#filled with dread and rage instead | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shortnspidey · 7 months ago

Text

DROWNING IN THE DARK

JJ Maybank x fem!kook!reader || WC: 2.4K

SUMMARY: After a tense encounter with his father, JJ’s anxiety spirals out of control. Seeking solace, he turns to the only person he seeks the comfort of, but the newfound relationship, still tender and fragile, is tested by the intensity of his emotions. As the storm rages outside, a more profound storm rages within JJ, leaving him lost and uncertain.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, talks of anxiety, fear of storms, self-defeating thoughts, implied abuse, heavy angst with a happy ending

A/N: should I have been working on my homework instead of writing this ... probably but I couldn't help myself! We're also going to pretend the ending of OBX 4 did not exist! Divider by @marvelstoriesepic

➩ main masterlist

➩ jj maybank masterlist

based on this request!!

Kildare Island was no stranger to storms. They were as much a part of the island’s identity as the weathered pilings and the salty sea breeze. But this storm was different. The salty wind whipped through the narrow streets, carrying with it the scent of impending rain. As the sky darkened, a sense of unease settled over the island. For JJ, the storm outside mirrored the tempest brewing within. A recent argument with his father had left him feeling raw and exposed.

His mind, once a carefree ocean of thoughts, was now a tumultuous sea, each wave of anxiety threatening to drown him. Ignoring his father's parting words, likely a stinging rebuke, JJ slammed the door shut, the echo of his anger filling the silent house. Stepping out into the storm, he was oblivious to the rain soaking his clothes and the distant rumble of thunder, a harbinger of the chaos to come. With one final, lingering glance at the house that had never truly felt like home, he turned away, his determination resolute.

He strode towards his battered motorcycle, the keys igniting with a defiant roar. As the engine roared to life, he disappeared into the night, leaving behind the storm within and the storm without. In reality, he had no idea where he was going. The Château was out of the question; John B and Sarah were likely seeking shelter together, and after his last unexpected encounter, it was best avoided. Pope was probably grounded, a consequence of their latest escapade. And Kiara's parents, ever wary of his influence, would not welcome him with open arms.

Which left only one option, a risky one at that. You. JJ still couldn’t quite believe he had managed to convince you, a Kook, to talk to him, a Pogue, let alone spend any significant amount of time with him. Much less how he had managed to become your boyfriend. Your worlds were as different as night and day. You were the epitome of grace and poise, a creature of refined taste and elegant manners. He, on the other hand, was a tempestuous force of nature, a product of his upbringing, raw and untamed.

Yet, there was an undeniable connection between you, a magnetic pull that drew you together despite your differences. Almost as if it was muscle memory, or maybe it was his subconscious, he pulled up to your house, a mix of anticipation and dread filling his chest. Your family’s grand, imposing home stood in stark contrast to the weathered houses of The Cut. It was a world apart, a world he didn't quite belong in. That's when he felt it. The rush of anxiety he believed to be gone immediately resurfaced, the familiar knot tightened in his stomach.

Placing a hand on his chest, the only way he had ever learned to self-soothe, he tried to get as much air in his lungs as he could. He didn’t know if it was the rain, the storm, or the thought of facing you looking like a complete wreck that was the cause of his state. The tension in his shoulders, the knot in his stomach, and the rapid beating of his heart were all signs of the anxiety that threatened to consume him. "JJ," A voice cut through his thoughts, startling him. He looked up to see your father standing on the porch, a few feet away. It was as if his brain had played a cruel trick on him, conjuring up a figure from his worst nightmares.

He immediately stopped his pacing and stiffened up expecting a tirade of insults or a physical altercation. His heart pounded in his chest as he turned to face your father, his eyes scanning the man's face for any signs of anger. He'd learned early on to anticipate the storm before it hit, to brace himself for the inevitable. But it never came. Instead the eyes of the man in front of him softened, taking in his disheveled appearance. "What are you doing out here so late?" Your father asked, his voice laced with nothing but sheer curiosity. "I-" JJ's voice trailed off, completely caught off guard by the unexpected kindness.

He'd always been wary of your father, viewing him as a formidable opponent. Of course, your relationship was still new and "meeting the parents" was never really brought up. However, in this moment, he saw a different side of the man, a side that hinted at empathy and understanding. "C-Can I please see Y/N?" He had managed to stammer out, barely recognizing his voice. This was it. This was the moment your father would shoot him execution style on your front porch. But for the second time that evening, JJ was surprised to see your father opening the front door and turning back to him.

"What are you waiting for, son?" Your father coaxed, gesturing towards the open doorway. "You'll just get sicker the longer you wait out there." His tone was gentle, almost paternal, but JJ couldn't shake the feeling that he was being treated like a stray animal. He hesitated, taking a cautious step forward as if expecting a trap to snap shut. "Y/N should be upstairs," your father continued, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "If I had known you were coming over, I would have set a plate for you at the dinner table." JJ's jaw dropped. Could he have heard that right? Was your father actually inviting him to join the family for dinner?

It was a surreal moment, one that he couldn't quite comprehend. Just as he was about to thank your father for his unexpected kindness, your voice cut through the silence. "JJ?" The blonde boy's face softened as he turned to see you standing a few feet away. "H-Hey, pretty girl," he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. An overwhelming urge to pull you into his arms surged through him, but he hesitated, mindful of your father's presence. He should have known better than to let his guard down.

Before he could think twice, you had already closed the distance, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck in a bone-crushing hug. The force of the embrace nearly knocked the two of you off your feet. "You're shaking," You murmured, concern etched on your face. "Is everything okay?" You parted from the hug, but kept a firm hand on his arms, feeling his cold skin beneath your palms. "It is now." He nodded, offering a weak, forced smile. “You’re in good hands, son," Your father's voice broke the silence. "See you both in the morning.” You gave your father a reassuring smile before guiding JJ upstairs.

JJ's eyes scanned the room, taking in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the scattered books on the nightstand, and the framed photos on the dresser. He'd never been in your room before, and it felt oddly intimate. A sense of peace washed over him as he stood in the middle of your room, the warmth of your presence comforting. “You know,” you began, breaking the silence as you shut your bedroom door, “I’m glad you’re here.” He turned to face you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Me too,” He replied, his voice barely a whisper. "I just wished you didn't do it in the middle of a storm." You chastised pacing around the room.

JJ watched as you pulled out clothes out of a drawer and gave him a look. “Strip.” His eyes nearly budged out of his head at your words. You, his innocent girlfriend who blushed at any of his sexual innuendos was commanding him to get naked. His mind raced as he tried to process what you’d just said as you handed him a pair of your sweatpants and a t-shirt. "What? Why?" He stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. You rolled your eyes playfully. "You’re soaking wet, and I don’t want you to get sick. Plus, these are way more comfortable than those jeans you’re wearing." You turned your back to him, giving him some privacy.

As he slowly undressed, a strange mix of embarrassment and excitement washed over him. He'd never been so vulnerable in front of you before. When he was finally changed, he turned to face you, feeling a bit self-conscious. You smiled at him, a warm and inviting smile. "Much better," You said, taking his hand. "Now, let's get you warmed up." You led him to your bed, the soft mattress inviting. "Get in." You ordered, a playful glint in your eye. He hesitated for a moment, but then climbed onto the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. You sat beside him, your legs tucked beneath you. "You know," You began, "I've missed you." Your voice was soft, almost a whisper.

JJ's heart pounded in his chest. He turned to face you, his eyes locked onto yours. "I've missed you too," He admitted. A comfortable silence fell between you two. Scooting closer to him, you gently pushed a strand of his sun-kissed blonde hair away from his cerulean eyes, a detail you'd always adored. In response, he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, as if he was afraid you might vanish into thin air. "Penny for your thoughts?" You whispered, your voice barely audible. You knew something was amiss. The usual witty banter and teasing remarks were absent, replaced by an unusual quietude. You didn't want to pry, not if he wasn't ready to share.

Upon hearing your words JJ hesitated. He knew he should tell you, confess his deepest, darkest secrets. But the fear of losing you, of you realizing the truth about him and rejecting him, paralyzed him. You were everything he wasn't, everything he longed for. You were kind, understanding, and patient. He didn't deserve you. He had grown up in a world of violence and neglect, a world where love was a foreign concept. His father's abuse had left deep scars on his soul, shaping him into a man who was both fiercely loyal and deeply troubled. He was afraid that if you knew the real him, the broken, damaged version, you would turn away.

He was afraid that you would see him for what he truly was: a lost boy, a product of a harsh and unforgiving environment. You’d seen that look before, a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. It was a stark contrast to the bravado he usually exuded, the tough-guy facade he’d built to protect himself. But you knew there was more to him than that, a depth that hinted at a troubled past. Your relationship was still young, fragile, and beautiful. You’d fallen for the boy beneath the bravado, the one who made you laugh, who saw you for who you truly were. But you knew there were parts of him he was keeping hidden, secrets buried deep within. He took a deep breath, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m scared, Y/N. Scared that if you knew the real me, the me before you, you’d leave. You’d realize you deserve better.” His eyes, usually so full of life, were now clouded with doubt. Your heart ached for him. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours under the covers. “JJ, whatever you’re going through, I’m here for you. No matter what.” You coaxed, hoping that your words were enough to dwindle the storm brewing in his mind. Because you desperately believed that JJ Maybank deserved the world. He looked at you, disbelief and hope warring in his eyes. “You mean that?” You nodded, your voice steady. “I do. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

Like a dam that was waiting to collapse, he broke down into your arms, his sobs muffled by your shirt. You held him tightly, stroking his hair as he cried, the tears soaking your shoulder. In those minutes, which felt like decades, his walls collapsed, telling you each one of his darkest truths as if he had been given a truth serum. He poured out his heart, revealing the hidden scars of his past. The boy you'd fallen for, the one who'd always seemed so confident, was now raw and vulnerable, exposing the depths of his pain. You listened, your heart breaking for him by each passing second. You knew that his childhood had been far from idyllic, but you had never imagined it was this bad.

You held him as close as you could, offering silent comfort. "I'm so sorry, JJ." He nodded, his eyes filled with tears. "I'm trying to move on. I'm trying to be better." You smiled at him, your heart overflowing with love and compassion. "You are better, JJ. You're strong, and you're kind. And I'm so lucky to have you. Why would I want anyone else when you're perfect in my eyes." That's a first he thought to himself. JJ had been described as many things—reckless, impulsive, and even dangerous. But never perfect. He was overwhelmed by your words, his heart filled with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.

Which is why those three words and eight letters tumbled out of his lips before he could overthink them. "I love you." He didn't care if it was "too early" the look of pure adoration on your face was reassurance enough that he hadn't fucked up the timing. "I love you too JJ. You have no idea." The world seemed to slow down as you gazed into his eyes, a profound connection forming between you two. Upon hearing those words he surged forward meeting your lips, gently but with a passionate purpose. It was a kiss that held the weight of a lifetime, a culmination of years of longing and heartache. He'd spent his life being told he wasn't good enough, that he'd never amount to anything. But in your eyes, he saw something different.

He saw love, acceptance, and a future filled with endless possibilities. As the kiss deepened, he felt a surge of emotion, a love so pure and profound that it seemed to defy all odds. In that moment, he knew that he'd finally found his home, his safe harbor, and the love he'd always dreamed of. As you parted for air, you couldn't help but notice that his body had fully relaxed against yours. Threading your fingers through his hair, you knew it would lull him to sleep. "Good night, JJ. I love you," You breathed out, burying your face in his shoulder. The blonde boy didn't hesitate to reciprocate, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. As the minutes ticked by, JJ felt the storm that had once consumed his thoughts begin to dissipate. Holding you close, he allowed himself to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

785 notes · View notes

solxamber · 5 months ago

Text

Supervillain's Guide to Romance || Rook Hunt

You, Supervillain, planned for a lifetime of rivalry, but instead, the Hero, Rook Hunt just keeps breaking into your lair with snacks.

Where did it all go wrong?

(Villain! Reader x Hero! Rook)

You have waited for this moment forever.

The world has been terribly dull as of late. Sure, your evil empire is thriving, the peasantry cowers at the mention of your name, and several major institutions have crumbled beneath your perfectly polished boots.

But without conflict, without an opponent, it’s just… paperwork and infrastructure maintenance. And while managing the economy after singlehandedly obliterating capitalism is hilarious, it does not provide the visceral thrill of a good old-fashioned deathmatch.

But now. Now.

The Goddess has finally chosen her Hero.

And you are so ready for this.

Your Ultimate Doomsday Device™ is primed. Your Evil Lair is bathed in appropriately dramatic red lighting. Your constructs—hulking, ominous, heavily armed—are lined up in terrifying symmetry, all enhanced with freshly sharpened weaponry and, crucially, eyeliner. Because aesthetic matters.

And you?

You are a vision of villainy. Cloak billowing, sword gleaming, boots heeled just enough to exude power but still practical enough for dramatic combat maneuvers. You spent three hours in front of a mirror perfecting your “I’ll kill you and laugh about it” smirk. You are prepared to be an absolute menace.

And then he arrives.

Standing atop the nearest cliff, silhouetted by an impossibly well-placed moon, is him.

The Goddess’s Chosen Hero.

Rook Hunt.

He is posing. His bow gleams. He looks like a romanticized painting of a hunter-king about to declare war on a stag. And then—

“Ah-ha!” he cries, pointing dramatically at you. “At last, we meet, O Dark Jewel of the Night’s Malevolence!”

…What.

Rook places a hand on his chest, eyes alight with unhinged enthusiasm. “What poetry! What drama! What an exquisite monologue that must have been as you awaited my arrival! Tell me, mon cher adversaire, how long have you rehearsed this glorious moment?”

…What.

You were expecting many things.

A clash of ideals. A heated battle. Perhaps a reluctant respect forged in the fires of combat.

You were not expecting your mortal enemy to sound like a theater major experiencing religious ecstasy at the sight of your properly villainous cape swish.

You squint at him. “You’re… excited?”

Rook nods so fervently his hat nearly flies off. “But of course! To stand against one so resplendently wicked! To trade blows—nay, souls—in this eternal dance of justice and villainy! C'est magnifique!”

He’s smiling.

Why is he smiling.

This is a deathmatch, not a wine tasting.

You clear your throat, lifting your chin in the most intimidating way possible. “Do you have any final words before I bring ruin upon you?”

Rook inhales deeply, eyes glimmering like a man utterly in love with the idea of his own demise.

“You are radiant in your menace! A blinding star of destruction! Smite me, O Harbinger of Dread! Let me bask in the beauty of your malice!”

He spreads his arms as if to embrace the impending carnage.

You slowly lower your sword.

“…What the hell is wrong with you?”

You shrug it off, maybe the Goddess likes them unhinged.

You had prepared for this moment your entire life.

The darkness swirled dramatically around you as you stood atop your obsidian throne, gazing down at the battlefield below. Your constructs—your beautiful, eyeliner-wearing minions—were poised, weapons gleaming, capes billowing, eyes smoldering with unholy (and stylish) rage.

The sky rumbled, lightning cracked, your "smite-a-city" device hummed ominously, and a general sense of doom and destruction filled the air.

This was it. The fated clash between good and evil. The battle that would shake the heavens, rend the earth, and—

"Ah, mon cher, your stance is exquisite! But tell me, would you rather have dinner instead of world domination?"

You freeze mid-swing, sword inches from his throat.

Your constructs freeze mid-battle, one still mid-air, about to deliver a flying kick. The thunder hesitates, the lightning awkwardly fizzles out, the wind that had been howling through the battlefield just kind of... stops, like it forgot what it was doing. Even your "smite-a-city" device lets out a confused beep.

Rook Hunt—the Goddess’s Chosen Hero, The People's Champion, The Bringer of Light and Justice, The Reason You Haven’t Been Able to Have a Peaceful Afternoon in Months—gazes at you with sparkling green eyes, utterly unbothered. He is smiling. He is batting his eyelashes. He is somehow more dazzling than the lightning.

You, in contrast, are short-circuiting. "HUH??? WHAT??? NO???"

"Magnifique." He lunges again, sword clashing against yours, his grin only widening. "Then I shall vanquish you with the elegance you deserve!"

The world unfreezes as if someone hit 'play' on reality again. Your constructs return to attacking, the wind resumes howling, thunder remembers how to be intimidating, and you—still reeling—dodge a particularly poetic strike from the overly enthusiastic Hero of the World.

You're not sure what just happened, but you do know one thing:

You absolutely refuse to die without getting some answers first.

And maybe, just maybe, you need to recalibrate your entire life plan.

You had been prepared for a worthy opponent. You had been prepared for grand battles, for expertly crafted schemes, for a rivalry that would echo through the annals of history.

What you had not been prepared for was Rook Hunt.

You take a sip of your tea, relishing a rare moment of villainous peace. The sun is setting, your latest evil scheme (a devastating tax loophole reform) is progressing smoothly, and—most importantly—Rook Hunt is not around.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you relax, you feel it. That unmistakable tingle of being observed.

Slowly, you lower your cup.

And there he is. Peeking through your window.

His stupid hat. His stupid cape. His stupidly enchanting green eyes shining like a cursed emerald in the dim light.

"Bonsoir, mon cher!" he greets cheerfully, dangling upside down from your roof like a particularly well-dressed bat.

You nearly drop your tea. "WHAT THE FU—"

You're exhausted. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. You decide to dedicate an entire day to self-care. Face masks, fluffy robes, a villainous bath bomb infused with the souls of the unjustly rich—you are determined to ignore the world.

As you stretch luxuriously in your grand lair, you hear a faint thunk.

You pause.

Slowly, you turn your gaze toward the door.

There, pinned straight through the wood by an arrow, is a neatly wrapped face mask.

You take a deep breath. You count to ten. You fail to count to ten because you are seething.

You yank the arrow out and unroll the note attached to it.

"Self-care is crucial, mon ami! Hydrate well and let your skin glow like the celestial heavens! À bientôt~!"

There is a little hand-drawn heart at the bottom.

You have never known rage like this.

At this point, you’re convinced the Goddess chose him purely to fuck with you.

There is no other explanation. None.

Because every time you turn around, he is there.

He is watching.

He is smiling.

He is way too into this.

You are a responsible supervillain. You do your own paperwork.

This is crucial.

Do you have minions? Yes. Constructs? Absolutely. Are they efficient? Of course. Do they understand the fine intricacies of tax-deductible lair maintenance expenses? No.

So here you are, suffering, hunched over your desk, reviewing budgets for your upcoming Doomsday Apparatus™ (pending patent).

Your shoulder aches. The price of evil, you suppose.

Then, hands.

You sigh, assuming it’s one of your constructs trying to be helpful, but the texture is all wrong. Not cold. Not metallic. Not vaguely threatening.

You freeze.

These are human hands.

You whirl around so fast you nearly fall out of your chair.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. The Menace of Your Existence.

Wearing that same infuriatingly pleased expression he always has when he manages to unnerve you.

“Mon trésor, you are so tense! Do not fret, for I am here to ease your burdens—”

Your hand is already on your emergency drawer.

Because of course you keep a glock in there. You’re a responsible supervillain.

But before you can make him truly holy, he lifts a plate of your favorite cookies.

You squint.

You squint harder.

The cookies look perfect.

You hate him.

But you love those cookies.

“...Fine,” you grumble. “Dining room. Now.”

And that’s how you end up having the most awkward tea party of your life.

Your constructs—tall, looming, deadly—stand against the walls like confused statues.

You glare at Rook. He beams at you.

You eat a cookie. He sips his tea like he’s the most welcome guest in the world and not your mortal enemy.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I’m going to destroy an entire city district next time.”

Rook hums, interested. “Hm. But which one? Have you considered an aerial attack for maximum devastation?”

Your constructs shift uncomfortably.

You blink. “...What.”

“If you truly wish to inspire terror, mon cher, a coordinated offensive utilizing shadow and fire would be most spectacular. Oh, imagine the fear in their eyes! The poetry of destruction!”

Your constructs are now visibly uncomfortable.

You stare at him. “...You realize I am trying to defeat you, right?”

“Oui.” He takes another dainty sip of tea. “But what is a villain without a hero? What is a hero without a villain? We are locked in the most beautiful dance, and it would be a shame if your evil was anything less than... magnifique.”

You hate how good that sounds.

Your constructs, sensing the sheer unhinged energy at this table, collectively decide they are done.

You’ve had it.

Rook Hunt has been breaking into your lair every other day, treating your villainous empire like it’s some kind of all-you-can-antagonize buffet.

So tonight? You strike back.

Your plan is perfectly petty. You sneak into his house, bypass his defenses, and leave a nasty little surprise—a copy of his stupid hat, but without the feather. Symbolic. Brutal. Devastating.

It’s dark inside. Suspiciously dark. You move silently through the halls, your villain senses tingling, when—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You let out the most unvillainous, undignified little squeak known to man.

A candle flares to life.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. Smiling. Smug. Suspiciously pleased.

And behind him?

A fully set candlelit dinner table.

What.

You yank your wrist free and glare at him. “How did you know I was coming?”

“I didn’t!” He laughs, delighted, as if this entire scenario isn’t absolutely deranged. “I’ve merely been setting this up every night for the past week, hoping one day you would.”

You stare.

Your brain buffers.

Your evil plan—your brilliant, petty, symbolically devastating evil plan—is completely ruined.

But also.

You are weirdly, deeply flattered.

Which is so annoying.

You grumble and stomp over to the table. “Well, I’m not wasting a perfectly good meal.”

Rook positively beams as you sit down, pouring you a glass of something fancy.

You stab at your food aggressively. “You suck, Hunt.”

“Ah, mon amour, flattery will get you everywhere.”

You contemplate murder.

You also contemplate dessert.

Your life is hard.

As a renowned and feared supervillain, you have many responsibilities—world domination, economic destabilization, overthrowing the bourgeoisie—but even the greatest of evildoers need time to unwind.

For you, that means art.

Tonight, you sit in your grand lair, sketchbook in hand, dreamily doodling while fantasizing about the day you will finally, unequivocally, beat Rook Hunt.

Perhaps you’ll trap him in an inescapable dungeon.

Perhaps you’ll trick him into an elaborate psychological game that will break his very spirit.

Perhaps you’ll put a single grain of sand in his boots and let nature take its course.

The possibilities are endless.

You’re so absorbed in your creative villainous process that you fail to notice the cryptid himself materializing behind you like some kind of woodland horror story.

“Ah, mon trésor, what are you drawing?”

You freeze.

Your villain instincts kick in, but it’s too late. Before you can shove your sketchbook under your cloak and play it off like a true mastermind, Rook Hunt has already peeked.

A beat of silence.

You watch as, for the first time in history, Rook Hunt blushes.

You look down at your sketchbook.

Oh.

It’s a doodle of him.

With a heart drawn near it.

Obvious context:

It’s a threat.

Clearly, you meant “I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Obviously, this is not romantic.

Clearly, he should know this.

And yet—

Before you can explain this very normal and absolutely not embarrassing drawing, Rook makes a strangled noise—and then, without warning—

He launches himself out of the window.

Full-speed.

No hesitation.

You stare blankly at the gaping hole in your wall.

The night breeze drifts in.

A loose paper flutters off your desk.

Your jaw clenches.

You pull out your calculator.

“Alright. How much is this repair gonna cost me this time?”

It had been months. Months of what was supposed to be an intense, dramatic rivalry, full of mortal combat, fire, and the kind of operatic duels that would make even the gods weep. Months where the world should have trembled at the very mention of your name as you and the so-called Goddess’s Chosen Hero waged battle across the land.

Instead, what had actually happened was this:

Rook had become a persistent, feathered plague upon your life. Every time you so much as breathed, he was there. If you drank tea, he was peeking through the window like some kind of blonde cryptid.

If you took a relaxing villainous bubble bath, he left a scented candle by your doorstep with a little handwritten note.

If you tried to sleep? Oh, well clearly that was the perfect time for him to send a love arrow straight through your pillow, just narrowly missing your skull.

This was not how hero-villain dynamics were supposed to go.

And apparently, the Goddess had finally taken notice, because today, as you and Rook clashed swords atop your usual scenic cliffside battlefield—lightning flashing, your cape billowing just right—a new hero arrived, looking exactly like the bootleg discount protagonist you’d expect from a last-minute recast.

“Villain!” he bellowed, dramatically pointing his sword at you. “Your reign of terror ends—”

You vaporized him on the spot.

Your constructs, standing dutifully in formation, collectively gasped.

Rook, who had been mid-flourish with his sword, stopped and blinked at the rapidly dissipating ashes of what had, just seconds ago, been an eager new recruit in the grand war of good versus evil. Then, he turned back to you, smiling fondly.

“Ah, mon trésor, how dashing you are when you wield your power with such effortless grace!”

You scowled, pointing your sword at him this time. “Why are you acting like I just did something romantic? I murdered that guy.”

“Oui! And beautifully so!” Rook twirled his own blade, utterly unbothered. “Like a star snuffing out another in the vast cosmos! Poetry in motion! Ah, my heart beats faster just thinking of it.”

Your constructs, meanwhile, were losing their collective minds.

One of them, a hulking, six-armed behemoth of enchanted steel, hesitantly raised a hand. “Uh. So. Boss? Just so we’re clear—”

“Don’t,” you warned.

“No, no, just a quick question,” it continued, with the slow, careful tone of someone addressing a very temperamental god. “You just smote a hero instantly. Like, zero hesitation. Which means you can do that. So, um. What exactly is stopping you from smiting him?” It pointed at Rook.

Rook, the absolute menace that he was, waved cheerfully.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered your options.

Then, in a show of supreme villainous dignity, you turned on your heel and dramatically stomped away.

Your constructs stared after you.

Rook sheathed his sword and sighed wistfully. “Ah, such passion. Such fire. Such restraint! Truly, they are the one chosen for me.”

The constructs turned to him in absolute horror.

“What have you done to our boss?”

You were having a perfectly normal evening.

By "normal," of course, you meant that you were lounging in your grand, candlelit villainous dining hall, sipping a glass of expensive wine (stolen, obviously), while Rook Hunt, your mortal enemy and frequent dinner guest, debated you on the finer points of mid-air combat.

"Mon trésor, think of the artistry!" Rook exclaims, gesturing wildly with his fork. "A battle in freefall—two souls clashing against the endless sky, the wind whipping our capes, the suspense of who will deploy their parachute first!"

You scowl, jabbing a piece of steak. "No. That’s impractical. There’s no stable footing, gravity ruins your attack trajectory, and if one of us dies before hitting the ground, there’s no dramatic final duel."

Rook gasps. "But what of style, mon cher? What of the poetry of two destined foes plummeting through the heavens, locked in the embrace of battle?"

You roll your eyes. "What of the reality that I’m not breaking my legs just so you can fulfill some mid-air fencing fantasy?"

Before Rook can counter with another unnecessary metaphor, there's a knock at the door.

You pause. Rook tilts his head. Your constructs—the ones assigned to not be traumatized by your ridiculous rivalry—shift uneasily.

No one knocks on the door of the Evil Overlord.

You cautiously rise, striding toward the entrance, adjusting your cloak. If this is some dumb assassin, you’re going to vaporize them before they finish their opening monologue.

You throw open the door.

Standing there, shimmering with divine light and looking deeply, deeply exasperated, is the Goddess.

You blink.

Rook, behind you, immediately bows with theatrical reverence. "Ah, my divine patron! What honor do we have to—"

She shoves a hand in his face, shutting him up. "Not a word from you."

Rook makes a delighted noise behind her palm, as if being personally scolded by a deity is the highlight of his week.

Then, the Goddess turns her gaze to you.

"You," she says, voice layered with millennia of barely restrained frustration.

You raise a brow. "Me?"

She points accusingly. "You are not even a villain."

You stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"The people adore you!" she snaps, throwing up her hands. "Your so-called empire? Has better infrastructure and social services than any kingdom in the world! Your so-called evil policies? Fixed the economy! Your supposed tyranny? Universally beloved by the peasantry!”

You gape at her. "I run a dictatorship."

"A benevolent dictatorship!"

Your eye twitches. You glance back at Rook, who is absolutely vibrating with amusement.

The Goddess rounds on him next. "And you!"

Rook straightens, looking delighted to finally have her attention. "Oui?"

"You are the worst hero I have ever chosen."

His smile widens. "Merci!"

"That wasn't a compliment." She pinches the bridge of her nose, like she’s developing divine stress migraines. "You were supposed to defeat them. Not take them to dinner, deliver self-care gifts, and give them advice on better city destruction tactics."

"But, my Goddess, what is heroism if not—"

She holds up a finger. "Finish that sentence, and I swear on the cosmic balance, I will smite you myself."

Rook, wisely, shuts up.

Your arms cross, and you scowl at her. "So what do you want, exactly?"

The Goddess sighs. "Nothing. I am done. I am sick of this. I gave your world a clear narrative, and you two have turned it into—into—" she gestures wildly at the two of you, "whatever this is."

She looks exhausted. You take a slow sip of wine. Rook sips his tea. Your constructs, still lurking awkwardly in the background, look on in silent horror.

Finally, the Goddess rubs her temples and lets out a long, world-weary sigh.

"I give up," she declares. "I abandon this world."

You blink. "What."

Rook gasps. "Mon Dieu!"

She throws her hands up. "No. Not your "Dieu" anymore. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. Conquer the world. Get married. Build a flying opera house of destruction. I do not care."

She turns on her heel, divine light flaring around her, ready to vanish back into the heavens. But before she fully ascends, she pauses, turns back, and levels one last glare at you.

"And fix your damn roof. I know he broke it." She jerks her head at Rook.

Then, with a flash of light, she is gone.

Silence.

Your constructs do not move. You do not move. The air is thick with the weight of divine abandonment.

Then—

"Mon trésor," Rook breathes, eyes sparkling. "Did you hear? We have divine permission to wed!"

You throw your wine glass at his head.

You were going to prove a point.

The Goddess’s words still echoed in your mind:

"The people adore you."

"Your so-called tyranny is beloved."

Absolutely not. You are terrifying. You are a villain. You are the Dread Overlord of Shadows and Eternal Night, not some beloved community figure.

So, naturally, you stormed into the city streets in full dramatic regalia, determined to strike fear into the hearts of the people.

And, of course, they were absolutely terrified.

(There are children braiding flowers into your hair.)

Their knees knocked together in terror.

(The baker personally handed you a warm loaf of bread, saying, "It’s your favorite, dear. Fresh out of the oven.")

They shrank away from you, trembling.

("Can we get a selfie, Overlord of Shadows? You look so cool today!")

They screamed in fear.

(M’overlord, would you consider attending our town’s Harvest Festival? It wouldn’t be the same without you.")

By the time you made it back to your lair, the weight of reality had crushed your entire soul into a fine powder.

Your constructs barely had time to move out of the way before you collapsed onto the cold stone floor, sprawled dramatically, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was not normal.

Nothing about today was normal.

You were supposed to be evil. The darkness lurking at the edges of civilization. The terrifying ruler who demanded obedience, not… not fan interaction.

You reach up and pull a flower from your hair. A daisy. A cute little daisy.

You stare at it.

Then, slowly, you sit up and reach into your pocket.

You pull out the loaf of bread. It’s still warm. It smells amazing.

You take a slow, deliberate bite.

You chew. You swallow.

You scream into a pillow.

Your constructs watch in silence, wisely choosing to let you process your existential crisis.

Then—

A slow, steady clap echoes through the lair.

You groan, rolling onto your side, as Rook Hunt steps into view, absolutely beaming.

"Mon trésor," he breathes, looking so unbearably pleased. "Did you have a revelation?"

You almost hurl the loaf of bread at his head.

You wake up with a revelation so profound it shakes you to your very core.

You don’t have to fight Rook Hunt anymore.

Not because you won—oh no, if anything, it’s because you never actually fought him to begin with.

This so-called “battle” had always been one-sided. You, pouring your very soul into villainy, scheming, plotting, monologuing—only for Rook to respond with enthusiastic admiration instead of righteous fury.

You had never been fighting a hero. You had been performing for a very intense fan.

And you are so tired.

So you get up, summon your constructs, and announce with all the dignity of a fallen monarch:

"I’m retiring."

They blink.

Your war construct, a towering mass of steel and death, hesitantly raises a hand. "Uh. What?"

"I’m retiring." You rub your temples. "I was never really a villain, apparently. The people adore me. The Goddess abandoned this realm. And my greatest enemy is currently sitting on my chandelier, smiling at me like a particularly pleased house cat."

A collective glance is shared. The constructs all look up.

Indeed, Rook is perched there, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, your constructs all just nod.

"Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

"Honestly, I think we all saw this coming."

"So what now?"

You sigh and gesture vaguely at the lair. "Do whatever you want. You’re free. Find a new purpose. Go live your lives."

And, to your eternal exhaustion, they do.

Your once-feared War Construct? Now bakes delicate cream puffs.

Your impenetrable Shield Construct? Wears a frilly little apron and dusts the rooms.

Your Lurking Shadow Beast of Eternal Horror? Manages the garden.

You watch all of this unfold with a blank stare, feeling your villainous reputation crumble into nothing. And you?

You don’t even care anymore.

You sit at your grand villainous dining table, Rook across from you, smiling, victorious, insufferable.

He raises a teacup in toast. "To the end of an era, mon trésor."

You sip your tea.

Then, with all the resignation in the world, you simply mutter—

"...Yeah."

Rook just winks.

If you were going to commit one last act of villainy, it had to be grand. Poetic. Fitting for the infuriatingly ridiculous story that had become your life.

And so, you decide.

You were going to steal Rook Hunt’s heart.

… Metaphorically. Probably.

So you don your best dramatic cloak, grab the most intimidating bouquet of flowers you can find, and march to wherever Rook is lurking (which, statistically speaking, is either your lair or right behind you).

But before you can utter a single villainous declaration, you stop.

Because Rook is already kneeling.

Already holding out a ring.

Already smiling like he knew this would happen.

"When’s the wedding, mon trésor?" he asks, eyes gleaming.

You stare at him. Stare at the ring. Stare at the flowers in your own hands like an idiot.

And then—

You laugh.

You laugh so hard you nearly double over, because this is your life now.

The Goddess abandoned your world. Your constructs run a quaint domestic empire. The people adore you. And the so-called Hero?

The Hero beat you to the proposal.

You shake your head, still chuckling, before pulling him up by the front of his shirt and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"Maybe," you murmur, "we can have the wedding on the anniversary of the day we met."

Rook exhales something close to a sigh, grinning against your lips before kissing you again, soft and victorious.

"Magnifique," he whispers.

And, honestly?

Yeah.

Magnifique indeed.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #rook hunt #rook #twst rook x reader

808 notes · View notes

priyajoyy · 4 months ago

Text

You and your psychotic girlfriends

Dark!shauna shipman x reader x dark!Lottie Matthew’s x dark!Natalie scattorcio

The other girls aren’t quite fans of you getting all this special treatment from your psychotic girlfriends, but mari finally decides to call them out and Shauna isn’t happy about it.

Apart of my psychotic girlfriend’s universe but could be read as a stand alone!!

Especially cause Nat and Lottie aren’t overly that dark in this

I also haven’t even watched the first two eps of season 3 lol I’ve just seen this scene on TikTok so sorry if there’s any mistakes todo with that

Warnings:

Dark! Characters but they’re not too bad here, typical Yellowjackets warnings, dissociation at the end, not much else

You had never asked the three of them for extra privileges. Although it was rare nowadays that the three of them asked for your input on anything, especially big decisions.

You noticed how your food portions always seemed to be bigger than everyone else’s. How you’d get extra blankets and less chores to do. And you knew the others must have seen it too.

You tried your best to help out extra, and do other people’s chores when you weren’t asked. But Lottie and Nat always wanted you at one of their sides and Shauna would practically bite the heads off of any girl that let you take over their work.

“God, the service here is slow.” One of the girls giggled.

“Oh, garçon!” Gen called out.

You watched as all the girls eyed you enviously while Lottie passed you your food. You hadn’t been on the winning team of capture the bone, yet here you were sat with all of them, not having to lift a finger.

You couldn’t help but feel that familiar feeling of guilt fill your stomach.

“Okay. So, for your solstice dining pleasure or whatever, we have deer soup.” Natalie states simply.

“Also known as braised venison stew, served with our finest vintage of berry wine.” Taissa added in a fancy voice, to which all the girls ooh’d.

“Seriously this is bullshit” mari calls out suddenly, before any of the bowls other than your own, could be placed down.

You took a sharp breath in and looked down at your lap. It was bound to happen at some point, you’re surprised it hadn’t sooner.

Shauna and the girl had already been at odds with one another, you should have known their little biting incident earlier would have been the breaking point.

The others all stared at her silently. You could tell this wouldn’t end well.

“Mari..” van started with a sigh, hoping to stop the incoming argument.

“No seriously!” She responded in a rage, “I’m so done with this! How is it fair that she just gets to sit there all the time because she’s Lottie, Nat and shipman’s little pet!”

“Seriously mari grow up” Natalie says with an eye roll, placing the bowl in her hands down in hopes the rest of the girls stood up would follow her lead, all of them staying still instead.

“You all know I’m right” she continues, ignoring the girl as you squirm in your seat, “you all hate doing extra chores and getting less food as much as I do!”

“You better watch your mouth” Shauna says in a steady voice, glaring down at the girl.

“Or what Shauna? What are you gonna do” she says with a laugh.

You stare at lottie from your seat, as if to try and will her to do something, but she just stares back at you, not saying a word.

“You don’t wanna know-“ Shauna starts, getting closer to the girls face, food still in hand, as you turn yourself to Nat instead.

“Come on guys!” Taissa called out with a groan.

“Nat” you say quietly, pleading with her to make her stop the impending fight.

“Seriously you two enough!” Nat says in a sterner voice, making you smile at her slightly in thanks.

Shauna pulls back from the girls face, grinning at her and turning to look at Lottie, who shares a knowing look with her.

You watch the two in silence, dreading what they were thinking, and only hoping you and Natalie could prevent it.

“Fine” Shauna says simply in a false nice voice, the others may not have noticed the real tone behind it, but you certainly did.

You watched as she stared mari down, slowly spiting in her food as she placed it onto the table alone with the other girls who sat their bowls down into place.

“Bon appétit” she states simply.

“What?” Shauna says staring at the girl intently, asking with an innocent voice, “Aren't you hungry?”

She looks at you for a moment, sat opposite where she stood with a worried expression. You shake your head to say ‘no’ but she ignores you with a grin.

“Go ahead. Just give me a reason” you watch her say tauntingly, looking her up and down.

“What the fսck? Shauna just spit in my food” mari called out to the table, grabbing their attention and making them groan.

“Here we go”

“Come on”

The girls all call out and groan in annoyance, watching the two begin another argument for the umpteenth time.

“Are you gonna do something about this or what?” She asked their queen in outrage.

“Jesus Christ. Shauna, did you spit in her soup?” Natalie said with an eye roll.

Natalie looks at you questioningly, as if to ask if Shauna had done it, watching you stare back at her with a panicked expression.

“What? No. The fact that you even think I would is insulting” Shauna scoffs.

Mari stands up, meeting Shauna’s gaze with the soup firmly gripped in her right hand, making Shauna add “You should eat. I worked hard to make it”

You watch her slowly poor it to the ground next to them in response.

“I should fսcking kick your ass” mari states in a rage.

You gasp in shock, jumping up to your feet alongside a lot of the other girls as Shauna tackles the teen to the ground, grabbing her face roughly with her hand and shoving it in to the mud.

“I told you to eat, bitch!” Shauna screams, pushing the girls face down with force, her cheek twisting in the mixture of soup and dirt as she whimpers and tries to pull out of her grasp.

Quickly Natalie and some others pull Shauna off of her, two girls helping mari stand as Natalie starts to shout.

“That's it! That's it! I've fսcking had it with this shit! If everyone wants me to be the camp counselor, then fine. Starting tomorrow, you're both on house arrest. Stay in your shelters. I don't want to see your faces for a week, okay? Got it?” Natalie shouts out as the two are separated.

“What? Uh, this is bullshit. She attacked me” mari argues back in outrage, mud still caked on her face, making Natalie glare at her.

“Keep going, Mar, I'll make it two weeks” Natalie says in frustration

“Oh. You know what?” Mari states, pulling the cloak off of her shoulders, “fսck this. You know, screw all of you. I'm out of here!”

Shauna watches with a smirk, before turning and walking away herself, grinning at you as you stare at her in concern.

“Let her go. Don't let her ruin the rest of the night.” Natalie said with a sigh, as the girls all watch mari storm off in to the woods.

You watch on as the atmosphere calms slightly, feeling a hand grip your arm from behind.

You turn, facing Lottie who had approached you, staring at you with a neutral expression you can’t distinguish.

You watch out the corner of your eye as Natalie nods to her, before Lottie takes your arm and guides you away from the mess and back to the table.

She gently forces you to sit while the rest of the girls settle, akilah sat to your right, the only one left sat down, and looks at you with a shared look of annoyance. And you stare at the table blankly while Lottie makes you finish your food.

Ok already have some ideas for a second part of this icl 🤭

582 notes · View notes

tinytownn · 3 months ago

Text

road rage – pt. i

joel miller x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

summary: on a drive home after a late night shift, a tailgating truck hits you, sending you off the road. the driver—his looks catching you by surprise—offers you a ride home.

content: enemies(?? for like two pages) to lovers??, age gap, minor car crash??, subtle flirting, a lotttt of joel using sweetheart, joel trying not to be a creep lol, temptationnn, no use of y/n, pretty slow first chapter ngl

a/n: hello!! this is my first post on this account and on tumblr in general. i'm still getting used to everything, but i've just recently gotten back into writing after a few years so i'm just excited to be doing this again!! i am planning to make this a short series with maybe 3-5 parts?? this first chapter is pretty slow with just a little flirting, but things will definitely pick up as the story progresses. (also i pictured in game joel in this fic but obv it doesn't matter)

pt. ii pt. iii pt. iv pt. v

—

The cool air blowing through the vents did little to keep you awake, so you reached down to turn up the music. The seat gently vibrated in sync with the bass, almost lulling you to sleep instead of keeping you alert.

You shook your head. Only twenty more minutes.

Trees blurred in your peripheral vision, and the oncoming headlights cut through the thick night fog, almost blinding you. Silently cursing, you squinted as the combination of bright lights and loud music gave you a headache. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but as the people-pleaser you were, you had agreed to cover a shift for a friend. Which normally wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t the worst shift possible– 3 PM to 11 PM.

Spending the entire day under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office had been miserable, but at least you avoided rush-hour traffic. Now, the highway was deserted, the pavement stretching endlessly ahead, and you took full advantage. The speedometer ticked upward—eighty, ninety—until it settled on a bold 100 mph. You straightened your back, gripping the wheel tighter.

This was the only good part of your night.

You, the open road, and the music moving in sync. Your foot pressed the gas pedal to the beat, the car swaying slightly as you danced along to the rhythm. For a brief moment, freedom rushed through your veins.

Then, your joy was cut short.

Blinding LED headlights filled your rearview mirror.

Despite your already reckless speed, the approaching truck was closing the distance fast, its lights growing brighter by the second. With a frustrated sigh, you flipped the switch on your mirror to dim the glare, but the relief was minimal. You pressed the gas just enough to hold a steady 90 mph, hoping the driver would back off.

They didn’t.

The truck inched closer, practically kissing your bumper. Your patience thinned.

"Where do you have to be right now?" you yelled, throwing your hands in the air before slamming them back onto the wheel.

You refused to speed up any further. You were already pushing legal limits, and there was an entirely open lane to your right. Why isn’t he just going around me? A quick glance in the mirror confirmed your suspicions—a middle-aged man, his expression unreadable.

"Go around me if you're that impatient, grandpa!"

But he didn’t. He just stayed there.

Your jaw tightened as the truck loomed behind you, headlights flooding the interior of your car. And then—just when you thought his lights couldn’t get any more obnoxious—they flickered.

Your irritation flared. Is he seriously flashing his brights at me?

Normally, you avoided road rage. You knew better than to test angry strangers in metal death machines. But today had been a day.

Burning coffee spilled on your chest that morning. The dreadful realization that you had to work this godforsaken shift. The mind-numbing hours spent under soul-sucking office lights. And now, this asshole riding your bumper.

Your nerves snapped.

On the third flicker of his brights, your foot slammed on the brake.

The jolt wasn’t enough to stop the car entirely, just a warning. A signal.

But the truck didn’t back off.

Instead, his brights stayed on—permanently.

Your car felt like the inside of a lightbulb, and the overwhelming glare made it hard to see the road. Your speed dropped slightly as you struggled to focus.

You have got to be kidding me…

This time, your foot hesitated over the brake. You weren’t sure how close he really was. The last thing you needed was an accident.

But fate had other plans.

A deafening horn blast rattled through the night.

The sudden noise startled you, and before you could stop yourself, your foot slammed down—

—on the brake.

Everything happened in an instant.

Your forehead hit the steering wheel, only to be snapped backward by the force of the deploying airbag. The nylon burned against your skin, suffocating and blinding you. Your tires screamed against the pavement as the car spun out of control. Your body strained against the seatbelt as you felt the car dip into the median. A sharp pain shot through your neck as your head slammed against the headrest.

"Fuck..." you groaned.

It was a minor crash, all things considered. But your car? Completely totaled.

The front bumper was crushed into the median railing. The back was crumpled—rammed in by the truck.

The truck.

Adrenaline masked the pain as you forced yourself to move. The car was a mess—your tote bag had spilled across the seats, its contents scattered. You fumbled with your seatbelt, fingers shaking, until—

Click.

You were free.

You sprang into action, anger seizing complete control. The car door slammed behind you as you stomped toward the man’s driver-side door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have killed us!”

You didn’t care that his door was closed—he was going to hear you.

To your surprise, the man opened the door, unbuckling his seatbelt as if nothing had happened. His truck sat parked on the shoulder, barely touched. A few scratches on the front bumper. No airbags deployed.

Meanwhile, your car was wrecked.

The stark contrast sent a fresh wave of rage through you. Your fist slammed against the hood of his truck—not even a dent.

“You could have just moved over.”

His voice was calm. Unbothered.

The indifference made you freeze.

Eyes wide, you finally looked at him—really looked at him. He was older—dark hair streaked with gray, hands calloused and worn. His lips pressed into a firm line, tired eyes set deep beneath a hardened expression. He had an air of intimidation about him, the kind that came with experience rather than effort. And despite everything—despite the wreck, the rage still simmering in your chest—he was handsome. If you weren’t so pissed off, the way his unwavering gaze dragged over you might’ve made you falter—hell, maybe even blush.

You scoffed at his southern drawl, unimpressed. His voice carried the charm of a gentleman, but his actions were anything but.

“I was there first. You should have moved over.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s called the fast lane, sweetheart. And I was the faster one.”

You clenched your jaw. “I was going twenty over. Is that not fast enough for you, old man?”

His expression hardened. His eyes dragged over you, then flicked to your totaled car.

“What, you just get your license a month ago? A little speed too much for ya?”

“I’ve been driving for over ten years, and I’ve never met anyone as obnoxious as you.”

“Double that and get back to me, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your eye twitch. The condescension, the complete lack of remorse—it was infuriating. The minutes ticked by, the night stretching darker as the two of you bickered on the side of the empty highway.

Finally, you yanked your phone from your back pocket, the glow illuminating your face as you scrolled to contacts. Turning the screen to him, you snapped, “Put your number in here. I’m getting my insurance card.”

With a grunt, the man took the phone, holding it at an absurd distance from his face. He extended a middle finger, jabbing the screen at a snail’s pace.

You crossed your arms. “Christ, you’re old…”

With the last of your patience slipping away, you turned to your car, lips pressing into a thin line as you took in the damage—worse than you remembered. You yanked open the glove box, rummaging through the mess before pulling out a small booklet of insurance papers.

The crash, the argument, the adrenaline—it had all faded, leaving behind a dull ache stretching from your neck to the back of your head. Each step back to the truck felt heavier than the last.

Joel handed your phone back without a word. He sat in the driver’s seat now, feet propped on the step bar, door wide open. Peering past him, you took in the state of his truck—well-worn, maybe just as old as him. The glove box hung open, spilling out crumpled papers, loose receipts, and junk strewn across the seats. Dirt encrusted the floors, stains lined the fabric, and the entire cab smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust. A typical work truck.

Glancing at your phone screen, you found his name entered stiffly, all caps, on the first line only.

JOEL MILLER.

A small grin tugged at your lips as you fixed the spacing before saving the contact. You sent him a message—just your name—and watched as his phone lit up in confirmation.

Joel cleared his throat. “D’ya got anybody to get you home?”

Your eyes met his. The frustration still simmered, but his question forced you to acknowledge what you’d been avoiding.

His gaze flicked to your wrecked car. “That thing ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, and it’s not safe for a girl like you to be out here this late.”

You huffed. “A girl like me?”

You knew what he meant. You had already run through the worst-case scenarios in your head—alone, stranded, barely past midnight. Every woman’s worst nightmare.

But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of thinking he was doing you a favor.

“Yeah,” Joel said, a playful tone lacing his words, “ones that like to start problems.”

You glanced past him into the truck once again—exactly the kind of scene you were warned to avoid. Cluttered, worn, the kind of place that set off alarms in the back of your mind. But your options were limited—this or the highway.

When you looked back at his face, the sharp edge of his anger had dulled. He no longer looked like the man who had run you off the road, but someone weighed down by exhaustion, just trying to get home—same as you. The toll of a long workweek clung to you both.

He exhaled sharply. “You got a ride or not?”

Your hesitation must’ve been obvious because he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Look,” he muttered, flipping the screen toward you.

A blonde girl beamed back, clutching a trophy and soccer ball.

Joel’s expression softened, a quiet, tired smile pulling at his lips.

“I got a daughter,” he said, voice quieter now. “I wouldn’t want her out here like this.”

Something in your chest eased. This was the first time you had seen him smile all night.

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Yeah- uh no, I don’t have a ride.”

Joel motioned toward your car. “I’ll clear a spot. Grab your stuff.”

With a grateful nod, you turned back to the wreck. You reached inside, sifting through the mess until you found the essentials—wallet, keys, and headphones. Tossing them into your bag, you made your way back to the truck.

Joel stood by the open passenger door, waiting.

You climbed in with a small nod of thanks. The cool air inside was a relief from the heavy night air. The seat hugged your body, and you wasted no time clicking the seatbelt into place—already well aware of Joel’s driving.

The truck dipped under his weight as he dropped into the driver’s seat, door slamming shut behind him.

“Where am I headed, kiddo?”

The engine rumbled to life, country music blasting through the speakers. Joel grimaced, quickly turning the volume down.

“Uh—just outside downtown, by the school- the highschool. Not the college. Just take exit fourteen and it’s pretty much straight until the river.”

Joel gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with your poor, over-explained directions.

Silence settled between you, the earlier hostility replaced by something quieter. The shift was jarring. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the realization that this wreck wasn’t about reckless driving—it was about two overworked, pissed-off people taking their frustrations out on the wrong things.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who let emotions get the best of him—he couldn’t afford to be. Not as a father. Most days, life’s inconveniences were just that. As long as Sarah was happy, everything else was just noise.

But today had pushed him too far.

Three months of work—scrapped in a single meeting. No discussion. No warning. The new plans were a mess, the compromises were nonexistent, and the client was an insufferable pain in the ass. Joel had spent the entire day fighting for compromises that never came, his patience thinning with every rejection. Agreeing on the original plans had been difficult enough, and now this high-paying client was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.

The rest of Joel’s day was spent reviewing these so-called new plans, searching for compromises that might salvage at least some of the work already completed. But every suggestion he made was quickly rejected. The client wanted things done his way—no exceptions.

By the end of the day, frustration had Joel gripping the arms of his chair, clinging to the hope that at least one compromise might be accepted. But it wasn’t until eight o’clock—long past the time he should have been home—that the final rejection came. Even then, he persevered, spending the next few hours adjusting measurements and sketching out a rough plan to present the following morning. He just wanted this project to be over.

By the time he eventually left the office, his patience was gone.

The open road was supposed to be his escape. Just him, his truck, and the empty highway.

Then you got in his way.

He could’ve merged. Could’ve passed you and been done with it.

But the sight of your car in his lane, unaware, unbothered—it was the final straw.

He’d done this a hundred times before.

A little bumper-to-bumper game.

A little misplaced frustration.

He never meant for it to go this far.

But here you were, in his passenger seat. And your crumpled car was proof of just how wrong the night had gone.

And now, he had to get you home.

The low rumble of the engine and the faint hum of country music filled the quiet space between you. Joel drove at a far more reasonable pace now, nothing like the reckless tailgating from earlier. The road stretched ahead, lined by dense forest on either side, the scenery offering a welcome distraction as you gazed out the window.

"I'm sorry about your car."

The sudden break in silence made you jolt slightly in your seat. Your lips parted, but no words came out at first.

Sure, he was giving you a ride home, but that didn’t erase the mess he’d made of your night—or your car. You still had to deal with insurance, miss work, and somehow navigate the nightmare that was the current car market. The frustration bubbled up again, only to be met with the nagging reminder that your own childish stunt had played a part in this too.

The thought sent heat creeping up your neck. You huffed, crossing your arms. "Deserved. Partially– I think you gave me fucking whiplash."

His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his stoic exterior.

As his gaze fell on the lock screen of his beloved daughter, guilt settled deep in his chest. If she had come home telling him a man had run her off the road—wrecking her car in the process—he knew the rage he would feel. He had been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, and fatherhood had only reinforced those values. Your original outburst had been justified; after all, he had watched you crawl from the wreckage of your car, shaken but alive. Yet, his pride had held firm.

Now, faced with your unexpected kindness despite his wrongdoing, the weight of his indifference bore down even harder.

“My bones aren’t as brittle as yours, old man.” A smile spread across your face, the relief of a genuine conversation lifting the tension that had been weighing on you all day. “I think I’ll live.”

Joel rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Speaking of,” you added, a playful gleam in your eyes, “what’s an old guy like you doing out so late?”

Your attempt at making small talk and a joke fell flat as Joel’s expression soured. The events of his shift replayed in his mind, only adding to the pit of worry in his stomach.

“Work,” he said simply.

“Me too,” you sighed. “It never gets better, does it?”

“Don’t think so.”

The conversation ended there, the soft melody of a country song filling the car as you bobbed your head to the beat. The thought of the day behind you brought a wave of exhaustion to both of you, the prospect of how you were going to get home creeping back into your mind.

You could take the bus?

Maybe call up a coworker or a friend?

Neither option was particularly appealing. With a sigh, you turned your attention back to the man next to you. In the short half hour you’d known him, your initial thoughts had changed drastically from his less-than-ideal first impression.

While the memory of your wrecked car still lingered, so did the reminder of your own fault in this situation. It was something best left to the insurance companies to handle, the previous anger dissipated. The coming weeks of ridesharing and public transportation wouldn’t be ideal, but at least you had a ride home tonight.

Your eyes lingered on the graying man next to you. His eyes were fixed on the road, glancing occasionally at his speedometer. The tension in his jaw had faded, his face more relaxed, weighed down by the exhaustion that was evident in both of you. His hair was messy, and you briefly recalled him running a hand through it when he first exited the truck—probably a nervous habit that had turned into a kind of permanent bedhead.

Despite his somewhat rough exterior—soiled, calloused hands, mud-streaked clothes, weathered skin adorned with scars and sun-kissed freckles from years of hard labor—staring at him for too long made a warmth spread to your cheeks.

The attempt to distract yourself from your car had worked a little too well.

You quickly pulled your gaze away from his face—hopefully before he noticed—and turned your attention elsewhere. His short-sleeve, button-up work shirt clung to his arms, biceps flexing as they stretched the fabric. His hands, strong and capable, gripped the wheel with ease, barely needing to look at it as his focus remained ahead. You watched as he took the exit, smoothly navigating the almost circular turn, his gaze not shifting from the road. Without turning his head, he effortlessly merged, the awareness of his surroundings second nature—an instinct gained over decades behind the wheel.

“Fairview or Jackson?” Joel’s voice cut through your thoughts.

Heat crept up your face as you whipped your head to the side, eyes landing on the familiar split in the road. “Fairview—for another eight miles.”

You knew exhaustion was setting in from the way your mind raced. Your unblinking stare drifted back to Joel, taking in details that anger had blurred before. Maybe it was the proximity, the sleep deprivation, the whirlwind of emotions—or all of the above—that sent warmth trailing lower. You shifted uncomfortably, legs brushing against each other.

Anything to distract yourself.

“What do you do for work?” you blurted, wincing at how dumb you sounded.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure you’re not concussed, kid? Might need to take you to the hospital.”

You groaned, slouching into the seat. “Just trying to make conversation…”

His amusement lingered as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Been in construction pretty much my whole life. Started right after high school. Had other plans, but…” He exhaled through his nose. “Had Sarah young, so I did what I had to. Hard work, but I’d do anything to provide for my girl.”

Your gaze flicked to his hands, catching the glint of a passing streetlamp. No ring. No tan line.

You shook your head. Why did that even matter?

This man had run you off the road. He was just driving you home, and after tonight, you’d never see him again. No reason to get caught up in things that didn’t concern you.

“What about you?” Joel asked. “What do you do for work?”

You blinked, surprised he’d bothered to ask. His eyes left the road for the first time that night, meeting yours expectantly.

“I work at a bank,” you scoffed. “Exciting, I know. Not a teller, just… office stuff. Behind-the-scenes.”

Joel smirked. “Can’t relate. I’m shit at math.”

The warmth in his voice sent your brain short-circuiting for a moment. His smile—subtle but real—stood out in the dim glow of the dashboard. The soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the creased lines on his forehead—despite the exhaustion in his face, he looked…warm.

You cleared your throat. “I am too.” You laughed. “I’m honestly shocked I haven’t tanked the place yet. Not that I’ll have much time to—I’ll probably get fired soon.”

Joel chuckled. “Talking like that, I can see why.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually good at my job.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked to you, amused.

You nodded, lips curling into a smile. “I just don’t see my boss being too happy about me missing a few days until I can find a ride to work.”

Something shifted in Joel’s expression. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glazing over as he turned his attention back to the road.

He was thinking.

Then, simply—

“I can take you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Unless you really wanna get fired..”

The initial temptation almost had you saying yes before your brain could fully process the offer. It was a kind gesture, but the thought of inconveniencing him—forcing him to carpool you to work every day—made you pause.

Then your eyes met his.

You should’ve known better. Should’ve recognized this for what it was—just a man doing the right thing, easing whatever moral strain the accident had put on him. But his stare held you captive, and for a moment, logic blurred.

Normally, you’d be panicking. Snapping at whoever was behind the wheel to keep their eyes on the road. But with Joel, you didn’t. Confidence radiated from him—not in a cocky or arrogant way, but the kind that came from experience, from years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

There was something in his gaze—something that mirrored what you felt deep in your stomach. A flicker of hesitation, a reluctance to let the night end. A reason to keep seeing each other.

He wanted to see you again too.

No. That was delusional.

The combination of exhaustion and your embarrassing need to get laid had clearly fried your brain. You were sitting here, crushing on a man at least twenty years your senior—someone’s father for god’s sake.

But you did need a ride to work.

You exhaled, glancing up at the moon before muttering, “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to be a burden. I know it’s hard for someone your age to remember so many things.” The quip slipped out before you could stop yourself, a flimsy attempt to break the tension—at least, the tension you felt.

Joel turned slightly, failing to hide his grin. “Not more than I’ve been.” Then, after a beat, “Unless you keep it up with the jokes. Might find yourself in the same place as your car.” He paused. “Sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

The nickname had driven you crazy earlier in the night—condescending, demeaning. But now?

Now it had you looking away, pressing your legs together in a weak attempt to ignore the heat spreading through you.

And Joel paused.

Why did he pause?

He’d said it so easily before, like it meant nothing. But now, there was something different in the way it left his mouth—like he almost caught it before it slipped out.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. “The jokes come free with the ‘totaling my car’ deal.”

“Lucky me.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

You hesitated for a second, then narrowed your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Joel raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t need a pity ride.”

His lips parted slightly before he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Whatever ran through his mind, he wasn’t letting it slip.

He smirked, settling instead for, “Maybe I just wanna see if you’re always this annoying.”

Your breath caught. The way his voice dipped—the way his eyes flicked to your face, searching for the smallest twitch of a smile—it made something coil tight in your stomach.

You didn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips.

“Or,” Joel continued, smirking, “maybe I’m not so convinced you don’t got that concussion.”

“Oh, hush.” You rolled your eyes, giving his arm a playful shove.

The teasing had shifted, the edge of frustration softening into something lighter. You didn’t know where this boldness was coming from—flirting with a stranger like this—but he wasn’t stopping you. If anything…was he returning it?

You bit your lip, gaze flicking anywhere but him. Then, before you could think better of it— “I get run off the road by a handsome stranger and you expect me to play it cool?”

Joel cleared his throat—definitely caught off guard.

“That right?”

His voice—low, steady, unreadable—sent a ripple of uncertainty through you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt. Had you misread the moment?

The air thickened. His gaze held steady, the weight of it pressing into you, testing you.

You swallowed. Nodded.

A beat passed. Then another.

And finally, a smirk. “Guess you’ve made up your mind then.”

Joel let the words settle before tilting his head, eyes still locked on you. “This handsome stranger gets to drive you to work ‘til you get a new car.” He threw your words back at you, mocking—but not unkind. You exhaled a laugh, the tension giving way to something else entirely.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “Oh, so now you’re deciding for me?”

He shook his head slightly. “Never said that.” He paused. “You just don't sound too opposed to the idea. Choice is all yours, honey.”

His voice had deepened just slightly at the last word, slow and deliberate.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

“And if I say no?” You challenged.

Joel chuckled lowly, sending a shiver up your spine. “You said it yourself—you’d be out of a job. And my company.”

You scoffed. “Can’t tell which one I’d be more grateful to miss out on.”

He smirked. “Better for me, sweetheart. You’re too much of a distraction anyway.”

Your breath hitched.

He adjusted his grip on the wheel, the tension thick in the space between you. His gaze flicked to you again, raking you up and down in a way that made your skin prickle with heat.

The truck jolted as he slowed, bringing the conversation to a halt. The school’s looming brick silhouette glowing under the buzzing street lamps, moths greedily swarming the light. The road, littered with potholes, sent a rough shudder through the truck as the tires fought for traction.

“Take this right,” you murmured. Joel turned down the music, his focus shifting, and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“It’s the third one on the left.”

He pulled into your driveway, cutting the headlights as the truck settled into park. The night air was thick and quiet, the world outside still.

Neither of you moved.

The truck rolled back slightly, settling into the incline, and for the first time all night, there was no tension, no urgency—just the unspoken weight of exhaustion pressing into the silence between you.

And still, neither of you seemed in a rush to break it.

You barely noticed the way Joel shifted in his seat, full of anticipation. His hands flexed around the wheel, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the unspoken energy hanging between you. Your mind raced through the events of the night, trying to make sense of how this even began—how a collision turned into something so unexpectedly charged.

Not that you were complaining.

You had at least a week of one-on-one time with Joel and that realization sent your heart stuttering against your ribs. This ride had already escalated in ways you hadn’t predicted, and now your thoughts wandered, imagining the possibilities of the next.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe you weren’t.

Shaking yourself from the haze, you reached for the door handle. “I should get going.” The lump in your throat made it harder to get the words out, especially with the way Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, steady and unreadable.

You clutched your bag to your side, gripping it like an anchor, grounding yourself in the reality that—somehow—your subtle advances had gone far more successfully than you expected.

The overhead light flooded the car as the door clicked open, the night air brushing against your skin. Your fingers curled around the handle, your balance slightly off-kilter from the nerves running through your veins.

You barely had time to register the movement before warmth encased your wrist.

Joel’s hand.

Firm. Steady. Completely engulfing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“Already forgot about our deal?”

His voice was smooth, tinged with amusement.

Before you could process it, he gave a gentle tug, pulling you back into the seat just enough that your face was level with his again. You kept the door ajar, caught between the instinct to flee and the undeniable pull of his presence.

His eyes searched yours, taking in any flicker of hesitation, any nervous shift of your body. His fingers, still wrapped around your arm, traced the goosebumps rising beneath his touch.

He smirked at his effect on you.

But the amusement didn’t erase the conflict in his mind.

You had just met, and the circumstances weren’t exactly the most flattering on his part. He had hit your car. He–an older man–had insisted on driving you. And now, here you were—breathless, your full attention on him, hanging onto his every word.

It was dangerous.

Tempting.

And guilt-inducing.

He didn’t let go.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening as he weighed the situation. Maybe this was just harmless flirting on your end. Maybe his immediate attraction to you had made him think otherwise. Maybe it was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a late-night illusion spun by exhaustion and circumstance.

Still, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Not yet.

His voice came quieter this time, deliberate. “What time do you have work tomorrow?”

“Joel—”

“It’s not up for discussion, sweetheart.” His grip didn’t tighten, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “What time?”

You sighed, knowing there was no use fighting him on this. “Eight.”

Joel clicked his tongue, considering. “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”

You blinked. “Joel, don’t you have work too?” A bubbling anxiety began to brew endless questions in your mind. “How are you gonna-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just be outside.”

You gave him one last look, searching for any hesitation, any sign that this was some kind of moral obligation rather than something he actually wanted to do. But his gaze was unwavering, he seemed absolute.

Finally, you relented with a soft sigh. “Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. His lips parted slightly as if he had something else to say—but instead, he just gave a slow nod.

“I’ll be here.”

The truck creaked as you lifted yourself from the seat, your shoes landing against the driveway with a soft thud. You adjusted your bag against your chest, the cool night air nipping at your skin.

Joel watched you, his hands still gripping the wheel, his knuckles still tight, as if holding himself back from saying more.

You hesitated, slowing your steps as you departed.

Say something. Anything. Don’t make this weird.

Before you could, his window rolled down. His tired, gruff voice cut through the silence.

“Get some sleep, kiddo.”

You whipped around, startled by the sudden shift in demeanor. He had spent the whole night teasing you—flustering you—but now, the words were softer. Almost… affectionate.

Your lips curled into a grin. “Don’t hit any more cars, old man!”

His chuckle followed you as you disappeared inside.

—

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader

358 notes · View notes

bumblebeeonthistle · 1 month ago

Text

Hange and the special ops squad teasing Levi about you...

Levi and his Special Ops squad have just finished the last of their drills when someone shouts his name.

“Levi!”

Sighing mentally and subconsciously putting on a scowl – specially dedicated to this exact person – Levi turns around, cloak swishing around his shoulders. Hange is running towards him, arms in the air and waving violently at him. Only Hange can make waving look violent.

“Hello, Section Commander Hange,” Petra greets them politely as they skid to a halt in front of Levi and his squad members.

Levi just sends them a bland stare.

“What do you want, Four-Eyes?”

“Erwin wants us and Mike to visit the Training Camp again. You know, to advertise for the Scouts and all.”

Levi pauses.

He usually dreads these visits, and Hange once joked that the reason why they got so few new recruits was because he scared them away.

But now…now, he realises that he doesn’t mind visiting the Training Camp quite as much as he would have in the past.

Maybe, he’s just become more used to dealing with cadets after two plus years of training with you. Maybe, they aren’t that bad.

You aren’t that bad, at least.

“I don’t hear you complaining as much as I thought you would,” Hange comments, echoing his own thoughts. “It couldn’t have anything to do with one specific--”

He lets out a low, threatening growl.

“Shut the fuck up, Shitty Glasses, or I’ll make you.”

“Nope. Remember that time I promised not to bother you for two weeks, and I didn’t bother you for a whole month? Well, that means that I’ve earned the right to bother you twice as much as I usually do for fourteen days more of my own choosing!” they beam.

He scoffs.

“You’ve earned shit.”

“Maybe, if you just stopped pining and actually tried talking to her about how you feel--”

“I’m not pining, and there’s nothing to talk about,” he cuts them off, his scowl deepening.

“You seriously are a hopeless case,” they sigh.

Levi has half a mind to agree with them – not that he’ll ever admit it out loud.

“Are you talking about that brat who got kidnapped two years ago?” Oluo asks, brows curled into a frown and his upper lip peeled back, showing off his teeth. He looks ridiculous, and Eld doesn’t miss the opportunity to tell him so.

“You look stupid. You know, if you’re trying to scowl like the Captain, then you’re failing miserably.”

Oluo immediately snaps his mouth shut and relaxes his brows, instead trying to go for a bored look. It would probably have looked much cooler if his cheeks hadn’t been stained pink.

“She’s got a name, for fuck’s sake,” Levi snaps, making Oluo retract multiple steps with his hands raised in surrender.

“Sorry, Captain.”

“But yes, to answer your question, that’s her,” Hange clarifies after it has become clear that Levi isn’t inclined to do so.

“I’m really looking forward to meeting her,” Eld muses.

“And why the fuck is that?” Levi glares at him.

Now, it’s Eld’s turn to take a step back. Levi’s squad is used to their Captain being aloof and rather harsh, but they aren’t used to him being so…on edge. Losing his cool like this, for no apparent reason. Out of the corner of his eye, Levi can see his squad members exchanging looks, ranging from disbelieving to curious.

He grits his teeth, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He hides them behind his cloak.

“Relax, nobody’s gonna steal your girl,” Hange drawls, placing a firm hand on Levi’s shoulder – as if preparing to hold him back in case he decides to turn feral and attack Eld.

“Yeah, I was just saying that because we’ve heard so much about her skills as a soldier, nothing more!” Eld defends himself.

Oluo snickers behind his back and tries to mask it with a cough.

Levi slowly unfolds his fingers, leaving half-moon shaped indents in his palm, just shy of bleeding. He takes a deep breath, clearing himself of that hazy, irrational rage that had filled his mind when Eld had mentioned you.

He hadn’t meant to lose his temper like that. He is acting territorial and possessive, and he knows it’s ridiculous. And stupid. And dangerous.

It’s dangerous, thinking about you like that.

Read the rest on ao3: call my name || Levi x reader

Gif by tokyokooa on Imgur: https://imgur.com/gallery/hange-levi-WqSZCZD

#levi x reader #aot fanfiction #levi ackerman #special operations squad #hange zoe #snk #attack on titan #fanfic #levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan x you #attack on titan fanfiction #aot #shingeki no kyojin

169 notes · View notes

pretentious-blonde · 9 months ago

Text

meet the parents

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve didn't expect things to go smoothly when he introduced you to his parents, but nothing could have prepared him for the rage he felt when they turned their comments towards you

warnings: family drama, alcohol, steve feeling inadequate, steve's father sucks here

a/n: idk if i like how this turned out, but I tried my best

You tugged at the hem of your dress, giving your outfit a once over in the mirror for the last time. You had spent ages rummaging through your wardrobe before you found this one, it’s simple but elegant—enough to make a good impression on Steve’s parents. Whom you were meeting for the first time, tonight.

They had been nagging him since they returned from their trip, one of many, wanting to meet the girl who he had been seeing in their absence. They insisted on inviting you over for dinner, and based on Steve’s reaction, you knew how much this meant to him. You wanted to look your best.

The knock on your front door pulls you away from your thoughts. You quickly grab your jacket and scurry down the stairs, slipping your feet into a pair of shoes as you go to greet him.

He is standing on your front porch, hands buried deep in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. He reverts his attention to the sound of the door opening. His breath catches in his throat as he drinks in the sight of you, his previous nerves are momentarily replaced with awe at your appearance. God, you looked angelic.

The world seems to still as he unapologetically stares. The gentle curve of a nervous smile on your lips, the dress hugging your figure just right—it takes a great deal of strength on his behalf not to call the whole thing off. To whisk you away for the evening all to himself, leaving his parents to dine alone. He swallows hard as he composes himself, running a hand through his hair as a lopsided grin graces his features.

“Honey, you…wow.” He begins, any words that entered his mind seemed unable to articulate how beautiful you looked tonight. “You look amazing.”

A blush creeps up your neck at the compliment, it’s endearing how he still gets tongue-tied around you. “Thanks. Thought I should put in a little effort.”

His fingers twitch at his sides as he faces another dilemma. Wanting to reach out and pull you close, push you back inside and be selfish, but he shoves them deeper into his pockets instead. The anxiety he was feeling about the night ahead was overwhelming, he was dreading it—dreading the way his father would most likely find something to dig at, something to put him down.

But looking at you now, all dolled up for his sake, he hates it even more.

He hates that you put effort in for this, when it could have gone to something so much more worthwhile. It was the story of his life, trying so hard time and time again to get their approval, only to be shot down over and over again. He didn’t want to subject you to that.

The drive there is strangely quiet, except for the faint hum of the radio station that fills the car. His grip on the steering wheel is tighter than it usually was, his eyes trained on the road ahead. His thoughts, however, were miles away. Questions filled his mind about what could happen. What they could say to you. If they made you uncomfortable. Each one was worse than the last, the stress made his chest tighten.

He brushes them off. How could they not love you like he did? When you’re sitting all pretty beside him, looking so damn perfect. In every way that he is not.

“You seem quiet,” you say, trying to break the silence. “So, are your parents like, super strict or something?”

He chuckles, but it’s nervous. He has told you bits and pieces about what his family is like. Constant business trips that his mother insisted on tagging along to, holidays without him, calling a few times throughout the week. He had failed to mention how much of a dick his dad could be, especially after a couple drinks.

“Nah, I mean, they’re not…strict.” His fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel. “They’re old-fashioned. Like, ‘everything has to be perfect’ kind of way, you know?”

You nod along slowly, mood still playful, not quite picking up on the nerves flowing through the boy next to you. “Damn, I should have brought something, or even baked, huh?”

He laughs now, but the tension still remains in his shoulders. “Honestly, you might be their favourite person after tonight if you did that. I’m pretty sure they like you more than me.”

Your expression falters slightly at that, smile dropping as you reach over to squeeze his hand. “Steve, come on. There is no way that’s true.”

He doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes forward.

She has no idea.

“Well, if they don’t like me, I’ll get them with my dazzling personality. You fell for it, right?”

That earns you a genuine smile. Yes, he fell for it. He fell damn hard and welcomed it fully. That is why he loathed the idea of bringing you home. Of subjecting you to this dinner.

“Yeah, you got me good, angel.” He squeezes your hand back. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

His raw honesty renders you silent for a few moments, turning your face to the view outside to hide the flush in your cheeks. He always knew how to do that. Say something so nonchalant that made your knees weak.

“Just a heads up,” he glances over to you briefly, hand still resting in his as you pull into the driveway of his home. “Just if they say anything…weird, don’t take it seriously.”

“Steve,” you pull your hand away to cup his face, big, brown eyes staring back at you as you reassure him. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

He wants to believe you. He wants to believe you so badly, but the feeling in his stomach only tightens more. In truth, he has no idea how this evening will go. And that terrifies him.

Steve rounds the car to open your door, holding onto your waist as you head up the stairs to the entrance. He opened the door quietly, stepping aside to let you in. He pauses to take a look at you one last time, almost melting at how the entryway light falls over your face, illuminating your tender smile. He quickly moves to help you with your coat, sliding it off your figure with gentle movements and hanging it on the rack.

“Shoes too,” he whispers, almost apologetic, his hand gently guiding your gaze toward the carpeted floor.

He had never asked you that before. You raise a brow, amused but willing to comply. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code,” you tease lightly, holding his shoulder and slipping out of your shoes.

He chuckles nervously. “Yeah, just… don’t want you getting into trouble.”

You scrunch your nose at him and smile, but there is something else brewing behind those eyes of his—worry perhaps? You just chalk it up to innocent nerves. I mean, who wouldn’t be slightly anxious to introduce their partner to their parents?

Leading you down the hall, you are greeted with the smell of roast chicken wafting from the kitchen. It’s surprisingly homey, comforting. Tonight might not be so bad after all.

You step into the dining room, just opposite the open plan kitchen, first locking eyes with Steve’s mother. She gives you a warm smile, which you return. She looks just like him, same eyes, same smile, same kind expression that he always gives you. Her hands are busy on the stove but still when you enter.

“Oh, you must be Steve’s girlfriend!” She says, her voice cheerful as she wipes her hands on a rogue teatowel. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” beaming as you step forward, leaving Steve’s side for a second. “Everything smells amazing.”

Steve’s dad makes himself known, giving you a curt nod. He sits at the head of the table, relaxed with a beer in his hand which Steve spots immediately. “Glad you could make it,” he tells you, his voice low, but not unkind—for now at least.

Steve returns to your side once more, a hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you to a seat at the table. This is good, he thinks, allowing a small flicker of hope to spark in his chest. You’re being your usual polite self, and so far, his parents seem…normal. He feels relaxed as his mother places the perfectly roast chicken at the centre of the table, letting out a small breath as he sits down.

“Oh my gosh,” you exclaim, your face lighting up at the spread. “I love a roast! It’s been so long since I’ve had one.”

His mother blushes, clearly pleased by your praise. “Well, I’m glad to hear it! There is plenty here so please, help yourself.”

You nod as you pick up the plate of potatoes, Steve picking up the greens, locking eyes as you swap them over. You are pleasantly surprised to see his expression, no longer sour with anxiety.

“Bet it’s nice to have a home-cooked meal, huh?” Steve’s father takes a swig from his drink before gesturing to the boy at your side. “Kid barely knows how to boil water.”

He lets out a large laugh at his joke, oblivious to the way Steve pauses as he sets down the plate. He forces out a laugh as well, trying to shake it off, but he can’t deny how the joke stings. Especially when it was made in front of you.

“I mean, I can handle the basics,” he chimes in, trying to defend himself as much as he can without insulting his father. “Eggs, pasta…” He trails off.

You allow your gaze to wander over to him, your smile faltering as you catch the hurt look in his eyes. His father doesn’t seem to notice—or care at all, really.

He can cook, he thinks as his eyes are trained on his father. He has cooked for you so many times, and you always said how good it was. The first moment you complimented his food he made it his mission to do it more often. It was something he took pride in. He had to teach himself after all, it’s not like they were ever around to do it, and he couldn’t just live off takeaway pizzas every night.

He never was in the kitchen when they returned home, his mother always took the reigns there. His jaw tightens as he recalls the countless dinners made alone in his house, too used to the silence that always followed his parents’ absence.

You set the fork down to the side of your place and turn to him, giving him a look of reassurance that does little to help him. You don’t speak up, but the mix of emotions in your expression makes Steve’s heart lurch. He should have said something, warned you more. Or better yet, come up with an excuse as to why you couldn’t make it tonight.

His mother was equally as oblivious to the exchange as she carved off another piece of chicken. He doesn’t really care about what his family says about him, he has dealt with much much worse. But it still stings. It stings because it is in front of you.

The conversation flows well as you all settle into the meal. The chicken was undeniably delicious, the familiar setting of the Harrington house helped soothe you as you chatted politely with is mother.

“So, what is it you do?” She asks you, tone genuinely curious.

You finish chewing, wiping your mouth with a napkin before you respond. “I just finished college actually. And I recently got an editing job at the local newspaper. It’s helped me get my first apartment too, so it’s a pretty exciting time.”

Steve can’t help but sit up a little straighter as you speak, his chest filling with a sense of pride that this is the woman he is introducing his folks to.

That’s my girl, my smart girl.

“Well, isn’t that wonderful!” His mother says, clearly impressed. “You must be so proud of yourself.”

Steve smiled at the knowledge that they approved of you. They might not have approved of him, they made that clearly known whenever they had the chance, but seeing how impressed they were with you—that was enough. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his own and admiring how they looked intertwined in the glow of the dining room. His thumb strokes your knuckles, feeling a smug satisfaction rise up inside of him. You’re smart, capable independent. Everything Steve’s parents valued in a person. He might not be what they wanted him to be but he somehow had you to show for it. He was damn lucky to have you here with him.

A voice cuts through the warmth he was feeling, a sharp edge bringing him down from his high. “Well, good for you,” his father said, his eyes drifting to your hands. His gaze was cold, calculating. “You know, I’ve always said people with drive go far. Funny how some manage to make it whilst others…don’t.” He gasts a glance at Steve, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm, the same voice that had followed him his whole life. “Guess you lucked out, huh, son? Dating someone with actual ambition.”

The comment hit Steve harder than he cared to admit, the jovial tone from his father did little to soften the blow. His chest tightens as he feels the sting of disappointment, but he can’t help but take the words on board. You are ambitious, you have the whole world at your fingertips. You could do anything you set your mind to and he knew that. He just hoped that when that time came, he would be lucky enough to be cheering you on from the sidelines.

“Yeah, well,” he begins with a crooked grin. “Guess I’ve got the charm at least.”

The shift in his mood is noticeable to you, you can read him like the back of your hand, the way his smile remains on his face for just a second too long. His father's words were not just a joke, not to Steve. He always doubted himself and his abilities, worried about where he would go in his life. But at the end of the day you were there to support him, whatever decisions he made were his and his alone.

He tells himself that it’s fine, that he can handle it. Just as long as they don’t go after you, he can take it. He has no problem being the martyr, he has been the punching bag for years and has no problem taking a few more hits.

The way he looks down at his plate makes your chest ache, the way that he acts like this isn’t a big deal. It’s obvious how much it bothers him, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. It hurts you to see him like this—reduced to a quiet, tense version of himself, happy to just keep the peace.

The clink of silverware continued against the plates as the conversation flowed, finishing up the remainder of dinner, the beer in Steve’s father's glass also gone. He leaned back in his chair, the same look in his eyes that Steve was familiar with, inhibitions mellowed and ready to bite. His eyes narrowed as he observed the both of you, amusement dancing in his gaze like he found the perfect moment to strike.

“Let me guess,” he began, wiping the edge of his mouth with a napkin before tossing it carelessly onto the table in front. “You’re with Steve because you think you can change him, right? Girls like you always think they can fix a guy like him.”

Steve stiffened beside you, his stomach twisting into a tight knot. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught in his throat. For a moment, he felt like a kid again, being told off for something he had no control over. Something he couldn’t change.

Before he even had time to fully process the insult, you were there. Your tone fast, steady, unfazed. There was no way you would sit there and let that comment go. Not when it was the furthest thing from the truth.

“I’m not here to change Steve,” you said, your tone calm but resolute. “I’m with him because I love who he already is.”

His heart fluttered in his chest at your words—the way you spoke them. With such unwavering conviction that there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you meant them.

His father raised a brow, leaning forward in his chair, sizing you up and clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. The act revolted you. You were done with playing nice, you were not going to let him insult you or the one you love. It didn’t matter if they were family.

“Love, huh?” He scoffed. “That’s cute. But, sweetheart, love doesn’t pay the bills. Steve is not exactly rolling in success here, is he?”

You don’t flinch, not even a little. “I don’t need him to be rolling in anything. He works hard and is more successful than you give him credit for.”

His father barked out a humourous laugh, nowhere near close to finished. “Kind? I’ll give you that. But I’m just saying, girls like you—smart, career-driven, their own place—usually go for someone with a little more ambition.”

You narrowed your eyes at the older man, keeping your voice collected. “Ambition isn’t about titles or money. Steve has plenty of it. He has been through things you couldn’t even understand.”

The tension that settled over the room was tense as you locked eyes. Steve’s mother stared at her husband, you wonder if she wished to say something, or if she also was too scared to challenge the older gentleman. You felt no fear, not when it came to conflict over those you care for. You wouldn’t back down. The more you spoke, the more Steve felt that old, crushing weight of his father’s judgement start to lift from his shoulders.

“Look,” his father said, not enjoying the pushback. “I’m just telling you what I know. Guys like Steve—they’re nice, sure—but they don’t get you very far. Eventually, you’ll want more, and you’ll leave him just like the last one.’

That one hit hard. Too hard. Steve’s hand clenched under the table, unwanted memories of his past relationship springing to the surface, reopening old wounds. He wanted to make a joke. Wanted to say anything that would get away from this topic. His father noticed how withdrawn he got after Nancy, and now he was throwing it back in his face. He didn’t like weakness, and Steve had never felt more inadequate when that happened.

“Actually, I’m more than happy with Steve,” you say effortlessly, voice low and confident. “He is one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. I don’t need to ‘want more’ when I already have everything I could ask for.”

His father’s eyes flickered with something—surprise perhaps? He certainly wasn’t used to being challenged like this, feeling at a loss that his tactics weren’t working. He took it as a sign to cut deeper, harsher. He needed to get the upper hand once more.

His lips curled into a smirk, one that Steve had seen a thousand times before, the one that always made him feel like he was on the losing end of an argument before it even began.

“Are you really gonna let your woman talk to me like this?” His voice heavy and patronising as he stared Steve down. “That’s what you’re doing now? Letting a girl fight your battles?”

Absolutely not. No fucking way.

Everything was still, you could hear a pin drop in the room. Steve’s anxiety turned to full-on rage, seeping through every vein in his body as he looked at his father. He didn’t care what he said to him, but the vile way he spoke of you was unacceptable. Something in him snapped at that moment.

“No,” he said, voice holding unwavering clarity. His father looked shocked, not expecting such a firm response from his son.

“No?” His father echoed, leaning forward slightly, trying to intimidate him. “Finally found your voice huh? Took you long enough.”

“No,” Steve repeated with finality. You glanced over and saw the muscles in his jaw tightening as he met his father’s gaze. “What I’m not gonna do is let you disrespect her like that.”

“Disrespect?” His father scoffed, shaking his head, acting as though he knew better. Like he was better. “I’m just telling it like it is. Someone has to, or you’ll go on thinking you’ve actually done something with your life.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how much of a fuckup I am, okay?” Steve shot back, heart pounding in his chest. “I got the message.”

He looks in your direction, eyes softening slightly as he takes in your expression. It held something his father had never directed at him. Pride. You looked proud of him. And that thought alone stirred him on.

“What I’m not gonna do is allow you to talk to her like that,” He returns his attention to his father, his finger pointing in your direction. “Not when you don’t know a damn thing about her.”

His father bristled at the insubordination, the condescension in his voice was thick. “I know enough,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know she’s playing house with a guy who peaked in high school. How long till she figures that one out, hm?”

Steve’s blood spiked, now more willing than ever to fight back against his father. He had been pushed around for years, if there was any time to rebel, it would be now. “You don’t know anything about us! You’re hardly here!”

His father leaned back, smug. “I know enough about you, Steve. I know you’ve been coasting. First, it was basketball, then this lousy job at the video store—hell—you’re lucky someone even gave you the time of day. A girl like her? She’s going to wake up and realise you’ve got nothing to offer.”

Steve swallowed hard at that moment, his father’s words were getting to him, digging into his skin and refusing to let go. It was beginning to break him, like so many times previously. He was ready to back down, let him say his piece and be done with it.

That was until he felt a gentle hand on his leg. One that softly ran its fingers against the denim of his jeans. He stared at it. As its presence. He felt the warmth within your touch, reigniting the fire he never thought lit.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly, voice cracking slightly but he pushed on. “She is not like that. You say she’s smart? You have no idea. I trust there is a reason she is with me. She sees who I am, something you have never been able to do.”

His father’s eyes flickered with something that resembled surprise, but he quickly masked it with a cold look. “So, what? You think this tantrum is going to change anything? These are facts. You’ve always been weak, Steve. That’s why you’ll never—”

“No,” Steve cut him off, using the same word he had been repeating for this conversation, filled with a conviction that startled even himself. “I’m not weak. I’m done letting you make me feel like I am.”

The room went still, the sharpness in Steve’s voice hanging in the air that nobody was accustomed to. His father opened his mouth to respond, but Steve didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not you. If I was she never would have looked at me twice, and I’m damn proud of that.”

Your exit was swift. Steve grabbed your hand and dragged you to the front door, leaving both of his parents in a state of shock. You just about managed to slip your feet into your shoes as he grabbed your coat to the side of your head. Slamming the door loudly as you left.

The night air was cold, helping in soothing his raging anger, letting a breath out before he turned to you, stare softening with affection. He turned to face you, touching your cheek with such tenderness as he searched your eyes, trying to figure out how you were feeling.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly, running his thumb along your cheekbone.

“I’m alright,” you assured him, leaning into his touch. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I—wow,” he was still jittery, letting out a shaky laugh and running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I said all that.”

“I can,” you said as you gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m really proud of you.”

His expression was gentle, grateful to actually hear the words that had been denied for so many years. There was another emotion within him as well, a sense of awe. The way you handled yourself with grace, not bending under pressure. He swore he was already head over heels for you, but after tonight? He fell for you a just little bit harder. He shakes his head at your previous compliment.

“You were amazing in there, sweetheart,” a crooked smile forming. “God, you’re something you know that?”

You smiled as you allowed him to lead you to his car, arm resting on your back as he opened the door for you. He slipped into the driver's seat and started the ignition, fingers drumming on the steerwheel as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I don’t think I can go back there. Like, ever.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that,” you say as you nudge him playfully. “Guess I’m gonna have to move you in, huh?”

He glanced at you as he pulled away from his childhood home, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Is that so?”

You laughed and rolled your eyes, pleased that he was making jokes instead of spiralling. The comfortable silence that filled the car was peaceful, but his expression shifted, something tentative, serious settled over him.

“We could, you know.”

You blinked at his proposition. “What?”

He cleared his throat and immediately regretted saying anything. His nerves now spiking at his confession. It was too late to back out now, the words that spilt from his mouth flowed without thought.

“I mean,” he started, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. “I may work retail, but I definitely make enough to rent an apartment. I could contribute, really. I could…”

He trailed off, watching your reaction carefully. There was a sincerity in his words that made your heart melt.

“I mean, I’m not gonna be mad about halving the rent,” you said with a blush forming on your face at the thought of living with him. Of waking up with him, coming home to him. For all of your belongings being mingled together. For everywhere you look his presence is there with you.

His face broke out into the softest, most boyish smile you had ever seen on him. “You mean it?” He uttered, voice quiet, as if he may have misheard you.

“Yes, Steve,” you brush a hand through his hair, so in love with the sweet boy next to you. “I mean it.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine

562 notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 7 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 | steve x reader ; eddie x reader

summary: when your boyfriend dies as a result from saving you and your friends, you find yourself deep in the throes of grief. and in your lowest moment you find a new vice, something… or rather someone unexpected.

6.1k, reader is named “nellie” simply bc i refuse to use y/n, smut, 18+ only, multiple chapters, future drug use, mature themes, heavy depictions of grief/suffering leading to questionable decisions

big s/o & thanks to @rebelfell + @rxqueenotd for spit ballin’ ideas and beta’ing ❤️‍🩹

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

His body laid for three days before Owen’s team braved that cold and eerie pit of desolate hell. Strong hands had pulled you away from his body, and you had tried to claw your way back to him, begging for death to take you instead.

That night you watched him choke on his last breath, his lungs gurgling with a squelching pop of blood as hesmiled one last, and final time, his last words played over and over again.

“I’m so lucky to have been loved by you.”

His skin was still warm when the others found you clutching onto him, laying beside him as if you were cuddling during another time. A time when monsters didn’t exist and all you had was happiness. Legs thrown over one another as you watched a movie in the Wheeler’s basement, or when your wet hair seeped into his skin after a late night of swimming at Lover’s Lake, or the feel of his fingers tucked into the nape of your neck while you kissed him at your lockers back in high school.

Never. You’d never feel that from him again.

Large arms wrapped around your middle hauling you away. And you scrambled, kicked and slapped to get back to him. Screaming his name over and over. Because they weren’t his hands, and they would never hold you again, he was dead, Steve was dead.

The hours after were a blur, somehow the rest of you had managed to get away. Eddie jump started an abandoned military vehicle that a rescue team had left while under attack, driving back to the gate that reopened under the ruins of StarCourt.

Your head laid in Robin’s lap the entire ride back while Eddie drove, silent tears falling down everyone’s cheeks, Dustin sobbing into Nancy’s bony shoulder.

You all stayed together those first few nights, laying in a fortress of blankets and couch pillows in your living room. It all seemed to move in slow motion, a terrible aching dread filled your soul and refused to leave the hole in your heart.

The house you and Steve had rented was large enough to accommodate everyone for a few days. Those days were spent telling favorite stories of him. Talking about the pride he had for everyone, the mother hen of the group. How he would lay down and sacrifice himself for everyone he knew and he did just that.

A solemn silence fell over everyone, after a kick to the chest of reality fell like a veil—that he would never again come walking in the door. That Robin lost her best friend and confidant. That you would mourn your boyfriend, lover, and friend until your dying days. That Dustin lost his first male father figure. It all came crashing down at once, and no one spoke much after that besides the occasional sniffle or to open the back door to chain smoke the anxiety away.

Claudia eventually called to have Dustin come home. Jonathan stopped over with his long haired friend from California, and you were anything but friendly to them. How could you be? You watched in jealous rage as Jonathan pressed kisses to Nancy’s cheek and rubbed her back soothingly.

She lost a friend. You had lost the only person who knew you from the inside and out, and it wasn’t fair.

Everyone trickled out of the home you shared with Steve. One by one, silently not wanting to be the last to leave, to have to watch your eyes wet as you were left to your own vices, left in this empty house that held all of your memories.

You couldn’t blame them. Hell was here and you were swallowed by its warmth, the flames licking your neck as you fell deeper into it, succumbing to the heat.

Eddie was the last to go. He was oddly quiet during the last few days, leaving late after everyone had fallen asleep just to return again in the morning. He had asked to use the phone only once, quietly excusing himself to use the bathroom afterwards, coming back to the living room looking even more lost than he had earlier, his eyes wet with fresh tears.

It was almost as if he wasn’t sure if he should be here or not. He didn’t know Steve as long as everyone else did, but over the last year they’d gotten close, as if they were almost family more than they were friends.

You had come to know and accept Eddie and Chrissy well, over the last year you’d spent a few nights every couple of months double dating at Enzo’s or game nights playing Scrabble at your house. When the world flipped upside down again, all of the fun came to an end, and the last nine months or more had been spent strategizing… trying to find a means to end this real life hell once and for all.

And it did end, but at what cost?

Eddie’s shadow lingered by the front door as you walked over, one of Steve’s button down shirts hanging loose on your shoulders, the sleeves damp with your tears.

His dark eyes swam with something you hadn’t recognized at all the past week, it wasn’t fear like it had been when you were miles below in another dimension. But you couldn’t nail down what he was feeling as he asked, “are you gonna be okay?”

You stared at him, raising an eyebrow with an exhaustive look.

His fingers worked the rings on his left hand. “I mean, tonight… are you alright, alone? I can stay if you...” He paused for a while, his tongue pressed into his cheek as he stared at the blue rug, his boots pinching his aching feet. Raising his eyes to yours once more, “I— I know how it feels when someone you love dies, it’s…hard.”

Tears welled for what felt like the hundredth time in twenty four hours, and you shook your head. You dreaded this night when things should return to normal, when your friends had to return to school, their jobs. Things had to go back to the way they were— but you couldn’t. Not now, Maybe not ever.

You remember how Eddie had missed school for weeks years ago back in elementary. But you weren’t friends then so you never knew, and you felt like a bitch for never asking. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t—.”

He turned his face away, smiling and finding interest in the wood grain of the front door, “it was a long time ago, I’ve had time to heal, but it takes awhile.”

All you had was time. Time without Steve. Time to mourn the loss of the only man you’ve ever loved. Silent streaks slid down the apples of your cheeks, and Eddie stepped forward like he might crush you into a hug, but he stopped short. Instead rubbing his hand lightly down your arm, “I left my number on the counter, call anytime. Okay?”

You blinked back at him and nodded. If you wouldn’t have been crying you could have seen the turmoil stir in the caffeinated browns of his.

“Thanks, Eddie… I might just take you up on that.”

He smiled gravely, “I did— I didn’t know Steve for as long as everyone else did… but he was a really good friend to me.”

You looked up at him, eyes welling with tears at the man all of Hawkins marked to be a Satanic Cult Leader.

“He cared about you and Chrissy a lot, Eddie.”

He smiled sadly and turned away before you could catch him wiping his eyes, or notice the wobble of his bottom lip.

“I know, I did too…take care, Nellie.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Steve’s cologne was still on the bathroom sink. Dried toothpaste was stuck between the bristles of his toothbrush left from his rush to leave that morning— the last one he’d ever have.

His bar of soap in the shower still held dry bubbles from lathered skin the last night you’d spent together. You had shared the warmth of a shower, shampooing his hair and Steve attempting to help shave your legs, giggling between the spray of the water. Later he laid you down making you whimper as he kissed your neck, fucking you slow and deep, whispering in your ear how you were his entire world.

You hadn’t slept in your shared bed since his death, and now that the chaos had dissipated, and the house was quiet outside of the usual clicks and hums from the refrigerator, you braved the lonely queen sized bed and slipped between the cool sheets.

The sweet burn of cedar, clove and a tangy bit of citrus surrounded you. Steve’s aroma, his smell held you like a child as you cried into his pillow. Curling your body into his side of the bed, you imagined his large hands splayed across your belly as he held you close to him, pulling you tightly against him so there wasn’t a single inch of him not touching you.

But in the end it was just you alone, trying to find warmth in cold sheets with a wet pillow.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The alarm clock had scared the shit out of you.

The ringing turned to chimes in your dream, and when you woke— alone, it was in a puddle of sweat, the bed sheets wrapped around you like those horrible black vines had.

The kitchen tile was cold on your bare toes as you padded to the coffee maker. Steve considered himself the best barista in Hawkins, and no matter how hard you tried to replicate it your pot of coffee never stood a chance next to his.

Digging into the Folgers can, you dump two heaping dollops of grounds into the filter, pressing the ‘on’ button, mentally preparing for the worst cup of coffee you’d had since before you had started dating Steve. No hope to be found, optimism long gone.

It took only a moment, a single sleep riddled half thought for you to slip up, your mind forgetting for just a second as you accidentally wondered what you and Steve would do for the weekend.

Your nerves went into shock, you gasped in guilted embarrassment at the audacity to forget that. How? How how how how how! Pulling at your hair you scanned the kitchen table, eyeing Eddie’s number written on a pad of paper, but grabbing the phone you dialed a different one instead.

She answered on the second ring, her voice sleepy and haggard as you whispered through choked tears, “h—he’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Robin answered, sheets shuffling around, “he’s gone.”

Tears fell in large drops down your face, as you nodded at the answer you already knew, silently needing the confirmation.

How would you be able to walk the streets alone without Steve’s big hand crimped tight around yours? How could you live without ever hearing his voice, his laugh ever again?

When you hung up, Robin didn’t call back, and even if she had you wouldn’t have picked up. The day brought visitors trying to cheer you up. Rubbing your back as you stared blankly at the wall. Promising you things would get better, would be easier as time went on. Bullshit. All of it.

As sweet as they were, how the hell would they know? How could they possibly hurt as bad as you did?

They had lost a friend, an older brother figure, but they didn’t know Steve on the intimate levels you did. They had no idea that he woke with terrors almost every night. Or that he had failed his driver’s test twice, or that he had a patch of light freckles on his nether region.

Steve had been everything to you and now that he was gone you didn’t know how to cope in a world without him. If whatever higher power could grant Chrissy new life, and Eddie was spared from the bats, why wasn’t Steve?

Your questions went unanswered as your mind reeled with pictures of him, flicking like a movie, your eyes stinging with anger.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Every night since he had died, you had slept in a pair of Steve’s boxers and a Hawkins High Prom 1984 shirt.

From what you could tell, Robin was in the same shape you were in, unable to go back to work, barely sleeping. The only difference was she had Vickie at home to comfort her, hold her and wipe away her cries.

You couldn’t help but feel nothing but jealous and sick to your stomach at the thought of how you were having to go through this alone. No matter how selfish that made you, you simply couldn’t care.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Nancy woke you the morning before the funeral with a sharp knock on the front door, and an armful of baked goods. She made coffee as you stared a hole into the kitchen floor, she vacuumed as you thumbed through Steve’s wallet, silently tearing up over his driver’s license picture.

She folded laundry while you sobbed and screamed at a very surprised Keith when he called to ask why Steve hadn’t shown up for his shift. Nancy didn’t blink when the phone was pulled from the wall and sent flying across the living room as you pulled your hair in a fit because Steve is gone. Dead. Not coming back.

Nancy simply rubbed your back, pushing away hair from your wet cheeks after you fell asleep with your head in her lap. And when you woke, feeling worse than hungover with swollen eyes and a sore throat— she wouldn’t let you apologize.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Surprisingly, Steve’s parents found it in themselves to pretend they gave a shit long enough to plan his funeral.

Everything was gaudy. Overdone and full of rich smells of roses so strong you wanted to vomit.

Pearls clung to your ears and neck. The velvet of your black dress was warm on your body despite the cold gusts of wind that chapped your stocking clad legs. The sun wouldn’t shine today, or in your mind ever again.

Robin showed up first, clinging to Vickie’s arm, a sad smile on her freckled face. She wore a dress, a sort of last laugh for Steve’s sake to see her dressed up. She throws herself at you, all legs and tear stained cheeks, squeezing your face into her shoulder.

“He would have hated this,” she sniffled after glancing around at The Harrington’s entourage, “look at her wiping her eyes as if she’d even talked to Steve within the last year.”

Steve’s mother stood in all of her Chanel No 9 glory, delicately dabbing a silk hanky to her dry eyes, as funeral goers grasped her manicured hand and spilled condolences.

The sight alone made you sick. Mary could win an Oscar for her performance. Nobody but you and Robin would have any idea that Steve hadn’t spoken to his parents in over a year. Christmas to be exact. The first and last one you two had spent at their enormous home.

What should have been a nice evening ended in harsh words and Steve’s father saying he was disowning him. Steve held his head high on the way home, apologizing for his parents and promising that he would never have anything to do with them again.

And from there up until they were told of their only son’s death— The Harrington’s never once tried to make amends.

“Always a show with her,” you sighed angrily.

“How are you doing? Vickie asks shyly, “Is there anything we can do?”

“I’m fine, really. I—I’m okay, slowly but surely.”

Vickie smiles and squeezes your hand, “He never loved someone as much as he loved you, Nel.”

The words hit like a bullet.

You knew.

Of course you had known. Steve told you that himself on more occasions than you could count, you didn’t need to hear it from someone else, didn’t need the reassurance that a man who literally died to protect you really did love you.

It felt foreign—sounding horribly wrong coming out of a mouth that wasn’t his. Body on fire with something worse than rage, all you wanted to do was scream. Nodding your head once you excuse yourself, pushing out of the side exit and down some cement steps to the outside.

Air. You needed to force air into your lungs before you collapsed. Your chest felt as if it was going to burst into flames, suddenly everything felt so restricting. The air was frozen and bitter, resembling yourself lately and the outcome of the last few days.

Gasping, choking on wailing cries you pulled at the neck of your dress, kicking your shoes into the dead grass. You yanked barrettes from your hair and pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until you saw spots of gold and green. Anything to try to get some relief try to stop the sensation of being suffocated by something you couldn’t even see.

“Nellie?”

Tears poured from your face as you whimpered, struggling with the zipper on the back of your dress.

It wasn’t fair. Why him? Why Steve? He was so good. Much better than you. He was kind and handsome, he loved big and treated everyone around him like they were the most important person in the room.

He was the best friend, best boyfriend, best everything.

It should have been you.

A pair of warm hands land on your shoulders pulling you backwards and upright, frightening you before the warm tobacco spiced voice whispers in your ear.

“Breathe, Nel… c’mon sweetheart.”

“I- c—can’t… Eddie…I—” coughing and clawing at the necklace of pearls, you desperately tried to unhook them, their weight feeling like boulders sitting on your chest, threatening to break you to pieces.

Eddie moved the hair from your neck, and in one little clink the necklace fell into your hands.

“It’s off, it’s off— c’mon now, you gotta take a deep breath for me.” He spun you around placing his warm hands on your cheeks, sweeping away the icy tears.

He was dressed in all black, his leather jacket tight on his arms. A frumpy, wrinkled tie loose around his neck looking like it had been tied and re-tied too many times before he just gave up.

“In and out,” he instructed softly, taking your hand and placing it against his chest, “match it to mine. Feel it?”

It didn’t work, it wasn't helping. Eddie didn’t waste time before the cold leather of his arms wrap around you, delicately rubbing your back as you collapsed into him.

The wind bit at his face as he held you close, stroking your hair. “It’s alright, ‘s gonna be okay, I’m here— we all are.”

You let yourself break, let the sadness consume you before the funeral could start and you had to be brave for everyone. You wouldn’t let his parents see you this way, they already thought you were every bit of trash but Steve had always held you higher, placing you on a special little pedestal. And with him, nothing else mattered.

Wiping your eyes, you pull back enough to see Eddie’s face, the dark sunglasses he wore were fogged up on the inside, shielding away his own turmoil, but his lip quivered slightly.

“God, Eddie,“ you sniffed, voice wobbly as you murmur, “Sorry.. ‘m such a mess.”

“Don’t do that,” he almost whispers, voice low and sensual, “don’t apologize.”

If you could see his eyes you would notice how sad they were, how he was doing his very best to hold it together. How he had bags under his eyes from not sleeping. You’d see the guilt etched into the darks of his irises for being alive, for coming out of there alive.

The door swings open with a loud crack, caught in a gust of blustering wind, Dustin standing on the threshold trying to hold onto the handle for dear life, he winces when he sees the two of you.

“Hey, it’s—” he looks at his watch, “they’re ready to start.”

Eddie removes his hands from your arms and shoves them into his pockets, all the warmth leaving you as the wind creeps through the fabric of your dress.

“Be right there man,” Eddie answers tight lipped, trying to convey to Dustin that you needed a minute to collect yourself, “save me a seat.”

When the door shuts with great force on Dustin’s end, he bends down to scoop up your discarded heels, holding them by the backs. He sets them on the ground between the two of you, gathering your arm in his hand as you steadied yourself with his body to balance while you slipped your feet in.

Taking one last ragged breath, Eddie moves beside you looking up at the church, then back at you.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye.”

Eddie swallows hard, reaching out with a cautious hand but deciding at the last minute to shove it into his pocket, “you don’t have to, y'know? My m— well, I heard once that a person’s spirit can live on as long as you need them.”

“D’ do you believe in that kind of stuff?” you ask solemnly, “The afterlife? Reincarnation?”

“I believe that Steve would want all of us to keep going, to be the best versions of ourselves…. and he would probably scold us for being late to his funeral.”

You smile then, wrapping your hands around your arms rubbing warmth into them. “He definitely would, I can almost hear him fussing.”

“Hands on his hips, no doubt,” Eddie said with a grin, “But he’d pull himself together…be strong for everyone, he was always good at doing that.”

You look at him, completely unaware of his own inner struggles. “That was Steve, always brave, always willing to defend someone.”

The door busts open again, this time it’s Hopper, his bristly mustache matching his thick eyebrows as he stares with annoyance at your tardiness.

“Shit,” Eddie jokes, “better go before he calls the hounds.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

It was a closed casket per your request, even though his mother argued to have it open. Wanting the sympathy from her friends of being a parent “burying-their-child” and to have people comment on how he looked like her, how beautiful they both were— it was sick.

Dustin made a speech. His hair pushed back just how Steve had taught him back in high school. He shed a tear at the end when he referred to Steve as his best friend. Climbing down from the podium, he slumped in the pew next to Eddie, sniffling softly as his shoulders shook.

Robin recited a light hearted poem, promising to keep the store running and to finally get her driver’s license. Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the laughs she and Steve had shared.

When it was your turn, your heart felt like it was filled with lead, the walk up the ugly church carpet felt as if it drug on forever, and you had to take several deep breaths before adjusting the mic.

Your poorly written speech talked about how Steve lit up every room, how he was adored by everyone at Hawkins High. But now, under the scathing florescent lights under the wet eyes of your closest friends, the jumbled words looked like nothing but bullshit.

Tears rimmed your eyes and you felt the same death grip of panic rising on your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, body shaking as you fumbled with the index cards, “I- I can’t.”

It was Joyce who met you at the podium with a caring smile, and open arms guiding you back to the pew. She didn’t mind that you sobbed into her shoulder making a mess of her cotton dress. And when the service was over and it was time to go to the cemetery, she held your hand and led the way.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

You felt numb as you stood next to Robin. Her icy fingers laced with yours as you zoned out completely while standing at his gravesite. Someone was talking but you couldn’t register who it was or what they were saying.

Your body was present but your mind was floating in a memory.

“Should we have spaghetti tonight? Or do you wanna order a pizza and I’ll pick it up after I leave work?”

Steve’s comforting voice filled your ear as you twirled your finger around the cord in the stockroom at Melvald’s. A common occurrence for the two of you, each sneaking off to call each other during the day. Eight hours away from him was too much.

“Already got the noodles boiling for spaghetti, honey,” he practically purred into the phone, “tell Joyce you’re taking off for the night and come home to me.”

Your smile squeaked through the receiver, your heart skipped beats at the thought of Steve Harrington wanting you… two years together it still seemed like yesterday that you had gone on your first date.

“Steve,” you giggled, “You didn’t have to.”

“Ah ah ah, I won’t listen to that,” Steve lightly scolded, “I like to cook and take care of my girl, we’re a team, Nellie.”

You begrudgingly sigh and feel heat rise to your cheeks, you really were one of the luckiest girls. “Okay Captain, what kind of noodles are you making?”

Steve chuckles through the receiver, cream colored phone balancing on his shoulder as he adds salt to the boiling water.

“It was a toss up between angel hair or fettuccine… fettuccine won, and I picked up some garlic bread from Enzo’s.”

“Ohh, you’re spoiling me rotten,” you purr, imagining what you would do to thank him…something involving your favorite part of him and your mouth, “I’ll stop at Bradley’s for some drinks, what are ya thinkin’?”

Steve smiles, putting a dish towel on his shoulder, “surprise me.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The church basement reeked of furniture polish, clashing with heavy floral perfume to mask the smell of mildew from a previous heavy rainfall.

The Women of Fellowship were serving ham on wheat buns with chips and a veggie tray. Their faces planted with a christian sympathy smile as they cut brownies and refilled the punch bowl.

A bottle of champagne sat chilled in a bath of ice per Mrs. Harrington’s demands. No reason to be so down all day, might as well make it a special occasion! As if the death of her only son wasn’t enough, was too boring for her.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your plate away as her obnoxious laugh erupts from behind you. Steve’s father telling his colleagues a dirty joke no doubt, his face red from stifling a laugh and the whiskey he clutched in a monogrammed flask.

“Nellie?” Nancy chirped, adjusting her slim figure to whisper gently across the table your group of friends were sulking at, “I have some frozen meals my mom and I put together, I can come over tonight and give you the instructions if you’d like?”

Nodding softly you meet her eyes, “Thanks Nance, that’d be really nice.”

It went silent again, Max fidgeted with her hair, pulling it back in a loose ponytail. Will’s watch beeped but he clicked it off lazily, running his hands down his face. Nobody knew what to say or what to do. What do you say at a friend's funeral?

“Are they always like this?” Eddie blurts through the quiet, cocking his head towards the Harrington’s. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back of an empty chair beside him, his sunglasses were still on, just as they were through the church service and at the gravesite.

Everyone at the table looks to you, expecting some sort of an explanation, but you simply shrug, “I- I don’t really know them very well.”

“Steve’s parents?” Nancy questions, “they’re super sweet, when I—”

She stops then her mouth closing with a pop to remember that it probably wasn’t the time to talk about her long ago relationship with Steve at his funeral in front of his current girlfriend.

“… they uhhh.. they were always nice.”

It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know. Mostly because you and Steve had never mentioned it to anyone besides Robin. But her words stung, hit your chest like a thousand mad bees.

You stand on shaky legs, “I need—yeah…” Without giving anything more you walk away, almost taking the table cloth with you from it tangling in your purse.

“Nellie,” Robin tries, her own eyes swimming with hurt, but you’re already two tables away, squeezing between padded shoulders and hands holding plastic cups of punch, bleary eyed to find anywhere to be but here.

Turns out a broom closet storing Christmas decorations stuffed right with the plastic light-up yard Bethlehem set, was the right place to have a breakdown.

You were hiding for a solid ten minutes before you heard a soft knock and a quiet ‘Nell?’ And your unladylike sniffling gave you away as you wiped your nose on the blanket swaddling baby Jesus.

“Rob,” you exhaled annoyingly, “I’m fine, okay? Tell Nance I’m sorry.” But to your surprise it was Eddie.

“Hey.” he says cautiously, clicking the door behind him and leaning against it.

You looked from him to your shoes and muttered out a soft, “hi.”

“So… Mr. and Mrs. Harrington seem like real big pieces of shit… wow.”

You snort airily fiddling with the run in your stocking, “Yeah, they’re something alright.”

Eddie slides down the door, sitting with his legs crossed in front of him, exhaling a deep breath,“It’s been a long day,” he finally said.

“I don’t know what to do next.”

Eddie looks at you confused, and eyes you when you stand abruptly and start pacing around the cramped closet.

You’re erratic, talking fast and crazed, “I told myself that all I needed to do was just make it to the funeral. Make it through the funeral and…and then I would figure it all out from there! Now here we are— and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do after, Eddie!

“After it’s over? And– when I leave… he’ll still be here in the ground, and I— ” you start to apologize but refrain, “.. I should go.”

“Talk to me,” Eddie stands to his full height, reaching towards you, just barely grazing your elbow with his fingertips. His voice nearly breaking, “it helps to get it out.”

You hiccup, and pull away, stumbling over a slew of strung together sentences that you’re barely breathing through to get out.

“..’s… shit, he was all I had. My parents are gone, I don’t have any siblings. It’s been… d’ you know that his parents have never approved of me, but Steve he— he fought for me, for us. Without him…I’m alone.”

Eddie follows you his hands firm your biceps to try to calm you down. “All your friends are here. Robin, Vickie, the kids…”

His words have no meaning to you, none of it mattered, your pain was demanding to be felt, and frilly words with no merit wouldn’t sugar coat this. “He’s gone, Eddie! He didn’t get to have a second chance he—died!”

He’s level headed but slowly losing his own battle, trying not to break thinking about his luck and the never ending guilt he carried.

“We were all there, all of us are hurting, Nellie. You can’t shut people out and clam up.”

You try to wriggle free from him, but he’s stronger, and all you can do is cry, “I— can’t keep going! Not without him!”

Feeling the weight of survivor's guilt and the agony of never being able to be consoled by Steve again, you break. Sobbing uncontrollably. Eddie’s arms surround you, holding you tight and engulfing your cries with his own tears, and little shushes from his throat.

“I’m sorry, Nellie. I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t cry— it will take time but you.. we will be okay.”

His voice is wobbly and his chest shakes as he cries silently grieving for his best friend. With tears running down your cheeks you pull away slightly to see his face.

In the dim light you can make out that his nose is tinged red, and with unsteady hands you reach up and pry his sunglasses from his face.

His eyes were red, a little swollen from rubbing them and fatigued with lack of sleep. You could kick yourself for not recognizing how hurt he was, how self absorbed you had been. Both of you are crying together, clinging onto each other under the yellow light in that makeshift storage closet.

Throwing yourself at him, your cheek presses into his chest as you both sob into one another. Meshing your suffering with his.

His chin is resting on your head, hands wrapped in your hair. Your hands are clutching the opening of his shirt, fingers just barely grazing over his bare chest. Minutes passed and you exhale an exhausted sigh.

Lifting your face up to tell Eddie that maybe you should get back, your nose brushes against his. And when you both should be moving away, straightening yourself up and wiping your eyes, neither of you pull back.

Eddie’s breath fans against your cheek, a small shudder on your skin, the emotional hold of the day, his arms wrapped around you it was nice… it felt, good. Without thinking, without acknowledging what you’re doing you tilt your head and line your mouth up with his, pressing your lips to his.

It’s unexpectedly tender, and what should startle him doesn’t, but all of that sweetness is quickly swallowed by a hunger you had never felt before.

It’s nothing but grabby hands and needy mouths. His hands go from soft and consoling to roughly working his pants down in the same hastiness- that you’re hauling your dress up.

Eddie grabs you from the crook of your knees as if you’re weightless and shoves you up hard against the wall. Your mouth hangs open in a silent plea as your panties get ripped to the side. Tears are still flowing down your face and if you were to look at him, you’d see that his haven't stopped either.

It’s desperate the way you’re clutching onto his shoulders. As if every ounce of pain was leaving you with every inch of him. You whimper with each pump of his hips and Eddie is doing the same, holding you impossibly tight, grunting into your ear.

It’s raw and harsh, the shelves shuddering with the pace of him taking you, and you’re all in, moaning when you’re close. Holding the nape of his neck and wringing his curls as you start to unravel, your nails clawing into him as your mind explodes.

When you finish, he’s close behind, groaning deep and biting his lip as he shakes violently with his release, pumping all he’s got into you.

What’s left between you is gasping breaths and tear kissed skin, a set of broken Christmas lights under Eddie’s boot.

His jacket is still in your clutches when you open your eyes, coming down from a high you clung to stay up on. But the weight of your decision comes crashing down when you realize what you had done.

Regret is painted thick on your face as the realization comes full force. You need to get out of here. What kind of grieving girlfriend were you to have fucked your dead boyfriend’s best friend in a church basement at his funeral.

A whore is what you are.

Eddie must have realized what kind of slut you were too because he sets you down and immediately turns away from you, shoving himself back into his pants.

But, before he can say anything, before he can try to talk you off a cliff— you’re already out of the door, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the horrifying expression twisted onto your face.

You don’t hear Eddie calling after you, or the way his face turned to fear as you threw open the door, practically sprinting away from him.

Lucky for you, nobody questioned why you were darting up the basement steps, or why you looked absolutely wrecked. Your keys fumbled in your hands as you unlocked your car, terrified to look back, running from your mistake, from Steve from Eddie.

The road was a dangerous blur on your drive home, your eyes flooding over obscuring stop signs and headlights. Your cheeks were still stained with yours and Eddie’s tears.

Tears that were shed in grief from the death of your boyfriend, the same ones that stayed on your face as you got fucked in a closet by his best friend. And more tears fell as you tried to comprehend why for the first time since Steve’s death, you felt comfort.

—

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie x you #eddie fanfic #steve x you #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #eddie x reader #eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #stranger things

310 notes · View notes

lowkeyren · 11 months ago

Text

FOR HIS HEART CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!

in which — dan feng can’t imagine a life without you. so even when death takes your hand, he'll hold on to your other and do anything to get you back in his embrace, no matter the consequences.

pairing — dan f/heng x gn!reader

wc: 2.5k, lovers to enemies, you both are lowkey bad with feelings LOL, i lied when i said there's an alternative ending for hurt/comfort enjoyers, now suffer. (reblogs w comments are appreciated, pls enjoy <3) ps. dividers aren't working cus tumblr is being mean to me so using dashes instead ARRHGHGHG

—

lying in your shared bed, your breathing grows increasingly shallow, your hands tremble uncontrollably, signaling another episode of your deteriorating condition. the dim, cold room feels oppressive as you catch the distant echoes of the best physicians from all around xianzhou, their hurried steps reverberating against the walls as they hasten to your side.

dan feng tightens his grip on your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, his expression etched with concern. the smell of herbal remedies and the sharp scent of sickness fills the air, mingling with the mustiness of the stone walls; a familiar sense of dread washes over you as you struggle with each breath.

his brows are furrowed, and his lips are pressed into a thin line, his knuckles turning white from the tightness of his grip on your hands. the pressure is so intense that it almost hurts —almost, but not quite enough to cause you (more) pain. he would never hurt you, not even over his own grave.

despite the best efforts of your personal caregivers, the limitations of medical knowledge, and the uncertainty of your treatments are harsh realities you have to face. it fills him with anguish to witness your episodes almost daily —suddenly collapsing in his arms, gasping for breath; moments like these are where he feels like he's standing right beside your deathbed, desperately hoping for signs of improvement each time you open your eyes again.

it kills him that there's nothing he can do but watch over you, he watches as you waste away before his eyes, feeling a piece of himself wither away in tandem.

dan feng’s eyes search yours the moment you regain consciousness, the doctors respectfully step back, bowing before hurriedly exiting the room. his heart breaks into a million pieces when he sees your eyes that were once bright with joy, now clouded with tears. the sight pierces through him, stirring a deep ache in his chest.

"dan feng," you whisper hoarsely, your voice fragile with pain. “it hurts, it hurts so much…” he presses a soft kiss against your entwined hand, his touch a soothing balm amidst the storm raging within him. “don’t worry,” he murmurs softly, “i’ll make it go away soon, i swear.”

“thank you.. but promise me, if i don't make it, you'll find a way to move on.” you manage a weak smile through the pain. his eyes glisten with unshed tears, he shakes his head slightly, "i won’t let that happen."

of course he won’t. you were the kindest, most lovely soul before this godforsaken unknown illness with no definitive cure stole your life away; he sees your smile slowly losing its radiance, and your eyes dulling as each day passes.

“this body… it’s useless, i’m useless. i’m sorry, i—” dan feng places a finger against your lips. his touch tender yet firm, stopping your words. "don't say that," his voice choking with emotion. "you're not useless, in fact you're the strongest person i know."

hearing you utter such self loathing words is like a dagger twisting in his heart, tipping him over the edge. you, who have always been his anchor in life's turbulent seas, slipping away feels like fragile glass shattering into countless shards, leaving him scattered and irreparable, each piece cutting deeper into his core with every breath.

he can't face the idea of losing you. it destroys him from within, even more so now that time is running out. but he won’t let anyone else have you, not even the cold hands of death. for you, he’s willing to pay any price, even if it means he has to break the highest laws of xianzhou.

—

you wake up feeling unusually energized, a stark contrast to the persistent aches and pains that have haunted you for so long. as you sit up, the familiar discomforts are no longer present, instead replaced by an almost surreal sense of vitality.

but something feels strangely off, an unsettling sensation gnawing at the edges of your awareness. your eyes dart around the room, frantically searching for your boyfriend’s presence; he has never left your side without a word (his protectiveness wouldn't allow it anyway), especially not for this long.

panic flares as you look down at your body. the surgical wounds that once marked your skin have vanished without a trace. your breath catches in your throat as you run your fingers over the smooth, unblemished surface where scars should be.

you push back the covers and swing your legs over the side of the bed, struggling to piece together what could have happened.

where is dan feng? is he in trouble? and, why do you feel so... alive?

then, a chilling realisation dawns on you. you try to shake the thought from your mind, but no matter how hard you try, you aren’t able to find any other explanation that fits your condition. as the high elder, dan feng should know better than anyone that such an act is a sin —a disgrace...

the truth begins to settle in, he really did sacrifice everything to grant you immortality.

—

“you’re literally the high elder for god's sake, what have you done?!” you exclaim, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and anger.

dan feng's expression is pained as he meets your gaze, his own eyes filled with a desperate resolve. “i’m only trying to help you. you don’t understand, i—”

“help me?” you cut in sharply, scoffing. “you betrayed xianzhou! you betrayed me. i was ready to let go, so why?”

he reaches out to you, his hand stopping, and hovering in mid air as if unsure whether to touch you. "i can't bear to lose you," he confesses, his voice barely a whisper. "i can’t just stand by and watch you suffer when i have the power to save you."

tears well up in your eyes, the room feels suffocatingly small as you stand in front of him. for the first time, you find yourself on opposite sides of the battlefield, the weight of his transgression hangs heavy between you, tearing apart everything you once knew.

“by defying everything we stand for?” you choke out, your words laced with venom. “do you realise just what you’ve done?” he takes a step closer, his face etching with anguish. "i know i’ve made a grave mistake." he admits, “but will you believe me if i say that i didn’t regret it one bit?”

“how can you do all this… for love?” your eyes search his for answers that seem unfathomable. “no, my dear, for you.” he steps closer, his breath warm against your skin, gaze locking onto yours with an almost desperate intensity.

"but how can i ever love you again after this?" you whisper, your voice trembling. his heart shatters at how your eyes taint with fear and betrayal, the sight wrapping around his chest like a vice. the mere thought of losing you, of seeing you banished because of his desperation, is a torment he can hardly bear —but now one that he has to face.

"if you can't accept what i've done, i'll grant your wish, whatever it is.” he murmurs. “for you, i’m willing to pay any price."

though when bound in chains, his title of high elder does little to shield him from the repercussions of breaking the sacred laws. he’s taken away; his fate sealed by the very rules he broke. and you, the one he tried to save, find yourself exiled, cast out for the sin you never chose.

as you wander, lost and alone, the realisation of what he gave up for you lingers, a bittersweet reminder of his love that defied everything, yet cost you both so much.

—

the land of xianzhou is something dan heng is strangely familiar with; he walks through the maze of narrow alleys and crowded squares, every corner seems to whisper fragments of memories long buried.

“dan heng! look, isn’t this so cool?!” the excited voice of a pink haired girl reaches his ears. her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as she animatedly gestures towards a nearby market stall with hand-carved trinkets. she continues to gush over the intricate designs while holding the hand of her grey haired companion, eagerly dragging them towards the stall.

his eyes follows them as their silhouette grows smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing amidst the crowd. just then, another figure in the distance catches his attention.

it’s a brief glimpse, a fleeting moment where your eyes meet across the street. perhaps it's your mannerisms, your familiar gestures, or simply the way you carry yourself —whatever it is, it stirs a rush of adrenaline, a sense of déjà vu that he can’t quite shake.

dan heng pushes through the bustling throng, eyes darting frantically in search of you. the world blurs around him as he focuses solely on catching another glimpse of you; he spots you slipping into a narrow alleyway, and without hesitation, he follows.

the noise of the market fades into a distant hum as his footsteps echo softly against the alley walls. he turns a corner and sees you up ahead, your figure outlined by the dim light filtering through cracks in the buildings.

you soon reach a dead end, but as you turn to leave, you bump into someone’s chest. the world seems to stand still for a moment, dan heng's breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you. although your face is partially obscured by a thin veil, your features are still discernible.

“oh? it seems you still remember me.” you finally meet his gaze. those eyes he cherished so dearly still hold a spark of life. “[name]?” he murmurs, the sound of your name still so intimate on his lips after many years.

“you haven’t changed one bit.” he reaches out to gently push the veil covering your face aside. a flood of memories rushes through his mind, one a sharp pang in his heart. seeing you again triggers a vivid recollection of the exact place and position you were in years ago, a memory that stings to recall.

“i wonder whose fault it is?” you tilt your head, if only he knew the trouble you went through to find him again; given that goodbyes were never exchanged between you, it seems fitting to offer one now.

before he can say a word, you swiftly grab his collar and wedge him firmly against the wall. he doesn’t resist even when he feels the cold sharp edge of your dagger pressing against his throat, his gaze still fixing firmly on yours.

"have you ever felt remorse?" you lean closer into him, your voice is barely audible through your gritted teeth. he ignores your question; unexpectedly, he grips your hand, dragging the blade down to his chest, positioning the point directly over his heart.

"as long as my blood is on your hands, go ahead, do it." he whispers, his voice steady despite the tension. "my heart has always been yours anyway." his eyes bore into yours as if daring you to follow through.

his grip on your hand tightens, urging you closer. "and if this is what it takes to ease your pain, then i'm ready."

"...what? you must be out of your mind if you think this way of making amends will work." your disbelief is clear in your voice; you try to shake his hand away, but he refuses to budge.

dan feng couldn’t imagine a life without you, so when death takes your hand, he holds on to your other —and finds you again as dan heng. even as he gets on his knees and begs for your forgiveness, he still holds on to your hand as tightly as he can, afraid that any moment you might slip through his fingers.

“i’m sorry, i just couldn’t accept the thought of you leaving me.” and i still can’t, so please don’t leave me again.

you feel your willpower wavering, his very being melting away at your resolve. it's too much to bear, and you feel yourself slipping under the weight of his words. even still, you find yourself struggling to deny him. to deny yourself. to deny your own feelings.

you fight the urge to simply give in, torn between the desire to just let go and fall into the sweet oblivion of his embrace, and the fear of getting sucked back into a cycle of destruction and pain. the weight of all that history, all those memories of your bittersweet love, it's overwhelming, nearly crushing.

“i know.” your heart aches, but you still deny the crave of the comfort of his arms. “and you’re not wrong,” the dagger clatters to the ground, the metallic sound echoing through the alleyway.

“your heart is mine.” you push the veil to cover your face, placing your hands on his shoulder, leaning in. the cool silk brush against his parted lips, and oh… he’s been waiting so, so long for this moment.

though you pull away just as he comes to his senses. for the first time in years, he sees your smile again —the same smile that first captivated him, the one he had cherished and sought to preserve over the years.

"remember the wish you owe me?" he nods, unable to find words. the memory of his promise resurfaces with startling clarity, his mind racing with the possibilities of what you might ask for.

—

dan heng looks in the dagger's reflection; a dishevelled and broken man stares back.

the cold metal digs deep into his palm, the sharp edge slicing into his skin. in that moment, he wants nothing more than to be free of it, than to plunge the blade into his own heart. he feels the pain all over again, the pain of not being able to hold you, to touch you, to be with you.

for he knows that no matter how tightly he grips the dagger, it will never be the same as holding your hand. he knows that no matter how deeply it cuts into his flesh, it will never feel the same as holding you close.

“i wish i never loved you.” your words echo painfully in his mind. “and i hope we never cross paths again. goodbye, dan feng.” he releases the dagger with a sudden twist of his arm.

if choosing you over xianzhou was wrong, then consider him a sinner, and if loving you this much is his downfall, then consider him already on his knees.

but was it worth everything? was it worth it to see the look of utter desperation on his face? was it worth it to see him break apart in front of you? you feel only resentment and satisfaction; you made him feel what you wanted him to feel, you made him suffer for you.

the blade falls from his grasp, he stands amidst the shards of shattered illusions; the pain of your absence cuts deeper than any blade ever could.

perhaps in another lifetime, he can find you again.

for now, he honors your wish and only watches as you live on from the sidelines, yearning to be a part of your life again, even if only in his thoughts and dreams. he remains steadfast in his longing, a silent witness to the unspoken ache that lingers in the wake of your parting words.

—

masterlist

©lowkeyren 2024 only on tumblr. please do not plagiarize, translate, repost on other platforms, or feed my works into ai.

author's notes!! (my line of thought when writing this lul)

1. you made him suffer for you. -> irony. vengeance. he made you suffer BECAUSE of him granting you immortality. 2. dragging the blade down to his chest, positioning the point directly over his heart. = "my heart has always been yours anyway." -> which reader says with “your heart is mine.” 3. “and i hope we never cross paths again. goodbye, dan feng.” -> reader refers to dan heng as dan feng, i wonder what that means. 4. perhaps in another lifetime, he can find you again. -> you're both evil asf ngl, yes he will find you, you can't die aka you can't leave (him). ^ the only reason why he doesn't keep pursuing u now is cus he promised to grant your wish which is "to never cross paths again". (wow, he's such a man of his words.) 5. reader kisses dh over the veil, deliberately denying him the satisfaction of any intimacy. can be seen as a form of "punishment", leaving him yearning for more.

ty for reading xx for each reblog i will write 100 words for pt2 /j (BUT DO REBLOG IF U ENJOYED!! and it might not be a slash jay after all heuehehheh)

697 notes · View notes

wonubby · 3 months ago

Text

Let Down - K. BAKUGO

CONTENT WARNING: angst, bakugo's death mention, hurt/comfort, established relationship, childhood lovers

ZEE SPEAKS: It's 5am, probably unedited and im spiralling; this is for my own sake. also i havent read/watched this scene, i've put it off so forgive me for any mistakes

WC: 926

"when i'm older, i'm going to grow wings!" katsuki pumped his tiny fist in the air, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

"woah, kacchan! you're so cool," the girl sitting next to him gasped, her sparkling eyes fixed on her friend.

"and i promise to make you my wife, y/n." with that, the boy took off, leaving the girl a blushing mess.

he lied.

katsuki bakugo was a fucking liar, and y/n would never forgive him.

now, at seventeen, he lay on the ground, his shell shattered, blood flowing out like that of a crushed insect. it was quiet for a while. not a single word uttered in the cold, dreadful atmosphere.

then, a wail shattered the silence—a sound so gut-wrenching it could break hearts.

everyone knew who it belonged to.

y/n. none other than bakugo's girlfriend and childhood friend. the pair had been inseparable since kindergarten, refusing to do anything if the other wasn't present. it was cute. everyone who had met the two joyous kids knew they had a bright future ahead of them—one that included getting married and having as many babies as possible.

but now, that future was gone.

it ended the moment his body hit the floor, a hole in his chest.

"get up." a harsh whisper filled the air, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

"i said, get up." the voice repeated, snappier this time, filled with nothing but rage. "you're not allowed to die, asshole. get up!"

she was screaming now, falling to her knees, shaking the lifeless body of her boyfriend.

best jeanist approached the girl, trying to pull her away from the boy’s unmoving form.

"y/n, stop. you need to stay calm. edgeshot is doing his best," he reasoned, only to be met with a cold, tear-filled glare.

"shut the fuck up."

the words stunned him. in all his years of knowing y/n, she had never been one to cuss.

"i'm not letting him get away with this. he's going to come back. he will—he has to. h-he—" a sob ripped through her chest. "he promised! he said he'd keep fighting, that if he fell, he'd grow wings."

"he's a fucking liar."

by now, she was full-on sobbing, clutching the lifeless body of the boy she had planned a future with.

a few minutes passed, and nothing changed.

y/n buried her face in his bloodied chest, her tears mixing with the crimson.

best jeanist tried to de-escalate the situation.

and bakugo... still dead.

by now, izuku had arrived at the scene. he let himself soak in the devastation for only a moment before surging toward shigaraki, fueled by a newfound rage.

that's when y/n realized what she had been doing. instead of helping and trying to defeat the villains, she'd been wallowing selfishly.

just like izuku, she got up, ready to head to the battle—until she heard it.

the quiet and gentle call of her name. it tugged at her heart. one she could recognize in a heartbeat. y/n thought she was hearing things. there was no way he could say anything—he had a hole in his chest for god's sake!

shaking off the feeling, she continued walking.

"y/n..." there it was again, still quiet but very real.

with a heavy heart, y/n slowly turned around, her eyes filling with tears almost immediately.

there he was—bakugo katsuki, alive.

the boy she swore to cherish with her entire being, alive.

his eyes were soft, full of remorse, as they locked onto hers.

"you asshole!" y/n screamed, her voice breaking with a mix of anger and relief. she stormed over to him, face flushed with fury.

standing before him, she planted her hands on his fully healed chest, lightly punching him with all the strength she could muster. her body shook with emotion, thrashing in his arms as he held her, trying to calm her down.

"i fucking hate you! how dare you just—die like that?!" she yelled, her anger almost drowning out the relief she felt. tears blurred her vision, but beneath all the rage, bakugo could feel her gratitude. her happiness that he was alive.

"i know, baby, i’m sorry," katsuki whispered, his voice cracking with guilt. he reached out and pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her.

the force of his embrace made her body tremble, but she didn’t pull away. she buried her face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

katsuki’s eyes shimmered with tears, though he kept them at bay, not wanting her to see him vulnerable. still, a single tear slipped down his cheek as he held her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his.

they sank to the ground, both of them trembling. y/n clung to him, her sobs echoing in the stillness, but now they were softer, like the release of everything she had been holding in.

"i was so scared," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "i thought i lost you... i thought i’d never see you again."

"you won’t lose me, i swear," bakugo murmured, pressing his cheek to her head, his arms never loosening their grip. "i’m not going anywhere."

they sat there for a long time, the world around them fading into the background as they held onto each other. for once, there was peace, just the two of them, wrapped in the comfort of knowing they’d made it through the storm together. no words were needed. just the steady rhythm of their hearts beating in unison.

173 notes · View notes

chrissssssmut · 4 months ago

Note

One with Rosé

NO ESCAPE

Yandere Boss Rosé x Male

AN: Hope this one's good! Im currently writing the next request XD

You hated your job.

More specifically, you hated your boss, Park Chaeyoung—better known as Rosé.

She wasn’t just strict—she was ruthless. A tyrant wrapped in designer suits and a wicked smile, ruling over the office like a queen who knew no one would dare to oppose her. She had a special kind of enjoyment in tormenting her employees, but for some reason, you were her favorite target.

“You’re useless,” she’d scoff when you turned in paperwork with a minor mistake. “I should fire you, but where else would I get my entertainment?”

Meetings turned into hellish endurance tests, your name constantly being called out for blunders, some of which weren’t even yours. But you knew why she did it. She liked to see you squirm under her attention, liked the way your hands shook when she loomed over your desk, voice like silk but words sharp enough to cut.

And yet, you endured it. Until you didn’t.

The resignation letter sat on your desk for weeks before you finally had the courage to hand it in. You had expected her to mock you, to laugh in your face, maybe even throw it back at you. But instead, she simply smiled. A slow, knowing smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“You think you can leave?” she mused, twirling a pen between her fingers. “That’s cute.”

“I’ve already made my decision.” You kept your voice steady, despite the dread curling in your stomach.

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. “We’ll see about that.”

You started skipping work.

At first, it was just a day. Then two. Then an entire week. No calls, no emails—nothing. You wanted her to get the message: you weren’t coming back.

Then, one night, there was a knock on your door.

Dread pooled in your stomach before you even opened it. And when you did, you wished you hadn’t.

Rosé stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual condescending smirk. No, this one was different—sinister, dark, filled with something unhinged. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and rage.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, voice almost sing-song, as if she was teasing a lover. “That’s not very nice.”

Your breath hitched. “I… I don’t work for you anymore.”

Rosé tilted her head, feigning confusion. Then, before you could react, she stepped forward, forcing you back into your own apartment as she shut the door behind her.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she whispered, her voice low, a warning wrapped in velvet.

You turned to flee, but she was faster. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist tight enough to bruise. Panic surged through you as you struggled, but she was stronger than she looked, pinning you against the wall with terrifying ease.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, eyes gleaming with something possessive, something utterly terrifying. “And I don’t like it when my things try to run away.”

You shoved at her, desperation fueling your fight. “Get off me!”

She responded with a sharp slap across your face, the impact ringing through the room. Your vision blurred for a second, pain flaring along your cheek. Before you could recover, she grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look at her.

“You think you can just disappear?” she hissed. “After everything I’ve given you? After all the time I spent making you mine?”

Terror pulsed through your veins as she shoved you onto the floor, her heeled foot pressing onto your chest. She leaned down, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult but not enough to knock you out.

“I could make this worse,” she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “I could hurt you so much more, make you beg me to let you stay.”

You clawed at her grip, trying to push her away, but she only laughed, enjoying your struggle. She yanked you up by your collar, dragging you toward the bedroom. You thrashed wildly, but a sharp punch to your gut sent you collapsing onto the mattress, gasping for air.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she purred, straddling you, her nails digging into your jaw as she forced you to meet her gaze. “You belong to me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, fear overriding everything else.

“Please… just let me go,” you croaked.

Her lips curled into a smirk as she leaned in closer. “Say it,” she commanded. “Say you’ll come back.”

You hesitated, and she wrapped a hand around your throat again, tightening her grip until your vision swam.

“I’ll come back!” you choked out, gasping. “I’ll go back to work, I swear!”

She released you abruptly, watching as you crumpled into a coughing mess beneath her. Her fingers gently traced your bruised skin, a mockery of tenderness.

“Good boy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing up. “Be ready in the morning. I expect you at your desk.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving you shaking, broken, and utterly hers.

The next morning, you were at your desk.

Your hands trembled slightly as you typed, the bruises on your wrist hidden under the sleeves of your shirt. The office bustled around you as if nothing had happened, as if the last night hadn’t left you shattered.

And then you felt it.

A gaze.

You looked up, and there she was—Rosé, standing across the office, watching you. Her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk, her eyes dark with a silent warning.

You knew what it meant.

You were stuck with her.

Forever.

#kpop yandere #yandere kpop #kpop story #male reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere blog #yandere stories #rose blackpink #blackpink x reader #rose x reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #kpop scenarios

157 notes · View notes

lvmimis · 1 year ago

Text

cw: slightly inebriated smut (only tanjiro is tipsy, really). tanjiro being his soft self. fem!reader. modern au, characters are a little older than college age. one (or more) silly jokes. pussy eating. penetrative sex.

Your boyfriend is far too social, you think to yourself as you tip your red plastic cup to your lips, drinking the last of the punch Tanjiro handed to you before returning to practically schmoozing the crowd, the remainder of your friends and old classmates gravitating around him like moths to a flame. It’s not his fault, you remind yourself again, taking another sip, the alcohol hitting the back of your throat with an airy gulp. He’s popular and social; he shines like the sun always, while you are somewhere closer to hot summer rain, sweet at times but intense and easily transitioned to thunder and stormy weather if suboptimal conditions arise.

Similar to now.

You can already feel your social battery slowly drain to the end of its lifetime, dreading what will ensure thereafter. Shinobu and Mitsuri had enthused you earlier in commenting on outfits and filling you in on gossip (Zenitsu having a restraining order against him ordered by two girls in the exact same neighborhood and Inosuke accidentally eating cat food Gyomei had left out for the neighborhood stray then asking for more), but now Obanai had quickly captured the latter girl’s attention again and they were off to God knows where in this party house, while Shinobu had decided to turn in early and disappeared without comment. You find yourself perched on a high stool while the remainder of the party continues to rage, loud music making your head pound with the bass. At some point, Tengen and Rengoku started doing competitive keg stands and you’re almost sure that if you see Tanjiro do this too you’re going to head upstairs and go to bed without another word. Instead, he’s playing a drinking game with Sabito and Giyuu, Sabito with a pingpong ball in hand and aiming a little too seriously at the arranged cups. Murata stands at the other end of the table frowning and you wonder when he’ll ever win a game.

The Demon Slayers are a rowdy bunch when they party.

You reach the end of your drink and consider a second when you suddenly feel a hand clap onto your shoulder, squeezing hard enough that it startles you to the point of nearly falling off your seat.

You yelp, and Inosuke is grinning once you turn, and you think again about the cat food before you ask what he wants.

“What do you mean what do I want- JANJIGO YOUR GIRLFRIEND WANTS TO LEAVE!”

Inosuke’s loud voice cuts clear through the music, enough that Kanao and Aoi whip around from their lazy positions cuddled on the couch to look in your direction.

“I did not say-” you hiss at him, but Tanjiro’s already quick to come over, smiling all the while. Inosuke grins and disappears, and you consider throwing something at him, your face is so warm and embarrassed, but you’re quickly distracted by Tanjiro’s gentle voice.

“Hey, are you tired?” he says breathily. He’s already easing you off the seat, taking the cup from your hand to discard it, and holding your other hand gently with the other. He’s pleasantly buzzed, soft red on his cheeks matching the tint of his dark eyes. He’s disarming you with how cute he is, and overly affectionate, his face nuzzling into your neck practically as he leans in.

“Tanjiro~, there are people around…” you remind him as he starts to kiss your neck, but he whispers a soft ‘so?’ and you realize there’s not much you can do to deter him from being too handsy, and decide to pull him away before you end up embarrassed. He’s practically laughing as you pull him up the wooden steps of the rented home, and you move so quickly upstairs, you end up stumbling, only to be scooped up and pulled close to get kisses between giggles.

“What are you-”

“You’re clearly too drunk to walk,” he teases, although he’s slurring his speech far more than you are, eyes gently lidded as he looks at you. Warm around the ears, you decide to abandon that fight, and remind him where the room you’re sharing with Mitsuri is, thankful that you’re not sharing with Shinobu and your roommate is nowhere to be found.

“Don’t drop me,” you remind him.

“Wouldn’t ever for the world.”

…

Tanjiro’s coordination despite inebriation is a bit too good. Not content to just drop you off and see you in the morning (as you expected) by the time the door is closed, he’s at your neck and then your chin and then your lips, until you’re kissed every inch from your forehead to the center of your breasts, and he’s pulling off your jeans, lips still closed around your nipple. Hands heavier than usual under the influence of more than a few drinks run all over your body, and play with your pussy as he kisses you, spit-slicked fingers toying with your clit and your insides until they’re wet, then further wetted by the motions of his tongue. Sloppily he makes out with your pussy, head between your dangling knees until you’re moaning and squeezing your thighs shut around his head; something that doesn’t stop him, only spurs him further.

“Sorry for leaving you alone down there,” he whispers against your pussy, then slurps further, and it’s almost laughable that he chooses now to apologize. You laugh and whisper that it’s fine but then he licks a long stripe through your cunt that makes your back arch as you let out a moan and your fingers tug shakily on strands of his hair. He says a playful ‘ow’ that has you whispering sorry but shuddering all the while.

“I’ll give you all the attention you need, okay?” he promises. You nod as he gets up and pulls his shirt over his head, your eyes practically swimming with desire as you watch him. He catches you enjoying the show and winks and you would die for the cringe if not for the act that he’s quickly turning you over onto your belly, taking a handful of your ass hostage before pressing his chest to your back.

Slipping inside you, he groans a bit.

“The door’s locked, right?” you murmur, trying to distract from the stretch between your folds.

“Yeah,” he says through a grunt. You're not sure if he actually knows for sure but you do know, he'd never lie to you. You sigh, as he pushes in to the brim, and then lets you settle around him, letting his fingers pet your hair gently, and his other hand plant carefully into the mattress beside you. Still folded over the edge of the bed, he gently grips onto your scalp, and then he’s thrusting in, slow, then fast, then faster, then hard as your breaths deepen and you let out a moan. Skin slapping against skin, your voices melding together, Tanjiro is soon a little too exuberant, and a little too strong, soon lifting you off the mattress until your trembling arms are trying to find purchase on his slightly bent knees. Just seconds into this position, he has some mercy on you and it’s a normal stand, gentle, slow, loving - he kisses your neck as he moves you up and down, careful, until he slows, resting his arm against your tummy and breathing in your scent.

“I love you, you know that,” he says, breathily. You savor the twitch of his cock inside you as he eventually lays you down, additional, slower strokes accompanied with deep kisses. Your heart flutters as you keep going.

You know that. The social butterfly will always come back to you, whether you’re a thorny rose or a bright daisy, your special fragrance always carrying him home.

#tanjiro x reader #tanjiro kamado x reader #tanjiro smut #tanjiro kamado smut #daydreams: kny #kny smut #mimi's notes #tanjimimi

1K notes · View notes

hom3landr · 5 months ago

Text

Sated

18 +

Homelander x Reader

After an exhausting romp in bed, you decide to ask Homelander about his enthusiasm towards eating you out.

You flop your head back down on the damp pillow, body heaving and glistening with sweat. You can feel every labored breath viscerally and your whole body pulses like a drumbeat. Your hair is matted and stuck to your forehead. You look a mess. You feel a mess. And it takes a significant effort to muster up the effort to try to push away the man still licking at your twitching and overstimulated cunt.

“Why…” You’re embarrassed that it is more of a wheeze than an actual word. “Why do you like that so much?”

The head between your thighs lifts, chin literally dripping with you. A long time ago, you’d been on a trip to Yellowstone with your family and had encountered a grizzly in the field near the trail. It was fat and sleepy, a bloody carcass cradled between its paws as it lazily ate its fill. The ranger insisted that no one needed to panic despite the relative proximity to the bear. After all, us tourists posed no threat and with a full belly and no cubs to watch, we were safe to remain near this dreadful creature.

Homelander reminds you of that bear but with slick instead of blood. A rather graphic comparison to make but all of your fantasies about Homelander end up tinged with gore eventually. You can pet the bear and play with the bear. Watch as the bear feasts and rages and roars. You keep him well fed and as long as you do so, you can remain on the trail unharmed.

He licks his lips with a smack and a smirk.

“Are you complaining?” He purrs as he crawls up your body. He kisses the protest from your mouth before you even realize that you’ve opened your mouth to make it. His tongue is insistent, intentionally filling your mouth with the taste of your own pleasure. You wrap your arms around him weakly and cradle him as he indulges. Eventually he separates to let you breathe and you attempt to justify your question.

“It’s just most guys I’ve…” You respond before you’re cut off by another forceful kiss. Homelander does not like when you bring up other men while in his bed, even if your opinions of them are less than complimentary.

“I thought you’d given up on comparing me to other men a long time ago.” He teases gruffly as he presses hungry kisses against your pulse.

He’s being deliberately obtuse and you wish he’d just answer your question. You know you’d offend him deeply if he ever knew this, but you hadn’t expected him to be a great lover when you first fell into bed with him. You figured he’d feel nice enough but a quick selfish fuck was all you expected. Imagine your surprise at the way he relishes taking you apart. He is selfish in bed but only because he leaves you so fucked out after that any further plans you could have for the day are cancelled.

“Ok on a societal level, it’s not always seen as a manly thing to do. Women give blowjobs but men suffer eating pussy. That kind of thing.” You try to explain in a way that doesn’t remind him that he’s not the only one to have explored your body. You don’t want to sour his good mood. It’s a bit hypocritical on his part, considering he still brings up Maeve. You wonder if this is why she managed to endure him as long as she did.

Homelander hums and pulls away with a heated kiss to the bolt of your jaw. He looks at you quizzically.

“And…? I don’t see what that has to do with me eating you out. You like it. I like it. You don’t have to make it complicated” He responds. His brows are furrowed and he’s quickly losing patience with your questioning when he just wants to enjoy the afterglow.

You huff and prepare to drop it when he speaks again.

“I’ve never really thought about why. You taste delicious and I love the way I can feel you twitch under my tongue when you come. You’re so vulnerable, even more than regular sex. I like that. I like how easy it is to make you feel good. I like the way you act around me when you feel good. You get all soft.” He answers and your body pulses with a new wave of arousal at the way he describes giving you pleasure.

“I’m always soft around you.” You reach up and fluff his hair lightheartedly but his gaze remains piercing. His hand wraps loosely around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze but the weight of him reminds you what he’s capable of. But you’re too lazy to think too hard about it. You don’t think he’s going to try anything now. The bear has been fed.

“No, you’re not, even if you think you are. I can tell when you’re drawing away from me. You get scared.” He squeezes just tight enough to restrict your breath, eyes never leaving yours, before releasing and removing his hand from your neck. “You’re not scared now.”

He lays down beside you and you tuck yourself tightly against his side. He sighs heavily and wraps an arm around your shoulders as he kisses your forehead. The two of you lay in a peaceful but contemplative silence. Despite his admission, the confession hasn’t seemed to raise any of his defenses. You run your fingers over his whorls of chest hair and he nuzzles against your temple. You do really try not to be scared. You know him well enough that no matter how he might bluster, unless you betray him in some way, you’re likely to remain unscathed. It’s not your fault that it doesn’t stop your lizard brain from kicking in whenever his eyes glow red or his words turn sharp and accusatory.

“You get soft too.” You admit. “… I don’t mean to get scared of you. It just happens but you don’t have to worry about me. I promise.”

Things go silent for a while but it’s comfortable. He hasn’t gone all tense the way he normally does when he’s convinced you’re lying to him somehow. You’re glad he trusts you. You wonder if the post-coital glow is dulling some of his paranoia. One glance up at the mirrored ceiling and your blood fills with warmth with how natural it looks for the two of you to be slotted together like puzzle pieces. Naked on top of the covers, not an inch of skin is hidden from your gaze.

“You don’t need to worry about me either. I’ll…try to be softer with you.” He replies, words taking an uncertain dip at the end.

You believe him. He’ll try to be soft just like you’ll try not to get scared. But you both know that as much as the two of you try. You can’t fight against nature.

You can only keep feeding the bear.

#homelander #homelander x reader #post coital character study #my weakness for writing the afterglow comes back with a vengeance #also fun fact the bear story is based on me actually seeing a grizzly at Yellowstone once #writers block has been kicking my ass so I'm trying to get back into the groove of things #x reader

247 notes · View notes

rose24207 · 7 months ago

Note

Ooooo I have a request: Mafia Lando who is at his club and one of the bar maids that flirt with him (not that he pays attention) all the time kisses him but reader walks in and gets the wrong impression she dosnt say anything but she dose brake up with him. Lando is confused and a bit angry until he goes over some footage at the club after an incident (unrealted but on the same day) and sees the reader on the day the girl kissed him. He comforts her and reassures her she won't be a problem if you know what I mean

You matter more

Summary: After a misunderstanding involving an unwanted kiss, Lando proves his loyalty to the you by confronting you, clearing up the truth, and eliminating any threat to their relationship

Genre: Mafia!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: Mafia, breakup

A/N: Thank you for the request!! Let me know if you like it! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

Lando Norris didn’t take betrayal lightly. In his world, loyalty was paramount, the foundation of his carefully constructed empire. But when you—his only constant, his sanctuary in a life of chaos—broke up with him out of the blue, it sent his mind spiraling.

You didn’t yell, cry, or accuse. You were eerily calm, like someone making a decision they’d been dreading for days. “This isn’t working, Lando. I’m sorry.”

He had stood there, frozen, his mind racing to piece together the cracks in the foundation of your relationship. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was sharp, disbelief cutting through his words.

You shook your head, your gaze avoiding his. “I just... I can’t do this anymore.”

And just like that, you walked away, leaving him confused, angry, and—though he wouldn’t admit it—heartbroken.

The breakup haunted Lando for days. He replayed every moment, every conversation, searching for what had gone wrong. But nothing made sense. You had been fine—at least, he thought you were. He wasn’t the type to miss details, especially when it came to you.

The answers came unexpectedly.

There had been a fight at his club, an unrelated altercation between two of his men that escalated into something violent. Lando, ever the meticulous boss, insisted on reviewing the surveillance footage himself to ensure nothing had been missed.

It was during this review that he saw you.

At first, it was a relief to see your familiar face on the screen, but then his stomach twisted. The timestamp placed you there on the same day one of the barmaids, a persistent flirt named Jasmine, had kissed him.

The footage revealed it all.

You had walked into the club and stopped in your tracks, eyes wide as Jasmine leaned over the bar and pressed her lips against Lando’s. His reaction was immediate—he pulled back sharply, irritation clear on his face as he barked something at her. He hadn’t even touched her, hadn’t leaned into the kiss. But you hadn’t stayed to see any of that.

Instead, the camera captured the heartbreak on your face as you turned and walked out, unnoticed by everyone—including him.

Rage coursed through Lando as he watched Jasmine smirk to herself, clearly satisfied despite his rejection. That woman had cost him something far more important than her job was worth.

That evening, Lando drove to your apartment, his mind made up. He wasn’t one to let misunderstandings fester, and he certainly wasn’t going to let you believe you meant so little to him.

You opened the door reluctantly, looking tired and wary. His sharp green eyes bore into yours, filled with a mix of anger and something softer—something you weren’t ready to face.

“You’re going to tell me why you left,” he said, his tone low and steady, though it carried the weight of a command.

You hesitated, looking down at the floor. “Lando, I already told you—”

“No, you didn’t,” he interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You gave me nothing. So either you tell me now, or I’ll stand here all night until you do.”

You sighed, wrapping your arms around yourself like a shield. “I saw her kiss you. At the club.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and painful.

Lando’s jaw tightened as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “And you didn’t think to stay and see what I did next?”

You glanced at him, confusion and frustration mixing on your face. “I didn’t need to. She kissed you, Lando. And you didn’t even stop her.”

His eyes flashed with something dangerous, but his voice stayed calm. “You’re wrong. I pushed her off the second she leaned in. And I told her if she ever tried anything like that again, she’d regret it.”

You blinked, his words catching you off guard. “What?”

“I don’t know what kind of man you think I am,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower. “But I’m not the kind to entertain someone like her. Do you think I’d waste my time with anyone else when I have you?”

Your chest tightened, emotions warring inside you. “It didn’t look like that from where I stood.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s because you left before you could see the whole picture.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening the footage he had saved from the club. Without a word, he pressed play and held it out to you.

You watched in silence as the events unfolded. The kiss you had seen. His immediate rejection. The harsh words he spoke to Jasmine as she backed away, looking less triumphant than you had assumed. And then you, walking away unnoticed.

When the video ended, Lando pocketed his phone and fixed his gaze on you. “You saw a moment and made a decision about us. You didn’t trust me enough to believe that I wouldn’t betray you like that.”

Tears stung your eyes, guilt settling heavily in your chest. “I didn’t know what to think, Lando. I was hurt. It looked... it looked bad.”

His expression softened, though his frustration remained. “It only looked bad because you didn’t give me the chance to explain. Do you really think I’d let anyone come between us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “You’re always surrounded by people who want something from you. I didn’t think I mattered enough to stand out.”

Lando’s eyes darkened, his hands cupping your face as he leaned in close. “You matter more than anything. And I don’t care who I have to get rid of to make sure you know that.”

His voice sent a shiver down your spine, a mixture of comfort and menace. You knew what he meant, and you didn’t doubt he’d follow through.

True to his word, Jasmine was gone by the next morning. No one dared ask questions, and Lando didn’t offer explanations.

From that day forward, his attention to you became more deliberate. He didn’t just tell you he cared; he showed it in every way he knew how. And while his methods were sometimes harsh, you couldn’t deny that he was willing to do anything to protect what was his—including you.

Because in Lando’s world, love wasn’t just a feeling. It was a promise, one he intended to keep at any cost.

Thank you for reading!

#lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando x you #f1 #fluff #angst #mafia!lando #f1 mafia au #mafia #formula 1 #formula one

290 notes · View notes

slaytheusurper · 7 months ago

Text

⭑ Heartache ⭑

Masterlist

Request: Yes, this one

A/N: Had to tweak it a teeny tiny bit but hope you like it anon!

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of fluff, mentions of trauma

Summary: Once best friends now turned against each other, will their betrothal mend their rift?

Word count: 5k

6 years before, early days of summer

He shouldn’t be doing this, every muscle in his body had a mind of its own. But rage and shame that moved like a storm within him drove him further. Breath caught in his throat when he heard the faint roar of a dragon down below. If he was caught he would be in so much trouble, but that wasn’t going to stop him now. If he wanted a dragon, he was going to have to work for it, that much was clear.

His feet shuffled further and further down and his thoughts wandered off, were there even any unclaimed dragons in the dragon pit? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t change his mind now. He was so close, what would you think? Would you treat him differently if he came back with a dragon? Maybe you would at least finally stop pitying him, your brothers would stop bullying him. Maybe Aegon would finally leave him alone. He was never going to find out though if he didn’t round this corner.

He was at last down in the caves, hiding behind a stone wall as he listened to a dragon rustle close by. He pushed the thoughts out of his head and carefully peeked around the corner, flashes of a big blue dragon caught his eye, Dreamfyre. If he ran further down now he had a chance of not getting burned alive by his sister's dragon. So he counted down 3…2…1, go, he hastily rounded the corner but in his hastness his fabric covered shoulder got caught against the rough stone wall, making him trip and fall.

Dreamfyre’s big eyes turned to him and she let out a piercing roar, her fire almost burning him as he quickly scrambled to his feet, almost tripping again in the sand, as he made a run for it. He thought he could get away with it and pretend it never happened, but as he ran up, back to the arena of the pit, the dragon keepers stared at him in fury. “Skorkydoso dare ao jikagon against se rules, nyke jāhor report bisa naejot se dārys!” How dare you go against the rules, I will report this to the king! Tears filled his eyes, how could he have cowarded away, he wanted to prove himself but instead all he proved was that he was weak.

‘The Pink Dread’ stared at him as he passed the pig, the dragon keeper dragging him firmly along by his arm. All he could mutter was a meek, “Iksan vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry. He knew his mother would lose her mind over this, it wasn’t the first time he was caught and it was certainly not the first time he ran away from the dragons like a coward. Once he was back in the Red Keep, he luckily didn’t run into his brother or his nephews and when he reached his mothers bedchamber door he couldn’t stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. And he was proven right, his mother was furious.

When he left his mothers chambers, his tears had dried and all that was left was fury. How could he be shamed like this, time and time again. All that consumed his thoughts was ‘What if his egg had hatched?’ ‘Would Aegon still have made fun of him?’ It was almost supper time but he still let his feet guide him to the inner courtyard. There was no one there, just like he suspected. He lowered himself to the ground and hiked his knees up to his chest, he needed silence, needed to think. The big tree looming over him.

A soft rustling of feet pulled him from his thoughts, not that he had any good ones to begin with, he didn’t know how much time had passed. Then he saw her figure in the corner of his eye, lowering herself next to him, joining him on the ground. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn’t look at her. If she hadn’t already heard from her brother’s, she would’ve probably heard it from the whispers around the castle. “Aegon is cruel, my brothers are young and don’t understand. I...I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble. My brothers certainly didn’t, I heard your mother is furious though, for what they did.” You noticed he didn’t really respond, which was odd. Usually he would at least talk to you about it.

You were his only friend, even though it was discouraged by his mother. Who often called even the eldest, silver haired and purple eyed daughter of Rhaenyra a bastard. He liked to pretend you weren’t, and that your Valyrian features proved it but of course he couldn’t be certain. After a few moments of you staring at him, he spoke, “I’m fine, I just needed to think. Clear my mind.” You nodded at his words but you knew that it was more than that. “You missed supper you know? No one spoke a word but I’m pretty sure everyone knew what happened.” He sighed and looked down at your words, great, he just gave his brother and nephews more material to bully him with.

His eyes widened when he suddenly felt your small warm hand grasp his. He at last looked at you and saw your soft smile. “You’re not lesser than us just because you don’t have a dragon, yet. The day will come, I promise.” Your words usually soothed him and most of the time he genuinely believed you but something about today, made him break. “Easy for you to say, your dragon actually hatched.” He mumbled irritated, everytime you would tell him he would have a dragon, he rolled his eyes. You didn’t know what it was like, wouldn’t know what it was like. Even a bastard could have a dragon but he could not.

In the late days of summer the shocking news arrived, Laena Velaryon had died. Even though there was a rift in the family, the horrible news of the by everyone beloved Laena had brought them together. But of course tensions never left the air, even as they stood together, they were divided. Aemond saw how her lips thinned at Vaemond Velaryons words, even though he felt justified that at last someone dared to speak up, he still felt bad for her. She was the only one that didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve the cruelty the gods had gifted her.

The somewhat draining ceremony had concluded but there was still a remembrance feast for the lady Laena. Not that anyone was eating. They were surely drinking though, especially Aegon. He too nursed on a cup of wine as he let his eyes wander the crowd, Laenor hadn’t been seen after the ceremony, no doubt that he was destroyed by grief. His eyes finally found her dressed in black figure. His heart tensed when he saw you hug both the Velaryon girls, comforting them. You were only ten years old but you were more mature than his sixteen year old brother Aegon.

His mind wandered as it so often did, drawing out Aegon’s nagging about Helaena. Would you comfort him like that if his mother or father died? Finally hold him as he so desired? He hoped so and wondered if he should offer some words of comfort, it would certainly please his mother. Even though he had been punished enough after that night he still felt ashamed and hurt more than ever, even you couldn’t calm the storm inside him. Vhagar’s distant roar snapped him right out of his thoughts. Seven Hells, of course, Laena is dead, the rider of Vhagar. She was free to claim, the largest dragon in the world, if that couldn’t prove how worthy of a Targaryen prince he was, nothing could.

It would certainly impress you, wouldn’t it? You could even fly together, your dragon was big enough now and you had your first flight mere weeks ago and were now often seen in the sky alongside your mother. Warmth spread through his body at the thought, it was a dream he wanted so badly to come true, so bad he was climbing through the dunes. If he failed this time, it was over, for good. He would never recover if he did not succeed now. He was determined, no one and nothing would stop him, he would claim Vhagar. In the dark it was a bit hard to see but the moonlight then revealed her ginormous body, resting in the sand.

His breaths came out in short pants, he had never felt this scared in his life. Everything in his body was telling him to run, that it was a mistake. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, he had to do this. And so he had reached her, his trembling hand touched her rough skin, his heart skipped a beat as her eyes snapped open, her low growling echoing through the night. Her head lifted and her giant jaws opened ready to burn him where he stood. He quickly held up his hand, “Dohaeras! Dohaeras Vhagar! Lykiri! Lykiri!” She seemed to calm somewhat at his words and at least closed her jaws. A new power and determination flowed through him as he grasped the ropes hanging from her body, making his way up to the saddle. When he sat, he loosened the reins among the horns of the saddle, “Soves!” Vhagar looked at him for a moment and he repeated, “Dohaeras Vhagar! Soves!”

Her giant body moved, shaking the ground beneath her, finally taking to the sky. Aemond almost fell off but he held on thight and made his way back in the saddle. He was sure his screams could be heard back on Driftmark and he was right in a way. Both the girls leered out the window as Vhagar’s body rose to the sky. You were comfy in your bed, telling Luke for the tenth time to stop snoring so you could finally get some rest, but when he had at last shut up, the door opened and Baela and Rhaena entered the room. Awake already, you quickly rose at their words, someone had claimed Vhagar. You knew it was Aemond, who else could it be?

You, Jace and Luke followed the two sisters down to the caves, where Aemond had just appeared. He took note of the disappointing look on your face, something he didn’t expect. Weren’t you proud of him? He finally had a dragon, why weren’t you happy for him? “It’s you.” Baela spoke up, “Yes it’s me.” You looked down at your feet, even though you knew he had every right to claim Vhagar for himself, you couldn’t help but feel bad for Rhaena. “She was mine to claim!” Rhaena said angrily, Baela standing next to her. Next thing you knew vile insults were thrown and so were hands. You tried to stop him, you really did, but Jace bumped into you while getting pushed by Aemond and took you with him. It happened so fast, Aemond bent over in pain clasping at his wound, blood pouring in the sand. You hadn’t realised you screamed.

You hid behind your mother as the king sneered angrily, you were terrified, terrified when the maester proclaimed his eye could not be saved and even more terrified of what would happen to Luke. But the king surprisingly did not take action, Aemond seemed to accept his sacrifice for a dragon but Alicent did not. Once again screams echoed through the room and your mother held Alicent in a tight grasp. You didn’t understand how, but all of a sudden everyone stood still, silent. Then you noticed the blood dripping from your mothers arm on the floor. Even though you all got off easy for such a grave accident, the actions completely ripped the family apart, and you feared it could never be mended.

Present time, early days of fall

Tension was high in the air as your mother told you the news. After years of leaving King’s Landing, your ‘father’ dead and Daemon now taking his place, you were to return to King’s Landing. You had mixed feelings over your betrothal to Aemond, he was once your best friend and you his. But after that night, everything changed, the two of you had not spoken after the incident and you already knew it was going to be hard seeing him again. He was now eight and ten years old, you five and ten.

Alicent agreed to the betrothal desperately made by your mother to somewhat mend the family, it seemed like a good idea, to her. Jace would marry Baela and they would one day rule, Luke was to marry Rhaena and then rule in Driftmark. And you, well you would serve as a wife in King’s Landing, more like serve as a peacekeeper. A reminder that the family ‘was one’. The journey was not a long one since Dragon Stone and King’s Landing were fairly close and a short dragonflight away. The household would follow on ship, you, your mother and father, Jace and Luke would take to the sky.

The day was still quite early when you all made your arrival to the Dragon Pit, a large coach already waiting to take you to the Red Keep. Once you were inside, the coach started moving and you noticed small folk scattered around in the city, cheering. Were they happy about this union? Did they even know of how divided this family was? Perhaps not, it would actually be a good thing if they thought all was well, otherwise it would create doubt and that would be bad.

You were greeted only by lord Caswell, questioning looks being passed. Someone of your mother’s station being greeted this way was rather offensive. But you were quite happy to have this small audience, nerves were eating away at you at the thought of seeing Aemond again. But you also reeked of dragon and wanted to clean up before meeting anyone. And so you were brought to your chambers, a hot bath waiting for you. To the servants surprise you sent them away, all you wanted was to lower yourself in the hot water and relax, think and calm yourself for the supper that would occur tonight. The supper that would officiate the betrothal in front of the king, in front of the whole family.

You hoped you wouldn’t suffer a similar fate to Helaena, for you knew how miserable her marriage to Aegon was. You could luckily only imagine what being married to a drunk like him would be like. The bath calmed you somewhat and you were nice and clean by the time servants came back to dress you in a beautiful gown. But they didn’t bring one of your own, one of the servants nervously looked at you as she clasped the green gown in her hands, two dragons seemed to be embroidered on the corset, your dragon… and Aemonds. Did Alicent do this? You hoped it wouldn’t start another fight in the family but you reluctantly let them dress you anyway.

Supper was getting awfully close and a servant started to work on your hair, a typical Valyrian braided hairstyle, with some emerald pins keeping it in place. Even though the colour green was pretty much forbidden by your mother on Dragon Stone, it still looked beautiful on you. Your stomach started to hurt, like it usually did when you were nervous. You dreaded this entire thing, of course you wanted to see Aemond again but the way the circumstances have changed everything made it so difficult to pretend. Your feet shuffled behind your mother to the dining room, it was decorated beautifully, something you decided to focus on to keep the nerves at bay.

Then you saw them, Otto, Alicent, your grandsire, Aegon, Helaena and Aemond. All standing to welcome you, however you felt like you were going to throw up. They did not look particularly happy, except for the king of course. He was delighted to see his daughter again, he could barely stand even with his cane but somehow still managed to hug his beloved daughter. Then the king shifted his eyes to you and then to Aemond, a bit of a forced smile now on his face. “What a joyous occasion today, joining our families as one. My son and granddaughter binding their ties. Let us celebrate, please take your seats.” He almost panted out, he could barely walk or talk anymore, everything costing too much energy.

You let your eyes shift over Aemond’s figure, he was so much taller now. Towering over you by at least a head. His eye patch covering the dark past between you. And even you had to admit he had become a very handsome man. Aemond gestured next to him as he sat down, you didn’t even realise you were the only one still standing. You took a deep breath and made your way over to the empty seat the servant was holding back for you. And so you sat next to Otto Hightower and your betrothed. You could barely listen to the king’s speech when Aemond was so close, he smelled nice, must’ve used perfume oil in his bath. His now massive hands rested on the table. When you noticed him looking you quickly diverted your eyes.

Supper was incredibly draining and of course ended in a fight, surprisingly Aemond pushed you out of the way to safety when things broke loose, and Otto Hightower himself put his arm in front of you, ensuring you wouldn’t go near the danger. Even though things ended somewhat amicably, you still veered towards Aemonds chamber. You still remembered the path well, the light of the moon shining through the halls of the Red Keep. You had to talk to him, really, talk to him. None of that polite and stiff small talk during supper.

The dark wooden door seemed so much more imposing now that it was in front of you but you lifted your hand anyway and knocked three times on his door, something you used as a code when you were kids. His eyes snapped from the fireplace at the sound of the knocks. No one ever knocked three times on his door, no one but you. He swiftly rose from his seat and made his way to the door, before he opened it he took a deep breath. He couldn’t appear weak now, not after all this time, not in front of you. He opened the door and it revealed your figure.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you.” You spoke softer than you wanted. He didn’t say anything, instead he stepped to the side and gestured for you to come inside. He was quieter now that he had grown older, something you had noticed during supper as well. You both sat down on his settee in the room. Since he kept quiet you decided to kick the dreaded conversation off. “I never… I never got the chance to talk to you… after what happened. I’m so sorry Aemond. I wish I could’ve stopped Luke, if only Jace didn’t take me with him as he fell down-”

“Stop.” His low voice cut through the room, through your sentence. You swallowed hard, was he mad at you as well? “We don’t need to do this.” He urged. His gaze was on the fireplace again, not even looking at you. “Aem-” Aem, a nickname he hadn’t heard in years, a nickname which once brought him joy now hurt him deeply. He felt betrayed and angry, that even you left him behind. “Do you hate me now?” You asked, if he didn’t want to talk you had to force it out of him, which you could only do by being direct.

He sighed before he spoke. “I could never hate you, I know you wish no more for this betrothal than I do.” His words cut you like a knife. Did he actually not want you? Did he also see you as a bastard now? “What? Aem-” He stood from his seat and walked to the door, opening it. “I think it’s best you leave.” You shook your head in disbelief, the Aemond you once knew was gone and this hardened, cold man replaced him. “No, you can’t just kick me out. We have to talk about this, we are getting married! Please, let’s just talk, like old times.” He looked down at the ground, still not looking at you.

You stormed over to him and grabbed his jaw, hearing the slight gasp in his breath. “Why won’t you even look at me!” You yelled now. He couldn’t bear to look at you, he wanted to be angry, to push you away like you had him and he knew that one look at your beautiful eyes would make all that anger melt away. Reluctantly he finally let his eyes find yours, and right as he predicted, all his anger melted away. Desperation took its stead, he was desperate for you to touch his hand again, to comfort him again.

His head then hung low and your hand let go of his jaw. He closed the door and walked back over to the settee. “You don’t have to pretend, not in front of me.” You said making your way back over to the settee, joining him again. “What do you mean by that.” He grumbled. “Oh please, you know what I mean, you used to be sweet and kind and now you’re colder than the north.” He looked at you with disdain. He couldn’t believe what you were saying, anger bubbled in his gut again. “You mean the night your bastard brother took my eye? And then not getting punished for it? Or do you mean the years of bullying I’ve endured, suffering by Aegon’s hand even after I claimed the largest dragon in the world?” He snapped. Now standing again, pacing the room in frustration.

Seeing you and your family made it all come to the surface again, for a year or four he had some peace again, but that was all shattered when he got betrothed to you. You looked at him with confusion, had Aegon continued to bully him after you left? You stood as well and walked over to him. “It doesn’t need to be like this, we can go back to what we once had, please.” Aemond’s resolve seemed to crumble a bit, the idea was so tempting, yet he still showed some restraint. You noticed it, the battle going on inside him, so you stepped forward, closer and closer to him. You noticed his widened eyes, then you wrapped your arms around him. You hadn’t hugged him in years, the last time being the whole situation with ‘the pink dread’. He completely tensed up at first.

But as you held him longer, his arms found his way around you, hugging you close. The wall around him seemed to fall the longer you held each other. “I missed you so much Aem.” You mumbled against his chest. Tears welled up in eye as you spoke. He couldn’t believe it, he had you in his arms again and you were to be his wife. Before you left that was his dream, having a dragon and you, and now it was to become true.

One year later, early days of summer

Vaemond Velaryon asking for a petition for Driftmark was a grave offence to your family, you had been married to Aemond for a couple of months now and finally mended the rift between the two of you. In that time, you had gotten to know him again, he still studied history and philosophy, still trained with the sword and still lacked affection. You were horrified when he finally told you of what Aegon did to him after you left. The pain you felt for him went beyond words and after that night, when he told you while laying against your chest, you went above and beyond to make him feel loved. You felt like it was the very least you could do for him and so now here you were, about four times a week Aemond would have a bath but it wasn’t the servants that washed him, it was his own lady wife.

The water splashed softly when you dipped the sponge in again, carefully washing the dirt of skin. He felt his entire body relax under your touch, letting his head rest against the edge of the tub. His eye patch somewhere discarded in the room, he didn’t need it when he was alone with you. The realm had profited greatly from your marriage with Aemond, everyone seemed calm and happy. But you could feel the storm coming with the petition on the morrow. Your family had already arrived today and you told them how happy you were and that seemed to do well for now.

When you finished washing his body, you kissed the top of his head before moving on to wash his long hair. He hummed softly when your fingers massaged his scalp, making sure to clean his hair thoroughly. He loved the way you cared for him, it's all he wanted his entire life. You kissed his head a few more times while washing his hair, then you helped him dry off and get back into his breeches. Making him sit down, you grabbed a comb and started to carefully comb through his silver locks, making sure to braid it before bed.

You had already prepared yourself to sleep, so now the both of you crawled in the sheets, and as he layed in your arms, falling into a deep slumber, anxiety of what could happen on the morrow clouded your mind and sleep evaded you. The morning soon came and you walked next to Aemond as you entered the throne room, Aegon and Helaena in front of you. Your family already stood to the right, the Velaryons to the left. Everything had gone so well these past few months, why did Vaemond have to ruin it?

The petition started as bad as you expected, you gave Luke and Jace soft comforting smiles through the ordeal but when your mothers turn to speak came, the giant doors opened and the king dragged himself in, stumbling to his throne. Of course you knew of the Hightowers conspiracy with Vaemond, it was quite plain to see but you held your tongue, you didn’t want to ruin the bliss you were in after all these years. But when the king had spoken, Vaemond’s sneer was a clear sign of what was to come. The horrible insults that left his lips, shattered your dream, you looked at Aemond with tears in your eyes but your stomach turned when you saw the small smirk on his lips.

Your lips parted and gasped when Vaemond’s head was cut off by Daemon. Aemond then stepped in front of you, holding you back and protecting your eyes. But that did nothing to erase the memory of him smiling at Vaemond calling your brothers, including you, bastards. Hurt consumed you and you wanted nothing more than to take to the sky on your dragon and leave, what Aemond just did could not be easily forgiven. Supper was even worse, if the last time you all had supper was any indication this could only go wrong but you couldn’t care less, the knife in your back only seethed deeper as you saw Jace and Baela laugh, even Rhaena and Luke were having a good time.

Aemond just had to ruin it. He tried to reach out, caress your hand on the table but you pulled back and ignored him when he gave you a questioning look. Then he noticed Luke smirking at the scene. He lost it. He raised his cup and made sure to give an even worse speech than last year. Only this time, swords were drawn, you didn’t care to see how this ended, instead you left. Your steps were hurried as you made your way back to your shared bedchamber, slamming the door behind you. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you sat on your bed, all you had was ruined. It went so well and it just had to get destroyed. You knew your marriage was fragile but you didn’t want to believe it. At last Aemond returned.

He too slammed the door behind him and stormed over to you. “Why are you acting like this? You humiliated me!” He seethed. You only looked at him with red eyes, you only now realised what a selfish person he was. Of course he went through so much but so did you and you didn’t deserve his anger. “I humiliated you? What about Vaemond humiliating me?! Insulting your own wife in front of you and you smiled! Smiled! How could you do that to me?! And that speech, just to further humiliate me!” His face fell at that, he never even realised he smiled, never realised that his wife was still Rhaenyra’s child. “My love…” He started but you didn’t want to give him the time. “I want to join my family on the journey back to Dragon Stone. I’ve barely seen them and wish to spend time with them, to think.” You stated, you left no room for argument.

You saw how his face turned to panic. “No. No no no, I’m sorry, I never realised. I never meant to hurt you my love please. Please don’t leave, I need you here.” You shook your head. “You made your bed, now lie in it.” His eye teared up, and pleaded again. “I need you, please don’t leave me, not again. I can’t go without you again. I’m begging you.” You shook your head again, “Some time apart might do us good, maybe you’ll realise how much I do for you and how little I get back.” Words couldn’t describe how his heart broke at the sight of you boarding the ship, no kiss goodbye, nothing, his life was empty yet again. He could only hope you returned soon.

#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond angst #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem reader

219 notes · View notes