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cressidagrey · 5 months ago

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Looked to the Sky - Chapter 7

Summary:

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings:

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Magical Help with Dyslexia, Rhys is a good big brother, Azriel finally is less of an idiot and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

"I am supposed to...read all of these?" Eira asked Rhys with a grimace. He had dropped a stack of books in front of her at breakfast the next day...after Azriel and she had...come to an understanding of sorts. After…

She didn’t want to think of it. Not right now. She needed something else…something to take her mind off it. Of all of it.

And Rhys sufficed.

Rhys chuckled, his shoulders shaking with silent amused laughter.

“It's just three books,” he replied with a wide smile. “Magical Primers of sorts. They’ll help you understand how magic works. I recommend starting with the one at the bottom of the pile. That’ll probably be the easiest to digest.”

“How long do I have?” She asked weakly.

“You’ve got a week,” Rhys said, and the horror dawned on her face. A week. She could never read that in a week. Maybe one book. Maybe if she did nothing else and didn't sleep. Maybe then. "Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice growing gentle. "I know it probably is....overwhelming...."

"I can't read that." Eira blurted out.

"You can't read these books or you can't read at all?" Rhys asked her, no judgement in his voice.

"I can read," she assured him weakly. "I just..." she hesitated. "Promise not to laugh?" she asked him, her voice trembling.

The look on Rhys’ face became instantly serious, the gentle look in his gaze became even more gentle as he took in her expression. "Of course I promise," he assured her, and his voice was so sincere, it almost made her feel like crying.

"The letters change positions," she admitted, her voice tiny. "I know it sounds insane, but I swear it's what happens."

Rhys was silent, his expression thoughtful. He didn't call out her insanity or brush her off or call her a liar. He just nodded and asked calmly, "What, exactly, do you mean by that? How exactly do they change positions?"

Her shoulders drew up to her ears, her chin drooping in shame. "They...when I'm looking at a word, the letters move around. Switch places. So that the word I'm looking at isn't always the word I'm reading," she explained.

His expression was still calm, like he wasn't shocked or disgusted or horrified by her admission. But a strange look had come to his face, like something she had just said had...clicked in his mind, like he had just figured something out.

"Have you always had this issue with letters?" he asked quietly.

She bit her lip, her face going red with humiliation. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "It first started happening when I learned to read...some of the letters changed around, and I started saying other words, the wrong words. I...Our Grandmother wasn't...she yelled at me for 'not paying attention'..." Though that was the least she had done. She nearly flinched when she remembered the ruler to the top of her hands.

A muscle ticked in Rhysand's jaw, and for a moment, Eira swore she saw the hint of anger flare on his face. "How old were you?" he asked, almost growling out the words.

"Four," she said quietly, and for a moment, she could have sworn she saw a flash of fury on his face. But it was gone so quickly, she couldn’t be sure.

"So your grandmother punished you for this?" he asked, his voice almost too calm. Like he was holding in some very strong emotions

"Yes," she admitted quietly. "She...she would yell at me and hit me with a ruler. On the fingers." She could still feel that stinging pain, the white-hot sharpness of it. How it had felt when…

"And your parents knew about this?" he asked, his voice low and careful. Like he was trying desperately to keep from letting whatever anger or fury he was feeling slip out.

"No, I...I didn't tell them," Eira confessed. "I was afraid they'd be angry at me for being stupid, because I kept getting words wrong and couldn't read right....and I was afraid Grandmama would get really angry...and I was afraid that I deserved it. Because I can't read like I should."

Rhys was quiet for a long moment, his eyes staring off into space. His hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. The muscles in his jaw were jumping, like he was trying very hard to keep in the anger that was burning under his skin.

"The letters...the letters that keep changing places...that's a common learning disability, Eira," he finally said quietly. "It's...if you had been born Fae, it would have been caught when you began your lessons and it would have been managed."

Eira’s head jerked up, a small, almost desperate hope flaring in her chest. "Y-you mean...that’s normal? You…you’ve seen others with that issue before?"

Rhys nodded, and there was a grim anger in his eyes as he said, "Yes. And there are ways to help with it, spells to manage it...and it never, never involves a child being yelled at and hit with a ruler."

Something tightened in her throat, and her eyes were suddenly hot. But she fought back the tears...she was not going to cry about this. She would not cry.

Rhys took a deep breath, his hands unfurling from the tight fists he had clenched them into.

He took one of the book, opened it and then did a complicated-looking hand movement over it. He handed it to her. She blinked.

The letters were...different. The script was different. The script was so crystal clear, the lines further apart...for the first time in her life it didn't feel like trying to swim upstream as she read the first few lines. It felt...nearly easy.

"There are different ways to transfigure the spell...different fonts, different colours...spacing. If this doesn't work, we'll try another one."

A shuddering breath left her, and the tears that she had been trying to hold back spilt down her cheeks. In only a few moments, he had done what her entire life of trying and struggling and praying to make sense of the words hadn't, making the script so clear like it was just suddenly easy when it had never been easy in her life.

"Thank you," she whispered to him, her hands trembling slightly as she held the book. "Thank you." She didn't know how else to say it, because it felt like he had given her something priceless...something she had always longed for, something so wonderful, that she didn't even have words for it, had no way of describing the depth of gratitude she felt. And Rhys’s gaze was so gentle as he looked at her.

"I’m just sorry that you've had to go your whole life without that," he murmured gently to her. "No one should struggle that much for something that should come so easily."

And it was that easy suddenly.

The practical part of learning to control her magic…well that was another thing entirely. They were out in the garden, mostly because Eira was terrified of the idea of burning down the house.

Rhys sat across from her, not looking worried in the slightest. "It's your magic. There is no need to be afraid," he told her seriously. "Don't be afraid. It will bend to your will. It will do what you want it to do."

She swallowed hard, trying to believe him. He was right....but it was so hard. She was so used to thinking of her magic as wild and uncontrollable, and the thought of letting loose the power that coursed through her veins, of letting it loose into the world...scared her.

"It killed four men," she disagreed quietly. "it burned down trees."

Rhys gently took her hand, his large calloused fingers wrapping around her smaller, paler ones. "I know," he murmured to her. "It did. But those men were trying to harm you, little one. That's why your magic acted as it did, because it was protecting you, because you were in danger. I’m here with you now, I’m not going anywhere. You won't hurt me. You have control. You have control."

Something tightened her chest, his words echoing through her like a soothing balm. He was right. She could control this, if she tried.

She exhaled slowly, breathing out the fear and doubt that was trying to wrap around her heart and soul. "I...I can do this."

A smile curved his lips, his fingers squeezing hers reassuringly. "Yes, you can," he told her, and let go of her hand. "Now, start simple. Don’t focus on anything specific. Just...let your magic flow."

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes and reaching for her magic. It was like a roaring flame under her skin, just waiting, aching to be let loose.

She let it flow, let the heat of it fill her, let it course through her veins.

She could feel it. Could feel it spark over her skin. Could...

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw the tendrils of her magic swirling around her hands. Little sparks snapped along her fingertips, and she had to fight to keep the magic contained.

"Very good," Rhys praised her. "You are doing well." She wet her lips, carefully pulling and pushing...concentrating her magic on her hands. It reacted nearly...rushing. Like it wanted to please her. Like it wanted to help her.

It was nearly like it was alive, like a living thing under her skin...like it wanted to please her. Like it was aching, desperate, to be used, to be commanded. It took a moment to get used to the feel of it, like this wild, feral thing that obeyed her commands, that rushed to her skin at her merest whim.

The lightning crackled between her open hands...and then she pushed it away.

When she pushed, it went. Slid back. Coiled back under her skin, a roiling heat that still burned under her skin, but obeyed her command. It obeyed her. That thought sent a shock through her, that this fearsome, powerful force that had killed 4 faes...it obeyed her. It listened to her.

A quiet, ragged gasp left her, her breath leaving her in a whoosh.

Rhys grinned at her, pride and pleasure gleaming in his eyes. “Very good,” he praised her voice, and his hand squeezed her own. “That was very well done.”

Eira’s hands were trembling violently, her breath shuddering out of her mouth as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had done it. She had let loose that fearsome power, and she hadn't hurt anything, hadn't destroyed, hadn't killed. She had controlled it. She had controlled it.

"I didn't hurt you?"

Rhys just smiled at her, lifting a hand and gently running his fingers through her hair. "No," he assured her, his voice gentle. "You did very well. I knew you could do it."

A shuddering sigh left her, and even though she was shaking violently with the adrenaline, her heart was lighter than it had been in days. Because it had worked, she had done it, and she hadn't hurt him.

"The more you do it, the easier it will be," Rhys promised her. "Maybe you'll be able to light a candle with it even."

A small smile tugged at the edges of her lips, and she let out a watery laugh. "A candle?" she repeated, the words sounding almost absurd. The magic she had could burn down a forest. And he was talking about lighting a candle.

A chuckle left his lips, and he leaned over to press a comforting kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe in a few days,” he told her, and warmth blossomed in her chest. “When you get a bit more used to it. But you did well, Eira. You did verywell.”

She had never expected her lessons to be this… undramatic. She'd half-expected sparks, explosions, destruction.

What she hadn't expected was to feel something almost like peace once her magic was unleashed, like it was settling instead of trying to break free.

It was a strange, but almost comforting sensation. Like something had suddenly clicked inside of her, like a piece of her soul that she hadn't even known was missing had finally settled.

At least one thing in her life was…easy.

It was a novelty, she'd admit. To have something in her life that didn't feel like an endless struggle to understand, that didn't feel like everything was stacked against her.

She'd never had anything in her life that was effortless, that came easy to her. Something that made her feel...like she was good at it...like she was talented.

“There is something else that I wanted to talk to you about,” Rhys said quietly. “We received the formal invitation for Elain’s wedding.”

The mention of her sister's name made her blood go cold, and the little bubble of peace inside of her popped like a balloon, leaving her with nothing but a hollow, aching emptiness.

"Oh," she mumbled the word, the sound falling from her lips like a dead thing.

“If you don’t want to attend…neither of us will say a single thing against it,” Rhys said quietly.

The thought of going to this wedding, of seeing her sister walk down the isle, dressed all in white, her hair all done up, with a smile on her face...it was like someone had reached into her chest, wrapped their hands around her heart, and squeezed.

She had never imagined missing Elain’s wedding. But she wanted more than anything to stay far, far away from that stupid, awful event.

She never wanted to see her twin sister again. What did that say about her?

But even as she thought that, even as angry as she was...a part of her still loved her twin sister. A part of her still wanted to reconcile. And that thought made her chest ache with how badly she missed her, with how much she longed to just reach out and fix everything, to go back to how things had been before her sister had said those horrible, awful words to her.

Before she had tried to take her future from Eira. Her baby.

It was such a bitter thought, something that made her chest throb with remembered pain. Elain knew how much she had wanted a baby, how much she had dreamed of holding her own child in her arms...knew how desperately hopeful Eira had been.

And Elain had tried to take that from her.

“Eira,” Rhys said carefully, a look at her hands and she saw the lightning sparking at her fingertips. She willed it away. It disappeared.

She swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she clenched them tightly together, willing the sparks to quell. But the anger, the pain, they burned in her chest, like a flame inside of her, and she couldn't keep the words from coming out, from tumbling past her lips in a rush."All my life, all I ever wanted was to be a mother," she managed to force out, her voice shaking with unshed tears and pain. "All I ever wanted--all I longed for ...was to be a mother, and she, she..."

Her breath came out in a shuddering gasp, and she took a few deep breaths before saying, "She tried to take that from me. I...I would have had that baby by now, Rhys...I would have. And she was just going to...she wanted to take that from me."

“I know,” Rhys said softly. “I know.”

She closed her eyes tightly and took a few deep, shuddering breaths, fighting back the burning pain in her chest, the hot tears that were pricking at her eyes.

"Why would she do that?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Why...why would she want to take them from me...?"

Take her babies…and take Azriel too. Because that’s what it felt like.

Elain had wrapped him around her little finger so that Eira didn’t even have a chance.

“Jealousy,” Rhys answered with a sigh. “Her mind was a wasteland of jealousy, Eira. She was so used to having every male fall all over himself for her…and suddenly there was this vision that showed her twin sister with a male she herself found handsome. And Elain couldn’t have him…nobody could.”

It was an answer she had almost expected, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. It didn’t make the pain any less real.

"She's my sister," Eira whispered. "How...how could she be so selfish? So cruel?"

And it hurt, it burned to even think, to wonder how her sister could have done that to her, had been willing to do that to her.

"I've miss her so much," Eira mumbled, the words like broken blades in her chest. "Every day, I miss her more than I can even put into words ...but how could I ever face her, after what she did...? How could I?"

It was like a storm in her chest, the pain and uncertainty, anger and anguish warring inside of her, and she fought to hold it all in, to keep it behind locked doors inside of her. So much anger...and it was warring with her grief. The two were at odds, at war inside her heart.

“Azriel said that he would come along if you wanted to go,” Rhys said quietly. “We would be there to…you wouldn’t need to face her alone. I am sure Cassian would even borrow you a sword if you wanted one.”

The thought of walking into that wedding, of being on display with the rest of her family...it sent a cold shudder through her. But if her friends were with her, if they were there...maybe she could do it.

Maybe she could go, just this once. Not to celebrate her sister, but to mourn her. Mourn the sister who had been, even if she was gone.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I….maybe I’d like that.”

She swallowed hard and looked up to meet Rhys’ eyes. “If I was to attend...if I was to go to the wedding...would you and Azriel be there with me?”

Rhys nodded immediately, his jaw clenching, a hardness in his eyes. "Of course," he assured her, his voice firm and brooking no discussion.

"Azriel will be there, and I'll be there, and Cassian will be there and your sisters damn well better be there too."

She swallowed hard, her heart beating a little bit faster at his words. The thought of walking into that wedding, knowing all eyes would be on her...but Rhys would be there. Azriel would be there. Nesta and Feyre.

Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could.

Even if she wasn’t quite sure that Azriel at Elaine’s wedding was a good idea.

But she pushed that jealousy down. She couldn't...she couldn't...she couldn't keep bringing that up. There must be a day someday in the future where she forgave him for...that. Where she was willing to move on.

She drew in a slow breath, but she couldn't keep the words inside of her. "How...how is Azriel doing?" she asked, her words quiet. "With...Elain, and the wedding...?"

Rhys stared at her. "Eira, I can honestly say, that I don't think that has even crossed his mind," he said quietly.

Her chest went a bit warm at that, at that knowledge. At the thought that Azriel was...fine. That Azriel didn’t...care about Elain's wedding in the slightest.

But a small part of her, a part of her that almost frightened her, couldn't help but wonder....

"It hasn't?" she repeated, and she cursed the thread of hope in her voice.

Rhys studied her for a second or two, as if he, too, could hear the hope in her voice, the need. “No,” he said simply. “It seems that all my spymaster cares about is Elain's twin sister."

***

Azriel should probably consider himself lucky that Nesta hadn't used Ataraxia to cut his throat. Granted, as she had said, the only reason why she didn't was because Eira would be upset if he died.

No, he supposed that was a pretty good reason not to kill him. "And if you ever treat my sister like that again, I'll wring your neck," Nesta hissed.

He didn't doubt that she would.

"Noted," he said, and he was pretty sure he heard Cassian snicker behind them

But what he didn't add was the fact that, if he had that horrible conversation with Eira again, he'd wring himself by the neck. For being such an idiot, such a stupid bastard.

If he ever saw her cry like she had, shake like a leaf because he had broken her heart, shattered it.

"What are you going to do now?" Cassian asked him. "Anything new on your...wall?"

Ah, the wall.

The wall of doom, as the others had taken to calling it. Or more accurately, 'Azriel's obsessive chart of Eira's life'.

He had taken the whole thing down. And then put it back up. Put it back up with everything else the shadows could tell him.

"No," he said. How did he go forward with Eira? How did he...do this? How did he mend things, make things better? He was a Shadowsinger, a spymaster, a warrior and a killer. He had absolutely no idea how to deal with something like this.

"I would suggest you actually try to talk to her this time," Nesta said frostily. "And you owe her an apology as well, Cassian," she hissed.

Cassian let out a long sigh. "Alright," he said, before raising his hands in supplication at the look on Nesta's face. "Alright, I'll talk to her. Jeez, I said I would."

Azriel just suppressed a smile. He had a feeling Cassian had learned to tread very carefully around his mate, not wanting to spark a war between himself and the very, very scary Lady Death of the Night Court.

"That's usually my speciality though," he drawled. "Saying idiotic things. I think it's actually one of my gifts, really."

"Yeah, you've already displayed that gift for Eira, and it was quite a wonderful performance," she said dryly. "Perhaps you could try to make it up to her, hmm?"

"I'll...do my best," he mumbled, and he would, damnit. He would do his absolute best to make this right.

“So where are you going to take her next?” Cassian asked. “I would suggest somewhere you could actually talk to her.”

He'd thought a lot about it, for longer than he really should admit, and he had a few ideas.

"I was actually...thinking of a picnic," he confessed.

"A picnic?" Cassian asked, his voice almost disbelieving. "You and a picnic. Those two words...I never thought I'd hear them in the same sentence, Az."

Azriel just scowled. "What's wrong with a picnic?" he asked, his voice a bit defensive.

"Picnics are for romance," Cassian said, his voice almost gleeful with how teasing it was. "You're going to have a romantic picnic? Is there going to be wine, and roses, and candlelight?"

Azriel felt his heart skip a beat at that...and he had to admit, some of those things actually sounded rather nice...but that didn't mean he was going to admit that.

"Eira doesn't drink wine," Nesta said drily..

Azriel nearly cursed, but caught himself. Right, Eira didn't drink. At all.

Damnit. There went the wine.

"No wine, then," Azriel grumbled. "No wine, but it's still going to be a very romantic picnic, trust me."

"And where do you want to have your very romantic picnic?" Cassian drawled.

"I thought the River Bank at the House," Azriel admitted. She would be comfortable there...If she wanted to get away from him...she easily could.

Cassian actually looked a bit surprised at that. "Huh," he said, sounding a bit impressed against his will. "Didn't think of that. She'll...feel safe there. Plus, there are a few beautiful spots there..."

He swallowed back a bit of the anxiety that he felt. "So...you're saying it's a not completely idiotic idea?"

"It's...definitely a good idea," Cassian conceded. "As long as you actually talk to her this time. “

"What are you thinking for food?" Nesta asked him pointedly.

She was asking him that question as if he actually knew how to cook anything other than a piece of meat over the fire. He was a court-trained, highly skilled warrior, a Carynthian. He could fight, intimidate, and kill. Asking him to cook? That was a completely different thing…

“I’ll have the shadows pick up some things from a restaurant in the city…that way it will actually be edible,” he answered.

"I feel like that's probably a very good idea," Cassian said, and Azriel could hear the poorly concealed laughter in his voice.

"Shut up," he growled, but there wasn't enough actual heat in his words.

“She likes raspberries,” Nesta told him graciously. “She once nearly made herself sick by eating so many of them…If you can get any, she will be delighted,” she promised him.

Raspberries. He could do raspberries.

The shadows procured raspberry tarts. He also had them pass Eira a note, asking for her company that evening, receiving her agreement quickly.

She was giving him a chance.

Which was how he ended up in the River House with a Picnic Basket, a blanket and a dream.

He chose a place on the bank of the river, a place that was secluded and quiet. A place where he could show Eira that he hadn’t come here to ambush or intimidate her, but to talk to her, to listen.

And then he found her. Waiting for him on the back porch, a book in her hand.

She hadn't heard him yet, hadn't even noticed him.

He paused, for a moment, taking her in like this.

Beautiful. Even when she was just sitting there, reading and unaware that he was there, she was so damn beautiful that it made him ache inside.

Azriel found his heart catching at the sight of her, the sunlight dappling down through the trees, and the look of near serenity on her face as she read.

He almost didn’t want to disturb her, wanted to just let her remain there as she was, but he pushed down the urge and slowly stepped towards her.

"Eira?" he asked quietly, and it was almost a crime how lovely she looked in the sunlight as she lifted her head from her book, her blue eyes widening in surprise to the sight of him.

"Azriel," she said, her voice soft, and something in his heart twisted as he saw her hands tighten almost imperceptibly on the cover of her book. He swallowed hard, his heart clenching tight at the sight of it.

"I, um," he mumbled, forcing the words from his stupid, clumsy tongue. "I..." He swallowed hard, "I...brought a few things," he finished lamely, setting the picnic basket down at the foot of the porch.

"A picnic," she said, and he could hear the almost faint wonder in her voice. He dared to look up towards her, and saw her watching him, her eyes slightly wide, her lips parted.

"Yes," he said quietly, forcing words past the lump in his throat. "A...picnic," he repeated. "I, um...I thought...If you were willing…"

She was watching him, her blue eyes wide with surprise, the sunlight dappling down across her head, making parts of her braid gleam in gold.

He swallowed once more, his heart clenching in his chest. "I...I wanted to talk to you," he finally managed to confess. "If that’s...if that’s okay."

There was a moment of silence, and he felt like he was going to choke as he watched the different emotions flicker across her eyes.

Surprise, trepidation, hope, and more surprise...and there was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes, as if his words made her scared. Terrified. And he couldn’t blame her, really, not when he had royally messed up last time.

But she slowly nodded, her lips barely curving in the ghost of a smile. “Y—yes,” she said quietly. “I’d like that. Talking, I mean.”

"WIll you come with me?" he asked her, holding out his hand and her smile widened.

He caught a flash of something in her eyes before she slowly stood up, setting her book aside and lifting her own hand to meet his.

He fought the urge to let out a long sigh of relief or to clutch her hand too tightly as she slowly stepped down off the porch, and he gently led her over to the blanket that he had already laid out by the river.

He let go of her hand and watched as she slowly sat down on the blanket, tucking her legs underneath her. Her blue skirts puddled around her and he wondered how she managed to look elegantly while doing it. He stayed standing for a moment, just watching her, taking in the sight of her sitting there on the blanket that he had laid out for her.

Slowly, he also sank down into a sitting position, careful to keep some space between them. He didn’t want to...to startle her, overwhelm her, make her run.

He busied herself with unpacking the food.

"I love a picnic," Eira said quietly. "When we were still at the cottage, sometimes we ate outside just for a change of scenery. Don't get me wrong, it was...the winters were horrible. But not everything was," Eira whispered. "When we were glamoured...I missed it sometimes. I didn't know what to do with my time when we had staff again. When I didn't need cook, didn't need to harvest vegetables and we could just buy them..."

He had to swallow at that confession. He hadn’t...he hadn’t even realized that she would miss those days, even though of course she would. She’d had...had a life at that cottage, a family, a home.

Even when they had struggled…she still had those things.

"What do you miss the most?" he asked her curiously, handing her a plate and cutlery, and she thanked him with a smile.

She went quiet for a moment as she thought about that question, her head tilting faintly to the side before she spoke again.

“I think…” she began, her voice a mere murmur. “I think I miss the animals the most. We were at the edge of a forest...you could see deers sometimes...sometimes stray cats...I loved the stray cats. There was this one...it was ancient. Only had half a tail," she recounted with a laugh. "It used to come visit me when I was gardening...Sun itself in a spot and keep me company, listen to me singing...let me pet it however much I wanted."

He could almost picture that image. Could picture her, singing a soft, quiet song, as a cat sat in a patch of sunlight, enjoying her music.

He found himself wondering...he found himself wondering what other secrets Eira was hiding. How many more things he didn’t know about her. How many things he had never realized, never even thought about before...

"Do you actually enjoy gardening?" he asked her, unable to help himself.

She blinked at that question, looking...surprised he had asked. Then she nodded, a small smile on her lips. "Yes," she confessed. "It was a part of my chores, a part of survival, but I enjoyed it. It was..." She paused as if she almost wasn’t sure how to explain herself. "It was soothing," she confessed quietly. "Gardening...it keeps my hands preoccupied. Busy. And you get a result at the end of it... It...it was good."

"I couldn't hunt...I have absolutely no talent for that...so when Feyre started hunting...I made sure that she didn't need to worry about anything else," she explained.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat as she explained more about how their lives had been at the cottage, at how they had divided their tasks and...how they had survived.

How she had kept Feyre from having even more weight on her shoulders. Had taken that weight onto her own.

He wanted to ask her, wanted to ask her if it had been hard. If the weight of surviving had been too heavy for her.

But he...he didn’t want to push her. Didn’t want to bring up unpleasant memories, not when they finally had a chance to talk to each other.

"And you?" she suddenly asked, jolting him from his thoughts.

"You...you train and fight," she said quietly. “Is...is that soothing for you? Can you just...turn off your brain that way?"

It was a quiet, direct question, and it sent a shard of a shiver down his spine.

He wanted to lie to her about it. Wanted to say that yes, hunting and killing creatures and people was soothing, that he could turn off all of his mind and become the living, breathing blade that he was.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her. He found his throat bobbing as he swallowed once more, trying to find the right words to explain himself that wasn’t just excuses.

"Not always," he confessed quietly. "There are nights...there are nights when I can sleep, when I can just let go. When the killing is necessary to keep the people I care about safe," he said.

He was about to go on when his throat was dry, and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "But...there are nights when I can’t," he continued, his voice a painful whisper. "There are nights when the killing is not necessary, and I can’t…I can’t just forget after it."

It was the most open he had ever been with anyone, including his brothers, about the truth of what was inside him.

But with Eira...he wanted to be open. Wanted to be honest. He wanted her to finally know how broken he was, how damaged he was, and see if she would still look at him with those beautiful, wide blue eyes of her and not turn away.

To his surprise, she didn’t. Instead, she...she slowly nodded, that quiet understanding in her gaze.

The expression in her eyes...she understood. She understood how broken he was. How he was nothing more than a weapon. A killing machine in the shape of a male. She understood that brokenness and she wasn’t running.

“You should have a hobby,” she said finally, and there was a soft, teasing lilt in her voice. Surprising him. He expected hesitation, coldness maybe…but she was clearly serious about giving him a chance.

“A hobby,” she repeated, her voice still so very teasing. “Something to help you wind down, to relax, and to...to keep your mind occupied. Instead of just going to the training rings all the time like Cassian always says you do. It's why I garden, why I sew...why I embroider," she answered honestly. "It calms me. Feyre paints...I do that." He nodded, feeling the lump in his throat growing even larger.

She sewed and embroidered and gardened. And she did them all to try and calm her mind and heart, to distract herself even a little from how broken the world really was, to try and make something beautiful.

"I like listening to music," he said quietly.

"Like the symphony," Eira recounted and he nodded.

Which reminded him of the harp he had given her...

"I am sorry about the harp," he blurted out.

"Why?" Eira asked him, shock evident on her face. "Why would you be sorry about..."

"I didn't even think about that fact that giving you the same thing that you lost to keep your family from starving was maybe not...the kindest thing to do."

Eira froze for a moment, something like shock flickering across her face before she let out a quiet, somewhat shaky laugh, and he felt a cold ball of fear form in his stomach. She was…she was upset. Surely she had to be upset. But her voice was level and soft when she spoke.

“You really think that it…that it bothers me?” she asked, incredulity in her voice. “That I care that you gave me the same instrument that I had to sell?”

He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that yes, that was exactly what he thought, and that he had hurt her, but she cut him off.

“Azriel,” she said quietly, and the way she said it, the way his name rolled over her tongue, was like a gentle caress. His thoughts stuttered to a halt and he stared at her.

“I…I didn't think twice about that,” Eira confessed quietly. “I am so happy about the harp. About the fact that you gave it to me, and the fact that I can play again, do something that I loved...”

That confession...it was shattering him. He had worried over that harp, over the fact that he had probably reminded her of the worst parts of her life without even realizing it, but here she was, telling him that it hadn't even crossed her mind.

“I…" Azriel swallowed hard, his throat painfully tight, but he forced himself to speak anyway. "Then…you’re not…you’re not upset with me about it?" he asked again, his heart clenching in hope, in terror, in prayer, and she simply shook her head, her eyes still filled with that quiet wonder.

“No,” she murmured to him, her voice so soft and gentle. “No, I am not. How could I be? How could I be upset about the fact that you gave me something that I love, when you did it out of kindness, out of some attempt to make me happy?”

"I went about it wrong," he said quietly. "I should have...I should have actually talked to you. Asked you what you wanted...what you liked to do."

"We can talk. I like talking to you like this," Eira admitted quietly. "Getting to know you...I..."

He felt something in his heart tug at her admission, at her quiet confession. She…she liked talking to him. She wanted to get to know him better, to have him get to know her better.

He couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips as he nodded, hope swelling in his chest.

He felt something in his heart tug at her admission, at her quiet confession. She…she liked talking to him. She wanted to get to know him better, to have him get to know her better.

"I wrote a list of questions," he admitted and she started laughing.

"Is that how the spymaster gets information?" she teased him.

He groaned in embarrassment, feeling the back of his neck starting to flush hotly as she just kept laughing. “Hush,” he muttered, his voice almost pleading. “Please, just hush."

Her laughter was like music, that was all there was to it. It sent something warm and golden through his heart, made him almost dizzy with how lovely it was, and he found himself wanting to hear more of it.

To hear her laugh just like that all the time, for the rest of his life...that would be Heaven.

"What's your favourite colour?" he asked her, and the amusement glinted in her eyes.

“Blue,” Eira answered, honestly, a blush rising on her cheeks.

Blue.

He hadn’t known that.

"And yours?" she asked him.

For just a moment he came up empty. What was his favourite colour? Black? "Blue," he answered, honestly. Blue. Blue because it meant coming home. The colour of the sky...of his siphons...of Eira's eyes.

"Favourite Food?" he asked her, clearing his throat.

She had to bite down on her lower lip before answering, trying and failing to keep her amusement from overwhelming her completely. “Favourite food?” she echoed faintly. “You really…a question like that is on your list?”

To his mortification, he was blushing now. He had made that list, trying to come up with as many possible good questions as he could think of. And of course, he had also put some of the stupidest and most mundane questions he could think of on that list as well.

"It is,” he muttered awkwardly, and she outright laughed again, burying her face in her hands this time, but it was a fond sort of laughter. Like she thought the question was ridiculous but was amused and charmed by his effort anyway.

"I want to know you," he admitted quietly.

Her laughter stopped, like she’d suddenly been stunned into silence. She slowly pulled her hands down from her face, that blush on her cheeks still there as she met his eyes.

“I…you do?” she whispered in surprise, and there was a trace of…something in her voice. Hope, perhaps. A hope that he meant what he said.

“Yes,” he answered her quietly, the word coming out in a strangled whisper as a wave of heat washed through him. He meant it. He meant it more than anything.

"Mine is this Illyrian candy that involves nuts and honey," he admitted. "It's so sweet that your teeth get stuck together."

Her eyes widened at that, and her lips parted in surprise. He could practically see her trying to imagine just how sweet those nuts and honey had to be, to make your teeth stick together.

Then she let out a soft laugh, the sound like music to his ears. “Oh goodness,” she muttered. “That sounds like…that sounds like something that tastes amazing and gives you a stomach ache at the same time.”

“It is,” he confessed, and he found himself smiling as he did so. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten…and it makes me feel sick to my stomach if I eat too much of it.”

"Raspberries for me," Eira admitted to him. "I once nearly got myself sick with eating so many of them too."

"Look in the basket," he told her.

She squealed. Squealed as she saw the tarts, her eyes widening in surprise before a look like ecstasy washed over her face. His heart stopped in that moment, his breath catching in his throat as this beautiful female made such an adorable sound over pastries that he had brought, for her.

The shock and surprise on her face lasted for only a moment, before being replaced with absolute and childish joy, and he found a strangled chuckle tearing from his throat.

She’d…she’d squealed. Squealed and made an expression like a happy child on Solstice morning at the sight of raspberry tarts. All at something he had brought.

"How?!" she demanded.

He found himself grinning at her excitement, that childish reaction to seeing a gift in a basket. “I have my ways,” he told her with a hint of smugness in his voice, but he felt a strange rush of pride at the fact that he’d managed to surprise her like this. At the fact that he had given her something that would make her reaction so…adorable.

“In this case, the way was your sister.”

She laughed at that, the sound bright and happy.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #the prophecy #Looked to the sky

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stevie-petey · 7 months ago

Text

episode nine: the good

Soon it’s just you and Steve. You work around one another, anticipating each other’s next move, never getting in the way. Soft music plays from the record player that sits in the den. Steve puts on one of his father’s old records, gentle rock and delicate jazz. You hum to yourself, he hums with you, and it’s a peaceful morning. Until Richard and May Harrington walk in. Neither of you notice them at first. Steve is too busy spinning you around, playfully dipping you as the music comes to a grand crescendo. You’re laughing breathlessly, but soon your laughter turns into a yelp when Steve sees his parents standing in the doorway and drops you.

Summary: the party battles the horrors of high school and leave you stranded, tw: applying for college is harder than fighting literal demons (you would know, youve done it), jonathan joins your nightmare blunt rotation, max worries you, and steve solidifies his position of Best Boyfriend in the World as you slowly fall apart (though is anyone really surprised ??).

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: cursing, allusions to previous character death

Words: 11.2k idk how or why i needed to say so much

Before you swing in: we're here !!! FINALLY at the end of season 3 <3333 im so so so excited to present to you the groundwork for what i have planned for season 4 ;) it will be ... a lot. the season is huge, its difficult and scary, and i did my best to try and capture its dread and ominous sense of doom in this chapter. please enjoy and bear with me as i prepare for season 4. unsure when i will be done planning her, but i PROMISE itll be worth it !!

“Are you sure Ms. Bote is nice?”

“Yes.”

“And that Mr. Cune won’t question the hat?”

“Yes, Dustin.”

“And you’re absolutely sure we have lunch together?”

“Yes.” You tighten the straps on your mary janes and give your brother an exasperated look. All morning he’s been freaking out about his first day of high school. You understand his fear, it’s scary starting at a new school, but you’ve answered all his questions a million times by now and Steve is supposed to be here any second. “We need to go, buddy.”

Dustin shoves a pancake into his mouth, wiping his face with the back of his hand in a disgusting manner. “Wait, but what about my backpack–”

“I have it, Dusty!” Your mother walks into the kitchen and hands it to him. She kisses his mess of curls and strokes your cheek. “Are my darlings ready for their first day of school?”

“No.” You and Dustin say at the same time, which your mother frowns at.

Dustin adjusts his backpack and gives you an odd look. “Why are you nervous? It’s not like you’re being blindly thrown into a den of hormonal creatures out for blood. You’re old now, they’ll leave you alone!”

“Trust me, the college admissions process is a worse monster than school bullies.” You grab your own backpack and start heading towards the front door. “I have to start planning what to write, I–I need more clubs, and projects, and–”

The anxiety overwhelms you. It always starts like this: talk about college, you fall down a hole of uncertainty and dread and fear. It’s been like this ever since Jonathan moved away. The minute the Byers moved, you threw yourself into preparing for college. Rationally, you know it’s your poor way of coping with all the sudden change in your life. You don’t need a psychological research journal to tell you that. In a futile attempt to control your future, you’ve become obsessed with college.

New York University, specifically.

Jonathan has always dreamed of attending, and when you met him, it became your dream, too.

“Okay, dear. Settle down, now.” Your mother places a hand on your shoulder and laughs nervously. She has about five seconds before you collapse into a mess of college admissions rambling and despair. “Let’s go outside and find that wonderful Stevie!”

Your body is shoved out the front door alongside Dustin’s. Steve’s car is parked, he stands outside it, arms crossed and a grin on his face. Your body relaxes when you see him, the buzz of anxiety dims. He’s wearing his Family Video vest, the green makes his tanned skin glow.

“She’s doing it again.” Dustin tells him, tossing his backpack into the backseat.

Steve winces. He knows exactly what your brother is referring to. He’s been at the other end of far too many anxious phone calls at three in the morning. “College?”

“Yeah, she almost had a meltdown in the kitchen.”

“I can hear you both, you know.” Though you try to seem fine, keep up the annoyance, you stand next to Steve and rest your head on his shoulder anyways. He wraps an arm around you and kisses your forehead.

Steve rubs your arm and makes a sympathetic noise. Your mother, seeing how he holds you, squeals. “Oh, stay just like that, hold on!”

“Mom, what–” But your mother ignores you and runs back inside the house. You look at Dustin, terrified. “She’s not…”

He shakes his head at you. He leans against the car next to you and crosses his arms, mimicking Steve’s earlier stance. “She’s mom. Of course she is.”

“What are you guys talking about–” A flash of light momentarily blinds Steve, and he flinches. “Woah, alright.”

“Smile, kids!” Another camera flash, and your mother coos as you, Steve, and Dustin awkwardly shuffle into frame. It’s not that the three of you dislike being near the other, it’s the fact that it’s seven in the morning and neither you nor Dustin are ready for the day ahead. Steve smiles, though. “That’s it! Everyone say, ‘happy first day of school’!”

A mess of incoherent mumbling follows your mothers command, but she doesn’t let it bother her. She takes a million pictures, preens when she sees Steve smile even wider, and she has to hold back tears. Her babies are all grown up. Dustin is a freshman now, and you’re a senior.

“Alright, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve has to quickly blink, trying to regain his eyesight. He adores the woman, he knows he’s become her favorite, but he really needs to get you to school before his shift at Family Video starts. “I have no doubt you’ve already taken the best picture ever.”

“Aw, just one more–”

“Mom.” Dustin clears his throat, urging her to stop, and she sighs.

Your mother kisses Dustin’s head, then yours, and wishes you a good first day before getting into her own car to drive to work. “Bye, kids!”

You all wave at her, and Steve opens the car door for you. Once you’re seated, he goes to the driver’s side and tells Dustin to get in the back. The engine starts, soft music plays from Steve’s radio, and soon the three of you are driving towards Hawkins high.

“No Robin?” You ask Steve after a few minutes of silence. He’s grown rather close to the girl, working together all summer, so you had expected her to drive with you guys to school. When you and him officially got together, Robin made the two of you promise that you wouldn’t abandon her. It was an irrational fear, you love Robin dearly, but you made sure to spend time with her and Steve equally anyways.

“She has band practice this morning,” Steve responds. “So it’s just me and the Hendersons today.”

Dustin shoves his head in between the two of you. His seatbelt strains against his chest, but he doesn’t care. He’s on a mission to get as much information as he possibly can. He refuses to go into high school blind and pathetic. “Steve, you were once popular.”

“Why the past tense? I mean, I’d consider myself still pretty well liked–”

“I need you to tell me what you did that led to your demise so I can avoid doing the same.”

You snort and Steve sighs. The kid really keeps him humble. He stops at a light, looks at Dustin through the rearview mirror, and shakes his head. “What makes you think it was anything I did?”

“Kid’s got a point,” you say from the passenger seat. Steve gives you an offended look and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, all I’m saying is that I also don’t really know what happened. You’ve got a track record of pissing off the wrong people. One minute you were King Steve, the next you were shunned.”

Steve groans. “You people have no faith in me.” He can feel you and Dustin staring at him, unbelieving. He hates when the two of you team up against him; it makes it harder for him to lie. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to tell you what happened. Not because he’s embarrassed, or ashamed, even.

He knows it will only upset you. Reopen wounds.

But you and Dustin keep staring at Steve and there’s still at least ten minutes left of the drive. Weighing his options, Steve figures it’s best if he just tells the truth. Like ripping off a bandaid, knowing the pain will be there regardless of how long you stall. “Okay, fine.” He scratches his nose, clears his throat. “It was, uh. Because of Billy.”

The temperature in the car drops. It’s suddenly ice cold.

Dustin slowly leans back against his seat. Steve faces ahead, eyes on the road, but he watches you from his periphery. No one has mentioned Billy since his death, at least not in front of you or Max.

Especially Max.

They wait for you to react. To tense up, ball your hands into fists and wipe away tears. They expect the guilt you’ve barely kept hidden to resurface, but you don’t do any of that. Instead, you surprise them. “Can’t believe you let a mullet defeat you.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s allowed to laugh at first, worried it’s some bizarre test of yours. But he sees the smile on your face, albeit forced and terse, but he knows you’re trying. So he plays along, relieved that you’re doing what you can. “I don’t know, I thought the mullet looked pretty good.”

“Get a mullet and see how fast I leave you.”

Dustin nods in agreement, Steve shakes his head with a laugh, and the temperature in the car returns. There’s still a slight chill in the air, there will always be a slight chill, but you pull your jacket tighter around you and ignore it.

When you get to the school, Dustin stares at the hounds of teens all walking through the parking lot. He gulps, tightens his hands around his backpack, and you try to ease his apprehension.

“Hey, look at me.” He does, and you extend your arm, offering a handshake. Dustin eyes you wearily, but reluctantly he shakes your hand. You nod at him, hand firm around his. “It’s just you and me. And Lucas. Max, too. Unfortunately, possibly Mike. Copy?”

“Copy.” Dustin releases your hand and salutes you. He pushes his hat down, takes a deep breath, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Let’s go.”

“Good luck, little Henderson.” Steve salutes him as well before turning to you. He presses his lips to yours, hums, a soft smile on his face. “And good luck, angel.”

Ignoring Dustin’s dramatic gagging in the back, you squeeze Steve’s hand and smile back at him. “Thanks, honey. Have a good day at work.”

Dustin nearly falls out of the car with how fast he scrambles out of it. He’s about to ban all forms of physical affection between you and Steve. It’s disgusting. No one wants to see any of that. You follow after your brother and exit the car.

You only make it a few feet before Steve rolls down the car window and shouts, “I love you!”

A few students in the parking lot turn, and their faces contort into shock when they see none other than Steve Harrington. He waves at them, cocky as always, and you’re both mortified and so in love. He may have lost his crown, but he will always be the king. While Dustin ducks his head down in embarrassment, you wink at Steve. “I love you, too!”

“You’re going to be the reason I end up getting thrown into a dumpster on my first day.”

“Aw, is Dusty-bun jealous?”

“Go die.”

–

The entire day it feels like you’re missing something.

When you get to homeroom, there isn’t a seat saved for you at the front. When the physics teacher drops his chalk five times within the first five minutes, there isn’t anyone to tease you for your poorly contained snicker. In the library, you’re forced to sit in a corner because there’s no one to share the plush sofa with.

There’s no one who whispers answers to you during calculus. No one who hooks their foot around your desk’s leg. No one who doodles in your notebook just to get you to laugh.

Jonathan’s absence is palpable.

You knew it would feel weird, starting senior year without him, but you didn’t think it’d feel so lonely, either. Empty. Unfinished.

By the time lunch comes, you’re slowly losing your mind. You need someone to talk to. Robin and Nancy don’t share any classes with you, Jonathan had been your only real friend at Hawkins, and now you’re paying the price.

You’re the first one at the lunch table, which you figure is a good thing. Earlier in the week you and the party had all agreed to sit together at lunch, you’d been excited to finally share the same school building as them. However, you hadn’t wanted to hover over them. You wanted them to branch out, meet new people, so lunch was your agreed upon time with them.

The lunch room fills with students and you wait anxiously for the rest of the party. You’re excited to see them, ask how their days are going, maybe even gossip about the freshmen, but when they arrive it’s almost as if a tornado rips right through you.

“There you are!” Dustin finds you first and slides into the seat next to you, nearly causing you to face plant into the ground. “Look, we gotta talk.”

You frown. “Okay, is everything–”

“We can’t stay and eat.” Mike cuts to the chase, not even bothering to sit down. Lucas stands behind him, quiet and nervous.

“What, why?”

“Eddie Munson wants to meet us.” Dustin says the boy’s name as if you should know him. But you don’t, and now you’re really confused. What does he have to do with any of this?

“Eddie…?”

Mike rolls his eyes at you. “Eddie Munson, Hellfire club, DnD?” When he sees that nothing he’s saying makes any sense to you, he huffs. “Seriously, do you not know anything?”

You throw a chip at him, hurt. “I was in choir, not some stupid DnD club.”

“Hellfire club isn’t stupid–”

“Anyways!” Dustin cuts the fight short. There isn’t time for you and Mike to argue right now. “Eddie is the dungeon master, and he’s recruiting us to join his party! We–we gotta go and meet him, Y/N. He doesn’t just let plebe freshmen like us join.”

“He’s legendary.” Mike says, and sadly you know he means it. It’s not often someone has the boy’s full admiration. Mike is hard to impress, and this Eddie guy seems to have him wrapped around his finger already.

Dustin stares up at you, eyes pleading to understand, and you know you can’t ruin this for him. Only hours ago he had been terrified of his first day, and now he’s almost vibrating with excitement over the possibility of joining some club. There will be people there like him, others interested in what he loves, and you can’t let your own loneliness ruin that.

“Well,” you clear your throat, try to appear excited for the boys. “Go see Eddie, then.”

“You sure?” Dustin doesn’t want to just leave, he knows you were looking forward to lunch today. He’ll stay if you need him to, he’s sure Mike can talk his way in with Eddie.

You smile at him, force your voice to be light. They’re growing up. You all are. “I’m sure, it’s your first day. You’re supposed to be joining a bunch of clubs, it’s a good way to make friends. I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

Dustin isn’t entirely convinced, but Mike has already grabbed his arm to go and find Eddie. He turns to Lucas, beckons him to follow. “C’mon, dude.”

“I’ll-uh. Follow in a sec.” Mike gives him an odd look, but Lucas is already sitting down next to you. Seeing this, Mike gives up and leaves with Dustin. As soon as they’re gone, Lucas lowers his voice and leans in close to you. “Hey, do you, uh. Know Jason Carver?”

The scent of chocolate ice cream infiltrates your nose, the sound of it colliding into the teen’s pants rings in your ears. The memory of it is tangible, and you have to hold back a laugh. Yeah, you know Jason Carver. “I mean, we aren’t friends, but we know each other. Why?”

“Do you…” Lucas looks around, making sure Mike and Dustin really are gone, before he continues. “Do you think he’d let me join the basketball team?”

You’re surprised. Sure, Lucas has always shown an interest in the sport. He plays with Steve sometimes, they trade cards, but you didn’t think he’d be interested in the school’s team. “Oh.” Then, you realize why he’s stayed behind. “You don’t want to join Hellfire, do you?”

“I know I’m just a freshman, and–and Mike would probably call me dumb for wanting to even try out, but. I don’t know. I think… I think I could be really good on the team. Might make high school easier.”

“Then you should go for it,” you reassure Lucas. He’s always been so careful to not upset others. He’s loyal, down to his very core, you understand the fear that doing something for yourself brings. “Jason isn’t so bad. A bit much, but kind. He’s a team player, and I think they'd be lucky to have someone like you.”

Lucas smiles shyly at you. “Really?”

“Really. Now, go and find the guy. Ask him when try-outs are, and I’ll talk to Steve about practicing more with you. How’s that sound?”

“You’re the best!” Lucas gives you a quick hug, already getting out of his seat, and runs right into Max. They collide, he manages to save her from falling, and he laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, you okay?”

Max nods, silent, and immediately you and Lucas know that today is one of her bad days. Her eyes are sunken in, it doesn’t look like she got any sleep last night. She sits down next to you, and you nod at Lucas, signaling to him that it’s okay if he leaves. You’ll take care of her.

Lucas hesitates, unsure, but reluctantly leaves when you nod at him once more, urging. If it was anyone else, he would stay, but it’s you. Besides Lucas, you’re the only other person Max talks to. You’ll stay with her, Lucas deserves to go and branch out like Mike and Dustin are.

“So, did you know about Lucas wanting to join the basketball team?” You turn to Max once the boy has left. She shrugs, picks at the food in front of her. It’s the most response you’ll get from her, and you sigh. “You don’t want to be here either, do you?”

She looks up at you, alarmed that you caught on so fast, and you just shake your head at her. You dig into your backpack, take out some cookies you baked the night before. They were supposed to be for all the kids today, but they’ve all left and Max needs them more right now. “Here, take these. Go to the left stairwell, next to the choir room. No one goes there during lunch, it’s quiet.”

“Thank you,” Max exhales with relief, taking the baked goods from you. Tears lump in her throat, she doesn’t know how you always manage to do this. To see through her, always say the right thing.

“Of course, my dear.” You risk touching her face, she’s cold, but she closes her eyes and breathes in at the comfort. “I expect to see you at Bookstrordinary after school today, though.”

Somehow Max laughs, and the action hurts her to do so. It’s becoming harder and harder to bear the sound of her own happiness. But she nods at you, understanding that it’s an order she can’t disobey, and leaves.

Then it’s just you at the lunch table. Alone.

Nancy is at yearbook, she’s told you all about her grand plan of reforming the club into something more than just homecoming polls and gossip panels. Robin is at yet another band practice, preparing for the annual back to school pep rally later this week. Steve is at Family Video, bored out of his mind, both of you wishing he were here instead.

And Jonathan is across the country, at an entirely different school, aching to be near you again.

The thought of him in California only intensifies the loneliness that you feel. The feeling overwhelms you, and before it can swallow you whole, you dig through your backpack once more. Your fingers shake as you rustle through the notebooks and textbooks, and they clutch desperately at your walkman when you finally find it. The mixtape Jonathan made for you before he left sits within it.

You quickly place the headphones over your head, muffling the sounds of the cafeteria around you. Your fingers find the play button with practiced ease, and soon the beginning notes of the Beatles play through the wire and into your headphones.

The song soothes you, it quiets what you don’t want to hear; it makes you smile. The mixtape is all you’ve been listening to ever since Jonathan left. Though it can never replace his presence, it’s enough for now.

You stare at the empty seats around you. John Lennon’s voice floats through your ears.

Welcome to senior year.

–

Miraculously, it’s Nancy you lean on the most as the autumn leaves turn orange and the summer’s heat dies down. She finds you later during your first week, grabbing lunch from your locker, and she stops you.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to spend another lunch alone.” Nancy has never been one to greet someone. She always gets straight to the point, a quality that you normally admire.

However, you feel embarrassment rise within you, slightly off put by the cruel words. Sure, you’re not necessarily thrilled that you’ve spent your first few days of senior year alone, but you didn’t need Nancy reminding you of that. “Hello to you too, Nance.”

“Shit, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She holds her notebook close to her chest and looks down in shame. It’s weird, there’s a distance between you that has only seemed to widen despite how hard the two of you try to bridge it. For a while things were good, great, even. She was genuinely your friend, but sometimes insecurities can hurt the ones people love the most.

“Not really sure how I was meant to take that.” You close your locker and try to excuse yourself. You’re exhausted, you hardly slept the night before. “Look, I should go. I stayed up all night working on stupid college applications and I just… I’m tired.”

Nancy’s posture straightens, eager to grab onto any opportunity to amend things with you. “I can read over whatever you have.” When you raise your eyebrows at her, she quickly backtracks, worried she’s overstepped. “I–I mean, that is, if you want. Not that you need the help! It’s just–”

She forces herself to stop. She’s rushing her words, messing it all up. Her shoulders drop, Nancy takes a deep breath and looks you in the eye. She never apologized for her words earlier this summer. The way she sneered venom at you, but she’s carried the guilt of it ever since. “I’m… trying. I promise I am.”

Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers have never handled vulnerability well. It’s what made you stand out against them, set you apart, and you can’t help but find this quality in them endearing. You know that Nancy is trying to go back to how things were, before one phone call between the two of you revealed the unspoken resentment she held.

You never blamed her for any of it. But you know she blames herself, and Jonathan’s absence doesn’t help; both of you miss him, neither of you can afford to lose anyone else.

So you try as well.

“I’ll let you read over what I have only if you let me read what you’ve written as well.” You nudge her shoulder with yours, getting her to finally smile. “I’m curious to see what that brain of yours has thought of already.”

Nancy laughs, relieved. “Definitely nothing as creative as whatever you’ve written.”

“We’ll see about that, Wheeler.”

Soon you find yourself in the yearbook room. Nancy introduces you to some kid named Fred, who moons over her the entire time you’re there, though she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy reading through your ideas, and you find yourself admiring her side profile. The way her eyelashes kiss her brows, the soft cherry on her lips.

Nancy is beautiful. You understand how Jonathan and Fred and Steve and countless other guys in Hawkins have lost their minds over her.

You read through portions of Nancy’s writing, and the two of you sit quietly side by side editing the essays. She marks some things down, crosses out some lines, and you do the same. It’s lovely, being by her side again. You hadn’t realized just how much you missed her following the events of this summer.

“So, New York University, huh?” Nancy eventually breaks the silence.

You nod, humming as you skim over a line that you particularly like. Circling it, you respond. “Yeah, it’s been my dream school ever since I was young.”

Though you’re applying to other schools as well. A few state schools, some in Virginia, close to your father. But New York is truly where you hope you’ll be next fall.

“Jonathan mentioned that you like psychology, right?”

“Yup,” you cross out an extra word. “Particularly child psychology. Figured that after everything we’ve been through, especially the kids, it’d be useful if at least one of us has any idea what’s going on inside our minds.”

Nancy chuckles. “Fair.”

It falls quiet again, but you don’t want the peace to end. “I heard from Jonathan that you’re looking into Emerson.”

“He tells you everything, doesn’t he?” Though this time Nancy’s question is asked with fondness, slight exasperation and humor mixed in.

“Mhm, we’re a package deal. You tell one of us something, then the other is bound to know eventually.” You look up at Nancy and lightly touch her arm. “Though he still keeps some things from me when it comes to you, don’t worry.”

She laughs again, and finally you allow the silence to settle upon you. It’s a comfortable one. There isn’t a tension underlying it. For the first time in a long time, you’re able to simply sit next to Nancy and feel that she wants you there with her.

After that day, you and Nancy spend almost every lunch period helping each other with your applications.

Steve helps you, too. In his own ways.

While he can’t help you write the essays, he lets you call him at two in the morning to rattle off application ideas so you won’t forget them. He doesn’t complain when you wake him up and he has an early shift the next day. Instead, he listens. Steve offers you his own tired input and indulges in whatever you need to feel that you’ll succeed; he’s the most doting, patient boyfriend you could ever ask for.

And, secretly, Steve adores it. Especially when you call him some nights just to have him come over and hold you.

Those are his favorite nights. Tonight is one of them.

“Why does college exist?” Your cheek is pressed against Steve’s chest as you lay in your bed together. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is melodic.

He plays with a strand of your hair, you feel him shrug. “‘Dunno, but you’re almost done.”

“Yeah, just have one more application to send before I get to spend four agonizing months waiting to find out if I even get in. How fun.” Sarcasm drips from your lips. You’ve spent the last two months obsessing over it all, which words to write in your essays, which clubs to join, which teachers to beg for recommendation letters.

And now you have one application left. Then you’ll be forced to wait, without any control of the inevitable outcome.

You’ve never been someone comfortable with letting go of control.

“Everything will be fine, angel. NYU would be stupid not to let you in.” Steve reassures you with a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, the tip of your nose, the dip of your brows. As he kisses you, he envisions doing this a year from now, in a small, rundown apartment with sirens wailing outside and a fire escape that creaks in the wind. The song of New York City.

Eventually Steve’s lips will find yours, and the conversation will be long forgotten. It’s how most of your nights end now, lost in the kisses as his breath mixes with yours. Hands will wander. Sighs will leave parted mouths. Quiet, soft, aware of the precariously thin walls.

You haven't slept with Steve, at least not yet. Though you’ve been together a few months now, it still feels too soon. He’s your first boyfriend, your first kiss, your first real love, and Steve doesn’t want to rush you. If all you ever do together is lazily kiss and breathe each other in, then Steve will happily part your lips with his and draw soft sighs out from you.

In the morning you’ll awake with Steve’s lips on your neck, his eyes shining up at you, and in the morning sunlight, before you’ve fully woken up, the air between you is sacred.

–

“I sent in my final application,” you’re whispering, not wanting to wake up your mom who has fallen asleep on the couch. It’s nearly midnight in Indiana, but in California it’s only nine and Jonathan has just finished his school work for the night. “NYU, it’s done.”

On the other end you hear shuffling as Jonathan leans against his kitchen wall. Will sits at the table with El, he sketches the early stages of a painting and she studies grammar. Jonathan watches them, his mom is in bed, and he forgets for a moment that he’s on the phone with you.

“Bee?” You say the childhood name so softly, so tenderly with concern, and it brings Jonathan back to himself.

“I’m here, sorry.” He clears his throat, his head is still slightly muffled. Jonathan met a guy in woodshop this week, his name is Argyle, and somehow during lunch he found himself in the back of the guy’s van with a blunt hanging loosely from his lips. The smoke dulled the ache of missing Nancy, of missing you. Jonathan can’t tell you this, though. You’d kill him, and he hates disappointing you. “What were you saying?”

You frown slightly, he sounds different. There’s something in his voice, it’s raspy and he sounds distant. The sound is lonely, he sounds lonely. Jonathan isn’t really here, despite the fact that he’s talking to you. The last few phone calls have been like this. You don’t know what to do.

When Jonathan left, the two of you promised to call each other every Friday, a compromise. A way to create distance, yet tether you to each other. Jonathan calls you every Friday, Nancy gets him every day the rest of the week, and it works. This is how it’s always been ever since early September.

At first you guys would talk about how your weeks had gone. Jonathan would complain about the California heat and you would tell him about how Mike and Lucas had crashed your date with Steve one night. Laughter would float over the telephone lines. Teasing, whispered “I miss you’s” and spoken goodbyes with the promise of talking again next week.

But last week when you called, the teasing was gone. The laughter was minimal. You had complained about an exam that day and Jonathan had given one word responses that had worried you. It had been odd, but you thought that maybe he’d been tired that day. Everyone has a bad day, you know this.

Yet it’s Friday again and Jonathan couldn’t feel farther away from you.

“I mailed my NYU application in, bee. You send in yours yet?” Voice light, cheery. You do what you can to try and keep him afloat. You try to grasp at the good that’s left between you. Remind Jonathan that you’re right here, still with him, without scaring him away. “You remember our plan, right? Me and you in New York, together.”

Since you were kids the plan has always been to go to college together. Back then, neither of you could fathom a reason to ever be apart. You were invincible, the same way all kids think they are before the world tells them otherwise.

But you and Jonathan aren’t invincible, you never were.

You can hear the way your question suffocates him. The breath that he holds, stilted and torn, suffocates you as well.

Nausea punches Jonathan, the smoke from earlier suddenly fogs his throat. He doesn’t know what to do. Nancy wants him to go to Emerson with her, he promised you NYU when he was twelve, and California has his mother and Will.

“Yeah, yeah. I–I mean, I sent mine in. Last week.”

Jonathan is lying. You’ve known him for almost six years; he always stumbles over his words when he lies.

Part of you wants to ask him why he’s doing this, lying to you and pulling away. Another part of you, the larger, more naive part, doesn’t want to believe it. You clear your throat, swallow down the hurt, and choose naivety. “Oh,” your tone is too pinched, too put together. You clear your throat again. “That’s–that’s great! I, um. Surprised you didn’t read the essays to me. Have me edit them, like we’ve always done.”

Jonathan leans his head against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never been able to lie to you, he knows you’re desperately trying to overcompensate, as you always do. He hates it. He hates himself. “Yeah, well. Got excited, I guess.”

You hum, words failing you, and the line goes silent.

Dread replaces the laughter that night.

–

Before you know it, it’s Halloween and the party has infiltrated Steve’s house.

The holiday falls on a Saturday, and the party deems itself too old to trick or treat. When they find out that Steve’s parents won’t be home that weekend, they demand to spend the night at his house and watch horror movies.

Steve fights back, complains that he doesn’t want them taking over his living room, but his complaints fall on deaf ears. That, and Dustin ropes Robin into their plans.

“Oh, God. Don’t open the door!” Dustin shrieks, throwing popcorn at Steve’s TV as he covers his eyes with a blanket. He cowers against Lucas, who shoves him off, and Mike snickers. Max sits on the couch, outside of their fort, and watches the boys. None of them try to get her to sit with them. They know they’re lucky that she even showed in the first place.

“I can’t look.” Robin’s voice carries over, you can almost picture her cringing as she holds a pillow to her chest. Mike chose a particularly gory movie, and the kid’s mind frightens her.

A loud crash sounds, then a woman screams. You figure the protagonist did open the door and has now died, though you can’t be sure. You’re in the kitchen with Steve, taking out the final batch of oatmeal raisin cookies from the oven. The smell wafts through the home, bringing warmth to a house that Steve has always found cold, and he places his hands on your hips.

“You spoil the kids too much,” he presses his nose against your cheek and kisses you. “They invade my home and you bake them delicious goods.”

You set the tray of cookies down onto the counter. “As if the cookies aren’t for you, too.”

“That isn’t important. We’re focusing on my hostage house, Y/N.”

“‘Hostage house’, quite the alliteration there.”

Steve now kisses your neck, distracting you as you plate the cookies. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Don’t make me come in there!” Dustin screams, and Robin echoes him with her own disgusted yelling.

You laugh at their theatrics while Steve rolls his eyes. He really hates that his house has become the party’s source of entertainment. He just wants to compliment his beautiful girlfriend in peace. Who would punish a guy for that?

In his moping Steve almost misses you walking back into the living room. He follows, stumbles over his feet, never wanting to be more than a few inches away from you. You’re magnetic, always pulling him in.

Mike is the first to grab a handful of cookies. Lucas and Dustin follow quickly after. They shove the food into their mouths and you scoff at their lack of manners. They’re such boys, growing taller every day, and they’re just as disgusting as they were when they were kids.

“Want one, Max?” You hold the plate up to her, noticing that she hasn’t moved from her seat. She shakes her head at you, eyes never leaving the screen. Lucas and you share a look, the same concerned expression on your faces.

The moment is broken by Robin, who grabs a cookie and practically melts. “Holy shit, Y/N. You bake these regularly?”

“Usually once a week,” you shrug at her. “Though I once baked six batches during finals week.”

“God, that was a good week.” Dustin hums, lost in the blissful memory.

Robin grabs your arm, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “I will give you my firstborn child in exchange for my own batch of cookies.”

Steve pokes her shoulder. “You already promised your firstborn to me after I agreed to cover your weekend shift.”

“I can have twins.”

You laugh at her. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

Robin sticks her tongue out at you, causing you to laugh even more, and Mike puts the next movie on. Everyone settles back down, you lay with Steve in the lovechair with Robin in front of you. Max has the couch to herself, the boys are sprawled on the floor in a mess of pillows and blankets, and for the first time in months you feel a certain warmth having your family together.

Sometime during the night the clock strikes twelve.

It’s November 1st, 1985.

Steve’s nineteenth birthday.

Robin snores softly on the ground, arm underneath her head as a makeshift pillow. Mike, Dustin, and Lucas are all curled up against one another, their faces young again. Max sleeps softly on the couch, her hand dangles over the edge, grazing Lucas’ outstretched arm and open palm.

Steve lays beneath you, he isn’t quite asleep yet. You’ve come to learn the rhythm of his breaths as he sleeps. The way they slow, the pattern steady. You lift your head up, wanting to admire him, and find that he’s already looking at you.

“Hi, angel.” He whispers, smiling sweetly.

You smile back, you always smile back at him. “Hi, honey.” Doing your best to remain quiet, you crawl up the length of Steve and nuzzle your way into his neck. You kiss the dip just above his collarbone, causing him to shiver. “Happy birthday.”

Arms encase you, pull you deeper into the body you lay on. Steve’s body heat warms your face, warms your bones, and you wish you could stay like this forever. In Steve’s arms, the scent of him overwhelming your mind, his touch calming you.

“Thank you,” he kisses the top of your head. He lingers, his lips soft. The two of you stay like this, his head against yours, your chin tucked into the alcove of his neck. Your breathing syncs with his, his fingers trail up and down your spine. Your fingers splay over his chest, warming his ribs.

In the morning, Max wakes everyone up.

“My mom will be worried,” she kicks Mike, nudges Lucas’ shoulder. “Wake up, idiots.”

Steve groans, squinting his eyes against the morning light. He tries to roll over and block it out and nearly shoves you off the seat in the process. “Steve!” He manages to catch you in his sleepy state, but his movements are slow.

“Sorry!”

You clutch your chest, heart pounding. “You’ve done that way too many times now. I’m starting to think you want to throw me onto the ground.”

“Lucas once promised he could catch me if I jumped into his arms.” Max says, then she points to a scar on her knee. “Turned out he couldn’t.”

“Hey!” Lucas sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I really thought I could do it.”

Mike stretches. “Your fault for trusting him, Max.”

Lucas shoves him and the two start to wrestle on the floor. They’re a tangle of lanky limbs, knocking into Dustin who still hasn’t woken up yet. They roll on top of the boy, and he wakes up to Lucas’ knee in his face. “What the hell?”

Dustin joins the fighting now, and Robin throws a pillow at them. “Guys! It’s too early for this!”

They don’t listen.

It takes a lot of pleading, negotiating, and bribes in order to break the fight up. It takes even longer to wrangle the kids out of Steve’s home, much to his dismay. They leave a mess of strewn popcorn all over the carpet and pillows missing feathers. You stay behind, offering to help clean the mess, and Robin rushes out an apology and happy birthday to Steve as she runs out the door to get to work.

Until Richard and May Harrington walk in.

Neither of you notice them at first. Steve is too busy spinning you around, playfully dipping you as the music comes to a grand crescendo. You’re laughing breathlessly, but soon your laughter turns into a yelp when Steve sees his parents standing in the doorway and drops you.

“Dad!” Steve immediately bends down to pick you up, endlessly apologetic. He ducks his head, eyes on you, though his body doesn’t turn from his father. “I’m sorry, angel. You alright?”

You reassure your boyfriend that you’re fine, more worried about the fact that you’re dressed in clothes from yesterday with horrendous bedhead meeting his parents for the first time. Richard eyes you in Steve’s arms. He has a look of disinterest on his face. “Son.”

“What, uh.” Steve clears his throat, curls a protective arm around your waist. He didn’t mean for this to happen. His parents were supposed to be gone until Tuesday. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Right.”

Father and son stand in front of one another. Neither speaks. Steve feels like a little boy again, scrutinized underneath his father’s intense gaze. Never good enough. Never worthy of anything other than berating and lectures.

You wring your hands nervously, unsure what to do. The air is thick. Steve looks so much like his father, it’s almost uncanny. They have the same build, the same moles that dot along their handsome faces. Only his father is dressed in a suit, the lines in his face are hard, weathered. He’s who you picture Steve would’ve been, in a different universe where you were never his friend.

May Harrington gave her son all of her delicate features. The soft turn of his nose. The plush, pink lips. His doe eyes, his smile. The only feature that separates her from her son is her honey blonde hair. She’s beautiful, elegant and poised, and when she steps towards you, you can smell lavender perfume. “You must be Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Harrington.” You’re quick to meet her where she stands. You’re nervous, you have to discreetly wipe your hand on your pants before shaking hers. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Your banana bread is lovely.”

The woman smiles, it’s so much like Steve’s that you want to cry. “Thank you, dear.”

“Of course, and I apologize for meeting like this. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Richard makes a mean, gruff sound. He shakes his head, steps next to his wife. He doesn’t like you, you can feel it by the way he blocks his wife’s view of you. “Oh, no. I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Dad–” Steve steps forward as well, blocking his father’s view of you. He’s angry, his shoulder blades close together. He doesn’t like how the man is treating you; you’re too good for such cruelty.

“What did I tell you about bringing your hookups to the house, son?” Richard sneers, turning his nose up at you. That’s all he sees you as. Just another one of Steve’s flings, one of the girls from his past.

“Y/N is not just some hookup,” Steve clenches his jaw, tries to steady his breathing. He doesn’t want to fight with his dad in front of you. Not when he was having such a good morning, spending his birthday with your hands wrapped around his neck and your giggles singing in his ears. “She’s my girlfriend, and I love her.”

Richard chuckles, he doesn’t believe his son. “Okay, you love her. I’m sure your mother and I will walk in on you with some new girl next week.”

“Dear,” May places a hand on her husband’s shoulder. She sees the way you shrink into yourself at the man’s words. The insecurity that he brings. She sees how her son’s eyes ignite with fury, she watches as he does whatever he can to put the flame out for her sake and yours. “It’s Steve’s birthday today.”

“Is that why you insisted on coming home today?” Richard turns to her, she has his full attention now. His eyebrows are drawn together, annoyance paints his body. “You told me you had a board meeting tonight.”

“Why don’t we talk about this upstairs?” May suggests, relieved that she’s turned her husband’s anger onto herself rather than her son. Richard sighs, but he doesn’t argue as he marches up the stairs without so much as a second glance towards you. When he’s gone, May smiles at you sympathetically. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. We had a long flight, I’m sure he’s simply jetlagged.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s such an asshole.” Steve scoffs, tired of his mother’s excuses for her husband. He can be cruel to Steve, he doesn’t care. He’s been cruel to him his entire life. But if his father so much as breathes near you again, Steve will hurt him.

Your hand reaches for Steve’s, sensing what he’s thinking. You return May’s smile, you’re not at all angry with her. “It’s okay, really. I was an unexpected guest, and I should go.”

Steve pulls you into his chest. “What, no–”

“You may leave, if you’d like.” His mother gently interrupts him. “Though I must admit, I really do wish to know you better. If you’d allow me to, that is.”

“I’d love that more than anything.”

“Then I will plan a dinner for the next time my husband and I are in town.” May tells you, admiring your honesty. She can see why Steve has become so infatuated with you. There’s nothing hidden within you; you wear your heart on your sleeve, your sincerity a welcomed rarity. She turns to her son, rests her palm delicately against his face. “Happy birthday, my beautiful boy.”

Steve leans into her touch, weak for his mother as any son is. You turn away, it doesn’t feel right to watch this moment between them.

In the car Steve profusely apologizes for his father’s behavior. Over and over again, he laments how sorry he is and that you’re more than just some fling to him. “You’re everything to me, angel. I love you so, so much.”

“I know, honey.” You grab his hand that rests against the stick shift. His father’s words had hurt, but you knew that they weren’t true. Steve is yours, he has been for longer than either of you realize. Nothing will ever undo the love he has for you, the foundation of trust it was built upon. “You’re everything to me, too.”

When Steve pulls into your driveway, you tell him to park and come inside. His birthday gift is in your room. You had planned to give it to him later tonight, but his parents’ unexpected arrival had soured things. “I know you have to go home, but…”

“I’ll never say no to you.” Steve’s already unbuckling his seatbelt to follow you inside. He greets your mother with a kiss to her cheek, ruffles Dustin’s hair as he sits at the dining table doing homework. His movements are easy, leisurely. You notice now how at home he is in yours, far from the boy who cowered before his father only twenty minutes ago. The realization is bittersweet. He deserves to feel at home in his own house, not just yours.

Inside your room Steve sits on your bed and holds his hand out, eager. “Okay, wow me, Henderson.”

“You really know how to talk to a woman.” You tease him, rustling through your drawer to find the gift you’ve hidden. Steve is nosy, he’s been trying to find his gift for at least two weeks now. When you’ve found it, you clutch the gift in your hand and hold it behind your back. “Alright, you know the drill by now. Close your eyes.”

Steve complies with a smirk, biting back suggestive comments. He loves this tradition with you, making the other close their eyes before their gift. Something light is placed in Steve’s hand. It’s circular, sturdy. He thinks he can smell leather.

“Okay, open.”

In his hand is a bracelet. It’s a simple strip of leather, nothing embellishes it besides a button to secure it. Though it’s plain, Steve can tell that it’s expensive. The leather is supple, its color is dark and polished. The silver button that clasps the two ends together is heavy.

He loves it, he does, but he can’t help feeling like that there must be something more to it.

As if reading his mind, you gently prompt Steve to turn it over in his hands. “Look what’s on the inside, honey.”

He does, and his heart stops.

The leather has been stamped. The word constants is spelled out across the length of the band. It’s a hidden message, only for Steve to know, and while he’s sure you have your own explanation for why you chose the word constants, he loves it already. “Oh.”

You sit next to him and laugh softly. “You’re my constant, Steve. Everything in my life has changed, or will change, but you… You’ve always been there, I know you’ll always be there. With me. My love, my lucky charm, my constant.”

Tears well in Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, too busy admiring the bracelet in his hand. He can’t believe you’re real, that you’ve thought of this for him. That you see a future with him… It’s everything he could’ve asked for. A security he’s always longed to have. His entire life he’s been told he’s too much, too overwhelming, and yet you want him to stay anyways.

“And you’re my constant?” He asks you, fingers grazing over the letters again.

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “Well, I’d like to think that I am.”

He laughs, wet and full of love, and he can’t take it anymore. Steve throws his arms over you and you collapse into your bed, laughing together as he presses his lips wherever they can reach.

“You are,” he says in between kisses. Your laughter lights him. “You’re my constant, too.”

–

The autumn leaves fall and the trees are barren as winter arrives.

You spend winter break trying to maintain your promise to Joyce. After finishing the hell that was applying to college, you have so much unexpected free time that at first you don't know what to do. But then her words echo in your mind, the promise to live the life that you deserve, so you start doing things for yourself.

Slowly you read through all the books in your room that you hadn't had time for before. You start running again in the mornings, the winter air crisp in your lungs. You and Dustin do homework together at the kitchen table, making sure neither of you get left behind. You try new recipes to bake, delivering the treats to the ones you love. It’s nice, rediscovering the pleasures you once had long before the Upside Down came into your life.

Christmas comes and you do your annual rounds, delivering everyone’s favorite treats on Christmas Eve. It’s during your run to the Sinclair home that Lucas asks you to come inside to talk.

“What’s up?” You ask him, unwrapping your scarf and warming your hands in your sleeves. Lucas gestures to his kitchen table, silently asking you to sit. When you do, he takes a deep breath and joins you.

Something’s bothering him. You can see it in the way he carries a weight on his shoulders. How they droop as he sits, exhausted. You reach across the table and grab his hand, offering whatever comfort you can give him. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

“It’s…” Lucas purses his lips, his breath shakes. “It’s Max. I’m–I’m worried about her.”

He tells you everything. He tells you how distant she’s been, more than she’s ever been before. He tells you how she’s missed dates he’s planned for her, how she refuses to talk to him anymore. She hasn’t been to any of the party’s hangouts, Mike and Dustin haven’t seen her ever since winter break started.

Max has had bad days, weeks, even months since losing Billy. But she’s never had the bad days without at least one good day following. To break the monotonous cycle of self-loathing and grief and guilt. She would always come back, even if for a moment, alive and bright and reminiscent of the girl had been.

“I can feel her slipping away,” Lucas looks down at the table. He’s afraid that if he looks at you then he’ll start crying. He doesn’t want you to worry, he knows how much you already deal with and do for them, but he’s terrified. “I know… I know that you helped Will, after he was flayed. Do you think you could maybe talk to Max? Just… Remind her that we’re here for her? I can’t–I can’t lose her.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you squeeze his hand in yours, trying to stem the stream of tears he fought so hard to force down. Lucas loves Max with everything within him. Anyone can see that. You’d do anything to bring the girl back to him, to bring her back to all of you. “I’ll talk to her.”

I’ll keep an eye on her. Watch her when you can’t.

Lucas hears it. He exhales, nods his head.

You leave. Max was the next one on your list of deliveries anyways.

It’s nearing dusk by the time you get to the trailer park. You haven’t seen Max’s new home, she’s only recently moved. She had been too embarrassed to tell anyone that her mother lost their old house. The only reason you even know she moved in the first place is because Lucas and Dustin stalked her walking home.

A dog barks as you bike past. Snow has started to fall, tomorrow will be a white Christmas.

“Oh, hello, Y/N.” Susan Hargrove’s skin is pale, her eyes sunken in when she answers the door. Her voice is thin, her frame is strained. The death has been hard on her, too. Billy’s father leaving only made everything worse.

“Hi, Mrs. Hargrove.”

The woman winces. “Please, Mayfield will be fine.”

You immediately correct yourself, apologetic and ashamed, when Max’s voice calls from within the home. “Just let Y/N in, mom.”

Susan sighs, and you wish you could do more. Instead, all you can offer her is the container of coconut bites you’ve made for them. Max told you they remind her and her mother of California, and you always make sure to have some ready every week for them. Offer some semblance of joy in the gray of their lives.

Max sits at the kitchen table. Her head is down as she works on something. She has her walkman next to her. Susan leaves the two of you alone, excusing herself to go lay down after a long shift.

You sit next to the girl and take a deep breath. This won’t be easy. Max is prideful, stubbornly independent, and has never accepted sympathy from anyone. You’ve always admired her fiery personality, but the fire has dimmed and the smoke is beginning to choke her. Talking to her will be like pulling teeth out.

“Brought you your favorites.” You shake the container in your hands. It serves as a peace offering, almost a bribe to start the conversation.

“Thanks.” Max doesn’t look up.

You swallow, tuck your hair behind your ears. “Of course. I was doing my usual delivery rounds. I, uh. Stopped at the Sinclair’s.”

The pencil in Max’s hand freezes. Her knuckles tighten, though the shift is subtle. She’s always been too smart for her own good. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Erica likes my brownies. Mrs. Sinclair, too.”

“And Lucas?” She knows why you’re here.

“I made him chocolate chip cookies. You know how much he loves them.” Max doesn’t respond. Of course she knows how much Lucas enjoys chocolate chip cookies. She knows everything about him, but she doesn’t say anything and goes back to writing. Faintly you hear music coming from the walkman. You point at the device. “New song?”

“Kate Bush.”

“Oh.” This is going worse than you imagined. “Look, Max–”

She doesn’t waste any time. “I know Lucas sent you. I don’t care.”

“He’s just worried about you, we all are–”

“I’m fine.” The tip of the pencil snaps. “Shit.”

“Max.” You’re pleading with her to listen. Her skin is fluorescent now, paler than you’ve ever seen. The bags underneath her eyes are swollen, dark and ghostly. She’s lost weight. You can’t remember the last time you saw her eat. “Please.”

“What do you want me to do?” Though there’s anger in her voice, Max’s eyes plead with you, too. Her mask slips for just a moment, but you see it. Underneath her indifferent exterior, she’s just as terrified as everyone else is. She can feel herself fading, the guilt of Billy’s death slowly eats her alive. She doesn’t know what to do, though. How do you continue to live after death has infiltrated your home?

The chair beneath you scraps against the hardwood floor. You stand up, walk over to Max and kneel in front of her. You keep your movements slow, worried you’ll scare her away if you get too close too suddenly. “I think you should talk to someone, honey.”

Max turns away. She can’t. If she told anyone what goes on inside her head, they would never forgive her. You would never forgive her, and it would break her.

Your hand falls to Max’s knee. The warmth from your palm combats the ice in her veins. You’re looking at her as if she’s worth something. As if she didn’t wish for her brother’s death. As if she hadn’t sent a grieving father into a spiral, a desperate mother into a trailer park. But Max allows your touch, so you try to get through to her again.

“You know, I was actually talking to Ms. Kelly a few weeks ago. The school’s guidance counselor.” She had met with you to discuss your grades and college options. When she had seen how you picked your nails until they bled, she suggested seeing her every few weeks. Alleviate some of your never ending stress. You had denied, uncomfortable with the idea. But maybe she could help Max. “She seemed nice enough. I’m sure she would be open to talking with you.”

“I don’t want to see some shrink.”

“Hey, I want to work with kids your age someday. Don’t call future me a shrink.” You poke Max’s leg playfully, and the corners of her mouth twitch. She doesn’t want you to see that it’s working. “C’mon. Have at least one meeting with her. When winter break ends, all I ask is that you try. For me and Lucas. We’re your favorites, after all.”

“If I agree, will it get you to shut up?”

You’re fine with this. It isn’t ideal, you aren’t sure Max will even actually try to open up to Ms. Kelly, but it’s a start. For too long now you’ve stayed silent, allowing Max to grieve on her own. Grief is hard, it takes and it takes and it takes. Yet it’s been almost six months and you’re not sure how much left grief can take from Max. “I think I can be okay with that.”

You’ll take whatever you can get. You’re worried. You got too caught up in your own life, you had gotten lost in your own haze of grief and anxiety. Missing Jonathan, grappling with change and growing up as you applied to college. You weren’t there for Max like you should’ve been.

But you’ll fix this. You always fix things. It’s what you do. It’s what you have to do. It’s how you love; you take care of those around you.

And who are you if you can’t?

–

Jonathan calls you high for the first time in late January.

Though he doesn’t tell you that he’s high, you know. His words are slurred, slowed, incomprehensible. It’s late in California, even later in Indiana, and the stark feeling of guilt slices into your ribcage the same way the Demodog’s claw did. The feeling cuts deep into your skin, nicks your bone.

“Jonathan?” You hope your voice brings him back to you. You try to cut through the smoke that fills his mind, that leaves him stumbling over his words. “Bee, can you hear me?”

“‘M here.” Jonathan sniffs, smacks his lips, yawns. “Where’re you? Can’t find you, bug.”

You close your eyes. He’s looking for you, and you aren’t with him. “I’m in Hawkins.”

“Thas’ far.”

“Yeah,” you choke out a laugh. It constricts in your vocal chords, but you can’t let Jonathan know how much it hurts to hear him so disoriented. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. California sucks.” He hiccups, you’re surprised he’s managed to call you tonight. Even in his drugged up state, he still somehow remembered to call. “Don’t think Nance will like it.”

He’s referring to the spring break trip. Nancy told you about it earlier today, how she and Mike will spend the week in California to see Jonathan and El. She had been a bit hesitant to tell you, afraid you’d be upset for not being invited, but you reassured her that it was okay.

You’ve had a road trip planned with Jonathan ever since you were fifteen. The moment the two of you graduate, you’ll drive all across the country for one final adventure before college.

Nancy can have spring. Summer will be yours.

“She’ll love California because you’re there.” She talked about the trip nonstop today. Her glow had come back, momentarily, her eyes alight. She truly loves Jonathan, she misses him even more than you do.

“Only disappoint her.”

“What do you mean?” You’re not sure where this is coming from. You know Jonathan is high, that his thoughts may not be coherent, but he sounds distressed about Nancy. You thought things had been good between them. They were planning a future together.

“Is’ hard, with her.” Jonathan manages to get out, but his speech is becoming harder and harder to understand.

You frown. “What’s hard, bee?”

The line disconnects. Jonathan doesn’t bring the conversation up again, the next time you call. You don’t ask him what he meant. You don’t think you want to know. There had been something deeper behind his words.

Will calls you a few days later in tears. The kids are meaner in California than they are in Hawkins. They tease El, make her life hell, and he’s upset that he can’t do anything to stop it. He cries to you, his tears soak your face through the landline, and the guilt creeps back in.

It will never truly leave.

You do your best to console him, offer him advice, but that’s all you can do. All you have are your words. Will and El are hours away, hundreds of miles separate them from you. It's nauseating, feeling so useless. For as long as you’ve known Will, you’ve always been able to protect him. To help him, dry his eyes.

You’ve always been there for your boys, for Jonathan and Will. For El. But you can’t get to them, they’re too far away, and it kills you. You’re sixteen again, trapped in Jonathan’s car and frantically trying to keep yourself together as everything around you falls apart.

Steve becomes your lifeline.

He always answers when you call. Every time Jonathan, high and lonely, hangs up your conversations, you call Steve. He answers, he hears the exhaustion in your voice, and he always sneaks in through your window later that night. He knows it’s the only way you’re able to sleep these days.

He sings to you when you wake up from a nightmare. They’ve become about Max, losing her. She’s only met with Ms. Kelly a few times, but you can tell that she already wants to stop. That you’re pushing her too far, pushing her away from you and everyone else.

Steve takes you for drives when you get blisters from pacing your room, anxiously waiting for your college decision letters to come in. Soon your entire life will be decided for you by one single piece of paper.

Two weeks before spring break, Jonathan calls you. He’s sober.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve spoken to him sober. The thought alone depresses you, makes you yearn for childhood again.

“I think Nancy wants me to come to Hawkins,” he tells you. “Would you… would you like that?”

More than anything.

You press the phone against your ear and imagine that it’s Jonathan’s hand instead. Your skin hasn’t forgotten how his felt against it. “Of course I want you to come to Hawkins, bee.” But it can’t be that easy, you know nothing ever comes easily. “Can you afford it, though? I–I mean, God. I miss you, you know that, but I know it’s been hard for your family these last few years.”

Jonathan’s head falls back against the wall behind him. You always understand. He hates it, sometimes. “It’s worth looking into if it means I get to see you and Nance.”

There’s an air of authority in Jonathan’s voice, as if he truly believes what he’s saying, and it surprises you. He’s taking initiative after months of floating away. Hope sparks within you, the cold hand of dread lessens its grip around your neck.

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic.” You say. Jonathan laughs, you’ve missed the sound. It’s been so long since you last heard it.

Conversation drifts after that. You tell him about the latest Spider-Man arc you’re reading, he inserts his own opinions, and it’s lovely. You haven’t had Jonathan like this in months, all to yourself, his smile aligned with yours. Sober, steady.

The phone call with Jonathan reminds you of all the good that is still yet to come.

College decision letters arrive next week. Your best friend might be visiting for spring break. Your boyfriend has planned a picnic for your anniversary tomorrow. You have your first meeting with Ms. Kelly the following day. It was your idea, figuring it was only fair that you see her since Max has agreed to keep going.

And Joyce made you promise that you’d live your own life. You’re trying to get better, you really are.

It just takes time.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ thank you for reading ! feel free to like, comment, reblog, or send in an ask so we can chat <3

#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #nya #m's writing #im so scared for season 4 bro #also less steve centered chapter i apologize class

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tongue-like-a-razor · 9 months ago

Note

Can you write something with young!Maverick?

Something like where they meet and she has heard about his reputation (he's the type to only stay a few nights and then move on to the next girl). So, when one night, he approaches her all smiley and flirty (and maybe a little shy and cute) she thinks that's exactly what he wants from her - to take her home for a night of sex just to move on to other people the next day. And, even though she has developed feelings for him, she accepts it, albeit with no expectation that she will become anything other than just another one he spent a night with or that it was anything other than just sex and fun. So, imagine her surprise when he starts acting the exact opposite towards her from what she expected - always wanting to be with her everywhere, skipping nightlife to be with her, being super clingy and loving, etc, etc. She doesn't believe he has feelings for her but she just can't understand his behavior. She starts to feel overwhelmed because her feelings for him only get worse and she fears the day when he will stop giving her that kind of attention (maybe she thinks this is just a harmless game for him, where she is the shiny new toy he is getting to know until she no longer interests him that much). She confronts him, confesses her feelings, gets angry and tells him to stay away. He desperately tries to tell her about his feelings for her, that he has always been in love with her and has tried to get closer to her through everything he has done because he didn't know what else to do. She doesn't believe him and it's basically him desperately trying to prove his love for her and all that cute stuff with a really happy ending 💖❣️

I also imagined a lot of cinematic chase scenes, inspired by that sand chase in There Are Rules and the f14 airport scene in Altitude 🤣🤣 so there's that. Lots of desperate, all-consuming love, perhaps ending with a love making scene that includes it all? Making desperate, passionate and hungry love. Someone so in love that they don't even know what to do, whether to cry or laugh.

You could also include a classic “misunderstanding scene” that unearths deep-rooted jealousy, but is it not what it seems? Lol it's all very cliché but honestly, it's the best shit in the world when it's written by someone who knows what they're doing, I live for desperate love.

I know this is extra long but hopefuly you'll be able to make it, I simply love your writing. Thank you. ❣️❣️

Oooh what a fun request! Thank you so much for sending this in!! I hope you don't mind, I kind of see this as a series rather than a one-shot, just because there's a lot to cover XD

Best of the Bad Boys

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

CW: mild angst, swearing, fluff, allusions to sex

WC: ~2000

Masterlist

“That’s Maverick. Maverick Mitchell.”

You tear your gaze away from the animated man near the bar, throwing his arms around wildly as he describes some aerial trick he’s no doubt performed just that morning. You know exactly who he is, and yet, you turn to your friend jadedly and say, “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

She gives you a sardonic smile and skeptically scoffs. “Right. Like your father’s never mentioned his name.”

You shrug, glancing back at the pack of fighter jocks crowding the front of the establishment, each one admittedly a high-flier in his own right – pun intended. But Maverick… Maverick still manages to stand out. “He talks about all of them,” you reply nonchalantly, adding, “It’s not like I sit there and listen.”

“Why are you staring, then?”

You blink away, executing an elaborate eyeroll as you do, and fix your friend with a serious expression. “I can’t look?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“They’re nice to look at.”

Your friend nods in approval. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Doesn’t matter what his name is. What any of their names are. They’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”

“Perfect fling material, if you ask me,” your friend wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“No thanks,” you respond with a grimace. Every couple of months, a fresh assortment of aviators arrives at Top Gun, ready to take on the world. Already the finest pilots in their respective squadrons, they are sent to train at the most elite fighter tactics school on the Pacific seaboard. Their egos soar higher than their jets and their heads are always in the clouds.

You see the various groups come and go – the program is only several weeks long – but it’s always entertaining to watch them transform over the course of their training. It’s why you frequent the officer’s club rather than any of the other pubs in the area. That and the cheap drinks.

“Probably for the best,” your friend sighs dramatically. “He’s got a reputation.”

You purse your lips, watching Maverick smile at the waitress as she distributes another round of drinks among the officers. You know about that too. “Point him out to me,” you say, as though you have no idea whom the conversation is about.

Your friend leans into the table and discreetly aims her finger in Maverick’s direction. “The pretty one,” she mutters.

You let out a small chuckle. “They’re all pretty.”

Your friend shakes her head. “Not that pretty.”

“Not that pretty,” you agree musingly. You make an effort not to fall for the top guns of Top Gun and, until Maverick, you haven’t had much trouble upholding that rule. But everything about him, from the squint of his eyes when he laughs to the radiant warmth of his smile, not to mention his muscular arms, makes your heart skip a beat.

And then he pivots in his stool and his gaze, coincidentally, lands on you. You hastily look away, hoping he didn't noticed you staring, and start to fiddle with the pearls of your necklace. Several moments later, you slowly lift your eyes to check if he’s still looking.

Your heart nearly springs up into your throat when you see that he is. His mouth quirks upward slightly before he gives you the kind of smile that says he’s confident you’ve already noticed him.

You don’t smile back. You’re not about to engage in this dance. You do not associate with pilots. Your friend, on the other hand, is all for the naval aviator experience.

“He’s looking at you,” she whispers excitedly.

“Stop,” you warn her sternly. “I’m not interested.”

“Well, I am,” she urges. “Let’s go talk to them. I like the blond one.” But before you can refuse for a second time, your friend mutters, “Oh god, never mind. They’re coming to us!”

You look at her in alarm and then gulp as several of the men from the bar approach your table. You glance up at them with raised eyebrows.

“Hello,” Maverick says, looking directly at you. He presses his lips together into a vexingly endearing sideways smirk.

When you don’t respond, your friend chimes in excitedly. “Hello, hello! Welcome!” she exclaims, as though she’s receiving guests for a dinner party. “I’m Susan. Hello!”

You eye her moodily as she motions for the newcomers to join the two of you at the table.

“Mind if I sit here?” Maverick asks, pointing to the seat next to you.

You meet his gaze reluctantly. “Knock yourself out,” you respond coolly. You’re still annoyed that he caught you staring and you intend to make it clear that you are not just some girl he can charm into bed.

Maverick’s smirk widens somewhat, as though he’s not quite buying the act. He takes a seat beside you while one of his friends starts chatting up Susan who seems very much to be enjoying the attention.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Maverick says, leaning over slightly so that he could speak more discreetly. “Slider, here, wanted to get to know your friend. And I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch him crash and burn.”

You glance at Maverick dubiously. “That’s why you’re here?”

Maverick looks at you, then, and his gaze drifts languidly over the features of your face. “Would you prefer a different reason?”

Ignoring the frantic stutter of your heart as his eyes settle on yours, you shrug and look away, taking a sip of your drink. If only he knew who your father was, he wouldn’t be so bold. “I would prefer honesty.”

“Okay,” he says, resting his forearm on the table. “Honestly? I couldn’t leave without meeting you.”

You glance back at him hesitantly, not sure how to react. “Why?” you ask, trying to control the embarrassing tremor in your voice.

Maverick drops his head and lets out a small chuckle. “I just couldn’t,” he says. “That’s as honest as I’m going to get.”

You eye him tentatively, wishing he weren’t so dangerously good-looking. His sheepish smile almost makes you forget that he dates women for sport.

But the longer Maverick sits by your side, the less important his apparent promiscuity becomes. And when the two of you wind up in the back alley behind the officer’s club, wrapped in each other’s arms, you aren’t overly concerned about the future outlook of this particular liaison. Something about the way he kisses your neck convinces you that some moderate heartache might just be worth it.

Maverick weaves his fingers through yours and lifts his arm over your head, pressing the back of your hand into the brick wall behind you. He cradles the back of your head with his other hand as his mouth moves hungrily beneath your jawline. You let out an audible sigh and he pins you even more firmly against the wall, as though the sound you made has aroused him further.

And despite your every intention to just kiss for a while before taking your leave – because you don’t do flyboys – Maverick has managed to change your mind without speaking a word. You want to tell him that you’re flattered but no thank you, instead, you breathe, “come back,” when he finally pulls away.

Maverick smirks at you and tugs on the hand he’s still holding so that you’re drawn directly into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers.

You wrap your arms around his body, flattening yourself against him like you mean to be absorbed. And he folds around you like a cocoon, his arms enveloping you so securely, you barely have to hold yourself upright. He moves backward, pulling you after him toward his bike.

…

“We fucked,” you tell Susan the moment she puts her car in park.

She looks over at you with wide eyes and an even wider mouth as her jaw literally drops. “You and Maverick?” she shrieks.

You wince anxiously and look around, making sure nobody heard her exclamation. Then you roll up your window and nod for her to do the same. “Keep it together, Susan,” you hiss. “We’re behind enemy lines.”

Susan grimaces apologetically but the remorse is fleeting and, before you know it, she’s eagerly bouncing in her seat. “As if you’ve been blabbering on about a fender bender for half an hour and drop this bomb right before you have to go!” she whispers feverishly. You give her a grievous look which she expertly ignores. “Was he good?”

You sigh. “He was fine,” you say curtly, still uncomfortable sharing the details of last night’s encounter while sitting in the parking lot outside Hangar 1.

Susan appears disappointed. “Just fine?”

You glance around once more and then respond quietly, “He was very good.”

“I fucking knew it!” Susan yelps, tapping you on the knee excitedly. “Tell me more!”

“Later,” you say. “I have to meet my dad, remember?”

She nods. “I’ll pick you up in half an hour?”

“Thanks, Suz,” you respond. “You’re a life saver.”

…

Your father, Top Gun’s very own Viper, paces back and forth as you sit in one of the chairs before his desk. He’s trying to keep his cool. “You sure you’re not hurt?” he asks again.

You nod tiredly. You’ve had a hell of a day.

Viper sighs moodily and shakes his head at you as though he’s not convinced.

It’s at exactly this moment that there’s a knock on his door and, as you begin to rise from your chair to leave your father to his duties, Maverick enters his office.

You freeze, meeting his gaze in alarm. Maverick, in turn, stops in his tracks, gaping at you from the doorway, forgetting even to salute his superior.

“Lieutenant,” Viper says. “You need something?”

Maverick, who seems unable to look away from you, stammers, “Do – I – uh…”

“Maverick,” Viper says sternly, and Maverick finally glances in his direction.

“Commander Metcalf,” Maverick says, a little dazed as though he’s surprised to find Viper in his own office.

“Speak, Lieutenant. I don’t have all day,” Viper grumbles, still irritable from the news he’s received during your visit.

Maverick, who seems unable to recall why he’s even come, gulps nervously and glances back at you again.

“Okay, well, thanks dad,” you say quickly. “I’ll be off now.”

Maverick’s face slowly morphs into a visage of terror as he realizes who you are and what, in fact, it means for him to have had relations with the commander’s daughter. He watches you in horror, beginning to mouth the word ‘dad’ before he catches himself and leaves his mouth hanging open on the ‘a’.

“How will you get home?” Viper asks you, not paying attention to Maverick’s reaction.

“Susan’s picking me up,” you respond.

Viper sighs again. Then, he sighs in Maverick’s direction. “Maverick, meet my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, this is Lieutenant Mitchell, recent Top Gun graduate and a helluva pilot. Hopefully, soon to be one of our newest instructors. If he finally remembers why he’s here, that is.”

Maverick glances anxiously between your face and Viper’s and then holds his hand out to you. “Pleased to meet you,” he says courteously, his eyes resting on yours for a significant moment.

You give him a tight smile and then give your father a hug. “I’ve got to go.”

Viper shakes his head all over again. “I still can’t believe that bastard hit you.”

“Who hit you?” Maverick looks over at you sharply, suddenly on high alert.

“Nobody – the other driver.” You exhale wearily, not too keen on repeating the story for a fourth time in one day. “I was in an accident –”

“Are you okay?” Maverick asks, immediately taking a step toward you.

“I’m fine, totally fine,” you assure him, taking several steps backward until you feel the doorknob at your spine. “I just need some rest.”

“We’ll sort out the car tomorrow,” Viper says.

“Hey, at least it wasn’t a jet, right?” you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Neither Viper not Maverick is amused by your humor, however, so you reach behind and pull open the door.

“Okay, well, bye dad! Mav – uh – Lieutenant Mitchell.”

Maverick stares after you as you retreat behind the door, still somewhat speechless.

“Tell Susan to drive carefully!” your father calls.

“Will do!” you call back.

Finally, Maverick speaks again. “I, uh” – he clears his throat – “I could give her a ride, sir.”

You pause in the doorway while your father purses his lips, considering the offer. Joke’s on him, of course, since Maverick has already given you one – just last night.

Read Part 2

Maverick Tag List:

I have no idea when this list got so long but the rest of it will be in the comments. Hope I got everyone, let me know if I missed you! As always, let me know if you no longer wish to be tagged in my Mav works!

@wandering-wah

@callsign-sunshine

@ghost-heart34

@birdy-bat-writes

@matya4

@wkndwlff

@nyx2021

@bellamy1998

@oliviah-25

@alexxavicry

@army24--7

@thefandomimagines

@dracosluvbot

@smit41

@scenesofobx

@Criminalmindsandmarvel

@lunamoonbby

@malums-trash-can

@malindacath

@karleetakeenan

@callsign-echo

@toothemoonanddback

@broketraveler87

@atarmychick007

@shanimallina87

@creativitybeware

@xoxabs88xox

@Yoyop7

@hallecarey1

@nik2blog

@rrocky0ah

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@lilianashomaresparza

@latetedslesetoiles

@Elenavampire21

@starberryhorse

@ginger-gabsq

@sarcastic-sourwolf

@risingtripletaurus

@callsignmaverick5

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@hermaeusmorax

@littlebadariell

@simp-for-fictional-people

@ollyoxenfrees

@iamabeautifulperson18

@living-in-my-imagination88

@wintercap89

@mavrellover91

@gingerbreadandpaper

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puck-luck · 2 months ago

Note

Like Hughes, prompt 1, hearts… I was thinking maybe she’s having a bad day and talking about her brain just not shutting up something along those lines lol

warnings: oral fem receiving on a dining room table wc: 619

“I’m sorry, Lu. I know I’ve been talking about this for a while. You must be bored,” you say sheepishly, picking at the remaining food on your plate.

“I’m not bored,” Luke replies. “I like listening to you talk, even if you’re just venting about how work sucked today. It’s up to you if you want to keep talking about it, babe.”

“I’m sure I could talk about it forever,” you grumble. “I just hate how in my head I get over the stupidest mistakes and interactions. I know it’s not that deep, but I get so wigged out.” You stab at the pile of green beans with your fork. “I wish there was some way where I could just turn off my mind when I don’t want to use it.”

Luke quirks an eyebrow at you. “You think?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. You shrug. “It gets overwhelming to be in my brain, sometimes. It would be nice to quiet it down.”

Luke looks at you for a moment too long. “I have an idea for that,” he says. He clears his plate, then yours.

“Luke, I wasn’t done eating,” you complain.

“I’ll reheat it for you if you’re still hungry after.” He leaves his plate in the sink, but places yours in the refrigerator. Then, he walks back over to you, taking your hand and guiding you out of the chair. He moves your utensils and glass of water to the floor, away from your feet. “You trust me?” He asks, thumbing over your bottom lip.

“‘Course,” you reply. “Always.”

Luke smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Good.” He backs you up against the table, trapping you. You hop up onto the ledge, sitting back more comfortably as Luke towers over you. He brings both of his hands to the sides of your face, cradling your jaw as he leans down to kiss you until your chest is heaving and your cheeks are flushed. “I’m gonna fuck every last thought out of this pretty little head,” Luke says like he’s swearing on his grave. “But first, I’m going to eat my dessert.”

You feel a bit lightheaded and hot as he gets to his knees, undressing your lower half. His hands rake over your exposed thighs, tickling your flesh and groping the particularly meaty sections in his hands. Luke kisses over the inside of your thighs, the sensitive areas marked with suction mark after suction mark– they’ll all fade by tomorrow, so you can’t call them hickeys. He’s so sweet about the way he teases you, which lasts until you’re unable to wait any longer. You stammer out a plea for him to do more, unsure if you’re in a space where Luke will grant your requests.

His eyes lock with yours and a smirk covers his mouth. He maintains eye contact as he inches forward, sticking his tongue out when he gets close enough and flicks the tip over your clit. He’s not close enough for it to be anything more than a tease, but the touch already has you whimpering and trying to move your hips closer to his tongue.

Instead of chastising you for being so greedy, Luke buries his face in your cunt. He went from nothing to everything at once– making you cry out. Your hands fly to his hair. Luke just closes his eyes and nuzzles into your pussy, his tongue working overtime against your clit. One of his fingers has started to trace slowly around the rim of your entrance, although he refuses to enter.

He seems hell-bent on making your pleasure wash all over his fingers well before they even enter you– you’re in for a long night.

#puck-luck's 1k celebration #andy writes anything🍄#luke hughes #luke hughes smut #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes blurb #lh43 #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #hockey smut #hockey blurb #hockey fanfiction

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xoxochb · 2 months ago

Note

hear me out….riding Leo’s thigh while he works on something in his workshop….maybe even reader coming to him in the mood and him telling them they’ll have to wait till he’s done👀

yesyesyesyesyesyes a billion thousand times yes!!!!

cw: swearing (duh, it’s me), thigh riding, leo is an ass tbh, anddd this wasn’t proof read

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

of course he’s busy working. it was no surprise to you that your boyfriend was busy working on a new invention— it seems to be one of the only activities he participates in throughout the entirety of his life.

and it frustrates you.

because ninety-nine percent of the time leo is to be found cooped up in his workshop doing something ‘important’ apparently. and you’re bored and you’re lonely and most of all you’re utterly lacking his touch. not only these, when you take your visits to the forges he seems to either not notice your presence, or know you’re there and chooses to work regardless if you’re there or not.

today, was a day you feel the second of three of the previous emotions. so when you made your way to his workshop, it was no surprise that his attention was being occupied by a metal contraption of some sort.

you sigh and cross your arms over your chest, walking to his desk where he works diligently. you wait for a moment for leo to notice you on your own before you realize he’s in a trance-like state and he will not.

you clear your throat, firstly. “what’re you up to?”

“workin’”

you nod slowly/understandingly. “cool…”

“do you need anything?” you get leo to look up to you. a slight smile giving away your emotions.

“just missed you.”

he pats his lap, beckoning for you to sit with him as he works. obediently, and happily, you do just that. you don’t settle for only this though, simply enough because you allow your longly untouched cunt to make decisions for you.

you delicately wrap your arms around his shoulders, and leaving his thigh between both of yours. you presume leo realizes what you’re thinking— fucking mind reader— as his thigh tenses beneath you, eliciting a strangled whine from your lips. what an asshole he is.

similarly, you steadily rock your hips to find friction. you feel leo tap your waist twice, an indication for you to continue as he won’t mind it. you’d prefer more though.

“leo, I—”

“I know, amor. gotta wait til I’m done.”

you let out another involuntary whine at this, attempting to quicken your pace to relieve your desires. you fist a handful of his shirt between your palms out of both anger and frustration, though those go hand-in-hand.

it infuriates you to know that while you’re suffering and tiring yourself out for nothing, your boyfriend gets to sit back and enjoy your suffering.

“please, leo…”

he only chuckles lightly and pecks your neck. the action both making you want to physically hurt him and a sudden wetness to pool in your panties. you’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you, that’s the worst part.

and you must say, waiting for him to finish was the most dreadful ten minutes of your life.

#xoxochb #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo fandom #percy jackson #pjo #percy series #leo valdez pjo #leo valdez x you #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez x y/n #leo valdez #percy jackson x reader #riordanverse x reader #riordanverse #riordan universe

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 months ago

Text

Paper Pirates

MDNI

An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you find yourself wrestling with frustrations out of your league

Shanks x f!reader (more relevant in part 2)

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

There are many roads to piracy.

Paperwork shouldn’t be one of them.

Sailors fly the jolly roger for adventure, for freedom, for greed. Sweet or savage, pirates turn to the sea for a thrilling life away from responsibility. Not for double-entry accounting.

It should be all swords and swashbuckling, especially on a yonko’s flagship. Music and tuneless singing have steeped in the ship’s hull along with sea brine and rum, staining the Red Force with a mighty reputation.

And yet. Here you sit: ink-stained fingers, spectacles, and all.

The financial charts, ledgers, and reports from across the Emperor’s territory make a compelling excuse to skip the evening’s celebrations. Light from the overhead lantern trembles with the rhythmic force of a dozen idiots dancing – or fighting – on deck. You have a job to do and frankly can’t be assed to even feign interest, not that you put much effort into the pretense since your first introduction.

Shanks called for this particular event because it’s a day ending in y. No one has cannons aimed at the Red Force, and there’s no pressing need for sobriety. Standard practice, really.

The exposure to the crew’s merry making itches under your skin like sun blisters. You’ll burn if you get too much, but it’s an unavoidable hazard at sea.

Even if you’re only half-crew.

You’re a leap and a bound above a coddled passenger but so removed from the functional hierarchy you don’t even have a title.

Except. Well. There was always…

“Nerd!”

You drag your eyes away from ledger lines and decimals to blink at Yasopp. The sniper is drunk and enjoying himself. And pointing at you.

“Captain says you have to have a drink when you’re done.”

One finger curls over a notebook’s cover, and you contemplate how many more hours of work you can eek out before you’re too tired for responsible accounting.

“I swear the books get worse every time I come back.” It’s lighthearted, but also too fucking true. “I’ll be working late.”

Yasopp shakes his head. Grins. “Orders.”

Your eyes roll away from the pirate and back to the mathematic wreck on the desk. “Whatever. Just leave me something and I’ll lift a glass to your unconscious ass before I sleep.”

Cackling, Yasopp ferries your answer back to the party, and you work the puzzle of knotted equations until the lantern stops swinging and the racket falls silent. Pirates not on watch stumble through the corridors on their way to their bunks, slurring and laughing on the other side of the wall. Even that goes quiet eventually.

Your eyes burn from focusing too hard to blink for minutes on end, and you decide it’s safe to stop for the night. Off come the glasses, neatly folded and tucked into a desk drawer. They’ll be safer there than on your person, and you only need them for reading fine print. You didn’t used to. Not when you started. But that’s true of a lot of things.

With joints that creak like the steps you ascend, you head up on deck. Bodies of the fallen sleep under a blanket of stars – the ones who drank themselves to sleep or refused to leave the party before waking in the morning. The few on watch peer down from crow’s nests or attend minor chores around their comrades’ spread limbs and upturned bellies.

Yellow lights contrast with the velvet black-blue stitching together endless sea and sky, and you can’t help relaxing just a little as you approach the one table with a conscious crewman. The cherry of his cigarette burns bright, and smoke curls into the breeze.

“Benn.”

He nods, mumbling your name. As you sit, he slides a large tankard to your side of the table.

It doesn’t look like wine. Doesn’t smell like beer. It’s the wrong color for sake. “It’s rum, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t send Yasopp with a preference,” the first mate says. The telling glint in his eye betrays his good humor. “This was all we had left.”

“I’ve seen the inventory. There’s plenty for the next week of travel, even if the crew gets shit-faced twice a day.”

Benn shrugs. “It was all that was left on deck.”

You doubt it, even if it’s more plausible, but there’s no point arguing. Time to finish the last task of the day.

Lifting the heavy cup, you tilt your head back and chug.

“Steady.” Benn watches with his arms crossed.

You drink rather than answer. Swallowing fire, you drain half of what was left for you.

“I’m tired,” you say when you stop to breathe, “and I want to go to bed.”

Bed is a hammock in the groaning belly of the ship. Surrounded by other hammocks. Full of pirates. Who snore. Loudly. A night of drinking never helps the volume, but maybe your share will help you black out.

“If I drink fast enough, I’ll be asleep before it hits and it won’t matter.”

“If you say so.”

He’s very good at letting people make their own mistakes. You’ve watched him to it. But this isn’t the first time you’ve rushed through liquid social obligations on your way to rest. He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks, you’re sure.

The second half of the rum goes down like the first, and you aren’t even tipsy as you take your leave and head below. It’s a good plan. Maybe it would’ve worked, too, if it weren’t for the chaos you find in your assigned quarters.

While the little study always holds records, you aren’t aboard often enough to have a dedicated sleeping space. No cabin. Not even a bunk. Just a hammock in the hold with the lower ranks. You left your small trunk by one near the door, and you’d slept there for the past five nights running without issue.

Until now.

There must’ve been a brawl, or one of the bigger men misjudged his approach under the influence, because a wad of ripped and tangled hammocks sits piled in the center of the room. All the remaining options, including your unofficially claimed space, are full.

You can’t go to bed.

There is no bed.

Benn doesn’t seem surprised when you come back.

Sooner or later, the rum will hit, and you know better than to wait for it on your feet. So, you pick a place by Benn’s table and settle with your ass on the deck and your back against a wall.

Technically speaking, you’ve slept in worse places.

Realistically speaking, you usually sleep in better.

Honestly speaking, you’re too old for this shit.

This is the consequence of your actions. Today it’s glasses and rum. Tomorrow it will be a sore head and an aching tailbone. The day after it will probably be a cannonball to the face. No matter how lackadaisical the crew behaves, they’re all pirates at the end of the day, and so are you.

Why are you a pirate? Why are you here? Your life was so slow and orderly before a big grin and a thatch of red hair flipped it on its head. Did you ever actually agree to this life, or did you just fail to argue with the plan? That must be the problem. If you never learn to say no, whatever comes is your fault. But if you learn to say no, you’ll have to learn to say yes, too. That might be worse.

Of course, Benn can’t let you mope in peace.

“What’s eating ya?”

“Mosquitoes, maybe.”

“Nah.” He stubs out the butt of his cigarette and reaches for the pack. “Been off since your last sabbatical. Longer, if we’re being honest, but it really has its teeth in you now.”

“Nothing.” Gods. You sound like a teenager.

He hums, lights up a fresh smoke, and leaves it alone.

You can’t even explain why you’re in a bad mood. It’s just vibes. A feeling that makes sense until you try caging it in words.

You’ve been part of Shank’s entourage for years now, and you’ve seen the impact of his influence.

He makes things better. Things grow under his care.

That’s good. That’s great. That’s better than most folks in the New World ever expect to find in their lifetimes. But somehow it doesn’t apply to you.

You let your head fall back against the wall. The hollow thunk sounds as empty as you wish you could make your skull.

People drink to forget, or so some sad, broken soul tells you in every bar in every port you’ve ever visited. It’s a neat trick you never learned, though. Booze makes you think. Then it makes you speak. Then it makes you sleep.

It doesn’t make you the party girl the Red-Haired Pirates clearly hoped for the first time they dragged you into a night of carousing. It didn’t help your on-again off-again crewmate status. No one besides a handful of the most seasoned officers knew how to speak to you, and you could count those on one hand.

If you could bring yourself to care less about what you did, you would’ve flipped everyone the bird ages ago, refused to board the Red Force after one of your little layovers and made a home somewhere.

But you can’t, and you don’t, and the alcohol fumes up from belly to brain with old memories.

Once upon a time you bumped into a grey-haired man at the dock. His hands were full of loose papers and notebooks. When they clattered to the ground, you immediately helped pick them up, because that was just good manners. As you gathered the pages, you saw the numbers, and your brain leapt ahead of your mouth, so as you handed the collection back to Shank’s first mate, you blithely mentioned, “You have some transportation and duplication errors in the top account that are throwing off your totals.”

And, low and behold, the next day the first mate – one Benn Beckman – tracked you down and discussed working for one of the most powerful people in the Grand Line.

You almost turned him down. You tried, actually. But he insisted you at least hear his captain out, face to face. And then Shanks smiled, and it was all over.

They gave you a strange job.

Emperors reigned in their own ways. Force and threats were standard, but Shanks followed no rules. He governed without actually doing anything, relying on booty stolen at sea and the generosity of thriving island economies to maintain his ship and crew. At least it looked that way from the outside. But the system relied on more than luck and good looks.

Your tasks follow a cycle. The Red Force drops you at an island, leaves you there, then picks you up a few (many) months later. When you’re aboard, you review and balance the ship’s books. When you’re on land, you do the real work. You record how things work on the island, or how they don’t, and you gather the numbers to prove it. Then Shanks and his commanders use your data to find the best ports for long stays, to spot unrest before it became insurrection, and to generally handle pirate business.

Honestly, you enjoy it. You never thought your uncanny skills with numbers could lead to so much travel, and you like island hopping. It’s nice to be special. It’s nice to be needed, even a little. It should be enough. You have more than most.

The itch in the back of your mind has been getting worse, though, especially as you start looping back to hubs you visited in your early days as a quasi-pirate.

Things have grown. People have put down roots. They flourish and offer good fruit in return.

But you haven’t found a way to grow into the Red-Hair Pirates the way other people settle into their lives. Your roots grasp at salt water.

At the start of this adventure, years ago, you let the tide wash you out to sea. It’s no one’s fault but yours, and that doesn’t make you feel any better, so you self-isolate and avoid what you can’t explain.

Pirates aren’t big on feelings talk.

And you’re at least half a pirate.

“Eh, nerd still can’t hold her rum?”

Apparently, Shanks hasn’t surrendered to tomorrow’s hangover yet.

You huff as Benn’s chuckle rumbles over you. Without opening your eyes, which slipped closed at some point you can’t be fucked to remember, you say, “Nerd can hold her rum. Nerd’s hammock was a casualty of war.”

“Ah.” A chair creaks as the captain joins Beckman’s table. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay out voluntarily. And if you hold your rum so well, why don’t you have another with us?”

“I did my duty. I just want to sleep.”

Shanks tsks, and you finally crack an eye open. He’s taken the chair closest to your spot on the floor. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” You knock your boot against his bare ankle, frowning. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“Are you going to nip at me like a sheepdog until I do? Come on, you’re awake. Have another drink.”

The insistence is inching towards an order. While the Red Hair Pirates have never followed conventional standards of respect, when Shanks tells you to do something, you listen.

Groaning, swearing, and taking your precious time, you stretch and inch away from the haze of sleep. You spare a filthy look for Beckman as you clamber onto a chair, because you can easily reason your way into this being his fault. The bastard smirks around his cigarette.

Maybe he really did plan this. Maybe Shanks did. Maybe the rats are in this together. Fuck knows what “this” is, but you’re sailing through Tipsy on the way to Drunk, and clearly there are plans in motion to blow you to the far shores of Hammered.

Fresh bottles have appeared on the table as if by magic, and you pull your discarded tankard over, resigned to your fate. It’s already been refilled.

You drink. So does Shanks. Beckman enjoys his smoke.

It’s…companionable. If it was always like this, maybe you could set your roots in the Red Force’s planks. Trust it to be a home.

But you’ll be ashore again in a few days, and if you let yourself grow into the crew, you’ll tear yourself apart when they leave.

And if they never come back?

Even a Yonko can die. And Shanks is changeable. One day they may not come back for you.

Did you eat dinner? The rum glows warm in your blood.

You find yourself ready to forgive Beckman. For… whatever. He was responsible. He was never the problem.

Shanks is deep in his thoughts, famous red hair drifting in the breeze. As he quietly enjoys his sake, you glare.

“Do you realize how frustrating you are?”

His cup pauses against his lips. His eyebrows leap up. “Eh?”

Yes. This is what you’ve been wrestling with it. He’s the problem.

“You’re the strongest.” You gesture as you speak, and rum splashes out, burning the cracked skin over your knuckles. “No one else can take care of you, so you better take care of yourself.”

Another kick. You aim for your captain’s ankle again, but you hit his shin. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you could hurt him if you tried. While you aren’t the weakest aboard the Red Force, you’re pretty damn far from the strongest.

Shanks whines anyway, and Beckman’s dry laugh sounds like old leaves rattling in the wind.

“Seriously.” You empty your cup. That gives the truth time to percolate. There’s no helping it now. You’re smashed, and your dignity has flown. Your fist props up your drooping head as tangled thoughts spin out into thread.

“It’s so frustrating. You have no idea what’s like being weaker than someone you love.”

The immediate silence takes a minute to catch up with you. The rum has floated you beyond a standard perception of time, and your head is too loud to notice everything outside hasn’t kept up.

You frown.

You think.

And you realize.

In that moment, you aren’t a ship. There is no chair, table, or lantern to keep you steady. You’re floating in the black abyss, and you know without seeing that a sea king is circling for the kill. There’s no air. Or light. Or distraction. Just terrible, dreadful awareness.

Oh, gods.

Stars, seas, and sabers. Fucking hells and all the horrors below.

You love Shanks.

It’s the stupidest thing in the world, and it makes perfect sense.

You just informed on yourself. To yourself. And possibly to the two men eyeing you, but there’s grace in nebulous phrasing, and no one should be taken too seriously after so much rum.

You leap to your feet and point straight between the captain’s eyes.

“I am drunk, and I refuse to face the consequences of my actions.”

Shanks just blinks at you, and Beckman keeps his thoughts to himself as you back away, trip over your chair, and stagger back down to the study. You hold your head so high you can’t see your feet, and you earn a dozen nicks and bruises on your way.

You sleep in the corner with your jacket as a blanket, and in the morning, you tell yourself nothing happened at all.

#shanks x reader #red haired shanks x reader #one piece x reader #shanks x you #one piece fanfiction #fic: paper pirates

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barefoot-joker · 1 year ago

Text

Dancing with the Devil and His Wife in the Pale Moonlight

Yandere! Lucifer Morningstar X Reader X Yandere! Lilith Morningstar

Hey, guys! Welcome to another Lucifer story, this time with his wife Lilith! An Anon had asked for a longer fanfiction, so I did my best to do that ask justice. I'm thinking of making a part 2 but let me know what you think. As always enjoy and have a great day/night!

Words: 5612

Warnings: Kidnapping, Non-Con Kissing, Swearing, Slight gore near the end, Slight Possessive Tendencies, Slight drug use at the end

I hummed as I stretched my legs on the bar in the dance studio. Today our class was rehearsing for the ballet Three Virgins and a Devil which was going to be performing at our local theater. We had been practicing for months now but today was special. Today some of our patrons who financially support our ballet company were coming to watch us. It was quite a surprise as nobody really knew who the mysterious couple was, so gossip amongst my fellow ballerinas was high. The talk continued even as we prepared our bodies for our demonstration. “I heard that our patrons are very wealthy and looking for somebody they can throw their money to.”

“You mean they are looking for a third?”

“Possibly!”

“Well if they are looking for a third there’s no way any of you would get it,” Jessica the prima ballerina stated.

“Girls, please,” our director, Maria, clapped her hands, “let’s get to work.”

We formed our line and started to do some warm up exercises. After about ten minutes of warm up, we ran a couple of our numbers. Suddenly the door to the studio swung open to reveal a man and a woman. The man was on the shorter side and had paleish skin, blonde hair, red tinted cheeks and red eyes. The woman was tall and had long blonde hair, purple eyes and a paleish complexion. We all stopped to stare. Their skin tone and eyes really threw us off but maybe they wore contacts to intimidate people. Our director let a big grin form on her face as she ushered the couple in. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Morningstar! Welcome! Please come in.”

The couple stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed us. I bowed my head and fiddled with my shirt hem. Their gazes felt fiery and made me feel quite uncomfortable. “This is our Corps de Ballet. We were just practicing for our upcoming production when you both walked in. I’m sure you would be interested in seeing some material.”

“Absolutely! My wife and I would like to see what our money buys after all.”

“Of course, Mr Morningstar. Girls.”

We all got into our places and Maria pressed play on the CD player. We performed an ensemble piece and one with the three leads: Jessica, Savannah and Tessa. Our patrons just watched us with curious eyes and applauded when we were all done. “That was quite the show you ladies put on. I think my husband and I can agree our money is being well spent. However, we'd like to talk to you, Miss Maria, if we could.”

“Of course. We can go to my office. Girls, keep rehearsing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

We all watched as the three of them left and as soon as the door shut gossip was at an all time high. “Oh my gosh, did you see the way they looked at Jessica? If they are looking for a third I’ll bet they’ll choose her!”

“No way! They were totally staring at me!”

“Girl, that’s not possible. If anything they were staring at your fumbled footwork at beat five.”

“Shut up! That’s not true!”

“What do you think, Y/n? Who were they staring at?”

All of the girls in my circle turned to me. I let out a huff. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was too focused on my steps.”

“At least one of us was,” Jessica stated.

We all turned to stare at her. “Like I said before, I’d be their first choice for a third.”

The smirk that played on her lips made me quite angry. Because she was the prima ballerina she always thought everyone was interested in her. While it may be true, her pride was too boastful. “Oh please. Stop lying to yourself. I saw where their gaze was during your performance. It was at the back.”

“Yeah right! All eyes are always on me.”

I rolled my eyes. God she was so annoying.

“Ladies, you heard what Maria said. We need to practice. This discussion can continue later.”

“Alright, party pooper.”

We fell into our positions and began another ensemble routine. Jessica called out counts as we danced and about twenty minutes later Maria returned. “Good job today, girls. You deserve a break for the rest of the day. Jessica, Y/n, please stay behind. I’d like to talk to both of you.”

I looked at my friends in confusion. Why was I needed?

As my fellow dancers passed to get changed, Lily grabbed my shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Y/n.”

She quickly walked off with the others. I sighed and walked to the mirrors where Maria stood. Jessica side eyed me and then focused back on our instructor. “Good job today, both of you. The Morningstars were very taken aback by your performances. In fact, they’d like to get to know you both on a more personal level.”

I felt myself stop breathing and my eyes widen. They what?

“They’d like to take you both to dinner tomorrow night. A car will come and pick up both of you so no need to worry about rides.”

“Miss Maria, are you sure Y/n was an interested party? After all she’s just an ensemble member-”

“Yes, Jessica. They were quite. Interested. They said their car should be there around 6 pm to pick up our prima ballerina and 7 pm to pick up Y/n. Please dress nice, you are representing Carmilla Carmine’s Ballet Academy after all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“You’re both excused.”

The two of us took our leave and as soon as the door closed behind us Jessica snarled at me. “Listen here and listen well. If you were a team player you’d refuse to come to this dinner tomorrow.”

“I’m just not showing up. You heard Miss Maria! The Morningstars were interested in both of us. How do you think that’ll reflect on our Academy if I just don’t show up?”

“Just don’t embarrass me tomorrow!”

She huffed and stormed off. I sighed and went into the locker room. I sat on one of the benches and traded out my pointe shoes for my regular tennis shoes. Throwing on my hoodie, I grabbed my backpack and headed out of the studio. The rest of my day went fairly well. My friends from work texted me asking if I was alright. I told them what had happened and they blew up my phone. They couldn’t believe an opportunity like this was being given to a backup dancer. I chuckled at their antics in my text messages and responded to them throughout the night.

The next day I had gotten up fairly early and ran some errands. When I got back to my apartment later I did some cleaning. I noticed it was getting closer to the time my date was so I finished and ran into my bedroom. I chose a nice long, flowy, favorite color dress and a pair of black flats. In my bathroom I added some light makeup to my face and attached a silver necklace to my body. After I was done I looked at my phone to see it was 7 pm. Grabbing my keys and a small purse, I locked my door and took the stairs to the lobby. I walked out to the street and saw a short man getting out of a black Mercedes-Benz. “Miss L/n?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Follow me please.”

He walked to the back of the car and opened the door. “Thanks.”

I slid in and he shut the door. He returned to the driver’s side and got in. Starting the car, we headed out. I looked around as the man drove. I had never been in such a fancy car before so this was truly a new experience. The interior was all black leather and the windows were tinted. Jessica sat next to me texting on her phone. I watched as the nightlife of my city passed by in amazement. It felt like a different ride. The car suddenly came to a halt and the driver got out. He opened the door for Jessica first and then he opened my side. I stared at the restaurant and nearly collapsed. We were parked in front of Melbourne’s, a very fancy and well known place. Rumor had it that the wait list was three months before somebody could get in. “Ah, Jessica, Y/n! So glad you could make it!”

I looked over to see the Morningstars approach us, each of them giving us a kiss on the cheek. The Misses wore a long, sparkly, purple dress while the Mr wore a white outfit with red accents. “You both look lovely. Come, our table is waiting for us.”

Mr Morningstar wrapped an arm around Jessica while Mrs Morningstar wrapped an arm around me. They led us inside to a table that was hidden by a wall and some red velvet curtains in the back of the restaurant. We all sat down and I gazed over the menu. My heart nearly stopped. The prices were way out of my range. Jesus.

A waiter came over and introduced himself as Jeff before asking for the table’s drink choice. The three other occupants said some fancy wine or a fancy cocktail. When it got to me I just muttered, “Water, please.”

Jessica snorted and Mrs Morningstar looked at me. “Are you sure, Y/n? You can have anything you’d like.”

“I’m sorry I don’t drink. I honestly don't know where to begin.”

“I see. How about we start you off simple. She’ll take a brandy old fashioned.”

“All good choices. I’ll be back with those in a short bit.”

Jeff left and I felt extremely awkward. I mean I was trying my first alcoholic drink in front of practically strangers. What if I didn’t like it? I didn’t want to offend the Misses.

I picked up the menu to try and avoid small talk. Jessica and the Morningstars were discussing something and I was just trying to decide what least expensive item to get. “-ou, Y/n?”

I set the menu down and looked up. “What? Sorry.”

Mr Morningstar just smiled across the table at me. “It’s quite alright, dear. I asked what got you into ballet.”

“Oh, um, I don’t know. I guess I just find it relaxing and something to occupy my time with. I had started off as a child and just loved it ever since, Mr Morningstar.”

“Oh no need for formalities! We’re out of the studio. Please call us Luci and Lilith.”

The two smiled at us. While I felt out of place, their smiles sort of comforted me. It was almost like a parent soothing their child. “So why don’t you tell us about yourselves? We’re very interested to hear,” Lilith said.

I was about to say something when Jessica started. I just leaned back in my chair and watched other customers. There were many couples in the restaurant with a few groups scattered here and there. It was odd to see everybody dressed to the nines with their fanciest garb, but I suppose you have to live up to the dress code. “And what about you, Y/n? Anything you’d like to share,” Luci said.

The entire table turned to look at me and I could feel my skin crawling with heat. I wasn’t used to this much attention on me. Even when I was younger my siblings had always gotten the most of mom’s time. “Well, I’m uh 25 and the oldest of three. Like I said before I love ballet and I moved out here to try and make a career of it.”

“Anything else? Do you have any hobbies,” Lilith asked this time.

“I guess I like the arts in general. I participate in some art classes here and there. I read when I get the chance. Walks in the park or just around town are nice too.”

“That sounds lovely. You seem like a very creative girl.”

I gave a small smile. Just then Jeff returned with a tray and set all of our drinks down in front of each of us and asked us for our dinner choice. I just went with a simple pasta dish. I looked down at my drink and swirled it with the small black straw it came with. I was entranced by how the mushed cherry swirled with the ice in the orange drink as Jessica chatted. Lifting the rocks glass, I took a sip and hummed. It was quite good, especially for my first alcoholic drink. Setting the glass down, I observed the people at my table. Lilith was engaged in a conversation with Jessica, however Luci’s eyes were set on me. I gulped and averted my gaze to my lap. I could hear him chuckle. The table went silent for a moment, so I took the opportunity to ask something. “So do you guys have any family around here?”

“We have a daughter. Her name is Charlie. She’s a bit older than the two of you, but she’s quite the spirited girl. She doesn’t live here, more down under,” Lilith replied.

“I see. So she lives in Australia then?”

The couple glanced at each other and smiled. “You could say that.”

“She actually runs a hotel, funny enough. It’s to rehabilitate people.”

“Oh wow. That sounds like a lot to take on. You must be very proud of her.”

Luci stepped in. “Oh yes. She’s our little duckling!”

I could feel a rigidness coming from my fellow dancer. Maybe she didn’t like kids?

The rest of dinner went off without a hitch. I admit I was nervous but that dissipated the more the night went on. We all shared stories and laughs between us and the food was really good. I had offered to pay my half but the Morningstars were quick to shut the idea down. “It’s our treat. After all, we wanted to get to know you,” Luci had said.

After the bill was paid, they led us out to the car. The couple leaned in and gave me a kiss on both cheeks and did the same for Jessica. As they pulled away, Lilith spoke. “Thank you for a lovely night, ladies. We hope you have a great rest of your night.”

“Thank you for inviting us. We really appreciate it,” I replied.

The driver opened the door for us and Jessica and I got in. As he started to drive away the Morningstars waved at us until we were out of view. “I think that went well.”

“No duh. They were all over us, especially me. You think I can take more money out of them?”

“Is that the only reason you went? Their company was a nice treat. Besides, don’t you have other people wrapped around your finger you can take advantage of?”

“Of course. Those are some of the perks of being the prima ballerina. I’m surprised you even had a good time with all that attention on you. You should just stick to the back.”

I frowned. I was not about to let her ruin the night. “Whatever. I had a good time regardless of how much attention was on me.”

I turned away from her and focused on the passing cityscape. Eventually we reached my apartment and when we did the driver opened the door. I got out hastily and thanked him. I walked into the lobby and went up the stairs to the third floor. Getting out my keys, I unlocked the door and slipped my shoes off. I shut the door and went into my bathroom. I rinsed off my makeup and took my necklace off before going into my bedroom. I got out of my dress and put on my pj’s, throwing the flowy garment into the laundry hamper. I sat on my bed and went through my notifications on my phone. I grunted in annoyance when I saw my ex-lover’s name pop up. I clicked open their text and rolled my eyes. Once again it was them proclaiming they made a mistake for leaving me and they wanted me back. I didn’t reply, just backed out of it to the hub. I texted my friends from work about the night and they all congratulated me. We talked for a few minutes before I decided to log off. Putting my phone on the charger on the nightstand, I got under the covers and attempted to fall asleep.

The next day I rose at around 8 am. We had rehearsal today at 9 am so I quickly got dressed in a gray tank top and black leggings. I slipped a navy hoodie over top, slipped on my tennis shoes, grabbed my backpack and was out the door. It took me about twenty minutes to walk the several blocks to the studio, but when I made it I greeted the receptionist. “Good morning, Ricardo!”

“Good morning, Y/n! How are you today?”

“Average, I guess. And you?”

“Fabulous. I’ve got my coffee so today should go smoothly.”

I chuckled. He always liked his caffeine.

“I better head on up. I’ll see you later. Have a great day!”

“You too!”

I walked upstairs to the locker room where I placed my backpack and shoes in my locker. I slipped off my hoodie and then sat on one of the benches to put my pointe shoes on. When they were secure, I walked into the studio. I saw the girls hounding Jessica for information so I just went to my corner and stretched. As I was doing so, Maria came into the room. She looked around and when she noticed me, she came over. “Good morning, Y/n. I hope your dinner was enjoyable last night.”

“It was actually. The Morningstars are very nice people.”

“I’m glad. Was Jessica nice to you?”

“With them, yes. In the car, not so much.”

“I see. I’m sorry that happened.”

“It’s no big deal. I’m used to it.”

She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Well I’d better get to teaching. Shall we?”

“We shall.”

Maria clapped her hands and we fell into our rows. We did a few warm up exercises and as we were doing this, Ricardo came into the room holding a bouquet twice the size of my head and the phone. We stopped to ooh and ah. “Yes?”

“These just came for Y/n.”

“What,” I muttered.

Ricardo came over and handed me the plastic wrapped flowers. Upon closer inspection I saw my favorite flower mixed with roses. I could feel heat rising to my cheeks as I found a card amongst the petals. Pulling it out, the heat burned brighter. “What does it say, Y/n?”

“To our dearest Y/n, thank you for a wonderful night. Call us anytime. From the Morningstars. And then there’s a phone number.”

All my friends squealed in delight and Jessica stepped forward rudely. “Was there anything for me, Ricardo?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll keep checking. Oh also there’s someone on hold for you, Y/n.”

He handed me the phone and I looked at Maria. She gestured for me to answer it. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Y/n!”

“Who is this?”

“Ah, how rude of me! It’s Luci.”

“Mr Morningstar?”

At the mention of the name, Jessica glared at me. I gulped.

“What have I told you about formalities, darling?”

“Sorry, bad habit. What can I do for you?”

“The wife and I were wondering if you’d like to go dancing tonight.”

“T-tonight? But we just saw each other-” “Lilith and I have taken quite a liking to you, my dear. You’re such a sweetheart and we’d like to be with you again. You just radiate a beautiful energy. What do you say?”

“Oh, um, uh…I guess. Sure.”

“Great! We’ll pick you up at 7 o clock! See you then, dear!”

“See you then.”

I pulled the phone away and ended the call. Lily spoke first. “Well?”

“I guess I have another date tonight with the Morningstars.”

The girls erupted into screams of joy and surrounded me in a hug except for the prima ballerina. She gave me a heated glare, stomped her foot and stormed off. I gave the bouquet and phone back to Ricardo. “Could you put them in my locker please?”

“Of course!”

“Thanks, Ricardo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He left the room and Maria tried to calm everybody down. “Girls. Girls! GIRLS!”

They stopped and stared at our instructor. “Let’s get to work. We don’t have much time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we all responded.

The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent practicing. Around 3 pm, Maria let us go. When I went into the locker room, I stopped abruptly. All over the floor near my locker were flower petals and the destroyed bouquet. My hoodie lay on the bench as well as my backpack. I went over and picked both up only for my things to fall from the bag and my sweatshirt to have tears in the material. I looked at the bottom of my bag to see a large hole had been cut. Both were beyond repair. I sighed and threw both items in the trash. I had a feeling it was Jessica. I just couldn’t believe she was that angry at me when it wasn’t my fault the Morningstars called on me. Grabbing my stuff, I put it on a bench and then went to grab the broom and dustpan. Retrieving both from the supply closet, I returned to the locker room and cleaned up the flower petals and tore up card from the carpeted floor. I threw that and the plastic wrapped stems in the trash before returning the cleaning supplies to the closet. I walked back to the locker room, grabbed my stuff and made my way home.

When I got home I had taken a small nap and then got ready for the night. I chose a dark blue floral blouse, black pants, black boots and a denim jacket. Grabbing my keys, phone and purse, I headed down to the main street. The same Mercedes-Benz sat in front of my building and out stepped Luci from the car. “Over here, Y/n!”

I walked over and slid in, only to realize when he got in that I squished between the husband and wife. Oh boy.

“Derek, you may go.”

The car drove off. It was silent for a minute and I bit my lip when both Luci and Lilth’s hands came to rest on either one of my legs. “So my darling, did you enjoy our flowers? Lilith and I combined our efforts to come up with it.”

“Uh, I did. Before they got destroyed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had them put in my locker and when I got back from practice my hoodie, backpack and flowers were lying on the ground ruined.”

My eyes widened when I thought I saw horns come out of Luci’s head and his eyes go from red to white. I blinked and they were back to normal. “And who do you think did it?”

“Well…I can’t say.”

Lilith put a finger under my chin and made me face her. She brought her head so close our lips almost touched. “Love, you can tell us anything. We’re here for you. Was it that pesky Jessica? I knew we should have sent flowers so she didn’t feel left out but Luci was very determined not to.”

“She was soooo boring! All she did was talk about herself. At least our little apple was nice and polite.”

I felt him trace a pattern on my thigh but I couldn’t see as I was stuck staring at Lilith. “Luci…”

“It’s true! You can’t deny that, honey.”

“Alright, yes. She was a bore. But maybe our lovely’s bouquet would still be intact.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

“Anyway, was it Jessica?”

I could feel their eyes bore into me and I felt compelled to nod. They glanced at each other and then back to me. “Don’t worry love, we’ll get you as many flowers as you’d like.”

“Yes, but let’s focus on tonight. We’re going to dance the night away!”

My body tensed slightly when Luci put his head on my shoulder and I could feel his breath on my neck. “I-is hot in here or is it just me?”

They both chuckled rather loudly. “Oh dear. I think our little apple is heating up, Lilith.”

“Yes I think so, Luci. Perhaps we should aid her?”

“Yes. Yes we should.”

I gasped when I felt Mr Morningstar start to suck on my neck. I tried to pull away but Mrs Morningstar brought me into a kiss. My eyes widened and I attempted to hit either of them, but each of them had grabbed one hand and held it. I squirmed as they took their sweet time kissing me and just as I brought my legs up to kick them the car stopped. They pulled away with giant grins on their faces. The door opened and I clawed my way over top of Luci to get out. I figured he left a hickey so I did my best to raise my jacket collar to hide it. Just as I finished, I felt an arm wrap around my waist and the other around my shoulders. “Shall we go in, my love?”

I nodded and the two scooted me inside the club. It was very loud when we entered, the music making the walls and floor shake. The three of us sat in a private booth and Lilith went to go get us some drinks. I tried to put past how they had both kissed me, but I just couldn’t for the life of me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to like it or not. Sure they were nice people but something about them unsettled me. “Whatcha thinking about, my dear?”

I looked up at Luci, his brow furrowed. “Huh? Oh nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing. You’re very quiet.”

“I guess…nevermind.”

“Come on, you can tell me. You can tell us anything.”

His hand reached across the table and it laid on my knee. It reminded me too much of their kiss so I slid it off. He seemed very surprised by my retaliation. I looked at the hardwood floor as I spoke. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you guys to kiss me. I thought we weren’t quite there yet.”

“Oh, is that what’s got you bothered? I’m sorry. My wife and I are very forward when it comes to love.”

“Love?”

“Yes, you heard me.”

“What are you two talking about?”

Lilith had returned with three drinks. She set them on the table and sat by her husband. “Y/n doesn’t think we love her.”

“It’s not that, I just think it’s too early. I mean we met yesterday for crying out loud.”

“Aw, but you’re so fascinating, my love! How could we not fall in love with you!”

“Look, I’m not ready to take it to the next step-”

“You will in due time, little apple. It’ll just take some getting used to.”

I felt like I wasn’t being heard and I just needed a minute to breathe. “I, I need to go to the bathroom.”

I abruptly stood and speed walked to the nearest restroom. Just as I was about to enter, I bumped into somebody. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No please, it was me-Y/n?”

I looked up and felt my heart stop. Oh great, my ex. Just what I needed. “Hey.”

“Hey…how have you been?”

“Um, good I guess. Look, I was just heading to the bathroom-”

“Well now that I got you here we might as well talk.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n, I know we got off on the wrong foot-”

“You left because you found someone else. That’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

They grabbed me by the shoulders and I stiffened. “You always do this when I try to talk to you. You shut me down. I just want you to fucking listen.”

Their grip tightened and I wished I was more at the table with the Morningstars then here. “Let go!”

I shoved my ex away and ran out the front door. I took a sharp turn and leaned against the alley wall. I leaned my head against the brick and let out a sigh. I heard rushing footsteps and I internally groaned when I saw Ex-Partner’s Name round the corner. “There you are! What part of I want to talk to you do you not fucking understand?!”

“The message is clear, but I just don’t want to talk. When you left me, that finished the matter.”

“But I want you back! I made a mistake alright, but I realize that now! Come on, what do you say?”

“I’ve said no and I’ll say it again. NO!”

They growled and I saw a glint in the moonlight. My eyes widened when I realized it was a switchblade. They rushed at me and I quickly closed my eyes and curled inwards, waiting for pain. It never came. I opened my eyes to see Luci with completely red eyes and long red horns sticking out of his forehead. A floating apple and a golden snake wrapped around the top of his horns and a fireball hovered above his head. Lilith was beside him, her eyes completely white and reddish purple curled horns stuck out of her head. He grabbed my ex by the wrist, twisting the knife out of their hand. They screamed in pain and I gasped seeing the bone stick out. Oh my God…

I stepped back as Luci twisted harder and more bone came poking out of the skin. “Don’t even think about going near her! YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU LITTLE BITCH!”

I watched in horror as the knife levitated towards Lilith and she stabbed my ex in the shoulder. They howled and she brought the knife up and stabbed again. Their nails grew into claws and they started to dig into my assailant’s skin, blood rushing down from their wounds. I backed away and then sprinted out of there. My ex’s screams rang in my head as I continued to run. What the fuck? What the fuck?!

I suddenly slammed into a chest and shrieked when arms wrapped around me. I realized it was Luci, his eyes now white with a red background. Six red and white wings stuck out of his back and they slightly curled around us as I beat on his chest. “Let me go! LET ME GO!”

He nuzzled into my hair and I kept flailing around. Lilith magically appeared beside him, my ex’s body dragging on the ground behind her. “Shh. You’re safe now, little apple. We’ve got you.”

“Get the fuck away from me! Get! Away!”

“Lucifer, don’t hold her too tight now. We don’t want bruises on her precious skin.”

In my struggle I slowed. Lucifer Morningstar. Lilith Morningstar. Horns. Wings. Wait a minute…

“Are you the Devil and his wife,” I asked timidly.

The two looked at each and sighed. “I guess the duck is out of the bag, Lilith.”

They turned to look at me and I shrunk in his tight hold. “Yes, we’re the Devil and his wife.”

It all made sense now. The red and purple eyes. The pale complexion. The reason they were such mysterious patrons. Their daughter being down under.

I shoved Lucifer and he let go for a second before his bloody claws grasped hard on my arms. His talons dug into my skin as I struggled. “Let me go, please! I, I won’t tell anyone what happened here! We can just go about our lives! Just, just let me go!”

By now tears had started escaping my eyes and I quickly kicked Lucifer in the balls. His claws slid down and caused four gashes to appear on my forearm. He let out a groan and I turned to flee, only for him to fly in front of me. “Y/n! Stop!”

They cornered me to the wall and the brick dug harshly at my back. “Everything’s alright, my love. You’re alright.”

Lilith brought her hand up and I slapped it away. My chest was heaving to try and gain air into the lungs, but I couldn’t get any in. I mean how are you supposed to react when you find out that the patrons of your ballet academy who are in love with you are the Devil and his wife?

“Y/n, dear, breathe. Breathe.”

“I, I can’t! I c-can’t!”

I just broke down. I slid down the brick and wrapped my arms around my knees. I began to hyperventilate as tears rushed down my cheeks. I heard Lucifer and Lilith say something to each other but I couldn’t make it out. As I cried I felt something gently hit my head and arms. I looked up to see golden dust raining down upon me. I looked up even further to see it coming from Luci’s fingertips, a gentle smile on both his and Lilith’s faces. Suddenly I felt very tired and calm, too calm. I could feel my muscles go slack and my body limp as Lucifer picked me up bridal style. “Just close your eyes, lovely. We’ll be home before you know it.”

“H-home? W-whose home?”

They both looked at me and smiled brightly. My eyes closed and my breathing steadied.

“Ours.”

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 4 months ago

Text

DRABBLE: HE & YOU ON WASH DAY 🫧 (18+) (JJK) (For Black!Fem!Readers)

Writer’s Note: I came up with this little Drabble after seeing a video of a Black girl teaching her white BF how to wash, moisturize, derange & do her hair. It was soooo CUTE & stuck in the back of my head, so I decided to let my inspiration flow. Thank God too cuz i realize i haven’t written a Drabble in literally FOREVER. I’ll make an effort to put out more before 2025 comes. I hope y’all enjoy!

I also tried to incorporate different types of Black hairstyles, textures & types for each character. All comments are welcome on front (but keep it respectful). Thank you & again, enjoy! -Jazz 🥰

*******

GOJO

This man swears he knows what he’s doing.

You’ll admit that Gojo is good at everything: singing, dancing, gaming, cooking, fighting, yapping…especially yapping. He’s also good at being a boyfriend. He is the most attentive, affectionate, loving man you’ve ever met and you’re so grateful to have him—the handsome, sexy, popular Gojo Satoru—as your partner.

He manages to help you with everything else you don’t have enough time to get to or are having trouble with, such as cooking and cleaning. What’s the difference between that and washing your hair, he wonders? When you tell him that your hair is much different and requires a traditional regime that could last HOURS, Gojo just waves you off.

“Baby, c’mon,” he scoffs, holding you in his lap and squeezing you to him as if you’ll disappear. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m good at everything. You think I can’t help you out with your pretty hair?” He gives you a big, confident, gigawatt smile that makes you melt.

“You sure?” You ask, your arms wrapped around his neck as he places his hands on your hips. He rocks you in his arms like you’re his baby…which you are. He always shows that any chance he gets. “‘Cause it’s a job, ‘Tarou. My hair isn’t like yours.”

Gojo scoffs, running a hand through the maze of dark kinky twists that is your hair. “Obviously,” he chuckles. “And I love that. I love your hair and I wanna help you take care of it! C’mon, what’s the rocket science in washin’ hair?”

But that self-assurance and cockiness quickly fades when you show him all the products you use for your hair, explaining each one in great detail. Then you show him the proper way to wash your hair which results in him getting water all over himself and the floor. Then, once you’re done, you try to show him how to detangle, moisturize, and cornrow your hair with a comb but to also rely on your fingers to do the work.

By the time you finish, you do most of the work while Gojo sits there looking like you just tried to explain to him why the Earth is flat. Poor baby’s blue eyes are so wide that you’re afraid they’ll roll out of his skull. He is down in the dumps afterward, snuggling into your chest. “I’m sorry, babe,” he mutters into your boobs. “I fucked up. I’m no good at this shit.”

You coo to him, running a hand through his white locks. “Satoru, baby, it’s not a big deal—“

“Yes the fuck it is!” He protests, sitting up to look at you. “You’re my girlfriend! I should know how to do your hair! But don’t worry; I’m gonna learn all about this if it fuckin’ kills me.”

And he makes you hold him to that. Not the type to give up or give in, Gojo spends the next week learning everything there is to know about Black hair: your type of hair; how to take care of it; if creams or oils work best to keep it moisturized; how to cornrow for beginners, etc. You let him drag you to the hair supply store to buy products and practice on you, giggling to yourself about how cute he is trying to do all of this for you.

After two weeks, you and Gojo go for round two. This time, you let him take the reins washing your hair. He is attentive and delicate with your hair, his long fingers scrubbing and massaging the shampoo in. You find yourself sighing at the feeling, melting at his touch. “You like that, baby?” He asks among the running water.

Chuckling when you hum in agreement, he presses a kiss to the back of your neck as you stand bend over the sink. “Y’know, I could always relax you more with somethin’ else,” he whispers.

That’s when you feel his very obvious hard dick pressing against your ass. You gasp, reaching back to swat him. “Gojo!” You whine. “You freak!”

“What?” He protests, grinning. “Ya can’t blame me for gettin’ hard by this! You look hot with your natural hair, babe, and runnin’ my hands through it is even better. It’s so soft and pretty, like you!” He grinds his hips into your ass, giving you a feel of the hot bulge pressing against his sweatpants. And you know he’s free-balling, the slut. No boxers at all!

“Y’know,” he says, his voice sultry and teasing, “all I have to do is pull these little shorts down and—“

“Uh-uh!” You shout, tossing some soapy water at him. He dodges it effortlessly. “Not while you’re supposed to be helpin’ me, asshole! Now maybe if you do a good job with my hair, we can do somethin’ about your very big problem.” You bend over the sink again, giggling when you brush your ass against Gojo’s hard dick and emit a groan from him.

And ‘do a good job’ he does, surprisingly. After you wash and condition your hair with his help, Gojo sits you down between his long legs and towel dries your hair before helping you successfully moisturize and plat it in small, wet cornrows going down your scalp.

This takes about an hour and during it all, Gojo is patient and loving with your hair. He detangles each knot with a comb, delicately threads each strand of hair, and doesn’t complain about how long it takes.

And you fall more in love with him during that hour.

Once done, he sits on the edge of the bed like a patient dog waiting for its treat while you admire his work in the mirror. After a few seconds, you slowly turn to him and smile. “Not bad,” you comment. “Not bad at all.” He breaks out into a gigantic grin. “I told you!” He laughs before yanking you over.

You giggle as you fall into him, straddling his lap. “Now, what’s about you doin’ somethin’ about my ‘very big’ problem?” He whispers, grinding his hips up into yours. Sure enough, he’s still hard. Pressing a slow kiss to his lips that steals your breath, you sneak your hands down to untie his sweats. “Let me show you,” you whisper. “After all, you did just a good job for me.”

Many hours later, after making him cum his brains out down your throat and putting you into the mattress, Gojo wants to be part of your wash days ALL THE TIME now.

CHOSO

This cutie patootie wants to know everything and anything about your beautiful hair. He loves it soooo much!

He loves staring at it and watching how it glows in the sunlight. He loves how bouncy your curls are when you walk. He loves running his hands through it when you kiss (though most of the time, he’s afraid to touch it in fear of ruining it).

Any time he catches you sitting in the bathroom doing your hot oil treatment, he asks so many questions:

“Why do you need to wear that big-ass helmet?”

“If you use hair grease and hair oil, won’t that oversaturate your hair?”

“How do you do this every single day? Doesn’t that get tiring?”

“Why don’t you let me help you one day?”

You love your hair too. It took you years to grow and maintain it, so you take your long, bouncy curls very seriously. So you have your own regime, especially when drying and setting your hair once it’s clean.

When you explain all of this to Choso at the hair supply store, the man looks like you’re trying to explain another language to him. “What does ‘set’ mean?” He asks as you drag him to the hair care aisles. “What does that have to do with washing your hair?”

“No, no, no,” you hurriedly say, searching the shelves for that one scalp grease that you always use. You ran out, so that’s why you dragged Choso out of the house to go get more plus a new bonnet and a comb because your favorite one broke.

“That comes AFTER I wash my hair. ‘Setting’ means sectioning and putting my hair in curlers so they come out the way you like.”

Choso stops with his hand still in yours, standing between some shelves of creams and some shelves of shampoo. You turn to him, confused. “What? Baby, you agreed to help me! We’re losin’ daylight here!”

You motion to the outside where the sun is shining and the sky is blue. “The way I like?” Choso parrots. You blink, perplexed. “You said you set your hair so it comes out how I like,” he clarifies. “Do you not like it when your hair comes out another way?”

He cocks his head to the side, his pierced brow quirked slightly. You feel yourself grow hot with embarrassment in his black hoodie that you “borrowed” (stole, but he gave it to you anyway, loving how it looks on you instead) from him.

“Uh…w-well, no girl likes it when her hair doesn’t come out right,” you mutter. “I just like it when my hair looks pretty…y’know…sexy.”

Choso’s expression softens, making him look so much like a soft-eyed teddy bear despite his tattoos and piercings. He is aware of your slight love-hate relationship with your hair when it’s not ‘hair-ing’ right.

You love it when your curls are the right length and bounce. It makes you feel so feminine and sexy. Sexy enough to let Choso pull on them during sex and run his fingers through it during a sloppy, slow make-out session.

Not when it’s frizzy. Not when you just get it wet and it shrinks back to its natural itty-bitty kinks. Not when it’s—

“Stop it.” As if he can hear your thoughts, Choso puts his hands on your shoulders and gently coaxes you to look up at him. Into his pretty, gray eyes. “You know damn well I love your hair no matter what it looks like,” he softly says. “You should too, babydoll. Don’t sweat that shit.”

He takes your hand and puts it on his head, right between his spiked ponytails. “You think I give a fuck about what my hair looks like all the time?” He asks, smirking.

You cluck your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “Yeah,” you mutter, “but you’re a guy! And Black hair is much different than yours. A-And there’s so many different types and—Mmph!”

You moan in surprise as Choso’s lips suddenly press against yours, silencing you. His lip ring pushes against your bottom lip, cool and enticing. It grounds you.

When you pull away, he brushes your nose with his in an Eskimo kiss—one thing he only does in private because of how “cutesy” it is. “You feel better now?” He asks. You nod, winded from his kiss.

“You gonna let me buy you your shit and not have a panic attack in the middle of the store?” He asks. Once again, you nod, a smile stretching onto your lips.

“And you’re gonna remember you’re my pretty little girlfriend no matter what, right?” He whispers, sliding a hand against your ass as you both start to walk again.

You nod, wrapping your arm around his waist. “Mmm-hmm,” you shyly hum. “And you’re my hot little boyfriend.” You slide your hand down to his ass, squeezing it.

Choso blushes hot red, tsking. “I’m not little,” he grunts, making you laugh.

GETO

Admittedly, Geto has never thought too much about hair….that is until he met you.

He couldn’t get enough of your beautiful, long braids that swayed in the breeze. How they accentuated all of the shapes, lines, and features of your pretty face. How you wore it up, down, twisted…even braided! He didn’t even know you could braid braids! But when you showed up on your first date with the black coils in one big French braid, he was sold as yours and yours alone.

He didn’t know you could wash braids too without taking them out, but now he does. When he comes home from running errands (gym and picking up some lunch), he hears the shower running and you humming to Giveon, which means you're still washing your hair.

He smiles, placing the paper bag of stir fry and your favorite drink on the counter. “Baby!” he calls. “Food’s here!” He takes off his shoes and puts them at the door, just about ready to get some water after his vigorous workout when he hears something fall and your pretty voice yelp in pain.

“Ow!” you shriek. Geto quickly springs into action, running up the steps in his polo socks and gym shorts. He nearly slips across the floor and breaks his neck when he gets to the bathroom. “Baby?” he calls. “Baby, what happened? Did you fall?”

You're standing in the shower in your soaked bra and panties, sudsy, foamy shampoo running down your braids. “No, worse!” you groan, holding your left eye. “I got shampoo in my eye! God fuckin’ dammit, that burns!”

You try to grab a towel, but Geto stops you. “Uh-uh, don’t move,” he orders. “Let me do it." He helps you out of the running shower and holds your wet braids back for you. "Lean your back head.” You do so and he wets a washrag before dabbing it on your eye.

After a minute, your eye stops stinging and you're able to open it. Geto dabs away water and soap dripping down the side of your face. “Bad hair wash day, I’m assuming?”

You nod, huffing in embarrassment and frustration. “One of my braids smacked me in the face and I almost went blind. This is usually a messy job, so I do ‘em in the shower.”

Geto stares at you in confusion, puzzled by what you mean. “So you...wash your braids?” he curiously asks. “How does that work?” He looks like a puppy being taught a new trick and you find it so endearing.

“Oh, you just massage the shampoo in the scalp and down the braids,” you explain, motioning to your scalp. “It gets the gunk from hair product and dirt out. Then I put my braids down to let the water wash everything out.” You sigh, rubbing your sore forearm. “My arms are so tired though,” you groan.

You've been at this for almost an hour now since Geto left to run errands and have barely gotten through it yet. Then you still have to blowdry your braids to make sure your entire scalp is dry which makes another whole hour. Noticing the stressful look on your face, Geo decides he doesn' like i and wans o help his baby a any cos. “Lemme help you then.”

You blink a him, watching as he takes off his socks and begins washing his hands under he showerhead. “What?!” you exclaim. “Sugu, baby, no, i-it’s fine! It’s not a two-person job and you’ll get your clothes all wet and—“

“Who said anythin’ about clothes?” he cuts in. He gives you a humored smile as he begins to peel off his white tank top. “That’s a silly thought, but a cute one.” Flashing his pearly whites at you, he strips off his shirt, revealing his perfectly-defined, toned upper and lower torsos. Your eyes roam over his squeezable pecs, both nipples pierced, big, inked arms, washboard abs, and cut V-line and sides littered in tattoos. He’s truly a beautiful specimen, your boyfriend.

As he tosses his shirt to the side, you suddenly don’t want to wash your hair anymore. Instead, you’d like to wash Geto’s delicious body, see it drip with water and soap, and then do it all over again because you end up fucking each other instead. “B-but…your hair,” you weakly protest. “It’ll get all wet.”

Geto smiles, pulling a hairband out of his pocket and tying his long hair up in a bun. That only arouses you more. “Hush, my love,” he coos, pressing a finger to your lips. You resist the urge to suck on it. “Don’t worry about me—worry about these gorgeous braids.” He takes your hand and guides you into the shower. While you stand near the running water, he stands behind you, making your entire body feel hot and tingly. “Just tell me what to do.”

The hair-washing process only happens for about ten minutes. As soon as you feel Geto’s thick fingers massaging your scalp and running through your braids, gentle and careful, your pussy flips into overdrive and gushes in your panties. Soon, your undies come off, Geto’s shorts come down, and hands are roaming over body parts and skin. Lips are on lips, tongues are swirling together, his hands are on your ass, and yours are all over him.

Soon, that somehow leads to him picking you up and fucking you against the shower wall, your moans swallowed up by the water and Giveon playing on your phone. His cock drives deliciously in and out of you as his hips grind against yours, your legs and arms tightly wrapped around him. “I didn’t know this was a part of your routine, baby,” he pants in your ear. “But if it is, count me the fuck in.” His hand is in your hair, your braids wrapped around his fist. “Want me to tug ‘em harder, mama?”

“Yes!” You desperately shout. “Yes, Sugu, please! I’m so close!” You can feel your cunt spasming around him, your hand slipped between you and him to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. Geto picks up the pace, his yummy moans and grunts filling the steamy shower as he pounds your pussy against the shower wall. “Pull my hair,” he pleadingly says. “Do it hard, baby. I’m ‘bout to cum too.”

You do as he says and dig your fingers into his hair, tugging on the wet, black locks. He groans at the feeling, his eyes fluttering shut and his handsome face screwed in ecstasy. Seeing him like that makes you cum instantly, a high-pitched moan of his name leaving your lips.

His own orgasm is triggered too and quickly pulls out before cumming in unison with you all over your thighs and the shower wall. His lips swoop yours up in a hot, slow tongue-kiss that makes your intense orgasm that much more explosive as your body loses tension and you feel like mush.

Finally, Geto pulls away, his eyes hooded and a lazy smile on his face. “Oh, look,” he chuckles. He points to your wet braids and his dripping hair. “All clean.”

NANAMI

He can’t get enough of your Afro.

Seriously. He stares at it any chance he gets. On his free time, when he isn’t working or telling Gojo to leave him alone, Nanami is calculating the circumference of your perfectly-round, full Afro and how long it takes you to get it in such a perfect, round shape. How does it defy gravity the way it does? Does it ever deflate? What do you do to make it so soft? He often wonders this when you allow him to touch it. He feels so blessed that you bestow such an honor to him.

He realizes later that maintaining such a beautiful hairstyle is a lot of work. One day, on a boring Sunday that is meant as your “self-care” day, he watches you as you sit near the kitchen sink in a chair, your thick hair sectioned into four parts with scrunchies. He’d laugh at such the cute yet silly look you’ve got going on if you didn’t look so sad and defeated doing it. You’ve only gotten through one part, washing it by hand with shampoo.

Wanting to make things easier for his love, Nanami moves behind you and wraps his arms around you from behind. “You look so tired, my love,” he sighs. “Why don’t you let me help you?” You look up at him, confused. Nanami has watched you wash your hair a couple of times to know what you do and what you use.

He first coaxes you to stand up and turns the chair around so you’re facing away from the sink. After filling the sink up with warm water, he rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, much to your liking, and lathers his hands up in your favorite lavender-mint-rosemary shampoo. He takes one part of hair out of your scrunchie and proceeds to scrub it, lathering it in the soap. He does the same to the others, massaging your scalp in the process.

Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling of his skillful and careful hands in your hair, your body relaxing in your chair. “Oh,” you moan. You haven’t had anyone wash your hair for you since your mother when you were young. And to have your partner, who isn’t Black, do such a good and careful job with your hair is such a sweet gesture of your kind of love language.

“That feels nice?” He asks, happy to hear the sound. You press your lips into a thin line, humiliated by the sound slipping out of your mouth. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he chuckles. “I want you to relax. Wash days should be relaxing, not…” He pauses, searching for the right word.

“Fuckin’ stressful?” You offer, sighing as the warm water cascades over your scalp. “Yeah, but you’re not the only carryin’ around a big ass ball of hair on your head.” Nanami laughs, pressing. Kiss to your forehead. “A beautiful ball of hair, actually.” He works the water through your hair from root to tip, taking gentle care of each strand of your hair. You melt into his touch, falling in love with him deeper and deeper.

Once he finishes washing your hair, he empties the sink of all of the water and tells you to lean back so your hair can drip into the sink. “This actually kinda feels like a spa,” you giggle. Maybe you can give me a massage after this.” Nanami chuckles, flinging the water and suds off of his hands before chastely kissing you on the lips. “Let me get the towel.”

You keep your eyes closed as he leaves and quickly returns with a towel. First, he lathers your hair up in conditioner, gently massaging your scalp with the thick, creamy, floral-scented substance. Then, suddenly, you feel something cold over your eyes and hear the sound of relaxing flute music playing from somewhere. “What are you doin’, sir?” You giggle.

You feel Nanami’s lips ghost over your ear, sending chills down your spine. “Shh, no talking at the spa” he whispers. His hands are firm yet gentle as they press into your temples while your hair drips into the sink. “Can I get you a drink, miss? Perhaps you’d want massage here?” He begins to trail his fingers down your neck, each place his fingers touch leaving a trail of fire. “Or maybe…here?”

He trails down to your shoulders, giving you a firm rub. As he does, your nipples harden beneath your sports bra and your sweats suddenly feel entirely too tight. “You’re getting warmer,” you purr. A soft, seductive hum comes from Nanami’s throat that drives you insane as his hands trail down to your chest.

“You mean…here?” He gently cascades his hands over your breasts, brushing against your hard nipples beneath the thin material of your sports bra.

His hands then go back up to your shoulders, teasing you. You whimper, desperate for attention. “That’s not fair,” you whine. “You’ve got me all warm now.” Your boyfriend chuckles, his fingers kneading your shoulder muscles. “I thought that was the point.” He suddenly pauses. “Or…do you mean…”

You take the cold compress (which you find is an eye mask) off of your eyes to look up at your man and slowly move your hand to cup his cock. To your joy, you find that he is semi-hard. Nanami tuts but keeps your hand on his dick. “Miss, this is very improper for a spy,” he says, mock-offended. He leans down toward you, his minty breath fanning across your face. “But I suppose I could make an exception for you.”

He leans in closer, closer, and you think he’s going to kiss you. You lean up, desperate for his lips on yours. “After I condition, dry, moisturize, and grease your hair,” he adds. He turns the water on again and puts the eye mask back on your eyes. “What?!” You squeak. “Kento, nooo, pleeeease!” Your pussy throbs in desperate, insisting that he touches you right here, right now.

Nanami presses a finger to your lips, silencing you. “No whining,” he says. “Besides, all good things come to those who wait, my love.” He presses a kiss to your forehead before you feel the warm water on your hair rinsing out the conditioner. “Now enjoy your spa session.”

You do. You enjoy all of the work Nanami does on your hair, including what you instruct him to do. But truth be told, you enjoy the work he does on your body two hours later in the comfort of your bedroom.

With your hair safely wrapped up in a towel and bonnet for extra protection, your leg is tossed over Nanami’s broad shoulder as his hips piston into yours, his cock stroking your insides and his fingers teasing your clit. “Told you good things come to those who wait,” he grunts. “Are you gonna cum for me now?”

You vigorously shake your head, staring up with heart eyes at the handsome blonde above you. “N-No!” You whimper. “Not until you say, Daddy! I promise!”

Nanami smiles and presses a kiss to your ankle that nearly has you combusting all over the sheets. “That’s my good, pretty girl.” Your boyfriend has now become a new and important addition to your wash days.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #my drabbles #black coded reader #jjk smut #black hair #wash day #ambw #nanami x black!reader #satoru gojo x black!reader #suguru geto x black!reader #choso x black!reader #black readers

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m0nsterqzzz · 1 year ago

Text

Capture the Flag

pairing: clarisse la rue x child of apollo!reader

summary: you hate capture the flag, and clarisse hates people hurting you. that's that.

warnings: kidnapping? *done by a bunch of demigod teenagers for the simple outcome of winning a game* mentions of murder because what is a clarisse fic without it? swearing? kinda oc clarisse just because I can't write anything else without turning it into enemies to lovers

a/n: she is my love. clarisse defender for life.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Clarisse La Rue.

The name sparks fear in many people at Camp Half Blood. Kids cower when she’s near, or run away when she walks towards them. It makes her happy, having people fear her. She thrives off of it, being a daughter of Ares; the god of war.

But too you? The name brings warmth, comfort, and love. It’s very rare her wrath has ever been directed towards you, and the few times it has been was when she didn’t know you. When you were just another camper to her.

It only took a few days at camp for you to be claimed by your father, Apollo.

It made sense really, your bubbly and energetic personality was so similar to your fathers and his demi god childrens. You moved into cabin seven with your small backpack of beloved items from your past, picking the bed in the corner farthest away from the few other children of Apollo and spending most of your time in that spot if you weren't at arts and crafts or archery. Not many people cared about you at first, not that you mind while you were trying to process all that happened for you to finally get to this wilderness home. Then you tried to make some friends, which ended with you mostly spending your days with your siblings or the children of Hermes and the campers who lived in that cabin without being claimed.

Then, you met your girlfriend. The love of your life. You're everything. Clarisse.

She had protected you during a game of capture the flag, not realizing that your “attacker” was one of your best friends who simply held his sword up to you in a playful way. You teased her for weeks after that, giving her the title, “my protector”. Although the teasing eventually stopped, the nickname never did.

You’re her sunshine. That’s clear to everyone in camp, but nobody really talks about it for fear of being hurt by her spear.

Capture the flag is one of her favorite days out of the week. Other than every Tuesday when Chiron lets you eat dinner at her table- an agreement that came after a very long week of begging of course. That was his compromise to your ask of being able to spend every night at that table, and Clarisse wasn’t going to push it despite liking the first idea more.

It became a lot harder to win said game when she started dating you, team red losing one of their best fighters when she would leave her post by the flag to roam the forest and make sure you are okay. It just makes you laugh when she stops kissing you up against a tree to suddenly run back to her post when she remembers the main task at hand, but her siblings and team would definitely disagree that it's funny.

Today's no different, and after threatening her teammate with her spear, she leaves her post to find you with the peace of mind that they’ll protect the flag and won’t tell on her to the other players on team red.

You on the other hand, you have your headphones in, music blasting in them as you dance through the forest and around the trees. Capture the flag has never really been as important to you as your teammates on the blue team, and both Annabeth and Luke eventually learned to give you a simple task and let you do your own thing.

The nymph's join along in your activities every once in a while, but for the most part they just stay in their tree form as you dance past them.

You’re in your own world with your favorite song playing on your wired headphones that stay connected to the ipod in your hand that your girlfriend gifted to you after she came home from a quest a few months ago. It’s only when someone hits your helmet-covered head with the butt of their sword so hard you pass out that you realize you wandered into the red team's territory.

Waking up, the first thing you notice is the harsh light of the sun glaring down at you. Then it’s the rough feeling of wood on your back and the tight pull of rope on your stomach when you try and fail to stand up from your sitting poston. Your stomach churns as you realize what kind of situation you're in; no help, in a vulnerable position, and no weapon. Lastly, you groan when you realize that your headphones have been taken out of your ears and are laying in a tangled pile a few feet away along with your ipod.

After a few seconds, your vision clears up and the two blobs of color that you saw in front of you turn out to be two people. They’re clearing down at you from their standing positions, one with a sword out and the other holding a dagger.

“Good morning sunshine.” You cringe at the nickname that comes from one of the boys you now recognize from the Aphrodite cabin. It’s the one that your girlfriend uses for you.

Children of Aphrodite may be well known for her being the goddess of love, and all things pink and pretty, but sometimes people forget she is also a goddess of war. Her demigod children are sweet and nice, but it’s no big surprise why Clarisse likes having them on her team when you see their fighting abilities when they actually try.

“What do you want with me?” You question harshly, trying but eventually giving up on trying to force the ropes to untie by moving your body around. You’re tied to a thin tree, thin enough for your arms to reach behind you and wrap around it- it's kind of like your giving the tree a backwards hug with your hands tied together around it- but not thin enough to break when you push you back up against it to test the theory on if you can snap it.

They look at eachother and chuckle, putting their weapons away when they realize you can’t get out of your ties. One you recognize as Oliver steps closer to you as he says, “Annabeth and Luke care about you so much, the moment they realize that you’re missing, they’ll forget all about the flag and Clarisse can go get it.”

You stare at them blankly for a few seconds before you burst out laughing. They glance at each other before narrowing their eyes at you.

“What are you laughing at sunshine?” You finish laughing when the ropes pull on your stomach way too tightly with the way your body shakes with the laughter. “You ummm…” You start, taking a deep breath when you find yourself beginning to giggle again. “You thought the most amazing plan…was to lead my overprotective friends and girlfriend…the girl who carries a spear with her everywhere she goes and hurts anyone who looks at her wrong mind you…to the spot where she’ll find her partner tied up to a tree in a clearing where no one is around to stop her from killing you guys?”

They stare at you with a sudden look of fear in their eyes before they walk a few yards away to begin whispering to each other, the confidence from earlier gone and rethinking their plan after you brought the obvious ending to your attention.

“Hey guys?!” You shout out, smiling when they turn around for a second to face you. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell Clarisse not to kill you! She usually listens to me because the last time she killed someone, I didn’t cuddle her for a week!” Their eyes widen at your casualness, as if her killing someone is completely normal in your world before turning back around so you can’t see them panicking. It doesn’t matter though, the way they move their hands erratically and have to take deep breaths from raising their voices in fear is enough knowledge.

They come back a few minutes later, the fear still there as they stand in front of you. You don’t ask what plan they’ve come up with now, and they don’t tell you.

You guys sit in silence for a second before you glance at your earbuds and ask, “Do you guys like jazz tunes?” The boys stare at you with a confused expression.

“Um..…no. Why? Is that what you were listening to?”

“No. It’s just a conversation starter. The quiet was getting kinda awkward.”

The silence is back again, before you begin to quietly hum the tune of the song you were listening to before they interrupted your state of happiness. “So…..did you guys see my amazing dancing?”

Liam chuckles, eyes not meeting yours as he scans the forest around you guys and mumbles, “It wasn’t that good.” Oliver lets out a small hum of agreement.

You scoff, eyes falling to your legs as you whisper under your breath, “Well damn. I’m definitely letting my girl kill you now.”

Suddenly, a few yards away, there is a loud scream that could make someone's ear eardrums bleed. It isn’t one of fear or sadness, but of anger. The boy’s eyes widen and they begin to spin in circles to try and keep track of the attacker as they pull out their weapons. You just smile.

The sound of someone running is what finally snaps them out of their panic enough to try running away, but she’s already there using the end of her spear to hit one's back so hard he falls forward and pulls the other one of one backwards and throws him on the ground by his armor.

The first boy she pushes tries to get up and scurry away, but she simply places her foot on his back and presses so down with her boot with enough pressure he looks ready to cry. He really should be wearing armor.

“Clar! Clar, it’s fine! I’m fine!” You shout when the fear starts to set in that she might actually hurt them, and she doesn’t even seem like she’s listening as she twists her spear in a circle and looks towards the other boy with a grin on her face that you know all too well. She’s going to kill them.

You begin to try and pry your hands out of the rope so hard it begins to shred your skin like paper in hopes of stopping her from doing something she’ll get in so much trouble for, and it’s only when you let out a small whimper of pain does Clarisse stop her actions. The grin falls from her face, and her foot releases the boy as she hurries over to you.

Both boys get up off the dirt, stumbling over their own feet as they begin to run back into the forest to hide from Clarisse. “You touch them again and I’ll kill you in ways even my father couldn’t imagine!” She screams over her shoulder in a terrifying voice, and the way she then turns to you with a sweet smile would be weird to anyone else. It only comforts you.

“I’m so sorry sunshine. I’m so sorry I let them hurt you.” She whispers as she uses the sharpest part of her spear to cut the ropes off. You sigh in relief, bringing them to your lap so you can gently caress them. There are red marks surrounding them, some of which you can already tell are going to bruise and one with a small cut on it from the rope and bark on the tree rubbing on your skin.

Your girlfriend looks guilty, so when she begins to spill even more apologizes you shut her up with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay Clar. I’m okay. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” She shakes her head no and you watch with a small smile as she uses the most gentle touch you’ve ever felt to pick up your wrists and assess the injury.

“Really. I’m fine. It’s just some rope burn.” She hums in understanding, bringing them up to her lips one by one to place a feather light kiss on the red spots. “Better?” The curly haired girl asks with a small smile.

“Much.” She nods, letting out one more apology before she picks you up bridal style and begins to walk back in the direction of camp. It’s only when you make it to the edge of the clearing and the cabins, mess hall, and big house come into view do you realize she’s not taking you back to your team's territory.

When you go to ask where she’s taking you, but she just shh’s you and takes the trail to the infirmary. In the distance, the conch shell sounds, signaling the end of the game. It’s followed by the familiar cheers of your team, making you feel bad.

“I’m really sorry Clar. I could have walked myself. I’m so sorry” She just shakes her head, walking into the small building that only has about three Apollo children in it, the kids who don’t like to play capture the flag and volunteer to stay in the infirmary in case someone needs medical help. You know them, sending them all bright smiles and they do the same.

She sets you down on a gurney, a quick glare to the boy standing awkwardly a few feet away with a clipboard is all he needs to run over and begin gently cradling your arms to wrap your wrist’s. His name is Jamie, and he’s the quietest out of all of your siblings. Even with his silence, you know he’s an absolute sweetheart after nights spent painting with him or enjoy a walk in the sun together.

“Just take off the bandages to ice them every once and a while, and you should feel fine in a few days.” He mumbles before scurrying off to do something else, but in reality you know he’s just trying to get away from the girl who now stands at the edge of your bed like a guard. My protector.

You stand up, slowly walking towards her and wrapping your arms around the back of her neck. “You know, your siblings are beginning to despise me for being the reason you guys are losing.”

She shrugs, a small smile making its way onto her face. “Let them. They ever talk shit, you come to me. I’ll deal with it. Until then, they can despise you in silence. I’m just happy you’re okay sunshine.”

“Thanks to you. My protector.” With that she chuckles, leaning down to kiss you as your arms tighten around her.

“But I’m definitely getting Chiron to change the Apollo cabin to our team.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson series #clarisse la rue x you #ares god of war #once again i don't know how to write endings

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lullaebies · 7 months ago

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Aegon III and Jaehaera had known from the night they should've consumated their marriage, that they never will — their one agreement had always been to reach an age they can petition for annulment.

When the time comes, it is harder to come to terms with it than expected. read on ao3. 💚

Annulment.

It is all Jaehaera ever wanted, as far as she remembers. The moment her grandmother died, she had been struck with how helpless she was in this Red Keep of terrors. Attempts on her life were made, more than once. Her Father may have once begrudgingly agreed to her betrothal, but he had not once thought it would come to fruition.

Made Queen at a young age, to a boy who shares her father’s namesake but could never share affection with her, she had always figured it would be easier to leave. To Oldtown, the home her grandmother always praised, or anywhere else, far, far away.

Her husband, surprisingly, never disagreed with this idea. She had been twelve, when they first had this conversation. She just had her first moonblood, and had been truly ready to pull a knife on her King if he tried to touch her in any capacity.

Yet Aegon the Third reached for nobody, and the same night he stood by her and disavowed any vow their marriage had been founded on. He had been fifteen, the age her father already held her and her late twin in his arms, but he had no thirst for flesh of anybody — and most exceptionally, not of her.

That night had been the first time he made her cry. Cry of joy, that is; he told her he will not take her, and instead, that he is willing to listen and help her to where she may wish to take herself. That it may take time, but they could annul the marriage on grounds of it providing no children, given she is willing to wait and accept infertility as a guise.

Jaehaera was not stupid then nor now. She knows that he could kick her or axe her for false treasons if he wanted. He had given her a fair choice, for a respectful setting aside. Grandmother may have been disappointed in her, for not carving his heart out his chest and fighting for the crown, but he offered her easy freedom. And she wanted it so badly.

“You’ll be allowed to leave wherever you want. I swear you this on my mother’s memory.”

She cared none for his mother nor her memory, but she had known this opportunity is all she could ask for. She accepted it when she was twelve, not knowing if he would be true to his word, but alas, the time came.

Dressed in the darkest of colors in broad daylight, he comes to her rooms one day with an enchanting, rare smile on his pallored face.

“The Small Council had brought up the issue of an heir,” he tells her. “I believe it is time for our ploy.”

Jaehaera inhales deeply, before rising from her seat. She smiles at him back.

—

Aegon is rather content with himself as he walks about the Keep.

He is twenty years of age, and his councilmen are livid with him. He had been recluse from holding courts, and hearing petitions; Viserys had to drag him by the ear to the ugly chair of swords. ‘ You do not appear enough in public, they are berating you in the streets!’ is a common complaint he hears, ever so directly only from Viserys, but in softer words from the councilmen at all times.

Well, the councilmen can go piss on another tree, as do the common folk. He will grant Viserys some leverage alone, he does truly care, but gods, his chastising can be irritating .

He does not count more than three of his steps before he hears his brother rushing beside him.

“Aegon,” he rushes after him. “Are you listening to me? It’s preposterous!”

“What is?” he asks. The part where I told the Council I am to request annulment from the High Septon, or the part I named you heir for the while?

“You know damn well what is,” he says. “You just sent these schemers into a frenzy. They’ll pull women out of the depths of their grimy castle and blasted families to toss at you.”

“They would’ve done so anyways,” Aegon answers plainly. “Our lords of the Small Council are not men of great beauty. I cannot imagine any runs in their family lines. I only hope they’re reasonable to understand any rejection to come.”

They enter his solar, and Viserys closes the door before giving him the most pronounced frown he can muster.

“I did not agree to being heir,” he says.

“Troublesome,” Aegon answers, sitting down on a chair. “To you, that is.”

“No, it is troublesome that you refuse to do your own duties,” Viserys says. “I think I do enough for you to not treat me like this.”

“You do enough to take over,” Aegon answers. “Why are you this contentious? You’ll do well with that. Little Aegon would be King.”

“Little Aegon spat on me today in order to escape his reading lessons. That is a grim future,” he says. “And you spit on me and your wife of nine years in the process of doing this.”

“I didn’t know you as a fan of Jaehaera,” Aegon raises his brow. “Nine years with no heir are enough to know one is not likely to come.”

“Our cousin has lesser qualities, but none of those influence the fact you don’t know where to put it in,” Viserys answers back. Aegon glares at him; he may have never truly touched Jaehaera, but he shared her bed enough for it to be convincing that they tried. His brother is just being a prick — or alternately simply sees through him. Aegon is appreciative of neither option. Viserys glares back. “There was a purpose to your marriage. And there will be consequences to future generations of our family if we dangle that throne in front of our children. Stability, is what matters to this realm. Not your damn whims.”

Aegon bites his lips. He hates it when his brother makes his points. More than often he is correct. However, Aegon had done all he could to find a solution that would allow him and Jaehaera the freedom they promised one another. I swore.

“I have no children, Viserys,” Aegon answers.

Viserys scoffs. “Because you wish to live as if you are dead, and you wish me complicit in letting you do so,” he spits back at him. “I’m not your heir. If you want to set our cousin aside, find a wife of good repute and family to replace her.”

Viserys walks out of the room in stomps mightier than stallions at stampedes, and Aegon rubs his temples.

Seven hells.

—

Aegon finds Jaehaera in his rooms later that day, waiting by the fireplace. He cannot say he had expected her; she doesn’t come here if she doesn’t need to. The creak of the door makes her turn to him, her nightdress and robe swiping against the floor. Almost immediately she rushes up to him.

“I am getting pitying looks,” she tells him, and her eyes are bright with curiosity of all things. He had allowed her a prior warning that he is setting things to motion for this reason exactly. She may not resent it, but others would take offense for her. That being said, she is mighty jolly for a woman talking of being looked down on. “Did you tell them?”

“I have declared intentions,” he answers her. “Some are unhappy, and some are most happy, but regardless they are stewing over it and will accept it soon enough.”

Jaehaera nods, breathing in some disbelief. “Is it that easy?” she asks. “Do I need to do something?” The jitter in her limbs is noticeable, she fiddles with her hands in some liveliness.

“Nothing in particular,” he says, moving past her to sit by his desk. “I need to petition the High Septon, and quarrel some more with Viserys, but you only need wait,” he says. “Though it may be counterproductive for you to be here. That does not give the impression of giving up on a marriage.”

Jaehaera huffs at that, walking over to him. “Why should you mind? They’ll be thinking I am begging you to decide differently,” she says. “I will be the one to suffer their prying eyes, as it is.”

“Anyone who thinks you’d beg a thing of me is denser than a rock,” Aegon shoots back at her. He will not have her self-pitying over their shared agreement, he has had enough complaints over this. “And you have agreed to it, so don’t you start.”

“I’m not starting a thing,” Jaehaera says, holding her hands together. “I only wish to know what is to happen to me.”

Aegon’s muscles tense. They’ve both spent days on end wondering what will come their way. To sit and wait watching bloody walls while their guards and guardians know not how to shield them from what’s impending. It makes him sick only thinking about it.

He breathes deeply, and takes up one of the parchment papers and his ink. He wanted to write this petition later, but if she’s already here, he might as well. “If you’d like to watch me declare you impotent to the High Septon, be my guest.”

Jaehaera huffs as she walks behind him to see. “Last I heard a husband requested annulment from his wife for impotence, he remained childless despite having three wives, and the lady had become with child within a year of her second marriage.”

Aegon raises an eyebrow. “That’s your wish for me?” Perhaps a hex brought to word. A tsk leaves his lips— she wouldn’t know he would not mind it at all—

“No, that’s your wish for yourself,” she says plainly, and a dose of faux innocence creeps upon her words. “I’d never.”

Aegon's mouth scrunches to an annoyed pout. At times her intuition seems heightened and she simply knows what she shouldn’t. And of course, she must employ similar words to Viserys. He draws his chair closer to the table. Breathe, and distance yourself.

He focuses on his lettering instead. A formal request is not so hard to write, but he is unequivocally aware of her behind him. I hereby request your permission to relieve me and Queen Jaehaera of our…

“Relieve? Are we pissing, Aegon?” she chuckles by his ear. He turns his face to glare at her, but he nearly slams his face to her cheek. She pushes her face lightly against his as if to shove him away, and straightens herself to proper posture.

He could choose to be flabbergasted. He sighs out. No. This is not the way with her.

“Do you want this written?” he asks her sternly. Staring her down is difficult when he must stare her up from his seat, but he will not let her lose his mind so easily.

She has the mind to not be entirely shameless. “Yes.”

“Then go sit on the bed and wait.”

Jaehaera most certainly has some quip trying to escape her lips, but she holds it in well. Eyebrows are raised and eyes are widened with a stifled grin, but she does not continue. Certainly an effort on her side.

“I shall let you read after I finish writing,” he tells her. “I promise.”

Every agreement with her is kept in their silences. Flinging hands in the hair, she steps and sits on the edge of the bed, resting her figure against the post of it. She is still watching, but he is able to finish the letter with this safe distance.

When he rises from his seat, her gaze lifts with his figure. She looks at him expectedly, like one of her kittens waiting for food to be graced upon them. He blows on the letter once or twice for the ink to set and brings it forward to her for the taking.

Jaehaera’s eyes scan the paper slowly. Every time she reads she has the most focused look on her face. He never knows if she takes in her texts at such leisure because she needs further focus or because she chooses to ignore him, but he allows her the moment she needs, slipping to the side of the bed opposed to her. If she has any complaints, he can fix them on the morrow; he has had enough of a long day.

When she lets the letter fall to her lap, she turns to him with eyes brightened with some emotion as they seem slightly frightened.

“Do you think the High Septon will think me lesser for this reputation?” she asks him. “His opinion may matter if I’d like to stay in Oldtown...”

Aegon hasn’t ever thought he’d see his wife quite so nervous. She hadn’t allowed fear on her hardened face since the death of her grandmother. Certainly not to him, at the very least. He himself can’t truly ever relieve himself of his own fears, but he does know he has more control in relieving hers.

“You know very well Lord Lyonel nor Lady Samantha care for the opinion of any septon,” he answers softly. “You are a Targaryen. You will be a respectable ward to any host, and if they do not see you as such, we will sober said hosts to the truth.”

Never again could House Targaryen be seen as weak. He will never allow such insult or audacity again, nor hurt. It is why she must live on; why he must live on. Feelings of shame overcome him, all he has already lost for being a weak child.

“I will not allow any disrespect towards you,” he says ever seriously. Jaehaera’s mouth is in a thin gap she quickly shuts close, and he finds that if he does not speak now, his lifespan might thin out in a way even he isn’t prepared to. “So you’ve decided on Oldtown?”

No surprise, really. She may find herself belonging around those kin better. He wonders if she would; since Rhaena remarried to Garmund Hightower, that place is of no less Targaryen presence than here.

“Well, if they’d sober to my respectable self, I’d be most glad,” she returns to her jests. “I’d rather like to see the Citadel’s Sphinxes. ”Did you know they have the bodies of cats?”

“I believe it’s lions,” Aegon replies. “Or so Lord Tyland Lannister once told me. Though perhaps he saw himself in it.”

Jaehaera nods. “Overgrown, smart cats, who speak in elevated riddles,” she laments, and then a grin returns to her face. “Perhaps he was right to see himself in it.”

Aegon feels the corners of his lips upturn as well. “Perhaps he was.”

—

Jaehaera puts her mother’s pearls upon her for the night’s ball. Every ball has its purpose, and this one had several. Aegon needs to look at prospective alternatives to her, as well as apparently needs to calm his sister’s and council’s beating hearts to allow them to put forward their own girls first. Jaehaera laughed at how exasperated her husband had been as he told her. The muscles of his face have been in a perpetual scowl since forever, but it somehow managed to deepen.

She stretched her thumb and index over the skin of his lips, forcing him to wear a smile again. “You should smile if you’d like to charm anybody,” she told him. “Councilmen and women alike.”

He shoved her hand away, pouting. Perhaps it doesn’t matter; he needn’t do much. He is handsome enough, and eyes will be on him regardless, as well on the crown on his head. It is a risk, to force him to smile. He is no good at such; when it does not reach his eyes it looks a crooked grimace. She finds it amusing in some measure, but he may scare someone else.

Regardless, she had been excited for the evening. Aegon told her he invited the Hightowers for her, to see if Oldtown’s folk truly suit her.

“My Queen,” her handmaiden calls her, showing her headpiece intricate with pearls scattered across green fabric. It is very extravagant for this evening. “What about this headdress?”

“Isn’t it much for the evening, Leila?” she asks the woman with a grin. She quite loves Leila; she had been with her for quite a while. She used to be a cook, kind enough to make Jaehaera all the sweets she needed between cravings and tears. Jaehaera took her as handmaiden right away, when she found out she could.

Leila licks her lips, tentative in what she says next. “My Queen, I have wanted to tell you… there are rumors—” she looks down, truthfully saddened. Still, she dares. “That the King wishes to replace you.”

Jaehaera hums at her, lips unsure of what shape to make. “You needn’t be concerned, really.”

“But it is of concern, Your Grace,” Leila says. “I couldn’t bear some Westerland witch taking your place.”

Jaehaera’s blinks at the sudden confession, but tries to conceal it with a jest. “That is all well then. If Aegon wishes for another, he has plenty more regions to choose from.”

“Your maids count to three and ten in number, Your Grace. You’ll find each of us refusing them all,” she tells her. “His Grace should see the good in his hands.”

Jaehaera is surprised. She hadn’t ever truly thought any of the Keep cares for her presence much. Many other staffs she had thought she could rely on turned on her and let her almost fall to the hands of those who wish her ill will. It is hard to believe in anyone, in truth.

Her one assumption had been that she’d only miss the cats of the Keep — Gon and Lena are quite old now, but their kittens grew up so well. Ron, Mond, and Rys often played together. She thought she might take Lor with her, if she left; he is a wee bit of runt, just like her. Her husband had fed the cats himself rather often, but he wouldn’t mind her keeping one, she thinks. He likes them better than some of his councilmen, but he would.

In fact, she can’t see him denying her them all, should she have asked.

She swallows, and smiles at Leila, holding her hands. “I see good in these hands,” she says. “Do put the headdress on me. Even if Aegon cares little, I trust your sense of dress more than anyone else.”

“If he cares little, he’s the most foolish king that could be,” Leila says, pouting, but tending to her hair nonetheless.

Jaehaera laughs.

—

Aegon sees Jaehaera come into the ballroom when he is dealing with a flock of hens. Hens, being the court’s daughters (and at times, mothers), and the lot of them were sent to him by his councilmen, and most of all, his devious siblings. Viserys, Rhaena, Baela, the lot of them proving to be from the seven hells.

She enters with a soft green dress befitting an age-old dispute. Should he be angry? Probably; he can see Baela is quite upset, but he is first taken aback by the form of Jaehaera. His wife scarcely took to dressing grandiosely, always rather conservative with her hair up in plain braided buns, and her dresses styled more for girls than women. It is different today, with her lowered neckline and hair cascading down with only half an updo and a tiara-like headdress.

He knows not if the red of her cheeks is powder or shyness as she wades through the room. She had been most excited at the news of her kinsmen coming, but now she looks rather tentative at the stares, despite her eye-catching choice of garb.

It does suddenly dawn on him that she may like to look appealing in order to perhaps find a second life by finding a second husband. That is fair, he rationalizes to himself. He himself is deep in the clutches of all the women that could be her replacements even if he had no wish to remarry after. But I must, and she could choose.

Jaehaera looks for something in the crowd and he does not notice he is staring until what she looks for is revealed to be him , and a relieved, crinkling violet stare holds him in place.

“Your Grace,” Lady Corinna Tarbeck wakes him from his sudden halt. “What are you smiling at so…” the blond Lady begins to ask. He quickly removes any trace of a smile from his face, swallowing. Corinna is one of Rhaena’s friends, similar in ladylike demeanour, but even her impeccably held shy smile fades rather quickly at his wife’s approach. Regardless, she greets her first as Jaehaera rushes forward towards her. “My Queen.”

“I do beg your pardon for the interruption,” Jaehaera says, and chews the inside of his cheek when she sounds rather sincere. “If I may have my King for a moment,” she asks. Lady Corinna does not stay beyond her welcome, and Aegon is left with his wife rather stone-like. He sets his eyes on the pearls on her neck, which leads to nothing good. He ends up looking at her collarbone, and his eyes only keep straying further than he’d like them to.

“Who’s that? A Westerland witch?” she whispers with a grin. Aegon is astounded to a snort at her knowing; she wasn’t even wearing her houses’ colors. But a witch may be an accurate descriptor. She had appeared by his side as if by magic’s way. His dearest sisters never hold back.

“Frankly, yes,” he says. “Rhaena has brought a delegation of those. They move their face as much as dolls do.”

“Well, I rather like dolls. They make great company to the lonely,” she says. Aegon purses his lips. He has felt loneliness in his miserly life, but he hasn’t a need to alleviate any as of late. He doubts these dolls’ company would be any more than hindrance; all Lady Tarbeck had the will to talk about is the beauty of his jewelled crown. “Have you seen the Hightowers? I shan’t like to stifle you in your endeavors, but…”

Yet she does, coming in and demanding the eyes of all. Aegon huffs, but takes her arm in his. Even if she will be free to leave the Keep too, they need to maintain stability and amiability to the crowd. To let her go should be nothing but the last resort in the eyes of their warring lords.

“I saw Lady Samantha with her children, I’ll take you to them,” her teeth flash in at him in a grin, and he tries to ignore how she holds his arm to her side. It is easier when she starts to whisper to him about some of the ladies he should avoid as they go about the room.

“Lady Farring is pretty, but quite the leech. I’ve spoken to her over tea a few times, and she means it not, but she’s a drainer of energy. I have felt the years pass by me in an hour,” she says.

“You mean she will deny me a long life?” he asks. “You may have just fully endeared me to her.”

Jaehaera rolls her eyes with a repressed smile. “They’d think I poisoned you if I let you die so soon after my leave,” she complains. “There are finer ladies around. Lady Thorne and Lady Harte had always been sweeter souls. You’ll find them amiable, though delegating you to them might be unfair to them.”

“Am I not amiable now? I thought I was rather fair with you,” he answers, scrunching his nose. Was he not fair with her? He would not say he had been the best of husbands, but he did his best to keep her in her thoughts. Even when it was hard, when he didn’t want to at all. Viserys thinks he knows not the importance of stability of the realm, but he does. He worked hard to make sure they are all stable and well. So much so now thinking of her and her consequences are second nature.

Jaehaera squeezes his arms, looking up at him, pouting with lips he just noticed had been tinted further red. “It was a jest,” she says, sullen. “I can’t deny you are fairer than I expected you to be. I haven’t thought this promise will come to fruition; I couldn’t know if it was all empty words. But I see you have chosen a kinder, loyal hand than many would, it is not lost on me.”

Aegon breathes in. What is this sudden confession? On other days she would have sufficed to have thrown a shoe at him if he had said something she misliked. He can’t remember when her eyes had last been such a clear shade of violet rather than melancholic orchids. “I am not sure if I should be offended if you trust me only now.”

Then again, how many attempts on her life she can live through and believe trust’s a true thing? He hardly trusted anyone at all. Viserys, he did, and his sisters, sometimes— and–

Jaehaera flattens her lips against one another. “I am simply saying I chose to believe in what my husband tells me, as he proved he does not lie,” she says softly, and he thinks it another cynical joke, until she continues. “That is not meaningless to me. That is all.”

“Jaehaera…” he starts to say, but he scarcely knows what to speak next. He is vexed to dry lips as he stares at her own. His word must be written in stone, as King, but he holds her arm tighter. Firm in decisions and firm in their enforcement. When he passes on, he wishes no decision to keep him haunting this red brick castle, nor the land it presides over. He means to do well with his own stubbornness, yet he feels some turmoil in his gut.

Viserys says he wishes to live as if he is dead, but he still finds himself so easily stirred. He gulps it down, wills it all away. Calm down.

“Your Grace,” Samantha Tarly suddenly appears beside, her brood of children behind her. Her eyes crinkle at his wife. “And our royal kin,” she says, reaching to hug his wife. “I have not seen you for so long. You are radiant today.”

Jaehaera allows her a hug, though it is quite the overstep; Lady Sam does not really know her, and they are kin by her marriage to a Hightower Jaehaera hardly knew as well. Their arms unlock from one another, and Jaehaera rushes to the point of it all. “May I walk about the room with Lady Sam, husband?”

And yes, Aegon knows why she is so persuasive of the idea. Life at Oldtown would be easier for her, he knows. He’d assume life anywhere but here would be easier. He could not bear to stay long in Dragonstone, where his mother’s death had taken place, but she had managed to survive nine years in the place that hunted her family. Though perhaps it is their family as a whole .

And how long will I have to wait to leave here? He suddenly wants to reach for her arm again. He shifts on his feet, unnerved.

This was always the plan.

There is turmoil in his gut, but he soon nods. “As you wish, wife.”

—

Samantha’s six children waddle after them like ducklings. Every few moments, Jaehaera looks behind her step to see the little towers not tripping on either of their skirts. There is true fear there; there is no need to add blood to the snot that already decorated their noses.

“Attentive, are you?” Lady Samantha says. “You have grown so much since I’ve last seen you. You used to be such a shy thing, hiding behind anyone you could find, but now you seem to have a place to hide your own littles.”

“A most profound way to say I am no longer eight, Lady Sam,” Jaehaera tells her, maintaining an even smile. Lady Samantha is a cattier girl, more outspoken than most. She tries to blend into her image; she would very much like to be as brave. For years Lady Sam had stood by her decisions and rebelled High Septon to approve them as true. While not being complacent, she still forged her own life.

“I am trying to say you have much grace and wits about you, Your Grace,” Lady Sam huffs. “The King too had quite grown. You look like a dashing unit. Dare I hope there is a purpose to this ball? A declaration for a happier realm?”

Jaehaera bites her lips. She had been thoroughly glad Lady Sam found her when she did. She never denied her husband was comely, but she did not expect any of her words to come as a surprise nor lead him to his intent gaze. She never wished it to be upon her before, and she had felt bare to his eyes under the loom of his broad figure.

She had never been scared of him, including now but perhaps it is herself that she should’ve minded more. She liked that gaze, and the tightening hold of his arm. All her life she rather wanted to flee, but despite expectations, she did not feel trapped.

Jaehaera had simply meant to express gratefulness, how did she end up so chilled to her core?

“I, well…” she looks down at the floor. She oft refused to allow her and Aegon’s circumstances to chain her into reaching for him for any carnal comfort, but Lady Sam inserted that thought into her mind as brazenly as she inserted herself into Lord Lyonel’s bed. She can’t avoid the flush on her face, but she also knows this is her time to act in their plan. “I fear that is not in my cards, Lady Sam.”

The words feel rather uncomfortable on her lips, and Lady Samantha Hightower is nothing if not sharp to note as much. Immediately, she switches her demeanour to a more tentative one. “You believe there is no… fruit to be had?”

Jaehaera clears her throat. “No,” she says, voice small. “And the realm is tired of waiting.”

“I like fruit,” Samantha’s youngest child suddenly notes, holding his mother’s skirts, sniffling back snot. “I want a pango.”

Samantha rolls her eyes. “You mean mango, Arthur,” she says, and turns to the other kids. “Go look for some, all of you. Together. The first to find one will ride around the city with me.”

The children are spurred into action, and they watch them rush away. One of them faceplants onto the floor midway, but luckily their father, Lord Lyonel helps him up, and soon is dragged to help the children on their quest.

“Children are a workload at times,” Samantha says quietly. “The King seems content still, and you are still young.”

“He is pressured by his court, and I’ve never been his court’s favourite.”

“If my Lord Hightower had managed to resist pressure from the Starry Sept, so can the King from his court.”

“We’re not you and Lord Lyonel, Lady Sam,” she says tentatively, her eyes finding Aegon’s tall figure all too easily - he is with his sister, Baela, and one of her Celtigar companions. Jaehaera looks away quickly, suddenly feeling an illness in her gut. Samantha scoffs.

“If men aren’t as fickle as leaves. To think only moments ago his eyes latched upon you so..” she inhales. “His brother is a widower, is he not? With three children to boot. I would’ve gone to his bed, if I were you.”

“Lady Sam!” Jaehaera’s eyes become saucers. If she had been sick at her unforeseen possessiveness on her husband, thinking of Viserys in his stead — she could barf . “Do not even suggest it!”

“Well, I would… but in your case. Garmund and Rhaena may toil to compete with us to fill the Hightower, but should you ever need to come to Oldtown, you will have a place. Between ten children, what is one more aunt?”

Ruckus comes from behind, and they see Lyonel attempting to settle a dispute between the children over who found the mango first. Jaehaera is quite appalled at the display. Her kittens are wild animals and they never fought so hard over a thing.

Lady Sam excuses herself to go help, and Lord Lyonel looks at her as if she is a godsent angel coming to his rescue. The children do look rough to sort out; but that familial moment does look rather sweet. And it should be, this family would be nothing but teeth rotting to live with, but Jaehaera can’t help but feel incredibly sour.

—

A few days pass, and Aegon is walking through the gardens with a Velaryon girl that Baela and Alyn seemingly manifested from thin air. She is a pretty one, but he can’t quite focus on what she is saying at all.

In all honesty, he finds his mind rather preoccupied. After the ball he has seen Jaehaera only once, when going back to Maegor’s Holdfast. She had been all smiles early into the evening, but at evening’s end she had been abnormally quiet. Before they parted in the hallway separating their rooms, she quickly told him Lady Sam seemingly welcomed her to her home should she wish for a place in it… and escaped to her private quarters in a rush.

He does not know how to feel about it. They could’ve talked some more, could they not? She should’ve told him more, anything. He accepted it all already, but it felt all too sudden. He thought of going after her, but when he tried to think of what to say further, he couldn’t come up with a thing. She had made her choice, what more could he say?

I swore to her she could choose.

Aegon had penned the letter to the High Septon. The request of annulment has been stamped with his own seal, and is waiting to be sent by raven to the city his wife wishes to escape to. The Small Council had told him to do so when he had his assured pick of a wife — they never intended to let him off the hook, nor stall for even a moment’s time.

The day is a fine, sunny day, and the birds are chirping gleefully from the trees planted between the flowerbeds, but he feels properly forsaken.

“Your Grace, are you well?” Lady Daenaera asks him kindly. She is properly perceptive despite being on the younger side. Ugh. He had given Baela a truly dirty look when she presented her, for she had been three and ten… but then his sister whispered to his ears her own ploy. If you wish not for a wife, perhaps you’d be better off starting with a companion. Daenaera spots a stone bench not far away from them, and flutters gracefully to it. “Let us sit. It is rather hot today.”

She takes her place, poised in her seat, and taps the stone surface for him to join. I should at least be mannerly.

“Fret not,” he says as he joins her. Perhaps he ought to at least entertain her some. “The sun has yet to have found the way to strike me down, unfortunately.”

Daenaera blinks at him. “Unfortunately…?” she asks, and he sees the contemplation of her mind through her eyes. He feels the deepest shiver of embarrassment coursing through his spine. Seven fucking hells. Daenaera clears her throat. “You mustn’t say that, your Grace. I’d rather believe the sun a form of sustenance, if already,” the girl recovers faster than he does.

If he wished to disappear beforehand, he most certainly wishes he could disappear now.

“Yes, most certainly,” he answers stoically. “Baela does say there is nothing quite like feeling the sun upon you as you sail.”

Now, that is. Riding her dragon had been her love when they were children, but Moondancer is long gone. He feels an awful man, knowing it makes him feel safer, and it makes him feel worse, knowing he should be ashamed of it. Morning still frightens him; he is often nervous at the thought of visiting Rhaena knowing it waits at Oldtown too. Gods, Jaehaera is going to live with the pink beast as well.

Daenaera nods. “I would daresay it is like a hug. The scent of the salt sea is carried by the cold wind, but the sun keeps you warm with its embrace… Oh!” she suddenly exclaims, and for a moment he is confused, but then he feels a scratch by his pants. Looking down, he sees a pale young cat meowing at him. He quickly climbs on his lap. “How cute. Who’s this?”

“Ah, my wi—” he catches himself before he says it, though his tone falters henceforth. “One of the courtyard’s cats. This is Rys. He’s very good at catching mice, and very good at asking for meals.”

The little thing likes to persters him, less recluse than its parents watching from the green hedges. Jaehaera had been deeply connected to it, letting it into her rooms when she had been younger. The servants hadn’t been pleased with the tears he had brought to the furniture, but he had told them to let her be. Cats of all things they can manage in their keep.

He had not been dense enough to not realize that his name had been homage to her fallen twin. All her kittens' names implied her lost family members. When he had been younger, he had swallowed down anger, but he soon grew out of it when Rys had started following him around. Before Viserys had been returned alive to Westeros, that kitten had been representative of two deceased brothers.

Aegon pats the cat’s head gently. She may want to take him with her. The little thing nuzzles against his hand.

“Such a sweet thing. He loves you so,” she remarks fondly. Aegon finds himself withering only more and more. You have offered this annulment.

“Would you like to pet him?” he forces himself to ask. It is at that exact moment that he notices Daenaera has distanced herself to the very edge of the stone bench away from him. She smiles at him awkwardly.

“I wished I could, but you see…” she scrunches her nose as if to hold back a sneeze. “Cat’s hair is something I’m rather sensitive to.”

He holds himself from cussing. There is cat hair, noticeable, white cat hair, all over his black clothes. He can’t believe this. Even my most mundane of days are fucking miserable.

Aegon holds onto Rys and stands up. “You should’ve said so, my lady,” he sighs out. “I do apologize then, I didn’t mean you discomfort… we may be better off continuing this meeting another time,” he looks down at himself; he isn’t sure if the servants would be able to get the fur out. “In different clothes, certainly.”

“No, no, you have caused me no discomfort, Your Grace,” she is hasty to reply. “Thank you for your time, and introducing me to the kitten as well. He is a part of the Keep, regardless of if I stay or…” Daenaera fiddles with her hands nervously. He wonders how much she is trying to force herself to fit. Baela and Alyn surely goaded her to do her best, and had not been an unkind companion, but he needs not a child to validate him.

A rustle comes from the hedges, and he sees Gon and Lena weasling out of the bushes. Rys too jumps from his hands, to poor Daenaera’s fright and sneezes alike. He looks to where they are going — and clearly, it is for food brought by maidservants, and maidservants brought by…

Jaehaera.

Aegon meets his wife’s eyes, and halts. They are clear violets, nor melancholic orchids, but furious mauves. She is glaring daggers at him.

At first he is taken by surprise. Then, he is angry. After all he had done for her? After all he is doing for her? You plague me for days on end and you think you get to scorn me?

Daenaera lowers her head to Jaehaera, trying to sniffle back the snot from her sneezes. “Your Grace!”

Jaehaera looks the girl up and down once, and storms away with tight fists.

Daenaera seems at a loss of words, frozen in place — and he may have properly lost his mind. His legs start to stride after his wife on their own.

—

Jaehaera is reeling from head to toe from what she has seen.

It is one thing for him to look for a second bride. She knows he has little option in doing so. Despite her ladies-in-waiting’s staunch refusal to be possible alternatives to her, she had been willing to help him find a woman trustworthy and capable enough to be his new Queen, but this?

Little Daenaera Velaryon had been just that; little. A child. And an orphaned child, on top of all. She had raised her eyebrows when Alyn and Baela had brought her with them, but she pushed it aside, knowing the girl had been a companion to their daughter.

She had talked to her before. She knows the sweet girl’s exact life story; mother dead to Winter Fever, and father who had felled while waging war. Baela and Alyn fostered her henceforth, and Daenaera had held them both in the highest esteem for it.

Jaehaera couldn’t blame them if they saw her as a Queen in the making. The girl is beautiful, well-mannered, and charming to boot, but that does not change the fact she is three and ten, and most undoubtedly pushed to the role.

Jaehaera’s mother had been pushed to marriage at three and ten, and then pushed to her death as queen at no less than three and twenty. She is walking the bridge above the moat where her queenly mother has perished years before just now — how could he? He knows how hard it is to bear the crown. He hates it more than anything, how could he?

“Jaehaera!” she hears Aegon’s voice and stomps following her. She hastens her pace. She doesn’t want to talk to him; if she does she may just cry to his face, may just push him down the moat too. Of all people, how could you do this?

Aegon’s legs are longer than hers. She is barely within the confines of the Holdfast when he reaches and grabs her arm.

“What is the matter with you?!” he has the gall to yell to her face. “You frightened your own maids and servants, not to mention Lady Daenaera.”

Do not speak to me about my maids nor my cats! As if he hadn’t held her kitten in his ploy. “For the while I am still here, they will bear my bursts, as they always have,” she snarls at him back. “Lady Daenaera is not yet their lady.”

It is hard for her as it is. Her maids and ladies-in-waiting had been so solemn after she had told them she’d likely leave. It had been so clear she could barely bring herself to leave her rooms and face them without her lash lines prickling with tears. And her cats, she thought to take them, but then again — she couldn’t take them all, and she sees all too well that this is their home, that they are used to. Aegon’s hands were safe for Rys.

Aegon’s hands are safe. They had been safe and they had been hers. She can’t look at him. If she does…

“Anyone who thinks you’d beg a thing of me is denser than a rock.”

You’re going to make me beg. Beg that he won’t betray her own belief in him doing this, if not beg him to let her stay. She can’t beg, she can’t be this weak. She is almost on her way away from here, why must she keep looking back ? It hurts.

She tears herself away from him and tries to run towards her apartments in the Holdfast, but Viserys and his children are blocking the way. Naerys wakes in the hands of her nursemaid and Aemon seems to grow alert. Little Aegon says something, but she can't even comprehend it. Their father, Viserys only sports some confusion on his face seeing her, but she hears his voice when he calls out to his brother.

She runs to the opposing hallway, until that hallway ends, and she’s by the King’s quarters.

Jaehaera hears her husband’s steps from behind her coming to a halt.

“Will you stop running away from me?” he asks. She is reticent to answer, there is a bile in her throat. He steps one step forward. “Jaehaera, please .”

“She is a child,” she finally says, voice a moment from breaking. “It will hurt her.”

Aegon is silent for a moment. “She wouldn’t be my first choice either, but Viserys married her age. Younger, even.”

She turns to him in fury, coming up to his face. She will not dare speak it above a whisper, Viserys’s children are not far away, but he should know better. “And Lady Rogare could not stand this court any more than any of us, and left him more than hurt. You know this.”

Jaehaera finally meets his dark purple gaze again. It is glassy.

He nods in melancholy. “Perhaps so. But we married younger,” he says shakily. He is holding her hands; his hands are warm. They are gentle; they are safe. “And now you are leaving me.”

I am. She can’t tear away her eyes from him. I am leaving. His face is getting closer. I am leaving and never looking back. His forehead is pressed against hers. I will be happy in Oldtown. I will be happy anywhere else but…

Aegon’s lips are pressed against hers.

Here.

She takes his face in her hands, and kisses him back.

—

He isn’t sure how they danced their way into his quarters. They have stumbled with each other within. Aegon is half bent for their kiss, one hand on the arm holding his face and the other on the small of her back, trying to hold against her leading, pushing small frame.

Aegon has gotten tastes of her touch before, but he had never realized before how she speaks through it. She had never not been honest, even if lying would have benefited her, but her hands and holds are a burst of anything he couldn’t expect. He falls back on his bed as his shins meet with its frame and she sits his lap before he could even think to contest it.

Her hands do not leave his face for more than a moment, and she is in such a frenzy she seems to forgo breathing. It makes his head spin, as if his heart does not already beat out of his chest. He never before minded the thought of his own heart failing him, cutting his days short, but now he only wants this moment longer.

“Jaehaera,” he breathes in between her pecks. She is scarcely listening, leaning more and more of her weight on him as she demands their lips’ touch. It is so brand new he can’t comprehend it, and it dawns on him that she can’t, either; she does not clutch him so for no reason. “Jaehaera, wait…”

“Kiss me,” her plea is frustrated. “Ple—”

He takes a hold of her face and stamps a hard, prolonged kiss onto her lips. I will not have you begging.

She stops, takes it in, and undeniably melts in his hands. Her hands fall and she holds onto the fabric of his doublet. She sighs sweetly when he caresses her hair. He pecks her more gently, listening attentively to her soft breaths.

When he leaves her lips to take her in, she speaks straight to his soul.

“I will not leave you,” she tells him, so seriously it makes his heart ache. “I refuse to go.”

It hits Aegon somewhere too tender. He has no trust to lend to almost anyone. People come and go. They slip away to happier places; they disappear, they die, and he is left behind here.

Even those he loves, he fears he only deigns to wither with him. He hurts even Viserys in his own incapabilities of carrying these burdens. But he could help Jaehaera escape it, he swore it to her ages ago, yet he can’t let her go. You are the only one who understands…

His own incapabilities have him failing at every turn, but he can’t do anything about it. He loves her. Aegon smiles up at her.

“You can go, lady wife, when I fade to ash on my pyre.”

Jaehaera’s face brightens up. The smile stretches across her face wide with a chuckle, and she brings her fingers to the buttons of his doublet. Each one she undoes strikes lightning onto him, and eventually, her hand lands on his chest, only the thin, flimsy shirt underneath protecting him as she pushes his back down the mattress.

“As long as you know you will not do so any time soon,” she says, lowering her face against his for their noses to just touch. “You are mine while you are still warm.”

Aegon beams at her, and takes her kisses with stride and joy. He minds not a long life, if he has her to lean on.

—

When the time for the next Small Council arrives, Jaehaera enters it with Aegon, a piece of sealed, parchment paper in her hands.

The lords come up from their seats in some haste. They are all confused at her appearance; she had never been a part of the councils, even if as Queen she had a right to request a seat. The only one that remains at his seat in the Hand of the King, Viserys—

While the rest of the lot are very much at a loss, he takes one look at his brother, and understands.

“His Grace, Her Grace,” The Master of Coin, Lord Isembard Arryn, looks up to the two of them as Aegon takes his seat at the head of the table. “Is there a reason the both of you are here..?”

“The Queen requested her place,” Aegon answers plainly. He looks at the Kingsguards, rather annoyed. “Would anyone fetch her a chair?”

Jaehaera looks down, stifling a chuckle. Ser Raynard Ruskin quickly rushes to find her the seat. Grand Maester Munkun looks between her, Aegon and Viserys, while Lord Thaddeus Rowan is the one that asks of the elephant in the room.

“Her Grace is of course welcome. Yet, it seems to me something has shifted without us knowing?”

Aegon hums, and turns his gaze to her. “Would you like to tell them, wife?”

Jaehaera takes center stage, at the same time Ser Raynard brings her chair to the table. She smiles at her husband. Gladly. She shows the councilmen the paper in her hands.

“This has been the petition for annulment we had planned to send to the High Septon, you see,” she presents it for all of them to see — only to soon take it in both hands, and rips it apart, letting the pieces of it fall on the table. “His Grace and I believe it had been a hasty decision yet still. As far as we are concerned it is null itself.”

“Forgive me, your Grace, but the matter of an heir…?” Lord Arryn asks, almost rudely — but neither her nor Aegon are the one to answer him.

“Will surely sort itself out soon enough, if your royal lieges believe it well enough to renounce this decision,” Viserys says, cutthroat. His eyes fall back on her, reliable but challenging. “You better sit, Your Grace. It is an arduous path to care for a King and a Kingdom, and far more so with children to come.”

Jaehaera sits down opposing him. Aegon sends his brother a quick glare, but it soon dissipates to a smile when Jaehaera takes a hold of Aegon’s hand.

“That is a path I’m willing to walk.”

tag list: @boohoneyy, @serymn31, @dreams-cynicism, @shslkokoro, @sanbond, @tremendouswolfsaladranch dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive

#this is very long you are better off reading it on ao3 lmao #gosh they are so codependent and stupid i love them #i tried to tag everyone who asked and implied they wanted to be tagged sorry if i missed anything!#jaehaegon #jaehaera x aegon iii #aegon iii x jaehaera #hotd #hotd fic #my fics #jaehaera targaryen #aegon iii targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd imagine

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lovesickonmybed · 1 year ago

Text

to hands between legs | 18+

masterlist | xo masterlist | info about palestine | donate to gaza

pairing | bully!ellie williams x loser!virgin!reader

synopsis | ellie williams made your high school experience a living hell, but once you got to college you thought you were finally free…until running into her at a frat party where she humiliates you just like it’s high school all over again.

warnings | 18+ MDNI! bullying, wedgies, dub-con, underage drinking, panty kink, degradation, humiliation, fingering, virgin reader, mommy kink.

word count | 4.4k

a/n | if wedgie kinks make you uncomfortable or seem cringe to you then please keep scrolling and let me indulge in my weird little kinks thank you! also i dropped out of college so if any of this is inaccurate i'm sorry!! i urge you to not buy any of the last of us games, including the remaster as the creator, neil druckmann is a zionist. the second game is based off of the israeli occupation in palestine and you can learn more about that here.

“Dude you are not wearing those to the party tonight!” Your roommate Seline scoffs looking you up and down as you stand in your underwear looking through your clothes in an attempt to find something semi-decent for your first party of the year. You’ve got on a plain white bra and a pair of white hanes panties that sit high up on your waist.

You turn back to look at her with an annoyed sneer on your face, “They’re called underwear for a reason, they’ll be under my clothes, where no one can see them. I doubt it’ll make a difference, I’m not exactly trying to get laid tonight, especially not by any of those guys.”

“Wearing granny panties at any time besides your time of the month is just…wrong! There’s no way those are comfortable, like seriously I see you pick your wedgie like 20 times a day, just grow up and switch to thongs already.” Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment and you slip on a black skort that stops at your mid thigh before turning back to face your roommate.

“I do not pick that many wedgies, stop being so dramatic! A thong would just be worse, I don’t want a string up my ass all day…” You retort.

“So instead of a string you want that itchy fabric to bunch up and give you a cottontail? Got it…this is why you haven’t gotten laid yet…” Seline says, side eyeing you.

“I really don’t need this right now, I’m wearing my comfortable and reliable panties and you can have fun telling a frat guy to stop pulling on your thong strings when he’s had too much to drink.”

“My thong is getting taken off by a frat guy tonight, not pulled up, honey. Now hurry up and get dressed so we can go, maybe if you pick the right top someone can look past your choice in underwear,” Seline chuckles.

You roll your eyes playfully and decide on a cropped white tank top, you slip on a pair of black heeled boots and a light wash denim jacket to finish off the look. You want to look alright just in case, you haven’t had the best luck romantically and definitely not sexually since arriving at school. You’ve made out with a few girls at parties but due to your own nerves you haven’t done anything past feeling them up and trying to not cum immediately when their hand is on your thigh. You swear you got more action from your high school bully…

“Come on, if you make me even later than we already are then I’m gonna lose it!” Your roommate commands as you grab your bag from off your bed. You’re not exactly the party type and you sure as hell weren’t in high school, then again you never got a chance to go to parties in high school thanks to Ellie fucking Williams for making you a pariah. You still have no clue what you did to the girl for her to target you as viciously as you did, you barely knew her…maybe she wanted to establish dominance when she arrived in Jackson, sure being the new kid can be tough but it doesn’t exactly call for you to make someone miserable everyday of their life. It started with a shoulder check in the hallway and escalated to you having to budget out having to replace panties on an almost weekly basis due to the waistband ripping wedgies Ellie loved to dish out.

College was a fresh start for you, a way to escape your past as ‘Wedgie Girl’ and to finally make some friends…but thanks to your busy class schedule and your social awkwardness it’s proven harder than you expected. Your roommate Seline was kind enough to introduce you to some of her friends and you’re pleading with whatever forces are out in the universe that some of them will be there tonight to hang with you when your roommate abandons you for some dick from a sweet, but ultimately brainless frat boy.

“Do you know if anyone we know is gonna be at the party?” You ask Seline, nervously playing with the hem of your skirt as you both walk the path to the nearby frat house.

“Uh, I think Taylor mentioned she might be there…I’m not sure when though. But hey, if she’s not I’m sure you’ll find someone to spend your night with if I disappear,” She smiles, nudging your arm with her shoulder playfully.

“More like when you disappear…”

“Hey! I don’t always disappear!” Seline scoffs.

“If there’s dick from a himbo you do,” you retort.

“Can you blame me? They’re always the sweetest in and out of bed, I can’t help that I like a dumb guy who will actually take care of me after we fuck instead of some asshole who’ll just take my panties after!” On multiple occasions freshman year Seline had some of her favorite pairs stolen by business majors, it was truly unfortunate.

“Dude I swear to god I’m on a mission to get your panties back tonight, you know I love stealing shit from frat guys. I’m gonna steal your panties back,” you joke to Seline.

“I don’t want them back, they’re probably crusted with cum by now!” Seline laughs.

“Oh my god! Why would you put that image in my head, jesus christ!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Seline is out of breath as she apologizes.

You reach the lawn of the frat house and you and Seline look at one another.

“If you plan to hookup with someone and stay at their place, text me and share your location, deal?” You say to Seline, making sure to establish a plan for tonight.

“Deal. Same goes for you, babe,” she smirks.

“We both know I won’t be hooking up with anyone but the optimism is appreciated, Seline.”

Seline laughs and throws her arm around your waist as you walk into the party, music playing loudly, the house filled with college students with drinks in their hands.

You comb the crowd to look for anyone you may recognize but you’re unsuccessful, you frown and pull yourself closer to Seline for comfort. You cup her ear, “I don’t see Taylor yet.”

“Let me text her and see when she’ll be here,” Seline responds as she pulls out her phone and pulls up Taylor’s contact, she shoots her a text and while she waits on a response y’all go into the kitchen to find something to drink.

You separate from Seline and look around at all your options, you decide to just grab a Whiteclaw, ignoring how douchey it makes you feel to be seen drinking one. You crack it open and take a sip as Seline pours herself a shot. You lean against the counter as people come up to greet Seline, you feel out of place at this party but you try to ignore the feeling and take another sip.

“Hey, is it okay if I go with them?” Seline motions to the two girls standing where she just was, “I don’t want to leave you alone but we’ve been meaning to catch up for awhile y’know?”

You sigh and bite the inside of your cheek, “Yeah…it’s okay. Go catch up,” you give her a fake smile and in response she gives you a real one.

“I appreciate it, I’m sorry. If you need anything just text me, okay?”

“Got it. Go have fun for me,” you smile.

Seline gives you a quick hug and turns to the other girls, walking off to the backyard together.

You stay where you are in the kitchen, bobbing your head to the music and mostly aimlessly scrolling on your phone when people watching gets boring. You’re broken out of your trance by a familiar laugh, “Holy shit…you actually made it out of Jackson? I’m shocked, truly.” Even if you hadn’t looked up you’d know exactly who was talking to you. Standing in front of you, a beer in hand, is Ellie Williams.

You gasp softly and take a long swig from your drink, “I-You-”

“I didn’t know you went here, how’d you even get in?” Ellie asks, taking a step towards you. You can smell the woodsy cologne that’s been her signature scent since high school, she’s wearing a dark green flannel over a black tank top and a pair of black jeans.

“I-I’m smart…I guess…” You manage to say. You regret it instantly, face heating up when you realize how stupid you sound.

“Mhm, yeah of course…” She steps closer to you, setting her hand next to your hip on your counter, trapping you slightly as she gets in your personal space, “You know,” she chuckles, “Your roommate is a real dick for letting you leave the dorm like this…”

“What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” You ask, instantly regressing back to the insecure high schooler you were just two years ago.

Ellie smirks, wetting her lips with her tongue, “Nothing, I’m just fucking with you, loser. You’re just as easy to mess with as you were in highschool…”

You look down, avoiding eye contact, and shrink into yourself, “Why…why are you doing this? We’re not in highschool anymore, Ellie. I mean…who even bullies people in college?”

Ellie doesn’t appreciate your attempt to stand up for yourself, “Someone who sees a loser in desperate need of help…you still wear granny panties?” She bites her lip as she watches your face contort into an embarrassed look.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…” You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to self soothe.

Ellie pauses for a minute, turning around to scope out the house. She grabs your wrist and starts to pull you along with her.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” You yell, trying to tug your wrist out of her grip, it’s a futile attempt as she’s always been much stronger than you.

“Shut up,” Ellie commands, continuing to pull you along with her to the upstairs of the house. The partygoers hanging out on the staircase pay you no mind, continuing their conversations without a care in the world. Ellie pulls you down a hallway, opening one of the doors and pushing you inside, causing you to fall to your knees. Ellie locks the door as you scramble to your feet, mostly out of fear of what substances could be on this carpet.

Ellie turns around to face you, “Take your skirt off.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “What?”

“Are you stupid? Take your goddamn skirt off,” Ellie sneers.

“What? Why? I-I’m not taking off my skirt for you! And I’m not wearing granny panties!”

“Then lift up your skirt and prove it. You’ve got a little cottontail poking out of the back of your skirt by the way…nice hanes,” She laughs and pushes you back, causing you to stumble.

“You’re a sadistic bitch!” You exclaim, backing up away from her.

Ellie walks towards you, backing you against a wall, “I think you meant sexy, but that’s alright sweetheart I still understand you.” Ellie grabs you by your shoulders and spins you around, using her arm to pin you against the wall, your face feeling squished against the plaster. She grabs the bottom of your skirt and pulls it up, groaning in disappointment when she realizes you’re wearing a skort. “Fuckin prude,” she mutters before grabbing the waistband of your skort and yanking it down, exposing your white hanes to her.

“Hey! What the fuc-”

Ellie cuts you off, “Sorry did I tell you to speak?”

“N-No but-”

Ellie cuts you off again by grabbing you by the back of your head and shoving your face even harder against the wall, causing you to whine in pain. “You speak when I tell you to speak, until then shut your goddamn mouth before I gag you.” Ellie slaps your ass and chuckles when you yelp. “Do you still want to stand here and deny that this borderline geriatric pair of panties are granny panties? Huh? I mean, this sure as shit ain’t a thong, but if you’re really so deep in denial I guess I could be generous and turn it into one for you, honey.”

Before you can even think about protesting Ellie grabs your waistband and pulls it up teasingly slow, your eyes go wide as you’re transported back to highschool by the feeling of the cotton fabric sliding against your skin and situating itself between your cheeks. As the fabric begins to sink into your folds you’re transported back to a memory of Ellie giving you a wedgie in the locker room during senior year.

“Shut up and take it, loser! It’s your fault for pissing me off today!” Ellie whisper-yelled as she pulled the front of your panties violently, tears welled up in your eyes as the baby pink fabric was forced into the folds of your cunt.

“Stop! Come on, you really don’t have to do thi-”

Ellie cuts you off with another harsh tug of your panties, your mouth falls open as a sharp pain shoots up your ass. You try to reach back and tug your waistband away from Ellie but she’s quick to pin your wrists against your back, using her body weight to help pin you against the wall. “Don’t you fucking dare! You’re so goddamn defiant, I miss the helpless loser you were in highschool, this was so much easier back then. You knew how to shut up and take it.”

Ellie shoves her leg between your thighs and lets go of your waistband, she uses her now free hand to remove her belt and restrain your wrists with it. “There. Now you have no choice but to take it,” she laughs. You try to squirm out of her grasp but with her thigh pressed against your cunt all it does is make your face heat up and make you hold back a moan of pleasure. Ellie continues to hold you against the wall as she grabs your waistband again, “Ready for me, wedgie girl?” Ellie smirks as she starts to pull your waistband again, pulling harder than before, almost lifting you off the ground with her first pull.

You choke on nothing as she uses your old nickname, feeling you with even more shame as your brain floods with countless memories of your public humiliation at her hands. Your eyes screw shut as you feel the threads snapping against your skin, the painful friction against your most sensitive parts sends pained moans from your lips.

“P-Please…h-hurts so bad,” you whimper, tears forming in your eyes as you rest your forehead against the wall.

“It’s supposed to, dumbass. I bet you like it though, don’t you? It’s the most attention your little virgin cunt has ever gotten, huh?” Ellie snickers.

“I-I’m not a virgin!” You reply.

“Bullshit. I doubt you’ve even had an orgasm…poor thing, bet your poor little pussy just leaks from the slightest attention…I could breathe on it and you’d cum. It’s a miracle you haven’t cum yet, I’m pratically fucking you with these,” Ellie pulls harder, getting you onto your toes to emphasize her point. Ellie giggles, “You know what, you’re not a virgin I’ve already fucked you with your panties.”

You mewl with embarrassment which sends Ellie into a fit of laughter, once she calms herself she lets go of your waistband. You sigh in relief as you think she’ll let you go but once you feel her grasp on your leg holes your eyes go wide. You’re not getting off that easy.

“You know what, let me rip these and I’ll give you a pity orgasm, how does that sound, loser?”

“No, come on! Ellie don’t rip these!” You plead.

“Oh come on, nerd. I’ve already stretched them out, they’re unwearable, just let me have my fun,” Ellie begins to lift you by the leg holes of your panties. You cry out in pain, your legs kicking out of instinct as you feel the fabric of your panties pulled back and through your cunt, the fabric scraping against your cunt in such a way that causes you to begin to cry.

“Can’t believe you’re already crying, you went fucking soft on me, nerd. Guess I gotta do this everyday and build your tolerance back up,” she says in a patronizing tone.

“No, no, no, please…Ellie…” Your breath is ragged as she continues to split your ass with your panties, showing no mercy as she bounces you, the sound of threads ripping fills the room.

“Oh come on, baby, you can take it. Don’t tap out now, you’re so close,” Ellie coos, snaking one of her hands around to grab the front of your panties and begins pulling from the front too. You scream in pain and she lets go and begins to scold you, “Shut the fuck up! Are you trying to get caught? You want everyone to see you getting fucked with your panties?”

You sniffle, “N-No…”

“Then shut. the. fuck. up. and take it. Got it, slut?” She questions.

“Got it…”

Ellie resumes and you bite your lip to hold back your pained noises as she bounces you by the front and back of your panties, making you feel like you’re being split in half. You can’t remember the last time you were in this much pain and you hate how soaked it gets you, a wide wet patch is very visible in the gusset of your panties. It doesn’t take many more pulls for the panties to finally rip, you moan loudly in pain and pleasure as you feel the fabric rip against your cunt. Ellie is quick to grab you by your waist, old hand holding the ripped pair of panties as she helps you to the floor. You sit against the wall and catch your breath, looking up at Ellie completely wrecked. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes and you have red marks on your hips.

Ellie squats down to your level, “You okay?” She asks softly, reaching towards you to trace the marks on your hips. Her gentleness confuses you, when she bullied you in high school she would’ve just let you fall to the floor and leave you to deal with the aftermath.

“I-I think so…” You mumble.

She reaches up and cups your cheek, “Can I finger you?” She looks down at your red puffy cunt, licking her lips as she imagines you mewling for her as she stuffs your cunt.

“I…No one has ever…y’know…touched me like that before…” You explain shamefully.

“I wanna make you cum, loser. Wanna feel your cunt clench around my fingers.”

You look up at Ellie with glassy eyes, whining at the thought, “Why?”

Ellie looks down, her cheeks turning red, “Because I think you’re hot…and I’ve been wanting this for years…”

“You have?” You ask, brows furrowed as you scan her face for any hint of a lie.

“Yeah…I…I like how you sound when I torture your pretty pussy, wanna make it feel good this time, wanna reward you for how you took that wedgie.”

You think it over for a minute before you nod, “I want your fingers inside of me, please.”

“You want it on the bed, baby girl?” She asks, nodding her head towards the bed of whatever poor boys room you two have only just begun to desecrate.

“Yeah. Can you untie me too please,” you ask softly, lifting your restrained hands behind your back.

“Oh shit, I forgot I even did that. Let me get that off you,” Ellie helps turn you around and removes the belt restraining your hands and slips it back onto her jeans. She takes your wrists in her hands to check for marks, “They should only be a little sore…I’d wear long sleeves till the marks go away unless you feel like coming up with a story about how they got like that.”

You nod and let her help you onto the bed, you wince in pain as you sit on the bed, the soreness in your ass already kicking in.

Ellie tilts her head and leans towards you, looking down at your lips, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod, wetting your lips with your tongue. She leans in and presses her lips to yours, kissing you softer than you could’ve ever imagined from her. There’s a masochistic part of you that had always had a crush on Ellie, you had dreams of her fingering you, eating you out, hell even taking you on dates. But you had never imagined she’d really kiss you, especially not like this. You kiss her back and are quick to deepen the kiss, Ellie smirks against your lips at your eagerness and pulls you into her lap, spreading your legs and cupping your cunt. She uses you gasping at the sudden contact to slip her tongue into your mouth and you moan into her mouth once she starts to massage your clit. Your body feels like it’s on fire and you beg the universe to not let you cum before she can even get her fingers inside of you.

She pulls away from your lips, a trail of saliva still connecting them as she moves her mouth down to your neck. She presses a kiss below your ear and whispers, “Gonna take off your shirt baby, wanna suck those pretty tits.”

That alone is enough to make you grip her hair tightly and whine. You help her remove your shirt and she’s quick to remove your bra as well, beginning to trail kisses down your neck. “You’re so fucking pretty, got perfect tits…for a loser…” She snickers.

This time it doesn’t feel malicious, it makes your clit twitch and your breath hitch.

“You like when I’m mean to you, don’t you? Bet you’d go home after school everyday and play with that pretty pussy of yours and think about what I did to you…Bet it got you wet once I got everyone calling you wedgie girl…” Ellie smirks at you, admiring the embarrassed expression on your face.

“Shut up…” You giggle.

She smiles and starts to leave hickeys on your neck and collarbones, drawing whines and whimpers out of you with ease. She pulls back to admire her work, “I’d suggest you invest in a turtleneck, sweetheart,” she chuckles.

“Shit…what’s my roommate gonna say?” You mutter, brushing your hair out of your face as you try and think of an excuse to give Seline.

“Are you with her or something?” Ellie asks.

You shake your head no, “God no…she just knows I haven’t done anything like this before…never came back to our dorm with a hickey before either.”

“You’re so innocent it’s fucking adorable,” Ellie says, leaning forward and kissing you again. She pulls away and leans down to press kisses to your tits, nibbling slightly here and there, making you whine once she takes one of your nipples into her mouth, tweaking the other with her hand. “Fuck…Ellie…” you whine, tilting your head back as she worships your tits.

She trails a hand down to your cunt, slapping it lightly, making you yelp. She laughs softly and presses her ring and middle finger against your folds, swiping up some of your slick and bringing her fingers up to her mouth to taste you. She takes her fingers into her mouth and sucks your slick off, moaning at the taste, “You taste as good as you look, sweet girl.”

She leans forward to kiss you and slowly slips two fingers inside of you, you gasp against her lips and buck your hips forward. “Oh fuck…”

“I haven’t even started baby,” she laughs. She begins to pump her fingers in and out of your cunt, whispering praises to you as she brushes her thumb against your cunt. She bites her lip as you whine her name, reaching out to grip the bed sheets. “You’re so tight, bet you’ve been needing this huh…”

“Y-Yes mommy, needed it so bad,” you mumble, too engrossed in your own pleasure to truly realize the words leaving your lips.

Ellie stops and tilts her head, looking at you with her jaw dropped, “Did you…did you just call me mommy?”

“Fuck…I-I’m so sorry, it just sli-” Ellie cuts you off by resuming her pace, speeding up her movements quickly to make you fall apart.

“Tell mommy how fucking good it feels,” Ellie commands.

You’re quick to follow her orders, muttering pathetically about how good she’s making you feel. “Mommy…I fucking…I’m so close, need to…”

“Need to cum, don’t you pretty girl? Gonna make you cum, gonna make my pretty baby make a mess all over my lap.” Ellie curves her fingers inside you, hitting right where you need until it sends you over the edge. You let out a string of moans as you collapse forward onto Ellie, burying your face in her neck and you moan incoherently. Ellie works you through your orgasm, rubbing your back whispering praises as you come down. She sucks your juices off her fingers, continuing to rub your back and praise you as you catch your breath.

“Fuck…thank you…” You whisper, your head still buried in the crook of her neck.

Ellie smiles and pulls you close to her, “Anytime, loser.”

You roll your eyes and giggle, the word no longer feels hurtful but instead playful. Ellie pulls you off her lap and grabs your ripped panties off the floor, using them to clean you up. “These are coming home with me,” Ellie says, holding the ripped fabric up in front of your face.

You try to snatch them away from her but she’s quicker than you, stuffing them in her back pocket. “Nuh uh, these are mine now, loser. Need something to help me get off when I think about this again.”

She helps you redress and tries to help fix your hair and smudged makeup, it’s all futile thanks to the hickeys she decorated your neck and collarbones with. “You know it’s pretty dark out there, I doubt anyone will notice,” Ellie says, motioning to your hickeys.

You roll your eyes and give her a look that says ‘really?’ “Ellie, these are impossible to miss, my roommate is never gonna let me live it down.”

“I can’t help that I’m so good at humiliating you,” Ellie giggles, wrapping her arms around your waist, nuzzling her face into your neck.

“Shut up and take me back to my dorm,” you say playfully, nudging her with your head.

“Round two?” She asks hopefully.

“I’ll consider it…”

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