#I tied a barrel knot you guys

[cy-lindric]

Now that I'm back from being hacked for skincare scam profits I can show you this 1790s waistcoat I've made !! First pic is the extant piece I've loosely based it off.

[genshinluvr]

Happily Ever After?

Pairings: Various Princes!Genshin Men x Royal!Isekai'd!Reader (Royal AU-ish)

Summary: There was a small kingdom on Teyvat where a king and queen kept their child locked in a tower for over two decades— the public and other kingdoms do not know what this royal Highness looks like, nor do they know much of this person. However, twenty-seven princes set off to free their royal Highness from their high-rise prison. Maybe you will finally get your happily ever after by finally getting your freedom.

Note: I was supposed to finish this fic last night and had it posted a while ago, but I didn't do that 🥹 I do plan on taking a break once a month instead of constantly posting like how I usually do. There's no specific "date" for these breaks, but it will be a once-a-month type of thing. Other than that, I'm not sure how I feel about this fic, but I hope you guys somewhat like it ;v; This fic is a little bit shorter than I expected it would be, but it's better than nothing— it's not a mini-fic. Yes, all Genshin men are princes no matter who they are and what age they are. Anyway, I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).

Warnings: None that I know of

Word Count: 5.6k

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king and queen. The king and queen have a child, locked in a tower, never allowed to see the light of day. No one knew what the young royal looked like, nor did they know much of the child’s existence. Nor did they know why the king and queen kept them locked up. It could be for their protection, or the king and queen despise their child. While the kingdom was reminded of the existence of the king and queen’s child annually, the thought of the young royal was a fleeting thought. A little over two decades later, the tower where the child of the king and queen soon has many curious explorers try to climb up the structure to see the face of the mysterious royal. The same face no one is familiar with, the same face no one in the public eye has ever seen, and the same face twenty-seven men are curious to see. 

PRESENT DAY— Location: Unknown.

Twenty-seven men, also princes, crowd around the lone tower in a remote area of a small kingdom. The tower is far from the kingdom, far from civilization. It makes the men wonder how in the world the child of the king and queen is able to survive while kept far from humanity. The gray-bricked tower is fifty meters tall with purplish-pink barrel roof tiles. There is a singular window at the very top of the tower, accompanied by a balcony with a flower pot hanging from the ceiling. 

Prince Childe props his hands on his hips, staring at the balcony intently. “Well, gentlemen. Today is the day where we rescue the child of the king and queen of this small kingdom,” says Prince Childe, turning to look at the other men with determination. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Prince Gorou nervously asks, watching Prince Diluc pull a rope from a leather rucksack. 

The rope is long enough for the twenty-seven men to use as leverage to get to the window of the tower. Prince Diluc ties the rope and begins swinging the rope, scanning the towering building.

Prince Venti plops beside the leather rucksack, resting his head on the bag as he crosses his right leg over the other with wheat sticking from his lips. “Yer sure the rope is sturdy for the twenty-seven of us?” Prince Venti asks, chewing on the end of the wheat.

Prince Zhongli rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he stands beside Prince Diluc, helping the redhead secure the knot. “Twenty-six. You’re not coming with us,” Prince Zhongli states.

Prince Venti sits up, gazing at the brown-haired Prince incredulously. Prince Zhongli turns away and continues to assist Prince Diluc. Prince Venti stutters, getting off the ground and stomping toward Prince Zhongli.

Prince Xiao glares at Venti and lightly pushes Prince Venti away from Prince Zhongli. “You stay down here and make sure no one comes. That’s the only thing you’re useful for,” Prince Xiao states, rolling his eyes.

Not wanting to start any more problems, Prince Venti grumbles and walks back to the leather rucksack and plops down beside it. While the twenty-seven princes (yes, they are all princes. There are no kings, emperors, dukes, lords, sirs, etc.) collectively agree to save the king and queen’s unknown child, they cannot stand each other’s presence. Especially Prince Zhongli and Prince Venti— the two princes are from rival kingdoms. 

Many people may wonder why the princes are working together to climb the tower when most can’t stand each other. They all share the same agenda, and that is to rescue the poor young royal from the tower the king and queen have locked their kid up for most of their life. It makes the twenty-seven men wonder how you, the mysterious royal, survive without human contact for so long. Every man is aware of your existence, and they’re all curious about who you are and why your parents decide to keep you away from the public eye. It’s not easy to keep someone of a high profile away from the limelight for over two decades. 

Prince Ayato props his hands on his hips, staring at the rope with scrutiny. “Are you certain this rope is sturdy? It won’t rip if every one of us is climbing up the tower using this rope, will it?” asks Prince Ayato.

“We’ll be fine, Prince Ayato! Chillax, my bro! I know it seems scary, but as someone who has done this plenty of times, we’ll be okay!” Prince Itto says, roughly patting the refined Prince of Inazuma on the shoulders. 

Prince Ayato sighs, rolling his eyes before giving the tall prince a small smile. While Prince Itto and Prince Ayato aren’t as close, the two would meet up from time to time to have a beetle fight. It’s a small game the two would have with each other— mostly initiated by Prince Itto, the carefree prince who gets into a lot of trouble but is always off the hook due to being a prince. 

“How are we going to get this rope to hook around that balcony? With our weight combined, I don’t think the railing of the balcony stands a chance,” Prince Kaveh sighs, tapping his foot on the ground.

Prince Wriothesley laughs and steps forward. “Gentlemen, I got this! Leave this to me, Prince Wriothesley of Fontaine,” says Prince Wriothesley, grabbing the rope from Prince Diluc’s hands and beginning spinning the rope, aiming for the balcony. 

While the princes are outside trying to get the rope to latch onto the balcony, the door to the bedroom in the tower swings open. Enters a young royal, yawning and rubbing their eyes. There’s nothing else to do in the tower except to read and sleep. You look at the clock on the wall and roll your eyes. It’s only two in the afternoon, and you’re already forced to retreat to your bedroom by one of the servants your parents assigned. 

“I’m rotting away in my high-rise prison,” you mumble, plopping on your bed and hugging your pillow before flipping over on your back. 

You have been locked away in your tower for as long as you can remember. You rarely step out of the tower. You never walk around the castle your parents reside in. Heck, you never stepped foot in that damn castle! Most importantly, you have never communicated with anyone outside of your prison aside from your parents. Your parents— the king and queen— tried to reassure you they love you and that they’re doing this for your safety, but you don’t believe them.

You toss your pillow to the foot of your bed and close your eyes. “One day, my prince will rescue me from my tower,” you whisper, dozing off.

Meanwhile, outside the tower, the men cheer loudly when the rope latches onto the railing of the balcony. Prince Wriothesley tugs on the rope, testing its durability. Prince Cyno and Prince Albedo collectively pull at the rope, nodding with approval. 

“The rope is sturdy. It doesn’t seem like it will snap under intense pressure,” says Prince Albedo, dusting his hands.

Prince Cyno shields his eyes from the sun, looking at the other men. “Alright, gentlemen. Shall we rescue their royal highness from their tower?” asks Prince Cyno, the corners of his lips quirking up.

The men grab the rope, and Prince Diluc starts climbing up the rope, mentally praying to the Archons the rope wouldn’t snap under immense weight. After all, over twenty people are climbing up the rope— just as long as the rope doesn’t break, sending everyone tumbling to the ground. 

Prince Aether wipes the beads of sweat forming at the base of his hairline. “You guys are certain this rope isn’t going to snap?” asks Prince Aether, looking at the other men worriedly.

“Relax, Prince Aether! This is the sturdiest rope to exist in Teyvat. Do you really think the rope is going to snap that easily?” Prince Thoma asks, nudging Prince Aether lightly with his elbow. 

Prince Scaramouche rolls his eyes and climbs up the rope, making sure to listen for the sounds of tearing and snapping. So far, there aren’t any noises from the rope— thankfully. Prince Scaramouche wants to get this over with and find out who this mysterious royal highness is. The same royal highness the king and queen of whatever kingdom is hiding from the public eye. 

“Does anyone find it strange how the king and queen were able to keep the identity of the young royal highness hidden for so long? How was their identity not leaked?” Prince Kazuha asks, tightening his grip on the rope as he climbs up the tower. 

Prince Heizou shrugs. “It is strange. It’s impossible to keep your child out of the limelight as a public figure, especially if your child is part of the royal family. I understand if the young Highness is still young. However, it’s been a little over two decades, and no one has caught a glimpse of what the royal Highness looks like,” Prince Heizou mutters, stroking his chin.

The men proceed to climb up the tower, eyeing the rope around the balcony’s railing. The railing is somehow managing to hold up over twenty people climbing the tower. It’s both a relief and a worry how the fence has yet to break under a lot of weight. After what felt like two hours, Prince Diluc reached the balcony and climbed over it, sighing in relief. The balcony is surprisingly bigger than he expected. 

“Where do you think this leads to? Their royal Highness’s bedroom?” Prince Kaeya asks, dusting his clothes.

Prince Diluc crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Prince Kaeya. “Even if it does, do not put your hands on them,” Prince Diluc instructs sternly.

Prince Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Relax, Prince Diluc. None of us are interested in touching the mysterious royal Highness,” he says.

Prince Al Haitham grabs the door handle of the balcony entrance and slowly turns the knob. To his and everyone’s surprise, the door is unlocked. Prince Al Haitham cracks the door open and slowly enters the tower, the men tip-toeing behind him. The men collectively freeze when they realize they’re in your bedroom. The bedroom is furnished with elegant, luxury furniture. But despite the luxurious furniture around the room, the room looks barren. 

“Is that who I think it is?” Prince Tighnari whispers, gesturing toward the bed.

Prince Al Haitham takes a step closer to the bed and peeks at your face. Prince Al Haitham nods and turns to the others. “I believe this is their royal Highness the king and queen have been hiding for two decades,” Prince Al Haitham whispers.

The Princes walk around your spacious bedroom, looking around curiously. Bookshelves lined up against the wall, and a fireplace nestled between the two tall bookshelves. In the corner are a small vanity and an easel. The room is filled with many activities for you to keep yourself occupied while locked in a tower for two decades.

“What should we do? Wake them up?” Prince Pantalone asks, standing at the foot of your bed, staring down at your unconscious body.

Prince Dottore shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s best for us to wake them up from their slumber. It’ll freak them out and call for security,” Prince Dottore mutters, walking over to the door and pressing his ears against the wooden door.

The masked Prince grabs the doorhandle and twists it, only for it to become stuck. Prince Dottore furrows his eyebrows and looks at the doorknob. There’s no lock from the inside, and yet the door isn’t budging. Did they lock you in the room by any chance? Prince Dottore jiggles the doorknob to double-check, and he’s correct. The door is certainly locked from the outside, and even if you want to escape, there’s no way for you to leave the room aside through the balcony. 

Prince Capitano chuckles bitterly, shaking his head. “I don’t think their royal Highness will be calling for security,” Prince Capitano comments, looking at the pictures hanging on the wall.

“I think we should give Their Royal Highness a kiss on the lips!” Prince Venti says, throwing his legs over the railing of the balcony and strutting into the room.

The men look at each other before looking over at the short Prince, who scans around the bedroom of the tower, whistling lowly. Prince Zhongli growls lowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to remain calm and not explode. 

Prince Baizhu smiles at Prince Venti, tapping his fingers on his hips. “Prince Venti, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be watching and making sure there aren’t people approaching the tower?” Prince Baizhu asks.

“I knew we shouldn’t have invited him along with us. This dunce never listens when given orders,” Prince Dainsleif rolls his eyes.

Prince Venti gives the men a shit-eating grin, plops on the chair beside your bed, and stares at your sleeping face with awe. Prince Venti could stay outside and keep watch, but he doesn’t want to. Prince Pierro rubs the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, sharp exhale. The older man looks at Prince Venti, clenching his jaws.

“I am trying my best not to strangle you right now, Prince Venti,” Prince Pierro hisses.

Prince Neuvillette hums, closing his eyes. “Aren’t we all?” Prince Neuvillette chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.

Prince Venti smirks and sticks his tongue out at the other men in the room before peeking over at you. Your chest is rising and falling at a steady pace, letting him know you’re in deep sleep. While the men aren’t sure how long you have been asleep, they need to wake you up soon to rescue you from the tower. Prince Childe stands at the foot of your bed, hands propping on his hips as he stares at your face.

“They’re kind of cute! I can see why their parents locked them away in the tower for most of their life!” says the ginger-haired prince of Snezhnaya.

The men are surprised you have yet to wake up due to the amount of talking going on in your room. At first, they were whispering, but since some of them weren’t whispering, you didn’t bat an eye when each person spoke. 

Prince Itto scoffs. “Kind of? They’re very cute! I don’t know what you mean by ‘kind of,’” says Prince Itto, gesturing air quotes with both his index and middle fingers.

“How do we wake them up without freaking them out?” Prince Aether asks, scratching his head as he peeks from Prince Venti’s head.

There are many ways the twenty-seven princes can wake you up from your slumber. Either the normal way and that is to gently shake you from your sleep, or they can not wake you up. By that, one of the men can scoop you up in their arms and climb out the window with you! But the men aren’t sure how much of a heavy or light sleeper you are, so that can be a bit challenging. 

Prince Venti claps his hands, startling the others. “We can do it in a way every fairy tale book does it! Like Snow White, for example!” Venti exclaims, crossing his arms over his chest with a smug look.

Prince Neuvillette raises his eyebrows at Prince Venti, gazing at him skeptically. “Care to elaborate on that, Prince Venti?” asks the Fontainian prince. 

Prince Heizou raises his hand. “I believe he is referring to the famous kiss of life. While it happened in Snow White, it also happened in the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty,” Prince Heizou interjects. 

Kiss of life, huh? While it sounds romantic, it doesn’t seem to be the appropriate thing to do, given that you weren’t poisoned or cursed with eternal sleep until your true love kisses you, bringing you back to life. Plus, it’s not a good idea to kiss someone you met less than thirty minutes ago— especially when they’re sleeping.

Prince Zhongli glares at Prince Venti and Prince Heizou, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kissing someone without their consent and while unconscious is very distasteful. If you dare to touch them in such a way, I will bring hell on Teyvat,” Prince Zhongli thunders. 

Everyone in the room flinches when Prince Zhongli raises his voice at the two princes. The sound of blanket ruffling and a soft exhale causes every man to freeze in the room. Prince Al Haitham turns to see you moving around on your bed, groaning softly and rubbing your eyes. Prince Ayato sighs, running his hands through his hair. Bouncing with excitement, Prince Itto, Prince Childe, and Prince Venti lean over you.

Prince Ayato rolls his eyes. “Don’t lean over them like that. You’ll freak them out,” Prince Ayato hisses quietly. 

Unable to fall back asleep, you open your eyes to see three unfamiliar faces staring down at you. Your eyes widen, and you punch the closest person to you. Prince Venti yelps and backs away, clutching his nose, while Prince Itto and Prince Childe back away. You sit up and look at the unwanted guests with fear.

“Who are you people, and why are you in my room!?” You screech, holding your pillow in front of you, using it as a shield.

Prince Gorou shakes his head rapidly, waving his hands in front of him. “Please don’t scream! We’re here to rescue you!” Prince Gorou explains, peeking at the door to make sure no one hears what’s going on.

Your bottom lip quivers as you plop over to the side, hugging your pillow tightly. If this is how you die, then you accept your fate with open arms. You don’t want to die. You really don’t want to die, but if it means you’ll finally be free from your high-rise prison, then you accept your fate. 

Prince Kazuha clears his throat. “Your Highness, are you alright?” Prince Kazuha asks softly, debating if he should approach you or not, fearing he would scare you even more.

You bury your face into your pillow. “If you’re here to kill me, just do it! I accept my fate and am willing to let you all kill me like a pig in a slaughterhouse,” you say dramatically.

Your room plunges into a tense silence. You peek from your pillow to look at the intruders, waiting for their response. The men are shocked and a little offended that you assumed they would harm you. Prince Kaveh clears his throat to grab your attention and steps forward cautiously, not wanting to scare you. You sniffle and sit up, hugging your knees to your chest while gazing at the men warily. Prince Kaveh smiles at you, tucking his blond hair behind his ear.

Prince Kaveh kneels on one knee, placing his right hand over his heart. “Your Highness, we’re not here to kill you. We’re here to rescue you from your tower,” Prince Kaveh explains.

“Rescue me from my tower? How are you guys going to do that without getting caught?” You ask.

The men look away, rubbing the back of their necks. You blink at them and look over at your bedroom door. You slowly get off your bed and walk toward the door to test out the door handle. The doorknob doesn’t budge, letting you know they did not enter your room through the door like a normal person. 

“How did you—”

“We entered through your balcony,” Prince Xiao interrupts, pointing at the balcony door that’s wide open.

Prince Kaeya chuckles, adjusting the eyepatch. “Perhaps this is a reminder for everyone to lock your doors and windows,” says Prince Kaeya.

You shake your head and walk to the vanity, plopping on the stool and running your hands through your hair. You want to escape the tour with these strange men, but how are you going to do that without causing a scene? You can either leave with these men and never look back or remain at the tower, never see the light of day other than through the balcony window. Who are these men anyway?

Your parents made sure you don’t fall behind on your education— they hired the top university professors in the world to teach you many subjects, but they never mention other important figures. Well, those who are alive, of course. You take a deep breath and stand up, facing the twenty-something men. Wait, how many people are there? You start counting heads quietly, pointing at each man as you do.

Twenty-seven men stare at you while you count how many people there are in your room. After counting, you nod and clasp your hands together. “Alright, I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves to one another. Judging by your attire, you all are important people,” you say.

Prince Diluc raises his eyebrows at you. “Do your parents not tell you who each of us are? Or about our regions and kingdoms?” asks Prince Diluc.

You squint at Prince Diluc, stroking your chin while shaking your head. Why would your parents tell you who these men are? Kingdoms and regions, huh? So not only are they important people, but they come from the kingdoms that rule the seven nations. Your parents could care less about informing you about the current reigning monarchs of each region because they assumed you wouldn’t meet anyone from the seven regions.

The men start introducing themselves and saying what regions and kingdoms they’re from while you try to remember the names of each face. After ten minutes, every man has introduced themselves to you, and now it’s your turn. You’re not sure what to say— do you even introduce yourself as a member of the royal family, or do you present yourself as who you are? I mean, you are part of the royal family, but you’re never seen with them, nor are you seen out in public because you’re not allowed to step foot out of the high-rise prison.

“Nice to meet you all. My name’s [YN],” you introduce yourself.

Prince Thoma gazes at you with wide eyes before looking at the others. “Your Highness, you’re not going to introduce yourself as—”

You shake your head. What’s the point of introducing yourself as the child of the king and queen? The men look at each other, not saying a word. It’s not like you don’t want to introduce yourself as the child of the king and queen. The public and other kingdoms have never seen your face, and if you were to introduce yourself as whatever title within the monarchy, people would assume you’re pretending to be something you’re not. 

You clear your throat. “Are we all going to stay here, or are we going to leave? I’m worried the servants are going to pop in to check on me only to see me with twenty-seven uninvited royal guests,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. 

The men nod and usher you toward the balcony. You peek over the balcony and see an uncomfortable drop. You turn to look at the others, propping your hands on your hips. There’s no way in hell you’re going to climb down this easily. You’re willing to leave, but if it has anything to do with heights, you’re not going to be on board with it. Maybe that’s why your parents put you in a high-rise prison instead of a dungeon. 

“Is there a problem, Your Highness?” Prince Dainsleif asks, peering over the balcony before looking at you with worry.

You nod hesitantly. “Yes, but I don’t think we have time to worry about my worries right now,” you say, reaching for the rope, only for Prince Albedo to snatch it from your hands.

Prince Albedo sighs and shakes his head. “Your Highness, if you’re not comfortable with climbing out the balcony and down the rope, we can have someone carry you down,” Prince Albedo suggests.

Not wanting to waste time, Prince Al Haitham scoops you in his arms and throws you over his shoulders before grabbing the rope and climbing over the railing of the balcony. You squeeze your eyes shut and wrap your arms around his torso tightly as Prince Al Haitham descends with you over his shoulders. The others follow after Prince Al Haitham climbs down the tower. Prince Tighnari closes the balcony door before making his way down the rope.

“Okay, so you have successfully rescued me from my tower…” You trail off, continuing to cling onto Prince Al Haitham’s waist. “What’s going to happen after this? Do I live as a regular citizen now? Do I live in someone else’s kingdom? Are you guys going to take me to my parents' kingdom?” You ask.

Once everyone made it down the tower, Prince Wriothesley yanks the rope from the railing before wrapping the rope and storing it in the leather rucksack. You wiggle your feet in the grass and pause, only to realize you don’t have shoes on, nor do you have shoes on your person. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“Is there something wrong, Your Highness?” Prince Wriothesley asks, approaching you.

You press your lips into a thin line. You don’t want to be a burden if you tell them you don’t have shoes on— how could you forget to wear shoes? Then again, you rarely leave the tower, so shoes weren’t a necessity for you. 

“Did you forget something, Your Highness?” A suave voice asks.

You turn to see a shorter male leaning against the tower. You blink at the man and turn to the other princes behind you. There are twenty-seven of them, but who in the world is this man? Prince Cyno and Prince Baizhu trade looks before looking at the approaching man. The man pulls your shoes out of thin air before dropping down on one knee, helping you put your shoes on. The princes around you mutter to themselves while watching the man before you put your shoes on your feet before standing up. The man bows gracefully, tips his hat forward, and winks at you with a smirk.

“If it weren’t for me, you would be parading around the nation barefooted,” says the mysterious man.

Prince Cyno sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Prince Lyney, I did not expect to see you here,” says Prince Cyno.

Another prince? How many princes are there in Teyvat? Prince Lyney smiles at Prince Cyno and waves at him with a wide smile. At least you don’t have to worry about walking around barefooted. It’s still early in the afternoon, and your fate after leaving the castle remains a mystery. If your parents know you managed to escape the tower, who knows what they will do aside from having a search party for you. You love your parents, you really do! But you don’t see them as often as you see the servants at the tower.

“Where are we going to take their Highness,” asks Prince Scaramouche, crossing his arms over his chest.

The men fall silent and look at each other. You prop your hands on your hips and sigh. These men did not think this through. While it’s nice to be rescued, you don’t want to be seen outside of the tower if there isn’t a plan after the rescue portion of the plan. Even if the majority of the public has no idea what you look like, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Pantalone strokes his chin. “We’re going to take you to another nation. Far away from where your kingdom and tower reside—”

You cut him off. “And have you all decided on what nation I’m going to be smuggled into?” you ask.

“That we do not,” Dottore says, shaking his head.

You visibly deflate, sighing in defeat. You’re okay with being smuggled into any nation! However, these men not knowing what nation they wanted to smuggle you into is sort of a problem. 

Prince Tighnari smiles at you sympathetically and pats your head. “Do you have a preference?” asks Prince Tighnari.

You shake your head. “Not really, no,” you reply. You look around, making sure there’s no one listening in on your conversation. “Let’s get moving before one of the servants catches us out here.”

Prince Capitano, the masked (helmeted?) prince of an unknown nation, leads the way away from the tower. You look over your shoulders at your high-rise prison one last time before turning back around. You hope if your parents have a search party over your disappearance, they will never find you. 

Even if your parents know what you look like, the entire nation and the entirety of Teyvat have no idea what you look like. So, that makes you wonder how your parents are going to have a search party for you if the entirety of Teyvat (aside from a selected few) has no idea what you look like. To be honest, just thinking about it makes you a tad bit nervous about what’s going to happen in the future.

“Something on your mind, Your Highness?” asks Prince Capitano.

You shake your head and rub your temples. “No, no, not really. Although I am starting to get a headache,” you sigh.

You’re not lying when you say you’re starting to get a headache. The back of your head is throbbing, and it makes you want to drop everything and take a nap. Prince Baizhu steps up and points at the large tree in the distance.

“Get underneath the shade of the tree, and I’ll conduct a health check-up before we continue our journey,” Prince Baizhu instructs.

Prince Pierro scoops you up in his arms and carries you to the shade. It’s warm outside, but not uncomfortably warm. It's just warm enough for you to not overheat or break out in sweats. Prince Pierro sits you down at the base of the tree and has you lean against the tree trunk. You tilt your head back and look at your surroundings. There are so many trees around you that it shocks you— not because of the number of trees, but because your parents kept you in a locked tower with a few servants for most of your life, surrounded by nothing but vegetation.

Prince Baizhu does a small check-up on you, handing you a bottle of water from the rucksack Prince Diluc was carrying. The green-haired prince starts massaging your temples while you close your eyes with contentment. 

Prince Al Haitham looks around, making sure no one is following your group. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do the servants treat you at your tower?” asks the gray-haired prince.

You crack your eyes open and look at Prince Al Haitham. “They treat me okay. I’m not allowed to leave my room unless I need to use the bathroom. They bring food to my room along with medication if I’m sick,” you reply.

The men stare at you in disbelief. From what you told them, it doesn’t sound like a comfortable lifestyle for you. Yes, they didn’t mistreat you, but you weren’t allowed to leave your room unless it was necessary. Heck, you weren’t allowed to leave your bedroom to get food. The servants bring food to your room and leave, locking the door behind them.

Prince Pierro sighs, shaking his head. “Sounds like they’re treating you like a prisoner,” Prince Pierro mutters.

“Do you know why your parents keep you locked up in the tower by any chance?” Prince Gorou asks, sitting beside you.

You shake your head. “Aside from wanting to protect me, not really. Whenever I ask them, they would brush it off or change the conversation.”

Now that you think about it, you never knew the actual reason why they kept you locked up in the tower. Your parents wanted to keep you away from the limelight, and to protect you could be an excuse for something else. 

“Well, whatever their reason is, it’s not good enough. The best thing we can do is—” Prince Tighnari freezes, his ears twitching.

Prince Ayato looks at Prince Tighnari worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“I hear sirens from a distance,” Tighnari whispers.

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself off the ground. “Oh no,” you whisper. 

“The siren is coming from the tower,” Prince Zhongli mutters. 

You and the twenty-eight princes are in the middle of nowhere in the forest. As Prince Zhongli said, the only thing that could have sirens is the tower. Prince Zhongli grabs ahold of your wrist and carries you bridal style before running with the other princes in tow.

“What’s going to happen if we get caught? I can’t go back there! I refuse to go back to the tower,” you say, gripping the sleeves of Prince Zhongli’s coat tightly.

“We won’t get caught, Your Highness! We’ll make sure you don’t return to the tower,” says Prince Neuvillette.

You and the princes can’t possibly be caught, right? The only people (aside from you and the twenty-eight princes) are the servants. There aren’t guards around the tower unless it’s a monthly security check at the tower ordered by your parents. You can’t go back to the tower, you can’t! You refuse to go back there! The possibility of you returning to the tower is fifty-fifty, and if you were to be forced to return to your high-rise prison, chances are, the security is going to be tight, and you will be under constant surveillance. So much for a happily ever after.

Note: Before anyone makes a comment on certain characters being too old to be a prince (Pierro, Capitano, Zhongli, Venti, etc.)... mind you, Prince Charles exists, and that man did not become a king until his mother died. That man finally got the title of King in his 70s. Plus, I decided to make every man a prince because changing up titles is a little bit hard to keep up— especially when it involves almost 30 men. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!

Taglist for my isekai'd!Reader one-shot series and my overall taglist for my Genshin fics: @chirikoheina, @yoru-trash, @kaoyamamegami, @deartoru, @luminarymoonlight, @toobytub, @ins4nebish, @bokuto-kinnie, @exhaustedcommunist, @jadedist, @mompt2, @chalksdreams, @thelost-in-time, @ventisweetheart, @hispasian-otaku, @juuuuuj101010, @samarill, @testsubject0012, @irisxiel, @kazuhaprnt, @lunarapple, @emilymikado, @mabie, @vinnie-w, @n8mareee, @heyimkay, @eliciana, @blesstosuisen, @goldeneclipsedragon, @jjvr4yxc, @sovermike-21-blog, @vox34, @skyyyyackerman, @undecidingfate, @nightlysunn, @faeryminnyx, @simpcreator, @lucifarts-boxers, @thelovebuggs, @urlocalheizousimp, @sunlightstarr, @asoulsreverie, @inapileofbooke

Read more of my works on my Masterlist / Masterlist 2 | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories on there too, but who knows. You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like as a way to show support! ^^

[hellotherekenobi]

THIS COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE LOVE... RIGHT?

Eddie Munson x Mayfield!reader

Written for the incredible @megmeg-chan “this is for you,” I say while throwing it in your direction but my aim is bad and it smashes straight through the glass window which I will not be paying for.

Summary: You and Eddie have never really gotten along, but that’s what makes it fun. What isn’t fun, though, is when those feelings begin to blossom into something else, and what exactly you intend to do about it.

CW/TW: fem!reader; Dual!POV; mentions of household abuse/alcohol/drugs; Season 3 finale spoilers; slight canon variation; a twinge of angst.

Word Count: 12,460 (I don’t know what happened.)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

There were a lot of bad things in your life. Many came from personal experience—and the occasional mistake made on your part—but the worst of the batch came from the blended family arrangement which your mother threw you and your sister into. There was no stopping Susan Mayfield when she puts her mind to something, and so you and Max had to bite your tongue when she tied the knot to Neil Hargrove, and in effect his son, Billy, became your step-brother.

He wasn’t always a mean guy. At least, not when you had all met the first time. He was cocky, a bit too into himself, but he wouldn’t lash out. Turns out that getting two unwanted step-sisters can turn a person bitter. Neil was no sunshine human, either. But that was something Max and you had picked up on straight away and why you both begged your mother to change her mind. Look where it got you both; ass first into Hawkins, sharing a home with the last two people you’d ever want to call family.

Max and you tried hard to calm the waters, and you’d be the one with a mark on your arm to prove it. It made the two of you pretty reclusive to other people. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to make friends, but the choice wasn’t entirely up to you anymore. It was only a side effect of how rotten both of your attitudes became, though. Sure, you’d get mad over some things—all sisters have their arguments from time to time—but it wasn’t just that; frustrations simmered into a rage. Max was always grumpy, always defiant. You, in turn, lost most of your patience. But at the end of the day, the two of you knew that it was you both against the other four.

Life at home only crumbled more when Billy was victim to the Starcourt Mall fire and Neil wasn’t a great family head after that (not as if he were one, to begin with.) His work ethic crumbled and there was not enough money in your wallet from your part-time job to help the situation, so in the end, you all had to give up the house and into a dodgy neighborhood is how living thereafter went. Maybe, too, Max was affected a lot by it, but she stopped talking to you like how she used to and you could see the way she tensed whenever the fire was mentioned. It definitely hasn’t been an easy life living in Hawkins, Indiana.

To make matters worse, you were situated in the trailer park which welcomed all sorts of perverted drunks and drug dealers. It was not the idealized home living, and it definitely wasn’t sunny California, but it was a roof over your heads, so, in the end, you couldn’t really complain about that.

If there was one thing that was going to send you into a rage, though, then it was your neighbor who would barrel into the trailer park close to two in the morning, drifting on two wheels in his run-down van. Twice now—twice—he’s almost run into your letterbox, and so help whoever the people of Hawkins pray to, you swear one of these days you’re going to tug the letterbox straight out of the ground and bash him over the head with it. Have you spoken more than two words to him? No. You haven’t even spoken one. But that long-haired freak irritated you in a way no one else ever could.

It was just his luck and his fault, you tell yourself, that he happened to introduce himself on a day where you had gone through hell at work, then met a lopsided and foul-mouthed drunk in the living room who gave you crap for not mowing the lawn like he had asked you to. He never actually did ask, though. So when you’re tugging the lawn mower out from behind the house and dragging it beside the driveway, it’s fair to say that you were not in a bright and happy mood to officially meet the guy who woke you up with screeching tires nearly every morning. Restless sleep schedule, meet the prick responsible.

He had offered his name when you tugged at the pull-string with no luck, and you just shot him an exhausted glare as you ignored him and tried again. “I’m Eddie Munson, from across the road,” he said, gesturing to the lack of road between your house and his campervan.

No response and another tug finally started the damn lawn mower, and you shoved it forward to start hacking away at the grass that was hardly needing a cut at all. A fact proven to you quickly was how he didn’t give up easily, and he walked along the footpath right where you were mowing down a somewhat straight line, kicking his shoes against the pavement.

“I’m just wondering, you know since the guys are coming around and I don’t want to disappoint,” he shot you a toothy smile, making your skin crawl. “They’d appreciated some beers and I’m not getting my cheque til the next gig. If you could lend a helping hand?”

Beer. This asshat was asking you for beer, or money if you didn’t happen to have any on you. What a leech!

“No offense, Munson, but there’s no way in hell that I’m helping you with your asinine party,” sighing when you reach the edge enough to turn the corner, you show him the clear distaste on your face at not even mentioning him by his first name. “You better not be pounding music until two in the morning. Your van already makes enough noise as is.”

Making a sound, something between ‘woah’ and ‘hey’, he raises his hands in defense, never failing to show you a smile. “I’m not that bad a driver, I’ll have you know.”

“You’re hardly eligible for a license and you’ve nearly knocked over my letterbox with those driving skills of yours,” you wave a hand over at the aforementioned letterbox, quickly slapping your hand back on the steering. “One of these days you’re going to run someone over, and I swear if that someone is my sister then—”

“Okay! Jeez, you’re a real worrywart, you know that? I promise nothing will happen to your sister.”

You huff out a “Yeah,” as you continue mowing down a line of grass, fingers wrapped around the steering so tightly that your knuckles turn white, irritated by the sound of this guy’s voice alone, not to mention his insane request. Hell, asking for sugar would have been more polite than overtly trying to raid your fridge. It’s not like Neil would give away any of his beer for free, anyway. He’s practically got his lips stuck to every bottle in the same way he’s got them stuck to your mom and—to all things clean and pure—you don’t exactly want to think about that.

He’s still standing there on the footpath, in the corner of your eye you can see him with two hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket with that stupid smile still on his face. You give him about ten seconds to change his mind and walk away before you become furious again, sighing loudly as you turn to lean on the steering and shoot him another glare.

“You deaf or something? I’m not giving you any beer.”

It sparks another type of frustration through you at seeing his lips curl up even more in amusement. “I never got your name.”

Punk. Jackass. Bonehead. You don’t know what it is but he’s seriously tipping you over the edge right now. “Get lost,”

He chuckles, and you want to scream. “Alright then, Hargrove.”

He should be thinking it a miracle that you haven’t already rolled this lawn mower over him and shredded him into tiny little pieces, and honestly, you don’t know why you manage some sense of self-control when you answer him. “Mayfield.”

“What?” He asks, not even flinching in the slightest under your glare.

“I’m a Mayfield.”

“Right,” he rocks on his heels and you don’t miss the way his eyes shoot to the letterbox with the surname he had called you by written clearly on its side. Maybe you have more reason to rip it out than just your annoying neighbor. “Til next time, then.”

“Whatever,” you huff, shaking your head in annoyance and turning back around to carry on with mowing the stupid lawn.

That was the last you had hoped to ever see him, even with the statement he made. You were standoffish and rude, so anyone else—literally any other human being in Hawkins—would have taken the hint and left you alone, but Eddie Munson isn’t like anyone else and he definitely isn’t normal.

As you had expected, music was blaring loud into the early morning from his campervan, and even though there were a few angry neighbors pounding on his door every so often, he never turned the volume down. When you had tossed over for the umpteenth time in your bed, you had heard his chuckle followed by “I apologize for waking you, ma’am” which not only sent your blood boiling but apparently also hers when the sound of a limb hitting his screen door was then heard and angry footsteps stomping away, then the music was promptly shut off.

You awoke groggy the next morning but trudged out to work regardless after dropping your sister off at school. Thank goodness you’re out of that place. High school in California wasn’t terrible and in a way, Hawkins isn’t that bad either, but transferring schools was always messy. As soon as you walked the stage in that graduation cap, it was like hammering the final nail in the coffin. Not that working the laundromat was any better, but hey, it beats homework any day.

It was the middle of the week when one of the washing machines went bust on you, but it was hardly your fault—you had told the customer three times to check the pockets of their clothes for loose change and though they were adamant that it was all emptied, a coin still got suck in the indent of the drum and caused the whole machine to rattle to a screeching halt. Running to it didn’t save it any quicker and neither did kicking the door do any good, but you were already functioning off of cheap coffee and the painkillers you found in the kitchen cupboard before you were bolting down the driveway this morning, so it’s fair to say that you weren’t in a great mood.

Just his luck again, it seems.

When you slammed your palm against the door release button and a pool of water poured out when it opened, the last thing you wanted to hear was someone laughing at you. Granted, getting your shoes soaked was not top of the list either, but the very last thing you wanted was for it to be Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson who was laughing at you, hand on his chest with a basket of clothes hung under his arm from where he stood on the other side of the room, clearly having just come in since his clothes were still dry.

Tonight was not the night to get pissed off by him again. Groaning, you roll your eyes at him—out of instinct or spite, you’re not entirely sure—and step back from the mess with a squelch to your step.

“Need a hand?” He asks, having crossed the distance when you weren’t exactly paying attention, causing you to throw your gaze at him.

“No, thank you,” the words leave your lips in a huff. “I don’t want your help, Munson.”

He leans on one leg, tilting his head to the side. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

Would a punch to the stomach be a good enough answer for you? It’s tempting, but you resist the urge. “Just—it’s not a good night, okay?”

A hum vibrates from the base of his throat and he lowers the basket of clothes to the floor, peering into the opening of the now broken washing machine. “Let me guess, coin got stuck?”

“Maybe,” you glare at him, arms crossed.

He chuckles. “I’ve done that a few times.”

“Oh, great,” so glad to know his listening skills were as low as your patience. “Did you end up paying for it, too? This is gonna get pinned on me.”

“You’re right,” he shrugs, boiling your blood further. “Can’t help with that, but I’m a wizard with a mop.”

For about two seconds you’re rethinking your entire assumption about this guy, totally ready for a change of heart like you’re going through a metaphysical conversion, but he follows his comment with a wink in your direction and you’re balling your hand into a fist at your side. Why I oughta...!

“Don’t you have laundry to do?” the menace comes across as weak but you’re trying your best to shove him away.

Eddie grabs his basket and hoists it against his hip, nodding. “Can’t say I didn’t offer to help.”

“Can’t say I ever need your help, Munson.”

The sound of his chuckle walks away with him as he goes over to a vacant washing machine to load it with his clothes. You’re behind the counter and back again before he’s finished with a mop in your hand, sighing as you wipe the water from the floor. The machine door thumps shut and whirls to life, giving some sound to the silence the two of you were living in, aside from the occasional sloshing from the wet mop against the tiles that could probably do with a wash while you’re here but you’re too exhausted already.

Your fury is wiped away with the water, especially since Eddie isn’t saying a word. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you watch him lean back on his palms against the bench in the middle, eyes focused on watching the clothes spin around and around inside the machine. His foot is tapping against the tiles and if you were to step closer then you’re sure you’d hear him humming a tune, but the thought of it completely evaporates when his attention shifts to you and you’re quick to look back around like you hadn’t been caught staring at him. Please, don’t let that go to his head.

If he was going to say something then you’re unaware of it, having rushed behind the counter again to wring out the dirty mop and go back to what you were doing before you had a broken washing machine on your plate. One minute you’re focused on your job, the next your head is springing up at the sound of the front door opening and shutting and you’re sitting there in this awkward bubble of wondering if someone just came in or if Eddie just left. When you’re peeking around to see if he’s still on the bench and find it empty, your question is answered. But for a moment you’re not so sure that you feel the relief you convince yourself that you feel about his absence.

Forty-five minutes later and a hand shoved into the washing machine that broke down in an attempt to fix it, Eddie is back in the laundromat and taking his clothes from the machine that finished its cycle a few minutes before he came back. He doesn’t look your way or say a word when he swaps the clothes into the dryer at his side, and you stifle a groan when your fingers lose the coin you had tried to take from where it’s stuck inside the drum.

You’re pushing forward on both knees to stick your head into the washing machine, hoping for better eyesight to get the blasted coin that you were fishing for an embarrassing amount of time now. Not as embarrassing as when you suddenly hear Eddie’s voice behind you and your head jolts up at the sound, banging into the drum harshly, and the “oof” that follows when you’re backing out with a hand on the top of your head.

“Sorry,” he laughs, and you’re about ready to really hit him this time. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No,” you grumble, rubbing at the sore spot. “I was a bit busy, remember?”

You’re biting words at him now, trying to sound sturdy without looking him in the eye since you’ve still knelt on the floor as he towers above you. Face to face he’s not so scary, but give him the height advantage and that shag rug on his head makes for a pretty intimidating figure.

“I told you to let me have a try,” as if hearing your thoughts from before, he’s squatting down to your level and then raising a hand when you’re opening your mouth to speak. “I know, you don’t want my help. That’s why I’m not asking.”

“Well, I don’t need it, either. It’ll be just my luck that one of those rings of yours will come off and break this thing even more.”

They weren’t tiny at all; they were bulky, silver rings on practically each of his fingers. From this angle, you can make out the shape of a pig for one of them. If that thing gets stuck and he blames you for it, there’s going to be more than just water getting mopped up off the floor tonight.

“Yee of little faith. I’m very dexterous, I’ll have you know.” He wiggles his fingers for show, though it doesn’t give you much confidence at all.

“I’m surprised you even know that word.”

“Move over—” and he’s pushing an arm in front of you, nearly tipping you over as he squeezes into the space between you and the open door of the washing machine, sticking his hand inside as he peers over his own reach.

A scoff comes from you when he shimmies, having you knock your palm against his side and push yourself away from him, and he completely takes that as an opportunity to kneel at the space you once were to fish for the coin with toddler-like intensity. There’s a clatter and then a scrape, then he’s cheering happily before promptly hitting his head against the drum on his way out, which you more than heartily laugh at.

“Now we’re even,” you smile, taking the coin from his fingers extended out to you.

Despite the pain he felt, he’s shining that self-righteous smile at you. “Told you I could do it.”

“Yeah, I’m so impressed, Munson.”

“I’m your hero. Admit it, Mayfield.”

It shouldn’t please you as much as it does to hear him call you by the surname that you prefer or the fact that he remembers to do so in the first place. “That’ll be the day.”

Two eyebrows raise against his forehead, quite quickly. “I just fixed your problem—”

“You got the coin. The machine is still broken.”

“Not even a thank you,” he shakes his head, muttering the sentence under his breath.

Rolling your eyes, you push yourself up by the knees to stand on your feet and Eddie follows a moment later, but you’re already back behind the counter before he can say anything more. He ends up back on the bench and you two stay as far away from each other as possible for the next thirty minutes until the dryer is buzzing and he’s scooping out all the clothes. There’s a clatter a moment later, followed by an annoyed groan, and you watch as Eddie grumbles to himself and begins shoving all of the clothes into the basket before stomping his way over to you.

A ringed hand slaps against the countertop and he’s flicking the hair out of his eyes. “You still got that coin on you?”

Furrowing your brows at him, you hesitate. “Why?”

“I need to do another load.”

You glance back at the basket full of clothes on the bench, but it’s not like you can make out anything from here anyways. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” it’s clear he’s got less patience than when he first started.

“Because it’s not your money.”

“But I got it out of the washing machine,”

“Doesn’t mean you can use it.”

“Come on, Mayfield!”

A beat of silence, then. “No.”

He’s spinning on his heel at that, completely showing off his irritation like a little kid would, and marches over to the bench to snatch the basket in his hands. Another spin and he’s looking back at you. “Can’t you return the favor?”

With a sigh, you lean over the counter. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” He’s frustrated for a moment before running a hand through his hair. “It’s just—my shirt shrunk, okay? I need to throw it back in.”

“Wait,” you hold a hand up, mostly for yourself because if he’s insinuating what you think he is then you’re about to burst out laughing. “You want to put your shirt back in the washing machine to... resize it?”

“Yeah,” he says it so obviously like it’s common knowledge.

Curling a smile at him is hard to hold back. “That’s not how that works, Munson.”

He’s standing there a moment—caught with an expression between confusion and embarrassment—looking almost like a statute that you could take pity on but it’s late and he’s annoyed you for the past two hours, so you can’t find it within yourself to care much. With a shake of his head, he comes back to life and quickly makes his way for the front door, swinging it open and bolting out in the same action.

As soon as the door closes shut, you’re laughing your heart out.

─────── ⋯ ───────

He felt so bloody stupid for how he acted and he can’t even blame it on being tired since he knows that you know that he comes home at two o’clock nearly every morning. It would be great if he could say that he was exhausted or that he didn’t have any coffee (not that he drinks that much, anyway) but he couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough, so turning heel and running seemed like the best bet.

You already don’t think that highly of him, that much was clear, and he’s sure his confusion with the washing only added the cherry on top. He was doing so well, too. He was trying to win your favor. Only a little bit, though! Because Eddie Munson absolutely despises you. He knew you were a Hargrove before you said a word to each other— information spreads fast in a small town—and he wouldn’t be caught dead spending time with someone related to Billy, but that was before you told him that you were a Mayfield. So your mother married into the family. Guess it makes sense, and that eases his worries a little bit since the first time he saw you he swears his heart stopped.

But no way, man. He’s not falling for that. A girl like you with a smile like yours means danger and he’s not the idiot who goes headfirst into a fight he’s clearly outmatched by. Besides, none of your interactions have been very pleasant. Sure, it seemed like the two of you was getting along somewhat at the laundromat but you both still bickered, and the sarcastic comments and degrading remarks never faulted after that. Eddie would sometimes catch you on the way to work, casting you a smile-laced “Hey, neighbor!” which you either glared at him for or told him to go to hell, but he can’t deny that your response only made him smile wider.

One morning it had been you that took the first step in the routine interaction. He was stepping out of his van when he noticed you out the corner of his eye hanging clothes on the line and as soon as he turned your way, you had stuck your tongue out at him and he, ever the gentleman, shot you the bird—and he would be lying if he said that his heart didn’t race the second he heard you laugh, smiling at him like he had told you the funniest joke in the world.

Yeah, you both still hated each other’s guts but a part of him didn’t hate you at all. Even though you still would mock him about his shrunken clothes. That, in all honestly, still pissed him right off.

As soon as Eddie closes the door to the campervan, his uncle is sat by the kitchen countertop with a mug of coffee in his hand, and the usual hello is replaced with a raised brow. “Who’s that, then?”

For a split second, Eddie has no idea what his uncle is talking about until he shrugs his head over at the window which clearly shows your house on the other side of the park.

“Oh,” it only dawns on him now that he’s never spoken about you to his uncle before, so he does his best to explain that you’re just their neighbor, nothing more.

“Right—” Wayne takes a slow sip of his coffee. “You sure about that?”

Furrowed brows don’t even begin to describe the look on Eddie’s face. “What do you mean?”

“You came in with quite the smile on your face.”

Two fingers drum against the mug, settling some noise in compensation for how Eddie just stands there like a cassette player spinning backward, rewinding to spring back to life. “I had a good day.”

His uncle gives him a simple nod, going back to drinking his coffee. Another beat of not moving an inch and then Eddie is making his way toward his bedroom, only to be stopped, shoes squeaking against the floor, when his uncle perks up with a: “So you fancy her, then?”

He might as well have plugged his guitar into the amp and turned the volume up full blast since the shriek that comes out of his mouth is unintentionally loud. “What!? No way. No way in hell.”

He’s swinging his arms in front of him, palms outstretched, almost in a shooing motion. How could his uncle be so blind to it all? Like he hadn’t just flicked you the middle finger a couple minutes ago. Either all those nights at the plant are getting to him, or his uncle isn’t drinking coffee right now.

“How come?” it’s the most innocent question ever, but under the circumstances, Eddie can feel his blood begin to boil.

“Because,” he starts with ferocity, almost fuming. “She’s a pain in the ass! Always making fun of me and she’s rude and—don’t get me started on the first time we met.” there’s a scoff to his words as he leans from one leg to the other. “That’s only half of it.”

One brow raises against the creases on Wayne’s forehead. “Go on, then.”

Right. Okay. He wants to know more. Well, he’s got more. He’s got a whole trunk load of reasons why this is totally absurd.

Eddie’s spinning on his heel, pacing up and down the living room. “She’s ungrateful,” he raises a finger for show, beginning his count. “I helped her at work and she didn’t even thank me.”

“Ah,” Wayne mutters, curiously looking down into his mug. “You helped her at work.”

“Well,” the breath all but leaves his lungs at that. “I mean, I was trying to be nice.”

“Because you dislike her so much?”

“That’s not—no. It’s just—she’s stubborn!” another finger up, jumping back into his list before his uncle can say any more. “She’s irritating. She doesn’t even like Dio—!”

Wayne chuckles. “That’s a deal-breaker.”

“It is,” the response sounds childish but Eddie is determined to convince his uncle that his feelings for you are more built on animosity than anything else.

Maybe convince isn’t the right word, but.

“You know what this sounds like to me?” His uncle places his mug down on the counter, shooting Eddie a pointed look.

“No!” Eddie is up on the couch, his sneakers sinking into the cushions as he directs a finger at his uncle, almost like he was telling him to stay put. “I do not like her!”

As if to say now you’re being a bit ridiculous, Wayne just looks at his nephew with two hands on his hips and that raised brow of his. It’s almost a scolding look that a parent would give their child for throwing a temper tantrum, but isn’t that what Eddie is doing anyway?

“Come on, son,” Wayne waves a hand over at Eddie, gesturing for him to step off of the couch. When he does, the hand goes straight onto his shoulder. “It ain’t a bad thing if you like her. What’s really bothering you?”

He might as well have tugged open the floodgates as there are a hundred reasons why Eddie cannot begin to explain, let alone fathom, why he’s so worked up about this, why he’s so adamant about his feelings for you, or lack thereof. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. The heat in his chest when you had laughed before says otherwise, though.

“What if she really hates my guts?” Eddie asks almost sheepishly, troubled eyes peering over at his uncle. “What if that’s all there is?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

Right. There’s only one way to screw up whatever it is that Eddie Munson has with you.

─────── ⋯ ───────

Seeing Eddie around after that night was less laborious and a lot more fun. Sure, he definitely still irked you unlike any other (he might as well run first place in the prize of who can piss you off the quickest since clearly, he was the proficient) but after the laundromat incident, you’ve had more of an advantage in teasing him. It was like a trump card; he would throw an offhand comment your way and you would mention only one word of what had happened and he would be out of your hair within seconds. It was fantastic. If only that worked for other people.

Your week had been a long one working your shifts and then the needless errands that awaited you at home (cutting the damn lawn again when it was already short), and then having to tend to the usual drunken brute of a step-father when Max was off who-knows-where with her friends and your mom nowhere in sight. You were at your breaking point by the time Neil passed out on the couch, a few beer cans laid on the carpet and the stain that was no doubt going to form from the drink spilled there. Being the only one to clean up was especially irritating you today.

So, what better thing to do than to go see Eddie Munson when you’re a hair’s breadth away from totally snapping?

It took roughly thirty seconds for the campervan door to swing open when you had knocked your knuckles against it, showing you a clearly disgruntled neighbor with messy hair and baggy clothes.

“I’d say this is an honor but I would be lying,” Eddie speaks, leaning against the doorframe.

There’s a pout on your lips when you reply. “Aw, are you grumpy because I woke you up from your nap time?”

Crossing his arms against his chest, he lets out a sigh. “Is there a reason you’re here or are you just in the mood to suck the life out of someone?” He’s arching your way before you can open your mouth to speak, grinning. “Or maybe you just can’t keep away from me. Huh, Mayfield?”

Your frustrated attitude goes from a seven to a nine just by that comment alone, always finding a new level of anger when he teases you like that. You want to slap that stupid grin right off of his face. “The only thing keeping to you is that horrible smell.”

You could say it plainly—you reek of cigarettes and weed—but a ridiculous part of you doesn’t want to step on an eggshell like that. Not that he would probably care, yet you hold yourself back from saying it regardless. Instead, you stare at him, rocking back on your heels a bit, hand wrapped around the strap of the backpack you have slung over your shoulder. It’s like waiting for the fish to take the bait, standing there in the awkward silence of you expecting a reaction and him not giving you a response.

Finally, when you think this moment can’t stretch out any longer, you huff annoyedly at him. “You gonna invite me in or what?”

His brows raise almost as high as your anger meter, all of a sudden stammering on words as he awkwardly steps to the side, pushing the door out further for you to walk up the steps and inside the campervan, brushing past him by the width of the doorframe. You could say it looks exactly how you expected it, but your house isn’t in much better shape. At least here the living room light isn’t flickering every five seconds.

When you turn around to face him, he’s got a hand on the back of his neck, looking very much out of place even though it’s really you who doesn’t fit in here.

“I won’t take up too much of your time, don’t worry,” the words come out with the bitterness you usually reserve for him, but you’re honest in what you say. The way he’s acting is telling you that you overstepped that invisible boundary by asking to come inside.

Raking a hand through the backpack you brought, you take hold and throw the plastic laundry bag at his chest and he’s catching it with an oomph, two hands saving it from falling to the floor.

“You left your dry cleaning at the laundromat,” you explain, gesturing to the bag in his arms. “I was almost tempted to sell them.”

“Right,” he clears his throat and within an instant, he’s back into chitchat mode. “Not that anyone else could pull it off. I look amazing in these clothes.”

You’re chuckling a little too lightly at that, speaking before really thinking first. “I know,”

If that lightbulb above your heads burst and shattered, it would be less shocking than what just came out of your mouth. Eddie looks at you with wide eyes, a slow smile creeping up his features and now you’re stammering. You’re about to pull an Eddie Munson move and run straight out the door, but you’re far too stubborn for that.

“No one else has the freak look quite like you, Munson.” Rolling your eyes, you hope it’s enough to deter him. “Don’t let it get to your head. Your hair is big enough as it is.”

Smooth.

He nods at you, though he doesn’t look convinced. “I suppose a thank you is in order for you returning my clothes to me,” he says, that smile never leaving his lips.

“It would be the decent thing to do, yes.”

He hums but doesn’t say anything more, leaving the insinuation out in the open. He could stomp his foot down on the carpet and you’d be less surprised by his attitude.

“Nothing?” You shrug at him, tilting your head as you wait for the gratitude he had mentioned.

He presses his lips together, turning the laundry bag in his hands. At last, he rests, a second later shaking his head. “I’m just taking a page out of your book.”

Scoffing, you roll your eyes at him with a sour tone in your voice. “You’re really not letting that go, are you?”

“Nope.” the ‘p’ comes off more enunciated, shoving you into a similar situation from when you hadn’t thanked him for getting that coin out of the washing machine.

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you didn’t shrink this batch. How’s that Hellfire crop-top working for you?”

Groaning, he’s chucking the laundry bag onto the couch nearby. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you let your hands slap against your thighs. “You deserve it.”

“I’m almost touched by that,” he places a ringed hand on his chest for dramatic effect and you have to bite your tongue to not laugh genuinely at the comedy of it.

Instead, you distract yourself by looking around the room more, not hiding the way your eyes glance across everything in sight. Some dirty dishes, sure, and a mess on the floor by the couch but still it’s got a homey sense to it. More than your own home. It’s not exactly the word you would use to describe it. When you’re glancing back at Eddie, you find his eyes have never left their place; still looking at you, somewhat gentler than what you’re used to. Those stupid big brown eyes of his, you could swim in them.

When there’s a swell in your chest at the way neither of you is looking away, you feel the flight instinct kick in. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

You’re turning on your heel when he chuckles. “You love my hair.”

“I hate your hair,” you lie, shooting a look at him over your shoulder.

He leans one hand on the doorframe as you approach the door, standing over you and smiling into the space between you both, or the lack thereof. “And I hate your lips.”

The air you suck in through your nose could have lifted a damn hot air balloon. An insult you’re used to, a tease, sure, but was that him flirting? Your brain is scrambling at the very essence of it and that tiny hint of a smirk on his face is no help.

Punk. Jackass. Bonehead. You’re reverting back to the insults you gave him on the first day you met, trying to replace the words that are clouding your mind right now. He’s so close and his voice was so low, you think you’re about startled into a paralyzed stance. All you can do is look up at him, completely speechless.

“You can say such horrible things with them,” he finally finishes, nudging open the campervan door.

The light washing in from outside kicks you back to life, shooting him a glare. “Wait until you really piss me off.”

“I have a feeling I’m getting there.”

You’re down the steps as fast as you can, throwing up the middle finger to him when he shouts out at you to have a good day. Never have you ever felt so irritated at Eddie in the entire time you’ve known him. Never once has your blood boiled further than just loathing for the guy, not ever trespassing into forbidden territory—into even the notion of... interest—since you swore from the start that he was bad news and a nuisance rolled into one, and all you wanted to do was stay the hell away from him.

No, not ever did you think you would actually enjoy being so close to him. It’s bugging you right down to your bones and you want this gone, whatever it is. Whatever the hell Eddie Munson just did to you, you want it eradicated.

Obviously, spending more time away from home seemed like the right option, seeing as he was only across the road from you. It was all an excuse—getting lunch out, spending extra time with friends, working longer shifts at the laundromat even though it was highly possible that you would see him again—and if you weren’t so hyper-focused on being everywhere that he isn’t, you might have gotten away with it. But you forget how well your sister knows you.

“What’s wrong?” You ask her, watching her crossed arms and aloof expression sitting across from you. “You’ve not even touched your milkshake.”

“What’s gotten into you?” She asks, straight to the point. Ever the Mayfield.

“Nothing,” you shift awkwardly in your seat and she picks up on it, raising a brow at you. “I just want some quality bonding time with my sister. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” she says as if she actually believes it, sitting forward to play with the straw in her drink. “This is, like, the third time you’ve brought me here.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Max furrows her brows, stopping herself from continuing her sentence. A moment later she sighs, staring down at the table. “It’s just... I can always tell when something’s wrong.”

That older sister’s guilt kicks in at seeing her almost deflate in the seat. “Nothing’s wrong. I promise.”

She eyes you from behind her drink, taking a sip and nodding contently. She stirs it once, then glowers. “It’s not that Eddie guy, is it?”

It’s so unexpected to hear his name come from your own little sister that you choke on the milkshake you’re currently drinking, hitting your chest a few times as you calm down. “What? Why would you say that?”

How do you even know him? That’s what you really want to ask.

“I saw you leave his trailer the other day,” she explains, like the little spy she is. “You looked pretty angry.”

“Oh, that,” you give it some kick, hoping it’ll convince her. “I was just settling something from the laundromat and he was being a prick. Same old, same old.”

“He didn’t want to pay or something?”

“Well—wait, what do you mean you saw me? I thought you went out?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, she stammers against the question put to her. “We were just—”

“We?” pushing the milkshake away, you lean forward. “Who’s we?”

“No one! I said me.”

“Liar. That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Oh, like your story sounds any better? When does Eddie not pay for his dry cleaning?”

“How would you know that?”

“Dustin talks about him a lot,” she shrugs combatively, scrunching her face up. “Some dumb D&D thing they do after school.”

“Is that who you were with?”

“What?” She shakes her head, glancing off to the side. “No, no. It’s hard to explain.” When you stare her down, she crosses her arms again. “It’s a game we do sometimes. I mean, we’ve really only done it the once and...”

Something changes right in the last few words she speaks. As if something washes over her, like a cloud, she goes completely silent. Just as much as she knows you, you know her too. Right now you can tell that whatever this game is that she was talking about has brought up a bad memory, something she really doesn’t want to get into and you wouldn’t force it out of her either.

“It’s fine. It’s just—” giving her a comical look, a smile on your lips. “Stupid boys.”

That cheers her up a bit, you think. Max chuckles, shaking her head and then reaching for the milkshake in front of her. “Yeah, stupid boys.”

She offers you a smile and drinks from the straw, and the two of you spend the afternoon much more comfortably after that.

Things were going rather well, especially since Eddie hadn’t turned up at the laundromat for some time, but the feeling of vanishing from his life was starting to fizzle out. Truly, isn’t it what you had told your sister; that all it was that made you angry at Eddie was that he was being just another stupid boy? In the end, he hadn’t offended you. It was just different from anything he had said. Part of you wanted to knock on his door again, but a more prominent part of you told you to hold back. Wouldn’t want him thinking you actually cared or anything. As if.

You see him next when you’re on your way to pick Max up from her friend’s house—El was her name—and you’re meeting a frizzy-haired Eddie in front of your letterbox, his head tilted to the side as he peers into the gap. At the expense of seeming too happy to see him, you go in for the first quip.

“Stealing people’s love letters again, are we, Munson?” the sound of your voice has him stepping back with a jolt, looking at you like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It’s almost the same thing, especially as he’s shoving something into his back pocket.

His startled expression shifts into the usual scowl he wears whenever he sees you. “I would but I noticed you don’t ever get any. Huh, Mayfield?”

“What do you want?” with an eye roll, which was practically a gesture made for him alone, you cross your arms over your chest.

Back to the flustered Eddie you met in the laundromat, he hooks two fingers into the loops on his ripped jeans, leaning back a fraction. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?” you don’t buy it for a second. “So, you’re just standing outside my house for fun?”

“No.” it’s a quick response, fired at you hotly. Then, after a moment, his defense deflates. “Here—”

You take the crumpled-up piece of paper from his extended hand, which looks like it is what he hid in the first place. Flattening it out with your fingers, you read over the black and red words scribbled in marker and the rough drawing of a drumkit in the center.

“Corroded Coffin,” you read aloud. “Is this an... invitation?”

He’s rocking back on his heels when you glance up at him. He doesn’t give you a verbal response, just nods his head at you after sucking in a breath. It’s so unlike what you were expecting after having not seen him for such a long time. You were ready for an insult, a snarky comment, anything that isn’t the shy neighbor on your front lawn right now.

“Okay,” you speak, not missing the way he completely lights up from that one word alone; back straighter, face composed. “I can fit this into my busy schedule for you, Munson.”

His mouth cracks a smile and then he’s suddenly stretching nonchalantly, feigning casualness. “No big deal. Just thought you might be interested.”

“Think about me a lot, then, do you?”

Just as you had hoped for, Eddie goes motionless. A taste of his own medicine. It humors you far too much but you’re already late as it is to pick up your sister and you don’t want to linger around long enough for Eddie to come back into the fight, so you walk over to where he stands and tap a hand against his shoulder twice, chuckling as you move ahead to get into your car and drive away.

By Saturday night, when the band was scheduled to play, you’ve come to realize that you haven’t exactly organized anything with Eddie. At least, not properly, anyway. Is he going to meet you there? Should you arrive early, just in case? Is this technically... a date? Only one of those questions is answered for you when you’re heading over to your car, and it’s by the absence of Eddie’s van. So, he was already gone. Okay. One down, two to go. Well, one to go. You’re going to drive there just before the actual gig starts.

There are not a lot of people when you arrive; a few drunks at their seats, talking loudly, and a much bigger crowd congregated at the bar rather than by the stage. The lights are on but there’s not a single person by their instrument yet, so you look around the faces you can make out in the dim lighting of this place to try and find Eddie. The most obvious identifiers are going to be bushy hair and, most likely, his Dio vest. Even with a scarce amount of people to look through, there’s no sight of the Munson. So, you just opt for getting a beer and sitting nearest to the exit, just in case. Knowing him, he’ll probably come barreling through the door midway through the performance, probably having stopped somewhere on the way.

It seems more likely than not that it’s what is going to happen since the band for tonight is now walking onto the stage and standing in their respective places. You’re not exactly paying them much mind, a little too deflated at the possibility that Eddie has stood you up as a payback for the way you treat him. But, then again, it would have to be a date in the first place for you to be stood up, and it’s not a date.

Right?

The tapping of a finger against the microphone stirs you awake from your thoughts, looking forward at the singer with messy hair and a black band tank over his chest, chains on his belt, and black eyeliner which you can see only when he flicks his fringe out of his face, and you about choke on your drink because what the hell kind of a joke is this?

“I’m Eddie,” he says into the mic, and your jaw drops open. He names the other members of his band and then introduces them as Corroded Coffin—exactly what was written on that makeshift invitation. Finally, after his eyes have been wandering the room for some time, he spots you in your corner and smiles wide. “Glad you could make it.”

It’s unspecific enough that it could be interpreted as being directed at the crowd, but you know, with his eyes on yours, that he was talking to you. You can’t ignore the way that sends a tingle through your body, but it only ramps up as soon as they start playing, and are you dreaming or drugged? Because they sound good.

If you’re more surprised by anything, though, then it’s not at how steady his voice sounds when he sings, or how expertly he plays the guitar, or how the drumbeat is so distinct that it almost vibrates through the floor, but it’s by the way no one is getting into it. The drunks in their seats are still talking, the people at the bar are sipping with slim to no excitement, and there’s an attendant mopping up a spilled drink by the left of the stage, totally indifferent to the music. You almost feel out of place to be bopping your head, genuinely enjoying the performance.

That’s why as soon as they finish their first song, you’re clapping and hollering from your seat, trying your best to, firstly, give them a supportive boost and, secondly, try to ignite the crowd a bit. It kind of works, since some people join in on the applause, but it’s still weak in its delivery. Nevertheless, you can tell Eddie appreciates the effort with the way he chuckles right into the microphone, thanking the crowd and introducing the next song. Just like the last one, this is just as good.

By the twelfth song, they end their gig with you standing on your feet in applause. The crowd that started has dispersed by this point and so, once again, you’re the most enthusiastic person in the room. Each member of the band says their thanks and Eddie is holding a hand up in your direction to tell you to wait for him, so you sit back down and finish your third beer.

He approaches you with a tap on the shoulder after about ten minutes of waiting and it’s probably the first time you flash him a wide smile in greeting. “Hey, you were great!”

Eddie smiles. “Thanks—ow!” he rubs at the sore spot on his arm where you just landed a hard punch. “What the hell was that?”

“That was for not telling me that you’re Corroded Coffin. Hell, Munson. I got the shock of my life when I saw you up on that stage.”

“Right, right,” his lips are pouted some as he still rubs his skin. “I was going to tell you but I just got a little... nervous, I guess.”

Honestly, you can understand why he felt that way. If you were in his shoes and went to invite your asshat neighbor to one of your gigs, you probably would have choked on the truth as well.

“Turns out you had nothing to be worried about,” you try to console him, brushing your thumb against the area you had hit him, now feeling a bit bad about having done it. “I’m not that much of a jerk, you know?”

“Yeah, well, you are most of the time.”

The comment is dripping in offense but you hardly take it literally with how Eddie moves his hand slightly downward, his fingers brushing up against yours. That tingle you felt earlier in the night rushes through you again at the discreet touch, skin on skin. He’s just as close as when he leaned on the doorframe in his campervan the other day, and you look at one another like you had in the living room. You can almost convince yourself that you’re right back there again as the noise of the bar and the people around you drown out into nothing, leaving just you and Eddie at this moment with his fingers against yours.

Somehow, you don’t want to pull away.

It happens, though, as one of his bandmates come around the corner, slapping Eddie hard on the back and jolting him out of his daze, saying that they should all go for drinks since one of them was already making a head-start at the bar.

“Oh,” the blonde boy suddenly blurts. “Sorry, man. Didn’t realize you were with your girl.”

A jumbled noise makes its way out of your mouth, almost mimicking the sound that Eddie makes. Both of you are completely stunned at the suggestion with a mixture of words trying to force their way out into some kind of explanation, though it’s all muddled.

Finally, you manage a coherent reply. “Never.”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie waves his hand, offering you a shaky smile as if he were apologizing for his friend’s behavior. “We hate each other.”

“Completely,”

“Right,” the boy looks down at your hand still on Eddie’s arm and you’re quick to remove it. “I totally believe that.”

He’s back to basics, which happens to be alcohol before you can try and assure him again that you and Eddie are not an item, so, deflated, you stand there as they talk some and then he’s thanking you for coming to watch them play and heading over to the bar.

Eddie turns back to face you, slightly blushful. “Do you want to join us? I’ll pay.”

His offer sounds tempting, especially since it’ll be free on your part, but you’ve already got three beers in you, have been more touchy than usual, and can feel yourself on the brink of crossing another type of invisible boundary if you say yes, so you politely shake your head, though you really want to stay.

“I should get back home to Max,” is your excuse. A rubbish one, too, since you know that she’s sleeping over at El’s for the weekend.

“Oh, okay,” he raises an arm behind his head, playing with the hair there. Is it just because he’s wearing a tank top or did he always have such defined arms? You’ve not noticed until now, and you could be ogling if you don’t quickly snap your attention back to his face.

“Thanks for inviting me, though. I had a lot of fun, actually.”

“Yeah, I’m really glad you made it.”

Your teeth sink down on your tongue before you can ask him what exactly his invitation means. Here you’ve been wondering if this was something more than just a hangout, or just because he wanted another seat filled at his gig. When there are butterflies swirling in your stomach for the much-anticipated answer, you decide not to even ask the question in the first place.

He’s incredibly polite about you leaving at what would be considered an early time of night, walking you to your car to make sure that you get there safely. You’re grateful for the assistance and tell him that you’ll see him soon, poking your tongue out at him when you drive out of the carpark, hoping that the playfulness of it will bury whatever kind of sentiment was left inside the building.

It’s not exactly a delightful atmosphere when you get home that night, walking in on Neil slamming down an empty can of beer onto the coffee table which is covered in a lot more as he watches the television. The door closing shut behind you is enough for him to turn toward the noise, his eyes slanting when he sees you standing there.

“Where the hell have you been?” He slurs, sticky like the dried alcohol in the carpet that you couldn’t clean up from the other day.

“Out,” is all you offer him, already making your way to your bedroom.

You should know not to mess with an irate drunk, let alone one that lives under the same roof as you. He’s down the hallway within seconds, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you around harshly. You flinch at the touch, stepping backward.

“You give me a straight answer,” he barks, swaying on lazy legs.

Carefully, you keep your voice even when you speak. “Just in town with a friend.”

His face scrunches up, jaw rippling as he clenches it. “Fine. Whatever. Just make sure you clean this place up before your mother comes home from wherever the hell she’s run off to now.”

Nodding, you wait until he’s back in the living room before going inside your bedroom, letting out the breath that you were holding and shutting your eyes tightly. For a moment you were scared that he would press, pushing you to say the truth. That’s the last thing you want, especially since you don’t like Neil knowing the names of your friends or the places where you go. Not that Eddie even was such a thing—not really—but tonight, after he had treated you so considerately and Neil had treated you so unkind, you want nothing more than for Eddie Munson to be your friend.

He’s always going to be your annoying neighbor, though, and you’re always going to have this sort of rivalry between you two. You’ve never really thought about adapting the thing you both have into anything more, but every now and then you would like to get along with him rather than on just the odd occasion. You want to waste time at his place when you both have nothing better to do, or see if you can survive a ride in his van as he drifts down windy Hawkins’ roads, or actually give him a container full of sugar when he’s run out. The small things, that’s what you want. You get enough crap at home, you don’t need any more outside the front door.

But it might as well be your fate. Everyone changed after Billy’s death, even your mom. When once she was sweet and always there, now she’s hardly a good listening ear or even around to begin with. It’s one of those irks that fester over time when you never talk about it, keeping it buried in a dark place, that when you’re at your breaking point it’s far from pretty.

Truth be told, you couldn’t handle a second more of it. It’s shown in the way you ignore your mom when she walks through the door the next night, reeking of smoke, and her hair’s a mess, her makeup there but shoddy in its application. She doesn’t even notice that you’re in the kitchen until the plate you’re washing knocks into a cup when you place it on the drying rack beside the sink, but she doesn’t say hello, she just trudges over to the fridge and swings it open, soon grumbling about the lack of food in there.

“Can you make dinner?” She asks, hand on her forehead. “I’ve got such a pounding headache. I couldn’t lift a thing.”

“There’s medicine in the cupboard,” you speak, stacking another plate onto the rack. “And no, I can’t make dinner. Not tonight.”

She’s moving beside you, resting her hip against the countertop. “Why not?”

“Because—” you remind yourself not to get too upset too quickly, sighing as you dip a dirty spoon under the soapy water. “I’ve made dinner all this week, seeing as you’re never home anymore. There’s a frozen meal in the freezer. I have to go to work when I’m finished with the dishes.”

It’s like you’re the mother and she’s the child since she responds to your comment with a groan. “I can’t, baby. I need you to cook me something before you go.”

“I don’t have time.”

Her hand rakes through her hair, messing it up even more, before pulling out the cigarette box that was tucked into her shirt pocket, plucking out a cigarette and shoving it into her mouth. When she talks, it’s half muddled by the stick. “Where’re the damn matches?”

She starts to make a noise by throwing open various drawers and slamming them back shut when she can’t find what she’s looking for, and you want to shout at her to stop. Didn’t she say she had a headache, anyway?

“Did you go to the shop this week?” Her question isn’t gentle, it’s prodding. “There’s no matches, no milk. Come on—” she waves a hand at you annoyingly, and your furrow your brows as you don’t know what she wants. “I need cash.”

This must be a joke. It has to be. “I’m late for work.”

You decide to ignore her request completely, drying your hands with the dishtowel on the table and grabbing your keys from the small glass dish in the middle. Your mother sighs, practically stomping out of the kitchen and down the hallway, and you manage to catch her barging into your bedroom before you leave the house, sprinting over to where she is.

“What are you doing?” you watch as she throws your clothes around, looking under books and other things.

“Where’s that jar of yours?” She hisses, not caring about the mess she’s making.

That jar in question happens to be filled with the money you get from your shifts, which you’ve purposely put in there since you’re trying to save up. It’s tucked away inside a box, covered by blankets and shirts, underneath your bed, since you were more scared of Neil snatching a couple bills off of you, but never have you ever thought that your mom would be doing just that. And to think she was making her way here when you were about to walk out the door!

“Mom, stop it,” you’re picking up the clothes that she’s thrown onto the floor, though she’s just making a mess wherever she walks.

She’s huffing annoyance, pointedly looking at you. “It’s the least you can do.”

“The least I can do?” that does it; that’s what breaks the dam. You throw the clothes onto your bed, finally snapping. “I’m not supposed to be the mom of the house. That’s your job! The least you can do is actually be here. None of us even know where you go.”

“I’m here!” She opens her arms as if gesturing to her presence.

“No, you’re not! I’m here. I’m the one who cooks dinner every night. I’m the one who has to clean up after Neil when he’s drunk the whole fridge. I’m the one who drives Max to school and picks her up in the afternoon and who takes her out every once and a while. I’m the one who’s paying the damn rent! Just because Billy’s gone doesn’t mean you can be gone too. You’re supposed to be my mother, not a stranger!”

She’s silent after your outburst, looking caught between being offended and guilty. At last, she sighs. “Go to work.”

Biting back a sob, you run out into the hallway, flinging open the front door and slamming it shut behind you. Most likely you’ll come home to an empty jar if she keeps poking around your bedroom and all those crappy shifts will have been for nothing. You’re so overwhelmed by even speaking up about everything, even more so by how your mother reacted like she doesn’t even care, and you’re stumbling onto the grass, crying piteously.

It has to be this night of all nights that he’s home before two in the morning, hearing the squealing of the tires on Eddie’s van pull into the trailer park and skid to a stop by the campervan. In any other instance, you would have made a mad dash to your car or back inside the house to hide, but every sob that comes out of you is more painful than the last and so you find yourself not caring at all if he sees as you sit there, fists holding onto the grass like it’s supporting your weight.

There’s only a short moment of silence when you hear his van door shut, then suddenly his sneakers are pounding against the concrete as the sound approaches.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice so cautious but worried at the same time.

You shake your head, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. “I really can’t deal with you right now, Munson.” Go away is on the tip of your tongue, but the tears travel onto your mouth like they’re stopping you from saying it.

“Sure looks like you’re doing just great by yourself, huh?” He responds, kneeling beside you.

You really can’t handle this right now. You can’t manage the snarky neighbor facade that you’ve been playing so well for so long when that’s not what you want, or how you want to be. No, you want to be who you were before your mom married Neil, before you got everything thrown onto your shoulders when you can barely lift the weight on your own. Whoever could?

“Please,” it’s a whimper, something pathetic even to your own ears. “Just leave me alone.”

His hand reaches out to hold onto your arm firmly. “No,” he says, and you look him in the eye. “I’m not going to leave you like this.”

Shaking your head, a few more tears fall. “Why do you care?”

Coarse lips press into a thin line as he looks at you, his hand slowly moving down to your elbow. It seems he’s not going to give you an answer when he opens his mouth. “Come here,”

All the sense of it—all the annoying comments you have thrown at each other—go billowing away in the night air as you let him pull you up to stand on your feet, never looking away from him, from those stupid big brown eyes. He keeps his hand on your arm as he walks you across the distance to his campervan, holding the door open for you to walk inside first. You probably shouldn’t be putting so much trust in him as you are but even still, you know Eddie—better than you’d like to admit—and maybe it was ridiculous, but you do trust him.

What you shouldn’t be doing even more is missing your shift since you may not even have the cash on you when you come back, but what does it matter anymore? Your life hasn’t ever been perfect. California was the last time it felt like it was. At least, not until—

No. You won’t say it. You can’t.

Eddie’s sitting next to you on the couch, a hand on your knee. It’s a delicate touch, still careful. Still inches away from that invisible line you both dance around. “You don’t have to tell me. We can just sit here if you want.”

Shaking your head, you sniffle and wipe the tears above your lip. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just being stupid.”

“Normally I would agree with you but this doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Why does he have to read you like that? How come the one person you fight with the most happens to understand you better than anyone else?

“It’s my mom,” you start, feeling the words climbing up your throat like water rising in a well, just seconds away from spilling over. You spill your heart out with them, too. “Ever since Billy died in that fire, no one’s been the same. I haven’t either but—hell—at least I’m trying. It’s like she doesn't even care anymore.”

At the swell of your tears, Eddie squeezes your knee some, not interrupting you by saying something—which, knowing him, would probably be ridiculous—but giving you the assurance that he’s really listening to you and, though it seems impossible, that he cares about you, too.

“I feel like I’m the only one trying to keep the damn roof over our heads. I mean, Max, she’s only a kid, so I don’t expect her to be pushing the boulder with me but—” you sigh loudly, wiping your lip again. “It’s so exhausting.”

It’s crazy how much of yourself that you’re showing to him—Eddie Munson of all people. Had anyone told you that the guy who asked for beer and money on your front lawn would be the very same person that you’re holding your heart out to right now, you would have laughed like mad. But it is him you’re talking to, and you would choose him again the second time ’round.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” you let out a breathless chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not like you care.”

He scrunches his face up, squeezing your knee again. “That hurts, you know. I do happen to be kinda nice when you get to know me.”

I know. Stupidly, you know it. He helped you with the washing machine, he let you throw insult after insult his way without ever taking it too far in retaliation, and he invited you to watch him play with his band. You know Eddie Munson is a nice guy. Given the circumstances, he’s probably the nicest guy you’ve ever known.

Still, you’re both molded into routine. If it’s the only stable thing in your life, you don’t want to wreck that.

“Uh huh,” you breathe. “That’s why you’ve been a dick to me since we first met.”

“Actually, I remember you being the dick.” He states it matter-of-factly, but you know it’s the truth. “And besides, even if we hate each other, I hate to see you cry even more,”

He wipes the tears off your cheek with his thumb, the touch of the rings on his fingers making you shiver. Or maybe you were tingling again.

“No one else can be mean to you,” he whispers. “That’s my job.”

Chuckling, you tilt your head right into his hand. Though you’re not intending to let him cradle the side of your face like this, you’re not moving away once it happens.

“You’re pretty good at it, too.” It’s meant to be a lighthearted comment, but Eddie doesn’t seem game to go back to basics.

He brushes his thumb against your cheek again, eyes dancing between your own. “I’m even better at taking care of someone.”

A beat skips in your chest. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

It’s risky what you’re about to say, but you’ve said worse. “I think I’d like to be that someone.”

He parts his lips at that, something slow. You can see in his facial expression that the gears in his head are turning, and you might have called them rusty if you weren’t totally ready to fall into this mistake with him. Instead, you take another risk in placing your hand on top of the one still on your cheek, rubbing your thumb along his skin to bring him back to life, seeing as he’s gone mute on you.

What’s one more risk after the last one? You’re ready to take two more. Inching closer to him on the couch, you reach out to caress his cheek like he’s done to you, knocking your knees into his, which has the hand laid there still squeezing again, this time in surprise. You offer him a smile, hoping that you’re not about to scare him off, but when he doesn’t pull away you take that as his response.

Closing the gap between you two shouldn’t feel as delicious as it does, but that tingle is running all through you as your nose bumps against his and you can hear his breathing more clearly in the proximity. Maybe you could hear his heart if you pushed yourself further, but you’re giving him room to think. Literally.

As soon as his eyes flicker down to your lips, you take that last risk with eager intention; leaning forward and doing the one thing you never thought you’d ever do; kiss Eddie Munson.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from him when your mouth slots against his, your eyes closed shut as your fingers gently brush beneath his ear. More than a tingle runs through you when the hand on your knee squeezes once more, much more firmly this time, before meeting the other side of your face to hold you in both hands, moving his lips against yours rhythmically.

Damn it all—is this what you’ve been missing out on all this time? Hell, Eddie feels amazing against you and his lips are softer than you’d thought they’d be. Rough, chapped, is what you expected, not this. Not the warmth that spreads through you when he deepens the kiss with a tilt of his head, humming lowly when your fingers snake into his hair. You’re both moving closer and closer, trying to outcast the space between you both like an old worn-out shirt. You’re both pushing away that invisible barrier. Fitting into each other, that’s what you’re doing.

You don’t want to stop. Now that you’ve risked it and liked it, nothing else seems to matter. But it’s the air that takes priority when Eddie pulls back from you slightly, just enough to be panting onto your parted lips and it really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. He looks blemished at the touch; his cheeks flushed. You’re sure that you look disheveled as well if the faint pulsing of your lips accounts for anything.

“Okay,” he breathes, licking his lips. “I can get used to this.”

Chuckling, you twirl your finger around a strand of his hair. “Yeah, me too. This is much more fun than fighting with you.”

“Oh, this could be considered fighting.” His voice sounds flirtatious with the sentence.

“Well, in that case—” you peck his lips, smiling at him. “Hit me with your best shot, Munson.”

“I intend to do just that, Mayfield.”

Taglist: @darthkenobii @blooming-mushroom @synrose6 @midnightislost2 @avril-reblog-cave @dameronology @overly-obsessed-with-you @doublesunsets

[m1d-45]

I don't know when, i don't know how, but SOMEBODY has ruined my day by giving me flashbacks of my most embarrassing moments from years ago.

Tongue frozen on the iron bars, check, had to alert the peeps to get the teach to bring hot water and she kept giggling at me.

The first time i tried proper kissing? Fucken awkward.

Accidentally mixing my coca cola glass with dads wine glass, and spurting it out with ews in a FUCKEN BUFFET?! FULL OF PEOPLE?! WHO TURNED TO LOOK AT ME AS MY FAMILY LAUGHED AT MY MISFORTUNE?!

Getting whacked in the head by a ball during gym class when a classmate threw it? AND they had the AUDACITY TO LAUGH AT ME! (And people wondered why i skipped that class-)

But honestly, i want schadenfreude and a creator x a hot guy (you can choose who, i'll take anyone at this point to ease me) with just these scenarios in mind, if you could.

i have found that even forced exposure can help with younghood embarrassment.

-🥘Stew

tongue tied

a/n: maybe this isnt what you wanted. maybe it is. idk i have writers block like you wouldn't believe man.

word count: ~6.5k

→ warnings: none? mention of alcohol and injuries but nothing awful or severe. just nice :]

→ g/n reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me

< masterlist >

diluc is a man with many skills.

he’s led the dawn winery for many years and have taken hundreds of shifts at the angel’s share, every item on the menu practically muscle memory by now. he knew the regulars and their typical orders, he knew the quickest way to strip mint stalks of their leaves, how to stack wine barrels most efficiently and how hot he could make his flames without getting burned, practically every skill he could reasonably need mastered when he was young.

…practically was the operative word, of course.

in business, it was practical to learn how to perfectly sign his signature. it was practical to know how to be diplomatic, practical to know how to properly tie a tie or check if a suit was fitted properly, practical to learn all of the skills he’d need to be the head of the dawn winery when he was young, so that by the time it was him sweeping a heavy coat over his shoulders for a meeting, he’d have every ability necessary to tackle whatever faced him.

but of course, his “training” didn’t cover more… personal things. he was too busy learning dining etiquette to know how to make small talk—that didn’t revolve around one party trying to get something from the other, that is. he knew how to set tables and properly pour wine, but his greetings were industry-approved stiff, responses a standard dialogue that he had nearly memorized. everything he said was mapped out in his head far before he’d say it, neatly laid out in his mind as he guided the conversation where he wanted it to go. efficient for formal meetings, but it left him… he didn’t like the word ‘lost,’ but it was the only one he could reasonably apply.

diluc set down the glass he was cleaning, picking up another to keep his hands busy. yes, there was a formal dishwasher hired, but he didn’t like being idle. he didn’t quite know what to do or where to put his hands, feeling a bit exposed without his coat. the bar provided a wide berth between him and any customers, but he couldn’t quite get a handle on the easy banter charles had with the patrons during his shift. it was like he was locked in an odd limbo between work and rest hours; without his gloves, vest, or other protective layers, all shed to prevent them from being stained in the case that something went awry, but still needing to keep face in front of others. he didn’t have his gloves to pull down, no comforting weight of his coat, his vision on a clip on his belt instead of the knot it usually hung from. everything wasn’t quite where it should be, and he was reminded of that every time he reached or twisted in the right way and the small spikes on top of his vision pressed through his shirt and into his side.

he felt… exposed. lost. and he didn’t know what to do about it.

he looked up as the tavern door opened, whatever expression he had before falling away as he was brought out of his thoughts. relax, he tried to tell himself, but it’s hard to believe that when one of the worst reasons for his confusion just walked in.

you.

archons, diluc was awful when it came to interacting with you. his heart beat too quickly and a shockingly large part of his brain thought that this meant he was in some sort of stressful meeting, all of his words coming out flat. while in its intended environment that would keep him from losing his temper or showing any weakness, in here it just made him feel more weak.

your head dipped. “master diluc, captain kaeya.”

and his brother certainly didn’t help the situation.

kaeya had turned when you entered, and greeting you with a sweeping arm and a cheery call of your name. “i didn’t think i’d see you so late; how kind of the heavens to bless me with your presence once again.”

diluc’s jaw tensed, and he traded glasses again. the pile of dirty cups was quickly dwindling, in no small part due to his own thoughts. he tended to be a bit quicker at the rhythmic movements of washing when he was caught up in his own lackluster abilities.

you laughed, taking the seat next to kaeya at the bar. all at once diluc was hyper aware of every action he made, from the change of towels to wipe off the water lingering on the cup to the smallest twitches in his expression or shifts in his weight.

“got caught up in some last-minute stuff, a coworker needed my help. i do hope you weren’t waiting too long?”

kaeya’s eye flashed, and he downed the rest of his drink before launching into a clearly fake story, talking about how actually, in the half hour or so delay in your appearance, the angel’s share was stormed by hundreds of fatui.

as if either of them would let that happen.

you played along, though, asking questions in the right spots and getting him to spin the story further. diluc exchanged his glasses again, doing a double take at the empty rack once he did.

that was far from ideal.

“-right, diluc?”

he looked up in an instant, eyes flicking about as he assessed the situation. clearly, he’d missed some part of the conversation, but what?

you, blessed you, had noticed his confusion, a smile on your face as you rested your hand on your chin, leaning on the bar. “i don’t know, would you really waste a bottle of dandelion wine like that? surely your claymore would do just fine.”

with a sharp swallow and a quick prayer—not that that would do much, knowing the archon he was praying to—diluc took a chance.

“of course i would. one bottle is worth it to defend mondstat, and it’s quite unwieldy to use a claymore in such a confined space.”

he fought a grimace the second the words left his mouth. his tone was too flat, his words uninteresting, certainly less entertaining than whatever fantastical tale kaeya had spun.

you nodded, and he could thankfully see amusement in your eyes. “how noble, master diluc.”

kaeya cut in, picking up his empty cup. “if you can spare a bottle for the fatui, then you can spare a glass for the cavalry captain, can’t you?”

he took the cup, but added it to the dirty rack alongside the one in his hand, taking a new one and wiping it to remove any water despite the fact that he knew there was none. archons, when had he gotten so…

he pushed away that train of thought, pulling out a bottle as he set the fresh glass down. “certainly not. wine is to be drank and paid for, that bottle was… an unfortunate accident.”

“my my, you’re no fun.” diluc poured his glass quickly—”not too much, not too little, okay? a little more, a bit… there, that’s good. well done, son.”—and moved it in front of him, pushing the cork back into the bottle with the heel of his palm. he set it back in its place, and noticed kaeya’s eyes on him as he took a sip.

no, not him, on-

“not worth a bottle, but worth a new glass? perhaps i am a hero after all…”

why was he unsurprised he noticed?

“i don’t want it to stain,” he lied, knowing damn well that stained glasses was something he was more than capable of handling. kaeya hummed, swirling his cup once before you prodded him about his day and he was back to his usual self, talking with significantly less grandeur than his tale from before.

diluc tried to pace himself, being extra meticulous in his cleaning, but there was only so many times he could twist a glass before he had to accept that he was done with it. an odd sort of dread settled over him as he reached for the last cup. today was a slower day, and he normally didn’t run out of cups until everybody was too drunk to notice how awkwardly he stood behind the bar. but kaeya was too smart to get properly drunk, you’d just arrived, and the night was far younger than he’d like.

he was cleaning too quickly again. normally, getting everything he needed to done with fast was a good thing, but now it just left him uneasy. charles didn’t have this problem, and he didn’t even clean glasses during the downtime. no, he struck up conversation with every single person that sat at the bar, no matter how downtrodden or celebratory. he was naturally friendly, always knowing exactly what to say despite the fact that diluc would bet serious mora on the fact that he didn’t have the faintest idea what he’d say until the other person was done. if he thought about it… even kaeya had a script of sorts, a certain way to twist the situation back in his favor, but he managed to talk to people just fine. no, that wasn’t the problem.

the clatter of the cup in his hands on the drying rack pulled him from his mind. he shouldn’t be zoning out so much on the job, but what took his attention first was the fact that he was now seriously out of tasks to complete.

…beautiful.

“diluc? is everything alright?”

it’s your voice, surprisingly, that asks for him, and he fixes his expression in the split second it takes to look at you instead of the glasses. his mind reaches, grabbing the familiar sentence that must have left his lips a thousand times.

“everything is as it should be. why do you ask?”

a defense of his position, dismissing any ideas of weakness, and a prompt as to why that line of thinking was in discussion at all. part of him recoiled at the idea of treating you with the same recited lines he did a business partner, but he genuinely didn’t know what else to say. he was distracted, to come up with another acceptable response would make him hesitate, which would set off yours or kaeya’s alarms- or both, if he was particularly clumsy with his speech.

“did the glasses offend you, or something? you’re glaring.”

and yet, despite his prerecorded reliability, he is at a loss once more. genuine inquiries about his well-being were rare in the spaces he typically interacted in, and it didn’t help that he was still stuck in work mode.

“…they have not,” he decides, picking his language carefully. “i am simply thinking about something else.”

horribly vague, and would almost certainly warrant a follow-up question. before you even opened your mouth, he knew what you’d say.

“what are you thinking about? do you need help?”

the second part was a shock, but he blessedly had an answer for the first. “nothing important. it will be handled in due time.”

kaeya raised a brow, and diluc pointedly ignored his questioning look. it wasn’t often that he resorted to diplomatic language in the presence of civilians, but you… he could never quite think right when you were around. he could only hope you never misinterpreted his odd words as mistrust.

you hummed, changing the subject shortly after with a question about the vineyards, something about a particularly bad season for crops you’d heard from sara. he paused for a moment—an acceptable pause, he told himself, as most people did think before speaking—before settling on giving you an update on the winery as a whole. anybody that listened in would only find what they could learn by asking his workers, and no trade secrets were to be found in the fact that his grapevines were regularly checked.

with the slightest twitch of his hand, he realized he was speaking to you like a businessman again.

kaeya’s cup had emptied at some point, and diluc reached for the bottle of dandelion wine without stopping his sentence, a small nod from kaeya the only confirmation he needed to pull off the cork.

“the staff have been doing well, though this is shaping up to be a rather warm summer.” not that you asked, he notes, internally chiding himself as he pulls over kaeya’s glass. he considers swapping it for a new one to give himself something to do, but decides against it. he rattles off a few details about some dahlias that adelinde is trying to grow, how they keep seeming to wilt. he doesn’t stop talking to pour kaeya’s wine, eyes focused on his task as he continues talking nonsense about flowers. flowers. since when did he talk about the hobbies of his staff when asked about the vineyards?

he twisted the bottle as he pulled away—“this way any wine that drips will land on the back label. you don’t want the front to look messy.”—corking the bottle and forcing himself to finish this childish line of speech.

it wasn’t childish, not if you seemed genuinely interested, but any more and kaeya would have too much to leverage against him later. granted, he likely knew more about diluc than he’d like given how irritatingly good he was at reading people, but that was a problem for another day. for now, he let kaeya grab his cup on his own, wiping his hands of nothing as he waited for your response to what had certainly come off as nervous ramble.

your head tilted. “has she asked flora?”

“assumedly, or she had another worker do so for her. it’s not like her to let something rot like that.”

“that’s good to hear. and you?”

“pardon?” his hands had frozen, towel still in his hands, and he turned your words over in his mind. his reply had been instinctual, mostly to buy him time to think.

“how are you doing? don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear the winery is well, but you seem nervous.”

kaeya chuckled into his wine, and diluc’s jaw ticked.

“i am well, my apologies if i have worried you.”

“oh, alright… it can be hard to tell sometimes with you, i wanted to be safe.”

he knows. he’d meant his apology, but any sincerity was likely lost in whatever filter was placed between his mind and his mouth.

the air was awkward, and he didn’t know how to fill it. kaeya was looking at him, clearly expecting him to continue whatever tentative conversation was lingering, but he greatly overestimated diluc’s ability to do so.

he hung the towel back in its place, finally meeting his brother’s eyes. “behave.” they flicked to you, and his words were slower coming out. “make sure he doesn’t steal anything.”

you smiled, swearing on it even as the three of you knew kaeya wouldn’t do such a thing. diluc stepped out from behind the bar, grabbing a large serving tray and walking from table to table, collecting empty glasses.

maybe he was a coward for avoiding conversation- scratch that, he definitely was, but what was he to do about it? talk? that was already established to be off the table, and one could not typically make conversation without talking.

diluc shook off the topic, climbing the stairs to the second floor of the bar. all he could do was hope you didn’t hold it against him, or archons forbid think it were somehow your fault. hopefully you wouldn’t hate him by the time he managed to get his words in line with his thoughts.

diluc stared at the empty page in front of him, twisting the pen in his hand.

another skill he didn’t have. informal letter writing.

letters to merchants, fine, letters to buyers, he had a standard template for. letters to and from employees, informing him of upcoming leave or similar work related matters, all of this he was prepared for.

but this…

he sighed, watching as ink dripped onto the page, setting down his pen.

what did he say? what did he want to say? what was appropriate to say? you were rather close to his heart but how did he come across? would an inquiry about your well being be too forward? was a letter at all too forward? friends- no, you didn’t consider him a friend, right? or did you? how did people act around their friends? how did you act around your friends?

he tugged at his gloves, fiddling with the hem nervously. he’d finished most of his paperwork and had intended to take a break by writing you a letter, but… was it even a good idea? he- oh archons, he didn’t even know your address-

diluc crumpled up the paper in one hand, throwing it in the trash with the beginnings of an embarrassed blush on his face. writing a letter and not even knowing where you lived- he could count the amount of proper conversations he’d had with you that had progressed past basic small talk on one hand, and he wanted to write you a letter?

he covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his desk. papers shifted beneath him but he didn’t pay attention, his thoughts in circles.

he wasn’t an idiot. he knew exactly why his heart picked up when you were around, why he had to default to more familiar speech to not make an utter fool of himself. the entire reason he’d tried to write you a letter was because he wanted to clarify his behavior towards you, to hopefully build a prior relationship with you instead of learning about you by proxy from your conversations with kaeya. yet, in his hurry to fix what probably wasn’t even broken to begin with—he knew of his reputation, in reality you probably weren’t at all surprised at his inability to make small talk—he’d forgotten the most important detail.

on one hand, he probably could ask kaeya, or poke around in other ways, but that felt disingenuous. if he was going to try and… for now he’d call it making a friendship with you, then he wanted to do it right. of course, he didn’t know exactly what ‘doing it right’ entailed, but… he supposed he’d just have to guess.

diluc had learned a considerable amount in his childhood, yet none of his lessons taught him how to pursue a partner.

diluc swept his cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp with one hand and reaching for his vision with the other. with practiced movements, he undid the knot tying it in place, attaching it to the back of his other hand. he hooked his mask onto his belt and closed the door of his room behind him, walking down the stairs quickly.

“be safe, master diluc.”

“master kaeya has kindly informed us that the knights have a patrol for the whispering woods, so it would be wise not to stray too far.”

diluc paused at the door, mentally rearranging his patrol route with a nod. “thank you adelinde, elzer. pass on my gratitude, please.”

he pulled open the door to the manor, walking up the familiar trails and into wolvendom. his vision lit his path as his eyes adjusted, free hand affixing his mask to his face as he walked. since he couldn’t head as far north as he’d like, he’d settle for a loop around windrise and then one in wolvendom. not ideal, but it would have to do.

windrise was lighter than expected. a budding camp of hilichurls here, an abyss mage to the east (thankfully hydro, he’d been on a bad streak with pyro mages for a few days now) and a few slimes that got a bit too close to the merchant trails for his liking.

speaking of the trails, those were clean too. he snuck around springvale, keeping the hand with his vision on it tucked into his cloak to mask its light. hilichurls didn’t hang around this part of wolvendom, so unless he wanted to go shoving through wolf hook bushes for the chance to knock out a camp or two…

he looked between the two paths back to the winery. he could go through the gorge, or the typical way taken by his suppliers. the former was mostly guaranteed to have at least one or two monsters picking about, but it would be better if he cleared his trade routes…

it didn’t matter, in the end. he stepped out from the shadow of a tree, boot barely making contact with the dirt before he picked up the sound of another’s footsteps. heavy, quick, rapidly coming his way-

he summoned his claymore, turning north toward the sound, seeing a figure stumble from the bushes of wolvendom. they were wrapped in a too-thin jacket considering the weather, arm pressed to their chest. details were lost in the darkness, but he could see their head twist, how it snapped to him.

the figure waved with a shout to get his attention, and his heart dropped.

you. what were you doing up so late?

you jogged up to him, clearly out of breath, and he could see that you were holding an armful of unripe wolfhooks. “do.. do you know the way to springvale?”

by the archons, abyss, and celestia above-

“what business do you have there? it’s late,” he said, keeping his voice low. his hands trembled slightly in his gloves, eyes searching your figure for any injury. you had a nick or two on your arm, thankfully not bleeding, but everything else was obscured by shadows. you had clearly been running for quite a while, judging by how harshly you breathed, were you running from something? had you ran into trouble?

“i gotta get back to the city,” you explained breathlessly. “i kinda got lost in the forest.”

“lost?” his hand tensed around his claymore, the action reminding him it was still there. he dismissed it, crossing his arms to try and stabilize himself.

“long story, not worth telling.” you waved your hand, and he could see how it shook a bit. whether from adrenaline or exhaustion (both?) he knew he couldn’t point you toward mondstat in good faith. what if something happened to you? what if he’d missed a camp and you were attacked? you were weakened, tired, and his mind raced with all the potential injuries you could sustain just trying to go home-

“uh, stranger?” your hand waved again, this time to get his attention. “you with me?”

“the city’s too far. you’re better off seeking shelter at the dawn winery just up the road.” what was he saying? “besides, you could be injured, and not be feeling the pain due to adrenaline. let me walk you there.”

his heart hammered against his ribs, every single way you could reject him and then some swirling in his head. he was a stranger to you, you were clearly scared by something, and he directed you elsewhere out of what, selfishness? he knew that springvale was likely closer, that someone would be up and willing to help, and yet he was asking to walk you to the winery?

“are you sure? you don’t have to.”

“i’d rather not send you off when i’m not certain of your safety.” your eyes widened slightly, surprised at the care in his voice, and he forced his tone to flatten before you recognized him. “besides, the staff are friendly and willing to help. they’ll understand.”

you hesitated for a moment, then nodded, holding your wolfhooks closer. absently, he wondered if he had any at the winery. probably not, but he could likely ask-…

in barbatos’ name, how was he going to explain this to the staff?

“alright. lead the way.”

he turned before his expression could change, keeping his steps a bit slower than usual so you could keep pace easier. he wanted you inside as quickly as possible, obviously, but you had clearly strained yourself earlier. going quicker would only hurt you more, and it wasn’t as if there was any immediate threat. even if there was, he was confident in his ability to keep you safe. the trees lining the path were large, wide enough to protect you if trouble came up and he needed to use his vision.

he set aside that line of thinking, sparing a glance at you. you’d switched which arms held the wolfhooks, and in the more open light, he could see the small pricks on your skin where the points dug in. you winced when the fruit resettled, moving one away from your inner elbow, and he stopped walking.

“give me those. you’re hurting yourself.”

“it’s fine, don’t worry about it. we’re nearly there, right?”

“wolfhooks aren’t clean, you could get an infection. you’re supposed to harvest them with a basket and gloves, not carrying them bare armed.”

“you don’t have the thickest clothes either, what’s to say you won’t get hurt?”

diluc searched the small area of the path you were on, trying to find a compromise. his first instinct was to use his cloak, but his hair was tucked into the hood, and that with his silhouette would certainly give him away. his eyes caught on a tear in your jacket, just below the shoulder, and he held out his arms.

“use your jacket as a sling. it’s already torn from the forest, so it’s not the worst loss.”

firm solution, reasonable and immediate justification. he was doing it again, no matter how well it disguised itself as casual speech.

you gave in, thankfully, and he didn’t let the minor pain from the wolfhook’s points show on his face as you removed your jacket. it was as thin as it looked, and he found himself frowning as he helped you stow the berries inside.

still, it wasn’t his business. maybe if he were your friend he could suggest that you purchase a heavier coat, but… you were getting a new one anyway since this one was ruined, so that seemed like a null point to bring up.

he settled your stuffed jacket into your waiting arms, hands lingering for a moment to ensure your grip was stable. “better?” you nodded, and he began walking again. “good. and don’t forget to mention your wounds to the staff, the last thing you want is an infection from… why did you need wolfhooks?”

“bennett asked me to get some for him and his friend… i think razor is his name? but with bennett’s luck, he didn’t want to risk going in himself, so he asked me to help.”

diluc frowned. “why does he need wolfhooks?”

you shrugged. “he offered some mora in return, but i mostly accepted because i felt bad. his luck seems to ruin everything for him, the least i could to was try.”

“even at the risk of your own health?”

“the things you do for friends, you know how it is.” his hands twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists. did he? “but what about you? why are you out here?”

he thought over his answer carefully, mixing various bits of his typical sentences to craft a half-truth. it was getting easier, he noticed, but put that thought aside just as quickly as it came. “wandering, doing my part to keep the area safe.”

“that’s noble of you.”

it wasn’t. would you believe the same if you knew how selfish he was in his desires? he kept mondstat safe for himself, so that he could rest knowing he’d done what he could—he patrolled not out of some moral righteousness, but because it made him proud to know that he’d chipped in to the city’s safety, that he was handling threats the knights didn’t, that he could keep his staff, his brother, his life, keep you-

“have you considered joining the knights? i’m certain there’s some night patrols, and it would surely be nice to have backup.”

he almost responded, almost said that he was in the knights, at one point, before he remembered where he was. who he was. to tell you that would be too much, too much information and too much for you to identify him with.

when did he become so loose with his words? normally he was so uptight around you… was it the fact that you didn’t know he was him right now? did.. he seriously operate best under anonymity? archons, how weak was that, to only be able to say what he meant when you didn’t know anything? was he that socially inept? so desperate for a proper conversation that he’d nearly slipped a major part of his life to you, just based on an offhand comment? how pathetic was he?

he forcefully shut down that line of thought and grit his teeth, well aware it had been too long since you’d spoken. “i’ve considered it. it’s not for me.”

not an entire lie, at least.

you were silent, and he knew he’d ruined the atmosphere. crystalflies fluttered in the trees, lazily flapping through the air, but he couldn’t appreciate their beauty like he typically could. the walk all the way down to the manor was spent in silence, and aside from a minor stumble you had on a jutting rock, it was as if he was walking back on his own, as he typically would. he even began to reach for the doorknob, then caught himself and used the knocker instead.

it was weird. he knew the door wasn’t locked, yet he waited for footsteps to approach the door, seeing elder’s worried face greet him. “master diluc, are you-?”

elzer’s eyes found yours, a tiny hint of shock crossing his face before he settled it back into the same polite smile he always used when greeting guests.

“ah, my apologies. i wasn’t expecting visitors at such a late hour.”

diluc bowed his head in what he hoped came off as a thankful action. “my apologies for disturbing you.”

he explained the situation as swiftly as possible, elzer urging you towards adelinde to treat your injuries. the medical supplies were just inside, near to the door for the sake of diluc’s own health.

“and what of you, stranger?” elzer asked, a bit louder than necessary. “will you be staying?”

diluc sees you look up, understanding clicking in an instant. “no, i won’t,” he answers, “but i thank you for your hospitality.”

elzer reached for the coatrack, pulling down two, both his and diluc’s, keeping the door propped open and passing him his where you couldn’t see. “then let me walk you to the edge of the vineyards, in exchange for your chivalry.”

“it’s alright, thank you. have a nice night.”

“the same to you, stranger.”

the door closed, and diluc relaxed, clutching his coat close as he turned away from the manor.

that was too close. he shouldn’t have suggested to bring you here in the first place, and thank the gods that elzer was so quick on his feet. he’d completely forgotten that he would have to return to the manor as diluc at one point in his rush to get you here.

he ducked behind a tree at the edge of the winery, exchanging his cloak for his jacket. he folded it neatly, stowing his mask and gloves inside. he didn’t have his usual clothes on, but… he could make do. he’d lied before, he’d lie again… even to you.

his grip around his cloak tightened. especially to you. you had no business in his shady practices, in what he did in the dark. it was impossible to keep you entirely safe and sheltered, nor was that healthy or his place to do, but he could at least keep his darkness from encroaching upon your light.

by the time diluc returned to the manor, you had already been sent on your way to a guest room. blessedly, neither adelinde nor elzer were in the front room to make a remark to him about it, likely busy with other work or asleep themselves. he locked the door and hung up his coat, heading up to his room after a swift double check of the first of those facts.

he went about his night, changing into sleepwear and setting his boots by his bed, his vision on his nightstand. it was admittedly a little more difficult falling asleep than usual—were you comfortable? did you like the guest room?—but he managed, waking up with the sun. his routine was the same, but when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he paused, looking up at the guest rooms. it… was strange, to know you were here. he felt like he should be doing something, whether saying goodbye or good morning or-

he looked away and shook his head. or nothing. he wasn’t as close to you as you were to him, how did he keep forgetting that?

“is there a problem, master diluc?”

he turned, seeing adelinde setting down his breakfast on the table. “nothing at all, and thank you for the food. did you sleep well?”

“i was a bit late in going to bed, a strange guest brought us some worry.”

he smiled at the pointedness to her tone, “really? how odd, to have a visitor so late.”

her mouth opens, but another speaks before she does.

“sorry if i caused any trouble.”

he paused. blinked. took a moment to register the fact that he just heard your voice in his home.

then he turned, attempting a smile. “it’s alright. your being here is unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome.”

you had clearly just gotten up, clothes rumpled and pillow creases along your hands. you nod, stepping closer, and he grasps for any viable threads of conversation.

“is the manor to your liking?”

“it’s beautiful.”

pride bloomed in his chest. “i’m happy to hear it. come sit, have some breakfast.” adelinde excused herself with a bow and he moved to pull out a chair for you, praying the action looked as natural as it felt. you accepted with a smile, and he pushes you in with relief in his when he sits. “she should return shortly with your food, apologies for the delay.”

“it’s fine,” you said, looking around the main room. he tries to find something else to talk about, already feeling the awkward silence set in, but fumbles. the last time he had someone at his table was with the traveller for the weinlesefest, and they and paimon mostly carried the conversation along. he only ever heads business discussions, or staff meetings, or interrogations, and this was certainly none of those.

“are you alright?”

he blinked away his frown, realizing too late he’d been glaring at his cup of grape juice. an instinctual response rose to his tongue, but he hesitated. maybe it was the early morning hour, maybe it was the genuine concern on your face, maybe it was the light of dawn streaming in from the windows that fell across you so delicately, as if it knew how beautiful you were.

he discarded that response, but exchanged it for another. “are you? adelinde told me you were injured.”

a lie. he hadn’t spoken with anybody about your injuries. archons, was this worse?

your smile grows. apparently not? “just a few scrapes,” you say, lifting your arm to show where adelinde bandaged you. “wolfhooks are a lot sharper than they look.”

“wolfhooks?”

you waved a hand. “i needed some for bennett, long story. don’t worry, adelinde gave me a basket for them.”

“that’s good to hear.”

and just like that, the topic was exhausted. did he bring up something else? how much was too much? what was even an appropriate topic? what did the average person talk about? not that you were average, he’d never dare-

he’s talked himself into a corner in his own head. how in teyvat did that happen?

“you’re frowning again.”

“my apologies, i’m lost in thought.” he was quiet for a moment, then continued, “a problem i’ve encountered before is more prevalent now.”

…it wasn’t the most eloquent of phrasing, but it should do.

“do you want to talk about it?”

does he? how would he even put this into words that didn’t make him sound… is pathetic the word?

‘i can’t talk right around you because i’m not used to talking with someone that does so in good faith’? yeah, that’s something a well-adjusted adult says.

“i don’t have the words for it,” he decides. “the words…” he takes a quick glance at you to gauge your reaction but regrets it just as fast, whatever he had to say next vanishing into thin air. it’s unfair, really, how pretty you are, his eyes fixed to yours. “t-they-“

adelinde set your plate down in front of you, blessedly saving him from the situation. “thank you for your patience. please let me know if anything is unsatisfactory.”

diluc grabs his cup as you thank her, turning away to hide behind the grape juice. he can’t even really taste it, focused on how clumsily he had spoken. were he anywhere else he’d surely be laughed out of the room, and he’s certain adelinde’s going to tease him for it later as it is.

“diluc?” he looks over at you again, keeping his gaze quick before he fumbles again.

“what is it?”

too harsh, too cruel, he’s being cold to you again-

“are you busy today?”

he thinks over his schedule. no meetings that he can remember, nor any deadlines. he’d prefer to finish up some forms sooner rather than later, but if you need him for something…

“no, i’ve got time. what do you need?”

“would you like to go to good hunter for dinner later today?”

he can only hope you accept his nod as an answer because between the knowing smile on your face and the bright blush on his, there’s no way he’s getting a word out.

[innocentlymacabre]

A naked bulb hung above the table for two, lighting nothing but that and the two men on the chairs, positioned squarely in the centre of the room. Two others stood to either side of the table. The two on the chairs were tied to their chairs, bags over their heads, tape on their mouth. Their knots had been tied so that the more they struggled, the tighter the rope got.

The door slammed open, momentarily lighting up the room. But that was soon gone when a man walked in. He carried a walking stick, but didn’t seem to be too dependant on it. Without breaking stride, he clicked the door shut with a flick of his cane. Irritably, he made a gesture to the two men by the table – probably his subordinates. They pulled the bags off of the men’s heads and ripped the tape off their mouth. Immediately, the one on the right began to shout and the left one’s sobs became more pronounced.

‘You’ve got the wrong guy. I haven’t done anything – nothing wrong. You’re definitely looking for someone else. Please, you have to believe me – I don’t know anything.’ The man with a limp spoke in a calm voice. A voice that one only uses when they hold all the cards, have all the power. A voice that is outwardly less threatening than screaming or a maniacal yell, but one that frightens more thoroughly than anything else.

‘What’s your name?’

‘T-T-Timothy.’

‘Well, Timothy. Let me tell you something. You may very well believe that I have the wrong guy, and it may just be so. You’d want it to be so, wouldn’t you?’ Timothy whimpered. The man continued. ‘But, it’s more than likely that I don’t have the wrong guy. Also,’ the man paused as he brought out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff. ‘let me make another thing clear – you would be wise not to challenge my decisions ever again. Not that you’ll have too long to anyway.’ He gave a nod to the man to Timothy’s left; the man punched him in the face, partially dislodging a tooth, filling his mouth with blood. Timothy spat the blood onto the floor.

A man with a limp isn’t meant to be threatening, but as this man with a limp moved towards the table, Timothy grew more and more scared with each passing second. His heat beat doubled, then tripled when he saw him reach behind his back and pull out a gun. His body have a lurch when the man slammed the gun onto the table and gave him a little smile. The man picked the gun back up, and Timothy started to silently hyperventilate. He calmed down a little when he saw him open the chamber and empty it. Russian Roulette. The man put in one lead stud and gave the .22 a spin. The men standing by untied the two in the chair.

Timothy relaxed a little. Russian Roulette was a game of luck and guessing. And no one could beat him at either. Growing up, he always drew the longest straw, and never failed to guess the exact number of jellybeans in a jar. He won every round of rock-paper-scissors, and always rolled favourable numbers. As a teen, he would buy lottery tickets when he needed extra money, and didn’t have to take on any student debt when he went to college. Instead of continuing like that though, he decided to become a stock trader and put his skills to good use. Currently, he’d been number one employee for five years.

*

The gun stopped rotating. The barrel was pointing at Timothy. Less scared than he would have been, he clutched the handle and slowly brought it to his temple, the cold metal touching his skin. His head shook, and his vision became cut up, as if he was in a picture and someone had sliced the area in front of him using a jagged knife. A circle cleared up in the centre. It slowly turned black before a six-bullet barrel with only one bullet in it materialised in it.  Then, everything went back to normal.

Confident, Timothy pulled the trigger. A powerful gust of air came out, but he was mostly unharmed. The man with the limp laughed.

‘He lives! ‘Now, onto the next.’

Timothy put the gun down and the man picked it up. He put another bullet into the chamber, spun it, clicked it shut, and put it on the table. He spun the gun again, and it landed on Timothy again. The same sudden vision played across his eyes, and Timothy pulled the trigger again. The same gust pushed against the side of his forehead, and he was once again, unharmed. This time the man with a limp gave an irritated laugh and was visibly pissed as he loaded the third bullet.

This time round the barrel pointed at the other man who had been silently crying the whole time. As he raised the gun to his head, Timothy knew that he would be safe – the bullet was in the slot next to the current one. The man with a limp was calmer this time round, but Timothy was aware that he was angered. One of them needed to die, and they needed to die quickly.

The fourth bullet went into the chamber and the barrel pointed at Timothy. The man cried out triumphantly. The odds were stacked in the man’s favour – only a one in three chance Timothy would live. The vision flashed before his eyes again, but this time Timothy froze when it ended. If he pulled the trigger, he would die. All four bullets were lined up one after the other.

‘What’s wrong boy? Not so quick to act this time? Don’t like these odds?’ The man with a limp mocked him, and evidently enjoyed it. Timothy gave a cold, hard stare at the man and looked him dead in the eyes. His face was completely expressionless as he gave his response.

‘You had the right man, Denker.’ In a flash, Timothy whipped to the side and pulled the trigger. He adjusted slightly, then pulled it again to kill the man who stood to his left. The one on the right punched him, causing him to fall out of his chair, then drew his own gun. He took a shot at Timothy, but he rolled out of the way, only being grazed a bit. Timothy stood at the other edge of the table and quickly squeezed the trigger, ending the man.

He strutted towards the door, but just as he was about to open it, he turned around.

‘Sorry, got to clean up all loose ends.’ He pulled the trigger one last time, killing the man who was frozen with shock in the chair.

Russian Roulette

09.04.18

my writing // read Frozen Summer, a speculative horror book

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[duskamethyst]

stranger danger.

a/n: did i sit on top of my car to imagine this? sure did. a part of the jujutsu hub collab! thank you vee @suna-reversed for organizing this horny event for us horny people.

word count: 3.8k

genre: smut, nsfw, pwp

warnings: dubcon, literally dumbass porn, degradation + praising kink, daddy kink, gun play, mentions of alcohol consumption, dui and death, public sex, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, implied kidnapping

pairing: criminal!toji x f!reader

summary: dozing off in a parking lot seems dangerous but it seems like the right thing to do. that is, until a mysterious man taps on your window.

you shouldn’t have trusted yourself. you’ve vowed to yourself not to drink tonight, especially when you were driving to the city by yourself. maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt, you thought. but that one drink led you to another until you eventually found yourself light headed and could barely walk in a straight line let alone drive home.

so now you decide it’s best to just stop in a random parking lot and doze off for a couple of hours until you’re certain that you’re sober and ready to continue your journey back home. thankfully the lights are on and there are a few other empty cars in the lot, giving you somewhat a sense of security.

even though you aren’t completely sane at the moment, you make sure the doors are locked, turn off the engine and roll your windows down slightly to allow ventilation. if you could avoid a possible car crash, might as well avoid dying from inhaling some fatal gas. so you push back your seat and close your eyes to let sleep take you over.

but it isn’t for long until you hear a knock on the window.

startled and confused, you instantly get up thinking it would be one of the securities patrolling the area, telling you to scram but you’re only met with a rather handsome man, tall and brawny standing next to your car.

he leans down to your eye level and glares at you intimidatingly before he speaks, “get out.”

in such a panicky situation, your heavy cluttered brain doesn’t really tell you what to do nor what the hell is happening so you only stare back at him tongue tied, unable to properly gauge the situation thanks to both chemicals in your system and adrenaline pumping through your veins.

“are you deaf?” he snarls with anger distorting his face.

the sharp eyes piercing through you coupled with the discernible scar on his lips go so well into his menacing demeanor and you’re aware he’s getting impatient. unsure of what to do, your hand reaches for your keys to turn on the engine, thinking it’s best to leave but he bangs on the window as if to tell you that isn’t what he wanted.

“i only told you to get out. so, get the fuck out. now.” toji waits for you to comply, but instead you just sit there frozen and he sighs in exasperation. “look, i have a fucking gun. and if you don’t do as i say, i won’t hesitate to shoot your brains off. you don’t need it anyway, right?”

toji fishes out his gun, waving it in front of you in warning. “and you’d be fucking dumb to think it isn’t loaded.”

the threatening sight of the firearm is finally what makes you unlock your doors and he immediately swings the door open and pulls you out from your vehicle by the wrist. toji eyes you up and down, taking a special interest in the mini skirt you don with a filthy smirk across his face. he peeks inside the car briefly, delighted over the fact that you’re all alone in the middle of the night– in some deserted parking lot, no less.

“where were you from?” he suddenly asks with less gruff in his tone. the eyes raking up and down your smaller frame so flagrantly makes you feel small and vulnerable.

you lick your lips to return moisture lost to parched skin as your eyes shift from his gun to his face. “a party.”

“a party, hm?” he does a double take on your whole skimpy outfit, sending a plethora of titillating thoughts to run in his head and waking up his primal instincts. he hasn’t gotten his dick wet for a while and opportunities don’t come by so easily when he’s a man on the run. he’d have to be an idiot to let this chance slip through his fingers.

“must’ve put a lot of thought on your outfit tonight. why don’t you give me a little twirl?”

toji deliberately taps the gun on the side of his thigh, reminding you what could happen if you either scream or run. getting the hint, you decide to entertain him, knowing well that you could end up with a bullet in any part of your body if you try to escape.

but do you oppose the idea of a sickeningly attractive man trying to check you out with a weapon in his hand? not really. if anything, the alarming nature of the affair only gives a delicious thrill to your already messed up nerves.

his predatory gaze is fixed on your voluptuous curves and the little sway of your hips as you gracelessly turn around in your heels, making blood rush straight down to his cock before telling you to stop.

“get in front of the car.” he urges.

“huh? why?”

toji cocks the loaded gun in front of you, his expression turning stern and serious once more. “no talking, just do it.”

you walk towards the front with the gun behind your head, careful not to miss your step until you’re facing your car.

“hands on the hood.” he demands, dark eyes silently watching you do as you’re told like a well-trained dog.

you’re certain he can see your ass cheeks peeking underneath the hem of your skirt as cold air hits your skin. the thought of a pair of eyes staring you down hungrily forms an anticipative knot to pull tightly in your stomach as your mind wonders about the dirty things he might and could do to you.

the next thing you feel is the cool metal of the barrel under your skirt, making you shudder as it caresses your puffy folds before dragging upwards to hike up the hem of your unbearably short skirt in favor of checking your panties but oh, what a delightful surprise– not a single thread underneath it all.

“no panties?” he bites back a groan when he notices the glistening slick coated around his black gun. “don’t tell me you’re getting off to this?”

“‘m not–” you deny meekly despite the blossoming heat between your thighs growing bigger when you feel the tip of the barrel against your drenched cunt again.

“don’t lie. you’re a little slut aren’t you? went to a party without your panties on– something tells me you’re an attention whore.” he mocks, poking the gun against your entrance only to observe your little squirms.

“not a slut!” you whine giddily as you spontaneously grind against the long barrel in seek of relief for the dull ache that has formed in your core.

“no? you’re gonna tell me you’re not jerking off to my gun right now?” he chastises with a satirical smile on his lips, feeling his cock harden even more from watching the way you’re eagerly rubbing against the gun he currently holds in his hand.

“i– i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you try not to let your words slur as you play coy, even when breaths are already hitching in your throat.

“oh yeah? ‘cause that cunt is positively leaking right now.” you whimper at his words, being bad and filthy never felt so good– especially to a man you don’t even know. “bet you want me to fill that needy cunt.”

“mhm!” you mewl, gyrating your hips even more salaciously once you manage to find an angle to rub your sensitive clit, sending waves of sensations to every fiber and nerve in your body.

“now that’s an honest little slut.” he coos with amusement lacing in his voice. “why don’t you beg for it?”

you tilt your head back towards him, bottom lip jutting out into a cute pout and eyes pleading. “please..?”

toji lets out a huff, “not good enough, sweetheart.”

your eyes narrow at him, hoping he can read the desperation in them as you call him in the softest mewl that you've used to numerous guys before. “daddy.”

“hmm?” he strokes your clit by rubbing the gun back and forth and watches you quiver with a lopsided grin across his face.

“w-want– need your cock, daddy.” you pant in a shameless expression of your need for him.

“what do you need daddy to do to you, pretty girl?” he studies the barrel, now smeared with your slick.

“need daddy to fuck me– fuck my little tight cunt.”

toji draws his gun away and raises it at the back of your head. “then, get on your knees.”

you don’t need to be told twice as you instantly turn around and face him, the gun now pointing directly to your forehead and follows you even until you’re already kneeled in front him.

“you went a little too fast there, didn’t you?” he chuckles, the sound is smoky and alluring. “so eager. now, take off my pants.”

your hand reaches up to unbuckle his belt and undo his button before pulling the zipper down and tugging off his pants and briefs hastily. your mouth waters at the sight; his thick cock is already throbbing, tip flushing red and leaking precum with a prominent vein on the underside – causing you to quickly disregard the life-threatening weapon in front of your head.

seeing you blatantly gawk at him causes pride to spiral in his chest, as if you’ve never seen a dick before. but is it bad for toji to assume that you've never seen a dick as big as his?

“getting nervous now?” he teases. “fuck that. put it inside your mouth.”

toji exhales sharply once your tongue carefully licks off the salty pre on the tip, rousing him further with only kitten licks until the barrel nudges your head in warning, forcing you to stop your ministrations.

“are you asking to get a hole through your head?” he scowls, showing apparent irritation.

“no.” you answer meekly.

“then? i told you to put it inside your fucking mouth.”

“‘m sorry, daddy.” you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and give it a few pumps up and down his shaft in hopes to please him and calm him down. “promise i’ll be a good girl.”

“then stop fucking around.”

without a second to waste, you wrap your lips around his cock and hollow your cheeks, squeezing and milking his cock with your tongue and throat as your head bobs up and down. you graze your tongue on the underside and slowly drag upwards, following the curve of his vein before giving a harsh suck on his tip, drawing out a loud groan from his throat.

“look at daddy.”

and you do, fixing your gaze with his darker ones as you slobber his cock with so much drool and you relax your throat in order to force yourself down to the base, devouring him whole even as he tilts the gun next to your head.

“wish i had my phone right now. you should see how you look.” his other hand reaches the top of your head, holding you in place and causes you to choke slightly before jerking his hips forward and begins to fuck your throat.

squelching noises resonate in the silent air, mingled with his grunts. drool starts to seep from the corners of your mouth and tears begin to well up in your eyes as his heavy balls slap against your chin.

“boys must really love you, hm?” you can feel the tension in his fingers as he puts monumental effort into restraining himself and he finally draws his gun away. “just taking it like a good girl.”

you can only whimper around his cock, the praise making you feel hotter that you find your hand between your thighs to push a finger inside your wet cunt.

“fuck– yeah, keep touching yourself like that.” he growls, the sound rumbling in his chest as the vibrations from your muffled moans are slowly sending him to the brink of an orgasm.

you’re too immersed by your own finger pumping in and out to even care about the ache that has formed on your jaw but the moment you feel his cock twitching, you both know it won’t be long until he breaks down.

“you’re gonna swallow all of it. got it?” he states more than questions, feeling his balls tightening as he starts to lose the last remaining control he owns.

you hum in response and flutter your eyes close and you wait until his hips still before he spurts thick ropes of cum down your throat, invading all your senses with the bitter taste of his load.

once he has emptied, you pull away with your tongue gliding along his length, not forgetting to lick off the sensitive slit to clean off any remnants.

“open your mouth.” he demands. you part your puffy lips and stick your tongue out, showing your obedience to his prior order and a delightful smirk makes its way on his face upon seeing that you’ve downed every drop of his cum. “good girl.”

“to be honest, i didn’t think you’d cum quickly.” you blurt out bluntly.

his brows furrow and his face contorts into a scowl. “‘fuck did you say?”

you shrug nonchalantly. you don’t know where it’s coming from either– the alcohol still lingering in your veins or the fact that you feel beyond proud that you’ve made him, some guy who claimed that he wanted to rob your car cum so fast. “well, all the guys told me i give the best head but none of them ever–”

“get up. face the car.”

toji clicks his tongue as you blink at him in confusion and he grabs your arm to pull you up on your feet before spinning you around and bending you down on the hood with his body pressing against your back. you swallow nervously when you feel a nudge against your ass, his dick is still hard despite the fact that he has cummed just a minute ago.

“you’re gonna regret that. once i fucking ravage that little cunt, you’re gonna be begging for me to cum quick.” he leans down to your ear as he threatens, sending shivers up and down your spine.

“i’m sor–”

“no. i won’t give a shit if it hurts you or when you cry for me to stop.”

toji gives a harsh smack on the plump flesh, making you jolt in surprise. with your hands down on the hood, he lifts up one of your knees on top of the car, causing you to spread wide open in an instant before he impatiently pokes the tip of his cock against your pulsating hole.

“but that’s what you want, right?”

your eyes roll back, lips parting in an appreciative squeal as you feel his fat cock stretches you out accompanied with a delicious burn when he sinks in deeper.

“mmh– s-so big–!”

“yeah? never had a dick this big before?” toji pulls out almost completely, eyes fixed on the cock glistening with your slick under the street lights, not missing the white cream attached onto the skin.

“n-no– ah–!”

toji cuts you off with one hard slam of his hips, drilling his cock into your tight pussy in a brutal pace while you keen and whimper as it brushes against your walls, each stretch and drag inside you so exquisite while deep crescent shapes of his nails form on your pliant skin as he holds you firmly by the hips for leverage.

“no wonder you’re so fucking tight. stupid boys didn’t know how to fuck you right.” his words thrum in a burst of heat as he growls in your ear, breaking through your every thought.

you tilt your head towards him with heavy lidded eyes and meet his lust addled gaze. your mouth is gaping in breathless moans, tongue slightly lolled out from your lips as you try to reach closer to his scarred lips, wanting to crash your lips onto his before it stretches into a devilish smirk and you feel warm liquid lands on your palate.

“you looked like you were begging to taste my spit.” he mocks. toji watches as you eagerly swallow it down your throat and he lets out a brittle chuckle. “dirty slut.”

your pussy flutters upon hearing how he degrades you, causing you to buck your hips wildly against him in an attempt to meet his thrusts.

“you liked that, didn’t you? i can feel you clamping down on me like a fucking whore.” he derides, fucking you harder and deeper until your world is reduced into nothing but the way he makes you feel completely stuffed and filled, the cockhead kissing your cervix with each deep strokes.

“please– make me cum, daddy–” you keen as pressure pulls taut in your lower stomach, the slick noises are so loud that the both of you can hear them even through your moans.

your body flushes against his, so close together and you can only focus on the sounds of flesh against flesh, the salacious rhythm making you more delirious.

“then, cum for me. let me feel you gush all over me.” toji brings his fingers to rub against your clit, easily tipping you over the edge by pressing tight circles until you find yourself crashing down with an orgasm exploding throughout your body.

“you want more?” he taunts, helping you ride out the aftershock by continuously rutting his hips into your cunt and not giving you the slightest chance to recuperate.

“ah– ‘s too much–” you whimper as soon as the pleasure begins to numb and you clutch onto his wrist tightly to try and pry his hand away from your sensitive clit.

“too much? don’t think that i’m done with you yet.”

toji finally draws away from you, but only turns you around to face him and effortlessly puts you on top of the hood with your elbows propping your weight. with his hands, he spreads and keeps your legs apart before sheathing his cock back inside your pulsing cunt again, completely mindless of your pathetic sobs. he lifts up your top, not surprised over the lack of bra underneath and he intently watches the way your tits bounce with each merciless pound of his cock.

“s-stop– please–” you whimper feebly as you try to shut your trembling legs together but he doesn’t budge and only keeps his grip on your thighs even tighter, stretching out your pussy for him wider.

“fucking take it.”

toji ignores your plea and his head dips low to your chest, latching his mouth onto one of your nipples and starts to flick it with his tongue coupled with harsh sucks until he pulls back with a pop and watches as the nipple stands erect before assaulting the other, swiftly sending sparks of pleasure down to the bundle of nerves.

“might as well keep you around. be my personal fucktoy. would you like that?” he grins up at you to see your jaw slacking, mouth falling in a wide ‘o’ as the burn down your core begins to cease.

“yesyesyes– make me your slut–!” your toes curl, making your heels drop down to the ground while your knuckles turn white from squeezing your hands into balled fists too hard.

“yeah? you’d do anything for a good fuck, huh?” he sneers at you, although he’s fascinated with your state of arousal.

“mhm– need daddy to fill me up with his cum–” your back rests against the car, reveling in the feeling of his cock abusing your swollen cunt like you’re nothing but a sex doll.

“but daddy’s not gonna cum yet. not even when you’re tightening around him like this.” toji slams your hips down closer to him, fucking into you deeper and harder with his heavy balls smacking your ass.

“t-too deep–! daddy, i’ll–” you babble, losing the ability to form cohesive words as you feel a strange knot twisting rapidly in your guts. the feeling is too intense and unbearable– the refined drags of his vein brushing against your spongy walls is anything but agonizing.

“come on. use your big girl words.” he drags out slowly and quickly pumps back into you ruthlessly. “or are you too dumb already?”

“i’m gonna–”

toji lifts up your legs over his shoulders as he leans down closer to you and he nips on your pulse point, causing your body to tense as your hands find home in his dark locks and tight shirt.

as soon as he lets go, your pupils are blown wide as pleasure washes throughout your body and you feel yourself gushing around the cock still buried inside you along with a broken moan from your lips. the release is oddly more relieving than your prior orgasm, making your body feel lighter as your mind ascends to a state of euphoria. you find yourself panting heavily as you squirt all over him, staining his black shirt with clear fluid and with some of it dribbling down to his thick thighs.

“making such a mess on daddy.” he groans as he feels your walls convulse around him rapidly, milking his cock dry and slowly dragging him down to his own high for the second time of the night.

you can only look at him in a cockdaze with no particular thoughts running inside your head, each one formed gone like popping bubbles. your eyes glued onto every bit of his features; the brows furrowed in concentration, the lips parting in grunts, the damp matted hair against his forehead and you drink the sight of it all even when you’re not sure if you’ll remember it all the next morning.

“fuck– it’d be a shame to not cum inside this pretty cunt, right?” his thrusts turn sporadic, dick twitching as a telltale of his pending orgasm that’s soon to crash down over him. he didn’t need to hear your answer as he ruts into you faster, hips stuttering out of control before a low, guttural sound escapes his throat as he shoots hot ropes of cum, flooding into your womb and stuffing you full with his seed.

and once he lets go of your legs you can feel your whole body sore all over, but you can’t bring yourself to care nor whatever is going to happen after this when the man in front of you has given you what you truly wanted and made you feel satiated like you’ve never felt before.

toji pulls out his spent cock and runs a hand through his hair before putting his pants back on. a cocky smirk graces his lips at the sight of your fucked out body, still splayed on top of the hood with his cum dribbling out from your pussy.

he presses your cheeks together with one hand and forces you to look at him, even as your lids are getting heavy to lift.

“i was serious about you being my fucktoy– and stealing your car.” he cackles. “so, do you wanna be in the back seat or do you prefer the trunk?”

duskamethyst © 2020 • all rights reserved. do not modify, translate or repost anywhere.

enjoyed this work? wanna buy me coffee? :)

[countrymusiclover]

5 - Hostage Marine

(Gif by @timbradford)

Part 6

Military Lovers masterlist

Y/n's POV

A bag gets yanked off my head with my hands tied together with zip ties and a gas over my mouth. Blinking my eyes I adjust to the bright lights seeing we're inside a church. Hearing multiple cars and everything else entering the room. Clearly Chicago. The Afghanistan leader had forced me to get them on an airplane after they found a way to cover up all the cuts and bruises they've done. "This isn't my base..." I coughed out trying to shift to a better sitting position with me being tied up. My hair knotted and covered in blood with torn clothing. "You stupid girl. Churches are a sanctuary for everyone. If we are to get caught the authorities cannot remove us from here. We shall take your base at nightfall so get comfortable."

The Afghanistan guys open cases of bullets they bought from the store with my license since they can't legally buy Firearms here. I count off four fully loaded military assault rifles each with four rounds of bullets. "What's your plan here. Can I know you're name if you're I'm gonna play your hostage for nearly a month?" The leader stomped forward hitting me over the head with the butt of his riffle. I grunt loudly falling down on the carpet feeling serious pain in my head, probably a serious concussion. My vision blurs together with tears watching him bend down with cold metal of a barrel pressing to my throat. "Watch your tounge if you want to keep it I suggest you shut the hell up..." He pauses starting to get up but suddenly swung the gun at me again and I don't have enough strength to fight back so he knocks me out cold.

Jay's POV

"Guys I think I got something. Multiple firearm charges and plane tickets just appeared on Y/n's bank statements." Adam points to the computer screen reading the charges were made six hours ago. Hailey sees the location of the shop running a hand through her hair. "How the hell did she get from Afghanistan to Chicago if she's being held hostage?" Pushing myself off the wall I try and think of what she's trying to do. The base isn't located here, it's in Afghanistan. Looking towards the board I tilt my head staring at Kyle's dog tags that I put back around his collar. Lifting up the first part of Y/n's letter I re-read the part mentioning his dog tags. Reading the code on Kyle's collar in the picture of us it reads 'Ky2156' but I remember the tag he wears now says different 'Y/n,5408' Moving papers around on my desk I managed to write down her normal dog tag number when I was sending her letters. "Kyle's dog tag isn't his. It's actually Y/n's, but she changed the numbers in the letter she sent." Voight raises his eyebrows at me. "What do you mean?"

Bending down to Kyle I scratch behind his ears clipping his dog tag off with my freehand reading the same different numbers. "Look for any zip codes with the numbers 5408." Adam typed away before the computer dings with a match so he turns it to face me. "A church downtown down the road from the same building she bought weapons at." Voight stares at me blank then down at Kyle. "You know something I'm starting to think this girl of yours might just be Intelligence material." Hailey pets Kyle who's been awake most of the time today. He gets to his sniffing around until he saw me holding the tag. He puts his nose close up to it then barks loudly multiple times up at me. "What is it boy?" Hailey questions seeing him pointing his nose up towards the board of evidence. Adam gets up from the desk picking our picture off the board pointing at Y/n. "Do you smell her. Is it Y/n?" He barks wagging his tail as his way of answering yes. Running my hands through my hair I breathe out in shock. "She managed to give us her exact location." Voight heads for the door waving us all to follow and Kyle howls following right beside my hip. "Let's suit up and bring her home."

Y/n's POV

Blinking my eyes open again I see some blood seeping through my shirt so I call out to one of the Afghanistan guards watching me. "I need bandages...please." The guard rolled his eyes not saying anything so I force myself to sit up. Ripping apart a piece of the rug pressing it around my stomach. Yanking it tightly around I try to make the blood clot even though I'm starting to feel light headed. The side door bursts open when sirens started to get closer around the building. "You little bitch. You called the cops." I try to speak but he lifts me up by my shirt snarling into my face. "I - I didn't call-" He throws me on the ground cooking his riffle before someone hollers out. "Hey, I'm coming in. I'm unarmed!" Raising myself up on my left elbow I released tears clutching my hands into fists knowing that voice anywhere. "Jay....Jay...no!" He stepped down the stairs having all four riffles aimed directly at him. The leader demanded to my boyfriend. "Get on the ground now. If you don't we will shoot you!" Jay slowly gets down on the ground his gaze flickered up towards the second floor staircase. Slightly turning my head I see a man aiming a gun towards the Afghan leader and he wears a vest that reads Chicago pd. He's working with Jay. We're gonna need more than that.

Adam's POV

Hiding behind the wall I see Jay on the floor and a girl with bloody brown hair with blonde highlights tied up. Kyle is at my feet trying to be as quiet as possible. Glancing to the dog I slowly nodded giving him the signal to go. He crawls towards the stairs that are tall so he can't be seen. "How many of you are outside, tell me!" The guy dressed in a black cloak demanded to Jay. The girl tied up tries scooting over towards a riffle laying near her feet. Clever girl. Jay's gotta keep them distracted. "Four other officers but they won't arrest you if you let us go. Me and her. We'll help you get what you want." The leader stomped his feet on the ground shouting. "I'm not dumb boy. What I want is revenge. Revenge on the military that took my family from me. Brought them here saying they'd have a better life...leaving me alone all because I had history of beating my wife!" The girl slowly raises a gun pulls the trigger but it clicks meaning no bullets inside, the leader spun around knocking the gun from her hands. Shit Jay, you and Kyle better do something fast.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[undisputed-bucky]

Dean Drabble!

NFSW MINORS DNI

Summary: Dean almost loses you on a mission and lets you know exactly how that makes him feel.

WARNINGS: SMUT SMUT SMUT, oral(m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex(wrap it before you tap it my lovelies), GUN KINK(reader has a gun pointed to her head most of this fic) . IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH GUNS OR ANY TYPE OF GUN PLAY DO NOT PROCEED.

Word Count: 1.6k ish

A/N: I have to thank @bucky-daddy for the ideas and inspiration for this! It was supposed to be just a little Drabble but it turned into a full one shot!! Again thank you @bucky-daddy for letting me scream about ideas while I wrote this! I hope you guys like it! I always appreciate likes, re blogs and comments! My requests are open as well!! Send me an ask or message and I’ll be happy to discuss ideas! Also I wrote this on my phone so I can’t add a page break so PLEASE BE AWARE OF THE WARNING I'VE PUT IN THE DESCRIPTION OF THIS PIECE. ILL SAY IT AGAIN⚠️VIOLENT AND EXTREME THEMES ALONG WITH SMUT⚠️

The hunt wasn’t supposed to go wrong. You weren’t supposed to get captured. Almost every part of the plan you and Dean had gone over went wrong. So so wrong. The nest wasn’t supposed to know you were coming for them. You weren’t supposed to leave Dean’s side.

And now because of that you were tied to a chair, with a teenage werewolf desperately trying to finish the knot on your right leg. Shit shit shit, you thought. The last time you had seen Dean he was fighting off one werewolf. As you looked around the room you noticed at least five just in this room. You prayed he was safe. You knew Dean could hold his own but the amount of werewolves that could be here? That sets you on edge.

Just as the thought presents itself in your mind, you hear a crash and multiple gunshots. The werewolves all looked towards the door, the familiar growl of the Winchester brother echoing through the walls. You smirked.

“Come at me motherfuckers!” He yells as he kicks through the door. Dean raises his gun and takes out two within five seconds. You growl as you kick out with your right leg, the knot having never been finished.

“Dean!” You shout as you nod your head towards the wolf that had tied you up. He shoots with extreme precision and the silver bullet meets its target, the werewolves brain.

Dean promptly takes care of the two other werewolves in the room.

You breathe a sigh of relief as you watch Dean pant, his shoulders heaving with every breath. “Man, I really got scared there! Thanks for the help Dean, you’re a great hunter” You say, wiggling against the ropes in the chair. “Why don’t you uhh help me with these ropes, Deano?”

“What did I tell you, Y/N?” You hear Dean growl as he turns around. As you look up into his eyes, the darkness there makes your skin prickle. And not exactly in a bad way.

“You told me not to leave your side, I know Dean but I thought I had it! I didn’t kn-“

“SHUT UP” You're cut off by Dean’s yelling. You suddenly look up to see him storming towards you. His hulking figure soon looms over yours, the rage practically radiating off of him.

“You left my side after I specifically told you not too. You directly disobeyed my orders!” He starts, voice so low it was almost a growl. “You put yourself in Danger!” He yells, his hand raises and he presses the barrel of his gun into your temple. “I ALMOST LOST YOU, Y/N! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

You splutter as you look into his eyes, the emotions there a mystery to you. What wasn't a mystery was the pool of moisture collecting in your panties. You'd always been quite attracted to Dean but this ragey, scary Dean? He made you weak!

Dean's gun drifts down slightly as his expression softens slightly, “What would I do without you, Y/N?” He says, anger still virulent in his eyes.

You decide to come back to that question later, suddenly wanting to press the rage inside him more. You smirk and stick your tongue out, swirling your tongue around the silver barrel. You watch Deans pupils dilate as you draw the barrel into your mouth, sucking gently.

“You think this is a game, Y/N?” Dean growls, his mouth twisting into a sneer. He chuckles, a dark dry sound as his hand moves to his belt buckle. He dexterously undoes the buckle and moves on his jeans. “Guess what? You lost” He suddenly removes the gun from your mouth, placing it back on your temple. “You disobeyed me and for that you’re gonna be punished” He speaks as he pulls his briefs down, revealing his hard cock.

Your mouth falls open, eyes widening as you imagine wrapping your mouth around it. The wet patch in your panties grows as you look at the massive member. You always suspected he was big but this? Unprecedented.

“Brat sees something she likes huh?” He chuckles as he moves closer, his cock right in front of your face. He presses the gun harder against your temple, his other hand slapping his cock against your face. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to thrust roughly into your mouth.

You moan around his impressive length and he groans. “Such a fucking brat, not so mouthy with your trap stuffed full of cock huh?” He growls, his hips pistoning against your lips. You choke and gag as his tip smacks the back of your throat forcefully with each thrust of his hips. You Do your best to breathe through your nose as you take every inch of his cock.

“Fuck, Y/N. Sucking me so good. Knew that mouth was good for something other than being a smart ass” He growls, hips stuttering slightly. Drool and spittle falls down your chin as tears spring to your eyes. Every thrust to your throat had you walls clenching around nothing, cunt desperate for the cock currently in your mouth.

Dean's groans become more desperate and he stops, roughly pulling from your mouth with a wet plop. “No no no. M’saving my cum for your cunt. Wanted this for too long not to fill you” He says.

“Please Dean! Untie me so I can show you how much I’ve wanted it to!” You beg, wiggling against the restraints.

He chuckles as he bends down to untie your leg, smirking. You look back at your hands, expecting him to move to them next. When he doesn’t you look at him, “Dean, m-my hands babe” you say, laughing nervously. He suddenly moves behind you, roughly kicking the Chair out from beneath you. It plants you on the floor with your hands laid out above you. “D-Dean please!”

Dean just laughs as he starts to pull your pants down, groaning appreciatively. Your legs spread for him, exposing your drenched cunt. He raises his gun, dragging the tip of the barrel through your drenched folds. You gasp and arch against the touch. He pulls the gun away and chuckles, slowly lifting it to your mouth in a silent order to suck. You open your mouth to taste your own juices around the gun. You moan at the taste as Dean suddenly presses himself against your entrance.

“What a dirty little whore you are! Just begging to be fucked at gunpoint aren’t you? So wet for me and my gun huh?” He asks, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds as he places the gun back to your temple.

“Yes Sir! Please! Fuck me at gunpoint and take what you want!” You shout, hips bucking to gain more friction. You watch as his lips turn up in a smirk. He uses his other hand to roughly hold your hips down, keeping you still as he slowly sheathes himself inside you.

“Fuck!” You cry out at his length filling you. He’s so huge you can swear you feel him in your belly, stretching you out. Your voice refuses to work when he slowly drags himself out, only to slam back against that spongy spot inside of you.

As his pace increases, he growls out, “Fuck Y/N so tight! Made to take my cock weren’t you?”

“Yes! Oh god yes!” You cry, the coil inside you beginning to wind and wind with every thrust to that spot he found so quickly.

Dean presses the gun into your skin, a bruising pressure as he growls, “Yes what?”

“Yes sir!” You scream, your walls beginning to flutter and squeeze around his cock. “Oh fuck!”

He groans as his pace falters, moving a hand to your clit. He rubs fast, tight circles as he leans down to your ear, “Gonna cum on my cock? Gonna soak me with my gun pointed to your head?” He whispers.

“Yes sir! Please let me cum!” You beg, legs beginning to shake. The coil was ready to burst but you wouldn’t dare cum without his permission.

“Cum! Cum for me like the desperate slut you are” He growls as he cock swells. Your vision goes white as the coil snaps, walls clamping down around Dean. Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream as he finishes, the feeling of his spend bursting against your cervix extending your orgasm farther. Your hips buck and shake as he thrusts out both of your highs.

Dean pants as he slowly pulls his softening cock from your leaking hole. He grunts as he watches your mixed juices leak onto the floor, walls still spasming from the earth shattering climax you just experienced. He throws his gun to the side and tenderly unties your hands, bringing them to his mouth to kiss the tender flesh there. He wraps your arms around his neck as he pulls you against him.

“I really don’t know what I would do without you, Y/N. You’re so important to me. Not only me but Sammy.” He leans down and leaves a tender kiss against your lips. You can visibly see the love and adoration in his eyes as he speaks, “I-I love you, Y/N. I’ve known for so long but couldn’t admit it till now. I-just the thought of losing you- I couldn’t bear it. Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?” His eyes full with concern as he start to look over the rest of your body.

“No y-you didnt. That was- that was amazing” You breath, tears welling in your eyes at his admission. “I love you too Dean. I think I have for a while now” You smile and kiss him again.

Dean's eyes suddenly darken again as he take your face in his hands, making sure your looking directly at him. “If you ever disobey me like that again I swear Y/N, you won’t walk for a week. And you won’t go on a hunt for a month”

He growls before crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.

“Yes sir” You gasp out, enjoying the grin that comes to his face.

Tags: @writtingrose

[yeojaa]

( VELVETEEN RABBIT. )

What do you get when you mix Thumper and Bambi?  Answer:  Jeon Jungkook.

pairing.  french lop bunny!jjk x ragdoll cat f!reader.

genre + rating.   hybrid!au set in college.  super fluffy, a little angsty, with a dash of smut to balance it all out.  explicit towards the end because i just can’t help myself.  oops.

tags / warnings.  honestly, this jungkook should just come with his own warning.  but more realistically, mentions of kook using a scrunchie, kook being cute, kook railing his date after using the world’s worst puns...  the usual.

wc.  4.4k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ as always become, c’mon.  i’m me.  she’s her.  

author note.  this was written as part of @thebtswritersclub​‘s a hybrid fest and is gloriously late (i’m so sorry @ditttiii​​).  i’ve never written anything hybrid-related before so hopefully you enjoy.  feedback goes a long way!  xoxo

He orders the same thing every time he’s in.  Iced Americano, no room for cream, and a single almond croissant.  (Every once in a while, he switches it up for matcha but that’s exceedingly rare.)  He always pays with a tap of his wrist - a sleek black AppleWatch with rubber band - and flashes his trademark slightly too-big smile.  All the girls swoon.  So do the guys.  Everyone except for you.

He’s unnervingly handsome, with long dark ears that sometimes hang in front of his eyes.  You’ve caught him with them pulled back Lola Bunny-style, knotted with a loose silk scrunchie that looks nearly as soft as his fur.  His hair’s usually unkempt, tossed into a little sprout of a bun, overly long fringe falling all over his big round eyes.  He wears butterfly clips sometimes, though that’s usually on days where he isn’t freshly sweaty and carrying his gym bag.  They appear in his hair when it’s damp from a shower, the smell of papaya and honey clinging to every inch of him.  You know, because you have a great nose - one that’s sensitive to every smell under the sun but especially his.  (You try not to think about it much.)  

It’s a Wednesday morning when you notice the change.  It doesn’t register at first, acknowledgement coming in a curious sniff at the air.  Weird. 

“Thanks,” he says like clockwork, a well-oiled polite machine, deceptively slender hands receiving the exceedingly hot cup without a care in the world. He’s got his usual bag over his shoulder - overly big, black, almost tactical - and a pair of comfortable looking pants on that seem more like they belong on your beloved grandmother.  Somehow, he rocks it (but he always does).  “Have a nice day.”

Because of course he says that.  Of course he steals the words right out of your mouth, turns them back on you as easy as he makes your heart rattle around in your chest like it’s a Friday night bingo ball. 

He moves toward the bar - he only ever grabs three napkins, tucks them into the slot on the left side of his bag - but pauses halfway there.  Rooted to the same spot as always, sleek ears following the imposing line of his shoulders.  

One, two—

The thumping starts, so quiet it’s almost negligible.  But you catch it, because you always do and because you’re the reason for it. 

He turns then, levels you with a look from the corner of those pretty, pretty eyes and you can’t help but laugh, openly, unashamedly, with the back of your hand plastered to your mouth. A true ojou-sama. 

His mouth quirks - does that funny thing where he sucks in his cheek then rolls it back out with his tongue - and you think he might finally say something.  Call you out for writing his name wrong for the past five weeks, finding more and more creative ways to do so every time.  Even occasionally using nicknames - silly things you’d come up with while on the walk home, or during lunch, or in bed.

“Good one,”  he states, laugh lines threading over his face, prominent around his eyes.  His nose wiggles with the sound - another of his traits that comes out to play often.  Your favourite of them all, if you’re being honest.

“Anytime.”  

You don’t realise it’s him until it’s too late, until you’re practically running into him, bouncing off the broad expanse of his back with a startled squeak.  Lucky for you, you’re quick on your feet, catching yourself before your skull can become too well-acquainted with the red brick wall to your right.

“You okay?”  Though he asks, you have a sneaking suspicion he knows you’re not and an even stronger suspicion that he’d been waiting for you, hovering past the entrance of the cafe with his big university hoodie on.

“Barely,”  you manage around a laugh, straightening the backpack slung over your shoulders, packed to the brim with goodies you got to bring home at the end of the night and two of your textbooks.

“Should watch where you’re going.”  

This is the most conversation you’ve had - ever.  But it’s fun, easy, organic and natural.  You wonder why that is. 

“You should watch where you’re standing, actually.”

He’s so much bigger than you, imposingly tall (especially being part of the Leporidae family) and wide in the chest.  Not bulky by any means, but big.  Strong.  Threaded with a strength you don’t normally see in hybrids of his kind.  It probably has to do with how often you see him covered in sweat and panting, basketball hooked under his arm, soccer cleats tied to his bag.

When he speaks again, it’s full of mirth, squeezing his round eyes near shut.  “Got a problem with me standing here?”  

You nod, solemn as ever (which is really never, but that’s besides the point).  “It’s dangerous to block entryways, didn’t you know?”  You’re gesturing to the awning, the dark interior just past the window of the shop.  “You’re loitering, Jungkook.”

“So you do know my name.”  You can tell he’s not surprised - that he’s hamming it up for dramatics, softly pink lips rounded in a little ‘O’.  He’s cute like this, you think.  Playful in a way you’ve never seen before.  

“I do?” 

There’s that cheek thing again.  It’s even more attractive up close, the shape of his jaw thrown into prominent relief when he sucks in a breath.  

“You just said it.”

You nod, thoughtful, finger tapping upon your chin.  “I guess I did.”

“Say it again,”  he states, expression inscrutable, eyes bright.  They’re so glossy even under the dimmed streetlights, impossibly big and undeniable.  So easy to get lost in - if your attention weren’t caught by something else.

“What is that?”  

You’d noticed it earlier in the day, caught the scent in passing sometime during the early hours.  You’d been unable to place it then, too distracted by freshly ground coffee, a girl’s three too many spritzes of Daisy by Marc Jacobs, and baking banana loaves.

It’s heady, masculine.  A strong musk that sinks into your nose and makes it twitch, ears rotating as if that’ll help pin the smell down.  

“What’s what?”  You hadn’t realised how close you’d become, your face five seconds from planting directly into his chest.  (It’d probably be nice - you know how soft your school’s merchandise is.)  “Are you okay?”  He asks because you’re now, actually, planting your face right against the worn navy cotton.  It’s terribly nice, silk upon your cheek.  

You answer more to his clothes than to him, nosing into the fabric. “You smell different.”

You feel more than hear his laughter, the sound barreling past his teeth seconds later.  The vibrations running along his spine jostle you from your position face first upon him but you don’t mind.  It doesn’t send you far, dark eyes peering up into the face of the bunny hybrid.  True to his kind, his nose is twitching, puffs of laughter expanding his cheeks when he meets your stare. 

“No I don’t.”

“You do.”  Tone firm, a finger lands upon the neatly embroidered N on his hoodie.  The white stitching stands in stark contrast to your baby blue nails.  “You smell… off.”

Whether Jungkook’s offended or not, you can’t tell.  He’s got that same strange expression on his face - the one from this morning when he’d received his coffee.  It’s made up of too many moving parts:  the flutter of his lashes, the coil of his jaw, the minute tick of the corner of his mouth.  You can’t read him for shit, somehow more confused now than in your 300-level art history class.  (You’d taken it as one of your optional electives assuming it’d be an easy A.  You were wrong.)

“Sorry you think so,”  he hums, looking down at you.  You’ve seemed to fully forget the meaning of personal space, edged up beside him as if you’re best friends and not just two ships passing in the night. 

“It’s not bad.”  Really, it isn’t.  It’s strong and sensual, vegetal in a way, calming in another.  But it isn’t unwelcome. 

In fact, you think you might like this scent a little more - less sweet than what normally clings to his skin, natural honeycomb rather than processed sugar.  It zings across your teeth, pieces broken up and scattered behind your molars.  You can practically taste it.  Him.

“Is that so?”  

“Yep.”

You share a look - one that says more than all the words you’ve ever spoken, that threads together all the silly laughter, narrowed stares, (written) flirtations.  It settles between the two of you, filling the spaces with something akin to cotton, light and airy and soft.

The desire to speak lingers, hidden just beyond the cotton candy dusting.  Should you?  Shouldn’t you?  You still have no idea what he’s doing here, a street urchin making his rounds on the campus village.  

He beats you to it.  “Can I walk you back to your dorm?”  

You don’t think you could want anything more.  “Sure.”

Silence falls again but it’s comfortable, a caress rather than a crutch.  The grounds are surprisingly quiet - wayward students on their way to the library or heading home from lectures.  There are no picnic blankets spread across the grass, no gaggles of girls dressed in school colours.  It feels like the first day of fall, change sitting heavy in the air. 

“So—”  You start.

He finishes,  “do you wanna go on a date with me?” 

That’s surprising.  (Or is it?  You’re not really sure.)  You nearly trip over your own two feet in your haste to look at him, entire body swivelling on the spot because apparently you can’t just turn your head like a normal person.  Something something all or nothing. 

“What?”  

“Do.  You.  Want.  To—”  He’s being insufferable for the hell of it.  You can see it in his eyes, glossy things shining down at you like he’s got the entire fucking nightsky hung in them.  

“Not if you keep that up,”  you retort, though you both know you’re lying.  You’ve been waiting - wishing, wanting - for this moment since the day you laid eyes on him.  Since Yuri had elbowed you so hard in the ribs you’d thought you’d be bruised for days, since Jae had rambled on and on for his entire shift about the cute new bunny who’d come in that morning.  Since that very first wrongly spelt name on his plastic cup and every visit since.  

“Is that a challenge?”  

“You won’t get it in.”  

He scoffs, loud and drawn out, cheek rounding with disbelief at your disbelief.  How can you possibly doubt him - school basketball star and all-around athletic freak of nature? 

“What do I get if I do?”  The ball rests in his palm, poised to be shot through the hoop, sunk without making contact with the rim.  He’s confident - he’s done it a million times.  

“A pat on the back?”  As much as you tease him - loop mockery around nearly every syllable you speak, you’re endlessly supportive, already carrying the fruits of his labour under your arms.  A Pikachu shoved haphazardly into the purse slung across your body, a Snorlax tucked under your arm at an awkward angle that crushes his poor head, a Sylveon tucked into the side pocket of his joggers.  (The arcade was really into Pokemon, apparently.)  “Me saying thank you?”

“Not good enough.”  He leans in close - those big galaxy eyes practically swallowing you whole - and taps a single finger upon your nose.  It makes your nostrils flare, an itch blooming under his touch.  “Gotta sweeten the deal.”

You must look hilarious because Jungkook���s biting back a smile, smirking down at you.  Then, all at once, without breaking eye contact, he’s extending his arm, flicking his wrist, and— swish!  

In goes the ball, leaving him with a perfect score.  

“I want you to stay the night.”

You think he’s joking.  He must be joking.  This is your third date.  

But he’s staring at you like he’s completely serious, gaze expectant, lips pursed around something that reads like a smile but has your heart doing a strange little one-two step in your chest.  It soars for a moment, high above the clouds like the string orchestra of a choral work - Beethoven’s Ninth in D minor. 

“Are you propositioning me, Jeon Jungkook?”  It’s the same reaction he always has when you say his name: a twitch of his ear, the corner of his bottom lip quirking and then resetting, eyes so sparkly it’s almost absurd.

“No.  I’m just telling you what I want.”

“Huh.”  You should say no.  Guys like him - with charm that oozes out of every pore, whose offhanded smiles break more hearts than you ever have - are almost always bad news.  Too sweet, too funny, simply too much for your feeble heart to take.  

“Is that a yes?”  He’s got you in his clutches - a viper rather than a hare, with a smile so dangerous you’re paralysed by just the sight of it.  (Who needs venom?)

Your words catch in your throat, stick to one another like the deformed gummies at the bottom of the movie theatre bag.  What comes out isn’t what you expect.  “Okay.”

Damn you.  Damn him.  Damn how good he smells and the big dumb grin that spreads over his lips, sunshine in human form, undeniable and warm and cute enough to start a war over.  (That’s probably what’s happening - a vicious battle between your head and your heart.)  

Damn his stupid thumping foot that you can make out over the sound of the video games, the boisterous din.  It’s so cute you can’t help yourself from smiling, mouth pulling and pursing around the delight that begs to be freed.  

“Cool,”  he says, and you almost think that’s not very cool.  He’s so nonchalant, cavalier about it as if it means nothing.  You’d be bothered if you felt like you didn’t know him so well - hadn’t learnt his idiosyncrasies over the last two months.  

How he looks when he laughs really hard, his slightly too-big front teeth taking up all the real estate in his mouth.  How he sounds when he’s tired (groggy, with a lisp that rarely sees the light of day otherwise) or when he’s told he’s wrong (pouty, with his bottom lip jutted out so cutely you want to scream).  How he runs every morning, hits the gym every night, and eats double your protein because fitness, bro!  How his cheat meal of choice is soy garlic fried chicken from the place off-campus and he hates tangy, tart desserts (your lemonade lip gloss not included, he insists).  How he can’t sleep if he’s too hot - which he often is - and he spends way too long combing through his ears with a specialty brush he doesn’t let anyone touch.  How he’s secretly raindrops and gummy bears and hand holding in the car, so much more than his high school superlative of most likely to grace the cover of GQ.

You wonder, because you know those things, does that make you special?  Does it make you immune to the heartbreak that you swear you imagine whenever your mood drops (not often, but often enough)?  

You hope so.

“Let’s go shoot guns?”  He’s tearing you from your reverie, planting an open-mouthed kiss to your temple.  It’s sloppy and not very refined, much less suave than what you’d expect from your school’s soccer captain (and basketball small forward and swim team stand-in).  You suppose that’s why you like him so much - because he’s always surprising you, keeping you on your toes. 

“Let’s.”  You agree, letting your date drag you toward the Time Crisis machine.  It’s blissfully unoccupied, allowing the two of you to slide into place.  He takes the blue gun, you the red.  

He squeezes your hip when you take up position, one eye squeezed shut as you look down the barrel of the plastic weapon.  “Better not let me die.”

“Better not get shot,”  you return.  

He doesn’t listen - failing halfway through the helicopter scene, his shot missing and resulting in some sad miserable death in the form of Continue? blinking across the screen.  Neither of you mind that much though.  He occupies himself on his phone, free hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans.  You play better when he’s not shouting terrible call-outs, nearly crashing into you because he gets so into it.

(How he’s never got a concussion on the basketball/soccer/etc. field before, you’re not sure.)

By the time you’re done - a good five minutes later, you think - Jungkook’s growing restless, tugging at your belt loops enough that you stumble with every shot, nearly knocking yourself out when you have to steady yourself on the centre console.  

“Kook!”  Your glare is barely that, too affectionate to dissuade him from his childish antics.  

He pulls you forward, traps you between his thick thighs, tattooed hands settling comfortably on your hips.  “Let’s go home.”

“Someone’s in a hurry.”

Of course, he doesn’t deny that.

It’s not the first time you’ve been over.  Not even your second or third.  You’ve met up with him before his games, thrown his jersey overtop and helped him wrap his fingers before hitting the court.  You’d even had to grab his cleats for him once, running across campus as he did drills in his socks as punishment.

This time feels different.  You know why but it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.  It lodges somewhere in your throat, makes it hard to breathe when you kick off your shoes and tuck them neatly beside Jungkook’s.  

“Are you hungry?”  He’s already in the small kitchen, glancing over his shoulder at you as you linger in the adjoining hallway, bag halfway over your head.  

“I’m good.”  You are, really.  You’d eaten one donut too many at the arcade, indulged in a little too much disgusting nacho cheese goodness.  You don’t really understand how your date’s still hungry, a cucumber crunching between his teeth when he turns back to you. 

Standing there, vegetable devoured in quick, decisive bites, he looks every inch the French lop bunny he is.

You reach him in the same instant he finishes his midnight snack.  Arms fold around you like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, head dropping to rest comfortably upon yours.  Like this, his ears tickle your cheek - velveteen fur lost to the silk of your hair.  “Are you tired?”  

Another no comes - spoken into the fuzzy fabric of his sweater - and he hums above you, whole frame rattling with the noise.  

“No bed then?”  

At least he’s transparent, you think.

“One track mind much?”  You’re only teasing.  A part of you looks forward to… whatever it is that sits over the horizon, lost past the creaky bedroom door and somewhere beneath his surprisingly soft sheets.  (You’d asked about them once - he’d told you his mother liked to send him housewares to remind him of home.  He was a real mama’s boy that way.)

The monster only laughs, snuggles into your hair like it’s home.  “Can you blame me?”  

You can’t do much of anything when he’s like this - so utterly adorable and enticing and good for your heart that it feels as if you’ve taken a straight dose of morphine.

“Let’s go to bed, Wookie.”  Another nickname, recently coined after you’d spent an evening watching Star Wars for the first time.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You whack him on the way to his bedroom, smack a hand over the arm curled around your shoulders.  He pretends like it hurts, howls in a way he he thinks resembles a wounded animal but really just sounds stupid.  “Not a ma’am.”

“Sir?”  He asks, just to make you laugh. 

“If you don’t shut up—”  

He pushes you through the door of his bedroom while giggling to himself, sound puffing out of his cheeks.  “Don’t be mad, kitten.”  The two of you drop to the bed, a tangle of limbs and silken fur and squeaking laughter.  “You’re so purr-ty when you’re annoyed.”

He’s doing it again.  Dropping those stupid cat puns that make your nose wrinkle, ink-tipped ears folding back against your head.   

“I think I’m hiss-terical, don’t you?”  

Face adamantly buried into his sheets, you don’t give him the time of day.  You don’t even care that your mascara is probably rubbing off against the charcoal fabric, lipstick tint doing potentially irreversible damage.  He knows how unfunny you find these jokes, how you’ve heard them your whole life and roll your eyes so hard your optic nerve might sever every time you face another.  

What’s the point of sharing your pet peeves with him when all he does is lean into them?  Use them against you like it’s the cool thing to do.  Make you wonder what you’d seen in him when he was just another customer, another boy in Seoul National indigo and bedhead so dishevelled it begged to be managed.  

(You’re not sure why you’re so irritated suddenly, caught in the clutches of a moodswing as you curl into your side and ignore his bad jokes.)

Stupid Jeon Jungkook.  Annoying, silly, too-cool-for-his-own-good Jeon Jungkook.  

Jeon Jungkook who makes you second guess your choices, leaves you breathless and confused with just one dumb look.  Who has convinced you into his bed and teases you mercilessly, snickering to himself as his foot bounces against the floorboards because he finds himself that funny.

“Baby?”  The pet name comes, presses itself past your curtain of hair and invades your thoughts.  

You say nothing, adamantly faced away.

He doesn’t like that, sneaking his hands around you and cradling you into his chest as if that’ll lighten the mood.  (It does, a little bit, but you don’t tell him that.)  “Don’t ignore me,”  he mumbles, warmth breath tickling your ears, fingers dancing over the rungs of your ribs as if they’re ivory and not bone, playing a tune only he can hear.

“Stop with the shitty jokes,”  you retort.  You’re being difficult - can feel the vinegar turning your blood even as he tries to will it all away.

You feel the intake, the rise and fall of his broad chest.  You can only imagine how hard he’s biting his tongue, careful to keep his next errant pun at bay.  People don’t tell him no - only you.  Maybe that’s why you do it, to remind him you’re not just like everyone else.  

“Sorry.”  

You don’t tell him to show you how sorry— but he does anyway.

You’re astounded by him, utterly entranced by the way he moves.  How power runs the length of his frame, manoeuvres each of his limbs and turns your own to jelly.  

He’s got you face down, ass up, hands cradling your hips like they’re his home and he can’t bear to let go.  Every upward stroke feels like heaven - feels like a million lifetimes of pleasure you can barely wrap your thoughts around.  He’s impossibly big, thick and long.  The first thought you’d had when he’d stripped his black Calvin Kleins was pretty.  

You realise now there’s nothing pretty about him.  He’s filthy - the devil come to collect as he fucks you across his bed, nearly loses you to the pillows at the head with each snap of his hips.  (What they said about rabbits was true, you think.)

“B-Bunny,”  you sob, scratch over cotton that’s worn soft and smells exactly like your favourite sweater of his.  The linens are defenseless, tangled up and wrinkled with each flex of your fingers, bunched up within your palms every time he buries himself like he’s looking for the answer to life, thinks he might find it within the fluttering walls of your pussy.

“Not my name.”  When he sounds like this, he’s more predator than prey, a thousand volts of electricity shooting up your spine.  He’s demanding and unrelenting.  It makes your head spin.

“Wook—”  

“Not.”  Bunny teeth are just as painful as a feline’s, doing their job as they dig into the flushed skin over your back, marking his territory with two prominent indents right between your neck and shoulder.  “A.”  He ruts into you as if he’s got something to prove, snaps his hips to a beat you can’t keep up with.  “Wookie.”  Grips you so tight you might snap, red blooming beneath his hands.

You sob under him, drool against the pillows because you can’t seem to keep your mouth shut.  (You feel like Jungkook post-win, spewing nonsense as he prattles on about game winning plays with his teammates.)

“K-Kookie.”  It’s what he wants to hear - hits him right in the chest, a bull’s eye to the thing that beats wildly and in tandem with your own.  

His rhythm stutters.  The bed is shaking and not because he’s practically breaking the weak wooden frame.  No, his foot’s thumping, bouncing across the sheets even as he tries to regulate the roll of his hips, return it to the assured, teeth-numbingly good tempo it’d been at.  

It doesn’t work.  You love it anyway.  Like it more, because it means he’s just as affected by you as you are him. Your heart sings, leaps out of your chest on hummingbird wings, and dances around your head.  You’re a goddamn cartoon - Pepé Le Pew in ragdoll form - animated pink shapes circling like a crown.

You don’t care.  You can’t.  Not when he plasters himself to your back and asks you to say it again, begs you to tell him how good he is, tells you how he wants to make you his.  

Who cares if it’s three dates in, if your meeting was cliched and silly and he’s the campus heartthrob?  

You don’t - because he’s yours and when he flips you onto your back and you curl your fingers into his hair, it’s your name he stutters out.  It’s you who has him coming apart beneath your hands, the feel of his ears like velvet, the little whines he huffs growing louder each time you tug at the base.  It’s you who knows what he sounds like as he falls to pieces, throws himself against you as if gravity demands it.  It’s you who holds him to sleep, whose skin acts as a canvas for the doodles he traces as he drifts off.  

It’s you and it’s him and that’s enough.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​ @codeinebelle​​

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 XII

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence, trauma, allusions to torture.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You return to the capital but much has changed.

Note: Another chapter?! What!!!!! It took me a little to decide on how it was all going to unfold but I’ve figured it out and personally I think it’s just getting more and more intriguing.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You spent another day at Alfre castle. Loki left you to the chamber glowing with the constant spark of the fire and you were thankful for the space. Hal brought your meals and sat with you as you opened the shutters to look out onto the snowy yards for a time. When the chamber grew brisk, you closed them again and sat beneath a fur by the hearth.

It all felt surreal; like a dream. When you slept, you woke with a start, convinced you were still in the cart rocking between the slosh of barreled ale. As consciousness struck, you reached to your stomach and another shock came. There really was a life inside of you. You still weren’t certain how to feel about it.

On the third day, Loki roused you in the lowlight of the early dawn. He dressed without Hal and rubbed his eyes as he yawned. He had been busy, at what you did not know, or dare ask after. He pulled on an ermine trimmed cloak and handed you a lined cape of your own.

“Are we leaving?” You asked quietly as he hovered by the fireplace.

“We must,” he replied as he leaned on the mantle and watched the flames flicker to embers. “It is a long journey and I’ve much to do.”

You hadn’t talked much in the past days. It wasn’t that you and the king had ever had very much to speak on but there was a shift. It made you uneasy; afraid.

“Ask me.” He said as he turned to you.

“What?”

“I see it on your face, mouse,” he smoothed a fold in his cloak. “So ask me what it is that makes you quiet.”

“I’ve always been quiet.” You argued.

“Ah, but you’ve ever been obliged to counter my every word,” he went to the table and took the sewn hide gloves. “So speak to me.”

“Th-- Your brother. If he knows I am found, how is he still confident?” You wondered. “Does he truly think I would not tell what he did?”

“You underestimate my brother’s arrogance,” Loki chuckled. “And he believes he is unscathed because I’ve assured him he is. Before I sent him off after his accomplice, whom I knew he would not return with, I assured him it was the guard alone who had plotted against me.” He pulled on the gloves. “I saw the glimmer in his eye. I heard the guilt in his voice as he asked again after you. I told him you were too addled to recall what happened to you.”

“And he doesn’t suspect your deception?”

“My brother is not so clever as that. It is the very reason he gave up the crown.” Loki neared and braced your shoulder, “Up, mouse.” You stood and he swept the cape around you and tied it at your throat. “Say what you will of my father, gods rest him, he was a smart man, a wiser king. Thor inherited his brutishness but not his wit.” Loki stood back and his eyes flicked up and down you, “It is the only thing I would thank him for. And my mother of course. She was too intelligent for any of us.”

He spun away and paced around the small table. He turned back as it stood between you. “You’re quiet again.”

You stared at him. Loki rarely spoke his mind, his intent, his tricks so plainly. You were waiting; waiting for the cruel king who’d sentenced you to a cell and then his bed. For the man who had dangled you before the beasts who’d done worse.

“When we have returned to the capital, it will be as it was…” It was a question, a statement; you weren’t entirely sure.

He lifted his chin and inhaled deeply. “You are as you were; my bedwarmer.”

You nodded and pulled the cape snug around you. You didn’t expect any different.

“But you carry a royal bastard. I must consider that, too.” He continued. “I suppose, it cannot be entirely the same.”

Silence. Long, tense, hot despite the dying hearth. He looked at you and for a moment, you saw pity in his green eyes.

“Mouse, go on.” He urged. “I am listening and I haven’t time to coax your words so tediously from you.”

“Why not… Send me away. I’ll only grow bigger and when the child has come--”

His face hardened and he gripped the back of a chair. “It is my child. And you remain, as before, mine. You will have your time to convalesce but I see no reason to have you away from me.” He lowered his face, “Unless you do prefer the cell again.”

You swallowed the threat. You knotted your fingers together and nodded. Loki hadn’t changed, only the circumstance. A different sort of cruelty than his brother, but cruel nonetheless.

“Should we go, then, your majesty?” You swayed on your legs anxiously.

He looked up and pushed himself straight. “Let’s,” he waved you across the room, “When we are returned to the palace, Birger will need to look you over and we have delayed for long enough.”

He opened the door and waited for you to near. As you came to the door, his hand settled on the small of your back. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “That child means there is a part of me in you. A piece of my life. A king’s life is sacred; to threaten even a drop of his blood is treason. You mightn’t care for yourself but you will see my child safe.”

You turned to look at him and his gaze pierced you to your core. You pursed your lips and nodded. He nudged you through the door and caught your arm before you could go far. He took your hand as he guided you down the spiral stairs.

“Be cautious,” he said, “These steps are treacherous.”

You let him see you through the descent as your blood grew cold. You watched the dark ends of his hair mingle with the pale fur of his collar. A shiver crawled over your flesh and you blinked away tears. Had you been stupid enough to think he cared for you? No, it was only what you could do for him; what you could give him.

🐍

You were ushered into a carriage, this one unlike the frigid cart with its stout kegs. There were cushioned benches and fur blankets awaiting you. You suspected, however, that if it wasn’t for your condition, your transport would not be so generous. Hal sat across from you as you broke your fast on nuts and oaty bread. The boy’s task was to make sure you ate and rested upon the journey. Well, there wasn’t much else to do or that you wanted to do.

He was quiet as he opened a book and read and you peeked out around the curtains, the hooves of horses trod through the snow noisily, and the voices of your escort rose now and again. You hugged a fur around you leaned against the wall of the carriage.

You peeked over at the boy. What was it to be a man? To be a noble? He might be Loki’s attendant but he had more freedom than you could dream of.

“What is it you read?” You asked curiously, bored of the grinding turn of wheels and powder of snow without.

“A Reflection on Knighthood and Gallantry,” he closed the book and smiled up at you. “The king bids it.”

“The king tells you what to read?” You wondered.

His smile grew brighter and his cheeks coloured. “He does now that he has named me his squire.” He declared. “This book is a guide on how to be a proper knight.”

“And you can learn all that from letters?” You squinted.

“And the king would teach me combat by sword,” he explained, “Train me to fight in his name.”

“Oh,” you cleared your throat, “That is a great honour. Do I call you ‘sir’ now?”

“Not yet,” he chuckled, “My lady--”

“That will never be my title,” you frowned, “I am still just… what I was.”

His smile fell and he watched you. He bent his head and thought before he spoke again. “The king did worry. He is only stubborn about his thoughts. Mostly about his emotions.”

“He cares for me as he does his favourite horse,” you scoffed, “If he could not ride anymore, he would merely find a new steed to carry him.”

“But you carry his child,” Hal countered, “That is a blessing.”

“A curse. A child I will not be allowed to love.” You folded your hands before your stomach. “A child many would hate for its ill-breeding.”

Hal was quiet. He set the book down on the bench and shifted. 

“I was with him when you disappeared. He was angry at first. That is often his first reaction. He thought you had run from him after how you’d been arguing since your illness. Then when his men did not discover you, he was concerned. And he saw the change in his brother and his guard.” The boy lowered his voice, “As I poured him wine, of which he drank much, he confessed he thought you dead.”

“And that thought troubled him?” You challenged.

“I think it did. He did not say it but he did not need to.”

You shook your head and sighed. “He would find another.” You said, “Easily. There are hundreds of peasants on the very streets I came from.”

“Well, he did change in your absence and the shadow has fallen away from him since your return,” Hal said softly, “Even as he readies for his betrothed he does linger with you.”

“Betrothed…” You’d heard the word before, from Thor. You hadn’t bothered to ask, hadn’t been so concerned or brazen. A king would need to marry eventually. You dared to hope it might distract Loki from you. “He is to marry?”

“A young princess from Ervil,” Hal said, “Syndia. She is expected in the spring.”

“So why should he want me back? He will get a proper heir on his bride.” You grumbled.

“Yes, why should he?” Hal grinned.

“Oh, hush,” you scowled, “You are young. The world seems romantic at your age. You will find it is truly tragic.”

The boy was quiet and his expression remained cheerful as he watched you. You tried to ignore him as you hunched in your seat. You pressed your palms to your stomach as it stirred. Were you hungry? Nauseous? It was hard to tell one from another.

“Stop,” you snapped at last as you looked to Hal again. “Don’t look at me thus.”

“My…” He stopped himself from the misplaced title, “I am happy to have you back, even if you will not believe it.” He said and took up his book again. “It was quiet without you.”

🐍

The capital was white with winter. You couldn’t bear to watch the streets pass as you entered the city. You would only be reminded of the life you’d never have again. You were tired and achy from days in the carriage. Sleep came in spurts but when you dozed, you returned to the grasp of your former tormentors. Awake, you never quite shook their hold on you.

You rolled through the gates of the palace and your carriage was directed around the back. You were shown into the royal abode apart from Loki; still a secret kept. 

As you were ushered down the corridors by the armored guards, you found it hard to keep your feet moving. You were reminded of Magnus and you had the stabbing urge to flee. The further you got, the more the finality of your sentence returned to you. You hadn’t been rescued, only returned to your former keeper.

You were shown into a chamber apart from the king’s. The change roiled your nerves and made you uneasy as you waited alone in the rooms. Perhaps he might be done with you. Perhaps you might wait out your pregnancy. Perhaps he might be diverted by his pending marriage and new bride. It might not be all as dire as you thought.

You paced as the door opened. Loki entered. It had been hours since your arrival but you hadn’t been able to rest. Every time you sat, you were back up on your feet within minutes. The king barely noticed you as he unbuttoned his deep green jacket and pulled a chair away from the square table for himself. He sat with a long sigh.

“You should not fret so,” he rebuked, “Sit. You will drive both of us mad.”

You stopped but did not sit. You turned to him and your skirts swirled around your legs. They were thicker than those he’d given you before; plainer. Thick wool padded for the winter air. He tilted his head as he took you in.

“My chambers are currently under repair,” he said, “So we will abide these.”

You chewed your lip and picked at the cuff of the gown. He kicked out the other chair and pointed to it.

“Sit,” he ordered, “Before I tie you down.”

You flinched. Your hands trembled and you clutched your wrist as you recalled the shackles around them. You still felt the weight; the skin still raw and tender. You remembered vaguely Hal and the guards struggling to unscrew them. You looked down at your hands and took a step back. You were overcome with a swell of terror.

Your legs crumpled and you curled up on the floor, covering your head as if you would be beaten. You rocked on your side and murmured, though your words did not make any sense, even to you.

You heard the chair, footsteps, and felt a warmth on your arm. You smacked Loki away as he touched you and you felt sobs lodged in your throat as you fought to hold them back. He caught your arm and cooed as he stroked your cheek.

“Mouse, little mouse,” he said calmly, “Shhh, please, stop this.” 

He snaked his arm beneath you as he sat on the floor and drew your upper half into his lap. He said your name and his thumbs gently brushed back and forth against your temples. He never used your name. You grabbed his wrist and your eyes rounded as you gaped up at him. You were helpless as your wits scattered around you.

“What’s wrong with me?” You whimpered.

“Nothing at all,” he moved to sit with you between his legs and leaned you against him. He rocked you back and forth as a hand stretched over your stomach and the other rested gently on your chest. “You’re safe.”

“No, no, I’m not. I’m not!” You shook and kicked your legs. 

He hushed you again as he continued to lull you. You gripped his leg tightly and he let you. He counted your breath as his fingers tapped lightly on your chest and you calmed after some time.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “Mouse, can I move you to the bed?”

You nodded and he carefully stood. He lifted you to your feet and led you with an arm around your back through to the bedchamber. He sat you down on the edge of the mattress and dusted off your skirts. 

“You’ve made a mess of this.” He sniffed and sat beside you to loosen the laces of the dress. You winced and he stopped. “I only want to lay you down so you can sleep, mouse.”

You went limp and let him strip away the dress before he laid you across the bed and pushed a pillow under your head. Your thin shift was taut across your swollen breasts and rounding stomach.

“I will call for Birger,” he said as his fingers danced over your middle. He stared down at your stomach and a wrinkle formed between his brows. “Rest.”

He drew the blankets over you and strode away. You heard him curse as he approached the door. You stared up at the bed curtains and curled your fingers into the bedclothes. You closed your eyes as you listened to your errant heartbeat. You felt trapped in your own body, as if it wasn’t your own.

🐍

You recalled the physician beside you. He felt your neck then your stomach. He said some words you couldn’t decipher as the king’s shadow loomed at the foot of the bed. A fire flickered and you fell asleep to the smell of the burning wood and the taste of something pungent.

When you woke, voices drifted in through the open bedchamber door. The king’s, another. You sat up dizzily and strained to hear their words. As they came clearer, you sat back against the headboard and closed your eyes again.

“The lady is here and her child. We did have to take a slow pace due to the babe.” The man said. “We’ve word the prince has barricaded himself at Starseed.”

“Ah,” Loki snickered, “Well, you’ve my maps. You know the tunnels, the passes. You’ve covered them all?”

“Four men to each,” the other confirmed. “The lady does seek an audience.”

“She will have it when I am ready.” Loki countered, “For now, you will keep her and my nephew comfortable.

“Your majesty,” you heard the clink of armor.

“And the baker’s girl?” The king prodded.

“She is in the dungeons, as you ordered,” The man replied.

“Excellent,” Loki slithered. “And she is fit to talk?”

“We await your orders.”

You opened your eyes and slowly turned your legs over the edge of the bed. You stood with the aid of the bedpost and crossed to the open door. You peered through and leaned on the frame.

“Gilla?” You asked.

Loki glanced at you and waved away the armored guard with two fingers. “As you were.” He dismissed him and stood. The man left without ado and the king stood to approach you. “Mouse, you should cover yourself.”

“What did you do to Gilla?” You caught his hands before they could meet your shoulders. “She is in the dungeon?”

“There are many baker’s daughters in this city,” Loki said evenly.

“Then tell me it is not her,” you demanded.

His mouth curved and he dropped his head. “Alright, come. Sit.” He twisted so that he gripped your wrist. “We will talk.”

He pulled you to the chaise and sat. You lowered yourself beside him as he let you go. He leaned back with the heels of his hands on the edge of the cushion and slung one leg over the other.

“It is her. She was… favoured by my brother who is now, by royal mandate, a traitor,” Loki said coolly, “And by association, it is necessary that we hold her until her innocence can be proven.”

You gasped and your lip quivered. “She… your brother…”

“Oh, she went to him all too willingly,” Loki preened, “As she did, upon my first unpleasant meeting with the girl, try to throw herself upon me.” His lip curled. “By his word, she is easily bought with pearls.”

You frowned and bit down. You were sickened by his words but could not disbelieve them. You loved Gilla but she had never been very smart. It was her foolishness which had led you to that point.

“You think she conspired with him to… to do what he did to me?”

“Oh, I cannot declare my brother, a prince, a traitor upon his perversions but I can and I have named him such upon his plot to steal back the crown he proffered.” Loki stated. “A conspiracy which I have evidence of enough to convict him twelve times over.”

“Convict? Traitor?” You tried to clear your mind of the fatigue that lingered. “Gilla wouldn’t… she’s not that--that--”

“She is dull.” Loki snickered, “Even my brother could see that.”

“So why--”

“I need witnesses for the trial.”

“Trial?”

“I cannot simply assert that my brother is a traitor. That could mean civil war. I must prove it, without a doubt, to the people. So I need witnesses against him.” Loki explained.

“And you would coerce Gilla to go along with your evidence?”

“Me? No,” he smirked, “But I think you could convince her to tell the truth to the kingdom. On the gods themselves, to confess the prince’s treachery.”

“I…” you breathed, “But what would happen to her?”

“She would not have acted in my brother’s plot, but you know men do talk carelessly after their pleasure has been taken.” He sat up and looked you in the eye. 

“You wouldn’t hurt her?”

“She will be sent away.” Loki resigned. “Far so that none know of her fate.”

“And if I refuse to betray her?”

“Why, she’s already done the same to you,” Loki sneered, “But if you choose to stand on your obstinacy, I will draw the truth from her myself and she will not leave those dungeons whole.”

“You said you have evidence.”

“I do.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you not want vengeance? This is the way.”

“She is my friend.”

“She abandoned you. She left you that night of my coronation and when you did see her again, what did she do but preen in hopes of a jewel or coin?” Loki scowled, “She could not hide from me her envy of you. She coveted all I had given you. She did not care for your suffering.”

“And you?” You scoffed. “You don’t--”

“I never pretended to be your friend. I’ve always been straightforward in our… arrangement.” He shrugged. “You are kept well; you have clothes, food, and place in my bed. And despite your protests, you mewl in pleasure when you are at your duty.”

You stared at him; repulsed, stunned. You crossed your arms over your middle and lowered your head. One moment, he was holding you in his arms and cooing over you, the next he was speaking lecherously of how he delighted in abusing you. Threatening you into manipulating your oldest friend. 

But what else could you do?

“Promise, she will be unharmed.”

“On my orders, my men will not so much as look at her.” The king affirmed.

You nodded and raised your head again. “Alright… I’ll talk to her.”

[millllenniawrites]

delicate (Poe Dameron x Reader)

part six of dear love of mine

words: 1.9k

warnings: mention of hair but specifics aren’t given; reader has a last name; regency au for the aesthetic but it’s historically inaccurate for the *vibes*; afab!reader; slow burn; sexual themes throughout; eventual smut; pining; warnings will be added as the series progresses

a/n: it’s been ages since I updated this series but hello! We’re back! Reader is a mess and I love it! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

__

The late afternoon sun peaked out from behind the clouds and you basked in the light, tilting your face up to catch its rays. This was the reason you’d agreed to promenade all the way to town when you could have taken a carriage. The warmth, the light, the time outside, it was one thing who’s description in books just never measured up, no matter how talented the author.

Ana and Finn strolled ahead of you, close enough that your mother would have scolded them. Her elbow brushed his and their eyes met and you grinned like a fool, almost skipping beside the General. Your hand rested on his (very firm) bicep, which you used to keep a respectable amount of distance between the two of you.

Your dreams hadn’t fooled you. He did run warm. As warm as the sun that beat down on you both. You kept a light grip on him, scared he may be able to feel the way your heart raced through your palm if you held on any tighter.

The General leaned close enough to murmur, “It seems our plan is working well, Miss Dean.”

He was right, though you hated it. In the few days since he’d proposed his scheme, Ana and Finn had seemed to grow closer still. This whole excursion was Finn’s idea, to head into town. It worked out well that your mother had requested an order of fabric and that you could take over this task for your servants, who had been swamped preparing for the season ahead.

It would be Siena’s debut. She was still young, but your mother wanted to give her a chance to enjoy herself without the pressure of marriage on her first season.

You would be attending the parties too, as a chaperone. It would be easier to turn down suitors now that you and Poe had been seen in public together. Though when he began courting others, it might pose a problem.

He was well within his right to do so. It wasn’t as if the two of you were genuinely courting. Even if he was sweet. And had had flowers delivered to your bedroom two mornings this week.

You had tossed them out the window.

As you reached the edge of town, you stepped away from him, pretending that you needed both hands to lift your skirts. Luckily, the shop you had to pick up the delivery from was right along the road.

Finn bowed slightly to Ana before turning back to you. “We will collect your mother’s order.”

“We’ll be here.” Ana batted her eyelashes at him and you resisted the urge to groan.

This would make her happy. This was the entire point of putting up with the General at your side and his very warm, very large hands.

He stepped away from you, following Finn into the shop without so much as a backwards glance.

“So things with the General seem to be going well.” Ana’s elbow found a soft spot in your side and you coughed, which saved you from responding. “I never thought I’d see the day you let a man truly pursue you, sister.”

“This hardly counts as pursuit. And once the parties start, I’m certain he will get swept up with all the beautiful debutants.” One of those girls would do much better for a General, someone that had been instructed since birth on how to take care of a man and a household, rather than in matters of trade and employment and the upkeep of your property as you had.

Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? I cannot imagine anyone else catching his eye the way you have.”

“A temporary interest, perhaps. But it is temporary.” And fake, though you couldn’t tell her that. She would most certainly object to any kind of meddling on your part, despite the fact that you had meddled and organized and made-happen most of her life.

The boys were quick. The General and Finn were at your sides moments later, the roll of fabric balanced over Finn’s shoulders. He looked like you imagined a sailor from one of your novels might, swaggering and sweet and able to carry double his weight if he chose to do so.

Those shoulders would be good for lifting children. And for taking care of your sister.

The General did not leave the shop empty-handed either. A small bag poked out of the pocket of his trousers, and he was clutching something tight in his hand.

“Miss Dean,” the General ducked his head, though his eyes didn’t leave yours. He held his hand up between you, opening it to reveal a pale golden ribbon. He smiled, small and almost timid, and something inside you melted. “May I?”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure as to what he was asking. He stepped forward and looped the ribbon around your head like a circlet. His fingers brushed your soft skin as he secured it with a knot at the base of your neck. You shivered despite the heat, goosebumps running up your arms as you gazed into his eyes.

“Cold, Miss Dean?” He asked. Though his words were innocent, they were tinged with something darker. Something knowing, as if he could read your thoughts in your eyes.

“Just caught a chill.” You forced a smile, turning to your sister. “Shall we head home?” The stain in your voice was evident, and she hid her grin behind a gloved hand as you turned back for the road home.

As Finn found his place at Ana’s side and the General found his place at yours, you began to seriously regret not taking a carriage. The walk home seemed so much longer, each step like running through molasses.

“Miss Dean, you’re shaking. Once we are out of sight of the town, if it would make you more comfortable, you may wear my coat. I can imagine your mama would not take kindly to you taking ill from a stroll.”

“I am fine,” you hissed, stepping even further away from him.

A carriage barrelled down the road towards town. And towards you.

You were nearly fully in the road, and the General reached for your elbow to guide you back out of the way. “Miss Dean, I must insist—“

“You will insist nothing.” You wrenched your arm out of his grasp, but moved off the road just as a carriage careened past.

The General skirted behind you, putting himself between you and the road and forcing you to walk further away from danger in order to keep your distance from him. “I will insist that you don’t end your own life, Miss Dean. I am courting you. Your death on my watch would tarnish my reputation.”

You would have slapped him if not for the warmth in his voice. He was… joking? Had you reached the point in your strange companionship that you could tease?

When you looked up at him, your elbow bumping into his side, his eyes were soft. There was a vulnerability to him, an openness that stole your breath.

You stuttered to a stop. He continued on, ending up in front of you and completely turned around to face you. “Are you feeling well, Miss Dean?”

“I am,” you breathed, unable to pull your gaze from his face.

“Shall we continue?”

You suddenly shouted, the words ripped from your throat. “A stone!”

Ana and Finn stopped and turned, looking at you curiously.

“A stone in my shoe. There is a stone. In my shoe. On my foot.” You rambled, your face burning.

Poe ducked his head to hide his smile. Only loud enough for you to hear, he said, “But of course. I would not expect an intelligent woman such as yourself to wear shoes on your shoulders.”

Poe knelt before you. He held his hands out and you let your foot peak out from under your skirts. Carefully, without touching your skin, he undid the buckle and eased the shoe of your foot, shaking it out before holding it before you once again. He did not comment that there was no stone, simply smiled up at you. Kneeling before you. A surge of power flowed through you at his physical submission.

You snatched the shoe out of his grasp, shoving your foot back in it and setting off without waiting for him to rise. He scoffed behind you, but you paid him no mind. You stomped past Finn and Ana, the buckle on your shoe clacking with each step.

You could feel Ana’s glare scorching across the backs of your shoulders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Not now. He laid you bare before him with a simple smile, and then returned your power to you, over and over again.

It was beginning to make your head spin.

The General returned to your side in silence, though you could still feel the burning of his smile. You did not exchange another word until the four of you had passed into the house.

The sound of the buckle on your shoe snapping against itself echoed in the large foyer as you stopped, turning to Ana and Finn. Mister Kirk took the fabric from Finn and disappeared, presumably to deliver it to your mama.

After glaring at you, Ana guided Finn into the drawing room with a promise of a game. The doors were left open, as was proper, and her ladies maid stood watch over them.

You did not realize how close the General was standing to you until his whisper tickled your ear. “Would you like to stop this charade? Your sister and Finn seemed to be progressing just fine without us.”

You startled back and shook your head, aggressively enough that the ribbon the General had tied for you fell from your hair and onto the floor. You weren’t sure what had come over you, but you were more than certain that your sister and Finn would need your help. You had to see this through.

“Then we shall continue.” He said simply. “You do keep things interesting, Miss Dean.” The General picked the ribbon up from where it had dropped and handed it back to you. “I cannot say that I regret accompanying my companion this summer.”

“I have a feeling, General Dameron, that Finn is the type to not take no for an answer. I am not certain you could have avoided following him in his pursuit of my sister.”

He chuckled again. “Perhaps we will end the summer with each a sister for ourselves.” The darkness in his eyes had returned. His tongue wet his bottom lip and you gasped involuntarily.

“Goodnight, Miss Dean.”

The General was the first to walk away, the edge of the brown bag just peaking out of his pocket.

You clutched the ribbon tight in your hand. You considered throwing it to the ground, or running outside and abandoning it to the creatures of the night, but you couldn’t let it go. Instead, you clutched it to your chest, the fabric soft against your palm, and you watched the doorway he’d disappeared through, waiting for him to return.

[pocketfulofrogers]

Love Me Anyways

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: What is there to say? You’re a dark and twisty assassin and Steve Rogers is definitely... not that. When you get an opportunity to run, will you take it?

Notes: Tiny bit of smut and angst with a happy ending. If you feel like you’ve seen/read this before, you may have. I’m reorganizing and this was previously part 1 of Haunted Woman, Broken Lover. When I originally wrote this, it was meant to be a one off, but sad endings don’t always feel right. I then struggled to turn it into a series, so here is HWBL reimagined with a different ending as a one shot. The series will still be a thing, but now I actually feel good about it!

They call you a ghost. It isn’t for the way you seem to slip through walls or the way you look at death as a reflection. It’s the hollowness of your eyes that earns you the nickname. Hazed over orbs coated in grey.

Clint asks you if they’ve always been that color, you tell him you can’t remember anymore.

Fury lets you run your own thing after you agree to attach yourself to the badge. He’d rather not know how exactly you get the job done, so long as you’re on their side.

You’re solo most of the time, it’s better that way.

They learn quickly how deadly you are, leaving your enemies questioning the validity of your existence and holding the same vacant stare as you. It wasn’t just physical injuries you specialized in.

The first time you met Steve Rogers was an accident. You had a rogue Armenian scientist tied up in his basement. He had been about to run when you appeared at his kitchen table, and, for a moment, you thought a heart attack might get him before you could.

You were sat before him, leaned forward with your tools on a bench beside you. A small blade aching to break skin sat hot between your fingers, but so far, your words had been enough. Steve opened the door, barreled down the steps, and stopped in his tracks. You locked eyes with him and, in a flash, you saw something hauntingly familiar within the blue.

That’s when something inside you shifted.

He took one look at the scene before him and shut it down immediately. You slipped away when he called it in and left no trace of your existence except for a long thin line gushing red from the scientist’s throat.

Steve find’s the plans for a chemical attack on his desk that night and where to find each accomplice wrapped in a pretty bow of nylon. Alive, your note assures him.

“She’s like a cat. Brings home dead things to show her affection.” Clint says one day. You promptly shove an elbow in his gut.

He learns how to spot your work past blubbering grown men and catatonic stares. Natasha tells him you hold your liquor well, Clint comments on your gambling abilities. He asks if your eyes are naturally that color, they tell him you don’t like to answer that question.

Later he asks Fury how they found you. He’s not sure how you became what you are today, but he knows this world has not treated you well, yet here you are, working to protect it regardless of what had been done to you. That’s the only reason he didn’t order Clint to take you out.

“So, she’s good?” Steve asks.

Fury pauses for a moment. “For our sake, I hope so.”

The next time you see Steve Rogers, you’re slinking through the Triskelion halls trying to stick your nose somewhere it probably doesn’t belong. He bumps into you, grabs your arm and your side to steady you. You know he can feel the scars beneath the thin material of your shirt and jump from his touch.

He shakes it off. “Tell me,” He starts. “Do you have an actual name or are you really just a ghost.”

You think for a moment. “Y/N.” He raises a brow, both your voice and an answer surprising him. “What, were you expecting a cryptic answer on the relativity of life and death or something?”

He chuckles. “Guess not.”

A moment later, he gets distracted, turns a way for a split second and then you’re gone.

“Yeah, she does that.” An agent passing by comments.

You continue on your path, leave him the gift of a solved problem on his desk sometimes. He sets up cameras and lasers, trying to catch you just once. It takes him a few months to realize the janitor drops the files and notes for him. You and Natasha laugh at his expense.

He starts to leave files in various places he knows only you could find. The worst of the worst. Men and women he thinks you’d be happy to cross off. You can’t tell if he leaves them for you, or because they’re just terrible people. Either way, the change in narrative surprises you, but you never bring it up. You’re the last person that would ever judge someone.

Natasha taunts him over it.

“It’s a modern-day love story with an assassin twist.”

“Why not that one?” “She doesn’t like Oklahoma.” “How do you know that?”

“She sent booze as thanks for your last tip. Are your cheeks seriously red right now, Rogers?”

Eventually, you concede and stop leaving him only the locations of gift-wrapped bodies with detailed lists of committed crimes. Complete with proof, of course, you weren’t lazy. You start to send him alive leads, people that can be questioned. Sometimes they’re unharmed, usually they’re mostly coherent. He’s surprised by the change in narrative, but he never brings it up. Sometimes people change, but that was none of his business.

Natasha is sure to point it out, though, consistently.

“You see him more than anyone else.” “That’s not true!” “…” “He’s here more than you, so it’s only by default.”

“Wait, you left that guy alive?” “Steve needs to question him.” “What about that one guy I needed answers from?” “You didn’t say please.”

“I’ve known you longer.” “He leaves me sex traffickers.”

When a body comes up dead that shouldn’t have, your signatures blatantly displayed, they send him to bring you in. He doesn’t believe for a second you could kill a kid, but he’s the only one who can get close enough. Fury’s only half sure you won’t kill him.

You battle with the idea of running, knowing they’ll never find you if you don’t want them to. You saw the evidence; you knew you were screwed. Fury told you from the very beginning that if he ever sensed you had turned, he’d take you out. No warning, no questions. Still, you wait patiently in your living room.

The window by the fire escape opens and Steve slides through, tip toes his way in and around the corner only to find you sitting there, an amused smirk tugging your lips.

“What calf exercises do you do? They look fantastic.”

He rolls his eyes and catches site of the artwork around him, the soft whites and greys of your walls and furniture giving spotlight to their colors. He never even considered you could have a home. You follow his gaze and shrug. Assassins can have taste too.

“The diplomat’s son, did you kill him?” He asks. You watch him silently. “Fury thinks you did.”

You walk slowly towards him, watch him curiously and tilt your head. “And if I did?” You prompt.

“I have orders to bring you in.”

You’re a breath away now, gliding your fingers along the Kevlar of his arm and trailing your way to his jaw. You trace his collar with a fingertip, watch as the pulse of his jugular quickens. You look up at him and he swallows thickly.

“And if I don’t want to?” You graze tentative fingers along the edge of his jawline. “Tell me, Captain, would you kill me?”

He hopes the eagerness in your voice is misplaced, the envy misinterpreted. Or perhaps the girl who surrounds herself with death does it with the idea that it may one day take her.

You don’t give him the opportunity to dive into that rabbit hole.

When you place your lips on his, soft and remnant of something sweet, he can only taste the brilliance of life. He wraps himself around you, slips in his tongue when you’re startled by his sudden switch. You thought you’d leave him shaken enough to slip away, disappear with the rising sun.

But now? Now you’re just as hungry for him.

He carries you, lays you across your bed. He runs the pad of his thumb along every scar left behind by a blade, places a kiss on each one from a bullet. You knot you fingers in his hair as he drags his tongue up the inside of your thigh, scream his name when he brings you higher than you’ve ever been before.

When he slides into you and stretches you deliciously so, you allow yourself to feel just this once. He catches the shift in your eyes, convinces himself his mind is playing tricks on him when the grey haze appears to fade.

He moves slow before he finds his pace. You dig fingernails into his back and trail them down hard enough to make him hiss. He nips you from shoulder to jaw, hips rocking into you, and you swear nothing has ever felt this good.

You lay there in silence, sweat coated limbs still entangled. He sighs heavily and you just know he’s about to ruin the moment.

“Stay.” You whisper. He looks down at you wrapped around him. “I’ll go with you in the morning, just stay tonight.”

He tightens his grip on your bicep and nods. “Ok.”

You’re still awake when dawn breaks, you had gotten lost in the simple rhythm of his heartbeat. A dream that one day life could be even just an imitation of normal. The thought makes you sad more than anything else.

You slip from his arms, grab a bag, and pack the essentials. Watching him sleep, he seems so peaceful, so good. You ache to wake him and stick around long enough to fix this mess. He deserves that.

Could you do it? Forget your past and pretend to be anything other than the hollow shell those before carved you into?

Ah, but this was your MO. Slip away in the dark when things took a turn either way. ‘Flight risk’ has always been written on the back of your eyelids. You weren’t quite sure why you felt you owed Steve more, but you did.

He awakes to a bright sun and a cold spot beside him. There’s a torn piece of paper where your head should’ve been. He brushes his thumb over his name and opens it. It states your innocence and exactly who he should be looking for, where to find them. At the bottom is a separate line.

‘Careful, Captain, or I just might be your future.’

Three years later.

You grab the tiny umbrella in your drink to twirl the ice around again. Undoubtedly a nervous habit you picked up in response to the very crowded beach bar you’re currently sitting at.

It was an alert you received in the middle of the night notifying you of your cleared name a year ago. You can’t be sure how whoever it was reached you, but the screenname ‘Tiny Dancer’ gave you a few ideas.

In that moment, reading those last two words you’re free, something changed. Perhaps it was months of being on the run from people who you allowed to know you well enough to track you that left you felling so drained. 

Of course, you thought about the beautiful man you left behind first, knowing that there was no one in this world who would fight harder for your freedom. You wanted to go find him, you really did, but you couldn’t deny the fact that you felt different this time. Like maybe this was your chance to start over. A chance to live a life that had been stolen from you so long ago. 

The bartender, a lovely middle aged man who strictly wore floral button ups, watches you down the rest of your drink and is quick with the refill. You try to thank him, but he waves you off.

“Anything for my favorite customer.” 

You push your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Are we not friends by now?”

He barks out a laugh and leans forward against the bar in front of you. “Friends get invited to drink with me, which you do almost everyday. Family gets invited to the cookout. Which is Sunday, by the way. Show up early and bring an appetite.” He shoots you a playful wink before pushing off to help another customer. 

You lean your head back slightly to feel the warmth of the sun and tune into the sound of the crashing waves. It’s the lightest you think you may have ever felt with the sand sticking to your bare legs and salt water in your hair.

Nothing could interrupt this perfectly blissful moment. 

Well, almost nothing.

“Sand looks good on you.” A deep voice says beside you and you smile, face still tilted towards the sun.

“Took you longer than I thought.” You turn to Steve still smiling. “How long can you stay?”

He moves his sunglasses from his eyes to the top of his head and looks around for a moment taking in the view. When he turns back to you, the smile that breaks across his face almost stops your heart.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

[lacontroller1991]

You’re Safe (Platonic!Daryl Dixon x Platonic!Reader)

Anon Request: hi! If you’re not super busy, can you do a platonic twd imagine where the reader (15/16yo) is living alone in the woods and often sneaks into Alexandria to steal supplies, one day she gets caught and rick and the others take her in?

Anon Request: I’m not who requested reader sneaking into Alexandria but I'm excited for it! If you’re still taking requests I’m a sucker for anything father figure Daryl or the group taking in the reader, I just think that relationship is so cute and wholesome to read.

A/N: I am going to combine these two requests into one as they both follow the same narrative if that's alright.

Warnings: mention of rape

Walking. Walking is all that you do. Ever since your parents died a year ago, you kept on walking in hopes to find something or someone to rely on for a while and not yourself. So when you first came across Alexandria, you were skeptical. It looked too nice and too pristine for being in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. 

Walking around the outskirts of the town, you looked at the fences for any weak points in which you could exploit and possibly take some food or supplies. You had decided to wait for night to take over before nudging a small enough space to wiggle your small body into. You cautiously looked around the town, scoping out where most people would go for food and weapons. After noticing them going into a townhouse, you ran along the railing and hid below the staircase while the members of the community walked down the steps.

After waiting a couple of more minutes, you peered out from below the steps to look around. Once noticing it was clear, you crawled out and into the open air before tiptoeing up the steps and entering the building. Looking around, your eyes widened when you noticed all of the guns and ammo, and even more important all of the food. Searching through the rows of food, you started to shove cans of everything into your bag, making sure to take just enough to keep you going and hopefully enough that no one will notice anything missing.

You went every week like clockwork, always making sure that no one was around when you sneaked into the cabinets and out of the community, however, today you weren’t so lucky. You made your way to the small opening you had created a while ago and peered through the hole to make sure no one was around. Laying on your stomach, you began to crawl underneath the metal to the other side only to be stopped when you felt the barrel of a gun pressed against your forehead. 

“Get up,” a young masculine voice spoke as you looked up. Standing above you was a boy around your age wearing a hat and sporting an eye patch. He had his gun trained on your forehead as you raised your hands up. Putting away the gun back in its holster, the boy grabbed your arms and tied some rope around your wrists.

“I don’t mean no harm. Let me go,” you begged as he scoffed and glared at you before shoving you toward the street and leading you to a house. Guiding you up the steps, he opened the door before shoving you in, causing you to stumble across the door frame and into a room of many people, all eyeing you.

“Found the person who’s been sneaking in,” the boy spoke as a man with a beard and curly hair walked toward the two of you.

“Carl, I told you not to go out at night,” the man spoke as the boy behind you stood still but lowered his head.

“I know, I just wanted to know who was stealing the food,” he replied to whom you assumed was his father the way the two stood in front of each other. The man sighed before turning his attention to you.

“Who are you and why have you been stealing our supplies?”

“I’m nobody. I need food, which is not easy to come by out there,” you spoke in an aggressive tone, asserting the fact that you weren’t intimidated by the group.

“Who are you?”

“What? Are you guys with the Saviors? Do you want me to say ‘I’m Negan’? Not gonna happen,” you spat out as the man standing in front of you as well as the rest of the group looked at you in surprise.

“With the Saviors? We’re in a war with them.” Carl spoke as you whipped your head around to him and raised an eyebrow.

“You know Negan?” Another man with shaggy hair asked, eyeing you with slight pity, trying to imagine why a teen would know Negan and his group.

“Know Negan? That bastard? His men raped my mom in front of my dad and then killed the both of them in front of me. He just sat and watched,” you whispered, trying to suppress your emotions as the group looked at you sympathetically, “look, I’m sorry I stole from you guys. I really am. Can you guys just let me go, I won’t come back.” You spoke as the man with the beard looked at the guy with shaggy hair.

“What if you stayed here?” He asked gently while the other man untied the knot around your wrists, freeing you.

“That’s awfully generous, but I don’t know you guys. You could be with them,” you stated as the man with the beard looked at his son who shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re not with them. You’re welcome to stay with us,” the man stated as you looked around the room skeptically and made eye contact with the guy who had shaggy hair who simply nodded at you, giving you reassurance despite you still not knowing who he was.

“I don’t know you guys.”

“I’m Rick Grimes. You already met Carl, my son. This is Daryl,” he motioned to the man who had shaggy hair and who had nodded at you, “this is Aaron, Rosita, Tara, and Michonne,” he finished after pointing everyone out that was in the room, “what’s your name?” He asked softly as you looked down at your dirtied pants that were dotted with blood stains and mud.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” you replied, looking up at Rick who gave a small smile and nodded.

“You’re more than welcome to stay here,” he offered as Daryl stepped forward. “She can stay with me, I have extra room,” Daryl stated, shocking the group.

“Why don’t we get you settled in. Get you a shower,” Michonne mentioned, causing your head to shoot up.

“You guys have showers here?” The group chuckled and smiled, nodding their heads as you looked to Rick.

“I might stay after all.”

It had been two months since you had moved into Alexandria. You and Daryl had gotten close, him taking a more fatherly approach to you, knowing what it’s like loosing family. You walked by his side in silence as the two of you wondered around the forest, hunting for some food, a past time that you have taken up recently.

“You know, my first boyfriend hunted. Though it was more for sport,” you reminisced, frowning at the thought of killing all of those ducks for game and not meals.

“You’re what? 16? Ya had a boyfriend?” He asked in confusion as your lips curled into a small smile, keeping the bow in your hand taut.

“Yeah, the only one though, kinda hard to keep a relationship when he’s a walker,” you chuckled bitterly as Daryl quirked an eyebrow up at you.

“Ya happy ‘bout that or sum’?” He asked, sweeping over the trees and trying to find squirrels. 

“Yeah, just because he was a boyfriend, don’t mean he was a good one. Glad he got bit.”

“Damn girl, remind me not to get on ya bad side.”

“Dully noted,” you whispered, taking aim at the tree, releasing your arrow and stabbing a squirrel. 

“You’re getting better.”

“You taught me,” you replied as his lips turned up in a slight smile and shook it off.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he muttered as you rolled your eyes.

“Daryl, you’re the closest thing that I have to a father now, if you haven’t taken me under your wing, I don't know what I would have done.”

“Rick woulda taken ya in.” 

“Yeah, I know, but he already has Carl and Judith to take care of, it wouldn’t make sense to add another person to that mix,” you spoke, not noticing how he stood still and fell behind you.

“Would ya rather of had him take ya in?” Daryl asked through clenched teeth, trying to not let the hurt show.

“Of course not, I already told you. You’re the closest thing I have to a father and I owe my life to you for taking me in,” you responded, turning around and hugging him around his waist, waiting for him to hesitantly wrap his arms back around you.

“You’re welcome.”

A/N: This was so longgggggg. Hope you guys enjoy!