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rogueddie · 5 months

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Steve had been watching the kids play D&D with Robin. They were curled up on a beanbag together, almost painfully wrapped up together. It was so normal that no one batted an eye. And the two of them sitting in the corner to watch the kids play had also become routine enough that it was more unusual to find their corner empty.

Nothing about the afternoon, the day, or even the week, was in anyway odd or unusual. Steve had been feeling better, if anything. It showed too. Even Mike had pulled Dustin aside to ask what had him to much happier. But it was just the fact that everything was starting to look up- Max had taken a noticeable turn for the better, the cracks infection of Hawkins was increasingly slowing down and the amount of monsters had slowed down to the point that Steve didn’t even need to join the patrols.

All in all, Steve considered it a good month. What could possibly go wrong?

The room had started spinning so violently and so suddenly that he couldn’t hold in his confused, distressed noise. All heads in the room turned, just in time to see Steves eyes roll back, slumping back.

“Steve?!” Robin says, shaking him. She struggles to get up with most of him still wrapped around her, with how limp he’s suddenly gone. “Steve!”

Dustin is there in seconds, knees thudding to the floor next to them. “Steve! Oh, shit. Steve!”

“Has he just fainted?” Will asks, stepping forward with the others, hovering nearby. “Should we call an ambulance?”

“Check his pulse,” Mike suggests.

They’re all quiet, tense, watching Robins fingers shift on Steves neck.

“I can’t find it!” She sobs.

Dustin, who’d been checking his pulse via his wrist at the same time, yells, “no, I got it! It’s- shit, it’s faint.”

“Call for an ambulance,” Will tells Mike, already heading for the door. “I’m gonna get El!”

Dustin and Robin struggle, but eventually lift him enough for her to stand up. She insists he check for Steves pulse again, beginning to pace, pulling at her hair.

“Maybe it’s something to do with his head,” she continues to ramble. “I mean, he’s been hit a lot, that must have done some damage, right? And, like, I didn’t notice any lights flickering, but maybe he did and-”

“Robin!”

“Yes?”

“Not helping.”

“RIght. Sorry.” She’s quiet for a moment, continuing to pace, glancing towards the door. Mike can be heard talking on the phone. “But it’s gotta be something normal and easy to explain, right? It’s not like… it’s not like Vecna could have done this… right?”

But Dustin turns to her, slowly, frowning. “Maybe. It would explain why things might have suddenly gotten better. Vecna could still be weak, so a direct attack would take all his energy.”

They both turn, looking at Steve. But there’s nothing obviously wrong with him. He just looks… asleep.

“-in here!” Will is saying, rushing into the room, El hot on his heels.

El gently pushes Dustin aside, kneeling down beside Steve. She grabs his hand, quickly closing her eyes.

She stays there for a long time. Long enough that Mike comes back, warning them that the ambulance should be there any minute. Robin starts to pace again, whilst Will bites his nails. Dustin stays crouched beside El, staring at Steve like he’s tempted to try and jump inside his head alongside El.

“He is… not here.” She eventually says, opening her eyes.

“What does that mean?” Robin asks.

“He is not here,” El repeats. She looks as confused as everyone else. “His mind. It’s… not here.”

“You mean like… Max?” Will says.

“No…” El looks back to Steve. “Her mind is… empty. Hiding. He is gone.”

In the Upside Down, Steve wakes up.

His body doesn’t… feel right. He tries to stand up but, as soon as he tries, his legs wobble and he falls onto all fours… but…

Steve hesitates, looking down nervously. And, if the size of the world hadn’t given it away, the fluffy little paws he’s met with do. He tries to move his hands up, tries to tell himself that he’s just seeing things- but the paws move instead. The wrong feelings match up with the furry little body he’s in.

Panic bubbles up, so overwhelming that he gags. The noise he makes, though, only makes him panic more.

It takes him a long moment to realize that it’s him that’s yowling. It’s him making those sounds. It’s him… meowing.

“Woah, hey,” a soft voice coos. “How’d you get in here?”

Steve jumps around, hissing- but immediately stops. Because that’s…

“Eddie?” Steve tries to say. The meow he makes instead sounds curious.

Eddie smiles, awing at him. He crouches down, slowly extending a hand towards him. “Hi there, little guy. You got a mouth on you, huh? Heard you all the way from the trailer park. You must be pretty spooked. Did you fall in here?”

Steve stares at him, amused and annoyed. He huffs, sitting down, before pointedly tapping one of his paws on the floor. He still remembers the simple morse that Eddie had used to flash their SOS to Dustin… he’s pretty sure.

He barely gets two short taps done, before Eddie Is lifting him up. His hand curls under Steves belly, pulling him up to his chest. Steve yowls, annoyed- but Eddie shushes him. He glances behind him, which is when Steve realizes that he’s scared.

Then he hears the subtle sounds of movement. Something… stalking towards them.

Steve realizes, then, just how vulnerable he is like this. He’s tiny. He’s a fucking cat. If Eddie drops him, leaves him behind for whatever reason, he has no chance of survival.

“Woah, hey, hey,” Eddie whispers, startled, as Steve tries to worm his way inside Eddies jacket. He tugs it open though, curling an around around himself so Steve has some support. “That’s a good idea, you stay there, ok? Stay quiet, shh shh.”

Eddie is still, not moving or even breathing, for a long moment.

Eventually, he heaves a great sigh, gently prying Steve out from inside his jacket. He's careful to support him whilst holding him up for inspection, one hand around his chest and under his front... legs? But he has his other hand flat underneath him to sit on.

"You're so fluffy," Eddie mumbles, turning Steve around. "And clean. Where did you even come from?"

Steve grumbles, trying his hardest to glare.

It just makes Eddie laugh. "You're a fiesty little thing, aren't you?"

He pulls Steve closer, propping him up against his chest, starting to walk... deeper into the forest.

Steve tries to make his confusion clear, though he's not sure it works.

"It's ok, I have a little base set up at Harringtons place," Eddie explains, absentmindedly petting Steves head. "Not many vines there, so it's pretty safe."

Steve tries to wriggle around at the mention of his name, bringing a paw up to pat at Eddies chest, urgently.

"Hey, sh, it's ok," Eddie coos, stroking him from head to butt- Steve hates how much it does sooth him. "You're ok. I'll find you something to eat, ok? You're gonna be fine." Eddie glances down at him, humming. "I should name you, shouldn't I?"

Steve feels his ears droop. He's sure that Eddie will insist on giving him some D&D name, or some other nerd-

"Stevie," Eddie says, grinning at how quickly Steve perks up. "You're just like him, you know? Pretty, fluffy, soft... but also, a little bitchy."

Pretty?

"I shouldn't bore you with stories of old high school crushes though, should I, kitty?"

Steve meows, jumping up. He's too curious now.

Eddie laughs. "Alright, alright... but it's a long story! Don't say I didn't warn you. It starts in 83, he was a year below me..."

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #ficlet #unfinished

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loveinhawkins · 3 months

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ao3

About twenty minutes into the hike, Steve hears Eddie’s breathing change.

They’re bringing up the rear, but they’re still close enough for some of the group’s conversations to be within earshot—Robin and Nancy leading in a silently agreed upon formation, despite Dustin holding the compass. That way, no matter what, the kids are shielded.

Speaking of the kids, they’re currently having a passionate discussion about who among them will reach the Gate the fastest—and yeah, there’s not a chance in hell that’s happening, Steve thinks, but they don’t need to know that yet.

It’s when the debate specifically turns to who’s the best swimmer that he notices the switch in Eddie’s breathing, air sucked in through clenched teeth. A glance behind confirms Steve’s suspicions; Eddie’s breaking away from the party, his face white, eyes steadfastly on the forest floor.

Steve leaves him be, doesn’t draw any attention to it—but he keeps watch in his peripheral, so he spots exactly when Eddie staggers off, soon swallowed up by the trees. He can still hear his footsteps, though, which is reassuring.

Slowly, making sure it seems casual, Steve bends down and picks up the smallest rock he can find, rubs his thumb across it to make sure the edges are smooth enough.

He throws, hits his target: the back of Dustin’s head.

Predictably, Dustin whirls around, mouth already open to voice his indignation.

Steve quickly puts a finger to his lips.

While Dustin doesn’t look all that thrilled about it, he obligingly stays silent. He’s damn quick on the uptake, of course; Steve can see the spark of understanding in his eyes when he notices that Eddie is missing.

He steps forward with urgency, but Steve’s just as quick to shake his head.

No, it’s okay. I’m on it.

He knows it’s not a coincidence that Eddie left so quietly—that having the kids see him in another moment of vulnerability is probably too much to handle on top of the ongoing nightmare he’s found himself in. Steve gets it; God, if he were in Eddie’s shoes, he’d be taking any opportunity that he could to get some privacy.

Even without words, it’s obvious that Dustin wants to protest, frowning hard.

Steve raises an eyebrow meaningfully. Dude, trust me.

Dustin heaves a silent, dramatic sigh, but he nods all the same.

Steve gestures for the water bottle Dustin’s got in his backpack. Mimes for Dustin to throw it to him.

Dustin brings out the bottle, but doesn’t throw it immediately, like he’s doubtful Steve will make the catch.

Steve rolls his eyes. Seriously? Dickhead.

Dustin rolls his eyes right back.

When he throws the bottle, Steve catches it one-handed as a point of pride.

Dustin’s theatrics grow: he gasps, all slack-jawed, wide-eyed disbelief; Steve flips him off.

Then Dustin taps his watch deliberately.

Steve softens, gives him a brief thumbs up before following where Eddie went. He looks back a couple of times, reassured by the sight of Robin and Nancy stopping and rearranging themselves so the group formation is kept up in his absence.

It doesn’t take long to find Eddie. He hears him first, harsh, bitten off retching—and while that’s not exactly a surprise, the sound still makes Steve’s heart sink.

Eddie’s doubled over, leaning against a tree with one hand. Steve feels a sudden impulse to pull his hair back for him but resists it—remembers Eddie violently flinching away from any touch in the boathouse.

So he just makes sure his presence is nice and obvious without being overwhelming—takes leisurely, even footsteps. He sits down opposite, just close enough that Eddie could reach out if he needed to.

But he doesn’t. He’s barely stopped retching before he’s trying to straighten up, grip slipping against the bark. Steve winces at the thought of splinters digging into his palm.

“Woah, man, take it easy—”

“M’fine,” Eddie mutters. He scoffs harshly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s shaking. “This is kinda normal for me now.”

His head’s still half bowed, hair falling across his face like he doesn’t want to be seen. It doesn’t stop Steve from noticing the evidence of tears on his face; he thinks they’re simply from the exertion of throwing up, but he can’t be sure.

“Just—just give yourself a minute,” Steve says. “We’ve got time.”

He stretches out right there on the ground, slow and deliberate. It takes a second or two before Eddie—after another wobbly attempt at standing—mirrors him: sinking down until he’s sat, back pressed up against the tree trunk.

Steve listens to his breathing. It’s lost that nauseated gritted teeth sound, but it hitches once, twice, and then—

“I can’t stop—” Eddie covers his face with his hands.

Steve shuffles closer. “You’re okay.”

But Eddie shakes his head. He drops his hands, leans his head back against the tree. His eyes are distant. Haunted. Steve doesn’t need to guess about what he’s seeing.

“Eddie—”

“You know the funniest thing?” Eddie gasps out, like it isn’t funny at all. “I keep thinking if—if only I hadn’t ditched swimming lessons, I might’ve l-learned something fucking useful.”

At a loss for what to say, Steve tries for something normal. Thinks back to high school, something far away from all of this…

“You showed up to swimming,” he says. “I remember.”

He does, though it’s faint.

Honestly, he spent as little time as he could changing in the showers, wanting to make the most out of time in the pool. He didn’t even goof off with Tommy H or any of the other guys, preferring to do solo laps in the deep end. It was repetitive, calming; he treated it like a vacation from the adrenaline of being on the swim team.

Then came that November, and the whole routine became an escape from much more.

Eddie gives him a look that might’ve passed for amusement at one point, if his breathing wasn’t still so shallow.

“Yeah, I—I showed up for, like, the first week, Harrington. Fucking Lewinsky stole my clothes, you only let that kinda thing happen once.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely. “I didn’t know.”

A wan flicker of a smile passes across Eddie’s face. “Of course you didn’t,” he says. It’s not an accusation. “You were, like, way too busy being part fish.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose, but Eddie doesn’t join in. Instead his breathing quickens, like the distraction of high school hasn’t been nearly enough.

“It’s just—I should’ve been more—should’ve known h-how to—” He shakes his head again. Swallows. “After Chr—”

He chokes on her name.

Steve reaches out, only to hesitate and leave his hand hovering in the air between them. “Hey, man, there’s nothing you could’ve—”

“What if it’s not a coincidence?” Eddie whispers. “What if there’s—there’s a… there’s gotta be a reason that—that it’s me.”

Steve moves closer still. Draws back at the last second; Eddie’s still trembling.

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says firmly.

Eddie laughs bitterly. “Is it? D-don’t fucking kid yourself, Harrington, s’not exactly looking good. Two people died r-right in front of me, and I just…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’d arrest me.”

“Stop, would you just—”

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta know, even if Wheeler and Buckley are still too polite to say it.” Eddie’s voice is soft in resignation. “I’m just wasting your time.”

It’s Steve’s turn to scoff. “Do you seriously think we’d be doing all of this if we thought you were a lost cause?”

Eddie shrugs, the sleeves of his leather jacket scraping against the bark. “There’s only so many signs a guy can ignore, right? Hell, even my watch has stopped, like I’m literally outta fucking time.”

“Okay, no wonder you failed English,” Steve says, “that is overwrought as shit, dude.”

The jab doesn’t quite land—his barely concealed worry just makes him sound sharp. Fraught.

But Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise, and he finally seems speechless, and this is it, Steve realises, the one chance he has to get through to him.

“Nothing prepares you for this shit, Eddie,” he says—thinks of 1983, of seeing the impossible. Terrified out of his mind. “I mean it, there’s nothing you could’ve done. Nothing,” he adds pointedly, when it looks like Eddie might protest. “Chrissy, Patrick, it’s fucking awful what they—but it’s not—not a, um. Not a reflection on—it’s not your fault.”

It’s not enough, Steve knows it—feels acutely like a shitty school guidance counsellor, only able to parrot empty platitudes. He has to dig deeper.

He looks at Eddie directly, unflinching. Can read the fear lurking in his eyes, the one he keeps dancing around.

A fierce emotion floods Steve’s chest—like being flung into the deep end without warning, the water already over your head before you can take a breath.

He’s felt it before, mixed up in a wave of anger as he watched Powell raise that goddamn picture to the camera.

Don’t you go believing a word this town says about you, Eddie Munson. Don’t you dare.

Steve braves a touch, places a hand on Eddie’s knee. Eddie doesn’t move.

“You’re not the curse, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie shudders. He looks away, but not quick enough to hide the definite tears this time.

Steve waits. He doesn’t move his hand for a long moment.

When Eddie’s finished roughly wiping at his face with his sleeve, Steve hands over the water bottle. He’s silently relieved that Eddie takes it without a fight, like accepting even this smallest amount of help means there’s still a part of him that hasn’t given up yet.

There’s still hope.

After a few sips, Eddie sets the water bottle aside. He’s breathing deeper now, and when he looks up, his eyes have that keen, almost analytical gaze.

“What’s…?” he murmurs, and then he’s the one that’s reaching out, as if without thinking, fingertips lightly brushing against Steve’s forehead.

He feels cold, Steve thinks. Like he’s still half frozen from falling into the lake.

“Did you… cut yourself on something?” Eddie says.

Steve’s about to say no automatically before he remembers.

“Right, yeah. Um, our flashlights kinda… exploded when…”

He trails off. Watches with sympathy as Eddie fills in the gaps.

“Oh,” Eddie says very quietly.

He keeps following the trail of the cut—Steve can still feel the chill of him: the light pressure travelling across his skin, like Eddie needs the motion to stay calm.

“Ow,” Eddie says, hushed, almost as if it happened to him, too. “You’re lucky you didn’t get glass in your eye, dude.”

Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking—that he’d have dealt with it, that he would’ve been fine—because he thinks he understands: that maybe by focusing on something small, it helps keep Eddie here, temporarily blocks out the sight of Chrissy and Patrick’s deaths.

He checks his watch. They’re just creeping up on fifteen minutes; they’d better make tracks soon.

He stands but not abruptly, conscious of not rushing Eddie unnecessarily.

“If we cut across, uh, this way,” he demonstrates with one hand as Eddie gets to his feet, “we’ll catch up pretty quick. Don’t need Henderson’s compass to tell me the way. Honestly, he acts like he knows places better than me when I’ve known them, like, all my life. He does it all the damn time.”

Eddie lets out a laugh that still sounds slightly wet; he sniffs as if to cover up the sound. His smile is shaky at best, but it seems genuine.

“Man, he does that to me, too. What is up with that? Last week, he swore he found some shortcut to the Hellfire room that I’d be totally unaware of, like I’ve not spent forever in the damn building.”

He falls into step with Steve as they walk on, and Steve catches the very slight grimace he makes as he swallows.

Steve checks his jeans pocket. It turns out luck is on his side, at least for this: he’s got a couple of mints, still unwrapped.

When he offers some to Eddie, he gets a heartfelt thanks in reply. But at the same time, Eddie also looks suspiciously close to fighting a smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing!” But the smirk’s definitely won; Eddie tucks the mint into the corner of his mouth as he says, “Just didn’t realise I was getting the full Skull Rock experience.”

It takes a second for Steve to catch on. “The experience—?”

Eddie’s smirk grows. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Steve snorts. “Fuck off, are you twelve?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, halfway to singsong.

Steve shakes his head, half in amusement, half in thought. Sharing juvenile kisses with girls at Skull Rock feels a world away, almost like it happened to someone else. That’s not even why the mints were in his pocket in the first place—not that he’s gonna put a dampener on Eddie’s teasing or anything. In truth, the habit began the night after Starcourt, using a mint—despite his stinging mouth—to help keep himself awake.

Of course he doesn’t say all of that. Chooses instead to nudge Eddie in the side, fighting a smirk of his own.

Eddie acts like he’s been dramatically winded in response, makes a crack about how that move wouldn’t fall under the Skull Rock experience.

Steve thinks he’s getting a handle on how to read him, charting the improvement of his mood through just how stupid he sounds—when smiling no longer seems like it’ll fracture his face from the strain.

By the time they catch up with the others, they’re both stifling laughter (Steve keeps having to remind himself that this is technically a stealth mission), Eddie reaching across to mess with Steve’s hair in retaliation for being repeatedly nudged in the ribs. His hands feel warmer now, Steve realises with a smile, as he pushes Eddie back with a forearm against his chest.

For the most part, it looks like their disappearances haven’t been noticed—Nancy quietly moving to rejoin Robin at the front as if by chance. Steve knows better, knows everything has been carefully coordinated to look that way; as Eddie relaxes at his side, he feels a rush of gratitude for the group’s tact.

Granted, Dustin kind of breaks the illusion when he turns around and starts walking backwards—but what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in entertainment: using needlessly big, questioning gestures, brow furrowed in concentration.

When Dustin widens his eyes impatiently, Steve relents and nudges Eddie again. “He’s not gonna stop til you respond, trust me.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

Eddie lifts up Dustin’s water bottle with a grin and gives a thumbs up with his free hand.

Dustin brightens, replying with a thumbs up of his own—still stubbornly walking backwards like it’s simply his preferred way to travel.

“Gonna bet on how long it takes for him to fall flat on his face?” Steve says in an undertone.

Eddie snorts in a way that can’t be disguised as anything else, though he gives it a shot with the world’s least convincing cough. He gives up in the next breath, chuckling through a, “Steve,” in joking disapproval, like Steve’s such a terrible influence, which just sets them both off again.

Dustin’s probably too far away to hear them properly, but he’s clearly got the gist, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He does a series of emphatic gestures that Steve can’t make sense of; it just looks like he’s doing a complicated mime for charades.

Eddie must get the same impression because he soon calls out with a shit-eating grin, “Book or movie?”

Dustin flips them both off, but he can’t quite pull off the deadpan expression, his lips twitching, and Steve knows for sure that he’s hiding a laugh when he turns back around to walk with Max and Lucas.

Eddie smiles as if he’s noticed the same thing. He jostles their shoulders one last time, and it feels like there’s something more intentional behind it. A touch that lingers.

It’s easy when there’s still a long walk ahead of them—when there’s still daylight—to be convinced that they’ve got all the time in the world. Steve’s become kind of an expert at it: in his head, he could make swimming lessons last forever.

But even that old trick doesn’t last; he feels the clock restart as soon as that damn vine wraps around his ankle, cold and unyielding.

In the split second before being dragged under the lake, all he can think is thank God the kids aren’t here.

The thought follows him all the way into The Upside Down—later joined by the fervent wish that he could somehow summon up Dustin’s water bottle, as his head spins through the hopefully staunched bat bites.

“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie says when the dizziness persists, and Steve barely catches himself before falling against a vineless tree. “D’you ever take your own advice?”

“What?” Steve says faintly.

He screws up his eyes, forces himself to blink until his vision doesn’t waver—braces his weight against the tree with a sigh, ready to push himself up—

But Eddie’s hand is suddenly on top of his, halting him.

“Just… wait,” Eddie says. “Just a minute.”

Steve doesn’t know if it is a minute; he tries to keep track in his head, but the seconds slip away from him, and all he can focus on is each breath he takes, until they lose that gasping edge, grow deeper. Slower.

The world sharpens around him, like he’s been underwater without realising and has finally broken through to the surface. He feels the muted scratch of damp wood beneath his palm. The pressure of Eddie’s hand—not enough to hurt, but enough for Steve to tell that he’s still freaked out.

“I’m okay,” he says, looking Eddie in the eye. Does his best to silently project the sentiment of I’m not gonna collapse on you, I promise. “We’re not far from Nancy’s place.”

He can see a flicker of light just ahead, off to the side—thankfully not spots in his vision, just the flashlight he gave to Robin and Nancy; he’d tried to make it sound like he was doing them a favour when he actually thought it’d be best to leave both his hands free, just in case he did end up collapsing. At least he’d have a chance to brace for a fall.

There’s an uncertain air to how the girls are walking, and Steve suspects they feel a little like him: at a loss without the kids sandwiched between them. Now the usual priorities are thrown to the wind; what do you do when you want to shield everyone, all at once?

Eddie’s surveying him like he’s far from convinced by his definition of ‘okay.’

Still, he laughs weakly and says, “Good to know your navigating skills still work in this fucking hellhole.”

Steve’s hand shifts beneath Eddie’s as he stands up properly; it’s only then that Eddie moves away.

“Not far, not far,” he’s muttering under his breath, like he’s trying to reassure himself. His voice cracks in quiet desperation, “God, how long have we even been down here?”

Steve glances down to his wrist. He’s met with a watch face that’s smashed, jagged cracks running through it so he can’t even read the time it must’ve stopped at.

“Hey,” Steve says wryly, tilting his wrist so Eddie can see, “we match.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes just go all big and dismayed, like he’s looking at something far worse than a broken watch.

Steve suddenly wants to tell him that it’s fine, to cover up his wrist like it’s somehow more gruesome than the wounds on his stomach—maybe it is, because Eddie keeps staring like he’s bleeding out right in front of him.

“Shit, Steve,” Eddie whispers with this horrible, helpless little laugh—almost like he’s on the verge of tears. He sounds like he did after throwing up, trying to say that something was funny when it was anything but. “You’ve had that forever.”

And Steve feels a rush of something still too big and complex to name, flickers of emotion too rapid to keep track of: the initial pang of sadness he’d pushed aside because the watch had been his grandfather’s, after all; wondering faintly what classes Eddie had shared with him, that would allow him enough time to notice something so small, you’ve had that forever—

So what? Steve thinks. So what, what does it fucking matter?

He’d rip the watch off if it’d help, Eddie’s too, stamp and grind them down until they’re indistinguishable from the ash in this place, and who gives a shit if it’s overwrought, it doesn’t have to mean anything—they still have time; they’re owed it.

He doesn’t do any of that, because the ground shakes again, and he’s ready—anticipates the stumble Eddie makes and reaches out to correct it.

They land safely away from any vines.

Eddie’s hand is clamped around his wrist, right at the part where the watch strap used to rub against his skin—back in sophomore year, when he’d always put it on too tight in fear of losing it; “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie’s mouthing, out of breath from the fall, but Steve’s holding on just as tightly, can feel Eddie’s pulse thundering beneath his fingertips.

And it’s so fast and frantic that Steve thinks he can hear it, too, a sound that he can’t get away from, in spite of it all: like a clock ticking. Counting down.

WRIST WATCH The explosive time shackle That never goes off Eternal zero Synchronize your deaths —Philip Murray

#s4 missing scenes we are so back baby #the hike from Skull Rock to Lover’s Lake #pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steve and dustin #eddie and dustin #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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g0dlyunsub · 2 months

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stitch me.

you were assigned to negotiate with an unsub keeping a group of females hostage, or so you thought. turns out he has a partner and he’s determined to destroy you, all in front of spencer.

pairing :: spencer x fem!reader

warnings :: lots of physical violence, blood, mentions of murder, knife threats, biting, general criminal minds themes.

word count :: 1.8k

author’s note :: so… this is my first post, like ever. sorry if it’s poorly written, but i’m all for slightly (?) protective reid and just wanted to write about him :3 accompanying song :: savior by novulent

you knew something was more than just off the moment you were violently thrown into the room. the hostages were huddled near the left corner of the room, their eyes locked onto you as their shoulders shook in panic.

but the hostages were all supposed to be women. brunettes. young women in their twenties. so why was there a young man among them? there was no mention of a young man reported missing in the case files or when garcia had compiled the final list of hostages, so who was he?

must’ve been a gap in the reports, you shook your head and tried to get up, but your left cheek met the cold concrete ground once again.

“don’t move, sweetheart.” his knife was positioned at the nape of your throat, and you felt your breaths become more jagged, more erratic.

“listen, i swear i’ll make it up to you i never-“ your breath gets caught in your throat when the blade presses ever so slightly into your skin.

“shut your pretty little mouth. i know who you are, an undercover cop. if you think you’re so smart coming in here without your wire and gun, you should be prepared for the consequences.” he spits the words with a nasty drawl.

you barely have any time to respond as he lifts you up by the back of your shirt and drags you to an adjacent room. he grabs a fistful of your hair and throws you to the ground forcefully.

“all the other girls in there, they’re nothing compared to you. i’ll take my time with you, sweetheart”. he approaches you while cracking his knuckles and waving his knife around menacingly.

“who’s the boy?” your voice comes out with a slight quiver, but you’re determined not to sound scared. the man lets out a bellowing laugh in response, examining his knife in one hand.

“that’s my buddy jack. you cops surely would have done your research, right?” his hand is now gloved around your throat, and you struggle to loosen his grip with your arms.

this killer had a partner sitting right between the hostages and you and your team had completely missed the signs.

but the adrenaline must have kicked in at the right timing, since you manage to knock your head back into his face and quickly swivel to deliver a kick into his shins and bring him to his knees before he has any time to react with his knife. then you strike him unconscious with a swift elbow to his temple.

you barely have any time to recover, however, when a blow hits the back of your head and your world comes spinning down. before your eyelids slowly close, you manage to steal a glance at the perpetrator — the male hostage had knocked you with a bat and was now trying to shake his unconscious partner awake.

when you open your eyes, you can’t move. your arms are tied behind your back, and your legs are tightly trapped behind the legs of the chair with knots of rope. you were in the main room now with all of the other hostages, and the former hostage was on the ground, still trying to shake his partner awake.

“look what you’ve done, you stupid brat. i swear if you’ve killed him i'm going to SLIT YOUR THR-“ the crescendo of his voice halts with the abrupt ring of the telephone hanging on the wall. he huffs and makes his way to the phone, never losing his eye contact with you. you try to wrestle against the ropes, but your efforts are useless and your energy is at an all time low.

it was your team on the other end. they must have figured out that it was a team of two and not just one.

“your stupid cop knocked samuel cold and split his skin open. send me a medic and maybe i won’t kill all of them here”. jack’s tone is agitated, threatening, and also lost. now that his commander wasn’t in charge, he didn’t know what to do with the hostages, let alone you.

you can barely decipher hotch’s words as they filter through the noise of the phone. “release the women, and i’ll send you all the medical attention you need. we’ll make sure samuel gets the stitches.” his voice is level and controlled. you’ve always trusted hotch and you’ve always trusted your team, but you couldn’t help but let a sliver of anxiousness cloud your thoughts.

and oh god, spencer. how would he cope when you were gone? how would he react at the sight of your cold body, drowned in the blood of the other hostages? tears fill your eyes and you make a poor attempt to swallow them back.

just as you think of your boyfriend, you hear his name through the phone.

“we're going to send in doctor spencer reid to have a look at samuel, alright jack? i want you to let the women go first. the sooner you do this, the sooner samuel gets his help”.

no. no, no, no. NO.

you squirm in your seat, trying to divert jack’s attention.

“wait-“ you try to shout, before jack cuts you off: “SHUT UP! this is all your fault!” he rolls his eyes before he turns around. jack’s knuckles had turned white, maintaining a deathly grip on the telephone.

“fine. but the cop stays with me.” he slams the phone before he rushes back to check on samuel.

the women are released one by one, each frantically making their way out, and you can hear cops outside ushering them and retreating.

it’s only a few minutes later when you hear the familiar sounds of the leather shoes make their way inside of the room. it’s spencer, and he has no wire, no gun, no vest. he’s carrying a medical first aid kit and making his way toward samuel, but not before taking a glance at you.

your world collapses, right there and then. he’s made the same mistake you had by entering without his gun and vest, and you had to give him a signal somehow. if luck was on your side, spencer would make it out alive. but you? your chances are slim.

“hurry up and stitch him up. don’t fuckin look at the other cop.” jack points his knife at spencer, and you let out a hitched yelp. please don’t hurt him. hurt me instead.

spencer gets down to work quickly, examining and tending to the wounds on samuel’s face, and he doesn’t look up in your direction once. jack’s watching him the entire time, tapping his left foot in impatience.

“there. he’s all good, samuel just needs some time to recov-“ spencer raises his arms and turns his back against you, and faces jack as he speaks.

“shut- sit on that chair”. jack motions at spencer to sit down on the chair across from you. you shake your head fervently, yelling constant streams of don’t to him. but he obliges.

“put your arms behind your back,” jack orders, and spencer obliges. you make a desperate attempt and kick at jack to try and distract him. but jack only slaps you in the face with his backhand before aiming the knife at spencer. your boyfriend flinches, and his friendly facade is now masked with a deathly glare.

“don’t move.” jack grabs duct tape and moves swiftly to bind spencer’s hands together behind the chair. you hang your head down. it’s over.

“listen, let spence- let him go. it’s just between you and me, your partner said you only need me”. you shakingly drew in a deep breath as you spoke.

jack chuckles before he makes a step toward you. the next thing you know, he’s grabbed you by the hair and he’s delivering punches left and right, hurling screams of expletives and slurs. he’s lost it. and you were going to die.

he positions the knife at your chest, and you know he'll do it. you know he will drive that blade straight to your skin. straight to your heart.

“STOP. STOP! PLEASE!” you hear spencer rocking his chair forwards, and jack finally stops. you can’t breathe with all the blood pooling in your mouth, and you let the excess drawl out of your lips to land on the floor.

“jack, listen to me, please.” spencer looks at you with pleading eyes, silently signaling you to not move. to not agitate jack further.

“no. samuel said he was gonna kill her and i have to finish what he started for him”. jack leans forward and pulls the collar of your shirt outwards, and bites down on your neck. you let out a painful scream, tears running down your face just as more blood leaves the corner of your lips. spencer thrashes in his chair, trying to shift jack’s attention.

“but i stitched him up. samuel will live. let her go. you can take it out on me.” spencer’s voice is desperate, but there’s a tone of controlled execution, because his voice isn’t quivering like before.

at that instant, doors fling open and less than a millisecond later, jack drops to the ground, his knife toppling down to the floor soon after. the team of cops, along with hotch and rossi, make their way toward you and spencer, untying the knots.

between the yells of “we need a medic” and comforting words of “you’re going to be okay” being uttered left and right, you hear spencer’s voice. it’s seemingly amplified for some reason, and you can’t help but smile. your boyfriend rushes towards you, sweeping your hair and cradling you back and forth in his arms.

“you’re so brave, you’re so brave y/n.” his voice comes out stifled and hoarse, and you feel him grip your hand even tighter.

“i’m so sorry i let you go in there alone. i’m so sorry i let him do that to you, torture you and almost-“ his head buried into the crook of your neck, and he lightly kisses you right above the dried cut where jack had attacked you.

you turn your head ever so slightly to get a better look at spencer. tears coat his eyelashes and his mouth shakes as he talks. a soft groan rolls out from the back of your throat, and you snuggle deeper into spencer’s hold.

“keep… talking. i want… to hear… you.” you manage to let out, and spencer’s eyes widen.

“of course. i can do that. i’ll keep talking to you, y/n. focus on my voice, can you do that?” he asks with a slight squeeze to your palm. you give a slow nod in return.

that’s all he needs, because when the medics transfer you into the ambulance, he’s sitting right beside you, not letting go of your hand, and whispering nothing but bittersweet apologies.

his voice is the only stitch you need.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #bau!reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg x reader #dr spencer reid

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after-witch · 5 months

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Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Title: Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Synopsis: Sukuna wants to eat you.

Word count: 1000ish

Notes: yandere, threats of cannibalism, mentions of sexual conquests

Inspired by the interaction prompt: Sukuna says he wants to eat you. Reader replies: "Ah, I'm flattered, but I'm saving myself for marriage!"

The dual reactions on Yuji’s--but not entirely Yuji’s--face play out swiftly. Yuji’s cheeks flush a pinker hue at your words, while the mouth currently planted in the center of one cheek curls downward… and then upward.

It’s almost dizzying, the way you’re trying to pay attention to both of them at once. Yuji, your friend; Sukuna, the curse currently lodged inside him, of which you can only see a mouth that has shifted location three times during Sukuna’s diatribe about consuming you.

He means it literally. You realized this early on. Or rather, he admitted it directly without so much as a metaphor when he discussed the best cuts of human meat, the best ways to consume it to ensure best flavor, and the way that he wonders if modern humans taste better or worse than their predecessors.

“You would let your spouse consume your flesh?” Sukuna asks, and Yuji slaps his hand over the demonic lips on his face to silence them.

”Just--” Yuji begins, but he cringes--

The lips reappear on the top of Yuji’s hand, unbothered.

“Answer me, human. Or I’ll eat you right now.”

You almost want to ask him how he plans to eat you when he’s currently a pair of lips, but if Sukuna can make the lips on Yuji’s body speak, perhaps it’s not far off to assume they might be able to tear at your flesh.

So you start to think, and think quickly. You keep your posture meek and you even give a little bow.

"Of-of course, Sukuna." You pause. Should you call him something more deferential? It might help. You've gained the strongest sense that he sees himself as vastly superior to everyone else in the world, human and curse alike. "I mean, of course, lord Sukuna. I'd be happy to offer an explanation."

If only you could think of a proper one, beyond your initial excuse, stammered out because you didn’t know what else to say to such an awful, violent, disturbing threat aimed at you from a demonic pair of lips.

There's a moment of silence. Two, three or four. And the lips on Yuji's hand--still there, despite Yuji attempting to literally shake them off--begin frown again. They’re starting to twist, perhaps to threaten you again, when you perk up.

“It’s just that…” You lower your head in deference again. Yuji quirks his head, but you can see from the corner of your eye that the lips have ceased to curl downward. “Being devoured is the ultimate act of intimacy. And if I’m going to be one with someone forever, my lord, it’s only proper that it’s my spouse.”

You fiddle with the edge of your shirt. “I certainly couldn’t imagine some stranger consuming me, keeping me with them forever like that. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be proper.”

You swallow against spit and the faintest hint of bile, before daring to glance up. Yuji’s gaze goes between you and his hand, until--

Laughter comes from the lips embedded into his skin, low and mean. You can imagine, if Sukuna were in front of you, that he would throw his head back in mockery.

And then, Sukuna says something. It’s not a word that makes any sense, really. But Yuji throws his head back and suddenly, he’s not Yuji at all.

He’s Sukuna.

With black markings on his face and a look in his eyes that makes you want to run. Only then, a thought comes to mind, something your father told you when you were little, and hiking in the woods:

Never run from a predator. It only makes them chase you.

“You’re most entertaining,” he says, while you stand there, open-mouth, trembling like a cold wind has blown through the air.

“Entertaining?” You parrot. You take a step back, and he matches it forward.

“Most humans are too frightened to do anything but beg for their lives, if they even get that far, when I threaten to eat them.”

You force your hands into fists and will them to stop shaking. They don’t.

“I suppose,” you begin, looking downward, partially out of the fear of not showing respect and partially out of the way you hate to look at him. “That most people are concerned with dying when they hear you say that.”

Sukuna’s smile widens into a grin.

“And you aren’t concerned with dying, little lamb?”

This conversation might as well take place on a butcher’s block, you think.And you’re the cut of meat trying to convince the butcher to put you back in the freezer.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to die.” You stare down at the ground. He’s taken another step forward, and his shoes--no, Yuji’s shoes--are in your line of vision. “But that is where the question of… spousal intimacy comes in, you see. With a stranger…” You shake your head, feigning distaste. “It’s simply not proper. But with my spouse, well, I would become one with them in a manner far beyond simple matrimony.” You manage a smile, feeble, but hopefully not too fake.

There’s silence, for a moment.

And then there’s a finger on your chin and it feels like cold steel as it tilts your chin up, and you’re forced to look at him, though you keep your eyes averted.

“Aren’t you prim and proper?” He says, low, teasing. “You know,” he says, taking your chin between two fingers, “it was always the prim and proper ones who came the most undone in the past. They were raised to be so uptight…”

He leans in closer. There’s something awful that seems to come with his closeness, a darkness and heaviness that threatens to pull you down to the ground.

He’s going to kiss me, you think. He’s going to kiss me and then rip open my mouth and chew the flesh and--

But he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets go of your chin and takes a step back.

You look at him with what must be the loudest confusion in the world on your face. He laughs, and tilts his head back.

“If we’re to be spouses, I intend a traditional courtship first. Kissing comes later. Wouldn’t that be proper?”

There’s hardly any relief to be felt when it’s Yuji, not Sukuna, looking at you.

“Huh?”

#yandere sukuna #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #afterwitch writes

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skoulsons · 1 year

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daily reminder how much yours truly is going to violently shake and sob at 2am while watching this and hearing whatever bullshit score gustavos created this time to absolutely rip my heart strings out fiber by fiber while I watch Joel close his eyes while hugging her as she cries into his chest and wraps her arms around his neck

and how I will be completely inconsolable watching them make camp and try to help with each others pains while ignoring their own

And how I will shut my laptop and stare at my wall breathlessly while tears dry on my face because I won’t even have the strength to wipe them away after watching Ellie grab his hand while she thinks he’s dying and he grab hers when they’re approached by Jackson’s men but he thinks it’s danger and so he does it instinctively to protect her

im COOL

#im not cool #im grieving already #we have .5 second shots of these scenes #but in reality they’re gonna be minutes long #and my tears will just get worse and I will start hyperventilating the longer they go on for #the last of us hbo #joel miller #ellie williams

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coryosbaby · 5 months

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ʟᴜᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴀ ᴍʏ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ !

Fandom: ‘House of the Dragon’

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x sister! Reader

Synopsis: You seek solace with your brother in his chambers after a humiliating incident with Aegon.

Content warning . mild mentions of misogyny and rape, canon-typical incest, nsfw. 18+, MDNI

Your body shakes as you wander the empty halls of the Targaryen castle desperately. Tears stream down your cheeks, your face on fire, as you make your way to your brother Aemond’s chambers.

Thankfully, the guards to his room have been dismissed and so have the servant girls. Your fists rap against the door, once, twice.

When Aemond opens the door, you fall into him.

Your arms wrap around him, your teary eyes burying into his chest. He tenses against your hold, confused, but after a moment his hands rest on your waist and he pulls you into his room. Closing the door behind him, he guides you over to the thick armchair sitting in front of his desk. Your ripped skirts trail across the stoned floor, your eyes red and puffy. Aemond gently pushes you down onto the cushions.

He’s silent, but his eyes are concerned and you hold your face in your hands. He reaches across to his desk and pulls out a handkerchief. His fingers gently grab your chin, and he wipes away your tears. You avoid his gaze as he lets out a heavy sigh.

“What has our brother done now, sweet sister?”

Your bottom lip wobbles as you try to keep from sobbing again.

“He humiliated me,” you say quietly, recalling the events from earlier. “He ripped my c-clothes in front of all of his friends. He called me a—“

You let out a choked sound, tears filling your eyes again at your husband’s cruelty.

“A what?”

“…A whore.”

Your voice cracks. Aemond’s jaw clenches, and his fingers tighten on each side of the armchair.

“Leave him to me.”

He moves to his feet, but your tiny fingers wrap around his much larger ones as you jump up to meet his towering height.

“Please, do not cause conflict with him at this hour. I beg of you.”

He looks at you through narrowed eyes. However close Aemond and his brother are, it doesn’t compare to your shared bond with him. Any ounce of disrespect aimed towards you may as well be directed at Aemond himself.

“Aegon needs to be held accountable,” he says sternly. His hands rest on your waist, and they’re soft. Not angry or violent like his raging thoughts at the given moment. He will always be gentle with you. “I’m sick of his antics. You are not some— some prize. You are the princess. You are to be respected.“

“Aemond,” you cry, your fingers gripping his forearms. “Please. Another night. Not now.”

He wants to ram a sword into his brother’s head delectably slow. But he mustn’t utter those words to you. Instead, he tries his best to stay calm and focus on your current state instead. Your dress— a purple thing with lace at the sleeves— is torn to shreds. Aemond takes note that this is your favorite dress. He will go to the seamstress tomorrow to have it remade from completely new fabrics, and then he will wring his brother’s neck with the old ones.

But for now, with you, he will be soft, gentle— he knows you like him best this way.

His thumb brushes against your neck, and he mumbles softly.

“You left your night dress in your chambers, sweetling.”

Heat flares in your cheeks at your brother’s nickname for you, one that he has called you since you were both teenagers. You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“I know.”

“I can have someone fetch them for you, if you’d like.”

“That’s alright,” you assure, rubbing soft circles into his wrist. “I would.. would it be okay, if I —“

“Borrowed something of mine?”

You nod, embarrassed, although you’ve slept in Aemond’s clothes many times. Being wrapped up in things of his makes you feel comforted, protected. Safe.

I would let all of these men fuck you if they decided it.

It was something Aegon had uttered drunkenly into your ear as he presented you to his friends, blatantly humiliating you. You swallow down the bile rising in your throat at the thought. How could one be so cruel? How could one treat their sister, their wife, as if she was some object? Some whore?

You shake the thoughts out of your head when Aemond takes hold of your hand and pulls you towards his bed. You don’t take a seat just yet, watching as Aemond disappears for a moment only to reappear with a cream colored sleep shirt in his hands.

“Let’s get you out of this, shall we?”

You nod to him, blushing, and his fingers nimbly slide against your back as he turns you around. He begins to unlace the corset back of your dress, sliding the fabric off of your shoulders and down to the floor. Next comes your underthings— cushion-ey soft fingers trail down your spine as all of it drops off of you, and you’re on fire.

You’ve been naked around Aemond before— this is no different from other times. He’s your your best friend— your big brother, after all, and sleepovers are not new. But regardless, you still quiver with nerves and something else you can’t quite place.

After this, Aemond grasps the sleep shirt and slides it over your head. It drops down to your knees, and his large hands pull your hair out from underneath the neckline.

“There,” he murmurs. “All better.”

You turn around to face him, and for the first time tonight your face twitches into a small, happy smile. Aemond presses a kiss to your head.

“Sleep, little one.”

You slide underneath the covers, piling underneath Aemond’s large comforter. He begins to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off of his shoulders and unbuttoning his pants. Next comes his eye patch— his uttermost insecurity that he feels no shame for when he’s with you and you only. He slips it off and places it on the nightstand. He slides in next to you, clad in his undergarments. He presses into your side and wraps a strong arm around your stomach. You sigh, relaxing and basking in the man’s warmth. Tiredness takes over you, and Aemond presses a kiss to your neck. It’s so utterly soft, his lips pillowy and plump. Your lashes flutter.

“Aemond,” you breathe. “Avy jorrāaelan, lēkia.”

(I love you, brother.)

He pauses, breathing heavily against you. He doesn’t say it back, but he doesn’t have to. You already know that he loves you, too.

Your drowsy body moves of its own accord, and you turn over to face him.

You admire him in the low candlelight. His perfectly tousled hair, the curve of his cheekbones, the turquoise jewel in replacement of his eye. You wonder how different it would’ve been if he had been your betrothed.

Your lips press against his, soft and passionate. It’s the first kiss you’ve ever shared with each other, and Aemond sighs against your lips, finally giving in to your sweetness. His hand finds purchase on your hip, and yours move to his hair. He doesn’t let anyone touch his hair but you.

Shy touches soon give way to the exploration of the each other’s bodies. Your hand trails across his chest, down past his navel. You don’t touch him there— not yet, though the bulge in his underwear makes it incredibly tempting. His fingers travel across your collarbone and skim over your breasts. When you pull away from him, your face is incredibly hot.

“I need you.” you say to him, doe eyes staring up at him. Aemond holds back with a heaving chest and a form of self taught control. He almost gasps for breath as he grips your waist.

“Tell me again.”

It comes out a lot more demanding than expected. He growls it, needy and desperate. You whine, your cunt aching.

“I need you,” you say. “Take me. I am yours.”

He can’t deny you this request. He lifts your leg, places it over his own so your back is pressed against his and you’re still spread out for him. He lifts your his night shirt, exposing your cunt that he had left unclothed. His fingers slide against your swollen clit, making you mewl and clench desperately for him. He rubs slow, deliberate circles, getting you perfectly slick and pliant for his cock. When he’s pleased with how wet you are, he pulls out his thick length. He presses his cockhead against your folds, groaning at the wet heat of you.

“Seven…” He sighs, and can’t help but press into your hole, his cock dribbling precum as he makes his way inside your gummy walls. “Such iā ȳrda, needy riñītsos”

(Such a tight, needy little girl.)

Your mouth drops open, emmiting angelic whimpers and moans as he fills you. He starts slow, deep, moving his hips at a steady pace, savoring the feeling of your hole sucking him in. His balls hit your ass, heavy and filled to the brim with cum that he’s oh so desperate to fuck into you. Your tiny fingers curl against his hip, forcing him to stay inside, to keep you safe and sane. He grunts into your ear, feeds you delicious affections and promises.

“You have such a perfect cunny, sweet sister,” he praises hotly. “You mustn’t worry anymore. I’m going to take care of you,” and then, with a gasp emitting out of him, “You are my light, my darling girl.”

You can’t say anything, only arch against his gentle thrusts and grind against him with affection in your heart. He holds you like you’re made of glass, and he fucks you just the same.

It isn’t long before his fingers find your pearl again, drawing a sob out of you as your orgasm unfurls. It’s strong, nothing like the weak, untouched ones you get from Aegon. No, this is powerful— white hot heat curls up in your tummy, spreads down to your toes, and your ears ring with the force. The sound of you coming undone is what has Aemond reaching his peak thereafter. His hips stutter, his balls draw up tight, and he spills inside you with a loud moan. He rides out his high with your name tumbling from his lips like an adulterated prayer.

When he stills, he makes no move to pull out of you. He lays, breathes against your skin, his platinum blonde locks spilling over your shoulder. Your hand finds his, post orgasm haze taking over your psyche. After a moment, Aemond begins to speak.

“Our brother is a fool, sweet sister.” He mumbles. “He will burn eternally for what he has done to you.”

Your fucked out mind agrees. You smile, basking in the after glow of sex, of Aemond. You press yourself against him and dream of sweet nothings, of a different, familiar husband and children’s feet pattering softly against tile stone.

All the while, Aemond’s seed sits heavily inside your womb and the baby inside you begins to grow.

:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry

#bunny writes ͟͟͞☆#aemond targaryen #aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond Targaryen x fem! reader #aemond Targaryen x sister! reader #aemond Targaryen smut #aemond Targaryen fanfic #dom! Aemond Targaryen #sub! reader #Aemond Targaryen blurb #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #aemond house of the dragon #Aegon Targaryen

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the-modern-typewriter · 9 months

Note

Your work inspires me so much! Could I request a villain x hero where they’re both mutually in love but the villain, is very much a villain and murders people and the hero feels betrayed, and hates the fact they still love the villain (bonus for the villain doing it out of jealousy 🥺💕) don’t feel pressured to write this ofc! Thank you for taking the time to read and have a good day / evening and thank you for the content you produce ❤️

The hero scrubbed harder at their hands when they heard the bathroom door open behind them. Their shoulders tensed. Their jaw locked.

They didn't look up at the mirror.

"You're upset," the villain said, finally.

The hero snarled, wordlessly. Their skin was beginning to look flayed. Red from the hot water. Clean. Not clean enough.

"You know who I am," the villain pressed. "You know what I'm capable of. I've never hid it, never pretended to be something other than what I am."

"You killed them."

"I've killed before."

"Oh, well. That makes it all so much better then, doesn't it?"

The villain stepped closer. They gently took hold of the hero's wrist with one hand and firmly closed the tap with the other.

The hero whirled, wrenching back and shoving.

Part of them expected the villain to instantly lunge; slam them right back against a wall, leaving the two of them struggling. It was worse that the villain immediately put their hands up in placating, 'okay, I won't touch you', surrender.

It was too damn reasonable.

The villain's expression, through the blurry fury of the hero's tears, was too damn concerned.

The hero swiped at their cheeks, teeth practically bared. "Fuck you."

"Oh, I wish that was the mood, right now."

"You killed them because you were jealous."

The villain's head tilted.

"Don't deny it," the hero snapped.

"I wasn't denying thing. Outside of a court of law, I rarely do."

"This isn't a joke!"

"I wasn't joking, love."

"Don't call me that!"

The villain folded their arms across the chest, and for a moment the hero thought they might walk out and come back later 'after the hero had calmed down'. They leaned back against the bathroom door instead, shutting it.

The hero gulped. They took a step closer, fists raised - wanting to - needing to - they ended up hurling their shaking hands back to their sides.

"You know," their voice cracked. "I defend you to people. Did you know that? I tell them that you're not so bad. Ruthless, yeah, but you're not a monster. You have a code. You love me."

"I do love you, which is why I would never ask you to defend me."

"Like that's the point here!"

"Then what is the point?" the villain asked. Calm. Implacable.

"You're better than this. You're supposed to be better. You don't just - just kill people. Not because of me."

"Ah." The villain's gaze flicked down the hero's arms. "You feel you have blood on your hands."

"No. That's not it."

"Isn't it?"

"It's about you being morally reprehensible."

"Yeah, but we knew I was morally reprehensible, didn't we? Just as we both know I pretend otherwise sometimes when I can make it easy for you."

The hero made a strangled sound. Even if they did know that. Especially because they knew that.

The villain shrugged. "If it makes you feel better, it's not your fault. Yes, I was jealous that you were spending a lot of time fighting them. But on the other hand, they were also a morally reprehensible person, so really if I'm going to kill anyone it should be the people like me. I thought you'd be pleased."

"Pleased?!"

"Well, that I'm channelling my violent tendencies in a societally friendly way. You wanted to stop them too. Does the end not justify the means?"

The hero stared at them, aghast. They genuinely weren't sure if the villain was joking or not. They did not look like they were joking.

"I hate you," the hero said. "So much."

"Yes."

"That's all you have to say? Yes?"

"I'm not an easy creature to love," the villain said, softly. "Of course you hate me sometimes. Otherwise loving me would be unbearable."

"It is unbearable."

Some of the calm slipped from the villain's face; a flinch of pain.

it didn't make the hero feel better. It just made their hands feel more bloodied, more like the villain's hands. Hurting things.

"You know," the villain said. "You're not easy either. I limit my nature a lot for you. I compromise for you all the time."

"It's not a compromise when my demand is asking you not to kill people!"

"I've never asked you to stop risking your life to save people."

"That's not the same thing!"

"Hurts the same amount.," the villain said quietly.

The hero didn't know what to say to that. The two of them stared at each other from across the bathroom, the hero still shaking violently. "I don't want to do this right now," they managed to say, and it was only a little wobbly. "I can't deal with you right now."

"I wanted to check you're alright."

"Yeah? I'm not."

The villain bit their lip. "I really didn't think you'd react this badly. I wouldn't have done it if I thought it would upset you this much."

The hero closed their eyes, because it was true and it was terrible. Another treacherous tear spilled over their cheek. They dashed it away.

"What do you need?" the villain asked. "You should have water or you'll get a headache."

"I want you to leave."

"Are you going to put your hands under the tap again if I leave?"

The hero glared at them.

The villain's defences were back up again, so they merely raised an eyebrow. "I'll be outside, then."

"I thought you were better," the hero said. "You were supposed to be better."

The villain paused, one hand on the door, considering that perhaps.

"No," they said, after a moment, like the hero was the one who had committed some great and grave betrayal. "You just started pretending."

They shut the door behind them.

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #villains #heroes #writing #enemies and lovers #story #short story #ficlet #creative writing #writeblr

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erwinsvow · 4 months

Text

when rafe meets you for the first time, he feels something he’s never felt before. you’re surrounded by your pogue friends and his stupid sister, laughing at a joke jj says, pushing pope’s arm gently, making a face at kie. he stares, lost in his own mind, wondering what the hell they’re saying to make you laugh like that, make you smile like that.

he’s leering, he knows—wishing he could pull his gaze away but having more trouble doing so than he expected. you smile all pretty at your friends, lips pink and glossy, shining in the sun enough that he can see from where’s sitting. a beer rests in his hand, droplets of condensation gathering on his fingers. he can’t drink though, he’s too distracted.

the way you twist your hair up and clip it with something silver. the sweat gathering on your neck, along your hairline, how you wipe it with the back of your hand. one of the boys—he can’t tell which one, and he’s glad, otherwise he’d probably go over there and start throwing punches—offers you a hand to guide you into the water, presumably to cool off.

you shake your head to say no, and sweetly is the only word he can think of to describe how you do it. to describe you, everything about you—it’s so fucking sweet, he can taste it from over here. some of the others go into the water. you stay sprawled out on your beach chair, book resting on your stomach. you fiddle with the straps of your bikini top, yellow—that’s all he can make out—before you stand up, settling the book on the chair and walking towards him.

he’s under the shade of the little bar on the beach, watching shamelessly, thinking he should look away now that you’re walking over, at least try to play it cool. he doesn’t. he takes a long sip of his beer, putting it down with a slam, harder than he intended.

as soon as you enter the cool shade, you sigh with relief. you take out the clip and let your hair fall down how it was, strands sticking to your neck where he wishes he could lick it off. you’re not two feet from him now, can’t really ignore how he’s staring at you either.

“can i get a lemonade, please?” you ask the bartender politely, glancing over quickly at rafe. he’s still looking, making you flush and feel even hotter all over. you turn away within a few seconds.

“spiked?” the man behind the counter asks. rafe does move his gaze, finally, to stare at the guy—trying to make sure he’s not making you feel uncomfortable.

you shake your head and the bartender turns back to get your drink. your eyes keep wandering back to rafe—big, bad, evil rafe. the one your friends always talk about. he’s cruel, they say, violent and angry and treats them badly. just for the principle of the thing, you should hate him. so why can’t you stop your eyes from flitting back to him every few seconds?

“that’s a good idea,” rafe starts. he’s quiet, just so the two of you can hear him, but you have to lean in further. the gap is shortened to just a foot now.

“hm?” you question innocently, not hearing exactly what he said. you’re surprised he’s even talking to you.

“s’good idea, not to get it spiked. with this sun, you’ll get sick an' tired.”

“but you’re drinking,” you comment, gesturing to the beer in his hand. it looks almost empty.

“i’m not a fucking lightweight, though, that’s the difference.” he turns to see the bartender, chopping up a lemon for your drink. he thinks he has another minute, maybe two, with you.

“how d’you figure that? you don’t even know me.”

“you can just tell.”

“yeah?”

“yeah, kid.” he holds eye contact for a second too long, and you turn away smiling, face feeling so hot, like you’ve been basking in the sun for hours. rafe thinks mission accomplished for a second, smirking, but it dissipates quickly—your drink is ready and he sees jj walking up to where you are.

“can i get a straw?” you ask again, smiling all friendly at the bartender. he grabs you one from behind the counter and peels the wrapper for you.

“kie’s not gonna like that,” jj says, smiling down at you. you look at rafe though, which makes his heart thud in his chest. he likes that, a lot, more than he should.

“well it’ll just be our little secret, then,” you say, thanking the bartender and then taking a sip of the cold drink.

“you ready?” jj asks, ignoring the entire situation in front of him.

“yeah, just need to pay-”

“i got it, kid,” rafe says, grabbing his wallet before you can move. you look at him curiously for a second, eyes big, pretty smile shining again.

“wow, how generous from the millionaire. c’mon,” jj says, and you get up but you don’t want to.

“thanks, rafe,” you say, even sweeter than before. he enjoys how your name rolls off his tongue, wishes he could hear you say it again.

“no problem,” he says quietly. jj puts his arm around your waist to guide you away, which would normally be enough to warrant at least a single punch, but you look back once, then twice, sneaking a glance back at rafe, still smiling big, bringing the straw to your mouth and sipping. “i’ll be seeing you around," he says, under his breath, just to himself.

#hmmm what is this? who knows #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #the implication of the clip is that reader has hair long enough for it im sorry!#please ignore if this doesnt apply to u. in that case it's a barrette. rafe just doesnt know what that is.

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