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luveline · 2 years

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge.

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing.

The threat of being caught propels him forward.

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip.

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary.

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps.

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here.

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence.

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender.

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes.

You're scared.

You're beautiful.

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking."

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else."

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown.

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear.

You glare at him.

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you."

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant.

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–"

"Holy stars, is that your hair?"

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No."

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor.

"You have to leave. Leave!"

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat.

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter.

You don't laugh, nor do you smile.

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly.

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay."

"She won't give it."

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't.

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly.

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely.

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after."

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword.

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly."

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease.

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do."

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate."

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair.

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly.

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything."

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best.

He's very, very fine.

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward.

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey.

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense."

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them.

"They're how I spend my summers."

"Looking at them?"

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling."

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time.

"I painted them myself."

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks.

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden.

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days."

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You aren't married?"

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!"

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps.

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold."

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo.

"Argento."

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks.

"You're talking about money."

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes.

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower.

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!"

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–"

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet.

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning."

He doesn't move.

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious.

"Please," you whisper again.

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small.

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling."

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper.

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?"

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight.

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous.

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that."

"Sorry, mother."

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving.

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument."

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother."

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you."

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does.

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections.

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs.

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps.

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars."

"No, you shouldn't have."

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger.

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores.

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled.

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously.

But she is not kind.

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents.

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot.

"It's dusty down here!" you call.

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling."

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother."

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before.

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like.

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page.

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour.

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered.

Footsteps sound up the stairs.

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide.

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely.

He holds his breath as the door creaks open.

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?"

He waves his hand from under the bed.

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him.

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile.

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed.

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars.

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing."

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them."

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange.

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?"

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars."

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me."

His eyes widen.

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again.

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?"

"It's not what you think."

"I think it's exactly what I think."

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians."

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do.

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head.

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!"

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults.

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out.

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely.

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here.

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark.

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids.

—

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns."

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation.

"No."

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee."

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says.

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon.

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow.

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving.

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table.

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were."

"This isn't how you negotiate."

"Good thing I'm not negotiating."

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence.

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows.

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?"

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow."

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge.

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings."

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit.

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless.

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse."

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion.

"Do you have any better shoes?"

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No."

"You don't get out much, do you?"

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches.

Poor girl, he thinks.

"Don't worry too much about it."

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun."

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes.

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon.

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow.

"Are you coming?" Steve calls.

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward.

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath.

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose.

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass.

The world is even bigger from there.

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town."

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh."

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped.

Steve seems content to languish in silence.

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb.

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me.

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine.

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon.

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says.

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?"

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same."

"I'm an excellent navigator."

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape.

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice."

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this."

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first.

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there.

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen.

He's still a two-timer. Case in point.

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back.

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute."

Adorable.

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room."

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension.

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade.

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?"

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly.

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath.

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection.

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper.

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee."

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely.

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint.

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?"

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together."

Steve frowns but hands over the money.

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough.

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?"

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you.

"Both of us," he says, nodding.

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together.

"Why did you say that?"

"It's what's expected of us."

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent.

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?"

"You're not my husband."

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back.

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say.

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married." He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying."

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage.

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care."

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag.

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but."

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me?

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways.

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him.

If they can, they aren't listening.

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks.

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted.

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view.

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone.

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?"

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery.

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own.

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water.

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure.

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung.

"The water’s barely hot."

"I've never had a hot bath before."

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?"

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?"

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you."

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble.

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon."

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck.

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity.

Your shoulders relax.

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves.

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure.

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine.

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room.

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat.

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?"

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress."

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention.

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown.

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself."

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands.

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another.

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning.

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand.

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it.

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends.

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around.

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays.

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue."

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair."

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?"

"We aren't going back down there."

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself."

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea."

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns."

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on.

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door.

"Well?" he asks, holding it open.

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you."

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen.

"What is that?" you ask Steve.

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?"

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can.

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room.

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks.

"Not in any of my books."

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound."

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem.

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you.

"Turn to me."

"What if my hair catches?"

"You aren't close enough for that."

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot.

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties."

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you."

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry."

"I have–"

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?"

"No."

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season."

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?"

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long."

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further.

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?"

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it."

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close.

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you.

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left…

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk.

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?"

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further.

"I'm okay," you say.

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy.

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis.

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back.

He looks at your face until you're uneasy.

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm.

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges.

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles?

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while.

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song.

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough.

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow."

"Good, huh?"

You try not to cough. "It's rich."

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?"

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you."

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing.

You look up, puzzled.

"Come on."

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand.

He leads you up the small platform to the piano.

You look to him inquisitively.

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard."

"How do you adjust how loud it is?"

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys."

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys.

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you."

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe.

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this."

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings.

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks.

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say.

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song."

"I only know the one."

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are.

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays.

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears."

"Is that yours?" you ask him.

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid."

"Only plays them."

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching.

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?"

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning.

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters.

"What?" you ask.

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!"

Steve's smile is gone.

"Eddie," he says tiredly.

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy."

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head.

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks.

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us."

"I don't owe you anything."

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon.

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor.

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree."

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4 #tangled!au

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hey-august · 3 months

Text

WC: ~750

Warnings: Nothing explicit, just implied / suggestive. Buggy x GN!reader, fluffy af

Buggy needs his nighttime routine. It’s when he winds down and pampers himself. And now, you.

Particularly stressful days will end with Buggy stomping around the kitchen and waiting for the kettle to come to a boil. He’ll fill three mugs with the scalding water - one with dried chamomile buds for you, another with fresh ginger and lemon for him, and the final one holding a small container of rosemary hair oil.

By the time he pads back to your shared room, the chamomile flowers have unrolled. The tea is still too hot for either of you to drink, but you both continue to repeat the same mistake night after night. Slurping sips followed by belated hisses trying to cool the offending liquid. Then the drinks are set aside and forgotten.

Buggy picks out the rosemary oil container and spreads the warm oil on his hands with some added castor oil. While he runs the mixture through his hair, aqua eyes peer back at you. Any chance he can, the pirate peeks over his shoulder with a silent but insistent request. Sometimes you speak up sooner, but other times you wait until Buggy’s slouched over the edge of the bed, rubbing oil into the ends of his hair, and giving off morose sighs. When that happens, you settle yourself behind the sad clown and massage his scalp, rubbing in the remaining oil.

You wrap your legs around his waist like a belt. Buggy rests a hand on an ankle and caresses the soft skin with his thumb. The absentminded shapes he traces follow a composition that eventually slips from his mouth in a low hum. Sea shanties, popular ditties, bar tunes, melodies from years gone by, all soothing soundtracks backed by the creak of his ship and the sound of surf.

Buggy’s oiled hair is braided neatly for the night and then comes the next part of his routine. A part that you’re no longer allowed to help with.

He scrubs himself clean with a rough towel and the water in his water basin. This is a practice that he’s carried through his life. A vigorous scour with water that is a little too chilly for comfort leaves Buggy feeling refreshed. You can’t achieve the level of exfoliation that leaves his skin pink, so you use this time for your own washing routine. The still-hot water from the third mug and a softer towel are more your style, anyways.

Once clean, it’s time to moisturize. Honestly, this was surprising to you the first few times you spent the night with the captain. He was just as particular with his evening products as he was with his face paint.

A few drops of castor oil are rubbed on his face. You bite back a smile, thinking that must be why he has such wonderfully bushy brows, jealousy-inducing eyelashes, and his oceanic stubble always peeks through partway through the day.

Then comes lotion. You always think Buggy squeezes out too much of the cottony-white lotion, but it ends up being the perfect amount. The smell of menthol fills the room as covers his body. Floating hands work to rub the soothing ointment into aching muscles and tender joints. The hard work is rewarded with sighs and groans.

You wanted those rewards for yourself and had offered to help previously. The first attempt ended with the tingling lotion rubbed somewhere too sensitive to continue any type of massage. With the second attempt, you subverted the situation before squirting out the minty lotion and reached for a different container instead.

Buggy learned his lesson and you weren’t allowed to assist anymore. After he seals in the lotion with a layer of cocoa butter, the pirate turns his attention to you. Although he wouldn’t let you run your hands on his body, he was still allowed to touch yours.

Instead of using Buggy’s special ointment, you had your own. It was a little runnier and smelled earthy and floral. Large calloused hands spread the lotion across your skin. His touch glides along your body with tenderness and purpose.

For Buggy, the intimacy in these moments is more than enough. Although his body reacts to the feel of yours, he doesn’t do anything more than press kisses to your forehead and temples.

Once you are both properly moisturized and your bodies are weary from the routine, it’s time to gulp down the forgotten tea and curl up under the sheets to sleep.

The bed smells like a garden - loamy soil with happy flowers and herbs. It also smells like comfort, bedtime, and love.

#buggy fluff #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy

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queer-irritator · 4 months

Note

could i request a kratos x shy reader Waking Up together and cuddling and Kissing, so basically fluffy?

Of course!! You asked at a perfect time bc I just got finished with finals! One thing about me, is I love a background story. I hope you like this one ❤️

New Routines

Who’s got time to proofread anyway?

CW: Mention of animal death/hunting

Word Count: 1,196

It had been less than 24 hours since you spilled your feelings to Kratos.

You weren’t expecting to, you had long accepted that your fondness of the Greek God would have to remain locked tightly in the confines of your heart, never to be shared. He had gotten into (another) argument with Atreus.

“One day you won’t be able to tell me what to do anymore!” Atreus’ voice filled the space of the small log cabin he called home as he half-hazardly stuffed items into a satchel.

“That day is not today.” Kratos argued back in his usual stern voice.

“Guess we’ll see about that…” Atreus mumbled to himself.

“Do you have something to say, boy?”

Atreus silently closed the bag he had been filling, slung it over his shoulder and pushed pass his father to head out the door. Kratos stopped him before he could push open the squeaky wooden door by grabbing his shoulder, spinning Atreus to meet his eyes.

“You cannot go.” Kratos stated to his son. Atreus was set on assisting Sindri with a dangerous sounding mission to gather rare artifacts.

Atreus shrugged his hand off of him, “Why can’t you just believe in me? You never let me do things by myself. I’m not a little kid anymore!” He continued out the door. “Atreus!” Kratos called after him, moving to stand in the doorway. “Don’t worry,” Atreus said, dejected, “I’m just going to sleep with Speki and Svanna tonight.” He walked past where you had been sitting to head down to his wolves.

Kratos let out a long exhale through his nose. After standing for a moment he finally noticed you sitting on a log stump right next to the house, skinning a rabbit.

“What are you doing here?” His words came out harsher than he meant to.

Your stomach dropped at his tone, but you didn’t let it show. “I was going to cook supper for you and Atreus tonight.” you replied to him without looking up from your task.

“...Yes, I remember now.” He wasn’t usually the type to forget things.

You stripped the hide off of the last rabbit you had and stood up, “Would you clean these for me?”

“Mh.” You got a famous Kratos grunt followed by a nod.

You started to clean the blood off your hands in a wash basin. Kratos watched you from the corner of his eye as he began dressing the meat.

“Why do you care for us?” His sudden question caused you to turn your head towards him.

“What?” Confusion was evidently spread across your face. What type of question was that? Not the type to be casually brought up in conversation, that’s for sure.

“You cook for us… You clean for us, make sure we are well. Why?” Kratos re-explained carefully, his was soft. A stark contrast to his usual short and serious tone.

Your feet felt glued to the earth beneath you. A light, warm summer breeze ran through your hair as you stood searching for an answer besides ‘Because I love you’.

But it did not come.

Kratos turned his head to you, he knew you weren’t too talkative but this much silence from you was unusual.

“Uhm…” You swallowed thickly, starting to feel nerves shoot through your body and the pit in your stomach return, “Just because.” You knew the moment the words left your mouth, it wouldn’t be a suitable answer for Kratos.

“Most people want something in return.” Kratos resumed rending to the rabbits.

Was he insinuating you wanted something from him? Your nerves turned into confusion, even anger. A wave of confidence washed over you.

“Can you just accept I come around because I like you? That I like spending time with you, talking to you, just being in your presence? Why do I have to want something from you?”

“Mmh… So you have feelings for me?” The pieces were starting to fit together in Kratos’ mind.

“What? I never said that!” You were a little too quick to defend yourself, you could feel your heart beating in your chest. You didn’t think you’d ever been through such a rollercoaster of emotions in such a short time in your entire life.

This only left more questions for Kratos. Why would someone like you have feelings for someone like him? What did you see in him? You knew of the awful things he’s done to the people that are closest to him.

“Why do you have feelings for me?” He asked. He finished dressing the animals and turned around to face you and await your answer.

“Oh my gods, sometimes people just fall in love, Kratos!” This might have been the first time you ever yelled at him. But the way he thinks so lowly of himself gets you so heated. Kratos walked closer to you, so he was only a foot away. He was looking over your eyes and face in confusion.

“Love?” He spoke softly.

You felt your cheeks burning and you looked away from him and finally you could move your feet. You quickly gathered up some vegetables you foraged for dinner and made yourself busy preparing the meal.

You felt Kratos’ eyes trailing you for the rest of the night. While you chopped vegetables, stirred the stew, washed the dishes, every move, he was watching you.

You, on the other hand, had been avoiding his gaze the entire time. It was only when Kratos announced he was going to give Atreus his dinner and talk to him that you had a chance to relax. The second he closed the door you sat down on his bed and put your head in your hands with a loud sigh.

“Why would I say something so stupid?” You questioned yourself. All you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and fade away from the world. You were so exhausted after the events of the day you didn’t notice yourself leaning down on the bed.

You blinked your eyes open, squinting at the sunlight that poured in through the gaps of the wooden roof. Rubbing away the sleep from your eyes, you just noticed the soft blanket around you and warmth against your back. Your attempt to sit up was stifled by a strong arm tightening around your waist. You looked down to be greeted by the unforgettable scarred arms of Kratos.

Butterflies erupted from your stomach and seemed to flutter into your throat as your cheeks warmed up. When had you fallen asleep? Why were you in Kratos’ bed with his body entangled with yours? Questions raced through your mind as your heart began to pound harder.

Rough, calloused knuckles gently stroked your cheek. You turned your head to meet Kratos’ amber gaze. The both of you stayed, gazing at each other while Kratos’ knuckles grazed your skin for a few minutes.

Kratos had stopped his soothing motions, drawing you back to reality. “Hi.” Your voice was hoarse from sleep, but soft.

“Mmh… Good morning.” Kratos greeted you. He placed a kiss to your head and his beard tickled your face.

You could definitely get used to waking up like this.

#god of war #god of war ragnorak #gow #gowr #kratos x reader #kratos #kratos x gn reader #kratos x gn!reader #gow fanfic #gowr fanfic #god of war fanfic #god of war ragnarok fanfic #god of war fanfiction #atreus

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nanaskitten · 10 months

Text

A little help

minors do not interact! Don't like dont read!

pairing: pervy doctor!jaemin x innocent clueless!reader

warnings: inappropriate medical terminology, non-con, non consensual impregnation, unprofessional medical officer, cameras, non consensual filming and photography

smut under the cut

You had always wanted a baby. It had been you and your husband's dream befire even getting married. However, even though you tried hard, conceiving proved to be a difficult matter. That's why you were sitting here in Na Jaemin's waiting room.

Jaemin was the best gynecologist in the entire country. He had an amazing reputation. He had helped countless patients with conception. Naturally, embarrassing as it were for you, as you grew up conservative, you had no choice but to seek help from the man.

His office was charmingly welcoming. The warm interior was filled with beautifully green, fake plants and gorgeous paintings. You watched pretty little koi fish swim in the large glass fish tank in front of you that seemingly doubled as a coffee table.

You were relaxed. Normally you would've come to this appointment with your husband, however due to being unbelievably busy with work, you were here alone.

It wasnt long before a young man came out of the little room you could only assume to be Na Jaemin's office.

"y/n?" He asked, raising his eyebrows.

"That would be me." You nervously spoke. It couldn't have been anyone else, Jaemin knew. He had no other appointments that day and you were the only one there. "Please", he smiled, "come right this way." He smiled as He led you through the door.

For a clinic, it was strangely empty. You had expected to meet many assistants however, apart from the receptionist downstairs and the man himself, there didn't seem to be another worker.

His office was cozy and pretty small. There was the typical doctor's desk and chair, along with the parient's chair and another chair for guardians in one corner. Tucked away in the other corner was a little bed, half of it covered with a curtain. There was a little wash basin and some gloves and other equipment close by. You felt nervous, but at the same time, the man's natural charm and friendly demeanor helped you feel a little bit more at ease.

"So, what can I do for you today y/n?" He asked with the smile you had begun to believe was a signature part of his personality.

"I'm trying to get..." You blushed. You were not used to talking about these types of topics. Fortunately you didn't have to finish your sentence as Jaemin completed it for you. "...a baby?" He asked. You returned a nod.

"Ah yes." His words rang as if it was the most natural thing. "It's common to face difficulties while trying to have a baby." He leaned back.

"There are many different causes", His eyes were glued to your face, never leaving, "sometimes from the man, sometimes from the woman."

He now leaned forward, clasping his hands together and gently propping himself up on his elbows. "In order to treat your infertility, wr must first find out if it's caused by your body. To do that, we can conduct a physical assessment on yours right now. That is, if you consent to it of course." He was speaking professionally. If he had any thoughts of fucking your little cunt full with his cum, you had no clue. You gave him a nod. He was a doctor, he wouldn't do anything weird, right? Wrong, but then again, what you don't know won't hurt you.

"Alright then. I need you to lift up your little skirt and just take off your panties for me okay? Then go lie down on the bed over there", he said, motioning to the bed, "you may cover your upper body with the curtain, if it makes you feel more comfortable." You already felt a little uncomfortable. You were beginning to question your desicions but then decided that you might as well try to treat your infertility, if any, since you were already here. You laid down as he said, using the curtain to cover your chest area as well as face to still protect any decency you had. To be fair, you hadn't much- granted your pussy was on full display on the other side.

You heard the sound of the lock and rubber gloves.

Na Jaemin watched through the discrete screen as you slowly closed your eyes as an attempt to relax. "First I'm going to gently stimulate your vagina and clitoris using a world class medical tool." He smiled to himself as he saw how his voice made you jump a little. You watched how you pressed your legs together as you bit your lips befire you squeaked out a small "okay". He found it so adorable. He just loved when innocent girls like you found themselves alone, without a guardian in his clinic. The moment you made your appointment he could tell you would be a fun one to tease, and maybe even impregnate, if he got lucky.

He gently pressed a glove finger through your folds. You were already so wet. He deducted that you must be in your fertile window. He let his mind drift to how red and plump your lips had been and how wide your eyes were, emphasized by the fact your eyelashes had been so long, dark and curled. 'Oh she's definitely ovulating he thought to himself.

He slowly inserted his finger inside you. He watched your face through the hidden screen as he slowly curled it inside you, while also using his other thumb to rub directly on your clitoris. You left out a soft moan. You were extremely embarrassed to have let yourself do that. This was a physical assessment and here you were moaning on your doctor's bed. You were so ashamed and red, and jaemin just got all the more turned on. "That's alright. Please feel free to enjoy yourself. The next stage of the assessment will begin shortly." You could practically hear his pearly white smile.

The man quietly zipped down his pants. He took his finger out of you to take out his cock and spread lube all over it. He continued to thrust his finger inside of you, in quicker motions as he simulation stroked himself hard and fast. You were so close to coming undone. So close to feeling relief befire he removed his finger. You mewled. The loss of contact with the 'medical tool' leaving you hungry for more.

"I will insert a new, more sophisticated tool now", he told you, breath almost hitched. You hummed.

He thought you looked so adorable. Completely fucked out from just his hand. He entered into you, pushing his raw cock and bottoming out completely, not waiting for you to adjust to his size. He trusted his long hard cock into you slowly several times before picking up his pace. You were close, he could tell. Your legs were shaking and your pussy was leaking. You had no idea what feeling you were experiencing. You felt your body tense up, you wanted more, and more, until suddenly you felt so good. so overwhelmingly good that you closed your eyes, almost falling asleep. You felt The 'device' stop moving as well. You felt something sticky squirter out. It covered your walls from inside, you could tell.

Jaemin had timed himself perfectly to cum with you, at the same time. "You will feel a liquid inside. Don't worry, it's just for stimulation. I will now remove the device and seal your vagina, alright?" It was less of a question than a statement. He worked quickly to insert a plug inside you and wiped himself. He tucked his cock back into his pants before you heard his instructions again. "You may remove the plug after 5 hours. In the meantime, get some bed rest. You may leave."

When you got up, you felt a little embarrassed but you couldn't reason why. You put on your clothes and greeted the doctor on the other side of the curtains.

He looked as professional as ever as he gave you his signature charming smile and handed over a report to you. "The physical assessment was a success. You may have intercourse with your husband. The test shows there's no problem with your body so if problems persist your husband would have to see a doctor."

#na jaemin #jaemin #jaemin imagines #nct dream smut #nct dream #jaemin smut #smut #nct #nct dream imagines #non con

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dragonbe-writing · 7 months

Text

Fallen Feathers

Fantasy AU ft. Knight!John Price

Summary: John Price is sent out by the king to hunt a monster. He wanders through the woods and finds a girl, living alone who wishes not to be seen.

This is Part 1 of a series

Word Count: ~2K

Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while. I've had this story idea typed up for nearly a year and just couldn't get comfortable with it. But I've been inspired by @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world 's fantasy AU, and decided just to post this and see what happens. Enjoy!

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he made it to the top of the hill. He looked out over the basin, the sun rising behind him and casting shade from the trees out onto the village below. The village- Edriel (Ee-drill), -was already bustling with life in the early hours. Farm-help out watering crops before the sun wilted them, mothers cooking breakfast for the little ones before their day of chores and play, priests walking through to say their blessings and good mornings.

A world of intimacy, a world of peace.

The very things John had sworn to protect, the very reason he was on this hill in the first place. He was a Commander, a third-rank Knight sent out to protect the village. His village. The place he’d grown up, the place he devoted his life and servitude to.

A monster lived in the forest, he was told. The King ordered him to find and slay the monster. So, John turned away from the village, and headed into the forest.

He used his sword to cut through the thick brush, heading for… well, he wasn’t sure. The King wouldn’t give him a description of the monster- perhaps he didn’t have one. But if he didn’t have one, then was John just chasing a rumor? He had been under the King since he was a boy, it was a little insulting to be sent on a goose chase.

Slice.

He was a Commander, for God’s sake! A third rank Knight- a position he had worked hard for. And here he was, running around the forest, looking for something that wasn’t even there.

Slice.

This is a rookie’s task, he figured. Something to keep them busy, to test their loyalty.

Slice.

Perhaps the King was becoming senile in his old age. Or maybe John was just upset at the mission. He saw the way the other Commanders smirked when he was given his task. It was embarrassing, especially after a life of devotion.

Slice.

The brush cleared away, revealing a secluded area that looked… cared for. He crouched under a branch, keeping his sword at the ready- just in case. A small stream ran near his feet, water as clear as he’d ever seen. There was a garden, and even a house. It looked similar to the Edriel houses, however it was poorly built. Things seemed to be added over time: patches to the roof, new ties for the wood. He studied it carefully, jumping when he heard a noise from inside the house.

“Who’s there?” a woman asked from inside the house. She sounded human.

“I am a Commander of Edriel’s army. I am coming in,” he said, sword raised as he opened the door.

The house was small, just enough for one person. The curtain was closed, engulfing the house in darkness. He could tell she was in the corner, but he couldn’t see her.

“Open the curtain,” he ordered, his voice coming out gruff.

“...I’d rather not,” she said quietly, her body pressed against the walls. “I-I am horribly burned, I’d prefer not to be seen.”

John lowered his sword, putting it back in its sheath. “Yes ma’am,” he said in a much softer voice. It was a foreign feeling. It had been ages since he had spoken so softly. “...what is your name?”

She went quiet, and it sounded as though she was shuffling on her feet. A wave of realization washed over him. He had broken into this poor woman’s home and demanded to see her. She was probably terrified.

“I am John Price, a proud Knight of Edreil,” he started, hands behind his back as he respectfully tipped his head. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

“Adelaide,” she said quietly.

“Adelaide… what?”

“Just Adelaide.”

A tense silence covered them. He cleared his throat, looking around the house. “..Okay, Adelaide. I apologize for my rude intrusion. If I may… why do you live out here?” he asked.

“People do not stare at me out here. It is peaceful,” she said. “What has you out here?”

He hesitated. His business was embarrassing, but if anyone knew where a monster was, it would be her. He took a breath. “The King has sent me out in search of a monster.”

“A monster?” she asked, voice pitching higher.

“Do not worry,” he said quickly, raising a hand in front of him. “I will take care of it, you will be of no harm.”

“What does it look like?”

Another pause, this one longer. He let out a low sigh, his chainmail armor clinking as he raised a hand to run through his hair.

“...You do not know?”

“...no, ma’am.”

He swore he heard her snort. “What kind of king sends a knight out with no description?”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’d be a fool to talk poorly of the King in front of one of his knights,” he said dryly.

“Are you going to detain me?” she asked with a hint of amusement.

“I could,” he responded quickly, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was met with silence, to which he sighed. “Do you know of any monster living around here?”

“...no. But, I will be weary,” she said to him, any details of emotion stripped from her voice.

He gave her a nod and turned to leave. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, closing the door to her home and going out the way he came.

As he continued his search for the monster, he thought about her. Was she truly so badly burned that she must live alone? He didn’t remember a fire in the village.

Perhaps she was from Pulsk?

No, surely not. Pulsk was a lawless trading post crawling with criminals, monsters, witches- she would not have to move from there, her appearance would not be so bad there. So she must be from Edriel. But he had never heard of a fire that bad- he had never heard of a woman living outside the village.

How long had she been alone? Who else knew she was there?

~~~~

John was sent out every day for the next week. It seemed he’d be doing this until the monster was found. On the fourth day, he stopped by her area again.

“Miss?” he called out. He heard a door slam, and saw the curtain in her window close.

“John?” she asked worriedly.

“At your service. May I come in? Is it dark enough?” he asked, waiting by the door for her word.

“Yes,” she called out after a moment. He opened the door, the smell of smoke filling his nose. She must’ve blown out a candle. She was in the same corner as last time.

The light from the door fell on his face, lighting him up with a glow. He smiled at her, clearing his throat. He shifted a bit uncomfortably on his feet. “How is life out here?” he asked, eyes glancing around as he tried to figure out where to look.

“Peaceful. Quiet, most days,” she replied. His lips pursed, eyebrows creasing.

“…Would you like me to leave?”

“Oh! Oh, I didn’t… I did not mean you,” she clarified quickly. He imagined she looked worried, and he smiled a bit to make her feel better.

“So, other people visit?” he asked with a grin.

“Well… no…” she murmured, and he chuckled. It was a deep timbre that reverberated through his chest.

“Right,” he said. They fell into a silence, and he shifted again. It was difficult having a conversation with someone you couldn’t see. “…do you ever miss the village?”

He heard ruffling- it must’ve been her clothes. “No. I miss the food sometimes,” she said, watching as he looked around her place. “There used to be a woman who sold pastries. I think about her quite often.”

He lit up, eyes shining and lips stretched in a smile. “Mrs. Dresel?”

“Yes!” she said, the most enthusiastic he’s ever heard her. “Is she still alive? She was quite old when I last saw her…”

“Yes, she’s still around. Still making those pastries, too,” he smiled fondly, thinking of them. “I have not visited her in a while,” he thought aloud.

“Nor have I… for obvious reasons…” she said and the house creaked. John looked around at the roof worriedly. “Oh, it does that,” she said dismissively.

“…did you build this yourself?” he asked her, eyes scanning over the structure. Pillars of wood, stuck together with what appeared to be mud. The roof was wood planks, with some more mud, and dried straw. Simple, but effective.

“I did,” she replied, also now looking at it.

“…it isn’t bad,” he said with a shrug. She let out a laugh.

“You’re very polite.”

“I’m a Knight.”

She laughed, making his eyes tear away from the roof back to the corner she hid in. He could imagine her, standing there with bright eyes. It made him chuckle.

“My house isn’t much, but it is mine,” she continued.

“It’s lovely,” he replied, eyes going back to the structure. “Very impressive.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “Any luck on finding your monster?”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. His entire body tensed, lips pressed in a thin line. “No. I’m starting to think the King is playing a trick on me,” he remarked, chainmail clanking.

“Perhaps he’s gone bad? Like a fruit?” she offered up, amusement clear in her voice.

“Careful,” he warned, trying not to smirk. “I still work for the man- even if he is a bit mushy.”

She laughed, a noise that made the corners of his lips turn up. He pictured her shoulders shaking, her smile wide and unapologetic. He wondered how often she laughed out here.

“You’re funny- for a Knight,” she poked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“D’you have a thing against Knights?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest but a smile on his lips.

“They haven’t always been kind to me,” she remarked, making his mood change. His arms fell to his sides, and his eyebrows creased as his smile vanished.

“Then you must’ve been doing something you weren’t supposed to,” he replied with a bit of an edge. A blanket of tension wrapped around her house.

“…do you take me for a criminal, John?”

He thought in silence for a couple moments, before finally replying. “No, I suppose not,” he muttered, almost begrudgingly. Though, if a Knight had been rude to her, it was likely deserved. “Never mind.”

They fell into silence, the air thicker than the smoky scent of her home. She huffed a bit, more rustling heard. “Don’t you have a monster to catch?” she asked, voice carrying a sharpness to it.

He cleared his throat, chainmail clunking as he readjusted himself. “Indeed. Have a good day, Miss Adelaide,” he said politely, before turning and leaving her house, door closing behind him.

Perhaps she was a criminal. Why else would a knight have been rude to her? It would make sense, her living out here by herself. He would have to go through the old town logs, see if the name Adelaide appeared. Though, it might be difficult without a last name.

He was ducked under the branch again, leaving the area she had claimed. He huffed, wiping the sweat on his neck with his handkerchief.

What if she wasn’t a criminal? What if she was just horribly burned? He still could not remember a fire that bad- though, if he looked through the logs…

He had taken his horse, Obsidian, with him today. He gently pet her nose, sighing softly. “C’mon, old girl,” he said, hoisting himself up onto the saddle. “Back to the castle- let’s get you an apple, hmm?”

#call of duty #captain price #john price #captain john price #cod mw22 #writing #fanfic #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #fantasy john price #Fallen Feathers #im nervy about this LMAO #ive edited this first part like a billion times #knight!price #knight!au #knight!johnprice

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wren-dy-flowergarden · 1 year

Text

𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝒊𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒆

*ੈ✩‧˚₊⁀➴For a whole world defined by the idea of fairytales, you did not feel as if you were living one. But Cinderella got her Prince Charming eventually! Maybe you end up with your own fairytale ending once you finish your hellish shift.

*ੈ✩‧˚₊⁀➴ A/N: Sorry! A repost that only 12 people have saw before (the special ones) and I thought more ppl need to see my boi Floyd. Thank you for filling my insecurity (ノ*°▽°*).✧.*✦ *.✧

*ੈ✩‧˚₊⁀➴ Word Count: 4.3k Floyd x gn!reader

*ੈ✩‧˚₊⁀➴ Tags: friends who want more, long shifts = loss of logic, fluff and deals, a little spicy at the end? hands, Hands, HANDS!

For a whole world defined by the ideas of fairytales, you did not feel as if you were living in one.

Life has been "hectic" to put it mildly. From being pushed into a carriage (which should be considered kidnapping logic blasted away between gaps in worlds), dealing with egotistical boys that turn into a monster of repressed issues, and on top of all that studying 24/7 to even catch up with the grade level is too much to handle.

Oh, and to keep up with Grim's insatiable appetite, meaning he ordered twenty plates of tuna behind her back at Lounge Monstro leading to said terror to complain that his "poor paws" can't soak or they become little wet stubs. Not only that the animal language test was coming up and you really needed all the help you could get. Therefore, you took up some extra shifts that were available at the Lounge.

The only shift being dishwater duty.

Plummeting her hands with washed-up food and soapy water felt disgusting.

It felt like a pre-prince charming Cinderella fairytale.

Scratch that, you felt like a poorer pre-prince charming Cinderella. At least Cinderella got a fire to sleep next to (though Grim acted as a nice heater if he didn't twist and turn so much at night.)

Dousing wrinkled fingers, with clean water from the spout you gave an audible groan as the busser just pushed at least twenty more dirty dishes to her. He gave a small sorry before dashing off again.

You eyed the mess of gravy, picked clean bones, and a mountain of stacked soda glasses about to tip over. A job is a job but this is ridiculous.

Starting with the plates first you grumbled, "Stupid Azul being cheap-" scrubbing harder against a stain, "scheduling only one dishwasher today." All of a sudden, oxygen left your lungs as something heavy collided into you.

"Koebi-chan! You're here today~" Floyd grinned as he put most of his weight onto your body.

Being "hugged" by Floyd felt more like being "mauled" by a bear. A strange, friendly, sharp tooth instead of nails type of bear but mauled either way.

"You're heavy", you grumble hunching over, chest almost touching the tip of the basin, "get off me!"

You are not supposed to poke the bear but in this case Floyd really didn't mind, "Hehe~. Koebi-chan is super fun when they’re red!"

Like his twin would say, 'There is no stopping Floyd from getting what he wants without measurable danger.'. The danger might be your neck being squeezed or maybe losing a finger to pointy teeth but really what could be worse than your kidnapping from another world situation? Not much.

Yuu steadies her hands against the sink as eyes glaring at yellow, “At least help me with dishes. With you, on cooking duty instead of Jade there are at least triple the number of pans."

He leans back relieving some of the weight as he explains with clear disinterest, "Ehhhh, but I just got off!"

He snakes one arm around your waist pulling tight as you let out a squeak, his lips getting closer before he breathes out.

"Let's just stay here~" You feel his lips close to your ear, “Forever~”

You flayed, pruned hands covering your ears as a crimson red ran up your cheeks as you broke out of Floyd's grip gaping at him.

"You- You!"

Floyd breaks out into his signature grin, mirth dancing in his eyes, "Hehe. Koebi-chan gives the best reactions ever!

You glared back before turning to at least an hour’s worth of dishes that need to be done before Azul sent you home tonight. Then it was the homework and also finding the time to make a quick dinner, and ugh- "Just help me out would you? My feet are already hurting from tonight's dinner rush."

"Nahhh." Floyd says stretching his arms above his head a few pops and a shrug later he crosses his arms with the smirk of someone who would get at least 8 hours of sleep tonight, "Azul said I'm done tonight."

Well duh, you heard all the wrong orders going out. Azul probably wanted to preserve if/any profits were made tonight.

"Besides! Washing dishes are supeeeer boring." he tilts his head to the side frowning, "Not really into that."

You sighs and tries to outweigh the odds in her head:

Option one: Floyd will go bother some other poor soul after a few moments of silence.

Option two: If he did try to clean the dishes Yuu is almost 99.9999% sure that the show-off would try to recreate his basketball moves using plates as the ball which would eventually break and YOU would have to clean up.

Or get your pay docked . . .

Option one it is.

"Fine Floyd. I'll see you tomorrow then."

A slow blink before the six-foot man unrolled his arms, confusion in his voice, "Huh?"

You focused on scrubbing at a black stain on one of the pots, it's a 50/50 if it looks clean or not, "I said 'fine'. I will see you tomorrow." You would not turn back around. You are focused. Focused on these hellish stains.

So focused, you did not even notice Floyd stomp off.

An hour and a half later, wrinkled chicken skin and tender feet that hurt to walk on you were finally given the ok to head home.

It was worth it though, you gasped when Azul gave a copy of his notes. Diagrams, arrows, and color-coded entries determine which grammar was being used. If Azul wasn't such a devil when it came to business he might have been an angel.

Stuffing the notes into her book bag, she winced glancing at her feet and feeling her skin rubbed raw.

Note to self: wear better socks.

Shuffling slowly to the entrance two figures shadowed the bar, Jade polishing a glass and Floyd's with his head down on the counter.

Jade gave a perfected smile, "Ah Prefect, thank you for working so hard today," his eyes glanced down to his brother sulking on the counter, "Floyd told me you were very focused today."

A whine came from Floyd, like his puppy (do merpeople have puppies?) just got kicked. Yuu shuffled around to a bar stool leaning against it, "Well I was trying to get home before ten, but it seems like that wasn't the case tonight."

Floyd kicked his feet against the bar counter another whine leaving him.

Jade blinked, expression turning inquisitive to a not-very well-hidden smirk, "Pardon my manners, but Prefect you seem rather stressed. Isn't that right Floyd?"

Floyd let out a sound that Yuu could not tell if it was an agreement or not, but Jade knew as he placed a perfectly polished flute on the counter.

He smiles, and it sends a small shiver down your spine, "It seems you're unsteady on your feet Prefect, your shoes giving you difficulty?"

He tilts his head to his twin, grin not leaving his face, "It may come as a surprise, but Floyd may be able to help your situation."

Floyd stops kicking the bar and you are trying to make heads or tails of Jade's words. It was late. You were tired. You wanted to go home to whatever rickshaw/graveyard dorm you called a home when other dorms had where place in literally different geo spheres.

You shake your head, "No thanks, I rather deal with my bloody toes another day."

It was as if Jade expected that answer because he just nods, in full understanding, and Jade never fully understood unless it was for his gain you've learned, "It's unfortunate, but I believe this be for better than for not. Remember our favor?"

And no, you don't remember, because there could be a billion favors you owe Jade- from him giving tips to you to keep up with rush hour or simply holding the door open for you- because every act of kindness from him is a disguise for his amusement.

You stare at Floyd, who was oddly quiet at this moment, and you want to collapse but it was better not to ask about favors in front of them both.

They tend to get a little jealous and the rest of your day is gone trying to make one of the two contents until they forget. That person usually being Floyd, because Jade rarely forgets.

You groan, placing a hand on your head to stop your incoming headache.

Fine. What's the worst that can happen?

You probably couldn't imagine what the "worst" was through the pounding in your head as Floyd jumps up, joy evident on his face as he pulls you with him with Jade waving goodbye.

The "worst" was actually being carried chest to chest spinning around in circles through Octavinelle's public lounge which thank god there were nobody in sight, or should you say blurred with the way Floyd keeps twisting you around and around like a whirlpool.

You complain once about Floyd's freakishly long legs walking too fast and this is what you get.

The only way to balance yourself was ducking into his neck shutting your eyes waiting for the experience to be better. You dig in close and Floyd in response is to squeezes you closer.

…It’s not that uncomfortable.

"We're here!" Floyd shouts and you immediately put a hand over his mouth, you don't want to wake anyone else up to this embarrassing scene, for your own sake.

Floyd lowers you to the floor where you gently let go of his neck, your distress evident enough on your face because Floyd is grinning like a kid who just made bank at the candy store.

The door opens one side to messy clothes littered over every droppable surface there is sheets twisted to one corner of the bed, and papers scattered across his desk. In all honesty, it would not be that bad if not for the fact the other side looked like those real state showrooms. Nothing was out of place, no crease on the bedding, and everything was ironed and hanging on a clothing rack not very far from an organized desk. Must be Jade’s side.

Floyd pushes you a bit and you stumble toward his side of the room.

"Hey! I can still walk you know." Dodging some thrown clothes was more difficult as Floyd closes the door.

"Ehhh, but you were just staring Koebi-chan." He gets closer knocking you onto the edge of his bed. Huh. Your heart feels like it's running at a thousand miles per hour as Floyd puts two hands on your shoulders pressing you into the bed so that your sitting, "Relax, relax~ we're just getting started!"

Wha- What does he mean by that!?

His fingers glide gently down your arms, and it feels like fire touching ice for the first time. A strong goosebump sensation travels down leaving just a strange warm feeling filling up your body. It's weird and you don't know how to handle this as he keeps trails down to your hands before gripping them.

You never noticed how much he engulfed you as he gave you a tight squeeze, before lowering onto his knees. He would be between your legs if you weren't squeezing your thighs as hard as possible together. Knocking on your kneecap like a door he gives childish smile, "Move your legs Koebi-chan~" It was to- to much for your poor little heart.

You call out, well it comes out more as a half shriek half whimper as you push at Floyd who was slowly pushing one of your legs aside, "Hey- that! That's too much!"

Floyd blinks, "Too much?" He leans downward, chin onto the edge of your thigh and frowns similar to how you imagine a dog being yelled at. You do everything in your power to stop your voice from shaking, but this was the furthest you have ever gone in your life, and you haven't even kissed!

You mind was quickly turning into a vortex sucking in every single scenario locked in the back of your head and just when you feel the tip of your ears about to burn off a whine interrupts you.

"But Koebi-chan, I just need my tools."

Forget the ears, your whole head was exploding off your shoulders, "T-to-tools!?"

Another nod, "Yup," a pop of the 'p', "ya know to fix your shoes." And your face must be ridiculous because Floyd gives such an uncontrollable laugh his head tilting back before wiping a stray tear from his eye. He grips your ankle loosening the collar between shoe and skin. You let out a small wince as the shoe peels apart from bloody skin, him delicately wriggling out the rest of the shoe off.

He flips the crew shoe upside down, "You see. Koebi-chan’s foot is getting all mashed up like shark food. See, see?" You kind of notice, only the tip of the show is scrubbed off along with a large part of the heel.

Floyd flips the shoe again as he shows you the inside, the heel is worn down to the sole and there is wet blood on the side as he clicks his tounge, "Koebi-chan~ You should've given Azul the right size, now you're payin' for it!" And you would if you could, but only men's sizes are available and that kind of screwed you over a bit for your small feet.

"So- so the tools you were talking about..."

He slides his arms underneath the bed pulling out a worn wooden box. A grin blossoms to life as he unclasps the top of the box revealing what you could only assume to be a cobbler set. Unlike everything else in his room, the tools are polished to a worn type of satisfaction- like an artisan who created each imperfection to conceive perfection.

It wasn't what you were thinking of at all.

It. Wasn't. That. At. All.

Floyd’s smile widens as he sees your puffed-up cheeks, meanwhile scrunching into yourself to hopefully create a black hole to swallow yourself in rather than face embarrassment of misreading the conversation.

"Woah- this is a new phase for Koebi-chan!"

"Just! Just fix my shoes Floyd!"

You look at the clock located on Jade's side of perfection. It read 11:43, and you were surprised that Jade hasn't come back yet, well scratch that, he is dedicated to his craft. You flip over on the bed as Floyd is still extending the collar of your crew shoes. It's a different look you don't see often. Mostly Floyd will be hopping around from area to area with either a smile or frown on his face, but now he just stared in concentration using his tools to create.

You never have seen him like this, and that bothered you- just a bit. You were so used to his voice filling every space of the conversation that all you needed to worry about were your next words. Now all you had were you, him, and your thoughts.

You hate to say this, but maybe it was because you were bored?

A small cough leaks through your mouth, just enough to garner attention and it doesn't even distract him. You frown and just when you are about to turn around to stare at the clock Floyd giggles, "Koebi-chan looks like they're drying up on hot sand."

Rolling your eyes you respond, "Well I am just laying here." Floyd must be amused because you can hear him hum a little tune under his breath as he grabs a canister from the box and a small brush.

"Hey, Floyd."

"Hmmmm~ Whatcha want?"

You think of the best way to ask these questions, but you assume the simpler the better.

"Why do you know how to fix shoes?"

"Hmmmmmm dunno."

"You don't know?" You take another glance at how meticulously he handles every instrument like he carved each one from hand for its own individual purpose. You decide to rephrase, "Is it another hobby?"

Brushing another coat of the mixture onto the tip he cracks his neck turning his lamp to the side, "When I was little, Jade and I sometimes see land-dwellers on land twirling and dancing around.” He tips his brush back into the mixture, “We don’t need feet because it’s not needed ya know. Yet you guys decorate your feet in so many styles its super interesting you know. Just cause we have fins doesn’t mean we paint them weird colors. Suuuper funny you know.”

He clicked his feet together and it was just then you noticed the difference of the style of Floyd's shoes compared to your own brown ones. They were in pristine condition, as the white cut the heel and toe into two parts separating them from matte to a glossier finish with no marks on them. It was much different than the beaten-up ones he currently had between his fingertips.

You never really looked down when talking to Floyd because he was so much taller. You guess you never did notice how pristine his shoes were compared to how frumpy he wore his uniform.

"Heh, seeing how land-dwellers had so many styles for their feet is so funny." He looks at your feet, already bandaged up with some disinfectant, "It's like you have to wear 'em. You landies are so delicate that you need shoes to protect your feet! That's sooooo different~"

You're starting to understand, "And that just makes us all the more interesting huh?"

He grins in a way you can see a sharp tooth poking out on top, "But your wayyyy more interesting than the others Koebi-chan~ .”

Your cheeks start to warm up, but you don’t fall for the bait, “Oh really?”

"M'mhm almost done~"

You roll to a cooler side of the bed, "And I was just getting comfy here." It really was miles above your own cardboard spring bed, you were sinking into this bed than just laying on a rock with some sheets thrown ontop.

Floyd swivels around on his chair and just wheezes as he looks at your form, "HA- Koebi-chan looks like a starfish now!" And you can’t disagree this is one of the comfiest beds you have been on yet it was all disturbed with Floyd gripping your ankles pulling you slowly to the edge of the bed.

“Wake uppp, you have to try em on now.” He whines as you groggle. Sitting on the edge of the bed again, you have purer thoughts this time as Floyd gets down own knee. He folds up your pant leg a couple rolls to expose your ankles better.

Satisfied, he cautiously takes one of the shoes and opens the collar gently guiding your toes in making sure not to catch any of the band aids on the side. You look down at him and again he is so focused, it’s so unlike him yet it doesn’t look that unfamiliar.

Catching the heel in place you are in awe. Instead of the front frow of your toes being squished there was now enough room to wiggle, and your heel wasn’t digging into the back of the shoe anymore. Not only that a new coat of paint was layered of scratches and on the rim of the sole you could see accents of white and grey cutting the style of the shoe leaving it with a trendy type of look.

You twist your foot back and forward looking at his craftsmanship. It’s amazing its spare detail that makes you feel like it’s yours. Something made for you. You and nobody else.

It almost felt like you were Cinderella fitting on the glass shoe.

“Soooo?” He whispers breaking you out of your thoughts, “Perfect fit?” He knows it because he is wearing a grin that reads as ‘say it! say how much you like it!’.

You roll your eyes, “Perfect fit Floyd.” He’s still looking at you with those puppy dog eyes. It’s a little outside your comfort zone but you raise a hand to his scalp and rub in circles, “I really like them.”

They really were perfect. So perfect a concern crosses your mind, “How much does it cost?”

Lazy eyes blink as you stop massaging his head, “Hmmmm?” He thinks for a moment, “Well I’m feelin’ pretty nice today Koebi-chan~” And automatically your brain thinks ‘free?’ but of course this is the dorm of deals akin to mercy so Floyd continues, “How about a kiss?”

…

A kiss…?

Your thought you were in the safe but your brain short circuits all the way to outer space and back, “A- A kiss!? What are you talking about Floyd. That’s- What!”

He pouts, “Well cause after you land-dwellers finish the last song usually you guys kiss right?” He sighs sitting on the floor crossing his legs, “Ya know I dance all the time, but I’ve never kissed anyone after.”

There are so many things wrong with that logic, but your short, circuited mind isn’t making sense, so you say something just as dumb back.

“We aren’t dancing Floyd.”

He looks at you in a way that makes you look like the dense one, “Duh Koebi-chan, that’s why this is the price!” He points to his cheek, “Right here! That’s where I want the kiss!”

Being flabbergasted is an understatement to how you feel right now, Floyd just keeps looking at you expectantly from the floor as he keeps tapping his cheek. It’s just a kiss on the cheek you say to yourself, what’s the worse that can happen? You’ve kissed your mom on the cheek this is fine!

“…fine.” Floyd lights up like its Christmas and you must wonder in the back of your mind if this is really just some elaborate scheme you are playing into. He is not getting up and you are embarrassed beyond the universe as you slide off the bed onto the floor, “Tilt- tilt your cheek to the side.”

He does so without hesitation, you can still see half the smile he is wearing on his face as you put an arm out to steady you as you lean closer and closer- oh please god don’t let my heart kill me- and right when your close enough to close your eyes and quickly press your lips against cool skin you hear a chuckle.

“Eh Koebi-chan face is really cute right now.” And suddenly you feel your chin being jerked as your lips contact something so much softer than what you remember as a child. It’s a little cool and somewhat chapped as you press into him and then he moves! You won’t open your eyes because if you do it feels like the butterflies beating in your chest will explode out of you. Floyd moves his hand to stable you as he rubs the other hand behind the back of your neck relaxing you into him as he moves against you in a way that it takes all your concentration to move with him.

A breath and you are gasping for air like a person held underneath water for far too long. Red face forehead to forehead to cool eyes and Floyd slowly licks his lips and looks at you in a way a hunter has just captured its prey. Devious eyes you think before he leans in again and you follow suit because there was something so addicting with the way Floyd pulls your lower lips with his fang and the way he rubs your arm back and forward as if wanting more of you and the only way you can answer is by gripping him tighter between your fingers.

You break apart and you lean against his chest this time catching your breath as he holds you, if you listened to his heart beat it was almost as fast as yours. You gulp air still passing through your lungs, “Was- Was that enough?” It was hard to hear his response through the blood passing through your ears, but Floyd just laughs as you feel his chest move with every breath, he hold your cheek as he tilts your head up craning it towards his dual-colored eyes.

He has a pretty, pink blush on him as well covering his nose all the way to his cheek bones, you can see the fang that tugs your lips barely peeking out of his smile.

“Hmmmm~ Maybe just one more.” And you close your eyes just one more time.

───────────✧.*✦ *.✧.*✦ *.✧.*✦ ───────────────

(Around 11:25pm at Lounge Monstro)

Azul is not having a good day. Not at all. Wasted food and damages, he needed to pay for restoring table 28, 32 and 18 after Floyd for some reason stormed out the kitchen and creating destruction everywhere he went. Azul groans as he flips through number filled papers with red lines and circles.

He thought that he had properly prepared to mitigate these damages when he gave Floyd an early night off but seeing his previous number quadrupled put him into a sour mood.

Reading the clock 11:28, he locks his office ready to get at least four hours of sleep because he still needed to write that business proposal for the headmaster-

“…Jade you’re still here?” He asks taking a step over what seems to be a sleeping bag and a couple books hovering near a campsite lamp, “We talked about this. No “practice” camping in the lounge” Azul warns as he finds Jade near a booth flipping through a book all about mushroom delights.

Jade just looks, with polite smile all he says is, “You can settle all qualms with Ramshackle’s prefect.” As he flips the next page.

Azul groans, Ramshackle’s prefect, another word for headache. Always putting their nose where it’s not supposed to be, but how would that be affecting Jade? Jade being a consistent vice warden understood Azul’s clear confusion and clarifies, “Floyd is with them in the dorm.”

oh….OH

Azul waved his thoughts away, there was no need to deal with this at this very moment instead he hands over the papers in his hand, “Help me with these accounts and you can stay in my room tonight.”

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

“Be quiet. Floyd is working double after tonight.”

#twst x reader #twst floyd #twst fluff #floyd x reader #floyd x you #fluff #twisted wonderland #reader insert #.wwrenwrites

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multiwreckedmess · 11 months

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Kinktober Day 13

Prompt: Body Worship Pairing: Boyfriend!San x reader WC: 1.6k Summary: The change of seasons has always been difficult for you and today is no different. Some days you just need some help.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent San or any Ateez member. Although this isn’t necessarily an 18+ work, for my comfort and boundaries please if you are under the age of 18 do not interact with this.

I’m going to put the TW/CW above the cut this time as TBH, it’s not really smut.

TW/CW: depression, self-hatred, vague self-harm references, leg shaving, San bathes reader.

Everything hurt. That’s all you knew as you laid in bed. A deep ache that resonated in your bones consumed your being. Nothing helped, rolling to your side, laying on your back, leg up and on your stomach, just pain. “It’s because you rolled around in bed all day,” San chides from the doorway as you groan. “You need to get up and stretch, just to rebalance your body. It’s not even about working out. If your blood pools in one spot you’ll feel off.” “I think I’m sick,” you sniff. Your sinuses are on fire, swollen and pulsing in your skull. San sighs. The sort of illness plaguing you was not the type remedied by chicken noodle soup or ibuprofen. It was one that needed time and care and understanding. One that would flare up unexpectedly, inappropriately, uninvited. Flinging back the covers you shriek as cold air hits you like a truck, grappling for the covers. Two strong warm arms scoop you up into the air as San carries you bridal style to the bathroom. “I think a bath will help,” he says, sitting you on the closed lid of the toilet.

The running water in the empty tub is loud, thundering as it hits the basin. The loudness numbs your ears for a bit. You barely notice as San busies himself as you list to the side, leaning on the side of the sink. Everything still hurts. Your jaw hurts as you adjust it, seeing if you can relieve the pain circling your ears and throat. Squatting to eye level smiles at you, trying to hide the flicker of concern in his eye. “Hey hon, i gotta take your shirt off.” “Start with pants please!” You stick your legs straight out in front of you and wobble your feet. San obliges, taking care to wait for your toes to point so the fabric slips right off. Not that it’s particularly difficult, seeing as they’re a pair of ratty sweats. The bath is half full as he scoops your shirt over your head, leaving you in just a pair of underwear. You shiver and stare at the steaming tub, arms crossing over your stomach and chest. He leans over to check the water temperature, back flexing under his white cotton shirt. Hugging yourself tighter you hate to compare yourself but can’t help it. A veritable god while you…well…your self evaluation faired far worse. The comparison stung each time you thought about it, each remembrance a tiny papercut on an unhealing body. Yet he was like a salve, patiently covering and waiting, unable to prevent but trying to ease what pain he could and somehow that burned you even more than the initial cut. “I’m going to wash you,” he says slowly, waiting for your fierce objection. Instead you look up at him, mouth a straight line, and nod. “My legs are hairy.” He shrugs, turning to the water. “Okay.” “I just thought you should know.” “Do you want me to shave them?” He offers sincerely as he turns off the tap. Steam rising from the tub in soft curls, you let your eyes trace their outline as you think. “Do you know how?” He shrugs again, “can’t be more difficult than shaving my face.” “Okay but they’re MY legs and YOUR hands. It’s a little different than doing it to yourself.” You can hear the tension in your own voice raising, almost to a forced laugh. The reaction feels strange and foreign even though it comes from your own body. Twisting on the lid of the toilet seat you dip your toe into the water. It’s hot, a little too hot. Your toe numbs quickly in the water, tingling as you withdraw it. “It was just an offer, you can say no.” San helps you, sliding down your underwear, the last barrier between you and the elements. “No, it-it sounds nice.” You stutter. Sighing as you slide yourself from your perch into the tub. The water burns but you need that. The cauterizing sear removes the sin. Or so you feel. Burn off the exoskeleton so you can feel again. San looks concerned as you slip down into the water. “Isn’t it too hot?” “I’ll get used to it.”

Hugging your knees to your chest, the soft washcloth moves in slow concentric circles across and down your back. The gentleness with which San treats you hurts almost more than the sting of the cool air. Guilty isn’t the right word for the twist in your gut. The kindness just hurts sometimes. “I love how soft your skin is when you’re fresh out of the shower.” San murmurs. “I love how the smell of soap and skin clings to you. I love how I’m the only one who gets to see these freckles on your back like this.” His list goes on as he cups handfuls of water to splash down your spine. He would bathe you all the time if you’d let him. The ritual is soothing and intimate. Every word he says a truth he rarely gets to voice without you complaining. When you are like this though, lulled into a docile state by the water, he can praise you as much as he wants. “Feels nice,” you’re muffled by your own knees. Not like it is difficult to tell what you are saying. San leans over the edge of your tub, kissing your shoulder softly, supporting your back as he lays you against the back of the tub. Working the washcloth down your arms and over you chest, you wince as he gets to your soft tummy. “It’s exposure therapy, if its too much you can tell me.” San hopes you won’t tell him. The plush squish of your stomach is something he rarely can indulge in. Washcloth as a flimsy excuse his fingers glide over your buttery soft skin. He can feel your lungs hitch in anticipation so he presses harder. You’d figured that one out together, if he pressed harder you could tolerate it more. “You know how much I love soft things. I’m a connoisseur of soft things and you are the crown jewel of my findings.” “That doesn’t help,” you mutter sourly. “What if I don’t want to be soft.” San nods, there’s nothing to say to it. Instead he heads south, skimming past your clit, it’s not the point of today. Instead he focuses on your thighs, equally soft and plush as your stomach but more easily tolerated. You always complain how they hurt, that your hips are tense. Hips carry a lot of trauma. He half washes, half massages your thighs. Letting the soap lubricate his squeezed pulls of your muscle. You moan, loudly. He can feel the thud of the knot in your quad as he presses past it. You moan again, slipping further into the tub So he does it again, and again, and again until you shudder and arch up, water splashing around you. “Did you just-” “I don’t know-” you sit bolt upright, looking at each other shocked. “It felt really good.” “Good to know.”

You relax back again. Soft and pliant he treats you like a doll, limbs limp as he moves them. Holding your leg, the water drips on his cotton shirt, clinging semi-transparaent to his abs. Slowly he lathers your calve with shea butter infused soap, then wets the razor. Funnily enough he didn’t even care if your legs had hair or not. Really if any part of you had hair or not, he wouldn’t mind as long as it was you. But you liked the sleek touch so he was happy to oblige. Another person shaving your legs is exceedingly strange. But it’s nice. You hate the process of hair removal but love the results. Laying back loosely, San takes more care than you ever would with your razor. He’s meticulous and methodical in his removal, particularly around your ankle bone, riddled with scars. You consider telling him that at this point your ankles are made of steel callus but the delicate way he lifts the pressure of the razor is endearing. It’s almost more intimate than taking his cock. At least for San it is. He could so easily hurt you like you’d hurt yourself. It would be even easier for him, it wasn’t his skin that the razor’s edge was pressed against, he didn’t know the feeling, he could only watch and hope his pressure was enough but not too much. Knowing if he slipped the sting would be worse coming from a person who loved you instead of your own hands focused his wandering mind. Giving into help wasn’t easy for you. Each time San places the razer to your ankle you have to remind yourself to relax. Using your full will to control the flex of your calves as he runs the length carefully. Even with his time and care one leg is done quickly, dipping back into the now lukewarm water as he retrieves the second leg. At least someone should love you even if you can’t. “San?” His face lifts, eyes sparkling, “yes dear?” “I love you.” Still holding your leg he leans sideways to kiss you ever so briefly. “I know you do.”

Sorry I had a hell of a couple of days and WAS NOT MONITORING and my queue broke. here’s to getting back on track. Sorry this wasn’t really smut????

#san fanfic #choi san fanfic #san smut #choi san smut #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #atz fanfic #atz smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #ateez kinktober #atz kinktober #kpop kinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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sunlaire · 8 months

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Love the idea of crozier getting promoted to captain and having a steward for the first time. And not liking the notion one bit. He's been mending his own uniform up til now. He's been dressing himself and getting his own food.. Why does he need a steward? Its extravagant is what it is. Unnecessary.

But then Jopson is there. Taking his coat when he retires to his cabin. Pouring his whiskey before he can even think to ask. Crozier is caught between annoyed and appreciative. If he were being very honest with himself, It's hard to muster up much annoyance toward the polite lad.

One afternoon, when they've just made it through a storm that's lasted a week, the seas are the calmest hes seen them since leaving port. Crozier is weather worn with muscles aching when he finally lets himself go below. And jopson is there, with a basin and razor.

"We might shave before the seas turns again, sir." He says, and crozier wants to argue the point. His tired mind casts around for the other stewards in the service. Had he ever heard of such a thing, a steward shaving their captain? He nearly dismisses jopson...but he's tired and his beard has grown longer than he'd like.

So he sits in a chair and resigns himself to being fussed over.

The boy is quiet and focused. His hands touching, moving, soothing over crozier's face. With a sigh, he lifts his chin and closes his eyes. Just for a bit, to rest his tired eyes for a moment. The steward lathers the soap over his whiskers, slender fingers guiding him to lean his head back further. Crozier swallows, neck fully exposed like this. A razor scraps in careful strokes along his cheek, his jaw. He moves his head without thinking and feels the blade there at his neck, cutting away the stray hairs.

Time becomes warm and syrupy, the feeling of being groomed so intimately unravels the tension within him. Crozier's mind tilts into the realm of sleep without his meaning to. It's nice. He can admit that to himself, here suspended between dreams and the waking world. A warm hand rests on the side of his neck, tilting and angling him with gentle nudges. Crozier hums when jopson pets over his cheek, the razor gone now.

"Is it done?" Crozier's voice is a croak. He clears his throat, blinking away the sleep. The sunlight spills through the cabin windows, orange and gold on the floorboards. It moves like a dream with the rock of the ship.

"Yes sir. Here, let me clean you, sir." And crozier should insist on doing at least this himself. But truthfully, he doesn't want to protest. He lets the lad run a warm cloth over his face and down his neck, watching him.

"Are you feeling well, Jopson?" Crozier let's himself be moved beneath the wash cloth.

"Sir?"

"You look fevered." It's true. His pale face seemed to be colored with a flush. Had he been ill and Crozier hadn't noticed? The thought felt unacceptable to himself. He would not be the type of captain to demand service from those who were unwell.

"I am alright, sir. I promise you." He said the last part almost sternly to cut off any argument. Bold as that was, it made Crozier huff a laugh.

"Right. I wouldn't think to deprive you of your duties."

His steward nodded once, definitively.

"Quite right, sir."

#jopzier #the terror #this got longer than expected #but im in love with this premise #i read that thing about how it totally was not common practice for stewards to shave their captains #so jopson with just Like That #10/10 love him #🩷🩷🩷#terror fic

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storiesofsvu · 1 year

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Whenever You're Ready

Rita Calhoun x reader Warnings: language, some minor anxiety, major comfort, lotsa fluff. Covers a bingo square for @prentiss-theorem along with being a pretty self indulgent fic lol. rita come take care of me when?!

Rita Calhoun was not one to leave work early. She was one to stay in the office until her stomach was grumbling, finally pulling her away from her desk only to set up camp at a local lounge to work for another few hours before finally heading home.

But today was not one of those days.

Today she was home before rush hour even began, dropping her things by the door, stepping out of her shoes and padding down the hallway to strip out of her clothes and step into a luxurious shower. Once the grime of the day and the city was washed off her body she went through her full skincare routine, careful to make sure nothing was missed. After selecting a rather lacy lingerie set in her preferred colour of green she wandered to the walk in closet, lips pursed as she fingered through a couple of dress options for tonight.

She’d been waiting for this evening for what felt like weeks on end now. Thanks to work she’d had to cancel the last of your dinner dates, and what were supposed to be lunches were exchanged for quick coffee hand offs in courthouse hallways. She felt like she hadn’t seen you all month and the feeling was mutual; tonight was the special night to make up for it. She’s secured reservations at The Palm Court for cocktails and dinner and stopped by a few stores on the way home to pick up a bouquet of lilies, a few of your favourite treats and a couple of nice bottles of wine for the plans she had for after dinner, those of course, that involved not leaving the bedroom for the rest of the weekend. Ones that would reassure you of just how much she cared, how much she wanted you around and how much she simply adored you, ones that would calm her own worries.

The two of you hadn’t been together very long, it had started out casual, a coffee here, a dinner date there, one night of martinis that ended in the bedroom and you both became very aware that you simply couldn’t get enough. The following week you’d asked Rita to be your girlfriend, she’d instantly accepted of course, and that was seven weeks ago if she remembered correctly. It seemed like clockwork that no matter how good her relationships were going it was right around now that they started to fall back to casual, to not committed solely to each other anymore. She knew her work was part of it, that no one really understood what they were getting into, how many hours she actually put in, not to mention all the functions and galas that went along with it.

Which is why tonight had to be absolutely perfect.

She finally selected a dress, slipping it on over her head as she padded back to the bedroom, smoothing the skirt of it out as she went. It didn’t take long for her to work through her hair and makeup, leaving the curls from the day in, but brushed out so they were a little looser, pinning a couple pieces back so it was off her face. She was swiping on mascara when her phone buzzed on the basin, dancing dangerously close to the sink. Placing the tube back in her make up organizer she picked up her phone, swiping open the message from you.

‘Running behind. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s no worry, I can push the reservation, just let me know when you’re on your way.’

Across town you watched as three bubbles popped up while she typed, letting out a breath at the message reply before you dropped your phone back down to the bed and simultaneously collapsed back into the pillows.

You were running behind, but that was in fact because you had yet to even start to get ready.

You wanted to go; you really did. You missed Rita, you wanted to see her, but you were exhausted past any point you’d ever been before. The last three weeks you’d taken on an extra load at work, covering the beginning of a coworkers maternity leave while they searched for a suitable replacement. You hadn’t realized just how much extra work it would be on top of your already crammed schedule, and how many more face to face meetings and calls you would be doing. You hadn’t had a moment to yourself the entire time, all you wanted to do was lie facedown on your bed in complete silence but even the Wi-Fi router was too loud for that. You thought about your noise cancelling headphones, maybe just five minutes with them on would give you the energy to get up and dressed but they were in your gym bag by the front door. Your body ached and no matter how much you craved the quiet, you weren’t willing to walk that far right now.

Your eyes closed for a moment, trying to remember the name of the restaurant Rita had picked for tonight and tears welled up in your eyes at the sheer idea of having to be out in the city tonight, much less surrounded by people, chatter, clattering of dishes, music, it made your skin crawl. Taking a deep breath to try and calm yourself your eyes scrunched open, if you wanted to bail on tonight, you were going to have to do it now, you didn’t want to keep pushing it off to the point that Rita was waiting at the restaurant, you would never do that to her. So you picked up your phone again, your thumb hovering over her contact while you debated between continuing to text or if you were going to have the energy to call. Eventually you decided that if you were cancelling, you should probably be more personable, clicking her contact and putting it on speaker so you wouldn’t even have to hold your arm up.

“Hello?” Her voice softly rang through the room and your lips couldn’t help but curve into a smile as your body began to let out some of the tension you’d been holding on to.

“Hey.” You replied, your voice muffled by the duvet, “Rita, I’m so sorry but I am utterly wiped, I can’t even fathom the idea of going out tonight. I feel terrible ‘cause I know you made reservations and were looking forward to it but I just… can’t. Is there any way we can reschedule?” You were once again, fighting the tears threating to blur your vision, hating yourself for even thinking of cancelling.

“Darling you sound exhausted.” Rita frowned instantly at the dejected tone in your voice, “and it’s not to worry, they won’t charge my card, I can move it to next week?”

“Are you sure? You’re allowed to be mad.”

“How could I ever be mad?” She chuckled, “I know you’ve been overworked recently; I was just looking forward to some time getting to spoil you. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” You let out a quiet sigh, “I did really want to see you.”

“Well, why don’t you just come over? Whenever you’re ready, we can do takeout instead. I would really like to see you.”

You chewed on your lip for a moment while you thought it over. You did really want to see Rita, when you said you missed her, you meant it. The mere minutes outside the courthouse were never enough to get your fill and you knew if you didn’t see her now it’d be at least a full week before you got the chance. You huffed softly, frowning as you thought about the commute to get to Tribeca and Rita spoke once again before your brain could fully scare you.

“Just let me know when you’re close to recharged, I’ll send a car over for you so you don’t have to deal with the subway or worry about hailing a cab.”

“You’re the best, you know that?”

“I do get told relatively often.” She replied with a smirk and you chuckled.

“Give me like, an hour? I should shower and it’ll take me at least twenty minutes to psych myself up for that.”

“Then don’t.” She shrugged, “there’s a reason I’ve got a huge tub here. I’ll even wash your hair for you, one less thing on the to do list.”

“Now you’re spoiling.”

“Exactly as I intended.” She smiled, “now, hang up the phone and enjoy your hour. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you.” You replied with a tired grin, hand reaching out to the phone as you ended the call, letting out a low sigh.

As predicted, you stayed face down on the bed for the next twenty minutes, finally pushing yourself up with a groan as you stumbled around the apartment getting ready to go.

Back in Tribeca Rita hung up the phone with a small sigh, as much as she had been looking forward to going out, the important part had been you and she could tell you weren’t up for it. Keeping you happy was higher on her list than being out in the city, besides, a night in would honestly be nice for her too, a little break from society and no risk of running into anyone she knew. She quickly finished what was left to do of her make up and was honestly thankful she wasn’t going to have to put a pair of Manolo’s back on, wandering through the apartment barefoot.

Out in the kitchen she poured herself a glass of wine, sipping at it as she flipped through the mail, sorting take out menus from the flyers she immediately tossed in the recycling. She sifted through the menus, thinking about dinner, it was still early enough she wasn’t hungry but it would be nice to have a couple of options to present to you later on. Her phone vibrated on the island, alerting her that you were ready to go and she replied that the car was on its way.

Twenty minutes later you were knocking on her apartment door, opting for prime comfort you’d changed into leggings, a soft tank and a thin cardigan wrapped around you, weekend bag tossed over your shoulder. Rita pulled the door open only a moment later, a soft smile on her cheeks as she greeted you, leaning in to kiss your cheek briefly as you entered the apartment.

“You look… gorgeous…” You managed to get out, eyes wandering her frame and she chuckled quietly.

“Thank you.” She kissed the side of your head.

“Sorry it was for nothing.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, ducking your gaze and she let out a breath, finger curling under your chin.

“It absolutely was not for nothing.” She insisted, “at the very least, it was for you and that was a priority last time I checked. I just hadn’t gotten around to changing.” She shrugged, softly, leading you into the kitchen, “wine?”

“Please.” You replied, eagerly reaching for the glass she was passing you, taking a heavy swig.

“Would you like to talk about it?” She asked gently, taking a sip of her own wine.

“No.” You huffed, “I want to forget about it. I’m just tired…” you trailed off, looking out the large windows at the city as it shifted from day to evening.

“Alright.” Rita’s hand squeezed at yours and you nearly tensed for a moment before relaxing, “how about dinner?”

“Honestly I’m not really hungry right now, I mean….” You faltered, “I am, I barely ate lunch but I’m almost past the point, ya know?”

“Well why don’t you just look through some options?” Rita asked, “we can order later, whenever you’re ready. If you were to eat what do you feel like?”

“Comfort.” You mumbled, dropping onto one of the stools.

“Like pizza?”

“Like homecooked goodness.” You replied with a huff, feeling embarrassment seeping through you, Rita was just trying to help and you weren’t exactly making this easy.

“Well that can mean a lot of things.” She chuckled softly, fanning out some of the menus in front of you, “Italian? Thai? Fried rice, burgers, I think this place has meatloaf? McDonald’s may not be homecooked but I think it’s pretty high up the comfort chain?”

“I dunno…” you shook your head, eyes darting between the menus and you could feel the overwhelming sense of panic beginning to soothe through you, tears creeping into the corner of your eyes again, “I just… I don’t know what I want, it’s almost like there’s too many choices. Oh god…” you dropped your head into your hands, trying to keep some semblance of control, “I’m so sorry. I’m in a mood, I’m going to be fucking terrible company, I should just go. It’s not you, I promise, I just need like…silence…”

“Darling… it’s fine.” Rita cautiously reached out, a hand gently rubbing circles on your back as the other swiped away the menus and pushed your wine glass closer to you, “take the bedroom.” She nodded down the hall, “you know how to work the tv if you want to zone out, have a nap, sit in silence, whatever you want for as long as you need. I’ve got some work I should probably catch up on, I’ll stay out here until you’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” You glanced up at her and she frowned at the misting in your eyes before she nodded.

“Absolutely. Take care of yourself before you worry that pretty little head with anything else, and you let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“I will.” You pushed yourself off the stool with a huff, scooping up the wine before looking up at your girlfriend, “thank you.”

“Of course.” She shot you a warm smile before you turned and made your way down the hall, the bedroom door closing with a quiet click.

Rita sighed softly, hating seeing you like this and partially hating herself for dragging you out of the comfort of your own home when you were down. She hoped that you had actually wanted to come, to see her, rather than just doing it out of sheer obligation and because she wanted you to. Picking up her wine glass she meandered into the living room, true to her word, she actually did have some work that could be done. Considering your request for silence, she opted to not turn the tv on for background noise and plucked her earphones out of her purse for music rather than risk disturbing you. She remembered the days of living with obnoxious roommates or working for the DA’s office as a junior attorney where no one had their own private offices, they could be extremely overstimulating and she wanted nothing of the sort for you right now.

Across the apartment you’d instantly burrito’d yourself in Rita’s bed, how comfortable her bed was happened to be one of the few selling points that had gotten you to leave your own apartment that day. The memory foam topper let you sink into it with ease, feeling like you were on a cloud as you wrapped yourself in the high thread count sheets and fluffiest duvet you could imagine. You popped your phone on silent, tossed it on the nightstand and reached for the remote, flicking on the tv to scroll through shows until you found something you liked, making sure the volume was muted, subtitles already on as Rita preferred. It didn’t take long before your eyes fluttered shut and you were happily dreaming, finally beginning to recover from the hellish weeks you’d had.

The moon was high in the sky by the time Rita looked up through the window, her head tilting in near confusion at how much time had gone past. She had finished her opening argument, questioning for three witnesses and then gotten distracted by a book of crosswords before her stomach had started to growl. Glancing down the hallway she could tell that you’d left the bedroom light off, but there was a light glow from a small lamp and the television and she wondered if you were ready to eat yet or not. She thought about what you’d said as she moved through the apartment, packing up her work things so they wouldn’t get missed on Monday and began to peek through her fridge and pantry. While she knew she wasn’t about to whip up some masterpiece, she did spy a box of Kraft mac and cheese and she knew she could at least manage that.

She set about her work trying to keep as quiet as possible as she did so, music still quietly playing in her earphones while she waited for the water to boil. Rita opened the fridge again, eyes darting through it in search of the other cheeses she had, wondering if any of them would add to the dish, make it feel more homey for you. She settled on a mix of gouda, jalapeno Havarti and goat cheese, grating and chopping them into smaller pieces that would melt and easily mix with the pasta. It was done before she knew it, portioning it out into two bowls and tucking the bottle of wine under her arm while she managed to get everything down the hall to the bedroom. A gentle knock on the door before your voice quietly called out and she nudged it open.

“Ohoho…” she chuckled softly, “darling, you look cold.” You were still wrapped tightly in the blankets, an extra one tucked right around you, holding them up to your chin as you watched tv, curled in a little ball.

“A little chilly, I guess.” You replied with a tired smile, “that smells good, what is it?”

“Nothing spectacular, but at least I managed to not burn the house down.” She replied with a smirk, placing the wine and food down on the nightstand before she crossed the room, sliding the window shut so the cool breeze couldn’t get in any longer. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d left it open.”

“It’s okay,” you replied with a yawn, pushing yourself up to sitting, “gave me the excuse to snuggle up.”

Rita refilled your wine glass before perching on the edge of the bed, her hand coming up to caress your cheek, “are you feeling any better?”

“Kind of.” Your eyes darted to the food, “but I am definitely hungry now.”

“Alright.” She chuckled, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “well, boxed mac and cheese is about the best I’ve got, but there’s some extra goodness added in there, I hope it helps.”

Reaching out behind her she picked up a bowl as you shifted on the bed to give her space to settle beside you. You had of course, been sleeping on her side of the bed, the smell of her shampoo lingering on the pillow lulling you into a state of relaxation. You accepted the bowl from her, letting the blankets fall from your frame and your body broke out in goosebumps in the chilly air, your cardigan from earlier laying abandoned on a spare chair and you couldn’t help but shiver.

“Well now there’s no denying that you’re cold.” Rita stated with a knowing look and you couldn’t do anything aside from sheepishly smile at her, “hold on, but dig in.” She prodded at your side, earning a shriek like giggle as you smiled at her, watching her cross the room to the closet before you finally scooped up a bite of pasta.

“Oh my god…” you groaned over the first bite, “this is incredible.”

“Oh please.” Rita’s laugh came from the walk in, “you don’t have to lie to me, it’s edible at best.”

“No, it’s amazing.” You mumbled over a second bite, “you may not be a whiz in the kitchen but maybe this is your calling.”

“Sure.” She barked a laugh back, eventually emerging from the closet in a pair of leggings and a worn tee, in her hands her faved maroon Harvard hoodie for you to help combat the cold air in the room. “All I did was add a few extra types of cheese, I wanted to try and make it more homey for you.”

“It’s more than that.” You smiled up at her, swapping off the bowl for the hoodie so you could tug it over your head before taking the bowl back as Rita settled back on the bed beside you.

“Mmm?” She raised a brow, picking up her own bowl of pasta, “how so?”

“We had plans, that we were both looking forward to and that you were ready for. And I bailed.” You sighed, “and instead of getting upset, or mad, or being overbearing and demanding to figure out what was wrong you just let me be me. Hell you did even better than that…” you glanced up at her with a small smile on your face, “you took care of me when I didn’t know how to articulate what I wanted or needed. Sure, this is a meal a ten year old could make but it’s delicious and heartwarming because it’s you that made it with the intention of making me feel better. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” She smiled across at you, her hand cupping your cheek “and I’m glad it helped.”

“Anything you do will always help.” You ducked your gaze for a brief second before looking back up at her, “because I love you.”

“Oh sweetheart.” A warmth bloomed in her chest, happy tears threatening to fill her eyes as she leant toward you to steal a tender kiss, her thumb stroking across your cheek, “I love you too.” She murmured, pecking you once more before leaning back, “that’s why I was so worried about you. I know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks and I know how crazy that can get, I understand why you would want to isolate right now so I am incredibly thankful that you were willing to come over tonight.”

“As much as I wanted to be alone, being with you sounded even better.” You admitted with a smile, “part of me wanted to just stay home but something in my gut told me to come over and you couldn’t have dealt with it in a better way. You just… know me…” a grin took over your cheeks, “and I don’t care what you say this mac and cheese is fucking phenomenal.”

“Well, maybe it’s just made with love.” Rita chuckled, leaning in to kiss you gently again, your lips curving up into a grin against hers before you reluctantly pulled away.

The two of you relaxed into the headboard, letting out happy sighs as you finally had the chance to fully divulge into dinner. Rita flicked the volume up on the television, glancing your way to make sure it wasn’t too loud or disturbing before she returned to her food, her free hand squeezing softly at yours between bites. There was no doubt from either of you, this was exactly where you needed to be, exactly who you needed to be with, and it didn’t matter that dinner came from a box.

A Michelin star chef couldn’t have made something that comforted you as much as this did, they would be completely unable to make something that tasted as good as this did, because it was made with love, by the person that you loved more than anything in the world and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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