#Eve Hastings

[ioannemos]

malcolm bright, a deeply traumatized man who is desperately trying with every fiber of his being to be a Good Person, to a literal contract killer: eve wasn't like you or me, she was good

me, chewing through concrete: I AM GOING TO COMMIT A CRIME AGAINST AT LEAST ONE SCREENWRITER

[birdsaresubmarines]

Quick panel redraws I did when bored (chap 43 is making me feral!!) Considering posting some of the French-English translations I'm making here, though I'm not sure yet. Original panels under the cut:

[whorelaud]

reader thinks rafe cancelled their new year's plans, however, what she doesn't know is, that's the last thing he had in mind.

Despite always spending the new year’s eve with your boyfriend, the latter decided it would be a good choice to abandon the plans you thoroughly thought through halfway into your ploy, leaving you cluelessly staring into the void, as you reconsidered your whole life decisions in the middle of the diner. 

Had you known he’d cancel the dinner reservations, you would've saved yourself the embarrassment, and never showed up. It was humiliating, the smile fading off your lips the moment the receptionist informed you there was no history for the name of your reservation. He didn't even tell you, simply letting a random person at a restaurant break down the information for you. 

The drive back filled with your choked cries, mascara smudging the downside of your eye as tears welled nonstop, messing up your makeup base. You didn't even care at this point, ditching plans to hangout with his stupid friends? Mind you, ones whom he clearly stated he hated. Spending such an important day with them made you feel pathetic, like a fool, hence he knew how special this is for you.

You caught glimpse of the time upon your arrival, scoffing and kicking your shoes off when you noticed it was five till midnight, the realization that you were spending the year alone making your heart clench. You didn't need a man, you were going to order takeout, have a drink, turn on your favorite show, and waste the night away. On your own.  

Those were your plans, however, they were swiftly interrupted when you noticed the shredded confetti along with flower petals trailing a path to your room, as you followed it with haste, the said scene raising suspicions in your head. 

To your surprise, the lights suddenly turned on, as you were met with more confetti, jolting from your spot the moment it made a loud pop. You held your hand close to your heart, feeling it increase in pace as you took in your surroundings, the nicely decorated space earning a shuddered breath out of you. 

Your mouth gaped in awe, gaze eventually shifting to the person in charge of this mess, heart melting into a puddle when you caught sight of your boyfriend, grinning like a fool while he waited for a reaction, face immediately dropping when you didn't give one in response; not one that's pleasant, that's for sure. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” He questioned, halting when he walked in your direction, merely for you to step back. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry, I didn't mean to startle–” 

“You cancelled plans to do this?” You cut him off, words dripping with venom. 

“I– Do you not like it?” He hesitated to ask, lips parting with a shaky exhale. “I thought you would, I wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“This is stupid, Rafe. You should've at least told me, I wouldn't have gotten ready to humiliate myself! You call this a surprise?!” You wipe away your tears, mouth moving faster than your brain 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Rafe's voice dropped into a whisper, approaching you with haste, and cupping your face in his hands once he was within your presence. “It was selfish of me to not think it through, and not see it from your perspective. I thought it would be a nice surprise, ‘cause we always celebrate out.” 

You relaxed when Rafe embraced you in a hug, the smell of his musky cologne intoxicating your senses. He rubbed soothing circles to the blade of your shoulder, as comfortable silence heaved the chilly air. 

“Whatever,” You muffled, suppressing your smile as you sniffled, nuzzling your face in his chest. “That wasn't cool, I actually thought you were ditching me to hangout with Topper.”

“I would never,” he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your head. “I was busy preparing this for you.”

At that, your eyes roamed around the decorated room, giggling upon realizing the amount of effort he put into it. It was absolutely adorable, made your chest swell with joy, fully forgetting the reason you were upset. 

“Do you like it?” He cooed, tilting your head with the hands around your chin. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, scrunching your nose when he captured your lips in a kiss. “I’m still mad at you.” 

“Happy new year, baby.”

a/n happy new yr's mls <3 js sum nonsense to celebrate eheh!!

[buckets-and-trees]

Okay. But viking!Steven feral AF after a battle and storming into your home and beelining straight for his little bride to get out all of that excess adrenaline 😳🕳️💦

Come Down from Battle

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 2.4k

Content/Warnings: DARK established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: rough sex, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, light breastplay, insemination; use of pet name (little wife); dirty talk; implied breeding kink; discussion of producing children

Notes: Takes place 6-8 weeks after So Black the Darkness Hums. And just a little more of my viking research: a kongsgård is a dwelling for a king or magnate, had a great hall, residential quarters, etc, but not as big or grand as a castle.

Additional Note: Why not cold viking King Steven on birthday eve/the eighth night of my Birthday Jubilee celebration?

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The kongsgård bustles with activity as word spreads of the king's return. You hear the commotion from your chambers - shouts, the clatter of armor, heavy footsteps. Your heart races with fear and anticipation, knowing Steven will soon arrive, and you make your way to the great hall to greet him as all the household is expected to do.

The door bursts open and Steven storms through, still clad in his blood-stained armor. His eyes, wild with the remnants of battle-fury, scan the room until they land on you. Without a word, he strides towards you, ignoring all others, his massive frame radiating power and barely contained energy.

"My little wife," he growls, voice rough from shouting commands. His hands, still gloved in leather, grasp your face as he crushes his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. The metallic tang of blood mingles with his familiar taste.

“Come,” he commands, grabbing your arm and pulling you along. You stumble after him before recovering your footing as he drags you through the winding corridors of the Kongsgård, his grip unyielding, undeterred until he has you in your chambers.

Steven slams the heavy wooden door behind you, the sound echoing through the room. His hands are already working at the fastenings of his armor, shedding pieces haphazardly onto the floor. You move to assist him, fingers trembling slightly as you help remove the blood-stained leather and metal.

As the last piece falls away, Steven grabs you again, spinning you around and pressing you against the wall. His body cages you in, hot and solid against your back. You feel his breath, heavy and ragged, against your neck.

"I've thought of nothing but you for days," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "The heat of battle, the clash of steel - none of it compares to the fire you ignite in me."

You shiver at his words, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through you. In the two months since he took you from your village, you've grown accustomed to his rough passion - come to crave it at times - even though you are still tentative of this powerful warrior king. But there's something different in his eyes tonight - a wildness, an intensity that both thrills and terrifies you.

His hands roam your body, rough and possessive, as if relearning every curve and plane. You gasp as he yanks at the laces of your dress, tearing the fabric in his haste to get to your bare skin. The cool air hits your exposed flesh, raising goosebumps across your body.

"Steven," you whisper, your voice trembling. "You're home safe. There's no need to rush-"

He silences you with another bruising kiss, his tongue invading your mouth as his hands continue their frantic exploration of your body. You taste blood on his lips - whether his or an enemy's, you're not sure.

Steven's mouth descends on your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin as he works his way down to your shoulder. One large hand cups your breast, kneading roughly, while the other snakes down to hike up your skirts.

"I need you," he growls against your skin. "Now."

You hear the rustle of fabric as he frees himself from his breeches. Without warning, he lifts you, pinning you against the wall with his body. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

Your breath catches as you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Despite your body's automatic response to his touch, you're not fully ready for him. But Steven doesn't wait. With a powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you, tearing a cry from your throat.

The stretch burns, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. Steven doesn't give you time to adjust, setting a brutal pace as he pounds into you against the wall. His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he takes his pleasure.

"Mine," he growls, his voice rough with exertion and possessiveness. "Say it. Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp, the word torn from your lips as he hits a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars. "I'm yours, Steven."

His pace increases, each thrust driving you higher up the wall. The rough stone scrapes against your back, but you barely notice the pain, overwhelmed by the sensations Steven is wringing from your body. Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, clinging to him as he ravages you.

"That's right," Steven growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Mine. My little bride, my conquest, my queen."

His words send a shiver through you. Despite everything, despite the circumstances that brought you here, you can't deny the thrill that runs through you at being claimed so thoroughly by this powerful man. Your body responds to him instinctively, inner walls clenching around his thick length as he pounds into you relentlessly.

Steven's hand snakes between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs since he loves to watch you fall apart for him. His rough fingers circle and press, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The dual sensations of his cock pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your clit quickly build the tension in your core.

"Come for me, little wife," Steven commands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Let me feel you come undone around my cock."

Your back arches as waves of pleasure crash over you, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around Steven's thick length. You cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder in his arms.

Steven groans at the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, milking him.

He turns away from the wall and carries you to the bed. Despite your big size, you are nothing but a small and delicate thing to him, giant viking that he is. The physicality, his prowess, it’s more of what makes you weak for him.

Steven tosses you onto the bed, your body bouncing slightly on impact. Before you can catch your breath, he's on you, flipping you onto your stomach and yanking your hips up. You feel his cock, still hard and slick with your juices, pressing against your entrance once more.

"Only getting started, little wife," he growls, his voice thick with lust.

With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you again. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your oversensitive flesh protesting the renewed assault. Steven sets a punishing pace, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he takes his pleasure.

"So tight," he grunts, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Always so perfect for me."

One of his hands snakes around to your front, groping your breast before tweaking the nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your hypersensitive body. You gasp and moan for him.

"That's it," he growls. "Let me hear you, little wife. Let everyone in the Kongsgård know how well your king pleases you."

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you. The thought of others hearing your cries of passion, knowing that you're being thoroughly claimed by your warrior king, is both mortifying and thrilling. Your cheeks burn with shame even as your body responds eagerly to Steven's touch.

"Tell me how it feels," Steven demands, his voice a low growl in your ear. "Tell me how much you love my cock inside you."

A whimper escapes your lips as you struggle to form coherent thoughts. "It's... it's so much," you manage to gasp out. "You fill me so completely, my king."

Steven's hand tightens around your neck, yanking your head back. "Not enough," he snarls. "I want to hear how desperately you crave me. How you ache for my touch when I'm gone."

His words send a shiver down your spine. It's true - despite your initial resistance, you've come to crave Steven's touch during his absences. The intensity of his passion, the way he makes your body sing with pleasure - it's intoxicating. And though you try to fight it, to hold onto memories of your old life, you find yourself sinking into this new life.

"I... I think of you constantly when you're gone," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I dream of your hands on my body, of the way you fill me so completely."

Steven's pace quickens at your words, his thrusts becoming even more forceful. "As you should." he says, his voice strained with exertion but satisfied and proud.

His hand snakes around to your front again, fingers finding your sensitive bud. He circles it roughly, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The dual sensations of his thick cock pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your clit quickly rebuild the tension in your core.

"Come for me again, little wife," Steven commands. "Show me how much you've missed your king's touch."

Your body obeys, trembling and clenching around him as another orgasm crashes over you. You cry out his name, your fingers grasping desperately at the furs beneath you. Steven groans at the feeling of your inner walls pulsing around him, his thrusts becoming erratic.

With a final thrust, Steven buries himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he reaches his own release. You feel the hot rush of his seed filling you, and a small part of you wonders if this time it will take root. The thought sends a confusing mix of emotions through you - worry, excitement, resignation.

Steven collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the furs. For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled panting as you both struggle to catch your breath. His body is slick with sweat, the scent of battle and sex heavy in the air.

Slowly, Steven rolls to the side, pulling you with him so that your back is pressed against his chest. His arm drapes possessively over your waist, holding you close. You can feel his heartbeat thundering against your back, gradually slowing to a steadier rhythm.

"My little wife,” he presses a kiss to your shoulder, “greatest conquest and treasure.”

Steven's arm tightens around your waist, his calloused hand splaying possessively across your stomach. His touch is not gentle or loving, but claiming - a reminder that you belong to him now, body and soul. You feel the scratch of his beard against your shoulder as he speaks, his voice low and commanding.

"You've done well, little wife," he says, his tone more satisfied than affectionate. "You're learning to please your king."

His words send a shiver down your spine - a mix of pride and shame that you've come to associate with his praise. You hate yourself for craving his approval, for the way your body responds so eagerly to his touch. But you can't deny the thrill that runs through you at his words.

Steven's hand moves up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple. "Soon, you'll give me strong sons," he says, his tone matter-of-fact. "They'll be fierce warriors, like their father. And perhaps a daughter or two, to cement alliances with other clans.”

His words send a chill through you. You imagine a child with Steven's fierce blue eyes and blonde hair, and something stirs in your chest.

"And what of me?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "What am I to you, beyond a vessel for your heirs?"

Steven is silent for a long moment, his hand stilling on your breast. When he speaks, his voice is low and intense. "You are my conquest, my prize," he says. "But you are also my queen. I will defend you and keep you by my side. Your loyalty and devotion will please me greatly."

His words are possessive, but there's an undercurrent of something else - perhaps not quite affection, but a fierce protectiveness that makes your heart race. You feel both comforted and conflicted by his declaration.

Steven's hand resumes its exploration of your body, rough calluses scraping against your sensitive skin. "And in return," he continues, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "you will give me your obedience, your body, and your heart."

You shiver at his words, knowing that he already has more of your heart than you'd like to admit. The life you left behind feels like a distant dream now, fading more with each passing day.

"Yes, my king," you whisper, your voice trembling.

Steven's hand moves to cup your face, turning you to look at him.

"You've pleased me greatly, little wife," he murmurs, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Perhaps more than I expected when I claimed you."

His words send a flutter through your chest, a warmth you try to suppress. You know you shouldn't crave his approval, shouldn't feel this surge of pride at pleasing him. But you can't help the way your body responds to his touch, the way your heart races at his praise.

Steven leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that's surprisingly soft compared to his earlier ferocity. His beard scratches against your skin as he deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a possessive thoroughness.

When he pulls away, Steven's eyes darken with renewed desire as he regards you. Without a word, he sits up against the headboard, his muscular frame on full display. His hand cups your cheek, guiding you down his body with gentle but insistent pressure.

You know what he wants without him having to speak. Your heart races as you move lower, trailing kisses down his chest and abdomen. His skin is hot beneath your lips, marred here and there with scars from countless battles. You trace one long scar with your tongue, feeling Steven's muscles tense at the sensation.

When you reach his cock, already half-hard again, you hesitate for just a moment. Steven's hand moves to the back of your neck, urging you on. Slowly, you take him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his considerable girth.

Steven groans, a deep rumble that you feel as much as hear. His hand tightens at your nape as you take him deeper, guiding your movements. You hollow your cheeks, sucking as you bob your head up and down his length. His cock swells and hardens fully in your mouth, stretching your jaw.

"That's it, little wife," Steven growls, his voice thick with pleasure. "Show your king how much you truly missed him."

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[skeltnwrites]

Deck the Halls ⋆⁺❆₊꙳‧❅⋆࿔

With Eddie stuck in the hospital, the boys help you bring Christmas to him. 3k

a/n - for the amazing @littlexdeaths twelve days of promptmas! <3

“Mike, stop pulling so hard.” 

“You’re holding it too high!” 

Lucas scoffs. “It’s literally dragging on the floor.” 

“It’s literally not–” 

“Guys!” Your snow-slick boots squeal on the linoleum as you spin. “You’re gonna get us caught if you don’t stop arguing.” 

“But he–” 

“I wasn’t–”

“Both of you! Shut up!” 

The scowl Mike gives Lucas is met with equal disdain. But he rolls his eyes and heaves the Christmas tree in his arms up a notch. You resume down the hospital hallway, hauling the front end of the tree with four grumpy teenagers in tow. 

You can’t be that annoyed. Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike are all here with you of their own volition in this stuffy hospital very early on Christmas morning. And they all have a piece of your heart for doing so. 

You adjust your grip on the tree. No matter how you hold it, the bristles poke your waist, and the bark stamps itchy lines into your palms. But you remind yourself of Eddie. Of his hospital room with white walls, white sheets, white machines, white everything. And that’s just not right, not on Christmas. 

So you’re bringing the holiday spirit to Eddie this year. Between the five of you, there are three backpacks brimming with unused tinsel, lights, and ornaments, and a pine tree as tall as Lucas. 

You’d have decorated earlier if you could’ve. But Eddie procrastinated until Christmas Eve to fix the lights on your roof and in his haste, his heel skidded on a patch of ice, and he tumbled off the house in a rather cartoonish display. It wasn’t funny then, but you can laugh now knowing he’s passed out on painkillers and recovering just fine. Still, two broken ribs were enough to hold him for observation and visiting hours ended before you could scrounge anything festive together. So here you are, slinking through the emergency room past receptionists, nurses, and hospital security in the middle of the night. 

You raise a fist, prompting the boys to freeze. The click-clack of heels echoes from around the corner, growing louder by the step. “Back, back, back,” you order. 

Mike backpedals straight into Will’s chest and Dustin steps on Lucas’ foot. The tree lurches backward as they all grapple for balance. It’s a clumsy scuffle nowhere near quiet. If whoever’s there didn’t hear you before, they certainly have now. 

You try the nearest door handle and swing it open. By some miracle, the room’s unoccupied. 

The boys follow your lead, bags jingling loudly with each frantic step. They shove the tree through the doorway at an angle and a branch snags on the frame. 

“Wait– stop, stop!” Dustin whisper-yells. 

Mike rams it through again, a flurry of pine needles shaking loose and fluttering to the floor. 

“Stop,” you bark, “Turn it first.” 

They’re a smart bunch but they lack teamwork skills when you so desperately need it. Several pairs of hands fight to maneuver the tree in opposite directions. And all four of them squeeze through the doorway with it, snapping a branch in half and shaking another sheet of pine needles free. 

You sweep the tree remains inside with your foot– though there’s certainly still evidence in the hall– and pull the door closed behind you. The cheap window blinds crinkle as you steer them aside, just enough to see past the door. 

The heeled woman is either blind, deaf, or committed to minding her own business because she strolls by the door like it’s any other. You slump against the wall, turning to flash a thumbs up at the kids as soon as she’s out of view. You’re matched with a quartet of yawns, skipping from one frown to the next. 

“Almost there,” you encourage. It’s not a lie, per se, but it’s not very close to the truth either. This might be harder than you imagined. 

The elevator is too risky, so you take the stairs. But hauling a whole tree up four flights of stairs is no easy task. Mumbled complaints overlap and echo in the stairwell and by the top, your arms and legs are protesting just the same. 

The door whines as you crack it open, and you peer through the gap to scope out the area. There’s a nurse's station in the center of the floor manned by the same woman you’d seen earlier. Eddie’s room is on the opposite side; there’s virtually no way to sneak past without her seeing. 

You turn around, eyes locking with Dustins like they’re two bullseyes. 

He crosses his arms and cocks his head. He knows the look you're giving him and he doesn’t like it. “What?” 

“I need you to distract the nurse.” 

He says your name through a sigh, but before he can actually disagree, you yank him by the sleeve and thrust him through the doorway. 

The nurse’s head pops up from the desk immediately and Dustin shakes himself into character. 

“Help!” he shouts, promptly clearing his throat. “I need help– it’s my, my mother! You must help her,” he whips his head left and right. “Over here, in the elevator!” 

The nurse doesn’t move. She tries to speak but Dustin interrupts her.

“No! She won’t make it! Please– hurry!” 

The woman scrambles out of her seat and jogs after Dustin. He’s not very convincing, but he’s a better actor than the rest of you. And he’s very committed once he’s in it. Dustin’s cries persist, eventually distant enough that your adrenaline loosens its grip. You fling the door open, pinning it with your foot. The boys hustle through, following your pointer finger down the right corridor. You trot back ahead, escorting them right up to Eddie’s door. 

The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant imbues the frigid air in his room. The machines are off so the quiet hangs heavy. It’s the opposite of warm in every sense possible. And the little bit of it still spilling in from the hall is quickly cinched as someone shuts the door. 

You grope around the darkness, staggering over to the inky shadow you recall to be a chair. Your fingertips brush the scratchy fabric, and you let your bag slip from your shoulder, landing softly on the seat. 

A splash of light from the window catches one side of Eddie’s face. His lashes kiss the hills of his cheeks and his mouth is hinged open, exhaling a string of soft snores. It’s very cute, though, the kids’ expressions don’t reflect the same fondness. 

“We don’t have all day,” Lucas mocks, parroting your exact words from earlier when you’d urged him to get in the van before all the heat escaped.  

Your gaze sours when it reaches the boys. “Shut up. Help me stand the tree up.” 

Lucas snickers, planting himself on the other side of the tree. You lift the trunk so Will can slide the base under and Mike goes prone on the floor to screw it in. 

“Hurry up,” Lucas complains. 

“I can’t see!” 

“Shhh!”

Will pulls a flashlight from his bag and points it at Mike’s hands. The final screws are tightened and the boys let go.  

You give the trunk an affirming shake before retracting your own hands. It remains upright, even after a few optimistic steps back. 

If you think decorating would be the easiest part of this mission, you’d be wrong. It’s much too dark to work, even after Will situates his flashlight so it’s highlighting most of the tree. And keeping quiet might be impossible when you’re forced to mediate petty teenage arguments every five minutes. 

Mike and Will are hunched over a wad of string lights on the floor, unknotting opposite ends when Lucas waves his much neater spool of lights. “Uhh, we can’t use those. I brought rainbow ones.” 

Will tuts at the other boy. “So? We can use both?” 

“No, it’ll look stupid.” 

Will beckons you over with a growing frown. You’d swear these kids never graduated middle school if you hadn’t gone to the ceremony. The older they get, the more they fight, it seems. But your patience is thinning with each wave of attitude you receive. You’d asked for their help as their friends, not their babysitters. 

“Use both,” you decide, hands pressed into your hips. 

“But it won’t match!”

“It’s fine, Lucas.” 

He rolls his eyes very blatantly at you. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to drive him home then and there. 

But the sound of the door handle rattling steals your attention. It jerks up and down but the door doesn’t open; one of the kids must’ve locked it. Your heart springs up into your throat, your eyes swinging around the room for an escape plan. The lock will only buy you so much time and there’s no way to safely exit through the window and—

“It’s me!” Dustin shouts, popping into the window frame. His lips are nearly touching the glass and he’s fogging up the pane with his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mumble, clutching your chest as you march up to the door. 

Dustin scrambles in, chest heaving with a glare aimed right at you. “You would not believe how much stamina that woman has! I mean she just kept going. I thought, I lost her, and then–” 

You slap your palm across his mouth. “Shhh!”  

His wide eyes follow yours to Eddie. 

Eddie sighs, lips smacking as he straightens a leg across the sheets. You’ve never been so thankful to be dating such a deep sleeper. 

“Sorry,” Dustin whispers. 

You shove him further into the room. “Go. Be quiet.” 

Dustin grabs the tail end of the lights in Will’s hands. Together they wind the cord around the bottom half of the tree. Lucas dresses the top half in rainbow bulbs, still sulking as he works. 

You squat beside Mike to help him sort the ornament pile. One you brought quickly catches your eye. It’s a clay guitar pick Eddie made in middle school art class, an instant favorite of yours. You take it and hang it front and center, filling the gap in the middle of the tree where they ran out of lights. 

One by one, the tree is stocked with a rainbow of mismatched ornaments. There's something from each of their homes– family photos and elementary school crafts and trinkets of every size. It’s a wild assortment but a very special one too. 

Dustin is determined to hang the star– puts up a case that he was used as bait and thus deserves it– though, no one was going to argue against him in the first place. He climbs onto Mike’s back, arms stretching as far as they’ll go.

“God, you’re heavy.”  

“Stop complaining. Get me closer.”

“I’m trying.” 

Mike staggers closer and Dustin snatches a fistful of the top. The entire tree lurches toward him, ornaments clinking in his wake. 

“Wait– careful,” you urge.

Dustin lists dangerously forward, jamming the star through the bristles. 

From beside you, Will hums disapprovingly, “It’s crooked.”

Dustin’s tongue curls over his lip as he adjusts it. “Now?”

“Still crooked.”

"Now?"

Your hands hover out in front of you like a net but you are not as prepared to catch him as you look. “No, it’s fine. Just leave it.” 

Dustin releases the tip and the whole tree reels back. His arm shoots back out to steady it, but a handful of ornaments swing off and onto the floor. Miraculously, none shatter, but they bounce away in a ripple of clinking. 

Your focus jumps over to Eddie. He’s squinting vaguely in your direction, head tilted off his pillow with curls plastered to one cheek. 

A breathy chuckle reverberates through your chest. “Merry Christmas!” 

“Wha…”

The kids mimic you in their own broken choir of wishes but with half the enthusiasm you delivered. 

Eddie’s eyebrows weave into one crooked arch. He attempts, and quickly fails, to prop himself up on his elbows, making a sullen sort of sigh on the way down. 

You stride over to the bed, landing on the edge by his sheet-wrapped thigh. Your hand slips behind his shoulders and you offer a half smile. “Surprise?” 

He winces into a sit, a hand flying to his chest. Pain folds back into confusion as his eyes flicker across each face in the room. “I don’t… Why?” 

“So you can celebrate, silly.” You hook a finger under the hair stuck to his face and tuck it behind his ear. 

His lashes flutter closed as he melts into your palm, slowly bending until his forehead meets your shoulder. “Sorry, ‘m so tired.” 

Despite the overdramatic gagging going on behind you, you accept the embrace, running a ginger hand up his spine where his gown has billowed open. “Don’t be. Didn’t mean to wake ya. It’s early.” 

His nose sweeps a cold line across your collar. “How’d you get in? Place is like a prison,” he mumbles. “Already tried to escape.” 

“No, you didn’t,” you snort. 

“No,” he admits, lips turning against your shirt. “You snuck in? Snuck a whole Christmas tree in?”

You lean away just enough to nod, pride softening the edges of your grin.

“And you managed to do that with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum times two.” 

“I’m sorry– Who face-planted off a roof again?” Dustin cracks. 

Your sudden laughter is corked with Eddie’s palm. He glares– or tries to anyway– but you know his tells. The way one corner of his mouth twitches through his frown. How he tilts his head when he’s secretly amused. “Don’t laugh at that,” he says, utterly unconvincing. 

The rest of your laugh is swallowed, but the levity doesn’t fade. You peel his fingers off, gently carrying them to your lap like they might be broken too. “It’s true. You did.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Don’t pout.” You tip your head, mirroring him on purpose. “Do you like it?” 

His gaze tapers back up to the scene behind you, eyes glowing with red, green, and gold. “No, I love it,” he says honestly. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. I can’t believe this. How’d I get so lucky? Hmm?” Eddie pinches your side, cutting off your giggle with a swift kiss. 

“God, gross!” 

You whip your head toward the source. “Lucas, you literally have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, but you’re kissing Eddie.”

“What? You don’t think Eddie’s pretty?” Your fingers clamp either side of his face, cheeks squishing into his puckered lips like a fish. 

Eddie stares blankly at Lucas, but the second his eyes bound to yours, you both burst into laughter. 

“Don’t make me laugh, babe. Fuck,” he hisses, doubled over in amusement and equal pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” you amend, hands gently sandwiching his. “Oh– Let me get your gift.” 

He’s curious but he still sulks as you leave, chasing the lost warmth as you slide off the bed. “A gift?” 

“Mhmm,” you say, unzipping the front pocket of your bag. You fish out a small box wrapped in glossy paper with a puffy, red bow. 

He gives it a good shake when you pass it to him and a knowing smirk at the noise it makes. 

“Open it.” You beckon the kids closer, taking your prior spot on the bed. “It’s from all of us.”

The paper falls away under Eddie’s eager hands, a smirk growing and growing until it suddenly falters. Pure shock washes over him as he gawks at the gift. A limited edition, glow-in-the-dark set of dice he’s been talking about for months. 

His eyes shoot between you and the dice several times before he asks, “Where’d you even get these? They sold out like immediately.”

You shrug, nonchalance slipping. “Know a guy.”

He rolls his eyes, giving your shoulder a good jostle. And his gaze shifts across every person in the room, thumb absentmindedly roving across the box's label. “Thank you, guys.” 

“They come with one condition,” Dustin says. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to resurrect Virehart the Vengeful.”

Eddie groans, burying his smile in his free hand and shaking his head. “I told you guys I’m not doing it.”

“Please, come on! That’s our only condition,” Will tries. 

“He literally had like two lines.” 

“And they were badass!” says Dustin. “A blade is only as sharp as the courage behind it,” he recites in a voice much deeper than his own. 

“Oh my God.” Eddie waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine.” 

The boys celebrate with a chain of cheers. Eddie steals your fingers back amidst all of the yelling, a doting little look in his eyes. Forget the dice, you’re the real gift to him. 

The fuss very promptly ends when someone clears their throat. You all turn in unison, finding the same nurse from earlier. She sighs, hands planted on her hips with a disapproving shake to her head. 

Eddie chuckles nervously. “Merry Christmas?” 

[eddiesghxst]

❆ Let It Snow - a christmas smutty special ❆

happy holidays lovelys!!! ilysm and i hope you all have a beautiful rest of your year, here is a cute n quick little Christmas smutty blurb as my gift to u <3

also, this is not proofread i apologize for any mistakes <3

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: roomate!eddie munson x reader

summary: your flight home gets canceled on christmas eve and Eddie just wants to cheer you up

contains: friends to lovers trope, reader loves christmas (she's so me), oral (f receiving), p in v (unprotected - be smart pls), creampie, lots of Christmas cheer, and eddie being the cutest most kindest boy there ever was <3

word count: 3.6k

-masterlist-

Christmas is ruined.

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve been rotting away in your room all day— it’s now almost six in the afternoon— and Christmas is ruined.

In the corner of your room, your bags lay in a pile, packed and ready to go for the flight home you were supposed to be on just less than an hour ago. Your mother was devastated when you called her to break the news that you wouldn’t be home in time for Christmas, and although she tried her hardest to mask it over the phone, acting was never really her niche.

You’d already cried once this morning, a pathetic sob that inevitably escaped the second you opened your blinds and saw the blinding-white thick blanket of snow covering Hawkins. It’s not common, heavy winter snows in Indiana, so when the news mentioned that there would be a chance of snow, you didn’t think much of it.

Wrong choice.

You should’ve changed your ticket immediately and got on the next plane to Oregon, where your family would be with warm laughter and endless amounts of food, not to mention the traditional tree lighting you’d miss out on. But now, you’re stuck in Hawkins, chest hollow and cold from the undeniable fact that you will miss Christmas with your family this year.

Suddenly, you hear a raspy curse from the other side of your wall, followed by haste movements and the rustling of sheets and clothes. Eddie’s finally up from his nap. You can’t wait to tell him how stupid you’d been to book a flight so late on Christmas Eve.

Before you can even think of getting up and going to Eddie’s room, the man bursts through your door with a frazzled look as his gaze darts around the room, “Why didn’t you wake me? You’re gonna be late for your flight!” He panics. It’s sweet, really. The way your roommate paces over to your bags and looks at you with a ‘Why aren’t these in the car yet?’ look. It almost makes you hopeful that somehow, now that Eddie’s bright and sunny self is awake, he can find a way to get you home just in time for Christmas.

Obviously, it's not happening, considering Eddie isn’t a god, but one can dream.

You groan, tossing over in your bed to burrow your face deep into your sheets as you mumble into the soft cotton, “I’m not going anymore.” You grumble.

You can hear Eddie’s frown when he responds, “What? What do you mean you’re not going?”

You huff, heart aching as you reply, “Have you looked outside by any chance?”

You don’t turn to watch, but you can hear the shuffling sound of Eddie walking over to your window, shucking the blinds open, and peering out into the parking lot of your apartment that’s covered in that godawful snow. Eddie lets out a sound, something between surprise and sympathy, and it only makes the frown on your face deepen.

“Well… shit,” Eddie says.

You turn over and sit up, huffing as you shove your sheets out of your way, “Yeah. Have fun trying to figure out a way to get me across the country with that type of weather.” You grunt, kicking your legs over the side of your bed to stand and shuffle over to the packed suitcases. You figure you may as well unpack since you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So when are the airports gonna clear, did they say?” Eddie asks.

You huff as you unfold jeans and tops, mind reeling with scenarios of what you should’ve done to prevent this. “Not until tomorrow afternoon. Christmas will be done by then, and most of my family will be back in their respective homes, so… looks like you’re stuck with me, Munson.”

Which, sure Eddie practically threw a fit when you told him you’d be out of town for the holidays, but you still feel as if you’re intruding. Eddie was supposed to have Wayne come over tomorrow, but you’re going to be here probably sulking, and it’ll be awkward and pitiful, and it’s just not at all what you’d wanted your or Eddie’s Christmas to be like! 

“...Okay, well,” Before you can fully register what’s happening, Eddie is closing your suitcase and grabbing your hands, dragging you up to your feet and ignoring your confusion as he speaks, “You can’t spend Christmas like this, sweetheart. You’ll end up like the Grinch. Do you wanna be the Grinch? Don’t tell me you wanna be the Grinch.” Eddie rambles as he drags you out of your room.

You try to fight a smile at Eddie’s rapid fire of words, but you fail as you shake your head, ���No, I don’t want to be the Grinch, asshole.” You grumble as he drops your hand.

Eddie drops your hand and claps loudly, a bright grin spreading over his lips when he turns to you, “Wonderful! Then we have to get in the Christmas spirit.”

Eddie leaves you confused in the small hallway of your shared apartment, watching as he chaoticly prances over to the kitchen. He slows down and turns back to you once he sees you’re not following him, a confused expression painting over his face. “Well? Are you gonna leave me to bake alone, or are you gonna join?”

And well, you’ve never seen Eddie even pick up a baking pan, so it’s safe to say this will be interesting.

Eddie is absolutely terrible with ingredients. 

You and Eddie both decided to bake cookies, but instead of regular chocolate chips, Eddie pitched in the idea of using red and green M&Ms for the holiday effect, which you thought was pretty clever. The only problem is Eddie can’t measure for shit.

The recipe calls for two tablespoons of cornstarch, Eddie two and a half— damn near three. The next step says to mix in a third of a cup of cooking oil, but Eddie puts in much too little. It’s odd, considering his past with drug dealing, but you don’t mention it and instead opt to discreetly correct his mistakes whenever he turns his back to grab something else.

You both end up covered in flour because the pesky powder honestly just doesn't under the concept of gravity, and you laugh when you see some coating Eddie’s eyelashes. “What’s so funny, chef?” He asks.

You smile, “Nothing, you’ve just got… you got some on your eyes.” You reach up with a gentle hand, the sleeves of your sweater long enough to pull over your thumb so you can carefully dust off the white powder.

Eddie’s eyes are so bright and attentive this close, watching your every move with a type of sincerity you’ve only ever seen on screens from Grammy-nominated films and such. It makes your chest warm, and your knees quiver as his lips split into a smile, “Thank you, princess.” He softly says. You nod, and you swear Eddie’s eyes fucking twinkle.

You clear your throat, blinking away and stepping back to clear whatever trance from your mind, “Well,” You heavily sigh, “The cookies are in the oven for the next hour, so… I think I’m gonna go read.”

“Actually,” Eddie pipes up, softly reaching out and letting his fingers brush against yours, “I was thinking we could watch a Christmas movie. Unless if you’re sick of me, I totally get it; I’ll call you when the cookies are ready.”

Which couldn’t be further from the truth. You didn’t want to read. Hell, you don’t even have a new book to read; you’ve gone through your entire reading list.

“Oh! Well, what movie did you have in mind?”

“Home Alone. Obviously.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re a Christmas amateur, Eddie, did you know that?”

Eddie waves a dismissive hand as you begin to smile, reaching out to spin you around and shove you toward your room, “Just go get in some comfy clothes.”

You snort as you follow his instructions, shuffling over to your room to change out of your flour-coated clothing. It takes you some time to dig through your suitcase, but you eventually find the cute pajama set you bought for the holidays and slip it on, eager to return to the living room and join Eddie.

When you step into the living room, you don’t expect to see furniture pushed out of the way and Eddie standing in the middle as he pushes his queen-sized mattress down to lie right in the middle of the room—your heart races when you realize what Eddie’s done.

“Eddie, what are you doing?” You softly ask.

Eddie looks up at you, heavily breathing as he places his hands on his hips, “It’s Christmas Eve!” He beams. You tilt your head with a scolding expression, “I remember you saying you did this with your family, so I figured we gotta keep the tradition going.” He shrugs.

And god, Eddie’s so lovely. Too nice for his own good, really. Your entire body warms at the gesture, watching as he bustles around the apartment, grabbing blankets and pillows to make a comfy nest-like bed.

Seeing Eddie prepare the room wasn’t confusing because you kind of figured that’s what he was doing when you initially saw it, but you became concerned when you saw him drag a tall fake plant across the room.

Eddie steps back and gazes at the fake plant, face twisted in concentration, “Where should it go? The corner, right?” He turns to you. Your brows scrunch in confusion, “Uh… you’re losing me.”

Eddie blinks at you as if you’ve just asked him if the sky is blue, “The Christmas tree, doll. Where should it go?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s not a Christmas tree, Eddie, that’s a fake Cat Palm.” Eddie makes a face as if you’ve insulted him, “Says who?”

“Says anyone with general knowledge of the world.” “Why can’t this tree be a Christmas tree? As far as I know, they both have the same qualities that allow them to classify as a tree.” And you’re not going to argue with Eddie on that because he’s being sweet, and you’re interested to see what wacky plan he’s concocted in that brain of his.

So, for the next hour or so, you and Eddie sit on his comfy bed in the living room and use copy paper to cut out shitty snowflakes to put on the ‘Christmas tree’ as you watch Home Alone.

It’s undeniably the most fun you’ve had in a while, and you and Eddie turn your craft into a competition to see who can make the best snowflake, but you keep snipping the wrong spots to create an absolute disgrace of a snowflake. Eddie thinks they’re ‘fucking insane. In a good way!’ though, so you can’t complain.

“These are fucking awful.”

Home Alone 2 is playing, the Christmas tree is fully decorated, and you and Eddie have settled in his bed with a plate full of cookies. It’s a cozy little setup you’ve got, and your cheeks are warm from laughter, and you’ve never felt this content with anyone besides family. And to make matters even better, the cookies taste like absolute shit.

You look at Eddie, gazing at his horrified expression momentarily before bursting into a snort. Eddie looks at you, terror written across his face as you fold in laughter. 

“These are seriously the worst cookies I’ve ever tasted.” He reiterates. 

You manage to calm your laughter down just enough to respond, “They’re not that bad.” 

You and Eddie share a look before you burst into laughter again, “Yeah, they’re pretty bad.” You admit. Eddie joins you in laughter, shaking his head as he offers you the plate of cookies so you can put your half-bitten cookie away. “Remind me to never enter a bake-off,” Eddie grumbles as he reaches over to set the cookies on the coffee table pushed off to the side.

You and Eddie settle into his cozy bed then, content on holiday cheer and the comforting presence of one another. You’re pressed close to each other so you can share the bowl of popcorn you’d made, and you try to ignore how the close proximity makes your insides squeal. You glance at Eddie as you roll an unpopped kernel between your fingers.

“Thank you.”

Eddie turns to you, eyebrows raised in alert. You gesture to the atmosphere of your apartment, “For this, I mean. You didn’t have to do any of this.” 

Eddie makes a face and waves you off, “It’s nothing, princess. Couldn’t have you sad on your favorite holiday of the year.”

Your cheeks warm as you gaze at Eddie, chest feeling so much appreciation for his efforts today. Eddie didn’t have to do any of this. He could’ve just said sorry for your shit luck and called it a day, but he took it upon himself to make your ruined holiday into, arguably, one of the best Christmas you’ve had in a while.

“I mean, come on, you heard how badly I was begging you to stay home anyway. Some might even say I got Mother Nature to ring in a favor.” He jokes as he gently nudges his shoulder against yours. You roll your eyes, briefly returning to the movie as you respond, “You’re dramatic, Eddie. I was gonna be gone for two days.” You point out.

“Two days too long!” He stresses, “What was I supposed to do while you were gone?”

You snort, tossing popcorn in your mouth before speaking, “You were gonna be with Wayne anyway; you’d hardly even think about me.” You wave.

Eddie makes a displeased noise, poking at the popcorn in the bowl, “That’s not true.” He softly responds. You glance at Eddie, heart racing when he locks eyes with you. “Wayne isn’t half as pretty as you, so.” He jokes, a small smile spreading across his lips.

You shyly smile, “You think I’m pretty?” You tease.

Eddie smiles with his eyes, “I think you’re gorgeous, actually.”

And god, you think you imagine it when Eddie’s gaze falls to your lips, but then he’s reaching out to gently drag his thumb across your bottom lip. You lean into him on instinct, body aching for his touch, lips crying out to feel his lips on yours, and thankfully, Eddie doesn’t make you wait long before leaning forward.

Eddie’s lips are soft and perfect for kissing. Plump and addicting to the touch as he moves in tandem with you, hands gently caressing your face as you press into each other. You can’t contain the whine bubbling in your throat, and you almost feel embarrassed, but Eddie responds with a moan, hands moving south to softly grab your waist and pull you closer.

You almost can’t believe this is happening— you making out with your roommate on Christmas Eve— but you figure it was about time that you two shattered the thick wall of tension and desire that’d been building between you both. Stolen glances and lingering touches in the kitchen, too-close dancing at parties, and almost kisses during goodbyes have all led to this very moment as Eddie shifts to lay you back into the mountain of pillows.

You shakily breathe against Eddie’s lips when his fingers dust across your stomach, softly pressing into your warm skin to pull a squeal from your lips. You can feel the spread of his smile against the corner of our mouth, and you squirm as he peppers a few kisses there, “Gonna let me taste you, princess?” He asks, fingers caressing the skin just above the waistband of your festive shorts. You swallow heavily and nod, eyes dancing with his when he leans back just enough to see your face. “Words?”

“Yeah. Yes, please.”

Your voice hardly even sounds like your own. Needy and higher pitched and almost humiliating, but Eddie’s smattering kisses down your chin and neck, hands riding your shirt up your stomach so he can kiss the warm skin there. You softly exhale, reaching up to sink your fingers through his hair and gently tug. He groans against you, softly nipping the fat of your hip as his fingers curl over the band of your shorts. He drags the pants down your legs, sitting up to take them off and toss them to the side. He parts your thighs, a smug grin spreading across his lips as he gazes down at you, your socked feet digging into the sheets as he runs his ringed hands up your legs. “Stop staring.” You grumble.

Eddie chuckles, leaning forward to kiss your stomach and then the band of your panties, “Candy canes, huh?” He peers up at you as he plays with the tiny bow on your pelvis. Your face warms, center throbbing as you squirm beneath him. “Hey,” You frown, “It was a matching set and I thought they were cute.” You explain, nudging him with your foot. Which is true, the set came with a bra, panties, and socks, and it was on sale, so of course you bought it.

Eddie laughs as he settles on his stomach, “Oh, you’re fuckin’ precious,” He beams to himself. Your chest warms, and he leans forward to kiss just over your covered clit, “I love them, sweetheart.” Another kiss pressed to your hip this time. “I love them a lot, actually.” A kiss to the other hip, and you squirm. His lashes flutter when he peers up at you, fingers squeezing your hips as he speaks, “Unfortunately… they’re kind of in the way.”

You playfully roll your eyes, losing the fight to your smile as you respond, “Just take them off, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, hands moving quicker than you’ve ever seen to get rid of the candy cane printed barrier, happily settling back on his stomach and curling his hands around your thighs to pull you closer. He doesn’t give you any warning when he dives in, licking a thick and wet line from your entrance to your clit. He circles the tip of his tongue over your clit, grinning when you moan and twitch from the sensation. He hums as he suckles your clit into his mouth, licking and sucking as if his life depends on it, fingers squeezing at your thighs and hips. You’re drowning in pleasure, but you think you can hear the muffled sound of Eddie mumbling, ‘Fuck, you taste so good’ against you, and it makes your head spin.

You’re a goner when he sinks two fingers into you, expertly curling up against that toe-curling spot to have you crying out his name and arching up into him. He hums against you, nodding his head in encouragement as you cum on his tongue.

You’re blinking through a pleasure-filled haze when Eddie kisses up your body, sticky lips smearing wet pecks across your stomach as he pushes your shirt further up.

You help each other undress the rest of the way, your limbs shaky and clumsy from your orgasm, and Eddie chuckles but kisses you when you glare at him. Your hand wraps around his cock, but Eddie shakes his head, grasping your wrist as he pushes you back into his bed, “I can’t wait. Next time, yeah? Need you now.”

You wouldn’t dream of saying no.

The stretch of Eddie is so much yet so good. It burns, and it takes your breath away, but it sends chills up your back with the heavenly sensation as he presses into you, balls pressing against your ass as he leans over you and moans against your lips. “F–fuck. Jesus, you feel so fucking good.” 

You mewl, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing your body into him. “Please, Eddie. Please fuck me, please.”

“Yeah,” He gently coos as he pulls out. He pushes back in, watching as your eyes flutter shut and your lips part in ecstasy, and he hums, “There we go. Taking me so well, baby. Gonna give it all to you— h-holy shit.”

He builds his pace slowly but surely, and you’re so embarrassingly close by the time he’s steadily pumping into you, the loud sound of your sex echoing between your bodies in tandem with your moans. 

You moan, nails digging into Eddie’s shoulders as you breathe him in, digging your face into his neck and finding solace in the curtain of his curly strands as he holds you close. Eddie groans when you throb around his aching cock, and he nods, “Give it to me. Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.” He gently encourages you, a warm hand pressing into your back as he kisses your neck. You don’t know if you could get any closer, your chests pressed together, skin sticky with sweat as you grind against one another.

You tip over the edge quicker than you’d want to because you want this to last forever, but Eddie coos and holds you through it all, and you feel like you’re floating through clouds of stardust with Eddie kissing you and thrusting into you.

You’re out of it when Eddie cums. So far gone and high on pleasure that all you can do is moan and nuzzle into his neck to kiss and lick and bite as he empties himself into your pulsing cunt.

You’re both breathing heavily, Eddie collapsing against you but holding himself up just enough so he doesn’t crush you. You’re both silent as you catch your breath, softly running your fingers through Eddie’s hair as the ending credits to Home Alone 2 roll. Against the skin of your neck, you feel Eddie’s lips spread into a sleepy smile, and you can’t help but smile as well as you speak, “What?” You softly ask.

Eddie breathes, shifting so he can nuzzle his face further into your neck, breathing in the scent of you and sex.

“Nothing, just… I’m so fucking glad it snowed.”

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Longing (Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader)

synopsis: “You are wasting all this time away from what you could have.” He whispers against your lips.

��How could I so selfishly take something that will never truly be mine. For if it where it would mean you had lost everything.” You murmur back, finally caving and resting your forehead against his.

warnings: forbidden love, love confessions, afab reader

word count: 1.5k

taglist: @hopelesswritergall @urmomsgirlfriend1 @legitalicat

(If you want to be tagged for a specific character/fandom or in general let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)

Being a chambermaid employed by the royal family meant that you were closer to them than most low born people could say. It also meant that you were closer to them than most would ever be. You had begun your service as prince Aemond's chambermaid shortly after your four and tenth name day which was more than just a few years past now and, in that time, the initially fearful flutter in your stomach at the Targaryen prince’s presence had changed. Your palms still sweat, and your heart still missed a few beats, your muscles still tensed, and your breath still fell short. Yet the air around you feels different. Instead of suffocatingly thick, it seems charged with energy.

Still, ever aware of where you come from as opposed to his royal background, you push any of it aside and continue your service. All but too happy when you get reassigned to the princess Helaena´s chambers. Unknowing as to what brought on that change, carefully veiled by the Queen who feared her son’s infatuation with you grow, hoping it would keep the prince´s eye away from you. It wouldn´t. Nothing ever could. He had always gotten what he wanted, one way or another.

You felt the burning gaze in your neck whenever he was unoccupied by lessons, training or sleep. Every free second he is given. Though him watching you isn´t quite as hard as when he tries to talk to you.

“Have you ever known the feeling of love?” Aemond asks you in an empty hallway one night.

Gasping at his sudden, silent appearance, you stumble a step back. “A-apologies, your highness?”

“I asked if you have ever been in love.” He repeats.

Unsure if it is better to answer truthfully or not you decide for it. Just as your palms start to sweat and your stomach begins to flutter again.

“I have.” You admit with a burning face.

“How does it feel?” He implores further, taking a step towards you.

“In all truth I do not know how to answer your question.” A nervous huff escapes your lungs. “Because it is not the happy tale I assume you wish to hear.”

Aemond closes further in on you until you feel the cold stone wall of the red keep pressed against your back and his warm breath barely grazing over your face. “Tell me anyway.”

“There is nothing to tell. He is of noble birth, so I had no choice but to ignore my own feelings. Lest a confession endangered my position in the castle.” You try to push down any revealing glimmer in your eyes as he lays a finger underneath your chin to force you to look up at him.

“Have you ever considered his feelings? He might hope and wait for a confession. Your position would not be endangered if he is with you willingly, is it?” The look in the blond´s eye had seldom been witnessed to be as soft as it is in this moment.

You can barely handle the cold guilt that floods your nervous system at the prospect of it. “No, that would be an even worse fate.”

For a moment a heavy silence reigns over the atmosphere in the corridor. You are captured by his intense energy, but you know that your differences drive you too far apart to be together. Not in this life. Collecting all your strength, you free yourself of the spell.

“You will have to apologize me, your highness.” You mumble quickly before running back to your chambers.

Leaving him behind confused and displeased with his own haste having driven you away. Arriving out of breath and agitated, your stomach churns until the moment your eyes close. Yet even in your dreams the thought of Aemond won´t bring you any peace.

For the following tenday or so the two of you go back to the usual routine. You go after your duties day by day while Aemond watches. Secretly planning his next step. Careful not to drive you away any further than he already might have had. If only he knew how high the fire of passion was burning inside of you. Longing, yearning for what he was offering. Only barely contained by your insistent reminders how much there was at stake were he to pursue his feelings for you.

When he approaches you again, you are in the same corridor. Just about to prepare a bath for the princess. His steps silent as always, sending a cold shiver down your back as he calls out your name.

“You will never love anyone like that ever again. You will be like an empty vessel waiting to be filled, yet never being able to find what you are truly searching for…” He murmurs intimately.

Coming to a stand mere inches in front of you, leaning his head down to regard you with an all but reverential look from that dark, lilac eye. His hands find yours to interlock your fingers. Keeping you from running so fast again. He had thought long about how to talk to you without it, but now that he stood before you the words just broke out of him. Making your breath shudder as you take in the words. Struggling to cope with the intensity of the situation.

 “I am willing to sacrifice that, if only it means to spare him from the fate he would suffer if he chose me.” You croak.

It is wrong to be so close to him, but by the seven it feels so right. He was so unapologetic and unwavering in his pursuit, and it felt good to be wanted. Even if your body couldn´t help but be on high alert. His eye searches into your own. Longing, aching for your love.

The usually brooding facial features, consumed by the agonizing need to have you. “You cannot spare him from fate. On the contrary. You are hurting him more by not embracing your love.”

Aemond´s hands cup your cheeks, gently. You watch him come closer inch by inch, frozen in place. When his lips lay on yours in a tender kiss, you don't dare to close your eyes. The chances of being caught still ever present in your brain. Still your hands grip the leather of his doublet impossibly tight. The touch only lasts a moment, and his eyes remain closed as he hums afterwards.

“You are wasting all this time away from what you could have.” He whispers against your lips.

“How could I so selfishly take something that will never truly be mine. For if it where it would mean you had lost everything.” You murmur back, finally caving and resting your forehead against his.

“For as long as there is breath in my lungs, I swear to you that no matter who I am wed to my heart will be yours to hold only. I will worship every inch of you in the shadows of the castle and the dark of night.” He promises.

“But what are stolen moments and hidden alcoves if they do not save you from the danger of the affair. If you will never be able to not worry about the prying eyes and judgemental tongues of the court.” You argue back. Yet the intention of stopping the arising longing is far failed.

Your heart clenches with the wish to have the prince as freely as his future wife could.

“It will be whatever we wish. Our own little world.” He rasps and something inside of you breaks.

The strength you had shown all this time to stay away from him is eradicated by the sweet nothings.

“It sounds so simple.” You concede in a doleful tone.

“It can be. If you let it.” Aemond murmurs, one of his hands wandering into your hair. “I beg of you. Do not refuse what we could have anymore.”

“I will not.” You whisper.

The blond closes the infinitesimal gap between your lips anew. This time your eyes flutter close. Trusting him to be safe in your privacy. The hand still on your cheek, cradles your face as the other presses up ever so gently against the back of your head. Guiding you into the affectionate touch. His lips capture yours. Hungry for anything yours are willing to give and expressing every ounce of emotion that had been repressed for years. His tall frame presses against you, your arms snaking around his middle to splay your fingers over the cool leather covering his back. Your heart skips like never before. Your lips linger for a moment longer before you part. It could have been an eternity or just a blink of an eye and your eyes flutter open hesitantly. The air around the two of you buzzes, the energy the only sound in your ears beside your blood rushing with adrenaline.

“I love you.” You whisper. Scared to wake up and have it all be a dream if you speak any louder.

“I´m yours. Forever.” Aemond murmurs back.

[ghostsandguns]

New Year's Eve

Why on earth had you agreed to come to this party?

Your gaze swept over the bustling room as you took a sip of your drink. The music blended with the laughter of friends and lovers, all enjoying each other's company.

When you'd told your friends your New Year's Eve plans consisted of watching Pride and Prejudice and eating leftovers, they had nearly dragged you out of your house.

You appreciated the thought, but as the countdown to midnight drew closer, they had all snuggled up with their partners, leaving you awkwardly sitting between them.

It's not like you weren't interested in dating... you just hadn't found the right guy yet. And yes, maybe you could have tried harder, but for now, the company of your cat had been enough.

Or at least, that's what you tried to make yourself believe.

You were pulled back from your thoughts when one of your friends burst out laughing. ''No way!''

Their partner playfully rolled their eyes before continuing whatever story they were telling.

''I swear! My cousin tried it, and the next day she bumped into this super hot guy at the grocery store''

Meeting your confused gaze, she gave you an amused look before turning to you.

''My grandma told me that when the clock strikes midnight, you have one minute to eat twelve grapes under a table if you want to have good luck the next year''

This had you raising an eyebrow in doubt, but she quickly waved it off. ''Trust me, it sounds weird, but it works,'' she said, her tone full of confidence.

''I saw a fruit bowl on the table,'' she added, glancing down at her watch. ''Aaand if you hurry, you still have some time left.''

''Fuck, it,'' you thought, shrugging off any lingering hesitation. Might as well give it a shot—what’s the worst that could happen?

Setting down your drink, you stood up, and as you made your way to the ''lucky'' grapes, a playful chorus of ''ooohs'' rang out behind you.

Grabbing a handful of them, you glanced around a few times to make sure no one was paying attention to you before dropping to your knees and crawling underneath the large table.

The tablecloth draped low, partially obscuring your view, leaving you only able to see a bunch of legs moving around the room.

"4...3...2..." the countdown echoed through the room, signalling the moment to begin.

You quickly popped the grapes into your mouth, chewing and swallowing as fast as you could before the minute was up.

As the last one slipped in, you couldn't help but wish for a little extra luck in the love department, swallowing it a bit too quickly in your haste.

You burst into a coughing fit under the table, smacking your chest as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

That's when, suddenly, a hand appeared, gripping the tablecloth and pulling it back slightly, causing you to flinch in surprise.

"You alright there, love?"

The figure before you crouched down, ducking his head underneath the table. And holy shit, this had to be the most stunning man you'd ever seen.

''Well, thanks for the compliment, but may I say, you look lovely yourself''

Wait, had you just said that out loud? Mentally smacking your forehead, you let out a nervous laugh.

''I just said that out loud, didn't I?'' you mumbled, instantly regretting it as the words left your mouth. The heat creeping up your neck only making the situation worse.

He smiled at you, giving you a subtle nod. The way his lips curled up was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

God, even his smile was ridiculously pretty.

''Might I ask why you're sitting under a table?'' he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

You were growing more embarrassed by the second, but the man didn't seem to mind, casually crawling underneath the table to take a seat next to you.

He had to angle his head a bit to avoid hitting it against the table, and his knees were slightly touching yours, making the situation feel more intimate than it probably should have been.

"Oh—I'm just… you know, chilling," you muttered, feeling even more self-conscious.

His smile widened as he reached out a hand. ''The name's Kyle. Mind if I join you?''

Cliffhanger tuntuntun...

[nyoomfruits]

osctober day twenty seven

prompt: teeth pairing: lando/oscar word count: 665 a/n: set in the single dad!lando/engineer!oscar universe. you can find more of this universe here and here

“Alright, kiddo, time to brush your teeth.” Oscar’s voice filters through the open door of the bathroom as Lando makes his way into their hotel room. He was running late, and he’s glad Oscar had the time to get Evelyn to the hotel room and to bed as quickly as possible. They try to maintain some kind of semblance of normalcy and structure in Evelyn’s day to day life, but it’s hard, sometimes.

“Dad says that if I brush my teeth every day that they will turn pearly white and the sun will reflect off of them,” Evelyn says, voice turning up in excitement in the end, and Lando grins as he drops his bag on the couch in the middle of the hotel room, pictures her facial expression, eyes no doubt big in wonder.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s possible,” Oscar says. “But we can try?”

“Trying is important,” Evelyn says sagely. “Oscar, can I ask a question?”

“Sure, Eve, always,” Oscar replies. Lando’s on the brink of making his presence known, moving towards the bathroom, but something withholds him. Curiosity, about what Evelyn will ask. About how Oscar will answer.

 “Who are you?”

“Ah,” Oscar says. “Well, I’m many things. Happy, for starters.” Lando’s heart does a little jump.

“No,” Evelyn says. “That’s not what I mean. I mean like. You are with dad, right? And you take care of me too, so. Are you also dad?”

“Oh,” Oscar says. “That’s a good question.”

They haven’t talked about this, not really. Sure, they talked about what it would mean, to be together, to raise Evelyn together, what their future would look like. But not this. Not if Evelyn should call Oscar dad, or papa, or whatever else. Lando bites his lip, goes to intervene, when Oscar speaks up again.

“Do you want me to be dad?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” Evelyn says, clearly deep in thought. “Can I try it?”

“Of course, bug,” Oscar says.

“Dad, can you please help me brush my teeth?” There’s a pause, and then. “No, no, no, that felt really weird.”

“Well, you don’t have to. You can call me whatever you want,” Oscar says.

Evelyn seems to think about this. “Can I just call you Oscar? But you are still my dad. But your dad name is just Oscar.”

“I think I can work with that, yeah,” Oscar says. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want,” Evelyn says decidedly. “Oscar, can you help me brush my teeth?”

“Always, kiddo,” Oscar says.

Deciding the moment must be over, Lando finally makes his presence known, steps into the bathroom, where Evelyn is trying to squeeze toothpaste onto the sparkly Disney princess toothbrush Oscar is holding out for her. “Hey,” he says.

“Dad!” Evelyn says, dropping the toothpaste in her haste to go hug Lando, letting it clatter down into the sink. Oscar picks it up with an amused look on his face as Lando pulls Evelyn into a hug, picking her up off the floor and giving her a little spin.

“Hey, love. Have you been good?”

“The bestest,” Evelyn says, as Lando carries her back over to the sink, leans over to press a soft kiss to Oscar’s lips. “Oscar and I have decided that you are dad and he is Oscar.”

Oscar meets his eyes over Evelyn’s head, a silent question presence in them. “That’s awesome,” Lando says, to Evelyn as much as to Oscar. “Alright, go let your Oscar help you with brushing your teeth. I’ll go read you a story later.”

“Yay,” Evelyn says, and then takes the toothbrush from Oscar’s hand. “I love you,” she says.

“Love you too,” Lando and Oscar say, at the exact same time. Their eyes meet again, over Evelyn’s head, and Lando smiles at Oscar, soft and fond, and hopes that it conveys everything he’s feeling about his little family right now. By the way Oscar smiles back, equally soft and fond, he thinks it does.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall. 

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place. 

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long. 

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train. 

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive. 

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles. 

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus. 

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice. 

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear. 

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business. 

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories. 

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk. 

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?” 

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone? 

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence. 

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape. 

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93. 

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.” 

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin. 

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar. 

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two. 

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors. 

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work? 

That was sure to go over well.  

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift. 

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils. 

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar. 

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one. 

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier. 

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn. 

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire. 

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase. 

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet. 

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot. 

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile. 

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you. 

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you. 

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended. 

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back. 

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.” 

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when  he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line. 

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it. 

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you.  Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again. 

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied. 

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions. 

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again. 

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

--

taglist:

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @chrissymjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @reidsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @bewitchedmunson @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl @fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

shenanigans.

‣ pairing — steve rogers x f!reader

‣ contents — short meaningless drabble, established relationship, a light dusting of spice, fluff? and merry christmas eve my darlings! 💕

‣ summary — you follow steve into a dark closet 😏

‣ word count — 476

✩ read on ao3 ✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

It takes Steve a few seconds for his mind to catch up to what’s happening. 

He went to the linen closet to grab some paper towels when he spilled champagne all over himself like an idiot, only to find that the kitchen was all out. He’d just grabbed a new roll when you came striding up behind him, shoving him into the closet and closing the door behind you. 

Then your hands were on him, roaming enthusiastically over the ugly, scratchy wool sweater stretched over his torso. He’d bought it earlier this week at a thrift store, endlessly amused when it lit up obnoxiously with the flick of a switch. 

“Honey—” he startles, especially when your hands fist into his sweater so you can spin around and pin him against the door. He allows himself to be manhandled, despite grunting softly upon impact out of sheer surprise. 

You make a small, pleased sound at the back of your throat, before leaning up on your toes to kiss him. 

“Sweetheart—” he mumbles against your eager lips, already a little breathless when you giggle at knocking over some nearby rolls of wrapping paper and a box containing a stray bundle of shiny tinsel in your haste to get him alone. 

“Yes, Steve?” You purr, your hands on his chest pushing him firmly against the door, grinning wildly when his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush. 

“But the party—”

Music is still audible through the door, turned up so loud he can feel the bass thumping against his back. Surely, the other guests and the hosts have noticed both your absences by now. 

“But you just look so…” you trail off with a sigh, scanning him up and down. Steve’s never been one to care about his looks, but—oh, he’s seen that look before; your eyes sparkling with barely contained mischief, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and one of your legs slotting between his. 

He almost chokes on nothing. His cheeks burn once again, but of course he likes it very much when you get all handsy. 

Steve quickly grasps the hem of his sweater, ready to whip it across the tiny closet when you stop him with a gentle hand. “No, leave it on.” 

“Really?” He asks with an incredulous smile, looking down at the red and green abomination of fabric. It was perfect for the holiday party the Starks are currently throwing in the other room, but this is interesting. “The sweater’s doing it for you?” 

The only answer you give is a salacious grin of your own and, “shut the hell up and touch me already.” 

Steve only hesitates for a split second before grinning and turning on his light up sweater, his large hands palming the curve of your hips and then sliding even further. 

Yeah, you’re right. 

Screw the party.

fin.

[muka-rapak]

NO FUCKING WAY

YOU MADE FANART OF JURIJ'S OTHER KRABAT BOOK??!??!!?

KRABAT ODER DIE VERWANDLUNG DER WELT

[loulou-land]

Don’t Leave Me (I’m Staying)

This was meant to be a tiny lil ficlet based on a prompt line (that I didn’t even end up using in the actual fic) and then it turned into this…a drunk bucktommy fix-it of sorts lol. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy it! Ps. Tommy is hard on himself in this one and blames himself entirely for the break up, that in no way represents my opinions on the matter. It’s just how it turned out in this fic 😋

bucktommy | wc: 2,711 | post break up, light angst, emotional hurt/comfort |

Read here or on ao3

The call came in a little past midnight. Tommy had gone to bed early—after the usual romantic comedies failed to hold his attention and only made him feel more miserable. He’d hoped for a rare, dreamless sleep. But instead he found himself trapped in one of his recurring nightmares—memories of leaving the loft, ruining the best thing that had ever happened to him—when the sharp ring of his phone jolted him awake, his heart pounding before his brain caught up.

Squinting at the screen, his breath hitched.

E. Buckley

He almost dropped his phone in his haste, thumb fumbling to answer the call before it stopped ringing.

“B—Buck?” he stammered. “Are you okay?”

There was a pause, and then a voice that was definitely not Evan’s, heavy with irritation and booze, spoke.

“Hey, this Tommy?”

Tommy frowned, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, that’s me. Where’s Evan? Is he okay?” His mind raced, already conjuring a million scenarios, none of them good.

“Define ‘okay’,” the guy snorted. Tommy’s stomach dropped before he focused on the rest of the words. “Your boy’s shit-faced. Keeps crying and saying your name. Maybe come get him so the rest of us can drink in peace?” the man slurred.

Tommy’s heart lurched at the thought of Evan crying. He forced out a tight thanks to the drunk man, getting the name of the bar while he yanked on his jeans and boots. Thirty-five minutes later, he was parked in front of a dingy-looking dive lit by flickering neon signs and plastered with shady looking posters promising “quality alcohol.”

For a moment, he debated calling someone else—Eddie, or maybe even Sergeant Grant—but then wondered why Evan would come to an out of the way dive like this, alone. Steeling himself, Tommy decided to go in, keeping 9-1-1 dialed on his phone, just in case.

It didn’t take long to find him. Evan was sprawled over the bar top, head buried in his folded arms, his curls sticking out every which way. Tommy’s heart raced at the sight of him, as well as feeling an overwhelming sense of relief at once again being in the same room as Evan.

Tommy made his way through the bar, clocking in all the exits and keeping an eye on the other patrons, bracing himself for any trouble.

“Hey, Ev—Buck,” he hastily corrected himself, as he came up beside him. “Let’s get you home.”

Bleary baby blue eyes lifted, unfocused but just as bright as always. A lopsided grin spread across Evan’s face.

“Tommy” he slurred, his voice full of unguarded wonder. “My Tommy.”

Tommy’s chest tightened painfully at Evan’s words. He knew he’d be Evan’s until the day he died—leaving that night hadn't changed that, had only made it worse. It had made him realize that Evan was it for him. But it also confirmed what he’d always feared: Evan deserved more than a broken man like him. Still, hearing Evan call him his, ignited a flicker of hope he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. Not right now.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he whispered. “You okay, Buck?”

“Nooo,” Evan protested, shaking his head so vehemently he almost tumbled off the stool, if not for Tommy catching him and keeping a steady hand on him.

“Not Buck,” Evan mumbled, burping mid-sentence. “Not to you. Ev…Evan,” he said, poking Tommy in the chest and trying to glare at him—a glare somewhat softened by the way he kept squinting and hiccuping.

Tommy exhaled a shaky laugh, a pang of something tender and broken twisting deep in his chest. Even like this, Tommy couldn't help but be absolutely endeared by the other man.

“Alright, Evan. Let’s get you out of here.”

“I don’t want to go home, it’s empty a…and—lonely” Evan replied quietly, eyes shifting away as he made himself smaller.

“Hey, no…it’s okay.” Tommy’s heart cracked, guilt taking hold of him. “I’ll take you to Eddie’s—”

“Ha!” Evan cuts in, chuckling bitterly. “No, that’s empty too.”

“What do you mean?” Tommy frowned, feeling a sense of foreboding creep up on him.

“He’s in Texas, looking at houses,” Evan paused, exhaling deeply. “He’s leaving…everyone leaves me. Why—” He trailed off, slumping as though the weight of everything was suddenly falling over him.

Tommy went rigid, the raw vulnerability in Evan’s voice cutting through him like a blade. Tommy thought he had braced himself for whatever tonight would bring but he hadn’t prepared for this—seeing the possible aftermath of his absence carved into the man he loved.

“Okay,” Tommy said, his resolve crumbling. His next words came out hesitantly, almost afraid…of what, he didn’t know. Rejection or the thought of what would come after—inevitably breaking his own heart again. “I’ll take you to my house.”

He knew it was selfish, he didn't have a right to this anymore, no right to be the one Evan leaned on. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to take care of Evan, just for tonight, even if saying goodbye in the morning might destroy him.

“With you?” Evan asked, his voice trembling with disbelief as he looked up at him.

Tommy’s stomach dropped. “Yeah, sweet…heart,” his voice catching on the endearment that slipped out. “With me. I want to make sure you're okay. Is that alright? I can call Bobby or Hen if you’d rather—”

“No!” Evan yelled, eyes wide and glassy. “Take me with you, please?”

“Shh,’’ Tommy soothed, gently brushing away the tears gathering at the edges of Evan’s eyes. “Don’t cry, honey. You can come with me.”

It took some effort to get him upright, but eventually, Tommy had an arm around Evan’s waist and one of Evan’s draped over his shoulder as they headed for the door.

Suddenly, a man stepped in front of them.

“So, you came for your boy?” the man slurred, swaying unsteadily. Tommy recognized his voice as the caller.

Tommy tensed, his mind racing through potential threats, readying himself to protect Evan. Only, instead of hostility or the expected homophobic barb, the man pointed a half-empty beer at him and said, “You better fix it. Take him home and grovel.”

Tommy blinked, caught off guard. “Uh…yeah,” he managed, unsure how else to respond.

The drunk shook his head and stumbled back toward the bar, muttering incomprehensible things all the while.

Tommy exhaled deeply. “Alright, let’s get out of here,” he muttered, tightening his grip on Evan as they headed for the exit.

______________________________________

The drive to his house was quiet, except for the occasional hiccup or muttered word from Evan.Tommy had gotten him to drink a full water bottle, before Evan slumped against the passenger window for the rest of the trip. He did his best to drive carefully, not wanting to dislodge him or have him bump his head. Tommy kept his eyes on the road but couldn’t help glancing at him every few seconds.

When they finally arrived, Tommy parked and hurried to the passenger side, slipping an arm under Evan’s knees and bracing the other against his back. He lifted him with a grunt, feeling Evan’s steady weight against him as the other man buried his face in Tommy’s neck, sniffing deeply and mumbling against his skin. The sensation of Evan’s lips on his neck sent a shiver throughout his body.

Taking a deep breath, Tommy moved inside, carrying Evan to the couch. He eased him down gently, propping him up as he kneeled in front of him to tug off his shoes, feeling Evan’s eyes following his every movement as he did so.

Then Evan mumbled, hesitantly. “Tommy, I’m sorry…just, sorry.”

Tommy froze, his throat tightening. He looked up sharply. “Evan, you don't need to apologise for this. I'm always happy to help you,” he said, keeping his voice calm, trying to soothe him.

But Evan shook his head weakly, a new wave of tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. “No.” he whispered, voice breaking. “I'm sorry for being too much. For messing it all up. I always…jump ahead of myself and…I didnt mean to scare you away.” His voice trailed off in a pleading tone.

The words hit Tommy like an avalanche, burying him under their weight and his breath left him in a rush. His hands stilled, hovering over Evan’s untied laces as his chest clenched painfully. Too much? He couldn't believe what he was hearing. When Tommy left that night, he knew he was breaking both their hearts, but he thought Evan would be able to move on easily. He’d convinced himself that someone as bright, good and incredibly kind as Evan would find someone better—someone who really deserved him. And in the end, Tommy wouldn’t be missed.

But, he hadn't anticipated this. He hadn't anticipated this.

Tommy sat back on his heels, trembling as the realization of Evans words and his own actions crashed down on him. He needed to fix this. He couldn't live with himself knowing that this wonderful selfless man blamed himself for Tommy’s cowardice.

“Hey,” Tommy said softly, his voice catching in his throat as he tried to draw Evan’s eyes to his. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and brushing a stray curl from Evan’s damp forehead, his breath stuttering when Evan followed the motion.

Tommy swallowed hard in the silence of the room, broken only by Evan’s quiet sniffles.

“It wasn't you, okay? It wasn't you, Evan.” Tommy said, his voice thick, as he emphasized Evan’s name, needing him to understand that. “This…It was entirely on me.”

Evan frowned, the words lighting a fire in his eyes and stirring something defiant in him. His expression shifted, his mouth tightening as his brows furrowed in bitter disbelief. “Really?” He scoffed, voice cutting. “You're giving me the "it's not you, it's me" line?” A bitter laugh spewing from his mouth. “They all leave me, but it's okay…because it's not me,” he said derisively.

Evan sucked in a shuddering breath, his voice cracking when he spoke again. “You want to know something funny? I didn't think you’d leave. But—” His hands rose up to his face, gripping it as though trying to keep the words in, before giving up. They dropped limply to his lap.

Tommy’s heart twisted, knowing what was coming. He could already feel the sting of it.

“You left. You left me, Tommy.”

Evan’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the words still reverberated in the room.

And Tommy shattered.

Those words, they obliterated him. Every defense he had crumbled, leaving him raw and exposed, guilt bleeding through every crack. He felt the tears running down his face, and he tried to hold himself together—not wanting Evan to see what his words had done to him. But wasn’t that the very thing that had brought them here? Tommy hiding himself away from the world, scared to show himself for fear of being hurt. But he was already hurting—and had been from the moment he walked out the door that night.

He looked up at Evan, whose face was heartbreakingly vulnerable, tears shimmering in his blue eyes, but completely open to him, his pain laid bare for Tommy to see. It was only fair, Tommy did the same.

“I know,” Tommy rasped, voice thick and uneven. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

He pressed a hand to his chest—instinctive, desperate—as if trying to hold his heart together.

For one wild moment, Tommy wished he could rip it out and hand it to Evan, to show him that it had always been his. From the day Evan had smiled at him after a hurricane rescue gone well, Tommy’s heart had belonged to him. It always would. Instead, his fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, useless, trembling, trying to show how much he meant it.

“I’m so sorry, Evan,” he whispered again.

Evan blinked at him, fresh tears spilling over as he exhaled a trembling breath. The room was silent save for their uneven breathing. They just looked at each other, months of pain and longing passing unspoken between them.

Then, they moved at the same time—Tommy leaning forward, giving in to the urge to touch, to comfort, to heal. He gathered Evan in his arms, pulling him close.

“You didn’t mess anything up, baby.” Tommy murmured, the endearment coming out naturally again. He felt Evan’s head drop to his shoulder, shuddering against him. “I did. I was scared. Scared of you seeing the real me…the broken man behind the façade. And I thought—” he stopped, his throat closing up painfully for a second. “I thought leaving would protect my heart. That it would be better if I left before I got in any deeper. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t any better. Oh god…Evan.”

A sob tore through him as he held Evan tighter, his grip unyielding, as if letting go might break him once and for all. Evan’s arms wrapped around him just as fiercely, his hands clutching at Tommy’s back with equal desperation.

For the first time in months, Tommy let himself feel everything he’d been holding back. The pain of being apart from Evan, the weight of his regrets and endless “what ifs’ that had haunted him—all of it poured out in body shaking sobs. But this time, he wasn't alone. Evan was there, holding him through it.

And Tommy felt Evan’s pain too—he accepted it, welcomed it, knowing he had caused it. It was his to carry, and he’d carry it for as long as he needed to.

Evan didn't say anything for a while, his face buried against Tommy's neck as he took in shaky, uneven breaths—shivering in his arms. When Evan finally spoke, his voice was a broken whisper. “It hurt. It hurt so much, Tommy.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion. He nodded, taking responsibility for the hurt, before giving in to the need and pressing a soft kiss to the side of Evan’s head.

He knew Evan wasn't trying to hurt him with those words. He just wanted Tommy to understand and…he did.

Tommy’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper when he at last pulled himself together. “I can’t take away what I did, but if you’ll let me…I’ll do my best to make it better.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with a promise Tommy didn’t intend to break. Evan pulled back, searching his face before taking both of Tommy’s hands in him, squeezing emphatically with every word that spilled from him. “We…We will make it better. Together an—and, we’re going to stay for each other. O—okay?” he stuttered.

Tommy felt something click, something slot back inside of him—relief, grief, hope, love—all fitting together in a way that finally made sense. “Okay.” he answered, unhesitatingly, with the full conviction of a man who’d gone through hell and made it out.

Evan sighed, slumping fully against him in relief. Slowly, the tension drained from his body, his breathing evening out as exhaustion and the lingering effects of the alcohol took over.

Tommy shifted, settling them down to lay on the couch, his arms still wrapped securely around Evan. He felt completely wrung out, pulled inside out, but for the first time in months, he felt no regret.

He looked down at Evan, now curled up against him, his face tranquil and smoothed in sleep. Tommy brushed a hand lightly over his back, grounding himself in the reality of holding him again.

Tomorrow, they would talk. Whether Evan remembered tonight or not, Tommy would lay everything out again. He’d fight for them—for the second chance he’d been too afraid to ask for before. Therapy, hard conversations, whatever it took.

Because now he knew. He’d finally realized what he should have understood all along: Evan deserved someone who would stay.

And Tommy was done running.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but his mind flashed to Evan squeezing his hands and promising they’d do it together. Hope flickered unwaveringly in his chest, easing the ache in his heart and, at long last Tommy felt like he could breathe again.

Evan stirred slightly, his fingers twitching against Tommy’s arm as he mumbled, “Stay.”

Tommy pressed a kiss to Evan’s hair as he whispered “I’m not going anywhere, love. Not this time.”

And he meant it.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Dreamy Kisses

Summary: It's been three years since Alastor left you in the middle of the night with nothing to remember him by except a single bowtie, forgotten in his haste. You missed him more with every passing day and every year, you hoped he would attend the one party you never missed. Perhaps this year your dream would come true.

The sound of your voice came, humming lightly along to the music in your head, the sounds of your memories. It was your memory that haunted you, replaying the sound of Alastor singing along with the jazz he would often play. He lived in your mind, a pale recreation of the man you had loved for decades, but that was all you had. 

Bitter, hot wind, stinking of sulfur, whipped at you, sending your hair flying out behind you. It was long now, longer than you had ever kept it in life. Alastor had been fond of longer hair, but even so, it was longer than you had ever kept before he had… before he had left. 

You hesitated, looking up at the towering staircase and the radio tower it lead to. The walk wouldn’t be hard, not now that you were stronger. Before your death, the walk to the tower alone would have exhausted you. 

After death, you rarely had to do any long walking you didn’t want to do. It wasn’t something you could just avoid anymore, though. That, like so many things, was off the table. No longer could you just melt into the shadows and appear in the tower. 

You didn’t mind the walk, and you wouldn’t mind the climb. It was something you had grown to enjoy, though you dearly wished for company during it. Not just anyone’s company- you wanted to indulge in a long, relaxed walk with Alastor at your side, your arm tucked under his. 

It was New Year’s Eve. Another spent alone. Your third now, but that didn’t stop you from coming here. 

You again traced the spiraling staircase up the center of the radio tower, leading to the office suspended halfway up the primary tower. It was from this tower that all of his broadcasts originated, the crown jewel of his territory. 

“I miss you,” you whispered as you wrapped your hand around the cold steel railing. The tink of your heel as it hit the metal stair seemed to echo in your heart. “I miss you so much.” 

You waited for a moment, giving him a chance to show up and tell you how silly you were. Alastor would never leave you, you know that. He always came back. He always comes back. Always. 

Except this time. 

No. You argued with your heart and your mind. You knew better. Alastor would come back. He had to come back. He had to come back for you. 

It’s been three years since you woke up, New Year’s Day, alone. Three years. 

Alastor had gotten bored. He was tired of you. You were weak, holding him back as he continued his rise to power. 

But he was gone. His rise to power was no longer continuing. If anything, it was falling in his absence. Though you tried, you lacked the power to maintain the stronghold on his considerable territory. As each year passed, fellow overlords chipped away at what was his.

“I’m coming,” you whispered, heels ticking against the wooden steps with the beat of your dead heart. “Please, wait for me.” 

He wasn’t. You knew he wouldn’t be up there. The radio station was dark, dead. It was as dead as the air on the station he played his personal selection of music, chitchat and horrors on. 

For decades, no one dared rival his channel, but now if you just turned the dial, you could replace the dead sound of what had been his channel with music. People were no longer scared to broadcast on the radio, using other frequencies, moving more and more in on what was his domain. 

You never turned the dial, though. Mimzy and Rosie both looked at you with pity, each changing the station to a newly arrived rival station, filling their spaces with music he did not play. Your home remained silent, playing only the records you and Alastor had purchased together. Your heart and your home were a shine to the man you shared both with for so many decades. 

“Please, be there,” you whispered, climbing closer and closer to the door. Each step had tears gathering in your eyes until you couldn’t hold them back anymore. 

It was shameful, dangerous to cry in the open in hell, but the risk was minimal here. This was the center of his territory and while you struggled to hold on to his control in his absence, this area remained untainted by challenge. This area, so close to the home you had shared with him and the radio tower he had founded his empire in hell with, was as close to a private, safe place as you’d get. 

“Please,” you choked on the word. “Please, be here.” 

Tears ran freely down your cheeks as you wrapped your fingers around the knob. The door rattled as you tried to pull it open, willing it to be unlocked, waiting for you. The steel was cold under your touch, unmoving as you tried to turn it. 

That’s okay, you told yourself. He just kept the door locked. That’s what he did when he wasn’t expecting you. 

But he would have been expecting you. This was what you had done every New Year’s Eve. This was where you went, together, to watch the fireworks. Every single year, for decades.

Every year, that was, until a few short years ago. 

The key- the only key- was in the pocket of your dress. Your hand trembled as you reached for it, pulling it free. Your breath choked, tears threatening to give way to sobs as you slotted the key into the lock and turned. 

The door swung open with a squeak of hinges that betrayed years without proper maintenance. Alastor wouldn’t have stood for it. That squeak alone stabbed into your chest, reminding you he hadn’t returned to care for the space he had invested so much power in. The puddles of the bayou had dried up a year ago, leaving nothing but patches of dirt and brittle dry reeds. 

“Alastor?” You knew he wasn’t there, but that knowledge did nothing to stop you from calling out to him. 

Hope. That’s all you had. Hope. It was what had gotten you through life, through your death and through your afterlife. 

Each day that passed, each week, each month, each year was working to steal that hope from your heart. The demon of time threatened to steal the only thing you really had left anymore. How long could you really resist it? 

The door swung closed behind you, slamming shut with an echo through the empty room. The dim, dark red glow of night in hell bathed the room in that hellish glow. On the ground, in the dust, you could see the footsteps of a more hopeful ghost. You wanted to be her again. You wanted the hope you had in that year or the year before. 

You wanted to have more hope than you had now.

“Alastor,” you moaned as you collapsed into the chair, covered in a year’s worth of dust that hadn’t been disturbed once since you had last visited, exactly one year ago. 

Fingers wrapped around the bundle of fabric in your pocket, pulling it out. It was all you had left of him. He had taken everything else that belonged to him alone. Everything left belonged to you together or was yours alone. 

There had to be a reason. You had to believe that he had a good reason for leaving, for breaking your heart. He would come back and tell you why. It would all make sense then. Everything you went through- it wouldn’t all have been for nothing. 

There had to be a reason. 

The clock, ticking loud in the empty room, marked the passing seconds. It looked over the space that had once been so full of life, a near silent witness to the constant passage of time. Dust clouded the glass, dimming the polished wood of the case, as it did everything in the room. 

Tears splashed onto the control panel as you leaned forward, face sinking into the palms of your hands as a ragged sob tried to rip through your chest. It was almost time. Blindly, you reached out and flipped the first switch.

The consol came to life with a hum. All throughout the Pride ring of Hell and as far into the other rings as Alastor’s- no, not Alastor’s power anymore. The radio was powered by your power now. Alastor wasn’t here. The reach wouldn’t be as far, but you hoped the signal would reach throughout pride at least, forcing radios on and dials to turn to his station. It was something you never asked around to verify, fearful that you simply were not powerful enough. 

Another switch flipped, the click seeming far too loud in the silent room. Recorded music played, coming to life with no warning. It was the same music every year and would run for the last hour of the year. You said nothing before starting the jazz tape. 

Alastor would have. 

There was nothing you could say that would live up to his parting message of the year, so you simply said nothing at all as music filled the airwaves, pouring out from speakers around the city just as it did from the speakers within the radio tower. 

Songs you listened to every year clawed at you, jagged knives ripping through the scars that had grown over the open wounds of your heart over the last twelve months. Each jaunty piano key ripped your heart open. The warm horns blew every wall you had built around the sadness of your heart, trying to contain it as if it was an infection.

“Oh, Alastor.” The words felt like they were cutting their way out of your chest. Each syllable felt like a knife ripping up your throat. “Al…” 

You slumped forward in Alastor’s chair, arms folding as you crumpled forward. Your head was heavy as it fell on to your arms. Tears dripped, splashing down onto the console. Each drop felt like it shattered your heart. 

Every single year, you thought there wasn’t anything left to break. Every single year, your heart found a new way to break. Each song played, reminding you of years spent listening to these same songs as glasses clinked and heels tapped against the ground while the man you loved more than anything in existence spun you around the broadcast room. 

There was none of that now. 

Now, there were only just the well-worn records and the sound of your soft sobs, mixed with the splash of your tears. 

So you cried. 

And cried. 

And cried. 

Until…

The sound was so soft. You almost didn’t hear it. The whisper squeak of hinges, of a door being pulled open that should have remained closed. It should have been louder, but you were so tired, the sound seemed to float just past your ears. 

“Cher?” It was just as soft, a ghost of sound caressing your exhausted ears. It wasn’t real, you knew that. It was nothing more than the ghosts conjured up by an exhausted mind. 

Right?

And then a large, clawed hand wrapped around your shoulder, fingers flexing as he shook you. Wearily, you lifted your head, preparing yourself to face the empty room, knowing full well he wasn’t there. 

He couldn’t be. 

He left. 

It was just a figment of your imagination. 

Except, as you lifted your head and turned in the chair…

“Alastor?” 

He wore his best. It was what he always wore for new years, a memory of what he had worn in life. A tailcoat in a rich rusty color that you could paint from memory, at least if you had any talent at all, hung folded over his arm. 

His shirt, bright red, the color he loved so much, spread over his shoulders and chest, well fitted. It would have been scandalous in your time, but that didn’t stop him from saving a little money and using less fabric on his shirts. In truth, though he never admitted it, you always thought he favored the tighter fit on his lean frame.

What you knew for sure was that you did.

Your legs struggled to support your weight as you stood slowly from the chair. Surely your eyes had to be the size of saucers as you looked at him, the man you loved, the man who had left you years ago, leaving nothing but the scent of him behind. That and a bowtie, forgotten, lost in the folds of your dress, thrown to the floor in a moment of heated passion. 

“Cher,” Alastor said again, his voice a balm on the wounds of your shattered heart. 

You launched yourself at him, though it didn’t feel like your legs should have been able to produce the force needed to do so. 

His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into him as if the momentum wasn’t enough. His shirt bunched under your fingers as they curled into a fist, clinging to him as you looked up at him through the sea of tears gathering in your eyes, only to cascade down your cheeks in a waterfall of emotion. 

“You left me.” Your voice came out as a squeak, hardly strong enough to produce sound at all. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.” 

“I’m back,” Alastor cooed, thumb wiping the tears away from your cheek. “I didn’t leave. I only stepped away for a moment.” 

“But you-” the sob that ripped through your chest cut your words off. 

“I know,” Alastor said. “I’m sorry, Cher. I have always come back for you, though. Haven’t I?” 

You nodded, timidly. His words did not dull the hurt in your heart, though there was so much comfort in hearing his voice. The pain did nothing to stop you from clinging to him. 

“I- I’m so damn mad at you,” you said, though your voice did nothing to carry that anger. 

“As you should be,” Alastor answered, just as you knew he would. “But would you dance with me, anyway?” 

“Why should I?” You tried to sound defiant. 

“Because I am back now?” Alastor said, ears twitching atop his head as his smile pulled wider. “And because you love me.” 

Alastor’s hand ran over your back and shoulders, smoothing down your arm before plucking one of your hands up off his chest. You followed as he stepped through the room, slowly leading you through a dance that didn’t match the tempo of the music. 

“I do,” you admitted, reluctantly. Through all these years spent alone, abandoned within the ring of hell that was your home, you loved him still. “But do you still love me?” 

“Of course.” His voice was cheery, happy. He sounded like he had just been away for a meeting, a few days for a trip or a hunt, not years. “I have loved you from the moment I took my first breath. I simply needed time to grow into a man to discover it.” 

“I didn’t think you would come back,” you whispered, tears finally drying on your cheeks. There was no reason to cry anymore. Alastor was here. He had come back. He was back. 

“I always come back,” Alastor soothed as he spun you around his broadcast room as if nothing had happened. “I will always return to you. You must believe that.” 

“Okay.” You sighed as his arms circled you again, holding you close as the energetic dancing of your time gave way to the soft swaying that came with the much more romantic tune of the next song. 

“Can you forgive me for missing the last few of our New Year’s Eve parties?” Alastor asked, leaning down to bump his sharp nose against yours. “Since I’ve come back for this one?” 

“Al,” you leaned into his embrace as the final song of the year began. “I don’t need you here for parties or broadcasts. I need you here for me. I need you to be here with me.”

“Forgive me, Cher?” Alastor nudged your nose again. “I knew you would be strong enough to stand your own feet in my absence, and you have.” 

“I didn’t want to do anything without you.” The pain stabbed into your heart again, but you smiled at him just the same.

“I know, but you did,” Alastor whispered, the static of the radio falling, revealing the sound of him alone as the song came to a close. “It’s almost the end of the year. How do you want to start the new year?” 

“With you,” you answered, voice soft. “Together. The way we always have. The way it’s supposed to be.” 

“Will you do me the honor of allowing me to kiss you?” Alastor’s voice was as naked as it was when he had asked you to marry him, a lifetime ago, kneeling in front of his mother’s tomb. 

“Always.” Your hands ran up his chest, wrapping around his sharp shoulders. 

Long ago, Alastor set the recording, so if it started on time, it would end just as midnight struck. The music faded as the final song ended. Just as silence fell in the studio, Alastor leaned forward, sealing his lips over yours, hiding away his wide, demonic smile. 

The loud explosions of fireworks broke the silence, lighting up the sky over the entertainment and technological districts. For a moment, the explosions within your heart drown out the sound. 

You clung to that sound and the feeling of Alastor under your hands as the boom of the fireworks grew louder and louder. One rocket shot off to the side, whistling as it approached the broadcast tower. The explosion rattled the tower, from where the metal beams extended into the ground right up to the antenna that sent the signal far and wide. 

The force of the explosion startled you, jerking you out of your moment. You sat up, back slamming against the chair as you choked on a scream. The chair rolled and rattled as you whipped your head back and forth, looking for him. 

He was right here. 

He came back.

“Alastor?” you called out, standing on trembling knees. “Please.” 

You took a trembling step away from the control tower.

“No.” The word was a broken sound that matched each jagged bit of your heart. “Please. You were here. You came back.” 

Your knees stung as you fell to the ground, the hard wooden floor offering no comfort. He was here. He was right here. You had danced with him. His arms were around him. You talked to him. You kissed him.

He was here. 

He was here. 

He had come back.

He never came back. 

It was a dream; you realized as you threaded your fingers through your hair, pulling at the strands as you curled in on yourself. Tears ran down your face, a painful reminder of how weak you were as your heart shattered. 

All your life, you had depended on men. From your father to Alastor, you were you were nothing but a pawn on the board of men. Alastor left. It had been years. He wasn’t coming back. You were a pawn that had, after all these decades, been discarded by the master of the board. 

It was time that you put it away. You had to put Alastor away. You had to put it away. You had to move on. 

This year, you would stand on your own two feet. 

This year, the only kiss you had was one last kiss brought to you by your dreams. This year, that would be the only kiss because Alastor was gone, and he was not coming back. 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

[dicegrimorium]

Greetings!

The adventurers followed the pumpkin path, not knowing where it would lead them. Deeper and deeper into the forest they went, battling the pumpkin warriors that stood in their way.

From the distance they made out three giant shapes. Their curiosity now at the fullest they kept on their journey with haste.

What they discovered was both amazing and frightening. A set of three giant pumpkins stood before them. With a deep, hollow voice the biggest among the pumpkins spoke to them. It told of delicious riches for the taking. But only if the adventurers were able to put the show of their lifetimes battling the powerful scarecrow warriors.

The other two giant pumpkins bickered among themselves, placing bets on whether or not our heroes would be able to pass the test.

The adventurers, never to back down from a challenge started to entertain the spirits of All-Hallows' Eve.

Can they survive the onslaught by the living pumpkin scarecrows?

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[margeoww]

Under the Mistletoe

back to my main masterlist

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary: Charles and his partner take a quiet Christmas walk through the snow, chatting about the holiday season. As they pass under the mistletoe, they share a sweet, romantic kiss, reinforcing their love for each other.

warnings: fluff

The snow gently fell, blanketing everything in white as Christmas lights twinkled in every corner of the city. It was Christmas Eve, and Charles, with his signature smile, had taken your hand to walk through the nearby park by his home. This year, you had decided to do something different: escape the hustle and bustle, enjoy the peace and quiet of the season, and, of course, enjoy each other’s company.

—Do you like the snow? —Charles asked as his fingers intertwined with yours, walking leisurely beside you.

—It’s beautiful. —you replied, gazing at the snow-covered tree tops, everything so peaceful and magical. —But I prefer the warmth of a fireplace.

Charles let out a soft chuckle, glancing at you affectionately.

—I get it. But there’s something special about walking in the snow. Everything feels calmer, more peaceful. Like the world is a little closer, don’t you think?

You nodded, smiling softly. The conversation flowed naturally, without haste, enjoying the warmth of each other’s company amidst the wintry chill. The atmosphere was so relaxing it felt like time itself had stretched out.

As you walked, the only sound was the crunch of your footsteps in the snow until you passed under a pair of sparkling lights decorating an entrance, and right there, in view, was a little corner adorned with mistletoe.

Charles stopped abruptly, looking up and then back at you, a mischievous smile forming on his face.

—Do you know what that means? —he asked, pointing up at the mistletoe hanging just above them.

You looked up, seeing the small plant hanging, surrounded by twinkling lights.

—I guess it’s an invitation to kiss? —you replied with a playful grin.

Charles took a step closer, stopping just inches away from you. His expression softened, becoming more serious yet filled with affection.

—You’re right. —he whispered, before leaning in toward you.

Your hearts seemed to beat in sync as his lips met yours in a soft, sweet kiss, as if everything that had happened before in the holiday season had led to this moment. The feeling of being together, under the mistletoe, in the cold, was all you needed to feel warmth in your hearts.

The kiss lingered, so natural, so full of love, that everything else seemed to fade away. There was only the two of you, the mistletoe, the twinkling lights, and the softness of the Christmas night.

When you finally pulled away, Charles looked at you with a tender smile, his eyes sparkling.

—Merry Christmas, sweetheart. —he whispered.

—Merry Christmas, my love. —you replied, your smile the biggest it had been all day.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but the air felt filled with something more. The mistletoe hadn’t just been a symbol of the Christmas tradition; it was a reminder of a love that felt stronger every day.