#Deserves all the honey!

[muppenthings]

So, yea! Here's my floof oc!!

I'm not real good at animal anatomy sorry

Aaaah they're so precious!! So much floof and curls! 💜

Love how they're hanging out of the flower! Something very interesting must be inside! :D

[stevebabey]

not if it’s you.

word count: 7k summary: After the events at Starcourt Mall, you have a hard time convincing Steve that he’s allowed to be not okay. You want to take care of him. And if you harbour some more-than-friends feelings at the same time? Well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. [angst + hurt/comfort + friends to lovers]

You’re bone-deep tired.

The red and blue lights of the ambulance feel branded onto the inside of your eyelids, there even when your tired eyes slide shut. The cool metal on the ambulance door soothes your forehead and for a moment, head tilted against it, you could honestly just sleep even with all the noise.

It’s been a hell of a night.

You blink. You need to keep yourself awake, you’re not home yet. Gazing blankly across the crowded parking lot, reporters and townspeople milling between the yellow police tape, you can feel your brain begin to try to grapple with all the events of the night.

It’s like some warped horror flick of memories, parts of the film blacked out that you can’t quite recall. The elevator, the Russians, and some god-awful melted monster of people — even in your mind the image makes you shudder.

The longer you think about it, the more it feels like the stress is fusing with your bones, attaching itself to every cell in your body. It makes you shake, a forceful twitch of your head to put all the thoughts to rest.

Process it later. Make sure you can stay stitched together physically tonight. You must look a tad loony from the outside, twitching and shaking, but considering your night it’s more than warranted.

The gash on your arm is the worst of your injuries. A jagged stretch of torn skin that was gifted by one of the Russian soldiers who had hoped it would loosen your tongue. And when that didn’t work, the pliers nearly had — you would’ve told them anything when they took them out and lined it up with one of your fingernails.

But Steve then had done something stupid — kicked to get a guard’s attention since his yelling obviously hadn’t made a difference, let one of them lean down real close, and then headbutted him with all his might.

Relief had shocked your system, some broken cry as you slumped over when the pliers moved away. Fingers saved, if only briefly.

It had all turned to dread when they had lugged him out of his chair, preparing for round two of questioning. You had felt it then, a twisted gurgle of emotion lurched up your throat — violent enough it might have made you sick if you had managed to open your mouth. You hadn’t. There was a chance you would’ve said something worse, some jumble of feelings that wouldn’t have helped.

So, you had bit your tongue. Tasted blood and pretended that closing your eyes meant you couldn’t hear Steve pleading in the room over.

He hasn’t said much since the two of you had been sat in the back of the ambulance, gloved hands of the paramedics roaming over skin to find and treat injuries. There’s just one guy left now, still hovering around Steve with a flashlight and treating him with much less care than you’d like.

Steve looks as tired as you feel and when he can’t focus enough to look ahead, the paramedic prods his cheek unkindly. Steve winces.

“Hey,” you snip, cutting into the interaction. “Are you done? Can we go home?”

The paramedic turns the flashlight on you, blinding you for a moment. It confirms your asshole hypothesis of his character and you cringe at the brightness. It’s gone in the next moment, finally clicked off. He observes you both for another moment before an annoyed drawl comes out.

“Yeah, scram. But first you,” He jabs a finger at Steve who blinks but doesn’t react. “Lots of rest. No big brain work, no alcohol, and don’t run any marathons or anything.”

Steve nods, then grimaces at the pain the movement causes. You can’t help the wrinkle in your brow as you watch - you startle a bit when the paramedic turns his pointed finger on you.

“And you. His pupils are still dilated so keep an eye for seizure symptoms. Wake him every couple of hours and get a CT scan tomorrow.”

Some part of you is perturbed that he’s put you in charge of taking care of Steve. Another part gleans and blushes because you’d accepted the task the moment he’d asked, without question.

“Tomorrow?” You ask hotly, at the same time Steve says, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

The paramedic shakes his head, tsking as if you’re bothersome school-children not patients, and steps back with his hands raised. “Figure it out, I don’t care. I’ve got a dozen other people to check over.”

He winds around the door of the ambulance and leaves the both of you alone. A cool wind skirts through the parking lot, ruffling your hair. A sigh wrestles out your chest, a pathetic attempt to alleviate the tightness in your chest.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated the colours blue and red more than right now. The blazing colours atop police cars that flood the parking lot, the colours of Steve’s Scoops uniform, the colour of blood seeping into your pale blue shirt.

If you squint, you can see your own car parked alongside Steve’s in the distance — it feels like a lifetime ago when you had driven in and parked up. Your keys are lost down, down below you, taken in the interrogation. You stand to shake off that train of thought. 

You turn back and offer your hand out to Steve. After all the blows he’s taken tonight, you desperately want to offer him kindness. Offer him a touch that doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him flinch or wince. Steve stares at your hand for a long moment, eyes contemplating — and then puts his in yours.

He lets you pull him to his feet.

One of the police cruisers takes you to Loch Nora, Steve and you tucked away in the backseat. His hand is still in yours, barely holding it in his tiredness; when the car rounds a corner though, you can feel his fingers clench tighter so your hand doesn’t slip away.

They detach eventually when the wheels roll up on the curb outside Steve’s house, late in the night. Like the rest of the sleeping houses, the lights are all off. There are no cars in the driveway. The loneliness of it yawns out down the drive, like visible smoke plumes that escape every window.

Steve somehow looks tenser at seeing it; he still forces himself out of the car, bloody sneakers scraping against the gravel. You follow. It aches to move too much, even just shuffling out of the car feels like moving a mountain. The door clips closed quietly behind you. You hear the engine fade back down the road.

Steve is still stuck in place — you have a feeling he’s not looking at the house at all but stuck in thought, looking through the timber and paint and seeing all the horrors of the night. You step up beside him and gingerly reattach your hands.

It seems to surprise him, jumping ever so slightly at the touch and turning to look at you. “I didn’t...”

I didn’t think you’d stay. The sentence dies in his throat, a little embarrassed by how relieved he is that you’ve stayed with him - so much it shows in the quiver in his voice. Steve doesn’t finish it because then you’ll hear the other part of the sentence, even without him saying it. No one stays.

“C’mon,” you urge him to walk with you, beginning to drift up the driveway.

There’s no rush, you’ll wait as long as he needs to before moving, but it’s colder out tonight. Maybe it just feels that way with all your tiredness, the frostiness nipping at your skin. All your energy is focused on staying on your feet, on helping Steve. There’s none left to keep you warm.

He ambles after you like walking is an afterthought and following you is the priority. His sneakers drag, soft scraping noises with every step. You can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head, his fingers squeezing as if he’s checking you’re really still here with him.

The front door is unlocked and it’s only when it snicks shut behind you, do you wonder if you’ve overstepped. It’s awkward, but only a bit. You’ve been in Steve’s house before — though, who hadn’t with all his parties in sophomore year?

But not quite like this. Not just the two of you, and never holding his hand.

The events that had transpired last fall in Hawkins had thrown Steve into your life, along with a dizzying revelation of new dimensions and an unsettling truth about monsters that came right out of your nightmares.

Though, maybe it made more sense to say you were thrown into Steve’s life. You had always known of him - he couldn’t say the same about you.

Like the hoards, freshmen you had not been immune to the boyishly good looks and charismatic nature of Steve Harrington. Once upon a time, before someone called him King Steve and it stuck, there had been a crush.

But like red wine on white linen, with time — and plenty of distance — it had faded.

Not even the adventure that bound you two together, the tunnels that snaked beneath Hawkins and your shaky hands lugging him into the car, had been enough to reignite old affections. Not his insistence on you leaving the tunnels first, not even the way he clutched you when you all made it out. Not unscathed, but alive.

Pitifully, it had been his shoddy attempts at flirting in his ridiculous sailor uniform to kick-start your heart back up.

You had sighed, chin in hand, and leaned into the foolish feelings — because going crazy over a boy felt the most normal thing you could do. And after demodogs and slithering vines kept creeping from the past into your slumbers, normal was all you wanted.

But Steve needed you as a friend, more so considering his fallout with Tommy H and Carol had become permanent. He flirted with customers, every girl you’d recognised from your year, but never you.

It felt a good enough reason to bite your tongue. Keep him close, but never as close as you’d like.

But now you’ve done it again — been pulled along on another adventure that’s brimming with terrors that will take years to forget.

Everything feels worse this time round, a decay that ebbs away your hope. It’s somehow harder to heal from wounds that come from evil, but not the supernatural. It’s all the heavier when the boy who holds your heart made himself a punching bag so you didn’t get hurt. 

The warmth of his hand, squeezing for only a moment, brings you back to the present. To now, still standing in the entryway to Steve’s house. You blink, coming back to yourself, and turn back to him. There’s a crinkle between his brow, and worry washed across his features.

“Are you okay?” He asks it tentatively like he’s afraid to spook you. It sends a rush to your system, a pleasant throb in your chest. You can’t deny you like knowing he worries. That he cares.

“Yeah,” you croak out, nodding as you speak. “Do you— I mean, you don’t mind me staying, do you?” 

Suddenly, the potential embarrassment of inviting yourself in, even with the good intentions of taking care of Steve, is overwhelming. The next words tumble out without thought.

“I just, I don’t want to be alone right now.” It’s a bit hurried, tinged with nervousness. You stammer. “And I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

Something like pure affection blooms in Steve’s chest at your words, the heat of it stealing his breath and pain for just a moment. It’s a different sort of ache in between his ribs, something white-hot and pure.

He hadn’t been able to voice his relief when you’d gotten out of the car and stayed with him — and it fails him now at your admittance.

You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want him to be alone.

Steve doesn’t think he’s deserving of your good will, nor the kindness in every touch. He can’t help how he consumes it greedily, drinks in the touches like he knows it’ll be taken from him soon enough. His eyes stay fixed on you.

There’s something so alluring about your silhouette, the golden street light let in through slits in the door. It halos you, soft amber that softens every curve. You’re enchanting, even when bloodied.

Steve’s not sure his heart has felt like this before — so molten hot, valves working overtime, ribbons of affection tied tight across his chest. He’s sure they’ll leave scorch marks, testimonies to his bleeding heart that pulses with each beat for you, for you, for you.

Because you’re still here and something in his trodden on heart perks up before he remembers to crush it. It’s not that Steve has never thought of you as more — god, the mere thought of you as more to him.

More than a friend, more than this, it’s enough to make his head spin. To make his hands shake and return a nervousness to his system he hasn’t felt since sophomore year when he first laid eyes on Nancy Wheeler.

But you’re not Nancy. In the best way, that makes all the difference,

You were some breath of fresh air, bursting into his life in all the middle of his estranged drawn out break-up with Nancy — brash in all the right ways, kind when he needed, and far too soft to be tangled up in any of this mess.

You’re still too soft for it now, and it shows in the jagged cut torn into the fabric of your skin — it doesn’t matter how it happened, Steve still feels like it’s his fault. It’ll scar, red puckered skin that twists down the expanse of your shoulder. A living reminder of the night burned into you to carry forever.  

It hurts Steve maybe more than he’s warranted to. You’re both just friends.

But when Steve thinks of how he’s accidentally pulled you too close, put you first in the heart, it aches evermore.

He’s not sure when you went from barely a friend to this — you’re a crush, an Achilles heel, the unattainable from the moment he met you, the moment he knew you. Steve feels like he’s been building himself towards you, pushing his growth to aim for anywhere near enough for you. You’ve been too good for him from the start.

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

Steve realises after a moment that he hasn’t said anything when your fingers start to slip from his. His grip tightens to keep your hand in his.

“No, I— Stay. I...” It’s a struggle to say it, too many years of suppressing any urge to ask for comfort. “I don’t want to be alone, either. Or for you to be. Stay.”

Your lips, chapped and still with a hint of blood, twitch into somewhat a smile. “Okay.”

This time it’s Steve who drags you along, both slowly moving up the stairs. Each step threatens to reopen the scabs that have only just begun to form. It’s like some micro-dose of torture, Steve thinks, hearing your winces behind him.

The fluorescence of the bathroom lights is bright enough to make your eyes fly shut. Steve’s braver, taking only a moment to pause. He ignores how the lights dance, a sickening comparison to his experience with the drugs that had barely left his system. Though it’s the last thing he wants, Steve drops your hand to begin his search.

When your eyes blink open, prepared to face the lights, you’re a bit perplexed to see Steve hunting through the linen cupboard. He produces a towel, white and fluffy.

You cringe internally at the thought of sullying the pale colour with blood but it’s but a blip in tonight’s problems. Besides, the Harrington’s could certainly afford to replace it.

“Here.” Steve murmurs. You both seem to have agreed to keep softly spoken for the night.

He presses the cotton into your hands as he walks, ready to shoulder out and take care of himself. There was an en-suite in his own room — and sure, it would hurt like hell rinsing his wounds but he’d done it last year. Blasted the heat so he was wincing at the burn atop his skin and not the ache underneath it. 

“Steve?” You question, turning and halting his feet. He pauses, confused by the questioning expression on your face. He gestures to the shower, hiding how the movement makes his ribs sting painfully.

“You can shower here and- and the guest room’s all made up.” The words trip a bit on the way out, weakness beginning to weigh on his voice.

Somehow being back home crumbles his walls sooner than he’d like. Tonight has been heavy, a burden that lies thick on his shoulders and creeps down, taking root in his muscles.

But Steve will do what he had done last year; take the punches, burn them off in the heat of the shower — hot enough that he can’t feel any tears — and then deal with it.

“No, s’not that.” You shake your head, a strand of hair coming loose. “I... What about you?”

What about all the blood? The bruises and cuts? You’d seen the scars littered on the skin of his face from Billy, cuts that had healed wrong and left marred skin. Wounds left uncared for, only healed with time.

The question only begs more confusion from Steve. He gestures to somewhere behind him as he says, “There’s another shower, don’t worry.”

He pulls a smile to ease you. It wobbles at the ends of his mouth. Something claws into your heart, a profound heartache at the thought it doesn’t even occur to Steve to take care of himself.

“Steve,” you begin, beginning to get a sense of the wall you’re encountering.

Steve Harrington has some very thick defenses and not without good reason; they’ve got him through some treacherous times. Even now, he uses it like a crutch, a seal to hide away horrid memories. Ignored in favour of temporary strength. 

You don’t need his display of strength — you’re not one of the kids that needs to be shielded from the reality that even Steve has a breaking point — certainly not when his state is far worse than your own.

But you have a feeling he doesn’t know how to switch it off. Steve doesn’t seem to understand what you mean when you say you don’t want him to be alone. 

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

“I’m- I’ve done this before, alright?” He insists, eyes darting between yours, features turning stonier. You can see his defensiveness begin to curl his shoulders in. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Are you?” You say, not unkind. “Tonight was— Steve, you were tortured.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. Steve’s face falters, his icy expression dissolving with a shudder he can’t stop. You watch it warp him painfully, jaw clenching and eyes misty; he blinks furiously to clear them. You continue.

“You can’t just- just bounce back from that. Nobody can.” You shake your head as if it proves your point. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve done this before, this— this is a lot for anyone, even—”

“Well then, why are you still here, huh!” His words interrupt your own, tone angrier than you’re expecting. “If this is so much!”

His chest rises and falls quickly, brows draw together like it hurts to breathe so harshly. The words don’t sting, but his tone does. You reel in your hurt and focus past his anger, focus on what it really is.

A final line of defense. A ploy to make you upset or angry, to make you emotional enough to storm out and leave him to lick his wounds alone. Another way to ignore it, compartmentalize what happened instead of facing it head on.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to make him deal with it so soon. But you care, too much to pretend to ignore his pain. 

“Steve.”

“Don’t.” It wobbles, voice weak. His anger has already drained away in a moment.

“You’re not alright,” you insist, voice barely above a whisper. “C’mere.”

You don’t give him a choice, your free hand reaching out to snag his own, which hangs loose at his side.

Steve stumbles forward as you tug him back into the bathroom. Without his anger, he’s pliant and goes without protest. Your gentle fingers on his chest nudge him in the direction of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing through the back of his soiled Scoops top.

“Can you do something for me? Can you...” You bite your already bloody lip, nervousness sketched across your features.

How can you say this without giving too much away? It feels too intimate, like flying too close to the sun, well within the realm of potentially hurting your own feelings. You’ll do it for him gladly. 

“Can you just...let me take care of you?”

It hurts like a sucker punch to the gut. Like a breath has been forced out of his chest, because when was the last time someone has asked him that?

Silence stains the air.

“It won’t be pretty.” He croaks finally, still giving you an easy out. Still prepared to spare you the ugliness of his emotions.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” You respond, lips twitching. You bare your heart and half hope he sees it — sees it and knows he’s loved when you say, “Not if it’s you.”

Another beat of quiet.

“Okay.” Steve breathes, so faintly you barely hear it. Then as if you’ll rescind the offer any moment, he nods fervently.

Your smile is genuine, maybe the first in hours and something in you relaxes. He won’t fight you on this. He may have taken the beating earlier for you but, at the very least, you can do your best to patch him back up — let your hidden feelings translate into a gentleness he so very deserves.

It takes only a quick rummage beneath the sink to find a first-aid kit. It feels wildly underprepared; an afterthought purchase once upon a time that was only ever intended for scraped knees. It hasn’t ever been opened. The tear of the zipper is the only noise in the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles.

As expected, there’s not much in it. It contains a box of plasters in multiple sizes, one roll of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a mixture of other pills and eye drops.

Some loose safety pins rattle around in the bottom as you take inventory. It’s not stellar and you’re no doctor, but it’ll do. It has to do.

When you finally look up, wondering where to begin on his injuries, Steve is regarding you with a look you can’t quite name.

If you were sure of yourself, you might call it awe.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re here, helping him, and it can be awfully easy to mix up feelings when you’re getting stitched up. You don’t let your hopes rise, not even for a moment.

Steve’s blood sings, ears rushing with the sound of it when you step closer. You’re so damn close. Steve can’t ignore the scent that carries with you, his brain involuntarily committing each detail of you that he can get to memory - lest he never gets you this close again.

You want to take care of him; Steve thinks this might be a dream.

Nimble fingers work to gather some cotton with antiseptic and then you’re holding it up, posed, and ready to mend.

“Can you sit up on the counter?” You ask, all sweetness. Steve obliges easily, despite the protests from his sore body that cries out as he shifts up. You smile, then warn, “This might sting.”

It’s overwhelming as you step closer, between his legs, and take the cotton to his face with a gentleness Steve hasn’t felt in years. His eyes close instinctively.

It does sting. The wince leaks out through his clenched teeth, soothed instantly by your soft apologies that pour out like honey.

For a moment, it’s easier this way; with his eyes closed, Steve can pretend this is usual. That when he gets roughed around, there’s someone to tend and clean his wounds — instead of just himself and the harsh rinse of the hot shower.

He tries and fails not to think of last year, his poor attempts to patch himself up. Hands too shaky, touch too rough.

The memory bites. The injuries of tonight somehow feel worse. A tinge of bile taints his mouth and Steve swallows it back down, concentrating on you.

You’re not quite humming but soothing noises, low and soft, come from your throat. Steve’s not even sure you know you’re doing it. His hands clench emptily as his side — the split knuckles make them hurt and when you’re this close, the itch to hold you is near unbearable.

It doesn’t take long for the first cotton pad to turn a violent shade of pink. Steve’s face looks a tad clearer than before but uncovering old blood means finding new wounds.

Your stomach burns pitifully as you take them all in. There are too many to count, a thousand different hues — broken blood vessels that run in all directions, little labyrinths under his skin.

Why does it hurt so much? Even with your bound shoulder that still sends out pain with every motion, it all dulls away when you look at Steve. Lashes fluttering, eyes still closed, marred with wounds you’re begging to ease. You know it hurts so much because you care.

Love is pain, you suppose, with only a twinge of bitterness. It’s swallowed instantly, consumed and disintegrated by the fact you get this. The boy you love, between both palms, trusting you to take care of him.

A year ago, you’d met only the steely exterior he’d put up — and thought it had simply been remnants of King Steve. Maybe Steve Harrington was as much of an asshole as half the town said.

He was all bite, glowers, and clipped answers. With time though, he’d softened like snow melting in the sun; all the parts of him trickling into your life until he was cemented by your side. 

He hadn’t even let you patch him up after the scrap with Billy that had taken him out. You hadn’t felt you could ask.

But this time...your throat grows a bit thicker at the trust that binds the pair of you. Affection rushes your system and forces a sharp inhale from your lungs. You step back.

The space makes it easier to breathe. Dials down the chances of pressing your lips against his skin — if only to give him a mark born of love. Hands searching through the first-aid kit again, you produce some painkillers and locate an arnica pill.

You give yourself one more moment; inhale and withhold the tidal wave of devotion that begs to spill from within you.

“Take these, please.” You say quietly, uncurling one of his fists to press the pills into. He swallows them dry.

You prep more cotton and begin again with the gentle touches, coaxing off dried blood. This time, Steve’s eyes stay open. He watches you, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

You work away the blood from a cut above his eyebrow and when it’s clean, your thumb follows. You caress along the broken skin as if you could meld it back together with pure will.

Steve’s chest grows tight. Something about you being here, taking care of him makes the night’s memories all too present. Nausea sways in his gut. It’s impossible to shove them to the back, to press them down, when it feels like each cut is being reopened. Cleansed with a douse of love.

You’re altering the history of each wound but to do so, he has to recall how each of them was carved into his skin. It hurts. Why are you still here?

Steve’s head pulls back unexpectedly, eyes shuttering closed in a scrunched expression. You startle a bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

He makes a strained noise, effectively gutting you with it. If you weren’t so close — an inch further and you could press your forehead to his — you wouldn’t hear it. Hear the tiny whisper that scratches out the word, “Why?”

“What?” You whisper. You don’t understand.

“Why...Why are you...?” He’s clearly struggling to find the words he wants. His hand reaches up, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose before he drops it again. His chin quivers. It stops your heart for a moment to realise he’s crying.

“I don’t— I don’t understand.” Steve grinds the words out, voice thick. A tear splatters, seeping into the blue of his uniform. He won’t look at you, eyes trained on the loose thread on his shorts.

“Steve?” you murmur, wary and heavy with concern. This is— you don’t know what this is.

“I don’t understand.” He repeats, shaking his head slightly. He seems to choke on the next words. “You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody...”

He trails off, some whimper of sorts forcing its way out his throat. You’re stuck, absorbing each of his words and putting together the pattern that Steve can’t seem to voice. I don’t understand. You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody... Everybody leaves. 

Oh.

Rich King Steve who’s got it all. The house, the car, and any girl he fancies, all of them fawning for a look from him at one of his legendary parties.

His lack of parental supervision had been lusted over in high school, furious whispers of envy over the fact he could get away with parties every weekend. That booze went missing and he never seemed to catch any shit for it. It occurs to you now that nobody was around to notice.

The absence in his life is vast and suddenly blindingly obvious — a chasm in his chest that is bleeding all his secrets to you.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

When you surge forward, injuries be damned, and your arms loop around his neck, there’s a moment of stillness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, hear his ragged inhale, and then— he sags into you, finally, finally letting himself lean on someone else.

His arms wind around your middle in a desperate motion, tugging you closer and the fabric of your shirt clenches between his fingers. His face buries in your neck and hot wet tears soak the collar of your shirt. You can hear his raspy noises, soft cries as he clings to you like a lifeline.

“Why did this happen to me?”

It fucking hurts to hear. You don’t know how to tell him there’s no why — that there is no reason that can justify why he’s gone through this much suffering. Just the bitter fact that, sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

“Steve,” you feel like you’re saying his name an awful lot tonight. You say it because you can’t begin to think of how to answer his heartbreaking question. “I—“

“I-I used to think,” The words are muffled into your neck. His grip on you is nearly tight enough to hurt but you don’t dare relent any space. His voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough to hear. “That- that it was like karma, yanno?”

“Steve, no,” you whisper, horrified. If he hears you, he doesn’t show. 

“B-Because that first time,” He’s stuck on some belittling ramble about himself, continuing between his sniffs. “I definitely deserved it. But then I grew and I changed.”

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

“And then last year, it made sense, yeah? Billy, he was— a real piece of work.” He sniffs again, his voice a little harder at the mention of the deceased.

The tension falls away at the next sentence, voice wobbling through the thickness in his throat. “And I used to be like that, so—“

You pull back instantly, hands shifting back from around his neck. It effectively halts him, and whatever he was saying dies in his throat. Your hands move to cradle his jaw and, as lightly as you can with his injuries, you tug him from his hiding place and stare him in the face.

Steve’s eyes look bigger and browner full of tears. His nose is red, just the tip, and runs messily at the onslaught of tears. Pink splotches bloom underneath his cheeks, patchy and warm, his face etched in complete misery.

It wrecks you to see. More so to think he’s been shouldering all this alone since ‘83.

“People don’t deserve suffering, Steve.” You state it strongly enough that he can’t refute the truth, punctuating with your thumbs on either cheek, pressing light touches.

“You don’t deserve suffering. You never did.” Your voice quivers a bit, some shred of your heart shriveling pathetically at the fact you even need to tell him this. Your hands shake ever-so-slightly. A hot tear streaks down your cheek.

Steve crumbles. You don’t resist when he drops his head down, only move back in— offering a place to hide away again. You let him stay hidden away, a sanctuary in your arms, safe when he’s buried in the curve of your neck.

“And- and just ‘cause,” you say, sniffling a bit now. He holds his breath, a sharp inhale that quietens his whimpering crying. “Just ‘cause no one has stayed before doesn’t mean you don’t deserve this, Steve.”

His fingers press harsher into your back and your feet stumble a bit, pulled off balance. Adjusting your arms, you pull him tighter yet, hoping that the closeness will make all your sentiments seep in. Your shoulder aches terribly; you don’t dare move away.

“You know that, right?” You whisper, unable to stop your fingers from grazing the nape of his neck softly. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

A soft kiss to the side of his head, barely noticeable between his shakes, but it eases the strain on your heart. Time wanes and melts beneath the glow of the bathroom lights, an unending amount of tears that you suspect reach back further than just the memories of tonight.

You stay like this, holding him close. You give him all the time he needs, sweet nothings mumbled until he feels strong enough to face you— to face the world.

Eventually, Steve’s breathing slows, crying turning to trembling gasps. When he finally does retreat, you curse internally because of course, only Steve Harrington can still look devastatingly beautiful after crying.

Tears cling to his lashes, sparkling reflections. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

Silence ebbs. Steve gathers himself, another sniff, and wipes his nose before he lifts his head. You can see in his face the moment he’s about to apologise; the word sorry is about to come tripping out his mouth. You beat him to it.

“I’m sorry to inspire more tears,” Your voice, still quiet, aims for a comforting jest. “But I’m not quite done cleaning you up.”

You twist the cotton between your fingers to show him. Steve blinks, eyes focusing on your hand, perhaps surprised you’re still taking care of him. He forgets about his needless apologies. 

“Though, your tears did a lot of the work.” You say cheekily, a smile teasing at the edges of your lips. It makes him huff a laugh. Steve could nearly cry again; you’re so nice. He thinks about the last time cried, thinks about Tommy’s sneer, his scoffed words that told him toughen up, King Steve.

He lets you wipe them away, clear his face and patch it up as best you can. Any tension from before, the mental barb-wire defenses he had still held up to keep you out, has ebbed away. It’s softer now, easier between you two.

Trust flows from Steve in the form of his allowance, letting you fuss. It flows from you in the form of your touch, which still dances too close for just friends. You let your fingers dot the kisses across his face since you can’t.  

“You’re good at this,” Steve murmurs, breaking the silence. He allows himself the privilege of your touch, his fingers burning where they graze your sides.

Patching people up? Injuries from last year made sure you got decent practice on yourself. You’re decent, you’ll admit.

Maybe he means taking care of him. You’re proving to be very good at that. 

You want to. Somewhere rooted in feelings that sway closer to love, genuine love, is the urge to be the one who does it. The shoulder to cry on, the one who carries his woes when it gets too much — and you want him to do the same for you. Achingly, you want to take care of him; and him, you.

The thought burns so viciously through your chest, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip a bit meanly. It stings.

You don’t notice it, trying to rein in your drifting heart that sings to be closer to him, but Steve does. His fingers twitch; he wants to rescue it, pull it from your harsh grip with his thumb.

He does.

You stop moving.

His thumb is calloused, a bit rough against the supple plumpness of your bottom lip. The blood beneath it tingles, gloriously hot at the attention. Either all the air in the room has been sucked out or you’ve stopped breathing.

You’d hazard a guess it’s the second, given the stillness your body has taken on. Muscles locked, eyes frozen on his face — the only part of you that moves is your heart, thundering pumps going far too fast.

Steve’s gaze stays on his thumb on your lip. You’re desperate to find out what to call the emotion swimming in his eyes.

“Steve?” you say his name yet again, lips moving against his thumb. He blinks like a frog, one eye after the other, and drags his gaze up to your eyes.

His hand shifts, brushing across your mouth to hold the side of your jaw, cupping it sweetly. The cotton falls from your grip as Steve urges you closer with a gentle tug.

Then his eyes are back on your lips and even though it feels like slicing your own heart open to do it, you speak before he can kiss you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, eyes crushing closed.

You want to terribly. The want for his kiss warbles from deep within you, a yawning ache. But it might just finish you off if it’s all heat of the moment — a kiss that is just some twisted thank-you because Steve isn’t used to being taken care of.

You clear your throat, swallowing heavily. “Not— not if it’s just for tonight. Not just because I stayed, please.”

There’s a pause. His shaky exhale breezes across your face. It’s possible your ears might be ringing as if straining to hear the sound of Steve’s heart— dying for a clue to what he’s feeling. You’re not brave enough to open your eyes and read it in his face.

His thumb scrapes across your bottom lip again and then— then, he kisses you, impossibly tender.

The tiny gasp that escapes you is consumed instantly, swallowed up by Steve’s kiss. He kisses gentle, touch so soft that it has you searching for more the moment you’ve got a taste of it.

You barely get a moment to lean into it, to kiss him back before Steve breaks it. He hovers close, close enough that you could steal another taste of his lips if you wanted. You want to— the ferocity of your eagerness sends a shiver along your spine. He speaks before you seize the opportunity.

“I want to.” He says, voice a bit raspy and the words inspire enough bravery to look at him, eyes creasing open. “I- I’ve wanted to for a while.”

You nearly sink in your relief, knees trembling for a moment as your hand comes up to enclose the wrist of the hand that holds your face. Thumb sweeping short strokes, you clutch the tan skin and lean into his caress.

“You mean it?” You whisper, far too excited. Your heart may as well be on your sleeve, cards once played close to your chest now splayed on the table. Your tone reveals all, spilling with hope, even as you ask whether it means the same to him as it does to you.

Yes. The word seems stuck in his throat, suddenly too thick to speak. Because it’s only three letters and that can’t possibly cover what Steve means when he says I’ve wanted to for a while.

That you’d somehow snuck into his life and intertwined among all of his heartstrings, like spun gold mixing until the whole organ felt terribly tangled in a way he’d never want to change.

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

But you? You were the thump on his heart. Not a push for change, nor for growth — but permission to grant himself a second chance in love.

“I mean it.” He says, emotion coating each word. “Yes, god, I really mean it.”

And you let him tell you over and over again with his mouth pressed to yours, searing kisses that make your head dizzy and pulse speed.

Steve knows he’s not alright — not physically or mentally after what he’s faced tonight, not with the vice grip on his chest that had clung tightly and all the ugly parts of him had all slithered out for you to see.

He also knows that he will be alright, sometime in the far future.

When wounds have healed, when scars are beginning to fade, and the nightmares start being every couple of nights, instead of every night, then he’ll be nearly okay. It’ll take time, lots of it.

But when your gentle hands coax him to bed and you slip beneath the covers beside him, leaving a warm quick kiss upon his shoulder — Steve thinks that, maybe, that future isn’t nearly as far away as it seems.

Your hand finds his under the sheets, twisting your fingers together to act like an anchor in the inkiness of the night.

There are no nightmares that night.

—

tags below! @hawkinsindiana @harringtonbf @spideystevie​ look technically there’s no tags this is just all da bitches i’m always talking to <3

[kazucee]

Two types of Solangelo fans when the book cover was released:

"OMG LOOK AT THEM THEY'RE SO INLOVE *giggling and kicking feet up*"

or

"why the fuck is Will wearing SHORTS. in TARTARUS."

[dreamaze]

JH: I hope the two people next to me kiss me. CK: ( ˶˘ ³˘)~♡ MH: ❌

[heronpoxed]

Say what you wanna say about Kelsier but that man knew how to love and he loved with a raw fucking passion.

For years he was led to believe that Mare had mercilessly betrayed him before she died and yet he still insanely loved and missed her — something that he stated as a simple fact and not as a guilty confession.

Kelsier and Mare had 0 page-time together, but they still managed to snatch my fucking heart and push my expectations through the roof precisely because of how Kelsier talked about her! Is there anyone who does it like him? Hell nah!

[jingsyuans]

Have you ever thought of...mara struck Jing Yuan. The mara really pulls out the possessive side of him really well. The higher ups thought it's better to have you both locked together in confinement rather than having this beast run amok in the vicinity of Luofu.

After all, he was, and still is their beloved (ex) general. They really can't just throw him away the moment he gets Mara struck especially after what he's done for them. And you just happen to be the only one who can calm his mara down.

But that also means he will become even more deranged in bed. He has all the time in the world now, so he's spending all of them in your pussy most of the time. And even if he wants to die anyway, he wants to die by getting choked to death between your plush thighs and drowning in your juices.

So into the isolation you both go! Hehe🥰🤗

This is so porny you did such a good job fr 😔 shaping up like a true hentai!!

I do think it’s interesting to think about what would happen if JY were to get Mara struck… I truly have no idea how Mara struck is supposed to work as a disease- because in some cases, it seems like they’re different people entirely who aren’t completely coherent and are just living because they fucking LOVE to live (???? Lol). And then there’s cases like Blade, which is…. Difficult for me to comprehend, and then cases like Jing Liu which just??? Confuses me also???? So dumbing it down to porn and making you manic essentially is very OK in my book LOL

[rickybaby]

@.danielricciardo: home on my head

[etheriankid]

[spark-circuit]

you know what's going to devastate me if it ends up happening the next time we encounter Gabriel? (continued under the cut for spoilers ✌)

if Gabriel ends up not being able to finish the fight with us.

let's be real here, as much as he's everyone's favourite golden boy, he's probably got hours left to live - maybe less by the next time we reach him. he's desperate to have one more final battle against us, not just to make up for his sins of the past, but to finally get some sense of peace and understanding for his new way of thinking, his new resolve.

so what happens if he can't. what happens if we're fighting Gabriel and maybe he hesitates on a sword swing, his strength failing him. what happens if he coughs up blood at one point. what happens if his health bar starts going down without us attacking him, him falling to one knee as he desperately tries to push himself to finish his last wish of a proper fight, because he's not done yet, he's not ready, not before he can take us down with him. out of anger? respect? righteousness? does it matter?

what if we don't even get a boss battle with him at all. we're just here to bear witness to a fallen angel.

[delta-piscium]

Eddie does become quite famous for his music and that means he sometimes has to go to these mind numbing events where people will sneer at him until they recognize who he is, then they’ll suddenly pretend they’re old friends, they’ll ask for concert tickets and backstage passes

he mostly hates them but whenever Steve is able to come he’s so god damn excited. Steve’s parents used to drag him along to their business events and even though it’s different industries it’s all the same. Steve knows these crowds, he grew up with them and they bring out the bitchiest upper middle class version of him, a Steve who has passive aggression and faux politeness down to an art

Eddie will watch on in delighted awe as his husband, all while smiling mildly and sipping wine, destroys people. just cuts into them and also making everything sound nice, innocuous. Most of them don’t even realize it’s happening they just suddenly find themselves gaping, searching for words, as they’re backed into a corner

and Steve will look at them, tilt his head and wait them out, but before they get the chance to backtrack he’ll hum, shrug and walk away, Eddie on his heel asking if he wants to get out of there, like right now? or maybe find a bathroom?

[spideypoolsupremacy]

One of my favorite tropes is 'tough murdery and dangerous guy being a sweetheart to kids' and Deadpool fits it really well (even if he doesn't present himself as 'scary tough dude' all the time, he can definitely be one in a heartbeat, if the situation calls it)

So, please let me introduce you to

✨️Deadpool and Honey Badger✨️

Marvel please I need more of them than these fun little cameos, I need a whole comic with at least 30 issues. AT LEAST

[misspoetree]

KinnPorsche + Text Posts: Tankhun Edition

[Character Editions: Pete Part I & II | Tay | Vegas Part I & II & III | Porsche Part I & II | Big | Kinn Part I & II | Kim | Porchay | Chan | Tankhun - Part II | Macau | Pol]

[Themed Editions 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | ?]

[Episode Editions]

[ellssbellss]

Lavender Roses ~ Kyoya Ootori x Reader

pairing ~ Kyoya Ootori x Reader

In which a rational head hides a generous heart, but you have always known how to see past his walls and help him bloom into the gorgeous rose he is. Enjoy a slow burn between an honor student and our beloved glasses character!

Happy 1 year to Lavender Roses and this entire, wonderful blog. Without you, this story wouldn't have reached as many people as it has. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much.

-> summary: "But not anymore. You haven’t been alone for a long time, (Y/n), not since you joined the club. Not since you met me."

-> word count: 8.3k

tw! the scene on the cliff gets a little intense, mentions of blood, demeaning language against women, slight PTSD, weaponry (knives), verbal assault, physical assault, sexual misconduct. kyoya is dumb and so are you.

legend:

(M/n) - mother's name

(n/l) - native language

(s/c) - skin color

see masterlist! masterlist

taglist! @abbysblogsstuff @sunukissed @kisskissshutmydoor @idonia-dovahkiin @greensnakegoblep @vervainnnn @desert-fern @delievia @obeythemasters @luca-nightshade @sweetandsourwrites @wrzloyd @1234567890nono @inactivecrofters @katiebwalczak03 @reader3 @radical-bunny @stevexbucky404 @localgaytrainwreck

The Sun, The Sea, and The Host Club! pt. 2

Kyoya lounges as he writes, a foreign feeling of contentment wrapped around his frame.

Soft bursts of images sift through his mind, you over his lap, your arm on his side while his gravitates towards your hip. How close your mouth was to his and how badly he wanted to taste it. How he had basically lunged at the chance, not that you were complaining.

That had caught him off guard. 

As he was writing, the megane realized he had never been a fan of romance. Above multiple reasons, he never saw the point. His father and mother had married for business instead of love, creating an environment where affection was not celebrated or practiced. He would see couples in the hallway and roll his eyes, thinking that they were wasting their time. 

When he voiced these opinions one evening to his sister Fuyumi, she gasped. 

“Kyoya! You really think love is a waste of time?”

“It’s a chemical reaction, Fuyumi, that’s all.” He had explained in a monotone voice, barely giving her any attention as he was typing away at his computer. “Your brain releases a certain neurotransmitter when you find someone attractive and compatible, and it tricks you into thinking you’re in love. Companies leech off this, creating Valentine’s Day, cards, encouraging weddings and all this nonsense.” 

He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I am not one to be fooled, and I will certainly not allow myself to be tricked by my own mind.” 

Kyoya ended his bored rant with an amused chuckle, feeling sorry for the suckers out there who lost precious time and money on something that could never really last, at least not forever. 

But Fuyumi just stood there, leaning against the doorway with a small smile on her face as she looked at her oblivious brother, too young to take the world as seriously as he did. 

“You can tell me that when you meet a wonderful man or woman, and we will see how you feel about how you want to spend your time.”

Kyoya scoffed. “Please, how I feel is irrelevant. My work is what deserves my time, end of story.”

Then his phone rang, and he paused his typing to see a contact picture flashing on the screen. Leaving his chair, he had walked to the door of his bedroom as he answered the call. 

“Hello, give me one second, please.” Then he turned to her, a little brother shoving his sister out of his room.

“Goodnight, Fuyumi.” The door closed behind him with a clack, and Fuyumi heard her brother pick up his conversation as he disappeared into his room. “Hello, (Y/n), thank you for calling me back…”

Kyoya smirked as he came back to the sounds of the beach, waves and laughing people filling his ears as his thoughts ran away with him. 

He had met a wonderful girl. And he could barely fathom how he was lucky enough to understand the feeling his sister was talking about. The pull he had to you was intense, and it was something he had never experienced with anyone before. 

The sun had reflected off of your (e/c) irises so perfectly in that moment, and the short distance had enticed him heavily, that the pull tugged and tugged. 

He hadn’t even confessed yet, and you had somehow convinced him to give in to his own temptations. 

“Kyoya! What should I do?!”

The ravenet broke out of his thoughts as his best friend ran towards him, arms holding a bucket of snakes in their grasp. 

Kyoya simply arched his brow.

“I wanted to scare Haruhi and (Y/n) with these rat snakes, but the twins said that anyone would find them creepy, so it wasn’t a true weakness! And now I don’t know what to do!” Tamaki whined, his voice rising as he shuffled on his feet, anxious about the snakes in his grasp. 

The club director’s spectacled gaze fell onto the snakes, twisting inside the plastic bucket without a care in the world. Taking a closer look, he let out a deep sigh.

“Those aren’t rat snakes, Tamaki. They are poisonous Habu snakes.” Kyoya turns back to his book. “Rat snakes aren’t even native to Okinawa.”

“What?!” Suddenly, the prince of the host club is running around in circles, whining while juggling the bucket in his hands. “What do I do with them?! C’mon, Kyo, you gotta help me out!”

“Tamaki, Kyoya!”

Both boys freeze as they watch Haruhi race towards them, her feet kicking up sand as she meets them at the chair. 

She’s breathing heavily, her eyes wide with fright and worry as she heaves. “Help, please, you’ve gotta help me.”

Forgetting about the bucket completely, Tamaki rushed over to Haruhi, pulling her close to him to try to ease some of her worries. “What is it, Haruhi? Are you hurt? What do you need?”

“It’s (Y/n). I thought we could handle it, but things got out of control. She told me to come get you.”

“What?” Kyoya sits up on his chair, quelling the anxiety in his chest. He admired Haruhi for being a girl who is very put together, so for her to fight the fear in her voice so adamantly is concerning. “Is she okay?”

“What’s wrong with (Y/n)?” Tamaki says calmly and firmly, trying to get some answers out of his panicking honor student. 

“These boys! They were- they-, god just follow me!” Flustered she turns around, sprinting away from the two hosts.

Kyoya and Tamaki rush in pursuit, agony filling into their chests. 

As the cliff comes into view, Kyoya catches Haruhi’s concerned gaze rise to the top of it, his own eyes following. Three shadowy figures struggle in the sunset, and his heart plummets as one of them is pushed to the high edge. 

In the distance, a piece of fabric lies stagnant in the sand, and Kyoya curses as he passes by it. A Hawiian shirt, ripped and torn as it lies helplessly in the sand. 

“No, no wait. Stop!” You struggle as Ren pushes you back, your heels leaving the ground as he holds you over the cliff's edge.

“Yeah, yeah, you know what?” The alcohol on his breath is rancid as he sneers, Aoi grinning behind him. “I ain’t got time for difficult chicks like you. Might as well leave you out to sea.” He jostled you, and relished in the way you flinched. 

“Don’t! Don’t, please, don’t. It’s too much. Please, don’t let me go.”

“Oh, now you’re begging for me to hold you? Where was this a few seconds ago, sweetheart?”

“(Y/n)!” Hearing Tamaki’s voice was sweeter than any cake that Honey could’ve given you, making you want to cry out in relief as you looked behind the two thugs. 

Ren and Aoi freeze as you see Haruhi, Kyoya and Tamaki round the corner of the bottom of the cliff, concern and determination shining in their visages.

Meeting Kyoya’s gaze, you wriggle around some more, trying your best to shove Ren off of you without any friction below you. “Tamaki! Kyoya! They’re going to-”

You're quieted with a hand covering your mouth, Ren shouting in your face. “Be quiet! We aren’t doing anything!”

Kyoya’s jaw clenched at your plea, and he pumps his legs into a faster run, trying to get to you as you are, dear god, dangled off a cliff. “Let go of her!”

Aoi turns to Ren, and you see panic in his eyes as your three heroes charge up the rocks. “Ren, we gotta go. Like now, they don’t look happy.”

“Shut up, I know that.” Ren snarls before he forces a grin and turns to the boys, holding you up by one hand now.

“You want me to let go? Well, whatever you say.”

“No!” Kyoya called, but it was too late. 

Ren’s fingers go limp, any tension that was holding you up above the waters below disappearing as the fabric of your bathing suit slips from his grasp. 

The air whipped around you as you watch the cliff get smaller and smaller, plummeting towards your greatest fear. You feel a scream bubble up to the opening of your throat, but no noise dares to release, shock taking over your entire body.

Cold, sharp pains spider through your back as you hit the water, knocking all the wind out of your lungs in one single splash. The feeling of watery nothingness surrounds your skin as it pricks you. At the waterpark, the lazy river had tried to pull you into its flow, desperately and immaturely trying to take its next victim. 

But the ocean was experienced, eerily calm as it let you sink. And sink. Wrapping its deep silence around your form, you don’t think you’ll ever stop sinking. 

And as you begin to cry at the thought, water fills your lungs. 

“(Y/n)!” Haruhi tried to call, but you were already out of sight, plunging into the water below. Panic clouded Kyoya’s mind as he ran, all of his thoughts zeroed in on the conversation that he had just had with you minutes before. 

I just don’t like the idea of being deprived of oxygen. Then I’d just sink, and be lost.

And now you were lost to him, falling into something you so desperately had tried to avoid. 

In his pursuit, a hooded man, much shorter than Kyoya, tried to step in his way. The kid grabbed at him, and any anger Kyoya had in his body went into a singular push, sending the man tumbling to the side. “Get out of my way.”

Reaching the edge, Kyoya didn’t think twice. Discarding his precious glasses to the side, Kyoya shoved the problem of the disgusting man in the red shirt out of the way, and took the dive. 

Long and lanky, he arched into the dive, his nearsightedness making it so your figure was just a blur from this distance, but he targeted it. His palm reached out and willed you to be closer, willed you to be okay. 

“(Y/n)!” He called as your fuzzy figure disappeared into the ocean with a harsh slap, the sound echoing in his ears. Kyoya’s own fall ended as he dipped into the water soon after, cursing his terrible vision as he looked around. 

A relieved exhale presented itself in bubbles when he finally saw you, drifting limply as the current pulled you along. Kicking hard, Kyoya stretched his muscles and his lungs as he held his breath, fighting against the density of the water. As he got closer, his stomach turned when he saw a small vein of red seeping from a cut in your leg, which only made him swim faster towards you. 

Finally, his hand grasped your floating one, and in one quick movement, pulled you against his chest. With your weight against him, his logical mind rebooted, and he tucked your head under his chin as he swam up to the surface. 

“(N/n)-chan!”

“Kyoya-senpai!”

The voices seemed so distant, your skin clammy and gooseing against the beach air. Something was moving you, you could feel a familiar pressure against the small of your back and behind your knees, but it didn’t distract from the wave.

Your blood waved, splashing and swaying against the walls of your veins. It felt like your muscles had melted into liquid, and you were still in the pool, being bobbed and pulled into the black of the ocean. 

But then there was a shade of orange behind your lids, and blinking made it brighter. Something dragged over them still, tugging your eyes open as the sky moved above you. 

Tufts of black hair and a very sharp jawline were the next visions to come into your view, and the waving stopped, replaced by the firm steps of Kyoya carrying you to safety.

“Kyo…” Your voice was hoarse, raw from unconsciously coughing up water as soon as you had reached the surface. 

He didn’t respond, his gray eyes covered by his wet hair, but his grip on you tightened ever so slightly. 

Instead, he looked forward towards what you would assume to be your friends, but you were too focused on the deep orange the sunset casted across the clouds. 

“Where’d they go?”

“We took their ID cards and asked them to leave, not before showing them what’s for.” A voice said. Hikaru..yeah, Hikaru.

“The girls went back to the hotel and Mori called a doctor. He should be here any minute.” Kaoru follows like he always does, and the comfort of their routine brought you back to reality, especially when they mentioned the doctor.

“I’m fine, guys. I really don’t want to see a doctor.” You say, sighing as you leave Kyoya’s grasp. When your feet hit the solid ground of packed sand, you wobbled a bit, and Tamaki came into your line of sight. 

His arms helped steady you, but he didn’t let go as you straightened out. “What were you thinking?”

Still a little dazed, your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Tamaki, stop.” Haruhi says as she stands next to you, giving you one of her jackets to wrap around yourself. 

“No, no.” Tamaki’s voice is low, collected. It shook you. “What were either of you thinking? You know, you aren’t martial arts masters like Honey and Mori-senpai.”

“Duh, don’t you think I know that?” You chuckle a bit, trying to lighten the mood, but you’re getting more and more frustrated by your best friend’s accusatory tone.

“You think this is funny?” Your prince is in disbelief as he raises his hands from your shoulders to the base of your neck. “Why did you confront them? What made you think you could stand a chance? You against two boys?”

“It doesn’t matter if they were boys and I’m a girl. They were harassing our guests, they needed to be stopped!” The emotional toll that today’s events have taken wore down your patience, and now you’re raising your tone, lacing it with betrayal and disbelief.

“We were there, Tamaki, we had to do something!” Haruhi takes a stand, trying to talk some sense into your best friend. 

“That’s no excuse, you idiots! Don’t forget that you are girls!”

“Kyoya.” Turning, you look back at your director for some support. “Tell him we did the right thing.”

But there is no answer. Kyoya just stands there with his arms folded, his mouth formed into a straight, formidable line, securing all of his thoughts behind a single wall. Water drips off the ends of his hair onto his toned torso as his jaw clenches, not breaking eye contact with you. 

“Kyoya?”

“You ran into a situation unprepared, unyielding, and irresponsibly. You put yourself in danger, self-sacrificing your safety for the needs of three girls you barely know.”

If Tamaki’s serious tone was shaking, Kyoya’s was chilling. It was cold, unrelenting as it jabbed into your heart with every syllable. “Are you mad at me right now? After you jumped off a cliff to save me?”

“I wouldn’t have had too, if you had been as smart as I thought you were.”

Defensiveness burns inside you. “I did what had to be done! Yes, it wasn’t safe, but it was me or those girls, and I couldn’t let them get hurt.”

“But you could put yourself at risk?”

“It’s different!”

“How?” With haunting grace, Kyoya outstretched his hand in order for Hikaru to place his lenses into his palms. Using the fabric from his shorts, he cleans them off the best he can, and slips them onto his nose. “The worry you felt for those girls when they were grabbed, and the worry that not only I, but everyone here felt for you when they saw you dangled at the edge of a cliff, you tell me how those are different.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, you run your hands over your face, not being able to put your feelings into words. “It just is. And I’m sorry you had to come save me, but I can’t understand why you’re so mad at me right now.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“I don’t think I did anything wrong!”

At that, Kyoya’s piercing gaze sharpens, and you see his adam's apple bob, a signal that he is calling upon his immeasurable self-control. “You don’t think so? Fine.”

He steps forward, walking towards you and then brushing your shoulder as he passes your form. 

“Kyoya, where-?”

“I don’t think we can speak again until you can admit that you were wrong.”

And with that, his form becomes a spot in the distance as he leaves you in the dusk. 

Soon, you left the others to wander around Kyoya’s guest house aimlessly. You frowned at every framed picture of his family, even ones where he was young and round, not sharpened by what his world had to offer. 

You climbed to the second floor, only to come to a line of doors. 

“Bedrooms…” you confirmed under your breath, running your hands along the wall as you passed them. “But…which one..?”

On the door handle on the second room from the end of the hall, a yellow rose was tied around it, welcoming and ironic all at once. 

A sad smile came to your face as you plucked it off the knob, then turned it, still holding it in your grasp as you entered the room. 

The room was generic, but you noticed a bouquet of yellow roses sat on the bed, tied with a lavender ribbon. There was a note in the gorgeous arrangement, and you plucked it out from it’s stand. 

Dear (Y/n),

My room is the one at the end of the hall, next door to this one. Should you need anything, you may let me know, and it will be done. 

Have a restful night. 

Sincerely, 

Kyoya Ootori

Swallowing, you set the note down and fiddle with the petals of the roses, Haruhi’s jacket softly brushing against your wet form. That note must’ve been written before everything had gone down, and your heart turned a little at the thought of him coming in here and placing these here with care, knowing how touched you would be when you saw it. 

Putting them on the nightstand, you drag yourself to your shower. While the hot water runs down your body, you rest your head against the tiles, trying to think your way through this. 

Tamaki was frustrated, Kyoya was pissed, and Haruhi was almost hurt. Everything today had been overshadowed by a single action by two terrible people, and you hated it. The drama that had been going on lately, and the stress of the dinner with your family and Arai, had left you tired, emotionally and mentally. To make it worse, the person you wanted to talk to the most about everything that was going on in your head currently was not talking to you. 

Lifting your head, you let the water splash onto your face before getting out and dressing into something that was finally more your speed. The week had been full of dressing you to the nines for the perception of others, but as you prepared to have dinner with your friends (or who you hoped were still your friends), you could wear something that expressed who you were, not who someone wanted you to be. 

As you fixed your face and hair, a knock sounded at your door, methodic as it rang against the wood. 

You almost wanted to ignore it, but the possibility of Kyoya being on the other side was too intriguing, and you rushed to the door, calming down before coolly opening it.

“So, now you decide to-oh. Hey.” Hiding your slight disappointment, you look up to see Mori standing in your doorway. “What’s up, Mori-senpai?”

“Dinner’s ready.” His mouth is curved a little at one side, and you can tell he’s trying to be a little more joyful for you, considering everything that happened. 

He then raises his hand from his side, and presents an Ootori Hospital First Aid Kit. “Kyoya wanted me to give this to you. For your leg.”

Eyebrows raising, you take the kit. Throughout the drama, you forgot about the cut Ren had made on your calf. Seeing it now, the salt water helped stop the bleeding, and it was scabbed over, now just serving as a reminder of what you had gotten yourself into. 

“Thank you, Mori.” Your gratitude came out as a sigh as you set the med kit down, and Mori watched as your form slouched ever so slightly.

“(Y/n).” 

“Hm?” Looking up at him, he swallowed at the tiredness in your eyes. Doing what he thought was right, you felt the stoic place a comforting hand on your head. 

“I can teach you. So can Mistukuni.”

“Teach me? Teach me what?”

“How to protect yourself.”

Two times you had been subjected to the whims of a confused, angered man. And both times, no matter how you had tried to fight against them, you were still untrained, still ignorant of the ways to use your power to its fullest potential. This time, when you looked back at your friend, your eyes glimmered. 

“Really?”

A firm nod came from the tall man, and you couldn’t help the sigh of relief that expelled out of you. Arms opening, you reach out and hug Mori around his waist, nuzzling into his long frame.

“Thank you, Mori.”

The hand on your head tightened for a moment before he stepped back. “I’m gonna go get Haruhi, and we’ll walk down together, yeah?”

Nodding, you step out of your room, closing the door behind you. “Yeah, sounds good.”

The minute Haruhi had stepped out of her room, your eyes lit up.

A pretty pink nightgown draped over her shoulders, ruffles shooting out the side of her collarbone. She looked beautiful and elegant, and it was refreshing to see her out of the clothes that reminded you of the fight on the cliff. 

And if you thought she was beautiful, the rest of the hosts clearly didn’t disagree.

As the three of you stepped out into the dining hall, the twins immediately shot up, mouths agape as Haruhi glided into the room. 

Even Honey smiled as he stood on the chair of his seat, milk chocolate eyes glittering with the sight of her.

“Woah!” The boy-lolita said, and you stepped aside as he and the twins surrounded the honor student, complimenting her as she smiled gratefully. 

Turning towards the long dining table, you see two figures. Tamaki fights the blush on his face as he stares at Haruhi, but still chooses to sulk at his place at the table. His purple eyes meet yours, and then they slide down, and your stomach coils as he turns himself off to you.

Daring to glance at the person sitting across from your prince, Kyoya leans into his chair, his black journal perfectly perched on his lap as he writes, and you swallow. 

Knowing that Tamaki was a ticking time-bomb, you take your chances, walking up to the Shadow King. 

“Is this seat taken?”

No response. Looking around, you see name cards propped against the plates, your name clearly written in a very familiar cursive. Must’ve been the preparations he had made before.

“Looks like it is now.” You say awkwardly, shuffling the chair out and sitting down next to the ravenet. “I, uh, I got your note. And the roses. They were really beautiful.”

His pen pauses, and his dark eyes lift over his pages to stare into space. Then Kyoya’s eyes shift down, and his writing continues.

Folding your fingers over, you wait silently as the other hosts fawn over Haruhi, literally twirling your thumbs. Tamaki is sitting across from you, avoiding your eyes. Rolling your eyes, you twist your mouth as you try to catch his gaze, and being the pushover he is, he holds it after a moment.

You tilt your head, sitting aggressively back in your chair. You’re mad at me too, now?

Violet eyes roll. He’s not mad at you, just hurt. Talk to him, mon ami.

You think I haven’t tried?

Clearly, you didn’t try hard enough. Flipping his blonde hair away from his eyes, your best friend gives you an incredulous look. The man jumped off of a cliff for you. 

I didn’t ask him to do that.

You wouldn’t have done the same for us?

Your lips part a little, but you look away for a second before meeting his eyes again. A blonde eyebrow raises and Tamaki rests his chin in his hand.

I would’ve jumped off that cliff too if Kyoya hadn’t beaten me to it. We’ve all been through a lot today. Violet eyes are drawn back to the host in pink, and you sigh as they become distant. 

Reaching across the table, you tap it lightly, hearing the writing beside you pause for a moment as Tamaki looks back at you. 

You’re not going to tell her she looks nice? I figured you would’ve been all over that dress.

We aren’t speaking right now. 

Your expression morphs into one of disbelief and slight annoyance. What? Why?

She acted childish, running up there with absolutely no regard for herself.

So did I, and you’re talking to me.

Deadpanning, he smacks his lips together. This isn’t talking! We probably look like crazy people right now.

A small smile takes up the corner of your lips, and he simpers back. Plus, I can’t stay mad at you.

Your eyebrows raise, an equivocal gaze clouding your eyes as you glance over to Haruhi and the twins. I doubt you can stay mad at her.

He straightens his back as a blush rises to his cheeks as Haruhi’s skirt swishes with her movements as the rest of the hosts make their way to the dinner table. She sits down next to him, a challenging look on her face as she spies on him from the corner of her eye.

Tamaki narrows his gaze and turns back to face you, a sigh rolling through his lungs. We’ll see.

The twins pull out a chair and sit, Kaoru to your right and Hikaru to his. After everyone gets situated, plates are filled with delicious looking crab legs and side dishes, creating an array of a colorful feast. 

Cracking shells filled the air as no one bothered to speak, the tension of the room encasing your group into a box of crushing glass. Haruhi began to make a pile of empty shells on her plate, sending the prince that sat next to her in a state of disbelief. 

Digging into your own dinner, you look over to your left to see Kyoya still writing, his portion of the catch of the day remaining untouched. 

“You’re not eating?” Your voice raises barely above a whisper, afraid that if you broke the silence, the tenuous glass of tension would come crashing down on you. 

Not even a glance from the megane. You send a pleading glance to your friend across from you, but Tamaki shrugs. Third times the charm?

Putting your cheek in your teeth, you try to get closer, pulling a strategy that has worked before. “What’re you writing about? Can I see?”

You sulk as Kyoya turns away from you, bending the spine of his book so that the pages are fully covered from your view.

Kaoru, having seen the whole thing, gave a wide eyed look to his brother. “Well this is uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, kind of awkward.” Says his twin.

Defeated, you sit back, smiling weakly as Kaoru puts a few extra crab legs from his plate onto yours. 

Pleasured grumbles interrupt your self-pity as you and the twins look across the table to see Haruhi demolishing crab legs. Everytime she opened her mouth, she made an ‘ah’ sound, a blush coming onto her cheeks as she relished in the seafood taste. 

“Oh my god,” bits of crab fall onto the corner of her mouth as she groans. “These crabs…taste in-crab-ible.” A cute, muffled chuckle escapes out of her full mouth as her stack of crab shells continues to grow. “Get it?”

Tamaki is caught in the splash zone, shells and crab crumbs being tossed into his space as he sits next to her. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough? Geez, Haruhi, give it a rest.”

“Hm?” Her sarcastic tone goes up in pitch as she fills her stomach with more crustaceans. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

A tick appears inside the veins of Tamaki’s forehead as he grumbles. “You trying to be cute?”

Haruhi just shoots him a victorious side eye, taking another huge bite of her food. 

Something broke inside the prince and he sighed harshly, slamming his napkin on the table as he rose. “Okay, fine. I get it. It seems you refuse to admit that you were wrong.”

He pushes out his chair, putting his hands in his pockets. “See if I care then, I’m going to bed. Kyoya?”

A voice that must’ve been foreign to you by now sounds a hum as Kyoya stops his writing immediately, giving all of his attention to Tamaki. 

“Will you show me to my room, please?”

“With pleasure.” Kyoya then stands, an aura of nonchalance cascading into your space as he slides by you. “Excuse me, everyone.”

An air of ice surrounds you as Kyoya doesn’t give you a sparing glance, his cold shoulder sending a shiver down your spine while he and Tamaki walk out of the dining room, the large doors closing behind them. 

Haruhi’s confidence dissipates as she watches her prince leave the room. Swallowing her food, she sadly cracks a new crab leg, the overconfident display now being replaced by a sincere realization. 

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should learn to protect myself.”

Looking towards Mori, you share her sentiment. “Yeah, it might be a good idea.” You say, relaxing into your seat. 

Hikaru and Kaoru reflect each other as they put their heads in their hands, giving the both of you empathetic glances. “So that’s it, they got to you, huh?”

Nodding, you look down. “Kyoya can be cold, sure, but he’s never just ignored my existence. Maybe I could take a class or something, I don’t know.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to learn martial arts…” Haruhi thinks out loud, now only picking at the food she had been devouring moments ago. 

“But that’s not the real issue here.” The twins say, folding their arms onto the table.

“To be honest, we were all a little worried about how recklessly you two acted.”

Looking up from your plate, you and Haruhi both shoot Hikaru a confused glance. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, bending around Kaoru to mee Hikaru’s gaze. “We didn’t cause you guys any trouble or anything.”

“Are you serious right now?” Kaoru asks, giving you a disbelieving look.

“Yeah, I mean you guys didn’t have to sprint up a cliff to help (Y/n) and fix my mistakes,” Haruhi reasons. “So you guys were fine, right?”

“That’s not true, Haru-chan.” Honey kneels on to the seat of his chair, his palms resting on the table as leans forward. “I think you guys should apologize, kay?”

“We were all worried, of course, but Kyoya-senpai and the Boss almost had a heart attack.” Kaoru says, speaking with his hands as he waves his fork around.

“We think you need to apologize to them the most. Both of you.” Hikaru states, the hand under his chin moving to support his cheek. 

“But you were worried about us?” The twins looked to their side to see your eyes switching between the both of them. “But why?”

That earns you a deadpanned look from the brothers before Hikaru drops his head on the back of his chair, and Kaoru rests his head on your shoulder with a whine. “You’re both hopeless.”

A small chuckle rises out of you as you rest your head on top of the sneaky twin’s, your mind flashing through the previous events. 

Stubbornly, you knew that you had done the right thing, and that you would’ve made the same choice if you were given a second chance. 

But then you imagined the boy on your shoulder being grabbed by his shirt, hung over the edge of a cliff reaching higher than you thought it could reach, and your gut twisted. Then the image flashed to where Honey was held and Mori was running after him, or Hikaru, then Tamaki.

Then Kyoya. And you immediately understood their worry.

Swallowing wetly, you took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry you guys.”

The twins raise their brow in surprise, and when Haruhi voices her apology too, it melts into a content simper. 

“Awe, come here you little runt.” Somehow pulling you and Haruhi out of your chairs and into their arms, the hosts embrace you in a tight group hug. 

“Don’t get all soft on us now, (Y/n).” The twins say as Honey rubs his cheek against a smiling Haruhi. You laugh and push them off, just in time to see the natural type’s face fall as her color disappears.

Hikaru notices immediately, holding her side. “Is something wrong?”

Haruhi’s stomach makes a concerning gurgle. “I don’t feel so good.”

And that was how Haruhi ended up in your bathroom, heaving her guts out in your toilet. 

You’re sat on your bed as you hear the toilet flush, looking out one of the massive windows in the room as the moonlight lets itself in. 

The light from your bathroom seeps into the space as Haruhi walks out, weakly falling onto your bed with a light thud. There’s a beat of silence as she flips over, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

“We kind of fucked up, huh?” You joke, still looking out at the ocean as it calmly waved against the shoreline. 

“Yeah. We did.”

“Who do you think we should apologize to first?” You ask, meeting her eye line as she continues to focus on the popcorn ceiling. 

She just shrugs, at a loss for the next step. “Should we go together? Or one at a time?” 

“Probably one at a time. I’ll go to one, and you go to the other, and then we can just switch.” Sheepishly, you sigh. “Besides, I think that I have a little more to apologize for.”

“It could’ve been either of us, (Y/n).” Her low voice echoes off the walls. “If you had run in front of me, it would’ve been me who would’ve gotten thrown over.” 

Another small silence blankets over you before you nodded your head sharply. “If we’re gonna do this, we gotta do it now.”

Haruhi props herself up on her elbows as she watches you push off the bed, an air of confidence surrounding you. “Now?”

“Now.” You stop in the mirror, checking yourself over to make sure you are presentable. “We will get the hard ones out of the way. You apologize to Tamaki, and I’ll apologize to Kyoya.”

“You sure you’re not rushing into things?”

“Nope! Just gotta get it over with.” Head held high, you walk out the door with Haruhi on your heels, picking up the first aid kit so you could return it to its owner.

You and Haruhi walk from your door to the end of the hallway, a lavender rose on one and a red rose on the other. Stopping in front of your respective hosts doors, you each raise a fist, preparing to knock. 

“Ready?” You ask.

“Ready.” She sounds confident, affirming. 

Then each of you turn around and switch places, losing gusto as you walk into Tamaki’s room. 

Knocking softly as Haruhi enter’s Kyoya’s room, you step into the prince’s chambers, searching for the signature strands of blonde hair. 

He jumps from his corner, the phone to his ear tumbling out of his grasp as you spook him with your entrance. Blowing out a breath, Tamaki runs a hand through his hair, tuning back into his conversation. 

“Yes, Grandmother.” Your heart sinks as his tone loses the flamboyant flair you had come to enjoy. “I understand. Goodnight.”

Hanging up the phone, he turns back to you as he hangs up the phone. With a hand on his hip, your regular scheduled Tamaki is up and running, an exaggerated frown on his face. “You can’t just barge into a man’s room like that, mon ami! Think of your manners!”

Looking down, your fingers tighten on the med kit in your hands. You chuckle at his words, but it quickly quiets when you remember what you came in here to do.

Since you chickened out of one apology, the least you could do was try to get through this one. 

Raising your eyes to meet his, blonde eyebrows rise as he senses utter sincerity in your gaze

“Tamaki, I’m so sorry for making you worry.” Earnest honesty blends into your words as you pour your apologies out to him. “Everything happened so fast, and I wasn’t thinking straight when I saw those men try to take advantage of those girls. I just got so mad, ya know? No one deserves to be treated like that.”

Tamaki parts his mouth, but sees that you have more to say, and closes it.

“Haruhi and I tried to run, but they caught the back of my shirt – well, it was Kyoya’s shirt because he let me borrow it earlier today – and I was forced into a fight or flight mode.”

“And you chose to fight.” The prince’s hands pocketed themselves into his jeans. 

Nodding, your actions became a little frenzied. “I wasn’t going to be helpless again, not like that time in the dressing rooms during the physical exam. I can take care of myself, and I wanted him to know it. I wanted him to know I am strong and independent and I wasn’t going to let them do whatever they wanted to me.”

An annoyed sigh shot out of you as the moments on that cliff replayed in your mind. “But one of the guy’s had a knife!” You gesture to your leg. “And it all got out of hand so quickly that it seemed like I blinked and all of a sudden I was being held over an endless sea. I was stupid, and reckless, but I just wanted to help and save them, save myself that I completely–”

Your face collided with a shirt, soft and lavender-scented as your best friend embraced you. Your rapid heartbeat echoed against the close proximity of his chest before it slowed, and you breathed as you wrapped your arms around him. It was a tight embrace as one of your palms grabbed onto the cloth of his button down like a lifeline while the other pressed the med kit into his back.

“I’m sorry.” The apology is muffled as you nuzzle against him. 

Pulling back, Tamaki looks down at you with a gentleness only he could provide. He grabs your hand and pulls you to an empty chair. “Here. Sit down.”

Brow furrowing, you sit as the large, red loveseat molds to your tired body, and you fight against your instinct to melt into the cushions. 

Your confusion takes precedence, though, as Tamaki sits on the floor below you, crossing his legs before holding out his hand. “The med kit?”

Once you hand it to him, he pops it open and scans over the supplies. He stretches his hands and cracks some knuckles before shaking them around, as if they had been asleep for hours and he was trying to wake them up. 

“I might not be good at all the medical stuff like Kyoya, but I can clean up a scratch or two.”

A light giggle rolls out of you as an intense look of concentration sculpts into his features. Setting everything he thinks he needs to the side, he opens his palm again. “May I?”

Rolling your eyes, your heart blooms at your friend's gentle touch as he begins to try and fix what you broke, even if that was what you had come here to do in the first place. 

Eventually, Tamaki breaks the silence that had lulled over the two of you as he applies a cleaner to your cut. “That was my grandmother on the phone.” 

Wincing at the medicine bubbling out of the cut, you nod. “I heard. I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”

“There’s not much to say.” In comes another rare instance like the one at the Tiki Bar. An aura of calm maturity takes the prince’s form as he sits in front of you, completely concentrated at the task at hand. “She was angry, like usual.”

“Did she yell at you again?”

His nod twists your heart on its chambers, but his eyes flick up at you to stop you from giving him any pity before going back to the task at hand. “She is an angry woman. She was widowed when she was young and since then has had a pessimistic perspective on life.” A sad sigh escapes him, but he still manages to keep a serene smile on his face. “She is not a woman I will ever completely understand, but I think, for the rest of her life, I will always strive too. While I may never be on her good side, I want to always put my best foot forward and keep my mind open, so that I might see the world through her eyes. Understand what she is dealing with even if I don’t agree with her actions.” His chest shakes with a low laugh. “It seems I’m stuck doing that for all the women in my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m telling you I understand.” Tamaki rifles through the bandaids and picks one that must’ve come from some sort of Valentine’s Day collection: shiny, red hearts with a white background. 

He places it gently over the scratch Ren had left you with, running his thumb across it in a loving gesture. “You were put in a terrible situation, and you did the only thing you, (Y/n), are programmed to do. Survive.”

His fingers swim through his hair again, and his violet eyes are swimming with genuine kindness with a hint of concern that you don’t think will ever fade away. “You're always by yourself. Your parents leave you alone in your home enough times, and you learn to depend on only yourself, because no one else has ever stepped up to the plate. You never call any of us for help, even when we are so close, until it’s too late. Until you realize that you pushed yourself too far.”

Leaning up, Tamaki puts his hands on the arms of the chair as he becomes eye-level with you. “I get it now.” A soft smile curls onto his handsome features. “I’m sorry I yelled at you on the beach. You grew up without relying on anyone else.”

Your eyes had gone wide and began to shine as Tamaki stood to his full height and held a hand out to you. “But not anymore. You haven’t been alone for a long time, (Y/n), not since you joined the club. Not since you met me.

Emotion wells up in your throat, making it hard to swallow as you quickly take his palm, jumping into his arms again with vigor. You feel him chuckle against you as he lifts you up in the air for a moment before setting you on the ground, your new band aid twinkling in the moonlight. 

“So, you forgive me?” You say, wiping the small, joyful tears away before he could see. 

“If you can forgive me for comparing you to my grandmother.” 

“I was just going to ignore that. It seemed like you were on a roll there.” 

You both laugh as Tamaki hands you back the med kit. He taps the top of it with his finger. “I think you need to return this.”

A different kind of feeling stuffed your airflow now as you looked out of Tamaki’s open door to the one across the hall, a lavender rose lacing the doorknob. 

“Yeah, yeah I do.” 

Feeling your feet begin to drag across Tamaki’s carpet, you force yourself to feel lighter, invigorated by your friend’s words. “Thank you, Tamaki.” You smile up at him as you pass through his doorway. 

At your grin, Tamaki squeals in his place. “Awe, you’re so cute, mon ami! No need to thank me, no need at all!”

You simper as you flick him on the nose and close the door behind you, taking the treacherous steps towards the Shadow King’s door.

The feeling of your thumping heart began to ring through your frame, but you willed it to calm down. Looking around, you tried to spot Haruhi in her door frame, waiting for you to be done talking with Tamaki so that she could tag in, but it was so late that she might’ve just fallen asleep. You would understand, especially if her conversation with Kyoya was as emotionally taxing as yours was with Tamaki. 

Every nerve stood on end as you raised your hand to knock, but hesitated. Would he be mad if you made so much noise in the middle of the night? Plus, if he had fallen asleep, he wouldn’t just wake up with a simple knock. The man slept like the dead who had turned to stone. 

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, careful of the thorns guarding the purple rose. Did he even want to see you?

The image of his softened gaze as it dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes, shrouded in sunset as Kyoya’s hand gently lifted to your waist filled your mind, and it motivated you to turn the knob. 

You had to salvage this. All he had asked was for you to admit that you had done something wrong, and now you were prepared to do that. It had taken some convincing, but you were ready to set aside your pride. Besides, to endure another moment of his gaze without the touch of softness he saved just for you would be hell compared to a little bruise on your ego. Maybe he will forgive you for waking him up.

You cringe, knowing you’re being way too optimistic.

The door doesn’t creak, the well-oiled hinges of an Ootori household silently as you sneak into Kyoya’s bedroom, barely opening the door a smidge before you see a shadowy blob on Kyoya’s bed.

Squinting your eyes, you struggle to peer into the darkness, and you open the door another centimeter, letting the light of the hallway bring some illumination to the shadows. 

The med kit drops onto the carpet, not a sound adding to the empty soundtrack of this moment. 

Shadows merge and billow before defining into bodies. Haruhi’s pink dress comes into view as the small amount of light grasps onto her form, revealing her as she lays wide-eyed on the bed. Her back sinks into Kyoya’s comforter as she looks up, blinking mildly at the form hovering over her. 

Long tingles of darkness form into a body you admire, the man you adored caging your best friend under him like a predator. His muscles tense as his arms work to hold his body just above her, his naked torso defined in the contrast of the night. 

Haruhi says something you couldn’t possibly hear over the blood pumping through your ears, and you see a smirk curl onto his face as if she said something clever, and Kyoya drags a thumb over his lip. 

The image is burned into your skull as you race back to your bedroom, only a wall separating you and the betrayal next door. 

Haruhi and Kyoya?

Haruhi and Kyoya?

Tears now welled in your eyes as you rushed to the comfort of the bed that wasn’t your bed, in a room that wasn’t your room. 

Fuck! Your mind screams as you shove your face into your pillow, rocking back and forth as the picture of them together keeps flashing behind your eyelids, a persistent roll of film filling in all the areas you didn’t see in the dark. How their bodies must be closer now, closer than you and Kyoya ever were. 

A hiccup escaped as the pressure in your chest tightened. Kyoya’s aversion to physical touch made it so he constantly kept an arms distance from you. Yet here he was, chest to chest with your best friend who you had grown to love like a sister you never had. 

Your fingers dug into the pillow as before you threw it across the room. Yanking the covers over your head, you begged and begged anybody that was listening to turn back time. 

Turn it back to the moment on the beach chair, under the umbrella in the glow of the sunset. Rewind to Kyoya serving you your favorite food with his sleeves rolled up, or the two of you linking fingers on a piano bench, the moonlight cascading down his soft smile effortlessly. 

A hand claps over your mouth to keep any sob from passing through and sounding through the wall, and you realize that even though the ocean was outside your window, you still couldn’t find your breath.

It seems that Kyoya didn’t deserve to win those pictures after all, because the image that still pulses into your vision causes you to sink into darkness. You find a new worst fear as Kyoya’s name echoes into your mind as you become lost. 

Next Time on Lavender Roses!

“I never noticed. Haruhi is perfectly suited to be accepted into an elite all-girl’s school.. And that’s exactly why I can’t let her transfer!”

“But (Y/n)’s been here for years, why does she want to transfer too?!”

A Challenge From Lobelia Girls Academy!

hey there, just wanted to apologize for ruining your day and leaving you in suspense :)

thank you for being so patient, there is always more to come :) comment if you can! i'd love to hear your thoughts.

[vintageskeletons]

LIAB-verse zukkas based on conversations @ssreeder and i had, because it's their birthdayyyayyayayayayy!!!

happy birthday to my one and only prison pal, cookie in my cookie day, wine to my lemon juice etc etc.

you're insufferably amazing and amazingly insufferable. never change sreeds! :) <3

[pinkmirth]

(slight AoT final episode spoilers below) — i know that everyone’s fighting for their lives and stuff, but reiner looked so yummy during the battle of heaven and earth . . .

[ninjabelle]

that new poll art rlly was enough to awaken a narumitsu fever in me that's laid dormant for like 10 years huh