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spacesquidlings · 8 months

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Don't You Worry Your Pretty Little Mind

Summary: With his lover bedridden after a battle gone awry, Astarion finds himself acting as her nurse, comforting her as best as he can, giving in to many of her whims. And despite all his theatrics, there is no one she wants by her side more than him.

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Warnings/Tags: Hurt/Comfort, mostly comfort, fluff, some suggestive mentions, mild description of acid-based/burning wound, references to pain (nothing graphic)

Taglist<3: @spacebarbarianweird

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The sharp smell of medicinal herbs burned in her nose, wafting over her as the pillows beneath her head and neck were readjusted once more. Pain followed fast on its heels, a phantom compared to what she’d felt earlier, before she’d blacked out entirely.

“How’s that, darling?” Astarion’s nimble fingers prodded at the pillows, fluffing them as best as he could without disturbing her. He drew her from her memories, from the blinding pain that had sent her into unconsciousness.

She whined, wrinkling her nose as another wave of smell hit her, the ointments smeared across her wounds seeping through the bandages wrapped around them. It burned as she breathed it in, daggers piercing the inside of her nose and scratching at the back of her throat. Pain radiated up her side and she shifted, nearly gagging as the smell grew stronger.

“Hurts,” was all she could manage, her voice cracking from the effort.

He huffed, crossing his arms and stepping back to examine his work. “I think that’s the best you’re going to get, my love. As much as I wish to, I cannot turn the bed into clouds.”

“Thank you for trying,” she murmured, barely stifling a groan as she shifted.

She kept trying to find a comfortable position and yet she could find none. No matter how she lay she could not take the pressure off of all her wounds, and the pure frustration of it all made her eyes burn, angry tears pooling in the creases of her eyes. It painted the world in quicksilver and moonbeams, and yet she could find no comfort in the facsimile of the calm of the night.

“Don’t cry, please.” Astarion’s voice quivered, his brow drawing together. Somehow his skin grew paler, blanching at the sight of her tears. “Please, darling. You’re scaring me.”

She sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away, hissing in pain as her body grew taut, muscles and skin tight from the burns she’d sustained. Her bottom lip quivered, a sob caught in her throat, too weak to even wail.

“Oh my darling,” Astarion cooed, voice soft as feather-down. His hands hovered above her, as if hesitant to touch her. “You’re going to be okay.”

She whimpered. Was she? Was she truly going to be okay? She wanted to reach for him, but useless as she was, she could not even raise her hands to wipe her face, let alone hold him.

She watched as he seemed to come to some sort of resolution, his fingers delicately lowering to brush the tears from her eyes. Her vision cleared for the barest of moments before more tears trekked down her cheeks, the salt stinging where it seeped into her bandages.

“You’re going to get through this.” He brushed back loose strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek, caught in the ointment smeared on her skin. “You’re strong, my love. You were strong enough to survive such powerful magic. You’ll survive this.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Although she’d survived the initial attack, she didn’t know if she was going to make it through the after-effects.

She hadn’t been thinking when it had all happened, shoving a child out of the way of their assailant, only to be swathed in burning pain. There had been no thoughts of putting up a shield, of casting a spell to push the attacker back. There had only been the thread of panic that had burst in her mind, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

When it had first washed over her she’d thought it fire, but then it had become worse. So terribly worse.

She’d learned, once she’d awoke, covered in the stinking ointment and bandaged, that it had been acid. A horrible homemade concoction that had very nearly killed her from its potency.

But she could not find it in herself to regret it, not really. She had managed to survive, but that child would not have. And her stepping in the way of the attack had been enough of a distraction for Astarion to make a killing blow.

Although she doubted she would make it through the consequences of her actions. Namely the reeking ointment and the near-unbearable pain.

As if reading her thoughts, Astarion clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so dramatic. You can survive anything, darling. Even a little homemade potion.”

She huffed, looking away. It hurt to speak, and yet she couldn’t help herself as she snapped back at him. “It’s a lot more than a homemade potion.”

“Well, it was homemade. He was a master artificer and wizard. I don’t think he bought it from a market.”

Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would staunch the flow of tears. “It hurts so much, Astarion.”

When he responded his voice was quieter, softer. “I know, darling.”

“I feel like I’m being burned alive.”

He didn’t answer this time, not at first. Silence descended, heavy, uncomfortable as her bandages.

It was more unbearable than the lingering sting of the acid, and she opened her eyes, the world limned in silver once more, searching for her beloved in the little room.

His eyes were wide, the crimson of his irises stark against the pallor of his skin. She could see the shimmering silver caught in the alabaster of his lashes, the gold of the firelight catching in his own tears.

“You’re going to be okay.” He spoke fiercely, each word as strong as a blow as he clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t have heard the quiver in his voice if she didn’t know him so well, didn’t know when he was trying to keep something hidden. “You’re going to get through this, and then we’re going on a long vacation.”

Her heart twisted, clenched in the grip of sorrow. “Astarion. My love, I’m so sorry, I-”

He shook his head, his hand delicately cupping her cheek. His own tears streaked down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. “Don’t apologise. Just get through this, got it?”

“Okay. Okay, I will.” Her heart squeezed all the tighter, aching, struggling to beat.

She tried to reach up, tried to hold his face, but she’d hardly raised her hand more than an inch before a ripple of pain made her gasp, fingers trembling like the branches of a sapling in a storm.

Astarion chuckled, lowering his head until the tips of her fingers brushed against his cheek. “Is this what you were hoping for, darling?”

“Thank you.” Her bottom lip was quivering again, her heart in her throat. Sadness was a vice that held her tight, nameless, all-consuming, drowning out even the smell of the ointment. She hurt so much, and she had hurt him. In her callousness she had hurt her most beloved and she didn’t know how to fix it, how to make him smile.

With a sigh Astarion lifted his head. His lips twitched, one brow arching. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just… I…” She couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to say it.

She felt like she was crumpling, formless and weak.

He shushed her gently, brushing the pads of his fingers against her cheeks. “Hush. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.” Another twitch of his lips. “Wait to thank me until after I’ve changed your bandages.”

Shuddering, she looked away, feeling worse than helpless. “I look horrible, don’t I?”

“No you don’t.” A pause, his eyes searching hers. “It doesn’t look good, but you could never look horrible.”

An entire new wave of misery washed over her, and she wished she could still be unconscious, unaware of this pain and the knowledge that she looked horrible.

“Be honest,” she sniffed. “I look like something from a child’s nightmare.”

“Oh please.” He rolled his eyes. “Now you really are being dramatic.”

She whimpered, scowling as best as she could.

Sighing, Astarion perched on the edge of the bed, toying with the blankets, readjusting them over and over. Even so, his eyes never left hers, earnest and bright. “You’re hurt. You don’t look horrible, you look like someone who’s injured. You look like someone who needs to be taken care of until you’re better.”

Fangs flashing in the light, he gave her a half-moon smile. “And luckily for you, you’ve been blessed with someone as devoted as me, who will be here until you’re all better. Even though you’re being very vain.”

She frowned. “If I could throw a pillow at you, I would.”

“Well thank the gods you don’t have the strength right now.”

He leaned closer, fixing her pillows again. “Beneath all those bandages is the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He paused, smirking. “Well, second most beautiful. After me of course.”

“Oh of course.”

“You’re no child’s nightmare, darling.” The corners of his lips hiked higher. “In fact, I’d wager you’re a child’s hero now.”

She snorted. “Oh, I’m so sure.”

He poked her shoulder gently, beaming. “I am. I bet that kid’s already off telling all her friends.”

“She’s probably forgotten by now.”

“Oh no.” he gave a theatrical shake of his head. “No, certainly not. Rumour has probably spread that there’s a new hero on the sword coast.”

The corners of her lips tipped up, tugged by laughter bubbling in her throat. “Oh please.”

“The blade of frontiers had better move over,” he continued, mischief twinkling in his eyes like entire galaxies of stars. “There’s a new hero protecting Faerûn now.”

She giggled, shaking her head as best as she could. “I’m no hero! Besides, what would I even be called?”

Astarion tapped his cheek, eyes skyward as he hummed thoughtfully. “Now that’s a good question.”

“See? You can’t be a hero without a cool name.”

“How about ‘protector of the most beautiful vampire spawn?’ Or ‘the prettiest saviour of children from acid?’” He brushed the back of his index finger over her brow, smirking a little too broadly. His fangs flashed before disappearing again as he spoke, mischief in his words. “Or, and I think this one is the best, ‘the fool of faerûn.’”

She gaped at him, mouth falling open.

“You know, since you ran into an acid attack.” He shrugged. “You got the kid out of the way, but you didn’t get yourself out of the way in time.”

She wrinkled her nose as she answered, equal parts annoyed and amused. “You are so lucky, Astarion.”

“To have you by my side?” He stroked her hair, smirking. He knew perfectly well that was not what she was referring to. “I most certainly am lucky, darling.”

“You’re lucky I can barely raise my arms, or else you’d have a pillow in your face.”

“Yes well, you did kind of deserve that.” He tapped the top of her head, his expression growing more serious. “You had me terrified. I thought I’d lost you.”

His words were sobering, and she no longer felt the glimmer of mirth she had before. She sank into the pillows, dropping her gaze. “Astarion, I-”

“It’s already happened.” He cut her off before she could finish her apology, his brows drawing low as he continued. “I want you to focus on healing, on getting better. That’s the only apology I’m willing to accept.”

She swallowed, finding his gaze. “Okay.”

“And just as I said, once you are better, we’re going on vacation.”

It was so mundane, to talk of going on a vacation. A trip meant for relaxation, for having fun, where the highest stakes were finding delicious new food in an unfamiliar place. The sudden segue felt like something out of a dream, surreal when compared to her most recent memory, the wall of blackness in her mind after the rush of burning pain.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, earning a bemused look from Astarion. “What’s so funny? You think me incapable of a vacation?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” In fact it was all too easy to imagine him lounging around all day, the picture of indolence as he languidly sauntered down unfamiliar streets, as he stretched out on some sumptuous bed in a rented room.

“Well don’t keep me in suspense, darling.” He laid on his side, propping his head up in his hand. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

She giggled again, feeling ridiculous. “It’s nothing, really. It just feels strange to be talking of going on vacation, especially when I’m here covered in this gross ointment.”

He clicked his tongue. “That ‘gross ointment’ is going to help speed along your recovery.” He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “Although it is not exactly a pleasant smell.”

“I want a bath,” she whined. “I want to feel clean and smell pretty.”

“Once you are well enough, my love.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “I will give you the most luxurious bath you can dream of.”

Sighing, she imagined it in her mind. Warm water and flower petals and bath oils perfuming the air, helping her feel alive once again. “Do you think you could do that when we go on vacation, too?”

A chuckle, a darkening of his eyes. “There is plenty I plan to do, once you’re better.”

“Including a bath?” She ignored the somersault of her belly, the heat suddenly blooming at the apex of her thighs. Now really was not the time, not when she could barely stand the blankets that were draped over her.

“Yes,” he drawled. “The most splendid of baths every day for you, my dear.”

She relaxed as best she could against the pillows, daydreaming once more of such a thing. Of feeling the warm heat of the water seeping into her bones, of fingers massaging her scalp, trailing lovingly down her back.

“We can do whatever you wish,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “So long as you get better. You have to promise me you’ll get better.”

“I promise. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” Astarion sighed, toying with her hair. Just the sight of him was stronger than any balm or medicine. The slight curve of his lips as he smiled, relief stitching itself into his expression, more a comfort than any sleeping potion.

He was still speaking, not that she heard even a word of it. Her mind couldn’t keep itself steady, flitting like hummingbird wings as the pain ebbed and flowed through her. Astarion had to pinch her cheek once, twice, before she could focus her thoughts, like trying to coax the ocean through the eye of a needle.

“Have I lost you, darling?” He chuckled, smoothing his hand over the sting where he’d pinched her. “I would have thought you would listen raptly as I spoke.”

She managed a roll of her eyes, knowing he was doing little more than teasing her. Distracting her, perhaps, to take the edge off of the unrelenting burn of her body.

“Forgive me, my love,” she rasped, batting her lashes as swiftly as she could in the moment. “It’s just hard to focus, even on your limitless charm.”

His brows knit together, lips pursing. She caught a flash in his eyes, worry quickly masked before she could begin to pick at it.

“You should rest, darling,” he murmured. “You’ll feel a little better once you wake.”

Astarion made to stand, the bed shifting as his weight vanished, and a ripple of pain went through her side, her chest. Not only her body screaming from the movement, little more than a jostle and yet enough to irritate the weeping wounds beneath her bandages, but her heart screaming too. Pain lancing in her chest, her heartbeat turning to the quiver of a loosed bowstring.

What would she do without him? How could she stand the anger of the poison that had flayed her skin? How could she try to brave the darkness of her unconsciousness? All without him?

A whimper fled from her lips, drawing Astarion’s gaze. The lines in his brow only deepened, and he sank back into the bed. A question hung on his lips, his hands reaching towards her, hovering, hesitancy making his face look wan.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Please.”

The anxiety in his face fell away, like the last of a stone wall crumbling to ruin. Relief, and no small amount of mischief, remained, shining like light through stained glass, refracting rainbows across the ceiling and walls.

“I’m honoured that you want me close, love, but I’m not going far.” There was laughter in his voice, making it lilt like the opening of a song. “I’ll be back in less than a moment.”

With a swiftness that sometimes scared her, Astarion moved across the room, the sound of glass clicking as he sorted through little bottles and vials on their dresser. There were perfumes, lotions, oils, a pretty pink nail polish he’d presented to her only a few days before the attack.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but in another moment he was back, wiggling a bottle no thicker than her pinky, filled with an oily-looking, iridescent liquid.

“To help you sleep,” he said before she could ask. “It’s supposed to numb some of the pain so you can rest.”

She tried to sit up, only to cry out as a thousand daggers stabbed at her, as her skin drew taut beneath her bandages. She collapsed back, wincing at the red stains blooming on some of her bandages.

“Darling, I fear that is the exact opposite of trying to get better.” Astarion tsked softly, sliding one hand behind her head, flicking the cap of the bottle open with the other.

“I was going to take the medicine.” She had to draw in lungfuls of air to push past the stabbing throb across her body, steadying the sudden surge of nausea in her belly.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. The arch of his brow and the quirk of his mouth made it seem like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, and it made her want to pout.

“You’re so impatient,” he chided, bringing the bottle to her lips. “Obviously I was going to help you with it. The more you move the harder it is for you to heal.”

She could say nothing as she drank the potion, fighting not to gag as the oily substance slid down her throat. It tasted bitter, and it coated the inside of her mouth like grease.

Setting the empty bottle to the side, Astarion grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?�� He patted her head, not yet done teasing her. “Imagine how much easier it would have been if you’d just waited for me the first time.”

“Are you saying you’ll take care of me? You’re going to nurse me back to health?”

He chuckled. “Of course, darling. I’m terribly keen to play as your doctor.”

“Oh Astarion, don’t tease me so much,” she whined. “I can hardly think of a clever response right now.”

“I don’t mind.” He tapped the tip of her nose, unscathed from the attack. “That pretty blush of yours is all I need.”

“Astarion.”

He lifted his hands quickly, palms out in surrender. “Alright, alright, that’s enough for now. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Panic seized her and she gasped. “My love, wait. Wait!”

She reached her arms out as far as she could, making a grabbing motion with her hands. Astarion’s brows rose, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Oh? And what’s this?”

Whining, she stretched her arms out a little further. “I want you.”

“So needy.” His tone was chiding, but his smile only grew. “Do you need me to continue comforting you, darling?”

“Astarion, please.” She couldn’t spar with him now, and so she was at the mercy of his teasing. She pushed out her bottom lip, pouting as best she could, giving him her biggest doe eyes. “I need you.”

“And how do you need me?”

If she could have ground her teeth she would have. But as it stood she could not, so she settled for a wrinkle of her nose, her cheeks burning from the heat he’d coaxed into them. He was smiling far too broadly, his eyes full of mirth.

With a sigh she said, “I need you to stay with me. I need you to hold me, my beloved. Please.”

“Oh my.” She could see the faintest touch of colour in his cheeks, like the first hint of the blushing dawn in the dove-grey of the morning sky. “Well how could I ever say no to such a request?”

Happiness softened the edges of her ire as Astarion tugged at the blankets, carefully slipping into the bed beside her. She sank to the side, his body beckoning her close, wincing only barely as he pressed against her side. He draped an arm loosely over her stomach, no heavier than another blanket, and yet she felt safer because of it, warmer than any blanket could make her feel.

“How is this?” He murmured softly against her ear, his breath tangling in her unbound hair. “Better?”

“This is very nice,” she said, just as quietly. “Thank you, my love.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” His voice wobbled, revealing the fear that had been hiding beneath his joking tone. “It will help with your healing.”

“But I only just got comfy,” she whined, not caring how pitiful she sounded.

A snort, cool fingers brushing back her hair. His breath gathered against her skin as he lowered his head, sighing. “That is so you can sleep, darling.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“If I’m distracting you, it may be better if I go-”

“No!” It would have been a shriek if she’d been able to shriek right now. As it was it sounded like a garbled rasp, and Astarion had to press his face to her neck to muffle his laughter.

“Don’t go. Please love, I want you to stay.” She didn’t feel right without him close, felt like she was on the verge of dying. She wanted to cling to him, to hold fast, finding comfort in the acid of his comments and the bergamot clinging to his skin.

“I’ll stay.” He laid a gentle kiss to her neck, a stark difference to the teasing laughter from only seconds ago. “See? I have no plan to move.”

“Really?”

“Why would I, when such a beautiful, needy little thing is in my arms.”

She turned her head away so he could not see the crimson staining her cheeks. She had no response, no clever rejoinder. She was terribly needy for his closeness, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

“You really must rest, though,” he continued, pressing another kiss to her throat. “How else will you get better so we can take a vacation?”

“You seem very set on the idea of this vacation,” she mused. Already she could feel the medicine working, the pain beginning to ebb, dulling breath by breath. “What do you even want to do?”

“What don’t I want to do, darling?” He sighed, stroking her hair. “I want to lounge and sleep in late. And perhaps we can visit a spa; we both need it after this.”

“A spa sounds nice.” She imagined it, sleeping the morning away, skilled hands massaging the knots from her back and arms, floral-scented serums and creams and oils pressed to her face, bringing her skin to life.

“And shopping,” he continued, just as lost in his daydreams as she. “So much shopping. We must refresh our wardrobes, darling. It’s all very…” She could picture the wrinkle of his nose without even looking at him. “Last season. We must be ahead of all the rest.”

“I’ll put my trust in you, then,” she murmured. “I’m sure you know what is best.”

She wouldn’t mind some new gowns, if she were honest. She would need something to make her feel pretty again after she was healed.

Astarion hummed, combing fingers through her hair. “Have you fallen asleep already?”

“No,” she answered, not feeling tired in the least. Now that the pain was fading she felt wide awake, energized.

“Well you should,” he admonished. “It will certainly put me at ease knowing you’re resting.”

“But I’m not tired, my love.”

He sighed, undoubtedly rolling his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

She hummed, wracking her mind for something that could help, that would lull her into the gentle darkness of unconsciousness.

Before she had met him, she would sometimes fall asleep to the faint sounds of music beyond her windows, or she would hum her favourite melodies until she could not hum them any longer.

“Could you…” She licked her lips, twisting as far away from his gaze as she could as a new wave of heat washed over her. “Could you sing for me?”

The silence that fell from her question stretched long, and she feared he would laugh, or tell her that no he could not. But then, soft as a caress, Astarion asked “you wish for me to sing?”

She swallowed, her flushing cheeks be damned. She wanted to meet his gaze as she again made her shameless request, a small comfort that had helped her in the years before she’d met him.

“Will you please sing for me?” He was close enough now for her to take his free hand, even as tremors still quivered through hers. “Please, my love? It really would help me sleep.”

For a moment he searched her gaze, his expression serious. Soft light gilded his features, twinning in the strands of his hair, painting the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. His eyes seemed to glow, and she had the strangest feeling that she was being observed by a deity, a powerful, celestial being not of this world.

Her heart ached, and she held his hand tighter, reminding herself that he was not an ethereal being of light and dreams. He was real, he was here with her, he was not going anywhere.

Astarion’s eyes flicked down, to their intertwined hands, seeming to come to some sort of resolution.

“You are so terribly lucky I find you so wonderful,” he sighed, lashes fanning over his cheeks as he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t sing for just anyone, you know.”

She gingerly brought his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I think I would hate it if you did. I want you to sing for only me.”

His eyes opened, his expression tender despite how he had bemoaned such a task. “Any requests, my dear?”

“A lullaby, please.” She held fast to his hand, clutching it as surely as a child clutched a beloved doll. “Any lullaby, whatever your favourites are.”

He mulled it over, stroking her hair absently. “Alright, I have a few in mind.”

His voice quivered at first, uncertainty staining his voice. The words tremulous, quiet, yet as he continued, seeming to realize this was not an elaborate ruse to tease him, he grew louder, more confident. The faintest touch of colour stained his cheeks, but it could have been the burning red of the sky at sunset for how it ignited warmth in her own heart.

At first she felt nothing, energy still buzzing like static along her nerves and sizzling in her veins. But the wispy tendrils of fatigue slowly crept over her, Astarion’s words coming in and out of focus, blurring together. She was certain he was switching to Elven every now and again, the songs he was singing old, excavated from a corner of his memory draped in cobwebs and dust.

She yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. It became harder to keep them open, and eventually she just gave in, sighing in response to Astarion’s teasing laughter as his fingertips skipped across her brow.

“Are you asleep yet?”

“Not yet,” she grumbled, scrunching her nose.

“I guess I have no choice, but to keep going.”

She hummed in approval, earning another quiet huff of laughter before he continued, beginning a new song she did not recognize.

She wouldn’t have said he was the very best, and although she didn’t recognize every song he chose, she could tell some of it was off-key, the notes too sharp or flat. But she didn’t care, finding comfort in the off-tune lilt of his voice. It was a melody just for her, carrying her like white-capped waves towards sleep.

Her fingers found their way to his shirt, twisting into the cream coloured fabric, snagging on the ties that held it closed. She could not move enough to tuck herself beneath his chin the way she liked best, but she could hold onto him like this at least. She could anchor herself, no longer lost to the pain of her wounds.

Astarion’s voice blurred, words melting into each other until she could not recognize a single one, her mind muddled as a turbid river. All her thoughts turned to nonsense, but for one, shining bright as a star, holding fast in the cloudiness of her mind.

That she would get better. That she had to get better. She couldn’t let him sing her lullabies for nothing. She had to make up for the worry she was causing him.

She might have said the thoughts aloud, she really wasn’t sure. Her body was growing fuzzy, the world around her melting in and out of focus.

What she was sure of was that Astarion paused for the briefest of moments, brought his lips to her brow. He murmured against her skin, that he was holding her to that promise. That he would need her to get better so she could help him come up with a name for her new heroic persona while on their languid holiday.

She wanted to promise that she would, if only because she loved him so much she couldn’t bear upsetting him. But Astarion started singing again, and his voice suddenly sounded very, very far away, like an echo behind glass.

And then she was gone, lost to sleep, one step closer to healing, just as she had promised.

#astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #honey the sweeter the sun

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cyberrfangs · 5 months

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“Once More to See You” — . . . Mitski ♬

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

IN WHICH. . .

The thought that always seem to cloud your mind, Nick announcing you as his boyfriend. Now seems more distant than ever with Nicks reluctance and growing fear.

WARNINGS: male!reader, angst, use of Y/n, cursing

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

“BUT with everybody watching us, our every move”

“WE do have reputation”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

The chill early-autumn breeze rushed past my face, the cold wind biting at my nose and cheeks.

The sun began to set as the sky was painted with a beautiful ombré of orange and blue, making my eyes flutter with admiration.

Shutting the sturdy metal door to my car, my fingers working to hit the lock button on my keys before turning to walk up the hard cement of the Sturniolo’s driveway. My shoes tapping the ground rhythmically.

I stepped onto the porch, unlocking the front door with the key Nick gifted me on our two month anniversary, that, now, being almost three months ago.

With a soft smile, I stepped past into their inviting and cozy home. My cold face being gifted with the warm air embracing my body. Almost like muscle memory, I slipped off my shoes and left them by the front door, walking up the stairs and towards Nick’s room.

A giddy feeling rushed through my body as I knocked on his door, hearing his voice on the other side as I opened it. A smile soon falling over his lips as his eyes met mine.

“Y/nnnn, I was waiting for you. What took you so long?” Nick whined, yet a smile remained playing on his delicate lips.

I glanced over at the laptop sitting in his lap over the soft blankets draped over the lower half of his body, Nick having his back positioned up against the headboard of his bed. Obviously in the works of editing a video.

“Hey, sorry. Didn’t know traffic could still be that hectic at such an hour.” I sighed softly, matching his energy as I slipped off my jacket, laying it carefully on the chair of his desk. Wasting no time as I climbed into his bed beside him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

With our shoulders leaned together, our warmth mingling, I watched as he worked on the upcoming car video for him and his brothers. A certain thought plaguing my mind.

“Hey... Nick?” My voice rang out, catching his attention as he looked over at me. Our eyes meeting as I turned my head to face him, a longing gleam playing in my orbs.

“Yeah?” He spoke soon after, his hand taking solace into my own beneath the blanket as his thumb ran along the back of my hand in a soothing pattern.

“I’ve been thinking about this for awhile, I never really knew how, or when to ask it.” My voice trailed off, looking down at the keys of his laptop.

The silence ate away at me for a moment. Feeling guilt erode at my mind for feeling scared to ask the one I adored so much a simple question, a question in which another person wouldn’t even hesitate to ask.

“It’s just… when are we going to come out to the public about us? I mean, we have been dating for awhile now.” I spoke, looking back up at him as our eyes locked once more. An unreadable expression across his face, my nerves growing at just this simple action of his.

His hand left mine beneath the covers, his face turning away from mine.

“I don’t know, Y/n. We don’t know how they will react. It’s better for me and you.” He sighed, looking back down at the laptop.

His words made my chest ache with longing, but also with impatience.

“Nick, we can’t keep avoiding this. We are going to have to come clean soon, why not now?” I said, knowing what would happen if I continued this. But continuing to push.

“Y/n, I just need you to listen to me. Please.” His tone remained calm, yet his eyes refused to look at me.

“No, Nick. How am I supposed to listen to you when you can’t even tell your fans about us?” I sighed, feeling myself growing more and more frustrated with him and his words.

“You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to be under pressure how I am.” He said, his voice stern. Almost nothing like the voice he had consistently used when addressing me.

“Well how am I supposed to do that when you don’t talk to me about these things?” I huffed out, looking away from him as I let my body fall back slumped against the headboard of his bed.

“Why are you here, Y/n? I didn’t invite you over here to just bother me about this.” I heard him sigh, the rolling of his eyes evident in his tone.

The silence hung heavy in the air, finding myself pulling my lips into a straight line. My patience wearing thin.

“Look, we just have to wait for the right time.” He spoke, setting his hand onto my leg above the covers. Once a gesture that would make butterflies flutter in my stomach, now made my fists clench.

“Is there ever going to be a right time, Nick? I mean, seriously. How long am I going to be stuck here waiting for something that should be already done?” I snapped, my voice raising as I turned my head to look at him. His expression moving from shock, to the matched anger in my own.

“I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I’m so fucking sorry that I’m trying to keep you safe, to keep you from getting dragged into a whirlwind of shit that I really don’t think you could handle!” His words cracked a part deep within me, trying my best not to let him acknowledge it.

“What can’t I handle? What do you think is so fucking cruel and twisted that makes you think I can’t handle it?” I pushed myself from off the bed, Nick following as he stood up from his side of the bed. His laptop falling shut onto the plush blankets.

“Me being seen with you!” He shouted, his words catching me off guard.

My expression faltered, the lump in my throat forming as I felt tears cloud my vision. My shoulders tensing.

“Sure, the public know that I’m gay. But what are they going to do when they actually see it happening? When they see I’m with someone like you?” His words cut through me, his harsh yet honest tone making my stomach churn.

I felt the first tear slip from my eye, many more following after it as my eyes could only stay locked onto Nick. My heart yearning for something that my mind couldn’t yet think of.

I watched as his expression of anger slowly slipped from his face, a sigh falling from him as he ran his hands down his face.

“Look, Y/n—“

“I’m gonna go.” I whispered, cutting him off as I turned around and walked quickly to his door. My hand enveloping the cold handle as I pushed it open, not even caring enough to look back or to even go back for my jacket.

I didn’t even try to hold back my tears in that moment, letting them flow freely down my cheeks as I stepped down the steps at a quickened pace. Knowing that the longer I was here, the harder it would be to let go.

As my feet hit the ground in front of the front door, I quickly slipped on my shoes, a pathetic sob falling from my lips as I didn’t even bother tying them. Hurriedly opening the front door as I grabbed my keys from my pocket, stumbling to unlock it as I almost tripped over my untied laces. Only causing me to me cry even harder.

Once I managed to pull myself into my car, my chest rising and falling unevenly with each sob and sniffle. I started my car with shaky hands, the catchy chorus that played now being muted out by my mind.

I pulled away from the Sturniolos house, the sound of my cars engine the only thing filling my ears. Keeping me from hearing my own cries and seemingly endless thoughts.

Twilight now painting the sky a dark black, not a star in sight. Tears clouding my vision.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

NOTE:

WOULD you guys want a part 2 to this? I’m torn between writing one or just leaving it as this for you all to use your imaginations.

ALSO I am actually so desperate for some requests😓. I’m out of ideas and need some ideas, PLEASE SEND IN REQUESTS🙏🙏

LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED

#Spotify #male reader #nick sturniolo x male reader #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #angst #light angst #mlm #male x male #gay

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

Don't Speak 17

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Are we ready to hate Andy some more? It seems to be a pattern around here.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Your head swells, throbbing even in the silence. You can hear Andy once in a while, distant and vague, moving around the floor below. You hug your stomach as it caves in on itself. You know you’re hungry but the thought of food just makes you nauseous. You stay hidden, behind your eyelids, beneath the blankets, and wallow in hellish agony.

The pain dulls as you hear the window rattle. You dare to glance past your lashes and see a few droplets along the glass, the sky dark and swarthy with clouds. The glare of streetlights glints off the pelleting rain as it speckles the window.

Some pressure lets off but not enough. You roll over and sink down again. You long for sleep, you crave it. Those long, deep sleeps that make the hours disappear, that skew days, and help forget your life. That heavy void next to death.

You hover between the guest room and your unconscious. Like a pendulum you swing between what’s real and the doubts that paint dire visions on your eyelids. Amber’s pleas at the library, her accusations, her disappointment. You almost want to believe she’s telling the truth. That maybe you are wrong.

Even if you are, it’s too late. That futility drags you further down the pit. You fall onto your back and drape your arm over your face. You whimper as your whole body aches.

“Dove,” Andy’s voice startles you.

You let your arm slip down to your chest as you see his shadow in the doorway. He fills it easily, appearing even bigger as the light behind from the hallway limns his silhouette. He steps over the threshold and closes the door. You whimper as you lose him in the dark. You can’t tell if this is a nightmare or not.

He finds his way to the small lamp on the bedside table, a loud click before it blooms to life. You groan again as he looks down at you. His hands go to his hips as you shield yours over your eyes. Even the soft yellow haze is too much for you.

You shut your eyes and feel the bed shift. He sits on the edge and you wince as he touches your arm. He is as hot as fire. You want him to go. You want to be alone. The only person who’s ever seen you like this is Amber, you don’t want him to know how truly pathetic you are.

“Hey,” he coos softly, “you alright?”

Your mouth is dry. Your throat too. You have to peel your tongue back to make it work and swallow deeply, trying to wet it. Your voice crackles as you force it out, “sleepy. My head hurts.”

“Aw, honey,” he touches your forehead. His warmth is almost soothing as he covers your skin with his palm. The scent of his cologne whispers up your nose. “How about I get you some tea? You should have something to drink at least.”

“I’m… just going to sleep,” you wilt as you try to turn your face away from him. He is too strong. “I’m okay…”

“Honey,” he girds as he brings his hand down your cheek and strokes it, “you haven’t been eating. I’m not stupid. Have some tea, that’s the least you can do.”

“Andy…” you squeak and reach up to touch the back of his hand, only to recoil shyly as you feel the thick veins along the back of it, “I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Dove, you’re going to sit up,” he insists, trailing his hand down your neck, a shiver crawling over you as his other brushes up your arm.

When he has you firmly by the shoulders, he sits you up. You whimper as the stabbing pain it sends up your spine to the base of your skull. Your head lolls forward and you hold it, whining at the thrumming agony.

“Andy… please,” you croak, “I need to sleep.”

“No, you need to take care of yourself,” he retorts, leaning in to fix the pillows behind you. He stacks them up and props you back against them, “alright, you stay like that,” he folds the blanket to your waist, “and I’ll go make you some tea.”

“It hurts,” you keep your head in your hand, “I told you…”

“Look, Amber let you be like this, because that meant she could control you,” he rests his hand on your leg. You twitch and keep your face hidden as you peek past your palm, staring at his fingers. On you. Touching you. “You’re not going to fall back into old habits, right, honey?”

He finally moves his hand away from your lap and pulls yours from your face, “you’re going to be better, I know it. You know, I’m just helping you. I’m helping break the patterns she made.” He gives a stern frown, “she conditioned you to be like this, you are not this.”

“Please,” you yank your hand down and clasp both over your chest, “I’m tired… I feel sick.”

“You aren’t sick. You’ve been starving yourself,” he accuses, “you’re lucky I didn’t make you sit at that table and clear a plate. What I am going to do is watch you drink the tea I make you. All of it.”

He stands and heaves darkly. You move your arms to hug yourself and hang your head. You’re ashamed. Amber was never like this, she was always subtle, she never accused you. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he’s right. She only enabled your helplessness.

You sniff, “thank you, Andy.”

He hums, gristly like a growl, and touches your hair, “I’m only trying to help, dove.”

“I know,” you squeak and keep your eyes down, ashamed.

He turns stiffly on his heel. You wait as he leaves, almost reluctantly, and shudder as another tide of pain flows through you. You ache to the bone, your insides feel as if they’re peeling away, and your head is pounding like a drum.

You let your head fall back against the pillows as you slouch into them. You don’t have the strength to sit up. Your arms slip down and your hands lay lazily on your lap.

You listen to the small clinks and creaks from below. The house muffles a lot of sound, you might even assume the little noises were nothing more than the natural settling of the house. Andy’s footsteps aren’t clear until they’re down the hall and you brace yourself for his arrival.

He comes into the room with a steaming cup. You notice the gray dove painted on the porcelain, a string of leaves framing it. He lowers himself to the edge of the bed again and takes your hand. He puts the cup in your hand, weaving your fingers through the handle before cautiously letting go.

You bring the rim near your nose and inhale. You blow away the steam but it rises quickly again. You feel the heat roiling off of it. You lower it to rest in your lap and raise your drooping eyes to Andy. He’s watching you intently.

“I’m sorry,” you utter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “I’m worried. I wanna make sure you’re okay. You being sorry means I’m angry. I’m not.”

You gulp down your words. He sure sounds angry. You look back at the amber coloured tea. It smells slightly gingery but you’re not sure of the flavour.

“Promise, I’ll drink it.”

“Like I said, I’m not going until you do,” he says.

“It’s really hot.”

“So wait for it to cool down,” he instructs as if you’re a child. “I don’t mind waiting.”

You languish in the ensuing silence. Your eyes are drawn to the subtle twiddle of his fingers, how he runs his thumb up the side of his index. You only notice then that he’s changed. He’s in a pair of gray sweats and a dark blue tee. He must be on his way to bed. That thought makes you feel worse; you’re keeping him awake.

You raise the cup and blow on it again. You brave the scald of the tea and take a big gulp. You force it down as the heat rolls over you. It is soothing if not a bit stringent.

“Good,” he says as he turns his head, “is it okay?”

“Mhhm,” you nod, not able to muster the fib out loud. The flavour tugs at your cheeks and clings to your tongue.

“Dove,” he softens his tone, “I’m sorry if I come across angry, it’s not what I mean, you know? I always had that problem. My worry translates to something else. I could never be angry with you, but I’m scared.”

“Scared?” You lean the cup on your chest, cradling it with both hands.

“Yeah, I’m scared for you,” he says as if it’s obvious, “seeing you the way you’ve been, I want you to be healthy. I want you to be happy.”

Your eyes sting and you lower your lashes. You’re embarrassed. Despite all your effort, he saw through you.

“Tomorrow’s a new day, huh? You’ll get up and have breakfast with me, and we’ll start again,” he puts his hand on your knee, squeezing through the blankets, “I’m here for you, honey. We’re in this together.”

You stare into the tea. His words make your heart race. Together? His touch adds to the fluttering. His thumb moves, back and forth, and you repress a shudder. You never noticed before how often he touches you. You’re not used to it.

“Okay…” you resign to the depths of the tea, “I’ll try.”

🍵

You don’t get out of bed the next day. You can’t. You hug a pillow over your head, your tears staining the bedsheet as they slip out unbidden. You feel that hollowness, the sort in which you feel like everything inside you is just draining out of you.

When Andy comes down the hall, you hear him. You listen to the bathroom door click and the subsequent flush of the toilet. There’s some time before he emerges again and he continues to the stairs. You exhale, thinking he might have forgotten your empty promise.

No. He returns. He steps echoing and sonorous in your mind as he comes back upstairs. He taps on your door. You don’t move. He knocks louder and calls your name. You can’t.

He opens the door, “dove,” he says.

You stay still, arm hooked over the pillow you keep over your head. You sense him get near but don’t react as you feel him grip your shoulder. He shakes you but you don’t respond. It’s as if he exists on the other side of a wall.

“Dove, come on, I’m gonna get breakfast ready,” his voice sounds miles away despite his proximity, “you like pancakes?”

Your stomach growls loudly. You let it constrict but don’t move. You feel a tug on the pillow and grasp it tighter. Can’t he take a hint? Go away. Leave me alone.

He grabs the pillow with both hands and rips it away. You cry out and hide beneath your bent arm. He sighs as he tosses the pillow onto the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” He rasps.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to explain it. You are not doing this, but you can’t stop it. You can’t do anything, that’s the problem.

“You have a lot to do. Work on your resume? Do some painting?” He says it as if it should be encouraging, as if it isn’t oppressive and crushing. “Spend some time with me, dove.” He bends over you, rubbing your shoulder, “you’re okay. Let me take care of you, honey.”

You sniffle and remain shielded behind your arm. You feel the tension change in his touch as he grips you firmly. He puts a knee on the bed, leaning on it.

“Don’t ignore me,” his voice takes on an edge that chills you.

You suck back your tears and shake your head, speaking into the mattress, “please, go… leave me alone–”

“Honey, don’t speak to me like that,” he warns, “I’m being nice and very patient. You’ll feel better once you eat but you need to get up and get dressed.”

You tremble in a surge of dread and guilt. He’s figuring it out. You’re useless, you’re nothing.

You wriggle free of his hand and roll onto your back. You push yourself up, dizzy and wobbling as you can barely keep yourself upright. You look at him through the dim shadow of the drawn curtains.

“Please, I can’t–”

“Stop saying that,” he hisses, “you can. Why are you being like this?”

“Andy,” you whimper.

“Is this because of her? Because your sister? You know she was only ever using her and you’re what? Crying over her? I’m trying to help you move on. To help you grow. She never wanted that for you–”

“No, no! Be quiet. Don’t say that,” you cover your ears, “please, stop–”

He goes to say something but thinks better of it. You watch how his jaw squares and ticks, “but it’s the truth. You were just a toy for her. She could play with her doll and make herself feel more human.”

“Please,” you beg, panic swirling in your chest, “please, that’s not true.”

“You know it is, that’s why you’re here. That’s why you left her. Dove, you did that, not me.”

“Please, please, please,” you hunch over your knees, hugging them as you rock, “stop it. Stop.”

“I’m not going to stop telling the truth,” he sneers, “but you’re going to stop acting like a child. You’re going to get out of bed and come eat–”

He grabs your wrist and tugs it away from your legs. You feel a sudden bloom, a frantic sort of sensation, fear that drowns you to the point of gasping. You lash out with your other hand, hitting his wrist as you free your other arm. He grunts as you fall back against the mattress.

“What– why would you do that?” He growls.

“You were hurting me.”

“I’m helping you,” he insists, “you are being a brat.”

“I’m not. I told you to leave me–”

“You’re in my house, this is my bed, my room, my kindness that you are living on,” he barks over you. You wince and reel from the sheer volume, the furious tone of his voice, “the least you can do is get dressed and come eat breakfast with me.”

You clutch your cheeks and pout at him, “why are you yelling?”

He sighs and his eyes flicker. You shrink down as you stare up at him. He crosses his arms, then pulls them apart. He brings his hands up to his face and combs his fingers through his beard.

“I don’t like to yell,” his voice cracks, “I don’t yell, dove.” He turns away, “I’ve never… I’m sorry.” He strides away, still holding one side of his head, “not until you.”

He staggers, as if he can barely keep his balance, and leaves the door open in his stead. You stare after him and it all sinks in. It’s all your fault. He’s right. You’re a child, a brat, and you pushed him over the edge. He’s done all this for you and all you can do is lay in bed and mope.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #defending jacob #don't speak #series #library au #au

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zeewritez · 8 months

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The Sailor and The Samurai - II

Mizu x Femme Shipmate/Pirate Reader

Hello lovelies! I didn't expect so many people to enjoy my last fic, but I have some time between classes to make a little sequel. Hope you enjoy!

Notes: A leanbh (uh lan-uv) means my child :), alcohol consumption, peer pressure (?)

Part I

It had been a week since the Banshee had taken sail and the crew expected to dock in Shanghai the following day. Y/n had woken up uncharacteristically early with an unexplainable feeling of anxiety. She could feel in her bones that something was wrong.

Upon getting dressed, she made he way to the stern. The winds were powerful and packed a mighty chill for the spring. She was glad to be wearing a proper coat. The girl peered out into the vast abyss, looking for potential danger. Yet to no avail, as the sky was still a deep blue and nothing could be seen in the distance except for faint outlines of waves. See and sky blended almost seamlessly.

"Good morning my dear," her father's voice rang behind her along with the sound of his heavy boots. "How come you're up so early?"

"Something's off," she told him, not removing her gaze from the distance. "I can tell."

The captain placed a firm hand on the shoulder, squeezing gently. "I feel it too, a leanbh," he said, reaching for his rosary absentmindedly. As he walked away his daughter did the same, unintentionally mirroring him and running her fingers over each blood-red bead. She repeated her silent prayers several times as she roamed the ship. Looking for danger around every corner and from each angle of the vessel.

"y/n," a voice rang out from above. It sounded like an angel but when she looked up it was no other than the latest addition to the ship: Mizu. "What's the matter?"

Y/n couldn't help but smile at him despite the distress in his voice as she climbed to join him on in the crows next. It was odd to her that he was up there, especially so early, but she set that aside once she was greeted by his beautiful blue eyes.

"Something is wrong," she told him as she sat in front of him, her legs tucked neatly to her side. The wind blew with more anger than it had on the deck, causing her hair to dance around her face in pirouettes.

"What's wrong?" the young man asked plainly.

"I don't know," she said. "But I can feel something bad is approaching us. Like there's a danger we can't see yet."

"Is that so?" Mizu asked with a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You don't believe me?" y/n said with a grin, tilting her head.

"I didn't say that," Mizu retorted. y/n rolled her eyes, her smile not faltering, as she rose to her feet. Mizu did the same, not wanting her to leave without him. She had no intentions of this regardless. She gazed upon Mizu's face, so strong yet equally soft. She leaned towards him like the moon to the earth, falling forward endlessly. Yet as the moon never reaches the earth, neither did she reach Mizu. Just behind him, golden rays began to reflect on the water.

Turning around she was greeted with the cause of her worries: a bright red sun began to paint the sky. It was only a few brush strokes, yet she knew it was the beginning of crimson sunrise.

"I need to go," Y/n told Mizu with sudden urgency, her voice serious like Mizu had never heard previously.

Y/n rushed down the crow's nest with speed and purpose. Once on the deck, she rushed to the rear of the ship. She swung open the doors to the captain's cabin with no hesitation.

"What is it, y/n?" her father asked, taken aback.

"Look at the sky," she said. The two walked out onto the deck and sure enough the red had grown larger, taking up more and more of the sky.

"We'll monitor the winds," the captain said. "If they don't settle by early afternoon we'll begin furling the sails and bunker down for the night. I pray we won't be blown off course too badly."

As the day went on the winds refused to calm down, they stirred up the water with anger, tossing the ship ferociously before even a cloud could be seen.

Yet the cloud eventually made an appearance. First, they fell over the sky like a chiffon curtain at noon, then by early evening, they fell over the sky in thick drapes. The sun was nearly blotted out completely.

Captain Cabe called for all hands on deck to secure what cargo was on the deck, furling the sails and anchoring the skip in some attempt to stay on course. Two of the largest men were tasked with escorting Fowler from the cell to a secure storage room on one of the lower decks. Rain began to fall from the heavens as if on queue.

Mizu was pulled aside by the captain with a special task.

"I want you to stay by y/n," he told him, his voice both sounding like a demand and a plea. "You are a trustworthy man, I can tell. The storm will pass, but God forbid Fowler escapes, you keep her safe."

Mizu nodded without a word and went off to look for the woman in question. She was scurrying across the deck in an attempt to void the cold rain that poured from the heavens.

"Y/n," Mizu called out for the second time that day. She saw him and took his hand without a word, pulling him close behind her as she led him to her quarters: a small room next to the captain's cabin.

"Your father has requested I stay with you until the storm is over," Mizu said plainly, though he felt his face heat at the words being said aloud.

"Truly?" y/n asked as she kicked off her boot and threw off her coat which was now soaked. Her blouse and skirt were surprisingly dry, with only some dampness at the hem of her skirt. She sat down on her cot, leaning forward.

"Are you mocking me?" Mizu asked as he sat on the chair by y/n's desk, his eyes trained on the young woman.

Y/n shook her head, telling him "I would've wanted you to stay with me regardless of what my father asked of you."

"Truly?" Mizu asked coyly.

"Why of course, good sir," Y/n said as she laid down and looked at the beams that made up her ceiling. She could feel the boat rocking, yet she knew from experience this was only the beginning. She only prayed the doors to her bookshelf wouldn't swing open like last time. A strong wave hit the vessel, causing Mizu's chair to slide a few inches.

"Is this normal?" Mizu asked, her voice no longer playful.

"Pretty normal," y/n replied nonchalantly. "Judging by the winds it will get worse before it gets better." The boat shook again, this time throwing Mizu off of the chair and y/n off of her cot. Both of them giggled as they came to their feet, only to nearly be thrown back onto the floor. Mizu grabbed y/n gently by the waist, afraid she might fall.

"How do you normally pass the time during storms?" Mizu asked. A sudden glee lit up y/n's face.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, removing herself from Mizu's grasp to dig through a chest. It was filled mostly with clothing, yet at the bottom a promising clear bottle. "Behold!"

"What's that?"

"Vodka," she explained proudly, taking a seat on the floor. She patted the ground next to her, beckoning Mizu to join her. "It's like sake, but ... different."

Y/n popped the cap and took a long swig from the bottle, then offered it to her companion. He eyed it suspiciously, before taking an equally long sip. She raised her eyebrow in anticipation of his response. At first, it tasted of nothing, then a sudden burn scalded the back of his throat.

"You drink this?" he asked. "For fun?"

"A few more sips and I promise it'll be fun." The sailor took the bottle from his hand and threw back another gulp. Then two more. A trail of the clear liquid ran down her chin, which she wiped away. She handed the bottle back to the samurai. No words needed to be exchanged to signal that this was now a matter of pride. Mizu took the bottle, taking just as man sip as she had, but with a pause between each as though he was questioning everything. y/n giggled at his expressions.

"It's not that bad," she said, taking the bottle back and corking it again. With great effort, the bottle was returned to the chest. She nearly stumbled as she attempted to sit once again. It was impossible to tell whether it was the alcohol or the state of the rocking ship that caused this. Regardless, Mizu gently held onto her waist as she sat down once again, this time much closer to each other. Y/n looked over at her new friend's face, her lids heavy as the alcohol took its course.

"You're so beautiful Mizu, did you know that?" The man didn't know whether to laugh or be flattered by her drunken affection.

"Nowhere as beautiful as you, y/n," he retorted. He just then noticed that his hands were still around her. Y/n raised her hand to gently cupped his face, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb. She was fully aware that her sober self would never do such a thing, but she couldn't stop herself. There it was again, that force that brought her to Mizu, drawing her in. Then, a sudden realization hit her like an earthquake. She was astonished she hadn't noticed it sooner.

"You're far too beautiful to be a man," she said. "Too kind, too gentle, as well. No man would be satisfied with simply holding me in his arms. He would try to claw at me and undress me."

Mizu's eyes grew wide. She'd never been outed so quickly, so unprompted. She thought she had mastered the appearance of a man, yet hadn't mastered their cruelty. Mizu, dumbfounded by y/n's observation, opened her mouth to speak yet no words could exit her lips. Y/n gently placed a finger across the blue-eyed woman's lips.

"You need not speak," the sailor spoke, her voice more sincere than Mizu had heard before. Y/n reached behind the woman's head, untying her hair, which fell down her shoulders like black silk. With her hair untied, it was now plain as day: the samurai she had grown to admire so this past week was indeed a woman. Y/n repeated her question: "You're beautiful, Mizu, did you know that?"

A wide smile fell upon Mizu's face. She now cupped y/n face, peering into her eyes. There was a safety in them that she hadn't seen in a long time. Without uttering another word, the two women finally gave in to their gravitational pull. Their lips met in a powerful collision of passion, their bodies melding into one. They became a supernova of desire.

#reader insert #mizu x you #mizu x reader #bes mizu #bes #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #mizu x y/n #blue eye samurai x you #blue eye samurai x reader #blue eye samurai fanfic #blue eye samurai #bes x reader #mizu bes

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synthetickitsune · 10 months

Text

Vernon (Seventeen) | Lying in the snow fluff-ish | 0.9k | gn!reader

It’s the first time you’re having a picnic in winter.

Perhaps picnic isn’t exactly the right word, seeing as you only have two thermoses of hot chocolate and an old picnic blanket. It’s still a nice date though. Perhaps that’s not the right word either. You both just needed a little break from life.

You can’t feel your face, it’s gone numb from the cold a long time ago. Your fingers, though, remain tender with warmth spreading through them from the warm cup in your hands. The chocolate inside it won’t be any good cold, but you can’t bring yourself to go through the motions of sitting up, bringing the cup to your lips, tipping it so the hot liquid pours into your mouth, swallowing it… It feels like too much work. The thought alone is overwhelming. And the warmth at your fingertips feels reassuring.

“There are flowers blooming in Antarctica,” Vernon speaks up suddenly. His voice sounds alien in the silent field, empty, like most of it got swallowed by the snow.

“I heard about that too, but didn’t fact check it yet - do you think it’s true?” you answer, turning the cup slowly between your fingers. The image in your head, flowers growing among snow and the most stubborn of grasses, growing where they’re not supposed to, growing where it shouldn’t be possible, almost makes tears spring up in your eyes. There’s a sort of pressure in your chest, not unlike pain, but the feeling is too hollow.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if it was,” he shrugs, his shoulders bumping into yours in the small space that the blanket offers. You doubt it really makes any difference at all, lying on the blanket or directly on the pressed down snow, but you like the little spot you made for yourselves.

You’re both lying down, watching the sky that looks like it’s on fire. The artificial orange of the streetlamps stuck in the atmosphere paints over the stars and the clouds, leaving behind only the illusion of arson. Unlike the flames you imagine, the chocolate and the cup have gone cold. You feel cold seeping into your fingers, your bones growing fragile and painful. You don’t want to be wasteful, so you sit up and drink the liquid with a grimace that makes Vernon hum sympathetically before drinking his own, no doubt equally cold, chocolate.

“Do you think there’s any chance it’s a good thing?” you ask, still sitting up and thinking about having another cup. Maybe you’d feel better if something warmed you up from the inside.

“Hmm… Who knows. When was the last time something good happened anyway,” he hums. He takes the decision off your hands, pouring himself and you both another cup. You give him a small smile as a way of thanks.

“It probably happens all the time, we just don’t know or don’t pay attention to it, right?” You suppose that must be the case. Something about balance and harmony and all that. It’s easier to remember and think of the bad things going on, and it feels inappropriate to celebrate the good at the same time.

“Sounds about right,” he thinks for a while and nods, “It’s really nice here, isn’t it? It’s so quiet.”

You hum in agreement. It was kind of amazing, actually. The field wasn’t even that far from civilization, close enough that you could see the houses nearby when you sat up, but the sound of cars passing by barely reached you. Anything barely reached you anymore, including the cold and the occasional blow of the freezing winter wind.

“We should head back soon or we will freeze. I don’t really feel the cold though, what about you?” Vernon looks at you and it’s all the answer he needs. He gives you a sad smile and motions for you to drink your chocolate before he finishes his in one long gulp. “We can’t stay here forever or I’d keep you company for as long as you need.”

You chuckle, your breath blowing ripples across the dark surface of the chocolate before you drink up. Maybe pretending it’s something stronger than a sweet treat of a drink will give you courage to face life.

“Can we do this again soon?” you ask, plead almost, but you don’t want to seem that desperate or unhappy. You are happy. Most of the time anyway, just not lately. But that’s not his fault and you’d hate to make him feel that way.

“Of course,” he reassures you. He twists the cup back onto his thermos and you follow. “We can come here again tomorrow if the weather holds. Wouldn’t be much fun lying here in a snowstorm…”

He trails off and once you meet eyes, you know you’re both thinking the same thing. It’s not a good idea, it’s not a safe idea, and you won’t act on it, but in theory, it sounds pretty tempting. Endless swirls of white and frost everywhere, nothing but the howling of the wind in your ears and the deeply numbing cold. How beautiful that would be. How soothing to your soul. Almost as if you could walk into the storm and walk out to a different, better world.

“Let’s go,” Vernon nudges you gently, a knowing look on his face. He’s been thinking the same thing. “We’ll come again.”

You pick up the things you brought together and double check you’re not leaving anything behind. In the silent field, every sound is so loud yet they don’t resonate at all. It feels like you’re in a comfortable bubble. You don’t want to leave, but Vernon offers you his hand. You’re glad he’s there to take you home. But it does make you wonder if he’d be as anchored to reality if he didn’t have you to get home safely.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen x reader #vernon scenarios #vernon x reader #vernon fluff #svt scenarios #svt fluff #drabble #fluff

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kurokoros · 2 years

Text

into open flames | (s.h.)

Rated: M (future smut, descriptions of blood/injury)

Words: 15.2K

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Summary: There’s a storm raging, winds howling and snow beating against the cabin walls. Outside a monster shrieks his name in an awful and warbled voice that sounds like you. And it shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked.

You and Steve are almost something. Almost lovers. And it feels almost like hell; almost romantic.

OR: A blackout snowstorm and a monster force you and Steve to take shelter in Hopper’s old cabin. From there, everything starts slotting into place.

AN: oops! this took longer to write than expected and now it’s being posted in three parts because I didn’t have it in me to try and write another 10K+ before posting. the third part will include smut!

Warnings: horror elements (the monster is modeled after the official illustration of the “bagman” from dnd). descriptions of blood and gore. non-sexual nudity. reader implied to be shorter than steve. reader is a hopper but there’s no mention of blood relation. cop!steve but it’s for monster hunting reasons. S3 and S4 never happened in this universe alteration, but upside down shenanigans have still been happening post-S2

Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Steve’s head is throbbing.

That’s the first thing he registers. Consciousness creeps over him slowly. Languid. The ringing in his ears drags him back. It’s dark and his head feels swollen and ready to pop under the pressure thrumming through his skull. Stuffed with cotton. Or shoved too deep underwater. Not a hangover, he knows that much. He’s had enough to know the difference. Wherever he is, it’s cold and wet. The exposed parts of his skin feel damp under burning numbness. And he hurts. The pressure beneath his skull. The right side of his chest and arm burn. His hands sting.

Beneath the ringing in his ears there’s something else, something muffled. Icey fingers touch his cheek.

Slowly, his head lolls to the side. His eyes are closed, he realizes belatedly. It takes more effort than it should to get them to open, his eyelids sticky like glue. When they do open, he can’t see anything. For a horrifying second, he thinks he’s been struck blind. Then, his vision starts to readjust. Acclimating to the darkness.

Everything is a hazy shade of blue.

For a second, he’s back in high school. Sprawled across the Byers’ couch after getting the shit beaten out of him by Billy Hargrove. Bloody. Mottled black and blue bruises spattered across his face and chest like a sick watercolor painting, the colors all blending together. It hurt to move. Hurt to breathe. Something in his chest rattled whenever he did. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The queasy feeling in his stomach only got worse as shapes and shadows moved around the room, voices shouting over each other until the bile surged up his throat and he vomited all over the Byers’ floor.

A concussion.

There’s a shadow leaning over him, and he thinks of you, stroking back his hair and whispering to him that night, telling him everything would be okay. That he was okay. Now, he can’t make out the words.

A sluggish blink and suddenly everything looks sharper.

The sky is black. So black, he can’t see the stars behind the clouds rolling overhead. Only a sliver of the moon peeks through, waning, but enough to dimly light the space where he’s lying. Steve’s head lolls sideways. His cheek presses against ice. Snow. There’s snow surrounding him. Turned blue in the shadow of a distant light. And trees. The shape of them is silhouetted and dark. Spindly oak trees. Branches bare and snapped off in some places. Blood in the snow. Smeared across one of the trees in a color that’s almost black. Streaked across the sleeve of a jacket he distantly realizes is his.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The shadow leans over him again.

It takes another second for the pieces to snap back into place.

His fingers clench. He lunges. Pain ripples through his shoulder as he wrenches around in the snow, gun in his hand, aimed in a brutal swing towards the figure hovering over his chest. Milky eyes. No face. Too long limbs. Too tight skin. Claws. Claws. Claws.

Steve doesn’t brain the creature like he hopes to. His arm is forced back into the snow by a solid grip on his wrist. The push and pull tears at the lacerations on his right arm. A pained hiss slips from between his teeth; the gun slips from between his numb fingers. Hands hold him down. Hot breath washes over his face and he thinks of that trilling, gurgling growl he hears in his nightmares. Panic, white-hot and sharp, digs into the spaces between his ribs and rips at his insides.

Before he can swing again, the pressure on his arm releases. Hands grab his face and wrench his head to the side.

“Shh,” a familiar voice whispers. “Shh, Steve, it’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re okay.” The words come out in a rush, strung together frantically. It sounds like white noise until the ringing fades.

The shadow over him takes physical form. Wild eyes. Frazzled hair. A pretty face that haunts his waking hours. Just as pretty as he last saw this morning.

Your name tumbles from his lips, slurred around a numb tongue and a mouthful of blood.

Your hands are shaking where they’re pressed to his cheeks. Cold. Afraid. Both. When clarity sinks into his hazel eyes, you smile, but it’s strained. Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Your face is wet. “It’s me,” you tell him again. “It’s just me.” One of your knees nudges against the side of his chest and he groans as it sends pain shooting along his ribs. “I’m sorry. Please, you have to—you have to stay quiet. Okay? You’re okay.”

One of your hands slides from his cheek down to his chest, slipping under his open jacket to rest over his rapidly beating heart. Your palm rubs against the fabric of his uniform shirt, your thumb sweeping back and forth idly until his pulse starts to slow.

You’re alive. It slams into his chest with the gentle touch of your hand, your open palm on his heart. Fuck, you’re alive. A strange, shuddering breath rattles in his chest and claws out of his mouth around the sudden tightness in his throat. The lingering panic from when he couldn’t find you seeps from his muscles and leaves him lying there limply underneath you as one of your hands sweeps the damp hair away from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut. Just for a moment. Until he remembers where he is. Remembers the thing that attacked him. A monster.

A tree branch snaps. Your red and swollen eyes wrench away from his to scan the shadowy spaces between the spindly trees. Nothing calls out to you or Steve from the darkness.

“What happened?” Steve asks around a cottony mouth. He shifts his weight until he can sit up on his elbows, hissing as his shoulder burns in protest. The hand on his chest tries to ease him back down. He doesn’t let you. With his good arm, he grasps just above your elbow, needing to feel you under his hands. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off. Cold fingers stroke down his cheek to cup his jaw and force him to meet your eyes. “I’m fine. I don’t—I don’t know what happened. I was coming back from the cabin and it was just there. I thought—I heard someone. I thought it was a kid or something, but…” Briefly, you trail off, gaze far away before you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. “And I ran. It followed me, and I couldn’t—I tried to go back to the road. I left the radio in the car. I thought if I could get there and call you, maybe…”

There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen. “It didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him, “no, Steve, I’m fine. Look at me. I’m okay.” His hand strokes down your arm from elbow to wrist, grounding you both as he does what you say and looks at you. His eyes dart around wildly, unfocused, but desperate to make sure you’re really okay.

“There was a space down by the creek,” you tell him as he looks you over carefully. His good hand drops down to your waist, automatically burrowing under your jacket to hold you closer. “It must have been somewhere a deer was nesting. I hid there for a while. It couldn’t find me.” You wet you lips, rushing through your explanation without allowing him time to question any of it. “I came out when I heard the gunshot.”

Steve squeezes your side gently, fingers digging into your sweater enough for you to feel the heat of his hand. “Jesus Christ.” He breathes through his nose, closing his eyes tightly as his head throbs. “Tommy Mulligan thought he saw a wild man in the woods last night,” he says when you brush his hair away from his face again. “And I—I thought I heard you screaming last night.”

It’s a quiet admission, one he doesn’t mean to make. He hates telling you about his nightmares. The panic attacks. The headaches that won’t go away. They make you worry. The concern that pinches the space between your brows makes guilt swirl in his stomach. Vulnerability still doesn’t come easy to him, even with you.

Steve swallows his pride. “I thought it…” he trails off, but you already know. He thought it was a nightmare. One where he saw you disappear in front of him while he couldn’t do shit to protect you. When he has night terrors like that, he never comes out of them quickly. They linger. Itch at his skin until the soft murmur of your voice and gentle hands manage to soothe the raw nerves once more, like a balm. “But, Will heard it, too. I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

Scare you. Watch that faraway look cloud over your eyes as you were sucked back into something horrible, lost in your own head. Didn’t want to believe it, because that would make it real, and fuck Steve’s tired of all of this. He’s so damn tired of watching everything fall apart—watching you fall apart.

You chew your bottom lip. “The gates?”

Steve closes his eyes. “Closed,” he says. “They’re still closed. Owens said they haven’t been active in months.” Which means a new gate. Or maybe this thing has been living in Hawkins for years without any of them noticing. Hiding. Watching.

The thought makes him sick.

You’re still chewing on your bottom lip when he looks at you again. Like he feared, that faraway look is back in your eyes, panic at the edges of your pupils, like you’re remembering something awful. “It can throw its voice,” you blurt before Steve can ask you what’s wrong.

He blinks. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “What?”

His voice rouses you from the confines of your own head. Your eyes snap up to meet his. “You know in some cartoons? Like, like old episodes of Scooby Doo? You remember—you remember when we used to watch them?” you ask, the beginning of a ramble on the tip of your tongue. “Some characters could throw their voices. Or, or ventriloquists, I guess.” Steve isn’t following, you can tell by the confused tilt of his head, and you force yourself to take a breath and gather yourself. When you speak again, you sound more sure. “It can make it sound like it’s somewhere it isn’t,” you explain, as simple as you can. “When I was… hiding, it sounded like it was everywhere at the same time. It would be in front of me, then behind me the next second. Or, or close and then further away. Like it was trying to make me think it was somewhere it wasn’t. Or trying to disorient me.”

It felt like it was screwing with you. Taunting you for reasons you couldn’t understand. It didn’t feel like you were being hunted, not in the same way as the Demogorgon made you feel, or that pack of monstrous, canine-like creatures. Stalked, but not hunted.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve says under his breath. “That’s how it got me. Thought there was a second one coming from the side.” With your help, he sits up fully, grabbing his gun from where it sunk into the snow and pulling his wounded arm close to his chest.

The blood oozing from his open wounds makes your stomach churn. The flashlight, half-buried beneath mounting flakes illuminates the area just enough for you to see the gore staining the fresh snow.

“It’s smart,” you say, forcing your eyes away from the bloodstains. “It got me to leave the path because I thought I heard someone crying. Like a little kid. And all I could think was—”

“Will,” he finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice small. “Like it, like it knew that I’d stop because of that. And it, it could have just attacked me. It probably could have killed me before I even knew it was there. I didn’t have anything to protect me. But it didn’t. It was trying to lure me somewhere and ambush me, or something. I don’t—” Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Don’t understand.

He sighs. “The Mulligans said it ran away when they fired a warning shot.”

“Right.” You wet your lips. “And you must have scared it, too. It knocked you out. It could have killed you while you were unconscious if it wanted food, or just wanted to hunt. So, why didn’t it?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you, and the silence blanketing the woods is unnerving. Wind whistles through the trees, growing shrill, and you shiver as the cold air wraps around you, blowing your hair into your face.

“We can’t stay here,” you tell Steve, lowering your voice and leaning closer to him, for comfort or warmth, he isn’t sure. “I don’t know how well it can hear, and we can’t stay out here all night. The snow is already getting worse.”

A blizzard is what your dad called it. Unlike any storm Hawkins has seen in years. The kind you can’t survive outdoors. Enough snow that he and Joyce couldn’t risk driving home. Enough to bury you and Steve in the woods until spring thaws your frostbitten skin, or the animals find you.

He makes a face like he knows what you’re thinking. “You know how to get to the road from here?”

You nod. “But it’s not close. A mile walk. Maybe more than that.” You try to do the calculations in your head, but between your cold fingers and the exhaustion pulling at your weary muscles, you can’t figure out exactly where you are. “I don’t… I don’t know how far out we are right now. The cabin’s closer. And you… Steve, you’re hurt,” you tell him, finally acknowledging the gore splattered across the snow, his sleeve, the trees. Thick and red and still leaking down from a gruesome wound on his arm.

“We can’t call for help from the cabin,” he tries to argue.

“We can’t call from the car, either,” you snap. “We’d have to go back to the trailer.”

He groans. “And if it follows us, we’d lead it right to the kids. Fuck.”

There’s a part of him that wants to risk going to the car and getting the hell out of here, but it’s gone before he can dwell on it. He won’t risk the kids’ safety. And you’re cold. And his shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly.

You look at him like you’d follow him anywhere, and he won’t risk you.

“Fuck,” he says again.

It’s a long hike to the cabin. Normally a twenty-minute walk, the growing storm makes it hard to see. The snow is thick. Neither of you can see more than two dozen feet ahead, and with the snow up to your knees in places, it isn’t easy to cut between the trees.

Blood drips down Steve’s sleeve onto the snow, leaving a faint trail behind you that you pray is lost under the snow and wind. He’s leaning against you heavily, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping you pressed up against his side. The gun in his hand is cocked and ready, the safety clicked off. It isn’t safe, and it goes against everything he’s been taught, but if that thing comes back, he’s not letting it touch you.

The forest is quiet until suddenly it isn’t.

Far off to the North, a creature bays. Howling and screeching over the wind, he can’t make out the words it says, but you shrink into his side. Both of your steps come to a halt.

Another call comes from the direction you came from, echoing the first.

Like you said, the calls seem to circle the two of you, and Steve swears under his breath, unable to pinpoint where they’re coming from. His grip around you tightens, and he drags you forward on long legs that have you struggling to keep up. The two of you stumble through the snow, steps hurried even as the snow grabs hold of your legs and sucks you in, unwilling to let go.

You don’t make it more than a dozen feet before a sound like lightning rips through the woods, a loud crack that makes his heart jump into his throat. A tree branch snapping in two.

Steve pulls you tight to his chest and drags you to the nearest tree, your back flush to his front. Bark from the tree behind him scrapes against his shoulders through his jacket as he presses closer to the large oak tree, one with a trunk large enough to span the width of his shoulders. The gun is heavy in his right hand, his finger already hovering over the trigger as another branch snaps in the distance. Both of your hands clutch at the arm braced over your collarbone, your fingers digging into his forearm as snow crunches somewhere behind you, barely audible beneath the wind. He squeezes your shoulder, grounding you both as the footsteps grow closer.

A shadow moves across the snow, barely visible in the faint moonlight streaking between the trees.

There are sixteen bullets left in the magazine. This morning, when he counted them, there were seventeen. It only took a single shot to scare the damn thing off before. That might not be enough this time. Fuck, they should have gone for the car. At least you would have gotten a head start. A way out. Steve, he can hold it back for a while, maybe even kill it, if he gets lucky. But you? You’re unarmed. And if this thing follows you straight to the cabin, then what? You wait there, stranded? Trapped inside until it gets bored, or it gives up? Or the door gives in?, a nasty part of his brain offers.

“Hello?”

The taste of iron coats his tongue with every shuddering breath he takes, his cheek split open where he bit down when the monster knocked him to the ground. The cold air stings his lungs. Blood roars in his ears, so loud he thinks it’s that thing at first, growling and clicking like other monsters from the other side of reality. Red drips down his arm, blood soaking his mangled sleeve, and Steve wonders if the creature stalking them can smell it. If it knows exactly where they are and it’s just toying with them.

“Steve?”

His grip on the gun falters.

It’s using your voice again. The creature cries out his name, a tremor to its tone, like it’s going to cry. He’s heard that same tone in your own voice: in his nightmares and in his memory.

You shake in his arms, a testament to just how fucking petrified you are after what you’ve been through today. Steve’s seen you stare down monsters before with no regard for your own life. He’s never seen you timid like this, and it only makes him angrier.

Maybe he can surprise it. It’s behind him. Somewhere to the right. If he’s fast enough, he can get a handful of shots off before it even knows you and Steve are there. He’d have to get lucky with the angle, though. And he might not be able to see it through the snow.

He’s about to slip out from behind you when you let go of his arm and place your hand over his on the gun, stilling him before he can raise it. You don’t dare say a word, even as the creature wanders through the trees, calling out in a voice it stole from you.

You hold him there, keeping the gun pointed at the ground and him pressed against your back as the monster’s cries fade into the distance.

Neither of you move for a while.

By the time the cabin comes into view, there are black spots in Steve’s vision.

His grip hasn’t loosened on the gun since that thing almost caught them. And he hasn’t let go of you, either. Left arm looped around your shoulder. Your right slung around his waist, letting him lean some of his weight onto you. His legs are fine, but he still feels sluggish. Waves of dizziness wash over him at random moments, infrequent, but still somewhat alarming. At first, you’d let him be, trusting him to keep himself upright, but after the third time he started to sway you slipped your arm around him and haven’t let go since.

Pressed against him like this, Steve can feel every shiver that wracks your body. They’ve been getting worse in the time the two of you have been walking. The clothes you wore today are already soaked through and stiff with frost and a thin sheen of ice. There’s ice in your hair, too, where the fresh torrent of snow is starting to layer and melt. It’s starting to make him nervous, if he’s being honest. With the temperature dropping and the storm getting worse, he’s worried about hypothermia setting in.

You seem to be doing all right, for now, but he needs to warm you up.

The porch stairs are climbed in a pair of unsteady steps. Steve leans more of his weight onto you than he’d like, an old injury to his knee starting to ache with the cold, but you only squeeze your arm around him tighter.

With your free hand, you fumble with the door. It takes a few tries for you to get a grasp on the knob and jiggle it open, your hands have started shaking so badly. As quick as you get it open, your hand retreats back into your sleeve, a vain attempt to shield your fingers from the cold.

He kicks the door open with his foot. It doesn’t open more than a crack. It’s dark inside. The lights are off, and he can’t remember if you mentioned there being any power or not. Regardless, it’s safe. Safer than being outside, anyway.

Gently, he shifts his arm from around your shoulders, pressing his hand to your lower back and nudging you forward. You glance up at him, searching his face, and you must find whatever you’re looking for, because you slip through the crack in the door without a word.

Steve only places his handgun back into its holster after you disappear into the darkened room.

Before he follows you, Steve turns half-way around, glancing across the short yard towards the edge of the tree line from where you came. For a moment, he waits, listening for cries or calls of his name coming from the woods. Nothing. It’s silent. The snow is too thick to see more than a dozen feet away.

There’s an itch under his skin. A crawling feeling, like he’s being watched. If the monster is out there, stalking them, it keeps its distance for now. He can only hope that lasts.

“Steve?”

He flinches. He only turns when he realizes the call came from behind him. You’re standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself as you wait for him to follow you inside. You look small, shivering there in one of his old jackets, with your hands tucked into the sleeves and your hair a mess from the wind and snow.

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Steve follows you inside. He kicks the door shut again, pressing his back against the wood to keep it closed. The two of you are plunged into darkness. Neither of you move for a moment, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. You’re not even two feet from him, but you’re only a silhouette in the shadows. Intangible. Like he could reach to touch you, but pass right through. Close enough for him to smell the last lingering wisps of your perfume, fruity or floral, he can’t quite tell. But it’s you. It’s home.

Eventually, he forces himself to turn the deadbolt on the door. Tries not to think about how easy it would be to break it down anyway.

“Where’s your lighter?” you ask as Steve reaches for the flashlight on his belt. The beam is weak, and it flickers, but he keeps it aimed at the floor anyway.

The question makes his brows furrow, a frown tugging at his mouth. “What?”

You sigh, a note of frustration creeping in, perhaps unfairly. “Your lighter,” you repeat, a little louder, taking a half-step closer to him. “The power’s out. I—I don’t think anything really works here anymore. There’s no heat or water, so we need to, we need to light the fireplace or we’re just going to end up freezing in here.” You stumble over the explanation, still trembling even without the wind beating down on you.

The slight slur to your words makes his frown deepen.

You mistake his silence for concern over something else. “And don’t bullshit me. I know you still smoke sometimes when you’re stressed. I can smell it on you when you come to bed after.” You sniff, shuffling from one foot to the other, wincing at the pins and needles stabbing at your feet, the numbness starting to catch up to you now that you’re inside and have a moment to breathe. “So, where’s your lighter?”

“Left pocket,” he admits, a little ashamed that you know he still keeps it on him. He’s been trying to stop, for you. Thought he did, for a while, until all of this shit started up again last summer.

There’s no disappointment in your tone though, only impatience. “Jacket?”

“Yeah.”

Your hand peeks from your sleeve and slips into his pocket without a word. The lighter is buried deep, and your fingers are numb, and for several frustrating seconds you can’t find it until Steve lifts his arm and places his hand on your side, holding you together with a single touch. It takes another second for your hands to stop shaking long enough for you to wrap your fingers around the piece of metal. Steve’s thumb moves over your jacket in slow strokes until you step back again, the lighter clenched in your fist.

You’re slower to move entirely out of his space.

Though you were here only hours ago, the layout of the room is unfamiliar. Dark, save for the weak flicker of the flashlight in Steve’s hand, there are strange shadows cast along the walls. Furniture is distorted. Elongated. Twisted into hunched figures with gangly limbs and gnarled claws. At once, you feel like a child again. Scared of the dark and what lurks there.

Except, you already know the answer to that. And the real monsters, not the ones that used to hide under the bed, are more horrific than anything you could have imagined.

You take a few shuffling steps into the living room, dragging your feet to feel for the furniture. The fireplace is on the far wall. You can’t remember what lies between.

As you cross the room, Steve turns around and starts sliding the locks into place. Three, besides the deadbolt. Each snap into place with a loud click that makes your breath catch and your heart seize.

Dim light illuminates the room. The coffee table is inches from your shin.

“Hey?” Steve calls across the room. You can’t see him behind the flashlight beam. He lowers the light, crossing the distance to you in a few long strides. He wets his lips before dipping his chin to speak softly into your ear. “Stay here, okay?” he asks, reaching out to take your elbow into his hand, squeezing gently. “I’m going to go check the backdoor. Make sure everything’s locked up tight.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying it. “We need to look at your arm,” you remind him, glancing down at the mess of dark blood and torn skin hidden beneath his ripped clothes. The sight makes your eyes itchy and wet, and you have to blink back the tears threatening to spill over.

“After,” Steve says, squeezing your arm. “It won’t take long.” He keeps a firm grip on your elbow until you nod, and even then, he’s reluctant to leave you standing here alone. His palm slips an inch down your arm, his grip loosening as he starts to pull away, but then he stops. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he presses his lips to your temple, lingering with his eyes squeezed shut until he hears you take a slow, shallow breath and your shoulders relax. “I’ll be right back.”

Both of you feel colder after he takes a step back.

He leaves the flashlight on the coffee table. The weak beam flickers in and out. By now, the battery is nearly drained, and the only replacements are crammed into the glovebox of Hopper’s truck. Still, it’s just enough to keep you from being plunged into the darkness completely. A welcome respite until the fire is lit.

His chest tightens when he crosses the room. The flashlight is just enough to let him see your figure against the shadows on the walls. It’s not until he rounds a wall that you’re out of sight, leaving an open pit in his stomach. Beneath the creaking floorboards, the cabin is too quiet. Too still. It’s unnerving. He moves quickly through the small space, uncaring of the way he slams his knees and shins into furniture in the dark. The noise helps. In the living room, it reminds you that he’s still here. Out of sight, but here. For Steve, the bang of his knees colliding with a half-collapsed table drowns out the faint ringing in his ears.

In the darkness, his hands fumble for the door. Fingers crawl blindly across the wall, catching on slivers and cracks in the wood until he finds the weathered door. It takes a moment of groping to find the knob and twist. The door doesn’t budge. Steve throws his weight against it, his good shoulder banging against the solid wood. It stays firmly shut. Again, his hand wanders over the wall near the door, fingers running over one, two, three more locks running along the height of the doorway. He loops his fingers around each chain one by one, yanking on them roughly to be sure the metal won’t give.

They don’t, and he only hopes that fucking thing in the woods isn’t smart enough to open them from outside.

It takes more stumbling through the dark and stubbing his fingers against walls and cabinets to find the windows. Like the door, they’re all locked tightly. Curtains are pulled shut over most of them, keeping anyone from looking outside—or looking in. He doesn’t know if that thing can see. Its eyes were pale, milky white, like his grandfather’s were after the cataracts got so bad he couldn’t see anything anymore. He doesn’t know if it, like the Demogorgon, doesn’t need to see. If it can track them down in other ways. Hearing. It can mimic voices, so it has to hear well enough.

Or smell, he thinks with a grimace, shoulder aching and blood dripping down his arm.

Stomach churning, he leaves the curtains closed. He leaves the backroom quickly, checking the bedrooms and closing the curtains there as well, casting glances at you as he moves from room to room. You stay crouched by the unlit fireplace, barely moving.

When Steve steps back into the living room to close the curtains there, he realizes you’re trembling. Your hands, mostly, the tremors vibrating along your arms until your entire body is quivering.

“Come on,” you murmur around teeth that are starting to chatter, thumb scraping against the flint. The lighter clicks, sparking, but the flame doesn’t catch. The next flick of your thumb ends the same. Your hands are too shaky. Too numb. “Come on. Fuck. Come on. Please.” There’s a sharp pressure behind your eyes and in your throat, frustration choking you until you can’t breathe right. You ignore the stinging in your eyes, continuing to drag your finger against the spark wheel desperately.

Steve’s footsteps are loud, the wood floors still creaking underfoot, but you barely notice him there until he lowers himself to one knee beside you. His right hand sweeps up your back, smoothing over your damp jacket. You gasp, stiffening under his touch until his knee knocks against yours, familiar and firm. He leaves his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the heat from his palm sinking into you through the layers of your clothes. The warmth almost makes you whimper.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low against your ear. The hand that isn’t anchored to your back reaches towards the lighter you’re still trying to start. “Let me—”

“I’ve got it.” It comes out in a rush, barely audible. Your hands are shaking worse, and you don’t spare him a look, forcing yourself to concentrate.

He sighs, rubbing your back gently. “Seriously, come on. Just let me—”

“I’ve got it, Steve,” you snap at him, pinning him with a harsh look before your stare returns to the unlit logs. Expression almost manic, there’s nothing you can do to hide the raw panic in your gaze. All of your bravado seems to have melted away in the long minutes he left you alone, rationality giving way to fear. You’ve been doing so, so well holding yourself together so far, but the cracks in your façade are starting to spread. One more chip in the glass and you might just splinter apart. Shatter.

And it makes his heart sink into the pit of his stomach to think about. Because you were alone. For hours, you were alone in the woods. And you were scared. Exhaustion is clear in the way you’re curled into yourself, shivering and weary. Seeing you like this scares him. You’ve always been a rock. Always kept him grounded when he needed it. And he would do anything to make you feel safe. Anything. He’d burn this world to the ground if that’s what it took.

“Hey,” he says softly, practically cooing as he reaches out and tilts your chin towards him, coaxing you to look at him again. Your eyes slide right past his face, dropping lower to the blood soaked into his sleeve. The gray fabric is stained from shoulder to elbow, darker around the edges and in tatters where sharp claws sliced through. He presses his fingers into your jaw a little harder, squeezing gently until you finally meet his eyes. “I’m okay. You’re okay. All right?” He chews the inside of his cheek, thumb idly sweeping across your jaw. “I’m not… I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Okay? We just have to get the fire started and wait it out, remember? We just need to wait it out.”

Your fingers are wrapped around his lighter so tightly that the metal is digging into your palm, leaving harsh lines. It takes several long seconds for his words to sink in, but the soothing motion of his thumb across your jaw makes the tension in your frame release. Eventually, you nod, your eyes squeezing shut briefly.

His fingers leave your chin. Slowly, he lowers his hand to hover over yours, his fingertips grazing your knuckles. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing to the lighter still clenched in your fist.

You nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice cracking at the end. You wet your lips and try again. “Yes. Sorry.”

Steve hushes you as you start to murmur apologies under your breath. You’re still trembling, and he slips his palm around your wrist, thumb rubbing circles over the thin skin covering your rapid pulse. The two of you sit like that for a minute, until your iron grip starts to loosen and you fall quiet again. Slowly, his big hand slides down, engulfing yours as he pries your fingers away from the metal, careful with your stiff digits.

“Fuck, honey,” he says as your grip slackens enough for the lighter to slip to the floor with a clatter. Neither of you move to pick it up and light the fire. Instead, Steve wraps his hand around yours, his thumb rubbing over the bumps of your knuckles. Lips downturned, his brows knit together. “Your hands are freezing.”

The heat that envelops your fingers makes you shudder. Too hot. Too much. Too fast. A sound akin to a whimper slips out on your exhale, shaky and painfully soft.

“Does that hurt?” He loosens his grip slightly, thumb still working circles into your knuckles. Alarm buzzes through him at the iciness where your skin meets his. The drastic difference opens a pit in his stomach. Your hands have always been colder than his, but never like this. This isn’t your chilly toes bumping playfully against his legs at night to startle him into a yelp. This cold is bone deep, the kind that burns when they start to thaw, stiff and painful to the touch.

You grimace as he starts to uncurl your fingers more. There’s a sob crawling up the back of your throat at the sharp, stabbing pain in your hands, but you swallow it down before it can slip from between your teeth. “A little,” you admit, downplaying as much as he’ll let you get away with. Unable to stop yourself, your gaze slips down to the blood and torn fabric and torn skin—

“I left my gloves on the counter,” you tell him sheepishly, offering a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Tone more bitter than you mean it to be, you add, “Guess I should have been more careful, huh?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just lifts your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to your knuckles, trying to soothe the ache spreading through your fingers as warmth slowly seeps back into them. For a while, he leaves his lips there, parted slightly as he breathes through his mouth. His thumb never stops moving, and the friction helps, even as the burning grows intense. Pins and needles stab at your flesh, and you bite your bottom lip to distract from the sharp aches.

Eventually, his grip loosens. Reluctantly, he pulls your hand from his lips. “Better?” he asks, lowering your linked hands to your thigh before slipping his fingers out from between yours. His grip shifts to your leg, squeezing gently. The fabric is stiff and cold under his palm, and he flinches away instinctively.

“I fell,” you admit when his eyes jump back to yours in horror, though it takes longer than it should for you to realize why he’s so concerned. “I thought the creek was frozen over, but the ice wasn’t thick enough.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Then, he manages to choke out a soft, “When?” Careful to keep his tone even.

“I don’t—a couple hours, maybe?” Your brows pinch together in confusion. “I’m not sure. A while ago, I guess. I can’t really feel it, so I just—I… forgot.”

Forgot. You forgot that you fell into water. Forgot that you’ve been wearing freezing clothes for hours.

Hypothermic, he realizes with a jolt. You’re hypothermic. It takes a second for his thoughts to unscramble, for him to swallow back the initial surge of panic that rises up in his chest at the new information. You seemed so level-headed before that he didn’t even notice the stiffness of your jeans or the patches of ice clinging to your clothes and hair, his head still foggy from being slammed against the ground before you found him. Bitterly, he berates himself for not seeing it before. The signs are right there. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off your face, taking in the discolored hue of your lips and the slow way you’re blinking, the more noticeable slur to the way you’re speaking.

Your eyes widen. Alarm twists your expression as you come to the same conclusion as him moments later than you should. “Steve…”

“Okay,” he says. Nervously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Slowly, he lowers his hand again, hovering over your thigh briefly before he reaches for the lighter on the floor instead. Fire. He needs to light the damn fire. “It’s okay. Just let me…”

Where you fumbled with the lighter, Steve catches the flame first try. Logs are already piled in the fireplace from the cabin was still occupied, and there are more stacked in the corner from last summer, when Hopper coerced Steve and Jonathan into helping him chop down one of the old oaks nearby. It was Fourth of July weekend and Steve left with blisters on his hands and a bone-deep ache in his arms. There’s enough wood to survive the winter, more than enough to last for a few days out here, if you need to. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

The kindling is still dry, thankfully. The flames spread quickly, the logs catching fire one after another until they’re burning steadily. He’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure the flames don’t burn too low or burn out.

“There.” He clears his throat, sliding the lighter back into his pocket. The firelight casts a warm glow through the room, and for the first time tonight he gets a good look at you. In the light, the faint discoloration of your lips and skin is more prominent, and he can see how badly you’re trembling in your soaked clothes. “How’s that? Fire starting to help at all?” he asks, even though he knows it’s too early for your frozen limbs to thaw.

His heart sinks when you only give him a weak smile in return.

“Come on.” Steve taps your thigh, hooking one hand under your leg and tugging until your confusion melts into realization. Limbs stiff and numb, it takes a minute for you to stand like he wants, and once you’re on your feet you sway unsteadily, knees weak from being crouched in the same position for so long. He keeps you steady with his hand on your thigh, grip tight over an icy patch on your jeans. “We need to get you out of this,” he says, looking up at you as you place your hands on his shoulders delicately, a frown pulling at your pretty mouth.

“Your arm,” you start to argue, glancing at the sluggishly growing stain on his right sleeve.

“Can wait,” he tells you, firm. Your brows knit together, your lips pursing. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re freezing.” He sends you a pointed look as a shiver wracks your body, and you avert your gaze. “Your clothes are soaked,” he continues, rubbing his thumb back and forth against your inner thigh. “Baby, if we don’t warm you up…” He shakes his head. “And you were out there for hours. We need to get you out of these clothes. I’m not—I’m not gonna argue about this.”

You chew your bottom lip. “You’re bleeding,” you try anyway, fingers curling into his sleeve above the top laceration.

“I don’t care.” He squeezes your leg, pinning you with the most serious look you’ve ever seen. “Just… let me take care of you, okay? Will you please just let me take care of you first?” His eyes search yours. He finds them melancholy and heavy with guilt, and he hates that look more than anything. “And, this?” He shrugs his bad shoulder. “Doesn’t even hurt. Not even a little bit.”

“Liar,” you call him, just like you did this morning. And you’re right to. His shoulder is still throbbing, and the amount of blood soaked into his clothes is concerning, but he needs to take care of you first. Needs to make sure you’re going to be okay.

“I’m serious. It barely scratched me.” Besides, Steve’s suffered worse than a couple of cuts on his arm.

You’re still looking at him like you want to put up a fight, but it’s not long before you come to the conclusion that you’ll be no good to him like this—barely able to feel your fingers and toes, shaking so badly you couldn’t even light the fire without help.

“Okay,” you relent, giving in to the concern in his eyes and the gentle touch of his hand on your leg.

“Okay?”

You sniff, nodding. “Yeah.”

“All right.”

Steve lets you rest more of your weight on his shoulders as he shifts to a more comfortable position, his knees already starting to sting. Both of his hands slide up and down the outside of your thighs, soothing you more than trying to warm you up at this point. Friction won’t help anymore. Even if the ice melts, your clothes are still drenched. Staying in wet clothes will only make you sick, and that’s assuming you aren’t already, because it’s cold outside. Colder than cold, really, different from the kind of cold that November brings. This time of January, it’s the kind of cold that hurts when you breathe in too deep.

He squeezes your knee once before sliding his hand down your calf to where your pants are tucked into the top of your boot. It’s quick work, undoing the laces enough so that he can slip your shoes off without jostling you too much. You don’t make a sound as he keeps you balanced, chucking the shoes somewhere behind you without taking his eyes off your legs. He grimaces when he sees your socks are soaked through.

Soaked, but not frozen. It’s barely a respite, all things considered, but it’s better than the alternative, he supposes, already rolling the first damp sock down over the heel of your foot.

“Can you feel that?” he asks, glancing up as he runs his thumb over the top of your foot.

“Yeah.”

He lowers your foot to the floor, reaching for the other. “Both of them?”

This time you only nod.

Your fuzzy, purple socks join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and he grimaces when he sees the wet patches near the hem of your jacket. “This, too, honey,” he says, tugging at the edge.

Again, all you do is nod, too cold or too miserable or too tired to put up any more of a fight for the time being. One of your hands leaves his arms as you start to shrug the coat from your shoulders, movements stiff and slow. Steve helps you from his spot on the floor, tugging on the sleeve to help slip it off. The second arm comes faster, and soon the jacket is laying in a heap on the floor behind you.

The palm of Steve’s hand runs along your thigh over the wet, frozen patches there. You stiffen briefly as his fingers slide to the button of your jeans, and when you look down you find his eyes already on you, searching your expression for permission to keep going. It’s going to hurt, sliding the wet denim off your legs, and he doesn’t want to push too hard too fast.

And your pulse shouldn’t jump the way it does, seeing him on his knees in front of you, thick fingers fiddling with the button on your jeans. Not when you’re borderline hypothermic and the wound on his arm is still bleeding sluggishly. Not when there’s something out there in the woods stalking you both. But you’re still foggy from the cold, and it’s impossible not to think about the last time he was on his knees for you like this, big hands grabbing at your thighs and mouth hot on your skin, moans muffled behind the palm of your hand as he had you pressed back against a door.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

“Still doing okay? Do you want me to…” He swallows his tongue before he can ask if you want him to stop. You both know that right now he can’t. It’ll only make things harder.

“I’m okay.” You loosen your grip on one of his shoulders, finding the curve of his jaw instead and pressing the tips of your fingers to his cheek. You offer him a muted half-smile that only makes him feel worse and brush the hair from his face, hand stroking back the damp strands before falling back to his shoulder. “You can keep going.”

He wets his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, all right. Let me just…”

The button pops open with a deft move of his thumb and finger, easy in a way that only comes with familiarity. The click of your zipper sliding down is loud beneath the crackle of firewood, and it sends a shiver up your spine that you tell yourself is from the cold and nothing else.

Your fingernails bite into Steve’s shoulders as he loops his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and starts to tug them down. The material is soaked through and stiff, half-frozen where you slipped and went through the ice, damp everywhere else from the snow, and it’s a slow process, working the fabric down around your hips and thighs. Each inch might as well be a mile. He’s gentle as he rolls the waistband down, as gentle as he can be, anyway. At first, it isn’t bad. The fabric is stiff, sure, but being inside where it’s warmer has helped to soften the denim some. It’s worse on your right side. Where the left side slides down without too much trouble, the right sticks to your leg high on your thigh. Gentle pressure doesn’t inch the fabric loose, and his stomach drops when he sees the discolored skin peeking out from beneath.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he murmurs, the only warning he gives you before pulling harder.

You flinch and cry out when he has to peel your jeans away from your skin. It makes an awful, ripping noise, like it’s fused to your leg, and you nearly bite clear through your bottom lip in an effort not to scream. The slick sound of your skin peeling away from the fabric makes his stomach churn, and Steve slides his hand up your leg to your hip, squeezing gently as you let out a shuddering breath that dissolves into a wet sob.

He winces at every muffled whimper that slips between your lips, hating that he’s the one hurting you right now. Steve isn’t so self-loathing anymore to blame himself, but it still feels like he’s being sucker punched in the chest each time you cry out. When you do, he murmurs apologies. Reassurances. Nonsensical strings of words that he wishes made it hurt less. And maybe they do. You start to relax into his hold the more he talks, flinching and hiccupping less as he gets the fabric down to your knees. They slide down easier then, clinging less in the spots that are wet, not as tightly plastered to your calves where they were covered by your boots.

“How bad is it?” you ask, after he’s worked your jeans down to your ankles and helped you step out of the soaked denim. Your voice crackles over the words, wet and thick.

Steve stays on his knees in front of you, letting your shaking hands grip his shoulders too tight, your fingers digging in too close to the open wound on his arm. One of his big hands strokes up your leg from knee to hip, rubbing gently at the raw patches of skin. There are welts decorating your right leg, ruddy and dark like fresh bruises. Or burns. The sight of them makes him sick, but they aren’t nearly as bad as they could be, all things considered. Your left is relatively okay. You must have landed on your side when you fell.

You inhale sharply as he lingers over one for too long, and he whispers an apology that’s almost lost under the crackle of fire wood.

“Could be worse,” he tells you honestly. “It’s not pretty. And it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a couple of days, but I don’t think we’ll have to amputate.”

You giggle. It’s startled and wet, but it’s a laugh, and he’ll take it.

His lips quirk upwards at the corners, and he almost leans in to kiss your hip, but stops himself, afraid to aggravate the sores on your legs any further.

“That’s probably for the best,” you say, easing your grip on his arms when he rubs circles into your hip with his thumb. There’s a touch of humor in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders loosen. “I think you’d pass out if you had to cut my leg off. Then, we’d both be fucked.”

“You think I can’t handle a little blood?” he asks, scoffing. “I think my track record might prove otherwise.” Because he’s fought monsters before. Dozens of them. And they’ve ripped him to pieces before, but he’s always gotten right back up and kept swinging.

It would be different if it was you, though. Steve knows that. And you know it, too. The sight of your blood on Steve’s hands would make him sick. The idea of hurting you like that, even if it were necessary, makes him want to vomit.

He clears his throat and scrubs the thought away. His palm brushes against the welts forming on your leg again, careful not to hurt you. “Want me to look for something for these?” There might be some antibiotic ointment somewhere in here, but the best thing you can do for an ice burn is soak it in warm water, and that’s not going to be possible for a while unless one of you risks going outside to gather snow.

You follow a similar train of thought, more lucid now that the fire is warming you, and shake your head slowly. “No,” you say as he stands.

His breath hitches as sharp pain ripples through his right arm, and you frown up at him. Steve keeps his hands on your hips, his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater so he can feel your skin. Clammy and covered in goosebumps, but solid and alive under his touch, growing warm. You press your hand to his chest, just beneath the lacerations splitting open his shirt.

“Sit,” you tell him, gently pushing him away from you towards the couch.

He wets his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

Steve cradles his injured arm to his side as he skirts around the coffee table, careful not to bang his shins against it this time. With his lingering adrenaline fading to nothing, the tenderness in his side is coming back in full force. Gingerly, he lowers himself onto the raggedy old couch, leans his head against the back, and watches you, backlit by the fire, as you gather your things.

You fold your jacket and leave it in a pile with your socks and shoes. The jeans you leave in a heap on the floor, too soaked to do much else with right now. Absentmindedly, your fingers brush against one of the welts resting high on your right leg, the same one Steve caressed. It must sting, because your hand flinches away and you wrap your arms around your torso instead, fingers clenched in the thick, knitted fabric. Feeling his gaze on you, you look up, silhouetted in shadows so he can’t see your expression.

Without a word, you come back to him.

The sweater you’re still wearing is damp instead of drenched, but you’re still shivering as you help him out of his own clothes, working in silence as you watch him with worried eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, biting it raw as you get a better look at the extent of the damage. His jacket and uniform top are ripped across the shoulder and soaked through with blood, beyond repair. You could try sewing the gashes shut, but you’d never be able to fully wash out the stains, an ugly reminder of tonight.

Steve is able to shrug the jacket off on his own, working the zipper down with his good arm and wriggling to slip the sleeve down his shoulder. The right sleeve is harder, and he winces as he bends his injured arm, expression screwing up in a way that has you reaching out to smooth a hand through his hair. Your palm comes to rest on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing back and forth. He leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering shut briefly before he finally wrenches the heavy jacket from his arm.

He tosses it to the other end of the couch and wonders if he should burn it to mask the scent of blood.

The button up is harder. The blood makes the fabric stick to his skin, and he struggles with the buttons until you brush his fingers aside and replace them with your own. Nimbly, you pop them open, hands beginning to shake less as the numbness and pain retreat. He doesn’t complain, sighing and sinking back further against the couch, watching you through half-lidded eyes as your hand moves down his chest.

Once his shirt is hanging open, you pause, chewing your lip as you try to decide what to do next.

You wish you had a pair of scissors. Something to cut through his shirt and make it easier to remove. Less painful to remove. But you aren’t sure if there’s one left in the cabin, and you aren’t willing to leave him alone for long to look. With his jacket gone you can see just how much blood he’s already lost, and your stomach twists sickly at the red stains covering most of his right arm and the side of his chest.

Steve is patient, watching as your brows pinch together and your lips turn down. Your hand is on his chest, pressed to the lower part of his ribs where you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, reassuring you that he’s alive.

Slowly, your palm slides upwards, moving closer to the bloody gashes resting higher on his chest. You lower yourself onto the couch next to him, your knees pressed up against his right thigh. You’re half-sitting on the arm of the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at the mangled part of his arm without pressing up against him.

“What do you think, doc?” he asks, letting your touch move over his arm even though it hurts like a bitch. “Am I gonna lose the arm?”

He’s hoping for another smile, maybe even a laugh, if he’s lucky, but you only frown, brows pinched together. “I have to get your shirt off, Steve.”

There’s an apology beneath the statement, and he sighs, leaning into you more as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck in an effort to make him relax. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Do what you gotta do.”

“It’ll hurt,” you warn him, your free hand skimming the thin slices in his shirt, careful not to apply any pressure. “Some of the blood is dry. Or, frozen. It’s not going to come off nicely.”

Steve thinks of the way he had to peel the jeans from your legs, how the tearing sound made him want to puke.

“Like ripping off a really fucking big band aid,” he mutters.

You nod, stroking his hair away from his face. “Yeah. A really fucking big band aid.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Where Steve had been hesitant to work your jeans down your legs, you’re more certain in your actions as you grab the right side of his open shirt and pull the ripped strips of fabric away from his wounds. It’s not that you have less reservations about hurting him, you’ve simply been doing this for years, patching him up after every stupid fight he got into during high school, taking care of him after monsters would ravage Hawkins once per year, ruthless in your need to keep him alive.

“Son of a—fuck!” he groans, eyes screwing shut as he clenches his teeth so hard that they rattle, his jaw aching under the pressure. Whispered apologies soothe the hurt, but he can’t make out the words behind the burning sensation on his chest and the dull ringing in his ears.

Barely allowing him a break, you’re quick to turn your attention to the deeper cuts on his arm. The pale blue fabric is bunched sideways until it starts to pull on the wound, the fibers sticking to the raw, fleshy edges of the lacerations. Clots pull and crack, bleeding freely again as you start to dislodge the soiled remains of his shirt. Steve’s hands are clenched into fists at his side, white-knuckled and shaking with the effort to keep still.

He hisses in surprise when the blue fabric peels away from the top cut on his arm, the shallowest of the three. All are still bleeding, but it’s sluggish now, even as the clots and scabs start to come loose with the fibers you pull free. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not—if he was bleeding more, maybe this would hurt less.

One by one, you unstick his shirt from his arm, and once the remains of his shirt pull away from the blood crusting under the open wound on his bicep, you yank the soiled fabric down to his elbow, shoving it further to his wrist, and then off before you toss it onto the floor.

He’s breathing heavily through his nose when you glance at his face. A thin sheen of sweat mats his hair to his forehead, and you brush the unruly strands back, leaning down to press your lips to his temple.

The tips of your fingers brush against the skin above his elbow before sliding upwards, though you stop shy of the lacerations. There are three of them. Shallow across his chest; deeper through the flesh of his arm. The cuts across his pec have stopped bleeding again already, beginning to clot and crust over into thick, itchy scabs. His skin is a mess of flaking, frozen blood, smeared across his chest and arm in a way that looks like one big open wound. The warm air and sticky feeling make him wince.

“Oh, Steve,” you murmur, thumb brushing the underside of one of the cuts. Your finger comes away red and wet when you pull back. The somber, guilty lilt of your voice makes his jaw clench harder, but he keeps his mouth shut as you examine the wound the monster left behind.

None of this is your fault, and he’ll make sure you know that later, but you don’t need reassurance from him while he’s still bleeding and his head is throbbing from being cracked against the ground.

There’s a joke on the tip of his tongue when he gets his breathing back under control, something to lighten the mood, even just a little. His head feels foggy as he peels his eyes open, looking at you. As if you can feel his gaze, you lift your head. Your eyes meet his, and they’re red and watery, and whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat.

“These need stitches,” you tell him, grasping his bicep under the cuts. “I don’t… I don’t think they’re too bad, but just to be safe. In case…” In case it comes back, you think, but don’t say out loud. In case you have to run. In case you have to fight. “We’ll need to get you checked out by a doctor.”

Steve nods. Your sweater is bunched up under his hand, his palm pressed to the small of your back, but he doesn’t remember grabbing you. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to ground, you or him. “Coyote?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Bear,” you decide after several seconds of thinking. “We went for a walk before the snowstorm and didn’t see it until it was too late. It ran off after you took a shot at it.”

He leans his head back against the couch. “As close to the truth as possible, huh?” The smile he sends you is wry, and you offer one of your own, but it’s damp and wobbles at the edges. Steve rubs his hand against your lower back. “I’m okay, honey.”

“You’re not,” you correct him immediately, a little bite to your tone. “I’ll get the first aid kit. We left one in the bathroom.”

Without another word, you slip from Steve’s hold and get off of the couch, careful to avoid his eyes as you grab the flashlight off the coffee table. The floor creaks under your bare feet as you hurry from the room before he can call out to you, trying not to run as you b-line towards the tiny bathroom.

As soon as you step into the room, you click the flashlight on, shutting the door with your back and fumbling for the knob to lock the door behind you. The flashlight beam is even weaker than it was before, the flickering growing more frequent. Ignoring the erratic flickers, you shove away from the door and set the flashlight on the edge of the sink.

“Come on, come on,” you murmur to yourself, throwing open drawers and the medicine cabinet doors in search of the damn kit. It should have been in the cabinet. That’s where you left it last summer after—and you haven’t touched it since. It should still be here.

You slam one of the drawers closed.

The flashlight clatters to the ground and goes dark.

Throat tight, you lean over the sink, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Your pulse quickens. Blood is sticky between your fingers, your hands shaking so badly that you have to grip the edge of the sink so tightly that the porcelain digs into your palms until they hurt. It’s too dark. Too dark to see anything but shapes and shadows in the mirror. Behind you, a figure moves, looming over you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe the way your dad taught you.

You’d kept your explanation to Steve short. Five hours is too much to condense into a single sentence. Though, you hadn’t lied, mostly. You ran. You hid. That’s it. That’s the simplest way to put it, because thinking about the details has bile tickling at the back of your mouth. Acid burns your throat, acrid and choking. You lean over the sink and try not to gag.

That thing had chased you through the woods for what seemed like hours, driving you deeper into the woods until you weren’t sure where you were anymore. You couldn’t find the road. Or the cabin. For hours, it seemed like you were just running in circles. Lost. Terrified.

And then it caught you.

You fell into the creek. You fell, and your hip smashed through the layer of ice covering the running water. The cold knocked the breath out of your lungs. In the next blink, it was on top of you. Those sightless, milky eyes bored into yours. The matted hair around its face hung vertically. The wiry, greasy ends tickled your cheek. It crouched over your body, gangly limps jutting out, spiderlike, elbows and knees sharp and skin pulled taut.

“Hello?” it called to you in your own voice.

Clawed fingers reached out and you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stop the sob ripping from your throat or the tears leaking down your face. You flinched as a lone claw delicately slid down your cheek. A sick imitation of a caress.

“Hello? Steve?”

“Please,” you choked out.

And it repeated “please” and cocked its head to the side, asked, “Cold?” in Steve’s voice.

You only sobbed again.

For what felt like hours, you laid there, that thing leaning over you, repeating words back to you in your voice—in Steve’s voice. What made you sickest was when it said words you hadn’t said, still using your voice. No longer just mimicking.

And then it cocked its head to the other side. Once more, it ran a spindly finger down the side of your face. You closed your eyes tight enough to see spots, and when you opened them again it was gone.

The flashlight flickers on.

There’s nothing in the mirror behind you.

When you come back to the living room, you’re carrying the first aid kit, a pile of old towels, and a bottle of rum. Without a word, you plop down onto the coffee table across from Steve, your knee knocking gently against his. He doesn’t mention how long you were gone, or the redness of your eyes.

He eyes the bottle as you flick open the locks holding the old, plastic first aid kit shut. “Your old man’s gonna be pissed that the rum’s gone,” he says, squinting to read the label in the firelight and whistling when he recognizes the brand. “Damn, this is the good stuff. He’ll have a conniption or some shit. Jesus.”

“Let him,” you say, glancing up from the contents of the kit to meet his eyes. “We’ll get him something nice for the wedding.”

The edge of his mouth quirks upwards, but it’s weak. Now that you’re finally getting a chance to really look at him, you can see the exhaustion dragging down his features. His smile isn’t there, and his eyes are half-lidded. His focus keeps drifting when he isn’t talking, and you aren’t sure if you should be more worried about the blood loss or the probable concussion.

Queasy with the thought, you turn back to the first aid kit, biting your lip as you examine the meager supplies left over from whenever you last stocked it. It must have been sometime last summer, before the gate was breached. You patched Steve up that time, too. A bloody gash on the outside of his leg. And Lucas had a cut above his brow that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter how long Max kept pressure on it. All that’s left now is a roll of gauze, half a bottle of peroxide, and an old suture kit you kept, just in case.

It’s not much, but you’ll have to make it work.

“Drink,” you say, pressing the rum into his hands.

Steve doesn’t argue. With a twist, he pops the glass stopper out of the top and brings the bottle to his lips, face screwing up as he swallows a mouthful of the amber liquid. It burns on the way down, taste distorted by the blood in his mouth. He takes another swig as you lay towels and your suture kit on the arm of the couch, the peroxide in your hand.

“Stay still for me,” you tell him.

There’s no good way to reach the lacerations on Steve’s shoulder and the top of his chest, so without hesitation, you swing one leg over his lap. He tenses when you straddle him, grasping your waist with one big hand to steady you as you settle on top of him. The heat of his hand sinks into your skin through your clothes and you can’t help the content sigh that accompanies his touch.

The bottle almost slips out of his grip as you pour peroxide on one of the towels and press the cloth to the cuts on his chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut as you dab at the cuts, cleaning the dried blood off his skin. “Christ. Easier said than done. A little warning next time?”

You ignore him, wiping his skin clean with as gentle a touch as you can manage right now.

The two of you slip into a mindless rhythm, quiet as you clean him up with one hand, the other pressing a towel to the deeper wounds on his shoulder, hoping to stop the bleeding. Steve’s breathing becomes labored as you work, pained noises and curses muttered into the dimly lit room. You don’t do more than clean his skin and tape gauze over the shallow claw marks splitting open his skin.

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps as the space between you continues to shrink, your hips flush with his, and it’s impossible not to notice how close you are, how good your weight feels on top of him. His grip on you tightens as your ministrations shift to his shoulder, his fingers digging into your side over your sweater until he craves contact enough to slip his hand under your clothes.

You’re gentle as you clean his wounds. As gentle as you can be, anyway. Once the blood is cleaned away from the wounds on his arm, you pause, one hand hovering over the suture kit as you bite your lip, worrying it raw. They need stitches. Desperately. Cleaned, they don’t look quite as bad as when his arm was a mess of blood and tissue, but now you can see just how deep they go, how long they are. Each cut is at least four inches long, probably longer. They aren’t as deep as you feared, but they need more than gauze and peroxide.

“How many?” he asks as your fingers trace the underside of one of the gashes. He pulls you tighter to his chest with the hand on your back as you look at him. “Stitches.” He wets his lips after clarifying. “How many stitches?”

Your hand wraps loosely around his bicep. “The cuts are pretty long, Steve,” you admit, lips downturned.

“Just tell me how many, honey.”

For several seconds, you’re silent, thumb rubbing against the inside of his arm soothingly. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five for each, to be safe,” you tell him. “You’ll have to get them redone as soon as we can get you to a hospital. Right now, I’m more worried about the bleeding than an infection.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding in understanding. He pulls his arm from your grasp as he raises the rum bottle to his lips and takes another long drink, then sets the bottle on the side table. “Yeah, okay—okay. Let’s, let’s get it over with.”

Your hands shake as you thread the medical suture through the end of the needle. Steve leans his head back against the couch, his eyes closed as he waits for you to start. His hand is twisted in your sweater again, gripping the damp fabric tightly to keep himself grounded to you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The first stitch is rough. He groans, long and low as you push the needle into his skin and pull it through to the other side. You keep your weight settled over his hips, holding him in place on the couch as he fights not to thrash against the white-hot, burning sensation lacing across his upper arm. You work quickly, tying off the thread and cutting it carefully.

Neither of you speak for a long time, the silence broken by the popping firewood and the hisses and groans that slip between Steve’s teeth as you stitch him shut, pausing every few minutes to wipe away the blood sluggishly leaking from his wounds.

Twenty-five. That’s how many stitches it takes to sew the first gash shut. Not professional by any means, but prettier than he could have done himself. There’s a fine layer of sweat covering him by the time you pause to look over your work, and his hair is matted to his forehead. You run your fingers through the strands, pushing them away from his eyes before letting your knuckles graze his cheek.

Steve breathes out, a shaky sound.

You make it halfway through the second gash before Steve speaks.

“You still have the car keys, right?”

You glance up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you tie off a stitch. “Yeah. Why?”

The tips of his fingers press into your back subconsciously, holding you tighter to him. The weight of what he wants to say lays heavy on his chest, making it impossible to breathe. When he doesn’t answer, you look at him again, needle in hand and blood staining the skin around your fingernails.

“Listen,” he starts, hand dropping to your hip, “if that thing comes back—”

You tense over his lap, fingers digging into his arm below his open wounds. “No,” you shut him down.

Steve shakes his head, continuing as if you didn’t speak. “I want you to run.”

“Absolutely not,” you’re quick to argue. “I’m not—I’m not just going to leave you.”

He presses his palm to the base of your spine, keeping you close when you start to pull back. “No one’s leaving anybody.” He says it like it’s a promise, staring back at you with those big, hazel eyes. Sincere. Sober and exhausted, all the alcohol has done is loosen his tongue a little. He’s been mulling over this since he heard you crying in the bathroom, sobs muffled behind the door. “Look, if it gets inside… I want you to run for the car, okay? Just run. I’ll be right there behind you, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you won’t,” you say, bitterness creeping into your tone. Because you know him. You know Steve better than you know yourself, and he’s an idiot with too big a heart and too little self-preservation. Because he doesn’t care what happens to him so long as everyone else makes it out alive, but you do. If Steve thought he could give you the chance to run—to stay behind and ensure you stay safe, you know he’d take it.

The bite in those three words makes him wince, but he pushes ahead anyway. “Get to the Byers’ new place. Your dad’s practically got an artillery in the shed. You’ll—you’ll have to protect the kids. Please, can you just—can you do that?”

The needle slips from between your fingers.

You reach up, cup Steve’s face in your bloodstained hands and force him to look at you. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” you tell him firmly, breaking midway through. You swallow back the lump in your throat, forced to speak around the tightness there. “If you think I am, then maybe you really are an idiot. Now shut up and let me work.”

You’re harsher than you mean to be, and you turn back to Steve’s arm before he can see the wetness gathered along your lash-line. The needle dangles against his bicep, but your hands are shaking too much to add another suture so soon, so you busy yourself by wetting a towel and dabbing at the fresh blood leaking around the wounds.

Steve taps an unrecognizable pattern against your spine, stroking over the small of your back like an apology.

It’s another minute before you grab the needle again. Neither of you speaks as you continue to sew him up; you stop whispering reassurances between sutures.

After you cut the last stitch, you dip your chin and press your lips to the top of his shoulder.

He draws you into his chest, ignoring the way his arm protests the movement, the stitches pulling awkwardly as his muscles flex beneath the thread.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his neck, muffled, but close enough for him to hear. It’s a tight squeeze, an awkward angle, but you manage to wrap your arms around his back, pressing to him like a second skin. “Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Yelled at him. Called him an idiot. Dragged him into this bullshit because you messed up and couldn’t handle it yourself. He never should have been out here in the first place.

And he knows you so well. Well enough to know the way your thoughts are spiraling as fear and exhaustion sink deep into your bones. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, thumb pressed to your pulse. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t… don’t blame yourself, okay?” And God he wishes he was better with words. If he was, maybe he could do something other than sit here and hold you as you shake in his arms.

Your fingers curl against his back, searching for something to hold onto, but only finding skin.

“If I had just stayed home—”

“Don’t.”

“—and you got hurt because of me.”

His grip shifts to your jaw. Gently, he pulls you away from the curve of his neck, his hand on your chin coaxing you to look at him as he sweeps his thumb across your cheek. Your eyes are puffy, red and watery, and it breaks his heart. “This thing was already here, remember? Last night, I heard it. So did Will. And so did the Mulligans. It was already here,” he tells you again. “And it was hunting, or whatever the hell it’s out there doing. And we would have had to handle it anyway, like we always do. We just caught on a little faster this time.”

“Steve,” you say softly.

He slides his hand around to the back of your neck and pulls you down for a chaste kiss before you can say anything else. It doesn’t last for more than a moment. Just long enough to steal the words from your lips, the warm press of his mouth on yours a reminder that he’s here. That he’s alive. Your arms come unstuck from behind him, and your hands cup his cheeks as he pulls away, reluctant to let him go too far.

“I thought you were dead,” you murmur as he leans his forehead against yours. “I heard the gunshot, and I ran and… and you were just lying there. And there was blood everywhere. And you weren’t… you weren’t moving, Steve. You weren’t moving. I thought you weren’t—I thought—”

His mouth slots against yours once more, lingering longer, a little harder. His crooked nose bumps against yours, and it tastes like iron and salt as his mouth moves against your own, your lips parting under his like muscle memory. Ignoring the burn in his shoulder, Steve crushes you against his chest, holding you close and hoping you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

The fire crackles and snaps, and you watch as the new logs Steve placed into the hearth are consumed by the flames. The heat radiating from the fireplace warms your skin, but your sweater is still damp. The wet fabric is heavy on your frame, clinging in strange spots, and you haven’t stopped fidgeting uncomfortably since you finished the stitches in Steve’s arm, but you haven’t been able to will yourself to strip off the last of your clothes. Keeping them on will only make you sick, you know that, but the thought is shoved to the back of your mind as you stare into the flames, entranced.

Neither of you can make sense of the time.

Steve’s watch must have come loose in the snow, and you’ve never been inclined to wear one, so it was impossible to tell how late it was by the time you and Steve finally disentangled yourselves from each other. There was a bottle of pain medication in the first aid kit, and Steve swallowed two of them dry after you pressed the bottle into his hand. At some point, you started shivering again, far enough from the fire that your sweater refused to dry, and Steve gently slid you from his lap with a hand on your hip, nudging you towards the fireplace to warm up as he muttered about finding blankets for the two of you. It didn’t escape you how pale he looked, dark circles like bruises under his eyes, a clammy sheen to his skin.

You hadn’t realized just how physically exhausted you were until you stood and swayed on your feet. It couldn’t be any later than eight, maybe nine, by the time you finished closing the wound on Steve’s arm. Between mopping up the blood and forcing your hands to stop shaking after each suture, the process lasted longer than it should have.

There’s still blood crusted under and around your fingernails, dry and flaking off as you pick at the blotchy, ruddy stains. Each time you close your eyes you see teeth and gangly, grotesque limbs, sightless eyes staring down at you, your own voice calling out from a mouth that isn’t yours.

Outside, the wind shrieks, a shrill cry that you swear sounds like Steve’s name.

Shaking your head, you will the thought away. You shift your weight from one leg to the other as the cold registers again.

Your fingers tremble as you grasp the hem of your sweater and peel the thick fabric over your head. It squelches. Droplets splatter down your chest and back as your grip wrings water from the material. The sweater lands in a wet heap on the floor, and you wince at the loud, slick sound, more wet than damp like you thought it was.

With shaky, frozen fingers you fumble with the clasp of your bra for several seconds before you’re able to shrug the equally damp fabric down your arms. Immediately, the chilly air descends on your now bare skin. Goosebumps erupt across your chest, and you bite your lip to stifle a breathy whimper.

Steve hears you over the crackle of the fireplace. Glancing up from the makeshift nest of blankets he’s piled together, he can’t help the way his head snaps back up for a second look. Cold and shivering, you’re standing by the clothes rack he managed to dig out from one of the closets, angled in a way that leaves you in shadow, the silhouette of your bare breasts illuminated in the firelight. His breath catches, his heart lurching into his throat as your fingers slide over your hips and slip beneath the hem of your panties, dragging them down an inch.

“Don’t,” he says, louder and sharper than he means to. Gasping, your head snaps towards him, eyes wide. Steve clears his throat, looking away. “Don’t. If they’re dry, you should keep them on. You’ll be warmer that way.” The subtle innuendo makes him wince, but from the corner of his eye he sees your hands leave your panties, watches as your arms come up to cover your breasts instead.

You wet your lips. “Right.”

You glance at the fire again, arms crossed over your chest, the flames warming your bare skin and finally chasing away the chill that seeped into your bones and took root inside you, like you’d never know heat again. With your head turned to the side, you don’t see Steve’s eyes wander back to you, unable to help himself, but you can feel the weight of them tracing over your frame. Fire licks across your spine, and it has nothing to do with the flames in front of you.

This shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked. Not even close. But this feels different. Intimate. Vulnerable. It’s not a clash of teeth and tongues, his hands grabbing your ass and hoisting you up against the nearest wall as you yank at his belt with impatient fingers because the world might as well be ending and you need to feel each other closer, at least once more, just in case. It’s not a tipsy kiss at a party neither of you want to be at, with his fingers slipping under your skirt as he bends you over a bathroom counter. Different from the risky quickies you’ve had in the front seat of his car, both of you pent up and desperate for release, your panties hooked to the side and his pants shoved down just enough for your hand to wrap around his cock.

Steve has seen you naked. He’s fucked you senseless, more than once. This is softer, somehow. Sweeter. No frantic hands. No desperation. In any other situation, it would be almost romantic.

Standing from his spot knelt next to the pile of blankets, Steve keeps his gaze firmly on the floor as he tugs at his belt, quickly slipping out of his wet and stained pants. His hands still as the floor creaks under your steps, his head tilting towards you as he sees you out of the corner of his eye.

Your arms are still crossed over your chest, loose enough for him to see the swell of your breasts. This close, he can see you’re wearing those lacy, royal blue panties that he likes. “Come warm me up?” you ask like you did last night, but there’s an implication there that wasn’t before. You want to forget tonight. You want to forget all of it, and Steve has always been good at making your thoughts grow quiet.

You’re close enough to touch. And he thinks about laying you out on the blankets, covering your body with his own and kissing you senseless until you’re moaning and writhing underneath him—your breathy cries sinking into him and drowning out the horrific screams still echoing in his head. You’d let him. There’s a look in your eyes, heady and dark, that tugs at the pit of his stomach and makes his skin feel hot.

Beneath that is something haunted.

Steve dips his chin and presses his lips to your temple instead.

“Come here, honey,” he murmurs against your skin. You shiver, eyes squeezing shut as he wraps his arm around your lower back, pulling you against him.

It isn’t long before the two of you make your way down against the blankets, burying beneath thick quilts and fuzzy throw blankets left behind during a hasty move. Steve kisses you again, soft and sweet, and you sigh into his mouth as his chest presses to yours, skin against skin. Just once, and then you slot into place against his side, head tucked under his chin and an arm slung over his stomach, your fingers sprawled beneath his navel.

You both lie there for a while, listening to the storm rage outside. You’re quick to drift, hours of being lost in the woods and hunted down leaving you unable to keep your eyes open once you’re pressed safe and warm to Steve’s side.

The rhythmic puffs of your breaths tickle his chest as Steve runs his hand along the curve of your hip and waist, pacifying himself as much as it soothes you. Exhaustion hits him hard, the last twenty-four hours catching up to him as your cold toes press against his legs. And for a moment he can pretend he’s home, with you.

There’s a tap against the window. Innocuous, but loud enough to rouse him from a doze.

“Steve?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, muffled and far-off, distorted even though you’re so close. He hums instead of answering, head lolling towards yours. You shift closer to him, your lips pressing against the dip of his collarbone. A content sigh heaves from your lungs.

“Steve?” you whisper again. Your mouth doesn’t move.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #st fic #stranger things fic #fic: into open flames

284 notes · View notes

karahofthedawn · 1 year

Note

-sigh- I miss you’re writing, “You Owe Us One” is one of my favorite series! Lately I came up with this idea, I hope maybe you’ll be interested in using it, where Reader is still stressing over school and pressure from her parents (like what she’d been dealing with in Part 4) and Fred’s way to make her feel better would be to bully the Harry into giving him the password to the prefects bathroom and making it all romantic for her like a huge bubble bath. Because he’s not very good with words, like George and he doesn’t always know the right thing to say, but she can’t help feel overwhelmed with love and care and just cries and they have an intimate bath? idk idk could be fun? maybe it leads to some smut…who’s to say…😂🤷‍♀️

You Owe Us One - An Apology

Fred Weasley x Reader

Ask and you shall receive!! I hope this is what you were looking for.

I do miss writing the twins, so I may start back up again.

Thanks for giving me inspiration. 💜

Words: 3.5k

Contains: smut

There you are, letter in hand trudging down the corridor to the Hufflepuff common room. This isn’t the first time you’ve received a letter of the sorts, though it has been a month or so since the last. Your eyes burn from the tears threatening to burst out of you. You have to make it back to your dorm. Everyone else would still be in classes or having lunch. Just a minute or two to break down alone would be enough to get you through the rest of the day.

Why, is all you can think as you pass by a window. The sky seems to be reflecting how you feel internally, dark heavy clouds holding back everything they have as they pass over the castle. There was no forecast of rain today, but you knew even in just a glance that it would pour.

Why does she always have to see the worst in me? Your thoughts echo as you travel past the fruit painting that leads to the kitchen. You want to reflect on the good times you had with the Weasley brothers by sneaking into the cabinets late at night to get a quick snack, but it is almost impossible with the remembrance of the letter from your mother burning at the forefront of your brain.

She always knew just how to bring you down.

“Hey,” someone calls from the far end of the hall. You take a deep breath, centering yourself before turning to the familiar voice. It was who you expected - Fred, of course. You had completely forgotten to meet him in the garden after breakfast.

“Fred,” you say sweetly. “I’m so sorry, I just - “you pause and quickly tuck the letter in your black and gold coat.

“Completely forgot about me,” he says with a broad smile, pinching your cheek as he reaches you.

You tilt your head and roll your eyes. “Forget you? That would be impossible.”

“That right?” He crosses his arms and leans towards you. “Then I guess you must have gotten lost. Gardens are on the other side of the castle.”

As much as you love to banter with him, you just didn’t have it in you. “I know, I know.” You rub the bridge of your nose as another wave of anxiety races through your body. “This just isn’t a good time right now, okay?”

You turn to leave, but Fred steps in front of you. “What, are you going off to snog one of those Hufflepuff boys?” He challenges with a raise of an eyebrow.

He was kidding, you know this, but just the thought of trying to defend yourself against such a silly notion almost sends you over the edge. “Fred, please.”

“I’m just playing with-”

“I can’t right now,” you say sternly and push past him. You tap and open the Hufflepuff door and immediately slip in without a word.

Fred watches you with a puzzled expression as you disappear behind the barrels. Laying on the floor was a folded piece of parchment that fell from your coat as you rushed off. Fred kneels down and takes it delicately between his fingers.

“You must be the culprit,” he says to himself while eyeing your mother’s name.

—-------- Later that afternoon—----------

George slams the paper down on the table, causing the rest of the Gryffindors to jump and stare at the twins reproachfully. His face was as red as a phoenix as he recounted what he read in the letter. “And this is- this is her own mother?”

“Yeah, quite messed up, isn’t it?” Fred responds solemnly.

“To say the least,” he huffs and squints at the words in front of him again, still trying to take in how unbelievably cruel they were. “Useless? Pathetic? A disgrace to their lineage?”

Fred quickly snatches the page from his brother and tucks it in his back pocket. “I know what it says, you don’t have to tell the whole castle.”

“Sorry,” he sighs and leans back on the chair. “I can’t stand this woman. Our mother -”

“Our mother would never,” Fred finishes for him. “I know, and I made some stupid joke about her snogging someone else.”

George continues to stare down at the table where the letter used to be. “You didn’t know, don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m sure Y/N will understand.”

“Right,” he says while pulling at the sleeves of his undershirt. “But I’ve been thinking that I should make it up to her.” Fred felt a ton of guilt, and the truth was that he wasn’t entirely sure if she even wanted him to read that letter in the first place. So what if him bringing it up just made her feel worse, to know that others know how her own mother treats her?

“How do you intend to do that?” George tilts his head back to look at his brother. “Another trip to the Room of Requirement?”

“No,” Fred says simply. “I was thinking something different.”

George lifts his brows and kicks his feet up on the table. “Well that’s a first from you.”

“You can’t possibly believe that’s all I want from Y/N,” he snaps back, which makes his brother drop his smug expression. “I have something in mind, I just need -” his words are cut off as he notices his younger brother Ron and his friends enter the common room. A smirk slowly stretches across his face and he beelines towards them.

“Ron, really, I can’t keep looking over all of your work,” a frustrated Hermione hisses at Ron who pretends to not hear her. She takes the roll of parchment and forces it into Harry’s hand.

“I don’t know anything about this,” Harry spouts and tries to hand it back to her.

“I don’t care, and frankly you two should have been doing your own work years ago!”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron snaps. “It’s only a few paragraphs and I’ve already written it. You know I’m terrible at grammar and all that.”

“Even more reason for you to do this yourself,” she says smugly. “As a prefect-”

Harry stands in the middle of the two as they continue to bicker. He did what he learned from the Dursley’s, completely dissociating until they wear themselves out.

“Just who I wanted to see,” Fred announces as he snakes his arm around his brother’s flaming red neck.

“Not right now,” Ron grunts and tries to push Fred off of him. It was no use though, as his grip just tightened even more around his neck.

“This is urgent, so yes, right now.” He tugs him forward, sending Ron off the hilt and into a chair.

“Urgent?” Hermione asks while scanning his hands for some kind of new invention. They had gone toe to toe over them not testing on first years enough times, that she always assumes it’s something to do with that now.

“Yes, for Y/N,” he admits, which makes her shoulders drop immediately.

Hermione perks up, “is she alright?”

“I mean physically, yes.” Fred scowls down at his younger brother and his messy copper hair. “I just need, well, a favor.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ron scoffs and crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he says nonchalantly before dropping down to his level. “Just the password to the Prefect bathroom.”

“That’s it?” Harry asks as he finally starts to listen again.

“That’s it!” Fred exclaims. “I just need the password and then I can be on my way.”

“No,” Ron says bluntly.

Fred’s smile drops. “No?”

“No,” Ron reiterates with an even harsher tone. “I don’t know what weird prank you have planned, but I actually like that bathroom thank you very much.”

Fred takes a breath to calm himself. “It’s not for a prank.”

Ron waves his hand dramatically. “Well whatever plan you have in your head, I want no part of it.”

Hermione steps in before Fred can reply. “You said it has something to do with Y/N?”

He nods as he runs his hand through his long red hair in frustration. “I really don’t want to say what it is. Why can’t you just trust me?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “What are you mental? I can answer that with a million different reasons-”

“I’ll give it to you,” Hermione pipes up and places hand on Ron’s shoulder. “If it’s something for her, then I trust your intentions.” She had seen how protective the Weasley brothers were over Y/N. Whatever he had planned, her gut knew that it was important to him.

Fred nods and lets out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t about to beg, but digging up blackmail on Ron would have taken up time he didn’t have.

“Thanks,” he says simply while looking at Hermione. “You always were my favorite of Ron’s friends.”

Harry’s mouth goes slack. Hermione beams.

------- Later that evening---------------

A screech wakes you up from a nap, making you sit up in bed at once. You rub at your eyes until the blurred circle at the edge of your bed comes into view. An owl - a small brown one with large golden eyes. Tied to its legs is a letter. Even at a distance you can see that it is addressed to you. Your heart drops, your mother never sent two letters in one day. Though, she wouldn’t use any other owl but her own.

You reach out and untie it quickly, hoping to solve the mystery of the sender before it sends another wave of anxiety. Your fingers trail over the letters, they didn’t look familiar to you at all. It was written sloppily with black ink and off center. You turn the back and slip your nail under the crease to open it.

Y/N,

I’m sorry for the stupid joke I made earlier. I know there’s no boy in Hufflepuff that can compete with me.

Your smile falters when you remember how cold you were with Fred. What he said was something he didn’t need to apologize for.

Meet me in the Prefect bathroom at 1am. The password is ‘Pine Fresh’.

Yours,

Fred

You have no idea what to expect from Fred, but the idea of being alone with him sends your heart on a rocket to the moon. You just hope that your low mood doesn’t sway him off of whatever he has planned.

—------------- 1AM—---------------

The time moved so quickly that the next thing you knew, you were already at the Prefect bathroom. You stare at the door, not entirely sure how to open it. You clear your throat and softly whisper the password that was written on the letter. The large wooden doors slowly swing open and reveal the massive bathroom behind it.

The moon peeks through the large pane window and glides across the ripples of water from the giant bath in the middle. It must have just been freshly filled, as the steam was rolling off the top and into the dark. You step forward and the doors shut behind you. The soft lapping of water can be heard against the marble siding of the tub. Large sculptures and paintings line the room, giving it an ethereal feeling that you’ve never experienced before.

That’s when you spot a silhouette at the corner of the bath. The moon’s rays capture Fred’s copper hair laying delicately on his broad freckled shoulders as he turns his head to you. He snaps his fingers and small objects begin floating around the water, some hovering right over - others keeping still at the edges. He spoke softly and objects revealed themselves to be candles, just like the ones you once saw in the Room of Requirement. You gasp as you are able to finally see the rest of the scenery. Flower pedals are strewn across the floor and dancing across the top of the water. It smells of roses and lilies, your two favorite scents.

“You made it,” he says with a smile.

“Of course I did,” you laugh as your eyes wander around the marble walls. “What’s this all about?”

Fred lifts his feet from the water and walks towards you with his arms outstretched. “What, I can’t do something nice for my girlfriend?”

Your heart jumps hearing him say the word, ‘girlfriend’. You still haven’t gotten used to that yet. “No, that’s not it,” you say shyly while letting him envelope you. His bare chest is warm against your cheek as he runs his fingers through your hair.

Fred pulls back and kisses your forehead. “Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get undressed and take a little dip.”

“Okay,” you say breathily as he turns and slips off his pants. You remove your clothes one by one, folding them as you go and laying them by the stairs that lead to the tub. Instinctively you hold your arms over your breasts as you get to the water’s edge. Fred holds out his hand to take yours then guides you into the tub.

The water was at a perfect temperature and the floral scents immediately greeted you at once. Your hair floats over the top as you get to the deeper part where Fred stands waiting. He pulls you in and brushes the wet strands from your forehead. There was something different about his expression that you just couldn’t place.

“What is it?” You ask as you reach up to stroke his face with the back of your hand.

“Nothing,” he says with a strained tone. His copper irises reflect a candle that passes behind you, and he furrows his brows. “I just, I wanted to tell you -” His pupils dart away as he perpetually begins shifting his body more. “I think that you’re amazing.”

“Oh,” you say with large eyes and a rose tint reaching your cheeks. “I think you are too, Fred.”

He licks his lips, his face moving closer to yours. He was concentrating on exactly what words he needed to use to express exactly how he felt. “And if anyone tells you otherwise, you should ignore them.”

You crease your brows together, as you’re trying to understand where this is coming from. Fred was never the type to give these types of speeches.

“Even if it’s a teacher, or a slytherin, or.. Even a parent,” he drifts off as he sees your expression change, this time to complete shock.

“The letter,” you mutter while backing up. “How did you know?”

“You dropped it,” he answers quickly. “It’s awful -”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” you squeak out and fall back onto a step, and land with your head just above water. You were able to forget, even just for an hour, and here it was being shoved in your face yet again. It wasn’t just the old wounds reopening, but you are also deeply embarrassed.

“I know,” he admits and kneels in front of you. “Please, Y/N, I didn’t want to upset you. I read it and I just, I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“Well,” you rub at your face with your palms. “I’m not! Okay?” You feel yourself falling back into shambles as the memories of your mother’s words come back to you, engraving in your brain as they were on the paper.

“O-okay,” Fred stammers and sits to the side of you. He glances between the moon and your red face. He was never good at these things, but he was going to try his best. “I don’t think anyone would really be okay after that.”

You shake your head and collapse against him. “You don’t know what it’s like,” you sob out. The seal of control has been broken, and now there was no stopping the tears. “No matter what I do, I’m never enough.”

Fred’s warm fingers trail from the base of your neck and tangle in your wet hair. He pulls you against the crook of his neck as you slowly fall apart.

“I get good grades. I never get in trouble. I do everything right but I will always be the worst to her.” Your eyes well so many tears that the scene around you goes blurry. “What am I supposed to do?”

There is a lump in Fred’s throat as you speak. He can feel how raw and visceral your pain is. If there was one spell he knew that would lift the pain from inside your chest, he would have sold his soul right then and there to make that happen for you. “I think,” he says softly, pulling your face back so he can look you directly in the eyes. “You should start living for yourself and say fuck all to her.” He holds your chin gingerly with his fingers. “They are going to regret doubting you, Y/N. You are an amazing witch and a wonderful person.” His thumbs catch your tears on your cheek. “And if you ever forget how special you are, then I will be here to remind you.”

Just like that, the dam finally fully opens and you wrap your arms around his neck sobbing. Never in your life have you felt so emotionally vulnerable, and you thank Merlin that it is with Fred. You stay wrapped up in his arms for what felt like an eternity as you let out every emotion that you’ve held back for years. He remains silent and holds you tightly against his chest until your sobs slow, and your breathing goes from spastic to rhythmic.

The world finally comes back to you after the surge of intensity passes. You realize that not only is the room quiet, but so is your head. That nagging self hatred has lulled itself back into the deep recesses of your mind for now.

You sit up and look into Fred’s face. He grins at you as his eyes flick back and forth, trying to read your expression. “Thank you,” you say hoarsely. Then without any hesitation you add, “I love you, Fred.”

Fred’s mouth goes slack and he pulls you into a hug. You wrap your legs around his waist and perch yourself on his lap as he looks dumbstruck up at you. “I love you too, Y/N.” Those words leaving his mouth felt other worldly, but he knew there was nobody else on earth who deserved them more than you.

Hearing him say it back lit a fire inside of you. You meet his lips with yours, and he immediately grabs you by the hips and matches your energy. Just like that, the pain was gone and was replaced with passion. Your tongues dance as he guides the edge of your cunt onto his erection. You gasp and dig your nails into his shoulders as you press down on him.

He grabs a fist full of your hair and pulls your head back as your walls finally accept him fully. You moan his name as his cock pulsates deep inside of you, his hips staying pressed against yours. His fingers dig into your sides as you begin riding him slowly.

The water didn’t help the lubrication as much as you would have thought. If anything, it made him feel bigger than ever. You do your best to relax your muscles as you continue to move up and down on his shaft, but that’s quickly made more challenging as his fingers find your clit.

Fred licks his lips hungrily as he watches you with dinner plate pupils. “Keep going, you’re doing so fucking good,” he says in a low growling voice.

You do as you're told, even though your legs begin shaking violently as an orgasm approaches. “Fred,” you groan and roll your head back. “Please, I’m going - going to-”

He laughs through a moan and begins thrusting from underneath you. “Go ahead, darling. Cum for me.”

You cry out as another thrust sends you right over the edge. You crumble against him as he continues to use your body. The water splashes and spills over the marble walls of the bath as he increases his speed. He holds your neck tight, but not enough to cut off oxygen, so that he could watch your face as he cums. You feel his hips shudder and he pushes you down hard against his lap.

“Fuck!” He yells out and pulls you into a kiss by your neck.

You squirm against him as he fills you to the brim, leaving you shaking and helpless against his chest. He rolls his head back and releases the tension on your neck and side. “Merlin’s beard, how are you this good every time?”

You laugh and then whimper as he pulls himself out of you. “I swear, our bodies are made for each other.”

He kisses the top of your head and combs through your hair. “Georgie and I really have the best girlfriend out there,” he laughs. “Fuck.”

You never understood what they saw in you, but every day you’re starting to believe them more and more. Besides, he was right, you were going to start living for yourself. Who cares what your mom thinks anymore. You’re a legal adult and don’t have to follow any of those self esteem killing rules any longer.

You just hope, more than anything, that Fred and George will continue to stand by your side every day.

You wrap your arms around Fred’s chest and breathe out. “This is the best apology I’ve ever gotten.”

Fred smirks and stares up at the statues among the ceiling. “And it’s the best one I’ve ever given.”

#harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley smut #fred weasley #fred weasly x reader

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angelkissiies · 1 year

Note

hear me out,

breeding dildo + abby + ''c'mon give me one more doll, gotta make sure it takes''

! I AM WEEPING FROM THE CREVICE ANNA !

euphoria

abby anderson x reader

cw : breeding kink, multiple orgasms (mentioned), porn without plot

wc : 0.8k

Abby Anderson was not the maternal type, her only experience with children coming from her passing of the daycare on the way to patrol shifts. She’d never even thought about kids, let alone having them, before now– her newest find buried inside your fluttering walls. The thick silicone was abusing your sensitive core, the ache of your previous orgasm making you bury your face in her neck, her pace never slowing as she watched the white substance leak from around the strap— a devious groan leaving her lips. Abby Anderson did not want children. Though the way her hands ghosted over your lower stomach, large palms resting over your womb, made you think otherwise. As did the animalistic grunts leaving her throat as she fucked the mock cum into your cunt– the bed beneath your connection stained with wet splotches as she forced every drop she could in.

A sharp gasp left your throat as you felt the tip of the strap brush your cervix, nails clawing into the expanse of her back as you released whimpers into the locks of honey hair that blocked your sight. “Fuck, f-fuck, Abby!” You breathed, words barely audible as she stole your air with every rocking thrust into your swollen cunt. “C-can’t do it, ‘m too sensitive.”

The woman chuckled, moving her free hand to push your weak body back down onto the bed, detaching you from her as she peered down at you with a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. “You can. Now, look at me, baby.” She tutted as she pulled the strap almost completely out of your slit, the tip just barely pushing into you. Her eyes met yours and she shook her head, nodding down to the plastic attachment coated in a thick layer of white, a mixture of fake and real cum from her drawn out torture. “Don’t take your eyes off of me, be a good girl.”

You nodded quickly, eyes fluttering as you focused in on the vulgar display of yourself painted onto the silicone, face gaining a pink hue as your fingers raveled in the sheets beneath you. Your mind was gone, an emptiness slowly being filled with a familiar fuzziness, words turning into mindless babbles as she drove the strap into your cunt– filling you to the hilt with a blissful stinging as she continued to stretch you out.

Abby moved her hands to your thighs, pushing them open as she took in the sight of your walls clenching around her– making her thrusts grow sloppier as she fought the tightness of your pretty cunt. “C’mon, doll, relax for me.” She rasped, the base of the strap nudging her clit as she struggled to keep pace, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. “Just,” She began, feeling her hips stuttering, “Just gotta make sure it takes.” Her mind was swimming, between the pressure in her own cunt and the image of your swollen stomach floating in her mind– she wasn’t sure she was in control of herself anymore.

“Please please,” You cried, unconsciously begging her for something you couldn’t even pinpoint, hips digging into the mattress with every stability shattering thrust. “Need it, please Abby, I need it.” Your mind was clouded with nothing but the fulfillment of her wishes, being her little wife fucked full of her babies.

The blonde leaned a bit more into the pressure on your stomach, eyes heavy with lust as her lips parted– short tsks leaving her mouth. “Eyes on me, pretty.” She chided, watching as you focused back in on the pornographic sight of her strap, “See that? Gonna be so full of me, gonna make you a mommy.” Her words were airy, coming out in harsh breaths as she used her free hand to push some stray hairs from her face.

A burning sensation filled your womb once again, making a whine tear from your throat as you pulled a hand to her forearm– trying to drag her closer in the chase of your orgasm. Her hard muscles did not budge under your grasp, your nails digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bring blood as the wave washed over your body– limbs trembling under the intensity of the white hot euphoria. “God, oh god, fuckfuckfuck.” Your head fell back onto the pillows, the world spinning slightly as you tried to gain your bearings.

Abby slowed her movements to a stop, her hands trembling slightly as they relaxed on your thighs, strap slowly sliding from your sensitive folds until she could unclasp the base from the harness– tossing the leaking silicone to the side. “My god.” She spoke, voice raspy as she peered down at the mess she’d made of you. “Fuck, y’look so pretty like this.” She added as she relaxed down onto the bed, giving her knees a rest, just peering at you with a radical softness that came with her drop from her headspace– giving you whiplash from her just moments ago.

“Abby,” You began, blown eyes coming to meet hers, compliments going over your head as you weakly pulled at her– urging her back to you.

“I know, doll, I know. I’ll take care of you.”

#abby anderson #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x reader #abbyanderson #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x female reader #abby the last of us #mommy abby #abby anderson x y/n #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou2 #tlou #abby tlou #abby anderson ff #misc

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underthetree845 · 10 months

Note

Alrighty April, can you write a yandere! Chuuya x reader fanfic (hcs or oneshots whatevers easier) where reader is single (More of a hopeless romantic type thing) and she's talking and laughing with Dazai? Maybe Dazai will hold your hand or something and he snaps. Maybe he could like kidnap you, or kill dazai, or something? Idk, I'm just trying to give you ideas, do whatever you want with this request :)

Hey! I know this took me awhile to answer, I just had some other things I needed to push out of my drafts first, so I do apologize :') I'm going to tag you just to make sure you see this: @a-random-weeb And please let me know what you think!

(As previously stated) I have never written yandere content before, and I don't feel comfortable writing anything too dark, so I did my best with this. It might come off as a little more jealous/possessive, but I stuck to the prompt.

Dogs Are Better

Chuuya/Reader (oneshot request)

Cws: gn! reader, jealousy, yandere if you squint, reader is a dog person (it makes sense later I promise), dazai getting beat up (by chuuya), possessive! chuuya, unhealthy possessiveness, chuuya does genuinely care, implications of stalking, alcohol, drinking, slightly tipsy reader, reader gets a hangover, overly trusting reader, kind of kidnapping?

About 2.7k words

Summary: Chuuya is already overly protective of you, how would he react if someone threatened to take you away?

A/n: Please note, I did my best to altar their roles and limitations to fit the prompt, but this is not necessarily how I ultimately view Dazai and Chuuya as characters! Also- in case it's unclear- Dolcetto is a type of red wine.

Chuuya’s gloved hand grips his drink tighter. The bartender has been growing worried that it will just shatter under the pressure.

It’s been over an hour and you haven’t stopped encouraging Dazai with that stupid grin on your face. It’s nothing like the one you give him, the one he lives to protect.

You’ve got a heart that longs to be loved, one Chuuya wants to nurture. How can he make you understand that you don’t need to jump around from person to person to receive compliments and feel validated? Why can’t you see that he’d be more than enough?

With a slam of glass down on the polished wood, Chuuya slides off his barstool and makes his way around to where you and Dazai are seated.

It was a stormy day, but nonetheless, Chuuya decided to make a run to the little shop one block from his place. He was set on picking up some appetizers that would go well with the red Dolcetto sitting in his kitchen cabinet.

Leather shoes splashed in the puddles along the sidewalk, rain pittered against the black of his coat and umbrella. He held the plastic bag of gouda and roasted turkey slices with one hand, doubling up on the knot in hopes of preventing any water from leaking in. The shade of his hair was the only reason he didn’t blend into the bleary background. The city was a monotone watercolor painting; dozens of droplets falling from the sky, lights flickering on as afternoon turned into evening, the usual rush hour bustle muffled by the cold rain of the murky clouds above.

Anyone would’ve paused for a moment if they found a soaking figure crouched down on the sidewalk. Anyone would’ve tapped them with their foot to see if they needed help. Anyone’s heart would’ve melted a little when they laid eyes on the shivering puppy the person had been shielding from the rain. Anyone’s heart would’ve thumped a little harder making eye contact with you for the first time. Not just anyone deserved to.

When you refused to take the umbrella and leave Chuuya without one, a compromise was made that he would walk you home; somehow, that resulted with him sitting on your bathroom floor, caring for a wet puppy, and trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat with every laugh that spilled from your lips.

What kind of person halts everything, soaks themself to the bone for some random dog, and lets the first stranger to offer them an umbrella into their apartment? He began to question whether it was the puppy or you who needed more protection.

The redhead found himself wandering into your city block more often. He noticed your favorite coffee shop, and decided that it had to be added to his routine. Lovely little coincidences slowly allowed him to engrain himself into your everyday life. It was all for your own good, after all.

Someone getting a little too friendly on the metro? That same man’s body was found beaten half to death in an alleyway the next morning. No evidence, no fingerprints; the perpetrator used gloves.

Crying because of the things your friends say behind your back? Chuuya isn’t hesitating to accidentally stumble upon your hiding spot and offer his shoulder to lean on.

On a particularly windy day, his hat blew off, and you just happened to be nearby to catch it.

It had to be some form of fate. He was meant to find you and you were meant to be with him.

Such a precious creature you turned out to be; he found it sad that no one had ever bothered to get to know you properly. To understand you. Not like he had.

You were a drug to his mind every waking second and every night as he laid awake staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.

Everything slid into place so naturally. He messaged you good morning and you followed through with a goodnight. On the best days, he walked back through his front door unable to wipe the lovesick grin from his face.

His presence gave you something solid to fall back on, it was nice.

He should’ve known it could only last for so long.

Some people are like parasites. They squirm around their miserable existence until they can find something lively to latch onto. They use it to fill their own void, draining the other being of its life and leaving it behind once they’ve had their fill.

“Oh, Chibi! Didn’t expect to see you here,~” the brunette chimes. Liar.

You spin around on your barstool and a smile lights your eyes up when your gaze lands on the redhead.

“Y/n-san and I were just sharing a drink. Do you two know each other?” Bastard.

“Chuu, it’s good to see you,” your voice melts in his ears. “Do you want to join us?”

“I don’t know why you didn’t introduce me sooner,” a grin spreads across Dazai’s face, “They’re an absolute treat.” He swirls the sake around in his cup before raising the glass to his lips. Parasite.

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” Chuuya replies politely, taking the seat to your right while Dazai is on your left.

“So how do you and Dazai know each other?” you question innocently. The two men make eye contact for a brief, unnoticeable moment.

“Work,” they both reply in unison. “We dealt a lot with trades between organizations,” Chuuya explains.

“Many jobs here and there,” Dazai adds. You nod your head in understanding.

“But enough about us!” a fox-like grin crawls up onto Dazai’s face, “I’ve barely gotten to know you yet.”

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” you reply with a humble smile.

Chuuya sighs and turns to the bartender to order another drink. If only he could make you understand.

“Nonsense!” Dazai rests his chin in the palm of his hand, “Why don’t we play a little game?”

“Okay,” you nod with interest. “It’s either or,” he continues with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “First question: Tall men or short men?” Chuuya chokes on his whisky. “Hmm,” you tap your chin in thought, “I don’t think height matters much to me.”

“Interesting,” Dazai folds his arms in front of his chest. Chuuya glares. You’re treading on thin ice, Mackerel.

“Next question: Do you think dark eyes or light eyes are prettier?” Dazai tilts his head, you stay silent. “Sorry, but I don’t think I want to be asked these types of questions,” you state politely, Chuuya has to hold back his smirk. “Ah, I see, I do apologize,” Dazai leans back, “I’ll change the topic. Cats or dogs?” He’s not worth starting a bar fight over, Chuuya internally screams, he's not worth it, he's not worth it, he’s not worth it.

“Well, that’s a tough one,” you hum, tracing your finger over the rim of your glass, “but I’d have to say dogs.” Chuuya’s ears perk up. “They’re so protective and loyal, and I’ve never met one that wanted to sink its teeth into me just because it can.” “I see,” Dazai smiles slyly, narrowing his eyes.

Chuuya sighs. You shouldn’t be wasting your breath on such a snake. Can’t you tell he’s done this a million times? The way his lips move, when his finger slips under his glass to set it down softly, how his eyes trace over your form like a wolf studying its prey.

“What about you, Chuu?” your voice breaks him out of his trance. He blinks at you a few times before raising his eyebrow, your giggle practically squeezes at his heart.

“Do you want to take some tequila shots with us?” you tilt your head. Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Tequila? You don’t drink very often though,” he furrows his eyebrows in concern, “Tequila is pretty strong, you’ll end up with a shitty hangover.”

“Dazai says he can have a few shots without getting too tipsy though,” you reply. Dazai sits with a conceited smile.

Of course he can, that man’s alcohol tolerance is concerningly high.

“Fine, but just one,” Chuuya’s tone is stern, “two at most. You’ve already had three drinks.”

“I’m not even tipsy though,” you pout softly. Dazai chuckles as he raises his hand to call the bartender over.

It was clear from the start that you had no intention of heeding Chuuya’s advice. After two shots, you were giggling all over yourself and Chuuya had to keep a hand on your back to prevent you from falling off your barstool. “No, Y/n, give that back, hey! Dammit!” Chuuya attempts to swipe the glass away, but you’re just fast enough to steal his shot and throw another mouthful of tequila down the back of your throat.

“Mm!” you beam with satisfaction, “I told you Chuu, I’m fine.” The warm-toned lights of the bar seem to complement the hazy flush of your cheeks that bleeds into your smile. He adores the way you lean into him so trustingly. He’d probably have a smile similar to your own creeping up into his cheeks if it weren’t for the dark-eyed lynx sitting just to your left.

“They told you ‘Chuu,’ they’re fine,” Dazai’s lips form a smirk, one Chuuya wants so badly to smack off his face. He glares for a moment, but reminds himself of who his top priority is. He leads you to your feet by your forearms and catches you when you fail to hold yourself up. “Y/n, I’m going to take you home now, okay?” Chuuya’s voice is gentle, he slings your arm around his shoulder and turns to walk out the door. You look over at Chuuya and suddenly gasp, “We’re going somewhere? Where?”

“I’m taking you home, Y/n.” “Come on Chuuya, you’re really not willing to share?” Dazai calls loudly.

Chuuya pushes down the feeling boiling under his skin for your sake. You’re trusting him to get you home safely- admittedly your judgment may be a bit skewed at the moment- but still.

“What’s so special about them, huh?” Dazai prods and Chuuya’s grip on you tightens. You’ll never get to know. You don’t deserve to. That’s my right, this is my person. Who the hell do you think you are?

“I may just have to steal them away and find out for myself,~” Dazai smirks and Chuuya freezes. It’s only for a brief moment. He continues walking, but a dark cloud settles around his chest and in his mind.

“I’ll be right back,” Chuuya reassures you as he buckles you into the passenger seat of his car, “It’ll take two minutes, I promise.” “Where’re you going?” you look at him with a half-lidded stare, fingers still gripping the edge of his sleeve. “The bar has a bug problem,” he smiles deeply, “I’m going to go help them sort some things out.”

Dazai hadn't turned his head back after Chuuya’s fist came into contact with his cheek, the beginning of a bruise certainly beginning to form where he was hit. “Ouch,” Dazai keeps his voice steady, and his eyebrows lowered. He rests his hands in his pockets, ignoring the stinging pain in his back from being slammed against the wall in the alleyway out back of the bar. “I said, do you understand me, Dazai?” Chuuya grits his teeth, clenching his fist as he uses every drop of his remaining willpower to not crack Dazai’s head open like an egg. He takes one step closer.

“You really feel that threatened?” Dazai laughs lightly, “Aren’t I allowed to take an interest? They really are a very intriguing pers-!” Dazai grunts and his chest concaves as he feels the wind being knocked from his lungs. He looks up, back flat against the ground, Chuuya’s heel digging into his chest. “Something isn’t clicking in that brain of yours, so let me spell it out,” the mafioso glares, his frame silhouetted by the moon. “Y/n doesn’t need people like you in their life. The world doesn’t deserve them, I have to protect them from it. There’s no one else who can, don’t stick your nose where you don’t belong.” Chuuya takes a step back, allowing Dazai to sit up before turning on his heel to return to where you wait. Dazai’s scoff makes him freeze. “Shouldn’t that be something Y/n decides for themself?” Dazai’s voice echos, Chuuya doesn’t even need to turn around to see the haughty smirk on Dazai’s face.

In a split second, Chuuya’s heel comes into contact with Dazai’s other cheek, knocking the man roughly to the ground for a second time. “Tch, I don’t know why I even bother with you,” Chuuya snarls. Dazai stays low until his ex-partner walks around the corner and out of sight.

Dazai sits up and the corners of his mouth curl into a grin. He wipes blood from his bottom lip and chuckles deeply. “Damn, Chibi.”

Your mind keeps slipping you in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re riding next to Chuuya in his car. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. The next, you’re in his arms, and he’s carrying you into a strange house. You accept whatever he puts in your mouth, swallowing it with the water he holds up to your lips.

You awake with a jolt, immediately laying back down when a sharp pain shoots through your head. You groan slightly, rubbing your eyes and trying to adjust to the morning sunlight. The first thing you notice is that you are still wearing your clothes from last night. The second thing you notice is that your shoes and jacket have been removed and placed on a chair next to the bed, and there’s a bottle of hangover medicine sitting on the nightstand to your left. The third thing you notice is that wherever you appear to have spent the night is definitely not your house. Ignoring the ache in your head, you throw the covers off and stand up cautiously. There’s something indistinctly familiar about the room’s scent, but you shake it off.

Creaking the door open, you observe the wood furnishings and step hesitantly into the hallway. Something in the next room smells heavenly- like a hearty broth. You can hear someone shuffling around. You tiptoe forward, but any apprehension churning in your stomach dissipates as soon as you lay eyes on the familiar head of red hair standing in the kitchen.

“Chuu?” you crinkle your expression in confusion. He smiles slightly and places a wooden spoon over the pot on the stove before looking up at you. “Y/n,” he turns down the heat and walks over to you, “How are you? Do you have much of a headache? I hope the medication helped.”

“Yeah, it’s not that bad…” you reply, scanning your eyes around the room, “is this your house?” “Mhm,” he replies, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “Well, our house now. You take a half step back. “What do you mean?” you question, “You know where I live, I have my own home.” Chuuya just shakes his head. “That isn’t going to work anymore,” he sighs, “I did a lot of thinking last night. Trust me, this is what’s best for you.” A shiver runs up your spine. The look in his eyes is so… impassive, nothing like the man you know. “What are you saying?” you shake your head slightly, “What, are you going to just keep me here against my will?” Chuuya steps forward again, his eyes boring into your own. “You won’t mind after a while,” he replies, taking one of your hands in his and brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “I’ll give you a good life, I promise.” You try to pull your hand away but Chuuya grips it tighter. You’re both silent for a moment, the air in the room seems to still. “Chuuya, you’re scaring me,” your voice wavers slightly.

An invisible force pulls you closer to the man, you stumble into his chest and he catches you by the waist, using his other hand to cup your cheek. A cold, thick sense of dread is present in the back of your mind, but you’re having trouble focusing on anything except his gaze. For a moment, his eyes soften. He looks at you tenderly, like the Chuuya you thought you knew. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he speaks closely. You find yourself unable to move as he presses lips against your own, holding you close as if you could break at any moment.

A/n: I realized while writing this that this is actually the first time I've put a kiss into my writing! I am also open to feedback since I don't try to write this type of character/relationship very often. Thank you for reading!

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