harrington so wholly and thoroughly that it all bottles up and shakes around until you feel like you’re going to burst with it.
Like right now. You’ve been pretending to watch the screen of the tv in Steve’s room for the better half of an hour. Not that the sleazy low-budget horror movie wasn’t entertaining, the worse they were the better in your opinion, but it offered little distraction to the thought that had occupied your mind since that morning.
You stole a glance once at him once more. The moody hues of the screen highlighting his skin with a blue cast.
“You’re not even paying attention.” he mumbles.
You startle a bit and throw your eyes back to the screen, more than embarrassed that you had been caught so lost in thought.
“Sorry, just in my head a bit.”
He turns to you now, brows furrowed and just a tad over concerned. “You okay, pretty girl?” he asks you in a soft timbre, and it only makes the butterflies flutter harder.
You give a shy peek back. Now that he’s looking at you half his face is tinted with a blue iridescent glow. So bright it’s almost white at the tops of his cheekbones. He looks so pretty like this, with his big brown eyes gazing so softly with all his attention. You want to run your fingers through his hair and kiss him silly. He could ask for anything right now and you’d give it to him. Any wish or want, and even still it wouldn’t be enough for what your beautiful boy deserves.
Your recurring thought pounds at the forefront of your mind. Presses down until you can feel it bubbling at your throat demanding to be spoken.
“I read today in a magazine that where you have beauty marks is where you were kissed the most in the past life.”
Now he really furrows at that. Head cocked to the side and very obviously confused but fighting down a grin nonetheless.
“huh?”
“Like the moles on your body. That’s where you were kissed the most in your past life.” You try to explain.
It was silly when you thought too hard about it, but you read the article in some teeny bopper magazine over breakfast and hadn’t been able to push it away since. Your boy was covered in dozens beauty marks. All over his face, neck, chest, everywhere. He was obviously so, so loved in his previous life.
The idea made you tear up. Made you fill up with that familiar ache and it settled deep in your bones. Every now and then it would resurface like waves, and you’d have to stop and settle the tide, unsure if you could bottle this one up.
And you couldn’t. Steve stared at you both a little baffled and thoroughly amused, unable to force back the grin he had been fighting.
Without thinking you leaned over and left a soft kiss in the middle of his cheek. You pulled away with the sound of your blood thundering in your ears.
“Sorry, this one is just my favorite. I want to make sure you get it again.”
When your eyes open, Suna is practically nose to nose with you.
"Did you know you talk in your sleep?"
You flinch away instinctively, your brain belatedly processing the fact that someone is so close to you so unexpectedly, shaking the grogginess of slumber with a dose of epinephrine.
"What the hell, Rintarou!" your voice is croaky and annoyed, pushing your boyfriend away from you weakly in the bed the two of you share.
He settles back into his side, watching as you rub at your bleary eyes and push yourself upright to peer over at the alarm clock on the bedside table closest to him.
"Why are you awake at 2am?" you ask him, frustrated and curious all at once.
"I was watching soap cutting videos," he replies simply, holding up his cellphone where--lo and behold--a disembodied hand is making quick work of slicing bars of soap into impossibly tiny cubes on the screen. He has an airpod in one ear, visible because he has a hairband holding his dark hair back from his face, explaining why the video is playing without sound.
You blink at him, mind still hazy and syrupy slow from sleep. He watches your face even as the video on his phone plays on.
"You were talking about ice cream."
"What?" you ask him, confused.
"In your sleep,"--he nods towards your pillow as if to remind you of what you'd been doing before he'd so unceremoniously woken you up--"you were talking about ice cream."
"You woke me up...at two in the morning...to tell me that I was talking about ice cream in my sleep?"
Suna lifts his hands, as if to signify innocence. "I didn't do anything. I was just trying to hear what you were talking about. And what you were talking about was ice cream."
You groan, flopping back in bed.
"Go back to your stupid little videos, soap boy, and leave me to sleep like a normal person."
Suna snorts, but doesn't offer any further argument, letting you settle in on your side with your back to him once more.
It's quiet for a while, and you let your eyes flutter open after a few useless minutes of trying to fall asleep. You watch the way the dim light coming from the screen of Suna's phone paints the dark bedroom in muted, cool tone washes of colour from over your shoulder. It's not bright enough to be annoying, or keep you from sleeping, but you find yourself focused on it nonetheless.
You roll over, and Suna's sharp eyes turn to you--his face illuminated in a soft glow from his phone held in his hand.
"Why aren't you sleeping, normal person?" he asks.
You pout, and he lifts his arm wordlessly so you can wiggle closer under the blankets and curl up against his side, throwing one of your legs over his thigh.
You huff a little as you bury your face into his hoodie, his hand (not holding his phone) slipping down and smoothing along your spine.
"What's wrong?" he asks you.
You pick your face up to fix him with a weak glare.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," he says quietly, eyes scanning your face.
You purse your lips. "S'not that."
His brow quirks.
You sigh, letting your forehead flop forward against his chest, mumbling something lost to incoherency in the soft material of his sweatshirt.
"I don't speak whatever language that was," he says with a chuckle.
You pick your face up once more, a look of indignation tugging down at the corners of your mouth. "Now I want ice cream."
Suna laughs, tilting his head back into the pillows as his body shakes.
"Like right now?" he asks through his mirth.
You nod.
"Can I finish this video first?" He holds up the phone to where his latest soap chopping video is paused.
You mull it over.
"Yeah, but take your airpods out so I can hear it too," you concede, nestling down against him so you have a good view of the screen. "And you're buying."
"Yeah, yeah," Suna says, humming placatingly. He rests his hand atop your head as he hits play on the video once more and the scraping sound of a knife slicing through oil and alkali plays through the room. "Whatever you want, babe."
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
