#surprise character x reader

[stevebabey]

not if it’s you.

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

You’re bone-deep tired.

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

It’s been a hell of a night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets you pull him to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stains the air.

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

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

Another beat of quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

Steve Harrington is lonely.

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

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

“Why did this happen to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

You stop moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are no nightmares that night.

—

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

[lauraneedstochill]

My first choice (part 1/2)

summary: Aemond thinks you are way too good to be Aegon’s best friend. But you are enough for the one-eyed prince to fall in love with. pairing: Aemond Targaryen and F!Reader words: ~ 5500 warnings: friends to lovers, slow burn (with very obvious mutual pining), angst, Aegon is a sad boy (but ends up being a pretty good wingman!) author’s note: this is inspired by “Little women” and Amy March in particular. I took the liberty to rewrite some plot lines because to me Aemond is nothing like Laurie (Aegon is ;) and I hate love triangles so we are not having any of that sorry. it’s a bit of a roller coaster so I divided it into 2 parts: the first one explains Aemond’s feelings, the second one is about hers. ✨ part 2

Part 1. How could you be so blind. Aegon knows he’s supposed to be relieved — he never wanted the crown and now that Rhaenyra is the Queen and a feast is arranged in her honor, he should be celebrating. And he may have been hitting the wine way too hard for the past couple of hours, but he can’t pretend to be happy, and he gave up trying to force a smile. It’s ridiculous that he is upset over this, and yet he can’t help but feel horribly useless. The prince drinks one cup after another until the room starts spinning and he can’t even sit straight — and then he suddenly finds himself propped against the wall, sliding under the table instead of sitting at it. Aegon catches a few judgemental glances but at this point, he couldn’t care less. There is only one person whose judgment he is afraid of — and it’s not long before he’s greeted with a displeased remark:

“When I asked you not to swoop too low, I couldn’t imagine you would literally lay on the floor.”

He looks up — and here you are, staring down at him, not even trying to cover up your disappointment. At any other time, Aegon would’ve at least tried to sober up, but today he’s disappointed in himself, too, so he doesn’t make an effort. Instead, he reaches out an arm to you with a lax smile.

“Would you like to join me?”

“I didn’t get the invitation to this pity party so I will pass,” your tone suggests you are not in the mood for jesting. “Now that you’ve succeeded in making a fool out of yourself, would you mind getting upright?”

“I think I like it here,” he retorts, shamelessly staring at the legs of the maids passing by. 

“You like wallowing in misery for all to see?” you huff. “Aegon, get up.”

He fakes a whine. “My legs gave out, I’m afraid!” 

“You would need to drink all the wine in the castle for that to happen, and I doubt you managed to do that,” you roll your eyes, taking a step toward him — but pause upon hearing a voice behind your back:

“You underestimate my brother.”

Aemond has a habit of sneaking up on people which often startles you yet right now you are too angry at Aegon to be bothered. You throw Aemond a glare over your shoulder but your eyes soften when you see the apologetic look on his face. It’s not the first time that the two of you find yourself in this situation — throughout the years you learned to work as a team: you bring Aegon back to his senses while Aemond helps to physically bring him to the nearest flat surface. You have never asked him for help — and yet he’s always there.

Aemond is about to lean down to help his brother up — you stop the one-eyed prince with your hand, your palm inches away from his chest. Anyone else would’ve thought twice before standing in his way but you don’t hesitate.

“He is perfectly capable to get up on his own,” you reject Aemond’s attempt, your eyes fixed on Aegon. “He can hold onto the wall shall he feel unable to stay on his two feet.”

There is something in your gaze that makes Aegon uncomfortable, piercing him to the bone. You are never downright mean or rude but with just a few words you can easily unmask his feigned recklessness. The prince stands up, tottering and feeling a little light-headed.

“Are you happy, now when I’m in the standing position?”

“If you cared about anyone else's feelings but your own, you wouldn’t be in this position,” you scold him while Aemond takes his brother under the arm to guide him out. Aegon tries to grab another cup of wine but you slap his hand.

“Do you ever get ashamed of yourself?” you hiss at him.

“Let me think... No, why would I?” he sounds sarcastic.

“You should be,” you whisper scream at him. “You can find nothing to do but dawdle and make a mockery of yourself!”

Aemond feels his brother shuddering at your words, and he tightens his hold on Aegon.

“Well, what else am I to do,” his voice is bitter. “Since I am not an heir and serve no purpose to the realm nor do I have any taste for duty.”

You slow your pace, and a sigh leaves your mouth.

“I feel sorry for you, Aegon, I do. I only wish you’d bear it better,” you reach out to stroke his arm but the prince bristles.

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Your duty is to marry, and we will see how that goes,” he mutters before he can stop himself — and regrets it the very next second when you swiftly turn to him.

“At least I would be respected if I couldn’t be loved,” your tone hushed but sharp.

Aegon stops dead in his tracks, his wide eyes meeting yours. You moved away from the crowd into the hall, and it becomes silent. And then his lower lip quivers.

“But I thought that you loved me,” Aegon whimpers, his assumed nonchalance instantly gone.

“Oh, Aegon, how much did you have to drink?” you come to his side, lending him a shoulder to cry on. While he’s aggressively sniffling, you look at Aemond and quietly mouth “How many cups?”

“Way more than usual,” he gives you a wan smile, and you groan at his answer, taking Aegon by the arm.

“Alright, you can lean on me. But don’t get handsy or I will push you down the stairs,” your remark earns a weak laugh from the older prince, and the three of you head toward his chambers.

Aegon doesn’t talk much but his mood softens and you exchange a few jokes before finally reaching his room.

“I can take it from here,” Aemond suggests but his brother eagerly protests.

“No, I want to be tucked into bed! And definitely not by you,” he sticks out his tongue, and you chuckle at his whim.

“Aemond, I can handle him.” 

The one-eyed prince shoots you a knowing glance and holds the door open for you and Aegon to walk in. You slowly move to his bed, making sure he doesn’t stumble on his way — and then, with a sudden boost of energy, the prince flops down on the fluffy blankets, letting out a satisfied moan. You hold back a giggle and wait for him to crawl under the covers.

“Should I call for the maid to help you undress?”

“No, I am way too comfortable like this,” he pulls the blanket up to his chin, and you sit on the edge of the bed.

“I am sorry for the way I behaved,” he reveals, frowning. “I did not mean to, truly.”

“Aegon, you know I’m not the one you should apologize to,” you take his hand in yours, and he squeezes it with childish eagerness. “You left Helaena all alone. And you promised me you would make an effort.”

“I know, I know,” he yawns. “I was doing better until today, I swear, you should ask her,” his speech becomes incoherent as he is already too drowsy to talk, his cheeks flushed from the wine and the heat of the blankets. As you stand up to leave, Aegon mumbles:

“I fetched you a book... the one you were looking for,” he sloppily points to his table by the window before dozing off.

There is only one book so it’s easy to find — and when you do, you can barely contain a sound of surprise: it’s the complete history of Westeros, heavy and hardcover, decorated with gilding. You glance at Aegon but he looks fast asleep so you cautiously get out of his chambers.

If you were to turn around, you would’ve noticed that he kept an eye on you with a grin on his face.

When you walk out, you see Aemond still standing there, his gaze landing on the book and then immediately on you. It takes you a minute to figure it out and then you smile at him:

“Even though I appreciate the gesture, it is hard to imagine Aegon in the library.”

“He asked me to help him find the book you wanted. I did,” the prince explains as if it isn’t that big of a deal. But to you, it is — although you think he only did it out of politeness.

“Thank you, Aemond,” you enthusiastically turn your attention to the book, flipping through the pages in awe. He watches you, feeling the warmth in his chest at the sight of your joy.

“You know that you bring out the best in him?” Aemond says in a low voice, and your heart skips a beat at his comment. You are thankful for the dim lighting that makes your heated cheeks less obvious.

“You overestimate my influence,” you say, then dither before admitting, “I’m afraid I was too hard on him today.”

“Someone has to do it,” Aemond objects, and there’s something in his tone — sincere and soft, that makes you look at him again. At this moment, away from the prying eyes and the pressure of everyone’s expectations, you can see the side of him that people rarely get acquainted with.

“I think you are doing a pretty good job, too,” you tell the prince, finding his presence ever so calming. You could never understand why would anyone call Aemond intimidating when he’s been nothing but kind to you ever since you two met. Whenever you have a chance to be alone with him, his company always brings you comfort, and that feeling is so rare, you want to chase it.

But then you remind yourself of the harsh reality, and your smile falters.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved,” you look down at the book. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.” 

“You need to elaborate on that,” Aemond says uncomprehendingly.

“I’ve heard that you were courting lady Baratheon,” you explain casually, avoiding his gaze.

He hesitates before answering.

“Well, I only plan to,” the prince clarifies. “If she accepts my advances.”

“It would be silly of her not to,” you blurt out and, while you can’t see it, Aemond gives you a quizzical look.

“She may have her reasons —” 

“I can’t come up with a single one,” you tell him with so much confidence, Aemond’s heart flutters at your words but you continue without a second thought. “You are intelligent, good-hearted, handsome — and a really skilled swordsman. Not to mention you have the biggest dragon in the realm, which does sound like a reasonable perk.”

The prince is glad that you’re too preoccupied with the book to see his stunned expression. It’s not just the fact that you compliment him so easily — but also the way you do it. When other people try to, they usually start with Vhagar as if the old grumpy creature is the main good thing about Aemond. But you only bring up the dragon at the very end and in passing, instead keeping the focus on the prince. He is silent for a moment, letting your words sink into his memory.

And then Aemond persuades himself that you only said it out of politeness.

You notice his lack of response — and you are about to question it when a maid comes to you in haste:

“Lady Y/N, your presence is needed. Your father is looking for you.”

“Better not keep him waiting,” the prince encourages you with a grin. “If he finds Aegon, he might hug him to death.”

You playfully elbow him and turn to follow the maid but then stop to say. “Please make sure your brother stays in bed.”

“Will do,” Aemond looks at you walking away, clutching the book to your chest as if it's the most precious thing in the world.

To this day, it is truly a mystery to him how Aegon managed to befriend someone like you. You met the Targaryen brothers when your family was invited to one of the royal feasts. You were ten-and-three, the middle one of three sisters. Your oldest — Elaesa — has been the center of attention, beautiful and graceful, but while everyone’s eyes were on her, you looked a little bit disoriented. It was the first feast that you’ve attended, and maybe you got too agitated or overwhelmed — or both — but soon you ended up lost in the castle, and somehow ripped the hem of your dress in the process.

Aemond was the one to find you. The prince has never been keen on taking part in celebrations, often sneaking away from all the noise. That’s when he saw you — fussing with the dress, your sobs echoing through the hall.

“Are you hurt?” he rushed to your side, and you looked up at him with blubbered eyes.

“Why do you have so many halls? You should hand out maps so people can find their way back,” despite being clearly upset, you sounded unusually serious, and Aemond fought back a smile.

“I can help you find your parents without a map,” he suggested, and for a second it seemed to lighten your mood but then your pout worsened.

“I cannot go back,” you gestured at the dress. “I am in such trouble!” you whined, the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes. 

Truth be told, Aemond didn’t have much experience with ladies back then nor did he know a thing about dresses but your distress seemed so genuine he couldn’t leave you be.

“It is not that bad,” he pointed at the ripped material. “I can ask our seamstress to take a look.”

You studied his face for a second, then glanced back at the dress — surprisingly, that was all it took for you to stop crying, and no other coaxing was needed. You wiped your nose and fixed your hairdo, smoothing the damaged hem the best you could.

“I’d appreciate it if you help me find my way back,” you said, your face seemingly more relaxed.

Getting you to talk was pretty easy, and Aemond shortly discovered how open-minded and outspoken you were, using your quick thinking to compensate for your timid personality. When you returned to the hall of the Iron Throne, he was reluctant to let you go but promised to come back with the seamstress. The task only took him about ten minutes, but when he did reappear, you were not alone — Aegon was standing next to you, making you laugh so hard, it looked like you forgot about the dress already. Aemond didn’t mean to interrupt as he suddenly felt very out of place, uninvited in his own home, so he abandoned the idea of helping you and just left.

At first, he thought you fell for Aegon’s flirtatious charms but soon learned that, as much as you did like his brother’s humor, his charms had no effect on you. On the contrary, you often chided him for hitting on young girls and openly condemned his affection for wine. Your honesty set you apart from all the ladies Aegon was surrounded with — and that was the reason he came to enjoy your company as much as he did. Despite the three years age gap, you were the one who told him the truth, no matter how ugly it might’ve been, but you did so without prejudice or any ill intentions. You would usually follow your critique with advice or a solution of some sort to keep the prince away from unnecessary trouble. That is why you were on friendly terms with Helaena, too, and your influence was also welcomed by Alicent, the then Queen. She liked that you were straightforward with your remarks and often said that you were wise beyond your years. Although, as much as Aemond agreed with it, he suspected there was a reason you had to grow up early.

It happened the same year you met — your older sister, with all her grace and beauty, ran away from home to elope with some unworthy beggar. Your mother was inconsolable for at least a week, saying that Elaesa brought shame upon her family. Your father, the kind man that he is, forgave his daughter fairly quickly and tried his best to restore peace. And yet, you came to realize that Elaesa’s vagary did cast a shadow over your House. Your youngest sister, Alyna, was a fragile little thing, frequently sick and tacit — which left you to be the one representing your family in the eyes of society.

Within a few years, there wasn’t a thing you weren’t good at: lords lined up to have a dance with you, ladies admired how well-spoken you were and shared a laugh at your florid sarcasm, and you learned to embroider, to ride a horse, to walk exquisitely dressed and with impeccable posture. But while for everyone else it was a reason to compliment you, Aemond saw the underlying cause of your diligence — the corrosive desire to prove one’s worth which was something he learned to live with as well. And which led him to think he understood you better than anyone.

More often than not he found himself watching you as if he had the need to make sure you weren’t in harm’s way. Helping you with Aegon was a part of that routine but it also gave him a chance to be alone with you. You talked about everything and nothing in particular, and he would catch glimpses of you — the real you, shy and emotional at times, but still understanding and perceptive. He cherished every opportunity to steal you away from the never-ending chattering, from lords ogling at you, from Jason Lannister whose interest in your company should’ve been concerning. Aemond has gotten so used to observing you, so enthralled with your covert conversations, he didn’t realize that a particular feeling was creeping up on him. But there was one person who turned out to be more observant than Aemond has been. Aegon was the mere reason why his brother ended up at your door a few days later. Aemond’s been to your place a couple of times and he promptly memorized the way to the farthest room of the house — the one you used to paint in. It was the only thing you truly allowed yourself to enjoy, an unexpected talent of yours which you soon perfected, too, except it wasn’t meant for the others to marvel at but plainly for you to keep your head occupied, to have some quiet time.

He walks in when you are already painting the finishing touches. When you turn to greet him, you stop mid-sentence, seeing that it’s Aemond instead of his brother who you were waiting for.

“He overslept,” the younger prince shrugs. “It isn’t a bothersome task to come pick up the portrait of my nephews.”

You point in the direction of the painting with the brush in your hand. Aemond admires your work — as he always does — while you try to shake off your confusion. There is another reason you did not expect to see Aemond today. You tarry with voicing your concern but eventually glance at him with empathy.

“I was sorry to hear about lady Baratheon’s decision.”

“I was not,” he’s quick to retort.

“I cannot imagine agreeing to marry a Stark,” you say, dipping a brush in a jar of water.

“Is it the cold weather?” Aemond grins knowingly.

“Yes! Gods, just thinking about it makes me feel uneasy. All the layers you have to wear to keep yourself warm, barely being able to move, getting no sunlight...,” you ramble, making sure to wet all the brushes before lining them up on the table.

“Some say they’ve got quite a beautiful scenery,” Aemond tries to object although he knows his argument doesn’t stand a chance.

“I wouldn’t be able to enjoy that,” you huff. “How am I to capture the beauty if my paint freezes?”

He only hums in agreement, watching you busy yourself with your supplies. You go through the brushes, delicately cleaning the bristles with a cloth. Your fingers carefully take one brush after the other, and Aemond silently admires your love for neatness and order.

“You are staring,” you say without turning to him.

“Where do you want me to look at?”

“Aemond, you are in a room full of art!” you chuckle lightly. “Surely, enough options to land your eye on.”

The prince lets his gaze go around the place, and it takes him about a minute to quickly examine all the paintings. And then he inevitably looks at you again. Aemond thinks he likes this view the most.

“When do you begin your next great work of art?” he asks, hoping to distract you. 

You halt movement, then force out glumly:

“Never.”

“What do you mean?” he’s taken by surprise.

“I’ve come to realize that I’d never be a genius,” you reluctantly explain. “So I’m giving up all my foolish artistic hopes.”

“You cannot be serious. You have so much talent and —”

“Talent isn’t genius!” you throw up your hands in defeat, and he can sense your frustration from a distance. “I may be talented in other things, but when it comes to painting, I want to be great or nothing. And I am only of middling talent,” you scoop up the brushes, give them a quick look and place in another jar to dry.

Aemond wants to argue, he really does — but he also knows better than to try and persuade you when you are like this: firmly standing your ground, exuding nothing but stubbornness. In any other situation, he would’ve found it endearing but it’s upsetting to see you downplaying your brilliance.

“Hm, may I at least ask your last portrait to be of me?”

You instantly turn to him, taken aback. Throughout the years you’ve known him, he clearly expressed that he did not like being painted, and you only could make a quick sketch or two, at best, when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Alright,” the long-awaited opportunity makes you smile. “Next time I come for breakfast, I will drag you into the garden to pose for me,” you give him a pointed look, and Aemond humbly nods.

Your smile grows wider but you try to tone it down, afraid to spook him, and focus on wiping the nearest table.

“What are you going to do with your life in the meantime?” he changes the subject.

“Polish up my other skills and become an ornament to society,” you sigh, putting the cloth away.

There’s a brief pause before he says, his voice a bit strained:

“Here is where Jason Lannister comes in, I suppose?”

You say yes but the answer comes a little bit too fast, and Aemond notices that the topic makes you uncomfortable.

“But you are yet to be betrothed to him,” he clarifies, gaze fixed on you.

“I will be if he proposes,” your eyes meet his, and you are sure that there’s a shadow of disapproval on his face that only spurs your stubbornness. You fully turn to the prince to say: “I always knew I had to marry well, I do not feel ashamed of that.”

But Aemond isn’t looking for a fight — he swiftly corrects himself:

“There is nothing to be ashamed of. As long as...” — he can barely bring himself to say it — “As long as you love him.”

For the reason unknown to Aemond, his statement brings a bleak smile to your face.

“I believe we can have some power over who we love,” you object, lowering your gaze for a second as you start absentmindedly twisting the ring on your finger.

“I think the poets would disagree,” he chuckles, trying to defuse the unexpected tension. 

But when you look up at him, your glare is as obdurate as ever.

“Well, I am not a poet, I am just a woman,” you rebut crisply. “And as a woman, I have no illusions about my prospects which do not include me earning a living to support my family. And my parent’s fortune has its limits as I’ve come to learn. Hence why, if I want to have children — I do — and be able to provide them with everything they wish for, I must rely on my husband,” that last word is pronounced with disappointment. “So don’t stand here and tell me that marriage isn’t an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you but it certainly is for me.”

Had he not known you, Aemond would’ve been very impressed — with how blunt and witty you are, you are very good at delivering speeches. But as he’s standing in front of you, watching your face, he senses that your determination is akin to despair. Aemond thinks he might take a chance at arguing with you, after all — but you’re both startled by a knock on the door:

“Lady Y/N, Ser Lannister just arrived.”

You look baffled for a second, your confidence crumbling.

“Why would he — I, I didn’t expect him today,” you mumble, almost ashamed of his arrival.

Yet you pull yourself together faster than Aemond can come up with a reason for you to stay. You remove your apron and quickly examine your dress, then move to put on a cape.

“Did I miss any paint stains?” you ask Aemond in a haste.

“No,” he looks over the flowing material of your neat dress, your hair knotted up high — and then, “...Wait!”

You stop abruptly while he grabs a clean cloth.

“There is something on your cheek,” he says as you both step toward each other — and in the next second you are suddenly standing too close. 

You turn to him and shyly shut your eyes, taking a deep breath. Aemond is frozen for a moment but then carefully wipes away a slight smudge of green from under your cheekbone. His hand unwillingly lingers as he examines the delicate features of your face. You open your eyes, looking at the prince questingly. His facial expression is unreadable but it makes you wish you didn’t have to go.

You brush away that silly thought and stand back, fixing your cape.

“How do I look? Do I look alright?”

“You look beautiful,” Aemond says with no hesitation, taking you in — with your cheeks a bit flushed, lip parted and eyes shining. “You are beautiful.”

You seem a bit bewildered at his words but then a smile grows on your face — and in a blink of an eye, you’re gone. The prince is left standing there, staring at the spot where you were just now. The room suddenly feels so empty without you — and so does his heart.

The realization strikes Aemond like lightning: he wants to be the one you come to, at all times. The one holding your hand, watching you paint, or read, or dance — watching you do whatever your heart desires. Because his only desire is to be with you. That thought puts down roots deep into his chest, and he doesn’t know how to pluck it out.

Nor does he want to. It’s all he can think about for the duration of the week, until you come to the castle — with canvas and supplies, not hiding your excitement. He almost forgot about his promise but follows you into the garden without objection. You sense a slight change in Aemond’s behavior, him being more quiet than usual, but decide not to push the prince so he won’t reconsider.

“I will start with a sketch and then we will go from there. Alright?” 

He just hums in response while looking at you but you are unaware of the meaning behind his gaze.

“Take any pose you like, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” you suggest with a half-smile, knowing full well he will probably remain standing.

And he does, arms clasped behind his back, his eye never leaving your face. You immerse in the process too quickly to be bothered, the piece of charcoal in your hand sliding over the paper, leaving lines and shadows. Drawing Aemond is an effortless task, and you can only enjoy how easy it is to sketch the sharp contours of his face and his lean body. The simplicity can also be explained by the fact that you've already memorized all the details by heart: the curves of his cheekbones and his lips, the flow of his silver hair, the shape and cut of his eye.

When you are finally satisfied, you can’t tell if it’s been an hour or three, and the prince, as it seems, hasn’t moved a muscle. At this point, Aemond’s demeanor does worry you yet you blame it on his nervousness.

“Want to take a look?” you hand him a few sketches. “Mind you, I’m not finished so please don’t judge too harshly —”

“I could never,” his hand brushes yours when he takes the drawings.

Aemond has seen your works before but it’s a whole new experience when he’s the one being portrayed. He almost doesn’t recognize himself — you didn’t miss a single feature of his yet somehow this version of him looks too beautiful to be real. He is at a loss for words until he spots that there's another drawing hidden underneath. It’s a sketch of him sitting, both arms on the table, his face looks like he’s deep in his thoughts.

“When did you do this one?”

“After the coronation,” the memory makes you smile. “Made my poor father lug around with charcoal in his pockets while he was trying to keep up the conversation with Ser Lannister.”

It was the day you got introduced to Jason. You were supposed to be by his side, with your charming smile and polite talks, yet you spend your time drawing Aemond. He can imagine your gaze focused on the piece of paper, the way you must’ve been looking at him to capture every detail and movement — all of that without him asking to, without him even noticing. There is so much care in that act, he is unexpectedly moved by it.

The words leave his mouth before he can think them over:

“Don’t marry him.”

His request makes your hands tremble, and you drop the piece of charcoal, slowly looking up at Aemond, the smile disappearing from your face. He did not mean that, you must’ve misunderstood.

“...What?”

Aemond turns to you, looking you straight in the eyes.

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, helplessly and desperately.

“Why?” you ask in disbelief, suddenly having trouble breathing. The only reason you can think of sounds delusional, close to impossible. You wait for him to come up with some clever explanation — instead, he comes closer to you, his gaze so warm it makes your cheeks burn.

“You know why,” Aemond says and his hand gently lands on yours. You look down at it, perplexed, your mouth opening and closing, heart rate speeding up.

He keeps his eye on your face as he waits for your reply. You are not repulsed nor angry — which is supposed to be a good sign — but the reaction he gets is actually worse than that. Because when you finally glance at him, you look hurt.

“No,” you yank away your hand as if his touch stung. “No, Aemond, you are being mean, stop it,” you take a step back, your eyes glossy and lips tight. The look you give causes him physical pain — while you are trying your best to fight back the tears.

His intelligence clearly fails him because Aemond has no clue what’s going on. He feels like there is a deeper meaning to your words but he does not get it.

“Why am I being mean?” he asks incredulously as you slowly continue putting more distance between you two.

You don’t even realize you are doing it — it’s almost an urge to not be in his presence, for the first time ever. The weight of his words feels suffocating and merciless. How easy it is for him to toy with your emotions, you think, and that cruelty of his — as you see it — wounds you so deeply, he might as well put a torch to your heart.

“I have felt like everyone’s second choice my entire life,” you bemoan, not being able to keep your agony bottled up any longer. “In everything, no matter how hard I’ve worked to be better. I thought you out of all people would understand that,” you sound raspy, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

“So I will not be the person you settle for just because your first marriage proposal was turned down,” only when your voice shudders, Aemond finally understands how wrongfully you interpreted his intentions.

But you are out of his reach already — at least ten feet away from him, and the distance separates you like a giant chasm.

“No, I won’t. I can’t,” you are hurting so much, your feelings spill out like blood from a wound. “I can’t do it. Not when I have spent years loving you.”

His breathing hitches as your confession pierces through his chest — and he is left speechless, deafened by it. The moment slips through his fingers with unforgiving pace: you were standing so close only a minute ago — and now you are turning your back to him, rushing away. The last thing he sees is how broken you look, your shoulders slumped and eyes brimming with tears. 

Aemond stands, shocked and paralyzed until it’s too late — the garden is silent with your absence and the only evidence of you being there is your supplies scattered on the ground. Your words are ringing in his head, his heart heavy with a dreadful feeling.

He was afraid he would never have you — but he actually could have.

If only he wasn’t so blind.

➡ Part 2

yes, this is me blabbing again: I’ve watched this movie an embarrassing amount of times, and I’ve wanted to write a fic based on it for a few months. I did rephrase a couple of quotes but still tried my best to do the story justice. my apologies for the angst — just so you know, it was painful to write. also, will I ever stop using friends to lovers trope? only time will tell! (I probably won’t, though) I know there is a very heartwarming fic by aemonds-war-crime that was also based on “Little women” and it’s only fair that I link it as well!

tagging @greenowlfactif because you asked 💙 comments and opinions are VERY welcomed! 🥺 🎨 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

[voxasks]

*gets down on one knee*

Voxy my beloved will you be my world and my handsome husband?

—  vox  bows  down.  he  tilts  your  chin  up  with  his  index  finger. "i  like  the  way  you  lavish  me,  dear.  i'm  afraid  i'm  gonna  need  you  to  speak  up  for  me.  what  was  that  sweetheart?"

[markhoffmans-certified-slut]

Ghostface | Pt.1

Pairing: Ghostface x female!reader

Prompt/summary: Being home alone was supposed to be the highlight of your week, but instead of a relaxing night off from work with the house to yourself, you’re tormented by a mysterious masked figure. Thinking that you were going to find yourself dead, you did what the man said in hopes of ending up alive. Instead you find yourself in a whirlwind of emotions with the man that claims he knows you. 

Word count: 4.2K

Warnings/contents: Smut: Fingering and oral, unprotected sex. Strong language. 

Notes: Unrealistic, just how I like my smut. Is this boring or have I proofread and changed things too many times that now I hate it?

You can read part 2 here!

<>~<>~<>

The actress on the television screamed loudly, waking you from your light slumber. With a yawn, you stretched your arms out above your head and barely made the effort to peek open your eyes. The room was completely dark other than the light from the television. The original Halloween movies had been on your ‘to-watch list’ for quite some time now, and you decided to take your first day off in a few weeks to finally sit down, relax, and watch them. 

Unfortunately, working so many consecutive hours had made you so exhausted that you fell asleep near the beginning of the movie. 

With a sleepy groan, you sat up and looked at the mess that was on the coffee table in front of you. An opened, half-empty can of soda sat beside empty take-out containers of leftover food from the other night. You stood, grabbing the trash and bringing it to the empty garbage can in the kitchen and headed for the sink to wash your hands in cold water, hoping that it may wake you up. 

That was how that worked, right?

Your phone started to ring on the kitchen counter; you had left it there earlier in the night, knowing that nothing was going to distract you from the movie series. You assumed that it was simply your mother, calling in to check on the house and yourself. It was only 9 o’clock at night and you knew that she was worried about you. Despite being a fully grown adult yourself, this was the first time that you had ever been alone for so long. 

However, it was hard to enjoy your week alone in the house when she was always calling. 

By time that you dried your hands and made it to the counter, the call had ended. An unknown number popped up on your screen, along with a few messages from your friend about this guy that she was interested in. You leaned against the counter, clicking her messages and going to reply to her ramblings: “The way his hair smells is heavenly, (y/n)” was the last text you had received. 

You chuckled and quickly typed out a response: “Why do you even know that?” 

Before you could even turn your phone off, bubbles on her end of the chat thread popped up: “We’re studying together tonight, remember?” (You hadn’t) “I need you! Where have you been??” 

You replied quick: “Asleep. Work has been draining me. I say just go for it.” You watched the bubbles in a trance, but before her message came through you were cut out of your thoughts by the sight of your own face when the screen darkened as another call came in. Your eyes darted to the top of the screen, expecting to see your mothers contact photo, but instead you frowned. 

“No called ID?” You asked aloud, though you assumed that it would stop in a second; you had been getting a lot of spam calls recently and that was often how they came through to you and then left a voicemail about your crippling debt— that you didn’t have. When the call didn’t stop after a few rings, you decided to answer it, knowing they’d leave you a voicemail anyways; maybe telling them to fuck off would get you off their list for being rude at whatever time it was there. “What?” You spoke plainly, assuming that a computer like voice of some overworked and underpaid person was going to be on the other end of the line. 

Instead, you were met with a distorted male voice that you had never heard before. 

“Hello, (y/n).” You frowned again, wondering if one of your friends was trying to play a prank on you; it was the most logical thought you could come up with at the moment. 

“Who is this?” 

“I’ll give you three guesses.” You paused for a moment, wracking your brain for one of your friends that would want to do this at 9 o’clock at night on your only night off in weeks. 

“Randy?” 

“No.” 

“Stu?” 

“Nope.” 

“Tatum? Sidney?” The sound of them tutting their tongue on the other end cut you off. 

“I said you get three guesses.” 

“And I was wrong on all of them, I obviously don’t even know you. So are you going to tell me who you are or what?” You asked irritably. You didn’t want to play any of their games tonight. 

“I was going to, but now you’ve broken the rules.” 

“Alright, well I’m gonna hang up then. Call me back when you decide to lose the voice.” You went to bring your phone away from your ear before the voice spoke again, this time in a softer, smoother tone. 

“Hey— wait. Don’t hang up.” You sighed and walked towards the sofa again. “What are you doing all alone tonight?” You were going to answer before you hesitated, even stopping your movement. 

How did he know you were alone? It had to be someone you were close to. It couldn’t be your friend— she was with that guy. Nothing would keep her from him. Mustering your bravest tone, you spoke again. 

“I’ll tell you when you tell me who the fuck you are.” Again, the stranger tutted their tongue. 

“Someone sure doesn’t have any manners.” Your phone buzzed against your face from the messages that your friend was sending you, but you were far too distracted to think about replying right now. “Shouldn’t you be nicer to people that you don’t know?” When you were quiet, the stranger spoke again. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What is this— Saw?” You scoffed. “I’m not going to wake up in some death trap am I? I’d like to keep my skull in-tact, not ripped apart by some skull-crusher-doodad-two-hundred-fifty-three.” A chuckle emitted from the stranger— it made your arm break out in goosebumps. 

Who was this prick?

“I want you to answer a few simple questions. If you win, you get a prize. If I win, I do.” 

“What’s my prize?” 

“You’ll find out if you win.” Before you could speak, the stranger cut you off. “Question one: who was Dr. Lawrence locked in the bathroom with in the first Saw movie.” With a sigh, you decided to play along. What was the worst that happened? It was probably just some fifteen year old kid and his friends doing prank calls to whoever answered. 

“Adam.” 

“Very good.” The stranger praised you. “Who created Pet Cemetery?” 

“Stephen King,” you answered as if the person on the other line should have given you something harder. “How many questions is there going to be?” 

“Almost there.” He spoke. “When did the original Halloween come out?” You glanced towards the movie case that was sitting on the television stand; how would he know if you cheated? 

Instead, you trusted your memory. 

“1978…?” Things were quiet for a moment; did you get it wrong? You were about to reach for the case when the stranger spoke up again. 

“You sure know your movies.” 

“They were easy questions.” 

“Bonus round: where am I?” He spoke, ignoring you. 

You scoffed. 

“Let me think— your house?” Your eyes rolled, but he spoke again— this time in a tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You weren’t sure why, but you suddenly got an intense feeling of pure dread that only the horror of the unknown could duplicate. 

“No. Try again.” 

“A creepy alleyway?” 

“Closer than that.” You swallowed hard and peeked out of the door to your backyard. It was pitch black and the reflection from the television was the only thing you could see. “Warmer.” Your breath audibly hitched in your throat. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

“Closer than that.” Wordlessly, your mouth dry and cottony, you stood and crept towards the backdoor. You flipped the light on and looked around. “I said that I was closer than that.” You were afraid to turn your back on the window, but the sudden fear that he was right behind you crept up your spine; you eyed your reflection in the window and tried seeing behind you in case he popped out of nowhere. 

“What is this? Good luck guessing exactly what I’m doing to try and freak me out?” The person on the other end of the line didn’t respond, but you knew that he was still there. You clenched your jaw and turned, looking around your perfectly quiet house. Your eyes locked onto the pantry that was in the kitchen. 

There was no way that he was in here, right? You would have known. 

But your nap. You were asleep for the good half of two hours. He could have snuck into your house without you even knowing. 

But wouldn’t you be able to hear him clearly if he was in the house let alone in the pantry? 

Still, worry itched at the back of your throat as you took a few tentative steps towards the walk-in pantry. You had to know. 

Your hands were clammy as you reached for the handle and quickly slammed it open. A breath left you when there was nothing there but a few bags of cereal, chips, and dry foods in there. Your body started to relax before a devious chuckle made your entire being stiffen once again. 

“Try again.” 

“If you’re in my fucking house I’m going to kill you.” You spoke, knowing that the only thing you really had to defend yourself was all the way upstairs by your bed. A metal baseball bat that you had always dreamed of slamming into someones kneecaps. 

But he wouldn’t know you were defenseless, would he? 

“How will I give you your prize if you kill me?” The strangers voice was patronizing. 

“What if I don’t want what you have to give me?” 

“You don’t get to choose.” Things were quiet for a moment before you spoke again. 

“Are you in a closet?” 

“No.” 

“Under a bed?” 

“No.” Your eyes landed on the basement door; it was mostly for storage, but it was unfinished and it had always scared you. Ever since you were little you’d hated going down there. 

“Are you in the basement?” 

“No.” 

“You wouldn’t tell me if I guessed right, would you?” Your voice was low, almost breathless now. 

“No.” 

“I don’t want to play your games anymore.” 

“You don’t get that choice either.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“You failed that game before; do you really want to again?” 

“I’m gonna call the cops.” 

“They won’t be here by the time I get to you.” 

“What do you want?” You asked, trying not to sound desperate as your voice strained. 

“You.” His words were simple and completely unhelpful. 

“Me? To what? Be dead? Strung up like a Halloween prop?” The stranger hummed for a moment as if he was thinking. 

“Close enough.” 

“Why don’t you just come out and kill me already? You know nobody else is home.” 

“I know everyone is gone for the week.” Was all he said. 

“Do I know you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then what’s to stop me from going to the cops when I find out exactly who you are— because I will find out.” 

“If you do that, I’ll have to kill you— and I don’t want to do that. I always have my eyes on you, (y/n). Always.” The floorboards in the other room by the front door creaked, and you couldn’t help but feel as if that was on purpose. You swallowed the lump in your throat, grasping one hand against the flat wall and creeping towards the hallway. Nobody was in there. 

“Would you just come out? Please? I’d like to think that I deserve to see you if you’re going to kill me.” 

“Not tonight. If you behave, maybe never.” 

“There’s nothing I can do anyways. You know I don’t have anything to hurt you with and you’re clearly ready for anything I could possibly do. Just come out.” Things were silent for a moment, so you spoke again. “Please? I… I guess I’m ready for my prize. I won, right?” You looked around the room when floorboards creaked again, but you were alone. Things were deadly quiet in the house. “Hello?” You had previously heard quiet breathing on the other end of the line: now, there was nothing. 

You pulled your phone back from your face and sighed when you saw it light up to the text messages from your friend. Your legs were frozen to the ground as you shoved your phone into your pocket. You faced a doorway, but your back was to another. 

Somehow, speaking to the man made everything less scary. At least you would have had a better chance to know when he was getting closer. Now you were left in dead silence, only hearing the wind howling outside. 

Terror like you had never felt before made your nipples harden when the floorboards behind you creaked. Your breath was quick to pick up in heaves as you slightly turned your head to the side. You knew that he was behind you now, but you couldn’t move. Your hands shook as you forced your eyes shut, squeezing them tightly, waiting for something— anything— to happen. 

But nothing did. The suspense was eating away at your skin. 

With one quick, bold movement, you turned and moved to the side to press your back against the wall by the staircase. You were hoping that there would be nothing there like before, but instead you were faced with a tall, masked figure in a Halloween costume you had seen in the store earlier this month. He stood only a few feet away from you with a knife glistening in his gloved hand. 

“Fuck… shit… fuck…” You mumbled beneath your breath. “This is some kind of a prank, isn’t it?” Your heart jumped when the figure took a slow step towards you. “What are you going to do to me?” You asked, angry with yourself for how fearful your voice sounded. You knew that it was just what the man wanted. “If my prize is getting gutted, I don’t want it.” As you spoke, the knife seemed to disappear up the sleeve of the costume he wore as he took another step closer to you. “I swear to fucking—“ 

“You shouldn’t swear.” The man cut you off, sounding the exact same in person as he had over the phone. Smooth and sensual, terrifying and mysterious. The man took another step towards you, only stopping when he was so close that you could hear his breathing behind the mask. “Don’t you want your prize?” Your hands were quickly grabbed by his hand, and when you struggled, his impossible grasp only got tighter as he yanked you close against him. You closed your eyes and turned your head as the mouth of the plastic mask bumped against your cheek. “Why are you so scared, (y/n)? I thought that you weren’t ever afraid.” His voice was low. When you were quiet, the man yanked at you again. “I asked you a question.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You asked shakily. “If you’re going to kill me then would you just do it?” You finally looked at the man, eyes searching where his were behind the mask but finding nothing. 

“I told you— I’m not going to kill you.” You let out a quiet sigh— in relief? Because you had been so afraid you forgot how to breathe? You didn’t know, but your entire body was still stiff. “Go upstairs.” The man said as he took a step back. 

Finally, your feet moved. You hoped that the man would leave if you did what he said. He changed his grasp on your wrist and guided you up the stairs. You were surprised that you didn’t feel the sharp point of a knife against your back. 

The only prize that you wanted was to wake up safe in your home in front of the television and this man being gone from your life forever. 

You wondered how he knew your room so well as he nudged you in the direction of your bedroom. Was it a lucky guess or had he been watching you for longer than you could have ever known? 

When you stepped inside, the light was flipped on, the door shut, and shortly afterwards you were shoved onto your bed. Everything looked normal in your room— it was clear that however long he had been in your house, he hadn’t touched a single thing— or he’d done everything right to keep things looking the same. But why would he care about that if it was just you anyways? 

You looked at the man and clenched your jaw. 

“I don’t think I want what you have to give me anymore.” The man didn’t speak, instead he pulled his gloves off and let them fall onto the end of the bed. You moved back on your bed until your back pressed against the headboard when he pressed a knee onto the end of your bed. The man pretended as if he hadn’t heard you— or maybe he simply didn’t care at all that you had spoke— and reached forward with two pairs of handcuffs in his grasp. 

It was cold as he clamped it around your wrists and then to the bars on the headboard. You looked almost pleadingly at the man as he leaned back. 

“I won’t say anything if you just leave. I promise.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He spoke, pulling a thick piece of black cloth from inside of the robe he wore. He leaned back in as you gave a shaky breath and blocked your eyes, tying the soft fabric in a tight knot behind your head. 

You didn’t think that this could get worse, but being deprived of your vision was the cherry on top. 

Cold metal pressed gently to your collarbone, sliding slowly across your skin and making you shiver. You knew exactly what it was and gulped as the knife lowered your shirt to expose your cleavage— or what was there with you not wearing a bra to hold your breasts up. Within a quick instant, the knife pulled away and your shirt was ripped in the middle. It was shoved to the side, exposing your bare breasts; the fan overhead was quick to harden your nipples which earned a devious chuckle from the man who easily lifted your hips and slid your pajama pants and underwear off. 

You squirmed against the man who was quick to press the knife to your throat. 

“Watch it or I’ll tie your legs down, too.” His hands grasped at your hips— shockingly warm and strong enough to leave a bruise as he lifted you up and rested the back of your knees over him. You squeezed your eyes shut so tight that it hurt, expecting the man to slam his dick inside of you. Instead, you gave a shock gasp when a warm tongue slid along your entrance. The mans tongue moved to press to your clit as two of his fingers pressed to your entrance. “You seem like you might be enjoying this.” He spoke as he was easily able to shove a finger inside of you. “Maybe you’re just as slutty as I imagined you were— getting turned on by a stranger fucking you.” 

You had to admit, it was hard to keep quiet. Despite your fear, the mans finger was pressing just right inside if you and it had been a long time since someone had given you head— especially the amazing way that he was as his tongue swirled around your clit. You panted quietly and squirmed, unable to stop yourself as you gave out a low whimper. 

A second finger pushed inside of you, teasing your insides with slow rubs as he sucked on your clit. You gave another soft moan, your toes curling as the man started to pump his fingers inside of you. You bit down on your lip, trying not to be too loud and express the pleasure that he was unfortunately making you feel— but it wasn’t working. It would have been impossible for the man not to notice your excitement as you squirmed against him— this time not being told to hold still like before. 

Gently, unnoticeably to you, the man grinded himself against your bed. 

This was something that he had wanted— craved— for so long. 

Every little whimper, whine and moan that left you made his cock twitch as he fingered you, hitting spots that made you want to scream out in euphoria. You’d never been able to keep very quiet in bed, but this time you were given more reasons not to; most men you had sex with were mediocre, but even this was making you nearly unravel. 

“Ooh— fuck,” you moaned out, broken with pleasure. Right afterwards, everything stopped. The man moved his fingers from inside of you, his mouth left you, and the bed shifted. The tickle of the costume that he wore tickled you as he leaned over you and pressed two wet fingers to your bottom lip. 

Obediently, you opened your mouth and let him shove his fingers into your mouth. You sucked on his fingers, unable to see the quick lick of his lips as he watched you and reached to grope at your breast. 

Nothing was said as the man pulled his fingers out of your mouth and moved. You heard the sound of a zipper as the bed creaked. You couldn’t help the twitching ache inside of you— certainly not when the strangers warm cockhead slid teasingly against your clit. You gave a shiver and a soft whimper, shifting on the bed as the head of his cock pushed inside of you. 

Once he was slightly inside, he grasped at your thighs tight and lifted them around his waist, moving closer to you as he started to push himself inside of you. The stranger didn’t start slow— instead he was working inside of you as if he had been fucking you all night long. He teased you with rough thrusts, shoving himself all of the way inside of you before pulling back out and fucking your entrance with the tip of his cock. 

By now you weren’t trying to contain the moans that were spilling out of your mouth. Occasionally the stranger would give soft grunts that you could barely hear against your own desperate sounding moans. 

Your nipples tingled as he shoved all of himself inside of you again. This time, he stayed close, choosing not to tease you like before. Instead, he let you give into the pleasure that you were feeling— and clearly returning. The man grunted and breathed heavily as you clenched around him. His constant thrusts edged you towards an orgasm— one that nearly had you screaming as you came around his cock. 

The man reached down, his fingers rubbing your clit— quickly— something that made you squirt around his cock and buck your hips against the man as overstimulation hit you. He didn’t stop this time either, grasping your hip tight with his free hand and continuing to thrust inside of you fast and hard. You moaned out desperately as his thrusts slowly became less methodical and started to become sloppy, but you gave a final loud scream when he thrusted inside of you one more time in a way that made your stomach churn. 

He gave three more gentle, slow thrusts inside of you before he left you. 

The man set your shaky legs down on the bed and moved to stand up. Nobody had ever cum inside of you before, and yet you knew exactly what the sensation felt like right now. The sound of a zipper hit your ears again, and soon after your hands were released from the handcuffs. Before he moved back, he leaned close— his face bare as his breath hit your cheek. 

“Don’t move.” You nodded and waited, listening to his soft footsteps receding from the bed. The room suddenly went quiet. 

You took a moment to catch your breath, hesitating for a few minutes before reaching up to pull the blindfold off of your eyes and down your neck. The room was empty, dead silent as if you had imagined everything. The only thing that let you know it was real was the wet spot beneath you on the bed and the ache deep inside of you. 

Your window was left open, blowing in warm summer air and making the light curtains flow in the breeze as you shakily stood. Looking out of the window, you hoped to catch one final glimpse of the man. 

But there was nothing. Only the fabric swaying slightly in the wind.

You closed the window, locking it and double checking after you shut your curtains, before you moved and sat on the end of your bed, still naked with a ripped shirt barely covering you. With a sigh, you pushed your hair back and looked around the empty room again. With one final, airy sigh, you spoke aloud to yourself. 

“What the fuck.” 

[crystallizsch]

these valentines day cards for scarabia got me blushing, giggling, and kicking my feet fr (also featuring me unnecessarily analyzing them) (i really hope the cards are in the right order i think they are or else everything that i say here will look incredibly silly)

━━━━━━━━━━━━✦ kalim al-asim:

To my dear friend— Thanks for the present! What colorful and sparkly sweets. They look delicious! I just had an idea! How about we eat them together after school? Gifts like this taste better when shared, after all. I'll pick out a good tea to go with them. Can't wait to see you later! ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

To my dear friend— Thanks for the gift! It's flattering to know you picked this out for me! I'll treat you to anything you like in return—food, live entertainment, an item you've been pining after... You just say the word. ...On second thought, no. I'll come up with something myself! Just like you came up with this gift to give me. ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

Hey love, Thank you for that wonderful gift! Getting something like this from you just put a smile on my face! Let me throw you a feast to show my gratitude! After that, I'll take you on a magic carpet ride, it'll be really fun! ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

SO LET ME TALK ABOUT THE PROGRESSION BETWEEN THE CARDS???

on kalim's first card, it's really cute but it also feels just like his usual demeanor where he treats everyone as a friend.

but on to the second card, it looks like he's definitely feeling more strongly enough about you to think "hey let me get you something too!! let me be your genie of the lamp!" at least right before realizing it would be more meaningful to give you a surprise gift as well like you did.

his "dear friend" on the second card is more real this time.

BUT OMG THE WHIPLASH TO THE THIRD CARD

"HEY LOVE" ???? KALIM WHAT WHEN I TELL YOU MY HEART JUST WENT HFDSNSFHDJFDK PLSS HE CANT DO THIS TO ME 💀💀💀 THE "MY DEAR FRIEND" -> "HEY LOVE" PROGRESSION YOUR HONOR HE IS IN LOVE(???) NO IT’S PROBABLY JUST A REALLY AFFECTIONATE TERM OF ENDEARMENT CONSIDERING THAT IT’S KALIM (*denial* *denial* *denial*)

the closest ones (that are available) to doing something similar is jade who goes from "my good friend" -> "my dearest" and vil who goes from "dearest friend" to "my dear"

anyways, the third card is kalim finally wanting to go ALL OUT as a way to show you how he feels about you and how thankful he is. he's literally all about having fun with the person he cares about. making every moment memorable.

kalim's love language is also very much extravagant gifts since he's raised in a wealthy family where everything has been handed to him. that's probably how he got the mindset that gifts are the way to show love and affection because that's how his family did it for him. so the bigger the gift the better he can show you how he feels.

━━━━━━━━━━━━✦ jamil viper:

Hello— I was surprised to see you gifted me sweets. At first I wondered if you were hinting for me to make you something similar... But when I pulled the gift out of the bag, I saw all the details you put into it, right down to the ribbon. It's clear this was a heartfelt gesture. I'll treasure these treats as I eat them. Thank you. ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

Hello— I'll admit it. I'm beyond surprised. I suppose a heartfelt "thank you" is in order. In fact, why don't we meet at the school store after class tomorrow? Hopefully I'll be able to find you something to return the favor. ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

Dear friend, Thank you for the gift. To think I would receive something from you... Well, it caught me off guard. I'd like to give you something in return. Hmm... What should it be? What might you like? Why don't you come down to Scarabia sometime and we'll discuss over a cup of tea. ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

jamillll;;;

on the first card, he was suspicious of receiving a gift. at first he's like "are you just giving me something so i could give you something as well?" until he realized "oh this is legit" and that you’re not expecting anything back. and then he just enjoys it which is hella cute.

on the second card (unlike the last one) he's now like "let me get you something in return because i really appreciate the gesture". here i think he's still genuinely confused that you still decided to give him a gift. but at this point it feels like he's only offering to get you something in return because he feels like he has to just to show his gratitude. kinda like a fair transaction.

it seems that jamil is still like "why me". like, you cared enough to see and acknowledge him to even consider getting him a gift. which i believe is something he's not used to. so he just wants to "return the favor" by offering you to go find something you like :)

and the third card;;;

"DEAR FRIEND" GOT. MEEE. YOUR HONOR I LOVE HIMMMMM

i know for other people "friend" is not on the same level as the romantic "love" but i personally feel as strong with platonic relationships as with romantic ones (if not more) and this hit me HARD.

for the third one he's finally comfortable enough to consider you a friend. but he still sounds flabbergasted that you still even thought of him (and **you** specifically) (like he didn't imagine that you'd even give him a gift).

and now this is less of a transaction but more of like he *wants* to make sure that he gets you something that you'd really like. it's not simply just "hey let's go to the school store and see what's available as a thanks", this time it's "hey i really appreciate that you got me something so let's discuss what i can get you as well. i'll be your genie of the lamp, anything is possible (within reason)"

(original twitter thread with these cards)

[zhongrin]

┋ The Steambird Issue No.517

article commissioned by the fontaine steambird magazine and written by ✾ mei/rin ✾

[Breaking News!] Our Fontaine gadget makers did it again, folks!

A collaboration project between Fontaine's best gadget makers and the scholars at Sumeru Akademiya has resulted in a prototype device inspired by the now-obsolete AKASHA system.

Not many details have been revealed, but as the scholars described it, they are aiming to use the concept of AKASHA to create a virtual space, called TeyvaTweets, where people can communicate with one another without seeing each other's faces! Yes - much quite like a communication device, but one that utilizes text instead of the usual verbal methods of communication.

A few selected testers have been invited to try it out, and if you're one of the lucky ones - congratulations! We look forward to seeing how this new technology will help connect people across Teyvat.

——————————⟡⟡⟡ ✉️ ⟡⟡⟡——————————

Dear <USER>,

𝒞ongratulations! You have been selected to help with testing out the fruits of our labor, here at the Sumeru-Fontaine collaboration project. Enclosed is the device containing the application: TeyvaTweets. Have fun perusing it, and we look forward to your feedback.

��� [ Turn on the device ]         [ Leave it off ]

ps. user manual and warnings attached on a separate page.

𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝟷.𝟶.

you should be able to open it using both phone and pc (it's just a normal website).

clicking on pfp/name/username in a tweet (orange box) will open the profile of that person. clicking the 'x' icon on the popup box's top right side will close the user profile.

clicking the tweet on the main page will open the tweet's replies thread. clicking the back button will bring you back to the main page.

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

there are suggestive contents inside, but nothing explicit.

some of you make cameos under other people's tweets too! see if you can spot yourself ;)

there's a lot of images for this one so the page might load slowly for you, especially if your internet isn't fast. i'm also using a free hosting service from GitHub, so yeah.

in order to indulge everyone, please pretend the tweet reply threads that 'overlap' with one another is a separate world on their own (e.g. if multiple people are flirting with a character and they flirt back in the reply thread don't point fingers and say that they're unfaithful / is cheating / ruin someone else's fun in general ;;;)

tested on chrome & safari web browsers on a mac and iphone + google pixel. crossing my fingers that it works on other devices too...

created for 𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓇𝒾𝓃'𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 (submissions are closed)

might make a y/n-ify version of this in the future bc my brain accidentally fleshed out a whole concept of how it would work, but don't count me on that bc it's gonna take a lot more effort than this and honestly idk if it's even worth it-

——————————⟡⟡⟡ ✉️ ⟡⟡⟡——————————

© zhongrin | 2023 ◆ no repost. reblogs much appreciated. feel free to reach out to submit suggestions, feedback, comments, or if you just want to talk!

◇ taglist ◇ @thestarsofenkanomiya | @genshinparty | @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sophiethewitch1 | @why-am-i-here-someone-save-me | @sunnshineflxwer | @heartonthemoon | @yuutasbabe | @percyval-archives | @carbs-need-more-love | @rebeccka | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @herdrops | @diebischesther | @marina-and-the-memes | @angryhope | @mixed-kester | @shuangxo | @fiannee | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ladylofspades | @sup-zfam | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @nachotrash | @algrimmammon | @sassy-cat-in-town

[planetary]

yk like ship urself w fictional characters

secretly like if you have a sideblog or only friends know or ur just not open abt it on main for any reason or maybe no one knows but u. decide for urself

ho.mestuck and soutth park fans got to this so reblogs off thanks everyone

[xiao-kisserr]

"how do you get your lips so nice looking all the time? especially during the winter" they asked, eyes curiously dancing from your lips to the rest of your face. 'how do you get them so kissable looking'

you smiled and took out a small vaseline container and showed it to them. "it helps so much, especially during winter!" you explained, putting some of the cream on your lips.

once done, you began to open your bag so you could put the container back but you caught them staring at it with wide eyes, "wanna.. try it?"

they looked at you with a look of surprise as they hesitated with their answer. "sure"

you were about to hand the container to them but they leaned in and kissed you. it was a short kiss, lasting no more than a second or two but still your face felt warm, despite the winter air. you were blushing lightly as they pulled away from your lips in an almost hurried way, as if they didn't want to get too addicted. you could feel their warm breath hit your face as they stayed close to your lips.

"strawberry flavoured?" they asked, breaking the silence that hung in the air.

"maybe you should kiss me again to see"

Childe, Kaiser, Kazuha, Scaramouche, Reo, Nagi, Kaveh, Cyno

[warabidakihime]

One More Day

★ characters: dazai x reader | fluff x smut x comfort

★ plot summary: Another day, another opportunity for you and your boyfriend, who is equally broken, to conquer the world.

★ content warnings : mentions of su!cide, can be psychologically triggering, smut.

-

It's three o'clock in the afternoon, and a serene silence has engulfed the whole workplace of the armed detective agency. All you can hear is the sound of fingers tapping away on the keyboard, fresh breezes passing by through the half-open window across the room, and, last but not least, Kunikida and Dazai's never-ending banter.

You're at your desk, as usual, finishing a report that Kunikida had asked you to do on his behalf as his plate is already full. He and Dazai just completed handling a very complicated case, and now you're just summarizing everything for documentation purposes, as required by the client. 

They didn't exactly impose a timeframe, but knowing Kunikida, he wants to accomplish the work as quickly as possible so you can proceed on to the next one.

As you continued to type on your computer, you felt a shadow fall over you and two hands on your shoulder.

You didn't have to turn around to see who it was, so you continued on with your work without pausing.

As your lovely boyfriend proceeded to indulge you with a shoulder massage while watching you work diligently, a smile slowly dawned on your face.

“Aren't you working way too hard, Y/N-chan? If you keep up this pace, you'll become a second kunikida."

Kunikida glared at Dazai from his desk. "Shouldn't you be working? Have you finished your report?"

"Nope!" said the flamboyant investigator, to which his colleague scowled at him as a reply.

"You really should stop procrastinating, you know?" you joked, and then your boyfriend dramatically recovered his hand and placed it over his face as if he were in a theatrical play. 

"Oh, Belladonna, why must you subject me to tedious labor?"

"Because it's part of your job, dumbass; did you even start?"

"Nope," Dazai said with a huge smile, to which you deadpanned.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Atsushi doing the same thing, which caused you to giggle.

"You're hopeless; I have my own pile to attend to, so I won't be able to assist you this time."

"Can you resist me, though?"

"Occasionally," you said, with a knowing smile on your face.

Dazai mimicked your smile, caressed your face, and squeezed your cheeks, one of the few mannerisms he picked up after you two started dating.

"Only occasionally, because oftentimes you can't resist me and my charms."

He's not wrong, but you're not going to admit it, or it would feed his already huge ego. 

The man knows he's hot, and he knows the effect he has on people, particularly you.

"Go back to work, Osamu; if I finish my report early, I'll try to help you with yours; in the meantime, be on your best behavior at your workstation," you say, not glancing away from your laptop.

That seemed to have satiated your very needy boyfriend as he practically skipped back to his desk, but instead of behaving like you asked him to, he moved on to the next unfortunate person to bother, which is Atsushi, the newcomer.

He was the weretiger that you looked for everywhere for weeks. It was Dazai who found him. According to your boyfriend, the poor boy was kicked out by the caretakers of the orphanage he was staying at. 

As someone with a similar background, you instantly felt attached to the boy and immediately took him under your care.

Dazai was initially perplexed as to why you showered so much attention on him. He is aware of your past, but it surprised him that you would be so proactive in caring for Atsushi. A little part of him is even jealous of the fact that another person has your undivided attention.

"I guess I'll let it slide," Dazai joked after seeing you hold a weeping Atsushi after the Port Mafia attacked your headquarters for the umpteenth time. He was somewhere else when it happened, so when he returned and spotted you being intimate with someone else, he was stunned to say the least.

Curiosity got the best of you when you heard Atsushi whining as your partner annoys him to no end. You then made the decision to take a glimpse at them. You couldn't help but laugh as you watched the two, since they're so entertaining to look at right now. Dazai was obviously playing the "annoying older brother," character while Atsushi was his victim of the day.

 *

Night came, and everyone else had gone home to their respective dorms except you and Dazai. Fortunately for him, you managed to finish your report, and so here you are, instead of relaxing at home, you’re helping him with his report.

Despite being exhausted from all of your mental gymnastics today, you still have a lot of energy. 

The biggest reason could be that you get to spend some alone time with your boyfriend. Though you'd go on dates regularly and you'd interact with one another at work, you cherish every moment you get to spend with him. 

Even more so when it's just the two of you.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Almost."

"You can write whatever you want; Kunikida-kun won't notice."

"I mean, if you want to have your ass whooped, be my guest," you chuckled.

Dazai chuckled, and since his chin was resting nicely on your shoulder, his breath tickled you a little bit. You instinctively reached out to him and caressed his cheeks before going up to his hair, to which your golden retriever of a boyfriend leaned towards your touch.

"What do you want for dinner?" You asked him softly

"Hmm... let's just buy something from the convenience store. My treat, take it as a thank you for finishing my report."

You rolled your eyes playfully, turned to look at him momentarily, and muttered, "Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome." He replied merrily.

Time passed quickly, and before you knew it, you were through with the report. After being nearly stuck to your chair all day, you let out a whimper as you stretched from your seat. The only times you stood up were when Yosano invited everyone to Uzumaki Café for a much-needed coffee break and for your bathroom breaks. 

While you were tending to your sore joints, you heard sounds of clapping. Slightly out of your mind due to fatigue, you thought an intruder had entered the ADA headquarters, but when you whipped your head to see who it was while getting into a fighting stance, you saw your idiotic boyfriend clapping as he emerged from the restroom.

You deadpanned, "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you applause for a job well done!"

Tired of his childish jokes, you scowled at Dazai and said, "Gee, thanks. Hurry up, I want to go home and sleep."

Dazai approached you with eager, long strides and wrapped his long arms around you, his hands resting comfortably on each side of your hips. 

His voice brimmed with mirth as he murmured, "If looks could kill."

As soon as he began stroking your sides with his mischievous hands, you felt yourself loosening up in his grip.

The bandage-wasting detective effortlessly unraveled your neatly tucked-in dress shirt. You closed your eyes unconsciously and smiled softly. "I thought an intruder had broken in."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so don't scare me like that; I could have roundhouse kicked you."

Dazai dipped his head and nestled in between the juncture of your neck, making you gasp slightly. Even more so after feeling his gentle lips touch your skin in a kiss: "That could have been bad, no?"

"Yeah?" you said, mimicking his voice, to which your boyfriend replied delightfully by nibbling on your neck, knowing fully well that it's one of your sensitive spots. 

And as soon as a moan erupted from your lips, a smirk dawned on Dazai's face; he was obviously satisfied with his handiwork as per usual.

"Yeah."

At this point, the detective has you caged between your desk and him, and one of his hands has shamelessly found its way under your pencil skirt, squeezing your thighs.

"Stop being a tease." You whined at your boyfriend, whose fingers continued to ghost over your underwear, to which he replied with a dark chuckle, "I thought you wanted to go home?" 

"No," you replied in haste. You then grabbed his face and reeled him in for a searing kiss. "Overtime's not over yet."

-

"So?" 

"So, what?" 

"How was today?"

 Despite how much time has passed, you and Dazai have not gone home yet. Instead, the two of you are sitting on top of a bridge, your legs dangling over the city river.

This is one of your routines as a couple. From time to time, you would go to this particular bridge to either kill some time or wallow in each other's deepest, darkest thoughts.

It came as such a surprise to Dazai when he heard your response to him when he first invited you to his infamous "double suicides". 

He genuinely didn't expect you to ride along and actually accept his offer. And ever since then, you have caught his interest, and at first he thought it would soon pass, but as he spent more time with you, he became more enamored with you.

You were like the flame, and he was the stupid moth.

And then he learned about your story; he found himself falling deeper, and when you almost died in action, something in him snapped.

Images of Odasaku and his final moments flashed in his mind.

The thought of cradling you in his arms while you were drenched in your own blood as he failed to save you scared the living shit out of him. 

Never again. 

He thought to himself.

But despite being smooth with other women, he found himself stumbling stupidly in front of you. He didn't know how to act, because in  a way, it was his first time pursuing someone not out of any self-serving motives but rather out of a genuine desire to win your heart and become your significant other.

And because everything was pretty much new to him, he liked the challenge, and by extension, it made him feel alive. 

You basically gave him a reason to live and look forward to tomorrow.

Your boyfriend looked over the big night sky and took a heavy sigh, as if it were one of his ways of relishing the day he'd had today.

"I guess you could say the look on your face while I was fucking your mouth will stay etched in my brain for a really long time." 

You snorted, "Same goes when I rode you on Kunikida-san's chair." 

"That was your best performance yet." 

You could only roll your eyes at your boyfriend and his silliness.

“Glad I could amuse you.”

The chilly breeze continued to howl in the distance, stroking both of your hairs. 

After a moment of silence, you got to your feet on the edge of the bridge and peered down at Dazai, who was still gazing thoughtfully into the horizon. 

"Is this the day, or do you wish to live one more day with me?" 

The former Port Mafia executive didn't say anything; instead, he stood up and held your hand. 

"Well, committing double suicide could very well be a fantastic way to end this wonderful day, but the sex was too good, so I'll have to decline your offer today."

You broke off into a melodious laugh at your boyfriend's reply.

"Who knows? Maybe we can have amazing sex in hell too?" 

Dazai shook his head and pulled you off the bridge with him, and right after that, he enveloped you in another embrace. 

"Maybe next time, Y/N." 

You gladly returned the hug, and this time, it was your turn to dip your head into his neck and inhale his scent.

 "So, one more day?" you asked him

 "Yes, one more day.”

And maybe, just maybe, for all of eternity.

[osamusriceballs]

The Accident - Part VII

Atsumu x fem reader

Warnings: None

Words: ~ 2k

About: You talk to your mysterious friend and finally part from Atsumu.

Part I II -> Next part

"It's me. I'm okay- please don't worry. I'll be back soon."

"Where have you been? I was worried sick; I've tried calling you all night! You just texted me that everything's alright at 4am, but what's going on? Where are you?"

The voice comes out of the phone, quickly and fast as always, and you hold the phone a bit further away from your ear. "Please, I'm okay, I promise!" You can hear a few deep breaths on the other side, probably the attempt to calm down, and then the voice speaks again.

"Where are you right now? I'll come and pick you up, and then you can tell me everything."

"I'm at the—" you hesitate and then look at the name on the towel and read it out loud. "Do you know where that is?"

"Give me a second." You hear typing noises on the other side and then a little gasp. "That's an expensive hotel! One night costs 500 bucks, and the suits are literally thousands of dollars per night!"

"What?!" you're speechless for a few moments, realizing just how much money Atsumu might own—you are in a suite after all and you definitely did not pay for it.

"It will take some time to get there. I'll be there in an hour? I'll send you my location. Is there someone else with you?" Your thoughts drift to Atsumu, and you hum. "Yes. And I need to ask for a favor. Do you have a lawyer? Or do you know someone who maybe knows someone who can help me with a divorce for cheap?"

"A divorce? Who needs a—wait. Are you talking about yourself? Did you get married?" The voice is so shrill and loud that you almost flinch, and you find yourself regretting revealing that fact already. "I'll tell you the details later. Please don't worry about me." You try to sound as calm and soothing as you can, and after a few shocked gasps, you hear silence again on the other hand. "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes. I'll come and get you, and then you'll have to tell me everything."

You agree, and after a few more times of you repeating that you'll be fine and that you're being taken care of, you hang up. You take a deep breath, and without thinking too much about it, you quickly undress and go into the shower.

It's like heaven. The warm water feels soothing on your skin, and there are more products in the shower than you have ever used so far, but you find yourself drawn to the pretty bottles and decide to spoil yourself. It's not your water bill after all, and if Atsumu is paying for it, you can go all out and spend a few more minutes in the shower. The towels are fluffy and warm, thanks to the towel warmer, and you find yourself pressing your face against the soft fabric and inhaling the fresh and clean smell. The mirror is foggy by now, you probably showered at too hot a temperature, but the warm water just felt so good on your skin.

A soft knock on the door brings your attention back to reality, and you find yourself stepping closer to the pompous wooden door. "Y/n? I put the clothes in front of the door. Samu and I will wait on the balcony; you can get them anytime."

"Thanks!" you respond and hear footsteps leaving the room and a loud sound that's probably the window closing behind them. You wait a few more moments just to be sure that they are gone, and then you open the door a little bit to take the small pile of clothes.

It's a shirt with the hotel name, surprisingly tasteful due to the minimalistic logo of the expensive establishment, as well as a matching pair of sweatpants as well as a pair of socks. The fabric is soft, and you quickly put on the new clothes, only regretting that you have to wear your old panties, but there is not much you can do about it.

You take one last look at your phone, quickly checking your appearance one last time, wishing you'd have the time to wash your hair too, but you'll do that when you're back in your hotel room. You're just glad that you feel clean and warm now.

You step out of the room, feeling a little better and more alive already, and look around. You find Atsumu and Osamu standing on the balcony, both of them busy in a heated discussion, and you watch them for a few moments from your position after you noticed that they are not looking in your direction yet.

They are undeniably related. You can find similarities in the way they speak, in the way they use they hands when they talk and in the way they stand. They are both very attractive—something that you can freely admire now that they haven't seen you yet.

A notification on your phone informs you that your friend will reach you in a few minutes, and when you look up, you see that the twins have stopped talking and instead watch you through the window in silence. You pause momentarily and then lift your hand to wave at them. Atsumu's eyes take in your new clothes, checking you out from head to toe, and he gives you an approving thumbs up and a grin. Osamu rolls his eyes at Atsumu and simply pushes the door open.

"Hey. I'm glad the clothes fit." He comments, and you look down at yourself at his words. "Yeah, me too. Thanks. I appreciate it a lot; I feel so much better already."

Atsumu also steps into the room again, making sure to bump his shoulder against Osamu's when he passes him, ignoring the curse of the dark-haired male.

"Ya look better already. Feelin' alright again?" His voice is still tinted with the slightest bit of concern, and you smile at his words.

"Yes, thank you. I'm sorry for being so weird before. I was just a bit overwhelmed." Atsumu shakes his head and buries his hands in his pockets. "Don't sweat it. That's normal. Gettin' married like this is a pretty unusual thing after all."

"Right. Uhm. My friend will pick me up soon; I'll get downstairs and wait there. I'll give you my number, and then you can call me as soon as you find out more?" You look at him questioningly, and he is quick to fish for his phone in his back pocket. "Sounds good. I'll wait with ya till yer friend arrives." He watches while you type in your number and quickly save it. "Oh, you don't have to. I'll find the way on my own, don't worry." You shake your head, but he quickly wraps an arm around your shoulders and leads you to the door. "Nah, I insist. Where are your shoes?" You let him guide you, his arm around your shoulders feeling somewhat heavy but comforting while you look around for your high heels from last night. Atsumu guides you to the chair next to the door and ushers you to sit on it while he grabs the black shoes from the ground. "Do ya think they'll fit with the socks?" He asks with a frown, and you just shrug your shoulders as a response. "I hope so. I don't want to leave without socks; I don't even want to wear the shoes, to be honest."

His brows furrow while he looks at your feet. "Sorry, I wish we had some other shoes for ya." You quickly shake your head. "It's fine. It's just for the way downstairs. It's okay." He nods and kneels in front of you, and you subconsciously slide back on the chair as far as you can to create some distance between the two of you. "What are you doing?" He takes your left foot and places it on his thigh, and you feel every single muscle in your body tensing at the sudden contact. "Helpin' with yer shoes. Stay still for me."

You're at a loss for words while he slips the shoe on your foot; all you can do is stare at him while he secures it around your ankle. Surprisingly, it fits around your socked foot, and he nods before he lets go of your foot and reaches for the other. It doesn't take him long to get it on your foot too, and you shortly admire how skilled he is with his fingers, and then he places them both on the ground. "There ya go." He hums satisfied and gets on his feet, quickly offering you his hand to stand up. At this point, you just accept it and take his hand, allowing him to lead you to the door.

"Uhm. Bye, Osamu. See you. Maybe." You turn around and wave at the dark-haired twin who had made no attempt to come with you, and he nods acknowledgingly. "See ya."

You follow Atsumu through the door, who seems to be familiar with the hotel because he is quick to lead you to an outrageously big elevator. It's silent on the ride downstairs. You're standing each on different sides of the elevator, leaning against the walls, your bodies no longer touching. You don't really know what to say to him; you're too deep in thought right now, and he seems to feel somewhat similar.

"The exit is right there." He motions to the other end of the hall as soon as you get out of the elevator, and you hum while you follow him to the doors. You're lucky that there are barely people around because you certainly feel a bit underdressed with the clothes from the shop, but Atsumu doesn't even spare a glance to anyone you're passing. The receptionist greets you without batting an eye at your unusual attire; you're fairly certain that you both give a very unusual sight. Atsumu with his formal dress pants and half-opened dress shirt, and you with the hotel shirt and sweatpants and heels from last night. Surely not an everyday sight, but professionalism prevents her from looking longer at you.

It does not take long until you both stand in front of the hotel, just far enough from the entrance not to bother other guests but still close enough to see everyone who enters the building. You both stand there for a few moments in mutual silence, until you look up at him with a faint smile. "Thank you for showing me the way. I'll manage from here on. You can get back to Osamu; it's alright."

He frowns at your words and looks around.

"Can I really leave you here?" He looks a bit worried, and you nod with a tight smile. You really need some time to think about everything. "My friend will pick me up soon. You can go back to Osamu; it's fine, really!"

He hesitates for a second, probably not fully convinced that everything's fine, and the next thing you know is that his big arms surround you and pull you into a hug. You're stiff at first, unsure how you should react, but the comfort and familiarity that he is radiating by now makes it all too easy to melt into his touch and to hug him back. "Y/n. I meant it. I'll take care of ya, okay? Everything's gonna be alright. I'll make sure of that."

"Hmm." You hum against his shoulder, deeply inhaling his comfortable smell, and his grip tightens around you. "And if ya need anything—anything at all—call me. Anytime." You nod, hoping that he can feel your response and your gratitude because you don't trust your voice right now. You know you should probably pull back, but it feels too good to be in his arms, too good to be close to him, so you just stay, and he seems willing to let you.

"Y/n!" You hear someone yelling your name behind you, and you quickly pull yourself out of Atsumu's arms. You turn around and face a familiar face with big brown eyes which flicker from you to Atsumu with a surprised expression.

"Wait—Atsumu Miya? What are you doing here?"

Your jaw drops, and you turn your head back to Atsumu, who looks equally surprised to see your friend.

"You know each other?!"

[techs-cyarika]

Jean “Tell me that you’re mine” Kirstein

Jean “You know that imma be the one that’s there for you when you ain’t got nobody” Kirstein

Jean “You know that imma keep it real with you when everybody fake as fuck” Kirstein

Jean “Tell me what’s on your mind” Kirstein

[nickgoesinsane]

Baby Fever sneak peek:

“The kids are so big now, it feels like forever ago when they were that size.” He adds, sighing wistfully, and traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. The weight of his finger draws it downward, exposing your sharp teeth to his searching eyes. “It won’t be long until they move out. Even Tuktuk is getting older.”

“Tuktirey is eight cycles already.”

Oh.

Jake grins at the look of realization that dawns on your face. It’s a filthy, debauched thing that sets your body on fire and makes your tewng grow tight around your groin, but you doubt. “Do you,” Your lips brush against his thumb as you speak, “want that of me? Another? They won’t be like…” You trail off with a grimace. You are Metkayina, not Omatikaya. Any children you sire will look like your People. If you were to have one with Jake and Neytiri, they would be different, and it will be your fault. You can’t give them children with the slim limbs, darker skin and amber eyes that their sons and daughters have.

Neytiri kneels beside you, her expression softening, and cups your face. “They will look like you.” She says, her lips spreading into a warm smile. “And we will love them the same way we’ve loved our other children.”

“Mhm.” Jake hums in agreement, smoothing a hand over your braided hair. “What do you say, yawntu? You wanna be a Sempu?” The question shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, but your cock throbs at the notion.

[danwhobrowses]

So Callowmoores am I alone in thinking it was cute that Fearne helped carry Ashton to the city? Like there's the parallel also with Ashton carrying her into the Bloody Bridge as well

[keii]

Wished we could've seen Toji be a deadbeat, broke ass, gambling addicted, homeless man for a bit longer...

[diegowife]

“Two Of Us”

A Mini Of Denji X Reader

Reader uses She/Her pronouns :)

Might be include manga spoilers, read at your own risk!

Makima revealed that Y/n possesses a unique gift since birth - the ability to manipulate Hell-Fire. She is capable of generating and controlling flames, despite not being a devil herself, which sets her apart with this incredible power.

Y/n, who is not only my close friend but also my first love, captured my heart from the moment Makima introduced us. She possesses an exquisite, refined, charming, and courteous demeanor that surpasses even Makima.

Her prowess in eliminating devils, coupled with her captivating actions, sends shivers down my spine. I find myself unable to divert my gaze from her. Unlike Power, Y/n does not possess a childish disposition nor is she easily frightened. In times of danger, I feel assured that Y/n would come to my aid, steadfastly standing by my side.

I often contemplate confessing my feelings to her, but the thought of doing so is daunting. The fear of potential rejection and ensuing embarrassment renders the endeavor an arduous one.

Nevertheless, today is the day I gather the courage to ask her out. I cannot continue to suppress these emotions indefinitely. Nervously, I knock on her apartment door, eagerly awaiting a response. As the door creaks open slowly, my heart skips a beat.

To my surprise, Y/n is already dressed impeccably. Why is she adorned as if attending a wedding? I stand poised like a gentleman and clear my throat,

“Ahem, Y/n, will you go out with me today? You know, just in case the two of us want to spend time together? Since there are not so many devils and Makima hasn't informed us of any mission yet...”, It can prove quite a challenge to convey my thoughts to her on occasion. Undoubtedly, I can be quite bothersome.

“Oh? I was planning to go out to buy something. I guess going out with you is fine too..” In a manner that exuded shyness, she gently rubbed her neck as she spoke.

While holding my hand, she stepped out of the door, “Well, where should we go?”. The suddenness of her actions caused my face to blush as red as Makima's hair. Why would she hold my hand? Is this all just a dream? Or could it be that my dream has finally come true? If this is indeed a dream, I wish to share it with Pochita. He expressed his desire to know and understand the contents of my dreams. Hang on a little longer, Pochita; we are almost there.

Walking hand in hand with Y/n now felt like a taste of heavenly bliss. Although I've never experienced heaven firsthand, I assume this is what it must feel like. Earlier, I had to lock Power in the apartment to ensure she wouldn't disrupt our date. That girl truly knows how to cause trouble.

~TIMESKIP~

Presently, we find ourselves in Y/n's apartment once again. The burden of carrying her shopping bag is quite noticeable, indicating her fondness for shopping. Assisting her, I collect her belongings and arrange them within her humble abode. After completing the task, "Denji..." She appears discontented. Did I do something wrong?

“Denji, I extend my gratitude to you for everything that you have done. The time we spent together was truly delightful and it brought a smile to my face”, This made me chuckle. Oh yes, the plan that we executed has been successfully achieved. “No worries, I had intended for this to happen all along.”

It pleases me to see that she appreciates it. Our moments spent together were enjoyable, but the highlight for me was the opportunity to hold her hand..

Despite all that we did, it still doesn't feel satisfactory to me. We engaged in various activities together, such as going to the shopping mall, purchasing ice cream, having dinner, and strolling around the park. However, even with all of these things, it still doesn't meet my expectations. I can't help but wonder what else is lacking. Ugh, what is it that you desire, Denji? Come on, tell me.

As she prepared to close the door, I intervened, realizing that I needed to speak up once again. “Um, excuse me, but I have something else to say,” I blurted out. In that moment, I questioned my actions, thinking to myself, 'Oh no, what am I doing?' It felt as if my hand had a mind of its own. She furrowed her brow and asked, “Yes? What is it that you want, Denji?” Contemplating whether or not to reveal my thoughts, I considered that perhaps she wouldn't welcome them. Today was an exhausting day, after all.

“If you would be interested, I could propose the idea of accompanying me to the beach tonight, around the hour of 2 am. However, if this time is not suitable, I am willing to change the tim-”, before I could finish my sentence, she ecstatically grasped both of my wrists.

Without hesitation, she replied, “Absolutely, Denji, I would be delighted to join you!” Her laughter filled the air, causing my eyes to widen with admiration. She truly is a treasure. Alas, if only my wealth allowed me the privilege of showering her with delightful gifts. We solidified our plans and rendezvoused at the beach later on.

~TIMESKIP~

At the seaside, I found myself by 2 am. It has been a while, yet she has not shown up. What could be causing her delay in arriving here? Perhaps she is still asleep? No, that cannot be, as she never fails to keep our promises.

Not too distant from this location lies her apartment. Engaged in playing with the sand, I suddenly felt the touch of someone closing my eyes. I couldn't help but smile, playfully remarking, “You won't fool me, Y/n.”

In a state of amazement, she burst into laughter and released her grip, “Impressive how quickly you can guess!” Her face radiated joy as she flung sand towards me, yet I managed to evade it. “To me, it seems evident that we are the only one here,” I commented. Indeed, there is no chance that anyone else is present at this hour, considering it is late morning. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar sensation, as if someone was observing our every move, perhaps a homeless individual seeking solace by the ocean's embrace. I could simply overlook it all and fully embrace this moment.

In addition to that, a solid button-front blouse and trousers were worn by her; in contrast, I am only donning shorts and find myself half-naked. As she took a seat beside me, I crouched down. “I apologize for my tardiness, as I had to carefully select a suitable outfit, and may I mention, I also prepared a bento for the both of us!” she exclaimed, proudly displaying her portion of appetizing food.

Without warning, she forcefully pulled me into the ocean. I have never been a proficient swimmer, especially after the incident involving Reze. Although the trauma continues to linger in my thoughts, I must brush it aside. Y/n is all that matters to me now. “Can't swim, huh?” she scoffed, taunting me. Irritated, I retaliated by splashing water in her direction, provoking her laughter as she reciprocated the action.

Observing her silhouette, her laughter, and her facial expressions brings me great pleasure. Following a blissful period relishing in our youthful moments, we situated ourselves upon the sandy terrain and savored the bento she had prepared.

“Denji, why did you choose this particular location out of all the options available?” she inquired quizzically. Pausing to meet her gaze directly, I responded, “Well, it's quite challenging to put into words, but what I desire above all else is merely the presence of the two of us, without any disturbances or interruptions.”

Momentarily pausing to collect my thoughts, I continued, “All I yearn for is to sit in tranquil silence by the shore, admiring the rhythmic waves, listening to the harmonious melody of the surf, and experiencing the soothing pulse of the earth.” Yes, I suppose that phrase will suffice. While I cannot offer a concrete explanation, I did my best. At that moment, I felt her hugging me. Indeed, she enveloped me with her affection. Well done, Denji.

A rush of warmth envelops me as I sense her skin, the pulsating rhythm of her heart, and her embrace encircling my neck. Regrettably, the embrace is destined to be short-lived. She disengages from the hug and gently places her palm on each of my cheeks, hesitantly questioning, “Denji, do you believe this to be a date?”. Mirroring her actions, I also rest my palm on her cheeks and confirm, “Yes, Y/n, all along, this has been a date.”

A mixture of nervousness and anticipation tinges my smile as I gradually close the distance between our faces, and she reciprocates with equal measure. My throat tightens with anxiety. Despite not being my first kiss, I hope that I am deemed a proficient kisser. Our lips finally unite, and I relish the sensation of her soft lips pressed against mine. It is comforting warmth, and I find myself enjoying it immensely. In that fleeting moment, just as I am beginning to savor the experience, that moment until I hear...

“ BANG !”

Rather than realizing the events that had unfolded, I continued to relish in the sensation of our genuine kisses. My gaze shifted towards her, and the sight before me was utterly unforeseen. The tender caress of her cheeks and the touch of her hand upon mine were no more. Her body lay before me, disintegrated into countless fragments, not a single bone remaining intact. The crimson blood splattered across my visage and drenched my entire being. The chilling tableau left me breathless and shaken.

As I stared at the bloodstained hands, my eyes widened in disbelief. I cast a glance over my shoulder, and to my astonishment, it was Makima. I attempted to utter a response, yet my voice failed to escape my lips. “Denji, creatures like you, devils, should devote their attention to destruction rather than surrendering to love,” she proclaimed.

“Denji, it is obvious that you have developed a sentiment for her from the very beginning. Why did you decide to switch your affections towards her? You have kissed both Himeno and Reze, and now you attempted to kiss her?” She approached me and lifted my chin, saying, “Denji...from this point forward, you are under my complete control.” With a smug expression, she departed, completely disappeared in the shadow.

I find myself completely immobilized. Has the circulation of blood in my body ceased, or am I simply paralyzed with fear? I have lost Y/n. Why am I unable to experience any emotions? Why can't I shed any tears? I had just experienced my first genuine kiss, only to witness her obliteration right before my eyes. It is at this moment that I comprehend the following truth:

“In a world consumed by devils and misery, no feelings of love can endure.”.

I'm sorry if there are any grammar problems. English is not my first language :)

Thank you so much for reading <3 I hope the ending satisfies you. If you have A03, please look up my account PortgasDqish. I usually post my fanfic there ♡

[peachesofteal]

sometimes i forget that you wrote for sandman. I love your dream fics

Not meeeee (but thank you so much, so happy you like them), I think about little storyteller all the fucking time. 🖤