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targaryen-dynasty · 1 year ago

Text

TO STOKE A FLAME.

Aemond Targaryen x servant!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; p in v, oral (m receiving), power imbalance (prince and maid), mutual pining, female Reader

WORDS: 4K

NOTES: this is written for the writing challenge hosted by @targaryenvampireslayer I got the prompt "Just relax for me, I'll make it feel good" and the trope mutual pining. This was my first time writing mutual pining, and I hope it's at least slightly fitting lol.

When you’re first assigned to cleaning the chambers of the King’s second son, your heart leaps for it means you are able to escape the tortures of being a scullery maid for a position that is at least a bit higher ranked, and not as ungrateful and strainful.

Prince Aemond is an early riser, already up long before first light, and whenever he sets off to train with the sword in the morning, it’s time for you to take care of his quarters.

There’s another maid that has been offered the same opportunity, only that she is in charge of making the chambers Prince Aegon presentable, and from what you have gathered, you wouldn’t want to trade places with her.

Aemond’s chambers are always immaculate when you step into them. Everything is in its place, and the air is always filled with the cool morning breeze from the windows he’s kept open. Quite different to the quarters of his older brother.

But what they do have in common are their questionable reputations.

While Aegon is promiscuous, known to pinch and fondle at any serving girl who strays within his reach, Aemond is somewhat feared, at least among the staff. Most servant girls keep well away from the prince, and a part of you is certain it is solely because of the black eyepatch he dons after losing his eye, and the grim expression he usually holds on his face.

The other maid that tends to his chambers with you is overly cautious when dusting or putting fresh linens on his bed, something that even makes you swallow thickly. However, you can’t seem to bring yourself to share their sentiment.

How could you?

Despite only meeting the prince very briefly, you feel like every day that you sweep through his chambers, you get to know him more and more. If there’s bedlam following in Aemond’s wake when he leaves in the morning, it merely consists of several books scattered all over his desk, his armchairs and sometimes even his bed.

Most of them deal with dragon lore, history, and a variety of other subjects which you wouldn’t expect to be read by any other lord, making clear that the prince is very well educated, and always strives to learn more.

And though he keeps his chambers mostly spotless, there’s very much of his personality in them – if you read between the lines.

More oft than not, the armchairs close to the fireplace don’t stand in their usual positions, turned to the side to face each other with one of them being piled by books or scrolls. And you know from the servants that he’s often found sitting beside the fireplace either in deep thought or engrossed in a book with the flames of the fire dancing in the corner of his eye.

You’re cleaning his quarters all by yourself today for Darla, the other maid assigned, has been called to take care of something else, which means you’re granted slightly more time for Aemond’s chambers.

Kneeling in front of the fireplace, you’re knocking off as much ash and debris as possible back into it, before some of it is swept up and emptied into the pail standing next to you.

You’ve been a bit too engrossed in your task when the doors behind you burst open, catching you by surprise and startling you. There’s only one person that could and would enter the prince’s quarters at this hour of the day – the prince himself.

As you hurry to get back on your feet, already straightening and dusting off the skirt of your maid attire, you’re a bit too quick and hit your head on the ledge of the fireplace, your mob cap falling to the ground in the process.

It’s a stinging pain that shoots right through your whole body, and a throbbing that settles at the crown of your head. You bring a hand up to soothe the pain at least a bit, before you’re reminded of the reason why you got up in the first place.

Gritting your teeth, you take in a sharp breath and lower your hand, bobbing a small curtsy with a strained ‘Prince Aemond’ leaving your lips to the man that stands still in the room, clearly regarding you.

“My apologies, I–” you say, trying to make excuses and wanting to state that you’re just about to leave, but he cuts you off.

“Are you well?” he asks, though there is a lilt of amusement in his voice. “I apologize for startling you, that was not my intent.”

What’s even more unusual than him apologizing to you, a servant, for barging into his own chambers is that he's inquiring about your well-being. You’ve never before been acknowledged by any of the Targaryen’s, not that you expected it, and feeling his gaze on you kind of makes you nervous.

He raises his brow when there doesn’t come an answer from you, and you take it as your cue to speak. “I–Yes, Prince Aemond,” you stutter, bowing your head. Raising it again, your hand brushes the crown of it briefly, the spot still throbbing despite it happening a few moments ago. “I am well. It’s–It’s nothing, my prince.”

Gathering your things, you’re caught off guard for a second time since he’s entered his chambers as he slowly approaches you. He has a sympathetic smile on his lips now, and you’re not sure if it’s the embarrassment or him coming close enough to tower above you, but your body feels like it’s been put on fire.

“Are you certain you’re well?” he asks, eye flitting from your head to meet your eyes. “You’ve struck your head rather hard.”

He reaches to inspect the spot on your head, yet he hesitates and pulls back right before his fingers could brush your hair. You’re slightly disappointed, but your pounding heart is grateful. Just the mere proximity brings a blush to your cheeks and has you shifting your weight from one leg to the other, and you’re certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle him touching you.

There’s a moment of silence between you, and your hands clutch the handle of the pail tight enough for your knuckles to blanch from the force. It’s unnerving, and you’re torn between wanting to stay and wanting to leave. You’re afraid he’s not the man you’ve made up in your mind, that there’s just a hint of truth in the rumors that make their way around staff and court.

His voice cuts through the silence like a sharp blade, smooth and somewhat calming. “What’s your name?”

Taking in a deep breath, you tell him your name, but not without your eyes darting to the ground. His gaze is heavy, too heavy for you to meet it, and you feel as though there’s something else than curiosity woven within it.

“You’re quite flustered over nothing,” he hums, and the way your name slips past his lips with so much ease almost makes you melt right then and there; at least it’s enough to make you forget that he’s clearly noticed the effect he has on you.

Aemond takes note of you being nervous around him, his attention causing your blood to rush through your veins. It seems as though it’s a rather strong reaction that you have to him, something not many women feel when he comes near them. It’s endearing.

Your eyes flicker upwards to meet his good one again, and you straighten your back for another curtsy.

“M-my apologies, Prince Aemond.”

You can spot the exact moment the corners of his lips curl into a teasing smirk, your timid demeanor and your nervousness the trigger for it. And being as cocky as he is, he thinks he could have a bit of fun with you.

“It seems you’re rather out of sorts for something so trivial,” he notes, his tone teasing and playful, matching the flicker of mischief in his eye. “Perhaps I should inspect you myself to see if you have in fact sustained any injuries.”

His words make you feel as if the world around you is slowing down, making everything feel almost unbearable. You’re finding it incredibly hard to look him in the eye without blushing or your breath becoming heavy, and therefore fix them on the ground again. Noticing his large feet in comparison to your much smaller ones, your thoughts briefly stray to what else of him might be large.

But before you can answer him, or your thoughts can dive deeper, Aemond places a hand beneath your chin and gently tilts your face back up for you to meet his gaze. You’ve only seen one other in passing, and even then you’re certain he’s paid no mind to you at all, so his touch comes unexpected. But you don’t tense, and you certainly don’t pull away. However, you’re unsure if you should give in and lean into it.

His finger brushes along your jawline, trailing down the curve of your neck, and coming close to your collarbone, a heat following in its wake. He stops for a second, as if he’s debating whether or not he should move his touch any further.

Aemond’s surprised by your reaction, yet he also realizes that you’re much more interesting than any of the other maids for they were all alike – all not daring to look at him or stay in his presence for longer than a few minutes. But you’re different.

He could already tell by the way you so neatly clean and store his books when he’s spent his night reading by the fire, or how you seem to pay extra attention when you’re putting fresh linens on his bed, fluffing his pillows without the hurry the previous chambermaid has had.

And seeing his touch having such a significant impact on you, the little maid he’s spent so much time dreaming and fantasizing about, feeds a desire he didn’t have before – the desire to bed you, to claim you.

“Get on your knees,” he orders, hooded eye looking down at you.

Swallowing thickly, your mind struggles to comprehend what he asked of you. “I-what?” you stammer in disbelief.

“You heard me. On your knees.” He’s a bit firmer now, and uses the slight grip he has on your shoulder to give you a little help sinking down. You follow his lead, the pail rattling onto the ground.

Your hands are folded in your lap when you gaze up at him, eyes wide and curiously studying his next move. With your thumbs brushing over each other, you try to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, grazing your skin to distract yourself from the throbbing that blossoms between your legs.

Aemond looms over you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one hand. There’s something in the position you’re in, and the combination of his gentle touch and stern orders that gets to your head, and lures you in to lean into his hand. It also makes you a bit bolder as you place a hand on his thigh in return.

It piques his interest, obvious in the way he raises a brow, and his eye flickers to where your hand rests on his body. But he doesn’t shy away from the touch.

“Do you know what I require of you?” Aemond asks, sterner than before.

You bow your head, batting your eyelashes at him in an innocent manner. “I do, my Prince.”

That’s all he has to hear before he swiftly unlaces the front of his breeches and tugs them down barely enough to free his cock and stones, the sight alone making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s well endowed, and far bigger than the cock of the one man you’ve slept with before.

You release a shaky breath, replaying all the knowledge you’ve gathered about pleasuring a man with your mouth, and catch a whiff of musk mixed with the salty smell of sweat – he’s definitely trained with the sword this morning.

Squeezing his thigh, your eyes flicker between his and his hard cock as the slight nod of his head encourages you to curl your hand around it, your thumb and index finger barely touching.

He throbs in your palm already, and the tip is covered in a red that makes it clear he’s desperate to be buried inside of something; probably not caring whether it’s your mouth or your cunt.

Even though you cower beneath his dominating presence, a jolt of boldness strikes you that makes you lean in and lick a flat stripe from the base of his cock up to the bulbous tip. A salty taste lingers on your tongue as you drag it over the slit, making you hum appreciatively, seemingly pleased to witness the effect your touch and presence have on the prince’s body.

Aemond buries his hands in your hair, loosening the bun you’ve put it into this morning, and grabs a fistful of it. It’s a sharp tug of him that catches your attention, and your wide eyes flit up to meet his demanding gaze.

Spurred on by the heavy breaths moving his chest, you swallow, and eventually part your lips to slowly ease him inside, and even though he holds you by your hair, he’s generous enough to not force himself inside, allowing you to move as you please.

“Fuck,” he growls as he gets accustomed to the warmth and tightness of your mouth, head tipping back to release a bawdy groan.

You hollow your cheeks around him, and, after a few moments that allow you to adjust to him, start to bob your head back and forth his thick length, flattening your tongue against him for added stimulation.

Growing bolder and bolder with each passing moment, you squeeze your thighs together every time the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat, robbing you of the ability to breathe until you pull off of him again.

With his hand in your hair, Aemond senses you getting more comfortable, and starts to guide your head along his member, encouraging you to set up a quicker pace to which you eagerly comply.

“That’s it,” he groans, not able to tear his eye from the sight of your lips wrapped around him as his cock repeatedly disappears inside of your mouth.

Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your lips down your chin with how fast you sink down on him, and the lewd sounds of his soaked cock sliding back and forth past your lips fill the prince’s chambers, hardly drowned out by his grunts and groans.

At this point, you’re drenched in your arousal, the linen of your small clothes clinging to your swollen mound in a way that’s almost uncomfortable.

While you bring one hand up to clasp around the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit into your mouth, the other grips his thigh a bit harder than before, holding onto him for dear life as he uses your face however he pleases.

You feel the muscles of his thigh tense and contract under your palm and his cock throb inside of you, indicating that he’s close to reaching his peak. It’s the first time you pleasure a man with your mouth, and you’re not quite sure what to expect. But before you can brace yourself for whatever might come, Aemond pulls you off of him by your hair, prompting you to topple back to sit on your haunches.

You lock your teary eyes with his good one, lips smacking as his musky and salty taste spreads on them and your tongue. “My Prince, I–”

“Remove your clothes,” he interrupts you, his voice less friendly and more a command.

There are so many thoughts rattling your mind right now, and you don’t know where to start and what to process.

“I wasn’t asking,” he growls, his impatience showing as you don’t comply quickly enough.

With a bow of your head, you rise to your feet and peel the beige-ish apron off of your body, the red dress and smallclothes following suit. You waste no thought on your modesty, on the fact that you’re standing bare in front of a prince of the mighty House Targaryen. The longing for him that has built with all the days you’ve cleaned his pristine chambers, and the undeniable aching between your legs don’t allow you to.

You’re undressed when he stalks around you, regarding you like he’s the hunter and you’re his prey. You see that your obedience arouses him, his hard cock throbbing and bouncing with each step he takes around you. It’s thrilling in the best way possible, and the feeling of being desired by him feeds your confidence.

“Are you just watching, or will the prince undress as well?”

His eye narrows and flickers up to yours at your question, and there’s the hint of a smile adorning his features. “Would you like that?”

Biting your bottom lip, a blush creeps on your cheeks. “Very much.”

As you size him up, you notice a flush blossoming from his cheeks down his neck, the same warmth you feel obviously spreading through his body, too.

“Then I suppose that I’ll oblige.”

You watch with half-lidded eyes as he removes his clothing, slipping out of layer after layer, starting with the black leather robe, and ending with his smallclothes.

You all but drag your eyes over his lithe frame, taking in every muscle that ripples beneath his pale skin, and every silver, coarse hair that trails from below his navel to his cock and the sac of his stones.

It seems like he basks in your attention, in the way you stare at him in awe as you lick your lips, and he’s certainly not afraid of showing himself in his full glory.

“Get on the bed,” he says, smugly. “On your hands and knees.”

This time you know better than to take a few seconds to comply, bowing your head before climbing his bed right away, getting in the desired position. You suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed, completely at his mercy in a way you’ve never experienced before. However, your curiosity and desire overshadow any reservations you could have.

“Pray tell, have you lain with a man before?” You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he slowly settles behind you. His hands find your hips, and you shiver with anticipation.

Looking at him from over your shoulder, you nod. “Just once, my prince.”

A soft hm rubles in his chest at your words, and he raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your words. You certainly seem to take him very seriously, which isn’t unusual given his station, but it’s your honesty that’s a whole different matter to him. “You enjoyed it, I presume?”

Still meeting his gaze, you swallow thickly. You’re hesitant to answer, not sure why it’s of importance, but he doesn’t seem willing to let you off the hook just yet. “Yes, I did.”

Aemond gives your flesh an appreciative squeeze at that, and shuffles close enough for you to feel his cock press against your arse. “Would you be willing to again?”

You press your lips into a thin line to stop them from pulling into a grin, but fail miserably. The prince behind you takes that as his cue to continue, and you’re most grateful when you feel him drag the tip of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Just relax for me,” he purrs, his eye fixed on the motions of his hand, watching as his cock disappears inside of you. “I’ll make it feel good.”

The moment you stretch around him, you take in a sharp breath, his cock breaching your cunt at a teasingly slow pace that makes sure you feel every vein and ridge of him drag along your walls.

With his hands coming back to rest on your hips, he pulls you onto his cock until his hips press against your arse, taking his time to adjust to your tightness. The ‘shit’ he mumbles doesn’t go unnoticed by you, a renewed wave of your arousal drenching his cock and the sac of his stones.

If his impatience hasn’t been running thin before, it certainly does now, because the first gentle, sensual thrusts are quickly replaced by merciless pounding. You don’t mind it for you’ve been thoroughly soaked, and enjoy the feeling of his cock repeatedly brushing the spot inside of you that makes your vision go blurry.

Aemond brings a hand between your shoulders, applying a good bit of pressure to press your chest down and your face into the pillows. Your head turns to the side, but you’re not able to look at him.

His breathing is heavy, strained pants leaving him, and his hand trails back to grope your arse.

“Fuck, what an obedient girl they’ve ordered to take care of my chambers–of me,” Aemond rambles behind you, bowing forwards to put a bit more of his weight on your small frame. “Taking me so well. Giving me exactly what I want.”

The praise goes straight to your head, and you want to answer, but the words die on your tongue, replaced by quiet whimpers and whines that grow wanton as he splits you open with a hard, percussive thrust. Then another follows, and another, keening at the sweet sounds you make only for him.

Not able to focus on anything else than the pressure building inside of your belly, you push your hips back against him, and he counters by pulling you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfways which results in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin to echo off the walls.

He’s making you feel so good, so wanted, that you’re certain you would keep going even if someone is to barge into his chambers, interrupting you.

As his hand snakes beneath your body to make contact with your pearl, you’re overcome with the true knowledge of how experienced Aemond actually is. He strums your body like the most talented lutenist, bringing you closer towards your sweet release.

“Gods, I–” you whine into the pillows.

The taut string inside of you snaps, and the pleasure within you soares through your veins. White, hot pleasure clouds your vision, his arm around you the only thing keeping you up right now.

“That’s it,” Aemond grunts, and the snaps of his hips increase to the point your whines become hiccuped, catching in your throat with little to no time to fill your lungs with air.

And then, his hips stutter, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of your quivering walls. He twitches and trembles so much that he’s forced to still his hips, and you take it as your cue to roll yours against him, helping him through his peak.

The throbbing only stills once you’ve milked him for every drop of his seed and the last bit of the euphoric high subsides, making him come back to his senses.

But there’s not much basking in the proximity for you, not when Aemond pulls out almost immediately after, climbing off the bed to get dressed again. The red dress is crudely thrown into your direction, silently making clear that it’s time for you to leave.

It seems as though he’s embarrassed, because he has a hard time meeting your eyes, and doesn’t look at you when you get back in your clothes. But perhaps you’re just not catching the subtle glances he throws into your direction as your maid attire comes back to hug your curves.

Tying the apron and fixing your hair, you reach for the pail. It’s then, with you bowing forwards, that you finally feel his seed trickling out of your cunt, and the sensation alone makes you shiver in an uncomfortable way. You certainly have to look for a quiet spot in the keep where you can clean yourself, since you’re not done working.

You head for the door, but before you open it, his smooth voice catches your attention again.

“You may leave now, but I expect you to come back and finish your task at the Hour of the Ghosts, for you have not cleaned the fireplace thoroughly enough.”

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

Text

Gīsītsos (little ghost)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Fingering, dubcon, smut. Word count: ~3.7k

Summary: As part of the Red Keep's serving staff, she knows it is better to remain unseen by the family she tends to. Unfortunately for her, an incident involving the second of the Targaryen sons means his gaze is now firmly fixed upon her.

Author's note: No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on notifications. Community labels are for cops.

There is an unspoken rule among the serving staff of the Red Keep; remain unseen and unheard whenever possible. Move as a spectre through the castle, do not draw attention to the mess you are employed to clean up. Those they serve do not wish to be reminded of their imperfections. Blissful ignorance is placed upon the pristine condition of the chambers they return to at the end of each day. They have always been that way, how could they not be? But beneath it lies an undercurrent of I do not wish to see it, do not make me look.

She is content to remain out of sight and mind of the Targaryen family, though her work is thankless, there is serenity to be found in the duties of a maidservant. As long as she completes the tasks assigned to her, then she is otherwise unbothered, and she considers herself fortunate to have a comparatively easy workload to some of the others.

The maidservants that attend to Prince Aegon’s bedchamber are ordered to work in pairs, partly because the mess he so often leaves behind is work enough for two, but also because he is known to sleep late, and there is safety in numbers. A chill runs down her spine at the memory of the whisperings that had passed between the staff about Dyana, brought before the Queen and forced to drink moon tea, before being relieved of her employment from the Keep. From that point on, the maidservants were forbidden from entering his rooms alone, lest they find themselves victim of the Prince’s wandering hands and lustful appetite.

There is no such danger to be found within the sleeping quarters of Prince Aemond, which she is in charge of tending to each day. He makes her job almost too easy, but she does not allow her guilt to weigh heavily enough upon her that she would ask for additional duties, instead she gives thanks to the Seven for this small mercy and ensures she finishes each day having completed her tasks to an impeccable standard.

As she tugs the crisp white sheets of the bed firmly back into place each morning, there is no lingering body heat or scent to be found, indicating he has been awake for hours. She wonders if he sleeps at all, considering the unrumpled state of his bedding. When she strips the sheets off to change them once a week, there are no personal effects that fall loose, no trace that the Prince she serves exists at all. He is as much an apparition as she is.

When she is finished making up the bed or delivering the old sheets to the laundress, she sweeps the ashes from the hearth and readies the fireplace for Aemond’s return. Aside from that, there is little else to do besides lightly dust the shelves and reorganise the books placed upon his table. She never once sees the Prince, nor does he see her.

The most strenuous of jobs is the one she currently finds herself doing; the once weekly wash of the bedchamber floor, which requires her to get down upon her hands and knees with a brush and scrub the flagstones with a mixture of hot water and lye. The floor is hard upon her knees, her back aching, and knuckles sore from the combination of the soap and how tightly she grips the brush.

Satisfied that there is not an inch left unclean, she drops the scrubbing brush into the bucket, groaning softly as her knees twinge in protest as she stands. She swipes at the perspiration upon her forehead with the back of her hand, before reaching behind her to soothe ache in her lower back.

She freezes as her elbow collides with something on the desk, her heart feeling as though it stops beating within her chest as she hears the heavy splash of it fall into the bucket behind her, splattering dirty water against her skirt.

Snapping herself out of her shock, she quickly turns, seeing she has knocked a book from the table into the water she had been using to wash the floor. Dread swirls in her belly as she stoops to lift it out, her mind running rampant with thoughts of how much trouble she’ll be in if she has ruined one of Prince Aemond’s belongings. At best, she would lose her job. At worst, she is unsure, but she does not wish to fall foul of the man that rides the world’s largest dragon.

Drying off the leatherbound cover with her apron, she is relieved to see her swift action has prevented any serious damage, though the pages within are sodden. She cannot return it to the desk in this condition, so she tucks the book under her arm and picks up the bucket, walking quickly out of the Prince’s chambers, and back towards the servants’ quarters. If she can get it dried and return it in time, then hopefully he will be none the wiser to her mishap.

The scullion keeps the fire in the shared space ablaze all day, and she settles in front of it, opening the dampened book, careful not to place it so close that the parchment might singe. Happy to see the water has not soaked through far enough to smudge the ink, she turns the pages carefully while they dry, her eyes scanning the words. It is a tome of philosophy, far beyond the realm of her comprehension. It serves as a reminder of the divide between her and the Prince, she is beneath such intellectual pursuits. She imagines he would be infuriated that a lowly maidservant would ever dare to read it, and finds herself hunching over the book as it dries, subconsciously concealing it from view, as though she is engaging in something forbidden and shameful.

After an hour, the heat of the fire has returned the book to its original state, or at least as close as it’s going to get. She makes haste to return it to where it belongs, hoping that Prince Aemond will not yet have returned to his chambers. Her skin is heated, a combination of having been so close to the open fireplace for an hour and nervousness at the idea of being caught.

She enters the bedchamber without knocking, expecting it to still be empty, and moves swiftly on light feet, returning the book back to the desk it had laid upon previously.

“An enjoyable read, was it?”

The voice is soft, yet its sinister edge sends a shiver up her spine, causing her breath to catch in her throat. She turns slowly, keeping her head bowed, not daring to meet the unblinking stare of the One Eyed Prince.

“Your Grace,” she utters meekly, “please accept my apologies. I did not mean to intrude.”

“And you did not answer my question either.”

She dares to look up then, watching in wide eyed horror as he walks slowly towards her, dressed in his sparring attire, his expression impassive.

Swallowing thickly, ignoring everything within her that desperately wants to lower her gaze, she forces herself to hold it. “I did not read it, I swear, I would never be so discourteous.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, standing tall in front of her, “a pity. ‘Tis an interesting text. So, tell me, what were you doing with it?”

He is standing so close to her, she can feel the tickle of his breath upon her flesh, see the angry, red indentation of the scar that runs the length of the left hand side of his face, disappearing beneath the leather patch that covers his eye. There is something in the way he looks at her that makes her want to shrink into herself, but she fears she has forever shrugged off the shroud of invisibility that has until now protected her. His eye is piercing, a silent threat. I see you.

She considers lying, but decides it will be worse for her than simply telling the truth, if he catches her out. “I…I accidentally got the book wet while I was cleaning. I took it away to the servants’ quarters to dry it.”

Aemond leans his body into hers, and she can feel the warmth that radiates from his chest, smell the sweat that lingers on his skin from his exertion in the training yard. She screws her eyes shut, icy fingers of fear gripping her insides as she awaits her punishment, but then the heat of him is gone.

Slowly opening her eyes, she sees that he is still standing in front of her, but his attention is now focused upon his book as he flips through the pages, studying it for signs of damage. He had simply reached behind her to retrieve it. The relief that floods her is enough to make her want to laugh, but she knows better, biting it back as she exhales heavily through her nose.

Satisfied that his book is unruined, he snaps it shut, holding it with both hands as he looks at her once more. “Are you always this clumsy?”

She gapes at this, white hot embarrassment radiating from head to toe. “N-no, never. It was an accident, Your Grace, I swear it.”

He smirks, cocking his head. “Perhaps I ought to keep a closer eye on you?”

Please, no.

She wants to leave, to be away from the intensity of how he looks upon her, to have him forget her face and allow her to go back to being invisible.

“I promise I will take greater care in future, Your Grace. I apologise. Can I go?”

He raises an eyebrow at this. “I do not know. Can you?”

This is humiliating. Is he getting some sort of satisfaction from this?

“If that will be all, Your Grace.”

She bows her head to him and hurries from the room, feeling her heartbeat in her throat with every step that she takes. She can sense his eye upon her, boring a hole into the back of her, long after she has left his chambers, and it fills her with a sense of unease for the rest of the day. Her only solace is that she can return to her duties upon the morrow without having to see him.

However, as she enters the bedchamber the following morning she is horrified to find the Seven have decided her spell of good fortune has come to its end. Prince Aemond still occupies the space, standing at the foot of the bed as he fastens his tunic. Halting her steps, she lingers uncertainly, not knowing what she ought to do.

He stares at her as he continues to dress, not making any moves to alleviate her discomfort, and she takes a tentative step back.

“Should I come back?” She asks warily, glancing over her shoulder towards the door - it has never appeared so inviting.

“No need,” he assures her, “do what you need to.”

She hesitates a moment longer, but realising she is in no position to protest, she begins the task of turning down the bed. She can feel him looking at her the entire time, making her feel self conscious. There has never been an audience to spectate over her daily tasks before, and she moves as though she is suspended in honey, afraid to make a mistake while he is watching, despite the fact that these are duties she has performed hundreds of times before.

To her frustration, he moves as slowly as she does, unhurriedly clasping on his sword belt and pulling on his boots, watching her all the while, but never speaking a word. It is not until she begins sweeping away the ashes from the fireplace that he finally takes his leave, silently striding from the room without addressing her further.

For the first time since she entered Aemond’s chambers that morning she feels as though she can breathe, although a voice in the back of her mind tells her she has not seen the last of Aemond, and he certainly has no desire to see less of her.

Over the next few days, he is there every time she arrives, either in the process of dressing, or still laying in bed, causing her to turn away, ashamed at the way excitement flutters in her lower belly at the sight of his well defined bare chest.

He is doing this on purpose, she knows he is, abusing the imbalance of power between them, because she cannot ask him to stop. He is not really even doing anything wrong; it is not uncommon for maidservants to be in the presence of those they serve as they perform their duties, yet there is something about this that feels completely improper. The way his stare lingers upon her, stalking her as though she is prey, it both frightens her and fills her with a sense of mortification, because she knows that, deep down, there is a part of her that likes the fact that his attention is on her. The veil between them has been lifted, and now that she has gotten to know what resides on the other side, at least a little, she thinks of nothing else. It is both exciting and terrifying to have someone in such a position of authority so interested in her and what she does.

It is the day she strips the bed in order to place fresh sheets upon it, and she enters the bedchamber prepared to have to wait for the Prince to vacate it first. However, she finds that he is already gone for the day. Unsure if it is relief or disappointment that she feels, she immediately begins to pull back the bedding, deciding she would prefer not to dwell on the hollow feeling that has settled within her chest.

As she tugs the bedsheet loose from beneath the corner of the mattress, a small piece of parchment flutters from it, landing softly on the flagstones beside the wooden bedframe. Nothing has ever fallen from Aemond’s bed before, he is much too tidy, and so her curiosity is immediately piqued.

Plucking it from the floor, her mouth runs dry at the words she finds penned delicately in black ink.

Though I am absent, I think of you.

Was this meant for her to find? She feels foolish for considering such a notion, and yet she cannot shift the idea that it might be. Her hands shake as she holds the note, her mind reeling with thoughts of what she ought to do with it: keep it, cast it into the fireplace, put it back and pretend she has not seen it?

The latter is impossible, he would notice the fresh sheets upon the bed and know that she has found it. Perhaps she is being presumptuous, and this has been left for him by a bedmate? She decides to simply place it upon the desk, and leave it up to the Prince to decide its fate.

Though she attempts to continue her day as normal, thoughts of Aemond and the contents of his note will not allow her any peace. She wonders if it is indeed her that he is thinking of, and if it would satisfy him to know that he haunts her mind in equal measure. If only she had never knocked that wretched book into the bucket, then she would be free of this torment.

Aemond is fully clothed as she walks into his rooms the following day, standing beside his desk. There is absolutely no reason for him to linger, but she knows precisely why he does, her suspicions confirmed when she spies the note clasped between his fingers.

“You read it?” He asks, lifting his gaze to meet hers as she enters.

“Was I not supposed to?” She asks quietly, setting down the basket which contains the brushes and rags she uses for sweeping and dusting.

“I left it where only you would find it,” he retorts, allowing the parchment to flutter back down upon the desk. “What do you think?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” she responds simply, attempting to keep her focus on meticulously unloading her supplies.

“Leave that,” he orders coolly. “Come here.”

She trembles as she steps slowly towards him, and he rounds on her, caging her between himself and the desk, its wooden edge biting into her lower back.

“You are beautiful,” he breathes, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face.

The trace of his fingertip leaves a trail of heat in its wake. She feels dizzy, overwhelmed, the urge to run and her body’s insistence at remaining rooted to the spot at direct odds with one another.

“Please,” she whispers, “do not. It is improper.”

His hand drops to his side and he regards her with a look of amusement. “I am not my brother. I will not take anything that is not given freely. But I suspect you want this as much as I do. Tell me I am wrong.”

“Your Grace, I–I…”

The words die in her throat, what can she say? A maidservant cannot speak of her desire for the Prince she serves. How can she give voice to the fact that since he first acknowledged her, he has plagued her every waking thought?

“Say the word, and things shall go back to as they were before, we shall be strangers once more.”

That is certainly the easier of the two options, and yet the idea of having to live without his attention now she knows the sweet torment of what it is to have it seems unfathomable to her. She is playing a dangerous game, treading a knife’s edge, placing herself directly in harm’s way, and the words she speaks next will forever change her life’s trajectory, but as she stares up into his piercing blue eye her judgement is too clouded for her to mind.

“I do not want that,” she says earnestly.

“I want you to beg for it,” he tells her, the slightest hint of malice in his tone.

She feels a stickiness between her thighs, a dull throbbing ache in her core that makes her nerves sing for release. Her voice is foreign to her, pathetic sounding as the single utterance of “please” tumbles from her lips.

“Please what?” Aemond asks, tilting his head, mocking her as he looms over her, keeping her pinned against the desk behind her.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would feel ashamed by such lewd behaviour, but these are no ordinary circumstances, and her actions are driven solely by desire, so she feels no chagrin as she allows herself to murmur “please touch me”.

The Prince’s deft fingers make quick work of moving up her skirt, ghosting along the inside of her thigh as he goes, causing her to suck in a shaky breath as she grips his shoulders for support.

She mewls helplessly as his middle and index fingers work their way beneath her smallclothes, dragging through her silken folds, wet with arousal.

Aemond hums in appreciation as his digits explore her, his entire hand moving beneath the thin cotton of her undergarments, cupping her mound. She exhales a shocked gasp as he pushes two fingers forcefully inside of her.

His free hand clasps over her mouth, muffling her sounds, as he works his fingertips inside of her at a lazy pace. “We have to be quiet,” he tells her, “or we will get caught, and we cannot have that.”

She nods in understanding, whimpering against his palm as his thumb begins to circle her pearl, the pumping of his fingers increasing in pace, the sticky sounds of her arousal accompanying her stifled whines of pleasure.

They have not even shared a kiss, there is no romance to be found here, but she does not mind. If anything, the depravity of the act serves to heighten the sensations and renders her more responsive to his touch.

His eye bores into hers, the pupil so large it almost eclipses the blue of it, his lips parted slightly as his nostrils flare. He crooks his fingers, brushing against a spot inside of her that causes her to buck against his hand. He grins wickedly, speeding up his movements both inside of her and against her bud.

The pleasurable ache she feels building winds tightly within her gut, and her thighs tremble with the effort of keeping her upright. Her fingernails dig into the fabric of Aemond’s tunic, as she feels her body tense in preparation for what’s to come.

With a final press of his fingers, she falls apart, her cry almost silenced by his hand over her mouth as she breathes erratically through her nose. She tightens around him in quick pulses as waves of warm relief pass through her body, making her pliant against him.

She maintains her grasp on his shoulders, not trusting her shaking legs to keep her upright as he releases her mouth and withdraws his hand from beneath her skirt, his fingers glistening with her release.

He tuts, examining them carefully as he holds them up between them both. “What a mess you’ve made”, he says condescendingly, pressing them against her lips and forcing them into her mouth. The taste of herself upon her tongue is tart, the very idea of what she is doing lewd to her. “Something else for you to clean up,” he coos, watching as she sucks her essence from his fingers.

With these words she is brought crashing back down to earth as she is reminded of the power imbalance between them. She will always be the woman who tends to his messes, who serves him, except now she is also a vessel for his pleasure and, whatever the outcome of that may be, it is too late now to take it back. He has seen her, fully, and she will only ever see of him what he allows her to.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago—valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

Text

Mission Control 15

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You curl up on the couch and watch the fire. It isn’t the isolation or his silence that will drive you over the edge, it’s the idleness. There’s nothing for you to do. Not to distract yourself or to get yourself free. All you know of him and whatever he is now assures that there is no escape. You won’t even let yourself dream of the possibility or it will crush you.

He doesn’t emerge before you fall asleep. The blackness sweeps over you as you hug yourself into the couch. A dreamless slumber has your head throbbing and when you wake, you hear the clacking of logs. A crackle of the kindling and his shadow flickers over you. His footsteps leave you again.

Is he mad? You don’t care. You’re mad. It’s all you can feel. If you let the terror break through, you won’t be okay. No, you’ll be angry. He did this to you. He’s taken away your life.

You can’t sleep. If you do, your head might split. You sit up when you’re certain he won’t return. You go to the kitchen and put water on to boil.

You find the tea shop bag on the counter. You shake as you look at it. You take out the pot and the cups. You wash them in the sink and dry them carefully. Then you take out the canisters of loose leaf. You read the flavours labeled on the side. It all feels so out of place in the desolate cabin.

You brew the apple chai and sit at the table. The scent wafts into your nose but it cannot comfort you. Nothing can. You are lost. There's no one to save you. You are certain of that. The world’s greatest hero, or used to be, is gone. He’s a shell. He’s a villain.

You shift on the chair and let your hand wander to your thighs. The bruises remain tender. You feel rotten that you almost forgot how cruel he’d been. He can be gentle but it cannot undo what’s been done.

You finish the tea and wash the cup. You put it away. You pace around the kitchen and the front room. Your weight makes the floor groan. You know he can hear you. You don’t care. You will never be ready for the next time... so you won’t try.

When you venture to bathroom, you notice the bedroom door is slightly open. A weak invitation you won’t take. You lock yourself in to attend to your human needs. That’s what is so chilling. He doesn’t seem to recognise those. Not in your or himself. He’s almost confused by the most basic facets of existence.

The more you think, the worse you feel. Not only for your own helplessness, but for him. You shouldn’t feel bad. No, he’s a monster. Yet you can’t help but suspect there’s something wrong. No, not something wrong. Something’s missing in him.

As the morning rises outside the windows, you watch the trees. The leaves shed as the pine stands thick and dark against the paling horizon. The grass is flat and yellow around the dusting of dirt and twigs. The moon is still visible even as the sun climbs.

You shiver and turn away. You change into the clean clothes and put the dingy ones aside to wash later. You take out the broom and sweep. You tie back the tattered curtains even as the glass lets the chill creep in.

You feed the fire and stir around the embers. You hold onto the long poker and examine the point. You tap it on the brick of the fireplace to knock off the ash. It’s sharp and heavy. Iron.

You hear him approach. You drop your arm and turn to face him. He has something in his hand. He looks at it, then you. He stops on the other side of the couch and his eyes flick down to the poker. You glance at your hand then relinquish the poker to the stand.

You cross your arms and step away from the fireplace. You glare at him. He squeezes the notebook in his hands, the pages curled at the edges. A pen is tucked into the bent spiral.

He turns it and offers it over the couch. Reluctantly, you near and lean in to read the page. There’s ink scratched in the same tortured writing as the food packets.

‘I keep you safe.’

You blink at the page then take a breath. You look him in the face. He rescinds his reach.

“Safe from what? The only person who’s hurt me is you.”

His eyes round and he looks down at the book. He searches the page. His thumb runs up the spiral and he slides out the pen. He puts the tip to the paper but doesn’t write. He pauses and thinks.

When he does, he shows you the page again. Another word. ‘Need’.

Your chest squeezes and your stomach churns, “you need what? To hurt me? To feel better?”

His cheeks pinch and his eyes crinkles as his mouth draws in a line. He angles the pen around the notebook and taps the word ‘safe’.

“No, I’m not safe,” you argue. "Not with you."

He drops his arms in frustration. His jaw squares and he puffs out deeply. He shakes his head then brings the notebook up again. He writes. The next words he shows; ‘Alone. Both’.

You bite down on bile. He just doesn’t get it.

“Yes, I was alone. I didn’t care. I was... me.” You insist.

His forehead lines and the scar down his cheek tautens. He nods.

“I would rather be alone. Do you understand that? Can you? Do you understand anything? Huh?”

He stares at you and his throat bobs. He pushes his chin up. He closes the notebook. He flings it one way, then the pen in the other.

You brace yourself as he twists on his heel and his shoulders square. He stomps across the room as he raises a fist and hits the wall. The planks crack and splinter as he growls. He doesn’t look back as he retreats to the bedroom and slams the door. The whole house shakes with his anger. You do too.

You shouldn’t have said any of it, but maybe you don’t care. You’d rather he just hurt you already. Waiting is much more painful.

#steve rogers #captain america #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #drabble #mission control #marvel #mcu #avengers #au

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weirdsht · 7 months ago

Note

Hi! Good day/evening to you. Would it be alright if we get more of yan!cale? 😽 I read ur yan!cale stories and I deeply stand by you.

Overboard

notes: i'm not experienced with writing yanderes and I couldn't think of a specific scenarios so i went with this a short fic instead. If you have any scenarios in mind feel free to send them and i'll do my best to deliver!

tags: subtle yandere cale (tbh you have to squint huhu), established relationship, vague novel spoilers

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are open and welcome

Buy Me Dessert

Navigation Masterlist

The clock strikes just after midnight. It was quiet as everyone had gone to their designated rooms to sleep.

Almost everyone that is.

Cale and Ron are still awake and talking. With the young master sitting on the couch and the servant standing up beside him as he reads the documents he has been given.

Usually, Cale would have been asleep long ago. At this time he would be cuddling with his significant other and the children averaging nine years old. In fact, he can hear the bed that’s just 10 steps away calling him already.

But alas he still has something to do.

“A viscount’s son huh? Where does he get the audacity to try and touch what’s mine?”

Ron stayed silent at his young master’s calm voice. Instead, he peeked at the document in Cale’s hand.

The document was something the servant had written himself. It consisted of every detail that happened when Cale’s significant other was away. Getting a much-needed vacation after being cooped up at the underground villa during the entirety of the war.

It consisted of places they went to. Things they bought. People they talked to. Even things they looked at for more than 30 seconds.

Every move they made was written in that document.

“Ron, everyone knows that the Henituse is a duchy now right?”

“Of course young master.”

“And everyone knows who my significant other is right?”

“Yes, young master. You are a famous figure in both continents, your significant other is bound to be known too.”

Usually, Cale would grimace at the thought of him being famous. But not right now.

“Then why would such a lowly noble like this trash here dare make a move on _____?”

“Some rabbits just don’t know the value of their lives, young master.”

Cale could feel his anger rising. However, he held it in. He can’t raise his voice right now. Not only was it late but _____ and the children were already asleep on the bed a few steps away from him.

Huuu

“I wanted for _____ to relax for once. The war was quite detrimental to their health.”

The young master sighed once more before fully calming down.

“You did a good job not letting that bastard go near them again after the 2nd time it happened.”

Ron flashed his usual benign smile at the compliment. Despite that, Cale could see in the old man’s eyes that he was not yet satisfied.

“Was _____ bothered that much?”

“Yes, young master. They felt distraught during the first two days of their vacation because of him.”

Ah, so that’s why Ron was still angry.

“Then I guess looting him dry won’t be enough. I’ll you handle the rest. Go do whatever will ease your heart. Just make sure to clean up afterwards.”

Molan’s last patriarch only bowed before going out of Cale’s room. The documents that Cale had been reading are in his hands, ready to be burned at the fireplace. Despite the lack of verbal response from the benign old man, Cale knows he will follow the orders given to him.

Which was why he could go back to bed with a lighter heart.

Meanwhile, the documents are now successfully fueling the fireplace of the villa. Ron watches the paper turn to ash. He oversees how the last thing that was burned was the description of the viscount’s son. Written below that was his offence.

His crime?

Trying to flirt with _____. Twice.

Even had the nerve to say a pickup line.

“Maybe I’ll let Choi Han handle him instead.”

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piplup335 · 8 months ago

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Subspace x reader! (angst lmao)

HELLO , F E L L A S

I know I said I’d work on requests, but I HAD to finish this up 😭

mainly because SOMEONE (I’M LOOKING AT YA, @sourle) decided to write Valk angst and I decided I’d probably hop on the bandwagon and write Subspace angst :D

this is my first time writing angst, so idk if it’s good ;-; ehhh, I did what I could LMAO

anyway, enjoy :D

honourable mentions here!

@subspacekisser1

@lunarwashere

@sourle

The crackling of the flames in the fireplace soothed your mind as you snuggled up to Subspace.

"Long day today, Subspace? How's work at the lab?"

The masked scientist glanced up at you with a groggy expression.

"Hm?? Oh...not too bad..."

He yawned.

"...just the usual lab stuff. There was also this chemical that somehow melted through the vial today...just a poison I'm working on currently. Reacted with another reagent and nearly burnt down the lab. It smelt funny too...but hey, the Biografts helped me clean it up!!"

You couldn't see it through his mask, but judging by his one visible eye closing and his cheekbones raising, you could tell he was smiling.

"I love you, (Y/n)...I feel so tired right now..."

"Awww...I love you too, Subspace...tomorrow's Christmas...wanna go to that one cat cafe? So you can catch a break?"

Subspace nuzzled into the crook of your neck. his warm breath lightly tickling your collarbone.

"I'd love that, dear..."

Subspace fell asleep in your arms as you lay on the couch, watching the flames dance around the firewood, the bright, formless shapes slowly reducing the wooden sticks to nothing but ashes.

The crackling of the flames and their mesmerising movements distracted you from the fact that your boyfriend was barely breathing.

The following morning, you woke up to your boyfriend still lying beside you.

He looked so damn adorable to you. His one visible eye was closed, and a few strands of his soft hair fell over his face. Sometimes you wished you could remove his gas mask just to caress his cheek…but he told you before not to do it, and you wanted to respect his wishes.

You gave your boyfriend a loving kiss on the forehead as you slowly slid off the couch, careful not to wake him up.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

You walked into the kitchen so that you could start preparing breakfast for the two of you.

Subspace couldn’t taste anything and always insisted on eating whatever was available, but you decided to change that today. You woke up earlier than him, and this time you'd get a say as to what he would eat.

And this time, you were determined to make him something a little more filling instead of just a slice of bread or two. You wanted to make him eggs and bacon- a dish he absolutely loved eating before the entire lab incident.

During those days, when you were cooking breakfast, Subspace would look at you with those pleading puppy eyes to make him bacon and eggs, completely disregarding and ignoring whatever alternatives you offered.

And you being you, you couldn’t resist his cute expression.

It was unlike him to enjoy such a simple dish, but hey- you still loved him.

As you were cooking in the kitchen, you felt a tug on your sleeve.

You turned to your left and was met with the sight of your beloved boyfriend standing next to you.

“Darling? Can we not have pancakes today? Do we have any more eggs left?”

You laughed, amused at his groggy, half-asleep expression.

“Subspace, you’ve been eating that same old thing for a week now. When will you ever get sick of it?”

“…never…so are there any eggs left?”

“Probably. But could you try something else for a change?"

Subspace hugged your side, his actions sluggish in his given state.

"I don't wanna...please, babe?"

He looked at you with those loving eyes...that loving expression on his face you could never resist.

You sighed, admitting defeat.

"Fine, fine, I’ll go prepare it for you later…I love you, Subspace. I always will.”

You couldn't say no to his request. To others, Subspace was a renowned scientist who made multiple contributions to Blackrock. They saw him as someone who had helped Blackrock advance their military, someone who had helped multiple residents improve their lives for the better. He was a hardened scientist who pushed through many sleepless nights to make Blackrock a slightly better place than the day before.

To you, Subspace was just an adorable bean you would not hesitate to kill for.

Your boyfriend was too adorable, too precious for this world...and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around his figure in a hug.

"I love you, Subspace..."

Subspace didn't reply, but his actions said it all. You felt his arms slowly move from his side to wrap around your waist.

“…I love you too, babe…what’s that smell?”

A glance at the stove and the steady flow of smoke was all it took for you to get your answer.

“NO- my pancakes!”

You recalled the memory with such fondness. Even after the laboratory disaster your boyfriend went through, he was still the same loving demon you knew. Sure, he acted like a crazed scientist sometimes, but you knew your boyfriend was still the same sweetheart you knew all those years ago.

You spent more than an hour trying to make breakfast...because you spent 45 minutes looking back on and reminiscing about the past.

As you set the last piece of bacon on the plate, you smiled to yourself.

"Honey? Breakfast's ready!"

Usually, when you made breakfast for him, he'd immediately come rushing to the kitchen just to scarf down whatever you prepared for him with his signature grin on his face.

But just like you had different plans for Subspace, fate had different plans for the two of you.

This time, there wasn't a single sound coming from the living room. The fire was extinguished right before you fell asleep, but you wished the therapeutic crackling of the flames followed you into the early hours of the morning for a bit of comfort.

"Honey?"

Still no response. Now you were concerned.

Was he okay?

You, being the concerned girlfriend you were, went outside to check on him.

You shook him.

"Subspace? Please...wake up!"

You half-expected him to jump at you with that big, goofy grin on his face that you loved seeing so much. You expected to jump backwards in fright from the scare, only for Subspace to catch you in his arms as he pressed his lips to yours in a tender kiss.

But that moment never came. Upon further inspection, you mentally facepalmed at your ignorance, cursing at yourself for not seeing the signs that something was wrong.

The once hot pink crystal floating above Subspace was nothing more but a dull pink, most of the colour gone. The once gleaming radiance of the crystal was now nothing but a dull glow.

You immediately checked his pulse. It was there...but barely. You sprinted to your phone, nearly tripping over your own feet in a frenzied panic. A quick dial later, you were arranging for an ambulance to the nearest hospital.

All you could do then was simply cradle your boyfriend's near-lifeless body in your arms and pray to whichever deity would listen.

Beep...beep...beep...

The steady sound of the hospital monitors filled the room. It had been like that for the past few hours or so.

When the doctors in the ambulance did a more thorough check on him, they determined that Subspace needed emergency surgery. You were not sure why, but they said that it was due to "severe poisoning".

Now, here you were, seated on a chair next to your still-unconscious boyfriend, waiting for the doctors to return with whatever results they had to offer. You sat in your chair, glancing at your boyfriend from time to time, hoping that the crystal between his horns would shine bright like it once did.

The sound of the door opening pulled you out of your thoughts. One of the doctors walked into the room...and he had a grim expression on his face.

"Doctor! How is he?"

The doctor let out a sigh. One that carried not hopes for the future, but carried acceptance- a sign that they had tried everything, and yet...

"I'm sorry. Your beloved will not make it."

And that was the nail in the coffin for you- the statement that confirmed your worst fears.

"Can I say goodbye to him, at least? Will he wake up?"

"No. He won't wake up. We've done a thorough and complete checkup on him. His given condition- his rot, that is, somehow reacted with more fumes inside his body. We've investigated them, and it seems that these fumes were inhaled quite recently. Regardless, it has worsened his state, causing the majority of his body to either shut down or stop working entirely. You have two choices. He does not have any known family members, so we'll leave this decision to you."

At the doctor's next words, you did not want to say anything. You did not want to accept that this was your reality- these were two decisions that you could not choose between. You knew that none of these choices would be a correct decision...they would all have harsh downsides.

"Either we pull the plug now and he dies a peaceful death, or we can give him further treatment to try and save him. The chances of his survival from this point on are low, and even if he does survive and wake up, the rest of his life will likely be painful for him to endure."

You loved Subspace...you loved him so much, and you didn't want to let him go just yet. There was so much you wanted to do with him. You wanted to finally stay with him instead of one of you just staying over at the other’s house for sleepovers now and then. You wanted to travel the Inpherno with him, just to see all the marvels the world had to offer. You wanted to be by his side for the rest of your life and wake up by his side just to hug him close to you, praising the gods for such a wonderful spouse.

And now you couldn't. Not with Subspace's condition.

You didn't want to let him go just yet.

But then again, you loved him. You wanted the best for him.

And the best route for him to go down wasn’t one where he’d be suffering for the rest of his life.

You wanted him to live happily, not live in constant pain.

You knew your decision.

December 31. Almost a week after you made your decision.

Snowflakes fell from the sky outside, coating the ground in a layer of snow.

Within the comfort of your house, the flames crackled in the fireplace, consuming everything it touched.

But even the mesmerising movements of the flames couldn’t distract you from your thoughts. Not after what happened.

Beep…

That final, high-pitched sound. That damn, cursed sound. You knew that single beep would haunt you for years to come. What you did was for your boyfriend’s sake, but at what cost?

“5…4…3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”

You could hear the cheers of Blackrock’s residents from your home as fireworks were launched into the air, painting the black canvas of the sky with bursts of vibrant colour.

“Happy New Year, Subspace…”

A tear trickled down your cheek as you hugged a small photo frame to your chest.

It was the last photo you had of Subspace. A photo you took with him one day before his death.

“…I’ll always love you.”

aaaaand that’s another story down! hope u guys enjoyed! :D

…

*runs*

#phighting!#phighting #phighting x reader #subspace x reader #subspace x reader phighting #subspace phighting #subspace tripmine #phighting subspace #marinated seasoned and grilled to perfection!

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ghosttotheparty · 2 years ago

Text

a place where i belong

also on ao3 // 13k words cw: verbal abuse; gaslighting; family angst; smut/nsfw

He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. Standing by the sink and downing a painkiller, shoes on, jacket on, car keys in hand. He pauses when he hears it, hypervigilant as always, freezing without swallowing the gulp of water, the pill floating in his mouth for a moment as he realizes.

A car pulls into the driveway.

He swallows, closing his eyes and sighing heavily, and he sets the glass in the sink.

He’d forgotten they were coming back today. It’s been on the calendar, marked with a vague, innocuous red dot that he’d begun to look past, to look through, to ignore without meaning to. He’s been too focused on everything else, on his own messy handwriting reading Lucas basketball - 3pm and kids theater - noon and Max physical therapy - 1pm. His weekly hours are jotted down on a piece of paper that’s stuck to the wall next to the calendar, updated every Saturday evening. Robin’s handwriting is just as bad as his, but he’s gotten better at reading it, the same way she’s gotten better at reading his.

Steve rests his back against the counter by the sink, taking a breath, steeling himself. He crosses his arms, clutching his keys in his hand so tightly the teeth bite into his palm. He looks at the ground. Follows the lines between the tiles with his eyes like he’s mapping out a maze. Or an escape.

He hears the front door open. Hears some shuffling, some muttering, the clunking of suitcases coming through the entryway.

And then he hears, “Steven, your car is filthy, when was the last time you had it washed?”

His eyes get stuck on a tile, at the corner of it. The tiles used to be a pristine, shining, sparkling white. When Steve was a little boy, they were always sparkling. Glistening. Always freshly mopped, scrubbed, waxed. They don’t look like that anymore. They’re dull now, still white but just barely grey. The one Steve is looking at has a crack in it. It’s a tiny crack, thin as a hair, branching off from the corner, but he sees it from where he’s standing.

“A few weeks ago,” he says, even though he knows it’s been months. “I don’t know.”

The house has aged with him, he thinks. His parents stopped making sure the floors were being taken care of when they started leaving. They stopped making sure the chimney was cleaned, the pool was cleaned, the walls were sturdy. Steve gave up on keeping everything in order when he started high school. When he started to question whether or not they were coming back at all instead of what day they’d show up.

Steve stares at the tile. Traces the crack in it.

“Steven, I paid good money for that car, I expect you to take care of it.”

He nods at the floor.

Quiet.

Good.

He hates when they come home. It’s like the house gets a little colder, like the echoes of the kids’ laughter get sucked out the windows. Like the last burning embers in the fireplace have turned to ash.

It doesn’t happen often, them coming home. But when it does…

“Goodness, this floor is filthy. We need to get these tiles replaced.”

He blends into the walls. Turns to mist that they look right through. Fades back into the little boy he used to be, too small to look into his father’s eyes or to reach the liquor cabinet, quiet and well-behaved and good.

They keep talking. He doesn’t hear his name. He keeps looking at the floor. He decides he likes the crack in that tile. He kind of wishes they were all like that. It took almost twenty years for that crack to appear, that tiny, thin crack. He wonders how many tiles there are in the whole room, wants to multiply that number by twenty. See if he’ll still be alive when they’re all like this one, damaged so subtly he has to look for it. He imagines it, the tiles grey and dusty with age, cracks spreading across them like a spiderweb across the floor. In his head, it’s beautiful.

And then he remembers that they want to replace them now. Because they’re not as shiny as they used to be.

Steve doesn’t feel very shiny. He doesn’t think he’s ever been shiny.

They’re still talking. Steve exhales.

His eyes find a scuff on his shoe. He blinks at it, trying to remember where it came from, and for an awful, awful second he thinks it’s from gym class, from basketball practice, from fucking around in alleyways, before he remembers.

He thinks it’s from the Upside Down. From running, hiding, fighting.

The keys bite into his palm, and he loosens his grip, inhaling sharply as his brain registers the pain. He looks at his hand, holding his fingers open to make sure he isn’t bleeding. He isn’t. His skin is red, indents from the teeth of the keys sharp in his skin, in the creases of his palms.

Fuck.

He looks at the clock across the room, and for a moment he wants to just leave silently, to walk right past them to the front door. But he doesn’t.

“Uh,” he says, quietly enough that he isn’t really interrupting them. They both look at him, turning their heads a little but still glancing at him out of the sides of their eyes, and he finally looks at them. Sees them. They look older than he thought they did, lines around their eyes and mouths and on their foreheads. His father’s hair is mostly grey now, his mother's still dark red. It looks fake, just like the pearls around her neck. “I need to… go.”

“Go where?”

“To— To pick up some kids.” He stutters. He hates stuttering. “And take them home, I— I told their parents I’d get them home by six.”

Walter sneers.

“Why are you driving children around?” he asks. But he isn’t really asking anything at all. He’s just… commenting. Like he always it. Your grades are shit. Your car is dirty. Why are you driving children around?

“I’m their babysitter,” Steve says. He used to hate that word. It felt so demeaning. He remembers his babysitters from when he was little, teenagers that only took the job for the money instead of for Steve, teenagers that would spend hours in the living room smoking or nursing beers and watching movies while Steve played by himself upstairs or in the corner.

But he doesn’t mind it now. Being the babysitter. Driving the kids around. Making sure they’re okay, they’re safe and healthy and happy. Even though he tells them to shut up, he likes hearing their laughter and relentless bickering from the backseat. Even though he calls them little shits, he thinks he loves them.

“Babysitter,” Walter repeats dryly. He’s making that face again. He’s always making that face at Steve. Like he smells, like he’s a stain on the carpet. Like he’s a dirty floor tile. Walter sighs, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “We’re going to need to discuss your career plans, Steven, you can’t go on with your life babysitting.”

Steve stares at him blankly. He won’t meet Steve’s eye.

He’s wearing a suit. He’s always wearing a suit. Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him in anything else.

And now, come to think of it, Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him.

It’s been months that they’ve been away. Months since they’ve stepped through the front door into the boring entryway, through the boring hallway, into the boring kitchen. With no greeting, no Hi, Steve, how’ve you been? No We missed you, how are your friends? What happened with the earthquakes and the serial killer? Are you okay?

Nothing.

A comment about the dirt on Steve’s car, and the dull floor tiles, and Steve’s future career. He wonders if they even know what color his eyes are.

“Right,” he says finally, his hand clenching around the keys again. “Well, I’d love to have that conversation with you, but I really need to go, so…”

“We just got home,” Catherine says sharply, looking at him from where she’s sitting at the table, unbuckling her high heels. “You haven’t seen us in months, Steven, and this is how you greet us?”

Steve looks at her. At her hair. It’s stiff with hairspray, piled up on top of her head in fake curls. Her makeup is creasing in her wrinkles, and her lipstick is faded around the center of her lips. Steve blinks.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here right now,” he says carefully. “And I already told the kids’ parents I’d have them home by six, it should only take a few minutes.” He pauses, looking at her but feeling Walter’s eyes on him. Like he’s analyzing him, looking for faults. He can’t see the scars under Steve’s shirt. “I can’t just leave them there,” he says, pausing, thinking about how worried the kids would be. How they’d blow up the walkies trying to contact him, calling Eddie and Robin and even Nancy to ask if they know where he is, if they’ve heard from him. But he knows Walter would just laugh. “I’m responsible for them,” he finishes.

And he starts toward the door.

“When did you turn into such a little adult?” Catherine says lightly behind him, teasing. Careless.

He stops walking, fist tightening on the keys again. He’s facing the doorway, and the room is quiet except for the soft shuffling of her shoe on the ground as she undoes the buckle. And he feels like his whole body is aching and sore, because he was nine.

The first time they left him home alone. It was just a few days while they went to Indianapolis, but he remembers how quiet the house was. How he suddenly missed the smell of cigarettes and weed, how he missed the indistinct chatter of the television, of his babysitters’ voices muffled through the walls while they talked to their friends on the phone. He sat on the stairs for a while after hearing their car pull out of the driveway. Like he was waiting.

He realized after a few hours that without a babysitter, he could go outside. It was his first time outside without supervision.

He just tried to catch the fireflies.

Steve turns around and looks at them. They’re both looking back at him, eyebrows raised curiously at the way he stopped short, at the way he froze.

“Probably when I turned into an actual adult,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends.

Walter scoffs.

Steve feels like he just plunged into Lovers’ Lake again. Ice cold all over, in the dark. Eyes straining to see what’s ahead of him.

“You’re an adult when you finish high school, Steven. You’re a child.”

Steve blinks.

His gaze shifts over to him, to that fucking expression, at the earnestness in his eyes. The fucking ignorance. And Steve, inexplicably, laughs.

It’s a short laugh, but it’s almost hysterical, and he really just doesn’t know how the fuck else to react, to respond. They’re looking right at him. And they can’t see the age in his eyes, in his height, his face. They don’t even know him. He’s a stranger in their house.

They’re strangers too.

“I’m an adult, Dad,” Steve says dryly after the laugh, still half-smiling, even as the expression on Walter’s face deepens. Condescending, and mean, and judging, and even with the grey hair and the wrinkles, he’s the same man that Steve used to look up at as a child. “I graduated high school,” Steve says before Walter can say anything. “Two years ago.”

Walter blinks, making a face and looking at Catherine, who just raises an eyebrow at Steve.

“You were in Italy,” Steve says, trying as hard as he can to remain light, nonchalant, to keep his voice soft and sweet and quiet and good. “I sent you an invitation to the ceremony.”

“Oh, Steven, you know we never check our main when we’re abroad,” Catherine says lightly.

Steve looks at her. The faux kindness in her eyes. The smile gracing her red lips. Like it’s Steve's fault. Like he’s a child.

He hates her.

“Right,” he says softly, nodding slowly, looking away. “Silly me.”

“So you think finishing high school makes you a grown-up?” Walter says, amused. Steve looks at him.

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“...Steven, you have no idea what it means to be an adult.”

Steve looks at him. At his face. The condescending shine in his eye, like he’s talking to a kid, like Steve isn’t his height. (Maybe taller. He’s too far away to tell right now.)

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

Steve nods. Puts his keys down.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

The phone is in the living room, near the doorway, and he closes his eyes as he picks it up, taking a deep breath before he dials the number he memorized within a day of learning it.

“Munsons.”

“Hey,” Steve says quietly. “Uh, would it be cool if you picked the kids up from the arcade for me?”

“The arcade…” Eddie repeats, his voice more distant like he’s leaning away from the phone. “Weren’t you getting them today? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve lies easily. But Eddie’s always able to know when he’s lying. Steve doesn’t know how he does it. Every time Steve lies that he’s fine, that No, my head doesn’t hurt, and I didn’t have a nightmare, I just wanted to get some water, and I feel fine. Eddie just… looks at him.

“Steve.”

And Steve always breaks. Lets the brick wall between them crumble to dust.

“Uh.” He pauses, glancing down the hall. He feels like they’re listening. “My parents came back a minute ago. We’re talking.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says. “Is everything okay? Do you need backup?”

Steve smiles into the phone, closing his eyes as his stomach flutters.

“No, just… It’ll be fine. We’re just talking.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and Steve can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get the little shits, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“‘Course, Stevie.” Steve’s stomach flutters again. “Good luck with your parents.”

“Thanks.”

They hang up. Steve presses his face to the wall for a moment, taking a slow breath before he exhales.

He goes back to the kitchen.

Leans against the counter by his keys. Crosses his arms and looks at the floor. Finds the cracked tile and stares at it.

It feels farther away now. Like he’s gotten taller.

“You don’t think I know what it means to be an adult,” he says.

“No, Steven,” Walter says lightly. Jovially. Condescendingly. “I think you’ve lived a very sheltered life. You haven’t seen the world, or experienced anything that could push you into adulthood. But that’s okay,” he adds like it’s reassuring. “You’re fortunate, you know.”

Steve's jaw twitches. He grinds his teeth. Stares at the tile, then the scuff on his shoe.

“Do you wanna know what I think?” Steve asks quietly.

Walter scoffs again.

The sound grates at the inside of Steve’s skull, and his stomach twists. His lungs feel constricted, like they’re too tight.

“What do you think?” Walter asks. His voice is gentle, so gentle it sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old, humoring him, playing along. Steve lifts his head and levels a gaze on him.

And across the kitchen, in the soft late afternoon sunlight, Steve looks at his wrinkles and his grey hair and his goddamn suit, and he’s just a man. And Steve wonders how the fuck he used to look up to this man, how the fuck he used to think he was anything more than this.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” Steve says softly.

Walter’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head in shock as Catherine lets out an Excuse me!

Steve nods, staring, and staring, and staring, and he can’t look away.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” he says again. “I think I have been… through hell. And you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here,” Steve snaps, his voice a little louder. He uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, and he thinks he is taller than his father. His stomach twists again. “You wanna know when I became a little adult, Mom?”

She stares at him, eyes wide.

“I became a little adult when you left me home alone to fend for myself,” he says forcefully. “When I was a child. And I should have been off playing with my friends, and memorizing multiplication tables, and getting my knees scraped on the pavement.” His heart is pounding now, and he can barely hear himself over it. “I wasn’t doing any of that. I was learning how to fucking cook, because there was no one else to do that for me. I was learning how to reset the heat in the house, and I was growing up when I shouldn’t have been.”

“So you’ve been through hell because you had to learn how to use the stove,” Walter says dryly. Steve looks at him.

“God, you really have no idea who I am, Dad.”

“I’m your father,” Walter says, an amused smile teasing his lips.

“Is that what you call yourself?” Steve asks. “Is that what you tell people? That you’re a father? Because, I…” He scoffs and shakes his head, and maybe he’s more like his father than he’d hoped he’d be, but he doesn’t care right now. “I gotta tell you, man, that’s gonna be really misleading when people hear that.”

“You don’t think I’m your father,” Walter says. He’s starting to get angry, and a part of Steve feels vindicated. Good.

“No,” Steve breathes.

“How on Earth is he not?” Catherine interrupts, and Steve had almost forgotten that she’s even here, looking up at them from the chair she’s sitting in. “You have his DNA.”

“Right,” Steve says. “So we’re related. Biologically.” He looks back at Walter, and they’re closer than he thought they were, but he can't tell how close they really are. Concussions and trauma do wonders to one’s depth perception. “You didn’t raise me.”

“I didn’t raise you?” Walter says, his cheeks flushing red. Something in Steve cheers.

“No,” Steve says calmly. “You left me alone with teenagers that didn’t know shit about how to take care of children, and you left me home alone. By myself. In the middle of the fucking woods.”

“You weren’t that young, Steve—”

“I was nine.” He looks at Catherine, silencing her. “I remember.” He looks back at Walter. Their eyes meet. They have the same eye color. Steve hates it. “Fathers know their children,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you,” Walter snaps. “You’re my son, Steven, how could I not—”

“How old am I?”

The room falls quiet.

Steve stares back as Walter looks at him. He can hear his own heartbeat, his own breaths. The water tapping in the sink. A bird chirping outside.

And he nods.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re still our son,” Catherine says haughtily.

“...When’s my birthday?” he asks. When they’re silent, he says, “What am I allergic to? What’s my favorite color? Who’s my best friend?”

“The Hagan kid,” Walter says, like it’s an accomplishment, answering one question incorrectly.

“I haven’t talked to Tommy Hagan in three years,” Steve says. “And you didn’t know that.”

Walter huffs and rolls his eyes.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he mutters. “Look, Steven, this…” He gestures aimlessly at Steve, making a face. “Your favorite color, your friend’s name, they don’t matter.” He laughs lightly, dismissively. “You wanna be treated like an adult, but these are the things you care about, Steven, they’re irrelevant.”

“It doesn’t matter that they’re irrelevant, Dad,” Steve snaps, his voice louder. “It matters that you don’t care. I’m your kid, you should care about the things I like, and— and about my friends, and about my fucking birthday.”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” Walter says, his eyes darkening with anger, and Steve aches.

When he was six, he was watching Looney Tunes on the television on a Saturday morning. He laughed a little too loud, and he was sent to his room for the rest of the day. Because his father needed quiet to focus on his work. Walter’s always hated hearing Steve speak, so Steve has kept quiet. Seen and not heard. Fading in the background, hiding in plain sight. But Steve is fucking sick of being looked through. Ignored.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, almost on the verge of delirious laughter. “No, I’m gonna raise my voice at you. Because I’m pissed, and because you never had a problem raising your voice at me.”

“You were a child—”

“So that made it fine? To yell at me? To tell me to keep my fucking mouth shut? That’s all fine to tell a child?” He stares at Walter. “You wanna talk about the shit that actually matters, fine. Let’s talk about the shit that actually matters.”

He’s shaking now, breathing hard and trembling with twenty years of anger that's boiling and spilling over his edges.

“You guys know about Hawkins,” he says, crossing his arms and looking at the floor, avoiding their gazes as he takes a breath.

“About Hawkins,” Walter repeats.

“Hawkins, yeah,” Steve says. “The shitshow that is my hometown, you know all the shit that’s happened here, right? The missing kids, the— the fires, the lab.”

“Of course we know everything about this town, Steven,” Catherine says curtly. “We’ve lived here twenty years.”

“You really haven’t,” Steve says lightly. “But that’s fine. You know about everything.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You know the girl that went missing?” he asks, looking up at them. “Barbara. And the whole conspiracy with the lab and the chemical spill and everything.”

“Yes,” Walter says. “We heard about all of that.”

They’re both staring at him curiously now, quiet while he looks back.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I was involved in all of that.” He watches their confusion deepen the wrinkles on their faces. “She was my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. She went missing from here, from—” He gestures out the window, toward the pool that’s covered with a blue tarp. The water is probably swimming with dead leaves.

“You know anything about Billy Hargrove?”

Catherine blinks.

“The… The boy that passed away in the fire,” she says slowly, remembering. “At the mall.”

The fire.

“The boy,” he mutters to himself before he bites his lip, pausing. “Yeah. The year before he ate shit, he almost fucking killed me.”

They both blink at him, blank.

“And he tried to kill me,” he continues, “because I stopped him from killing a thirteen-year-old.” He takes a shuddering breath, uncrossing his arms, looking at them, and his vision wavers as he remembers it, as he remembers the glass smashing over his head, the floor against his back, Billy’s laughter. The kids’ shouting. “He beat… the shit out of me. Gave me a grade four concussion.”

He looks back at forth between them, waiting for a reaction, but they keep staring. Catherine’s eyes are wide, but Walter just looks angry. Like Steve is wasting his time.

“It took me three weeks to recover from it,” he says. “And you were in fucking Spain.”

His voice shakes.

“The mall fire,” he continues before they can say anything. “You know about it. Fourth of July, thirty dead.”

“Yes,” Catherine says softly.

“Take a wild fucking guess where I was.”

Silence.

Until Catherine’s voice says quietly, “...The mall.”

“Inside,” Steve says softly, looking at her intently. “With my friends, with the kids I babysit— and it wasn’t just a— a fucking fire.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t tell you what really happened, because I signed a goddamn nondisclosure agreement—”

“Steven, what—”

“But I can tell you,” he interrupts loudly. “That I got the shit beaten out of me again.”

A flash of light. A fist cracking against his face. An ache in his ribs, a sharp pain in the side of his neck. His own voice, rough from screaming, broken and pleading.

“Another grade four concussion. The medics asked for my home number so one of you could come to pick me up,” he says, his throat tightening, his eyes stinging. “And I had to tell him that you were in Chicago for a fucking business trip.” His breath shudders, and his vision blurs, and his hands are trembling as he gestures aimlessly, pointing to nothing. “I was driven home by a fucking government agent, because you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You heard about the kids in town that were murdered?” he says, his voice breaking, tears sparking his eyes. “The kids that were fucking… broken?”

“...Of course we heard about them.”

Steve exhales shakily.

“...There was a serial killer loose in town,” he says, fingers curling into fists. “And you never even called.”

“We were working,” Walter snaps.

“You’re always fucking working,” Steve says strongly. “I got used to you not being around, but it didn’t make it any fucking easier. You weren’t here when I had concussions, when I couldn’t fucking see, or when my hearing started going, you weren’t here when I could barely move because my injuries were infected, you were never fucking here.”

“Oh, Lord,” Walter says, rolling his eyes and scoffing, glancing at Catherine. Steve’s stomach twists, and he can’t see clearly. Everything is too bright, swimming in his tears. “How were we supposed to know you were hurt?”

Hurt.

He makes it sound so… little. Like Steve had a papercut. Like he needed a band-aid and a kiss on his forehead to feel better.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Dad,” Steve says adamantly. “Obviously you wouldn’t fucking know, that’s not the problem— The problem is that you weren’t here for any of it, for anything I’ve gone through, and even when you knew what the fuck was happening in this town you couldn’t even be bothered to call, to— to make sure I was okay.”

“You said you’re an adult, didn’t you?”

Steve exhales.

He doesn’t feel like an adult right now.

He feels like a child. Like he’s five years old, searching for his parents’ attention, their affection, anything. Like they’re looking past him, through him, ignoring him in the hopes that he finally shuts up.

Seen and not heard.

“You said you signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Walter says. “Let’s say you really did— You have to be eighteen for contracts to be legally binding. So you’re an adult.” Walter looks into his eyes, like he’s sizing him up. “You shouldn’t need mommy and daddy to take care of you.”

Steve’s lip quivers. He blinks tears back. And he’s stuck here. A kindergartener in the body of a twenty-year-old, the way he was thirty when he was twelve. Unmoving.

Walter scoffs again, looking at Steve trying not to cry.

“Are you done with your little temper tantrum?” he asks dryly, turning slightly. “It was a long trip back, I’d like to take a shower and rest.”

And Steve longs to tell them. About the monsters, the dark, the flickering and flashing lights. About the Upside Down. To show them the scars that cover his skin.

“You weren’t here when I was a child, either,” Steve says, stopping him before he can leave, and Walter turns with a heavy sigh, giving Steve a bored look. Steve’s fists tighten. His nails bite into his palms.

“Steven,” Catherine says, standing from the table like she’s bored too. “That’s quite enough.”

“You weren’t here when I was injured,” Steve says shakily, his vision blurring again. “You weren’t here when I was concussed, and when I couldn’t see, and you weren’t here when I turned twenty, or when I graduated high school, and you weren’t here when I learned how to ride a bike, or how to swim, and you weren’t here when I got my first A, and you weren’t here for parent-teacher conferences— I went by myself,” he adds roughly, gesturing at himself, hitting his own chest.

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here when I had nightmares or when I got sick, I took care of myself.”

“It made you strong—”

“I was a child!”

He’s never raised his voice at them like this. Never yelled. But he’s crying now, tears falling freely down his cheeks as they stare like he’s grown another head, and he can’t help it.

“I didn’t need to be strong,” he shouts. “I needed to be loved, and I fucking wasn’t.”

“How…” Catherin huffs, her face red, and Steve looks at her, taking a hiccuping breath. “You think we didn’t love you,” she says. “But we provided a roof over your head, and—”

“A roof wasn’t enough,” he says, holding back a sob. “I used to— I used to wait after school, fucking waiting for you to come get me, to— to drive me home, I used to watch all the other kids with their moms and dads, I used to watch them laugh, and smile, and hug them, and I fucking waited for you. I waited until nighttime once, and you never fucking came.”

“Steven, that’s just irresponsible,” Walter says, and Steve hiccups.

“I was nine,” he says. “I waited for you, all I fucking wanted was my parents to drive me to school, and you were off in fucking Paris or wherever the hell you were. I had to teach myself how to ride a bike, and I had to take myself, because you weren’t here—”

“I have responsibilities—”

“I was your responsibility,” Steve finally screams. “I was your son.”

He takes a gasping breath as they stare at him again, and he wipes his face so roughly it hurts.

“I missed you,” he chokes. “I needed you.”

“You clearly didn’t need us that much,” Walter says, huffing, gesturing at him. His wedding band sparkling in the sun and Steve wants to melt it. “If you’re doing just fine now.”

“I’m not,” Steve says before he can stop himself.

He’s never said it before. That he’s not fine. Even when he was concussed, when Robin was concerned, he insisted he was okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad, Robbie, don’t worry. And he went home. Turned off the lights. Covered the windows. Laid in bed. Cried.

It’s some cruel, cruel irony that these are the first people to know.

“I’m so fucking far from fine,” Steve says. He covers his face for a moment, and for a brief second, he wishes he was bruised, purple and blue and bloody. He doesn’t know why. Maybe so they could fucking see it. So they’d believe him.

“...The first time my best friend said I love you to me, I laughed.” He looks at them, and he suddenly wants to crumple to the floor, to lean against the wall, to go to bed. Exhausted. “I never fucking heard it from you guys. Never heard it from my girlfriend. I didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know what it fucking meant.”

He looks at them across the room. They’re both near the doorway of the kitchen, both turned slightly toward each other like they’re leaving, hesitating to watch Steve. Like he’s putting on a performance, like he’s pretending.

“You really fucked me up,” he says weakly, tiredly.

They’re quiet for a moment. And he doesn’t know what he expects. An apology. We’re sorry, Steve, we’ll be better parents from now on. We’ll be present in your life.

“I really don’t like the language you’ve been using today, Steven,” Catherine says. Ignoring him. The tears on his face. “It’s really no way to speak to your parents.”

But he supposes he should have seen this coming. The deflection.

He looks away, blinking tears back and exhaling, but before he can say anything, a car pulls into the driveway. He turns to look out the window, wiping his face as he catches the end of Eddie’s van before it’s hidden from view, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

That was quick.

He should have anticipated Eddie coming over as soon as he could. He probably sped on the way here.

“Who…” Walter starts, but he’s interrupted by the front door swinging open. The doorknob hits the wall with a muffled bang, and a moment later, Eddie appears behind in the entry to the kitchen.

Walter and Catherine part, looking him up and down, looking, scandalized, at the rips in his jeans, the swords on his t-shirt that form an upside down star, at his hair. And he isn’t even wearing a jacket or any jewellery, and Steve’s stomach flutters with the realization that Eddie really didn’t waste any time.

Eddie’s eyes find Steve, and he crosses the room, pushing past Walter.

“Are you okay?” he asks Steve quickly, his eyes scanning over his face, his body, lingering on the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” Steve says softly, wiping his face again, and Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. Steve thinks he must be holding himself back; usually after nightmares, he wipes Steve’s tears for him, the same way Steve wipes his. “No, I just…”

Eddie exhales, looking into Steve’s eyes, looking for a lie. He’s out of breath, like he ran here instead of drove, and Steve smiles weakly. Until Walter interrupts.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” he says forcefully, and Eddie and Steve turn to look at him. “Coming into my house.”

Eddie looks back and forth between Walter and Catherine like he’s trying to memorize them both, scanning their clothing the way they scanned his. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are pursed, and even though from here Steve can’t really see him, there’s a warm pit in his stomach, because Eddie’s so beautiful, and he came for Steve, and he’s stepping forward a little bit like Walter is going to try to lay a hand on Steve, and Steve’s never felt so fucking safe before, and he doesn’t know what to do with this, and—

Catherine gasps. Steps back with a slight stumble even though she’s not wearing her high-heels anymore. Clutches at her pearls.

“You’re that boy,” she says, touching Walter’s arm and pulling. “That Hellfire boy, you—”

“Eddie didn’t do anything,” Steve interrupts, his stomach dropping, but Walter recognizes him too, and he turns red, glancing at Steve and then looking back at Eddie.

“Get out of my house,” he says, his voice too loud, and Steve feels so fucking small, and he hates feeling small.

But Walter starts toward Eddie when he doesn’t say anything, and Steve remembers suddenly that he isn’t small anymore.

He steps in front of Eddie, knocking Walter’s hand aside before he presses his fingertips to his chest, pushing him back gently. Walter stares, wide-eyed, red-faced.

“You lay a finger on him,” Steve says too calmly, “and I will fucking kill you.”

Walter blinks, shock coloring his face darker before he laughs, but it’s a forced laugh, and Steve’s never been more serious in his life, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his heart pounding, and Walter doesn’t seem to know that Steve will do whatever the fuck he needs to for Eddie.

“You think you can kill me, Steven?” Steve looks into his eyes.

He’s smaller than Steve. Not by much, but when Steve lifts his chin, he has to look down at him to hold eye contact.

“We just had a whole conversation about how little you know me,” he says quietly. “Do you really wanna fucking test me?”

He hears Eddie exhale behind him, but he doesn’t look away, staring into Walter’s eyes, challenging him, and his hands almost itch. He hasn’t had any fights in a good long while.

Walter looks past him, breaking eye contact, staring Eddie down now, but his eyes flicker like he’s looking across Eddie’s face, analyzing him. Steve knows what he’s looking at. The scar on his cheek, the mangled skin. Steve loves that scar. It had to be stitched together, but it makes Steve think of the constellation Cassiopeia, almost W-shaped. He longs to trace it someday. To thank it.

Walter backs up finally, and Steve exhales, watching him go back across the room to stand with Catherine, who’s still watching, wide-eyed, a hand on her chest over her heart.

“Sickening, Steven,” Walter says, shaking his head and glaring at Eddie. “Really. I thought I raised you to associate yourself with better—”

“You didn’t raise me,” Steve interrupts. “Stop… acting like you were some fantastic fucking father that a fucking stand-up job of raising a son, you didn’t do shit.” He stares, breathing hard, his back tingling with some sort of anticipation. “I did. Not you.”

“So you think you’re so independent?” Walter says with that awful fucking laugh again.

“I had to be,” Steve says softly. Eddie is closer now, still behind Steve, but less like Steve is protecting him, and more like Eddie is here. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

Walter looks at him. At Eddie. He’s holding the back of a chair, exasperated, and he shakes his head.

“Never thought I’d be so disappointed in my own son.”

Steve looks away, hesitating.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. His voice is so kind.

“...Can you go upstairs and pack me a bag?”

“‘Course.”

Eddie touches the small of his back gently as he passes by toward the entryway, where he passes Walter and Catherine with a faux polite nod that’s so on brand for Eddie that Steve wants to smile.

Walter glares at Steve while Eddie goes upstairs, and Steve can hear him breathing heavily. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw him this angry.

And then Walter is standing up straight abruptly, muttering something about fucking trash in my house under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, and Steve’s stomach drops as he follows, his vision blurring as his blood courses in his veins, fingers twitching. But instead of going up the stairs, Walters passes by them, headed toward the master bedroom, and Steve stops, watching. He scoffs when he realizes where he’s headed, and he leans against the wall. He hears a thump upstairs.

“Steven, you really…” Catherine shakes her head in disappointment. She’s got her arms crossed, twisting the plastic pearls of her necklace. “This is all very disrespectful.”

Steve looks down at her.

“...You think you deserve my respect?” he asks quietly. She looks at him like she’s alarmed. “You think I care if you think you do?”

He looks away before she can respond.

Eddie is coming down the top steps just as Walter appears again.

Steve looks up at Eddie.

He’s carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, carrying the nail bat in one of his hands, and he raises an eyebrow as Walter yells at Steve from across the room.

“Where is it?”

“Nowhere you’ll find it,” Steve says lightly, lifting a hand to catch the bat as Eddie tosses it to him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Walter is huffing, and puffing, and it’s kind of ridiculous now.

“What’s he looking for?”

“Gun.”

“Ah.” Eddie is almost smiling. The gun is in the back of his van, taken for target practice when Nancy taught Robin how to shoot.

Steve turns back into the kitchen to grab his keys, swinging the bat. It scratches the tile floor. When he turns back around, Walter and Catherine are staring at it, at the rusted nails and the blood-stained wood.

“What the hell…”

Steve swings it again, moving his keys so he’s holding the one for his car between his fingers.

“You don’t know me.”

Eddie is by the door with the duffel bag when Steve gets to the hallway, and he looks into Steve’s eyes. The light is dimmer now. The sun’s starting to go down.

“Come to my place, yeah?” Eddie says softly, touching Steve’s arm gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his jacket before he squeezes. His eyes are shining earnestly, and Steve’s chest aches. He nods.

They both step out onto the porch. It’s cold out, the air biting at Steve’s face, but it feels refreshing, like inside the house was stuffy and claustrophobic, like he’d been trapped under a blanket for too long. Eddie goes to the van, tossing the duffel bag in as he gives Steve one more look.

“Is there anything else we don’t know about you?” Walter says behind Steve, who turns to look at him again.

Walter’s eyes are lingering on Steve’s arm, like he can see Eddie’s handprint on it, and then he looks into Steve’s eyes, shining with disgust and judgement and hatred, and Steve

doesn’t

fucking

care.

“You’ll never get to know,” he says quietly.

And he leaves.

He’s vaguely aware of Catherine saying something, her voice high-pitched and wavering, and Walter shouting something about the car, but Steve ignores them, blank and empty as he gets into the car and pulls out of the driveway. He glances at the house in the rearview mirror as he leaves. It occurs to him that with the location of it, hidden by trees, away from town, Steve could live in Hawkins all his life and never have to look at the house again.

He smiles.

Eddie and Wayne live in an apartment in town now. It’s two floors above a cafe that opened a little after Starcourt, and sometimes when Steve is going to the door, he smells coffee and baking pastries. It’s nice.

He doesn’t smell it at this time of night, though.

He and Eddie arrive around the same time, and they’re quiet as Steve parks next to the van, grabs the bat and silently follows Eddie to the door. Eddie leads him in, up the narrow stairs, and they’re quiet as he unlocks the apartment, as they step inside and kick their shoes off. Steve leaves the bat resting against the wall by the door in Eddie’s room, and Eddie tosses him his bag.

Steve looks into it, rummages through the bunched-up, hastily-packed underwear, jeans, shirts, sweaters. His fingers brush cold cans that he recognizes as his hairspray, and he smiles, his stomach fluttering because Eddie remembered where they were.

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. He’s leaning against his dresser. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says easily.

“Steve,” Eddie says again, almost whispering.

“I am, Eddie,” Steve says, looking up at him, his hands falling still on top of the bag. Eddie’s eyes are shining with concern, and his arms are crossed. “I really…” He trails off, looking at the ground.

It’s hardwood, the wood faded and creaky, and there are a few gaps between the floorboard. He can see the nails in them, shining in the dim light of Eddie’s room, and it makes Steve think about the tiles in the kitchen at his parents’ house. Faded and dull and cracked because they’ve been walked on. Used.

“I feel great,” he says, looking back at Eddie, half-smiling.

Eddie’s expression softens.

“Just tired,” Steve adds, looking away. “I haven’t… cried. In a while.”

“You wanna lay down?”

Steve hesitates.

“...Can I borrow a sweater?”

Eddie smiles.

“‘Course, Stevie.”

Steve likes it when he calls him that.

It makes him feel little, but not in the way his parents make him feel. Not little like a little boy, like he has to stay quiet, stay still, like he can’t ask for a second serving of dinner or turn the volume of the television up past three in case he pisses them off.

Little like Eddie will take care of him.

Which he does, even though he has no idea how it really affects Steve, how it makes butterflies erupt in his belly every time he touches him, every time he calls him Stevie. He has no idea how hard Steve is crushing on him, and a part of Steve hates him for it. For how sweet he is, how kind.

Because there are nights he’ll call after a nightmare and Steve will look out at the moon while he listens to him cry, while he listens to Eddie tell him he called because in the dream he lost Steve, because he needed to make sure he was okay.

Because Eddie touches him in ways no one else does, in ways no one else ever has. In ways Steve wouldn’t ever let anyone.

He blushes every time he remembers that night, the night he’d spent after staying up too late watching movies with Eddie. He’d had a gruesome nightmare, but as soon as his eyes opened he couldn’t remember what had happened. But Eddie was there, tentatively touching his hand, eyes wide awake, saying Stevie. Stevie. I’m right here. You’re okay. And Steve had just cried, reaching out to Eddie, who took him in his arms.

He held Steve until he stopped crying. And then he kept holding him. Steve had pushed his face into Eddie’s chest, gripping his shirt, listening intently to Eddie’s heartbeat. It was a little fast, but it still helped.

And then Eddie pushed a hand into Steve's hair.

Steve was already falling asleep, and he had let out a soft hum. Eddie pulled his hand away, apologizing.

Sorry, I know you don’t like your hair being touched.

And even half-asleep, Steve spoke.

Only you. Please.

Eddie pushed his hand back into his hair gently. Steve hummed. Eddie’s fingers twisted around the strands carefully as his other hand slid up Steve’s back, and Steve just fucking melted. He let out a whine that he could barely hear, and Eddie’s fingers curled into a fist, gripping his hair in a tightening fist until it almost hurt, and Steve groaned.

Too hard?

Mm. Feels good.

Eddie kept doing it until Steve fell asleep, pulling his hair, squeezing his fist in it, tugging until Steve’s scalp ached dully, and when Steve woke up, Eddie was still asleep, his hand still in Steve’s hair. And then it was normal, every time they slept in the same bed or sat too close on the sofa during movie nights, Eddie’s fingers would find Steve’s hair again.

They both change. Eddie tosses Steve some sweatpants along with the sweater, and Steve smiles, glancing up at Eddie as he changes, facing away from Steve. He’s paler than Steve, and Steve kind of wants to see what their skin would look like side-by-side, pressing close. His scars are mesmerizing. Steve wants to trace them with his fingertips, with his lips and tongue.

Eddie beckons to Steve when they’re climbing into his bed, and Steve sighs. They move into their normal position, Eddie leaning against the wall, Steve between his legs, back to his chest.

He feels little again.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him, hugging him tightly, and Steve lets his head fall back to his shoulder, sighing. He slides his hands over Eddie’s forearms. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, and the fabric is soft. Steve plays with one of the folds, looking around the room, and he realizes they haven’t communicated at all about how long Steve is staying here.

His bag is on the floor by the dresser. It blends right in with Eddie’s dark clothes littered around the floor and hanging out of his drawers, with the dark rug that Eddie bought when he moved in.

Steve’s eyes trail across the wall, across the sliding doors of the wardrobe that are partially open, the interior hidden in shadows. At the CORRODED COFFIN tapestry that’s pinned up, the Judas Priest poster on the back of the door. The photos and magazine pages and posters that are covering the old, faded wallpaper. Eddie’s lamps have a golden glow, and it makes everything look warm. Steve loves it here.

“How long am I staying here?” Steve asks softly, and Eddie snorts, arms tightening, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

“Forever?” he says. “I hope?”

Steve’s stomach flutters.

“You want me to stay forever?”

“Mm.”

Steve exhales when Eddie’s hand finds his, and he watches, spreading his fingers to lace with Eddie’s. His hand is a little cold.

“Sounds nice,” he says quietly. Eddie hums. He sets his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“You still feel okay?” he asks softly, his voice soft and breathy next to Steve’s ear.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He feels so okay. Here in Eddie’s room, in his clothes, in his arms. “I feel good.”

One of Eddie’s arms reaches across his chest like he’s keeping him secure, and he rubs Steve’s upper arm, squeezing gently.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve takes a breath, unlacing their fingers to trace the back of Eddie’s hand.

“It was kind of, like. A lot of stuff.”

“Tell me, Stevie.”

Steve closes his eyes.

“They, uhm. Came back and just… started telling me my car was dirty, started saying the— the kitchen floor was dirty, that they should get the tiles replaced. They didn’t even say hi.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes.

“And when I tried to leave, I had to, like, explain I had to pick up the kids, and Dad started, just, berating me for babysitting, and Mom made this… comment. That I was acting like an adult. And when I said I am one, Dad…” He exhales, pressing closer to Eddie, whose arms tighten. “Said I’d be an adult when I graduated high school.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment before,

“What?”

“Yeah, they don’t— they don’t even know how old I am.”

“Holy fuck, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, squeezing him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Steve ignores the butterflies that erupt in his stomach.

“It’s…”

“You don’t have to say it’s fine.”

“...It’s not fine.”

“‘S right.”

“I tried… I tried telling them, like— showing them how they just don’t know me, but they just— everything I fucking said, they just… Tried to make it so it wasn’t their fault. Pretended it was no big deal, even though— even though it is, I…”

“It is,” Eddie murmurs softly. “It matters to you, they never treated you right, Stevie.”

Steve exhales shakily, relaxing against him again.

“They’re so fucking condescending,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. Eddie rubs his arm gently, reassuringly. “He always does this thing, where, like… If I point something out, or I— I do something, he pulls this bullshit, and he’ll say, like, Oh, let’s say that’s true, as though I don’t fucking know, like I didn’t just fucking tell him.”

Eddie lifts a hand and reaches to touch his hair, running his fingers through it gently.

“He said I’d be an adult when I graduate high school, and then as soon as I told him I did, and I am, suddenly I actually know nothing about adulthood and I haven’t experienced the world, and I’m— Whose fucking fault is that? They never took me along on any of their fucking trips, they left me in fucking Hawkins, Indiana.”

Eddie plays with his hair, listening to him talk. His fingers are so gentle.

“He said I was having a temper tantrum,” Steve says, looking across the room. Eddie’s hand tightens, tugging gently. “I just… They make me feel like— like such a child. And it’s bullshit, because how can I feel so fucking little when they never treated me like I was little when I was?” he rambles. “They acted like I was a grown man when I was a kid, they acted like I knew how to live my life, but they were never there to show me how. And now I am grown, but they tell me I’m disrespectful, and that I’m having a tantrum, and…”

“Take a deep breath for me,” Eddie says softly.

Steve inhales slowly, closing his eyes, and he exhales after holding it for a moment, relaxing against Eddie again, who murmurs a soft, “There you go.”

“Can I tell you something?” Eddie asks quietly. Steve nods, holding his forearm with both hands as his fingers drag through his hair slowly. “...You did everything fucking right, Stevie.”

“...You think?”

“Jesus, yeah. They’ve never treated you the way you deserve, Steve, you have every fuckin’ right to stand up for yourself, to— to tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Steve exhales again, a feeling settling in his chest.

“I hate them,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

“And I hate that fucking house.”

“You’re here now.”

Eddie tightens his fist in his hair, and Steve sighs, closing his eyes.

“Love you,” Eddie says softly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Eddie says that a lot. Every time they say goodbye, every time Steve does something stupid, every time either of them has a nightmare.

It was a nightmare that prompted it the first time. Eddie had slept over at Steve’s, and Steve woke up to Eddie crying in his sleep, his body shaking as he cried into the pillow, whimpering and clutching at the blanket. Steve woke him up carefully, touching his face, his hands, his arms, squeezing as gently as possible, whispering his name. Eddie woke after a minute, his eyes finding Steve in the dim moonlight, and before Steve could even say anything, he was reaching out for him, sobbing and pressing his face into Steve’s chest as Steve pulled him into a hug. He whispered it when he stopped crying, as they were rocking back and forth, as Stee combed the tangles out of his hair.

I love you, Stevie.

And Steve’s world flipped inside out, and he was in pain, every cell in his body on fire, because he was hearing it, because Eddie told him, and because only Robin had ever said it to him like that, all three words, carefully annunciated, intentionally said. And also because Steve knew how he meant it.

I love you too, Eddie.

“Why’d you come?” Steve asks. “After taking the kids home?”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Eddie says. “...Had a feeling.”

“...Thank you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie takes a breath, tugging again before he turns his face and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple.

He’s never done that before.

Steve feels almost sick with butterflies, and he can feel his face flushing with heat, but he can’t suppress his smile. Eddie looks at him for a moment, and then he does it again, slowly. Deliberately.

Steve exhales, letting himself feel it, Eddie’s lips on his skin, his breath warm and close. Eddie’s hand tightens again, his fist squeezing in Steve’s hair before he lets go.

And then Eddie’s lips press to his cheek, slowly and softly, and then again, and again, slowly moving down toward Steve’s jaw. Steve tilts his head, his eyes closed, and he’s scared to open them, scared he might wake up.

Eddie’s lips press under his jaw, sucking a soft kiss into his skin, and when he pulls away, his lips brush Steve’s skin as he murmurs, “So fuckin’ proud of you.”

And Steve whimpers.

He’s gripping Eddie’s arm tightly, and he feels like he might start crying, but Eddie just kisses him again, moving down to the side of his neck, gently pulling his hair out of the way.

Steve bites his lip to hold in another sound, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to it, to Eddie’s lips on his skin, to Eddie’s soft, slow breathing, as he feels Eddie’s fingers tug at his hair. He feels fucking weightless, like he’s floating in the air, like nothing in the world exists right now except for them.

“So proud,” Eddie breathes against his neck, kissing him again.

“Did I do good?”

Steve wants to jump out the fucking window.

His voice comes out weak and breathy, quiet and so fucking desperate that he flushes with embarrassment, and he opens his eyes like he’s going to look for an escape, to leave even though he just got here, but Eddie…

“So fucking good, Stevie,” he whispers without hesitation. “You did so good, I’m so proud of you.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales sharply, his head falling back as Eddie kisses his neck again. It’s wet this time, and Steve keens at the thought of Eddie’s open mouth against him, of his tongue and his teeth and his spit.

“Eddie,” Steve whines breathlessly, squeezing his arm.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks quickly, his hand pausing in Steve’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” Steve says weakly. Eddie hums softly, his hand tightening, and Steve lets out a soft noise before Eddie kisses a slow line up the side of his neck until he finds his earlobe, where he pauses, kissing it before he sucks it between his lips as gently as possible. “Eddie.”

“Alright?”

“Mm. Feel so good.”

Eddie hums quietly, and Steve keens as he nibbles at the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping gently, tenderly. His arm tightens around Steve’s torso, his other hand squeezing in his hair so hard that it hurts, and one of Steve’s hands finds Eddie’s leg next to him, gripping just above his knee desperately.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs into his ear, like he just knows how overwhelmed Steve is, how his whole body is flooding with this feeling.

“You got me,” Steve repeats absently, head lolling back onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“‘S right, Stevie.”

He kisses his neck again, harder, more confidently, his teeth and tongue on Steve’s skin, and Steve fucking hopes he leaves marks in his path. He wants evidence of this, proof that it wasn’t all in Steve’s head like some fucked up wet dream.

Eddie tugs on his hair, moving his hand to the back of his head before twisting his fingers in it tightly. Steve lets out a broken noise, biting his lip to muffle it.

“Eddie—”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes.

“I…”

“What is it?” Eddie whispers, kissing his jaw gently. “Tell me.”

“Need more,” Steve says weakly, his face hot with embarrassment.

“More what?” Eddie murmurs, and Steve wants to be annoyed, to roll his eyes and tell Eddie not to make him say it, but he can’t, because his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and his limbs feel heavy, and he feels fucking high, just because of Eddie’s mouth on him, because of Eddie’s sweet words.

“You,” he chokes. “Please, Eddie, I need you, please—”

“Fuck,” Eddie exhales, tugging Steve’s hair so his head tilts before he leans down and kisses his neck, his lips brushing his skin as he speaks. “I need you too, Stevie.”

Steve stifles a whine, pressing his lips together as Eddie sits up a little, leaning closer to kiss his neck, and he’s almost kissing his throat now as Steve’s head falls back, and Steve reaches up to his head, pushing his fingers into Eddie’s curls messily.

“Eddie, please,” he says softly. “More.”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, breathing hard against Steve’s neck. “Turn around, come here.”

Steve turns, aching when he has to leave Eddie’s chest, and he tries to keep his balance on Eddie’s soft mattress that’s covered in blankets. Their legs tangle, and Steve has to take a moment to sort them out, and Eddie giggles softly, reaching to push Steve’s hair out of his face. Steve smiles hopelessly, moving forward.

Eddie pulls at his legs, tugging him so their legs are wrapped around each other, so their chests almost press, so their faces are close. Eddie looks wrecked, his cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shining like he’s going to cry, and Steve knows he can’t look much better. He exhales, reaching up to trace his scar. It stretches when Eddie smiles. Eddie closes his eyes, turning his head to let him.

His hands slide up from Steve’s legs to his hips, his waist, pressing and firm and gentle on Steve’s sides. Steve slides his hands to hold his face, leaning close enough that their noses nudge together.

Eddie exhales, his eyes fluttering shut, and his hands slide to Steve’s back, pulling him closer as he murmurs.

“So fucking proud of you, Stevie, I can’t even tell you,” he says softly, nudging their noses together again. “No fucking words.”

Steve’s body flushes with heat, and he melts, his hands slipping to Eddie’s neck. He can feel the scars under his fingertips.

He tilts his head, his eyes stinging as Eddie keeps talking, keeping whispering and murmuring about how proud he is.

No one’s ever told Steve that they’re proud of him. He’s never heard it before.

But Eddie says it so earnestly, like he’s fucking reverent, and Steve listens.

And then Eddie is kissing him between words, his lips gentle and a little chapped against Steve’s, and Steve feels like he’s going to fall over with it all, his lips parted because he can barely kiss back. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, whispering to him.

“So proud of you, Stevie, you did so fucking good. So brave.”

Steve’s hands find Eddie’s head again, his fingers pushing into his curls, and he sighs, listening and listening and listening and absorbing the feeling of Eddie’s lips pressing to his softly.

His hands tighten in his hair after a moment, and he pulls Eddie in, shutting him up with a hard, lingering kiss. Eddie’s hands tighten on Steve’s waist, his fingers pressing into the scarred skin, and Steve’s whole body aches. They part with a slick sound and a gasp, but Steve pulls him back in before he can say anything, tugging his hair.

Eddie kisses him back desperately, clutching at his back, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, and Steve thinks he might be dying. It feels so fucking good, and the way Eddie is touching him…

His fingers dig into the knit of the sweater he’s wearing, holding him close as his legs tighten around him, and after a moment, one of his hands slides around Steve’s side, up over his chest slowly until it reaches his neck. It feels like he’s being so careful, gentle like Steve is delicate, and Steve’s never wanted to feel delicate before, but he’s basking in Eddie’s touch like it’s sunlight. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck, and their chests are almost touching as Eddie nibbles his lip the way he did with his ear earlier.

It feels kind of silly, really, in the grand scheme of things.

That they’d survive the end of the world, stop the end of the world, live through horrors beyond comprehension, and Eddie is proud of him for yelling at his parents. And now they’re making out, kissing each other stupid in Eddie’s bedroom, surrounded by his posters and blankets and the glow of his cracked lamps.

But Steve can’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

Eddie is holding the side of his face now, his fingers gentle on his skin, and Steve holds in a groan when Eddie’s tongue slips past his lips, his chest tightening.

Eddie pulls away and they both gasp for air.

“Baby,” Eddie breathes.

“God, yeah.”

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks quietly, brushing his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and Steve closes his eyes as they start to sting. He doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, almost choking the word out. “It was so okay, Eddie, I… Please.”

Eddie kisses him again. Pulls away to breathe, resting their foreheads together.

“Want you,” Steve says softly, whispering.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he can’t take it back.

Especially when Eddie is kissing him like this, like he’d die if he didn’t, like he’s drowning and Steve is air. Steve’s arms tighten around his neck, and he’s shivering, chills spreading over his skull, down his spine, as he listens to the soft breathy hums Eddie is letting out as he listens to the wet sounds of their lips, their tongues. Eddie licks into his mouth, licks his lips and his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Steve lets him, even though their lips and chins are wet now, slick with each other’s spit, and it’s a little gross. Steve doesn’t fucking care. It feels good.

He lets out a whine, letting his jaw drop for Eddie to suck on his tongue for a moment, and his cheeks flush with heat. Eddie smiles against his mouth, kissing him again.

“You still want more?” Eddie murmurs, caressing his cheek. Steve exhales, nodding.

“Please.”

Eddie presses wet kisses over his jaw, down his neck, and Steve melts, his head falling back to give him room. He shivers, tightening, when Eddie’s lips find his throat, pausing to suck on his skin lightly before he continues, kissing across the scars on his neck.

His scars are lighter than Eddie’s. Shallower. A metallic, faded pink that only stands out against his skin when he tans.

His parents didn’t notice them.

Or the scar on his chin, which Steve forgets about himself a lot of the time. It’s from that night at Starcourt. He used to stare at it in the mirror, hating it, hating himself. It’s faded so much it’s barely noticeable, but everyone knows it’s there. Steve knows it’s there.

Eddie knows it’s there.

He kisses it when he finishes with Steve’s neck, holding Steve’s face in place as he presses kiss after kiss after kiss to it, softly and tenderly, and Steve wonders if he looks at this scar the way Steve looks at his scar.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

Steve bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie presses his thumb to his lower lip, pulling it free before he kisses him gently.

“Do you wanna take your sweater off?” he asks quietly, whispering. Steve nods.

“You too,” he whispers, opening his eyes and meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks so… tender. His eyes are shining at Steve, and he’s almost smiling, just barely, and his face is so relaxed, more at peace than Steve thinks he’s ever seen him while awake. “Please.”

Eddie nods, kissing him again before pulling his hands away from his face, and he reaches for the hem of the sweater Steve is wearing.

They have to separate for him to pull it up over Steve’s head, and Steve shivers when it’s off, the air in the room colder than he expected. Eddie tosses the sweater aside, his eyes skimming over Steve’s body, and he feels shy suddenly, overcome with the desire to hide his chest, his scars, the soft rolls of his belly.

Eddie pulls his sweatshirt off, and Steve watches, crossing his arms over his stomach as he looks at Eddie’s pale skin, at the scars that mark his sides, his chest. The art that’s inked into his skin. One of the tattoos is almost gone, the bare edges of it rough around the skin graft on his chest.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says softly, like he’s scared of disturbing the quiet air. He reaches for Steve’s hands, pulling them away from where they’re hiding his stomach, and he leans in to kiss him, pulling his hands to touch Eddie. “Wanna see you.”

Steve kisses him back, squeezing his eyes shut, and he slides his hands across Eddie’s chest to touch his neck. Eddie hums, pulling his mouth away to look at him, and Steve blushes as Eddie’s eyes scan his chest, his arms, his belly.

“So fucking gorgeous, baby,” Eddie murmurs against his mouth.

Steve whines.

He pulls Eddie into another desperate kiss, and he shifts onto his knees, leaning over him, holding Eddie’s jaw so he tilts his head back.

“You too,” he says breathlessly, into Eddie’s mouth. “So fucking pretty, Eddie, you’re so beautiful it fucking hurts.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie pants, and he wraps his arms around Steve’s legs, holding him as they kiss, and it’s messy and sloppy and desperate, and Steve feels like Eddie is touching him everywhere, his callused hands rubbing away every bad feeling Steve’s ever had. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue along Eddie’s, and Eddie’s hands tighten, squeezing his thighs.

He slowly shifts onto his knees too, moving up so they’re face to face, and he hugs Steve’s waist, pulling him against himself. Steve groans softly, stifling it, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s neck again before he slides his hands over his shoulders.

And they can’t keep their hands off each other, palms and fingers sliding and pressing and touching. Eddie’s hand pushes into Steve’s hair, tugging sharply as he sucks on his lip, as his other hand slides across his back, gentle on his scars, and then he’s running his hands over Steve’s waist and chest and reaching down to his thighs, murmuring beautiful into Steve’s mouth, and Steve believes him.

They kiss until Steve’s mouth is sore, until his legs are tired from kneeling like this, until his chin is wet again, and Eddie is smiling against his mouth, still fucking talking, still telling Steve how proud he is, how good Steve was.

He kisses Steve’s neck, and Steve’s head falls back.

“God, baby,” Eddie breathes, panting as he kisses his neck again, and his tongue slips over Steve’s skin. “You’re so fucking good, shit.”

“Eddie,” Steve chokes, pushing his hand into his hair and pulling. “I need— Fuck, I need you, baby, Eddie, please, I—”

Eddie lowers so he’s kneeling, and he pulls at Steve’s thighs again, pulling him so he’s straddling his hips. Steve wraps his arms around him, letting out a sharp breath as he lowers, as Eddie licks a line up his neck. Eddie’s hand runs over Steve’s stomach until it reaches his sweatpants, and he touches him over them, gently pressing against his dick. Steve chokes, hiding his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks breathlessly, his other hand running up his back and holding the base of his skull. Steve nods. “Baby, I need words, please.”

“Yes,” Steve gasps. “‘S okay, it’s so okay, please, just… I need you .”

Eddie does it again, pressing and squeezing, and Steve is so hard it almost hurts, but Eddie is so tender with him, rubbing his back as Steve clings to him. They’re both breathing hard, and Steve is biting his lip to stay quiet, but it’s hard when Eddie whispers.

“Can I take it out?”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “Yeah. Please.”

He holds his breath.

Eddie’s hands are warm. And gentle. Eddie pulls away just enough to glance down to look, carefully tucking Steve’s sweatpants out of the way, and he’s smiling. Steve tugs at his hair, making him tilt his head back so he can kiss him so hard their teeth clash. Eddie is still smiling, his hand moving slowly, carefully.

When they part, Steve is gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, and Eddie notices, reaching up and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“Breathe for me,” Eddie whispers. Steve exhales slowly, looking at him, watching as he nods, and lowers his head. A moment later, he’s letting a line of spit drip out of his mouth to Steve’s dick and Steve groans quietly, pulling him back into a hug as Eddie slides his hand to spread it. Eddie’s other hand presses to Steve’s back securely, holding him close.

“Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s so high-pitched, weak and shaky and breathless and so vulnerable he wants to hate it, but he also doesn’t care, because Eddie is holding him like this, touching him and letting him tremble. “I like it, I like it so much, Eddie.”

“Good boy,” Eddie murmurs.

And fuck.

Eddie moves his hand slowly, and after a moment he shifts so he’s sitting, and they’re back to how they were before, their legs wrapped around each other. Steve keeps his arms around his neck, hiding his face. Eddie slides his other hand into his hair.

“You want me to pull?”

“God, yes,” Steve chokes. “Please.”

And Eddie definitely noticed how it made him feel just a moment ago, because—

“Good boy.”

Steve can hear his smile.

His hand tightens, his fist squeezing in it, and it’s a slow, dull ache that grows on Steve’s scalp. He stifles a groan, pressing his lips together.

“Stop doing that,” Eddie says breathlessly, his hand loosening, and Steve exhales with relief, his mouth falling open. A moment later he processes Eddie’s words, and he hums in confusion.

“Keeping yourself quiet,” Eddie says. “Stop, I wanna hear you.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, his eyes blearily finding the Slayer poster above Eddie’s bed. His vision is blurry, and he feels like he’s cross-faded, out of his damn mind with the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him.

“You don’t want me to be quiet,” he mumbles absently. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“No,” Eddie says softly, twisting his hand. Steve’es eyes close again. “I don’t want you to be quiet. Let me hear you, baby.” He moves his hand a little faster, tightening his fist, and Steve lets out a whine, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Louder,” Eddie says, moving his hand faster, his other hand tugging Steve’s hair sharply.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps before he moans weakly.

“Louder,” Eddie whispers, his hand tightening in his hair. Steve lets out a sob.

“Eddie.”

“There you go,” Eddie whispers, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, and it sounds almost condescending, but it wraps around Steve like a blanket. “Good boy. You don’t have to be quiet, baby.”

So he isn’t.

His mouth stays open, panting against Eddie’s neck and shoulder, letting out soft moans and whines and whimpers and Eddie’s name as Eddie pulls at his hair again, his other hand jerking Steve off, alternating between rapid and fast and slow and tender, squeezing and tugging and drawing it out.

“I love how you sound,” Eddie murmurs after Steve lets out a sob. “So fucking pretty, baby, God.”

“Eddie,” Steve whimpers.

“I got you, honey, ’s okay.” He scratches Steve’s scalp, pulling his hair.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Eddie lets out a soft noise, and he pulls at Steve’s hair sharply, tugging him away from where he’s resting his head, and he kisses him. Steve kisses back after a moment, almost lightheaded, and he clutches at him, at his hair, his arm.

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie pants when they part, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you so much.”

Steve lets out a long groan, squeezing Eddie’s wrist.

“Eddie, I—”

“You can come,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s okay.”

He kisses Steve’s cheek, murmuring as Steve buries his face in his neck again, moaning as Eddie’s hand speeds up again, and Steve is crying into his neck, sobbing as his body floods with heat, as he comes.

“There you go, baby,” Eddie whispers, fingers still working, jerking Steve until he finally slows down. “Did so good, Stevie.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie’s hand finally stops, and he lets go, his other hand running through Steve’s hair comfortingly as Steve catches his breath. He tucks Steve back in his sweatpants carefully, patting his crotch when he’s done, and Steve snorts.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly when Steve is breathing slowly. Steve hums. “That good, huh?”

“Mm. No one’s ever wanted to hear me before.”

“No?” Eddie says, running his hand over Steve’s back, tracing his spine. “But you sound so good.”

“Hm. I don’t know,” Steve mumbles. “One girl commented that I was noisy and it just… made me self-conscious, I guess.”

Eddie hums softly, sliding his hand up to hold the back of his neck, and it feels protective, possessive, and Steve could die happy here.

“I like hearing you,” Eddie says. “Don’t ever want you to be quiet.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck before he kisses him gently under his jaw. “Can I get you off?”

“Mm. Yeah. ‘S not gonna take much, though, I almost came just listening to you.”

Steve giggles, lifting his head and reaching for the hem of Eddie’s sweatpants as their eyes meet. He pushes his hand under them, watching Eddie’s expression shift, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lips part, watching his shoulders slump. He’s still holding the back of Steve’s neck, and his hand tightens.

“Can I take it out?” Steve whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie breathes. “Go ‘head.”

Steve does, licking his lips, and Eddie pulls him in to rest their foreheads together. Steve lifts his hand to his mouth and spits on his palm before reaching down again, touching him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, laughing lightly. “Fuck.”

“You always this easy?” Steve asks softly, whispering. Eddie hums.

“Only when I have the… hottest boy in the world touching my dick.”

Steve giggles, sliding his hand up and down slowly, listening to Eddie breathing heavily. He’s having fun. He’s never had fun like this during sex. It’s always felt like something to just do, to get done, to make his partner feel good. But even as he focuses on Eddie, he can’t stop smiling, watching his own hand on Eddie’s dick, listening to the soft moans and hums Eddie lets out. Eddie’s other hand finds Steve’s thigh and squeezes tightly, gripping so hard Steve wonders if he’ll leave bruises under his fingertips. He kind of hopes he does.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps after a while. “I’m gonna come.”

Steve kisses him. Messily, desperately.

“Come for me.”

Eddie grunts, his hand slipping to hold the base of Steve’s head, and he pants, breathing hard against Steve’s cheek as Steve watches, almost mesmerized by the come dripping over his fingers, his knuckles.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes as Eddie comes down, his grip on Steve’s leg and head relaxing. “You’re so…”

Eddie hums softly.

“So…”

“I don’t know,” Steve says quietly, pulling his hand away as Eddie softens, and he tucks him back into his sweatpants, imitating him with the gentle pat. Eddie laughs. He has a beautiful laugh.

“I’ve heard I’m a lot,” Eddie says.

“You are,” Steve says, looking into his eyes. He smiles, and Eddie tilts his head curiously. “In a good way,” he adds. “I like it.”

Eddie smiles bashfully, his cheeks pink, and Steve nudges their noses together, closing his eyes.

“...Are you gonna talk about it?” Eddie says after a few moments. Steve exhales, swallowing.

His hands are in his lap, and he looks at them, at the come on his hand.

“...I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Eddie touches Steve’s chin, gently prompting him to lift his head. He’s smiling when Steve looks at him, and he leans in to kiss him softly, chastely. Familiarly.

“Cool,” he says, his lips brushing Steve’s. “Same.”

And Steve laughs.

Eddie kisses him again, smiling against Steve’s smile, and Steve wraps his arms around his neck, keeping his dirty hand in the air as his other hand pushes into Eddie’s curls. Eddie’s hands slide across Steve’s back.

Steve pulls away.

“You are getting come all over my back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eddie says sarcastically, and Steve snorts. “What do you think about a shower to clean you up?”

“Ah, that was your master plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, my goal was to get you naked by getting you mostly naked.”

“Pure genius, Eddie.”

“I know…”

Steve follows him to the bathroom after they get clothes. (Eddie just gives him more of his own)

It feels nice when Eddie washes his hair. Even though he forms it into a mohawk with the soap. He’s grinning as he does it, his eyes sparkling, amused, and Steve lets him. It also feels nice when Eddie washes his body, which he does without saying anything, scrubbing him gently, tenderly, washing the soap away with the showerhead and pressing kisses to his wet skin. Steve does the same to him. It feels nice to do this, to help him even though he doesn’t really need it.

Steve kneels to do his legs, and as he does, he kisses his scars. Eddie holds a hand out, blocking the water from hitting Steve’s face. And Steve somehow falls in love all over again.

The tile wall is cold as Eddie pushes him against it to kiss him, but he doesn’t mind.

They separate to dry themselves off, and Steve stops him when he starts to scrub his hair dry with the towel. He scolds him lightly, pulling close and taking over, scrunching the ends and drying it gently, noting that he wants to get some product for him. Eddie just gazes at him silently, his hands on Steve’s hips.

“I love you,” he whispers when Steve hangs the towels.

Steve hugs him, and Eddie hugs him so tightly that he lifts him up a little bit, his toes touching the ground.

“I love you too.”

Over his shoulder, Steve can see them in the reflection of the mirror. It’s fogged over from the shower steam, but he can see the shape of them, their dark clothing in the bright light of the bathroom, and Steve sighs.

They go back to bed, arms around each other as they find their places again, Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest. Eddie kisses his neck. Steve closes his eyes.

“So what do you say about forever?” Eddie asks quietly as Steve is starting to drift off. He hums, turning to tuck his face into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie pushes a hand into his hair, holding him gently.

“Forever sounds nice.”

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#say it with me #This Is So Much Longer Than I Expected It To Be #oh well #steddie #steddie one shot #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

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sukuna-ryo · 2 months ago

Text

Jjk Men in Fairytale Retellings

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𝕮𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔 <3

(10k words)

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Content Warnings: Cinderella Choso × Fem Prince Charming Reader. This is kinda genderbender. The women follow male gender norms and men follow female gender norms, but they're still women and men respectively. And yes, choso is wearing a dress and panties, that's intentional.

Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI. P in V. Unprotected Sex. Oral (f & m receiving). Face Sitting. Size Kink. Overstimulation. Exhibitionism. Slight Dub-Con. Idk what else to add, tell me if I missed something.

Thank you @daymarenightdream1 , @h0n3ysgh0st and pinkie for being my beta readers and helping with the cw.

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𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, in a world where gender norms are not quite what we're used to, there lived Cinderella Choso. He was a soft-spoken, kind-hearted boy who somehow managed to make even the simplest dresses look elegant—duh. His days were filled with chores, thanks to his stepmother, Kenjaku, and his two over-the-top stepsisters, Eso and Kechizu, who treated him more like a servant than family.

That morning, Cinderella Choso was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the already spotless floor, when Kenjaku sauntered into the room, holding a cup of tea like it was a trophy.

“You missed a spot,” Kenjaku said lazily, gesturing vaguely at the floor with the kind of smugness only a true villain could pull off.

Choso paused, tilting his head to inspect the gleaming tiles. “Where?”

Kenjaku raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of tea. “Emotionally. The floor doesn’t feel clean.”

Choso blinked at him, then decided not to respond. He wasn’t sure what that even meant, and honestly, he didn’t care to find out. Arguing with Kenjaku was like trying to reason with a storm—it was loud, exhausting, and always left him feeling worse.

In the other room, Eso and Kechizu were bickering loudly over their outfits for the royal ball that night.

“I’ll win over prince Y/N for sure,” Eso declared, holding up a sequined gown that sparkled so brightly it practically blinded Choso from where he was standing. He twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a vase in the process.

“You? Win over the prince? Don’t make me laugh,” Kechizu snapped, holding a pair of heeled slippers like they were some kind of weapon. “I’ll be the one to catch her eye. You don’t even know how to walk in heels.”

“Better than you!” Eso shot back, his voice rising in indignation.

Cinderella Choso just kept scrubbing, doing his best to tune them out. This was normal, after all. He’d grown up in this chaos, surrounded by people who seemed to thrive on drama. The royal ball wasn’t meant for someone like him, anyway. It was for people like Eso and Kechizu—people who fit into that glittering world. He wasn’t bitter about it. Just… resigned.

By the time the house had emptied and the carriage had rolled away, Cinderella Choso found himself sitting by the fireplace, the only sound the faint crackle of the flames. He stared at the mop leaning against the wall, considering whether he should name it. At least it wouldn’t talk back.

The room felt emptier than usual, and though he wasn’t one to dwell on things, a small part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like—to dress up, to dance, to be seen as more than just the boy in the shadows.

But that kind of life wasn’t meant for him. Or so he thought.

Then, with a loud poof that sent soot flying everywhere, a man appeared. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and shirtless, because apparently magical beings don’t believe in modesty. Tattoos coiled up his arms and across his chest, and he had this grin that could only be described as “murderous.” His pink hair was messy in an I-don’t-care way, and he had sharp, glowing eyes that made Choso immediately question if this guy was here to help or hurt.

“Ugh, look at you,” the man said, sneering as he glanced around the room. “Pathetic. Sitting in a pile of ash like some tragic little loser. No wonder your life sucks.”

Cinderella Choso blinked, taken aback. “Uh… who are you?”

“I’m your Fairy Godmother,” the man announced, planting his glowing staff on the ground with a thud. “But you can call me Sukuna. Let’s get this pity party over with so you can go embarrass yourself at the ball.”

Choso frowned. “Aren’t Fairy Godmothers supposed to be… you know, nice?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “I’m nice enough to show up and fix your dumpster-fire life, aren’t I? Be grateful.”

Choso just stared. Sukuna, clearly unbothered, started waving his staff around like he was conducting an orchestra. “Alright, enough whining. Let’s make you look less… tragic.”

He raised his staff without waiting for an answer, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an insult, and in an instant, Cinderella Choso’s plain, soot-stained dress shimmered and transformed. The fabric turned into a soft, flowing baby-pink gown, delicate as a rose petal, with subtle silver accents that sparkled under the flickering firelight. The sleeves were sheer and billowy, giving the outfit an ethereal touch, and the neckline was modest yet elegant, perfectly suited to someone as shy and unassuming as Choso.

His hair, which had been loosely tied back in a messy bun, now fell in smooth waves down his back, held in place by a small, glimmering clip shaped like a crescent moon. On his feet were glass slippers—simple and lovely but with heels that looked slightly impractical, as if designed by someone who didn’t care much about comfort.

Cinderella Choso blushed as he glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. “It’s… nice,” he murmured, smoothing the fabric nervously. “I like it.”

“Of course, you do. I made it,” Sukuna said, crossing his arms and grinning smugly. “Now, let’s get you out of here before I change my mind.”

He waved his staff again with dramatic flair, and a nearby pumpkin swelled and stretched until it became a sleek, elegant carriage. A group of rats squeaked in protest as they were magically transformed into well-groomed horses, their tiny tails vanishing with a poof.

“Rules are simple,” Sukuna said, grabbing a sparkly mask from thin air and tossing it to Choso. “Be back by 3 a.m., or everything goes back to normal. That includes your dress, your carriage, and probably your dignity. Got it?”

Choso nodded, clutching the mask tightly.

“And for the love of everything holy, don’t embarrass me out there,” Sukuna added, glaring at him. “You’re wearing a baby-pink dress to a ball. The bar for failure is low.”

Cinderella Choso felt his cheeks heat up but chose not to respond. Instead, he carefully climbed into the carriage, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the skirt of his gown.

Sukuna watched him go, leaning casually on his staff. “Good luck, kid,” he muttered, his voice softer but still teasing. “You’ll need it.”

As the carriage rolled away into the night, Cinderella Choso took a deep breath, his heart racing. He had no idea what to expect, but for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel a tiny spark of excitement.

And so, Cinderella Choso was off to the ball, and somewhere along the way meet you—Prince Charming, the most ridiculously charming woman in the kingdom.

The grand ballroom was in full swing. The soft glow of chandeliers cast a golden haze over the room, bouncing off delicate, crystal glasses and glinting across the polished floors. Guests drifted in and out of conversation, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of the orchestra.

Cinderella Choso stepped into the room, his eyes wide, taking in the scene around him. The extravagant gowns, the glint of jewelry, the laughter that echoed from the walls—it all felt so far removed from his reality. He stood just inside the doorway for a moment, trying to steady his breath. The pink dress he wore clung to him in a way that made him feel exposed and small. His heart raced in his chest, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd made a mistake even coming.

But then, you appeared.

You stood near the edge of the ballroom, casually talking to someone, but when you turned, your gaze locked onto him across the room, and everything seemed to stop. You were in a sharp, midnight-blue suit, tailored perfectly to fit your figure. It was sleek and elegant, with just the right amount of softness, your presence commanding attention without being overwhelming. Your face was soft, your hair neatly styled, and there was a quiet confidence about you that made it impossible for Cinderella Choso to look away.

You didn’t say anything at first, just let your eyes meet his, studying him, before a gentle smile curved your lips. You took a few steps towards him, weaving through the crowd like you owned the space. The sound of the music, the chatter, all faded away, leaving just the two of you in the center of it all.

“Hello,” you said, your voice smooth and warm as you gently took his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Y/N.”

His heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing. “I—I’m Cinderella Choso,” he stammered, not sure where to look.

You smiled, your gaze lingering on him. Cinderella Choso felt a rush of heat flood his face under the intensity of your gaze. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides, unsure of where to look.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” you said, your voice smooth and genuine, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. The compliment made his heart race in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible, as he mumbled, “T-Thank you... I—I’m not used to... being noticed.” His cheeks were burning now, and he wished he could shrink into the floor.

You chuckled lightly, your smile only growing warmer. “Would you care to dance?” you asked, your voice inviting.

Cinderella Choso hesitated, his mind racing as his heart hammered in his chest. It took him a moment to realize that he was actually standing there, face to face with you, and he still hadn’t said yes. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded, his hand trembling as he reached out to take yours.

As you led him to the center of the ballroom, the music swelled into a slow waltz, and he could feel the tension in his body, the unfamiliarity of the situation, the soft pressure of your hand in his. His heart drummed against his chest as you moved fluidly in rhythm with him. Your body was warm against his, your movements confident and graceful, but you never rushed him.

The dance wasn’t perfect, but with every step, you guided him, never letting him falter. You made him feel safe in the way you held him, steady and sure, your presence somehow grounding. When you looked at him, it wasn’t with judgment or expectation, but with genuine interest, like you were seeing him for who he truly was, beyond the awkwardness he felt.

“You’re doing just fine,” you whispered softly, your voice light, teasing him just a little. “I’m impressed.”

Cinderella Choso’s chest tightened, but not in discomfort. There was something about the way you made him feel—important, seen—that took away the nervous edge in his body. His smile was shy but genuine. “I’ve never danced like this before,” he admitted softly.

“Then I’m honored to be your first,” you said, your smile deepening. It wasn’t just kind—it was sincere. “We’ll make it memorable.”

You guided him with such care, as though it was second nature for you to put others at ease. The music slowed, but your hand stayed firmly on his back, the pressure warm and comforting. When the song ended, you didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, your fingers lingered on his hand, a soft touch that sent a strange warmth through him.

“Shall we get some air?” you asked, offering your arm.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his heart still racing. You led him through the grand hall, down a corridor that seemed to be untouched by the noise of the party. The castle was vast, but you knew it like the back of your hand, guiding him through secret passageways, showing him hidden corners.

The tension between you was thick, crackling with every glance, every touch. You weren’t making it obvious, but Cinderella Choso could feel it. It was in the way your fingers brushed his every now and then, in the soft smiles that lingered a little too long. He wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of the moment or something else, but he couldn’t look away from you.

You led him outside to a secluded garden, bathed in moonlight. The scent of flowers was intoxicating, filling the air with a sense of magic, of something otherworldly. You took his hand again, pulling him gently along a narrow path that led to a hidden entrance behind thick vines. There, behind the foliage, was a secret garden—a place no one else knew about.

A beautiful pavilion stood in the center, its walls draped with delicate flowers, the entire structure seemingly carved from nature itself. Inside the pavilion, the floor was cushioned; and soft, fluffy pillows of various sizes scattered across the cozy bed. The space felt intimate, a retreat far away from the watchful eyes of the ballroom.

“This is…” Cinderella Choso’s voice trailed off, his heart skipping a beat as he took in the scene. It was serene, quiet, and so completely different from everything else in the castle. “Beautiful.”

You smiled, removed your shoes, and sat down on one of the larger pillows, motioning for him to join you. “It’s my secret hideaway. Only a few people know about it.” You patted the cushion beside you. “I come here when I need to think, to be alone.”

Cinderella Choso hesitated, then took off his heels and sat down beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your body, but not quite close enough to touch. The silence between you two felt thick, comfortable, like you were both holding your breath.

“I’m glad you showed me this,” he said softly, finally breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost unsure, but sincere.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice lower now, almost intimate. “I don’t usually bring anyone here.”

Cinderella Choso turned to look at you, his heart beating faster at the intensity in your gaze. The world outside seemed distant, fading into nothing as you both stayed there, in this small, secret place. You leaned a little closer, and the tension in the air seemed to wrap around you both, like a fine thread drawing you closer.

The world outside could wait. Here, in this hidden garden, nothing mattered. Only the unspoken connection, the pull between you, the undeniable chemistry that was now crackling in the air.

“You know,” you said, voice low and teasing, “If you’re not careful, I might just keep you here forever.”

Cinderella Choso’s breath hitched, and for a moment, everything stopped. He was so close to you now, the distance between you two shrinking with every word, every breath. His pulse raced, and for the first time that night, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The moment your lips met his, Cinderella Choso froze, his breath hitching in his throat. For a second, it seemed like he might pull away, his hands hovering uncertainly at your sides. Then, as if something gave way inside him, he grabbed your waist and kissed you back, his movements sudden and unrestrained.

At first, it was clumsy and rushed, his lips pressing hard against yours as if he wasn’t sure how to keep up with the storm of emotions. His breathing was uneven, shallow gasps breaking through the sounds of your kisses. His hands moved hesitantly but firmly, clutching at your waist and back, desperate to pull you closer.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair and pulling him even closer. You could feel his nervous energy in the way he moved, but it only made you smile against his lips. You tried to slow his pace, letting him match your rhythm, trying to ground his frantic energy with the soft, deliberate way your lips moved against his.

When he broke away to breathe, his face was bright red, and he couldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze darting everywhere but at you. You cupped his face gently, guiding him to look at you. “Choso,” you murmured softly, and his eyes widened, his blush deepening.

Before you could say anything more, he surged forward again, more determined this time. His kisses were rough and messy, his inexperience showing in the way his teeth grazed your lips and his hands fumbled to hold you. But you didn’t mind—it was raw, unfiltered, and so very him.

You let out a soft gasp as his lips found your neck, his movements hurried and unpracticed. Your hand slid down to his back, soothing the tension in his shoulders, your touch steadying him as he pressed closer.

Still, whenever he glanced at you, his shyness crept back, softening his frantic movements for just a second before his hands and lips found you again. You tilted his chin up, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek, and his trembling grip on you tightened in response.

Suddenly, Choso pushed you down on the cushioned floor and climbed on top of you. His wayward tongue grew more unruly in your warm mouth, his actions sending heated shivers to your core. He mewled through his erratic kisses as his fumbling, frantic hands began pulling at your clothes and undressing you.

His movements were quick, almost frenzied, as if driven by a force he couldn’t control. Your royal attire almost tore as he threw it to the garden floor. He pulled back for just a moment, and you opened your eyes only to see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, wide and unblinking, filled with raw urgency and need, as if he couldn’t bear to wait another moment.

His eyes were locked onto the delicate curves of your frame, his gaze particularly lingering on the flushed swell of your breasts and the hardened nipples. His eyes followed his hands as they shamelessly traveled every which way on your body making you gasp out in pleasure. Choso was panting above you, his chest rising and falling as unrestrained desire flickered in his eyes, and it made you shiver with excitement.

His hands moved to his own clothes next. Choso fumbled with the fabric of his dress, his movements rushed and impatient, tugging at the delicate seams and buttons crafted by Sukuna’s magic. He huffed in frustration, tugging harder, and managed to peel off a few layers of the dress. The outer fabric loosened, revealing the smooth undershirt beneath, but the enchanted material still resisted fully giving way. Despite his best efforts, only parts of the intricate outfit now hung messily off his shoulders.

Noticing the frustration on his face, you gently called out through your heavy breaths, "He-hey, slow down. There's no need to rush."

But as if your voice had yanked the beast's attention back to you, Choso's head snapped in your direction. You don't know what happened next, or how, but Choso's mouth was back on your skin. His undershirt joined your clothes on the ground, and a manic, whimpering Choso was pressing kisses all over you. Biting and sucking on your skin, he was leaving large hickeys and bruises as his mouth travelled lower and lower until he found your leaking pussy.

Choso whined loudly, and the vibrations sent jolts of electricity to the steadily building coil in your core. Your entire body shuddered as though someone had pulled your soul out when he started sucking your folds with full force. It felt as if he was making out with your pussy in the same rough and messy way he was kissing you moments ago, his ceaseless actions stimulating your clit as well.

It felt like your mind was unraveling, every coherent thought dissolving into the overwhelming sensation that consumed you. Your flickering gaze drooped down to Choso. His ears and neck were flushed red, eyes tightly screwed shut, with moans and deep groans escaping his lips as if he was the one receiving pleasure, and maybe he was.

It was getting too much, the overwhelming feeling was unbearable. You forced words out of your half-open mouth, trying your best to sound lucid, "Ch-cho... Choso s-stop. Slow down b-baby, 's too much..."

Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. But it's as if your words are swallowed by the air between you, his movements remain relentless, driven by an intensity that seems to blind him to everything else. Your protests falter, mingling with your uneven breaths, as his focus stays singular, unwavering, like he’s caught in a trance that nothing can break.

His tongue thrusts into your quivering hole, as his nose keeps on nudging the sensitive nerves of your clit. He was so shy at first. You didn't think he had much experience in these affairs when you brought him to the hidden garden, but his performance was making you second guess. Still, he seemed inexperienced with how uncoordinated, aimless and chaotic his movements were. But the sheer force in his actions made stars flicker behind your eyes.

The pleasure surged through you, sharp and unrelenting, until it overtook every part of you. Your body tensed, trembling uncontrollably, as your thoughts fragment into nothingness. It’s too much—blinding, deafening, overwhelming—until your mind can no longer keep up. Your senses give way, and the world around you vanishes, leaving you in a black void of sensation.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, the warmth still buzzing under your skin. A fleeting moment of clarity starts to settle. Fuck, that was just from going down on you?—

But your thoughts are cut off as the sound of clothes rustling suddenly joins the deep, uneven breaths filling the garden.

You open your eyes to see Choso hastily yanking down his slacks and panties in one swift motion, the fabric bunching around his knees. Your eyes fixate on something else, unable to look away. It's beautiful, unlike anything you've seen before.

His cock that sprang out was a pretty cherry pink colour, with veins that trace along his shaft like rivers. Silky smooth skin covered the slight upward curve of his length. The head was a flushed, angry red, as though the heat had spread from within, coloring it with a deep, vivid hue. It pulsed with intensity, a clear sign of the tension building beneath the surface, with his precum dripping from the slit. And the size—wait. No, this can't be right. It's too much. He's massive.

Your eyes widen in realization, a wave of panic suddenly washing over you. Your hands grip the sheets as a small shred of fear claws at your chest, pulling you back to reality. No, no, no—this won't work. It won’t fit. You scramble away from Choso, twisting your body as you quickly turn on your knees to distance yourself. But you feel his hand grip your ankle and yank your body straight back to him.

Your back is pressed against his chest as you feel Choso's entire body weight press down on you, pinning you in place and leaving you unable to move. Then you feel two things sink into you, Choso's teeth in your shoulder and his massive cock in your pussy. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as his size overwhelms you, stretching you far beyond what you're accustomed to. It's almost too much, your body tensing as it struggles to accomodate the intensity of him. Each movement only deepens the sensation, both pain and pleasure pushing you to the edge of what you can handle.

A deep guttural groan echoes from Choso's throat straight into your ear. He completely stills for a moment as if he too seems to need some time to adjust to the feeling of being inside you. Then he's rambling, babbling in his pussydrunk state.

Choso's voice was shaky, breath coming in quick gasps as he muttered, "This—this feels so good... so tight... can't... can't get enough of you." His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, his words slipping out in a desperate breathless rush. "You feel... incredible. I don't know how much longer I can... this is—this is everything... "

Choso starts plunging into you, his hips snapping against yours, each movement fast, hard and deep. The familiar tightness slowly takes hold in your core. With every thrust the pain melted away and only mind numbing pleasure remained.

Your words tumble out in a frantic, incoherent rush, your body trembling as you clung to the sheets. "I... can't... so good, Choso, feels too good... please, don't stop... don't stop, please..." Your voice was shaky, breathy, barely above a whisper, as if the sensation was overwhelming your every thought.

You're practically mewling as each wave of pleasure blurs the edges of reality, leaving you teetering on the brink of madness. Your body trembles uncontrollably, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as if you were drowning in ecstasy. The intensity was almost too much, a raw, primal force that left you clutching desperately at the remnants of your sanity.

Your body moves against him on it's own, joining in on his rhythm. Choso moans in your ears, and the voice sends more uncontrollable shivers to your core. You force your eyes open as much as you could through the haze of your blinding pleasure and turn your head to the side to look at him. Choso was completely feral, his expression raw and intense. You swore you could see hearts in his eyes, his gaze burning with something wild. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and he was moaning and whimpering, while mercilessly thrusting in and out of you. He was completely out of control.

His sheer size was making you feel everything as his cock slid against you, reaching every corner and hitting your sweet spot again and again. Your pleasure builds hard and fast, and snaps before you could comprehend it. Your mouth hangs slightly open, drool escaping and pooling on the sheets below your cheek as your head spins with overwhelming pleasure. Your thoughts are scattered, each sensation mixing together, leaving your brain in a muddled haze, unable to focus on anything but the dizzying rush of pleasure flooding your senses.

You orgasm sets off Choso's own as your pussy tightens around him, trembling and quivering, and he cums inside you with a loud moan while giving slow, messy thrusts. The warm liquid pools inside, filling you, and spills out around the base of his cock and on the sheets. Tears stain Choso's cheeks as he starts crying, sniffles and sobs mixing with his moans, and you feel the warm drops on your shoulder.

Both yours and Choso's breaths come in ragged, uneven bursts. Your haze is slowly about to lift, and the trembling in your limbs was just about to subside, but Choso flips you over to face him and starts moving again. He's still hard inside you despite his powerful orgasm and how much he came. His movements pick up their speed, and he whines while sliding in and out of you.

Overstimulation grips your body, and you squirm and thrash underneath him. Choso grips your hips to force your body still as he moves faster and deeper inside you. "Choso... i-it's... too much," you gasp.

He leans down and pecks your lips, and breathes into your mouth, "I know... me too..." before capturing your lips in a deep, bruising kiss. His desperate actions over you don't stop, whining through his own overstimulation, as he pulls multiple orgasms out of you till you lose count and your highs start bleeding into each other.

Every time your vision goes black because of pleasure, and you drift in and out of consciousness in exhaustion, Choso fills you up with his sticky seed till you overflow and he's shooting blanks, while pressing kisses all over your body. This goes on for what feels like an eternity, and your body felt completely drained, every muscle heavy and limp, yet there was a comforting warmth that enveloped you, a deep sense of contentment, your mind floating in a blissful haze.

Choso, now calmer and free from his earlier fluster, was covering you with gentle kisses, murmuring soft "I love you"s as you lay there, blissfully tired and unable to move. His touch was tender, each kiss filled with quiet affection, as if he was trying to memorize every moment.

Suddenly, the deep toll of the palace bell echoed through the night. Choso froze, his eyes widening in alarm as he remembered fairy godmother Sukuna's warning—3 a.m. was the deadline, and the magic would soon start unraveling.

Panic flickered across his face as he sat up abruptly. “I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick with urgency and regret.

You reached out weakly, your fingers brushing his arm. “Wait... wait till morning,” you mumbled, your voice slurred with exhaustion. There was more you wanted to say—something about a curse, about needing him to stay—but the words came out as incoherent murmurs, fragments of a plea lost in the haze of your tiredness.

Choso hesitated, his expression torn, but the chime of the bell spurred him into action. He scrambled off the pavilion, hastily pulling on his dress. He paused for a moment, looking back at you with a mix of longing and sorrow.

“I love you,” he said one last time, his voice soft but firm, before slipping out of the garden and into the night.

The next morning arose with a bright yellow glow from the east. You stir in the sheets of the pavilion, before slowly opening your eyes to the beautifully painted glass ceiling. The birds were chirping in the hidden garden, and the scent of the numerous flowers swirled in the air.

The memories of the night before came rushing to your mind, every fragment crystal clear except one: his face. You had tried your best, through your exhaustion, to get Cinderella Choso to stay with you till you could see him again in the morning, but he left anyway.

You tried to tell him—to get but a word in—that you were cursed. A long time ago, a lady of magic, offended by the king, had cursed her only heir: you. According to the curse, every morning, you forgot each and every face you saw the day before, including your own.

It was a well-guarded royal secret that only a few were privy to. And you wanted the man who stole your heart (along with the strength in your legs) to know it too. He was gone now, and it would be difficult to find him with just a name without the face. But there's something else you remember, something that even a curse couldn't erase from your mind: his beautiful, glistening pink dick.

Scrambling out of the sheets and into your clothes, before smoothing your hair down the best you could to make yourself somewhat presentable, you stepped out of the garden and went to the palace in search of your aide.

The air in the aide’s office was heavy with the scent of parchment and ink, the flicker of candlelight illuminating his focused face as he worked through a stack of documents. He barely looked up as you entered, his pen scratching against the paper.

“Where did you disappear off to last night?” he asked, his tone curious but not pressing.

You waved a dismissive hand, brushing off the question. “It’s not important,” you replied, stepping closer. “I need you to summon the royal painter immediately.”

The aide blinked, finally setting down his pen to look at you fully. “The royal painter? What for?”

“Just do it,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. His brow furrowed, but he nodded, reaching for the small bell on his desk to summon a servant to deliver the orders.

Moments later, the royal painter, an older man with streaks of grey in his beard, shuffled into the room, looking a little confused.

The painter gave a short bow, his expression perplexed. “Your Highness, what service do you require?”

You stepped forward, clasping your hands together in determination. “I need you to paint something from my memory,” you said, your voice steady. “A man’s dick.”

The painter sputtered and blinked rapidly, visibly startled by the peculiar request. “A p-penis, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, your tone leaving no room for doubt. “It’s vital.”

Though clearly appalled and confused, the painter nodded, pulling out his tools and setting to work as you described every detail of Cinderella Choso’s cock. You spoke with precision, recalling the faint lines on his shaft, the slight upward curve of his length, the veins running along the length, the pinkish red flushed head that was a darker shade than the rest of this cock, and the soft sheen of his skin. The painter’s expression grew more incredulous with each stroke, but he remained silent, committed to the task.

When he finished, you scrutinized the painting, your heart leaping at how perfectly he had captured it. “Good,” you said with a nod. “Now make several copies of it. As many as you can manage within the next hour.”

The painter hesitated, glancing at the aide as if hoping for an explanation. When none came, he sighed and got to work, summoning his apprentices to assist.

As you waited, a royal guard entered the room, bowing deeply. “Your Highness, the King has summoned you to the throne room.”

You inhaled sharply, straightening your posture. “Very well,” you said, smoothing your attire once more. “I’ll return shortly,” you told the aide before following the guard out.

The throne room was as grand as ever, the King seated at its center. Her piercing gaze bore into you as you entered, the tension in the air palpable. “You’re late,” she said, her voice sharp.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” you said, offering a polite bow.

The King leaned forward, her expression severe. “I summoned you to discuss a matter of great importance. The princess I told you of last night, of the neighboring kingdom, the one you danced with at the start—he would make a fine royal spouse. The union would strengthen our ties and secure our future.”

You hesitated, the memory of Cinderella Choso flashing through your mind. “I met someone last night,” you said, your voice unwavering. “I fell in love with him, and I’ve decided I’m going to marry him.”

The King’s expression darkened, frustration evident. “You would throw away a carefully arranged alliance for some man you met at a ball? Do you even know who he is?”

“I do not,” you admitted, “but I will find him.”

The King’s hand clenched the arm of her throne, her face reddening. “You’re being reckless,” she snapped. “This marriage is crucial to the kingdom’s future!”

“Then perhaps you should have been clearer about that before inviting every eligible suitor to the ball,” you retorted calmly.

"Besides, with the amount of cum inside me right now, I doubt any kingdom would want to marry off their princess to me when my belly swells in a few months." You add with a faint smirk on your calm face.

"You!" The king's anger reached its peak, and before you could say another word, she clutched her chest, her face twisting in pain. “Your Majesty!” a servant cried, rushing to her side as she collapsed into the throne.

You didn’t linger. Turning on your heel, you left the chaos behind, your resolve unshaken.

By the time you reached the training grounds, the knights were gathered in neat rows, their polished armor clinking softly as they practiced their drills. You held up the paintings in your hands, ensuring they all saw the image clearly.

“This is the man I’m looking for,” you announced, your voice carrying across the courtyard. “Compare this painting to the dick of every man in the kingdom. Find him, no matter how long it takes.”

The knights saluted in unison, determination in their eyes as they accepted their copies.

Turning to the aide, who had followed you silently, you gave your next order. “Make an announcement,” you said. “Tell the kingdom I met a man at the ball last night, and he’s stolen my heart. We’ll find him with these paintings. Any man whose dick matches the image will be married to me.”

The aide hesitated, his brow furrowing in concern. “Your Highness, are you certain—” Although he was used to your antics by now, this one was far too ridiculous to not question.

“Do it,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for doubt.

As the knights dispersed and the aide hurried off to carry out your orders, you felt a strange mix of determination and trepidation. Somewhere out there, Cinderella Choso was waiting—and you wouldn’t rest until he was by your side once more.

The days turned into weeks, the search spanning every corner of the kingdom. The knights traveled tirelessly, comparing the painting of the glistening cock to every eligible man they encountered, but no match had been found. Each negative report brought a growing sense of worry, a restlessness that kept you pacing through the corridors of the palace late into the night. The weight of your promise pressed heavily on your shoulders. What if you had lost him forever?

Finally, the aide presented the list of remaining houses. “This is the last one,” he said, handing you the parchment with a weary expression.

Your eyes scanned the address. A modest home tucked into the farthest corner of the kingdom. The final hope.

“I’m going with them,” you declared. The aide opened his mouth to protest, but your determined gaze silenced him. The next morning, you rode out with the knights, the journey long and arduous as the distant town came into view.

Meanwhile, in that very house, Stepmother Kenjaku paced the floor, his long robes rustling with every turn. The news of the prince's search had reached even the farthest corners, and Kenjaku was determined to seize the opportunity. He had spent weeks preparing his two daughters, Eso and Kechizu, for the inevitable visit.

“You must be perfect,” he told them sternly, inspecting their dicks. Eso winced as Kenjaku pressed a scale to his cock, the length was far from satisfactory. Kechizu groaned in frustration as another mixture of oils and creams was slathered onto his dick in a desperate attempt to make it more appealing.

“Remember,” Kenjaku said with a wicked grin, “if one of you marries the prince, we’ll live in the palace, and our troubles will be over.”

“Yes, Mother,” they chimed in unison, their faces contorting into forced smiles.

When the knock finally came, Kenjaku hurried to the door, his heart racing. He opened it with a deep bow, his oily charm seeping through every word. “Your Highness, what an honor! Please, come in!”

You stepped inside, your knights following as Kenjaku led you to a modest sitting area in the hall. You settled into the soft couch, your posture regal despite the humble surroundings.

“These are my daughters, Eso and Kechizu,” Kenjaku announced with exaggerated pride as the two boys stepped forward, their hands clasped demurely before them.

You glanced at their faces and had to fight the urge to recoil. The sharp angles of their features and their overly powdered skin were anything but appealing. Their forced grins only made them look more unsettling.

“They’re definitely not the man I’m looking for,” you said flatly, not even bothering to compare the painting. “There’s no need.”

Kenjaku’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure, Your Highness? They’ve been preparing—”

Your sharp gaze cut him off. “According to the records, there are three daughters in this household.”

Kenjaku’s expression tightened, but he quickly masked his displeasure with a nervous laugh. “Ah, the third,” he said dismissively, waving a hand. “He's not truly my daughter, Your Highness. A stepchild of my late husband from her first marriage, nothing more than a servant. Hardly worthy of your attention.”

“Call him anyway,” you ordered, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Kenjaku hesitated for a moment before turning to a nearby servant and barking out the order. Moments later, the sound of footsteps descending a creaking staircase filled the air.

When Cinderella Choso appeared, your breath caught in your throat. His disheveled hair framed his face, strands sticking out wildly, and a smudge of ash darkened his cheek. He wore a simple maid’s outfit, the hem fraying slightly at the edges, but none of that mattered.

The moment you saw him, the memory of that night came flooding back in its entirety. His face—his beautiful, soft features, the gentle curve of his lips, and the warmth in his eyes—had been restored in your mind as if the curse had never taken hold. He was the man you’d fallen for, the man whose cock you had spent weeks searching for.

Cinderella Choso looked up slowly, his expression a mixture of caution and something softer—a quiet joy that flickered to life the moment his eyes met yours. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, his lips parting slightly in surprise as he instinctively ducked his head, his hand brushing nervously against the hem of his apron.

“Why... why is the prince here?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Though confusion lingered in his tone, there was an unmistakable warmth in his gaze, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were standing before him.

You maintained your composure, though your chest tightened at the sight of him. Giving no sign that you recognized him, you said firmly, “I will personally check him,” standing from the couch with an air of authority.

Kenjaku’s eyes widened in alarm, but he quickly plastered a thin smile on his face. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Cinderella Choso’s blush deepened, his dark eyes darting between you and the knights before returning to you, lingering just a moment longer than before. His fingers twitched nervously, and he bit his lip, a flicker of shy delight breaking through his confusion.

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unwavering as it met his. “Where is your room?” you asked, your voice calm but commanding.

“The... attic,” he replied hesitantly, his words faltering under the weight of the moment. His hand rose as if to gesture toward the stairs, but he paused, seeming momentarily flustered by your nearness.

“Lead the way,” you instructed, your tone firm but not unkind.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his movements tentative but obedient. His face was still tinged with a soft pink hue as he turned toward the staircase. There was something in the way he carried himself—a nervous energy paired with a quiet joy, as though he were both overwhelmed and thrilled to have you in his home.

You followed him, your heart pounding in your chest with every step as the narrow staircase creaked beneath your feet.

As you ascended the creaking staircase, the air between you grew heavier, laden with unspoken emotions and tension. The narrow space seemed to close in, your footsteps echoing softly behind him.

Cinderella Choso’s shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the hem of his apron as if it were his lifeline. His head was slightly bowed, and his messy hair shifted with every step he took. You watched him closely, the faint blush still dusting his cheeks, the nervous sway in his movements unmistakable.

Breaking the silence, you spoke, your voice low but clear. “I hope you remember me.”

Cinderella Choso froze mid-step, his foot slipping slightly on the next stair. He let out a startled squeak, his hands flailing briefly before he caught himself against the bannister. “Y-yes!” he stammered, the word escaping his lips in a hurried rush. His voice cracked slightly, and his entire body seemed to jolt with embarrassment.

But he didn’t look back.

His ears were burning red now, the flush creeping down his neck as he straightened up and hurried the rest of the way. His steps were uneven, almost frantic, as though the very act of facing you might undo him completely.

You bit back a smile, watching him fumble, his shyness endearing in a way that only made your heart ache more for him.

The attic was dimly lit, with only a small window letting in a pale stream of light that softened the space. Despite its modest size, the room was neat and organized, every corner reflecting a quiet diligence. A small dressing table stood to the side, its surface polished clean, with a few simple trinkets placed meticulously. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, slightly worn but sturdy, and a collection of books was stacked neatly in one corner.

The bed, just barely large enough to accommodate Cinderella Choso's broad frame, was tucked under the window, a faded but clean rug beside it. The air was still, carrying the faint scent of the ash smudged on his cheek and the warmth of the space he'd made his own.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, it was as if the world fell away. All pretense dissolved in an instant. You stepped toward him, and he barely had time to process before your lips were on his, the kiss urgent and consuming.

Cinderella Choso froze for the briefest moment, his body stiffening. But then his hands found your waist, and he melted into you, a soft whimper escaping him. His touch held the same urgency as the night of the ball, trembling slightly, but the sheer need in him breaking through his shyness.

Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but they moved against yours with increasing desperation. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, as though you feared he might disappear again.

Together, you tumbled onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress as he fell back. The window's light framed his flushed face, his hair falling messily around him as his wide eyes met yours. His breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling quickly, but his hands never left you, roaming across your back, your hips, your thighs, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Breaking from the kiss, you hovered above him, your breath mingling with his as you stared into his wide, vulnerable eyes. “Why did you leave that night?” you asked, your voice trembling, not with anger, but with a deep, aching hurt. “I told you to stay.”

Cinderella Choso looked away, his cheeks flushed as if the memory stung him even now. His hands rested on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, grounding him. “I... I didn’t want to,” he admitted softly, his voice raw with regret. “But I didn’t have a choice. It was magic.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his words tumbling out nervously, as though he feared you wouldn’t believe him. “The fairy godmother gave me everything for one night—just until 3 a.m. After that, everything... everything would go back to the way it was. My clothes, my life, all of it. I had to leave before it all unraveled.”

His gaze flicked back to you, searching for your reaction, his face tinged with shame. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.”

You studied him for a long moment, your hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint smudge of ash still there. “Believe me, I know,” you said, your voice laced with understanding, a sad smile tugging at your lips.

His brows knit in confusion, but you shook your head gently, your fingers tracing the soft line of his jaw. “That’s a story for later,” you said softly, leaning in to press another kiss to his lips. Whatever questions he had about your words or your curse could wait. Right now, you were here, together, and that was all that mattered.

Just like that your roaming hands were back on each other again. Cinderella Choso kissed you with more fervour than before. His lips frantically moved against yours. His tongue slipped inside, the soft muscle gliding and tangling with your tongue.

Your breathing grew shallower, and your heart thundered in your chest as Choso's soft, desperate whimpers filled the air. His hands fumbled at the buttons of your coat, trembling as he worked to undo them, his touch clumsy with need.

But you caught his wrists, stopping him in his tracks. “Uh-uh,” you said, your voice firm, though a teasing smile tugged at your lips. “I’m not letting what happened that night occur again. You went wild, Cho—You'll let me call you that, won't you? I’d like to leave this house walking on my own two legs if I can help it.”

His eyes widened, his face flushing a deep crimson as he sputtered, “I-I didn’t mean—”

You silenced him with a quick peck on his lips before reaching for a piece of cloth from his wardrobe. His confusion deepened as you looped the fabric around his wrists, tying them securely to the headboard.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he stammered, his voice trembling with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

You smirked, leaning close so your breath ghosted over his ear. “Maintaining some control over the situation this time,” you said, your tone playful yet commanding. “I think we both know you lose all sense of restraint when you’re left to your own devices.”

Cinderella Choso whimpered, his hands tugging weakly at the bindings as you straddled him. His eyes darted down to his maid outfit, and he seemed suddenly hyper-aware of the fabric against his skin.

Taking a moment, you leaned back slightly, your gaze trailing over him appreciatively. “You know,” you said, tilting your head as your lips curved into a grin, “You look really cute like this.”

His blush deepened, and he turned his head away shyly. “D-Don’t tease me...”

“Oh, I’m not teasing,” you replied, your fingers tracing the ruffled hem of his skirt. “We could do this from time to time—have you wear something like this again.”

Cinderella Choso’s wide eyes snapped back to yours, his lips parting in a silent gasp. His embarrassed whimper made you chuckle softly, leaning down to kiss him again, savoring the way he melted beneath you, utterly at your mercy.

You pulled at the knot of his apron, undoing the fabric. Your hand slid to the back of his neck, slowly unzipping the dress, and he shivered at the touch. You give him a sweet, soft smile but the look in your eyes betrayed what you were about to do next. His eyes grew wide with panic and anticipation, his lips parting slightly as he took in small breaths.

You quickly slip his dress off next and settle between his legs. His pretty white panties had a not so innocent wet spot that only grew larger in size the longer you looked at it. Choso lets out a small whine and your devilish gaze met his excited, wide-eyed stare.

"Wha—what are you going to do?" He stammered, and his eyes dart between your lips and the bulge in his panties that was peeking through the translucent fabric.

You grin even wider and chirp, "Exactly what you're thinking right now."

Choso gasps when you pull down his panties, and his hardened cock springs out. It looks exactly like you remembered it—big and smooth with a gorgeous pink tint that's redder at the head. The paintings didn't do justice, the real thing was much better.

You bring your hand up to touch his tip and he shivers. Choso was trying his best to stay still, anticipating what's to come. But when you softly kiss the tip of his cock, his entire body shudders. A loud, high-pitched moan escapes his lips when you sink down your mouth on his length as much as you could.

You use all your strength to tightly grip his thighs with both of your hands, forcing him to stay still while you bring your head up and then glide it back down, taking him deeper this time.

The head of his cock touches the back of your throat and you slightly gag. Your eyes glisten with tears, but you don't stop. You start bobbing your head up and down on his length, which elicits a series of strangled moans and gasps from choso.

Your lips slide up his length, a mix of your spit and his precum covering the shaft. You suck at his head, then hollow your cheeks and go back down. Your actions pick up their pace, head rapidly bobbing, adding to his building pleasure.

With a loud cry, choso cums. The warm liquid that filled your mouth was salty with a slight sweet taste. Your hand replaces your mouth, moving up and down, helping him ride out his high.

You look up at him. His eyes are tightly shut, mouth parted as his chest heaves with the deep breaths. As he calms down, his half-open lidded eyes meet yours. You sweetly smile at him and tease, "Did you like that?"

Choso turned his head to the side and tried to hide his face in his bound arms, flushing this time with embarrassment.

"Yes," he muttered in a small, shy voice.

He then asks, "Are you going to untie me now?"

You shake your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Nope. We're not done yet."

You sit up and start unbuttoning your clothes. Choso's eyes follow your every action as you slip out of your coat, your shirt, and then your pants. You're sitting above him, straddling him, with nothing but your underwear on. Choso's eyes seem too bulge out of his head, and his ears burn redder at your half-naked form, as if he hadn't already seen it before.

You take off your bra next and your breasts spill out. Choso's gaze is fixed on the sight, then trails down to your panties and the noticable wet patch on it. You pull them down, there's a lewd string of your slick connecting to the fabric. Choso gulps at the sight, his Adam's apple bobs on his throat.

"Would you like a taste, my sweet Cho?" You tilt your head and drawl while looking at him. He nods frantically at your words, whining desperately.

"You're so big baby, and as much as I love it, you'll have to loosen me up a little before I take you inside, yeah?" Choso blushes at your words and whimpers, "Ye-yes, please."

You rise and move up to his shoulders, placing your legs on each side and settle your pussy down on his face, careful not to smother him.

Choso moans softly as he eagerly starts licking at the slick dripping down on his tongue. His knuckles turn white the moment his bound hands grip the headboard tightly. His eyes are closed, face flushed like a plum, and his soft whines and groans fill the air, mixing with your moans of pleasure. He looks so obscenely gorgeous between your legs.

Choso's tongue laps at your folds. You reach down and push your fingers in your pussy, and start pumping them in and out in an attempt to stretch yourself out. Choso sucks and lightly bites at your clit and it sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Your back arches as you push yourself deeper to his mouth, the coil in your core ready to snap. You're close, so close.

Choso lets out a low groan, sending vibrations to your sensitive flesh. He's hard again, precum dripping from the slit. He bucks his hips up when he gives a harsh suck to your clit that sends you spiralling, waves after waves of pleasure washing over you as you hit your high. You get off him and collapse to the side, both of you panting side by side.

You don't waste another moment; getting up and aligning your warm, sensitive pussy with his dripping cock and sink down on him, overstimulation be damned. A loud whiny moan echoes in the room, coming from you or him you don't know.

Once you started bouncing on him, Choso felt as though every inch of his skin was alive, buzzing with a heat so powerful it left him dizzy. His mind felt hazy, thoughts muddled, unable to cling to any single thread of rationality. The pleasure overwhelmed him entirely, a thick fog of sensation clouding every rational thought, as if his brain were melting beneath the weight of it, leaving only pure, unfiltered bliss.

Your warm, tight, wet cunt gripping him like a vice felt like it was milking him dry. You lean back, your palms resting on his thighs behind you as you use all your strength to ride him. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and the view is so lewd for our poor baby Choso that he feels like he's gonna cum right then and there.

You through your head back, mouth open as you drool and pant above him. All that sword training paid off, because you couldn't possibly have lasted without all the built up stamina. Choso's loud moans and groans, mixed with your own, ring in your ears, adding to your lust and fueling you to go faster and harder.

Choso throws his head back into the pillow, hands holding the headboard in an iron-grip, as his biceps flex and abs tightens, and he cums hard. His ropey liquid filling you up, and you follow right after, still riding him through both your orgasms.

You pant hard, body slacking to the side, and you look at him while you try to catch your breath. Choso is a mess, tears and drool is dripping from the sides of his face. His jaw is slack, and his face, neck and chest is flushed red. Little sobs escape his lips along with the gasps.

You quickly move to untie the cloth around his hands and collapse on top of him. You hold him close as you pepper his face with kisses. "You okay, baby?" You ask in a soft voice. But just then, before you could react, Choso flips you over. He's looking down at you with the same crazed look in his eyes that he had the night of the ball. Fuck! You made a mistake untying him.

Choso pins both your wrists above your head with one hand, and grips one of your legs up with the other, before thrusting himself back into you. "Cho-choso!?" You call out, startled. His eyes are blown wide with a wild look in them, no coherent thought behind the gaze.

"M-more... more pl-please. Not enough... This is not enough... need more..." He babbles. So you weren't walking out of this house on your own after all. The pleasure he gave you that night was soul-crushingly good, and you loved every moment of it. As much as you want it again right now, there's an entire knight squad waiting for you downstairs, dammit.

He holds you down while ramming his cock deep inside with full strength. His thrusts get meaner with each stroke, pumping pleasure out of you. He leans down, shoving his tongue in your slack mouth, swallowing all your moans. Oh fuck it! The knights can wait.

Each pulse of pleasure that rolled through you felt like a wave of heat, washing away any coherent thought. Your body trembled, each nerve alive, and your mind seemed to blur, its sharp edges softening into nothingness. Every sensation was amplified, the euphoria so intense that it felt like your very mind was being devoured by the pleasure, each wave more intoxicating than the last.

Choso didn’t stop, not until both of you were exhausted and sticky with sweat and cum that came from all the countless orgasms, the intensity of the moment lingering in the air between you. His movements were relentless, driven by an overwhelming need, and each time you thought he might slow down, he only pushed forward.

It was like that night all over again. You drifted in and out of the haze clouding you with each mind numbing high. The sun was setting when you both finally stopped, the golden light spilling through the window and casting a warm glow over everything. The room, once filled with the erratic energy, now felt quiet, the fading daylight creating a peaceful contrast to the intensity that had come before.

Choso was sleeping peacefully on top of you, his soft breaths rising and falling gently against your chest. His weight, comforting and familiar, made your heart swell with adoration. You watched him, his face serene in sleep, so different from his earlier untamed frenzy, and a wave of tenderness washed over you as you held him closer, not wanting to move, wanting to cherish the moment forever.

In the following days, the kingdom buzzed with excitement, preparations for the royal marriage taking center stage. The streets were filled with banners and flowers, and the air was thick with anticipation. Cinderella Choso, now at your side, was treated with the same reverence as any princess, though his gentle nature remained unchanged. You spent your days together, savoring the quiet moments, laughing, and talking about the future; and with his cock buried deep inside you when no one was around.

The royal wedding was a grand affair, a celebration of not just your union, but the love that had brought you both together. As the days passed, you realized that the magic and curse had only led you to something far greater than you could have imagined.

And so, with Choso by your side, you lived happily ever after, finding a peace that had once seemed impossible.

---

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