#and why would they shoot it like that unless they wanted us to think these two characters will be in love bc they keep looking

[your-ne1ghbor]

Official redesign of

the one...

the only...

Queen Agatha !!!

(Design Update) (FW: Missing Eye)

So here is my new design of our Queen, Agatha!

Now you may be wondering:

What was wrong with the old design? Why did I change it?

Well, I have a few reasons why I wanted to change it.

(FW lots of words lol)

NUMERO I

First of all, her old design was very bland to me. It followed really only 2 main colors and didn't have any patterns as I would have liked it too.

At the time that I was making this dress, I wanted it to be a blend of european and greek dresses, but I later went on full greek because I honestly thought it would just fit her better, plus lowkey greek dresses are cool af.

Not only that, I'm not very good with patterns. Patterns for me don't come as easily-

So my goal with this new dress is to not only make it look visually better, but also allow me to experiment with patterns that I pretty much easily came up on my own with some ideas from my friends like @xesnox for helping me with the color pallet.

detailed top ^

Better look at bottom ^

I like to think that the bottom of her new dress is to represent petals, however has a close up flower and thorn embroidery throughout to make it look like there could be something wrong, or that she is hiding something (there is more of that but that's for you to interpret for yourself :DD).

I stuck with the gold since I overall liked it on her originally, and used a cooler color like green to counter act with the warm colors. I did have green in her original design, but it was only as a ear piece, so I really wouldn't call it very present.

Also for a random design detail mention (probs not important but thought it would be fun to mention) since in my AU, she is technically also a archer, I do imagine her to be a bit bulky. I think it overall makes sense since she is a archer, she will probably be very fit lmao

NUMERO II

2nd of all, is for lore reasons. I changed the placement of the scar since how she got her eye removed is very different from how it originally was. It still sucks for her, but it still generally looks better.

(forgot her hair streak here lmao)

So in my version of the story, Agatha is not only a alchemist, but she is a archer as well. It's to follow the design themes of the sun and moon dyamic I have for both Agatha and Magnus that lacked in the original design.

Agatha more so listens to her enemies, to learn more about them, before striking. However I'm mixed if she is more in the public eye than Magnus since they both fr do weird things in the basement 😭

I also wanted to weaponise this in a more fun way that represents how she acts, and the bow fits way to well for her. Not only that, but she can use the arrows to attach her potions to so when they land on her opponent, they're in for a nasty surprise. It's also kind of scary when you don't know where she is. Especially when she uses a specific potion that produces fog.

In my anniversary post, although I did say she was a great archer, I would want to just confirm that she on here yk?

I did show art of her younger self holding bows before too lmao. Tid bit of foreshadowing heheh 👹

^younger self with bow n arrow

HOWEVER, she does indeed have flaws with her bow. During the war and before the incident, she has been able to shoot her targets very well. The way she held it then is different from how she holds it now. Her left arm held the bow, and her right arm held the arrow and string, and used her right eye for the aim. When she lost it, she had to switch to her left eye to become her dominant eye in archery, including changing her positioning (although I was reading somewhere that they don't have to change it but Im not sure if that will be in the overall cannon unless otherwise mentioned).

Ofc when when reducing your vision to one eye, you tend to have a problem with aim and depth of field. Not only that for some people it can be very disorienting or uncomfortable, especially when not using their dominant eye for aim. During some parts of the story, (maybe a introduction?) she is shooting arrows at the targets missing just by a few centimeters. It still would show she is a good archer, but needs practice. Or maybe that is for when she started picking it up again after the incident and she started doing a lot better on that. I do want some struggle, even if it is a little bit.

And no, she didn't learn it for the sake of warfare, she learned it because she wanted too and is one of her hobbies. Agatha was able to combined both her favorite things that she is passionate about into something that is quite deadly. One of the other things she did learn for warfare is a sword, but it is really incase she ends in a close combat fight (which is more on Magnus' fighting style than hers).

Also I feel like Magnus and Agatha would train together! Its cute tbh they do it often to be genuinely be more prepared in case anything bad happened (they have a serious case of starnoia) or for fun lol

For the type of bow that she should use I'm SUPER mixed on. I've been learning and researching a bit on weaponry especially on bows and arrows, so I'm not super knowledgeable on what bow + arrows would accurately fit her design at the moment or what type it should be appropriate for. If someone randomly on here has suggestions on what type of bow she should have, let me know :D

I just know how most of them should be shaped 💔

^ btw this is a horse bow which is genuinely used more for fast reloading. There is a variety of different shapes, some that work differently than the one I showed above, I just wanted to show a example of a bow for an idea.

Extra

Thats all my main reasons for why I changed her outfit.

Though I how I came up with it was honestly really fast. It was like I knew what I wanted to fix and did it ykyk

Anyways-

These were my original sketches of her new design. I went with a combo of the first and 2nd one since the cape was there for like potions, but then I thought it would just be better for a utility belt for her potions instead of a cloak for it.

The utility belt will be for occasions for when she is in a battle. She doesn't wear it often, though her reg belt has attachments for her stuff in case she needs it.

And as I said before I wanted the outfit to have more patterns and have a better shape, and I think this design does better capture how I wanted her to look ✨️

Character Sheet

Here's her Character Ref for anyone who wants to draw her :D

also one of my friends said that she reminded them of Artemis from Greek Mythology, and lowkey that fits her too well soo yeah✨

Hairstyles

I wanted to do this for Asha in her character sheet but I'll add that later for her.

Just know that Agatha and Asha does have multiple hairstyles that would vary on what they are doing or as character development.

I had said in her original character design sheet that in the past she always put her hair in a braid to show how put together she is as her hair not being in a braid shows her how not well she is doing mentally.

This is still somewhat cannon, just that it is slightly different. It's just was more in a tight ponytail instead of a braid for her past self since thats how she always styled it in war.

Between Agatha's current self and her past self, I would say that her hair back then was put up nice and tight, as her current self keeps it more loose.

Agatha would put her hair up though, but for special occasions:

Making potions

Going out in public

Gathering materials

Hunting a certain...someone

Just saying that her hair really depends on the situation, it's just more loose than how it was back then.

Updated lore

Not much was very updated from my old ref sheet on Agatha, just some added things.

Agatha saved Magnus from the incident (given how he got his scar on his face, it's safe to say that he was knocked out afterwards so that's nice 😀)

She did indeed go to War (probably had said it a lot but I just wanted to confirm it)

She is from Greece ✨️

Agatha sometimes has to hide animals from Asha that she needs for potion making since Asha will free them (annoyingly)

She self taught herself alchemy (said it in my anniversary post, but wanted it here too)

Certified Star and heretic hater 👹

Around 6'0 tall (always has been taller than Magnus lmao)

^incident Agatha and Magnus

Thats all I can say without spoiling more. There is definitely a lot more negatives, but that is just VERY spoilery.

if you want to read more on her lore, heres what you can read on my old ref sheet here.

Anyways uhhh yeah.

Concluding Thoughts

I don't really have anything else to add lol

uhhh anyways yeah thats her new design, hope you guys like it as much as I do 😀👍

Btw Magnus and Agatha don't hate each other or anything, they love each other passionately if you're curious to know on how their dyamic is presented in my au.

And Asha can confirm it, she lives with them 💀

(I think my post on Game Night really hammers it home...)

(Ooo spooky glimpse of Magnus' updated design crazyy)

Uhm yeah

@jojo-ker06 @spectator-zee @rascalentertainments @oh-shtars

@thesafireartist @snackara @pinkninja0708 @cielos-pintados

@chillwildwave @starss-artss @evestarsart @a-storytellers-wish

[altsunthinkable]

So I was telling my mother (who watches 911 but like in a normal general audience way) about the whole alive Bobby theory today. And in running it down for her, I finally settled on the things that make me most lean towards believing it.

1. Oliver sharing the "buried alive" script page. Now, I actually do think the script page was fake and posted as an April Fools joke (particularly because JLH also posted it but it wasn't legible enough so then Oliver did it too). BUT given that Oliver is aware how fans scrutinize his social media activities and he has outright said he didn't want fans to feel mislead if he "liked" Buddie stuff so he wasn't going to do it anymore... would he really go along with a joke saying Bobby was alive if that isn't going to end up being the case? It wouldn't seem to fit with the care he's shown towards fans' expectations in the past.

2. Oliver's post about Peter saying "we miss you at work with us every day" when we know for a fact he's been on set pretty much this whole time. Not "we will miss you." But something we know to actually be false because he hasn't been missing yet.

3. Oliver sharing then deleting the two photos of Brad Torrence just hours after the funeral scenes were shot downtown. It wasn't just one photo which could have been an accidental "oops I didn't mean to tap that one" share. It was two separate photos. We all thought it was odd at the time and wondered what it was about. But then someone (I'm sorry I don't remember who) pointed out what the suicidal Hotshots fan said in 8x08: "You're my comfort captain... You're killing off Captain Banner? You can't! ... Do you realize how many people would be devastated if you did that?" Brad dismisses it as 2 days on TMZ tops. The fan then quotes the inspirational speech from the end of Hotshots season 2 word for word and reiterates: "You can't kill off Captain Banner. He's what keeps the 119 fire family together."* And Brad decides he'll agree to have Banner live. And we see for a fact that he goes through with it.

4. Angela Bassett saying she found out when she got the script when Tim Minear said in an inteview that he called each cast member and told them, giving details about how they reacted (that it took 15 minutes to convince Aisha he wasn't joking).

5. Ryan not doing a goodbye post directed to Peter at all. Not even a photo of the two of them together. Just sharing a silly fan edit of Bobby with a pink bow on his head.

Those are the main offscreen things that have me 🤔🤨. On screen see also:

1. Chekov's rat. Why make a point of showing Chimney bringing it out of the lab when they didn't even acknowledge its existence while they were inside? And we had that post-episode still showing someone taking the rat away from Chim while he's in quarantine. That got cut from the episode but was apparently important enough to write and to shoot.

2. The awkward and otherwise unnecessary cut from Chimney on the phone with Maddie saying "he knew" to the 4 nameless faceless people in hazmat suits caring out the already closed body bag before panning to Bobby's helmet on the floor. It's awkward AF. If they wanted the helmet shot for emotional punch they could have gone just to it. Or panned across some of the blood Bobby had coughed up on the floor and then settled on the helmet. Or maybe even from Bobby's boots and legs from where he died knelt at that table to his helmet. The shot of the body bag being carried out by unknown people was completely out of place. Unless it's important that we know that.

3. The choice of Work Song. We know this show loves itself some on the nose musical choices. "No grave can hold my body down. I'll crawl home to her." There so many songs about death and loss they could have used to just as poignant an end. But this is what they picked.

---

*Tim has cited the Captain Banner stuff in interviews saying it was him choreographing his intentions to kill Bobby. But given Oliver's choice to share those pics when it was already clear fans had figured it out it was Bobby's funeral being filmed, I can just as easily see it being Tim feeling incredibly pleased with himself and clever that he told us exactly what was going to happen - Captain Banner Nash is going to live! My bet is he probably was bummed out some fans were on to him so quickly so he decided to mention it to try to again say "see, he's dead!" Ala "the body bag didn't convince you?" Which is also weird thing to say if that shot doesn't end up being important...

[mirhashi]

Everything hurt. Odysseus woke up on a hard floor. The last thing he remembered was being dragged down with Poseidon forever. He blacked out before he was able to see where they were going. He lifted his head slowly, a pain shooting through his body causing him to wince in pain. He slowly looked around; he was in a stone room, most likely a dungeon—he couldn’t tell. He tried to move his arms, but that’s when he realized there were chains around his wrists and ankles. He went limp against the wall. He looked up; he wasn’t dead, but he wished he was.

He heard footsteps, causing him to jerk and cower in the corner. “Ah, you’re awake!” A female voice called out, “Lord Poseidon dropped you off in here and told us to check on you.” The woman walked over to his cell door and opened it. She moved over to him. Odysseus moved away from her, clearly scared. “If it makes you feel any better, Poseidon made it clear to all the servants we can’t harm you; only he could,” she said, slowly reaching out and unchaining him. “What are you doing…?” He asked and looked at the chains.

“The master wanted us to make sure you’re shown around. He said you can’t be a good servant if you don’t know your way around,” she said, helping him up. She led him out of the dungeon. She showed him around. The palace was covered with sea green decorations and gold designs across the wall. It was clear it belonged to a god. He looked out a window to see they were underwater with fish swimming around.

“How…” “If you’re wondering how the glass isn’t breaking from the pressure, I do not know myself, just that it does,” she said, looking at him before continuing down the hall.

“Where is…he?” Odysseus whispered, looking at the woman. “He said he had to go deal with something; he will be back,” she said, looking back at him. Odysseus looked around; he needed a way out. “There’s no way out unless he takes you himself,” she said as if she could read his mind. Odysseus looked at the ground. They kept walking around the servant, explaining different things and how things work. She introduced Odysseus to the others. “That’s the lord’s room; none of us are allowed in there,” she said as they passed by a room. “This is the lord’s bedroom; one of the servants will help when it comes to waking him up,” she said the last part a bit uneasily. They kept talking, and eventually they started talking about what happened before they became servants. After that they cleaned a little.

Poseidon wasn’t there all day. Odysseus was glad he wasn’t. He didn’t even want to think what he would do to him. After a while the servants started to head to what seemed like their room.

“I don’t know where Lord Poseidon wants you to stay yet, but if you’d like, you can come with me and stay with me,” she said. “I’m good... I’ll go back and stay in that…cell,” he whispered. After being with Calypso for seven years, he didn’t trust staying in a room with a woman sleeping. He made his way to the cell. Oh, how uncomfortable it looked! He sat down in there, curling up in the corner. He felt so weak; he will never again see his wife and son because of his stupidity.

There were still screams in his head. He covered his ears, the same word being repeated: “Captain! Captain!” They haunted him. “Captain! Why would you let the cyclops live when ruthlessness is mercy!” He curled up on the floor. Tears falling down his face.

“Odysseus!” A voice rang out, waking him up. He sat up, his body sore from the hard floor. It was the woman. “The lord isn’t back yet, so I assume he must be at Mt. Olympus.” She said, Help him, but in the meantime, we have work to do.” She helped him around, explaining the routines that they do and how he could help.

“Though you might be a personal servant to Lord Poseidon from the way he was speaking,” she said. They walked around as they started to get some stuff done. He learned her name was Eleni. They were talking and cleaning when Odysseus felt a presence walking into the room. He tensed up. The servants bowed their heads, and Odysseus did the same, not daring to look at him. He moved over. “Glad you guys met,” Poseidon said, his clawed hand coming up and grabbing Odysseus’s face, forcing him to look up. “Look at you, King of Ithaca, the man who blinded my son, who insulted the gods, finally in his place as a servant for the gods,” he sneered, throwing him into a wall. Odysseus yelped in pain as he slowly sat up. The servants took a step back. “Out,” Poseidon said to them. They all left. Eleni looked at Odysseus before leaving. “I should give you to my son so he can make you feel the pain he did,” Poseidon said, grabbing Odysseus’s hair. Odysseus whimpered as he tried to pull Poseidon’s hand away from his hair. Poseidon only tightened his grip. “But my son will end up killing you,” he sneered, slamming Odysseus’s face into the ground. Odysseus cried out in pain, blood trickling down his face. “And where’s the fun in that?” he said, walking away. “Go get cleaned up and clean up that blood on the floor,” Poseidon said, leaving the room. Odysseus groaned in pain as he sat up. He wiped his nose, blood smearing on his hand.

Eleni walked in, seeing Odysseus cleaning the blood mess. “Are you ok?” She asked, walking over, “I don’t know, a god practically just used me as a toy to take his anger out on.” He grumbled as he finished cleaning the mess. “It will get easier...hopefully,” she whispered, helping him. He looked at the ground, shaking his head. “No, it won’t. That god held a grudge for ten years…” he whispered.

The time went by slowly. Anytime Poseidon needed something, Odysseus was the one that needed to do it. Every time, he got a new bruise or scar from it. He was slammed into a wall, blood dripping down his head. “Lord Poseidon, I’m sorry for questioning you, but at this point you might kill him!” Eleni finally spoke up. Poseidon glared at her before turning. “Clean that blood up,” he snapped, walking off, his hair flowing behind him like water. His toga dragging against the floor. ‘Clean that blood up.’ He heard that same sentence maybe five times today. Eleni helped him clean up before patching him up. “At this point…I’m going to be dead by tomorrow.” He whispered, wincing as Eleni wiped his face. “I’m sorry…” she whispered.

Poseidon did keep his side of the deal, though…

Ithaca, Telemachus was returning home after a mission he went on. He hoped that maybe when he docked his ship, his father would be there with his mother, but he knew that was just a dream. He docked his ship, and climbing down, he helped some of his crew unload the supplies. He walked until a group of men jumped out of the bushes. They tackled the young prince. “Get off me!” He yelled for his crew to come help, but another group of men held them back. Antinous walked out with a knife in his hand. “This is going to be fun,” he smiled, flipping the knife. Telemachus struggled as best he could, but the men were too strong. The water around the shore started to grow chaotic. Antinous went to slice the boy's throat, but something threw him back—something powerful. He hit the tree hard. Telemachus looked up, moving away as the suitors cowered back, seeing the figure in front of them. “Poseidon…?” Telemachus whispered, backing up. An owl flew by, landing near Telemachus. Even as an owl, Telemachus could tell Athena was confused. “How I love your attempt. Unfortunately, I can’t let you kill these boys; he and his mother will be under my protection for the time being,” Poseidon said, not really seeming happy. The suitors back up. “And your time as being a suitor is unfortunately over; you can go back to your normal life. The queen will rule by herself,” he said, knowing he was getting kind of bored. That’s when one of the suitors spoke up. “You can’t take that away from us!” Dumb idea. Poseidon looked at him. “Oh, I can’t? And who are you to tell a god what I can and can’t do?” he said, moving over to him. “Say it again…I dare you,” Poseidon said in a low tone. The suitor cowered in fear. “I’m sorry, Lord Poseidon!” He said, falling to his knees and bowing. Poseidon stood up straight, wiping off his toga. “Disgusting,” he sneered. “Y’all can go now,” he said, flipping his hand. The suitors practically ran. He turned, and that’s when he was faced with Athena. “What the fuck are you doing?!” She snapped, “Does it matter?” He said, raising an eyebrow. “Why are they under your protection? What did you do!” She sneered, “I didn’t do anything; I just made a deal. I’m holding my part of the deal. Come on, Athena, I have some dignity,” he said, looking at her and then at Telemachus. He sneered, “You look just like your father.” Telemachus sat up. “My father? Is he alive? Is he ok?! You've seen him! Where is he? Telemachus said quickly. Poseidon blinked. “You ask too many questions,” he sneered. Athena stepped in. “What did you do to Odysseus?” she snapped. “I only made a deal: he comes and serves me for life, and I protect his family.” Poseidon shrugged. “You can’t…” “I can, and I did. The deal was already made; no going back now.” He said, narrowing his eyes at Athena.

Poseidon walked with Telemachus and Athena back to the palace. Poseidon told Penelope that she will no longer need suitors and she and her son will be under his protection from now on. As Poseidon left to go back to the ocean, Athena stopped him. “If I find out you killed Odysseus!” She said, “Oh, Athena, he isn’t your student anymore. After all, you said your goodbyes. He is my servant now.” He smiled, going into the water, and said, “And I’ll do whatever I want to my servant,” before he merged with the water, disappearing from view.

[silasplaskett]

so many people do not understand langdons adhd the way that i do and i dont even have adhd so im humbly requesting that everyone else step it up

[dark-konohagakure2]

Yandere Illumi x Dumb Little Sis Reader? Breeding Kink, (Little sweet?)

tw: incest, sibling incest, dubcon, yandere, infantilization, breeding, isolation, brainwashing, bimboification, mating press

All characters depicted are 18+

The words 'sweet' and 'Illumi' are two words that are never used in the same sentence by any sane individual, the man's face seems incapable of changing from it's impassive mask, let alone making a gentle expression, but none of those preconceptions about him are held by his dearest baby sister, who thinks the world of him.

His sister is such a silly little thing, acting like a little girl again whenever she's with her big brother, despite being much too old to act in such a way. Illumi finds it adorable, it's so cute how she acts so submissive around him, and it's even cuter how she is completely blissfully unaware of the helpful little needle implanted within her brain.

Illumi almost never smiles around anyone, unless its out of sadism, but his sister is the exception, the usually emotionless assassin is practically beaming whenever his sister snuggles up to him or when she starts crying and clinging to him whenever he leaves her side for longer than a few minutes.

He's especially content when his sister innocently begs for his attention, even wanting to sleep in the same bed as him almost every night, of course Illumi can't say no to his adorable baby sister, so he accepts her into his bed with open arms, as long as she's ready to accept him with open legs.

"Hmm? Oh fine, come here sissy... Your big brother needs some love and attention from his favorite baby sibling tonight..."

He's cold to the touch, both figuratively and literally, so his little sister will have to cling to him as her only source of warmth while he's pounding into her snug pussy, murmuring praises about how she's going to make a perfect Zoldyck assassin straight from her womb for the family.

Illumi isn't very sensitive at all, his sense of both pain and pleasure alike being dulled from a lifetime of torturous assassin training, so it'll take him a long while to climax. His dear sister is the opposite, squirming and whining in pleasure beneath him as she babbles on and on about how good it feels at how much she loves her Nii Nii. To say that he's fucking her dumb would be inaccurate, his sweet sister is already pretty stupid because of him, his dick just makes her even more of a bimbo.

Illumi is as precise with breeding her as he is with killing his targets, wanting to make sure that she's thoroughly impregnated. He'll have her pinned down in the mating press as his cock shoots load after load of his virile sperm into her fertile womb, not letting a single drop spill out and not stopping until he physically can't go on anymore, and being a Zoldyck means he can go for hours.

Another thing Illumi loves about fucking his own innocent sister is how clingy she gets even after he's been brutalizing her womb for the past hours, showering him with affection and praise even in her fucked out state. Illumi is sure to praise her right back, and provide her with as much affection as a deplorable man like himself can muster up.

"Good sissy... You were such a good girl taking all my cum like that. That's just one other reason why I love you so so much..."

And Illumi isn't lying when he says that. He truly and wholly loves his little sister with his entire depraved heart. It's clear to any sane person that his love is twisted and grotesque, but as long as she's a Zoldyck, she'll never get to meet anyone who is sane.

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff part 2

Part 1

Again, just suggestions that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice, as I sit here doing my own edits for a WIP.

1. Crutch words

Specifically when you have your narrator taking an action instead of just… writing that action. Examples:

Character wonders/imagines/thinks/realizes

Character sees/smells/feels

Now not all of these need to be cut. There’s a difference between:

Elias stops. He realizes they’re going in the wrong direction.

And

Elias takes far too long to realize that it’s not horribly dark wherever they are

Crutch words are words that don’t add anything to the sentence and the sentence can carry on with the exact same meaning even if you delete it. Thus:

Elias stops. They’re going in the wrong direction.

I need a word in the second example, whether it’s realizes, understands, or notices, unless I rework the entire sentence. The “realization” is implied by the hard cut to the next sentence in the first example.

2. Creating your own “author voice”

Unless the tone of the scene demands otherwise, my writing style is very conversational. I have a lot of sentence fragments to reflect my characters’ scatterbrained thoughts. I let them be sarcastic and sassy within the narration. I leave in instances of “just” (another crutch word) when I think it helps the sentence. Example:

…but it’s just another cave to Elias.

Deleting the “just” wouldn’t hit as hard or read as dismissive and resigned.

I may be writing in 3rd person limited, but I still let the personalities of my characters flavor everything from the syntax to metaphor choices. It’s up to you how you want to write your “voice”.

I’ll let dialogue cut off narration, like:

Not that he wouldn’t. However, “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Sure it’s ~grammatically incorrect~ but you get more leeway in fiction. This isn’t an essay written in MLA or APA format. It’s okay to break a few rules, they’re more like guidelines anyway.

3. Metaphor, allegory, and simile

There is a time and a place to abandon this and shoot straight because oftentimes you might not realize you’re using these at all. It’s the difference between:

Blinding sunlight reflects off the window sill

And

Sunlight bounces like high-beams off the window sill

It’s up to you and what best fits the scene.

Sometimes there’s more power in not being poetic, just bluntly explicit. Situations like describing a character’s battle wounds (whatever kind of battle they might be from, whether it be war or abuse) don’t need flowery prose and if your manuscript is metaphor-heavy, suddenly dropping them in a serious situation will help with the mood and tonal shift, even if your readers can’t quite pick up on why immediately.

Whatever the case is, pick a metaphor that fits the narrator. If my narrator is comparing a shade of red to something, pick a comparison that makes sense.

Red like the clouds at sunset might make sense for a character that would appreciate sunsets. It’s romantic but not sensual, it’s warm and comforting.

Red like lipstick stains on a wine glass hints at a very different image and tone.

Metaphor can also either water down the impact of something, or make it so much worse so pay attention to what you want your reader to feel when they read it. Are you trying to shield them from the horror or dig it in deep?

4. Paragraph formatting

Nothing sticks out on a page quite like a line of narrative all by itself. Abusing this tactic will lessen its effect so save single sentence paragraphs for lines you want to hammer your audiences with. Lines like romantic revelations, or shocking twists, or characters giving up, giving in. Or just a badass line that deserves a whole paragraph to itself.

I do it all the time just like this.

Your writing style might not feature a bunch of chunky paragraphs to emphasize smaller lines of text (or if you’re writing a fic on A03, the size of the screen makes many paragraphs one line), but if yours does, slapping a zinger between two beefy paragraphs helps with immersion.

5. Polysyndeton and Asyndeton

Not gibberish! These, like single-sentence paragraphs, mix up the usual flow of the narrative that are lists of concepts with or without conjunctions.

Asyndeton: We came. We saw. We conquered. It was cold, grey, lifeless.

Polysyndeton: And the birds are out and the sun is shining and it might rain later but right now I am going to enjoy the blue sky and the puffy white clouds like cotton balls. They stand and they clap and they sing.

Both are for emphasis. Asyndeton tends to be "colder" and more blunt, because the sentence is blunt. Polysyntedon tends to be more exciting, overwhelming.

We came and we saw and we conquered.

The original is rather grim. This version is almost uplifting, like it's celebrating as opposed to taunting, depending on how you look at it.

—

All of these are highly situational, but if you’re stuck, maybe try some out and see what happens.

*italicized quotes are from ENNS, the rest I made up on the spot save for the Veni Vidi Vici.

[pretentious-blonde]

love

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the confession

warnings: 18+ so many feelings, crying, crying during sex, smut, graphic descriptions of sex, p in v, steve in love, but also angst, panic??

a/n: this is long and took me so long to get it the way i wanted, so i really hope this was worth the wait. this is so sappy, but i feel like i say that about everything, but its TRUE

series masterlist

Steve had been fidgeting ever since they’d slid into the booth. It was a local lunch spot the two of them frequented—sticky vinyl seats, the comforting smell of fried food in the air, and a waitress who recognised them enough to offer a kindly smile. 

Janine? Jamie, was it?

The familiarity did nothing to soothe him. It was a Saturday, you were at work, and Robin was here because he’d breathlessly told her on the phone that it was an “emergency.” 

She nearly sprinted out the door, all too accustomed to handling his disasters. Some were worse than others, but she knew Steve would never use the word emergency unless the situation was actually dire.

His leg bounces, it rattles the underside of the table, causing the silverware to clink against the napkin dispenser. He’s so lost in his own head that, when the waitress returns to drop off two tall glasses of iced tea, he just stares past her, far too caught up to register her presence. 

Robin, exasperated, shoots her an apologetic grin, silently promising that next time the service won’t be abysmal. She’s already planning to leave a generous tip by way of apology.

“Okay, drinks are here,” she says, the slightest edge of tough love in her voice. 

She gestures at the sweating glasses in front of them, hoping that tangible proof of an official breakfast might pull him back down to Earth. She eyes him carefully, remembering the last time he used the word emergency.

It hadn’t been good. 

She’d had to pick him up from school—the fifth graders were doing a presentation on black holes, and he could barely get the words out between the panic. The memories had blindsided him, crashing in from nowhere. Even he was startled by how easily he came undone. 

But that was a year ago, and he seemed to be doing much better now. Which was exactly why he only used the term emergency when he meant it—and she was eager to find out what was going on.

Steve’s eyes hover on the condensation sliding down the glass as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, as his leg continues its relentless bouncing. “They are.”

Robin levels him with a stare. 

“So can you please tell me what the hell this ‘big emergency’ is about before I go into cardiac arrest?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish. 

“Feels stupid now.”

Maybe he should have worded it better. 

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” She throws up her hands. “Is it an emergency or not?”

“Yes—well, sort of…” he blurts, then slumps. “Ugh—it sounded bigger in my head.”

She gives him a once-over, her gaze drifting to the beads of sweat forming at his temple. His tension is off the charts. 

Normally, she’d tease him about it, but she senses something deeper roiling behind his eyes. 

“Okay,” she says, more gently now. “Okay, alright—whatever it is, I’m sure we can handle it. Is it a code red?” 

The code for the Upside Down—something that should never come back but always remains a possibility.

“No,” he meets her eyes quickly, shaking his head. “Not a code red.”

Definitely not a code red.

Relief softens her shoulders, and she sips her tea. 

“Then what is it? Is it your class?” She knows he adores his second-graders but also tends to fret over them like a mother.

“No.”

She narrows her eyes. 

“Your girl?”

Silence.

Bingo.

“What did you do now?”

He looks at her, and for a moment, his expression faulters. He’s thinking about you—she knows it, because that dazed, hopeful, half-panicked look has you written all over it. 

She’s watched him obsess for months, flushing anytime your name comes up, lighting up whenever you call. The love is so obvious it nearly radiates from him like a neon sign, and it’s been the quiet delight of her recent life to see her best friend discover something good after everything he’s lost.

But Steve is stuck in his own mind, once again. 

He’s tried, on three separate occasions, to tell you he loves you. 

The first time was in the early morning when you stayed over, tucked beneath his arm, more comforting than any night light or dreamless sleep. Looking after him and his supposed "migraine." He’d walked you to the door, cheeks still warm from the coffee and giggles in between. He’d felt the words tiptoe to the back of his throat—only to choke them down the moment your eyes met his in the golden dawn light.

The second time was on that warm evening you both decided to hike the highest trail in town to catch the perfect sunset. You teased him about being out of shape—he teased you about complaining the whole climb up. Then, at the top, you collapsed onto a worn log, looking out over the quarry and that spot the locals nicknamed Lovers Lake. He’d almost said it then, the sun painting your face with brilliant pinks and purples, but he chickened out at the last second, turned it into a corny joke, and convinced himself he needed “a perfect moment.”

The third time was just a few nights ago. You called him late—long after both of you should’ve been asleep. But you talked until your voices were languid with exhaustion, and as he drifted off, the words were right there again, creeping up through the haze of half-sleep. He’d bitten his tongue.

He wanted to see your face when he finally said it, wanted to watch your eyes well up. He knows you—of course, you’d cry; you cry at every heartfelt book ending and those sad animal adverts you catch on TV. Even when he manages to turn them off when they pop up, you’re still halfway gone, too sweet for your own good.

Too sweet for him, probably.

He wanted to be there to wipe your tears and hold you close, to make sure you understood just how serious his confession was—that he would always be there to shoulder your sadness, to offer back even a fraction of the care you’d given him.

But time was dragging on, and the pressure in his chest only intensified. He’s realised he doesn’t know how to go about it. 

A fancy restaurant feels too public. He doesn’t want you sobbing at a linen-draped table in front of a hundred strangers, but something offhand or casual doesn’t do justice to how deeply he feels. In desperation, he’d rung Robin at 9 a.m., muttering cryptic nonsense that he needed to see her—emergency. 

And here they are, his heart pounding so loudly he wonders if the entire diner can hear it.

“Steve,” she sighs to break his trance, drumming her fingers on the table, “what is going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”

“It…” He tries to speak, breath catching in his throat. “it happened.”

Seriously?

“No, be more vague—please. I love playing twenty questions on my day off.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated exhale. If he can’t even tell his best friend he is in love with you, how the hell is he going to say it to your face?

“I… I love her, alright? I love her, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about it.”

There. He said it. 

The first step was done—admitting it out loud

“Oh,” she blinks, as if that’s not a shock to her in the slightest.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No, I mean…” Robin sets her glass down. “I kinda thought you were already, like, there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That night at the bar?” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

He pictures you in the dim light, how your laughter danced against the clinking bottles and pounding music, how you’d held his hand a little tighter tighter under the table, how later—teeth and tongue, filthy words turned soft and sweet come the morning hangover—he’d known something had shifted, maybe even before that. A flush still creeps up his neck at the memory.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, loverboy.” She offers him a sympathetic grin. 

“But that’s not the problem.” He groans and buries his face in his hands. 

She tilts her head. “Then what is?”

He looks up, eyes flicking around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. 

“Avery.”

Fucking Avery. 

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t he the one who was supportive of your whole ‘journey to recovery’?” She tries to contain her confusion. “I mean, you finally talking to her was a huge deal.”

It had been a huge deal—which meant this was, by extension, just as monumental.

“He is supportive. But…” He rubs a hand over his chin, dropping his voice. “He made it extremely clear that the 'journey' would not consist of telling her… you know.”

At that, Robin’s face tightens with understanding. Dr Avery was no regular therapist—he was government-provided, more or less, to help him process the lethal secrets he’d been forced to swallow. 

“Is that… is that a problem for you?” 

Not talking about it?

“Yes and no,” he feels his chest tighten. “I’ve told her the bare bones,” he admits, “but she wants more. Worse is, I want to tell her, but—fuck—I don’t know what to do.”

He wants to tell you—and he knows you want to know. 

He was getting close, ready to let you in completely. But this had blindsided him, a curveball he never saw coming. He’d never realised how unclear the boundaries were—he knew better than to spill his trauma to the local cashier, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the same silence might apply to the people closest to him.

Robin’s eyes flit around, making sure no one’s close enough to overhear.

“Would it be, y’know, bad if you told her?”

He read between the lines, nodding once. 

“Definitely,” he says, remembering the warning, the seecretive nature of everything that happened beneath Hawkins. The last thing he wants is for you to be thrown into the crosshairs of that madness.

She frowns, tapping the table with restless fingers, trying to find a solution. 

“So stick to basics?”

“I’ve done that.” He wrinkles his brow. “She knows about the fire at the old mall.”

“Stick to what’s public.” She sighs, exasperated but determined. “The Mall fire, the ‘earthquake,’ Will going missing—hell, all that stuff’s in the papers. The town believed it. If she goes digging, that’s all she’s gonna find.”

He tries to picture it. You’re smart—he’s always known that. When you latch onto something, you chase it down until you have every answer. It’s one of the things he admires about you. 

You couldn’t possibly guess the truth, right? 

Not even your imagination could stretch that far. 

“She might suspect something,” he worries out loud. “She’s too sharp to not notice the gaps.”

“How can she suspect the actual ‘truth’?” She lifts both hands in air quotes to punctuate the word. “Look—It’s not ideal, I know. But what choice do you have? Unless you plan on taking the risk and telling her everything.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says firmly. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. 

The idea of you being in danger twists his stomach with dread.

“Then this is the only option.” She nods, as if she knew that would be his response. “It’s safer for everyone involved. Once you get that conversation out of the way, she probably won’t ask again, unless it’s necessary. She cares about you enough to respect that boundary, especially if it’s so obviously painful.”

She’s got a point—though it’s not one he’s particularly fond of.

“I don’t like it.”

Again with the lying. 

“Neither do I,” she agrees softly, “but it’s the best we’ve got for now. And who knows? Maybe in a few years, once you’ve both proven you’re in it for the long haul, you can push to let her know more. But for now… it’s safer to keep it quiet.”

He considers this, letting the logic sink in. 

He pictures your face, the soft ways your expression shifts whenever you sense he’s holding something back. You’d do anything to protect him—he knows that, and in turn, he’d do anything to protect you. If this is the path to keep you safe and build a future, then so be it. 

“Okay…”  He exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

He can do that.

Robin’s lips curve into a relieved smile. 

“Perfect, now we’ve got that out of the way…”

She takes another sip, then shoves her drink aside like it personally offended her. Leaning in, elbows on the table, she rests her chin in her palms and flashes him a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“Got any plans for your big, sweeping declaration of love? Or let me guess, you’re just gonna wing it—blurt it out in a moment of chaos, spiral into a full-blown meltdown, then call me freaking out because it’s an ‘emergency’ again?”

“I would so not do that.”

“Mhm. Sure. History really backs you up there, champ.”

Steve had spent nearly an hour that afternoon pacing between rows of delicate floral displays, Robin’s voice buzzing in his head. 

Keep it simple, but, like, not too simple. Just make it romantic. 

He took her at her word. Red roses? Too cliched. Tulips? Sold out. Lilies? He scrunched his nose because something about them felt too solemn—like he’d be bringing home a funeral arrangement, and God knew he’d had enough of death in his life. 

Eventually, the florist guided him to the pink carnations, speaking softly about how they symbolised gratitude. He latched onto that word. 

Gratitude. 

He watched, vaguely mesmerised, as the florist carefully wrapped the gentle stems in translucent paper. He only half-listened to her explanation of meaning and symbolism. In truth, he was more focused on how neatly she tied the bow, imagining the look on your face when he handed them over. He might have stammered something about how you deserved more than carnations, but the florist just smiled and assured him you’d love them.

He hoped she was right.

Next stop was the grocery store, where he raided the snack aisle like a man on a mission. M&Ms, Reese’s, a bag of your favorite crisps—he wanted you to have options. Tonight had to be soft and sweet, the perfect reflection of you. If everything went according to plan, it would be the start of something even more meaningful.

The final kicker had actually been Robin’s idea—she was good for some things, he supposed. 

She’d suggested he book a weekend away, just the two of you, to finally have the big conversation about his past—or at least the basics. 

Somewhere you could choose together, a little hideaway where you’d drag him into every antique shop and he wouldn’t dare complain. Where you’d come home in the evening, and he’d fight you when it came down to who’s cooking. He’d sit you on the counter so you could watch, tasting as he goes. Somewhere with a fireplace. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could lose himself in you, if only for a few days.

He’d tell you as much as he could, and you could leave it there—stronger for it.

It was foolproof. 

He just had to tell you he loved you first. 

No big deal. 

Except it was the biggest thing he’d done in years.

By the time he parked outside your shop, the day was winding down. The lights were faint through the windows, and he could see you behind the counter with your nose in a book, the edges of your world looking downright peaceful. 

He steeled himself, took a breath, and shouldered the bag of goodies and flowers.

He was going to do this.

He was going to walk in there, see your smile, and at least try not to fuck it up.

The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. You glanced up, frowning at the idea of a customer so late to closing. Realisation soon dawned and your face lit with a smile as you recognised who it was. He managed a wave, and when you spotted the carnations and the rustling grocery bag, your expression softened as you shoved your book aside.

You were around the counter in two heartbeats, practically throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you with a small oof, but the sound turned into a warm laugh. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“What’s all this?” you asked, taking a small step back but keeping your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket.

He glanced down at the bag in one hand and the bouquet in the other, pretending to look them over like he’d just noticed them himself. 

“What? I can’t surprise you after work?”

You pressed your lips together in a playful smile. 

“If you’re gonna show up like this,” you teased, gesturing to the flowers, “then you can always surprise me after work.”

“Noted,” he said. He gently passed the carnations to you, watched you inhale their sweet fragrance.

The kiss you offered him in thanks was brief but lingering enough to stir the butterflies in his stomach. He savoured the feeling of your mouth against his, of the way you exhaled softly when his hand rested on your waist. When you pulled back, you lifted the grocery bag curiously. 

“If there are M&Ms in here, I’m guessing a movie night?”

Hmm, close enough. 

“Yeah,” he let out a breathy chuckle. “Something like that.”

You beamed up at him and he felt a little more centered. 

He wasn’t going to screw this up—he could already feel it.

“I’m gonna go put these in some water,” you said, cradling the flowers against your chest. “Would you mind locking the door, please?”

“On it,” he replied quickly.

He made sure to flip the sign from Open to Closed, then turned the lock with a satisfying click. He tested the door twice—overly cautious, but it soothed him. 

He didn’t want anything interrupting what he was about to do—not a stray customer, not a single distraction. This was the night he’d been imagining for a week straight. Every version he’d fantasised about, he didn’t want to end. 

Sometimes, in those daydreams, you cried. 

Sometimes, you kissed him before he was even finished. 

But his absolute favourite—the one he cherished the most—was the version where you gently shushed him, eyes soft, and repeated his words. 

Told him you loved him back.

He follows you upstairs. It smells of the flowers you’ve just placed in a vase, their fragrance mingling with the old-book scent that seems to cling to every corner of your life.

You rifle through the shopping bag too, unearthing treasure, pulling out chocolate bars and snack packs with a sound of genuine delight that sends warmth flooding through him. In the last few weeks alone, he’s realised how simple moments like these—the mundane, the domestic—can feel like revelations when shared. 

He was a giver—he was starting to understand that now. 

It had been hard, for a long time, to recall what that felt like. He used to give so easily, so instinctively, to anyone who needed him. Maybe that part of him had never really disappeared. He still gave himself to his work, poured everything he had into it—but this was different. This wasn’t obligation or survival. He wanted to give to you, simply because it made you happy. 

“You really went all out here,” you tease, glancing at the near-overflowing pile of sweets.

“Not really,” he replies with a shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the stuff I know you like.”

“Okay, but you got pretty much everything… twice.”

Yeah, maybe it was overboard. 

“Didn’t want you to run out,” he mumbles, but it’s not just about the snacks.

“You trying to sweeten me up or something?” You cock a brow at him, a playful grin tugging at your lips. 

He chuckles, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. 

“No, not quite,” his hands find your waist, drawing you closer. “C’mon, tell me about your day.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but there’s affection there still. Before he knows it, you’ve grabbed his hand and tugged him across the room. He stumbles after you, nearly tripping over a stray book, and you steer him toward the couch, dropping down opposite him. The cushions dip under his weight, and he shifts to face you, his full attention locked on your every movement.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you begin with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head back against the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“Deal with kids all day.” You throw your hands up as you explain. “You take your eyes off them for just one second, and they basically destroy the place.”

Steve snorts in empathy, recollecting all the mishaps he’s encountered in his classroom—spilled paint jars, glue-eating incidents, that one kid who insisted on running around with scissors directly pointed upward. 

He still claims his job ‘helps’ him cope with stress.

“Yeah, they do tend to do that,” he says trying to hold in a grin. 

He recalls his first week on the job, wide-eyed and clueless. He’d had to stop one of the braver second graders from chowing down on some crayons; that memory still makes him chuckle, even as he had to remind himself it was ‘non-toxic.’ 

“So, what happened?”

You exhale again in frustration, throwing an arm over your eyes in an exaggerated show of exasperation. 

“A kid came in—not one of yours, obviously—”

“Obviously.”

“—and the dad was completely oblivious to what he was doing. I swear, like, no control at all. The kid thought it’d be real funny to pull all the books from the lower shelves onto the floor. The ones I’d just reorganised that morning.”

“Maybe he was looking to buy.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. 

“He wasn’t.” You shoot him a narrow glare. “Funnily enough, I don’t think he was in the market for Tennyson.”

“You never know,” he quips, fighting a smirk, “could be really advanced for his age.”

“By the way he tore some of the pages loose, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

He winces at the thought of ruined books—he’s never been the biggest reader, but he knows how it’d break your heart to see the torn pages. 

“Need me to help sort them?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I managed to get it done after they left. The dad didn’t even say sorry though.”

“Sounds like I came at the right time, huh?” He leans forward and nudges your foot with his own, a playful attempt to lighten your mood.

“You have no idea.” You return the nudge with a small kick, your eyes relax as you look at him, letting out a breath. Finally able to uncoil after the trauma of the afternoon. 

You refocus your attention back on him, folding your arm under your cheek so you can look. 

“Tell me about your day, make me feel better.” 

“It wasn’t as eventful as yours.” He rubs the back of his neck and offers a modest laugh.

It's been monumental if you knew the details. 

“Don’t care,” you say, shrugging. “Bore me then.”

He shifts on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for what he knows is about to happen. 

“Well,” he says, “I saw Rob.”

“Oh?”

“She says hi.”

“Hi back,” you reply, and even though you’re not looking at him with suspicion, he feels the nerves swell in his ribs. 

“We had a… talk.” He swallows. 

Ok, that sounded ominous.

Concern flashes across your features, and you straighten. 

“Is everything alright?”

When he sees that hint of worry in your eyes—the immediate readiness to drop everything for his sake—he feels a little guilty. 

“She’s fine,” he reassures quickly. “Everything is fine.”

“Oh… So, what was it?”

He takes a steadying breath, feeling the moment begin to unravel before him. 

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, I mean… no, I don’t think so.”

“Because if it is, you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“And I promise I can help,” you insist, already leaning in, your hands inching toward him as if you’ll physically hold his problems for him if you have to.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Because if you needed I could shut the shop for a while—”

"That's not—"

"And I've got the whole day off tomorrow."

"No, I—"

"And the day after as well—"

“Fuck, sweetheart, please.” 

Let him do this. 

He surprises even himself with the urgency in his tone. In one smooth motion, he leans forward, resting his palms on your shoulders. The earnestness on your face practically knocks the air out of his lungs. 

“I know you would,” he assures, voice going softer. “I know, but it’s not anything like that.”

He can see your tension unravel a fraction, posture turning sheepish. 

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curving into a near-smile. “Don’t ever be sorry for trying, alright? Don’t.”

You never need to apologise for that. 

You nod, eyes focused on him now, waiting.

He steels himself, heart thudding, the next words feeling far too big for his body.

Robin had been right—he’s probably going to butcher this. He always does when it comes to words. They get tangled, come out wrong, never quite land the way he means. 

She’d also told him something else: that the words don’t have to be perfect, just honest—as honest as they can be. And that part, he knows he can do. Because you’ll let him say them—however clumsy or messy or cracked they come out—you’ll give him the space to try.

“I… I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment to tell you everything, and it’s just… never felt like the right time.” 

He drags in a breath, noticing the way your expression shifts to something gentler, more open. The subject matter is a rocky one—one you know he has to take his time articulating. 

“And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. I know that. I hate how much I hold back. It fucking kills me that I can’t give you everything. You’re the one person who’s shown up, over and over, and all I’ve done is make you wait—you don’t deserve that, angel.”

“Steve…” You start softly, but he holds up his hand, not unkindly, just asking for silence.

He needs to do this. 

“Can—can you just let me finish?”

Please?

You nod, giving him the space he needs. He forces down the lump in his throat. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I didn’t know if I was gonna get any better,” he says, voice unsteady. “If I could get any better. But I feel like… I feel like I’ve come further with you than I ever would’ve on my own.”

Your lips part, like you want to protest or tell him he’s stronger than he thinks—to give himself some more credit at the progress he has made already. He senses your thought process immediately. 

“I’m serious, angel. I—I never would’ve even thought about asking someone out a couple years ago. I couldn’t. I didn’t think I had it in me. Hell—even a year ago—I was still barely holding myself together. But you…”

He swallows hard, the words catching in his throat.

“You made it feel like maybe I could. Like I could be someone again—like I’m allowed to want things. And you—God, you made it look so easy. Just by showing up.”

He stumbles over his words, then closes his eyes for a brief second, gathering the courage to keep going. 

“But I think I’m ready now… for all of it.”

As much as he could be. 

His eyes find yours again—soft, but sure. 

“I wanna tell you everything. All the stuff I’ve been carrying ‘round, the things I’ve never said out loud. And I wanted to do it right, you know? Spent weeks going in circles, trying to come up with some perfect way to say it—some big moment…”

He swallows, shoulders tense with the effort of holding this together.

“So I thought… if you wanted, we could go away. Just us. Somewhere quiet. Doesn’t have to be far—just somewhere not here.”

Somewhere safe. 

“Anywhere you want. I’ll go wherever you say—I just want it to be with you.”

He sees your breath catch at the suggestion, a flash of surprise. His voice is trembling, but he keeps going, heart pounding. 

“But only if you want to.”

 His voice dips lower, almost a whisper now.

“I just… I wanted to show you how much I mean it.”

How much you mean to him.

“Because… I’ve fallen for you.”

He laughs—barely. A nervous breath of sound.

“And I didn’t mean to—not like this. Not before I had the chance to tell you everything—to explain the stuff I’m still figuring out. But I did. I fell anyway. It just… happened. Somewhere between you showing up that day at my class and the way you came running when you thought I might have needed you.”

He shakes his head, eyes glassy now, gaze flicking to your lips, your hands, back to your eyes.

“And I needed you to know that—because even if I screw the rest of this up, even if I say the wrong thing or shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He draws in one more breath, steadying himself, giving you the only thing he’s got left.

“Because… I love you.”

The words are soft, cracked around the edges. But they’re whole. 

Real. 

Full.

“I love you,” he says again. “And—and I don’t want to keep holding it in. Not when this is the one thing you need to know the most.”

You look at him, stunned.

He loves you.

Not in passing. Not in hesitation. Not in a way that’s half-formed or waiting for a safer time. He loves you—and he’s sitting here, offering you all of it.

It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear. Everything you’ve been aching for these past few weeks—shreds of a story and guarded hints that never led anywhere, never made it past the walls he’d built around himself. And now he’s cracked them wide open, just for you.

Your breath catches, trembling in your chest as you try to process the enormity of what he’s just said.

This isn’t just about love. It’s about trust. It’s about finally being let in.

And God, he’s come so fucking far.

From the anxious, soft-spoken teacher who sat across from you on your first date, nervously stirring his coffee and dodging eye contact, to this—a man who’s still afraid, yes, but speaking through the fear anyway. 

You’ve seen all of him. The good, the bad, the broken. Every scar, every silence. You’ve touched the places he thought he had to bury just to be loved, and not once did you see anything but someone worth staying for.

He was Steve Harrington. 

Steve.

The one who tucks notes into your books when you’re not looking. Who always remembers how you take your tea. Who calls you at 2 a.m. just to hear your voice when the dark gets too heavy.

And yes, he blames you for the changes. Says it like a joke, like a sweet little sin you’re both in on. But you know the truth.

He’s always had this in him. 

You just had the honour of watching him remember. And now, he’s starting to believe it too.

Before you even realise it, you’re crying. Not the loud kind, not sobbing—just the aching kind of where the feeling swells too fast to react.

He sees it instantly. His eyes dart to yours, wide with concern, watching the tears gather along your lashes like they’re something fragile he wishes he could catch before they fall.

He wants to reach for you. Wants to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, press his hand to your face, promise you you’re okay now, that he’s here. That he means every word.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays completely still, watching you, his chest rising and falling as he braces himself.

He almost curses himself for making you cry. Even though he knows it’s not from pain. But it doesn’t matter. His first instinct is to protect you—even from yourself. From your own softness. From the overwhelm he understands too well.

But this is your moment now. And he owes it to you not to rush it.

Just—please.

Say something.

Your voice breaks through the silent space between you, almost trembling, like it might crack in your throat.

“Do—do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

His answer is immediate. 

“Yes, I do.”

He really does.

You exhale shakily, and before he even has time to process it, you’re already reaching for him. Latching onto him like it’s instinct, like your body decided before your mind could catch up. You wrap yourself around him, trembling, and his arms respond immediately.

He gathers you into his lap, tethering you there against him. Your face buries into the curve of his neck, your breath hot and unsteady against his skin, and all he can do is hold you.

One hand cradles the back of your head, weaving gently through your hair like it’ll help soothe the storm. The other curls tight around your back, palm spread across your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him, keeping you close.

He can feel you shaking. 

“Hey, hey… c’mere,” he whispers, voice low, breaking at the edges.

This he hadn’t braced himself for. 

A few tears, maybe. Something overly sentimental. 

But not this.

Not a full collapse. Not the way you’re clinging to him like he’s a lifeline and your heart’s been holding this weight too long.

He hadn’t realised—hadn’t let himself realise—just how much this would mean to you.

Just how long you’ve been waiting.

Your face is pressed into his shoulder now, and he can feel the soft dampness of your tears soaking into his shirt.

You’re not making a sound, but your body is saying everything. And it tears something open in him.

He never wanted to make you cry like this.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as he leans in. “I gotchu.”

He's got you.

His arms tighten around you just a little more. He lets you stay folded into him, rocking you gently like the smallest motion might ground you both.

“Talk to me.”

He needs to hear your voice. Needs to know you’re okay.

Needs to know his words didn’t just crack something open—they made room for something new to begin.

Slowly, you pull back. Your hands are still curled in his shirt, but you ease enough to look at his face. He almost breaks at the sight of you—eyes red-rimmed, tears sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, your voice small. 

His instincts push to console you, to promise that there’s nothing to be sorry for. You see the protest forming on his lips, and you rush on, 

“I’m sorry, I just know how—how hard this was for you, and—and—I’m sorry.”

His chest immediately tightens with guilt. 

This is his fault. 

He cups your cheeks carefully, thumbs stroking the tears away. He shushes you softly, like he would with one of his kids.

“Stop saying sorry, alright?” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

You start to argue, but emotion closes your throat. You just swallow, trembling a little. 

“I told you it was alright to wait,” you manage, voice rough.

He offers the softest huff of laughter, letting his fingers continue to brush your cheeks. 

“Yeah, but you were lying.”

Your mouth wobbles again, and more tears threaten to spill. 

“I just wanted to help,” you whisper, like a confession you’re half-ashamed of.

Of course you would. 

“Some things you can’t fix like that,” he says, gentle but firm, still wiping away the tears as they fall.

You sniff, nodding slightly, blinking away a few more.

“We can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

If you asked him to leave tonight, he would.

Another shaky nod as you inhale, finally steadying yourself. 

“And we’ll talk about everything?”

“We’ll talk about everything,” he echoes.

As best as he can.

His hand comes to rest gently at your jaw, thumb grazing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Thank you, Steve—fuck, I love you. Thank you for trusting me, and for—” your breath hitches, the words tripping over the same as his, “—I—fuck, I love you too.”

I love you, too.

Time doesn’t feel real. The room disappears. There’s only you—and the sound of your voice, those words tumbling from your lips, a truth that sets his heart alight.

It’s everything he’s been waiting for. Everything he was afraid he’d never hear.

You’re still crying, but there’s a smile on your lips now, radiant, and it’s the quite possibly most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He's got you.

You're here.

He’s yours.

He shifts his chin against the side of the tub, staring at you blissfully in the steam-filled bathroom. 

The warm water laps gently against your skin, and though you keep telling him he doesn’t have to stay, he shakes his head each time, unwilling to be anywhere else. The night’s confessions still buzz in his chest. 

No matter how close he’d already been to you, pressed tight against your side after the tears had finally slowed (yours and maybe his too, but that's beside the point), it still wasn’t enough.

After everything spilt out—and he grabbed the tissues and sweets from the counter—he’d practically dragged you on top of him to watch a movie. Your choice, obviously. Not that he was paying attention.

You could’ve put on a blank screen and he still would’ve stared at you like it was the greatest film ever made.

And when the pizza delivery came?

He groaned, like answering the door was some great injustice, because it meant peeling himself away from you for thirty tragic seconds.

But as soon as dinner was over, he was right back on you.

Every touch, every wandering kiss, every soft sigh against your skin—it was all just another way to be closer. 

He was a man in love.

Hopelessly, stupidly, clingily in love.

The bath water glistens around you, the bubbles dissolving into feathery streaks against your arms. Steve props himself up a bit, folding his arms on the edge of the tub, and rests his chin there like a curious puppy. He watches the delicate slope of your shoulders, the slight flush on your cheeks, the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

Yep, he’s in love, alright. 

“Maybe we could go south,” you say, your voice echoing softly in the tiled room. “Weather’s getting nice.”

“Yeah,” he answers, the corners of his mouth lifting. “We absolutely could.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I already told you,” he lets out a small chuckle. “That’s up to you.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Yeah, but I want it to be somewhere you’d like too.”

“As long as you’re there, I really don’t have an opinion.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is written all over his face.

He’d go anywhere with you.

A laugh escapes you, and you flick water toward him, droplets hitting his cheek. 

“I’m serious! We could do that thing where we throw a dart at a map.”

“Do you own a dartboard?”

“Uh, no?”

“Or a map?”

“I work in a school. I could always find one.”

Could always steal an atlas from the older years. They didn't need to know.

“What if it lands on, like, France or somewhere?”

“Then we go to France,” he declares. “They say Paris is pretty romantic.”

“Hmm,” you tilt your head, considering him with a fondness in your eyes. “Bet it has nothing on you.”

He just shrugs at the compliment, trying and failing to hide how flustered it makes him.

“We can talk about it in the morning, alright?” you say, your tone softer now. “You staying?”

He answers with a look—one that clearly asks if you’re serious. It’s a ridiculous idea and you both knew it.

“Right, sorry.” You roll your eyes at yourself. “Stupid question.”

You gesture to the towel draped on a nearby rack. He stands, water droplets sliding off his forearm, and offers you his hand. You let him help you up, and he wraps the towel around you, completely unhurried. 

He follows you into the bedroom, leaning back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

He doesn’t speak. 

Just watches.

You begin your post-shower routine, patting your face with moisturiser, smoothing your hair back from your forehead with gentle fingers to keep it from frizzing where the steam might have kissed it. It’s all so ordinary. 

He wants to watch you do it every night.

Wants this same scene months from now, when your things are tangled in with his—your toothbrush beside his, your makeup on his drawers, your robe slung over the chair you both pretend isn’t a laundry drop zone.

“I can feel you staring at me,” you say, not looking up, voice teasing as you rummage through the drawer.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. 

“Am I not allowed?”

Turning halfway, you give him a playful glance over your shoulder. He meets your gaze head-on, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile so warm, it practically melts you from across the room.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, gesturing you closer with a subtle lift of his chin.

“Why?”

“Just wanna be close,” he says, voice dipping. “You're too far.”

You roll your eyes as you cross the room, still wrapped in your towel, and sit down beside him. The mattress shifts under your weight, and he leans in, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingertips trail across your temple and cheekbone, leaving a tingling sensation.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, eyes searching and looking painfully similar to the way his had been this evening.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Take a wild guess. 

“Yeah,” You raise a brow at him. “I would.”

Still grinning, he lets his hand slip around to cradle the side of your neck. He can feel your pulse under his palm. 

“I’m thinking,” he says, pausing when his voice turns low and steady, “just how lucky I am.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, and you duck your head with a half-hearted groan.

“Stop it,” you whine through a grin, trying to deflect the embarrassment.

“What?” He laughs softly. “I’m serious, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I got you. Don’t you get it?”

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy, and he just keeps going. 

“I don’t know how I did it—you chose me. Out of everyone—don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that.”

He still doesn’t quite believe it, maybe that’s why he’s been so close this evening. 

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” you admit, voice barely there.

He shakes his head gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like sweet sugar, “hey now, no more tears, alright?”

 His gaze softens further as he leans in.

“Too pretty to be crying over me.”

You scoff, but the sound is brittle. 

He doesn’t realise how impossible that ask really is.

“You make it hard when you talk like that,” you murmur, trying to keep the emotion at bay.

You think this is bad?

“Sweetheart…” he leans in until the tip of his nose nudges yours. ”I haven’t even begun to say all the things I want to yet.”

Goosebumps prickled along your arms at the husky undercurrent in his tone. Before you can respond, he lowers his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Gonna say a lot more tonight,” he speaks against your skin, breath tickling slightly. “You gonna let me?”

Please, let him.

He shifts on the bed beside you, the heat of his chest radiating against your shoulder and arm. You can feel his breath, sweeping across your cheek. His eyes trace your face—then move lower, lingering on the spot where the towel clings to your damp skin. 

His gaze is hungry yet careful, silently asking if this is still what you want. You can’t help but nod, your heart thumping, your thighs squeezing together.

He presses closer, leaning in until his mouth hovers over yours. You can taste the quiet groan in his throat even before your lips connect. His kiss is warm, unhurried—an ache made tangible as his hand settles on your thigh, fingers splayed against the soft flesh. He shifts his weight, and the towel slips a fraction, baring more of your skin to the cool air.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your breath stutters, but you nod, letting him lift the towel away. The cotton slides from your chest and falls to the side, leaving you completely exposed. A quiet curse slips from his mouth as his eyes rake over every curve, every inch of bare skin. 

He sets one hand at your waist, the other trailing across your stomach until his fingertips brush the top of your core. Your abdomen quivers under his touch. He leans in to kiss you again, his lips parting against yours in a slow, possessive drag of tongue and teeth, while his knuckles glide lower.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers between kisses. “I mean—Jesus, baby—gotta tell you more often.”

You can’t help it—you blush, glance away, shakily trying to laugh it off.

“You’re—you’re just saying that ’cause the towel’s off.”

His head snaps up at that.

“Are you kidding?”  

He can’t hide his disbelief.

“You’re always this pretty—all the time.”

Drives him wild. 

His hand moves lower before you can come up with a retort, sliding between your thighs. Your breath stutters as his palm presses firmly against you, heat blooming instantly in your belly.

His fingers part you with ease, gliding through the slick gathered there—and the sound he lets out is wrecked.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his fingertips glide over your swollen clit. “You’re soaked, angel.”

A quiver racks your body as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb, sending electricity dancing up your spine. You can’t help the moan that spills from your lips—breathy, desperate. He savours it, his eyes flicking up to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“Sound sweeter every time,” he murmurs, sliding two fingers lower. He traces your entrance, feeling the flutter of your cunt welcoming him, before pressing carefully inside. Your slick muscles clamp down around him, and his forehead falls to your shoulder. “Wish you could see yourself, like a fucking angel.”

His angel, just for him. 

Your nails dig into the strong curve of his bicep, clinging to him as he begins to thrust. There’s a slight stretch that borders on pain, but it melts into pure pleasure with each careful push. You gasp and arch your back, letting your thighs spread wider, inviting him deeper.

“Steve...” you whimper, voice shaking with need.

His response is a low, broken sigh. He withdraws his fingers almost all the way, then sinks them back in, hooking them just enough to stroke against that spot that makes your hips jerk.

He lifts his head and looks transfixed—watching your face, your parted lips, the way your breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath. He pulls you closer to him, leaning on him, so he can feel every response of yours.

“That’s it,” he rasps, pressing his thumb over your clit again. He rubs in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. “Can feel you squeezing me—you close already?”

You nod as your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine. You bite back a cry, tears pricking at your eyes from the overwhelming emotion surging through you.

“I’m—I’m close—”

He groans in encouragement, pivoting his wrist just enough to press into you deeper. 

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles. “Cum for me. Let me feel you.”

A final rush of heat washes over you, your orgasm tearing through your limbs in dizzying waves. You pulse around his fingers, cunt gripping him again and again. He holds your gaze, his hand never slowing until you whimper at the oversensitivity. Your toes curl, your breath hitching on a strangled moan. You quake in his arms, heart hammering against your ribs.

When it subsides, he eases his fingers out, palm sliding up to rest on your thigh, caressing the damp skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, you can sense his own arousal thrumming through him, begging for release.

“You okay?” He asks gently, as you nod, still catching your breath. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “More than okay.”

He smiles at that, soft and maybe a little bashful as he leans in to press a warm kiss to the side of your mouth. His other hand comes up to brush your hair gently from your face as he shifts. His eyes search yours, almost shy.

“Good,” he says quietly, voice dipping lower.

 A pause.

“Because I’m not done.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering.

He holds your gaze as he continues, barely more than a whisper.

“Because…”

Fuck it's corny, but he doesn't care.

“Because I still need to make love to you.”

Your eyes begin to water again, but he is quick to shush you. 

“Let me love you, angel.”

He watches your eyes glisten, tears threatening to spill, and his chest squeezes with so much emotion he can barely breathe. He reaches up, thumb swiping gently under one of your eyes to catch a stray tear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice trembling with sincerity. “I got you, alright?”

So much for the “no more tears.”

He steps back, every cell in his body alive. With one quick tug, his shirt is off and discarded, exposing the lean planes of his torso. The scars he once worried about don’t even cross his mind—he’s too focused on the way your lips part as you take in the sight of him. In seconds, his jeans and boxers are gone too, and you feel a rush of heat at the need written across his face.

You reach for him, practically pawing at his shoulders, but he slows you with a gentle hand. He presses his mouth to yours, but there’s a fire underneath it—he can’t hide the low whine that escapes him when his naked body meets yours. His cock, hard and straining, slips against your inner thigh, catching the slick arousal that’s already pooled there.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, grinding carefully, almost sliding where you need him. It sends a shudder of pleasure through both of you as you urge him closer.

“Baby—slow down,” he pleads, hand finding your wrist as you try to pull him to you. “Don’t wanna rush it.”

His eyes are half-lidded, raw with passion, but determined to savour every second. You let out a needy whimper, not bothering to hide the tremble in your voice.

“I—I want you,” you whisper, desperate. “Please.”

He dips his head, pressing a reassuring kiss to your cheek. You see devotion, love, adoration in his eyes.

“We have all night, okay?” he murmurs. 

And all of tomorrow.

You can only nod, tears threatening again—this time from the overwhelming flood of love swelling in your chest. He brushes his lips over your cheek, trailing down until he reaches the hollow of your throat, where your pulse thrums under his mouth. 

He pulls back just far enough to guide his cock through your folds, gliding over your clit and gathering the wetness that’s waiting for him. You arch your back, breath hitching at the contact.

He thinks you’re beautiful, but he’s always thought that. Like the universe had dropped you into his unsteady life on purpose. Just for him.

“Do—do you remember when we first met?” he blurts suddenly, words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. His voice is rough. He drags his cock across your slick again, and you whine at the friction.

You blink up at him, mind hazy but catching the glaze in his eyes. 

“Steve…?” you manage, unsure why he’s bringing this up now. 

But he’s too far gone, mouth running wild with the confession.

“Couldn’t get you out of my head,” he rasps, referencing your bookshop and that first day all those months ago. “Been on my mind from the beginning.” He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing at your opening. His eyes find yours—vulnerable.

“Fucking dreaming of you since day one.”

The first time you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner.

In a slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated to the hilt. You gasp at the stretch, tears pricking at your eyes again, but for a whole new reason.

“Oh—oh, shit—” You cling to his shoulders, your body arching, a keening moan slipping free when he stops, buried inside you.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder, trying to steady his breathing. You feel him tremble, his whole frame taut with the effort to keep from thrusting too soon. The wet slide of him inside your cunt is incredible, and you can sense the way his heart hammers against your chest.

He kisses the curve of your neck, open-mouthed, panting against your skin.

“Fuck, baby—I—Jesus—”

His voice is ragged, barely forming the words

“Don’t even know what you do to me—feel so fucking good—think I’m gonna—”

He thrusts forward, deep and slow, hitting your cervix with a guttural moan.

Your breath catches, a high, broken sound escaping your lips as your fingers claw at his scarred back.

“Every time you touched me before this—” he groans, picking up a rhythm now, hips rolling, “Thought I was gonna fucking break.”

Another thrust—deep, grinding. You sob his name, but it’s barely a sound, just air. The way he’s filling you, stretching you, loving you—it’s too much. All you can do is take it, tears building at the corners of your eyes, jaw slack, mind spiraling as his words crash over you.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking open like it hurts.

“I love you,” he chokes, broken and soaked in feeling.

“I love you—been wanting to say it every time we, God—every time I had you—nearly killed me.”

He sounds wrecked, like the confession is tearing him open in the best way. You cry harder, overwhelmed, cupping his face with trembling hands.

“Fuck, Steve—” your voice shatters against his lips. “I love you—I love you too, please, please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises in a strained whisper.

Never gonna stop loving you.

His thrusts pick up pace, each one sending sparks through your veins. He leans in to capture your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing the moans you can’t contain. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, urging him closer, deeper. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from your face—like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, voice turning hoarse as the pleasure coils tight in his gut. “Shit—say you’re mine—”

His.

Your reply is a broken cry of his name, your inner walls fluttering around him. He feels it the second your orgasm hits—a wild surge of wetness and pulsing heat that nearly rips him right over the edge.

“That’s it,” he groans, grinding through your climax. “Can feel you, baby—so good, so perfect—”

Your entire body seizes, your back arching, a wail echoing in your throat as you ride the waves of euphoria. The rhythmic squeeze of your cunt is too much for him. He chokes out your name, and his thrusts become erratic.

“I’m gonna—” His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure. “Shit—”

He lets go, hips driving forward one last time as he buries himself deep inside you. A moan tears from his chest, raw and unfiltered, as he comes—hot pulses spilling into you, his entire body jolting with each spasm of release. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him shaking from the force of it.

You cling to him through it, breath ragged, tears still slipping down your cheeks. When the final shudder leaves him, he collapses against you, chest heaving, breath hot on your neck. 

The air around you is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of shared your breathing. Neither of you moves at first—your bodies are too heavy with satisfaction, your hearts still pounding in tandem.

When he brushes his lips over your cheek and tastes the salt of your tears, something in his chest clenches, and he forces himself to move.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges. “Hey, you okay?”

You nod, though your eyes are wet and shining. You reach up to cup his jaw, and there’s so much wonder in your gaze that he nearly feels undone all over again. A laugh bubbles out of him—breathless, on the verge of tears himself.

He breaks off, throat tightening. You’re trembling slightly beneath him, your body still reacting to the waves of pleasure, and he’s struck by the overwhelming need to take care of you. With shaky hands, he eases himself off the bed, pressing one more kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, voice cracking from the weight of the moment.

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, your heart drumming. He returns a moment later with a small hand towel dampened with warm water. His hair is messy, eyes dark with emotion, and there’s a vulnerable smile tugging at his lips—like he’s on the edge of crying, too.

“Let me…” He trails off, gently parting your thighs. 

He’s so careful, mindful of any soreness. When he presses the warm cloth against your skin, you let out a shaky exhale. It’s intimate in a way that almost feels more profound than sex itself—this slow and tender, the way he murmurs apologies whenever he brushes a sensitive spot.

“I’m sorry—sorry,” he whispers every time you flinch or gasp, even if it’s just a reflex.

You rest a hand on his forearm, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you manage with a small smile. 

He presses the cloth to your inner thigh one last time, then sets it aside. Without hesitation, he climbs back onto the bed, tugging the sheets around you both. The second he’s close enough, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he cocoons you against his chest, sighing with relief when your body lines up with his.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly, noticing the wet sheen in his eyes.

“No…” He huffs a breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

“I just… I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel this much. I mean—” He swallows hard. “It’s… y’know?”

There he goes again, words once again failing him. 

You nod, pressing your face to the crook of his neck, understanding him completely. 

“I know.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. He holds you, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, your breathing syncing up in rhythm. He kisses the crown of your head, letting out a hum of contentment. You shift just enough to look into his face, eyes rimmed with lingering tears.

“I love you,” you whisper, palm cupping his cheek. 

God, he’s never gonna get sick of hearing that. 

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. 

“I love you too, angel,”, He exhales, a soft tremor in his shoulders. 

And he’s never gonna stop. 

You let out a wet, breathy laugh. 

He smiles back, full of adoration. 

You have to hide your face in his chest, because you’re crying again, and so is he—but it’s the sweetest kind of crying.

It’s the sound of two hearts finding their place in each other, tangled up in the sheets, refusing to let go.

Steve’s eyes flutter open at a tickling sensation, your fingertips tracing idle shapes on his chest in a methodical pattern. He keeps perfectly still for a few seconds, lulled by the softness of your touch. He almost doesn’t want to move, afraid to break the moment.

Eventually, he can’t help letting out a lazy sigh, shifting just enough to capture your hand in his own. He laces his fingers through yours and opens his eyes fully, turning his head on the pillow to look at you.

“Morning,” you say quietly, a soft smile curving your lips.

“Mmm.” His voice is gravelly with sleep. “Morning.”

He blinks, absorbing the sight of you—hair mussed from sleep, face still glowing with the aftermath of last night’s intimacy.

“How long have you been awake?” he murmurs, rolling onto his side so he can see you better.

“Not long,” you admit, shifting closer until you can prop your head on your free hand. “I was thinking about where we could go.”

“What?” His brow wrinkles in sleepy confusion.

“Our trip,” you clarify, eyes brightening with excitement. 

The trip. 

The promise he made to you about getting away, somewhere just the two of you, so he could finally open up and lay out the parts of his past he’s been hiding.

“Oh, right,” he says, waking up more fully now. A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm, that depends,” You tilt your head, a thoughtful expression settling in your features. “How long can you put up with me in the car?”

He lets out a small huff of laughter. 

“That will not be a problem, trust me.”

“Big words.” you roll your eyes playfully. “Bet we fight over directions.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but we’ll figure it out.”

You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, and he draws in a contented breath, letting the sweetness of it curl through him.

He’s so in love, he can hardly believe it. And the best part is—he knows you love him too, has heard you say the words, felt the truth of them in every kiss and tear shed last night. 

“How about I make some coffee,” he offers, pulling back a fraction, “and we can brainstorm some ideas?”

“Okay.” You grin. 

He slides out from under the blankets, padding barefoot across the floor to your chest of drawers. He glances at you in question, and you nod, granting permission to open the top drawer—the one where you’ve started keeping a few spare clothes for him. 

He grabs a fresh pair of boxers and a faded gray jumper before hunting down his jeans from the crumpled pile on the floor. As he slips the boxers on, he feels your gaze lingering on him, and he can’t suppress the smile that spreads over his face. 

His cheeks heat up a little, but there’s no self-consciousness—just the buzz of being desired by the person he’s head over heels for.

“If you get dressed,” he says, tugging on his jeans, “we can always go to the cafe. Should still be open.”

You light up at the mention of it, immediately swinging your legs over the side of the bed. 

“Perfect,” you say, rising to rummage in your closet. He shakes his head in amusement at how quickly you can switch from sleepy to energised, and you both share a grin as he slips through the door into the living area.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he calls back.

He leaves the bedroom door ajar, wandering into the open-plan space. He crouches to where his shoes lie haphazardly near the sofa and slips one foot in, then the other. But as he does, his elbow nudges your bag, which has been leaning against the couch. It topples over, the contents spilling out across the floor with a soft thud-thud-thud of small items rolling away.

“Shit,” he mutters, instantly dropping to his knees to gather everything. 

He picks up a stray lipbalm, a set of keys, and a small pursee, placing them back in the bag. A pen has rolled under the couch, which he has to stretch to reach. As he reorganises, his eyes catch sight of something else—a small notebook lying face-down, pages slightly crumpled at the edges. 

He assumes it’s just for work notes or to-do lists, so he flips it over, intending to slip it back inside.

But then he sees the words on the open page. Words that send a chill racing up his spine.

Dates?

No, they have words attached to them, and the numbers don’t line up.

They’re all over the place, connected with arrows placing them forward and backwards, none of which are in the present. 

They’re... events?

A timeline. 

Little scribbles next to each, question marks, underlines. A timeline that doesn't take him long to figure out.

His heart kicks in his chest, hard.

Starcourt.

Earthquake.

A name he tried to bury: 

Eddie Munson.

It’s written there, plain as day, circled in your familiar handwriting. The same scrawl he’s seen on shopping lists pinned to his fridge, on the little notes you leave him in the margins of books. And right next to Eddie’s name, the word “murders” underlined several times. 

There are newspaper clippings taped onto another page—yellowed and carefully annotated in pen.

He almost drops the notebook as a rush of adrenaline floods him. 

Eddie Munson. 

A name from years ago, a friend he never quite got the chance to know but ended up entangled with all the same. The memory sends his stomach roiling. The official story, the one the papers had plastered everywhere, is a tangle of semi-truths and government cover-ups. 

But you—why would you be digging into it?

He flips another page, his hand trembling. There’s more scribbled details: possible days, references to kids going missing, some mention of “suspicious flora—lab?”

His eyes skim lines that make little sense out of context but still contain enough hints to make his blood run cold. 

The question marks after each clue are too close to the truth for comfort.

He realises that you’re so much closer to understanding everything than he ever imagined. The promise he made to himself—and to his doctor—was to keep the details of Hawkins’ horrors locked away, only sharing the bare minimum if it meant keeping you out of danger. 

That was the plan. 

The safe path.

The one you’d both talked about just last night while he told you he’d explain “everything.”

Except… you’d clearly been investigating on your own. 

Possibly for weeks. 

Months.

His breath comes too fast. He’s on his knees in your living room, hair falling into his eyes, heart banging against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He thought you were patiently waiting for him to open up.

How wrong he had been.

Instead, you’ve been digging behind his back, collecting articles, tracking down names. 

Eddie’s name. 

You’re close to things you can’t possibly understand—the Upside Down, the creatures, the secret ops that nearly destroyed them all.

Tremors work their way through his fingers as he grips the edges of the notebook. The words blur momentarily as panic stings at his eyes. 

Did you suspect something about him? 

Did you not trust him to tell you the truth, or were you just too curious to stop?

It strikes him like a blow.

You haven’t been waiting at all.

You’ve been forging your own path, collecting clues in an unthinkably risky puzzle. The fear courses through him, tangling with a sense of betrayal that leaves his chest tight. 

This changes everything—everything.

He hears you in the other room, humming lightly as you search for clothes. The sweet morning optimism he’d felt—the jokes about the road trip, the images of you both singing along to the radio and stopping for greasy diner food—wavers like a mirage. His mind is spinning too fast to cling to it. He sets the notebook on the coffee table, his hand hovering over it like it might burn him.

Why were you doing this?

And more importantly. 

Just how long have you been keeping this from him?

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[mxurelle]

synopsis: gojo helps you ride out your high by eating you out. cause why not?

cw: high sex, mentioned/implied drug use, oral sex, a slightly geeked out satoru. -18 dni.

wc: 1,765.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“you must be absolutely fried, ain’t hear a thing i just said.”

you perk up against the wall, half-lidded eyes lifting up from the ground to follow the familiar sound of your boyfriend’s voice at your side. as your eyes met, your gaze instinctively narrowed to examine his face, gauging the look of mischief behind those rounded glasses he wore. you were high as all hell, no doubt about it. droopy eyed, excessively dry lips and parched throat, gravity weighing itself on you unlike anything you’ve felt before; aside from when you’re stoned.

“huh?” you bat your lashes, brows creased a look of iminiate confusion as you attempt to decipher his sentence. which worked, partially. “—so you aren’t? and don’t say it like that, makes me feel self conscious.”

gojo chuckles a delightful sound at your side and you lick your lips, an otherwise seamless ‘keke’ swelling a fluttering sensation to sit at your chest, traveling throughout your nerves before shooting down directly in between your legs. you click your tongue, displeased with how easy you’ve become, deciding to blame your alerted state of mine.

“my tolerance isn’t all that low, been there done that, though i only ever take part in this sort of thing unless i’m with you or suguru.” he explains beside you, blabbering off about god knows what at this point, presumably ignorant to the effects his voice alone has on you. you refuse to look his way, tired eyes focused on the bare wall ahead of you.

“wouldn’t that make your tolerance lower than mine?” you mutter to yourself, unaware of the fact you spoke aloud. you fold your arms over your chest, gulping down the lump in your throat as you stare ahead. or so you tried, your eyes were barely open, not to mention disinterested in an empty wall.

what you really wanted was your legs wrapped around his neck, mindless whimpers muffled against your throbbing cunt, echoing against your ears as you used his tongue to your heart’s content. not that you would say any of that, though.

gojo fell silent for a moment, piercing blue eyes poking holes through your side profile even behind the glasses. “eh, i suppose.” he shrugged, shuffling against the wall as he took a step closer. “how come i’m staring at half a face, hm? you shy now?”

“the fuck? no,” you immediately blurted out in a means to supposedly defend yourself, lips etching into a distasteful frown; resembling a mean mug with the way you do it. “i’m in deep thought. thinking, in simpler terms for you.” you were snappy in your response, masking what proved to be factual behind an attitude.

gojo hummed a response, his presence looming over your side as he drew closer. “look at me.”

you gulped once more, soothing an itchy throat as you angled your neck to the side, instantly met with the realization of how close he’d gotten. your eyes widened as a gasp caught in your throat, effectively startled. your mind began to race for a bit, the events of just a few seconds prior and the present moment meshed a foggy blur, you found yourself wondering how long the two of you had been standing there.

though, the heavy atmosphere packed with an intense sexual tension between the two of you quickly redirected your attention. an exaggerated ‘damn’ pulled from his lips as they quirked into a toothy grin, his hand lifting to gently tuck your hair off to the side. “your eyes are bloodshot red! it’s kinda cute though, i dunno.” he teased; and to which you swatted his hand away. being the only one baked out of your mind was already bad enough, but of course, who would he be if he didn’t tease you for it.

“you piss me off.” you leisurely shook your head, eyeing your boyfriend up and down, giving him the nastiest look to prove a point.

gojo raised a brow as his grin shamelessly deepened, visibly amused by your frustration. he moved in closer, as close as the two of your bodies would allow before his hands were wrapped around your waist, pressing your back against the wall. his lips morphed an ‘i’m sorry.’ against the heat of your neck, his nose nudged beneath your jawline as he drew in a deep inhale, followed by a relieved sigh as he shrunk against you. he’s always loved your scent, you knew that.

he peppered small pecks along your neck, quickly transitioning to open mouthed kisses as he traveled downwards, focusing on the area right above your breast. you nipped at your bottom lip, angling your head to the side as an invitation; permission to keep going. his teeth gently grazed your skin to serve as a warning, promptly bracing you before sinking into your skin, electing a sharp hiss from you.

your hand flew up to the nape of his neck, fingers gliding upward to clench around his white locks, holding him in place as your eyes fell to a close. though your efforts proved meaningless as he promptly pulled away, dipping down to praise your stomach with gentle kisses as he positioned himself on his knees.

you blinked down at him, squinting as your reddened eyes met with the air, your hands now resting at his shoulders. gojo made quick work of your shorts, tossing the article of clothing once you’ve stepped out of them. he then leaned forward, warm palms placed at each side of your hips as his lips hovered your clothed clit, pools of your arousal staining the fabric of your panties.

his tongue finally laid flat against your clit, and you panicked, yelping as if you’d seen a ghost. gojo pulled back to look at up you, startled by the tone of your exclamation.

“that!—wait, it feels weird. i can’t really feel it like usual, so are you sure you wanna keep going?” you huffed, half-lidded eyes searching for his. truthfully, you could feel it. it felt even better than usual, almost as if you took an aphrodisiac, and the intensity of it all freaked you out.

“can’t feel it?” he analyzed, brows raised as he gaped up at you. after a short pause he resumed the previous laps of his tongue, lathering the surface of your clothed cunt, collecting every inch of you on his tongue. “you can’t feel this?” he muffled against you, barely audible as he explored what felt like every bit of your pussy. even over your panties.

your left hand flew up to cover your mouth with a slap, a low, guttural moan muffled against your palm. your hips rolled against his tongue, sparks of pleasure erupting in jolts throughout your lower abdomen as you shivered. his hand slid beneath your upper thigh, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder and providing you with extra wiggle room in the process.

with your lack of an answer to his question he pulled back, replacing his mouth with his thumb, teasing your throbbing nub in circular motions. he lifted his gaze, exacting eye contact with you. “want me to stop since you can’t feel it?”

you sighed into your palm, the loss of his tongue leaving your soaked core vulnerable to the cold air. you slowly shook your head, sluggish in the motions, eyes silently pleading with his. his head titled to the side, gaze flickering away from your eyes to briefly glance at the hand clasped tightly around your jaw. “move your hand,” his index and middle finger gently pinched around your folds, shifting up and down. “c’mon, talk to me. tell me what you want.”

though you wish you had the resolve to be stubborn, you swiftly removed your hand as instructed. you took a shallow breath in, choked up halfway through as the pallets of his tongue pressed against your clit once more. “i—okay, i can feel it. please don’t stop.” you managed with a hiss, prodding fingertips digging into the flesh of your upper thigh.

gojo seemed content with your plea, swiftly pulling your panties to the side and ogling at the bare sight of you. his tongue dove in-between the heat of your folds, tracing the gape of your entrance before slipping inside of you. he groaned as you shamelessly clenched around the muscle, back arching off of the wall and further into the sensations, rutting your hips against his mouth.

your heavy breaths left rigid, the pound of your heart threatening to burst through your chest, fingers clasped a tight hold around your boyfriend’s hair. his eyes never left yours, drinking up and basking in the lewd expressions you’d make, eager to pull even more from you.

your head fell against the wall with a thump, tears swelling at the corners of your eyes, completely overwhelmed but in the best possible way. “shit, i think—i’m close. i’m gonna cum.” your fingers tugged at his hair, earning a quiet whimper from the man beneath you.

“go ahead, i got you.” he reassured below you, giving the flesh of your hips a gentle squeeze.

your hips stuttered within his hold, thighs enclosing around his head with a tight squeeze as you sobbed. overbearing waves of pleasure enveloped the heat of your body, leaving your knees weak, legs trembling as they tried their best to keep you upright. gradually, your hips began to move in unison with the motions of gojo’s tongue, serving as a guide as you rode out your high.

“satoru,” you called out without reason, allowing your back to slide down against the wall once gojo had pulled away to acknowledge your call. the sight you were met with was one you’d wish you’d seen sooner; disheveled white locks poking out in each and every direction, swollen lips glossed over with your arousal, a lovely flush of red spread along the bare skin of his neck and cheeks. if you hadn’t been so exhausted, another go wouldn’t have seemed so taxing.

you raised your hands to cup his cheeks, gently kneading as if he were a stress ball. “you um.. have my cum all over your face.” you cleared your throat, eyes beaming as you marveled at the sight, dumbfounded.

“mm, and you taste good,” he smiled, his palms slinking beneath the fabric of your shirt to caress the smooth surface of your skin. he traced small shapes with his index finger along your sides, unintentionally teasing as shivers shot up your spine.

“you okay? you look absolutely gone, but completely fucked out. it’s hot.”

“..goddamn freak.”

[intromortal]

mtl enha legal line to be hard dom? :3

⚠︎ smut. hard dom stuff, talks of edging, dacryphilia, bondage, super brief mention of omo, marking, overstim, impact play

HEESEUNG can be a hard dom but i mostly see him as a tease! he's mean in the sense that he makes you WORK for it. imagine riding him, struggling to bounce up and down on him while he just lays back against the headboard with that lazy smirk of his, enjoying the view of your ass jiggling with every bounce. he's not just like this when punishing you, i can see him getting turned on by your struggle (and tears). he'd whisper little encouragements, but they sound sooo condescending because he's not moving an inch! if you wanna cum you better put in the work. also i KNOW he's mean when you're sucking him off, bucking his hips into your mouth just to make you gag and then laughing at you when you do ohhh he's a menace.

JUNGWON, much like heeseung, is a complete tease. i think of him as really into marking and claiming all there is to claim. you def have to wear a turtleneck after you two fuck it's like he goes rabid. also into anal, will absolutely pound into your tight little hole while ignoring your clit (whether it's ass or pussy, nothing changes, he's still ignoring that poor bundle of nerves just to hear you beg) don't yell at me but: omo.

unpopular opinion, but i think SUNOO can be a pretty mean. i hc him as a switch, but i also hc him to be into both giving and receiving pain, so when he's a dom, he's extra mean. he has a crazy stash of sex toys somewhere just ready to use on you!! both a brat and a brat tamer, i can picture him hitting your ass with a whip while edging the fuck out of you. also really into dacryphilia. i'm just the messenger tho don't shoot me

JAKE is not higher simply because i don't think it's fully intentional when he's being harsh. you feel sooo good he just can't help himself! he'll bend you in the most uncomfortable positions and take and take and keep taking from you because he can't stop!! he's dizzy with pleasure and gets pussy drunk sooo easily he doesn't even notice how much he's manhandling you and how many times you've already come around him. he just keeps giving you more even when pleasure blurs into pain and at the same time he's babbling the most incoherent praises.

bottom two are interchangeable but for the sake of ranking i'd put JAY over hoon because while i think of him as mostly a soft dom, he's got a bit of brat taming in him. when you misbehave, he can he so strict which is why he's not last. really into pussy slapping as a punishment, and this man is patient, so expect to be edged until you can barely even register any word coming out if his mouth. bomb aftercare tho!

my loverboy SUNGHOON is last because i'm a firm believer in soft dom!hoon <3 he just wants to praise and take care of you at all times, it's truly what gets him going. literally cannot cum unless he sees you fall apart because of him first. i will say though, he lives to please you. so if you brought up wanting him to be harsher with you in bed he would 100% do it without question, anything for his girl. also i sooo see him with a bondage kink, but i think he's mostly playful in bed. oh to have sunghoon make love to me😞

[pomefioredove]

FLIRTY PROMPTS FLIRTY PROMPTS!!!

May I ask for "I just want you to be happy! And perhaps a little bit naked." with Lilia, pretty please 🥺

I've been looking forward to this oneeee

summary: "I just want you to be happy! and perhaps a little bit naked" type of post: short fic characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is probably yuu, not proofread, Malleus being Lilia's wingman instead of the other way around for once LOLLL a part of this event

"Come on, just one taste?"

Lilia pouts; he knows the power he wields with his cuteness, and he somehow finds a way to use it in every possible situation.

"I worked so hard!"

Your gaze drifts from the bowl of... something he's holding out to you to Silver and Sebek as they shake their heads behind him, trying to save you from your fate.

"...I just ate," you say. Silver sighs with relief.

Lilia huffs. "Again? What does the cafeteria food have that mine doesn't?" Silver opens his mouth, and Sebek shoots him a glare.

"Oh, well... More for me!"

You watch, shaking your head as the elder fae leaves the lounge, the warm bowl of brown sludge cupped between his hands.

Silver and Sebek follow, the latter grilling the former about respect.

"My... what do we have here?"

Malleus, for as tall and imposing as he is, appears in the lounge without a sound, filling the vacancy that the others had left behind.

"Lilia's cooking," you say. "He's been getting really into it lately."

Malleus blinks. And then he laughs. "Ah... aha. I thought I smelled something burning again. He really is quite smitten with you, isn't he?"

"Smitten?"

Now, that's a new one. You can't help but smile, deflecting the word in a single awkward laugh. "I don't think so,"

Malleus raises his brow, as if surprised by your denial. As if it should be obvious...

What a silly thought.

"Do you doubt my sincerity, child of man? I haven't seen Lilia so taken with anyone in... some time. He's rather adamant on impressing you with such things,"

He gestures to the bitter scent wafting from the kitchen.

You want to say that's not possible; Lilia is flirtatious by nature, but actually being interested in you...? Let alone going out of his way to woo you...?

You turn towards the arched doorway that Lilia had left from earlier. Malleus follows your gaze with a subtle smile.

"Well... I have a club meeting to attend. Good evening, child of man... unless you would like to join?"

"What?" you look back to him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Uh... no, not this time. Thank you, though."

He gives you another knowing smile and takes his leave without another word, departing and deserting you with your thoughts in the lounge.

You're not alone for long.

"Still here?"

A streak of black and pink drops down from the ceiling in front of you, changing the feel of the room to one of mirth and mischief.

Lilia smiles, studying your pensive expression carefully. "Fufufu... have you changed your mind? Want a taste of my soup after all?"

"No," you blurt out. He laughs at your nervousness.

"Oh, my... did I startle you? And here I was, starting to think that you'd grown used to my surprises..."

You roll your eyes at the tease in his voice and take a generous step back. His distaste for personal space is the last thing you need right now...

"That's not it. I was just... talking... to Malleus..."

Lilia narrows his eyes. The crimson is even more striking in the dark of the lounge... "Oh? About?"

"Nothing," you lie. It's pretty obvious. "...You."

"Little old me?" he asks, shuffling a little closer. He says it like a question, though he's not really looking for an answer.

...Almost like he already knows. Why do you suddenly feel so nervous?

"He was just... speculating..." you say. "...About you and I."

Vague... but not vague enough. Lilia seems to understand what you're implying immediately, another impish grin playing at his lips.

"Was he? And what did he say?"

You force a laugh; it's all you have left. "It's... it's funny, he thinks that you've been doing all these nice things to impress me because... because you like me,"

Lilia goes silent for a moment, cradling his chin in his palm as he watches you deflect the undeniable tension with another laugh.

And then, he starts giggling along with you.

"Fufufu... Oh, how innocent... mm, yes. Malleus is a smart boy, but he lacks social awareness. Otherwise, he would know I am not trying to woo you with cooking..."

You force another chuckle, though this one sounds weaker, scratchier. Of course, you should have known.

The chances that Lilia actually likes you... like-likes you... that he even thinks of you as attractive...

"I just want you to be happy..." Lilia goes on, his smile as merry as ever. "And... perhaps a little bit naked."

Pause.

He's always had a terrible enjoyment of pulling the rug out from under you, but this is almost insidious.

Lilia seems to enjoy your speechlessness, his grin only widening.

"Oh, my... you look flustered. I truly hope you didn't take my homemade meals as flirting, otherwise, you're in for quite a surprise.

...because I haven't even started yet,"

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

jason todd with a partner who’s afraid of guns

ft. gn!reader, mentions of guns (obviously), other weapons, potential home break ins, just jason being a little paranoid but we love him for that anyways

i imagine he would already have his vigilante and personal life very separate (he's just a guy :( who wants some normalcy and domesticity)

so i don't really imagine him letting his partner see much of his red hood persona

like he's not exactly bringing you to fights or anything even remotely dangerous

so, knock on wood, you’ll never have to see him actually shoot anybody, but he will still try to find ways to keep you safe when he’s not there

probably soooo very very protective of you, like even if he was practically in love with you, would hesitate to start a relationship until he's sure that his enemies won't have a way to use you against him

he's going to like one safe house to store his stuff and then probably another one just to throw people off of his tracks before he heads to your place

i think if his partner wasn't afraid of him guns at home, like is just scared of handling them, he would probably have one on him when he's going home

to protect himself because he could be attacked anywhere and also in case something happens at home (his worst nightmare is walking home to an empty apartment when he knows you should be home and in bed)

and he normally would have a stash of weapons in the house, including guns, in case either of you have to defend yourselves

like preferablyyyyyyy he teaches you the basics like how to load a gun, turn the safety on and off, and shoot, but if not there are plenty of other weapons to choose from

and he’ll let you know where they all are (it’s not hard, like you’ll probably run into a few on accident throughout the day anyways) and will tell you where the guns are so you can avoid them if you so wish (he’ll probably have them in case he’s home and needs them though)

super paranoid guy but considering everything he's been through and how many people he's antagonized in gotham, makes sense

however, if his partner is afraid of even having them lying around, he's definitely willing to make some changes. he still uses them while he's fighting, but subconsciously, he might be less likely to reach for them

he's not bringing any guns home (probably just settle for some knives, idk why but he seems like he would steal batarangs for funsies so he might have some on hand)

like he’ll drop off his guns when he gets to one of his safe houses and then arm himself to the moon with other stuff (sorry again i fear he is a little paranoid but like it’s understandable)

as far as weapons in the house...i think he'll still have a few guns, just in case, but he'll make sure it's not somewhere you could easily find them, like if you guys both have your own offices then he’ll leave them in his

honestly, for your peace of mind, he probably won't tell you the exact location, just lets you know that there are a few for life or death situations (unless you ask for the location, in which case he's more than happy to tell you)

so many other weapons though. i genuinely don't think he'd compromise too much on that one. again, if you don't like sharp objects or anything like that, at the very least, he is putting pepper spray in every room and a metal baseball bat

and probably some flares, smoke bombs, nonlethal stuff so you can run to safety if you don't want to deal with the assailant head-on, but best believe you’ll know how to use all of them very well

and there’s always self defence moves, although i think he prays that you never have to get to that point

why am i imagining jason practicing escape routes with you from different places in your apartment like it's some sort of fire drill

“okay pretend i’m the attacker and i come in through the window with a knife while you’re washing the dishes. what are you going to do?”

“cry?”

“no, sweetheart, remember, if you’re in the kitchen and they don’t have any long distance weapons then you go with escape plan C.”

“bitch how tf am i supposed to remember all of the plans.”

HE DOES IT OUT OF LOVE

will actually stress tf out if you don’t do it so uhhhhhhhhh yeah i’d start studying

will make you practice it every once in a while just to keep it fresh

and it’ll be random too because “crime doesn’t give you a heads up in gotham”

on the plus side if you have any weird requests he’ll probably feel bad and do them

like if you want fresh flowers in the house at all times? babe, he was going to do that anyways. onlt the best for you

you want to decorate the house in whatever style you like? here’s his card (being a crime lord does make good money)

doesn’t matter if he likes it or not, it’s only fair. you get to decorate your place with cute throw pillows, he gets to hide a few daggers under the sofa, same difference

or like if you want his location at all times? and hourly check ups?

honestly, he’s touched that you care about his safety as much as he cares about yours. he’ll make sure it’s encrypted so nobody can hack into your phone and see that, but he’s more than willing to whip out his phone in chasing down some villain to tell you he’s gonna be late for dinner or whatever

guys, at the end of the day, he just really loves and cares for his partner, and he'll do whatever makes you the safest and most comfortable

he has some…interesting habits but it’s all to make sure you stay safe

and he makes up for it by bringing home little trinkets that remind him of you and planning elaborate date nights and all of that cute stuff to show how much he cares

and who knows, if you still remember escape plan p maybe he’ll have a little treat planned!

[oncasette]

frat!lads

sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, & caleb x fem!reader

the love and deepspace men as frat guys in a college!au at linkon U + how you met them

content: fr*ternity boys, alcohol consumption, all apart of the same frat (lambda delta sigma—LDS), smoking/vaping for some of the guys. thank you to @nashusglasses for yapping about the boys with me 😘

SYLUS QIN, majoring in business, minoring in international communications

frat!sylus doesn't leave his room during parties after you start dating, whether you're up there with him or not. He'll attend brotherhood events, but it's a hard sell to get him to go to swaps, date parties, or weekend functions unless you're the one asking him to go.

frat!sylus definitely smokes when he's drunk. He's not a regular smoker, and he wouldn't be one to vape or zyn either, but he'll keep a pack of cigs in his back pocket at a function.

frat!sylus becomes pledge master the year that luke and kieran go through recruitment, and definitely plays favorites. He'll let the twins go to your apartment to sleep during hell week, he's more lenient on them when there's group pledge tasks, and he ends up being their big brother when big/little takes place. They start up calling you mom before the week's up.

frat!sylus sleeps through most of his classes. Or, most of the day, really. It's a wonder he was passing with his abysmal attendance, but you couldn't say you weren't proud of him when you saw that he made the Dean's list every semester.

frat!sylus still teases you for ignoring him for a while after you two met.

You met Sylus at one of his frat's parties. You were a little too tipsy to foster intelligent thoughts and the music was far too loud to hold any genuine conversation. The most you could get out to your friends over the thumping bass was your desire to get another drink from the kitchen and to take a trip to the bathroom on your way there. The line was, unsurprisingly, far too long and bleeding out into the hallway, leaving you to grumble and slouch against the wall as you waited your turn.

Sylus practically came out of nowhere, leaning up against the wall beside you and offering to take the empty solo cup from your hand.

"You alright, there?" he asks. He's seen you around a couple of times. In passing, mostly, around campus or at his frat's events, but this was the first time he'd gotten the chance to speak to you.

"Yeah, just, waiting on the bathroom," you huff, and Sylus has to bite down on the laugh that's creeping up his throat. You were cute, dangerously so, even hazy eyed and little wobbly.

"I'd be happy to let you use mine if you want to skip the line," he says. The look you shoot his way has him raising his hands up in defense, waving away all notions of foul play with your crushed cup still in his grasp. "I'll stand outside my room and keep guard."

You nod, thinking better of it as you lean into his guiding hand and allow him to lead you upstairs.

You nearly forget about him until about a month later when LDS throws a darty that you attend, Sylus immediately spotting you in the crowd and managing to get the phone number he'd sorely missed the last time you'd spoken.

ZAYNE LI, majoring in biology, minoring in chemistry, pre-med track

frat!zayne is the reason LDS doesn't get put on academic probation most semesters. His GPA never falls from it's pristine 4.0, even with the fraternity's functions and all the time he spends with you. It's how he got stuck with the director of academics position.

frat!zayne refused to do the sock on the door policy because he felt like it was crude. He didn't have a roommate in the house like he had in the dorm, so he didn't know why anyone needed to know when he was having private moments with you. That was until one of the brothers busted the door through the lock at eleven o'clock because they wanted to borrow his britta filter. Then he started using the sock, despite how red his ears would flush the next day when he left for class and had to pass the other boys living on his hall.

frat!zayne brings you all the trinkets he can find from people tabling in the quad. You've gotten plenty of stickers, candy grams, roses, and cookies. You even got a rubber duck once.

frat!zayne won't attend a swap unless it's with your sorority. When he'd been a pledge, he'd been forced to attend every event and stick around until the lights came on at the bar, but now that he's with you, he'll only go to the events you're attending or can tag along with him to.

frat!zayne gets asked all the time by your sorority sisters when he's going to propose. After all, the first time he'd locked eyes with you had been at a tacky wedding themed swap.

Your friends had been nudging you all night to go and talk to him. Your eyes had barely left him, looking at the cute guy at the corner of the bar in the powder blue suit over your friends' shoulders.

"Go! Please! You're killing me with this eye tag thing," Tara squeals as she shoves you towards the guy. Your heels are planted into the sticky flooring, but she's doing a damned good job of inching you closer to him. Before she had the chance to topple you over completely, you relented.

"Fine, fine, I'm going! But I'm not promising anything," you huff. Your body warms under his gaze as you approach. He sees nervous as he glances around the bar, anxiously checking to see if there's anyone around him that you'd be coming up to, now, though he can no longer deny it when you stop right in front of him.

"Hi," he says, cheeks flushed and ears bitten pink and you just about fall out right there. How cute could he get?

RAFAYEL QI, majoring in fine arts, minoring in marine science

frat!rafayel is the heart of most of the parties LDS throws. He's usually on aux unless they've hired a DJ or a live band, and he takes his job seriously. He never misses a function, but he has an arm thrown over your shoulder more often than not.

frat!rafayel has a recipe for jungle juice that gets put out at darties. He won't tell anyone else how to make it and claims it's made with "lots of love".

frat!rafayel carries a miami mint vape around with him, but he rarely hits it. Unless he's drinking, then it doesn't leave his hand.

frat!rafayel uses "anything but a cup" night to get you to wear one of those beer hats people wear to baseball games so he can spend the rest of the night draped over your back—like he'd be anywhere else, anyway, this just gives him a viable excuse—and drinking out of your hat.

frat!rafayel begs you to take another art elective with him. He claims they're all boring without you, and that you give him the inspiration he needs when he's locked in the art department's concrete walls.

You met Rafayel in an intro art course your sophomore year. It was about halfway through the semester when you accidentally dumped your paint water down the front of his shirt on the way to the sink. Class had already ended, meaning Rafayel had taken off his apron and had nearly finished cleaning up when you stumbled over.

He didn't mind, really, despite the whines and complaints on his end. He was all easy smiles and comforting words was he realized how bad you felt for your little mishap, peeling off his outer layer like it wasn't a big deal and leaving your mouth to water over his newly exposed biceps.

"Look, would it make you feel better if I let you make it up to me?" he asks. He ties the damp shirt around the arm strap of his backpack as he asks.

You nod, sputting out a helpless little yes.

"Alright," he smirks, just a bit at the corner of his lips. "How about you let me take you out for lunch, then?"

"Wha- when?" you ask. You're more than taken aback at his request, having expected for him to make you buy him a new shirt or a new set of paints.

"Now, if that works for you," he says. Now works great for you.

XAVIER SHEN, majoring in astrophysics

frat!xavier doesn't really talk to anyone at any of the functions unless you're there. He'll still attend, but more often than not, he's secluded off in the corner scrolling on his phone or watching whatever the bar's put on the TV.

frat!xavier smuggled a second twin XL into his room to make a mega bed. No one knows where he found it or how he got it in without any help. It's the comfiest thing either of you have ever laid on, and it takes about seven alarms and twenty-five kisses to coax him out of it in the morning for class

frat!xavier always has you on his lap when you're at the house for a game. Whenever any of your school's sports teams plays an away game, the brothers will line up four or five couches in the party room and move the biggest TV—sylus'—in, and Xavier takes the opportunity to keep you locked in his grasp for the next couple of hours.

frat!xavier is a favorite for so many of the girls that go to LDS. They think he's just the sweetest guy ever, but he barely even talks to most of them. He'll nod politely for a couple minutes before wandering off. He gets ribbed pretty bad for it later.

frat!xavier uses you as his reminder to study. You always drag him to the library with you on Sundays, and despite his hangovers, he uses the time to get ahead on his class work for next week.

You met Xavier in the library your freshman year. He'd holed himself up in the corner of the fourth floor, promptly falling asleep face first on his textbook. When he'd gotten there, there had been plenty of tables open, but as the day had gone on, more and more people had filed in to find a quiet place to study for finals. When you got there, all of the tables and chairs were full other than a single one at his table.

You work up the courage to tap him on the shoulder after awkwardly going back and forth about it behind him for ten minutes.

"Excuse me?" you ask softly, ducking your head down so as to not disturb the other people near you. He doesn't respond. You tap him gently again. That seems to snag his attention.

"Hm?" His eyes struggle to open, and you feel something flutter in your chest as you watch him wipe the corner of his mouth and sit up.

"Do you mind if I sit with you? The rest of the floor is full," you say softly as you gesture to the free chair beside him. He shakes his head softly and kicks the chair out a bit for you to sit beside him.

Xavier doesn't end up leaving the library until you do. Three and a half hours later.

CALEB XI, majoring in aerospace studies

frat!caleb catches shit from some of his brothers for hanging onto his high school girlfriend. He doesn't care, he'd drop them in a second if it meant keeping you. He never lets any of them rib you, or make any comments that toe the line of mean more than funny. You're his priority, and his brothers know that.

frat!caleb is the president of LDS and is always either sending out massive group messages to the frat or is on the phone trying to handle something. It's like he's trying to manage 87 different tasks at once, on top of his school work, but he handles it well.

frat!caleb only drinks beer and will make a sword out of the empty cans to fight his brothers with if he's drunk enough. but the bar really isn't even that low, get like three in him and he's ready to joust.

frat!caleb has a sex playlist that he thinks is so good until you tell him how goofy you think it is while you're drunk. It takes three weeks of silent nights, forgetting just how quiet you have to be with the music off so his brothers won't hear you, before you're begging him to put it back on. With alterations, of course. There's nothing sexy about doses and mimosas.

frat!caleb only lives in house because he's on exec. If he had it his way, the two of you would already be living in a cute little townhouse off campus, but with the rules in place, you practically live in house, too.

When you both had announced your college decisions, everyone had accused you of following your boyfriend off to school. They'd done anything and everything to try and talk you out of it, but you'd stood your ground. If anything, Caleb had been the one to follow you off to school, and you weren't going to be the one to stop him.

Caleb had bitched and moaned the whole month leading up to move in because they wouldn't let the two of you dorm together, but seeing as you were living on the same hall in the only contemporary dorm on campus, it really wouldn't have made much a difference.

You were attached at the hip, for better or worse, all throughout grade school. He doesn't see why college should be any different.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x reader

[ Chapter 7 ] || [ Chapter 9 ]

Pairing: Ghost x gn!Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.1K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: ghost is making a move.

Chapter 8: Awooga?

Surprisingly, your one-night stand with John last night did wonders for you. You felt energized all day and made it a point to clean everything instead of moping about like you have tended to do since your break-up with Ethan.

There were days when you considered texting him, neck deep in feelings you couldn’t quite move past, trying your best to stay afloat. Four years by his side couldn’t be forgotten in the blink of an eye, even if neither of you wanted anything to do with the other and had each other blocked on every platform imaginable.

It’s 4 P.M. on Saturday and you’re laying about in your living room wearing lounge clothes, your legs spread over your coffee table, eyes lazily locked on the TV as you fiddle with your phone, twirling it in your hand.

Eventually, you find yourself getting bored… So you decide to open Tinder one last time. You got what you wanted out of it. John scratched that itch… There’s no need to keep it. But it’s still funny enough to judge the men on that app even if you’re no longer doing anything with them.

You start Left Swiping on every profile that comes onto your screen, silently judging each one and murmuring to yourself. You get about 15 profiles in before you find yourself bored of even that.

Sighing and getting peckish, you decide to order yourself something good for dinner from a delivery app. Then, while waiting for the notification that your driver is on his way, you return to Tinder.

You open the DM tab, finding dozens of new DMs from guys and skim through them, none of them catching your eye. If you were in the mood, you’d maybe engage in convo with one of them, maybe annoy them a little… But they all seem so… bland.

Then you find Simon’s chat lost in the influx. You click on it for a moment, smiling a bit as you spot his politeness and excess professionalism for someone that’s on a dating app looking to get laid.

Biting your lip, your fingers glide across the keyboard as you shoot him a quick message.

you: so… are you thinking of ever uploading a new pic of yourself?

The Read indicator popped up under your DM almos instantly, and the bubbles indicating Simon was typing soon followed.

Simon: Look who it is. Simon: Hello to you too. Simon: No, I don’t intend to do that. you: hi, sorry. x you: why not? Simon: I don’t take this app seriously enough to want to show off what I look like. you: was that a dig at me for having a whole gallery? Simon: No. Simon: Unless you want it to be. 😉 you: 😱😱 you: SIMON DID YOU JUST USE AN EMOJI? Simon: I regret doing it now. you: NOOOO pls don’t! you: it was fun!!!! Simon: Alright then. Simon: How are you feeling today?

You’re genuinely shocked by his question and you find yourself smiling a bit.

you: i’m okay hru? Simon: Just okay? I’m fine thanks. you: yeah! feeling lazy. Simon: You had me worried you weren’t feeling well after last night.

Your cheeks warm up so quickly that you even sputter and sit up on the couch with a start.

you: you know?? Simon: Of course I know. Simon: John’s my captain.  you: he told you??????? Simon: No. John’s old school. No kiss and tell. Simon: But we were all expecting he’d go home with you. Simon: Kind of an open secret. you: oh Simon: Does that bother you? you: i don’t think so? you: i guess i should’ve expected you would realize it Simon: I’m sorry. Simon: To be fair, I can tell you that you did a great job, he’s in a much better mood. you: that is not the praise you think it is 😭 Simon: I’m not used to giving praise, cut me some slack alright? you: right. i can see that. you: the whole - my team would say i push them - thing Simon: I stand by that. Simon: I’m not very good at talking. Simon: But I’m not a liar. you: i’ve noticed you: you tend to hate being called that. Simon: Lie enough on the job. Simon: When I’m talking to people outside of that, I like being as honest as I can be. you: i see you: sooo does that mean i can ask you things and you’ll be honest in the answers? Simon: About? you: you Simon: Within reason. you: what do you look like Simon: 6ft4, blonde, brown eyes. you: that’s it? Simon: I said ‘Within reason’. That means I won’t give you more than I think I should. you: infuriating 😤 Simon: That’s life.

Just as you’re about to answer, your doorbell rings. You were so absorbed in Simon’s chat that you didn’t notice your delivery driver arrived.

You slip on some shoes quickly and dash downstairs to the front door of the building to receive your food.

Once upstairs, you set your food on the table and unwrap everything, beginning to eat your Nando’s chicken as you try to resume texting Simon one-handed.

That’s when you spot the message he sent you while you were busy.

Simon: Added some new pics. Simon: Don’t say I never did anything for you. Simon: But I’ll take them down in 2 minutes so you better hurry up.

Eyebrows raised, you quickly click on his profile and rush to tap through to the new pictures.

The first one makes you chuckle. Of course, it’s him wearing a hoodie and a stupid mask… But the second one? Your jaw drops open and you find yourself swallowing dryly.

“Awooga…” You quip to yourself and giggle, amused at your own silliness as your eyes trail over every inch of exposed skin in Simon’s chest. Even if that’s not him, even if that’s just some… bloke he found online, it’s still a bloody fine picture.

Returning to the chat, you type a quick reply.

you: not bad Simon: Answered your questions? you: raised a couple more. Simon: Good. Simon: You keep them in your mind for later. you: why does it feel like you’re leaving?? Simon: Because I am. Duty calls. Simon: I’ll tell John you said 'Hi'. you: okay... you: be careful!

As soon as you sent that message you found yourself facepalming. Why do you sound like a concerned partner? You don’t even know this man. Any of them really. Even if you had one of them inside of you less than 24 hours ago.

You don't dwell too much on it because soon there's a message from Simon on the screen.

Simon: Always am. Don’t miss us too much.

Shaking your head, you set down your phone, locking the screen, and turning back to your peri-peri chicken and chips, eyebrows furrowed in contemplation.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

IF THE GIF DOESN'T WORK: CLICK HERE

taglist: @daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark , @zombie-freak , @wittleespur , @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear

[ch33z3grits]

Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

warnings: 18+ mdni, dark romance, obsessiveness/possessiveness, smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, dominant/submissive dynamics, squ*rting, cr*am p*e, Daddy k*nk, worship, pet names (baby girl, princess), overst*mulation), parental issues, description of panic attacks, manipulation, mentions of arson, implied cheating

*author's note at the end!

word count: 9,321

Camille's song: Kiss it Better-Rihanna | Terry's song: Skin-Mac Miller

Pt. Nine

Camille

Camille paced back and forth in Kali’s bedroom, nearly tripping over her maxi dress as she worried over her missing phone. She was sure she left it with her clutch in the back of Terry’s black car last night. If she hadn’t been so eager to put her thighs on his shoulders while he ate her like she was his last meal, she would’ve remembered to grab it. 

Last night…

God…

It was the most alive she had felt in years. From being able to be so vulnerable and release years of emotional tension to being able to tap into the sexual fantasies that had been tormenting her for months, last night felt like an otherworldly dream. But now, Camille was back in reality. How was she supposed to face Terry, or anyone from the firm, after everything that had happened? The chaotic scene they had all witnessed... it wasn’t just embarrassing, it was career-suicide.

In a perfect world, she’d just type up a vague resignation email, hit send, and vanish. Take a vacation during her last two weeks, then turn into a ghost. No goodbyes, no explanations. She would just be the distant figure forever remembered as the fringe connection to the man who had a complete meltdown at one of the most prestigious events of the year. The unlucky fiancé.

But this, unfortunately, was not a perfect world. And Camille, lost in a love-drunk daze, had completely forgotten about her clutch. Which meant her phone. And her cards. And her ID. And she couldn’t leave those behind no matter what. Which meant she had to face Terry for, hopefully, the final time. Her boss who had her folded in the back of a sleek Suburban like a pretzel. 

Sure, he had been kind. And so very gentle. He had walked her back to Kali’s apartment like a gentleman, wrapped her up in his expensive suit jacket, and called her soft, intimate things like baby in a tone that made her heart clench. And in those quiet hours of the night, wrapped in what felt dangerously close to affection, she had let herself believe there might have been something real in that moment. That maybe he felt it, too.

But Camille wasn’t naive. Not anymore. They were swept up in adrenaline and vulnerability and the craziness of Aston’s outburst. She knew how easy it was to mistake emotional whiplash for connection. She wouldn’t let herself hope. Wouldn’t let herself open her heart to him.

She couldn’t let him in. Even if all she really wanted was to run away with him and never look back. Never think about this twisted, exhausting, fucked-up life again.

“I think you should at least shoot him an email,” Kali said gently, perched cross-legged on the edge of her bed as she watched Camille with quiet concern. “I’m sure he found it. Or the driver did! He’s probably just waiting to hear from you to give it back.”

Camille let out a weary sigh, her shoulders sagging as she paused mid-step. She shook her head, not even trying to hide her nervous energy. 

“The last thing I should be doing right now is seeing him face to face,” she muttered. “You know how awkward that would be?”

Kali rolled her eyes, a gesture that was more fond than frustrated. But then she straightened, her tone shifting.

“Camille.”

Camille froze, her heart skipping a beat. Kali never used her government name unless she was being deadly serious.

“Please,” Kali said, her voice softening. “Why are you running from this man? Why are you running from how you feel?”

Camille’s jaw clenched, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She didn’t answer right away. How could she? The truth was just too heavy.

She knew why she was running. Everything about this felt too good to be true. The man she’d tried so hard not to fall for had crept into her heart anyway and now it was too late. She was head over heels, and the terrifying part was, it seemed like he might feel the same. But how could that be?

Men like him didn’t stay. Not with girls like her.

He’d go back to New Orleans soon, to his flashy club and his dangerous charm and the whirlwind of distractions that followed him everywhere. Eventually, he’d find someone else, someone new and shiny to chase. And when he did, it would crush her. Leave her broken.

And then… there was Aston. Her engagement still hung in limbo. What did it even mean now? Would the wedding still move forward, ticking along on that suffocating 60-day countdown? Or had Aston’s very public meltdown pushed everything off course?

Aston…

Despite everything, she still hoped he was okay. Yes, he had humiliated her, confessing his love to another woman in front of half the firm, in the most dramatic way possible. Yes, he had made a complete mess of everything. But still… that wasn’t the Aston she knew. Not the one she’d known all these years. Something inside him must be terribly wrong for him to act like that.

And she had just… left. Let that whole mess burn and walked away. That guilt gnawed at her.

She was so cruel for not checking on him after. She needed to see how he was doing. Once, she got her phone…

“Kali, last night… we were just caught up in the moment,” Camille said, her voice soft and almost pleading, as if trying to convince herself more than her friend. She wrapped her arms around her torso, trying to find comfort. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Kali, who was rarely at a loss for words, simply shook her head. She didn’t argue, didn’t tease, didn’t offer one of her usual sarcastic remarks. Instead, she gave Camille a long, sad look that rooted her to the spot.

“I just don’t know how you can’t see it, Cammie,” Kali said quietly. “That man looks at you like you made the sun and the stars all by yourself. That kind of look… that’s gotta mean something.”

“Kali,” Camille sighed, running her fingers through her hair in exasperation. “He’s a young, handsome, rich attorney who runs nightclubs in his spare time. He’s already slept with someone else at the firm. You really think I’m crazy for hesitating?”

Kali dragged a hand down her face, then threw both arms up in surrender. “Okay, fine, fine. I get it. On paper, the red flags are bright fucking red. But if you look past that Cammie, hasn’t he shown you who he is through how he treats you?”

Camille couldn’t deny it. 

Because the truth was... yes. He had.

He’d been patient. Gentle. Curious about her in ways no one had been in years. With Aston, she’d always felt like she had to mold herself into the version of Camille that fit—poised, supportive, quiet when needed, impressive when expected. But with Terry, she could breathe. He asked her questions and actually listened. He remembered small things she said in passing, followed up without making her feel watched. There was something disarmingly tender about him that unsettled her more than any flirtation ever could.

He saw her.

“Yes,” Camille murmured under her breath. “He cares about me.”

Kali's face softened instantly, her expression shifting from exasperated to smug. 

“So why would he do anything to hurt you, babe?” she said, one brow raised.

Camille looked away, her throat tightening. That was the question, wasn’t it?

Because if she let herself believe this was real… and it wasn’t? That would hurt worse than anything.

Camille opened her mouth to respond, ready to defend her guarded heart once again. But she was cut off by a sudden, firm knock on Kali’s apartment door. Her brows pinched in confusion. But Kali didn’t flinch. In fact, she moved with suspicious eagerness, springing from her bed and nearly tripping over her fuzzy socks as she beelined for the door like she’d been waiting for that knock. Camille trailed after her, a confused chuckle bubbling from her lips.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Kali didn’t answer. Instead, she peeked through the peephole, then turned back with a sly smirk. Without a single word, she undid the lock and swung the door open.

There, standing casually in the hallway was Terry, one hand casually in his pocket, the other holding Camille’s clutch.

Camille’s breath caught in her throat.

Heat flooded her cheeks as her stomach flipped in a chaotic mix of panic and giddiness.

“Hey, Terry,” Kali cooed, tossing Camille a sideways glance. “Oh look! You brought her clutch. How thoughtful!” The tone of her voice was unmistakable. It screamed, ‘Yes, we were absolutely talking about you.’

Camille wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

Terry smirked. “Yes ma’am,” he said smoothly, his voice dipped in charm. “Figured I couldn’t let her go a full day without her phone.”

His eyes found Camille’s, and the teasing glint in them made her knees feel weak. 

“Thanks, Terry,” Camille mumbled, forcing a sheepish smile as she reached for the clutch, her fingers brushing against his accidentally.

Kali backed away from the door. “Well, don’t mind me!” she sang, giggling as she disappeared into the kitchen, pleased as punch. “Y’all take your time!”

Camille stood frozen, staring up at Terry as her heart thundered against her ribcage. For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. But then, she pulled herself together, determined to keep this interaction brief and as painless as possible.

“Sorry you had to come all the way out here,” she said quietly, her voice shy but steady, eyes dropping to the clutch in her hands. “I really should’ve been paying more attention.”

Terry chuckled, the sound low and easy. “No worries,” he replied with a casual shrug. “Gave me an excuse to come see you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. To see me? Her fingers tightened around the clutch, trying to keep her expression neutral, but inside, her heart turned into butterflies.

“Besides,” he added, “your phone’s been blowing up. Thought it might be something urgent.”

Camille’s brows knit together as she let out a surprised, barely audible, 'Oh?' Her phone was usually so dry, it might as well have been a desert. With a small frown, she flipped open her clutch and pulled out her phone as the screen lit up:

4 missed calls – Maybe: Houston Fire Department

2 missed calls – The Echelon Apartments

16 missed calls – Mother

14 messages – Mother

8 missed calls – Father

Her heart sank.

A sick feeling bloomed in her gut, tight and urgent. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Why would the fire department and her apartment building be calling her? Unless…

“I need to go check on my apartment,” she said abruptly, her voice tight and tinged with rising panic.

Terry’s brow furrowed, concern flashing across his face. “Everything alright?”

Camille looked up, forcing a nervous laugh, though her insides felt like unraveling thread. “Umm… I’m not sure?” she admitted, the end of the sentence lilting upward like a question. Her voice betrayed her, on the verge of cracking. It had been a long, unforgiving weekend, and this felt like the final blow.

Terry stepped forward, his voice gentle. “I can take you there, if you want.”

She looked at him—at the kindness in his eyes—and her heart ached. He was just so… sweet.

She gave him a soft, apologetic smile. “Thank you, Terry. Really. But I’ve already taken up too much of your time this weekend.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes steady on hers. “Come on, Camille. I promise, I don’t mind. Besides…” His voice dipped, more serious now. “We need to talk anyway.”

She swallowed hard. That conversation. The one she hoped she could avoid. But he looked at her so earnestly, like he could see through every excuse she was building in real-time. And she knew, deep down, she wouldn’t say no. Not to him.

“Well… alright,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

He smiled as she turned to call a quick goodbye to Kali, who peeked her head out from the kitchen doorway with a smirk. Camille rolled her eyes, grabbed her sandals, and slipped them on without a word.

And then, she found herself walking out the door beside Terry… not knowing what to expect from their journey. 

~

Camille was grateful for the calm that settled between them during the ride. The cabin of the car was hushed, save for the soft hum of the radio. No forced conversation. No questions. Just stillness, something she hadn’t felt in days.

Today, Terry had forgone the sleek black SUV and professional driver, instead driving in his usual striking Lamborghini Urus. Effortlessly powerful, unapologetically bold. Just like the man behind the wheel. Once she’d given him the address to her apartment, the silence gave her space to think. And her mind, starved of rest, devoured the opportunity.

Was her apartment alright? Did she lose everything she left behind? If so, where would she go after this? She couldn’t stay at Kali’s forever.

Her thoughts spiraled until a sudden warmth pulled her back. A large, comforting hand swept gently over the top of her head, his fingers lingering. Her breath caught.

“Camille?” Terry’s voice wrapped around her. “You okay?”

She blinked, realizing they were parked in her parking garage.

She forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah… sorry,” she murmured, quickly unclicking her seatbelt. “Thanks again for driving me.”

Terry glanced over at her, his expression unreadable. “You mind if I come up?” he asked casually, though his eyes said something different. It wasn’t really a question.

Camille hesitated, but decided she might need some support. “Not at all,” she breathed, praying silently that whatever was waiting upstairs wouldn’t break her.

The walk from the parking garage was uneventful, their footsteps echoing against the concrete as they made their way toward the elevator. But where the car ride had been peaceful, this silence felt… heavier. Dread curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing floor.

She fiddled with her keys in her pocket, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the worst-case scenarios take over. The elevator chimed softly as they reached her floor. And then, her stomach dropped. A distinct smell hit her the second the doors parted. Thick and smoky. Her legs felt like jelly.

Camille’s steps were unsteady as she made her way down the hallway, the smell hitting her harder with every step. Her chest tightened with each breath, and her stomach twisted into knots. The door to her apartment, usually shut tight, now hung slightly ajar. Low voices murmured on the other side, indistinct but urgent. Terry stayed close, his presence a quiet pillar she could mentally lean on.

She reached out with trembling fingers and slowly pushed the door open. The moment it gave way, a gasp tore from her lips, her hand flying to her mouth

Everything, everything, was scorched.

The once-cozy luxury apartment was now a bleak, depressing space. Charred walls, blackened from smoke and soot. Hardwood floors slick with ash and water residue. Particles floating in the air, catching what little sunlight filtered in through shattered windows at the far end of the room.

Her art, her plants, the delicate little touches Aston had allowed her to contribute to make the apartment a little more hers…all destroyed, consumed by what had clearly been an out-of-control blaze. The living room was unrecognizable. Picture frames were melted and warped on the floor. The kitchen island, once spotless and bright, was now covered in debris.

“Oh my God…” she choked out, voice cracking.

Three figures turned sharply at the sound.

Her father. Her mother. And Rachael, the property manager.

“Oh, Camille, I’m so sorry this happened,” Rachael said, rushing forward with genuine concern painted across her face. “We tried to reach you and Aston, but… no one was answering. I’m just glad your parents were able to get here.”

Camille could barely look at them. Her eyes were still moving, frantically scanning the wreckage. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice through the knot in her throat.

“What… what even happened?”

Rachael exhaled slowly, her voice gentle. “The fire department says it was electrical. They think it started from a hair straightener left plugged in.” She hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “But… I know you haven’t been here the past few days.”

Camille didn’t miss the hint. There was another woman. Someone else had been here while she was away. And her and Aston’s carelessness had nearly burned everything she owned to the ground. Camille didn't flinch. She didn’t even look surprised. Her face remained eerily calm as the pieces fell into place. She gave Rachael a slow, silent nod, acknowledging the unsaid.

“I-I have to return to the front office,” Rachael said awkwardly, clearly unsure of what else to say. “But please, don’t hesitate to stop by. We’ll do whatever we can to help you through this.”

Camille could hardly process her words, but she nodded anyway, her gaze still fixed on the remnants of her life.

“Thanks, Rachael,” she said. Rachael gave her a tight, apologetic smile before slipping past Terry and out the door. 

“Camille,” her mother’s voice called out. “Let’s talk, sweetheart.”

Camille nodded reluctantly. She turned slightly towards Terry, who stood quietly off to the side, watching her with concern.

“Can you give us a minute?” she asked. He nodded, his gaze intense. “Of course,” he said softly, stepping out into the hallway and easing the door mostly closed behind him, giving her and her parents privacy.

Camille turned back toward her parents, slowly approaching them. Her mother’s face was a tight mask of worry, eyes red-rimmed, lips pressed together as if holding back tears. But her father’s expression was an entirely different story. Nothing but anger.

“Sweetheart, where have you been?” her mother said, reaching out and clasping Camille’s hand in both of hers. “We’ve been trying to reach you…”

“I lost my phone last night—” Camille started, but the explanation was cut short by a sharp scoff from her father.

“Maybe if you weren’t out with that man, playing his little slut, we would’ve been able to reach you,” her father snapped, his voice rising with every syllable. Camille flinched, her breath catching in her throat.

“Colin!” her mother gasped, but it didn’t stop him.

He shot her a dismissive look before locking eyes with Camille again. “This is all your fault, you know,” he muttered bitterly. Camille’s stomach twisted. She’d heard his criticisms a thousand times before, but this time they landed differently. He wasn’t just disappointed. He was blaming her for something beyond her control. And it hurt.

“H-How could you even say that?” Camille said, voice cracking. “I wasn’t even here!”

“Exactly!” he bellowed, taking a step forward. “If you hadn’t run off, if you had just stayed put, none of this would’ve happened! But no, you had to be selfish. You just had to throw a tantrum and disappear. What do you think Aston’s going to say when he gets out of the hospital, huh? Are you going to explain to him why he’s homeless now?”

Camille’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She glanced at her mother, silently pleading for some sort of intervention, some pushback. A single word. A look. Anything. But her mom just looked away. Avoided her gaze. And in that moment, Camille understood exactly where she stood. Alone. She let out a humorless laugh. “Of course,” she whispered to herself. “Of course I’m the villain here.”

“Are you even listening to me, Camille?” her father barked, voice sharp as a whip. “You ungrateful–”

“Can you just shut the fuck up!” Camille exploded. Her parents recoiled, their eyes wide in stunned disbelief. Her mother’s lips parted in shock, one hand fluttering instinctively to her chest, while her father actually took a step back, blinking as if he’d been slapped. They looked at her like they didn’t recognize her.

“Do you…” her father began, his voice loud and disbelieving, as though he was still trying to process what had just happened. “Do you think you can just raise your voice at me–”

“Enough.” A guttural growl shook the room like a low thunderclap, vibrating in Camille’s bones, silencing everyone.

All eyes turned toward the doorway, where Terry stood, his broad frame filling the entrance. An unnatural stillness radiated from him, quiet and cold. Her father gulped audibly, the only sound in the smothering silence.

“I don’t know what this is about,” Terry began, voice cool and measured, yet predatory. “And I really don’t care. But I’ll be damned if I stand here and let either of you speak to Camille like that.”

He took a slow step forward, making everyone take a step back. “You’re done here,” he said with finality. “Both of you. Now get out.” No yelling, no theatrics, just authority. Undeniable, inescapable and dangerous. It was the kind of voice you didn’t argue with. The kind of voice that made your instincts whisper, ‘Run.’

Camille stood rooted in place, watching him with wide eyes. Terry, who had always been patient and warm, seemed possessed by something else entirely. Something lethal.

Her father tried to summon some control. “Y-you can’t t-tell us what to d-do!” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“Don’t make me fucking repeat myself,” Terry said, low and dark, every syllable laced with something Camille couldn’t name. His eyes glinted. Not with rage, but something more primal. And she found it terrifying.

In that instant, Camille wasn’t looking at the man who she shared an office with, or who brought her clutch back with a soft smile. She was staring into the eyes of something barely restrained. A monster. A protector. She wasn’t sure which.

Her father clamped his mouth shut, visibly shaken. Her mother took a trembling step back, grasping at his arm to steady herself. Neither of them dared to argue. Camille couldn’t breathe. And yet, even with fear crawling up her spine like ice, she felt something else: safety. The safety that could only come from something sinister. A demon. A sexy, dominating, mouth-watering demon.

Her mother reached out and gently tugged at her father’s sleeve, her voice low and shaky. “Come on, Colin. We obviously aren’t welcome here.”

She shivered as Terry’s gaze remained locked on them. Colin DeWaterson looked like he wanted to protest, his jaw working in angry silence. But even he wasn’t bold enough to stand against whatever power he just felt in Terry’s presence. His eyes flicked to Camille, then back to Terry, then down at the floor before he finally moved towards the door, his movements stiff with pride and resentment.

Camille’s mother followed him, avoiding Terry as much as she could, picking a careful path over charred marble and fallen debris until she and her husband passed through the door.

And then, as if a switch had flipped, Terry turned back to her.

Gone was his fury, the commanding presence that had silenced her father with a single look. His eyes were soft. He was back to himself, the version she knew. Without a word, Terry crossed the ruined room, each stride silent and sure despite the rubble beneath his feet. When he reached her, he didn’t hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in.

She stood still at first, her body stiff, her breathing shallow. Then she sank into him.

Her forehead pressed against his chest. She sniffled once, twice. But her eyes remained dry. The tears wouldn’t come. There weren’t any left.

Terry’s hand moved slowly, threading through her hair with care. He leaned down, his voice low and close to her ear. “Can I take you to my place? Let me help you figure all this out. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” His tone was almost desperate but quiet, like he didn’t want to spook her. Like a man who knew just how fragile she was at this moment.

Her mind told her no. Said she wasn’t ready to trust him. Told her it could only lead to heartbreak. But her heart? It jumped at the opportunity. Ready to seize a moment of softness. And when would she get the chance to listen to her heart again?

She nodded against his chest. “Okay,” she whispered.

Terry

Terry hid his satisfaction beneath a mask of concern. Genuine, warm, protective. The perfect facade. But inside? He was more than pleased. His plan had worked exactly as he intended.

The fire had been contained just enough to avoid suspicion, but devastating enough to leave Camille with nowhere else to go. Now, here she was, fragile and disoriented in his home. Right where he needed her to be. Where he could keep her safe… keep her close. 

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with all my drama this weekend, Terry,” Camille said softly, cradling the mug of earl grey he had placed gently into her hands.

Terry looked down at her from his place in front of the couch, watching the steam curl into the air between them. She was curled into the corner of his sectional, legs tucked underneath her.

God, she looked perfect. Vulnerable. Grateful. His.

She brought the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip, sighing as the warmth soothed her. Her eyes closed briefly, lashes brushing her cheeks.

He eased into a cushion next to her, close enough that their legs brushed. His hand moved without hesitation, possessively resting on her thigh.

“Camille,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a caress. “Nothing that happened this weekend was your drama.” He used air quotes around the word 'drama'. “You were just caught up in a bunch of unfortunate events.”

She gave him a weak smile, the corners of her mouth twitching, but her eyes still looked ashamed. He hated that she saw herself as a burden when it came to him. It made something rumble in his chest. Not pity. Not guilt. Frustration. Hadn’t he been clear enough? Hadn’t he shown that he would do anything for her? 

He exhaled slowly, controlling the flicker of irritation threatening to surface. His thumb grazed her thigh gently, a soothing motion that masked his growing hunger. For control.

She looked away, sipping again from the mug, unaware of the storm brewing in him. 

“Still… I’m sorry. For everything,” Camille whispered. Her eyes stayed locked on the mug in her lap. “I–I shouldn’t have crossed that line and kissed you…”

Terry’s jaw ticked. He watched her for a beat longer, then slowly leaned forward, placing a single knuckle beneath her chin. His touch was light, but the message was clear: Look at me.

Reluctantly, she let him tilt her face up, her eyes meeting his.

“Camille,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’ve been very patient with you. I've been gentle. I've given you space. And despite all that, I’ve been more than clear about how I feel.”

He paused, eyes darkening as his thumb brushed just beneath her lip.

“I want you. Far more than you want me. So you can apologize all you want for what you thought was wrong. But I won’t let you sit here and act like I don’t want you. Like I haven’t always wanted you.”

Camille’s eyes widened, stunned by his directness. 

“T-Terry… I didn’t think–”

“What?” he interrupted, the edge in his tone unmistakable now. “You don’t take me seriously?” He knew she respected him, but he had to push her. Needed to push her. Make her understand in a way she could never deny again.

She stammered, shaking her head quickly. “I-I do, Terry! I just… I just don’t think I’m what you really want–”

He let out a dark laugh, low and humorless. “Camille, I made my decision about you months ago.” His voice dropped to a growl, fingers twitching as he kept the darkest parts of himself down. “Watching you with Aston every day…it drove me fucking insane.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him with those beautiful brown eyes, jaw slightly slackened. 

He leaned back slowly, stretching his arms out and lacing his fingers behind his head, his muscles flexing beneath his fitted shirt. His legs spread slightly, lazy but dominant. Unmistakably in control.

“I don’t like being doubted, Camille,” he murmured. She said nothing, too stunned. “So now,” he drawled, each word slow and deliberate as his gaze swept over her, “you’re going to come over here…”

He let the silence stretch. Then added, voice low and commanding, “…and give me a proper apology.”

Camille’s teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her gaze dropped for a moment, staring into the swirl of tea still inside of her mug. Her fingers flexed, then relaxed. Then she set the mug aside and rose slowly to her feet, moving to stand between his parted legs. Her eyes trailed up and down his body before she met his eyes again, giving him a shy glance. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head slightly.

“Go ‘head,” he said. He wasn’t suggesting.

She nervously hiked her long dress up to her mid thighs, Terry’s eyes following the reveal of her smooth brown skin. Carefully, she climbed on top of him to settle in his lap. She gasped as her covered pussy brushed against his very hard length, which twitched with impatience. 

Camille’s fingers hovered slightly before she let them settle on his shoulders. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her. Her eyes searched his momentarily. Then, slowly, she leaned in. Her lips brushed his. It was too soft, he wouldn’t even call it a kiss. She pulled back just barely. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. 

Terry almost cracked. Almost. The softness in her voice, the way her lips trembled just after brushing his…the delicate vulnerability in her eyes, wide and unsure like a startled doe. It nearly unraveled him as his irritation dulled. She didn’t even realize the kind of power she held over him. That breathy little 'I’m sorry' was enough to bring him to his knees. But he couldn’t succumb to her charm. He had to make her understand that he wasn’t playing any games.

“Nah,” he groaned, bringing his hands down to her hips, grinding her against him ever so slightly. He let out a low hiss as he took in the friction. “I don’t think you mean it. Try again, baby girl.”

She wasted no time listening to his command. She pressed a deep, wet kiss against his lips. It lingered much longer than the previous one. Then she moved to his jaw. Then his neck. His breath grew shallower with each touch. He balled his hands into fists as he attempted to hold onto his control. And he did…until she reached his ear. The soft, moist feeling against his ear lobe made everything in him snap. Immediately turned him into the predator he knew he was.

His hand slid up to her neck, pulling her face back to his before his lips crashed against hers, giving her harsh, consuming kisses. She whimpered as she attempted to keep up with him as he continued, but he had no plan on slowing down. He wanted her mind cloudy. The only thing getting through the haze of it all should be how good he was making her feel. 

Terry slid his arms beneath Camille’s thighs, lifting her effortlessly. The kiss never broke, only deepened as her arms instinctively looped around his neck. His grip was secure as he moved through the apartment toward his bedroom. He walked the path to his room without thought, his focus entirely on her and the way she tasted, her lips stained with earl gray tea and honey.

This time, his room was safe. Nothing out of place, nothing that might raise a single question. The altar, a physical manifestation of his obsession with her, was no longer in eyesight. He had moved it as soon as he came home that morning, tucking it away behind a reinforced door, locked with both steel and spell, where no wandering eyes would ever find it. Especially hers.

He shoved his door wider as he reached it, crossing the threshold like a dragon returning to its castle…holding its most prized treasure. He pulled away only to toss her on the bed. She landed with a soft whimper, watching him as he began to strip.

“Take off everything,” he growled as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I want you completely bare.”

Obediently, she pulled the rest of her dress off and cast it to the side. She was left in nothing else but a pink thong, which she eagerly hooked her thumbs through to pull them down. Terry watched her as he kicked off his pants and boxers. He fisted his dick as he slowly stalked towards his bed. The way she laid against it… hair wild, lips puffy, eyes hooded. It was as if she was a siren being served to him on a silver platter. Silently calling out to him, begging to be tamed. Her smooth skin glistened as she rubbed her thighs against each other, lust swirling in her eyes and throughout her aura.

Terry grasped one of her ankles and dragged her until her ass sat on the edge of the bed. With his eyes still on hers, he sank to his knees and parted her legs. He licked his lips as he stared at her dripping wet center, her fragrance making his cock throb. 

A well deserved offering she was. 

He leaned forward to take in more of her scent, a deep rumble coming from him. Then, his tongue darted out, a slow, long lick separating her folds. Camille yelped, her back arching off his bed. He chuckled, loving the way she responded to his touch. He took another lick, this one much more slow and teasing.

“Terryyyyyy,” she moaned. He growled again, her taste making him nearly feral. He pried her legs even further, giving him better access to his pussy. 

“Fuck you taste so good. So fucking good.” He couldn’t hold back anymore. He needed this just as much as she did. His lips latched around her clit, licking and sucking simultaneously, speeding up as her screams grew louder and louder. He dragged one of his hands from her thigh down to her pussy, slowly pushing in two thick fingers.

“Ohmygodddddd,” Camille shouted, as her walls spasmed around his digits. He hummed, watching her twist and thrash against his bed, curses pouring from her like a faucet. He sped up his pace, curling his fingers slightly to graze the spot he knew would drive her crazy. She let out an agonized whimper, beginning to scoot back from his touch.

Terry pulled away, furious. “You runnin’?” he gritted. “Daddy don’t like all that runnin’ shit.” He reached out and yanked her back towards him, his mouth latching back onto her pussy once more. This time, he was much more brutal.

Sucking. 

Slurping. 

Lapping. 

He did it all. And he didn’t stop. Not when her legs began to twitch. Not even when she begged for mercy. It wasn’t until her juices splashed across his mouth and chin did he pull away from her, somewhat satisfied. 

He rose slowly from his knees, beating his dick as he watched the little thing try to reorient herself. He couldn’t have that though, could he? He needed her dick-dumb, her mind consumed by only him and what he was doing to her. He grabbed her waist and slid her body further up the bed towards his headboard. His hand found her neck once again, giving it a squeeze, beckoning her to focus on him.

She blinked up at him as she panted, fat tears staining her pretty face. He gave her a crooked smile.

“Raw?” He asked. He wanted to feel her against him, nothing being between them. But he wanted her comfortable more than anything. But to his surprise, she nodded, still trying to catch air as she swallowed.

“Yes please,” she moaned, the words sounding so needy. So fucking pathetic. He chuckled sinisterly. Yes, please? Oh, he was going to put her straight through this damn mattress. Slowly, he fed her the tip of his cock. His eyes rolled back, ascending to euphoria as her entrance tightened around his tip. “Ahhhh,” she winced, wiggling slightly, trying her best to accommodate him.

“Breathe, princess, breathe,” he cooed, his hand moving from her neck down to her nipple. He brushed the nub softly, coaxing her to relax. “You can take it, pretty girl. I know you can.”

After a few pants, he felt Camille relax around him, making him smile. He pushed a few more inches into her before pulling out completely, watching her face to make sure she was good. It didn’t take long for the pained expression to melt away, leaving only her eyes rolled back and her mouth fallen open. 

“That’s my girl,” he moaned, picking up his pace. He couldn’t help the vulgar things that fell out of his mouth as he thrusted in and out of her. Her pussy was beyond perfect. Tight and gushy, filling the room up with the most erotic sounds. This had to be what heaven felt like. No, it was beyond that. It was mind numbing and earth shattering being in Camille’s temple. And he would worship there until the day he fucking died.

Terry almost got lost in her warmth, his release threatening to come too early. He almost let himself get carried away on the high. But he remembered that, above all, this was her punishment. A lesson on trusting him, his words, and his actions. She wouldn’t learn if he failed to drag this out.

Camille needed to believe him. Completely. She thought he was just playing. That this… that they were some temporary, heat-of-the-moment fling. But she was wrong. Terry had to make her see. Make her understand. Not with words, because he had said enough. But with deep, pleasure-filled strokes that communicated better than any words ever could.

Letting her know that she was safe with him. That she was treasured. Every move, every touch, every lingering kiss would be a vow she couldn’t ignore. He would claim every inch of her. Until the doubt fell away. Until she looked at him and acknowledged what he had known all along: She didn’t belong to anyone else. Only him.

Beads of sweat dripped down from his face as he watched her face contort, unable to do anything but take his dick.

Good, he thought. Now would be a perfect time for a domination spell... right in the middle of me ruining her.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me you’re all mine. You belong to me don’t you?”

All she had to do was say those words. And she would be his. He slowed down slightly, allowing her to focus on what he was saying. But she didn’t speak. Just nodded weakly before her head lolled to the side. Terry tsked. That just wouldn’t do.

“Come on Camille, just tell me. You can do it,” he purred, amused by how cock-drunk she looked. His lips crashed into hers, his hips rolling to a stop. “Say it, baby,” he encouraged as he pulled away from her slightly.

She gulped. “I’m yours,” she croaked, voice nearly gone. He cocked his eyebrow.

“And?” He shoved his cock to the base, forcing a whimper from her. She sniffled, obviously fighting the overstimulation. “I-I belong to you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Terry let out a laugh, unhinged, almost psychotic as he continued digging her out. She said it. She actually said it! The words rang in his ears like a sweet hymn. All of his careful planning, every whispered manipulation, every hidden ritual, every drop of blood he spilled…had led to this moment. To her.

His chosen Indulgence, who seemed to have him gripped in the deepest obsession, in his bed and in his arms.

And for that… for giving him exactly what he craved…her trust, her surrender, her heart…he had to reward her with pleasure beyond anything she could comprehend. And Terry, in all his dark devotion, would make sure she felt it. Deep in her skin and in her soul. Because Terry always took care of what was his.

He reached down, his thumb expertly playing with her clit, giving it the right amount of pressure to push her into her next orgasm.

He watched as her chest heaved up and down before she paused for the slightest moment, eyes glazing over.

And then, she shattered.

Her spine arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Every nerve lit up. Every feeling surged through her, all tangled together and bursting through her at once. Her body trembled as she gave in, no longer able to contain what he had so methodically unraveled.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted, and she pressed herself against him like she didn’t know where she ended and he began. Exactly how he wanted her.

“Terryyyyyyyy!” She sobbed.

“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, enjoying the pulse of her pussy as it gripped his cock, nearly milking out his release. He watched as her body lightly convulsed as her orgasm continued to rip through her. Sweet, soft whimpers escaping her, making his cock jump. 

He was grateful for her submission. But her punishment was far from over. He was still irritated that she couldn’t see his love for her. So he would make sure she got the message.

And he would be rough. Passionate. And barely restrained. 

As if he was possessed by some feral monster, he grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, snatching her hips into the air and pressing her head into the pillows.

“I’m tired of you running from me, baby girl. Running from us. So I gotta make sure we’re crystal clear,” he groaned, placing feathery soft kisses up her spine. He noticed how her arch faltered with each press of his lips. With a smirk, he dragged his tongue up her spine, watching her lose her arch all together. But he just propped her right back up, just how he liked it.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” He asked, as he ran his tip up and down her slit, giving her entrance extra attention. She only nodded eagerly as she gripped the sheets to prepare herself. He frowned, displeased by her lack of words. He planted a heavy smack on her full ass, the ripple momentarily hypnotizing him. She cried out, arching even further. “Words, Princess.” He gritted.

“Y-Yes, I’ll be a good girl–” Another slap pulled another cry from her. He gripped her hair, pulling her head back slightly. His lips kissed along the shell of her ear. 

“Yes what?” Terry asked, nuzzling the side of her face with his. He licked his lips slowly, still savoring her juices on his mouth and tongue.

“Yes, Daddy,” she moaned, trying to press herself into him. He smirked. Greedy little thing, he thought as he pressed her face back into the pillow. She had no idea what she just unleashed with those words. Hopefully, she’ll be able to walk after he was done with her. 

With one kiss to her shoulder blade, Terry thrust his full length into her weeping hole. He let out a guttural moan as the breath in her throat caught. 

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered as she fluttered around him. “You can take all of me.”

Terry showed her no mercy as he pummeled in and out of her with deep, torturous strokes, soaking up every moan that went past her pretty ass lips. But he knew his love could do better than that. She could be a bit more vocal. He reached around her front, sliding his fingers into her folds to caress the pearl-like bundle of nerves between her legs.

“Ooooo, shittt Daddy,” she shouted, her legs beginning to quiver. Terry smirked, slowing his strokes down to match the pace the tips of his fingers used to circle her clit. Again, she fluttered around him, making his hips almost stutter. He smacked her ass again.

“You gonna let me take care of you, princess?” He asked. She nodded once more, gripping his sheets even harder. “Yes sir,” she croaked, voice hoarse. He smacked her round flesh again.

“You gonna let me handle all this shit you got going on?” 

“Yes, oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” Her orgasm was close. He wished he could see her eyes. Were they rolling back? Were they clenched tight? He was dying to know. But her ass was just as beautiful of a sight.

A deep, evil chuckle left his mouth. He could make her do anything right now. She was like putty. He couldn’t wait to reshape her. Not with his hands, but with his presence, his words. Not into someone new, but into someone real. Her most authentic and free self. The version of Camille that the world had tried to bury, but that he saw so clearly, even when she didn’t.

He pressed his full weight into her, flattening her into his bed. His mouth hovered over her ear. “This my pussy now, right?” He teased, grasping her hands as he brought her closer to exaltation. 

She closed her eyes tightly. “O-Only your pussy, Daddy! No one else’s!” 

He let out a satisfied hum. There she was. The vulgar little temptress he knew she could be. “Yeah? So I should nut in my pussy right? Fill you up until you stuffed?”

“Please, Daddy,” she begged. “I-I-I want to feel full.” How could Terry deny such a humble request?

He leaned back and placed one foot on the bed, giving him the leverage to drill one particular spot in the goddess beneath him. She deserved it. Her moans and cries became sharp breaths as her pussy quivered around him. Terry was almost there. Just a few more strokes…

“Fuckkkkkkk!” Camille slurred, knees buckling as she splashed his sheets with her release. The sight of it pushed him over the edge. “Shitttt!” Terry hissed, tears pricking the sides of his eyes, the world crumbling around him, leaving nothing but him and Camille. His hips sputtered as his balls contracted, his cock shooting thick ropes of cum into his woman, painting her walls white.

He collapsed on top of her, careful not to smush her but enough to lock her into place. For a while, they didn’t move. Just breathed heavily as their climaxes subsided. As their souls untangled themselves from each other. Although he wanted to, Terry knew he couldn’t just lay there. He pushed her, probably further than she had ever been pushed before. If he wanted to keep her grounded, he had to give Camille her much needed aftercare.

He sat up slowly, balancing on his knees as he looked down at where they were still connected. She still spasmed around him, adding to the thick, creamy ring that formed at the base of his dick. A perfect mix of their pleasure. Of course, Terry hardened again, and he cursed lowly as he pulled out of her. His mouth watered as he watched his cum spill out of her, dropping onto the soaked, dark sheets below her.

God, she was a sight. 

His dick twitched once more, begging to return to its new, warm home. But he knew she had given him all she could. For now. She was right where she needed to be. But he couldn’t keep her there forever.

He gently kissed her shoulder before he flipped her over tenderly. Shallow breaths still fell from her lips, her eyes glassy and her gaze far away.

Terry reached up slowly, reverently, his fingertips brushing along her jaw before cupping her face. She leaned into his touch without hesitation, her eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. His thumb stroked along her cheekbone.

“I love you, Camille,” he whispered, tone nothing but sincere.

Her eyes finally refocused. They locked onto his in a way that made his breath catch. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then, a soft, warm giggle escaped her lips. A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light as it fell, and she smiled.

“I love you too, Terry,” she whispered, the words trembling as they left her. He smiled back.

“Good to hear, baby girl,” he murmured. He brushed his thumb across the tear still clinging to her skin. “Now, let me get you cleaned up.” He stood, tugging her into a bridal style hold, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he made his way to his bathroom.

Stephanie

Stephanie walked down the stark hallway of the hospital’s psychiatric wing, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead casting a sterile glow across the scuffed floor. Her heels clicked softly beneath her, muffled by the hum of machines and the distant murmurs drifting from behind closed doors. She adjusted her oversized sunglasses with a practiced flick of her wrist, despite the fact that they barely masked the exhaustion and fury simmering just beneath her polished exterior.

This was the fourth hospital she had visited today. But this time, she finally found who she was looking for.

A nurse at the front desk had bought the concerned-girlfriend routine without hesitation, directing her with a sympathetic nod and giving her a printed visitor sticker. Stephanie hadn’t even needed to fake the tremble in her voice. Her nerves were still frayed from this morning’s… incident with Terry.

Her stomach turned at the scent of industrial cleaner. The quiet, occasional thuds or groans behind doors creeped her out but she pressed forward, undeterred.

She was on a mission after all.

This morning’s altercation with Terry had been a disaster. She had miscalculated, overplayed her hand. Threatening to expose him, flashing the truth of what he really was, only earned her a choking hand around her throat. And while it was beyond sexy, it was a reminder of what he was capable of. He didn’t fear her. And why would he? Who would believe that the beloved Terry Richmond was a vampire? She wouldn’t have believed it had she not seen it with her own eyes.

But where her threat had failed… she’d discovered something else she could use to get him to bend to her will.

Camille.

Stephanie had been so blind. She was so focused on Camille’s infatuation with Terry that she didn’t even notice his infatuation with her.

But now she understood.

Camille DeWaterson was Terry’s weakness, the key to Stephanie getting everything she wanted. And she would gladly use that slut against him.

Stephanie halted mid-stride as she reached Room 718, the number the nurse had whispered with that oh-so-reassuring smile. She tilted her head, peering through the narrow window in the door, where the blinds had been left slightly ajar.

Inside, the room was dim but not empty.

Aston sat upright in the hospital bed, wrists bound tight in restraints, fingers twitching. He stared at the ceiling. His mouth hung slightly open, lips dry, his pupils wide and unfocused. Heavily medicated, Stephanie noted. The cocktail they had him on must’ve been strong.

Her gaze shifted to the older couple hovering near the bed’s edge. A man and woman, seated on either side with identical blank expressions. The woman’s elegant updo had started to fall, and the man’s suit jacket was wrinkled at the elbows. But even disheveled, they reeked of money. She recognized them instantly from the night before.

Mr. and Mrs. McCoy. Texas oil money, she thought, lips twitching into a slight smirk.

She let her eyes linger on their outfits, clearly what they had worn the previous night. No doubt, they hadn’t left their son’s side since then. 

Stephanie didn’t hesitate.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside like she owned the place, the scent of antiseptic rushing up to greet her. Instantly, all three heads turned in her direction.

Aston’s dull eyes flickered, as if he was coming back to life. He tugged against the restraints with new energy, his voice cracking as it spilled out in surprise. “Stephanie! Baby, I’ve missed you so much!”

He tugged at the straps like a child reaching for a toy just out of reach, his frown deepening when the restraints held firm. 

“Somebody get these fucking things off me!” Aston's voice cracked as he strained against the restraints, his eyes wild with a mix of panic and desperation.

His parents sprang to their feet, their movements hurried as they attempted to soothe their son with gentle words and reassuring touches. His mother turned to Stephanie, her expression tight with barely concealed frustration.

“I apologize for what happened last night,” she began, her voice measured but firm, “but you need to leave.”

Stephanie’s lips curled into a faint smile. She rolled her eyes theatrically, the gesture dripping with feigned exasperation, as Aston’s shouting escalated.

“If you want your son to get better,” Stephanie replied coolly, “you need me here.”

She took a deliberate step closer to the hospital bed, each stride measured and confident. Reaching the bedside, she leaned slightly forward, her presence commanding Aston’s attention.

“Hey, Aston,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. She plastered a fake smile on her face as she observed his frantic movements gradually stop, his focus on her like a moth to a flame.

“I've missed you too!” She lied with ease. “But I need you to calm down, okay? You don't want to upset your parents, right?”

Aston's gaze flickered momentarily, a brief flash of clarity before he succumbed again, his eyes locking onto hers. His hands, still bound, settled into his lap, his posture slumping in defeat.

“N-No, baby,” he stammered, his voice small and apologetic. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Stephanie's smile deepened, savoring the small victory.

“Good boy,” she murmured, enjoying the control she had over him.

Turning her gaze toward Aston’s parents, Stephanie observed their reactions with keen interest. His mother wore an expression of sheer horror. Her lush, Southern accent trembled as she addressed Stephanie.

“What have you done to him?” she quipped, her voice laced with terror.

His father remained eerily silent, his eyes narrowing as they fixed intently on Stephanie, analyzing her every move with a calculating gaze.

Unfazed, Stephanie met his father’s scrutiny with unwavering confidence. “I haven't done anything to him,” she replied smoothly. “But I know how to get him back to normal. I'll just need a few things from you all first.”

Before his mother could retort, Aston's father's calm voice interjected.

“Let her speak, Lily,” he said, his tone surprisingly composed. Stephanie couldn't suppress her smirk, her lips curling as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“First,” she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, “I need you to help me disappear.” She watched as they exchanged glances.

“Go on,” his father prompted, his expression unreadable. Stephanie’s eyes darkened as she thought about her next request. She hated that she even had to mention that homewrecking bitch’s name. 

“And when I say when,” she continued, her voice tinged with barely contained irritation, “bring me Camille DeWaterson.”

a/n:

OK, so please, nobody shoot me. But I'm going to have to pause updates until May 9. School, work, and research are really kicking my ass right now, and I just can't give that much time to writing right now. But I really thank y'all for supporting my work and checking in on me! It really does help me get through everything. Especially all the funny and detailed comments and reposts. 😭 I'll be ready to jump back into things once my school stuff dies down. But until then, thanks again for reading, engaging, and interacting!

-------

@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @loveschrisbrown20 @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83 @bruleecream @playingaymes

[loviestar58]

💚~Ekko bf/general HC's Pt 2~💚

I had thought of more Hc's for Ekko and y'all seemed to enjoy the last one (more than I thought, honestly-) so I thought why not share more of them?

So here's some more of our favorite time boy!

Enjoy‼️💖

⏳~He definitely has a small collection of bonnets that he's either stolen, found, or had a fellow Firelight make for himself. He can make his own as well, but with limited sewing supplies, it's hard to do so. He started off just using any random piece of fabric he could find

⏳~He let's you help him with his retwists when it's the inevitable time to do them. If you don't know how to do retwists, he'll happily teach you, taking you step by step on what to do and what not to do, being very patient with you cause he knows it can seem like a lot to some people

⏳~Building off the last one, I do think he may be a bit tender headed. Not too bad, but if you do pull his hair a bit too hard when doing his retwists, he will groan in pain and squirm. He makes sure you don't feel bad about it though, unless you're doing it on purpose, then he'll keep squirming and trying to get you to stop all while feigning anger. He'd definitely get you back for that

⏳~Can blush really easily and gets bashful/flustered easily as well. If you start to make moves on him, he will be caught off guard. He's never had much experience in romance or these feelings, so he doesn't really know how to act on them, at least at the start of a relationship. He'd get more confident as time goes on, but that doesn't mean he still won't blush at a sudden flirtatious comment or sudden PDA he wasn't expecting, especially in public

⏳~Personally, I don't believe he's the jealous type. He may get a bit annoyed that you're spending less time with him and more with others, but it's not because he's jealous, he just likes spending time with you and having you near him. He'd be very confident in your relationship and bond, and would trust you wholeheartedly, letting you be your own person and go and do whatever you want.

⏳~He's not controlling at all, since he's all about freedom, he trusts you to take care of yourself and again, be your own person. That doesn't mean he isn't protective of you. He'll always be there to help and defend you if you need it, but only when he sees you're really struggling. He's especially protective on missions, always keeping an eye on you or having a buddy with you so your safety is more assured, but it's not overbearing

⏳~I firmly believe that Ekko loves to dance as evidenced by S2Ep7. I think he's more into interpretive dance or just following the beat of the music, following the music's lead. If you two dance together it'd be very much like that episode, or it could be more chaotic and you two will rule the dance floor with both of your sick moves. I also think he'd be really really good at breakdancing, have you seen how agile he is?

⏳~One of his favorite past times if it isn't a busy day at the base is to hang out with the kids. He'd play games with them, tell them stories from books or make up his own, and absolutely have hover board races with them (which you would join in on sometimes)

⏳~He can sing. Don't even try to tell me he can't. He would have a real smooth voice able to harmonize easily with people. If you can sing, better believe you two would be duetting often at random points when you're together. He would adore your voice. Even if you can't sing, he'd appreciate your humming with him. Puts the kids to sleep with his voice sometimes, especially if they have nightmares

⏳~Speaking of nightmares, he definitely has those way fairly often. Can you blame him? After thinking he lost everyone he loved, and believing it was his fault for years, it'd take it's toll. He'll toss and turn and even mumble in his sleep on rare occasions before he'd shoot up in bed, clutching his chest. Sometimes he'd yell out a name or a command to stop when he wakes up, which would wake you up if you're next to him. Comfort him, hug him close to you and whisper reassurances, he'll relax in no time. If it's a particularly bad nightmare, he'll stay up and try to do some work to distract himself, unable (or afraid) to go back to sleep.

Some of these I had to do research on, mostly for the hair ones, as I am not black and didn't want to get some things wrong with how his hair would be taken care of. If I missed something or got something wrong, please let me know!🙏🏼

Hope y'all enjoyed!💖

[innerfare]

Smutty Captain Kid Headcanons - Part 1 

Summary: A collection of NSFW headcanons for Eustass Kid

Genre: Smut

CW: oral sex, threesomes, cuckolding, exhibitionism, dirty talk, mean dom Kid, toys, piercings, spanking

———

Man is a f-r-e-a-k. 

Seriously high libido. He’s hard more often than he’s not. If you’re going to be fucking him, you’re going to be logging some real overtime. And he’s serious about getting off, too. Turns into an absolute fiend if he has blue balls, takes it out on the entire crew. Everyone knows when the captain didn’t get off the night before. Basically can’t function without a blowjob.  

Loves a good challenge. All about the chase.

Went through a phase where he wasn’t interested in sleeping with women unless he could get two at a time. His face and cock buried in pussy is his perfect night. Would happily drown in the pussy if he could. 

Definitely enjoys cuckolding other men. Is the definition of a bull. But while he likes bedding a woman behind her boyfriend or husband’s back, he prefers to make them watch. If the boyfriend/husband is a marine or government bureaucrat, it’s even better.

Has definitely had his dick sucked by marines before, both male and female. Has joked about his wanted poster being a nude.

Never shuts up in bed. It’s a running commentary, him goading, teasing, and bullying you. Tells you to stop being such a crybaby when he’s fucking you. “You told me you could take it, so you’re gonna fucking take it.” “What’s wrong? Embarrassed by how wet you are? Because you should be.” “Of course it’s too big, but you’ll cum on it anyway.” Definitely calls you his dumb little fuck bunny. Can be really mean when he makes you cum. And just when it’s about too much, he says something nice. “You have the cutest pussy.” “You taste so sweet.” “You’re such a good girl.” When he’s saying mean things, he’ll sometimes stroke your cheek with his thumb or place sweet kisses on your body. 

If you do end up in a relationship with this man, you might just live to regret it because all of his attention is going to be on you. And that’s a lot. 

Gives you a pair of metal bracelets. Dumbly, you think they’re just a sweet gift (Kid? Giving a sweet gift?) so you put them on without a second thought. Next thing you know, the bracelets are stuck to a wall, you can’t get them off, and Kid is ripping your clothes off like a little kid opening a birthday present. Is so proud of himself for this one, too. As much as you complain, you never take the bracelets off after that. Killer figures out pretty quickly why you now wear a metal band on each wrist, and sometimes an extra set around your ankles; gets drunk one night and confides in you that he’s a little jealous; when you ask him if he’s jealous of you or Kid in this scenario, he says, “both.”  

Has had so many threesomes with Killer he's lost count. The two have an agreement to always share when asked (one veto per year). Dating Kid basically means being in a throuple with Killer, and fucking Kid definitely means getting fucked by Killer. Killer is even allowed to fuck you without Kid present (but you have to tell Kid about it or else he gets jealous).

Has definitely written his name in lipstick on your tits before.

Really into toys. Has tied you up and left you with a vibrator between your legs several times. 

Used his devil fruit power to shoot needles through your nipples, piercing them the way he’d always wanted. Has bought you a variety of pretty nipple rings since then- a pair with several opals dangling from each end, a pair of black shields, cute butterfly barbells with amethyst wings, a pair with onyx coffins on the ends. His favorite pair are the ones with little ruby cherries; he pretended they were cheap but he actually spent a fortune on them (the rubies are pigeon blood, very high quality) because he just couldn’t pass them up. Actually came in his pants the first time he saw them poking through your thin shirt, forbade you from going braless after that. One of his favorite things in the world is putting new rings in, to the point he forbids you from switching them on your own. Loves to use his devil fruit power to tug on them when he’s fucking you.  

Speaking of rules, he has quite a few, mostly because he gets very jealous. In addition to no going braless, you can’t wear your hair off the ship in pigtails (every time you do, a man in town hits on you and Kid just has to fight him), you can’t eat ice cream in public, and if you want to wear that one top- the skintight plaid one with cutouts- you have to pay the blowjob tax (Kid really enjoys cumming in the boob cutout). If you break the rules, you won’t be able to sit for a week. You often break the rules. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!