#Like he must have been in so much physical and emotional pain

[drdemonprince]

If you’ve never been all that disobedient before, you can and should start really, really small. For example, you can wear the slightly revealing or gloriously trashy-looking garment that makes your mom roll her eyes and sigh despondently every time she sees you put it on. You will feel judged and disapproved of when you put it on, but that is fine. Your goal is to sit with the uncomfortable feelings and continue with your desired behavior anyway.  Saunter down the steps in that highlighter-yellow Garfield crop top with your chest hair flowing over the neckline, and harness as much courage as you can muster. It’s okay if you feel like a beacon of sin. Just keep it moving. Your emotions are not the target here. Your behavior is. You can feel however you are feeling in the moment so long as you keep acting like you’re free.  Do you have a favorite TV show that a partner or roommate vocally hates? Try watching that show around them without apologizing or defensively joining them in mocking the program. At first, you probably won’t be able to enjoy the show while in their presence. You’ll feel self-conscious about everything they find annoying or cringe-inducing about the show, and so focused on their reactions that you can’t relax. That’s okay. Allow those feelings of embarrassment and guilt to exist and pass through you without giving up. In time, you will be able to ignore these reactions more, and enjoy the activity.  You want to see the needle of discomfort moving down just a little, like Link’s body temperature meter in Tears of the Kingdom when he puts on a breathable outfit in a hot climate. You’re not gonna go from roiling hot to frosty cold in an instant. But after a certain point, you won’t be actively in pain anymore. Things are just gonna slowly suck less, bit by bit, until they are finally okay. That’s true of most major life adjustments, I find.  Probably the best way to develop self-advocacy skills while growing in your distress tolerance is simply by telling other people no. Do this without explanation or hedging. Nitpicky aunt wants to hear all about your dating life? “No, I don’t want to talk about that.” Unreliable ex-friend wants you to do them the tiny favor of moving their entire home gymnasium into a new third story walk-up? “No, I’m not available.” Manipulative shift supervisor wants to cajole you into sticking around for another three hours to close? “No.”  As many advice columnists smarter than me have already intoned, “no” is a complete sentence. “No” requires no explanation. “No” is not subject to debate. “No” can be repeated over and over like a broken record if a disrespectful person acts like they can’t hear it. And you can walk away at any time to make your “no” physical and impossible to argue with, when someone has proven they don’t respect your boundaries. 

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[gay-dorito-dust]

Any characters of your choosing, but how would some of the hsr characters act with a partner who loves physical touch but is too shy to initiate?

Argenti:

More then willing to initiate the physical contact if you were too shy to do so, after all it was the least he could do for you, and Argenti would do a lot for you without having to be asked.

‘All you are to do is ask my beloved rose.’ He says as he helps by gently guiding you into hugging him, smiling when you press yourself up against him and pressing your face into his chest.

‘I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.’ Was your response and Argenti couldn’t help but chuckle as your thoughtfulness as he presses a kiss to your head.

‘No such thing.’ He says as he holds you against him as you both took this moment to indulge in the another. ‘I’d very much rather you express yourself however you see fit, as I’ll accept your love and affection in all it’s forms it may take because at the end of the day that love belongs to someone I love very dearly.’ He finishes and you couldn’t help but burrow your head into his neck.

‘You’re too good for me sometimes.’ You mutter against him as you felt him chuckle.

‘I can say the same for you, my beloved flower.’ Argenti replied. ‘It’s hard not to when you’ve been nothing but a beacon of hope and love for me, even in my most dire of times. Your touch alone puts me back together again and makes me stronger then ever.’ He adds as he feels you clinging onto him for dear life as he whispered in your ear to say;

‘So please don’t be dissuaded from ever touching me when it’s brought me nothing but the happiest of emotions.’

Blade:

Stays silent.

Will not move an inch.

He sees what you’re trying to do from the corner of his eyes, but won’t do anything unless you have well and truly given up on trying to initiate contact. And it isn’t until then does he huff indignantly and grabs one of your hands and puts it against one side of his face, holding it there as he stared at you with his ruby red eyes.

‘Was this what you were trying to do?’ He asks despite already knowing the answer.

‘I didn’t want you to feel as though you were pressured into to let me touch you solely because I’m your partner.’ You replied as you were about to pull your hand away from him, when you felt him tighten his grip on your hand. ‘Don’t you think I would’ve said something by now if I did?’ He rebutted with a raised brow and you felt a little silly.

Blade never failed in letting it be known if you were doing something he didn’t quite like. He didn’t need to say much but his silence followed by a certain look in his eye were more than enough to tell you that you’d better stop while you were ahead.

‘True.’ You muttered as you instinctively began stroking his cheek with your thumb, not realising that Blade was pushing more of himself into your hand, much like a cat would when scratched between the ears and humming in content. He looked cute as he did handsome in that moment where his face looked the closest it ever could to peaceful in a long time.

‘If it means anything, your touch is the least painful thing I’ve experienced in my life as far as I’m aware.’ Blade says, finally letting go of your wrist as you placed your other against the side of his face and began stroking the skin there. You then heard him groan in content, a sound of which filled you with both warmth and joy in knowing that your touch helps him find peace, even if it was a small and temporary amount, but still peace none the less.

Aventurine:

Bastard man straight up teases you for being too shy to hold his hand.

‘Hmm? Is someone too shy to even hold my hand? How devastating that must be for you.’ He’d say before grabbing your hand and pressing his palm against yours. ‘It’s as easy as this.’ He continues before intertwining his fingers with yours, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand for added effect.

‘See? That wasn’t so bad was it?’ He asked teasingly, throughly taking enjoyment in all this, when deep down he loved nothing more than to feel you holding his hand at long last. ‘Nope, not at all.’ You replied, feeling your heart going a mile an hour when you felt him squeeze your hand, followed by the caress of his thumb against the back of your hand.

‘Then don’t be afraid to hold my hand in the future, I don’t bite but I’d think you would enjoy that a bit too much even if I did.’ He teases, which was followed by boisterous laughter.

Aventurine may act like he wasn’t phased at all by your touch, when in reality he was begging for more but didn’t feel as though he was deserving of asking for such a thing. He may talk a big game but is equally as hesitant to physical affection as you were for the exact same reasonings.

He silently encourages your need to touch him by doing things that suggested that he wanted it just as badly as you, seeing as how words failed him in moments where he’s wanting something he’s made himself believe he couldn’t have. After all in his own eyes aventurine was a loser, a coward, a fraud, a cheater unworthy of any ounce of kindness nor love but the moment he felt you hold him, his mind goes blank and all he can focus on was his you hands held him as though he were porcelain.

It was his favourite feeling and whenever he sees you hesitating in giving him that oasis from his own mind, he’s quick in making himself believe that you’ve realised that he wasn’t worth your affection, and tries to force you into giving it to him by teasing you and guiding your hands to where he needed to feel your touch most; which was his face.

Aventurine may not admit it out load but he can’t fathom living without your touch, he’d probably go mad but for now he’ll keep a hold of your hand for the remainder of the day.

[frantic-fiction]

Secluded Evening 18+

(GIF: leopardmuffinxo)

Astarion x F!Reader, Astarion x Tav

Warnings: 18+ MDNI pretty much pure smut, fluff, nipple piercings, nipple play. Skinning dipping, unprotected sex, Late Act 1 Astarion

Summary: Astarion catches reader during a midnight swim. Playful flirting becomes physical. Basically, my take on reader and Astarion's first time in act 1. There is way more implication of Astarion's real attraction for reader, not just a manipulation tactic.

Word Count: 2.8k

The shadow curse land is just a few days west, and a sickly feeling has crept through the camp. The party is on edge, fighting a constant headache as you attempt to mediate the tension in a group of solid personalities during highly stressful events. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are at each other’s throats, bickering and pulling daggers when either sends a quip in the other's direction. Karlach is still burning hot despite her upgrade, and with Dammon already far along the path, all you can do is promise to get her to Baldur’s Gate as quickly as you can. Wyll is fine, but he’s Wyll, so that’s not surprising.

Gale, however, might be the one pushing your buttons the most, or at least he is testing your patience past your limit now. “Tav, I don’t believe I have to express again how important it is to acquire a magical artifact soon.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and you get the sudden urge to whack him over the head with the book you held unread in your hands. “I will be glad not to have to feel my chest be ripped in two, but I will repeat: if I do not consume an artifact, I will die and level the general vicinity with me.”

You push off the log, slamming the novel down. Level-headedness has been one of your strong suits. It’s the main reason you found yourself leading these misfits across the kingdom. You can keep your cool under the most extreme sources of stress, but everyone is just annoying you today.

“Look, I get it. You need a shoe to chew on, or you’ll go boom. But guess what? I have given you every spare artifact I have to give. Our coins are down to silver and copper. So unless you are willing to chomp down on the stupid circlet you just ‘had to get,’ then you can suck it up and wait until we reach another town.” By the end, you’re yelling, and Gale looks like a kicked puppy. The rest of the camp has turned to look at your outburst. You burn with regret for everything immediately.

You reach out a tentative hand, “Gale, I didn’t—”

“No, you are absolutely right. Apologies for my inconvenience. I hope you enjoy the rest of the night, Tav.” He quickly returns to his tent and pins the flaps close.

Sighing, you rub your hands down your face. You feel terrible; Gale’s condition is excruciating, and you hate to be unable to get him something to alleviate the pain, but your supplies are down to the bone. “Fuck,” you breathe, picking the book back up and storing it away.

“I must say, my sweet, I could get used to this more dominating personality of yours. It certainly gets me excited.” Astarion practically purrs in your ear. You turn face to face and stumble back slightly at his proximity.

Brushing your hair behind your ears, you avoid his eye contact. A warmth spreads across your face. “Oh, I'm sure,” you smirked, clearing your throat and recovering quickly.

It was a game between you two, ignited on the beach with a knife to your throat. Harmless flirts, playful banter with no attention to go further. Attraction is thick, but neither dares to press in this dance.

He crowds into your space. His nose practically tickles yours. He plays with your hair, fingers tangling in the locks. His face dawns an emotion of concern. “Darling, I’ve noticed you’ve been very stressed these last few days.”

His breath fans your face. You grab the edge of his shirt. “I think it would be a good idea to release some tension. Some alone time, maybe?” His pointer finger traced the bone of your jaw.

You smirk and pull away, trailing your hand up the contours of his chest. “You're right.” His wicked grin widens like a cat playing with prey. “I think I'll call in early and have a night to myself. I hope you will be okay hunting tonight.”

When you were scouting the perimeter, you stumbled across a small alcove. It was breathtaking. Several willows enclosed a small lake, water beautifully sparkling in the sun. You love swimming and have been thinking about the lake ever since. You occupy yourself with finishing your book until the sun sets. Once the camp settles for the night, you grab your pack and sneak your way out to the forest line.

Astarion’s grin drops, and his arms go limp. You slip away, lifting the edge of your tent. “Thank you again. Do you mind telling the others as well?”

He glares knowingly, and with a wink, you drop the flap and sit on the floor. You gather your supplies: a change of clothes, your only towel, and your washing bag.

The lake isn't too far, and before you know it, you're there. It's different in the moonlight. Fireflies buzz around the cattails, the willow branches sway softly above the water, and frogs croak on lily pads. You set a blanket to place the rest of your stuff around, quickly tossing your clothes off and wading into the water.

It's not as cold as expected, but you still gasp at the initial sting. You adapt quickly and soon dive fully, submerging into the fresh water. You stay underwater; ears plugged, giving a warped vibration through your head. Once your lungs begin to burn, you surface and gulp air.

“Well, isn't this just a coincidence?” Astarion chuckles, standing at the shore with pale forearms crossed over his chest. “I was just out on my hunt when I came across such a delectable treat.”

You bite your bottom lip, pulling your hands back and forth, sucking water in and out around your form. “Well, now that you've found me, what do you plan to do with me?”

You move onto your back and float, exposing your entire front half to his eyes. The water on your skin chills in the air. Your nipples pebble, and you hear a groan.

Floating in the water, you close your eyes. It's quiet momentarily before a large splash startles you and you're pulled under. You kick instinctually, and Astarion grabs your foot and drags you closer.

His strong arms circle your waist, and you resurface. You smack his chest. “You asshole.”

He laughs, and before you know it, you're laughing too. You sway in Astarion's arms as he carries you deeper into the lake. Grabbing a flower floating in the water, you begin to pick some of the limp petals. You look up and slide the flower into his hair. It's adorable.

Astarion pinches your chin and pulls your face close, staring deep into his eye. There are no words; you feel the line shatter when the reality of what's happening sinks in. There is no performance in his eyes. No formulaic flirtatious lines or sexy words. What is happening? You don't know, but when he crashes his lips to yours, you really fucking want to find out.

It's like a rubber band. The kisses open the damn, and soon your legs are wrapped around his hips. One hand threads through his pale curls, the other encircling his neck.

Astarion breaks from your lips and trails sloppy kisses down to your neck. "I have waited long enough to ravish you, my dear,"

And then you are moving; he's quickly wading through the water, not once removing his lips from your throat. You know it will bruise, and the idea of another mark of his sends heat lower down your body.

You sigh when Astarion nips your neck, pressing you down on the blanket. Wet skin slides against damp skin. Grabbing his hair, you pull him back up, capturing his lips. It is messy, sloppy, and all too much to handle.

You arch up, pressing your breast against his chest. He pauses, and you whine when he pulls away.

"What are these?" Astarion practically growls, pinching your hard nipple. You gasp his name as he twists the small metal bar through the nub. He grinds his hips against your leg. He's hard, his cock presses against his stomach.

"Jewelry," you moan, clutching his shoulder. "They make me more sensitive."

"Oh, my naughty girl," he lowers to take your neglected breast into his mouth. His skillful tongue sucks your breast, his hand paying equal attention to your other. Feeling a scrap of his fangs, you let out a cry of ecstasy, rolling your hips, seeking any source of friction.

Astarion pins your hips down and pulls away from your breast with a wet pop. "No, no, my sweet. I think you have not been fair keeping least lovely tits from me. I can't remember ever seeing such unique body modifications." He gives a sharp bite to your breast, just deep enough to pierce the skin.

Droplets of blood beaded to the surface; it was quickly lapped up with his tongue, a groan crawling its way up his chest. He slips one of his legs under yours, and his hips slide his stiff cock between sopping wet folds. You choke out his name, and his mouth moves to the other breast. "I think I'm owed a bit longer exploring such a beautiful chest."

"My, my, you're so responsive. I could spend hours pleasing you with my tongue." Astarion trails his tongue up between your breasts, eyes boring up into your flushed face. "Just imagine the delightful words I could pull from your beautiful lips as I lay between your thighs, playing your exquisite body like a bard's violin."

Your breath is uneven, panting while Astarion takes his time lavishing your breasts. Soon, your nipples are on fire, swollen from the ruthless attention Astarion has provided. Tears sting your eyes. You are desperate for anything, nothing; you are not sure, but you are moaning and pleading up into the night air. All available skin was victim to your desperate fingers.

"Starion, ugh-please, they're too sensitive." You tug at the small hairs at the nape of his neck. His lips tug the metal bar just enough to pull another cry from your lips. He releases your breast with a wet pop.

You bite his neck (almost the same spot he uses to feed from you) and all semblance of his control dissolves—you're back on the blanket in a show of Astarion's speed. Air was knocked from your lungs. "Fuck, my dear," Astarion grinds against you coating his cock in more of your juices. "I believe we've waited enough time to enjoy each other. So, I think I fuck you, deep and slow, until you can only scream my name. And if you're lucky, spend the rest of the night pulling lovely whimpers from your over-sensitive cunt."

His husky voice purred in your ears. Your thighs clench, arousal dripping onto the blanket. "Star," you breathe out, grabbing his face and crashing your lips together. Teeth clashed, and tongues fought for dominance. Wrapping your legs fully around Astarion's slim hips, you roll up. Using his distraction as leverage, you twist your hips and maneuver the two of you.

Astarion is now on his back, curls silver in the dark, and his eyes are wide with shock. You comfortably sat on his hips, hands pressing on each of his pecs. "You have my full permission to do that, but if you don't fuck me right now, I will be taking care of myself in my tent." Lips are back on his before you chuckle in his ears. "We have teased each other for months. I think it's about time you do something about this pretty boy."

Astarion doesn't leave a moment to respond before he impales you with one deep thrust. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Astarion grabs your calf, raises your leg, and sets a brutally slow pace.

You were matching each of his thrusts with a roll of your hips. Your mouth at his chest and throat, sloppily leaving kisses and spit on his pale torso. "Ug-fucking Gods, you so tight," The sounds of skin slapping against skin and collective cries of pleasure break up the quietness of the lake.

Astarion presses his forehead to yours, breathing in your whimpers of ecstasy. The force of his thrusts is jostling your breasts; your nipples rub against his cold skin.

The moans roll off your tongue; you put a hand into his hair. "A-astarion fast…faster," you choke, snaking a hand between your conjoined bodies to rub small circles over your clit. The warm tightening coils in your lower abdomen. "P-please, Star."

"Beautiful." Astarion's pace picks up, his balls slapping against your pussy. He quickly pushes your hand away and replaces your fingers with his own.

He doesn't need to be asked twice, and the cold pierce of his fangs digs into your throat. You choke on gasp, hips stuttering. Astarion is dragging, mouthfuls of your blood down his throat, his fingers picking up pace, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

The coil is tightening, and soon, you cannot form words outside of Astarion's name between pleases. "Oh, my sweet girl, so lost on my cock. I...fuck...I know it feels good."

He pinches your left nipple again and you whimper. "Your body is exquisite. I won't be able to last much longer, my love." His voice is hoarse, and he rambles between frantic ruts. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.

Astarion presses kisses and licks to the hollow of your throat. He is asking for permission, and you quickly press him closer. "Yes, please," you groan. All the sensations Astarion was giving you were becoming too much. You were quickly approaching the edge.

The pain mixes with pleasure, and it's too much. Tears prick at your eyes. You ticken around hos cock and a rumble ruptures through his chest. He takes a few more gulps before pulling away. Astarion's tongue licks, ensuring no waste of your blood.

As soon as he pulls away from your neck, he's pushing his tongue into your mouth with a quick thrust—the metallic tang of your blood mixes between your mouths. "I'm close," you breathe, running your nose against his. Your panting, feeling like no breath can satisfy your burning lungs.

His thrusts are becoming sloppy, devolving into more grinds of hips. His fingers drag over your clit in tight, fast circles. "Me too," he's just as breathless, hips stuttering with pleasure. "Come for me, darling, let me hear you."

It's like your body was waiting for his honey-slick words to give you permission. Because the moment those words leave his devilish lips, you snap. You scream his name, legs pulling him close.

You didn't expect post-sex cuddles from Astarion, but gods, you could fall in love with this man if you weren't careful. But would that be too bad? To fall in love? You kiss his collarbone and pull your towel over the majority of your body.

With one, two, three more deep thrusts. Astarion comes with a breathy moan spilling deep into your core. You two lay there, tangled in each other's body. Hearts are pounding as you breathe each other's air.

Astarion pulls out and rolls to his back. You curl onto his chest, laying your ear over his silent heart. He plays with your hands and peppers kisses over your hairline.

You wish to stay the night in his arms right here, just having him hold you. But Astarion stiffens slightly when a shiver rolls through your body. It's like the bubble of serenity pops. Astarion is quick to remove himself from you.

"I don't believe cuddling wet and naked with a vampire is good for one's health." He's pulling his clothes on. And reluctantly and with shaky legs, you follow his lead. Astarion is quiet on the walk back, lost in thought. He plays with a coin mindlessly.

You don't push, knowing Astarion better than to pry. So you let him walk you to your tent. And just as you move to duck into your bed for sleep, Astarion grabs your wrist.

You turn and look up into his scarlet eyes. His expression is hard to read; his confusion, hesitancy, affection, and anger are fluidly behind his eyes. They could all fit, but nothing seemed to reflect Astarion's eyes. "I…" He pauses, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. He opens his mouth again but clicks it back close. Astarion searches your eyes as if they held the answer to his unspoken question.

Astarion doesn't seem to find what he's looking for because he shakes his hand—pressing a light kiss to the apple of your cheek. He drops your hand reluctantly. "Have a good night, my dear,"

Then he's gone, leaving you alone, the tingle of his lips still lingering on your skin. Your fingers trail across your cheek, and a small smile stretches your lips. Yeah, you could very easily fall in love with that man. Maybe you already have.

Okay let me know what you thought? I haven't written smut in forever and have never been super confident in it.

If you liked this how about checking out my other two Astarion pieces.

Happy Birthday **** Reoccurring Nightmares

[azrielbrainrot]

Darling, I'd Wait for You, Even If You Didn't Ask Me To

Pairing: Band!member!Azriel x College!Student!Reader

Description: You have a really bad day and Azriel is there to help you through it.

Warnings: A little angst

Word Count: 4328

Notes: I don't know how I feel about this one but this is an important moment in their relationship. Hope you enjoy!

Band AU masterlist

It feels like you are running on autopilot as you climb the steps to Azriel's apartment floor, not even waiting for the elevator. The only thing your body seems to be concerned with is delivering you to your destination before it gives out, whatever it takes. You and Azriel got really close ever since you met him almost two months ago, still, this might be too much to drop on him. You're not even sure why you decided to come to him instead of Viviane but it had been your first thought, your only thought in fact.

Your mind only starts catching up to you after you knock on his door too hard with your cold hands, the pain giving you a moment of clarity long enough to realize the voice you hear behind the door isn't Azriel's but his roommate's. This makes you take notice of yourself. You must look like a trainwreck with your tear streaked face and damp clothes from the rain, holding onto your duffel bag like it's your last lifeline.

However, you don't have time to try to make yourself more presentable before Cassian opens the door. The smile that seems to always be glued to his face drops as soon as he takes you in, saying your name in question. You're not sure if it's because of the emotional overload you're going through or if it's just surprise and embarrassment at being caught like this, but you just stare at him, unable to move your body or form any words in response.

He's quick to pull you into the apartment, closing the door behind you. Cassian is a lovely guy but the truth is you don't know him that well, only met him a couple of times, you feel guilty that he had to see you like this. When you decided to come here you didn't remember he and Azriel lived together, didn't even think of the possibility of running into anyone besides him. It might have not even been a conscious decision, your heart felt like it was shattering into a million pieces and by the time your mind thought of going to Azriel, your body seemed to already be taking you his way.

“Are you okay?” He grabs your shoulders and looks you up and down, making sure you're not physically injured. You can't be sure but you're positive you didn't do anything besides look at him wide eyed.

He takes the heavy duffel bag off your shoulder and it's only then your arm feels the effort it took to carry it for the entire way, it was surely going to be sore the next day. You vaguely hear him call Azriel's name but it only registers when you see him come out of his bedroom, looking scared and confused.

As if your previous impression hadn't been bad enough, you run to him and wrap your arms around his waist as soon as you see him, burying your face in his chest and letting your tears finally fall freely. He's frozen for a second, not sure of what is happening, but he wraps his arms around you promptly. Unfortunately, this only makes you sob and shake harder into him.

Azriel was having a hard time trying to figure out what to do, it isn't every day that his friends run to him in tears, holding onto him like their life depends on it. He hasn't known you for that long either, doesn't really know how to best console you so he decides it's best to let you cry it out before trying to talk to you and it seems like you intend to do it into his shirt.

Your sobs were getting louder and you were shaking so much with each one that he's convinced your body wouldn't be able to keep you upright if it wasn't for him. Nodding at a wide eyed Cassian, he pretty much picks you up off the floor and takes you to the privacy of his room. Sitting down on the bed with you on his lap and just stroking your head, hoping it helps you at least a little.

After what must have been close to an hour, you start coming to little by little, vaguely aware that Azriel had moved you and was murmuring softly that it's going to be okay, finally letting yourself think back on what happened. You've been dreading break all semester for this exact reason. You knew the moment you stepped foot back in your hometown, you wouldn't be able to push the situation to the back of your mind anymore.

As soon as you left the train station, you got in an uber directly to Eleanor's house, not even stopping by your parent's house to greet them or drop off your bag. Even before arriving you knew the conversation was only going to hurt you but you couldn't have predicted how much. You only faintly remember her cries for forgiveness as you left her house in a rush, you remember the anger you felt as you heard her begging as if she wasn't the one who hurt you.

Eventually the sobs shaking your body subside and you're left holding onto Azriel. Your body was starting to scream at you for being in the same position for so long so you move your hands from where they were clinging to his shirt, pull your face back from the now damp fabric, cringing softly at the feeling and darker patch you leave behind, and move to wrap your arms around his neck instead, straightening your back and leaning your head on his shoulder. Letting out a soft sigh when his hand moves with you, stroking your back comfortingly.

“Do you feel better now?” You can feel him talking with how close you're pressing to him. You're a bit embarrassed by the position, sitting on his lap and clinging to him so much, but the comfort it's giving you far outweighs it and, in this moment, you just can't bring yourself to care. You just nod in response to his question.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He squeezes a little harder when he feels you tense up slightly. It's not that you don't want to tell him but talking about everything just makes it even more real. “You don't have to. I can just keep holding you for as long as you need me to.”

Your heart flutters in your chest. Azriel has a beautiful voice, one you're currently hearing whispering softly in your ear, and a way with words, you'd expect nothing less from a songwriter really. Still, sometimes it made your body all tingly and you were left wondering if you were reading too much into things or if there was more at play between you two. You can't deny that your relationship is different from any other you've ever had, you've never felt this comfortable with someone so quickly.

Letting out another sigh, you pull away from him enough to see his face. Regardless of what he says, you can't actually stay wrapped in his arms and ignore the truth forever. You catch his eyes for the first time tonight and the concern you see in them has you trying to pull yourself together. You don't want to worry him too much, you'd hate to think he was sad because of you. It's bad enough you ruined his night. And Cassian's. You'll have to apologize to his roommate the next time you see him.

It takes you a lot more effort than it should, but you move away from him, unwrapping your arms from around him and sliding off his lap. He lets you, not moving from his position against the headboard, only flexing his hands as if he wanted to reach out when he takes a look at you. You run your hand over your face trying to catch any lingering tears and over your hair, it's still damp from the rain. Gods, you don't know what you were thinking.

“Did I ever tell you about Eleanor?” You know the answer already. Before this whole situation you probably would have found a way to mention her with any new friend you made, she was such an integral part of your life, but now you avoided even saying her name out loud. He shakes his head, straightening himself and staring into your eyes, listening intently.

“Me and Eleanor met when we were kids, we've been friends ever since,” you have to clench your eyes to avoid any more tears at the thought, “She was my best friend. I never thought it would get to this.” You would have believed almost anything over this actually.

“I had this boyfriend through the last years of high school - Parker. I broke up with him right after graduation. I was moving here for university and, honestly, I think I was dating him out of habit at that point. The breakup didn't really affect me much, I was excited to start over in Velaris so I wasn't thinking about it.” You look down at your hands, this is the first time you're telling anyone all of this. “But a few months ago, I got a call from my mom telling me Eleanor and Parker were dating. I was confused because me and El were still talking almost every day and a little hurt that out of everyone she chose him, without at least warning me. I thought it had to be a lie or misunderstanding.”

“I called her asking about it and she confirmed it. That was the last time we talked until today.” You look back up at him, almost forgetting he was there. Actually saying these things out loud was strangely cathartic. “I've been ignoring it the whole semester, I knew knowing more was going to be more painful but I had no more excuses when I went home for break,” you let out a weak sigh, “I went to her house and she told me they only started dating after we broke up,” you can't help the pathetic tremble in your voice, “she said they've been in love since we were dating but they didn't want to hurt me so they didn't say anything. She almost made it sound like they were doing me a favor.”

You get up from the bed, your sadness turning into anger. “I'm not even sure how long they've been fucking behind my back. She told me they only kissed at a couple parties when they were drunk but she was hiding this whole thing from me for months at least so who knows what else she lied about. And if they were in love with each other the whole time me and Parker were together then they must have at least talked about it. I can't even trust her. She was my best friend and I can't even trust her.” You're probably pacing like a crazy person around his room but with everything he's seen in the last hour, you can't even be bothered by it. “Gods, I'm such an idiot.”

“You're not an idiot.” You look back at him. His voice had an edge you've never heard on him before, his words coming out clipped behind a tense jaw. He was angry. “You didn't do anything wrong. She's a bad friend.” Something tells you he had to choose his words and ended up at the least offensive one, not the one he would have prefered to use.

You have to swallow down the instinct to defend her. Azriel was right. What she did to you was awful. She shouldn't have treated you like this, shouldn't have helped your boyfriend cheat on you, even if nothing had happened physically, and definitely shouldn't have pushed you aside so easily, ignoring your almost two decades of friendship over a boy.

You feel your shoulders sag a little, your angry outburst had burned the rest of your energy. It seems Azriel noticed it too because he gets up from the bed and walks over to where you're standing in the middle of his room, reaching out to grab your hand.

“You need to forget about it. They're not worth your tears.” The feeling of his rough skin playing your fingers distracts you momentarily.

“That's easier said than done.” Forgetting Eleanor would be impossible, she's part of your history, and, as much you hate to admit it, so would be forgetting Parker, he was your first boyfriend after all.

“Trust me, I know,” he looks down at your intertwined hands, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, “But lingering in the past doesn't help with anything. You need to let yourself feel it and then move on.” He looks back up at you and touches your cheek softly, wiping at the tears still staining your face. “And it feels like you've felt it enough for today.”

“You're right. It's late I should-”

“I'm not kicking you out,” his face breaks out in a tentative smile, “I'll go get your bag so you can change, your clothes are still damp. Don't want you to get sick. Then we'll get you some food, alright?” You can only nod. Coming here was the right decision, he was being incredibly gentle and caring with you.

He brings you your bag and takes you to the bathroom, telling you to change and clean yourself off a little, disappearing back into his room right after. As soon as you see your face in the mirror you realize he was being nice in his assessment, your entire face was puffy. Even after giving it a good wash you still looked like a mess. It truly looked like you cried your heart out, you suppose you did.

You also use this time to call your mom quickly and let her know you'll be coming home the next day instead. She had probably heard that you had come and gone already because she doesn't even question your decision or the way your voice cracks, small towns are both a blessing and a curse. You wonder what everyone in town was saying now that your ex boyfriend was dating your best friend. You gather your things to move back to Azriel's bedroom before your thoughts catch up to you. He's right, you've cried enough for today, cried a lot more than those two deserve as well.

Looking at yourself in the mirror one more time, you take a deep breath before joining him in his room again. Now that you've settled down more you're not really sure what to do or say. He drops his phone and stands up as soon as he sees you, walking over to take your bag from you and placing it on top of a chair. He changed out of the shirt you covered in tears and snot, you barely noticed since it was the same color as before but this one is tighter, it strains against his back and biceps enough that you have to look away.

With everything going on, you hadn't even looked around his room before. It was fairly simple and organized, the dark furniture and paintings fit his aesthetic in general and the navy comforter and curtains combo contrasted beautifully with the white walls. The low lights cast shadows around, making the room feel cozier too, you could see yourself spending days in here. You notice a couple notebooks sitting on his desk that you suspect he might use to write songs but his bass is missing.

“What?” Your confusion must have shown on your face because he looked more than amused at your obvious snooping.

“Your bass isn't here.”

“We practice upstairs in Rhys' penthouse so I just leave it there most times.” He says walking to the door. “Let's find you something to eat.” You nod before following him.

“You all live close to each other then.” You haven't seen them interact too much but it's obvious how close and comfortable they are with each other, brotherly even.

“Rhys' father owns the whole building,” he chuckles a little at your wide eyed expression, “he rented us this apartment for probably half what everyone else pays.” You look around on your way to what you can see now is the kitchen. It's a big space with high ceilings and lots of windows. You don't even want to think how rich Rhysand's father must be to own such a building.

“It's a really nice apartment.” You take a seat at one of the tall chairs around the kitchen table. The kitchen alone was probably bigger than your own bedroom, even the furniture felt expensive not to mention the marble countertops.

Thinking about it now, it makes sense that Azriel and Cassian couldn't really afford this big of an apartment in such a nice place in the city with their jobs at the record store and the gym, especially with how much you know they invest in their band.

“Yeah.” He opens his fridge and looks inside, trying to find anything to eat. Your stomach finally makes itself known at the thought, you haven't eaten since before the train ride to your hometown. “You should see the view from the top of the building though. It's the best part, I'll take you there sometime.” You watch him give up on his search and open the freezer instead.

“Is this okay?” He holds up a frozen pizza and you nod immediately. You have the same one sitting in your own freezer right now. You do find it cute how it seems like he's a little disappointed that this is the only thing he has to feed you right now. He looks like he was ready to cook you a five course meal.

“More than okay,” you give him a smile and keep talking as he moves to get it prepared, feeling the tension leave your body bit by bit the more you talk to him, “Did Cassian leave?”

“He's probably with Rhys up in his apartment.”

“I feel like I should apologize to him.” You can't imagine the emotions going through him at seeing a girl he barely knows show up crying at his doorstep. “I think I almost gave him a heart attack.”

“You don't have to worry about it,” he comes and sits across from you. “I told him you were feeling better before he left.” That had to have happened while you were in the bathroom. You don't know how good the soundproofing is around the house since you didn't even hear him leave but you hope he at least didn't hear you sobbing for an hour and the short outburst that followed. It's enough that Azriel witnessed it first hand.

“Maybe I should apologize to you too,” you find yourself twirling your thumbs to avoid his gaze, “that was… a lot,” you finish sheepishly.

“You don't have to thank me for anything.” Your eyes find his again, you've found it's hard to look away from him for long, especially if he's talking to you. Azriel is incredibly captivating, even under these fluorescent lights.

“I showed up at your doorstep out of nowhere and just cried my eyes out for over an hour,” you look over to the pizza getting ready in the oven, “and now you're even making me dinner.”

“You can show up at my door every day if you want. I'd rather you weren't crying but if that's what you need then I’ll be here,” the smile he gives you should be illegal, it's almost tempting you to do exactly as he says. “And I'll make you dinner as many times as you want me to,” he looks over to the oven just like you had done before, “I'm not sure this counts as cooking anyway.”

You want to tell him you don't remember the last time someone took care of you so attentively and effortlessly, that not everyone is this compassionate, but decide against it. After dinner comes out of the oven, you busy yourself with eating while Azriel tells you more about the band and their next concert, he's letting you take a breather and leads the conversation, something you're not sure he's used to doing and appreciate immensely.

When you're done and he's cleaning up things, you watch him awkwardly. You didn't have a plan when you came here at all but you definitely didn't expect to stay so long, don't really know what to do or say now after everything is done. It's getting late too so you should really leave and make your way back to your apartment. You cringe softly at the thought of having to go back there after telling your roommate that you wouldn't be back for another couple weeks, she probably took the chance to bring her boyfriend over.

“Come on,” Azriel says as he pats your shoulder softly, telling you to follow him to his bedroom. He probably has work tomorrow as well, you're being a nuisance. You speak up when you get to his bedroom, looking at his comfortable looking bed wistfully.

“I should go home now,” you look over at your bag, not looking forward to carrying it again, “It's getting late.”

“You can stay here,” he looks a little confused, like he had expected you to stay already.

“No, it's fine.” You'd love to stay with him, at least so you knew you wouldn't end up crying in your bed alone while trying not to listen to your roommate and her boyfriend. “My apartment isn't far.”

“I'm not letting you go anywhere.” He reaches up to stroke your cheek, examining your face with a slight pained expression. You hadn't stopped to think about it yet but it seems it's going to take some time before he forgets you sobbing in his arms, these soft touches and worried looks might linger a little. You wonder how your heart is going to handle them, you already have to tell yourself not to let these things get to you too much, that he's only doing them out of friendship, on a regular basis.

“If you think it's not a bother.”

“You could never be a bother.” When his band makes it big there are probably going to be thousands of people that will put up posters of this same smile in their room, you feel blessed to be able to witness it in real time and so intimately.

“We have a guest room but it's full of stuff,” he says as he rubs the back of his neck and looks over in what you assume is the direction of the room he's talking about. He looks a little embarrassed and it makes you wonder just how much and what kind of stuff he's talking about. “I'll stay there so you can sleep here. It's more comfortable anyway.”

“No,” you can't make him sleep in the guest room in his own house after everything he has done for you today, “You stay here, it's your room. I can even stay on the couch, I can sleep anywhere.” After this whole day, you think you could even sleep on the floor.

“I want you to stay here. You need to rest properly.”

“Then…” You let your words trail off. You've already asked so much of him but the way he's looking at you patiently has you working up the courage to make one more request, possibly the biggest one. “Can we both stay here? I'd rather not be alone honestly,” something you can't identify shifts in his eyes and it makes you rush to assure him, “only if you're comfortable that is.”

“I should be the one asking you that.” Did his voice get deeper? It feels like it.

“I don't mind.” You feel more than comfortable with him, you would trust him with your life really.

The problem is trying not to get flustered at just the thought of sleeping next to him. You had spent a good while cuddling up to him, sitting on his lap, but it had been the last thing on your mind. Now, as soon as you feel him lay down next to you and pull the covers over the both of you, laying facing you, he's the only thing in your mind.

He watches you for a second, studying your reactions to him, before reaching out to you and holding your waist softly. You nod instantly, but it's only after he pulls you closer to him that you realize this is what he meant. He lays down on his back and you lay your head down on his chest, letting your hand rest on his torso tentatively.

The moon and the few lights filtering through the window cast a bluish glow around his room and the soft beat of his heart starts lulling you to sleep almost immediately. It makes you relax further in his hold, shifting slightly to find the perfect spot against him.

“You're warm,” you mumble sleepily. He only hums in response, tucking you better in his sheets. It makes you smile against his chest.

You want to tell him it would be impossible to get cold when he's as warm as a furnace, that you usually don't wear sweatpants to bed either but, by the way he had awkwardly looked for clothes to sleep in earlier, you think he probably would be wearing a lot less if it weren't for you too. You really wouldn't mind feeling his skin on yours but you appreciate the thought.

“Sleep now, princess,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss your forehead softly. Princess? Your heart stutters in your chest but you're so tired that your body obeys him almost immediately, not giving you time to linger on the kiss or the nickname. And as you're laying in his arms, you don't feel so lost anymore.

taglist: @bookishbroadwaybish

[faith-forgxtten-land]

Hi! Do you think you can write something for Donatello? Maybe the reader wakes up and he's in bed for once and its very soft

Serenity | Donatello

hi! of course i can! you didn't specify what version of donnie you wanted so i went with bayverse because i'm kind of on a roll with that iteration atm so... also there is a severe lack of bayverse donnie gifs

warnings: nothing really. suggestive? subtle morse code that isn't explicitly mentioned... which isn't a warning unless you consider morse code scandalous? everyone is 18+!!! also there's like no proofreading so reading is always at your own risk but if you ever notice any, please do point out any spelling/grammar etc. errors!

summary: you wake up before donnie who's actually in bed (it's a miracle)

word count: 859

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The first thing you hear is the distant whirring of technology. You don’t bother to open your eyes as you shift your hips ever so slightly to seek a more comfortable position now that you’re slowly gaining consciousness. Pausing your lethargic movements, you become keenly aware of the heavy and solid weight curled around you that most definitely hadn’t been there when you first fell asleep. You breathe in deep. A musty scent of oil and sweat and something you’re sure isn’t pleasant hits you. It’s so him that you don’t even wrinkle your nose. Instead, you reach out a hand and find his skin.

You can feel him breathing like this. It’s slow and steady and your heart feels like bursting. You press closer and your lips smile against the swell of his arm. A few soft kisses won’t wake him, you decide, pressing them gently over his scales. He doesn’t stir as you link your fingers with his. His arm is heavy with muscle, but you manage to lift the dead weight to your mouth, breathing the softest of kisses all over the flesh. It’s so different and so much bigger than your own but your hands fit together perfectly. You open your eyes, only a little blearily, and you imagine the silliest heart emojis that replace them as you stare in quiet reverence.

He’s so perfect it hurts. He’s snoring quietly, more of a whistle really, and his mouth is open with his glasses askew. He looks so cosy and dorky and unbelievably Donnie that you have to stifle a lovesick giggle. He looks both serene and tired at the same time and you can’t believe he actually came to bed of his own volition. Getting him to bed is a Herculean effort at the best of times, for him to sleep – in an actual bed – without your nagging insistence and underhand tricks is nothing short of a miracle. He’s still wearing his suspenders too and you think, a little wryly, that perhaps he was more tired than even he realised.

Your hand cups his face and you rub your thumb over his jaw, in awe at the man beneath your palm and feeling a little silly over how emotional you're being. His face twitches and you pause your ministrations, holding your breath. You don’t want to wake him; he must’ve been exhausted and you’re not sure how long he’s been asleep beside you. He continues to sleep, and you breathe again, this time pressing your lips to his neck. 

I love you, you mouth against his skin. I love you so much. He must feel it, whether he feels you physically or as deep in his being as you feel him, because he churrs softly and it makes your eyes burn. God, you’re so in love. You’ve been in love with him for so long you can’t remember what it felt like before he came into your life. You’re not really sure what’s coming over you this morning (is it morning? It’s not like you can see the sunrise like this) but as your lips tremble you find that you don’t mind. Donnie deserves to be loved like this, wholly and reverently, and you vow, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, to love him like this forever. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that. The position isn’t the most comfortable and you can feel the pain in your neck that runs along your spine, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You want this moment to last as long as it possibly can and you’re thankful that the Lair is peaceful for once. There are no noises to indicate any of the others are up and you hope it stays that way, just for a while longer.

Your wish is almost immediately denied as you hear a crash and brazen laughter that can only belong to Mikey (followed, of course, by an annoyed bellow that can only belong to Raph) and you can’t help the quiet snort even as the turtle beside you is disturbed from his slumber.

Donnie shifts and his snout is buried in your neck as he inhales, and you’re only given a few seconds to mourn the loss of his sleeping state (he really needs to sleep more) before he kisses your fluttering pulse, and you sigh in pleasure. His hand – the one you’re not keeping hostage still – grips your bare thigh and you push yourself closer as his teeth graze the sensitive skin along the column of your throat. He doesn’t speak, choosing instead to tap a message along your skin as his hands caress upwards. I love you too.

You smile so wide it hurts your jaw. “You’re such a nerd,” you whisper, your voice thick and huskier than usual. He just brings his teeth together again, leaving little teasing bites, and taps your inner thigh once more. You shudder slightly and acquiesce his request, spreading your legs further for him and letting him rub higher and higher.

The two of you stay in bed until the afternoon.

[sirenedeslily]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ‎𐦍 𝐜hristopher 𝐬turniolo

❛you have so much to do, and i have nothing ahead of me.❜

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, in the bustling streets of new york city, a struggling artist burdened by her mother's chaos meets chris, a vibrant spirit who reignites her dormant passion for art. as their connection deepens through museum visits and intimate conversations, y/n is torn between the weight of her sacrifices and the allure of newfound love. when their paths inevitably part, chris must confront the heartache of losing the muse who transformed his art, while y/n faces the painful reality of her shattered dreams, forever haunted by the ephemeral beauty of their once-shared moments.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, angst, mentions of emotional and physical neglect, fluffy moments, mental health struggles, open ending (sorry)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭, 13.9k !

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬, this is based on the song “your best american girl” by mitski aswell as “fake plastic trees” by radiohead. this one took everything out of me to write so i apologize if the writing isn’t its best or if it gets repetitive in anyway, i really tried chat. idk if y’all could tell but i got inspired by little women (2019) and eternal sunshine of the spotless mind for some scenes. ANYWAYS this is dedicated to gf @sweetangelgirl7 !! love u so very much sweets

standing behind the counter of the bustling café, you were enveloped by the rich aroma of coffee beans mingling with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of cups. the everyday symphony wrapped around you like a familiar song. as the door swung open, a rush of summer air and the distant murmur of traffic stirred the atmosphere. you glanced up from the drawing you had been mindlessly sketching, your pencil pausing mid-air

a man entered, his presence commanding attention like a character stepping out of a film. dressed in a denim jacket and worn jeans, his curly hair framed his face with an effortless charm. his striking blue eyes, a shade reminiscent of clear summer skies, scanned the menu before locking onto yours. he approached the counter with an easy, unpretentious smile.

"hi there," he said, his voice a blend of warmth and curiosity. "what do you recommend for someone who needs a bit of inspiration?"

a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, a reflex of shared understanding. "i’d say a mocha with an extra shot of espresso. it’s got just the right amount of kick to get the creative juices flowing."

"perfect," he replied, nodding appreciatively. "i’ll have one of those. and maybe a blueberry scone, if you’ve got any left."

you quickly prepared his order, your hands moving with practiced ease, though a curious sense of anticipation fluttered in your chest. as you handed him the steaming cup and the scone, your fingers brushed briefly, sending a fleeting spark of something unfamiliar through you.

"here you go," you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "one mocha with an extra shot and a blueberry scone. that’ll be $6.50."

he handed you a ten-dollar bill, his gaze lingering on you just a moment longer than necessary. "keep the change," he said with a smile. "thanks for the recommendation...?"

"y/n," you supplied, feeling a warmth spread through you at his genuine interest.

"y/n," he repeated, savoring the sound of your name like a cherished word. "nice to meet you. i’m chris."

"nice to meet you too, chris," you replied, noticing as he glanced at the sketchbook you had left open. his eyes widened slightly, a look of recognition crossing his face. "you drew this just now?" he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"uh, yeah," you said, a bit self-conscious. "it’s nothing really. i just like to doodle from time to time."

he continued to study the page, which depicted a scene from fallen angel, a film that had left an indelible mark on your imagination. his gaze softened with genuine admiration. "you’ve perfectly captured the essence of the scene. it’s one of my favorite movies."

a blush crept into your cheeks at his compliment. "thank you. i really love the cinematography of it all."

"i completely agree. i seriously believe that if a movie has shitty visuals, it undermines its entire meaning." his candidness made you smile, intrigued by the easy rapport that had sprung up between you.

as chris took a sip of his mocha, his eyes met yours again, a spark of connection kindling between you. the café, with its familiar sounds and smells, seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you, suspended in a moment that felt both ordinary and extraordinary. he lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting back to your sketchbook. "do you draw often?" he asked, genuine curiosity colouring his tone.

"every chance i get," you admitted, feeling a strange mix of shyness and pride. "it helps me unwind."

chris nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "i get that. i paint when i need to clear my head. something about creating, you know?"

you did know. the act of creation, whether with words or images, was a sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside. "what do you paint?" you asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely interested.

"mostly landscapes," he said, a hint of sheepishness in his voice. "i love capturing the way light changes throughout the day."

the two of you stood there, the café bustling around you, but in your corner of the world, time seemed to slow. you shared a smile that felt like an unspoken understanding, a shared secret between kindred spirits.

glancing at his watch, chris had a flicker of regret crossing his features. "i should get going, but i'd love to talk more about your art. maybe over coffee sometime?”

you felt a spark of excitement. "i’d like that," you said, the words simple but sincere.

chris handed you a small card with his contact information. "shoot me a text when you're free," he said, his smile warm and hopeful. "i'd love to see more of your work."

"i will," you promised, tucking the card safely into your pocket.

as chris turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back one last time. "thanks for the inspiration, y/n," he called out, his voice carrying a note of something almost magical.

you watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving you with a sense of possibility hanging in the air. the café resumed its regular rhythm, but everything felt just a bit brighter, a bit more hopeful.

returning to your sketch, you found your pencil moving with renewed energy, capturing the scene with a fresh perspective. the encounter with chris had ignited something within you, a spark that you knew would fuel your creativity for days to come.

𝜗𝒞

the shift ended, and you slipped out of your apron, folding it neatly as you prepared to leave. the evening light bathed the city streets in a warm, golden hue, a stark contrast to the cold, fluorescent lights of the café. you walked home, the sketchbook tucked under your arm, your thoughts drifting back to chris and his easy smile.

home was a small apartment on the edge of town, where the rent was cheap, and the walls were thin. you unlocked the door, stepping into the familiar clutter of dishes in the sink, laundry waiting to be folded, and your mother sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey within arm's reach. she barely acknowledged your arrival, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the television.

"dinners in the fridge," you said softly, knowing she would not respond. she rarely did these days, lost in her own world of regret and resentment. you had grown up with a mother who was more like a ghost, always there but never present. her dreams had died long ago, and she had never forgiven you for being the living reminder of what she had lost.

you heated up a leftover meal, sitting at the small kitchen table with your sketchbook open in front of you. the pencil moved by itself, lines and shapes taking form as you lost yourself in the act of creation. drawing was your escape, your way of coping with the harsh realities of your life. silence was loud in your home; drawing helped you drown its achingly loud quietness. it was in these moments that you felt most alive, the weight of your responsibilities lifting, if only for a little while.

as the night wore on, you were consumed by thoughts of your future—or rather, the lack of it. once, you had dreamed of becoming an artist, envisioning your work gracing galleries and museums. but those dreams now felt impossibly distant, eclipsed by the relentless need to support yourself and your mother. your father had vanished by the time you were nine, leaving you and your mom to fend for yourselves. at least, until her accident. after that, it was you against the world, while she retreated into a haze of painkillers and alcohol.

you were so intelligent that you began tutoring your fellow classmates. at first, the tutoring income covered the bills, but when your mother started siphoning your money for her drugs, you had to take on another job as well. juggling multiple jobs to keep the bills paid, you eventually had to abandon your education as the financial pressures mounted. despite everything, you kept your mind sharp by devouring countless books.

stealing moments to draw whenever you could, you clung to your passion in the scant free time you had. it was a precarious balance, and more often than not, you felt as though you were barely holding on. yet, there was something about chris that had reignited a spark within you. his passion for art and his unwavering belief in following your dreams resonated deeply. for the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope—not necessarily for yourself, but for the world. his contagious smile and confidence in his future provided a comforting reminder that, for some people, there is light at the end of the tunnel. even if it was not your tunnel, knowing that it existed for someone else brought a sense of solace.

𝜗𝒞

the days that followed were a blur of work and stolen moments with your sketchbook. you found yourself looking forward to your shifts at the café, hoping to see chris again. it was a slow afternoon when he walked in, his presence like a breath of fresh air.

“hey, y/n,” he greeted, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “got time for a break?”

you glanced at the clock, then at your manager, who nodded with a small smile. “sure,” you replied, your heart skipping a beat. you made two mochas and joined him at a corner table.

“how’s the art going?” chris asked, sipping his drink.

you shrugged, feeling a mix of pride and self-consciousness. “i draw whenever i can. it’s hard to find the time.”

chris nodded thoughtfully. “i get that. life has a way of getting in the way, doesn’t it?” he pulled out a small notebook from his jacket. “mind if i show you something?”

curiosity piqued, you nodded. he flipped open the notebook to reveal sketches, each one more beautiful than the last. some depicted serene landscapes bathed in the golden glow of sunset, while others captured the stark, haunting beauty of a storm rolling in over a rugged coastline. the detail and emotion in each piece were astounding, the kind of art that made you feel something deep in your soul.

“these are incredible,” you said, genuinely impressed. “you really captured its light. even in the darkest ones, i can still see some sort of radiance.”

chris smiled, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes, a shadow of vulnerability. “thanks. painting has always been a way for me to process things, to make sense of the world. some of these are from when i was in a really dark place.”

you looked closer at the sketches, noticing the subtle differences in tone and style. one piece, a vivid sunrise over a peaceful meadow, seemed to radiate hope and renewal. in contrast, another sketch showed a desolate, wind-swept landscape under a brooding sky, the sense of isolation almost palpable.

“these two,” you said, pointing to the contrasting pieces. “they feel so different from each other. what was going on when you drew them?”

chris glanced at the sketches and sighed, a mixture of nostalgia and pain crossing his face. “the sunrise was when i first moved out here, trying to start fresh and find some direction. it was a hopeful time, full of possibility. but the other one,” he said, pointing to the darker piece, “was during a period when everything felt like it was falling apart. i had just lost a part of me, and i felt completely alone.”

you could hear the raw emotion in his voice, the weight of his past struggles. “i’m sorry,” you said softly. “it’s amazing how you can convey so much through your art. it’s like i can feel what you were going through.”

he nodded, a small, grateful smile on his lips. “that’s what i love about art. it’s a way to communicate things that words can’t always capture. it’s been a lifeline for me, in more ways than one.”

as you looked through more of his sketches, you saw a range of emotions and experiences, each one telling a different story. there were joyful moments, like a vibrant carnival scene filled with laughter and light, and somber ones, like a lonely figure standing in the rain, the sadness almost tangible. each piece was a window into chris’s soul, a testament to his resilience and creativity.

“what about you? got any new sketches?” he questioned, his blue eyes boring into yours as you looked up from his pieces.

you hesitated, then pulled out your sketchbook, flipping to a recent drawing. it revealed two evocative paintings, each depicting a moment of solitude. on the left, an overhead view showed a figure seated in a bathtub, their back exposed, water enveloping them in a quiet embrace. on the right, a close-up focused on the same individual, their face partially submerged, eyes closed in deep reflection. the delicate brushstrokes and soft colours conveyed intimacy and vulnerability.

chris studied it intently. “this is incredible, y/n. you have a true gift for capturing pure and raw emotion.”

you spent the rest of the break talking about art, techniques, and favourite artists. it was the first of many conversations that deepened your bond. chris became a regular at the café, and you found yourself looking forward to his visits. he encouraged you to keep drawing, to explore different styles, and to believe in your talent.

𝜗𝒞

for months, you had felt an undeniable connection to chris. his enthusiasm was infectious, spreading through you like wildfire and lingering long after he had left the coffee shop. after those first few weeks of him showing up without fail, ordering his mocha and whatever pastry was available, and watching you as you deftly managed the morning rush, he started inviting you on little adventures.

it wasn’t that you didn’t want to join him; it was that you couldn’t. between your shifts at the café and helping the seemingly endless stream of students cramming for finals, you barely had time to breathe, let alone take a night off. but chris had a way of chipping away at your resolve, a determined persistence that wouldn’t let you ignore your own needs. for every reason you had to say no, he always had two more reasons why you should say yes.

“i got us tickets to this exhibition in manhattan,” chris announced one afternoon, his excitement like a burst of sunlight in the room as you focused on the espresso machine.

you sighed, glancing up at him briefly as you handed a latte to a waiting customer. “chris, i can’t just hop over to manhattan and back to brooklyn in one night. not this week, anyway.”

his smile faltered, but only for a moment. “you can’t say no without at least asking me when it is, moonie,” he teased, leaning against the counter.

“moonie?” you raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-bemused.

chris’s grin widened, his eyes dancing with mischief. “yeah, moonie. like the moon. always there, casting light on everyone else but keeping just out of reach. you shine for everyone else, but you stay hidden in the shadows yourself.”

you tried to keep the smile off your face, but it slipped through anyway. “alright, sunny, i appreciate it, but i have responsibilities. my mom, my job—i can’t just drop everything on a whim.”

his expression softened as he leaned in closer, his voice dipping into a serious tone. “i know, but you deserve to live a little, too. you’re always taking care of everyone else. who’s taking care of you?”

his words hit you like a gentle nudge, stirring something deep inside. you’d always been the one to shoulder the burdens, to be the provider, the one who put others first. but here was chris, looking at you like you were something more than that—as if you could be more.

“just think about it,” he urged softly. “one night. it’s not the end of the world. it could be a beginning.”

you exhaled, feeling the weight of your responsibilities pressing down on you. yet, chris’s earnestness was hard to resist. “fine,” you said finally, a small smile playing at your lips. “what’s the date?”

chris’s face lit up like the dawn. “next friday. i’ll pick you up at six.”

“next friday,” you echoed, your emotions a tangled mix of anxiety and excitement.

chris’s smile turned thoughtful as he recalled something from earlier. “sunny, huh?” he chuckled, catching your eye.

you looked at him, puzzled for a moment, before the memory clicked. “oh, right. sunny,” you laughed softly. “yeah, like the sun—always casting light, even on the darkest days.”

he stared at you, his smile growing warmer, more intimate. “sunny and moonie,” he murmured, as if testing the words. “i like that.”

chris had a way of making the ordinary seem extraordinary, and soon enough, you found yourself counting down the days until that friday. the nickname exchange was just one example of how he made things feel special—how he saw the world in a light you had long forgotten to look for. where you saw endless shadows, he saw the stars peeking through.

𝜗𝒞

the days flew by, a blur of coffee cups and late-night study sessions. but every time you thought of friday, there was a flicker of something different inside you—something you hadn’t felt in a long time. maybe it was the idea of finally allowing yourself to step out of the shadows, if only for a night. maybe it was just chris, and the way he seemed to believe that you deserved the world.

when friday finally arrived, you were nervous. your usual routine was a safety net, one you had clung to for years. but there was also a thrill in breaking out of it, in letting someone like chris pull you into his world of light.

true to his word, chris was there at six, waiting outside your door with that signature grin of his. he looked almost too perfect, standing there with his tousled hair and a casual confidence that made you feel both excited and a little out of your depth.

“you look amazing,” he said when you stepped out, and even though you had spent more time getting ready than usual, his words still made your cheeks warm.

“thanks,” you replied, feeling a bit awkward under his gaze. “you don’t look too bad yourself.”

he laughed at that, a warm, easy sound that made you smile in spite of yourself. “ready for our adventure, moonie?”

you nodded, feeling that mix of nerves and excitement again. “ready.”

𝜗𝒞

the train ride into manhattan was filled with easy conversation, chris making you laugh with his stories and little observations about the world around you. he had a way of making you forget your worries, of making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could allow yourself this one night.

when you arrived at the exhibition, it was like stepping into another world. the gallery was alive with colour and light, the walls covered in art that seemed to pulse with life. chris guided you through the crowd, his hand brushing against yours as he led you to the first piece.

“what do you see?” he asked, his voice low, as if the art demanded a kind of reverence.

you looked at the painting in front of you, taking in the swirling colors and bold strokes. it was beautiful, but there was something about it that felt... heavy. the colors, though vibrant, seemed to carry a weight, a sadness that lingered beneath the surface.

“it’s... complicated,” you said finally, searching for the right words. “it’s like there’s something hidden beneath all the color. something... sad.”

chris tilted his head, considering your words. “i can see that,” he said, surprising you. “but i also see hope in it. like the colors are fighting against the darkness, refusing to be overshadowed.”

you glanced at him, seeing the art through his eyes for a moment. it was strange, how two people could look at the same thing and see something entirely different. yet, there was a beauty in that too—in the way he found light where you saw shadows.

as you moved through the gallery, you found yourselves interpreting each piece in a similar way. where you saw struggle and sorrow, chris found hope and resilience. it was like you were seeing two sides of the same coin, both valid in their own way.

but as the night wore on, you started to realize something. maybe it wasn’t just the art that was different for each of you. maybe it was the way you saw the world—how your experiences had shaped you into someone who expected the worst, while chris seemed to believe in the best.

it was a thought that lingered in your mind as you left the gallery, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement as you walked side by side. chris was talking about the exhibition, his voice animated, but you were only half-listening, lost in your own thoughts.

when you finally reached your apartment building, the reality of the night came crashing down. this was the moment where most dates would end with an invitation inside, but you couldn’t do that. you couldn’t let him see the world you lived in, the mess you kept hidden behind closed doors.

chris stopped in front of your door, his smile softening as he looked at you. “i had a great time tonight, moonie.”

“me too,” you admitted, even though your mind was already racing with excuses. “thank you for inviting me.”

he stepped closer, his hand finding yours in a way that felt both natural and electric. “can i see you again?”

you nodded, though the words felt like a promise you weren’t sure you could keep. “i’d like that.”

he hesitated for a moment, then leaned in to kiss you. it was soft, tentative—like he was giving you a chance to pull away. but you didn’t. you let yourself have this moment, let yourself feel something other than the weight of the world on your shoulders.

when he finally pulled back, he smiled at you, a little breathless. “goodnight, moonie.”

“goodnight, sunny,” you replied, your heart still racing as you watched him walk away.

you waited until he was out of sight before turning to unlock your door, the spell of the night slowly fading. inside, your mother’s voice drifted from the living room, a reminder of the life you couldn’t escape. the excitement of the evening was already being overshadowed by the reality waiting for you behind that door.

but as you closed the door behind you, you couldn’t help but smile, just a little. maybe you couldn’t let chris into your world—not yet—but for the first time in a long time, you felt like there might be a way out of the shadows. and that was something.

𝜗𝒞

from then on, chris would whisk you away to every exhibition new york had to offer. each outing was carefully orchestrated to fit around your work schedule, and when they didn’t align, he would appear with bags full of treats for you and your students. on the days you worked at the café, you’d often find him seated at a table nearby, lost in the world of his sketches. occasionally, your eyes would meet, an unspoken conversation passing between you.

you couldn’t quite fathom why he went to such lengths to be with you or why he chose to spend his time in your presence. each encounter, wrapped in the glow of café lights or the muted brilliance of gallery walls, left you both puzzled and enchanted. his presence was a gentle constant, like a soft murmur of wind that stirred the leaves of your daily routine. as you navigated your days, his quiet dedication painted a new layer to your life’s canvas, one you hadn’t anticipated but couldn’t ignore.

in those fleeting moments of shared glances and unspoken understanding, you found yourself drawn to him, grappling with the inexplicable warmth of his affection. it was as if he saw something in you—something hidden, yet profoundly significant—and his efforts to bridge the gaps in your lives became a silent testament to his feelings.

despite your confusion, there was a growing realization within you, like a hidden spring slowly unfreezing. his presence wasn’t just a backdrop to your days; it was a catalyst, nudging you toward something you hadn’t yet defined. and with each passing day, you began to wonder if perhaps you were both searching for a place where your paths might finally converge. as the weeks passed, the rhythm of your days began to harmonize with chris’s presence. the city, once a cacophony of distant dreams and scattered hopes, now seemed to pulse with a new, vibrant energy. his frequent visits to the café and his thoughtful interruptions of your routine became a comforting cadence, a reminder that you were not alone in your solitary journey.

in those quiet moments when he would sketch or when you’d catch his gaze from across the room, there was a subtle dance of connection that unfolded—a delicate interplay of curiosity and affection. you noticed how he would sometimes pause, his eyes reflecting a quiet intensity, as if searching for something within you. and in those moments, you couldn’t help but feel that he was unraveling parts of you you hadn’t even known existed.

you started to understand that his attention was not just an act of devotion but a mirror revealing facets of yourself you had kept hidden. each exhibition, each thoughtful gesture, was not just about sharing experiences but about creating a bridge between your worlds. his presence was a reminder that amidst the noise and chaos of life, there was still room for understanding and connection.

though you continued to question the reasons behind his unwavering commitment, a tender curiosity began to blossom within you. you found yourself looking forward to his visits, savoring the way he seemed to fill the gaps in your life with warmth and sincerity. and as the seasons changed, so did your perspective, gradually shifting from bewilderment to a quiet acceptance of the possibility that perhaps, in some way, he was meant to be a part of your story. the rhythm of your life continued to intertwine with chris’s, each day offering new layers to this unfolding connection. his persistent presence brought a warmth that seeped into the corners of your routine, transforming the mundane into something infused with new possibilities. the exhibitions, once a distant dream, now became a shared adventure, each outing a testament to his belief in the beauty of the world and your place within it.

you found yourself eagerly awaiting these moments of escape, the gallery visits becoming more than just breaks from routine. they were brief but intense encounters with a world beyond the confines of your daily struggles. chris’s enthusiasm was a contagious force, drawing you into a vibrant dance of discovery and appreciation.

one crisp evening, as winter's chill began to settle over the city, chris arrived with a surprise. "i thought we’d do something different tonight," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "how about a stroll through the city lights?"

"i have to tutor carl, remember?" you replied, removing your apron with a wistful smile.

"actually, no you don’t," chris said, his smile widening. "i talked to matt, and he said he’d be okay with taking over for tonight." matt, chris's brother, was a harvard student back in new york for winter break. his brilliance was well-known, and you trusted him implicitly.

"oh, okay," you agreed, curiosity piqued. as you walked together through the illuminated streets, the city's energy felt different—more alive, more hopeful. the cool air was invigorating, and with chris by your side, the world seemed to expand, revealing hidden layers of beauty and potential.

as you meandered through the sparkling streets, your conversations flowed freely, punctuated by moments of comfortable silence. chris shared stories of his childhood and the small joys he found in everyday moments. you, in turn, opened up about your own dreams and fears, the walls of your carefully guarded heart slowly coming down.

each street corner revealed a new vista of light and shadow, and with every step, you felt a deeper connection to the city—and to chris. the evening felt like a canvas painted with the *colors* of possibility, each shared laugh and heartfelt conversation adding a new brushstroke to the picture of your evolving bond. the city lights cast a warm glow over the street, their reflections dancing in the cold, darkened windows of nearby buildings. chris and you had walked for hours, your steps and breaths synchronizing in a rhythm of shared moments and unspoken connection. now, standing under a canopy of snow-dusted trees, he stopped abruptly, turning to face you with an intensity that made your heart leap.

“y/n,” he began, his voice a low murmur, almost lost in the hum of the city. “i can’t keep this to myself any longer. being with you these past months… it’s been like finding a part of myself i didn’t know was missing.”

you felt your heart pound, a mixture of hope and fear swirling within you. “chris, i…”

he stepped closer, his gaze never wavering. “let me finish, please,” he implored, his expression earnest. “you’ve become the most important person in my life. your strength, your talent, the way you see the world—it’s all so beautiful to me. i find myself wanting to share everything with you, to be there for you in ways i’ve never wanted with anyone else.”

tears welled up in your eyes, and you blinked them back, trying to hold onto the walls you had built so carefully. “chris, i’m scared. i’ve spent so long being strong, keeping everything inside. letting you in… it’s terrifying.”

he took your hands in his, his touch gentle and r reassuring. “i know,” he whispered. “and i’m not asking you to change or to be anyone other than who you are. i just want to be there for you, to share your burdens and your joys. i want to love you, y/n.”

his words hung in the air, a fragile promise. you felt the weight of his sincerity, the depth of his feelings. and as much as fear gripped your heart, there was also a yearning—a desire to step into the light he offered.

“i don’t know if i can,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “i’ve been hurt before, and the thought of being vulnerable again…”

chris’s eyes softened with understanding. “you don’t have to decide right now. but i want you to know that i’m here, and i’m not going anywhere. you’re worth the risk, y/n. you’re worth everything.”

in that moment, something inside you shifted. the fear didn’t disappear, but it was tempered by a glimmer of hope. and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in, closing the distance between you. your lips met his in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, a silent confession of your own.

the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of warmth and possibility. when you finally pulled back, you saw the same hope reflected in chris’s eyes, a promise of a future you had never dared to dream.

𝜗𝒞

from that night on, your life took on a new rhythm, one marked by shared moments and unspoken understandings. chris continued to surprise you with outings, each one designed to pull you further from your cocoon of fear and into the light of his affection.

each weekend, you found yourselves wandering through various art museums, chris always with a thoughtful expression, you with a mix of curiosity and wariness. at the metropolitan museum of art, you stood before a grand, sweeping landscape painting. chris’s eyes lit up as he took in the vibrant colours, the play of light on the canvas.

“look at how the artist captures the dawn,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “it’s like you can feel the hope and promise of a new day.

you studied the painting, seeing instead the lone figure in the foreground, a small silhouette against the vastness of the landscape. “i see solitude,” you murmured. “a person standing alone, facing the immensity of the world. it’s beautiful, but also so lonely.”

chris turned to you, a thoughtful smile on his lips. “i never thought of it that way. i guess that’s what makes art so incredible—how we can see the same piece so differently.”

𝜗𝒞

at the museum of modern art, you stood before a striking abstract piece, all bold lines and vibrant colours. chris saw movement and energy, the potential for change and growth. you saw chaos, the struggle to find order in the midst of confusion.

“it’s like life,” you said, your voice soft. “so much happening at once, and we’re just trying to make sense of it all.”

chris nodded, his expression contemplative. “but there’s beauty in that struggle, don’t you think? in the way we keep going, keep finding our way through the chaos.”

𝜗𝒞

as the weeks passed, your differing interpretations became a dance, each one revealing more about yourselves and each other. chris’s unwavering optimism was a balm to your often weary soul, while your introspective views grounded his boundless enthusiasm.

one evening, as you strolled through a lesser-known gallery, you stopped before a small, delicate watercolour. it depicted a single tree, its branches reaching skyward, its roots firmly planted in the earth. the simplicity of the image spoke to you in a way few pieces had.

“roots and wings,” chris said softly, his arm slipping around your waist. “the tree is both grounded and reaching for the sky. it’s like us, finding our place in the world while still dreaming of what could be.”

you leaned into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his presence seep into your bones. “maybe,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “maybe we’re finding our way together.”

in the quiet of the gallery, surrounded by art that spoke in myriad voices, you realized that you were no longer alone. chris’s love had become a guiding light, illuminating the path before you. and as you looked up at him, you saw not just a lover, but a partner, someone who saw the world through a lens of hope and possibility, and who was teaching you to do the same.

the journey was far from over, but for the first time in a long while, you felt a sense of peace, a quiet assurance that with chris by your side, you could face whatever came next. and as you walked hand in hand through the gallery, you knew that the future, with all its uncertainties, held a promise of beauty and love yet to be discovered.

the night air was crisp, a faint whisper of winter's end curling through the streets as you and chris strolled back from yet another gallery. the city's lights twinkled like stars that had descended to earth, casting a soft glow that danced in your eyes. you walked in companionable silence, your hearts speaking in the quiet moments between words.

as you neared your apartment, a familiar tension began to creep into your chest. you could feel chris’s gaze on you, his presence a comforting warmth against the chill. yet, with each step closer to your building, the weight of your reality pressed down on you. your mother, the disarray, the stark contrast to the beauty and light chris brought into your life—it all felt too much to reveal.

chris paused at the entrance of your building, turning to face you. his blue eyes, the color of a summer sky, held a depth of emotions you weren't sure you were ready to face. he reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“i had a wonderful time tonight,” he said softly, his voice a soothing balm to your anxious heart.

“me too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. the fear of what lay beyond this moment was a shadow in your mind, threatening to eclipse the light chris brought.

chris took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. “i know you have your reasons for not letting me in, for keeping this part of your life hidden. but i want you to know that i care about you, y/n. all of you. your art, your strength, your vulnerabilities—everything.”

his words pierced through the walls you had built, each one a gentle push against your defenses. you opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat, tangled with the fear and shame you carried.

before you could respond, chris stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “you don’t have to be perfect or have everything figured out. i’m here, and i want to be here. for you.”

tears welled in your eyes, the weight of his sincerity almost too much to bear. you looked up at him, seeing not just the man who had become your anchor, but a beacon of hope in a life that often felt too heavy to navigate alone.

“chris—” your voice broke, the words dissolving into the cold night air. but chris understood. he always did.

without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a softness that spoke volumes. the kiss was a promise, a silent vow that transcended the fears and uncertainties that plagued your heart. it was a moment of connection, of shared vulnerability, that neither of you could deny.

when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, seeking the reassurance you struggled to give. “i’ll wait, y/n. as long as it takes.”

you nodded, the tears finally spilling over as you whispered, “thank you.”

chris smiled, a bittersweet curve of his lips that held the promise of understanding and patience. “goodnight, y/n,” he said, pressing a final, tender kiss to your forehead before turning to leave.

you watched him go, a mixture of relief and longing twisting in your chest. the night felt colder without him, the weight of your reality settling back over you like a heavy cloak. yet, as you turned to enter your building, a small flame of hope burned within you, kindled by chris’s unwavering support.

one day, you thought. one day, you would find the strength to let him in completely. until then, you would carry this night with you, a reminder that love and understanding could pierce even the darkest corners of your life.

as the weeks passed, you and chris continued to explore the city's art museums. every night would end the same way, with chris walking you home, lingering at the doorstep with a kiss that held all the promises of tomorrow. and every night, you would retreat into your world, holding onto the hope that one day, you would find the courage to let him in completely.

chris’s footsteps echoed through the silent hallway as he approached the door. he knocked on your door, his heart heavy with a mixture of hope and confusion. when the door finally swung open, his eyes searched for a sign of the warmth and openness he’d come to expect from their evenings together. but the darkness of the living room, the disheveled remnants of a life in disarray, struck him like a cold wind.

“are you ever going to let me in?” chris asked softly, the question laced with the delicate edges of frustration and concern. his voice trembled, not from anger but from the sting of being so close yet so distanced.

your eyes, shadowed by the dim light from the hallway, flared with a sudden intensity. “it’s not about letting you in. it’s about what’s behind this door.”

chris stepped closer, his gaze fixed on you. “i don’t understand. i thought we were building something together. but every time i try to get close, you shut me out.”

“building something?” your voice was a mere whisper, yet it carried the weight of countless sleepless nights. “do you think you can simply erase the mess of my life with your visits and your hopeful smiles?”

“i’m not trying to erase anything,” chris insisted. “i want to be here for you, to understand. but you keep pushing me away.”

“and i keep pushing you away because i don’t want you to see this,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the cluttered, sorrowful room. “it’s not just a room; it’s my entire world, falling apart. i don’t want you to see how i live, how i struggle.”

chris’s expression softened, though frustration still clouded his features. “but isn’t part of being together facing those struggles? you don’t have to hide from me.”

your eyes shimmered with a blend of pain and resignation. “you say that now, but what happens when you see the full picture? when you see that my life is a perpetual struggle, not a picture-perfect canvas?”

chris’s voice rose, filled with an aching intensity. “why do you think i’d turn away? why do you believe that knowing the full picture would change how i feel about you?”

“because,” you retorted, your voice breaking, “because it’s not just about how you feel about me. it’s about what you’ll see in me—the chaos, the failures, the person i can’t escape from.”

chris’s frustration boiled over. “you’re not a failure! and you’re not your circumstances. but you have to let me see who you really are, not just the part you choose to show.”

your face crumpled with anguish. “you don’t understand. the chaos, the disarray—it’s not just an obstacle. it’s a reflection of everything i’ve had to sacrifice, every dream i’ve had to let go. you think you can just walk in and fix it all?”

“i don’t want to fix it all,” chris said, his voice heavy with a plea for understanding. “i want to be here with you, through all of it. but you’re not letting me in.”

there was a long, painful silence. your shoulders slumped, your defenses faltering. “i do not know how to let you in. i have spent so long building walls to keep everyone out. i’m afraid that if i let you see everything, it will be too much for you.”

chris reached out, gently touching your arm. “you don’t have to do this alone. let me help you, not by fixing everything, but by being here with you. by understanding that the mess and the chaos are part of who you are, and that’s okay.”

your tears fell freely now, mingling with your whispered words. “i don’t want to be a burden to you. i don’t want to drag you down into my darkness.”

chris’s expression was one of profound compassion. “you’re not a burden. you’re a person i care deeply about. and if that means standing by you through the darkness, then i’ll do that willingly.”

your gaze met his, a flicker of hope amidst your sorrow. “but what if the darkness is too much? what if it’s something i can never escape?”

chris’s voice was steady, filled with conviction. “then we face it together. we learn from it, grow from it. but you don’t have to face it alone.”

in the stillness that followed, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if awaiting the resolution of their anguished debate. your heart ached with the raw vulnerability of your exchange, yet for the first time, you felt a fragile bridge forming between your fears and chris’s unwavering support.

and in that quiet, amidst the shadows and the echoes of your argument, a fragile understanding began to take shape—one that might, if nurtured, bridge the divide between your hearts and heal the wounds that had kept you both apart.

𝜗𝒞

the invitation to dinner at chris’s house felt both exhilarating and daunting for you. the idea of being part of a family gathering—a far cry from your own fractured home life—was both thrilling and intimidating.

the sturniolo house looked like something out of a postcard, the kind with perfectly manicured lawns and warm lights glowing from within. it was the kind of home that promised safety, stability—everything you’d never had. chris parked the car and gave you one of his easy smiles, the kind that usually made you feel like you could conquer anything, but tonight it barely reached you.

“you ready?” he asked, voice full of optimism as he turned off the engine.

you nodded, though your stomach was a knot of nerves. feeling like the plastic one among a garden of real, breathing things. and now, sitting here on this impossibly quiet street, you couldn’t help but think about how you’d never be the “best american girl” that chris’ family probably wanted for him.

the door opened to a flood of warmth, both from the house and the people inside. the air smelled of something delicious—rosemary, maybe, and roasted chicken. marylou was the first to greet you, her smile wide and welcoming, though it felt more like a spotlight than a comfort.

“hi, sweetheart! we’ve heard so much about you!” she gushed, pulling you into a hug that was more familiar than you were ready for.

“thank you, mrs. sturniolo,” you replied, your voice small and hesitant.

“oh, call me marylou!” she insisted, her hands gripping your shoulders as she held you at arm’s length, examining you with a look that was both kind and curious. “we’re so glad you could join us. chris never stops talking about you!”

you forced a smile, the words catching in your throat. what could you possibly say to that? the truth would be a disaster, but lying felt like choking on your own breath. so you just nodded, trying to ease the anxiety that buzzed under your skin like a thousand tiny needles. marylou was warm and welcoming, but her kindness only made you more anxious. you couldn’t help but think about your own mom, how different she was from the picture-perfect mother marylou seemed to be. what would they think if they knew about the nights you spent cleaning up after your mother, the times you had to be the adult when she couldn’t be?

jimmy appeared next, tall and imposing with a firm handshake and a face that was harder to read. “good to finally meet you,” he said, his tone polite but measured, like he was trying to size you up in just a few words.

“nice to meet you too, mr. sturniolo,” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t betray how much you felt like an intruder in their world.

“jimmy,” he corrected with a nod, but you could feel the unspoken assessment in his gaze, a weight that pressed down on you with every second.

the triplets entered the room like a burst of energy, and the tension shifted, just a little. nick, with his bright, boyish charm, came at you first, grinning from ear to ear.

“hey, finally! the famous coffee shop girl,” he teased, pulling you into a quick hug. “chris wouldn’t shut up about how cool you are.”

you managed a laugh, the sound more hollow than you intended. “i could say the same about you. he talks about you guys all the time.”

matt followed, quieter but no less genuine, giving you a smile that felt more like a lifeline than anything else. “good to see you again,” he said, his voice a little softer, more reserved.

you smiled back, grateful for the familiarity. “you too, matt. thanks for all your help with my tutoring.”

“no problem,” he said, his eyes understanding more than his words let on.

and then there was justin, the one you’d heard about but never met. he stepped forward with a more distant smile, like he was trying to figure out where you fit into this picture.

“so, you’re the girl who’s stolen chris away from us, huh?” he said, his tone half-joking but with an edge that made you uncomfortable.

“uh, i guess so,” you replied, shifting awkwardly.

dinner at the sturniolos’ felt like stepping onto a stage with no script, and you were in the spotlight, unprepared and unsure of your lines. dinner was served in a dining room that looked like it belonged in a magazine. the table was set with what seemed like a million utensils, each one gleaming under the soft light. you fumbled for the right fork, your fingers trembling slightly as you tried to keep your focus on the conversation buzzing around you.

they asked you about school—whether you were planning to go back, what your major would’ve been, what your future looked like now. every question felt like a tiny cut, opening wounds you didn’t want them to see. you stammered through vague answers, feeling the disappointment settle like a stone in your chest.

“oh, i’m just taking things one day at a time,” you lied, the words bitter on your tongue. “i’m not really sure what the future holds.”

marylou’s face softened with concern, but it only made you feel worse. “it’s important to take care of yourself,” she said gently. “you’re young—you have plenty of time to figure it out.”

but you knew better. time was something you couldn’t afford, not with the bills piling up and your mom’s condition growing worse by the day. you could see it in their eyes—they didn’t understand. how could they? this wasn’t their world. their worries were about grades and careers, not about whether there’d be enough money to keep the lights on.

chris tried to steer the conversation toward lighter topics, but it was no use. every word felt like another reminder of how different your lives were, how far apart you were from the kind of future they imagined for their son.

you felt like you were drowning, every breath a struggle as you tried to keep up with their lively chatter. they laughed and teased each other, stories flowing effortlessly, while you sat there, every smile forced, every laugh hollow.

it was matt who noticed first, his sharp eyes catching the tension in your shoulders and the way you kept your answers short and guarded. he didn’t say anything, but the slight frown on his face told you he understood. across the table, matt caught your eye, offering you a small, reassuring smile. it was a silent reminder that you weren’t completely alone here, that someone understood at least a part of your life. but even his quiet support couldn’t erase the feeling that you were out of place—a square peg in a round hole.

nick, oblivious as always, kept the conversation going, asking you about your favorite books, movies, everything that felt light and easy, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. you could barely meet their eyes, every question a reminder of how much you didn’t belong here, how you’d never be the kind of girl they wanted for chris.

chris reached under the table, his hand finding yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. you looked at him, trying to find comfort in his smile, but even that felt distant, like it was just out of reach. he believed in you, you knew that, but right now, it wasn’t enough. you were drowning in your own insecurities, the fear that you’d never be good enough for him, for his family, for anyone.

as the night dragged on, you couldn’t help but feel like you were playing a role in a play you didn’t understand, the words heavy and unfamiliar on your tongue. the sturniolos were everything you weren’t—successful, confident, a family that had it all together. and you were just… you. the girl with the broken home, the one who had to drop out of school to pay the bills, the one who had no idea what the future held.

by the time dessert was served, you felt like you couldn’t breathe, the walls closing in as their voices filled the room, warm and familiar, everything you’d never had. you excused yourself, slipping away to the bathroom, where you locked the door and sank to the floor, trying to catch your breath.

you felt like you were unraveling, every thread of your life coming apart as you sat there, the weight of their expectations crushing you. you weren’t their best american girl, the one who had it all together, the one who could make their son happy without bringing all your baggage with you.

and as you sat there, you felt the cruel reminder of everything you weren’t, everything you could never be. you were just a girl who was trying to survive, who had sacrificed everything for a future that felt more uncertain with each passing day.

when you finally emerged, your face composed but your heart heavy, you found chris waiting for you, concern etched on his face.

“are you okay?” he asked softly, his hand reaching for yours.

you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah, i’m fine. just needed a minute.”

but you weren’t fine, and as the night wore on, you knew it would be a long time before you felt anything close to okay again. dinner continued, the sturniolos oblivious to the turmoil in your mind. they laughed, they shared stories, they embraced the easy camaraderie that comes from years of being a family. but you were adrift, caught between the image of who they thought you were and the reality you couldn’t escape.

as the evening wound down and the sturniolos began clearing the table, chris walked you to the door. the night air was cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the warmth of the house. he turned to you, his eyes searching yours.

“you did great in there,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “they loved you.”

you wanted to believe him, but the doubt lingered, clinging to you like a second skin. “thanks,” you whispered, your voice heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. “but i’m not sure i’m the girl they think i am.”

chris frowned, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand. “you’re exactly who you’re supposed to be. and they’ll see that. i see that.”

his words were meant to comfort, but they only deepened the ache inside you. because as much as you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, that no matter how hard you tried, you would never be the girl who belonged at that dinner table, in that world.

as you said your goodbyes and walked away, you couldn’t help the word “imposter” echoing in your mind—a painful reminder that sometimes, no matter how much you try to fit in, you can’t change who you are or where you come from. and maybe, just maybe, that was okay. even if it didn’t feel that way tonight.

𝜗𝒞

inside, marylou watched you leave, her heart heavy with concern. she turned to chris, who was still standing by the door, his eyes following you through the window. there was a softness in his gaze, a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“chris,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “can we talk for a moment?”

“‘course, mom. what’s up?” chris replied, sensing the seriousness in her tone.

marylou hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “i’ve been thinking about tonight, about y/n.”

chris’s brow furrowed slightly. “what about her?”

marylou sighed, reaching out to place a hand on his. “i can see how much you care about her, chris. it’s written all over your face. but i have to ask—are you sure this is worth it? i mean, the two of you are in such different places. she’s carrying so much on her shoulders, taking care of her mother, trying to hold everything together. and you… you have all these dreams, these goals. you’ve already applied to art programs all over the world.”

chris’s eyes widened slightly. “how do you know about that?”

marylou smiled faintly. “a mother knows. i saw the letters, the applications. i’m proud of you for going after what you want, but have you thought about what that means for her? for the two of you?”

chris looked down, his thoughts swirling. He hadn’t told you about the applications yet, hadn’t found the right moment to share that part of his life. he loved you, but there was a gnawing doubt, a fear that maybe his mother was right, that maybe your paths were destined to diverge.

marylou squeezed his hand. “i’m not saying you should give up on her. but i want you to think about what you’re asking of each other. is it fair to hold on if it’s only going to bring more pain down the road?”

chris felt his heart clench at the thought. he wanted to believe that love could conquer all, that the connection you shared was strong enough to weather any storm. but as he looked up at his mother, he saw the wisdom in her eyes, the concern for his future, and for yours.

“i don’t know, mom,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t know if i could ever let her go.”

marylou nodded, her expression softening. “just promise me you’ll think about it, chris. i know you want to help her, to be there for her. but sometimes, love means making the hard decisions, even if it means letting each other go.”

chris swallowed hard, the weight of his mother’s words settling on his shoulders. “i will, i promise.”

marylou leaned in, kissing his forehead softly. “i just want what’s best for both of you, chris. whatever that might be.”

as chris sat there, the room quiet around him, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a way for the two of you to find a future together—or if you were destined to become another sad song, another missed opportunity, as your paths inevitably drifted apart.

the weeks had slipped by in a rhythm you were starting to get used to—late-night conversations with chris, shared laughs over cups of coffee, and those stolen moments where everything else in the world seemed to fade away. but lately, chris had seemed a little distant, preoccupied. you chalked it up to his art, the way he sometimes got lost in his work, but there was something else, a tension that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

then, one evening, during one of your dates at a cozy little restaurant you both loved, chris seemed especially quiet. the two of you were tucked away in a corner booth, surrounded by the warm glow of candlelight, your usual banter replaced by a heavy silence.

“hey, what’s going on?” you asked, reaching across the table to place your hand over his. “you’ve been a million miles away all night.”

chris looked down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if he were trying to find the right words. finally, he took a deep breath and met your eyes, his expression a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

“i got some news,” he began, his voice careful, as though he were stepping onto fragile ground. “and... i have been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

you felt a knot tighten in your stomach. “what is it, chris? you can tell me anything.”

he hesitated, then blurted out, “i got offered a residency at the école des beaux-arts in paris.”

for a moment, the words didn’t register. paris? the prestigious école des beaux-arts? it was the kind of opportunity that only came once in a lifetime. but as the reality of what he was saying sank in, so did the implications.

“that’s... that’s amazing, chris,” you managed to say, your voice tinged with both awe and dread. “i’m so proud of you.”

he smiled, but it was a small, uncertain smile, as if he knew there was more to say. “i didn’t tell you because i wasn’t sure if it would actually happen. i didn’t want to get our hopes up, but... now it’s real.”

you nodded, trying to keep your emotions in check. “when do you leave?”

“in september,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “it’s for an entire school year, but if it goes well, it could turn into something more permanent.”

the weight of his words hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken. this was everything chris had ever wanted, everything he’d been working toward for as long as you’d known him. and you were genuinely happy for him—ecstatic, even—but beneath that happiness was a growing sense of loss.

chris watched your reaction closely, his eyes searching yours for something, anything, that would reassure him. “moonie, i don’t know how to do this,” he confessed. “i don’t know how to leave you behind.”

the pain in his voice cut through you like a knife. you knew what he wasn’t saying, what he was afraid to admit—that this residency could mean the end of your relationship, the end of everything you’d built together.

“you shouldn’t have to choose, chris,” you said softly, though your heart was breaking. “this is your dream. you have to go.”

he looked at you, his expression torn. “but what about us? i don’t want to lose you.”

you forced a smile, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “you’re not losing me, chris. you’re gaining everything you’ve ever worked for. i’ll always be proud of you, no matter what.”

chris squeezed your hand, his grip tightening as if he were holding on for dear life. “i wish... i wish things could be different.”

you nodded, blinking away the tears. “me too.”

the rest of the evening passed in a blur of bittersweet conversation, both of you trying to ignore the inevitable. but in your heart, you knew that the clock was ticking, that the moment chris stepped onto that plane to paris, everything would change. and as much as it hurt, you also knew that you couldn’t stand in the way of his dreams, no matter how much you loved him.

𝜗𝒞

spring had arrived, painting the world in soft pastels and fragrant blooms, but the season’s warmth couldn’t chase away the growing sense of dread that hung between you and chris. each day felt like a countdown to the inevitable, and though you both tried to hide it, the weight of his upcoming departure loomed over every conversation, every touch, every stolen glance.

you walked together through the park, the cherry blossoms above you shedding petals like gentle tears. chris held your hand, but there was a tension in his grip, as if he were afraid that if he let go, you might disappear. the sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the world, but all you could feel was the darkness closing in.

neither of you spoke much, the silence between you heavy and charged with everything left unsaid. you both knew what was coming, and the closer it got, the harder it became to ignore the truth that you’d been avoiding for weeks.

finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. you stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him. the words were stuck in your throat, but you forced them out, knowing that this conversation was as necessary as it was painful.

“chris,” you began, your voice trembling, “we need to talk about paris.”

he looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and fear. “i know,” he said quietly, as if he’d been dreading this moment as much as you had.

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “i don’t want you to go to paris thinking about me,” you said, your voice breaking. “i don’t want you to hold back or hesitate because of us.”

chris’s face crumpled, and he reached out to you, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he were afraid to let you go. “i can’t just stop thinking about you, y/n,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “you’re everything to me.”

tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head, trying to be strong, even though every word felt like it was tearing you apart. “but that’s just it, chris. you have this incredible opportunity, and i don’t want to be the reason you miss out on any of it. i don’t want you to feel torn between your dreams and... and us.”

he looked at you, desperate to find a way to make it all work, to keep everything from falling apart. “but we can make it work,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “we’ll figure it out. we’ll make it through this.”

you shook your head again, the tears spilling over now. “it’s not that simple, chris. you’ll be on the other side of the world, and I’ll be here, and... and we both know how hard that will be. i don’t want us to end up resenting each other because of the distance, because of the what-ifs and the maybes.”

chris’s grip on your shoulders tightened, as if holding onto you could keep everything from slipping away. “so, what are you saying?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid of your answer.

you swallowed hard, trying to find the strength to say the words you knew needed to be said. “maybe... maybe we should end things now,” you said, your heart breaking with each syllable. “before it gets any harder. before we both end up hurt.”

chris stared at you, his eyes wide with shock and pain. “you don’t mean that,” he said, his voice shaking. “you can’t mean that.”

“i do,” you whispered, though it felt like a lie even as you said it. “i love you too much to hold you back, sunny. and i love you too much to let us fall apart slowly, to watch us unravel because we couldn’t let go when we needed to.”

the tears were streaming down your face now, and chris pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he could, as if he could fuse you together and keep you from slipping away. “i don’t want to lose you,” he choked out, his voice thick with tears.

“and i don’t want to lose you,” you sobbed into his chest. “but we can’t hold on to something that’s only going to hurt us in the end.”

you stayed like that for a long time, clinging to each other as the world around you grew darker, the spring air turning chilly as the sun dipped below the horizon. neither of you wanted to let go, neither of you wanted to face the reality that was closing in on you.

but eventually, you both knew it was time. with a final, heart-wrenching kiss, you pulled away, wiping the tears from your eyes and trying to steady yourself. “you’re going to do amazing things, sunny,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “and i’ll always be proud of you.”

he nodded, his own tears glistening in the fading light. “and i’ll always love you, moonie. no matter where i am. please don’t let your dreams go. the world deserves to see your art, angel.”

you gave him a small, sad smile, knowing that this was the beginning of the end, the moment where your paths started to diverge. and as you walked away from him, leaving the park and the spring blossoms behind, you felt the weight of the future pressing down on you—a future without chris, without the person who had meant everything to you.

and though you knew it was the right thing to do, it didn’t make the pain any less real. the two of you had tried so hard to hold on, to make it work, but sometimes love wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between dreams and reality.

𝜗𝒞

the weeks that followed were a blur of heartache and routine. you threw yourself into your work, trying to numb the pain that gnawed at you. each shift at the café felt like an eternity, a constant reminder of what you’d lost.

one evening, after another long day, you trudged home to the small, cluttered apartment you shared with your mother. she was sitting at the kitchen table, her face flushed with alcohol. the dim light cast long shadows, adding to the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

as you walked in, she looked up with a vacant expression, her words slurred but surprisingly clear. “you know, kiddo,” she began, her voice soft and almost gentle, “life’s... it’s not easy. it’s like a constant fight. i see you trying so hard, and it’s like... you’ve got this light in you. don’t let it go out. don’t... don’t let it be for nothing.”

you were taken aback by her unexpected clarity. the vulnerability in her voice, the rare moment of motherly concern, struck a chord deep within you. you sat down, your heart aching, as she continued to speak in a quiet, rambling monologue about her regrets and missed opportunities.

but the next morning, when you awoke, her words were already a distant memory, overshadowed by the haze of her intoxicated state. she was back to her usual self, lost in her own world of highs and lows, her brief moment of insight forgotten.

despite her fleeting clarity, her words lingered in your mind, echoing through the silent corners of your heart. they were a stark reminder of the dreams you harbored, the life you wanted to reclaim, and the harsh reality of your current existence. they offered a glimmer of hope amidst the despair, urging you to keep moving forward, even as the world seemed determined to keep you tethered to the past.

chris stumbled through the rain, his once-pristine outfit now clinging to him like a second skin, saturated and heavy. each drop felt like a judgment, each gust of wind a reminder of the chasm between his art and his heart. he was drenched to the bone, but he barely noticed. his mind was a storm, as tumultuous as the weather around him, swirling with remnants of the love that had slipped through his grasp.

his heart ached with a familiar ache—a blend of longing and loss—as he approached your home, the apartment complex that now seemed more distant than ever. the light from inside spilled through the gaps in the curtains, casting warm pools of light onto the wet pavement. he raised his hand, trembling slightly, and knocked on the door.

the door swung open to reveal your mother, her face shadowed by the cigarette she held between her fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. her gaze, though steady, held a mix of curiosity and wariness. she looked at chris with an understanding that came from witnessing her daughter’s silent struggles.

“you must be the one who stole my daughter’s heart,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper. there was a note of reluctant admiration in her tone, mingled with the faintest hint of something else—perhaps hope or desperation.

chris nodded, his voice nearly lost in the rain’s cacophony. “is she here?”

“she’s in the shower,” your mother replied, stepping aside to let him in. “come on in. we’ll wait for her.”

as chris stepped into the warmth of the house, he was immediately enveloped by a heavy sense of confinement—both literal and emotional. the interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of cigarettes and a faint undertone of stale beer. they moved to the living room, where chris sank onto a worn-out sofa while your mother took a seat opposite him, her eyes reflecting a guarded empathy.

“i know you’re probably wondering why i’m here,” chris began, his voice hoarse and tired. “but i needed to see her. i needed to understand.”

your mother exhaled slowly, releasing a cloud of smoke into the room. “you know,” she started, her voice softening, “she was always so sensitive as a child. she never let it show, but she felt everything deeply. when her father left, she blamed herself, even though she shouldn’t have. she tried to be strong, to make up for what was missing, but it wore her down.”

chris listened, absorbing the weight of her words. the room seemed to close in on him, the silence punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the rain against the windows. your mother’s eyes held a sadness that mirrored his own.

“y/n took on more than she could handle,” she continued, her tone a mix of regret and resignation. “i couldn’t be there for her—i was too wrapped up in my own failures. she’s had to be a caretaker, always putting others before herself. but lately, with you, i’ve seen a change. she’s been happier, more like herself. she wouldn’t tell me and i’m too coward to ask questions anymore but you’ve made a difference. and for that, i’m grateful.” chris nodded, your mother’s unexpected words hitting him like a ton of bricks. “she’s a good kid, you’d be a fool to let her go— i know i am.”

the sound of the bathroom door creaking open broke the heavy silence. chris’s heart skipped a beat as he saw you emerge, in a set of pyjamas and droplets of water still clinging to your hair. your eyes widened in surprise when they landed on him, a mix of confusion and anxiety crossing your face.

“chris?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“i needed to talk to you,” chris said, standing up and moving toward you. “can we go outside? just for a minute?”

you nodded, your gaze flickering between him and your mother, who gave you a reassuring nod. together, you stepped out into the rain, the cool droplets mingling with the warmth of your lingering emotions.

as the night enveloped you both, the rain drummed softly around you, a gentle, melancholic accompaniment to the conversation that was about to unfold.

the rain cascaded around you both, turning the world into a blurry, shimmering painting of melancholy and despair. chris stood before you, drenched and desperate, his eyes pleading with a depth of emotion that seemed to defy the storm's intensity. his voice was raw, breaking through the rain as he spoke with a fervor born of both hope and anguish.

“i can’t be anything without you,” he cried out, "i find myself unable to draw breath or live without you. you have woven yourself into every fiber of my being, occupying my thoughts, my dreams, my very essence. without you, i am lost—unable to be or do anything of meaning. you are my muse, y/n, the very air i breathe." his words cutting through the tumult of the storm. “come with me to paris, i leave tonight you can come with me. we can build a life there. we can be—everything we’ve dreamed of. i need you, y/n. please.”

“i can’t,” you choked out, your voice breaking under the weight of your grief. “i can’t leave my mom. she needs me. i—”

your voice faltered, but the flood of reasons came pouring out in a torrent of desperation. “i am not right for you, chris. i can’t even give you what you want. i’ve got nothing to offer. i am too broken, too caught up in this life that’s crumbling around me. i would ruin you. i’d drag you down.”

as each reason left your lips, chris’s eyes filled with more tears, his resolve unshaken by your pleas. with every reason you listed, he responded, his voice breaking through your objections, “i love you, y/n.” the words were tender, insistent, and utterly unyielding. his repetition of those three words was both a comfort and a torment, a balm that only seemed to amplify your pain.

“stop,” you cried out, frustration and anguish mingling in your voice. “stop saying that. it doesn’t change anything. it doesn’t make me any less broken.”

for a moment, silence enveloped you both, the rain’s rhythmic patter the only sound in the quiet space between you. chris looked at you with a mixture of sorrow and determination, and then he spoke again, his voice gentle but firm. “those aren’t reasons to me. you are everything i have ever wanted. you’re my heart, my soul. i need you.”

tears streamed down your face, blending with the rain, as you felt the weight of his words, the finality of his plea. he continued, his voice trembling with every utterance, “please, y/n. i need you with me. i can’t imagine my life without you.”

you reached out, pulling him into a desperate kiss, one filled with all the love and sorrow that words couldn’t convey. the kiss was a blend of passion and farewell, an attempt to capture a lifetime of feeling in a single, fleeting moment. when you finally pulled away, both of you breathless and teary-eyed, the gravity of the situation became undeniable.

“i can’t,” you repeated softly, your voice breaking. “i just can’t. this is the end.”

chris leaned in for one final, heart-wrenching kiss. it was slow and aching, as if trying to savor every last second before the inevitable goodbye. as the kiss lingered, it felt like an eternity, a final, beautiful moment suspended in time. but even as you both struggled to end it, you knew it had to be over. you pulled away, your hearts breaking with the weight of the farewell.

with a heavy heart, you walked back into the house, your tears mixing with the rain on your face. the warmth of the interior felt hollow compared to the storm outside, and you collapsed onto the floor, the sobs that erupted from you visceral and agonizing. you were consumed by a pain that seemed to tear at your very soul.

your mother rushed to your side, her arms enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth and unconditional love. she held you close, her own tears mingling with yours, her kisses on your forehead gentle and soothing. “it’s okay,” she whispered, her voice a tender murmur in the midst of your sobs. “it’s okay. i’m here.”

as you wept, her embrace was a fragile comfort, a small beacon of solace amidst the overwhelming grief. the rain continued to fall outside, its relentless rhythm a mournful echo of the love that had slipped through your fingers.

𝜗𝒞

the morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting a pale light over the room. you lay in bed, feeling the aftershocks of the emotional whirlwind from the night before. the storm had passed, leaving behind a quieter, more reflective day.

your mother’s footsteps approached with a newfound determination. she entered the room, her demeanor more resolute than you’d seen in a long time. sitting on the edge of your bed, she took a deep breath, her gaze steady and earnest.

“i am going to rehab. i need to get better, not just for me, but for you too.”

the gravity of her words hit you like a tidal wave. you stared at her, trying to reconcile this new resolve with the image of her that had been marred by addiction. “rehab?” you echoed, trying to grasp the significance of this decision.

“yes,” she said, nodding. “i can’t stand to see myself ruining more of your life, especially after everything that happened the other night. it’s time for me to step away and focus on getting better. but i need you to listen to me.”

you sat up, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety. “what is it?

“when i come back,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity, “i expect you to start focusing on yourself. i want you to pursue your art, to follow your dreams. it’s time for you to stop putting your life on hold for me.”

her words felt like a lifeline, pulling you from the depths of despair and giving you a glimpse of a future you’d almost forgotten. “but—”

“no,” she interrupted gently, placing a hand on yours. “no more excuses. you’ve put your dreams aside for too long. i need to make this right, and that means letting you live your life fully, without the burden of my problems.”

tears brimmed in your eyes, but this time they were a mixture of hope and fear. “i don’t know if i can—”

“you can,” she said firmly, her voice unwavering. “you have so much talent, so much potential. i’ve seen it in you, and i believe in you. when i come back, i want to see you thriving, not just surviving. i want you to be the artist you’ve always dreamed of being.”

the promise in her words, the sincerity of her intention, was a beacon of hope that cut through the lingering darkness. you squeezed her hand, feeling a flicker of determination ignite within you.

“okay,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “i’ll follow my dreams momma.”

“good,” she said, a smile touching her lips. “that’s what i want. to see you finally living the life you deserve. i am going to get better, and i’m going to make sure that when i come back, things are different for both of us.”

as she stood to leave, the weight of her decision seemed to settle over you like a cloak of both comfort and challenge. you watched her go, a fragile but potent hope blooming within you. the path ahead would be difficult, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like there was a clear direction—a chance to reclaim your dreams and build a future, even as you navigated the complexities of healing and change.

the years had passed in a blur of creative fervor and personal growth. you found yourself standing in your studio, surrounded by the pieces that had become your voice, your outlet, your lifeline. the gallery was bustling with the energy of a successful exhibition, and as you moved through the space, a sense of accomplishment filled you.

a gallery assistant approached, her face alight with excitement. “you won’t believe this,” she said, her voice barely containing her enthusiasm. “someone has bought every single piece of your work. every last one.”

you blinked, a mix of surprise and curiosity washing over you. “every piece?”

“yes,” she confirmed, nodding eagerly. “they want to meet you. they’re waiting in the back room.”

a flutter of anticipation gripped your chest as you followed her through the gallery. you entered the back room and stopped short. there, standing amidst your art, was chris. his appearance had changed—his face now framed by a beard, his hair longer, his style different. yet, despite the differences, his eyes remained the same: those summer eyes, deep and familiar, that had once held so much promise and pain.

“sunny?” you whispered, your heart skipping a beat as the recognition hit you.

he turned to you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “moonie,” he said, his voice holding a mix of nostalgia and affection.

ᨳུ⠀ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @l34n @sofieeeeex @sturniolossss @eternaldecisions @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 to be added click here

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[stevebabey]

not if it’s you.

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

You’re bone-deep tired.

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

It’s been a hell of a night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets you pull him to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stains the air.

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

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

Another beat of quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

Steve Harrington is lonely.

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

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

“Why did this happen to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

You stop moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are no nightmares that night.

—

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

[alexprime]

The episode 'Plato's Stepchildren' is such an amazing episode, but I don't see it get talked about nearly often enough. As a Hurt!Spock fan, Amok Time is THE episode for whump, no question about that. But I'd say second place goes to 'Plato's Stepchildren'. (Also on this list: This Side of Paradise, The Naked Time, Operation - Annihilate!, and Journey to Babel.) Features some amazing Spock moments: - Spock being forced to display emotions. - Spock emotionally and mentally shutting down as a result. - Jim sitting at Spock's side to comfort him. - Spock confessing to feeling hatred. - The way McCoy jumps to Spock's defense when he's forced to laugh. - The tender way Jim says Spock's name as he gets up off the ground. - Gems of dialogue like this: — "Then you must release it, gentlemen, as I must master mine. I might have seriously injured you, Captain, even killed you. They have evoked such great... hatred in me. I cannot allow it to go further." — "That may be, Doctor, however I have noted that the healthy release of emotion is frequently very unhealthy for those closest to you." But Spock aside, it featured the first interracial kiss on TV, which was so massively daring for its time. The resulting influence it had on culture cannot be overstated. Also Kirk's empathetic, compassionate treatment of Alexander, who is among my top ten favorite non-crew characters in the show. It is also one of the few episodes that is difficult for me to watch. It is legitimately uncomfortable for me to see Kirk being forced to crawl around like a This episode broke all the goddamn rules. It is genuinely difficult to see Kirk being forced to crawl and neigh like a horse. The severe humiliation is just gutting to watch. Jim Kirk is such a disciplined, confident, strong man, and to see him be brought so low in such a degrading manner is painful The entire time it's happening, I feel almost sick. It's not played for laughs, it's not amusing to watch it happen. In 'Patterns of Force', even when Jim and Spock are getting whipped, it's followed up by moments of light amusement (Jim straining to hold Spock up). There is no amusement following Jim and Spock's humiliation. Just rage and hatred. Spock and Jim have been tortured, interrogated, shot, beaten, drugged, and pretty much any other kind of harm there is. But I'd say this episode really takes it to another level, and demonstrates that physical pain is not the worst kind of hurt a person can suffer.

[thursdayinspace]

There is something about the way Mulder learns to accept and seek out emotional support and comfort throughout the course of the seasons. With all the casual physical contact that they have going on from the beginning, he seems ready to reach out, but doesn't seem to expect others to do the same. He feels deeply, but he keeps it to himself; something he seems to have learned from an early age. He's had to build his life around other people's pain since his sister disappered. He doesn't want to burden others with his needs.

Scully's "I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you" in "Tooms" is met with a joke immediately to lighten the mood -- a flirty joke, but still. He doesn't think he deserves how much she cares about him. Caring is his job. It's everyone else's job to disregard and dismiss his feelings and not take him seriously.

Scully setting up their secret meeting in "Little Green Men" -- he seems almost a little confused that she really just wanted to see him. He doesn't react when the touches his hair before she leaves. He doesn't react when she briefly takes his hand at the end. I don't think those little gestures of comfort don't register with him. They do. He simply doesn't quite know how to respond to them. He doesn't hesitate to gently cup her cheek and offer comfort when she wants to come back to work after her father's death. But he would never expect her to do that for him.

In "Anasazi" when he says "Thank you for taking care of me," it seems like he has to think about that sentence for a long time. Not because he isn't grateful, but because he doesn't really understand why she did it. Nothing more embarrassing than thanking someone and hearing "Oh, I didn't do it for you." And he said some pretty rude things to her when he was drugged, accusing her of betraying him. Who knows how much of it he remembers, but apparently enough to feel mortified. He never wanted to hurt her, but he must have, and then, after all that, she saved him and risked so much for him?

The scene in "Detour" comes to mind, the night in the forest when she tries to pull his head into her lap so he can get some rest and so that she can keep him warm, and he jokes "I don't want to wrestle." She doesn't have to do this, he's fine. He's not being a manly man who doesn't need anything, it's just that she's offering something that's hard to accept for him. She offers him a place to let go and stop pushing on. And he doesn't think she needs to do that, he is not fatally injured or anything, he'll be fine. But she wants him to be comfortable. She sees him, and is there for him.

At his mother's hospital bed in "Herrenvolk," she reaches for him and he lets himself cry into her shoulder. It's not just an emotional scene because of what he's going through. It's that he's allowing himself to truly let himself go in front of her. She reaches for him and he gives in and leans his face against her shoulder, holds onto her, letting her hold him. Letting her hold him. That's the really crucial point. Who has ever done that for him before? Who has ever allowed him his pain and told him it's okay, I know you have to feel like this right now, I know you're hurting, and I will be your tether for as long as you have to lose yourself in this?

"Sein und Zeit" -- he clings to her so tightly, lets her be his lifeline in this moment, as he knows she wants to be that for him. Letting go like that is so, so scary. There is always the fear that it will change someone's opinion of you. Make them think you're weak. Let them know what gets to you, and then you will always always always have to deal with them looking at you trying to asses how okay you are in stressful situations. It leaves you wide open and vulnerable. Learning that she doesn't expect him to be strong, that she doesn't believe that things don't affect him, that's a new concept. It requires so much trust.

Being able to take an offered hand is really fucking difficult, especially when you've been conditioned to be the one doing the reaching out. Leaning on someone is terrifying. Some patterns are hard to unlearn. But her steady presence finally allows him to show weakness and trust her to catch him when he falls. It lets him understand that he's allowed to fall sometimes.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

May I request some full HCs of the M6 with an ex coliseum fighter MC?

The Arcana HCs: M6 with an ex-Coliseum fighter MC

Julian

His first thought when he laid eyes on you after he broke into your shop was "wow, they must have some stories to tell!"

Oddly enough, the physical (and mental/emotional) scars you carry from your time in the Coliseum are big reasons for why he chooses to trust you - and, eventually to cherish you. You've been through it

As someone who's had quite the wild life himself, he can trust you to understand how difficult experiences do and don't define who you are. He knows if he talks about life with pirates, you'll get it

If it's his turn to have a nightmare, he doesn't have to worry that talking about his bad dreams will expose you to new horrors. If it's your turn, he's a light sleeper for good reasons

Tends to pry for stories about your time there, but in a good way that pushes you to process what it was like

Checked over all the scars you accumulated there and regularly asks after any lingering chronic pain from the injuries

Once he's gotten past the initial flirtatious comments and the awkwardness of opening up, he'd be lying if he doesn't find the scars and background very attractive. Rough him up anytime ~

Asra

They're in two minds about the whole situation and they're not totally sure how to proceed with it when discomfort isn't their thing

He's glad you're not there anymore. He often wonders if you coming back without memories was actually a merciful thing, if it meant not remembering the details of your trauma

They hate seeing all the marks of pain and violence on your body, because it's like a reminder to them of one of the many ways they somehow let you down or left you alone when you needed help

Deep down, however, it's beyond comforting to him to know what you're capable of surviving without help, because he knows he can't always be there for you no matter how hard he tries

They know that if you're ever in a situation again where your life is threatened, you'll fight viciously to preserve it. They hate that you experienced it and hope you never will again, but they're relieved

All that to say, he doesn't know how to talk about it and he's not going to broach the subject unless you do

Still committed to loving you and being open with you. They know you, they know you're good, and they want you to know them too

Nadia

When she first met you, she assumed the scars must have come from fighting in a war. The Coliseum didn't occur to her

She doesn't even have the clearest memories of it, since she only really saw it after being married to the man who instated it. That doesn't stop her from feeling immensely guilty about it

This happened to you while she had the power to push back against it, and she didn't. There was so much going wrong that she never addressed because she was holed up in her tower, hiding

That only spurs her to try to make things right. You do receive a halting but heartfelt apology from her early on, and a respectful invitation to share your experience with her at your comfort

Just as you've helped her to move on and recover, she wants to do the same for you. You have a powerful skill set. To the extent that you're willing to, she'd love to see you put it to noble use

How do you feel about teaching martial arts? She'll put you in touch with Nahara, and will help you fund a teaching studio for anyone who could use the coaching

Or you could be her personal bodyguard ...

Muriel

More than anything, he's just relieved he never had to kill you. He already has so much regret to live with, and the thought of ending the person who would've made life good again is horrific

That doesn't make you easy to be around at first. Everything about you brings back the memories he wants to leave behind

The scars that match his, the way you react to movement, even the way you walk to compensate for the drag of chains you don't wear anymore. You're the un-hateable mirror of everything that hurts

And that's just after the first few days. Truthfully, you scare him, and even after building a new life with you there are still moments when being perceived by you terrifies him, because you get him

You don't need words or confessions to understand the hell that's shaped him so profoundly. And even when he can't stand to carry someone else's pain on top of his own, he still understands yours

It's precisely that forced vulnerability that makes loving you so profoundly healing. He loves you for you, he loves you for the pain you've experienced, and since it's the same as his own, he's learning to love himself begrudgingly in the process

Portia

Not put off by you at all, which is extremely rare for you

She finds it attractive if anything. You look like someone who's really lived. You look like someone who gives as good as they get

It makes her a little uncomfortable to be around at first. She's so quickly caught up in the coolness and excitement of your violent past that she can get borderline insensitive with her questions

What's it like to be in a fight? Who's the biggest person you fought? Did you really have to kill all of your opponents? How many did you kill? Was there a lot of blood? What weapons did you use?

Does a complete 180 the first time she sees the emotional and mental toll it's taken on you. She's so empathetic, it takes all of five seconds for her to understand this is trauma before she's weeping

So very happy to be your anchor and grounding presence. She will hold you and grieve with you and never, ever, ever look at you differently for what you were a part of. You're not scary to her

Almost overprotective when it comes to how other people perceive you. Someone's acting like you're the scariest person in the room and making you uncomfortable? She's about to prove them wrong

Lucio

After spending three years as a goat ghost, he doesn't care who you are, just talk to him - oh, his survival depends on your good graces? And he had you stuck as a Coliseum fighter? Hmmm

Tried to hide it, but he was scared at first. He was smart enough to know that you had good reason to dislike him, and therefore plenty of reason to further mess him up in such a vulnerable state

But you didn't. Which made him confused. And curious

Tell him about your time there, then! What was it like being in the ring? Being a participant in his favorite fight of yours?

Oh. Oh, it was that bad? ..... oh.

He carries guilt for every painful repercussion you experience. It was shame, and now it looks more like remorseful responsibility, but he doesn't need it rubbed in his face to know it was wrong

What he also knows is a valuable lesson you taught him, which is both the importance and possibility of making things right

You will never have a nightmare he won't be ready to comfort you for. You will never have an injury he won't be getting his clothes dirty for treating it. You will always, always have him by your side

[magicalgoblinz]

One Thing

Summary: You did it. Cazador's dead and now... Astarion is finding himself working through some big emotions. Pairing: Astarion x gn!reader Word Count: 3.5 k Warnings: General angst, eluding to physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. Possibly ooc Astarion. Quickly edited. Song Recommendation: Never Let Me Go + Florence and the Machine Author's Note: First thing I've ever written for Astarion but I get the feeling it won't be the last. I really genuinely just wanted to get this idea out of my brain even if it's a bit strange and not all that amazing haha.

It had been a long day. Perhaps one of the longest you and your party had endured yet, or... at least it felt that way. It wasn't hard on your body like the goblin fight had been, nor had it been arcanely exhaustive like chasing that damned hag was. No, standing in the halls of Cazador's palace brought a different type of exhaustion. Passing through the spaces that your lover had once stalked attempting to go unseen by his master, seeing the sights of the spaces he was kept, smelling the decay, the putridness that no doubt lingered in the meals he was forced to partake in.

Every sight, smell, and sound you had come across weighed heavily on you. Even now as you sat in the plush comfort that was Elfsong Inn, freshly washed, the scents lingered in your nose and left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pushed around the hastily prepared hash in your bowl, frown bared for everyone to see. Your thoughts were only for him. Every second of silence you could hear his sobs in that moment. The cries pulled from his very core, the kind of cries you could imagine he had dreamed of releasing for so long through every moment of torture he was subjected to. There was no way to imagine all of the atrocities he had suffered, yet somehow being left with nothing made every idea that flitted past your mind's eye so much worse.

You for so long had wished to weep for him. Weep for the time he had lost. Weep for the pain he must have felt in having to stand on the outside wondering if his family and friends ever thought of him again after he passed on. Weep for the crushed hopes for the future he had at one time had.

But what good would your tears do him now?

Cazador was dead.

And more importantly... Astarion was free.

So why did it all still feel so... excruciatingly heavy?

"Ts'ka --- eat and do not play. You need your strength for tomorrow." Lae'zel pushed from her lounging position on the floor.

"Have some heart, Lae'zel. It’s been a very difficult day." Wyll was quick to defend upon seeing the way your expression soured at the thought of eating. "Y/n, had to assist our resident vampire through some very hard things today. Including walking through where he had been kept prisoner. Imagine having to do the same with your lover." He said with a gesture towards Lae'zel.

"If I had a lover they would be able to care for themselves; it would be the first thing I looked for in a mate. A prowess to stay alive in battle like my own is the only thing that is truly attractive." Lae'zel said with a lifted chin.

Wyll's lips parted as if to say something more but began to shake his head, there was no fighting with La'zel. She didn't dig her heels in when it came to opinions, no her entire feet were buried. "Speaking of Astarion, where is he?" He eventually asked, changing the focus of the conversation.

"I believe he went for a bath." Shadowheart interjected, "He said something about not being able to stand having his beauty mired... you know how he is." She said, not lifting her eyes from her bowl with a small wave of her spoon that was held in delicate fingers.

Her saying this seemed to pull your eyes towards the door of the wash room. It had been a while since he left now that you thought about it. Your brows lowered a bit in thought; Astarion deserved his space right now, but you still couldn't help but want to hold his hand and not let it go after everything that had happened today. Maybe he wouldn't want that though, not with what you did today.

That look in his eyes...

Now that he had the time to actually think about what you did, what you talked him into doing; would he feel betrayed?

You had promised him you'd help him get that power he so desired, but when that chance came you changed your mind.

The idea of Astarion no longer trusting you hurt more than imagining him ending whatever it was the two of you had. The worries made your expression sullen even more, looking down at your bowl with a deeper pit growing in your stomach. Did you really want to find out?

Out of the blue, there is a light nudge to your arm. The little touch is enough to pull you back up from your descent into grieving something you hadn't even lost yet. With a glance to your right you find Karlach with a bottle outstretched to you. "I think we could all use a little drink tonight... but especially Astarion." She said warmly, "Perhaps you should see if he wants some?" She continued with a little jerk of her head towards the closed doors. Her tone made it all to clear that your inner turmoil was written out on your face for everyone to see.

A sigh escaped your throat as you debated on whether or not that was a good idea but the way Karlach began to lazily swing the bottle back and forth with her hand triggered something in your mind that made you reach out and take it in one smooth movement.

It couldn't hurt to check in on him?

Could it?

Astarion's head was rested back, hanging over the edge of the bath he sat in. The water had lost the majority of its warmth, and his hand had pruned but he made no movements to get out. Eyes transfixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace at the side of the room. Every twist of orange and lift of a spark made his mind lurch through another memory; they all seemed to be coming back to him now, one by one. His mind shuddered from the thought of a blade pressed into his skin, carving, etching, his skin becoming the canvas for a dastardly design that he wouldn't understand for years.

Funnily, the recollection of pain wasn't what bothered him. It was having to recall his own voice struggling not to escape his lips throughout the entire gut-wrenching experience that made his hand ball into a fist.

With a pop and crackle of the wood Astarion's memories would carry on to something else.

His ears ringing, echoing the silence of that tomb. Gods above that tomb. That year spent in silence. Those months spent starving. The way his hands bled from trying ever so desperately to escape. Over what...? A boy that he couldn't bear to steal the life away from.

Astarion took in a sharp breath as he tried to shake away the thought, as he sat up.

But still the memories continued to bleed through. The faces of all those people he had brought to Cazador, he could see them in his mind's eye. The memories of bedding some of them, cycling through his head in a complete sequence even though they were spread across centuries. A flash of a young human woman who excitedly spun in a brand new red dress that she was ever so excited to show off. The pale blue of a nervous elf man's eyes as they darted around the room the second Astarion approached. Seeing the tattoos and the scars spread across the back of a dwarven sailor who stretched after returning to the mainland after a long voyage. The shine of a coy tiefling woman's smile as she attempted to steal his coin purse from his pocket. So many lives, so many people. At what point did he begin to stop caring? Who was it that he pulled by the wrist back to a dreary room that made him start drifting away any time he had to become intimate? Or was it any of them at all?

His features twisted into an expression of disgust the second his mind started going down that path. There was no amount of Cazador being dead that made those memories better. In a snap his balled up hands lifted to rub his eyes in annoyance. If only Astarion could wash out his eyes and his mind and start anew. If only.

And to think... he had wanted this for so long.

He had dreamt about the day he'd be able to have the cathartic feeling of stabbing Cazador, again, and again, and again. And now that it had come and gone... he wished he could have kept going forever. Fuck, he wished he had. After everything Cazador had done to him, the bastard deserved so much worse than to bleed out on that cold floor. He deserved to suffer just as much as Astarion had, if not more.

Astarion couldn't help but wish that he had ignored everyone and continued the ritual as a perfect slap in the face to Cazador. Continued that ritual, so for the first time in all these years... he'd be safe. Entirely safe. And the loss of that made his chest ache, he was so close to crying all over again.

But then...

Tap, tap, tap

"Astarion," Your voice started from just beyond the doors. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just um... wanted to check in. Karlach thought you might need a drink."

There was you.

Astarion's head lifted from his hands as he took in a deep breath. He tried to shove all those emotions back down again, to put the cork back in the bottle before they could really bleed out into him properly. His gaze lingering on the door, lips unmoving.

"Didn't you hear him? If you complete the ritual, you'll be consumed, Astarion." You had said with a look of sincere terror in your eyes. The look wasn't foreign to him... but perhaps different? People had been scared of him before, oh people had been terrified once they realized what he was. But just how many people had been scared for him? That... he didn't know.

He couldn't remember his exact words in reply now, the tension and adrenaline leaving them in a silent part of his mind but what he did recall was the way you looked at him. It stung. It stung so much more than the little voice in the back of his mind screaming that you were breaking your promise.

You promised to help him ascend. You swore you would help him ascend. You said---

Gods that look. Astarion couldn’t shake it.

The way your eyes seemed to plead with him before you had even opened your mouth. Begging him to reconsider. "I know you think this will set you free, but it won't." Your voice was so gentle, but still so desperate. "This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador. Is that really what you want?"

You were right, as much as he hated it. You were always right.

But more than that. As he thought about it now, he recognized something that he hadn't in that moment...

Just outside the door you stood listening, hoping to hear something, anything. Your thumb fumbled with the cork of the bottle nervously. This was a bad idea wasn't it? He needed more time. This was too soon to try and come see him. Gods... what if he really did hate you for what you did. You started to shake your head, "...I'm going to take that as a no. I'll um..." you started lightly, trying not to have your worry show through in your words. "I'm sorry again for interrupting. I'll see you when you're finished, my darling."

Once more. You wanted to call him that one more time before he had a chance to break things off.

"Come in."

Your eyes couldn't help but widen ever so slightly, hand moving to the handle before cautiously pushing the door open and poking your head in. From this angle you could see Astarion's side profile, the good majority of the grime and blood from the day having been washed away, though his clothes that sat off to the side on a bench, were stained a deep red that would take ages to remove, if it ever came out at all. His eyes soon looked your way tiredly. As an instinct you quickly held up the bottle you had brought him, no words coming to follow it, they all seemed to have gone into hiding the second his eyes landed on you.

"Are you planning on bringing the bottle here my sweet, or to just... swing it around like an idiot?" He asked in a long drawn out way, a tone that felt like he was trying to maintain a sense of normalcy for you, but at this point in your adventure together the look in his eyes was more than enough to tell you that he was working through something.

You were entirely taken aback by the gentle name used, a little bit of relief seeping into your chest. "Y-you want me to come in?"

"Was that not what I said?"

Your lips parted, deciding not to speak just yet and instead closing the door behind you. "I'm sorry... I just didn't want to overstep with you, you know… washing and all." You said slowly, acting as if you weren’t both adults – who had on more than occasion – slept together.

Even now, even after seeing him at his lowest today, you were still trying to respect whatever boundaries he had. The thought made Astarion close his eyes and let out a soft laugh, "Darling, you've seen me naked before, it's fine." He assured, "Now...please, for the love of gore and everything soaked in blood, can you bring me that bottle."

There was no reluctance now, carrying yourself to his side with ease. As you approached you couldn't help but notice that his hair was still matted thick with blood in places. All this time he clearly had just been lost in his thoughts as much as you expected really. His hand reached up the second you drew near, taking the bottle from your hands greedily, popping the cork and taking a decidedly long drink. Not minding you at all as you reluctantly found a seat on the bench his clothes were rested upon.

The sight of his nose scrunching a bit from the taste of the wine made an ever so small smile tug at the corner of your mouth. It was hard not to recall him making that same face at the tiefling party not so long ago. Vinegar for wine. Would there be a day when the wine you brought him didn't elicit that involuntary response?

Astarion glanced at you from the corner of his eye, "You'd have made an excellent vampire, you know." He said with an amused little grin, all happy to see the confusion cover your features.

"Why is that?"

"Asking to come in, obviously." He joked loosely,

A small laugh left your lips as your eyes drifted to the floor, "I didn't realize that respecting people's privacy was so vampiresque."

"It's not, we're atrociously nosey by nature and well... it's just another fun hindrance to go against that nature I suppose." Astarion spoke in his normal moseying draw. 

"I see..."

There was a breadth of silence between the two of you. A silence that carried the heaviness of the day's events. You knew it needed to be said, but it didn't make it any easier to consider what the exact words were that needed saying. How to broach it? What if he didn’t want to talk about it at all and you misread the situation entirely? You kept glancing his way hoping to have it all come together in your mind like some sort of epiphany, yet he beat you to it.

"I'm not upset with you, darling. You don't have to keep looking at me like that." Astarion spoke suddenly with all the ease in the world.

"You're not?"

"Well,  perhaps I was a little at first. You did go back on your word, after all." Astarion pointed out, eyes now fixed on the bottle in his hand. “I think anyone might be a bit… sour after something like that.”

There was the guilt again. "Astarion... I'm sorry, I---"

"I don't want your apologies." He cut in sharply, finally turning his gaze to look your way.  Despite what his tone may have indicated, his eyes weren't as stern as they normally appeared when he was upset. No, they were instead ever so full of sadness.  "...I-I'm not angry with you. I swear it. But what I don't understand is why I don't feel any fucking better." Astarion said as his voice suddenly sounded so much more fragile. "I... I killed him. I got the revenge I've dreamed about for two-hundred fucking years. The same revenge I begged for the whole year I was locked in that horrid tomb." He hissed, "I took back my life and yet I... I feel like I didn't do enough."

He was cracking. That much you could see.

"I can't help but wonder if I had completed the ceremony if that would have been enough. Enough to rub it in his Gods damned face that I did it." Astarion admitted sternly, lifting his chin as his eyes stayed focused on the bottle still, "Watch this worm take away everything from him like he took everything from me." He mumbled out, the heat leaving his voice for a brief second as all that he was left with was glassy eyes.

"...I-I would have never had to fear anyone or anything ever again..." Astarion uttered through clenched teeth, tears finally breaking free and running down his cheeks one at a time. "...and now it's gone."

Wordlessly you got to your feet, taking a few steps forward to close the gap between you both, leaning down to wrap your arms around his neck in the most comforting hug you could possibly muster. His hand immediately finds your arm, holding it tight as for the second time in your journey, he begins to cry.

Silence seems to be what Astarion needed from you, wailing into the open air as everything he has stuffed away into that bottle comes pouring back out. No apologies. No consoling words. Just for you to hold him, to give him time. His head rests against yours almost as if to ensure that even now, after everything you both had been through, you couldn't see him cry. Perhaps the idea of you seeing it happen twice in a day was too much for him. Or perhaps there was still a festering feeling of weakness that would bubble up if he let you see him cry.

"Oh my sweet, sweet, Astarion." You mumbled holding him tighter than before, listening as his sobs grew softer over the passing moments. 

Waiting. Listening.

Once his frame had stopped shaking you finally raised your voice once more . "...if I could Astarion, I would take away all of the hurt in an instant... but I can't. And I wish you knew just how much it pains me to not be able to." You speak, parting your lips to continue on but pause as you feel a familiar shudder resonate through your mind. He was peering in, confirming the statement for himself it seemed. "The most I can do is promise you something..." you continued on, pretending like you weren't aware of poking around, you had nothing to hide for one key reason…

Gently you pulled back, running your hand from his neck to his chin to tilt his head up. Eyes looking over his tear stained cheeks and then to meet his own shimmering red eyes. "I promise you that, as long as I'm here you will never have to fear anything... or anyone again." You assured, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you wipe away his remaining tears. “Because Astarion… I love you and… I will never let you go.”

The look that fills Astarion's eyes is something that you had only seen once before when you decided to hug him for the first time back in the Shadowlands. It was a look that spoke numbers towards just how frightening the unknown was for him. How terrifying it could be to have someone love you so truly and want nothing in return for the first time in his life.

You feel a rush of surprise followed by so overwhelming, your lips curl into the same smile you gave him then as you had reached out to wrap your arms around him to hold him tight…

You know the feeling even if he can’t say it yet.

Love.

Because that was the thing. Astarion had realized before this that you… well, you were the only good thing that he’s ever had. That he’d do just about anything to keep you safe and ensure that no one dare take you away from him. Yet, strangely he never once considered…

That he might mean just that much to you.

End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! I'd really love to start writing for Astarion more so if you have any ideas send them over <3

[defectivevillain]

rest for the weary

pairing: Bigby Wolf/Reader

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors used.

summary: There is silence for far too long. You’re intently focused on wiping his skin clean of the dried bloodstains, making sweeping gestures with infinite care. Bigby wants to reassure you that you don’t have to be so careful, that he’s used to cruelty and maleficent gazes and bloodied knuckles. But the words feel caught in his throat. This compassion is so foreign to him; he can’t help but instinctively wonder if there’s something you’re getting out of this.

word count: 2.3k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical blood and violence, exhaustion/fatigue

After his long patrol, Bigby wants nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up. He manages to get to his apartment, albeit with a bit more clumsiness and lethargy than usual. When he finally opens the door, he’s greeted with Colin’s irritated expression. The annoyed look on his face fades when he evidently gets a full glimpse of Bigby’s injuries. The wolf knows he must look horrible; he doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know there are dark circles under his eyes and dried bloodstains on his clothes. 

“You look like shit,” Colin remarks helpfully. 

“Thanks.” Bigby responds tiredly, limping towards his armchair. Colin is merciful today, and doesn’t even utter a word of argument as he gives up the seat and moves to sit on the floor. Bigby sinks into the armchair and just barely holds back a pained hiss. He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling, still reeling from the events that occurred on his patrol today. His adrenaline carried him through multiple fights, and it isn’t until quiet moments like these that the gravity of what he’s been through dawns on him. 

Bigby’s eyes are slipping closed when he hears a harsh knock on his door. He groans and shuts his eyes again, wincing at the pain concentrated in his temple that is gradually migrating to his jaw. A nasty headache on top of his injuries—somehow, that tracks. Bigby waits to hear the sound of footsteps gradually growing further away. 

Instead, there’s another knock—even louder than the previous one. Bigby groans again and Colin raises an eyebrow, as if to ask if he’s going to answer the door. 

“Bigby.” The wolf’s heart skips a beat as he recognizes your voice. You live in the apartment below his: 104. You’re one of the only people who is nice to him, aside from Snow and Beauty. You never seemed to be afraid of him, which was refreshing. Selfishly speaking, Bigby doesn’t want you to see him in this state—doesn’t want you to start thinking of him as the Big Bad Wolf. You continue, immune to his internal dilemma. “I know you’re in there. Open up.” You say insistently. 

Bigby doesn’t make a move to get up. He doesn’t think he can get to his feet and walk over to the door, even if he wanted to. Exhaustion is settling in his bones and he is close to drifting off into unconsciousness once he realizes that the knocking has stopped. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud crash. Bigby is mercilessly tugged back from the throes of sleep as his front door swings open and crashes into the adjacent wall. He blinks slowly and pushes himself up in the chair, glancing at the front door to find you stumbling forward with uneasy balance. The two of you exchange looks and Bigby sees a flicker of regret and guilt appear on your face, before the emotions are replaced with a mischievous grin. 

“That was fun,” you remark with a look of surprise. Then you glance around the room, murmuring a quick greeting to Colin, before looking back at him once more. The wolf stares at you in disbelief. “I can see why you do it so often.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Bigby asks, once he manages to process everything that just happened. He’s usually the one kicking doors down—he’s never been on the other side of the situation before. Bigby can’t say he likes it much. 

“Checking in on you, obviously,” you answer, crossing your arms over your chest. Bigby realizes that this is the first time you’ve been in his apartment; typically, he visits you at yours or the two of you meet in the lobby. He’s mildly embarrassed by the dirty clothes and empty bottles laying around. The pain makes it easy to forget any potential humiliation, though. “I can see I was right to be worried.” You say as you study him, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“How did you-” Bigby chokes out. 

“You were a bit louder than normal,” you respond easily. You’re looking at him with a scrutinizing gaze, as if you’re able to see straight through him. Bigby feels strangely exposed. “And your footsteps were… uneven.”

That’s it? Bigby thinks to himself. While he doesn’t utter the question, the sentiment must be clear on his face. 

“I just knew something was wrong, okay?” You say defensively. You take a step forward and look him up and down, evidently concerned for his wellbeing. Bigby wants to remark that he’s suffered worse, but he knows that wouldn’t reassure you.

“Well, I’m fine,” Bigby remembers to say moments later. It’s getting a bit hard to breathe around his bruised ribs and he has to put conscious effort towards inhaling slowly.  

You don’t seem to believe him for a moment. “You sound like a broken record,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Come on.” You act as if you own the place, pacing past the entryway and moving towards the bathroom. Bigby watches you for several moments, before giving in with a sigh and pushing himself off the armchair. Every small movement sends pain shooting through him. He takes an uneasy step forward and stumbles, but Colin wordlessly pushes against his left leg and corrects his balance before he can fall. Bigby murmurs a word of thanks and heads to the bathroom. 

When he finally makes it to his far too-small bathroom, you’re waiting for him. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet seat, which he does after a moment of hesitation. You have a damp cloth in hand and, once he sits, you’re washing the blood and dirt from his face with a gentle touch. Bigby flinches at how cold the water is, and you murmur a quick apology before continuing. 

There is silence for far too long. You’re intently focused on his skin beneath the cloth, making sweeping gestures with infinite care. Bigby wants to reassure you that you don’t have to be so careful, that he’s used to cruelty and maleficent gazes and bloodied knuckles. But the words feel caught in his throat. This compassion is so foreign to him; he can’t help but instinctively wonder if there’s something you’re getting out of this. 

Eventually, you finish with his face and begin cleaning his forearms. You push up his sleeves, wiping away the blood before staring at him with an unreadable expression. When you break the silence, Bigby notices that you’re suddenly averting your gaze. “You may need to… take off your shirt.”

Bigby stares at you for a moment, before comprehending the question. “Right,” he mutters, moving to unbutton his shirt with trembling hands. You don’t comment on how long the effort takes him, but Bigby does hear the stifled intake of breath that escapes your lips as your eyes rove up and down his torso. He looks down, finding the gaping wound at his side that you can’t seem to look away from. 

You almost look sick to your stomach. But Bigby knows it can’t be from the grotesque nature of his wound—he knows you’ve seen your fair share of blood and violence. You live in the Fables, after all. Violence is an everyday occurrence. The wolf watches as you take a slow breath, as if to steady yourself, before grabbing the cloth and bending down to dab at the wound. Your equilibrium seems to be off, as you lurch forward with the movement. Bigby steadies you with a hand on your shoulder and you place your free hand on his side to steady yourself. He promptly ignores the heat that spreads across his skin at the casual touch. 

A seemingly endless time later, you lean back and Bigby can breathe again. You assess his wound once more, eyebrows furrowing. “Do you have bandages?” Bigby shakes his head imperceptibly. You seem to be expecting that answer, as you sigh exasperatedly. “I’ll be right back.”

In the blink of an eye, you’re standing in front of him once more—holding a nondescript tube of ointment and a roll of bandages. At his questioning look, you explain that the ointment will prevent infection; you then apply a small amount on his wound, before placing the bandage on his skin and slowly wrapping it around his chest. Bigby remains silent the entire time, at a loss for words. Admittedly, this feels like a dream. He wouldn’t be surprised if he woke in a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling from his armchair in his bloodstained clothes. 

But this is no dream. Your touch is all too real. Bigby feels as if his skin is doused in flames. Time seems to drag on with unrushed lethargy, trapping him in this horrible, incredible feeling. You step away too soon and too late. 

“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s the best I can do,” you say with a frown. Bigby looks down at the bandage. His gaze returns to you. This is more than anyone has ever done for him. He has never been treated so delicately before. The warmth of your skin still lingers and Bigby thinks he wants it back. Your eyes are bright in the dim lighting of his bathroom and the realization comes crashing down on him. He thinks he wouldn’t mind if every day were to go like this, if he could return home to you every day. Indulgently, selfishly, he wants to drown in this very moment. 

Bigby doesn’t know how it happens. One moment, you’re breathing a question he never imagined he would hear—not even in his wildest dreams. The next, he’s tugging you closer by the collar and kissing you. You lurch forward and place a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Bigby pulls you impossibly closer, relishing in the surprised sound that wrenches its way out of your throat. Your fingers run through his hair and goosebumps prickle along his forearms. 

“I’m still here,” Colin announces from the living room. The moment is immediately broken, and Bigby regretfully lets his hands fall from your face. Your hands slip from the nape of his neck and the wolf feels a shiver roll down his spine. You’re staring at him again.

“I should get you some clothes,” you then announce, stepping out of the bathroom. He hears you pacing around the apartment until you find his closet; you return moments later with a shirt and sweatpants in hand. Admittedly, Bigby hasn’t worn that pair of sweatpants in years—he forgot he owned them. You then close the door and leave him to change. The effort isn’t painless, but within a few minutes, he’s in infinitely more comfortable clothing. Bigby gets to his feet and opens the door, walking out to the living room. 

You look over from where you’d been speaking to Colin. “Now you should rest,” you order, walking towards him. “Let me get you to bed.” You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder and start looking around the space. 

A maelstrom of unsavory emotions hits him all at once. “I don’t have a bed.” Bigby blurts out within moments. Your gaze snaps to him and your eyes are blown wide. 

“What?” You exclaim. “You don’t have a bed?” You then look to Colin for assistance, as if waiting for him to disagree. Colin makes a gesture similar to a shrug. Bigby tries to explain that he simply never needed one, but he fears it’s too late—your eyes are already gleaming with resolve. “Then you’re coming downstairs with me.” You assert, taking a few steps towards the front door before turning back around. “It was nice talking to you, Colin.” You say with a small smile. 

“See you,” Colin murmurs, sending Bigby an unreadable look when you turn your back. Bigby just shrugs and follows after you, knowing there’s no point in arguing. This is not a debate he would win and, frankly, he’s too tired to refuse the offer of a soft mattress. The wolf closes his apartment door and heads down the hallway after you. Now that his adrenaline has died down, he feels his exhaustion setting in. When the two of you make it to the elevator, Bigby grasps at the railings and closes his eyes. 

“Almost there,” you say, breaking him from his thoughts. Somehow, the elevator is on the first floor already. The wolf takes a deep breath and manages to summon enough energy to make it to your door. You unlock it quickly and push it open. From there, you guide him to your bed. Bigby doesn’t have the awareness to think anything of sleeping in your bed at the present moment, but he’s sure it’ll dominate his thoughts in the morning. 

He reclines in your bed and is abruptly thrown back into the past, into a different bed in a cabin in the woods and a different identity— 

“Rest,” you remark, breaking him out of his thoughts. You step back and, for a fraction of a moment, Bigby thinks you’re leaving. But you simply walk around to the other side of the bed and turn on the small deskside lamp, grabbing a book from the nightstand. “I’ll be here.”

The knowledge that you’re watching over him makes him feel… cared for; valued; appreciated; and seen for who he truly is. Bigby takes a shuddering breath, pretending his heart isn’t racing out of his chest. He feels incredibly vulnerable. His throat is burning with unshed tears. A small part of him still fundamentally distrusts your kindness, no matter how much of it you have shown him. That small part of him beckons him back to the shadows, proclaiming that no one will ever love him, that he isn’t worth loving.  As if sensing his spiraling thoughts, you reach out and clasp his hand. “It’s alright.” You speak with such certainty that Bigby finds himself instantaneously relaxing, his shoulders loosening as he practically sinks into the mattress. For the first time, he wholeheartedly believes that maybe, just maybe, everything will actually be alright.

[obligatory bigby wolf playlist]

thanks for reading! <3

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[ultralightpoe]

Spellbound Part 2 - Geralt of Rivia

Authors Note: Sorry it took so long, I just really had no clue how to do the first part justice

Word Count: 3,876

Warnings: reader is a brothel worker

Description:Part two to the first. FIRST PART HERE

Enjoy!

There were many times in Geralt's life where he felt an undeniable rage, and there were many times that he let that rage affect him until he was forced to suffer the consequences of all his actions. He had learned over the years that there were ways of handling his rage, there were ways of dealing with sadness and pain. 

He had been through so much, and yet he stood, and he always told himself that it would be worth it. Soon enough he would find something that would make it all worth it, and he had found that in you. 

Your soul matched his in a way he never thought possible, and though you didn’t have the same physical scars you had both been through more than you can imagine. And he always found himself gravitating to you, the one person in the world that he felt never judged or expected anything from him. 

Sure, he obviously did not know how to deal with this. He never knew how to talk to you, what to say and when to say it, and he really did not know how to seem casual just as Jaskier always could. Not to mention he was constantly worried about losing you. He felt like a flame, loving something so much and trying to engulf it into warmth only for it to burn and vanish. 

You had been through so much, he never wanted you to burn and he couldn’t imagine a life without you. 

So, even if he couldn’t show emotion or manage to properly show his love, he allowed Jaskier to grow close to you. Geralt made sure that you were physically safe, warm and fed. It was the least he could do. 

He never wanted to leave you wanting for anything, and he desperately tried to find ways to show you yet nothing ever worked. 

But then you were his, for one small moment he had you and he felt as though everything was worth it again. He would burn the world down for you, slay any monster and batter any mortal. It was all yours for the taking…

Until you burned. 

How ironic, how hard he fought to keep you at arms length only to lose the battle in a split moment, and be proven right just like that. 

Now you were gone. 

He knew exactly where you were, had already tried to get you, only to be stopped at the door each time.  Each time he was stopped he wanted to crush their skulls, storm up to wherever they were keeping you and try to explain. 

He would drag you out the door himself just to make sure you never had to do this again. But there were laws, as well as contracts. He would never be allowed to see you unless he could pay the fee, and you would never be allowed to leave unless you could buy out your contract. 

If he managed to get to you and help you escape there would still be the hassle of everyone hunting you down, and word spreads from town to town quickly when it comes to Witchers. 

“How much?” He growls, keeping his eyes narrowed in on the older woman before him, watching her lean back on her chair and fix her dress. She was unlike any other brothel owner he had come across, the others always had a protective notion for the girls. This one seemed vindictive in every word she spoke. 

“Witcher, I have told ye the last 4 times ye have been here that she is not for sale.” She laughs, reaching a foot out to kick the pouch of gold he had laid on the table in front of her. Her dress rides up exposing a very scarred leg, and his stomach tightens at the atrocities you must be going through with this hag and any man she rented you out to.  “Y/n is the emerald of all brothels, before she came upon mine she was already widely known for her beauty, not to mention her time with the Witcher? Men are practically killing themselves to have a moment with her. I stand to make more keeping her than I ever would selling her back to you.”

“Her contract-”

“Has another 4 years under my roof. By the end of that I could be far far away from this continent. Don’t you understand?” She leans forward, knocking the satchels down and watching all the gold pieces fall on the ground. 

That had been 4 months work, 4 months of Geralt working himself to the bone and saving up in a chance to save you. He hadn’t eaten properly or slept more than 2 hours a night in that span of time. 

Images flash through his mind, him ringing this wenches neck in or slamming her head into the fire. Maybe he could slice her head off in one clean motion. 

But he doesn’t, because he understands the consequences. So he bites his tongue and stands straighter. “I just want to see her-”

“Then you pay, just as everyone else.” The Madame sneers, leaning across the table. “I don’t give a fuck if you love her witcher, though I don’t believe you are even capable of that, my rules stay the same. You want to see her then you pay for her time.”

He leans forward, smirking a bit when her attitude drops in fear for a moment, before tilting his head. “Then how fucking much?”

-

“I really do not believe you were worth 230 gold pieces-” Lord Servail huffs, struggling to shove himself back into his trousers. You struggled not to roll your eyes as you sat up, pulling the sheet to cover yourself and looking at the floorboards of the raggedy room. 

You had learned that the men of this village did not like to be watched, most of them married and most of them carrying guilt. You had merely assumed Lord Servail to be the same. 

“Have you nothing to say, whore?” He bellows, walking across the room to grab at your chin. A moment of panic sinks in, one hand holding the sheet tight while the other grabs at his wrist in an attempt to free yourself. 

“I do not understand what you mean, sir-”

“You are boring! You just laid there like a fucking corpse-”

“That didn’t seem to stop you from finishing within a minute-” The slap sounds out and for a second you wonder what he hit, then you open your eyes and feel the stinging on your cheek to realize it had been you. 

A bitter laugh slips past your lips as you taste the iron. 

Blood trails down past your lips as tears spring up in your eyes, the sheets under you stained and ripped from the past month. You think of Geralt in this moment, wishing that you were near him even if he ignored you. 

There had always been a calming factor to the witcher that you never understood, maybe it was a feeling of safety or maybe you just liked that he never showed much anger. He took anything that affected him and made a rational judgment. 

He was a man of trust, and he had never let anything harm you. Sure he yelled at you when he thought you stupid, and made condescending remarks, but you never felt as though he would lay a hand on you. 

“Is that all?” You sniffle, reaching a hand up to stop the blood as he steps back. The man stares at you before yelling out and storming out of the room, shirt untied as well as the trousers. You hear him yelling at your Madame before he leaves and you move over to the basin in the corner to clean yourself off. 

You clean your nose before moving to clean your legs, letting the tears fall freely as you hear her heels come down the hall. 

“You’ve just cost yerself yer pay, I’ll tell you that much.” Madame snaps, the door swinging hard enough to make the wall shake as she marches in. “I told ye that Lord Servail was a valued client and you-”

“Smiled pretty and let him cum. He really didn’t complain much until it came time to pay.” You snark, watching her face pull up. “Have I any news? Anyone come to see me?” 

It had been a month, and you had kept hoping that maybe Geralt or Jaskier would come to see you. At least try to get you back, but nothing. No letters, no visits, nothing. 

“Yer Witcher isn’t comin for ya’. So I suggest you fix yerself up and get back to work.” The Madame snarls, tossing the silk robe at you before storming back out. 

That lonely feeling that clung to you the day you left never seemed to fade, it folds in around you now as you pull into yourself. Knees hugged to your chest as you hide your face and cry. 

Truly what did you expect? That he would come pounding on the door? Try to save you? The salty taste of the tears mixes in with the iron as you sob. You had been foolish, so very foolish. 

Geralt must be at least 6 towns away by now, barely even thinking of you. 

-

“I am terribly sorry to inform ye, Witcher, that my emerald is stacked up for the next week and a half.”

“Bullshit.”

She snarls at him, standing quickly and snatching a heavy book from the desk behind her before slamming it on the table. “Take a fucking look then.” 

He doesn’t waste a moment, snapping through the pages one by one until he reaches your ledgers. Your handwriting is at the top, neat and clean from the ink, dated that day you dashed from the tavern. 

The very same day he had raced over here to see you. 

The day after he had you in his arms. 

The memory of it flashes through him, the way he snatched you like a caveman. He tries to reason with himself that he believed it to be consensual, that he hadn’t realized you were under a spell. But it didn’t matter. 

He treated you in a way he swore to himself he never would, and he made you so uncomfortable that you ran. 

Bile rises in his throat as embarrassment and guilt claw through him, he snaps through your pages to see dozens of signatures on each page. “You have her seeing twelve clients each day?”

“This is a busin-”

“Is she eating enough? Sleeping enough? Are you giving her proper time to rest?”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter-”

“If you are abusing your contract then she has a right to leave!”

She stares at him, watching for a moment with wide eyes as her cheeks go red. Then she fixes herself, clearing her throat before shouting out loud. “BOYS!” He doesn’t fight it as they grab both of his arms, instead he lets them carry him to the door and throw him to the mud below. 

“Guessing she didn’t take it?” Jaskier asks, watching Geralt pick himself up, checking to make sure he still had the satchel of gold. “Surprise surprise.”

All Geralt could do at this point was grunt, moving towards Roach as the barb fixes his coat. 

“I have another job, heard whispers of a screaming creature in the woods not far off from here. Figured you’d want to go out and make more gold so we can do this all again over and over and over.” 

“She’s overworking her, I just know it. Not enough time to eat or sleep-”

“Geralt, as much as I love Y/n, I think we need to….evaluate our current situation.”

“I NEED TO -”

“Get to her. I know. I’m not saying anything otherwise. I just want you to think about whether you want her to see you like this.”

“I want to see her safe.”

“And Y/n would want the same of you. Besides, we obviously have no power against the brothel system.”

“I have fought countless beasts-”

“And I am still your only friend. It’s time you admit it Witcher, humans aren’t your best expertise.” 

If this was any other moment Geralt would ignore him, hop onto Roach and pretend the worm didn’t exist. But he was tired, so tired he truly didn’t think he could even climb onto the horse. 

“Then what do you suggest?”

“First? Sleep. Then? We find an outside source.”

- 

Two months in and winter had finally come. 

You found yourself huddling together with Snae, a brothel worker that had been here a little longer than you, but hadn’t been that much older. This had been the first night you both had off this entire time, and it hadn’t been a purposeful thing. 

There had been a ball in the village, apparently a beast had been slaughtered and most of the nobles and rich men left in their carriages far away. Which meant you were free to huddle close to your friend for warmth as you tried to fight off the winter air. 

“I imagined this brothel warmer.” She sniffles, pressing her forehead to your arm as you shiver. “I was told this was one of the best-”

“It is….. To their guests.” You laugh, tired and aching. Honestly you could barely move, and you hadn’t managed to make it at dinner hour since you had been with a client. But Snae was nice enough to sneak you in a roll of bread. 

“I want to get out of here.” She admits in a quick breath, and you can’t help but smile at the admission. 

You had often imagined ways you would escape, but the truth was you had nowhere to go and no one to leave for. What would you have if you left here? Nothing.

So instead you close your eyes, and lean into her as you whisper. “Where would you go?”

“Home. To find my sister.” 

“You have a family?” 

“A little sister, it’s why I am here. I wanted to make sure she had something to pay for food.” Something tears at your chest, and within a moment you think of a plan. 

“Then let’s get you out of here.”

It takes a mere 30 minutes to pack her a travel pack using a sheet from the bed, rushing to your room to pick up the floorboard where you keep the little pay you make, 10 silver coins. Tossing them in her satchel before tiptoeing to the attic where the largest window was. 

“Shhh.” You whisper when she slips, the wood beneath her scraping under her shoe. Helping her stand before moving to the window. Unlatching it was easy, the winter air covering both of you in a moment. “You swill slide from this section to the next. Until you make it to that tree.”

“You go first.”

“I am not coming.” You laugh, clearing some of the snow from the sill. 

“You must.” 

“No, I have nothing. Besides, one of us needs to stay and give you time.” 

“Y/n-”

“If she begins hunting you then go and find the witcher. Do you hear me?”

“He wouldn’t help someone like me.” She laughs, and you merely stare at her. 

“I think you would be surprised of just how good of a person the Witcher is, though he likes to pretend he is not.”

“What should I say to him if I must find him?”

“That the Geralt I know would keep you safe. Now go.” 

You help her climb up the sill and onto the roof, watching her slide down in the flimsy robe Madame forces you to wear and make sure she makes it to the tree safely before closing the window. 

You allow yourself one moment to press your forehead against the cold glass of it, your breath hitting the glass to form a smudge.  You imagine escaping yourself, maybe going out to find Jaskier. 

But that was unrealistic. 

And you were obviously unwanted.

-

“Please, it’s very important-” A strong female voice fills the air as Geralt breathes in the scent of roast and ale. There was also smoke from the fires but he was far too hungry to admire that scent on it’s own.  “They said that he was here and-”

“First round of ale on me.” Jaskier sings out, moving to the counter as Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier was carrying his gold sack so truly the first round was on him. 

He was six villages away from you right now, landing at a cheap tavern for the night before they set up camp. They were here to listen for jobs. 

The plan, as terrible as it was, had been to travel to find Yennefer and along the way they would earn some extra gold. That way when they go they can send the witch in to make the deal, or at least pretend to make the deal as she can try to sneak you out. 

It was a terrible plan……. Because it was Jaskiers plan. 

“Please, I need to find the witcher.” That draws Geralt's attention away from the hearth he had been glaring into, head whipping to spot the young woman clutching the shoulders of a little girl as she begs the man once more. “If you could just tell me where he would be staying-”

“Witchers aren’t allowed in the fucking taverns here, so shut yer trap before I put it to work-.” Before Geralt could stop himself his hand is shooting out, catching the man by the back of the neck. At his movement the hood he had been wearing falls and the people around him all quiet down. 

The womens eyes fall to him, widening. “You are just as Y/n described.”

Something tightens in his chest at the mention of your name, and he finds himself nodding to Jaskier to lead the girl outside. The air hits him, the warmth gone but there was nothing that would hinder him from the conversation. 

“You know Y/n?” His voice is rough, the heat traveling his skin hiding him from the cold. The woman's eyes are filled with tears and the young girl is shoving her face in the smallest scrap of dress he had seen, so in one quick moment he rips his hood off to hand to them. “Is that what you wear in this cold?” “Please, I… I’m from the same brothel as Y/n and she helped me escape. All my money has gone to keeping my sister warm….. Y/n said that you would help. She said the Geralt she knew would help.”

“Where is she?” His heart is thundering through his ribcage at this point, and he can see Jaskier emerging from the tavern. “Did she make it-”

“She didn’t come.”

“Why?”

“Probably scared she wouldn’t make it out. Or might believe she is all alone and has nothing to escape for.” The feminine voice makes Geralt jump through his skin. Suddenly she is there, smelling of smoke and lavender. 

“Yennefer.” Jaskier gasps, but Geralt hadn’t needed him to let him know. 

“Tell me, Geralt of Rivia, about the woman who broke the witcher.”

You were no longer tired at this point, truly you were nothing. 

You didn’t speak, missed more meal times than not from being stuck with clients and at this point you didn’t seem to care. You were just breathing, and that was as much energy as you can muster. 

Three months into this place had truly broken you. 

Yennefer thought this place smelled of urine and death, and though she respected the females brave enough to work here she had absolutely no fucking clue why any man would risk stepping in here.

 One look at the young girl passing her with a bruise on her cheek told her all she needed to know. The men that came here didn’t care about anything but getting themselves wet and letting off some steam. 

“I have a room upstairs, I charge 50 a month in rent, half your earnings are to the house and the rest belong to you.” A voice sounds out, drawing Yennerfers attention away from the young girl with the bruise, back to the raggedy woman sitting at the counter. 

“Excuse me?”

“I have a room for ye-” 

“I’m not here for a room. I’m here for a girl.” 

“Really?”

Yennefer slaps 2 gold coins onto the counter, a smirk crossing her face as the woman's eyes widen in greed. “I was told you had an emerald here.”

“You’re here for Y/n….only problem there is it’s double for her time.” Yennefer sighs, taking out one more coin and slapping it down. “I said double.”

“And I am willing to go and tell the town that your girls are sick.”

“What do you want with Y/n?”

“I figured you wouldn’t need me to explain how your business works but if you need a lesson in fucking then you would have to pay ME double.”

“She is in the top room. Don’t bother knocking.” And just like that Yennefer is moving, picking up her skirts to walk up the steps, trying not to breathe in the smells as she reaches your room. 

Just as the brothel worker said she doesn’t bother knocking, and it was clear why when she walked in. 

The beauty Geralt had described last night was still there, just one look and even Yennefer was nearly at a loss for words. But the spark, the light of you was gone. You stared at the wall before you, empty and gone. 

“Y/n?” She calls, closing the door behind her. “Y/n…”

“I can’t….she said I’d have a day.” You sob, pulling into yourself. 

“You’ll have more than a day, I can promise that.” Yennefer smiles, moving closer slowly. “Your witcher has sent me.”

“My witcher?” There it was, some of that spark. “He’s gonna be mad at me.”

“Now that I can swear on. Come.”

-

Geralt stood pacing back and forth on the pathway as he waited for Yennefers portal to open, his heart in his throat and his eyes glued to the space before him. 

Jaskier waited at the inn they had found with the girl you had saved, Snae. But for now it would just be him waiting for Yennefer, far enough from the town that they would have a head start if anyone went looking for you whilst the rest would cause a stir and send them on a chase. 

They had learned from Snae that Madame had sent a bounty out on her, so Geralt could only imagine what she would do to you. ‘Her emerald’. 

Then it was there, forming like a cloud at first until it got bigger and bigger until it began showing like a mirror. 

Then Yennefers hand came through and Geralt found himself launching forward as she stepped through, both arms wrapped around…..you.

He was there, his hands on you as soon as he could, keeping you upright as Yennefer lets go. “Y/n.”

“Please don’t be mad.” You whisper. 

“What has she done to you…..”

Part 3 on October 30th

@sagelovesreading

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[vilentia]

could you make a daryl dixon x reader where he’s scared to show her his back because of his scars and thinks she’ll be repulsed by him but she’s not and she kisses over every scar and it’s just super fluffy and shit?

if not that okay ❤️

A Kiss for Every Scar

Daryl Dixon x reader

You could feel the tension in the air as you and Daryl sat together in silence. The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken weight that seemed to hang heavily between you. You knew something was wrong, but you couldn't put your finger on it.

It wasn't until Daryl stood up to grab something from his bag that you saw it. The scars on his back, jagged and angry, marred his otherwise smooth skin. You could tell they were old, but they were still fresh enough to stand out starkly against his pale flesh.

You reached out to touch them, but Daryl flinched away from your touch. "Don't," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You could see the fear in his eyes, the fear that you would be repulsed by the scars on his back. But you weren't. In fact, you found them beautiful in their own way. They were a testament to the strength and resilience of the man you loved.

Without a word, you stood up and gently urged Daryl to sit back down. As you looked at Daryl, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness deep in your heart. You had known him for a while now, and you knew he was a man who had been through a lot. His rough exterior was just a shell that he had built to protect himself from the harsh realities of the world around him. But now, as you looked at the scars on his back, you realized that there was so much more to him than what met the eye.

You wanted to know what had happened, what had caused those scars to form. But you knew better than to push him. Daryl was a man who didn't like to talk about his past, and you respected that. Instead, you decided to show him how much you cared in your own way.

As you sat behind Daryl, tracing your lips over each scar on his back, your heart ached with the knowledge of what he must have endured to bear such marks. The scars were jagged and rough against your lips, a testament to the battles he had fought and the hardships he had faced.

You could feel the tension in his body slowly melting away with each kiss, and you knew that this was a moment of trust and vulnerability. Daryl had always been guarded, always keeping his emotions close to his chest. But now, with you, he was letting down his guard and showing you a side of himself that he had kept hidden for so long.

Your own emotions were a mix of sadness and love. Sadness for the pain that Daryl had endured, but also love for the strength and resilience that he had shown. You knew that it must have taken immense courage for him to show you his scars, to let you in on a part of his life that he had kept hidden from everyone else.

As you continued to kiss each scar, you could feel the tension in Daryl's body slowly dissipating. His breathing became more even, and his body started to relax in your embrace. You could tell that he was finally allowing himself to be vulnerable with you, to trust you with his deepest fears and insecurities.

The moment was intimate and raw, filled with unspoken emotions and unexpressed feelings. You could feel the weight of Daryl's past, the weight of his scars, but you also felt the weight of his love for you. It was a love that transcended physical imperfections and scars, a love that saw the beauty in the broken.

You continued to kiss each scar with a tenderness that surprised even you. Each one told a story, and you wanted to know them all. You wanted to know everything about the man you loved.

Finally, you had to stop to tend to the scratches on his back. You tried to ignore the pang of disappointment that came with it, but you couldn't help but feel like you had just scratched the surface of something deeper.

As you finished up, Daryl turned to look at you, his eyes full of emotion. "Thank you," he said again. "I never thought anyone could love me like this."

You smiled at him, hoping to convey all the love you felt in your heart. "I love you, Daryl," you said softly.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something. Then he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a sweet and tender kiss. It was a moment of pure love and passion, a moment when you both knew that your love was real.

As you pulled away, Daryl reached up to stroke your cheek. "I love you too," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "More than you'll ever know."

You smiled at him, feeling your heart swell with happiness. You knew that there was so much more to discover about Daryl, but for now, you were content to just hold him in your arms and cherish the moment.

As you sat there, wrapped up in each other's embrace, you knew that this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey together. A journey filled with love, trust, and a deeper understanding of the scars that had brought you both to this moment.

[lees-chaotic-brain]

Its always about gojo being clingy, but what if reader will be clingy and we will pepper him with love♡

Thanks for sending in requests! I love hearing from you guys, like seriously, it makes my day. Invade my ask box with requests or just to ask questions about me anytime!

I really like this idea. I'm kinda mad I didn't come up with it tbh lol.

CW: fluff, a little angst, spoilers for the first half for season two, female reader, trust issues, betrayal, cuteness

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Gojo x Clingy Reader

Gojo Satoru hadn't realized how much he needed, how much he craved to be loved, until he met you.

Before he met you, he had been fine with physical and emotional contact, sure, but it wasn't like something that he enjoyed and sought out.

The first time he met you was in high school.

Instantly, he had noticed how beautiful you were. Even then he had admired how you freely doled out affection, and always wanted to be around those you loved.

Not only that, he always felt a little envious of those you freely gave out love to, like your partner at the time, or Shoko, your best friend. Although, he was so dense back then even he didn't realize he was jealous.

While he always appreciated and savored the hugs and high fives you gave him, he didn't realize that he wanted more until much later in life.

After Suguru left, everyone in your small group of friends became a little more distant, and drifted apart as the years went by after you graduated high school.

Then you re entered his life, as beautiful as you had been, if not more. But your signature signs of affection, and open and loving personality was subdued, the pain of Suguru's betrayal causing you to withdraw into yourself.

This was the first moment that Gojo realized how much he missed you. The you that once burned so brightly with warmth and care, not the version of you that stood before him now with prominent eye bags, a forced smile, and barely an ember of what you used to have.

From that moment forward, it became his personal mission to help you heal. To become comfortable with loving and trusting the way you used to be.

It took time and a lot of effort, but after jokes, reminiscing about high school, getting coffee, being there for you on the hard days, holding you when you cry, and constantly reassuring you that he wasn't going anywhere, you began to open up again.

And somewhere along the way, he realized two things.

One, by helping you with your anxieties and guilt and hurt over Suguru, he had begun to heal a wound he didn't even know he still had.

Two, he had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with you.

For the first time since Suguru had left, your smiles reached your eyes, genuine and sweet. You began showing affection again, leaning your head on Shoko's shoulder, patting the students on the shoulder or high-fiving them, returning Gojo's hugs after the two of you spent hours talking about all of your good memories from high school.

After a lot of thought, and late night rants to Shoko, he asks you out.

You agree happily, telling him that if he had waited any longer, you would've just asked him out to get it over with.

And once you started dating, hoo boy, if he thought you were affectionate and clingy beforehand, he had another thing coming.

He comes home from a mission?

You're waiting with his favorite dinner and all the baked goods his sweet tooth could desire.

You insist on feeding him as you sit on his lap, informing him that it was your job as his girlfriend to take care of him.

Afterwards, taking a bubble bath with him, washing his hair, massaging his scalp is a must.

Then you wrap yourself around him and order him to cuddle you for hours on end.

And if he thinks he is going to get away with leaving your side for even a second over the course of the next couple days, he's wrong.

Part of it is you needing reassurance that he isn't going anywhere. The other part of it is just your nature. You need to take care of the people you love, to cuddle them, cook for them, hold them, love them. It's just how you are.

If it was anyone else, Gojo would probably find it annoying and overbearing, doubting their intentions, or just flat out disliking it. But if it's coming from you, well that's a different story.

If it's coming from you, there is nothing he wants more than for you to love him, because your outgoing and affectionate personality was part of the reason he fell in love with you in the first place.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Note: This is a little shorter than my normal fics, sorry. I really loved this idea and couldn't wait to write it, so I started it before remembering that I'm swamped with schoolwork. I'm so sorry, I hope that I did it justice even though it was a little rushed. Feel free to send in any more requests you might have!

[chrollo-lucilfers-chains]

Homelander x gn!reader

A really bad day.

Warnings: crying, Homelander (he's not the one crying tho)

He'd just been sitting on the couch reviewing some documents for Vought, when his ears had picked up on your presence entering the building. His focus immediately shifts completely to you, about fifteen floors down, as you enter the elevator to his suite.

Reason for his piqued attention are the tiny sniffles his super hearing has picked up. They mean that you either have a cold or that you are crying.

Either of those would be an immediate call for high alert for Homelander. Humans are so very fragile...

You can't be sick, he reasons. You hadn't been sick in the morning, when you'd left for work.

So you're crying.

And yes, the sound is muffled, like you're trying to hold it together and not quite getting the hang of it, but it's still notably the sound of tears.

Homelander's eyebrows furrow. Somehow, that's worse than you being sick.

From his current position, he listens intently to the sound of the elevator moving upwards until there's a telltale ring and you shuffle inside his apartment complex.

He hears you take off your shoes while he's drifting towards the hallway.

You see the movement in the corner of your eye and look up at him, eyes meeting his. When you realize that he's really here, your eyes begin to water again.

Immediately he is by your side, holding your shoulders and checking your body for any injuries.

He finds nothing physically wrong with you but before he can ask, you fling yourself into his arms and start sobbing uncontrollably.

Your hands find his back and then he feels the muscles of your arms squeeze him with all your non-powered-regular-human-strength might.

He freezes. This is new.

Homelander listens intently to any new sounds but thankfully the crying seems to be the only noise of distress you let out. Or at least he can't make out any whimpers of pain or something of the sort.

Slowly, afraid to startle you, he relaxes his body. Strong ams wind around your form and pull you closer.

He's honestly scared he might spook you with moving too much, as if he were handling a small animal.

Homelander doesn't like dealing with crying from others, unless it's tears of happiness. People he saves often cry out of relief or from the shock but most of the time he leaves those to the paramedics or other heroes around as soon as possible.

You're his partner. He can't do that here.

This is the first time he's seen you cry, now that he thinks about it. It would make sense for you to cry sometimes, as it is in the normal range of human emotions but the two of you have only been dating for about two months now and known each other for four. So this display of emotions from you is entirely new to him.

'Come on, Homelander', he thinks, 'get your act together'.

He's not going to hand his crying partner to somebody else just because he doesn't know how to deal with human emotions very well...

So he tries to remember his training. What did they tell him to do in these situations?

Oh dear, your hands must hurt with all this clenching going on at his back. He just knows your muscles must be tired at this point.

Not for the first time, he curses his upbringing. Dealing with emotions had come rather short in his education. The focus had always been on how to destroy, never how to comfort.

But that one time they'd given him a lesson on how to deal with people in distress for of his public image.

However, that doesn't really apply here, he reasons. It might even be impersonal. You're not some random fan he can pat on the back and leave!

So when he picks you up, arms draped over his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist, he's operating purely on instinct. He's seen a man do this in a movie once and it had worked there, so he takes the gamble.

To his relief, you tighten your grip on him and cling to his body like a little koala, tears still wetting the material of his suit.

The mental image is quite cute, he will admit. Then again, so are you.

Walking back to the couch, he settles the two of you into the soft pillows for a little comfortability. You can't just keep standing in the hallway forever.

Noticing the fuzzy blanket he'd bought for you few weeks ago because his place is always cold, he shifts you around and clumsily wraps you in the soft, red fabric, until you're sitting in a cocoon on his lap.

You've stopped crying at this point as well. There's still the occasional sob or sniffle but for the most part you're just clinging onto him and hiding your face in his neck.

He pats your head awkwardly and you let out a tiny laugh that gets muffled in his neck.

It's quite nice like this, he notices. Not the crying, of course. But have you this close, needing physical comfort which nicely feeds his own cravings for your touch.

He'd actually quite like you like this, all vulnerable, if it weren't for your upset state and the crying... He doesn't like those...

After a while, he experimentally places a soft kiss on your head and you pull away slightly to look at him.

Your eyes and cheeks are red from crying and your face is a little puffy but it's kinda cute in his eyes.

"Do you feel better?" He asks, continuing to stroke your hair.

You nod and take a deep breath.

"Better," you sniffle. "Thanks for being here. I- I needed that hug and I just really felt like seing you. Sorry, I had-... I had a really shitty day..."

His brain stops at that, having just had a revelation.

Constellations in his mind shift just the tiniest bit.

You trust him.

You came to him for comfort.

Not because there was nobody else either but because you genuinely wanted to see him and thought his being there would bring you calm! You felt like seeing him would make you feel better!

The most dangerous person in the world (not that you realize that) and you came to him for comfort.

Deep in his chest, pride and satisfaction begin to swell, along with a new kind of warmth he's never felt before. He doesn't even try to fight the broad smile that sneaks onto his face.

"It's fine! You can always come to me for comfort. I don't mind!" He reassures you, cheerfully,

"I really don't mind."

His arms tighten around you just the tiniest bit. Well, there's no way around it. Seems like he'll just have to protect you from now on.