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spurbleu · 4 months ago

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lassitude ✩︎‧︎⁎︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. the first time you are vulnerable with Ken Sato, you are half asleep. and for the first time, he is willing.

warnings: none, split pov

a/n: sorry for my lengthy absence, it got extremely busy for me lmao. i dont really like this- but i feel like i cant do much to make it better so here it is

word count: 1.7k

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The mumble of the morning stirred you from the pockets of your mattress. It was barely noticeable- the shift of the comforter- cool early air pooling between the hairs on your arm. The faint creak of the floorboards, (never good at keeping secrets) the spruce mumbling an Irish goodbye.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t see it coming. The sight of him.

Skin relearning to stretch over shoulder blades, peeking through your lashes in familiar foresight. The way his hands searched for his clothes through the birth of daylight- its first breaths placid against the bedsheets.

It all felt too beautiful- the apathy. Buried in lithe, lifeless blankets rather than the rhythm of his pulse, the plush of his embrace. The sudden emptiness of morning’s coffin, quilt seams ripped by the assumption that a goodbye wasn’t necessary.

Ironic- for how lonely the man seemed to be, he looked lethargic in the act of leaving. Near comfortable as he dressed, relief from the reclusive slump of his posture breaching a harsh breath that left the gaps of his teeth.

You were more awake now- enough to question why you cared.

He made it easy- cleaned up half the mess, took the other half out the door. And when it was time to ruin it again, he did it with kindness- gentleness in his absence. There was nothing you should’ve resented- he was doing you a favor. But you found yourself hating it more.

You knew it wasn’t a superiority complex- you were near equals as you slept next to each other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, because you knew within the next 12 hours, he’d be back again, pale in the face of his own affair.

Confounding. The principle that if he knew he was going to come back, why leave at all?

It struck you then- the putrid smell of your own confusion. The anger you held in the bed of your heart, fueled by the weak and needy creature of your own vulnerability. Its chubby hands wringing the veins that curled around your ribs. It spoke for you.

“Ken.”

It was weaker than you thought it would be- no louder than a whisper. At first, I didn’t even sound like his name- only a pathetic mumble that spelled out his silhouette. It became a bit more tangible, louder, when he turned to face you.

“Good morning.”

He slung his bag over the dip of his shoulder, dressed in the clothes from last night. They were wrinkled now, creased in the same shape as your bed, your floor, your home. It was hauntingly poetic- how he seemed to carry you with him in the quietest of ways.

A crease formed under the base of his lips- a smile. Still dry in early hours- complimenting the tanned sections of his jaw- spring kisses breaking the occasional sallow of his face. It was small, but under the shadow of his tousled hair, it looked near blinding.

(But that was Ken for you, wasn’t it? Blinding. Bright in the ways that make the air in your nose cold- fresh. Humane.)

“…Do you…need something?”

Fuck.

You should’ve followed the script. Typewriter font, black indifference, pretending to be asleep when he crept out the door. Feigning casual when reading the ‘text later’ note he’d leave on the counter of your kitchen, next to a day old, crushed protein bar (although, it would always be your favorite flavor).

But instead, you sat curled into the headboard of your bed, sheets protecting your fluttering gut as sleep fogged the more cohesive thoughts. It peeled back, though, the sensitive ones.

You wanted him to stay.

Although it felt like the first time you had admitted it to yourself, you found the blemish of your confession everywhere.

The pucker of your carpet beneath his socks. The indent on the left of your mattress- matching the round of his shoulder. The cool breath that escaped your lungs- collapsing against the rim of your heart.

And in the brevity of nerve, the one that spoke his name with so little foundation before, you answered him.

“Stay.”

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

It’s the tilt in your voice that curves under his adam’s apple in a slow gulp- dry. The softer tones blooming under your tongue, coloring your bottom lip in a nude pink- stainless and genuine. Your lash line drooping into a word that looked foreign to the valley of your cheekbones.

Please.

He mirrored you. The slow breath that hollowed ribs, the sharper edges of his shoulders bending to the will of your own. Even his smile began to falter into the same wary, desperate line that creased the corners of your cheeks.

The effortless effect you had on him.

He knew it was happening, somewhere in the canyon of his bone. Mind disconnected from the marrow, as the better parts of him seemed to reflect every vice of yours. Although it was maddening, conscious clawing at the cushion of his skull, he had learned to embrace it.

Held it as he cradled you- bow of your spine splitting his chest in two- revealing the plusher parts of him, affection safely shadowed by the midnight and your snore. (He’d never admit it to you, but he sleeps better in your bed than he does his own. Although Mina suggests it’s about the company rather than the mattress).

Similar to your aftertaste, he was familiar with your vulnerability- a lot worse at hiding it than you might think.

The haphazard stack of protein bar wrappers in the trash (ashamed to say he counted, once. You’ve eaten every single one he’s given you). The grip on his sweatshirt when you pull him through your door- flushed fingertips eager on the cool metal of its zipper. Even while you sleep your body betrays, burrowing yourself into him as if somehow, you’ll leave a mark (equally ashamed, but just a bit more hopeful, he wants you to).

Selfishly, he loved it. How much you made him feel wanted- needed, even. How the cage of your chest opened for him, his nails the shape of a key as he dug into the softer parts of you. Grime dyeing cuticles red, and he’s convinced that if he asked to crawl within you, you’d let him.

Reluctantly, if so. Looking away, pink on your cheeks, spurred by the flash of his teeth. Unwilling to admit he had asked you before you could have offered.

A begrudging devotion.

He swallowed it, syrup sweet against the cast of his teeth.

“You want me to…stay?”

He let his bag drop to the floor, relishing that as he took a step closer, knees to the bed, the center of your throat bobbed. Contrast to your bold request, a shyness in the creases under your eyes and mouth. It reeked of yearning, and made an illness bloom on Ken’s tonsils.

You nodded slowly as he came to lay next to you. If he listened more closely and focused less on the cross of your arms, he would have heard your heart pulsing a morse that sounded dangerously, sweetly, like his name.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Classical, predictable, the way his smirk warmed the edges of his lips.

“Because you never do…” anxious- eyes searching excuses for the lack of a real answer- “…and the protein bars are getting old.”

A genuine laugh furrowed the flesh beneath his collar bone, morning voice still breaking from the aridity of unuse. “What if I left an apple this time?”

You leaned into his chest, pulling the covers to your shoulder. God, did you look good like this. Tucked into him, a little wanting, a little kind. “You’re so boring. If you’re going to leave, at least give me something good.”

Ken placed a hand to his wounded heart. “Boring? Since when is your favorite flavor of healthy boring?”

You sank back onto the mattress, and he followed you, now facing you with his hands folded under his cheek, squishing his dopey smile. Although he didn’t know it- he looked beyond childish- silly in all respects. But that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it?

“Since the last 200 times.” You exaggerated, imitating him as you leaned on your own hands.

He searched you- not dissimilar to the way he accesses another player. The gate of their shoulder, the click of their jaw- or that slight competitive crinkle that tugged the corners of their lashes- angered by his run before he even hit the ball.

Being in the sport for so long, he had become accustomed to observing others- even from afar. Off the field, he’d find himself looking between the normalcy of strangers under the dark tint of his sunglasses. Envious- to live in blissful ignorance at their own open, bleeding hand.

He supposed that’s why he liked you. Equally as guilty of your own susceptibility- heart on your wrist. But goodness- even this close to you, he couldn’t read the glass over your eyes. As if you were those paintings behind velvet ropes- details clear from a distance, but fogged when you stand too close. Imperfections visible- but never telling.

(did Michelangelo find the Sistine Chapel just as beautiful from the floor as he did from his ladder?)

He hummed, a hand coming to trace the spring freckles that appeared on the plain of your cheek. His heart purred as he watched it bloom, every circle he drew spurring ripples of pink. He was so charmed- to see exactly what he did to you- so closely.

“Alright,” his hand drifted to the strands of hair that covered your ears, tucking it to see just a little more of your blush, “no more protein bars.”

You sighed against his face- and for a moment he was reminded how he had been there- on your lips. The stench of his own fervor- honey sweet between the cracks of its clay.

“Thank god- I was really getting sick of them.”

In his arms, you both dipped into a lullaby of silence, the sunrise cradling the fragile parts of your embrace. Those pockets of insecurity- the questions of why you asked for him to stay, and why he did. The looming assumption that this made you more than what you had been before- made you something, made it different.

You could have spent hours there, steeping in the change- elementary kids too scared to admit they ‘like-liked’ each other. Instead, you both fell asleep again.

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When you awoke- you were alone.

Once you slipped out of bed, it was well past 11. Your light feet and sweltering head brought you to the kitchen counter- where you found a plate of eggs, toast, coffee, and a note.

----

Home Soon.

-Ken

ps. hope this is better than the protein bars.

#ken sato x reader #ken sato x you #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ultraman rising #ken sato #kenji sato #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot

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e-spexially · 1 year ago

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smoke break

minors dni

pairing: adam stanheight x gn!reader

summary: adam has a late-night smoke while you're sleeping

cw: smoking, suggestive content, implied nsfw

note: nothing crazy here, just a super short blurb i needed to get out of my system

The small bed creaked as Adam sat up. He looked at you for a moment, hoping he hadn't woken you up.

You stirred a bit, but remained asleep.

With a sigh of relief, he grabbed his carton of cigarettes from the nightstand and swiped up the lighter that traveled everywhere with him. He nearly walked past the dark jacket that was draped over the chair in the corner, but remembered the worried look on your face whenever you saw him without it.

Throwing it on, he tried to be as quiet as he could leaving the bedroom.

Not long after he left, you reached out for him and were met with the empty sheets. Frowning, you grabbed the sweatshirt he used as a pillow and held it close to you for the time being. It was always so cold in here.

Outside, Adam drew in the fresh snow with his index finger until he couldn't feel it anymore. He rubbed it against his t-shirt, trying to rid it of that burning feeling that often came with the winter.

It was silent as he took a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry ember glowing in the winter night. The sky was darker during this time of the year and not just because of the daylight savings time that he could never get right. It didn't bother him, it helped him think. He thought a lot when he came out here to smoke.

Sometimes about quitting, sometimes about his parents, but mostly about you. Always about you. He liked to write your name in the snow and thought that maybe somehow, you could hear from all the way upstairs how much you meant to him.

He wasn't the easiest guy to be with, sometimes he got angry and slammed doors, or fought with you, even when you didn't deserve it. You took the brunt of his bad days for longer than anyone else had. At first he pitied you for this, waiting for the day you would realize he was no good and leave. That day was still yet to come. You still gave him a kiss before you left for work and another when you returned, rain dripping from your coat and cold hands cupping his face.

Your hands were always cold lately, which he knew you hated. You liked huddling against him in your shared bed on nights like these and burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your breath would tickle his skin and cause him grip your waist just a bit tighter. On the nights that this was too much for him, he would become tangled up with you under the quilt you'd brought when you moved in.

Your hands were cold but your skin was warm and welcoming. It drew him in and kept him there, like a moth to a flame. The two of you would breathe hard beneath the patchwork and emerge with cheeky smiles.

The thought of it now was enough to make Adam's heartbeat quicken as he took a final drag of his cigarette. He should get back up there, he'd been gone long enough.

Upon his entry into the bedroom, he noticed you had grabbed his sweatshirt and buried your nose in it. It made his face heat up as he passed by into the bathroom, tossing his jacket back on the chair.

He squeezed more toothpaste on his toothbrush than usual and scrubbed diligently, rinsing repeatedly. He even took the time to swish around the mouthwash he used to solely rely on after a smoke. It added a nice finish.

Wiping his mouth, he exited the bathroom and shrouded the room in darkness once more when he switched off the light. Adam pulled the blankets back and slipped back into his spot next to you, leaning over to plant a gentle kiss on your lips. The sharp scent of mint made your eyes flutter open and you kissed him back, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Despite the brushing, you could still taste the evidence of his midnight smoke break. The smell lingered on his loose band tee. You didn't care, you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, cheeks flushing as you felt Adam's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh.

"I missed you," you pulled away to whisper against his lips.

"I missed you, too," mumbled Adam, pulling the quilt over the two of you.

#saw #adam stanheight #adam faulkner stanheight #adam stanheight x reader #saw 2004 #adam faulkner stanheight x reader #💌

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wishing-on-a-staranise · 6 months ago

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Ch 2: The teenage hobby of making out.

(s.h. x gn!reader)

from the river to the sea. (get in your daily clicks, read about it, donate if you can.)

Summary: Hopper’s getting mad that his kids are kissing boys.

Word count: 7.7k

Warnings: use of (y/n); no pronouns used (gn!reader); Suggestive (sexy ice cream consumption); steamy but no smut; boner alert; hopper being a cockblock; arguing; reader is jealous of Eleven; hopper makes a 'your wife' joke (its canon); daddy issues?

A/n: this is the closest i think ive gotten to writing smut so far lol i struggled so much

Anyway ive been having the big bad no good awful time lately and feel like doing literally nothing but i really pushed myself to finish this guy so have this and also I think it's high time we get readyyy for desi!reader!!!! She will be arriving soon hopefully!!!

masterlist

...

‘You don’t tug on superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind.’

Hopper’s record player blares. Your eyes fling open at the intruding loud tone of at this point what you know to be Jim’s favourite song.

‘You don’t pull the mask off an old lone ranger and you don’t mess around with Jim.’ The faceless crowd chants through the speakers. Quite swell headed of himself when you really think about it.

Your face scrunches, a yawn leaves you when you stretch under the quilt. The sheets beside you ruffle, and when you turn it is your sister, rousing from her sleep as well, Mr. Arnold, the teddy bear, in her arms. She lets out a frustrated groan at the loud song, before pulling her blanket over her head.

You snort at that because you’re sure it's impossible to fall asleep with that playing right outside the room. This is not the first time that Jim has used this really effective strategy to annoy you and your sister out of your slumber.

You lay there for a second before finally getting up to get started with the morning, knowing full well Hopper won’t be quietening it down unless both of you were out of bed and having breakfast. It also isn't like you had neighbours to complain about the noise.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, Eleven is once again stirring awake. She stretches both her arms above her head again and lets out a deep sigh.

"Morning, El.”

She mumbles something that sounds like ‘morning’, her tone a lot less peppy than yours. she once again decides she wants to be back asleep, rolling over and burying herself in the sheets again. “I think… I hate that song now”, you hear her grumble under the mass of the comforter.

“Yeah, that happens when you are forced to listen to something a billion times. What's weird is he does have other records but he really loves the song with his name in it”, you laugh both at your sister’s and Hopper’s antics.

You sit back on the bed with an ‘oof’, looking at where she lies beside you. “Okay, kid, let's get outta bed”, you say knowing full well that the noise isn't going to stop unless you both step out of the room. “c’mon El”, you sigh, shaking her a little by her shoulders. "Don't you have to go meet Dustin today?"

El’s eyes shoot open, she looks up at you with wide eyes as if she'd forgotten about her plans. She throws the blanket and the soft toy off of her and jogs away to her room.

You chuckle to yourself at her excitement, reaching under the quilt to look for Mr. Arnold. You pull him out, brushing the messy fur around his beady eyes before putting him neatly with the rest of the pillows and get out of the room yourself.

You head out into the kitchen, the smell of roasted coffee hitting you immediately. Jim has always been notorious for having his coffee extra strong, no cream, no sugar. you remember trying it once and pledged to never do that again, not being accustomed to that taste.

There's a box of cereal on the kitchen counter, you fix yourself a bowl and put some in another bowl for Eleven. You then head to the couch where Hopper is reading a newspaper and sipping the bitter and brown beverage, "morning" you say quietly— shouting was not needed since he had turned the player off when he noticed both you and Eleven were awake.

"Morning kid", he greeted from behind the newspaper, not really bothering to look up.

"You have to find a better way to wake us up."

He chuckles to himself, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" he jostles the flimsy paper.

You roll your eyes which he doesn’t notice. That’s the usual with him. He doesn’t ever seem to notice you. And for the most part, you’re used to it. Somewhere between adopting you and now, things changed. Not to be mistaken, he is the closest thing you have to a father and you know he does love you but some part of this relationship feels… hollow now. Like you’re not getting enough, he’s not willing to give you enough.

In silence, you swirl your spoon around in the floating cereal while Hopper takes a big sip of his coffee. You think to finally tell him about Steve.

Just when you were contemplating when to speak up about it, Eleven comes out of her room, still wearing the same clothes, "Morning Hop", she greets brightly.

He looks up, "Morning kiddo", he smiles before his gaze moves back to his newspaper.

“There's a bowl for you on the kitchen counter”, you let the girl know. She smiles and pours herself some milk into it.

"Hey, Hop?", The super powered girl calls out. He hums through a mouthful of soggy cereal as he looks up from the newspaper. "Can you take me to Will's?” she says while walking over to the couch where he was sitting, "Dustin is coming back today. We're surprising him"

"Oh, okay kid. We'll just leave in a bit", he sets down the papers and downs all of the cereal. He goes into his room. By the time you and Eleven are done with your breakfast, Hopper comes out, clad in his uniform.

"Hey y/n any groceries you want me to get? Going to the Market today", he asked while putting his shoes on.

"Yeah, it's on the fridge"

The man went over to the fridge door and took the list off of it. He took a second to read the contents of the list before muttering out the last one, "icecream, again?"

"I like ice cream. We ran out", you shrugged.

"I bought a tub this sunday."

“I really like ice cream”

“seriously? this is getting more ridiculous than El’s eggo obsession–”

“hey!” she interjects.

“and weren’t you expanding your horizons? How’d that combo work out last night?” He looks between you and Eleven.

"It was…", she pauses, looking for a suitable word, "disgusting.” she says with the straightest face before going to her room to get changed and to put on her shoes, you assume.

“I… can't say that I disagree”

“Look kid, I'm not getting you ice cream so often, okay? Anything else?"

“...Nope that's… that’s it. Just the list.”

“‘Kay,” he shoves the paper in the pocket of his shirt. He glances over at the room that Eleven is in before clearing his throat. “Hey, do you uh…”, he looks back you, voice softer than it was just a second ago, “wanna talk about it?”

“About..?”

“That nightmare I’m assuming you had last night.”

“... there's– there isn't anything to talk about”

“Yes there is”, he barely gets the words out of his mouth when you sigh, frustrated before getting off the couch and moving towards the kitchen.

“C’mon kid,”, he follows behind you, “you haven't been telling me anything recently, and Owens told me–”, you groan at the name, “don't interrupt me– Owens told me that you refuse to share anything with him either.”

“I don't tell anything because there is nothing to tell. And honestly,” you put your bowl in the sink, “I don't want to talk about stupid feelings with a stupid old man”

“You think I haven't been hearing you scuttering ‘round in your room trying to fall asleep? So don't bullshit me but there is a lot to tell. He recommended these weekly check ups because they will help. I mean– look at El, she barely struggles with the night terrors or–”

“You just have to compare me to her, don’t you?”

“Owens will call saturday and you better tell him everything”, he commands with his nostrils flared.

You roll your eyes away from him, crossing your arms.

“Do you hear me? Hey! look at me when I’m talking to you”, he uses that stern voice again, the one that means ‘you better listen or else’. You aren’t sure what the ‘or else’ ever is yet you always listen when he uses that voice. You look at him, reluctantly so, “Good. now… I'm getting late. Why don't you get rid of that attitude and stop being such a brat" he shoves his wallet in his back pocket, calling out Eleven's name and she comes out wearing a navy-blue t-shirt that seemed a little too big for her, and she casts you a concerned look.

You let out a frustrated huff as soon as the door shuts close behind them. You run your fingers over your face, your head hurting again after that argument.

You then head to put the rest of the bowls in the sink and the milk in the fridge, but that's when you notice it. The Eleven's drawing— of you, Hopper and herself— that was initially stuck to the fridge door with a magnet, was now on the floor— along with the other magnets. You tried to put them back on nevertheless they fell again. You were frustrated as it is, it only made you angrier when they didn't stick. In your rage you shove them in the nearest drawer, it closes with a loud thud.

You weren't sure how this entire thing had managed to get you so mad. You wanted to rip your hair out, break all the bowls, burn the stupid phone so Owens never calls, shatter hopper's favourite coffee mug, tear apart every drawing Eleven has made of you all together. But you don't. You just stand there, trying your best to keep it at bay– the anger, the tears, both. And god, you needed to catch your breath, you needed some water.

You grab a glass of water from the tap. As it fills, you latch open the window above the sink. The window and the glass of water had become a part of your routine to calm yourself down. A compulsion at this point because if you didn't do it, everything felt off.

You guzzle down the thing, the liquid cooling you. You force yourself to close your eyes, breathing in, holding it and then breathing out– just like Hopper had taught you. Although it brings down your anger, it doesn't exactly calm you down. You blame it on the lack of wind today.

You don't keep your eyes closed for too long though. You close the window and head to your room. You don't bother with anything else, planning on hiding under the sheets for the rest of the day. It is then that you hear a knock on your bedroom window.

You look up from the mess of wrinkled sheets and you are met with the beautiful smile of your boyfriend. He gives you a little wave with a bouquet of flowers and holds up a takeaway cup from scoops ahoy. A smile automatically forms itself on your face as you walk over to the window and open it so he could climb in.

He lets himself in in a rather not ninja way, your hands flying to steady him. you take in his clothes– his scoops ahoy outfit, the colours suit him, his favourite watch snug around his wrist, the shorts fitting him perfectly, his floppy hair resting softly against his forehead— he looks beautiful to say the least.

"Morning your highness!", He spoke up with a rich English accent– gesturing wildly with the bouquet, "Flowers picked by yours truly! Ice cream scooped, once again, by your beloved", he handed you the flowers— which you held close to your chest while showcasing a huge grin. "And guess what? New flavour! You have to try it, babe."

You adjust the crooked name tag on his shirt, "I was just leaving for work but decided to take a little detour. Hope you don't mind me coming."

"Of course I don't— it's just, if you came like two minutes earlier, Hop would've caught you."

"Close call", he wipes the imaginary sweat off of his temple, making you giggle a little.

"You look very pretty," you say before you even realise.

"I'm supposed to be a manly man! you calling me pretty and beautiful isn't helping with that", he complains only half-heartedly because he loves hearing you call him those things. No one has ever complimented him in such a way, sure he has gotten compliments about his hair or his nether regions from girls but you telling him he's pretty and cute made butterflies flutter all over in a way he didn't think was possible.

"Well, that's too bad. You are pretty", he blushes all pink when you say it, "The prettiest ever", he smiled shyly as you came closer to him— faces merely inches apart.

"Not too shabby yourself babe", he pecked the tip of your nose and then you go to put the flowers in a vase next to your bed.

“How did last night go?” he asks, following behind you.

“Hmm?”

“You were... going to tell your dad about us?”

“Oh.”

He purses his lips, “I'm guessing you didn't”

“I wanted to, I swear but then Mike Wheeler happened."

“‘Course he did”

“And then I almost did this morning too but then Jim and I had a fight, like right now..”

“Fight, about what?”

You quickly shake your head, “.. doesn't matter. I’m sorry”

“Hey, its okay. How ‘bout this okay, you.. try again. okay? whenever feels right-- no rush" you nod slowly. the boy flashes you a grin before speaking up again, "now, gimme a little kiss"

"No."

"No? why no?" he pouts.

"’Cause I want to have ice cream first", you declare, booping his nose.

He lets out a playful scoff, “is that all I am to you? I stole this just for you yesterday and I don’t even get a kiss?" he is all theatrical as he holds is palm on his chest to show just how scandalized he feels.

“Stole it?”

“Nah", he clicks his tongue as a no, shaking his head, "we get free ice cream.”

Your brows fly up at the information, “Woah, really? hmm, I need to work there.”

“Will you? Please do. My coworker pretty much hates me–”

While he is rambling, you try to snatch the cup from his hand, but before you could do so he pulls his hand away. "Ah ah ah, you gotta give me the password first to get the ice cream babe"

"What?" you ask, brows knotted together.

"Not the password", He says in a monotonous voice.

"Steve c'mon–"

"Not the password."

"Just give it to me, Steve", you try reaching for it again– to no avail.

"Not the password."

"Stevieee", you're practically draped over him, yet he somehow manages to keep the cup right out of your reach.

"Not the password", he smirks, laughing a little.

You sigh, you had to play it his way to get what you want. You give a quick kiss on his cheek– more so a peck. "Hm, warmer...", he hums, "but still not the password."

You groan all frustrated, knowing full well what he wanted. and you had no other choice than to give in. You tilt your face so your lips meet his and when you pull back, awaiting his response. He finally says, "You got it", before lowering his hand.

Steve then goes into character– sitting you down on the edge of your bed, he takes out his hat from his pocket that said 'ahoy' on it and puts it on top of your head.

He greets you how he would welcome any other customer, you giggle at his theatrical antics. "Now, since you are one rather good looking sailor, I'll let you set sail on this ocean of flavor with me with this amazing scoop of our new invention!!'

The treat is a little melted— blame it on the summer heat. tasting phenomenal, surely to be your new favourite. As Steve watches you relish the delicious flavour, he notices that the runny liquidy ice cream has managed to drip around the corner of your mouth and lower lip.

"Oh babe, you've got a–" His thumb swipes over your lower lip— eye contact unbreaking— Smearing the liquid much more than actually wiping it. He does it unreasonably slow.

"There", he pulls his arm back, and without looking at the residual ice cream on his thumb he licks it– gaze still unwavering. "Delicious", he murmured. Heat creeps up your neck and spreads through your cheeks. You both knew what Steve was doing although you'd be lying if you said that it wasn't working.

Having expected for you to be absolutely flustered, Steve is surprised when instead your features morph into a mischievous smile, "right? You wanna try some?"

"Uh, sure", he hesitates.

You go to feed him the drippy ice cream with the spoon only to 'accidentally' smudge it at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, you've got a—"

"Oh, very funny babe—" Before Steve could finish, your lips were attached to the corner of his mouth. Your tongue darts out to lick at the liquid— the movements agonisingly slow. It is then that Steve forgets how to function. He doesn't reciprocate your kisses, being sure he'd forgotten how to kiss. This was the first time you'd initiated a kiss, or made a move on him and now he didn't know how to react.

When you pull away, his eyes remain closed for a bit longer. But when they finally do flutter open, instead of the same mischievous sly smirk, he is met with your wide eyes. You blink as if unsure of what you had done, Steve sees you gulp before you get up and leave the room.

Steve was stuck, he realises. His mind has forgotten how to work for however long that lasted. Maybe it was minutes or maybe it was only just a few seconds– to him it felt like hours though. Blood rushed to his cheeks and other parts of his body.

He paid it no mind though and quickly got up to find you. His situation will go away, right now he needed to make sure that you were alright. He went out of the room and sees you by the kitchen— throwing away the empty cup— your back turned towards him.

You don't look up when he stands beside you, he calls out your name and you shyly turn to sneak a look at him, rubbing your own arm anxiously, “S– sorry that was weird right?”

“Uh– n– no! It wasn't", he assures, shaking his head, "It just… um, I wasn't expecting it. It was– It wasn't weird.” he waits, hoping you'd say something but when you don't, he speaks up, "That was like the– the hottest thing ever– what you did back there."

“It wasn't... too much? It felt like it was too much.”

“Too much? I have a boner right now, respectfully, of course.”

Your eyes widen, and just when they were about to trail down– “don't look down!” You hold your breath, trying your best to muster all your power to maintain eye contact with him, but your gaze betrays you for just a second as it snaps down to his groin before jumping back to his eyes. Your face becomes so warm, palms clammy.

“W-what do I do?”

“No–nothing? It’ll go away”, he barely manages to stammer out, turning his body towards the kitchen counter so you don't see it, eyes roaming everywhere but towards you.

Steve in high school never would have faced such issues, king steve never would have been so clumsy and embarrassed in front of someone he liked. The old Steve wouldn't get this damn red and awkward. But he does, he isn't the old Steve afterall.

He feels your hand on his shoulder, urging him to look your way. When he does, his eyes meet your unsure gaze-- you were looking at his lips. He himself can't help but trace the contour of your face, from your eyes to your nose, to the swoop of your cupid's bow to finally your lips.

It is you who leans in. This kiss was different than any you have had before. It grows deeper. And suddenly, its all tongue and teeth. Steve has never kissed you like this before. Its hands over your body, fingers creeping under your t-shirt. And its unusual. A good unusual. One you could get used to.

“Steve?" you breathe out when you pull apart.

“Y– yeah?”

“I’m sure. What I said yesterday, I’m sure.”

“Wait– you’re not just saying that ‘cause I–’

“No. I– I mean it.” You let out a giggle. The giggle which he was sure could end and fix all his fears and nightmares. The giggle that made his heart flutter and stomach do summersaults. You were sure to be the death of him.

His grip around your waist tightens as he rests his forehead against yours, warm noses touching. "When.. uh– when does Hopper come back?"

"5:30," you huffed out, once again leaning in and he once again pulled back to be just out of your reach.

"One last question, El isn't home, is she?"

"No, no. She– she's with– friends. Won't come back till four."

"Good, wouldn't want them to come in on this", he almost growls before latching your lips together. And then you're kissing him. It is messy, but he loves every single second of it. His hands go to hold your jaw and yours to his cheeks, pulling in closer– deepening the kiss. At this point you'd both forgotten to breathe, too intoxicated on each other. But soon, both your lungs start to burn off the lack of oxygen and you both pull apart.

Your breaths were jagged, foreheads still touching. You gasp into his mouth. Your lips move in tandem as Steve pushes you between himself and the counter. The edge of the counter digs into your thighs. His hands travel to right below your ass, ready to lift you up onto the counter. But before he could do so, you pull him by the collar of his sailor outfit towards your room— lips never stopping contact. Steve takes the hint and gently pushes you against the door of your room, fumbling for the door knob.

You grab a fistful of his hair, he lets out a moan into your mouth. He finally manages to open the door, and you immediately pull him in. Steve tries to steady you both while tightening his hold on your hips, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.

You pull him towards the bed. He finally pulls away to take off his shirt only to latch his lips back to yours. He is hovering over you, lips never not touching, hands roaming each other's bodies. You slightly pull away, your digits fumbling for the cassette player's buttons next to your bed. The button clicks and Asia’s ‘heat of the moment’ starts playing. The both of you laugh because it was the mixtape that you and Steve had made a couple months ago.

…

Hopper had just reached the Byer's when he realises that he had forgotten his hat in the heat of the argument with you. He frowns upon the thought of the argument, he regrets shouting, he was worried about you and maybe he shouldn't have gotten that mad.

He waves over at Eleven, watching behind her to make sure she gets inside. He starts the engine and heads back to the cabin to retrieve his hat and perhaps make amends with you.

When he gets there, you don't open the door. You were possibly still mad at him, he thinks when he lets himself in, he could hear the song blaring from your room. He takes a peek in through the cracked open door.

Through the few inch wide door gap, he sees you and Steve Harrington. A shirtless Steve Harrington on top of you. The boy kissing you. And you kissing him back.

Through the kisses, his lips trail along your jaw and down your throat landing on your collarbone— pulling a moan out of you. "God, you're– fuck", Hopper barely hears the boy mumble. The man's nostrils flare as he sees his hands go back to the little sliver of skin exposed between your shirt and your shorts, fingers playing with the hem of the shirt.

"HEY!"

Steve immediately pulls away and yelps when you accidentally yank his hair. You both look up towards the source of the sound and there stood Jim Hopper, eyes wide with seething anger.

“HOPPER?--”

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Hopper", You yelp out, speedily turning the player off while Steve fumbles to hide his integrity behind a pillow. Both Steve and Hopper were bright red. You were sure to go deaf to the loud beating of your heart.

"What in the fuck are you doing with my kid, Harrington?", You were sure Hopper's face would burst into flames any second now.

Steve eyes bounce frantically between you and hopper, he stammers, "I— Hopper—"

"That's fucking sir to you, Harrington."

"Sir, I—"

You hold your hands up, hoping to calm Hopper down after he found you in such a compromising position, "It's– its not what it looks like Hop—"

"So you're telling me that you two weren't about to–"

"Hop—", you try interrupting him but he interjects you by turning to Steve, pointing his finger at the poor boy while simultaneously squaring up on him. "I'm gonna have a serious fucking talk with your father, Harrington."

He walks backwards, incredibly intimidated, "But, sir—"

"Cover your goddamn tits and wait for me outside, Harrington." Steve gulps, silently nodding– knowing well enough that talking back was going to be fruitless so he leaves the room, the door shutting behind him.

You try speaking up again, "Hopper, listen–"

"No, you listen", he scolds with gritted teeth and flared nostrils, "You are fucking grounded. You can live your stupid paranoid fantasy and stay safe and stuck in this cabin”

“Hop–”

"And that means no tv–"

"Dad–"

"No radio or cassettes, no more phone, no more tv– ", he said as he unplugs the radio player and pulls out the cassette box from under your bed and throws the tapes around in anger "what else are you hiding from me, huh?”

"Nothing, hopper–"

He notices the box pushed further back under your bed and pulls it out— filled to the brim with Steve related stuff. your graduation caps, polaroids, mixtapes, books that had flowers pressed between their pages, beer bottle caps from when you had gotten drunk for the first time– all on the floor for display; the entire thing doing nothing to calm the raging man down. "Hopper, stop–"

"No more fucking dating", he picks up the mixtapes and books, throwing them with immense fury and rage. He pulls out polaroids of you and Steve and crumbles it up.

"NO!!--"

"And NO MORE FUCKING STEVE HARRINGTON", he smashed the now empty box against the floor, "D'YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?" he was shouting now, full on shouting— and it scared you. For the first time, Hopper scared you. The same guy who had saved you, protected you. The first person with whom you felt safe, ever.

Tears spring up in the corner of your eyes. you duck your chin into your chest, squinting them shut.

“Asked you a fucking question.”

You try to even your breaths before answering, "No."

"What'd you say?", Words dripping in fury.

"I said, no."

"Why? You love that stupid idiot or something?"

The question scares you because you don't have an answer. You wrack your brain, looking for an answer but still…. your brain pulls up a slide that was nothing but a blank screen.

Do you love him?

You like him. You love being with him. He is your best friend, your only friend. But do you love him? how would you know? You do not know.

“He’s my friend. He’s my only friend, Jim”

"Cut the bullshit, y/n", Hopper spoke as he noticed the tears springing up in your eyes and right now he was too damn angry to regret it.

Either of you don't hear the sound of the door shutting over your own heartbeat. you finally speak up, "You're bullshit."

"What?"

"You see El and Mike everyday, they're always kissing. But you see me with Steve one time–"

"The one time I see you two, you are fornicating— El and Mike don't do that."

"I'm a fucking adult, Hopper"

"You're a goddamn teenager is what you are!"

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't do this stuff when you were a teenager, Hopper. You’re being an asshole!”

“Maybe you shouldn't have hid things from me y/n and I'm not being an asshole, I'm giving you a reality check. and if you think you’re such an adult then stop fucking hiding in this cabin from the world and feeding you little paranoid fantasy”

Both your chests rise and fall, face warm with aggravation, “Oh, don't look at me like I’m some monster", Hopper shakes his head at you, exasperated. you don't say anything, instead you get up to leave the room, "… where do you think you are going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Aww, where are you gonna go, to your boyfriend?”

"You know what? That's a great idea, Jim. I’ll go and never come back again, I'll live with Steve or I’ll live in that stupid trailer. I've done it before and I'll do it again", you say with absolute resentment, all gritted teeth and red eyes. "I’ll leave", you sniffled, "Cuz you sure as hell don't want me here."

"Sure, kid, go 'head", he said through flared nostrils and a mock smile.

You raise your volume too before, "You won't have to fucking pretend to care for me anymore, you can take care of El all you want now", you pause for a beat before murmuring, "Clearly you like her more."

"..What–"

"Don't play dumb", your voice shakes as you speak, "it took you years to even consider adopting me, but you took El in in a heartbeat. El’s the one you care about Hopper– just fucking admit it, she's the one that gets hugs, she's the one that gets all the love and affection, she’s always mattered more to you, she's the one who matters to you because she's the one who reminds you of your dead daughter"

You said that. You said that. And the truth was that you meant it. Sure, you regret it, knowing how much it affected Jim. But it seemed only fair in your rageful brain to do the same.

Hopper is frozen, he swallows a lump in his throat. He looks at you hunched over the mess he'd made, your eyes red, watery and enraged.

You see him take a deep breath; it almost seems like he was about to say something. Maybe he'll apologise, you think, maybe you will too. Instead, he turned, his body lingering for a second too long near the door, and you pray that he says something– anything so you could take it all back. He lets out the breath he had been holding and shut the door behind him. A few seconds later you hear the cabin's door slamming. He left.

…

At the station, Jim was having his lunch– donuts, which Flo had bought for everyone in the light of her birthday. Powell and Callaghan were discussing something, Flo has given Jim some paperwork– he isn’t sure about what though. His mind was too busy playing your argument on repeat.

El’s the one you care about, Hopper.

She’s the one who matters to you.

Because she’s the one who reminds you of your dead daughter.

“Chief?” Jim realises that he had been staring at the files that Flo had given him.

“You okay, boss?”

“Uh, yeah— I’m peachy Callaghan”, Hopper gets up from his chair picking up another donut, “exactly how your wife was last night.”

Powell and the rest of the workers let out a guffaw while Flo looks at Jim with disapproving eyes and Callaghan looks like a kicked dog. Jim picked up his keys, headed towards the exit.

“Where are you going Jim?”, Flo demands behind him.

“Gotta take care of something, Flo”, he picks up his hat and puts it atop his head, “Hold the fort down for me while I’m gone?”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“Thanks, Flo”, he muttered, flashing a fake grin. Hopper shoves the donut in his mouth and went out the door and into his car. He drives through the empty streets of the local market, one hand tight around the steering wheel and the other holding the crumpled up shopping list you’d made. Joyce would know how to deal with both your and El’s situation, he thinks to himself as he stopped in front of Melvald’s general store, she was actually good at the whole parenting thing, afterall.

When Jim steps into the empty store, he is met with Joyce putting up a sale sign. “Hey”, her head turned at the sound of the bell ringing.

“Hey, You busy?”

“You’re our first customer, so..” There is a beat. Hopper’s fingers fumble with the edge of his hat. “What now?”

Hopper vents about everything that happened between you two to Joyce while picking up all the groceries you had written in the list. “And its not just y/n, El too— she and Mike are kissing, like constantly and the other day— she just…. slams the door, right in my face. and– and y/n just doesn't wanna tell me anything and every time I try to talk, it just turns into an argument. and this last one just really went to shit”, Joyce hums as she rings up all of Jim’s groceries.

“Y’know, those smug sons of bitches, Steve and Mike. They’re corrupting them, I’m telling you.”, he shakes his head, “This has never happened before. And I’m just gonna lose it. I mean, I’m gonna lose it, Joyce–”

“Just take it down, Hopper”, Joyce speaks with a calm tone as she packed up the groceries.

“I want– I need to get rid of them."

“'rid of them'? you sound like you're going to murder them. and didn’t you already tell Steve and y/n that they can’t see each other anymore?”

“But El—”

“Hopper, that is not your decision to make”

“You don’t get it Joyce, El and mike– it’s constant. It is constant. And y/n's been hiding this thing from me for months probably! Months!”, Joyce huffs at Hopper’s anger, “Okay? That is not good or normal, that isn’t healthy”

“What you did to y/n and Steve isn’t healthy either”, Joyce pushes Hopper’s grocery bag on the counter towards him, “Besides, you can’t just force them apart.” She leaves the checkout counter and moves to an aisle and starts putting sale tags on the items, still continuing the conversation. “I mean, y/n’s right— they’re not little kids anymore, Hop.” The woman explains with knitted brows while the man picks up a random thing from the aisle nearest to him and starts playing catch with himself like a bored toddler.

“They’re teenagers Hopper”, Joyce huffs, “If you order them around like a cop, then they’re going to rebel. It's just— what they do.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Let them do whatever they want?”, Jim tosses the box up again.

“No, I didn’t say that”, she sighs, snatching the box midair while shooting a chastising look towards the tall man, “I think you should talk to them.”

“No. no, ‘cause talking doesn’t work–”

“Not yelling. Not ordering”, she gestures with the tag gun, “But talk to them” The woman turns to put the box back where it belonged while muttering with a shrug, “y'know like a heart-to-heart.”

“A heart-to-heart?” Hopper questions, confused, “what’s that?”

“You sit them down, you talk to them. Like you’re their friend”, Joyce explains while the man leans against a wall rather dramatically as if he was five-year-old listening to a lecture about the theory of relativity, “if you talk to them like you’re on their level, then they really start to listen. And then– you know, you can start to create some boundaries”

“Boundaries”, Jim repeats.

“Yeah, but Hop— it's really important that no matter how they respond,” she pauses for emphasis, “You stay calm. You cannot lose your temper”

The uniform clad man rolls his eyes; however, he hid it quickly before Joyce could notice and taps his fingers awkwardly against the wall, “uh, maybe, you could do it for me?”, he requests as if asking Joyce if he could do his homework

“No.”

“Yeah you could. You could come over after work. Yes?”

“No. it only works if it comes from you. Besides you're the one who yelled at y/n. So, you're the one who will apologize.”, She punctuated her sentence by putting a tag on Hopper's shirt. “But…", She trailed off.

“But?”, Jim echoes.

“Maybe I can help you…”, she picks up a notepad from the counter, “find the right words.”

…

You have locked yourself in your room, not planning on seeing anyone. It's what you deserve anyway. Its probably for the better. The lights are turned off, the only source of light in the pitch darkness is spilling through the tiny gap of your slightly open door. You've hidden yourself under the blanket, the bed a mess from tossing and turning.

You hear muffled sounds of Jim reciting something in a monotonous tone from the room next to you. “...important to establish these boundaries...”, His muttering sounding like he had a cigarette between his teeth, “....we can create an environment where.... we feel comfortable, trusted and open….”, you hear him pause, “to share our feelings”. He pauses again and you turn around in your sheets, burying your head under the quilt not planning to hear any more of it. Because if you did you’d cry, whether of jealousy or hurt or regret or guilt, you did not know, you just knew that you would cry.

After some time you then heard the thump of his feet from his room. They stopped in front of your door for a few seconds and you think for just a second that maybe he will knock, maybe you both will fix this, but then they started moving again, moving further from your door and finally stopping in front of El’s door. He knocks. “Hey”

“Yes?”

“Can I talk to you guys, a minute?”, he asks. You couldn't hear the rest of the conversation as it was muffled by the walls and door. But you filled in the gaps— hopper was trying to talk to Eleven and Mike, possibly about the previous night. He was trying for Eleven. Not for you. For Eleven.

Then Hopper abruptly left with Mike— something about the boy's nanna. You knew that definitely wasn't the truth. For once, you felt bad for Mike.

...

"Y/n?", Eleven cracked the door open. You were lying in your bed, back facing the door. Eleven approached the foot of the bed. "Are you okay?", with knitted brows, she asks, eyes trying to adjust to the dark room.

"I just feel a little sleepy, El", she did not need to know about your fight with Hopper. She did not need to see that ugliness.

"Do you want to watch romcom?"

"You do that"

"And you?"

"I'm not in the mood, El. Kinda tired. I'll be fine, I think I just need sleep.”

The short haired girl nodded rather half-heartedly and left. A few seconds later, the door opened again, you didn't turn to see who it was.

“Do you want ice cream? Hopper brought some”, It was Eleven again.

“... No, I'm alright”, you don't bother looking up.

"Y/n?", you feel her palm on your shoulder before you turn around hoping the dark room hid your red eyes. "I've kept your food here”, she tells you.

You give a faint smile at the girl's kindness. She closed the door behind herself, leaving.

After eating your food, you fall headfirst into the pillows and there lied Mr. Arnold. You held the bear flush against your chest. Maybe the soft toy could help you fix this too. It smelled like Eleven, you smiled at the thought of your sister and you hated the fact that you were jealous of her. She was the kindest, strongest and most adorable kid— and you'd talked to Hopper about her like you resented her. She was your sister, you loved her.

The bear also smelled like Steve. You missed him, you wondered what he was doing. You told yourself to call the boy after Hopper leaves the next morning. You are curled up in your bed, exhaustion overtaking you. Your eyelids grew droopy and soon you were drifting into sleep.

…

You’re in your room, grey and sterile. your headache had dulled out for the most part, although your eyes still felt too dry. Your Papa had come to check in on you. He said that you were getting better and that you could go back to lessons and the rainbow room from the next day.

The entire week you were like this he didn't bring up why you are hurt. You reckon he was disappointed. You don't bring it up either, just glad that you didn't have to wear the collar because you were hurt.

When the doctor gave you medicine with the injection, Papa held your hand, his other hand brushing over your shaved head to comfort you.

"Good job, Seven."

When the doctor leaves, you finally speak up, "Papa?", he looks at you, "are you angry... at me?"

"For what?"

"For what happened that day."

"No, Seven. I'm not. I am proud of you and the extent of your powers”, your heart swells at the praise, "now we just have to hone in on it. Get better at it. Do you understand?"

You nod silently. He clears his throat before getting up from beside your bed. He buttons his grey blazer, "now, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" you nod once again.

He is about to reach for the door when you speak up again, “Papa?”

“Yes, seven?”

“Where is my mother?”

He turns around, the wrinkles on his forehead more prominent, “What?” he walks back up to you.

“I was reading a book in the rainbow room", you explain, " The child in it had a papa and a mama. Why don't I have a mama?”

“Not everyone does, Seven", he answers curtly, “Your mother died when she gave birth to you” he says before once again turning to leave the room.

“You're lying”, he stops and turns and is met with your knitted brows, “I can tell you're lying.”

You see him purse his lips for a second before he speaks up, ”Well, your powers have never been reliable, have they? Your mother is dead.”

“Did I kill her? like I did with that man and the child.”

”yes. Get some rest. Lessons start again tomorrow, Seven."

“Yes Papa”, he is out the door before you even say the entire thing.

…

Hopper doesn’t know what the hell he is doing. He just knows one thing and that is that heart-to-hearts are not his thing. Not anymore anyway. He used to be better at this, at emotions.

Ever since sarah… he’s felt like this. This empty chasm, this darkness. A black hole. That sucks in everything that is good, warm and bright. Everything he loves, everything he cares for, he swallows it all if it gets too close. It happened after sarah. And for a really long time, Jim decided to never let anyone in– which included you. Your younger self had tried, to win him over, to let his walls down but he hadnt let up. But then last year… Eleven managed to break down those walls, and just like he always does, he swallowed her whole. Enough that she had compared him to that psychotic man who called himself your papa, enough that she had decided to leave. And now he was doing it again, with you.

Hopper fucking sucks at feelings, not because he doesn't feel but maybe because he doesn't want anyone else to know that he does. The folded-up paper in his hand makes it really fucking clear. And though his palm is slightly sweaty, he blames it on the summer.

He hates that he shouted at you, multiple times.

Look at me when I’m talking to you.

That is what he had said back then, that is what he had said today. And he saw that same look on you, that deer-in-the-headlight look, the same one he saw on you when he first saw you at the police station. And he immediately regretted it. He and his inflated ego are to blame when he didn't apologize. But he will now, he is going to apologize. He is going to talk things out– have a heart-to-heart. You’re his kid dammit and you fucking deserve it.

Alright hopper, you got this. Just do what Joyce told you and they'll listen to you.

He stops at your doorstep first, knuckles lifted to knock but then he hears Eleven giggling, and he glances over to her room. Mike is still here, he thinks. Let’s just deal with them first, lets get the easier conversation over with and then he’ll talk to you– he’ll tell you everything, he'll listen to you.

But then he goes to Eleven’s room and asks if he could talk to them, and he tries he really does try but as it turns out the easier conversation still wasn’t easy at all. Hopper can't help but repeat history.

He has always felt cursed. Cursed to ruin everything as he tends to always end up doing. And in his anger he ends up blackmailing mike to stay away from his daughter.

When hopper came back, Eleven asked him if Mike's nanna (bless her) was okay. "Uh, yeah– she'll be fine kid– pretty sure it was a false alarm." He had lied through his teeth, but he doesn't take it back.

He doesn't take it back. he never goes to your room. he doesn't talk it out. So much for a heart-to-heart.

...

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader angst #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x you #stranger things rewrite #steve harrington x gn!reader

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peeweekey · 7 months ago

Text

homecoming | sam x reader

word count: 3.2k

tags: hurt/comfort , family struggles , reader and sam are married , set somewhere in year 2 (kent is back) , oneshot , intimacy

synopsis: Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.

a/n: i love sam but the allure of angst is too hard to resist!!! sorry babe i still love you 😔

Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.

Your feet are bare as you linger at the entrance of your room. The dimmed light of the living room washes away the darkness of the hour. It's late, the air is cool and damp smelling of night dew—you take a deep inhale. It feels thick as you breathe it in, like smoke is clouding around the room, restricting your breaths.

Sleepless nights were not unusual in your household. Before you married Sam, you hardly slept—the satisfying ache of collapsing into your sheets after a day at the mines was an addiction you couldn’t get enough of.

Now, you earn enough to afford coming home before sunset. No longer having to worry about how you’d afford the next day. And if you are being completely honest, evenings spent with Sam are far more addicting than the sting of a day’s work.

The ache is still there. It comes with the profession. Though not anymore the dull humming ache in the muscles and joints of your arms and legs, but a bone deep ache settled deeply curling around your chest.

Somehow, it stings even more.

It is as if it drags over your heart, catching on every ridge and edge of your bones. Daring to fill your lungs with ichor—hardening like stone around your ribs. No amount of stardrop you swallow can ever relieve the stinging soreness.

The cushions of the old second-hand couch groan and squeak as you twist and turn atop of them. Perhaps as restless as you are. The light flickers—on, off, on.

It doesn’t scare you, but it makes you uneasy. You’re long over the notion the farmhouse was haunted, but nights like these make that conviction waver. The nape of your neck prickles—like a person is staring from behind. Sam isn’t here to tease you about ghosts nor curl his arms around you in mock protection.

He hasn’t been here in hours, hasn’t been present in so long. It feels wrong. It feels like an omen. Your fingers find the back of your neck, brushing over the vulnerable skin.

You hold a tassel cushion tightly to your chest. Your knuckles whitening with the strength of your grip on it. The strength of your heartbeat is so loud you’re convinced it would be heard without the pillow to muffle the sound.

Little Vincent is sound asleep, snoring softly away in his dreamland. He looks like the epitome of innocence under the quilted blankets of your bed. It's soft, worn and covered in stitched cartoon-y lions and tigers. A temporary parting gift bundled up in his dinosaur backpack from jodi. Before he came to live with you and his older brother.

The separation was painful. there were tears—for both him and for his mother.

(Sam stood next to you then, gripping at your hand so hard you felt it prickling with numbness. You didn’t dare look up to see the tears you know are there, the crystalline tears dripping down his lash line.

It would’ve made the teardrops in yours fall over too. You’d stay strong for the both of you.)

The entrance door to the farmhouse creaks open and you immediately know it’s him. Relief floods your whole body—to your fingertips to your toes. He's safe, and home at last. You stand up and hurry to him, throwing the pillow to the ground, before the door creaks shut.

The air goes still, calm before the storm. The anticipation before potential terrible news.

(You expect there will be. You can tell by the way Sam slumps, like the weight is physically bearing down on his shoulders.)

Sam is still at the doorway, slumping over you when you wrap your arms around him. He smells of sweat and the cloying scent of rubbing alcohol—something must’ve happened, you think. It smells like the clinic.

The paper bag in his hand loses from his grip, it falls unceremoniously to the ground with a dull thump. You pay it no heed, mentally accounting to pick it up later. Though you note that it lands right over your ‘home sweet home’ doormat. Fitting.

“Sammy.” you greet him with a chaste peck on the cheek. He barely has the energy to hug back, more so stay steadily upright on his feet. you both sway slightly, suspended in the tranquility of the moment.

You try again, slowing the movement of your lips. “Welcome home, my love. you there?”

His lips move against the skin of your neck, a whisper of a greeting. It is enough for you.

Sam retracts his face from your jaw. There are blue-purple eye bags under his eyes, like bruises. The trademark twinkle in his brilliant green irises have dulled to nothingness. He looks so unlike himself like this, older than his years and so unbearably tired.

And you wish, with all your heart, to take his aches away. To wash them away like ink in water.

You pull him into the living room with you, the skin of his wrist enclosed in the firm guiding grip of your fingers. He's fragile like this, this sunshine of a man reduced to a shell of his usual demeanor.

He trails slowly behind you, silent. You say nothing, either; choosing to focus on the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps padding against the floor. In the living room, you dim the lights to a mere whisper of light.

These days, when he comes home, you’ve built some sort of routine.

You drag him down to you, spread lying down on the length of the couch. Your thighs frame his hips as he melts into the warmth of body. He lays on top of you, his cheekbone against your chest. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, as he presses his ear to the epicenter of your chest—the sound of your heartbeat quieting the swirl of thoughts in his mind.

You gently remove the woolen beanie nestled on his head—revealing the stringy oily mess of hair under. A sign of how little care he has been sparing himself after his father’s homecoming. You feel your lips downturn into a frown. He hasn’t even been using that hair gel you like to tease and groan about.

(You lied when you’d say you hated it. You don’t, never did.

You miss it. You miss the things that make him, him.)

You don’t hesitate in running your hands through the softness of his hair. Your fingers scratch gently on his scalp, eliciting a soft sigh from your weary husband. Eyes watch raptly as his shoulders unwind and ripple. The tension in them melts away with the deft caress of your hands.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Like a knife twisting. You love him, you love him.

Moments pass, the silence is almost comfortable when you ask, speaking it to the silence of the room. There’s a wavering lilt in your voice reassuring him. You aren’t going to push him for an answer. He doesn’t need to respond. Him being safe, home and warm in your arms is all you ever want. All you’ll ever need.

“How are they?”

(The first night, you and Sam stayed the night in his family home. squeezed in his twin bed with Vincent curled up by his ribs. The little boy couldn’t bear sleeping alone that night, not with the anxiety of his father being back making him pace a mile a minute.

The air in the household had shifted that day.

In the dead of the night, the fire alarm went off—a blaring loud beeping sound from the kitchen. Totally harmless, a malfunction. A disturbance to sleep more than anything.

Except it was not.

You still remember the blood-curdling scream that came from Jodi and Kent's room. The panicked sobs of Jodi as she tried to calm her terror stricken husband.

You remember the way Vincent clung onto you, like a koala to a tree. You cupped your hands tightly over his ears—he didn’t need to suffer the consequence of it.

Sam removed the fire alarm and Vincent from the house the next morning.)

His voice is hushed when he speaks. A pin could drop and be more clearly heard. “Mom's… getting better.”

Not getting worse than she already is.

You plant a kiss on the crown of his head, lips soft and adoring on his skin. You ache to take his burden, to take his share of suffering.

It hurts sometimes, to be right beside him but feel so faraway. Yet like this, feeling every curve and edge of his body—you can convince yourself that it doesn’t.

“Is Vince asleep?”

“Yes,” you reply, tucking a blond curl behind his ear. His head unconsciously tilts to the room where his younger brother rests. Ever so protective of him even like this.

Continuing you say, “He was looking for you,” you thread your fingers through the short blond strands at his neck. Sam untenses slightly in your arms, his arms going limp at your sides. “He's been fidgety lately. Restless.”

“He usually is.” his feeble attempt at a joke. Though the rasp in his voice only makes it sound resigned. You purse your lips, eyes tracking back to the cedar wood of your bedroom door on the other side of the room—and the sleeping child behind it.

You stroke Sam's hair, thinking. “More so than usual.”

(You know why. He knows too. Kent wasn’t the same when he returned from the war. He was vulnerable, not the fragile type but vulnerable in the way a ignited bomb threatened an explosion.

Vincent wasn’t either—grown much more from that thumb suckling toddler when he left.

“My dad is coming home soon,” Sam confides in you on that day on that day on the beach. Him standing a few feet away from the shore line, and you; next to him.

“This isn’t how I wanted him to grow up,” his voice cracks with vulnerability. “I—I want him to have a better childhood than I did.”

“He will, Sam. He will.” I know you’ll make sure of it.

His eyes are red-rimmed and raw when he looks at you. All you wanted was to wipe that anguished expression off his face.)

He is silent. All is silent. Tranquility is like a honey thick syrup poured over your chest, smeared all over the expanse of your body. The soft sounds of your synchronized breathing is the only sound you can bear to hear. It makes your eyes droop, the lethargic feeling dulling your senses.

Your hand reaches for his, intertwining your palm with his long-fingered one. You relish in the familiar feeling of his calloused fingertips, earned from afternoons spent with his guitar. His skin is warm, warmer than yours. You give his hand a tentative squeeze, he squeezes back.

“Mom told me to say hi to you both for her,” he tells you, his breathing slow and deep. “She misses him, and you. She’s coming to visit as soon as she can.”

“Vince misses her too,” you sigh, craning your head forward to peek at the top of his head. “It's affecting him, I can tell. Penny's getting worried. She tells me he hasn’t been himself at school.”

All that Sam can manage is a deep intake of breath, then a softer resigned exhale. There isn’t much nor enough for him to say. Your free hand goes to smooth down his back. The muscles there are tough—bunched up and tense.

He shifts between your thighs, baring down heavier on your pelvis. Even as tired as he is, Sam is restless. Always has been, whether it be on his skateboard or with his guitar. You ignore the growing ache in your lower back—it is not your moment, but his. The warmth of his weight on top of you overpower any discomfort you have.

Twirling the stray curl at his neck, you finally ask. Fingers featherlight against his shoulder. “How… is he?”

Sam stiffens above you, the lean line of his body rigid. He’s clearly distressed with talking about his father. You suck a breath through your teeth, knocking your leg gently against his, giving your silent push for him to continue.

“I can't even lie,” he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. “It isn't good, Doc Harvey says dad’s got PTSD from the war. It's triggered by loud sounds. Remember the time he woke up because of the fire alarm?”

You nod, curling your fingers around his. You try to provide him any semblance of comfort—to reassure him. You love him, always.

It's painful to see, to watch what he’s going through only by the sidelines.

Sam looks up at you from your chest, eyes blurry with exhaustion. His jaw tensing ever so slightly, you see the patchy blonde stubble starting at the jut of his jaw. The wrinkle in his brow growing more prominent at the mention of his father. It's a fresh type of wound, raw and open. You dance around the topic, like poking a sleeping lion that threatens to attack at any given moment.

“We’ve transferred him to stay in my old room. He’s been holed up there most of the time. The nightmares are keeping mom up. He wakes up screaming most nights." Sam rasps, squeezing your fingers. He speaks lowly against the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the heat of his body bleeding through it and into you.

His voice dissolves into a pained crack when he speaks. “It sucks.”

“It will get better, we can get through it,” you sit up slightly, elbows bent behind you. Sam's been out the whole day. You assume he must be starving and tired. “Do you need anything?”

Sam doesn’t let you up, though. He tugs you back down under him with the gentle pull of his arm. You still in his arms, looking down at him.

“No,” he pleads. “just… stay with me, okay? Let's stay like this, please.”

You swallow, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

You wish you could ease his worries. You wish you could tell him that it’ll be alright and he would believe it.

You love him, more than life itself. Like you are a planet that orbits around him, the sun. You show him so everyday—and will continue to do so with everyday that will come.

You just wish he’d be more selfish with you.

If he falls, you’ll piece him back together. Glue his bones together with your hands, relying on the familiarity of his being. Anything, you’d do anything.

The matching mermaid pendants resting over his and your collarbone symbolizes that.

“I want to help you, sam. You take all this burden up on your own. please?”

He sits up, back hunched over you. A dim shadow of him filtered over you. You follow him, like you can’t bear to be apart from him.

“You are, you always have,” Sam softens, gazing at you so reverently you could sob. He looks at you as one gazes at master paintings, like he is in wordless awe of you.

The room is dark with night. If you strain your ears hard enough, the cooing of the owls filter through the cracks of your windows. The moonlight is scarce, you can barely see the expressions painting his face. Though, you’re sure your expression is as lovesick as his. Practical hearts in your eyes as you stare.

“Looking after Vince is more than I could ever ask for, honey.” he whispers, pinching the hem of your sleep shirt between his thumb and pointer finger.

“No Sam,” you murmur, taking his face into your hands. your hands frame his face, warming the cool skin of his cheeks. Desperation fills every movement in a plea for him to understand. “I meant you.”

You inhale, relishing the smell of sweat, mint and rubbing alcohol on his skin. The scent smells so comforting, and so familiar.

You hope he finds that same solace in you as you do with him.

“I want to take care of you,” you say more firmly, stroking him on the skin of his brow bone. “Won’t you let me?”

He stares at you, enveloping your hands with warmer ones. You sigh contentedly at the feeling. They sear into your skin, warming you with the righteous heat of his devotion.

To you, he is the sun and you have the sun right in the palm of your hands. You know he won’t ever burn you, nor leave your skin red and raw from his intensity. His rays are gentle, a featherlight whisper of a kiss on the expanse of your body.

But the sun never stops shining. It is steadfast in its duty to provide. You worry, will he explode in a grand supernova or crumple into a black hole?

Either way, you will never allow it. You’d rather douse the sun in the water of the ocean to hold him in your arms. Maybe then, he can finally rest soundly.

You feel his thumb rub back and forth on the back of your palm, silent and considering. The brush of it melting you against him like a contented cat. A smile graces your lips, you can wait.

Though you do not need to. Sam turns his head and kisses your wrist. His nose bumping into the crease of your thumb. You feel honeyed warmth drip down your heart, collecting in the cavern of your chest.

That's all the confirmation you need.

(There are some days his words fail him. The days his mind is bursting with ideas, so much so it’s difficult for him to convey a singular thought.

That's alright. Perfect, even. Sam has always been better at expressing himself through actions.)

“I love you,” you kiss his forehead, then over each of his eyelids. You want to kiss every inch of his skin until there is nothing left to cover. “so, so much.”

You press your lips to the corner of his. Opting to speak your promise against his skin, to tattoo your undying love into the smooth expanse of it.

Sam tilts his head, causing his lips to brush completely against yours. He presses them firmer against yours, the taste of spearmint gum heavy on his tongue. You lick the seam of his lips—let me in, let me in.

“I love you too. more than you know,” he gasps, tearing his lips away. His breath puffing warmly against the skin of your cheek. He declares it as if he’s running out of breath, and it is his final words. A willing sailor drowning in the deep ocean that is you. “More than anything, more than life itself.”

You press your forehead against his. Your eyes meet the depthless green of his. The twinkle is there; flickering and faint but present.

Love is what brought him to you. It’s what keeps bringing him home to you every night. You want to be his refuge, his comfort, his partner for life.

Your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering against your cheekbones. “Share the burden with me, Sammy. I can take it.”

At the end of the day, he is all you want. All that you need. If it takes him time, you won’t mind. even if it takes centuries.

Sam captures your lips again. Murmuring his agreement greedily against you. You love him, you love him and he loves you.

You are the one he comes back to, his spouse. The greatest love of his life. Home isn’t the farmhouse you’ve built a life in—

It’s you, always has been you.

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she-whatshername · 2 months ago

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It’s time for a Sleepy Tyrrish Men Headcanons

Featuring this drama llama, Xaden

How does he sleep: arms crossed hanging upside down from the ceiling like the little bat gremlin he is

Lolol

Though I imagine it’s very stoic. On his side like Bodhi or asleep on his back. If he’s face down on his stomach that means he’s exhausted. Let him rest.

How many Pillows: two large pillows

Any blankets? Okay let’s talk about these sheets. Xaden has a comfy ass bed. Softest sheets, fluffy pillows and a thick quilt and fitted sheet. He is the king of lies turndown service and lives to fold down the sheets on your side of the bed each night as a silent invitation to snuggle up with him

If you’re out late his shadows are roaming around Riorson House looking for you. And id he’s late to bed and you fall asleep waiting up for him he picks you up to take you to bed and his shadows are pulling the covers up on you

Also, if you were ever like, I want new pillows or new sheets, he’d have it done. He wants you to feel comforted and safe in his room and will do everything you ask to make his room to your liking.

Like when you struggle to stay warm at night for whatever reason he’s employing Bodhi and Garrick to weave a warming rune into the blankets to keep you warm (because I just know those two are resourceful like thet and Xaden has trust issues to ask anyone else)

Nightmares? Yes. he hides it well and will not talk about them with you. However his eyebrows always give it away. If you see him asleep either his brows furrowed or narrowed with concern, gently caress his skin to soothe him back to sleep

Cuddler? Oh yes. He’s the type of Cuddler who likes to melt into you. He wants to cuddle with all his skin pressing against your skin. He loves to tuck you into him, with your forehead right at the level of his lips so he can press his face into your hair and pamper you with kisses

I know this fucker lives for some gossip too. He likes to wrap himself around you and be all warm under the covers and just talk shit lolol. He would absolutely be that guy who not only gives you the space to talk about your day but is actively invested in it. He is the drama and lives for it too. When you’re feeling overwhelmed and stressed he will tell you some old Basgiath gossip he unearthed while sneaking around in the shadows to help lighten the mood. I know this man knows some tea.

Does he snore? very lightly. He’s very much like Bodhis headcanon because brothers

Goodnight kiss? Forehead kiss every night. He also loves a slow, sensual kiss that leads to some intimacy but there will always be a forehead kiss

Bonus: hair braiding before bed. We know this sexy little weirdo has a thing for hair so I think he enjoys domestic activities like braiding your hair before bed, brushing it, or (for my bonnet folks ) massaging oils in your hair and wrapping it for you. He sits behind you on the bed, strong legs on either side of you while he has his hands on your hair. He doesn’t get a lot of time with you throughout the day but he looks forward to these moments most of all. When you offer to return the favor he will always oblige but the moment you run your hands in his hair he tenses up, moans a bit and then he’s all over you lolol

Is he waking you up for late night smooches? This is Xaden, of course he’s always UP to go DOWN if you know what I mean. He’s always looking for ways to love on you. Like if you breathe on him while you’re asleep he’s kissing you awake with that look in his eyes that means you’re in trouble but the best way possible.

#fourth wing #the empyrean #xaden riorson #tyrrish men headcanons you didn't ask for

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toxictigertonic · 3 months ago

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Three count em THREE whole people said they liked my headcanons and wanted more so I'm back with more, this time for how they sleep bc I think it's funny.

COYLE

- Like a damn ROCK.

- But also, extremely vigilant at the same time.

- You could pick him up, shake him, scream in his face, he sleeps. Door cracks open a little? Floorboard creaks? He's up and ready for a fight.

- I really hope he'd sleep in boxers but he strikes me as a butt ass naked kinda guy. Enter his room at your own peril he WILL fight naked.

- Sleeps with his arms to his side, stiff as a board. Dead center of the bed though so good luck if you're looking to share with him.

- Sleeps like that partly bc of military and partly bc if he sleeps on his side he drools.

- Snores like a fucking lawn mower. Has woken people up from a sound sleep bc of it. People are holding grudges.

- The sunglasses and hat stay ON.

- No blankets, no sheets. You can guess how awful this is with the whole sleeping naked thing.

- Sleep walker. Again, awful when you remember that he's nakey.

- One pillow. There is a perfectly head shaped dent in it from his bald ass dome.

GOOSEBERRY

- How many pillows can you fit on a bed? Okay now double it.

- Her bed has the comfiest blankets and the biggest quilt ever.

- Futterman gets his own pillow, so she sleeps on her back with one arm up on the pillow and the other resting on her stomach.

- This is because if he doesn't have his own pillow he'll complain. Also he'll get lost in the mess of blankets.

- She still does the Futterman voice in her sleep. Futterman talks in his sleep. Futterman does not say nice things in his sleep.

- She also talks in her sleep but she's talking about making sure the children are safe or that her pie needs to come out of the oven while Futterman says things about dental hygiene (and how you'll be taught about it whether you like it or not)

- The ONLY one of the prime assets that brushes her teeth before bed. Doesn't wash her face though.

- If she didn't have Futterman to worry about she'd be a side sleeper, pillow tucked under her head and blanket tucked up under her chin.

- She'd have one stuffed animal me thinks. I'd say it's the duck but that feels too simple. How about a mmm ratty old cat.

- Wakes up with the blankets off of her everytime. She doesn't know how it happens but it does.

- Wears the cutest pajama set ever. Futterman deserves pajamas too.

- Sleepytime tea connoisseur. Chamomile with cinnamon and honey every night.

FRANCO

- Again, God help us where do I begin.

- He is my little skrunkly so I say this all with love. Maybe. Potentially. Maybe a little hate.

- Would absolutely spend the money to get an adult sized crib to sleep in. Maybe Murkoff got him one just to make him a little less of a brat (affectionate).

- Sooooo many stuffed animals. So many. From classic stuffies to weird stuffed animals you never would've thought existed.

- He cuddles with the same one every night though, without fail. According to character ai it's a pink elephant so I'm going with that.

- I feel like he'd have a special pajama set for each weekday. Or he'd wear whatever the hell he was wearing during the day to bed. Not sure which.

- If he doesn't have the binky he'll resort to thumb sucking, he won't sleep if he can't have one or the other.

- Also needs sound to sleep, a silent room makes him antsy. Typically has cartoons going.

- (Sad one for those of you who like angst) Dreams about what life could've been like if he had a happy family. Wakes up in tears every time.

- (Cute one to apologize for that) He's clingy as all hell. If someone were to sleep in the same bed as him they'd become his human teddy bear. Good luck getting up this mother fucker has Grip and is so starved for positive attention.

- He wakes up groggy as hell. Give him 30 minutes after he's gotten up bc before then he barely remembers where he is.

- Kicks in his sleep. And they're not gentle kicks either that little bastard is MEAN.

- Drools, sorry not sorry.

- If you pet his head he'll be out like a light :)

Let me know if there are any specific headcanons you'd like to hear out of my noggin because I promise I have plenty. I can talk about these freaks alllll day.

#leland coyle #mother gooseberry #phyllis futterman #dr futterman #franco barbi #il bambino #outlast trials #outlast #give me reasons to talk about Frankie on here please #my friends are getting sick of him

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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candy girl 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: as you’re about to take the next step with your boyfriend, doubts begin to arise. (short!plus!reader)

Characters: Thor (boyfriend’s dad/silverfox)

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself. <3

You sit on Magni’s bed, your back to the wall as the noise of an engine revving comes from the sound bar vibrating under the large television at the other end of the room. He hunches over the controller as he races his digitized foes and you try to see the race around him. You’re dead board and all that grease is making you sleepy.

You yawn and check the time, looking for some segue to get out of there. He swears at the screen and throws the controller, giving you a start. He’s so wrapped up in that game, he might not even notice if you just left.

“Woah, Mag, it’s just a game,” you sit forward with a nervous giggle and eyes the screen, “second isn’t too bad.”

“Second won’t get me the trophy,” he sneers.

You get on your knees and crawl across the bed, reaching for him. As you touch his shoulder, he stands kicks the rolling chair by his gaming desk. You wince and sit back on your heels.

“Mag, chill out,” you whine.

“Don’t tell me to fu--”

“Getting late,” Mr. Odinson’s voice cuts through his son’s as he pushes the door fully ajar. You made sure to keep it halfway open.

“Uh, yeah,” you turn and bounce across the bed, thankful for the interruption. When Magni gets like this, he’s scary. And for what? Some Forza? “I should head out.”

“Mm, driving home in the dark isn’t very safe,” Mr. Odinson comments, “you don’t have to go.”

You flick your lashes and give a strained smile, glancing over at Magni. You’re definitely not bold enough to stay the night with his father there. You search around and grab your bag from where it hangs from a dresser knob.

“Really, I should just head out,” you insist, “you two, enjoy the leftovers.”

“Well, er, I made up the couch in case...” Mr. Odinson begins and shrugs with one arm, “I just thought, well, you’ve worked all day and--”

“God, dad, you’re lame,” Magni puffs, “she can just stay in here.”

You yawn and your hips ache. You can feel a day of driving throbbing at the base of your spine. You don’t really want to make the thirty-minute drive home. The couch is a happy medium.

“Really, thanks, .” you stammer, “if you don’t mind, I will crash on the couch. Gotta be out early though.”

“Great,” he drops his hand, “you know where everything is.”

“Dad,” Magni groans, “why are you even here?”

“Love you too, son,” Mr. Odinson scoffs.

“Um, I’m tired, so I’ll...” you look around, “I’ll lay down. Night, Mag.” You cross the room to offer him a kiss and he rolls his eyes. He leans down and you peck his cheek, turning back as Mr. Odinson looks conveniently at the floor. “Alright, uh, good night then.”

You go out into the hall as Magni grumbles and you hear the noise of him exiting the end screen to start another race. He hardly seems to care about anything beyond his X Box. You trod down to the front room and see the couch neatly made up with a sheet across the cushions, two pillows, and a quilt.

“Wow, thanks,” you say as you put your purse on the end table, “awesome, Mr. Odinson.”

You pull back the blanket and sit, still in your uniform, and stretch your neck. You look at Mr. Odinson as he watches you and give a sheepish grin. Is he expecting something?

“Um, right,” he claps his hands, “I was going to offer, if you needed, something to sleep in? I think one of my shirts might fit.”

You look down at yourself then at him. You shrug. Probably. He is a pretty big guy.

“If you don’t mind, but I can manage,” you assure him.

“Not at all,” he assures and trots off.

You stand as he leaves the room and take off your belt, easing the pressure around your middle. You’re stiff all over. You fish your phone out of your bag and check the time. The battery is about to die. You find your charge and bend over the side of the couch to reach the plug behind the end table. You groan and strain until you manage to hook the prongs into the socket.

You stand and brace your lower back. As you turn around, Mr. Odinson is right there. You wince and let out a strange hiccup in surprise.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you,” you trill, “thanks, Mr. Odinson.”

You take the shirt as he offers it.

“You know you can call me Thor,” he intones, “you’ve been around long enough.”

“I know, it’s... habit, I guess,” you clutch the shirt to your stomach.

“I’ll, er, leave you to it then,” he backs up, “you know where to find me if you need anything.”

“Sure,” you smile and sit down again, stifling another yawn as you tuck your chin down.

“Good night, little one,” he drawls and slowly stalks off, his footsteps creaking down the hardwood.

You wait until you can’t hear him then unfold the shirt. It’s a light weight fabric with a logo on the left side of the chest. Probably one of many. Usually, when you come around, he’s on his way to some gym session or he’s in the basement beating the boxing bag. At his age, he’s a lot more active than you or your peers.

You peel off your uniform shirt and groan as you unhook your bra. Your chest drops heavy and your massage it for a moment. You pull on the fresh shirt and undo the button of your fly, letting out a sigh. Much better.

You reach behind you and shut off the lamp, the house growing dark. You lay down and let yourself deflate. Oh, that’s a nice couch. It’s even better than your bed at home. Everything about the Odinsons’ is nicer; quieter, too.

You jostle onto your side and nestle into the cushions, tucking a hand under the pillows. The stretch in your back muscles feels nice as you bend your legs, one hip popped up as you poke a knee out from under the blanket.

Your eyes close and you welcome the scratchy fatigue that makes your lashes cling. Sleep always comes easily. You’re usually too tired to think and your dreams unfurl in a surreal repetition of reality. You can hear yourself snoring but don’t rouse at the low rumbling.

It isn’t until the pressure settles in your bladder that your eyes open. You’re on your back, the weight of your chest throbbing in your spine. Oof, you don’t usually sleep like that. You pull down your shirt as it’s ridden up your stomach and the blanket pools around your feet, messed in your deep slumber.

You push yourself up and stagger to your feet. You rub your eyes as you come down the hall, the darkness pulsing around you. You look up as you hear the hardwood creak but find the space empty. You near the bathroom and drag your feet inside.

You close the door and tend to your full bladder. As you come back out, you’re hardly more awake. You hear snoring coming from Magni’s room. It must be pretty late if he’s asleep.

A light flicks on, nearly blinding you. You blink over at the open archway into the kitchen. Mr. Odinson’s naked back faces you as he pushes a glass against the fridge filter and the water flows out.

His back is thickly muscled above the waistband of his grey pajamas and a little bit of extra doughiness bulges over the sides. His arms are corded and rounded with strength and his grey hair fans over his broad shoulders. He hardly seems small before the fridge as he leans and drinks the water thirstily.

You tear your intrusive gaze away and head back to the living room. You pull the quilt up as you recline, your pulse thumping behind your ears. You don’t know why. That moment just felt strange. Like you shouldn’t have seen him.

You close your eyes and hum, rolling onto your side once more. The floor creaks and you open your eyes. You yelp as a shadow stands in the doorway. The light flicks on in the hall and Thor stands in its sheen, giving a toothy grin.

“Didn’t mean to frighten,” he still has the glass in hand, “came down to get water and was just checking in.”

“Mm, okay, thanks,” you utter and hug the blanket around, “just surprised me is all.”

“Sorry,” he chuckles, “sleep tight, little one.”

He flips the light off again and you listen to his departure, his feet taking each step decisively. Your adrenaline continues to flow through you. Or maybe you ate too many garlic knots.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #magni x reader #drabble #candy girl #series #au #silverfox au #mcu #marvel #avengers

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shadowdaddies · 11 months ago

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Hey I got a request. Maybe the reader is feeling super energetic and doesn’t know how to go to sleep and Cassian or Azriel (you can do which ever you want idc) tickles them to get they’re energy out so they can fall asleep.

hi lovely! this prompt gives me Cassian vibes so I went with him. (side note, my ADHD keeps me awake all the time and I can think of many ways I'd like Cassian to wear me out before bed)

Ticklish

Cassian x Reader fluff

Warnings: quite suggestive

Head laid against your pillow, you shuffled to try to find a comfortable sleeping position. Flipping over, tossing, turning, you kicked your legs under the covers. Sheets rustled as you groaned, hands dragging down your face as your mind raced, feet and hands shaking as you tried to will your body to still.

Needing to get up and move, you tossed the quilt off your form, leaping from the bed as you headed out the door. You padded down to the kitchen, filling a glass of water, the cool liquid doing little to calm you. Trudging back up the stairs, you sighed as you grabbed the book on your nightstand.

You settled into the pillows, cracking open your book when a loud snore sounded next to you, making you practically jump out of your skin. You sent your sleeping mate a glare, letting out a huff of jealousy at how easily he slept.

Cassian stirred at the sound, a small yawn escaping his lips as he blinked his eyes at you. A pang of guilt shot through you at waking him up, but the male only offered you a sleepy smile, hazel eyes twinkling in the dim moonlight that shone through the window.

“You’re still awake?” Cassian asked in a groggy voice, brow dipping in concern as his hand reached for you. You sighed, setting your book to the side as you took his hand in yours, absentmindedly stroking the skin there.

“I’m so restless tonight. I have this nervous energy that I can’t seem to get rid of,” you vented, pressing a kiss to his hand before holding it against your cheek.

Cassian’s muscles rippled as he stretched out along the bed, rolling over on top of you and caging you in between his arms. Black hair cascaded around his face as he smiled at you mischievously. “You have too much energy? Did I not wear you out thoroughly earlier?” he growled into your ear.

You blushed, attention forced to the pleasant soreness between your legs as memories of earlier this evening flashed in your mind. “No, it’s definitely not that,” you laughed breathlessly, bringing your arms up to cradle Cassian’s face as you admired his rugged features. Wriggling against the sheets, your leg started shaking again as your head fell back against the pillows, closing your eyes with a groan.

“Mmm, so you just need to wear your muscles out?” Cassian murmured, voice as soft as his touch. His hand traced lightly up your thigh, a gasp escaping you as you twitched against the ticklish feeling.

“Cass-“ you began to warn, interrupted as his hand slid up to your stomach, fingers lightly grazing the skin along your ribs. You burst out in laughter, entire body tensing and releasing as he pinned you beneath him.

Tears formed at the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard, gasps escaping you as his deft hands found different ways of bringing you pleasure and torture. “Cass, I yield! Mercy, mercy!” you plead, breathless as he finally let up.

Your muscles felt suddenly heavy, tired from shaking under Cassian’s tickle-attack. You sighed with a smile, pulling his body on top of yours as you pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I love you,” you murmured, allowing him to settle his weight on top of you, wings draped out on either side like your own heated, weighted blanket.

Cassian buried his nose in your neck, leaving a lingering kiss there as he whispered, “I love you too, sweetheart,” before you drifted off to sleep.

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shadow4-1 · 1 year ago

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Sweet n' Silly Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Headcanons (SFW & NSFW)

Ghost is a character who has so many different facets of his personality that he represses for one reason or another. Sometimes, though, he can't hide things well enough. Here are a few headcanons (NSFW Under The Cut):

Ghost is very picky about the masks he wears. If he buys them pre-made (which is rare - he likes to make his own, he can sew), they have to be a very specific type of fabric. Of course, it has to have all the tactical advantages, but it has to be SOFT most of all. All of his clothing is soft for that matter. This man will NEVER, I repeat NEVER, be caught dead in anything starchy or itchy or scratchy. Even his bed sheets are that crazy 1000 thread count cotton. He likes soft things.

Speaking of soft things, Simon carries around a very small square of quilted fabric in whatever extra pocket he might have. It's actually a piece of a handkerchief his mother sewed for him as a child to keep him from taking his baby blanket with him to school. It's old and tattered and stained, but he carries it with him anyway. It's been with him through thick and thin (and the grave). He doesn't need to sleep with it, but if he's severely stressed, he'll hold onto it and examine it for a little bit. Sometimes, that fabric feels like it's the only thing tethering him to earth.

Would absolutely love to get his nails professionally done, but because of his appearance, he doesn't want to intimidate some poor nail lady. Instead, he opts to give himself mani-pedis. Sometimes, if he's feeling rebellious, he'll bust out his trusty bottle of black nail polish and go for it. It's not like anyone'll see it under his gloves. And God forbid if you walk in on him painting his toenails. He WILL kill you.

Ghost has some interesting food habits. He'll honestly eat whatever if he has to, but he would much prefer to eat simple, almost childish foods. He likes things like pasta, sandwiches, juice, and pudding. God, he loves pudding. A giant bowl of hot mac n' cheese and an entire 6-pack of prepackaged pudding is his favorite meal. He KNOWS its bad for him and it totally fucks up his very specific diet he uses to upkeep his frame, but he can't help it.

Has an intense skin care and oral care regimen despite the fact that almost no one will ever see it. His smile would make you go blind because he practically bleaches his fucking teeth - and also because he chose to smile with teeth.

He's quiet for a multitude of reasons. Yes, it's because he's observant and wants to be in control of his surroundings. But it's also because deep down he's still a shy boy. He can stand up for himself and others if he has to, he's grown into that part of himself. But as for meeting new people, he's shy. He doesn't know you, and he doesn't know if he WANTS to know you. He'd rather just eye you up and let your actions speak for themselves. And that's why Johnny is one of his favorites. Something about a person who can outwardly show their genuineness is his kryptonite (although of course they don't have to be as much of a puppy as Johnny - take for instance Price or Gaz)

Absolutely detests physical touch unless he initiates it or it's fleeting. Handsy people piss him off. But a light punch to the shoulder, a tap or two? It makes him feel normal. Normal people aren't afraid to touch each other in that casual sort of way. Ghost is kind of normal. At least he tries to be.

Fucking sucks at flirting. He comes across as dry and uninterested even if it's the opposite. He just hopes the person he's interested in can pick that up so they don't run off thinking he's a prick. If they do then fuck 'em. Ghost is happy being by himself. He's been alone for so long, what's another few years.

Has a very silent praise kink. If his lover tells him anything good about him, goes straight to his ego. He won't show it, but that "I like being with you" went straight to his cock and made him puff out his chest. Of course you do. He's great. He's always been great. Now he's really going to show you how great he is.

Ghost is a huge scent guy. He's very picky about what scents he enjoys, and if he has a lover, he can and will throw out all of their expensive fragrances (and soaps and lotions, etc). His lover HAS to smell a certain way to him, and he'll supply them with whatever he deems appropriate. By the time he's done, his lover will have to adopt a whole new skincare routine. Smelling like sex is obviously one of his top picks, although once again, he'd never say that aloud.

He's a very, VERY visual creature. He knows it makes him come across as a creep, but he loves just watching his lover. He loves picking up on their mannerisms and their quirks. He loves watching their body move when walking or showering. He loves seeing wet stains in his lover's underwear and indentations of his teeth in their skin. He truly devours EVERYTHING with his eyes.

Gets aroused by the weirdest of things. Bare hands on metal, that section of skin in between the collar of a shirt and a throat mic, blowing bubbles in gum. Sometimes, he's hard for nearly an entire mission because someone's voice is too raspy in the comms. (And yes, he's an avid ASMR lover. Those tingles he gets goes straight to his dick and he's ashamed about it. He would absolutely die if his lover sees his search history. They can't know he wants their tongue in his eardrums - no one can.)

Rarely jerks off. He represses all of his sexual energy until he physically can't anymore. He knows it's because deep down he's traumatized. Pleasure is something he doesn't feel like he's allowed to have. His lover should be allowed to have it. But him? No. Jerking off feels like such hedonistic behavior. He feels like a degenerate after. No jerking off. Besides, the more pent-up he is, the sexier his dreams get.

He's always been afflicted by crazy dreams - mainly nightmares. Sometimes, though, especially if he's pent up his dreams get sexual. For the most part they're pretty tame, par for the course sex dreams but when he really gets pent up? When he feels like he's going to burst? His dreams get so realistic they might as be reality. He gets rough and possesive and fucks his lover into his mattress only wo wake up and have to come to grips with the things he's WILLING to do to them. He's so used to being disciplined that the moment that mask drops he can't look at himself in the mirror.

#simon ghost riley #ghost headcanons #simon riley x reader #mw2 headcanons #mw3 headcanons

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wroteclassicaly · 2 months ago

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Just some comfort…

Warnings: Language, comfort, mentioning anxiety, mentions the menstrual cycle and pain, tooth rotting fluff.

A/N: Just a little something, because I’m on mine and I miss him… badly.

~*~

The anxiety is rippling across your stomach, winding around that ghastly heat that scratches across your navel and remains traveling. You’ve tried every position, drank your second glass of iced water, but nothing is helping. You feel as if you could throw up, mouth watering, whilst simultaneously craving for one specific thing… Your eyes follow the heavy wooden door that’s cracked open, illuminated by an autumn thunderstorm. Giving one more tapping of itchy fingertips to your borrowed quilt, you toss the blanket and sheet combo off, your baggy sleep shirt hanging off of you as you make your way down the hallway and outside of the master bedroom door.

It’s quiet throughout his new home - which isn’t anything fancy. A simple old two story cottage you’ve been helping him restore with Nadine’s help. However, it’s his own. And you have your own room here. It’s where you are a lot, still giving him space to make his pathway, but never straying too far.

You two don’t speak on it - there’s more time for that later. Doesn’t mean you aren’t stopping the wishes, the cravings. On nights like tonight, you don’t want your own bed. Still fogged out from the pain inside your exhausted body, you don’t knock, instead pushing the door open enough that it has that whistling sound effect. Before you can raise your hands in surrender, he’s got his gun from beneath his pillow, safety off, and has it perfectly aimed in your direction.

You’re immediately regretful, tears blurring your vision due to emotions. He’s still worried for his own safety, tenfold after his prison time and all of the surgeries needed to restore his eyesight. You hear him sigh as you let out a soft apology. The safety is restored and his gun is placed on his nightstand. His hair is a mess, grown out and shaggy, his chain glittering under the dampening, shrouded moon.

Rain cascades across his window, illuminating him like a portrait of delicate carving. He gives a soft sigh - equal parts irritated and relieved. You look wonderful, just in your shirt, bare feet on his hardwood, in his home. He scoots over and peels back his blankets, overwhelmingly grateful that you scared the shit out of him. You gravitate towards him, a soft smile pressing your face as you knee your way onto the California King.

“You ain’t sleepin’ on my side,” he says.

“Don’t care what side I get, just wanna sleep here.”

You’re already shifting down into the mess of olive greens, swirled in blue tones, and cream sheets, turning onto your side. The anxiety instinctually dissipates. You’re surrounded by the soft smell of the rain, mixed together with the rustic colored leaves that drape across the roof, soaked in earth and season - his window open slightly. His pillows, his bedding, soft detergent, a grainy cinnamon and cedarwood engulfing you from his body wash and shampoo. You aren’t expecting it when he does, a beat silent, his hovering presence behind you, but he then pulls you back into his chest, one defined bicep tossing across your waist.

Warm. Safe. Home.

His voice speaks in a sleep bitten rasp, as if someone has just fed him honey soaked tea. “You want my heatin’ pad?”

You’re shaking your head, already forgetting the agony that is briefly settling in your uterus. You reach for one of his massive palms, splaying it out across your belly, pressing it down. “Just this.”

“Hey…?” It’s a timid trail off, one that catches your attentions before you can drop into sleep.

You tilt your head back and his nose is bumping into yours, a nudging that plants him directly into the apple of your cheek. You don’t have to reach, fingers resting on you tightening together, lips meeting in a kiss so featherlight that it sends a tickling electricity into your toes. You give, he gives, sending a few more chaste pecks, nuzzling with pressed foreheads, and he’s sliding into place behind you, face burrowing into your neck, boxer-briefs heavy on him. No more words are exchanged. You’re out in two minutes, Gator following shortly after, gun forgotten on the table.

Safe… Loved…

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thepenandthepistol · 14 days ago

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Mundane Aching (Platonic!Grain x reader)

Due to some soreness, you're unable to help Gem like you said you would. Grian helps you out and soothes some of your worries.

A/N : Sickfic I wrote because my period was killing me T-T and also the first thing I've actually posted on this account! A win for the slayers of perfectionism. This was meant as a platonic fic but I'm sure you could read it as romantic if you want. Also, reader is an avian as well. (1018 words)

Art by @applestruda and divider by @saradika-graphics

There's still so much to be done, and here you are, still under the sheets. You spent the first half of the day trying to manage a creeping pain in your back right where skin meets the base of your coal-black wings. Ache spreads in waves from the limb and into your vertebra, as if something alive is puppeteering the sinews under your skin.

Despite the guilt, you've resigned yourself to your bed; due to an enormous nap, you missed your afternoon plans with Gem. Being an avian means you were much more used to flying than she was, and the new nether build she was planning required some tight maneuvering. Days like these are some you look forward to, holding onto the back of her chestplate, hovering over lava lakes and bastions.

The trust she has in you, feeling safe even if dangling over potential death, is special in its own right. The friendship you've cultivated and the idle conversations had midair are among your most treasured memories. So, when the exhaustion from carrying materials to and from your shop finally made itself known, you groaned as you curled up on your bed, trying to push away the pain and at least pass by Gem's to apologize for your absence. Maybe sweeten the deal with a nice cake and evening tea.

A sudden flash of crimson outside your window makes you stop in your tracks, feet just inches from touching the cool floor. A single moment of silence is had before Grian pulls himself back up onto the windowsill with a mischievous smile.

"Did I scare you?" He asks, shuffling inside and closing the window behind him with a soft click.

"Oh yeah," you start, closing your eyes and breathing deeply as a particularly sharp stab rolls from your back and claws at your ribs. "Only if being worried you were going to cut your wings on the bars outside counts as scared."

"Excuse me, I'm very skilled! I could probably dodge like five of those in a row." He speaks with a smile, but, to your dismay, he's seen through your teasing and into the discomfort below.

"Gem's been looking for you," he says, aligning some of the trinkets on your shelf and picking your work clothes off the floor. "Sent me here to check while she continued working."

"Shit," you sigh and drape your arm over your eyes, blocking the light crawling in from outside. "I'm having a bad day, I guess. Must've overworked myself last week, and now my wings are killing me."

"Have you had something to eat?" You hear your closet door creek open and Grian looking for something between clothes and towels.

"Not exactly. I had a snack before midday, but I slept through lunch." You open your eyes to see him bring a nice blanket over your shoulders. It doesn't ease the pain, but the soft texture makes existing a little easier.

"Well, just about time for some tea then." You grimace, remembering your promise to Gem. Grian moves to close the room door behind him when you groan out a protest, wrapping the woolen quilt around yourself and finally standing up.

"I'll join you. If I lay here any longer, I'll sleep the entire day away," Grian snickers, but walks in sync with your lethargic steps down the stairs and into a quaint kitchen.

Plopping down on a stool, you watch Grian clack on the stove and place a ceramic kettle on top. It was a birthday gift from Ren. A painted flock of dark birds contrasts the white background alongside some fleuron details.

"Grian, mate, it's you," you point to a particularly wonky bird.

"Absolutely not, look at him! He's your splitting image." He gestures to the dark wings behind you.

"You know what else is splitting?"

"Your head?"

"My head."

You rest your temple on the wooden table and furrow your eyebrows. You could probably make the journey over to Gem's by now; despite the headache and muscle cramps, you're feeling well enough to stand, and you could chance flying the short way over.

With a crack, you stretch your wings entirely; they spasm a bit before reaching their full length; you pay no mind. What was once a terrible tendon-deep flare has resided to a burning soreness; you've done more than travel a couple hundred blocks in worse conditions.

Grian pours the water into two mugs, each with a homemade teabag flopping loosely off the side. You take the smaller mug, lifting it to say 'cheers,' and sip on the sweet berry. You begin putting on your boots when Grian finally lets concern wash over his face.

"You should rest a bit more. Gem's fine. Her garden's turning out really nice." You hesitate a tad bit before tying the laces together.

"I promised her I'd help you know. I'm sure she understands, but I want to make good on my word." You don't register Grian setting down his mug and tilt your head in confusion as he kneels and pulls your boots to his thigh, unlacing them.

"You sound like a knight going to war," he cracks a tiny fond smile. "I know it's your nature, but these things aren't that serious. Your 'word' is still good even if you don't put your own health on the line." Silence follows.

"You're sure she doesn't need me?"

"Positively." He stalks off to line your shoes up by the door and then returns, sitting next to you on the couch and letting his wing curl around you.

"You need to relax. No wonder you're having a bad time when your muscles are that tense." He teases, and you scoff, taking back the mug and continuing to drink.

"Can you tell Gem I won't be making it then, please."

"Yeah, course," he says, knocking his shoulder with yours and hopping to his feet.

"I should tie a letter to your leg and throw you out of the second-story window." You say into the mug as he turns the knob on the front door.

"Hey! I am not a pigeon!"

#hermitcraft x reader #grian x reader #platonic!grian x reader #mcyt x reader #mcyt #x reader

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hanayori89 · 5 months ago

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🪶🪶Lesson 9: Welcome to the Surface Party 🪶🪶

Softness.

This must be what the Loftwing felt when they were enrobed within clouds as they soared among the vast skies.

You felt your body flop onto your other side; the plush quilt on top of you and the silky sheets beneath you were the absolute perfect sandwich.

Cuddling the blanket beneath your chin, you lazily shifted one of your eyes open to the comforting surroundings of your bedroom. At your desk was a green tunic hanging from the back of your chair.

You smiled to yourself, shutting your eye again, only for both eyes to launch open with realization.

You didn't own a green tunic.

A pair of lips brushed against your forehead. "Good morning, Y/N..."

You could feel the slight draft of Link's hot breath tickle against your face.

You shot out of bed in a state of alarm, as if you were going to be late for class and Owlan was going to have your head. Link pulled the covers down, revealing the shirtless bust of his sculpted pecks. He suggestively began to pat the empty space beside him. The sight of your distress made his lips pull back like curtains, revealing his ivory-tinted teeth.

"What's wrong? Come back to bed, baby."

Your hands gripped your cheeks with such strength that you thought you might pull your skin off. You croaked. "B-B-Baby?!"

You looked down at the crimson chemise that floated around your body. "What in the name of the goddess is this?! Why are you in my room? Why am I in my room with you? Why am I-"

Link tossed the covers completely off, standing before you in a pair of tight emerald briefs that hugged his lean thighs. He padded over to you, wrapping his arms around you and sighing in your ear.

"W-What are you doing? And when did you become so thin?"

He chuckled. "Thin? Y/N, you must have had a bad dream. And where else would I be besides with you?"

"What do you mean by that?" His arms, which were snaked around your waist from behind, began to clench you tightly, squeezing you like a python.

"You like me like this, don't you, Y/N? The way our skin feels together. The sight of me on top of your sheets." His tongue poked against your ear.

"L-L-Link, you've gone mad! We are barely even friends! Remember! Link?"

"That's an odd way of saying lovers. Admit it, Y/N. You like everything about this. In fact, dare I say you love it?" His lips puckered against your neck as his nose nudged little circles beneath your ear.

You continued to call his name, but he stopped answering you, his mouth satisfied with a serving of your flesh. A soft moan slipped from his lips, and it clawed at you like a Loftwing's talon. You felt a strong, sharp pang in your lower abdomen that rippled below in between your legs.

"Oh Link, please stop. Link? Link!" Your hands involuntarily darted upward, in desperate need of feeling a fistful of his fluffy, dry locks.

Instead of messy, rogue strands stuffed in your hands, you felt a wiry braid woven in between your fingers. You gave it a gentle yank.

"WAKE UP YOU FOOLISH SKY CHILD!"

Your eyes opened and were greeted by the harsh imprint of frown lines and wrinkles hovering above you. The familiar chitter of birds laughing at you was as daunting as the crinkled dark eyes glowering down at you.

You sat up with a groan. "Oh no..." There was no mistaking the ancient pinecone whom Link told you her name, but you had forgotten. You didn't exactly think you'd see her again. "I've fallen back to the surface?"

The old woman sighed, as if your stupidity were vexing her. "Fallen is incorrect. You were transported. Swallowed by a detrimental twister created by the dark wrath of the imprisoned."

"Not this imprisoned stuff again." You stood up, brushing dirt from your pants. "Listen, um, ma'am..."

"Impa. Surly child. How the hero has befriended you is beyond me."

You began to protest. "Link and I aren't friends."

"Maybe not, but you certainly were screaming his name a lot in your sleep." A scorching storm of heat had landed on your cheeks. Under Impa's circus tent of a poncho, you could see the faintest hint of a grin.

You threw your hands up in defiance. Your voice began to rise, causing the birds to abandon their posts above in the starkness of the surrounding trees. "It was a dream! A dream I had while being unconscious, because I almost died!" You made sure to emphasize "died" so she knew you were not responsible for whatever dream you had while you were comatose.

Even if it so happened to be a dream of Link practically naked in your bed. Your mind replayed the sound of his footsteps on your floorboards and the heat from his breath against your skin.

It wasn't the worst dream you had ever had.

"Shhh. Hush! You will disturb it, and there's no time left." Impa turned away from you, offering you the sight of her cloaked, hunched back. As you looked past her, you noticed the area you were in was different than the first time you had come to the surface.

"Where are we?"

"When you first appeared here, you had landed in the lush forest of Faron. This is what is known as the 'sacred grounds', where the imprisoned remains sealed away by the hero."

The eerie silence certainly denoted an element of consecration. Gone was the forest you had seen that was plentiful with alien greenery and foreign wildlife, and in its place were tiers of stark and desolate ground. Your eyes counted the slabs of jutting land until you realized they weren't plateaus, but it was all one summit that stemmed from a center, swirling into a circle that led to an eventual peak. At the very top of its crest stood a marble door, dilapidated and not too many years away from collapse. Beyond that door, there appeared to be some sort of church or temple. In typical Y/N fashion, you were itching to go explore it.

Before you decided to trek to the top, you took calculated steps toward the edge of the story you were on. At the precipice, you could make out the familiar foreboding suction of ventilation. The winds seemed to blow at the same impractical miles per hour that had sucked you up from Skyloft and spit you back on the surface. You leaned a little over to see a surfeit of air currents shooting upward, as far as your eyes could follow.

Was this the source of the dreadful tornado that had appeared?

"Don't get too close. Lest you'd like to be eaten again." Impa stood beside you; her pupils, inky like the shadowed streams erupting from the center, were lasered in on the center of the summit's nadir. The source of the aforementioned evil. "It is waiting for him."

"Him? You mean Link? What does it want with Link?"

"To settle the score."

"I won't let it hurt Link." You vowed out loud to yourself, not expecting Impa to acknowledge your oath.

"Well, should you defend the hero, then at least that means he can focus on protecting the princess."

"Why do you keep calling her princess?"

"Princess, goddess, or oracle, she will always be the same as long as Hylia resides within her. Isn't she of prominence on your island?"

"She's the headmaster's daughter."

"And you think that is a mere coincidence?"

"Look, I don't know what this imprisoned thing is you and Link keep going on about. I don't know why the giant tornado ate me and not Zelda, if she's the wanted one. I just want to go back to Skyloft."

"Too late. It has chosen you." Impa looked you up and down. "Your connection to the hero... it is uncertain why you have been chosen. Either as bait or for something else, but what something else is, only time will reveal. But you cannot go back to your island."

The old hag was starting to piss you off. "I don't want to be chosen!"

"Nobody does. Do you think the hero or princess wanted to be chosen? To be assigned the rest of eternity, bonded to the desires of evil, and then tasked with defeating it? Quit whining; it is quite unbecoming. If you care for your friend, you will help him fight, not run away."

Her words were harsh, slicing into you the way you used to cut down bamboo stalks for knight training. But you could see through her glacial demeanor to a core of wisdom and warmth. She was trying to help you.

And the truth was often harsh, wasn't it?

"What should I do?"

Impa turned her head to the top, where the door to the archaic building stood. Beside it was some type of mechanism you had never seen before.

"A fellow skychild of yours created that gizmo up there. He called it a "canon." If you are a knight and can wield a sword, you and I can fend it off until the hero arrives."

You felt your temple twitch. "A... fellow... sky..."

"Yes, I believe his name was Groose."

"GROOSE! GROOSE FOUGHT AGAINST THE IMPRISONED?!" The echo of your enraged voice scared off any remaining birds that hid nearby.

It wasn't necessary for the pinecone to say another word. Before you knew it, you had reached the top of the summit, standing behind the gadget Groose had made.

"You mean to tell me a man who sleeps with a drawing of Link's face on a punching bag made this?!" You kicked it and stubbed your toe, crying out in anguish.

When I see him again, I am going to beat him senseless. Why did Hylia choose Groose of all people to help Link while I was in the dark about all of this?

As you began to fiddle with it, cursing Groose beneath your breath, the ground began to rumble. The magnitude with which it began to quake was enough to knock you off balance. Beneath you came the screeching howl of the old woman. The sound of her feeble scream made your veins feel tight beneath your skin in horror.

Oh no, she'll never reach the top. Panic had officially set in, and you stood on shaking limbs, gripping the canon for support.

I have to protect her. But what if Link doesn't come? What if I fail him?

But there was no longer any more time to spend entertaining "what ifs."

A deafening sound ruptured the ground, and an evil energy, so revolting, made your blood freeze, as if it had stopped pumping into your heart.

The imprisoned had broken free and joined the surface party.

Edited: 7/7/24

#legend of zelda #link #loz #fanfiction #wattpad #link x reader #romance #the legend of zelda #fanfic #fanfic on tumblr #loz skyward sword #skyward sword zelda #the legend of zelda skyward sword #loz ss #zelda skyward sword #skyward sword #zeldafanfic #zelda fanfiction #action adventure

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