#but then what else can one do with it all? i still have the air fresheners shoved under the bed somewhere

[andvys]

The edges of your soul (I haven’t seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter two

⭐︎ can you see right through me?

Warnings: angst, misunderstandings, post apocalypse, gore, mentions of death, grumpy!steve, grumpy x sunshine

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 5k+

Summary: You didn’t think that trying to get close to Steve would end up hurting your feelings — but you also didn’t expect to get a glimpse of who he once was, before the darkness of this world dimmed the light in his eyes.

Authors note: Buckle up for the next chapter y’all, it’s gonna be something. always a shoutout to @hellfire--cult who always takes her time to edit and write with me 🩷

⭐︎ series masterlist

⭐︎ prologue ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

On the first day of your official stay in Hawkins, Nancy took you to the greenhouse, you spent all day gardening, taking care of the crops, watering vegetables and fruit, picking the ripe ones and planting new seeds – it amazed you how well everything was growing, you didn’t think that it would be possible after seeing the effects this world had on nature but you suppose that miracles exist after all. 

By the end of the day, your knees hurt, your hands felt sore and there was too much soil and dirt under your fingernails, not that you would ever complain, you haven’t felt as much happiness as you did when Steve told you that you were allowed to stay since… well, since your college acceptance letter and that is too long ago. 

On your second you cooked french toast with leftover bread that Nancy had made the day before, using fresh eggs – you were surprised when you found out about the little stable with chickens behind the garden, you thought most animals had died. You made ratatouille for dinner, using the freshly picked vegetables from the greenhouse. Nancy and Eddie had complimented your cooking skills, though the reaction you were mostly looking forward to was Steve’s, he only hummed in approval and he got a second plate, you took that as a good sign. 

Today, you haven’t been assigned to any tasks yet and you don’t exactly know what to do when you walk down the stairs to find the house empty, well, mostly empty. There are no signs of Eddie and Nancy, you don’t hear him humming, you don’t hear her walking around in the kitchen or somewhere else, the only one around is Steve. He is in the living room, standing in front of the window, holding a cup in one hand while the other is propped against his hip. 

The smell of coffee lingers in the air, it must be his third cup, he already had one before breakfast, another during it. You wonder if he is just addicted to the bitterness of it – it certainly matches his attitude. Or if he is just tired and in need of something to keep him awake, you have a feeling that he doesn’t sleep much. 

“Where’s everyone?” 

Steve doesn’t even flinch, he heard you walking down the stairs, he felt your eyes on him. 

“Eddie is working on the RV,” he grumbles, still not fond of the idea of leaving, nothing will change his mind, he is just waiting for his friends to drop it. “Nancy is with him.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. You look around, still holding onto the railing of the stairs. The house is spotless, clean, not a single grain of dust lying around. Eddie is cooking dinner tonight, so there isn’t anything for you to do around here. 

Steve takes one last sip and then he puts the mug on the coffee table, not even glancing at you as he turns around and reaches for the gear he had left by the doorway. He puts the gun into his holster, secures the walkie into his belt and lastly he picks up his rifle before he starts making his way over to the door. 

“Wait, where are you going?” You ask, not hesitating to follow him. 

“Patrol.” 

You furrow your eyebrows at him, shaking your head, “I thought you said it’s a two man job.” 

He rolls his eyes and stops walking, turning around, he looks down at you, “Eddie and Nancy are busy–”

“I’m not,” you shrug, giving him a smug smile, knowing that he isn’t fond of your company. “I’m coming with you.”

“Can’t you find something else to do–”

“No, I cannot.” You interrupt him as you reach for the door knob and open it, “can’t let you break the rule and let you go out there by yourself, who knows what you might run into. I’m gonna keep an eye out for you, maybe you’ll get distracted with your shoelaces again!” 

Steve huffs, clenching his jaw. His eyes move up and down your body, eying your belt, the knives tucked into it, the gun in your thigh holster – he has a hard time believing that any of those things have been used by your hands, you couldn’t even kill the man that had attacked you when you had the chance to – he heard your conversation with Eddie that night, heard what happened, what almost happened to you, you could have killed that man, you should have, but you didn’t. 

People like you are not made for this world, it will get you sooner or later. 

“Like you’d be able to do anything,” he murmurs under his breath as he steps out onto the porch and shuts the door behind him. 

“What was that?” You turn around to face him. 

“Nothing.” 

Steve brushes past you, not glancing at you but motioning with his hand for you to follow him, “c’mon.” He makes big steps, fast ones too, forcing you to catch up with him when he is already past the gate and out on the road, walking down the empty street, he ignores the way your footsteps get louder as you hurry to get to his side. 

“Jesus, slow down, cowboy.” 

Steve scrunches his nose up, furrowing his eyebrows at the nickname you have just called him by. 

“Cowboy?” He scoffs as he turns to look at you to see you nodding already, a small but smug smile on your lips, though you look right ahead and not at him. “Why, cowboy?” 

“You’re so grumpy and brooding.”

He scoffs again, like you said something crazy, like you didn’t say the truth. 

“Who says that cowboys are grumpy and brooding?” 

You shrug, “there’s two types of cowboys, the flirty funny ones and the grumpy, brooding ones!”

Steve looks away from you, shaking his head a little. He can’t fight you, knowing you’re right about one thing, he is grumpy. He no longer is the guy he was before all of this, this world that has changed him, and not for the better. He was forced to kill the boy in him when he realized how much he was hurting someone he once loved dearly, he became better, he became a good guy but that guy got his heart broken – that was for the better, as much as it hurt at that time, it was for the better. He became better, he stopped caring about what other people thought of him, he found new friends, he found a best friend, his soulmate. 

Robin.

Robin made his world a better place, she fixed his broken heart, she taught him what it was like to have a real friend, an actual best friend. She taught him that love didn’t always have to be romantic, that it could be platonic and that this love could be just as strong as any other. 

They had so many plans for the future: leave Hawkins, live in a big city, get a place, figure out a future together. 

But then this happened, the world got uglier than before, evil. Their plans got crushed and they were ripped apart. She changed and he did too, and now he can’t be with her whenever he wants, too many things are in the way. 

This world had forced him to kill the person he was before all this, he was forced to kill himself a second time. 

Steve looks back at you, you don’t seem fazed by this world at all. You’ve been attacked not too long ago and not even that has fazed you, he doesn’t know you, doesn’t know half of your story and all the things you have been through since the day the world had gone to shit but from what he heard, you have seen – encountered some ugly things out there and yet there is something about you, something pure, something… good, something he didn’t think was still out there but he can see it. 

He can see it in your eyes, no ounce of hatred resides in them, only goodness, hope that should not even be a thing in this world. You are the complete opposite of him, you are bright, so bright that it almost blinds him, you are all smiles and giggles – and you are so goddamn talkative. 

Thirty minutes into patrolling and he fears his ear might fall off from listening to you jumping from one topic to another. So far you have talked about all your favorite movies, bands and books, told him of a specific cowboy character that he reminds you of before saying how much he looks like Patrick Swayze or well, how much his hair looks like Patrick Swayze’s. 

You are chattering away, not minding the huffs and sighs that keep falling from his mouth, a signal for you to just shut up. He begins to regret his decision to let you stay. 

“I think I made a grave mistake.” He murmurs as he looks around the empty neighbourhood, looking out for any signs of monsters or sick ones. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Do you ever shut up?” 

To his surprise, you do shut up and for a moment the only thing heard are yours and his footsteps and the leaves rustling from the wind. With a heavy sigh, he turns to look at you. You are pressing your lips together, looking down at the asphalt. He turns away again in satisfaction, enjoying the silence… the silence that doesn’t last long. 

“You called the monster demobat before, what does that mean?”

He restrains his eye roll, tries not to clench his jaw. 

“Uh…” He pauses, he keeps forgetting that the world doesn’t call the monsters by the names the teens have given them. “Eddie is a fan of a game and he used a name from there to name them…” He cringes at himself. 

“Oh!” You say in that voice, the one that pisses him off, the cheerful one. “What game?”

“Dungeons and Dragons.” He replies, hoping that answer is satisfying enough and you finally give him some peace. 

“Do you play?” 

Steve sighs, tightening his hold on the rifle in his hands. It was a mistake to let you come with him, he hates talking, hates answering questions, hates company. 

“No.”

You furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head at him. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t have the patience to learn all of that,” he shrugs. 

“Why?” 

Steve takes a deep breath, he is getting irritated by all your questions but he still turns to you, scrunching his face up as he shrugs again, “I-I don’t know, I don’t wanna be a nerd like him?”

You raise your eyebrows, lips parting, your head is still tilted – you look like a fucking curious puppy, he has to look away. He almost sighs in relief when he sees the house at the end of the road. 

“It’s a nerd game?”

He huffs loudly, glaring at nothing in particular, “seriously, can you keep quiet for more than two seconds!?” He snaps at you, forcing you to be quiet… for a moment. 

He counts the seconds, one… two… You are quiet, it’s almost nice to enjoy the silence again, almost. 

He hears you taking a deep breath. 

“What was your job before the world ended? Cop?” 

Three seconds. Three fucking seconds. 

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath and he finally stops walking, looking up at the sky, he places his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath before he turns to face you. 

You halt in your tracks and turn to face him as well, taking in the sight of his deep frown, of the irritation in his hazel eyes and the annoyance that radiates right off him. You almost get nervous, almost. 

“What the fuck,” he grumbles at you, “are you always this talkative?” He asks, stunned. He will be forced to get used to this. 

“You don’t ask me anything, so I have to make conversation,” you shrug, pulling your hands up in front of you, “I haven’t had a good talk in months, I have pent up words.” 

And you chose him out of… three people – that is… he doesn’t know what to think of this. 

“Yeah, Eddie is the best choice for this, not me.” 

The frown on your face says otherwise, your eyes move up and down before they stop at his face again, he doesn’t know what you are exactly looking at or searching for but he needs you to stop. He shifts and huffs again, tapping his fingers against the rifle that he holds on for dear life. 

“But I want to talk to you.” 

He blinks, staring at you like he didn’t understand what you just said, he tries not to look at anything but your eyes.

“Horrible decision.” 

You break eye contact, looking away to take in the view around you, you sigh at his words and shrug before you continue walking, making him follow you this time. 

“I don’t think so.” You pause and look back over your shoulder to see if he is following. “Don’t you have any questions for me?”

“Uh…”

He does. 

But he won’t ask. He can’t. He just can’t, the less he knows the better. 

He looks down awkwardly, clearing his throat, “how old are you?” 

This time you scoff and shake your head at him, “seriously?” 

“What?” He frowns, looking up to see you staring at him with a confused pout – jesus christ. 

You sigh and roll your eyes, of course he asks the most boring question. 

"Twenty-two."

His eyes widen and his lips part – this might be the first other expression you see on his face other than the constant frown. He stares like you have grown two heads. 

“You’re a fucking year older than me!?” 

Oh. 

Oh… 

You didn’t expect to be older than him either, though you aren’t as surprised as he is, he looks shocked even. He stops walking again, you do too. 

“So… what about it…?” You ask quietly, lifting your shoulders.

Steve notices the unsure look on your face, the way your eyes move back and forth between his own and the ground, the way you cross your arms over your chest, like you are suddenly insecure.

He clears his throat, straightening up as he blinks himself out of his stupor. 

“I… nothing. Nevermind.” He retorts, ready to drop that topic. 

“No, tell me.” 

For some reason, he can’t look at you when he opens his mouth again. 

“You don’t act your age.”

“Oh?” Your voice is suddenly higher than before, hopeful, “do I act older?” 

He pulls his brows together, not looking at you yet, finding the ground beneath him very interesting all the sudden. 

“...Sure.” 

You don’t reply this time, don’t say anything to it, don’t ask any more questions, you simply turn around after a beat of silence, you start walking again, giving him your back. 

He counts the seconds, one… two… three. You give him the silence that he wanted this whole time. You don’t look at him either. He got what he wanted but when the awkwardness fills the space between you both, he suddenly feels a sliver of guilt rising up in him, he knows he must’ve hit a sore spot and he can’t help but kick himself for it. 

A part of him wants to apologize, the other wants him to stay quiet – the stronger side wins though. 

“I uh–”

Though you don’t give him the chance to keep going, you pick up your pace when you see Nancy on the porch, walking away from him quickly, not wanting to spend another second beside him. 

He watches you basically flee from him, it makes him sigh and it makes him halt in his tracks. Frustration bubbling up inside of him, a voice in his head calling him ‘dumbass’. He sighs softly, brings his hand up to his head, he runs his fingers through it nervously. 

He hit a sore spot, one that made you stop talking to him, one that prevented him from finding out more about you. 

It’s for the better. 

Yeah, he knows it’s for the better. 

-

Eddie cooked dinner and Nancy set the table tonight, neither of them noticed the lack of attention you were giving to the man sitting across from you or how he kept looking at you, not with hatred or anger in his eyes but with guilt. 

He hates that feeling, he hates feeling guilt or regret towards someone he barely knows, towards someone he does not want to let in. He knows that he hurt you with what he said, with how he reacted, he didn’t mean to, he couldn’t have known either – he didn’t react badly, he thought, and yet it shut you up and it made you stop looking at him. 

It’s for the better. He kept telling that to himself, kept repeating it in his head, over and over again until he could no longer stand these words. 

He notices that your plate is still filled with food, you only ate half of it. The whole time you sat there and pushed around the vegetables on your plate, you looked a little lost, your eyes were troubled, you looked far gone, like you weren’t at the table. Nancy and Eddie didn’t notice as they were busy talking about some news Dustin had shared from the radio station earlier. 

“You’re gonna like Dustin,” Eddie says, nudging your shoulder. 

Steve watches the way you blink, the way you plaster a smile on your face before you look at Eddie. 

Nancy hums, nodding, “yeah, he was always my favorite out of my brother’s friends.” 

You squint your eyes, like you are trying to remember something, “your brother is… Mike, right?” 

“Yeah, hold on!” She gets up all the sudden, walking away from the table and out of the room, she comes back a moment later with a book in her hand – a photo album. She sits back down beside you and pushes away her empty plate before she slams the album on the table and opens it, flipping the pages, she furrows her eyebrows as she looks for a certain picture, “wait… there it is!” 

She points at the picture of a group of four boys, dressed in Ghostbusters costumes. A smile instantly appears on your face and your eyes light up, “aw! They’re little Ghostbusters!” 

Eddie chuckles at the picture, even Steve smiles but you don’t notice. 

“That’s Mike,” she points at her brother, before she moves her finger to the boys next to him, “that’s Will and Lucas, and lastly that is Dustin!” She points at the curly haired boy. 

“Adorable,” you smile, thinking of your own brother. “My brother loves Ghostbusters too, although he’s way older than they are.” You chuckle. 

Steve’s eyes are back on you, he didn’t know you had a brother… but then again, he doesn’t know anything about you. It’s for the better. 

“Well, that was a few years back, they’re not the tiny humans they used to be,” Nancy laughs sadly. She flips to the next page, “that’s them now – or well, that was them before the world went to shit, I’m sure Mike is even taller now and his hair is longer too.”

The picture shows them at a skatepark, Dustin is grinning into the camera, Mike’s arms are crossed, a grumpy look resting on his face, Will is smiling, Lucas is looking down at the girl leaning into his side. 

“That’s Max,” Eddie points at the redhead, “she’s kinda scary.” 

You giggle at the serious tone in his voice. 

“I have to agree with that.” Steve snorts, earning a short glance from you. He pulls his sleeves up and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Your eyes lock with his for a moment, though you quickly look back down.

There is another picture of Mike and Dustin, both of them wearing the same shirt – The Hellfire Club. 

“What’s that?” You point at their matching shirts to which Eddie straightens up in his seat, already grinning. 

Nancy and Steve groan at him, causing you to frown. 

“I’m glad you asked, sweetheart.” He pauses, looking at Steve smugly. 

“That was his nerdy game club that I told you about before,” he rolls his eyes. 

“You didn’t tell me he had a club!” 

“Shame on you, Harrington. It was the best thing to ever exist beside Corroded Coffin, of course.” 

You know all about Eddie’s band already, he told you about it on your first night here, and showed you pictures of his sweetheart. 

“I beg to differ–”

Nancy sighs loudly beside you, leaning back in her chair as she prepares herself for their banter. 

“Dustin, my buddy, was very passionate about the club.” Eddie grins. 

“Oh yeah, that little nerd you stole from me?” Steve retorts, squinting his eyes at the metalhead. 

“I didn’t steal him, I’m just cooler than you, Harrington–”

“You– You literally play a boardgame, how is that cool? I was prom king!” 

“Oh my god,” Nancy mumbles, shaking her head. 

Her reaction tells you that she is used to this, and sick of it. 

You though, you can’t help but be amused, looking back and forth between them. 

“Cry me a river, Henderson thinks I’m better, in fact, all teens do.” Eddie shrugs and reaches for his beer. 

“Except Lucas,” Steve smirks. 

Eddie nearly chokes on his beer when he straightens up in his seat, “I apologized!” 

Steve shrugs at him this time, taking a sip of the whiskey he poured himself earlier. 

“What about you, sweets?” Eddie asks, turning to look at you, “what did you do in high school?”

Nancy turns to you, as well as Steve – and suddenly all eyes are on you and you can’t help but feel a little flustered beneath their gazes. 

“I uh… I was prom queen…” You admit shyly, not looking at the hazel eyes that stare at you intensely.

Eddie’s eyes widen, “oh, we have royalty up in here, Wheeler.” 

Nancy giggles at his reaction, more so at the look on your face. She’s not surprised, you’re beautiful and sweet. 

“You were prom queen?” 

Out of the three people around you, you least expected him to ask you anything, but just like before, the tone in his voice, his reaction leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You slowly look up at him. 

“You sound surprised and I’m kinda offended. Am I that ugly?” you joke but he notices how your shoulders fall a little. 

His cheeks heat up and he wants nothing more than to roll his eyes at Nancy’s and Eddie’s judging faces towards him. He shakes his head at you, “I– no, I didn’t mean that… I mean it’s not all about looks anyways.” 

You purse your lips and furrow your eyebrows at his words, taking a deep breath, “...so I am ugly?”

Nancy huffs beside you, glaring daggers into Steve. 

“I didn’t say that, I’m just saying that apart from looks… people vote for nice people,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat and under your gaze. 

Nancy is back to pinching the bridge of her nose, begging him with her eyes to just shut up. 

If only you looked to your right, you would have seen the stunned and comical look on Eddie’s face. 

“So you’re saying I’m nice?” You tilt your head at Steve, growing a little satisfied with the way he is squirming around. 

He sighs, clenching his jaw and turns away from you, “I’m done with this conversation.” 

“...You were a fucking asshole in high school. You got prom king because Billy was a bigger asshole.” 

“Were?” You blurt out, making him look back at you stunned. 

Nancy hides her giggle with a cough, earning a glare from him. 

“He redeemed himself at Scoops Ahoy,” Eddie smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Scoops Ahoy?” 

Steve shakes his head at him, if looks could kill, Eddie would be lying on the floor, right now. 

“Mhmm,” Eddie nods. “He was an ice cream man, and wore a sailor outfit too.” 

“Wait, what?” You ask, stunned. You can’t even imagine that. “I refuse to picture him in a silly sailor outfit, I need proof or else I won’t believe it.” 

“Too bad. Every picture of me in that outfit is burned.” Steve declares, looking very convinced until he sees the smirk on Nancy’s face.

He clears his throat before he leans closer to the table, “Nancy Wheeler… do you have a fucking picture–”

“No, I was just smiling,” she shrugs but pulls out two pictures from the album and hands them to you, giving him a smug smile.

“No way,” you mumble as you take a good look at them. There he is, the man you thought had a serious job before all of this actually worked at an ice cream shop, wearing a sailor outfit, in the first picture he even wears a silly hat as he serves ice cream to someone not part of the picture. His hair was much shorter back then, so different from the mullet he now has. His eyes are crinkled, his smile so big and bright, his cheeks slightly pink, unlike the pale color in them now. He looked so different, he looked happy, he looked like a different person. 

You glance over at him to find him staring at you already, watching you. His hazel eyes are cold, the frown on his face so deep you are surprised there aren’t any lines on his skin yet, the light in his eyes has faded. There is nothing left of the guy he was before, at least at first glance. 

You look back down and focus on the second picture, placing it on top of the other – it turns out to be a mistake because for some reason, your eyes like what they see, a little too much. With his hands behind his back, he stands against a brick wall, wearing the same sailor outfit, though this time without the hat, his hair styled yet messy, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. You don’t know what it is about that picture, perhaps it’s his broad shoulders, the blonde highlights in his hair, the tanned skin or the way the golden light shines on him but he looks handsome – it’s something you haven’t noticed before, you aren’t blind, he is a good looking man but you couldn’t really see it before, not this clearly at least. His rude and mean attitude made it impossible to see, you couldn’t look past it. 

Your cheeks heat up a little, your ears do too, you sink deeper into your seat, hoping that none of them notice how flustered you feel. 

But Eddie does, he notices the way your eyes are basically glued to that picture, Nancy notices as well – they both glance at each other, amused. And Steve, he notices too, of course he does… The Steve from back then would have loved it, the flustered look on your face. 

As you hold the picture, you notice that the sides are frazzled, like a part is missing, like something or someone was cut out of both pictures. You look over them, taking a look at all the pictures lying around, of the teenagers, of other people you haven’t anything about yet, of Nancy’s family, of Eddie and Dustin and it only now dawns on you, that you stepped into something, that these people haven’t found each other in this world but in the one before – a tight circle, a family. 

A family you don’t belong in, you intruded – and now even more than before, you understand why Steve didn’t want you here, it wasn’t only about him not trusting you, it was about you stepping into something he didn’t want you to be a part of. 

This is his place of comfort that he didn’t want to share with a stranger. 

You hand the picture back to Nancy and reach for the wine Eddie had poured for you earlier, you take a big sip. 

Maybe you should have left when he told you to, maybe you should have done him a favor, you shouldn’t have broken into someone else’s home. 

“Is your brother older or younger?”

It wasn’t Nancy’s voice, nor was it Eddie’s.

It’s Steve’s. 

Not only do you look at him in surprise but also Nancy and Eddie. He ignores them though, keeping his eyes on you. 

You blink, putting the wine glass back down, you lick your lips. 

“Uh… he is older, he’s twenty four.” 

“Is he with your parents?” Nancy asks. 

You nod. 

“Yeah, he was home from college when it all… started. That idiot broke his leg during lacrosse, I don’t know why he kept trying with it, he was never the most athletic,” you chuckle. 

“Yeah, me neither. I always hated anything sport related,” Eddie says with wide eyes, earning a snort from Steve. 

“You’d get along well, he’s a major nerd.”

“Are you calling me a nerd, sweetheart?” Eddie pretends to be offended. 

“Uh,” you look him up and down, “yeah, major nerd just like my brother.”  

He nudges your side with his elbow, chuckling at the look on your face. 

Steve hides the smile on his face, looking down at his hands. 

“I’m hoping to get home, see a big gate surrounding my house, and I bet that asshole has a semi-automatic somewhere and is pretending to be in a zombie movie or something,” you chuckle. “He always dragged dad and me to the theater and forced us to watch the goriest shit. I used to hate it, now I want it back more than anything.” 

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, smiling at you. “Maybe you’ll do it again someday, maybe not at the theater but you could do movie nights with your family.” 

And his smile slowly fades again, he doubts that you will see your family again, he doubts that you’ll find them how you want to. He thinks it’s wrong of Eddie to fuel your hope, he is doing more damage than anything else and it’s gonna hurt even more when you find your family dead. 

There is no hope for anything or anyone in this world, it’s a foolish thing to have. 

You shrug, a smile on your face as you get up from the table to rush upstairs. Everyone just sits there wide eyed, looking at each other, hearing how there’s some stumping and then, something falling, and then you are cursing. Two seconds later you are coming back downstairs with something in your hands.

“This is my family.” You put the polaroids on the table, the ones you took back to camp so you would not miss your family so much. “That’s my mom, my dad, and the idiot of my brother.” 

They all grab a picture each. Eddie’s picture was of the four of you smiling while camping. Nancy’s was a picture of a family trip to the grand canyon, but Steve’s picture was something that made his heart shrink for some reason. The four of you were laughing, surrounding a christmas tree. You were younger, probably a teen, and it made him think of how now your personality made sense. 

You were never shown anything but love. Something he never experienced from his own family. He was slightly jealous at your picture, and he knew you were the only one between the four of you that had a normal and loving family. Nancy’s parents didn’t seem to love one another, Eddie’s father was an abusive asshole that ended up in jail and his mother passed away, and then there was Steve. Even with the apocalypse happening, his parents didn’t even care to find him. Find out if he was dead or not.

His eyes moved upwards to find you looking at him, and he wondered why you had a frown on your face. It wasn’t a second later that he felt his eyes burning and you could see the glistening of tears forming. He can’t cry. It’s stupid to cry about his family now. It’s stupid to cry about something he knew all along. It’s stupid to cry over people that he knew never cared for him.

“Your brother looks like Eddie.” Nancy suddenly speaks, making him look at her as well as you and Eddie. The metalhead tilts his head as he grabs Nancy’s picture and– 

“Ha, ha, very funny.” Sure, it was a picture of you four in the grand canyon, but it was your dad’s birthday, and your dad has a fear of pigs. Your brother had the greatest idea to put a pig's head over his head for the picture, and your dad was simply screaming bloody murder while you and your mom laughed.

“I mean, my brother doesn’t play that game you do, but he is a fan of star wars, and he read a lot of books! He liked one called The Hobbit?” Nancy and Steve groaned loudly at your words, which made you confused for just a few seconds and then you realized your mistake when Eddie was talking your ear off about why your brother was so cool, and the reason for that was because the plot for the hobbit was incredible.

And he explained it bit by bit and you didn’t know how to escape him. He was still talking about it like a kid on christmas as Nancy and Steve started washing the dishes, and you wanted to hit yourself for your big mouth. In all fairness, you didn’t know Eddie was gonna get as excited as he did.

“Anyways, what matters is, your brother is cool, so is Dustin and the other teens and Steve sucks.” At the sudden insult, Steve turns around with his hands covered in soap.

“What?” Eddie opened his mouth to probably repeat his words, only for Steve to shake his hands on his face, making the soap fly all around as well as water, and getting into Eddie’s mouth.

“GOD–” He screeched loudly as he got up from the table, rushing towards the sink to try to wash his tongue with the water while Nancy screamed at him to not waste it. Steve was smirking and all you could do was just stare at him. He was being playful. He was being more than the grumpy self he claimed to be with you. You started laughing loudly when Eddie insulted Steve with his tongue out, trying to not taste the soap anymore.

Steve shrugged as he wiped his hands away, turning to look at you doubling over in laughter and it made him feel less guilty for his actions of before. You weren’t immature. Your world was just always filled with love and affirmations, and you just wanted people to feel the same exact way you felt. It was a lost cause for him, but he felt good for making you laugh like this. It’s been a while since he made someone laugh.

It’s a good sound.

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry

[sweet-hedonist]

Lessons in Restraint

Viktor x fem! reader

After losing a bet to your partner, you end up having to deal with the consequences of your actions, no matter how much you beg.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dom/sub dynamics, bondage

A/N: wrote this in a fugue state at 4am and finished it on public transit, I’m a god of creation lol. Not proofread at all but I like it. This is so horny and debauched have fun. Reblogs and comments make my day (I read every single one)

“You know, it’s incredibly satisfying to see you like this after talking such a big game.” His voice is lilting and thick and like a haunting melody that weaves its way into your brain and doesn’t leave, no matter how hard you try to expel it.

The smirk is audible and as you stare up at this man from your place on the floor, rage bubbles deep within you, flavoring the already cultivated desire that has been driving your instincts.

A bet. A stupid, idiotic, ridiculous bet was all it took to end up here: naked, bound, and kneeling before Viktor as if he were your king.

The bet had been simple.

“You have no self control.” He’d mocked you one late night in the lab as you lay draped over him on the small beat to hell couch they’d brought in for you. Basking in the post-sex glow, you laughed airily, your mind still a bit foggy and blissed out.

“Neither do you. Can you blame me? I’m a girl who knows what she wants.” You punctuated your statement by snuggling further into him.

A chuckle, then “Patience is a virtue. God you’re probably not even able to last a week without needing me.” His hands tracing lazy patterns on your back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Is that a challenge?” Your eyes narrowed at him from your place on his chest.

“Perhaps.”

He’d been right of course. You didn’t last a week without needing him, folding just on the morning of day 6, practically begging him to fuck you, touch you, anything at all.

The smirk that split his face was so vile and hypnotizing that you couldn’t take your eyes off of it. Of course, he obliged and fucked you so good you couldn’t walk for a day.

“You need lessons in restraint, humility. And seeing as you lost the bet…”

Which led you to right now.

Two in the morning.

Completely alone in his lab.

At his mercy.

The soft rope around your wrists and ankles caresses your skin, knots only tightening as you squirm. Wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and just for an added kick in the mouth, wrist to ankle. Knees spread and back arched as Viktor sat in his desk chair, which from this angle looked much more like a throne on which an emperor sat.

Alas, it would not be the benevolent kind.

“What, no witty comeback or retort for me? Are you all out of fight? Or are you just learning to mind your tongue?” he leans forward, forehead almost touching yours but not quite. He hasn’t touched you in over an hour. Just lingering stares or fabric or even the occasional breath of air. Nothing else.

“Or…” he leans close to yours ear, “you’re just being quiet to avoid the shame?” White hot fear washes over you. It’s so hot it’s freezing and you want to simultaneously worm away from the sensation and also surrender to it.

“Pity. This is a lesson in humility. Obedience. Discipline. Trust.” His voice softens at the last word and there’s a brief moment where his gaze shifts, full of adoration and love and awe. It doesn’t last long though; enough for you to smile back, and give a quick confirmation that ‘yes you’re ok and want to keep going’.

“Well? Nothing at all?” He sits back up, towering over you and you cannot help but avert your gaze underneath his stare. It pins you to the wall like a pretty butterfly in a shadowbox.

“Unh-unh…” he tuts disapprovingly and it’s all the warning before the end up his cane is tipping your chin back up, allowing you to properly look at him.

“None of that. So rude, absolutely no manners. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He stares down the length of his cane at you, eyes molten and burning as he speaks.

“I…” but there’s nothing you can really say for yourself now. He’s right. As he usually is. You are ashamed.

“No? Not a thing in that pretty little head of yours is there?” He removes his cane from your chin and lets it fall to the floor, hands folding on his lap as he ponders what to do with you.

Eyes rove over your twitching body, no doubt a puddle of wetness below you dripping from your aching core. It’s pathetic and humiliating and some sick fucked up part of you relishes in it. He knows it too, head tilting as he looks down.

“Oh, poor thing. You’re just drenched aren’t you?” the mockery in his voice stirs a frustrated whimper out of you, pulls it from your chest like one would pull a hook from the stomach of fish who’d swallowed it. Bloody and violent and unable to do a damn thing about it.

“Such a pretty sound.” It’s not to you, just musing to himself. You whine again, roll your hips as you stare up at him, hoping he’ll take pity on you. Touch you.

“Viktor…you’re being cruel…” your voice is fucked out and ragged, despite the lack of stimulation. He’s brought you this close with barely anything but his voice and a few lengths of rope. A feat, really. He’ll brag about it for the rest of your life.

“Am I? Or are you just not prepared to accept that your actions have consequences?”

“I just wanna touch you…” you crane your neck up at him, staying rooted to your spot but reaching. He is a planet and you a mere comet pulled into his gravitational field, circling.

He thinks for a moment, you can see the gears working in his head.

“You want to cum?” No one, nor any amount of liquor could get you to admit how earnestly you nodded your head at his words, how desperately. With a quick move you weren’t expecting, he bends forward in his seat and wraps a pale hand around your throat. The sensation is near overwhelming as he hasn’t touched you in an hour, fingers now digging into the delicate column holding up your head.

“I think…” he tilts your head this way and that, ever the scientist, taking in every observation, every bead of sweat, every tremble, “…I have a compromise that will suffice.”

With a bit of a gentler hand, he pulls you forwards by your neck, his own rolling chair moving to meet you as you shuffle forward. He pulls you closer, closer, until his knee is flush with your sternum, and you’re situated directly over his shoe.

Fear washes over you, curls its fingers into your hair, your spine, your stomach.

“You want to cum so bad?” He jerks up his foot at the end of his sentence, bumping it against your clit in a way that has you nearly doubling over and letting out a strangled yelp.

“Go ahead, sweet thing.” Your neck is still in his grip, so you know he can feel the way your pulse races forward like an engine.

“B-but-“ a protest forms in your mouth but it’s squeezed out of you as his hand tightens.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not making the decisions around here. And that wasn’t a request. Do it.” His tone is icy and piercing and it scares you in a way that urges you forward, letting the humiliation continue to worm its way into your synapses.

He lets go, a little roughly, and straightens his back, looking down at you as if you were an amusing pet.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shut your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, pushing it out rather forcefully.

The first roll of your hips is torturous. It’s friction you haven’t had in hours, so sensitive and swollen that the leather and lace send fireworks through you.

But it’s something, and you’ve been so patient, so agonizingly horny that you’ll take anything. And he knows that.

And the motherfucker is laughing.

“Oh…wow…I didn’t think you’d actually do it. Just so eager to please and be pleased aren’t you?” A deceptively gentle hand caresses your cheek and you lean into it instinctively, the sweetness juxtaposed to his cruel treatment making your head spin a bit.

“What base creatures we humans are. Willing to throw pride and dignity aside all for a biological need to fuck each other like rabbits. All for the pleasure of climax. Slaves to our hormones; all the blood being sent to your swollen cunt, none left for your brain.” The last bit is a coo, a mocking pity that weighs heavy on your sensation addled mind. His hand on your cheek is a cool balm on your feverish skin, tracing your cheekbone in reverence as the words he spits tear at you.

You move faster, chasing the high that is slowly but surely building in the lowest part of your stomach. It’s a dull burn that exponentially increases in intensity and heat. Every word he says is a stoke to the catching blaze.

A low rumble of appreciation stirs from Viktor’s chest, and the pride that swells in you as you look up at his appraising gaze pushes much of the embarrassment aside. The joy of approval, the delicious praise that a mere look can bestow; you need it like you’ve never needed anything before.

“Oh you are splendid, sweet thing. Such a good girl, so eager to please.” His hand drifts to your open mouth, fingers dancing along the pad of your lip. With no other instruction, you lean forward and take two of his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digits in such a lewd manner that the workers of the brothels would blush.

There’s a small intake of breath from your Viktor, a brief slip of composure as he stares at you in awe. His eyes sparkle with want and need and adoration.

“You…are perfect, so wonderful for me.” His other hand cradles your head as his fingers push in deeper, pressing down on your tongue slightly. You double your efforts at his sweet words, spurred on with renewed vigor. For me. Yes. For him, always for him, his, his, his, his.

“Oh you liked that did you? You like when I tell you how good you’re doing for me? How beautiful you look there on your knees, fingers in your mouth, truly you put fine art to shame. You were made for this, perfect, so perfect.” He muses, and the heat in your core grows hotter with every breath he takes to speak. Your poor hips are stuttering, so desperately close to cumming all over his pristine leather shoes. Moans spill forth around his fingers as you lose your grip on sanity, oh but what a sweet descent into madness it is.

“Go on. Go on darling, cum. That’s it, make a mess of yourself, that’s it, good girl, oh…” he marvels at you as you contract into him, the force of your orgasm pulling a strangled scream from your lungs. It’s wave after wave of white hot ecstasy, and your hips undulate a few more times as you ride it out, milking it for every last drop. His hand retracts from your mouth and he holds you, cupping your face in his hands.

“Wonderful darling, you did wonderful, absolutely perfect. So good, so good for me.” Fingers card through your hair, hands guiding your head to rest on his knee. You’re grateful for the support, it’s getting awful hard to keep your head up. The thigh of his good leg is sturdy and strong from baring the brunt of his weight. It’s grounding beneath you.

Slowly but surely, your breathing evens out, his hands petting your hair reverentially, holding you as you come down from your high. You stay like that for a while, until your knees start to hurt and your wrists ache, causing you to whimper at the newly forming pain.

“Are you alright lásko? Can I move you?” He whispers, hands never stopping his movements. You nod against his leg, weak but sure.

“M’good. Just go slow.” Your voice is hoarse and crackly from exhaustion. He bends down, kisses your head, and picks it up off of his thigh. With a twist, he adjust his chair so it’s a bit lower to the ground, closer to you. He reaches around, kissing your shoulder as he does so, and unties the ropes around your wrists and ankles. They fall away, and your arms instinctively reach for him.

“Soon, miláčku. Can you stand?”

“Mhm.” He grips your hands, helping you to your feet, and you’re alright for the most part, just a bit shaky. Viktor reaches for his cane, stands, and leads you by the hand to the couch in the corner of the lab. The leather is cool against your skin as he situates you in the cushions.

“I’ll be right back, just getting you water. Wrap the blanket around you alright?” You nod, his voice your tether to reality. In mere moments he’s back with water in hand, and not long after he’s sitting next to you, pressing you into his good side, arm an anchor over your shoulders. You curl instinctively into him, clutching the blanket around yourself.

“Are you sure you’re ok, sweet thing?”

“I’m sure Viktor.” Your voice has returned to you, as has most of your facilities. The weight of Viktor against you helps immensely.

“Wow.”

“Wow indeed.” He knocks his head against yours, and you laugh, snuggling further into him.

“I can’t say I didn’t know you had it in you, because you’re the most in control person I’ve ever met, but holy shit Vik.” The smell of his cologne and shampoo washes over you as you nestle closer into his neck, so ineffably him.

His cheek is pressed to the top of your head as he says , “I hope that is a positive ‘holy shit’.”

“Oh certainly.” You sit up slightly to look him in the eyes, “Vik. That was amazing. I…you were fantastic. It was everything I could’ve wanted.” A dopey smile spreads across your face and you can see the blush forming on his cheeks, the pride swelling in his chest.

“Thank you for trusting me with you.”

“Vik I trust you with my life.” You kiss his cheek, and he chuckles, a pretty sound that you wish you’d hear more often. But as the months go by, it’s starting to become a bit more familiar.

“And I trust you with mine.”

“Yeah but I just use that leverage to get you to bed at night so you don’t die of sleep deprivation.” He snorts as he pulls you in closer to him.

“Isn’t it common practice for someone in your position to nap after a scene?”

You laugh, but acquiesce and snuggle into him further, “you’re just deflecting, one day I’ll fix your sleep schedule.” But your eyes are already closing and his hands are playing with your hair.

“Sure, lásko. Sleep well. I love you.”

You smile, though you’re already halfway to sleep, “love you too.”

[reikoinoue]

notes: caleb is 25 while reader is 23.

the first time you saw your big brother step brother donning his fleetspace colonel uniform, you felt a strange sensation running down your spine.

caleb had come home for the holidays, giving your mother a hug as your father stood proudly beside her, his hand clasps heartily down against caleb’s broad shoulders. your parents step off to the side, allowing his vivid gaze to meet with your shy expression.

“hey pipsqueak, i’m back. why don’t you come here and give your big brother a hug?”

you give him an innocent grin, running straight into his arms when he picks you up and crushes you to his chest, spinning you around the foyer while sneaking in a kiss against the top of your hair. you felt your cheeks heat up at the sudden sensation, knowing that your parents knew nothing of the true meaning behind his kiss.

all too eager to celebrate your brother’s momentary return, your parents head off into the kitchen to prepare dinner. always being none the wiser (turning a blind eye each time caleb pulls you achingly closer to him), your parents busy themselves in the kitchen while caleb practically carries you in his arms, rushing up the stairs to his old bedroom while holding his luggage at the same time.

your heart begins to race with anticipation, wrapping your arms around caleb’s neck when he brings you back into his bedroom. setting off the luggage to the side, he gently closes the door while breathing in the lingering scent in his room. “you’ve been sleeping in here when i was away.”

you wrap your legs around his waist, appearing a little too innocent when you jut your lips out in a pout. “i’ve missed you so much, big brother. sometimes, i dream of you while putting on your shirt…”

caleb’s breathing hitches in response to your confession, thumb tracing at your bottom lip when he asks, “tell your big brother what else you’ve done in his room.”

you shift uncomfortably in his embrace, “your scent still lingers here… a-and sometimes, i like to get in your bed and r-rub myself on your pillows.”

a low groan escapes from his lips, eyes darkening with lust when he tosses you on the bed. “is that why i can smell your scent lingering in the air?” he thrusts his thumb into your mouth, “you’ve been rubbing your puffy clit against my pillows?”

you let out a whimper, hands going between your legs when you saw his erection forming a tent in the front of his uniform. “y-yes, and now… i want to rub myself against your cock… you look so good right now, gege. so so so good.”

letting out a grunt of your name, caleb quickly unclasps his belt, pulling down the zipper of his pants along with his boxers, revealing his half erect cock to you. “we don’t have much time. use your mouth to stroke me to full hardness. do the same to me as you did with my pillows, brat.”

you got on your knees immediately, wanting nothing more than to please your big brother as you gently removed his cock from the confines of his boxers. you place his length within your hot and awaiting mouth, using your hands to stroke whatever couldn’t fit as you felt his dick lengthen within the palm of your hands. caleb bites down on his bottom lip to help with silencing his groans, only pulling your mouth and hands away from him when he was certain he was hard enough.

pressing your body on top of his mattress, caleb pulls down your shorts while shoving your panties to the side, guiding his cock within your slick folds before sheathing himself in one, swift motion. he begins to pound harshly in and out of you, the sounds of the bed creaking in tune to his rapid thrusts makes you arch your back in response.

just as your moans threaten to echo throughout the house, caleb covers your mouth with the large palm of his hand, stroking his cock in and out of your slick as the squelching sounds were heard throughout the room.

the sound of both of your names being called by your mother makes you unexpectedly clench around him, causing caleb’s hips to stutter briefly when you heard her gentle knocks against his door. “dinner will be ready in ten minutes, so get changed and come down when you’re ready, caleb.”

“hn, you got it mom.” your eyes were close to rolling to the back of your head, the thought of your mom almost catching you and caleb in the act made the pleasure you felt increase by a tenfold. the way your arousal seemed to flood around caleb’s cock did not go unnoticed by him, with his darkened gaze looking down at the spot where you were connected to him, “look at you, you’re practically frothing around my dick.”

he licks his lips while spreading your legs wide open for him, “did the thought of mom catching us excite you?”

you whimper, feeling your walls clench one last time as it brought both you and caleb over the edge. with one final thrust, caleb stills his hips, allowing your respective climax to rush through your veins as caleb desperately swallows your moans with another searing kiss.

while his cock was felt pumping the rest of his cum (painting your walls white with his seed), you hear your parents calling you down for dinner. while you were left feeling like putty, caleb immediately pulls out his softening cock from your heat, making you whimper at the sudden loss of him. he readjusts his uniform while fixing his hair as well.

“c’mon, baby, we gotta join mom and dad for dinner.” he hurriedly fixed your ruined panties while pulling up your shorts, opening the door while guiding you back down the stairs before setting your trembling form on the dining table.

and as caleb served you a plate of food, you found that you had a different appetite when you felt the evidence of his seed running down the inside of your thighs.

a.n. - three posts in one night because i’m feeling risqué

(⺣◡⺣)♡

all stories are written by reiko; no plagiarizing, reposts, or translations are allowed.

[justasimpleton-26]

Hmmm, I'd like to try my hand at this!

Idiot, Idiot, Idiot. Jason thinks to himself. At least he thinks he does, because Dick pinches his arm and shakes his head.

Jason makes sure not to stare too long at Dick because then the toxin he accidentally inhaled will make Dick look like a melted-face puddle and Jason is pretty sure it's bad enough he has to deal with the giggling maniacs of the Joker.

The Joker, who stands in that corner, and watches Jason like a hawk.

Jason wants to leave. Twice or three times he's tried to escape the Batcave, but either Damian finds him (the scared 14 year old who tries to play it off), Tim does (the 19 year old who's jittery from nerves or coffee), or Dick does, the ever patient 25 year old who seems to be the only one that can touch Jason, without Jason screaming in hysterics.

"How much longer?" Damian asks. Or maybe it's Bruce.

Jason can't focus on one of them too long without their faces turning into twisted, Joker versions of themselves.

"Wow, little bird. They seem to really care for you...now." Joker says, as he taps the back of Jason’s head with...not a crowbar, it's too soft. Maybe his cane. "But I didn't see them when I invited you over to play."

"Stop...just...stop." Jason says, his voice hoarse. Was he screaming? When was he screaming?

Jason sits on the couch, curled up into himself. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous, whatever it takes to not have the Joker focused on him, Jason will do it.

"Now, boy wonder...wanna hear a joke?" Joker asks, his voice right next to Jason’s ear.

"Lay it on me." Jason replies, weary. He doesn't understand how though the Lazarus pit healed him...he can still feel the pain on his body.

"Lay what on you?" Bruce asks, his voice even.

"That was rude, Bats. Birdie, tell the Bat to be nice or you'll be the one filled with strife." Joker said, tapping Jason’s shoulder. This time, it was the crowbar.

Jason, with tired reluctance, relays the demand.

Jason doesn't bother to look up if Bruce listened or not. His gaze sticks to the floor, that was supposed to be cement but for some reason is nothing but wriggling maggots.

"Like a coffin." Jason whispered to himself, and that makes Joker laugh.

"Hey birdie, you ever seen the living Deadman? No? You should, you own a mirror!" Joker laughed maniacally, Jason letting out a weak chuckle.

Okay, that one was pretty funny.

"What was the joke?" Dick asked, and Jason spares a glance at his older brother. Dick's face remains the same for a bit and Jason takes in a shaky breath.

"Tell them the joke, Jason. I'm sure they're DYING for a laugh as well." Joker orders, and Jason forces his gaze up, looking over at all of them with a forced calm.

"Joker asked me if I've seen the living Deadman. When I said no, he replied with I should have, I own a mirror." And Jason laughs, laughs so hard, it hurts his stomach and he's near tears.

"That's dark, Jay." Tim says, and Jason wipes his eyes.

"Oh, Timbers. I gotta laugh at his jokes. Or else he'll throw a tantrum and that crowbar will be wedged between my skull." Jason explains, Joker slapping Jay on the back.

"Just trying to turn you into the headless horseman." And again Joker laughs, and again Jason laughs, holding on to his stomach as a pain makes him gasp for air.

Someone steadies him, Jason trying to pull free. But goddamn, if his stomach doesn't hurt like a bitch.

"Get the bucket! Get it now!" Someone shouts, shoving a metal gray bucket under Jason’s face.

Jason vomits his lungs out, the acrid taste in the back of his throat forcing him to spew out even more. He's broken out in a sweat, staring at the Joker who's laughing at Jason’s pain, all the time, EVERY TIME.

When he's done, he feels lightheaded and so tired, leaning back on the couch. A cold rag covered his forehead and eyes, his breathing shallow and fast.

There's a prick on his arm and he passes out.

There's a pounding in the back of his eyes when he wakes up. Jason is back in his room and his body feels so heavy.

"Holy...crap." Jason says, trying to sit up.

"Take it easy, son." Bruce says, Jason moving his head to stare at him.

Bruce looks tired...haggard. And it looks like he's been sitting on that chair all night.

"Dad?" Jason croaks out, his mouth dry and his tongue heavy.

"I'm here Jason. I'm here." Bruce replied, patting Jason on the knee.

As Bruce comes into focus, others move. Dick stands next to Bruce, followed by Tim then Damian.

Damian actually looks like he's been crying. This alarms Jason. Very rare has he seen the teen cry.

"Who died?" Jason asks, and Damian shakes his head, Dick putting a hand on Jason’s shoulder.

"No one. No one at all." Dick assures.

Jason’s not sure why they're being affectionate or what happened yesterday.

But he decides to accept it.

Nothing wrong with a bit of affection from them.

I awfully need a fic, where Jason gets drugged by a big dose of fear toxin and starts seeing Joker's hallucination around — kind of like Bruce in Arkham Knight game, you know — and everyone is just... confused what to do with all of it?

They can't really produce antidote because it would fuck up his mind more, so he is stuck in the cave for the next 24 hours, and no one is leaving, because they can't allow Jason to go through this alone. Again.

Jason tries to put a brave face of course (god, he is THE Red Hood, one of the most influential people in the Gotham, he can't be afraid of a stupid clown–) but the more hours pass, the less he can control his fear or anxiety. Instead of pacing around like a ghost — he did that in the first four hours — he sits down on the couch, hugs himself, and starts answering to Joker?

Yeah, he knows he is not real. He understands that feeding hallucination with conversations will not help — and Dick, the ultimate expert in handling hallucinations, really, gave him some tips on what to do — but he can't just ignore it now.

He is too scared.

He remembers what comes if he flips off Joker or stops playing by his rules, alright?

"Knock, knock!"

Joker's face is as pale and terrifying as Jason remembers it to be. And maybe it is hallucination, but he still can feel his panted, hot breath on his ear.

He is alone, of course. Or not entirely alone, but others would notice if Joker was really here, right?

"Who is this?" He whispers, sensing his family tensing a little, not being sure what to expect.

Jason either argues with his hallucination or asks to stop. Or maybe just wordlessly scraps on his temples or cheek, in the place the J scar used to be, before the Lazarus Pit erased it from his body completely, leaving no traces.

"The stray dog that can't bark! Do you know why it can not bark, Jayjay?"

"I don't fucking know," he murmurs, but the fiericness with which he screamed at this man for hours now is gone; he sounds tired even to his own ears, and it is embarrassing. "Tell me."

"Because I broke its bones with a crowbar, silly!~" Joker shakes his shoulders, and Jason can practically feel the familiar ache of shattered bones. "It– Ahahah, it is too hurt to bark! It can only whine!"

Jason laughs.

His facial expression doesn't really change — he is still frowning a little — but he laughs with a painful wheeze. Joker is pleased enough to sigh dreamily in his ear.

Good job, Jason.

"What so funny?" Dick asks carefully, a patient smile on his face — he has been trying to distract him with conversations the most; Bruce prefers to keep his silence, and Tim thinks accidental physical touches help more than talking.

"He just said a joke," Jason shrugs weakily.

"Tell it to them," Joker orders. "Let us all laugh."

He doesn't really want to. But he can't disobey. He can't allow himself to die again, and–

"Knock, knock," he clears up his throat.

"Who is this?" Tim echoes, turning his chair to him, smart eyes scanning him up and down.

"The stray dog that can't bark," Jason tugs the tips of his own hair. "Do you know why it can not bark?"

Bruce tenses in his chair. He tenses in a way, Jason thinks, he already knows this joke; he has already heard it before. He almost looks as if he wants to stop him, cut mid-sentence.

But for some reason, he doesn't.

"Uh, why?" Dick tilts his head.

"Because my– its bones are broken," Jason stutters. "You know, dogs can't really bark when they are hurt? Just whine."

He can't bring himself to laugh again, even though Joker keeps giggling over and over.

"That's not funny, Jay," Tim murmurs.

"Yeah. I guess it isn't. But if I don't laugh, he'll get the crowbar again, and I really, really want to keep barking," Jason smiles.

He tries to ignore pitful glances of his family members, and the torture continues. No one breaks his bones this time, but Jason still whines when Bruce hugs him by the end of the night, pressing to his chest.

Joker is not here anymore, but Jason still can hear his taunting whisper, somewhere in the back of his head.

You will die his son.

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

BIGGER THAN THE WHOLE SKY

drew starkey x fem!reader

SUMMARY: while filming an emotional scene, y/n receives devastating news about her mum, leading to a heartbreaking breakdown on set as her boyfriend drew and their co-stars comfort her.

based on this ask !! thank you @xoxosblogsblog for another amazing request, a very emotional one to write as i’ve lost a parent, but it was therapeutic to write <3

(check out my other drew starkey & rafe cameron works here !!)

WARNINGS: death of a parent, crying, panic attack, descriptions of dissociating, grief, the cast being adorable :’), very angsty but a comforting ending !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2k

THIRD PERSON +

Y/N sat in her trailer, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror.

The makeup artists had just left, the remnants of their work leaving her looking polished, camera-ready. Her character was meant to be grieving in today’s scene, but they had only given her a touch of concealer, a dusting of powder to dull the shine of the lights, and a hint of smudged mascara to make it look like she had been crying.

She was supposed to pretend to be devastated.

The irony was almost cruel.

Her phone vibrated against the counter. She glanced down at the screen, expecting to see a message from Drew, maybe a reminder from the assistant director to head to set soon. Instead, her father’s name flashed across the screen.

Her stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like him to call during the day. He knew she was working, knew she was filming one of the biggest scenes of the season. A sudden chill crept up her spine, a visceral knowing before she even answered.

With slightly trembling fingers, she swiped to accept the call.

“Dad?” she answered, her voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her.

There was silence for a beat too long.

Her father was a strong man, always composed, always measured in his words. But when he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of all its usual warmth.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, and in just that one word, she felt her world tilt on its axis.

She sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

Another pause. Then a sharp inhale, like he was bracing himself.

“It’s your mum,” he said, and the way his voice wavered sent ice coursing through her veins.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the phone. “What about her?”

His breath hitched, and then—

“She’s gone, love.”

The words didn’t compute. They didn’t make sense, didn’t fit into any conceivable reality she had prepared herself for.

“What?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“She passed away this morning.”

Her father’s voice was thick, like he was struggling to hold himself together. But she barely heard him now. The words looped in her mind, repeating over and over, yet still, she couldn’t understand them.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

That wasn’t possible. She had just spoken to her mum a few days ago. She had promised to visit after the season wrapped. She had plans with her, had texts left unanswered, had so many things left unsaid.

A strange ringing noise filled her ears, drowning out whatever else her father was saying. She felt the weight of her own body disappear, like she was floating outside of herself, detached and weightless.

Her vision blurred.

The room around her suddenly felt too small, too quiet. The air too thick.

“… I know you’re at work,” her father was saying, his voice distant, “and I don’t want to take you away from that. There’s nothing you can do right now, sweetheart. I’ll handle everything here. Just—just get through today, yeah? Then we’ll figure everything out.”

Get through today.

That was the only option, wasn’t it?

She would have to book flights, pack a bag, make arrangements—but none of that could happen now. If she left set immediately, what would she do? Sit in a hotel near the airport, trapped with nothing but her grief?

At least here, she had something to do.

At least here, she could pretend for a little longer.

She swallowed, her throat raw. “Okay.”

Her father hesitated. “Y/N—”

“I have to go,” she interrupted, her voice eerily calm.

“Sweetheart, wait—”

But she ended the call.

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing on the counter with a dull clack.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

She stared at the mirror, at the girl looking back at her—the girl who, ten minutes ago, had been fine. Normal. Whole.

Now, she felt like a cracked porcelain doll, barely held together, each fissure running deeper and deeper beneath the surface.

Her face remained passive, her lips slightly parted, her expression unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes gave her away.

She wasn’t there anymore.

She was somewhere else, floating through the spaces between reality and nothingness.

Her body felt heavy, yet she was untethered.

Her fingers curled against her lap, gripping onto the fabric of her costume as if that alone could keep her from slipping away entirely.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Because if it was—

A soft knock at the door made her flinch.

“Five minutes to set!” called a PA from outside.

She blinked.

Five minutes.

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

She forced herself to move, to pick up her phone, to smooth down her clothes. She had a job to do.

She pushed everything else aside, packed it into a box, sealed it tight.

She would grieve later.

For now, she would pretend.

She opened the door and stepped onto set, not realising that in just a few short minutes, the cracks in her facade would shatter completely.

—

The set of Outer Banks was alive with the usual buzz of controlled chaos—crew members adjusting lights, directors conferring in hushed tones, the distant hum of the ocean blending into the background. It was supposed to be just another day of filming, another scene to capture before moving on to the next.

It was a heavy one.

Her character had just lost her father. The Pogues were there, trying to comfort her, trying to remind her she wasn’t alone. Even Rafe—played by Drew—stood nearby, a complicated mix of emotions brewing in his expression. The cameras were rolling, capturing everything.

Y/N tried to focus, tried to remember her lines, but something inside her cracked wide open.

She felt the grief swell like a rising tide, swallowing her whole. It was too big, too raw, too real.

When she started crying, no one questioned it. She was an incredible actress—everyone knew that. The scene demanded tears, demanded heartbreak. But as her sobs grew heavier, more uncontrollable, the air on set shifted.

Rudy shot a glance towards Chase, brows furrowed. Madelyn, kneeling beside Y/N in the scene, squeezed her hand, her own eyes glassy with concern. Drew, standing just out of frame, felt his pulse quicken.

Something wasn’t right.

The way Y/N clutched at her chest, the way her breathing hitched, sharp and ragged—it wasn’t just acting anymore.

Still, the cameras kept rolling.

Adrenaline surged through Drew’s veins. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his instincts screaming at him to cut through the scene, to pull her out of whatever was happening. But he hesitated. Y/N was a professional. If this was her choice, if she was using real emotions to fuel the performance, he had to respect that.

Then she collapsed to her knees.

The sob that tore from her throat wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t crafted for the scene. It was pain—real, unfiltered pain.

That was when the director finally called, “Cut!”

But Y/N didn’t stop.

She was still sobbing, her body trembling, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. The cast and crew hesitated, frozen in the moment, unsure whether they should intervene.

Drew didn’t hesitate.

He was by her side in an instant, dropping to his knees, hands grasping her shoulders. “Hey, hey—Y/N, breathe. You’re okay.”

She wasn’t okay.

Her body was shaking so violently that she could barely hold herself upright. Tears streamed down her face, her expression twisted in anguish.

“Y/N,” Madelyn whispered, stroking her back. “What’s going on?”

“Someone get her water,” Chase called, already stepping forward.

Drew cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “Love, talk to me.”

But she couldn’t.

The world around her blurred at the edges, the voices of her friends distant, muffled. She felt like she was floating—adrift in a sea of grief, unable to grasp onto anything solid.

“Come on, baby,” Drew pleaded, his own voice shaking now. “You’re scaring me.”

Y/N gasped for air, her chest constricting so tightly it hurt. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.

Madelyn was rubbing soothing circles into her back, whispering soft reassurances, while Rudy and Jonathan exchanged worried glances. The crew had fallen into an uneasy silence, watching the scene unfold.

Finally, through the sobs, through the suffocating grief, Y/N forced out the words that shattered the air around them.

“My mum… she’s gone.”

Drew’s heart stopped.

The words didn’t register at first. He blinked at her, his grip tightening instinctively.

“What?” he breathed.

Y/N choked on another sob, pressing her hands to her face as if she could somehow block it all out.

“My dad called me before we filmed,” she whimpered. “She—she died. I—I didn’t know what to do—I thought I could just—” She gasped, shaking her head frantically. “I thought I could just get through the day, but—”

Drew didn’t let her finish.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse them together. She collapsed into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt with desperate hands.

The rest of the cast looked on, their own eyes brimming with emotion. Madelyn covered her mouth with her hands, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Jesus, Y/N…” Chase muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I—” Her voice broke again. “I couldn’t.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Drew murmured against her hair. His own eyes were wet now, his throat thick with emotion. “We’re here. I’m here.”

She let out a broken whimper, gripping him tighter.

Madelyn sat beside them, wrapping her arms around Y/N from behind. Rudy joined a moment later, then Jonathan, then Chase. A pile of bodies, all holding onto her, surrounding her with warmth, with love.

The weight of Y/N’s revelation hung heavy in the air, casting a sombre pall over the once-bustling set. The cast remained huddled around her, their collective warmth a fragile barrier against the encroaching chill of grief.

Drew held her as if anchoring her to the present, his fingers gently threading through her hair. “We’re here, love,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. ��You’re not alone.”

Madelyn, her own tears silently falling, whispered soothing words, her hand never leaving Y/N’s back. “It’s okay to let it out. We’re with you.”

Chase knelt beside them, his usual playful demeanour replaced with earnest concern. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We’re family.”

Rudy and Jonathan exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting a shared resolve. “We’ll get through this together,” Jonathan said softly, his voice steady.

As Y/N’s sobs gradually subsided into quiet tremors, the director approached, his expression a mix of compassion and uncertainty. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked gently.

Drew looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but determined. “I think she needs some time. We… we need to get her home.”

The director nodded, understanding the unspoken request. “Of course. We’ll arrange for flights immediately. The production will cover all expenses.”

Y/N lifted her head, her eyes swollen and glassy. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” Madelyn insisted, squeezing her hand. “You’re family.”

The crew moved with quiet efficiency, making the necessary arrangements. Within the hour, flights were booked for Y/N and Drew to return to her hometown. The cast remained by her side, offering silent support as she navigated the haze of shock and sorrow.

As they prepared to leave, Y/N turned to her friends, her voice trembling. “Thank you… all of you.”

Chase stepped forward, enveloping her in a gentle embrace. “We’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.”

Rudy nodded, his eyes earnest. “Take all the time you need.”

Jonathan offered a reassuring smile. “We’ll keep things running smoothly here.”

Madelyn hugged her tightly, her voice breaking. “We love you.”

Drew took Y/N’s hand, their fingers intertwining. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.

As they departed, the set remained in a hushed stillness, a testament to the profound impact of shared grief and the strength of chosen family.

The grief wouldn’t disappear. The pain wouldn’t lessen. But in that moment, she wasn’t alone.

And for now, that was enough.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was a every emotional one, but i hope you all enjoy it !! my requests are still open until i go away on wednesday so please send some in :)

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[liahaslosthermind]

𝑬𝒍𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒏

Summary: The 4 times the Night Court’s Shadowsinger mentioned… someone, and the first time his family got the promise of an answer. 

Content: Angst, with the promise of future fluff

Warnings: Angst, I like making Azriel sad sorry, I also take the ‘mate talk’ in the Azriel/Nesta/Bryce bonus chapter and rewrite it to fit this story. I also haven’t read CC yet so apologies if Bryce is OOC Azriel x OC [not introduced in this part]

*Slight spoilers for the Azriel/Nesta/Bryce bonus chapter

Bryce turned to the fae female next to her, “You have a mate, don’t you?” Nesta simply nodded in response, a slight smile forming on her face, followed by a deep blush. “Do you?” The red head directed at Azriel.

Nesta’s stomach dropped. She knew it was a sore subject for the Shadowsinger. What with everyone else in his family being mated except for him-

“I do.” He said, a trace of apprehension in his voice. Nesta’s head snapped to face him so quickly that her vision spun for a moment, causing her to stumble.

Regaining her footing, she barked out, “Azriel? What the fuck do you mean?”

The trio stopped walking for a moment, tension settling over the once calm night air. She gave him a demanding, and slightly betrayed, look. Even though his eyes met hers, Azriel kept quiet. Bryce simply looked between the two, face wrinkling in the awkwardness of the moment.

“Ah. A sore subject, I guess?” Bryce laughed, or tried to, it only came out forced and uncomfortable. 

“Who, Az? How come I had no idea? Does anyone know?” There wasn’t anger in her voice, just hurt. 

He had to bite back his usual replies, the ones he gave to his family when they tried to ask questions or bring up the topic without him bringing it up first. Not that he ever did. 

“She’s-” he swallowed. Cauldron, when would he finally be able to talk about her without wishing the world would swallow him whole? “It’s not something I want to discuss right now, especially with present company.” He sent a pointed look at Bryce. He couldn’t hide the misery in his tone this time though as he took a deep breath and continued, “I will tell you about her, Nes. One day. I’d just rather do it on my own terms. On my own time.” Nesta opened her mouth, seconds away from arguing, when he put a hand on her shoulder, “Please.” he begged, softly. 

The glimmer of silver in his eyes caught her off guard, gave her such a knee jerk reaction of protectiveness that she gave him a crushing hug. It was strange, this feeling. Azriel, the broody, closed off, terrifying, annoyingly perceptive, kind, and unbelievably loving friend she never knew she needed had just revealed a part of himself she could tell he kept locked away for good reason. The thought that even the mention of his mate could bring him to tears made her heart break in a way she thought impossible after all she had been through. 

She took a deep breath as she pulled away, “When you’re ready,” she agreed.

He smiled back at her, while it was genuine, one of the few he reserved for his family, there was still insurmountable pain in his eyes. 

Nesta turned back to Bryce, “Can you play more of your music? Just none of that screaming one.” She asked, shaking her head at the memory of the Death Metal genre she hadn’t liked when the redhead had played it for them. 

She smiled softly as she felt Azriel squeeze her hand in a silent Thank you before he let go. 

The High Lord sat, feet propped up on his desk. “When do you head out for Rosehall?” He asked.

Azriel, standing by the window to the right of his brother, answered, “The morning after Solstice.” Rhysand grimaced when he heard the mask of indifference his Spy Master had in his voice. “I still need to pick up a gift before I go.”

Rhys took it for the invitation it was. “Would you buy her something from me? On my account this time.” He tried to put on his commanding-High-Lord voice as he said it, but he knew very well that Azriel wouldn’t listen to the last part of his request even as his brother smiled in agreement as he walked out of the room, sending an inclination of goodbye to his High Lady in the chair across from her mate. 

“Rosehall? What female is he visiting the day after Solstice?” Feyre spoke into her mate’s mind. 

Despite Rhys’ usual inability to keep anything from his mate, he couldn't bring himself to explain, couldn’t bring himself to cross the very clear lines his brother had set all those years ago. 

“It's not my story to tell. And don’t ask someone else, if any of them know, they also won’t talk.” 

Certainly not the answer she had expected, as was evident by the look on Feyre’s face.

“And if I ask Azriel?” she inquired.

“It will just bring up things he isn't ready to share. He will come to you- come to us- some day.” ‘One day’ Azriel had promised his family long ago, long before their family had been as big as it was now. “I just pray it's under better circumstances.” 

Feyre froze, feeling the weight of mixed negative emotions flowing down from her mate’s side of the bond. For once, she was even more confused after asking Rhysand for more information. 

“Well, I believe we’ve reached the threshold of faked amiability before one of us attacks the other. We should quit while we’re ahead.” Eris said as he stood up from his chair, starting to grab his papers without so much as a glance to his reluctant hosts. Even years after their alliance was set in stone with the agreement from the Night Court to back Eris’ claim to his father’s throne, even after fighting beside them in war, these faked niceties could only go on for so long before the claws came out. 

No one in the Night Court’s Inner circle could say there was anything but relief to see the Autumn Court’s High Lord walk away. But before they could let out a breath of relief, Eris stopped and turned to the Shadowsinger. 

“I have received word that your… gift has been finished. I will send someone to get it to you within the week.” 

Azriel’s head quickly snapped to Eris, “And they were able to meet all my requests?” He asked, not caring that everyone else in the room watched the interaction with fierce intrigue. 

The eldest living Vanserra boy scoffed, “I assured you they’d be able to.” Azriel let out a relieved breath at that. While he’d known Eris’ court capable of such a thing, it wasn’t much more difficult than lesser magics, but hearing it confirmed ignited hope he didn’t know he still carried.

“Thank you. She’ll love it.” The Spy Master replied earnestly, much to Eris’, as well as the rest of the Inner Circle’s, shock. 

The red haired fae simply schooled his features and nodded in response before winnowing away. 

Despite the heaviness all the secrets and questions caused, everyone remained silent as they watched Azriel slip out of the room. 

The dining room had been filled with loud chatter for the weekly family dinner. Love filled teasing and relentless jokes put everyone in a good mood. Nothing felt better to the Night Court’s Inner Circle than being all together. Unfortunately, it had to come to an end. 

“I’ll be leaving for a few days.” Azriel told Rhysand, who was sitting to his left at the head of the table. “I’ll be back for Solstice.” He quickly added. 

“I thought you were leaving the day after?” 

“I was, but the package I had been waiting on came, and I’d like to deliver it as soon as possible. I’ll drop your gift off too.” With that, Azriel got up, nodding a quick goodbye to his family, before disappearing into his shadows.

It wasn’t a request to have a few days off. He hadn’t asked if his High Lord could spare not having his Spymaster for a little. He didn’t even wait for any sort of goodbye from the rest of his family. He just left, the house sending his place setting away to be cleaned, as if he had never been there in the first place. 

Once again, everyone had questions, concerns, for their friend. But no one spoke up, as per usual. 

Until the one fae in the room with truly no information in the matter grew concerned enough with everyone’s immediate change in attitudes. 

“Where is he going?” Elain asked, looking between her friends and family. 

She saw on everyone's faces, in their eyes that refused to meet hers, that no one would tell her. Till she sent a look, full of concerned innocence, to Cassian. 

“Rosehall” He blurted out. “Or at least, I assume that's where he is going.” The last part was directed towards his older brother. 

“Where is this Rosehall?” Feyre asked, feeling he invitation Elain’s question had opened into the untouchable subject. 

The High Lady, like her second oldest sister, sent a look to Rhys, knowing he'd break for her under an embarrassingly small amount of pressure. 

“None of us know,” he gave in, “He goes at seemingly random intervals. Sometimes he’s there, often, for months. Then he will go quite a while without any visits.”

“Is it his mate? Is that who he is seeing?” Nesta inquires. 

The word seems to suck all the air out of the room. His mate. Azriel’s mate. Their brother’s mate.

Nesta’s stomach drops at the looks she receives from Cassian and Rhysand. 

They didn’t know. 

As she opens her mouth to speak, she’s cut off by a palm smacking the table.

“Enough! You all know damn well this isn’t what he would want. The only reason you all seem so comfortable talking about it is because he's gone, too preoccupied to leave a shadow behind.” Mor argues. “He has asked one thing of us in the 500 years he has been by our side, to let him- let them- be.”

With that, she winnowed out of the room, leaving a suffocating mix of guilt, confusion, and concern behind. 

Everyone could feel his presence the second he got back to the house. The light and happy Solstice air seemed to vanish in an instant. The shadows suddenly alive and wreathing. 

Rhys and Cassian had gotten up to check on their brother. While he had said he’d be gone till Solstice, they had assumed he would be there the full day to celebrate with everyone. But he had missed celebrations, for both Solstice and Feyre’s birthday, had missed dinner, and had sent no indication that he was even alive. His mental walls had been as fortified as ever, not letting Rhysand nor Feyre in the numerous times they had tried to check in. 

Their walk over to their brother’s room became a run, followed by the rest of the family, as they heard a loud crash. 

The room was dark, but they could make out the faint outline of the broken mirror and Shadowsinger standing in front of it, holding his hand as blood seemed to drip from a wound. In the dark, the sight was unsettling, but in the light, it was far worse. 

Cassian moved quickly, leaving Rhysand and the rest of the Inner Circle by the door in stunned silence. 

“Woah-” Cassian said as he lifted Azriel’s hand, causing his brother to pull back in startled shock. He hadn’t known they were coming. Hadn’t sensed their presence even then they were right in front of him.

“It’s okay, Az. But we need to clean out the wound. Make sure there aren't any shards in-” The general stopped as he looked at the Spymaster, seeing the tears streaming down his usually stone cold face. 

All he could do was help him sit down as Mor, seemingly better equipped to handle the situation, came over to kneel in front of her long time friend. 

“Az?” She took his uninjured hand in hers, her other hand going to his face to wipe away the tears. “Come on, maybe you shoul-”

“She’s gotten worse.” He admitted, his voice noticeably wobbling, “So much worse, Mor.” 

Mor quickly looked at everyone else, seeing the shock, the empathy, and worse of all, the pity. She knew more than the others, not the full story, not even close, but enough to know that their reactions were part of why he kept all of it a secret. He couldn’t handle their emotions on top of his.

By the time she looked back, she saw that Azriel had noticed it too. She could see him shrinking back into himself, trying to hide everything. 

She couldn’t let it happen again. 

“Let me in, Azriel. Don’t pretend, don’t go through 200 more years of this.” She pleaded. Luckily, this seemed to pull him back out. “Let us all in, please?”

“I can’t- I don’t want pity.” He admitted.

Rhysand spoke up this time. “Is that what you think this is? Just pity? Az, come on. We all love you, we want you to be happy. But we don’t want fake happiness. Seeing you like this makes us all upset, because we love you. Please, let us prove it. Let us in.” Rhysand begged. 

Azriel gave them all a onceover, emotion showing so clearly in his face, in his eyes, that no one seemed to be able to breathe. 

He took a deep breath before speaking up, “Tomorrow. I’ll explain- show you all, tomorrow. For now, I’d just like to celebrate Solstice, and your birthday, Feyre, with my family.” 

The air lightened up a little bit at the promise. Tomorrow, they’d all face what Azriel had been dealing with alone for 200 years. But tonight, they would all celebrate Solstice, the return of light and promise of a brighter future, as a family. 

[syluriar]

vunerable - sylus x mc!reader

sypnosis: sylus has never been one to give up control, so you try and help him.

a/n: inspired by @yes-no-maybe-soo i legit just read your sylus hc's today and my brain scrambles to write this because althoug i love sylus bing a sub, you made some excellent points of it being hard for him to give up control because of what he went through in his past life (still haven't recovered, anyone else?).

contains: sylus being scared to give up control and not liking these feelings, mc (you) being so gentle with him. there's a slight mention of attmepted murder from sylus' enemies in the past. sylus crying (of that ever happens in game i swear to god-). angst & comfort.

word count: 1381

you straddle him with your hands resting at his hips, his chest is bare that allows you to see his breathing clearer. he's watching you with those ruby eyes you love so much, but you can see a bit of fear in them, unsurprising at the vulnerable position he's in.

it was your idea to do this, to give him the attention he gives you - the warmth, safety and consent. he knows you would never hurt him, but the image of losing all his control reminds him of his past life, as the dragon who has been beaten and chained for thousands of years. when the past you finally freed him he was determined to take control of his life, to never go back to the scared dragon.

he adores you, and you know that, he would do anything for you...but to give up all control, even if it is just you who takes it away...fear creeps back into him.

you lift a hand and reach up to caress his cheek which he immediately nuzzles into to, and he kisses the palm before releasing a sigh,

"it's only me," your voice is so soft, just louder than a whisper, like it was coaxing an animal out of it's shelter. you lean up and cup his face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. "i'm the only one that's here."

you take one on your hands to gently run through his hair, an action that has him close his eyes to enjoy the feeling, and it makes your heart swell. "we can stop anytime you like, ok?"

a hum comes from his lips as he opens his eyes, and you see that small amount of fear has been replaced by something else.

he hates that you have to him like this, like he's weak, like he's a scared child who needs comforting - he doesn't like that he's showing this side to you, because how can you depend on him if he doesn't stay strong in front of you?

you kiss his forehead and you can feel some of the tension leave his body. a part of you wants to do this fats, you show sylus that yes of course, he can be like this with you, there's no shame and it and you'll always ben there for him , but you need to take it slow. you will show him all these things by listening to him, both words and body. you don't care how long it will take, because it's what he deserves.

you start to leave kisses all over his face, his cheeks, nose, even his chin that makes a small amused huff leave his lips. you're still gentle when you finally place your lips over his own, his hands coming to hold your waist. at any other moment it would be intense, fingers digging into clothing as your tongues fight each other.

but right now it's soft, like a perfect fluffy cushion you relax in. sylus groans at your mouth and you feel good knowing he does too. you see it in his eyes when you pull away, and the slight pink on his cheeks and the tip of his ears.

you giggle. "do you know how cute you look when you blush?"

he sucks in a breath, clearly surprised by your compliment. "cute?" he looks almost amused. "that not a word people associate with me."

"well they don't know you like i do." you give his lips a quick peck to his lips before your hands descend lower to his shoulders, a lot looser than before. "i kinda like it that way."

"and you call me possessive." he chuckles. the air around you two has become easier, the tension slowly fading away.

for some reason your eyes go to his neck, such a strong thing that often aches because of how much he has to look down at you. you move your hands towards his neck, his sharp intake making you freeze.

"oh..." how could you forget a lot of his enemies go for his neck? a common way to end someones life. you felt stupid. "sorry...i was going to massage it. it aches because of how much you have look down on me, doesn't it?"

he doesn't answer you, his eyes cast aside as he continues to breath heavily. your heart aches at the sight and you retract your hands, placing one back on his cheek. "hey, remember, your still in control. stay stop and i will."

his breath shudders and his shoulders tense up once more, his hands now gripping your waist. he sucks through gritted teeth and turns his head away, as if he was ashamed of himself. 

your heart sings with distress at the sight and you want to feel anger of the people that have made sylus this way, but what good will that do here? 

sylus…” you lean your head to meet him and see something shine from his eyes, falling down his cheek.

a tear.

“oh…” you couldn’t hold back at your reach to brush it away, but when your skin makes contact he flinches, and it makes you want to cry yourself. “it’s me, my love. only me. i’m here.” you brush the tear away, fingers gently thumbing in his cheek to help calm him. 

a strangled noise comes from his throat. “i don’t…i didn’t want you to see me like this…” his voice is in a tone you’ve never heard before, one of pain and distress.

“like what?” you reply softly.

he doesn’t answer straight away and you wait patiently, rubbing soothing circles on his shoulders like he had done to yours in times like this. 

“like i am weak, scared…vulnerable.”

you swallow the lump in your throat at his words, each piercing you harshly through the heart. “sylus…there’s nothing with you feeling any of those things.”

“i need to be strong for you.”

“do the strong always require to be strong?”

repeating his own words to him hit him like bricks, his eyes widening and lips parted in shock. ever so gently you cradle his face, his eyes still looking away from you. “wasn’t it you who said that?”

“...it’s not the same.”

“how isn’t it?” you ask, but he doesn’t reply, so you keep talking. “i don’t need you to be strong for me sylus. don’t you think there’s a strongness in being those things? weak, scared and vulnerable?...to me there is.”

your words make him finally look at you, his eyes still holding surprise. “...there is?”

you nod. “even plants and animals have those types of feelings, so you having them is normal. showing them to me is…letting yourself be loved by me even more than you do now. it shows that you trust me to see you this way, and trust me that i won’t turn you away.” 

you lean forward and turn his face to you before grabbing one of his hands and placing it on your chest, your heart beating loudly underneath. “trust me that i will always be patient with you, that i will never rush you and listen to what you say,”

you grab his other hand and bring it to your lips, softly kissing his knuckles and palm before placing it over your cheek. “and trust me that i will always love you, no matter what.”

he hears your love, your utter devotion to him that makes his heart sing. he stares at you with such loving eyes one might say they never knew it existed, but it’s right here, right in this room and in each other's arms.

he kisses you with such intensity, with such love that it almost makes you fall. with your hands on his shoulders you meet his passion, his devotion, his affection and so much more. he cradles your face as your lips part, heavy breaths falling from both. 

“i love you too, my beloved, so so much.”

he holds you tightly with his head buried in your neck, your arms around his neck and brushing through his hair.

you don’t care how many times this needs to happen, to assure him of your love and devotion, of your patient and his consent. 

because you will never, ever hurt him - he deserves better.

[faerybella219]

I just think Gale would be so warm.

The type of warm where you sit next to him and just feel the heat radiating off his body. It’s cold when the sun goes down and all you want is heat. You bundle yourself in layers and sit next to the fire as Gale chops up vegetables and roasts meat in a pot for dinner. Every now and then your knees brush together or bump elbows. The first time it happened he lets out an “Oop, apologies,” to which you hastily reply “Oh, its alright.” Really, you thought, it’s more than alright. Since then he stopped apologizing when it happens, seemingly not paying any mind to it.

You can’t help feeling you’re a bit in the way, but your tent is a chilling place- literally. He hasn’t said anything about you being next to him, and the warmth and smell of stew is a great comfort right now. His velvet pajamas seem so comfortable in the firelight. The purple fabric, the embroidered collar and cuffs, and the matching belt which seemed to pin back an excess of fabric reflected a cool hue onto his concentrated face. His gaze seemed to drift off into the flames, the fatty pork leg you found earlier sizzling.

“Smells good,” you remark, a smile quirking your occasionally shivering face.

Gale seems to be pulled from his thoughts when he looks over at you. “Yes, it’s not everyday we’re blessed with good meat. Hopefully this fills us up tonight.”

You nod, a shudder running through you. He glances you over in concern. “A bit cold?”

“You don’t feel it?”

“Ah, no. My body tends to run a bit on the warm side. Always has. Makes me a good bed for a tressym!”

You laugh, and he continues reminiscing. “Tara loved to sit on my stomach while I read in the library. Sometimes she would even have me read to her… don’t tell her I told you that though,” he barks out a laugh before murmuring, “she would be quite embarrassed.”

You think about meeting his cat- tressym. Hopefully she likes you. You think about his library in Waterdeep. Sitting on a chaise lounge with him, your back against his warm chest while he reads to you. His hands on your waist holding you close. Would you even make it that far? The sudden silence that falls between you means Gale wonders the same.

Gale clears his throat. “Well- erm. The stew still has a bit until it’s done. Hopefully that will warm you up.”

Your backs are propped against the wood log which lays behind you. He inconspicuously scoots a bit closer and opens a book which laid on the log. You try to peer over his shoulder to see what he’s reading. There’s nothing else for you to do, and you wouldn’t mind being closer. Your gaze does not go unnoticed.

Gale glances between you and the page, and you almost notice a pink hue creeping across his cheeks. No- probably just the firelight.

“Do you happen to be interested in Menzoberranzan horticulture? I find their uses of the Green Sleep fungus especially titillating.”

You’ve never heard of it before. “Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, that’s only the beginning. Would you.. would you like to read with me?” Gale extends the book further in your direction in offering, looking at you expectantly.

“Sure,” you say. Scooting closer you try to remain casual and unaffected. Your sides are touching now, his on the ground with the book propped open on his legs. Gods, he’s so warm. You feel as though you’re thawing just sitting next to him.

Every now and then he looks at your face, silently asking if he can flip the page. You always just nod, finding it hard to concentrate on reading. His chest rises and falls steadily, his freshly calloused fingers occasionally point out especially interesting passages, and you relax (trying not to melt) into his side. At one point you think you might start to drift off right there, your eyes half lidded.

Suddenly the air starts to smell yummier- fuller and flavored. You realize your eyes are opening to the sight of Gale checking the contents of the pot simmering on the fire.

He turns back to you, “Well, the stew is done.”

Just as you straighten up, he hands you a full bowl. A sheepish smile crawls across his face, and surprisingly he doesn’t say anything.

[minicookiedemonx]

HEAT OF THE MOMENT

Hi my writer name is mini, I used to write a lot of smut when I was younger but lost interest. But I’m back with a bang! I hope somebody enjoys this. This is my first post to this community and I’ve enjoyed what I’ve read so far! I don’t know how to set mine up too look as cool as everyone else’s :p.

Edit credit @ myself

Summary: Fem reader POV; You cause a scene at a local bar causing Officer Gojo to escort you off the premises. The reader is alluring, seductive and teasing him with lust. Causing Officer Gojo to then lose his composure and disregard protocol.

Warnings; rough, jjksmut ,gojosatorusmut ,NFSW , outdoor sex, authority-kink, creampie, nofluff , gojosmut, gojoxfemreadersmut, hair pulling, fingering, breast sucking.

Word count; 2k

The bar was alive with chaos—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses—but none of it compared to the scene you were making at the center of it all. You weren't even sure how it had escalated this far, but the combination of spilled drinks, a bruised ego from the guy you'd argued with, and the bartender's exasperation had turned a fun night out into something more... memorable.

"Miss, you need to calm down," the bartender said, his patience clearly worn thin.

You rolled your eyes, leaning on the counter with a playful smirk. "I'm calm. Maybe you're the one who needs to relax. How about a drink? On the house, perhaps?"

Before the bartender could respond, the door to the bar swung open, and in strode Officer Gojo Satoru. His presence commanded attention instantly—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an air of authority that clashed with the cocky smirk he wore so effortlessly. His uniform fit him a little too perfectly, and his white hair, pushed back in a carefree style, gleamed under the dim lights. He slid his shades down just enough to scan the room with those piercing blue eyes.

You froze for half a second, watching as he approached with a slow, deliberate stride. The murmurs in the bar quieted as he stopped in front of you, towering over you with an air of unshakable confidence.

"Miss. Y/N," he said, his voice calm but edged with annoyance. "I heard you've been causing some trouble."

You gave him your most innocent smile, tilting your head as you looked up at him. "Trouble? That doesn't sound like me. I'm just having a little fun."

His gaze was unamused, his smirk faint but sharp. "Yeah, well, your 'fun' just earned you a call to the police. So, either you come with me quietly, or we can make this a lot more complicated."

You couldn't resist pushing your luck. "Come on, Officer. You don't really want to arrest me, do you? You've got those gorgeous eyes, that perfect jawline—wouldn't you rather stay here and let me buy you a drink?"

The bartender audibly sighed, but Gojo didn't flinch. He leaned forward just slightly, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his voice dropping lower. "Flattery doesn't work on me, sweetheart. Try again."

"Oh, but you can't blame a girl for trying," you said, your grin widening as you let your eyes linger on him just a little too long. "What about a smile? Surely I can charm a smile out of you?"

Gojo's lips twitched, but he didn't budge. Instead, he grabbed your wrist gently but firmly, his grip unyielding as he straightened up. "That's enough. Let's go."

Your grin faltered for a moment as he pulled you away from the counter, his calm yet authoritative demeanor leaving no room for argument. Still, you couldn't help yourself. "You really know how to kill the mood, you know that?"

"You'll thank me later," he replied dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm as he led you through the crowd. His hand on your wrist was firm, but not harsh, and you couldn't help but admire the way he handled you with such practiced ease.

As you were escorted out of the bar, you glanced over your shoulder, tossing a playful smile his way. "So, Officer, do you do this for all the pretty girls, or am I just special?"

He rolled his eyes, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're definitely... something."

Once outside, he released your wrist but positioned himself squarely in front of you, his imposing figure blocking your escape. His shades were now perched on top of his head, those sharp blue eyes boring into yours.

"Listen," he said, his tone serious. "I'm going to give you one chance to walk away and go home. No more scenes, no more trouble."

You crossed your arms, tilting your head with a sly smile. "What if I don't want to go home? What if I want to stay out here... with you?"

His jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw his confidence waver. But then his smirk returned, more smug than before. "Y/N, I've got more patience than most, but you're really pushing it."

You stepped closer, just enough to challenge him. "Or maybe you like being pushed."

His expression hardened, his voice dropping low. "This isn't a game."

"Oh, but it could be," you whispered, your voice dripping with mischief.

"Alright, Y/N," he said, voice low and steady. "Here's the deal. You're going to calm down, and we're going to the station. No more games."

You smirked, leaning your back against the cold brick wall behind you. "Games? I think you're the one making this more serious than it has to be. I was just having fun, Officer."

He stepped closer, his broad shoulders cutting off the light and casting a shadow over you. "Fun? You think dragging me out here in the middle of my shift is fun?"

You tilted your head, your lips curving into a playful grin. "I didn't drag you anywhere. You came all on your own. Besides, maybe you like this more than you're willing to admit."

His blue eyes narrowed behind his shades, which now sat low on his nose. "I told you to stop pushing me."

You shrugged, unbothered. "And I told you I don't think you'll do anything about it."

That was all it took. Before you could blink, Gojo spun you around and grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, pressing his body against your back with enough force to make your heart race but not enough to hurt. You could feel his member betray his non-intrested demeanor by rubbing into your ass. You could feel how deeply excited he was- even if he didn't want to admit it.

"I warned you," he said, his voice dangerously low, his breath hot against your ear. "But you just can't help yourself, can you?"

You met his gaze head-on, unflinching, your smirk still intact. "What can I say? I like seeing you lose control."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might snap. But then he pulled back abruptly, releasing your wrists and stepping away as though the mere proximity was too much. He reached into his belt and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

"You're under arrest," he said coldly, his voice hard and professional once more.

Your grin only widened as he spun you around, snapping the cuffs onto your wrists with practiced ease. "Aw, Officer, you didn't have to go to all this trouble just for me."

"Keep talking," he muttered, steering you toward his patrol car as he read you your rights.

He opened the back door and guided you inside, his touch firm but careful. As he climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, you couldn't help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.

The drive to the station started in silence, the hum of the engine filling the air. But you couldn't resist.

"So, Officer Gojo," you began, your voice lilting with amusement, "is this how you spend all your nights? Arresting harmless bar patrons and pretending you're not ridiculously attractive?"

"Y/N," he warned, his eyes focused on the road, his voice tight.

"What?" you asked innocently. "I'm just making conversation. It's not my fault you've got this whole 'hot cop' thing going on. You must get this all the time."

He didn't answer, but you caught the way his jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the wheel tightened.

You leaned forward as far as the cuffs and seatbelt would allow. "You know, you're kind of cute when you're pretending to be all serious. I wonder what it would take to make you crack."

"Stop," he said through gritted teeth.

"Stop what?" you teased. "I'm just talking. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong. You wouldn't pull over just because I said you had nice eyes, would you?" Gojo ignored you and you sighed with annoyance. You weren't going to give up that easily.

"Honestly the way you pressed me against that wall back there...made me kind of hot. You know...down there?" I spread my legs open slowly, unsure if he could see me do so but regardless they opened wide.

Officer Gojo remained silent, determined to remain calm and collected.

"So hot that when I go home tonight, and I touch myself, I might just think about that to get me off," you paused for a second. "Do you like the thought of that? Me all alone in my bed, circling my clit while moaning your name," you rolled your head back onto the head rest and jokingly moaned his name, "Ohh Officer Gojo,  just saying your name makes me so wet."

That was the last straw. Without warning, Officer Gojo pulled the car to the side of the deserted road, the tires crunching against gravel as he shifted the car into park. He got out and made his way to the back door, opening it furiously, meeting your gaze with extreme frustration in his eyes.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and rough as he leaned closer towards you through the door. "I've been patient. I've been professional. But you just don't know when to quit, do you?"

You smiled, unbothered by his sudden intensity. "Maybe I just like getting under your skin. Seems like I'm pretty good at it."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before leaning closer, his face inches from yours. "Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're asking for?"

"Trouble?" you echoed, your voice soft and teasing. "Is that what you call this? Because I think you're the one who's in trouble, Officer."

His gaze flickered to your lips for just a moment before he closed his eyes, as if trying to collect himself. But when he opened them again, all the restraint was gone. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

"Then show me," you challenged, leaning forward just enough that your lips nearly brushed his.

Officer Gojo groaned, low and guttural, before finally giving in. His lips crashed against yours with a desperation that sent a jolt of heat through your entire body. The cuffs on your wrists pressed uncomfortably against the seat, but you didn't care. His hands were on you—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as though he couldn't get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his forehead resting against yours. "You're going to be the death of me, Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough and raw.

You smiled, still breathless. "Well, at least you'll die happy."

His lips collided with yours once again, meshing together with ease, you slipped your tounge in and his eagerly fought yours for dominance. One of his hand slide down from your face and under your shirt, onto your breast, gripping it tightly before pulling back and pinching your nipple.

You moaned into his mouth as he played with your breast, the excitement building inside you began to pool onto your panties. His lips remained locked onto yours as his hand travelled south before hiking up your mini skirt, revealing your black laced thong.

He pulled back to observe you, his face flushed as he panted. "You're going to get me in so much trouble," his fingers slide over your aching core, making sure to stop and focus on your hardened bud with a few quick circles.

You eagerly bucked your hips into his hands, whimpering for more. "Fuck you're so fucking wet," he groaned, using his fingers to push your panties to the side before running his fingers between your slits again as you oozed onto his fingers.

His thumb traced your clit, sending shivers throughout the your whole body as you felt the crisp air meet your wet core. Exposed and open, the only thing you were worried about is how soon you could get Officer Gojo to fuck you.

"You're such a fucking slut," Officer Gojo panted huskily, "willing to give up your pussy just to avoid jail time," he smirked dipping a finger into you, causing a loud gasp to escape your lips. He hummed at the sound, "But if you let me fuck you like the slut you are, it might work out for you." Officer Gojo stated with a smirk, locking eyes with you.

Your head rolled back with ecstasy as you felt his fingers curl in an upward motion behind your cervix. His fingers were so fucking long and they were hitting all the right spots. You were a gasping, moaning mess, you gazed down to Gojo to see his eyes locked onto your pussy.

Watching as his fingers moved in and out of you with an urgency that signaled he was having just as much fun as you were. He looked up at your gaze, locking eyes with you.

His gaze was no longer cold and harsh, but filled with desperation and lust. He added another finger before he starting pumping into your pussy effortlessly. The cuffs were digging into your wrist behind you, it stung but you could care less- it honestly made things hotter.

He observed you as he finger fucked you into oblivion, the way his fingers curled inside you had you craving for more. You wanted him-no needed him inside you. You turned your gaze down to his crotch and saw how tight the fabric around his dick had gotten.

The sight of him made you moan out desperately, "I want you inside me, I need you to fuck me," you said, panting inbetween words. He chuckled at the sounds of your desperation, "and...why should I do that" gojo stated with a low seductive tone, slowing the pace of his fingers.

"Because I'm your dirty little slut," you say with a smirk on your face, locking eyes with him as you pull his fingers out of you and latch your mouth around them, licking them clean.

Officer Gojo groaned at the sight and quickly grabbed you out the backseat and slammed you against the car. He pressed his chest to your back as he pinned your arms on top of your lower back.

His hips bucked into your ass, aggressively grinding his harden cock against your rear end. All this foreplay had riled Officer Gojo up to the point he felt as if his cock would burst from the seams if he didn't relieve himself soon. He kissed your neck as he pulled down your skirt and panties in one swift movement.

You heard his belt unbuckled and Officer Gojo undo his zipper rapidly. You went to turn around and greet his member but he roughly pushed you against the car. "You stay right there and look pretty while I fuck the shit out of you," he sternly stated, you nodded your head like a good girl.

He bent you over before spreading your legs, you felt him line his tip up with your aching core. He slapped it against your harden clit, causing you to hiss with desperation. You were so sensitive down there, however, you couldn't help but crave for more. He teasingly slide it between your slit, back and forth slowly before plunging deep into you.

You didn't get a chance to see his dick before it entered you but by the way it filled you up told you everything you needed to know. Officer Gojo moaned loudly as he entered you, taking his time with the first few strokes. Embracing the feeling of your tight, wet pussy griping all around his cock. It was almost too much for him to handle.

He began pounding into you with no mercy, the sound of skin clapping echoed as it blended with the sounds of the crisp breeze and eerily silence of the night. Officer Gojo was unfolding right in front of you, and you couldn't help but join him- fucking him had me  ecstatic.

"Fuck your pussy is so tight baby," Officer Gojo cooed as he gazed down, watching his dick slide in and out of you. He bit his lip in admiration, " and it looks so fucking good on my dick." He slapped your ass harshly while thrashing into you, you gasped at the sudden movement but quickly became the moaning slut gojo had turned you into.

He took a handful of your hair and pulled you back, finding ways to penetrate you in ways you have never imagined. You could hear Officer Gojo attempting to restrain himself from moaning loudly, whimpers left between his parted lips. The sounds drove you absolutely insane, you didn't take him for a whimper but you were loving every second of it.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this to you," gojo stated, slowing his flow and pumping at a slow rate. "If you weren't such a desperate, needy fucking slut, I could be home by now." You moaned quite my as he fucked you through his lecture.

"But instead you have me in the middle of nowhere, losing my mind over how fucking good your pussy feels," and just like that gojo went right back to pounding you with no mercy. He needed to feel every inch of you, better yet- he needed to fill every inch of you.

You don't know how but he found a way to fuck you faster, even rougher, at this point no noise could espace your lips as he had fucked you into another dimension and you could barely process how good his dick felt inside you. You felt a familiar knot building in your lower abdomen.

"If you keep fucking me like that, I'm going to cum," you said breathless. A light clicked in Officer Gojo, his cock twitched in response. "Go ahead baby, be a good slut and cum all over my dick as I fill your pussy up," he was also breathless, he voice slightly cracking.

He pounded roughly into you until your pussy grasp and pulsated on his cock, triggering for him to spill every drop of cum inside you. It felt good, it felt amazing cumming on top of him as he filled you up. You were convinved there was no better feeling than fucking officer gojo.

He stepped back and pulled himself out of you, tucking his member back into his underwear and redressing. You turn to look at him, your face covered with red and beads of sweat. A smirk lacing your lips,

"So officer Gojo, are you still going to arrest me?"

-

HOPE YALL ENJOYED! MORE TO COME!

[honeyryewhiskey]

mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks. 

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real. 

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you. 

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts. 

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this. 

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing. 

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement. 

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

 He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

[casedclosedbye]

The Scent of her

Spencer reid x reader

Fluff

Wc: 2k

Summary: Spencer Reid, the brilliant but often reserved mind, has found something that makes him feel alive. It's not the cases, not the logic or the numbers. It’s her. The scent of her skin, the feel of her in his arms, the way she’s become the steady heartbeat of calmness within him.

The alarm blares, but Spencer doesn’t move right away. His eyes remain closed as the sound fills the room, his body still in that warm cocoon of sleep. He’s not even aware of it at first, but then it hits him—the soft scent of her skin, mixed with the faint trace of her lavender perfume.

His fingers, almost instinctively, find their way toward the space beside him. The sheets are cool, but there’s a trace of warmth where she’s been, an imprint that lingers even when she’s not there. He inhales, taking in the air around him. The familiar, comforting scent fills his lungs—her scent.

Spencer, always the one to overthink everything, doesn’t want to leave the bed. Every morning, it’s harder and harder for him to break free from the desire to stay wrapped up in her. The world outside his apartment feels so far away, so far removed from the simple peace he finds in her presence. The thought of work, the case files, the day ahead—it all seems insignificant in comparison to how much he loves being here, in this small, quiet moment with her.

He shifts carefully to avoid waking her, but his movements are slow, deliberate, as he lets himself breathe her in one more time. The scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, even the lingering traces of the perfume she wears—it all pulls him in. He’s so used to the antiseptic cleanliness of the world outside that her scent, natural and uniquely hers, is like a balm to his soul.

When her eyelids flutter open, his heart jumps. He doesn’t even have to see her face to know she’s awake. Her scent has already enveloped him, her presence a tangible thing in the room. He smiles softly, wanting to reach for her, needing to.

But instead, he simply turns toward her, his eyes locked on hers. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The bond between them is more than words. It’s the way he leans into her, the way his hands instinctively move to trace the curve of her back. He’s a little more possessive in the mornings, a little more clingy than he might be in front of others. There’s something about these early moments when the world is still sleeping, and it's just the two of them.

Her fingers run through his messy hair, and that’s it. Spencer can’t stop the needy little sigh that escapes his lips. Her scent, her touch, they anchor him in a way that nothing else does. “Stay,” he mutters against her skin, his voice barely a whisper. His lips press against the soft skin of her neck, inhaling deeply.

She laughs softly, her fingers brushing against his arm. “I have to go, Spencer. You have work too.”

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, almost childlike in his tone, clinging to her a little tighter. “Please. Just a few more minutes…”

Her laugh is warm, but there’s a tenderness in it as she presses her lips to his forehead, a soft kiss that makes him feel like he could stay there forever. He’s never been this clingy with anyone—not even with his mother or any of his past relationships—but with her? It’s different. Everything about her makes him feel safe. She’s the one thing in his life that doesn’t make him feel so… out of place.

He doesn’t care how pathetic it might seem. He’s needy for her touch. He wants to absorb every inch of her, hold onto her like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go. Her scent has become a tether. Her presence is what calms his swirling mind, the constant hum of thoughts that never quite stop.

The day drags on. Spencer’s head is filled with the case, the details, the analysis, but it’s her scent that’s never far from his mind. It’s like a drug to him—soft, comforting, addictive. He can still feel the faint remnants of her perfume on his skin from their morning together. It lingers in the fabric of his shirt, in his hair. Every now and then, when he absentmindedly brushes his fingers through his hair, the scent hits him again, and it makes his chest ache with longing.

His thoughts drift to her, and his eyes search the office for a moment, only to find himself lost in the feeling of her presence. His gaze lands on the elevator, waiting for that moment when she’ll show up, when he can see her again, even if only for a few minutes. He hates the distance of the day, the hours between their stolen moments. He feels almost frantic about it—like the longer he’s away from her, the more he’s going to lose something.

And then the elevator dings.

His heart skips a beat before he can even register what’s happening. The scent hits him first—faint but unmistakable—like the first breath of fresh air after being stuck inside for too long. It’s like a magnet, pulling him in.

She steps out, and Spencer’s breath catches. Her presence floods the room, and he doesn’t even wait. He stands up immediately, his body moving of its own accord. Her scent is everywhere—the lavender, the citrus, her skin—and it’s all he can do to keep from reaching out for her, to wrap his arms around her and just breathe her in. The thought of her absence today had been unbearable, and now that she’s here, standing in front of him, he’s not sure how to contain the rush of relief that surges through him.

His fingers itch to touch her. He doesn’t wait for her to say anything, doesn’t wait for her to move toward him. He steps forward and cups her face with his hands, pulling her toward him with a sudden intensity that catches her by surprise. His lips meet hers in a soft, almost desperate kiss, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of her, every molecule of her presence.

“I missed you,” he breathes against her lips, his voice thick with an emotion that’s almost too raw. “I can’t think straight when you’re not near me.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just smiles gently, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Spencer’s body relaxes a little at the touch, but only slightly. His arms find their way around her waist, holding her to him tightly as if afraid she might slip away.

“Spence,” she whispers softly, her hands tracing over his arms, the feeling grounding him. “I’m right here.”

He nods, not wanting to let go. He wants to stay like this, tangled up in her arms forever. The way she smells, the way she feels in his arms—it’s like everything else fades away. The noise of the office, the world outside—they don’t matter when he’s with her. Her scent fills his lungs, and he feels like he can finally breathe.

Later that night, when Spencer finally returns home, he can’t help but feel the weight of the day on him. But it’s different now—her presence is there. She’s sitting on the couch, watching TV, but her eyes flick to him as he walks through the door, her smile soft, inviting. The minute he steps into the apartment, it’s as if the air shifts. His senses are heightened, his mind flooded with the calming warmth of her.

“I thought I’d wait up for you,” she says, her voice low and warm.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he steps toward her, and without a word, he sinks down beside her, curling into her side like a child looking for reassurance. Her scent wraps around him, and for the first time in hours, he feels like he can relax.

“You always smell so good,” he mutters, his fingers tracing absentmindedly over her skin. He can’t help it. Her scent is all-consuming, and he finds himself pressing his face into her neck, inhaling deeply. “I can’t stop thinking about you… about the way you smell. It’s like I’m addicted to it.”

Her hand gently runs through his hair, and he leans into her touch, his arms tightening around her. He needs her. He needs her scent, her touch, the feeling of her body next to his. Everything about her makes him feel whole.

“I don’t want to let go,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not ever.”

She simply presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, her arms wrapping around him, pulling him even closer. And Spencer lets himself sink into her embrace, his body perfectly molded to hers, the scent of her wrapping around him like a protective cocoon. In this moment, he doesn’t care about anything else. The world can wait.

As long as he has her—her scent, her touch, her love—nothing else matters.

[breadvidence]

Why each Jean Valjean can't fuck. And yet...

The Brick: The first time you come on to the man, he smiles. The next time, he gives you money (hey, you're not too proud). Then? He ghosts you. So much for physical prowess; the two of you never made it to first base. Whether out of choice, trauma, or authorial fetish, the man's a committed virgin. And yet... you have to admit, the sweet memories of how those muscles looked during the whole cart debacle have done more for your alone-time than some in-person performances.

'34: The strength, the money, the air of dignity—he's got the same appeal as the original, and if he embodies his sadness with the aesthetic of a melting candle, well, that's a phallic-adjacent image, ain't it? Awful shame he's just as caught up in his penance and his duty, too. With a sorrowful (if somewhat aggrieved) shrug, he's off to the sewers, and that's not any kind of euphemism. And yet... you've seen how he can balance a guy on his back and not bat an eyelash. A person has got to wonder about natural talent.

'35: You think you can get between him and that young woman he raised, do you? And yet... if you did, that's a lot of built-up frustration, isn't it? And he's mediocre handsome; maybe it's all a matter of how lonely the night is.

'48: You hear he's into this identity play, right? Well, you appreciate a man who can play a role. From all you've heard, it'll be as explosive as an inexplicable outbreak of violence in a foundry. He takes out a cane—hell, yeah. Then a pair of sunglasses—well, maybe—no—is he pretending to be blind?—is this ableist—?—you're pretty sure—good grief, this hasn't gone in a direction you expected. And yet... you know he got another guy to enter a hole despite there being zero sense to the thing; maybe the same will happen to you.

'52: There are men who could fuck if they could learn to appreciate what they've got, and this one can't; multiple boyfriends in the wings and what's he got eyes on? That young woman he raised. And yet... something makes Robert come home every night, doesn't it?

'58: What's he look like? what's he say, or do? You can't quite remember. You keep forgetting to add him to your body count. And yet... you can't actually say he can't fuck, with the memory so vague.

'67: This fuckin' party time rolls down the tracks until it drinks too heavy and falls right off. You can't even call it bad so much as absurd, but you can only go so far off-script before it's certainly not good. And yet... how many friends have you told about it, eh?

'72: Fucking a glacier would be a less chilly experience. And yet... he'll give you the silent disappointed daddy look the whole time, if that's your kind of thing.

'78: This fella's wearing a promise ring for someone else. Or, a sacred vow ring? In any case, he's pretty sure all that sweating and grimacing would be bad for his skin. And yet... there's a clueless virgin trope in a certain kind of fiction for a reason, right?

'98: His belief in worker ownership of the means of production and strong ACAB stance might get you in the mood, but this Valjean hasn't gotten to the point in his politics where he's unpacked the impact of heterosexism on his ability to express vulnerability, by which I mean he's absolutely not going down on you. And yet... he survives the story and still has time to learn and grow, and it's hard to beat a sugar daddy who hands out company shares.

'00: No. And yet... no.

'07: The impediment of being a cartoon aside, makes it real hard to be skilled when his mustache mostly stands in for his mouth. And yet... the potential of cartoon physics, am I right?

'12: With that little fluid in his body the only flag this babe's raising is at low tide in a dry-dock. And yet... your nostalgia does a lot to shine a positive light on the performance he can muster.

'18: I've seen what it looks like when he roars into a mattress and can tell you not to bother; nobody's that frustrated who's been having a good time, and he'll pass the energy along. And yet... maybe I would have a different opinion if I'd been viewing him from behind?

[honeyjynxxed]

Dead on Main Songfic WIP

Danny peaked out from the curtain to check the crowd forming in front of the stage, feeling his breath stutter at all the people milling around. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, the Iceberg Lounge was a hotspot for the rich and elite to schmooze and network with their less than savoury business partners. A Gotham Gala was for fake smiles and political masks, the Iceberg Lounge was for the real business transactions to take place.

Was it a good idea to take a job as entertainment in a place like this? Maybe; Danny was still on the fence about it but he knew that it was important for him to be here. The salary was one of the major pros of taking the job, with it he might actually be able to get a slightly nicer place that wasn’t in the heart of crime alley, but on the other hand his protective obsession was going haywire the longer he spent time around all of these criminals. If he were a normal human there was no way that he’d be able to hear their conversations on weapon smuggling, drug trafficking, artifact stealing, and more but he was enhanced in a way that not many others could claim and thus he could hear it all.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts and Danny fought the urge to jump or yelp. Quickly he turned his head to see just who had managed to sneak up on him before letting the tension leech out of body. It was just his new boss, Jason Todd, second son of Bruce Wayne and rumored to be the secret identity of the Red Hood. Danny knew he was Red Hood though, their cores felt the same, sickly and fractured. “Pre-show jitters?” Jason asked and Danny felt his core trill at his deep, rumbly voice. “Anything I can do?”

“It's my first gig here, of course I’m nervous.” Danny had to look up at his boss, the man easily standing over six feet tall and Danny had not quite gotten as tall as his father despite all his growing, “Maybe a kiss to settle my nerves?” It was a cheeky thing to suggest and he coupled it by batting his eyelashes and sticking out his bottom lip. His act got him a pinch to his side that made him squeal and dart away from Jason. “Hey! Don’t be mean to the entertainment, I could quit ya now?” Danny stuck his hands on his hips and lifted his chin in what was supposed to be looking down on Jason but it didn’t look quite right given their height difference. 

Still his core gives a delighted tremble when Jason laughs at him, “Get on stage doll, and we’ll see what you have to say about quitting after.” His boss winks at him before nodding to the still closed curtains separating them from the rest of the lounge. Danny gives him a wave before stepping through to the other side.

There are people on the other side, but not a giant crowd like he might’ve been expecting. The Iceberg Lounge was first and foremost a lounge, somewhere that rich men and women could go for a nice dinner, a smoke indoors, and to show off their latest fashion, jewelry and whatever else the rich spend their money on. Old families with old wealth, new up and comers with new drug money, and those they allowed to come with them. To his left the band begins to play and Danny jumps right into the chorus.

“Skin and bones, vulnerable

Crack my ribs and make me whole

Come and breathe the air into my lungs

I just wanna be your skeleton.”

The band picks up in energy, shifting from the slow and careful tones before into something faster. Danny keeps his almost regretful tone however, even if his pace shifts. 

“A silhouette is following

Just waiting to break me down

I had it good, that’s what I get

I guess that it's my turn now. 

Cut the wires, tangled, twisted

To find me again

Fracture, break me into pieces

‘Til all that I am,”

Danny can see Jason moving between the patrons of the lounge, stopping and speaking with some, pointing and directing his employees around, and yet not once do his eyes leave Danny on stage. He moves into the chorus again:

“Skin and bones, vulnerable

Crack my ribs and make me whole

Come and breathe the air into my lungs

I just wanna be your skeleton.

Fix my head, stitch my soul

Find out where it all went wrong

Come and breathe the air into my lungs

I just wanna be your skeleton,

Skeleton!”

Danny let the last note of the chorus hang as the band was allowed to let loose, just as he began to let go of his powers. Not completely, not enough to go fully ghost, but he allowed them to slip through slightly. From beneath his skin he allowed his skeleton to become visible, allowed his hair to become streaked with white, let the neon green seep into his eyes, and his body started to disobey gravity just enough for him to rise a few inches off the ground. By the time he was finished with his little display it was time to jump back into the song.

“A blinding pain behind my eyes,

Is covering up the truth.

Inside my brain’s, a parasite,

It's telling me what to do.

Feeding on my happiness like I never deserved it at all

(I never deserved it at all)

Feeling like a pessimist when I just wanna laugh through it all

(To laugh through it all)”

Jason’s eyes had widened at the sight of his powers, a flash of green to reflect his own eyes changing but Danny’s boss was nothing if not professional and kept what must’ve been a surprise from stopping him from doing his job. Ancients above he wanted to see what would make Jason lose his cool, what Danny could do to finally make him snap. He’d been trying as Phantom to rile up Red Hood into finally just grabbing him and pinning him against a wall, a rooftop, a door, really he wasn’t picky, but he hadn’t had much success yet. Perhaps going at Jason Todd instead would get him more results.

“Skin and bones, vulnerable

Crack my ribs and make me whole.

Come and breathe the air into my lungs,

I just wanna be your skeleton.

Fix my head, stitch my soul

Find out where it all went wrong.

I just wanna be your skeleton,

Skeleton!”

Danny allowed himself to rise with the music this time, bringing the microphone with him. Nearly all the patrons in the lounge, not just the ones seated at the tables in front of the stage, were openly staring now. Some with wonder, some with disgust, and others in pure awe. He felt his core rumble at the sight, knowing every person in here would remember this night for a long time. Every ghost wanted that, to be remembered, to have their name spoken aloud by the living. Danny wasn’t fully dead yet but that didn’t make him an exception to that rule.

“I project pain with the frame that I maintain

Pulling on chains, wanna break what I can’t change

All that rage put away in my ribcage

Comes out in stages, how could I stage this?

Bending over ‘til you break your back for this

Go ahead and crack my ribs, and take my oxygen

I’m damned if I do, or I don’t, I’m breaking my bones

Can’t make it alone, no!”

Danny was glad that he didn’t need to breathe as much or as often as a regular person did, knowing the quicker parts of the song would’ve been trouble for him otherwise. If this wasn’t one of his favorite songs to cover he’d probably have needed a lot more practice in order to do it justice but his abilities gave him the edge he needed.

“Making such a mess (hey), it’s getting permanently

Painted in my head (hey), and there’s no going back

So love me like I’m dead (hey) until there’s nothing left (hey)

And watch me decompose (hey), ‘til I’m-”

He began to float slowly back down to the stage as he picked up the chorus, knowing the song was winding down and he’d have to shut off his powers soon to make it all seem like special effects. 

“Skin and bones, vulnerable

Crack my ribs and make me whole.

Come and breathe the air into my lungs,

I just wanna be your skeleton.

Fix my head, stitch my soul

Find out where it all went wrong.

Come and breathe the air into my lungs,

I just wanna be your skeleton,

Skeleton.”

The final lyric was sung and Danny pushed his powers out just a bit longer to plunge the stage into darkness, the only thing indicating his presence still there being the glow of his skeleton under his skin. The moment the piano played its last note, he extinguished the glow as well. An ice core he may have but all ghosts have slight abilities to mess with electronics and electrical signals, lights, cameras, and tvs being the easiest for him to manipulate. Electrical currents killed him and interacting with them too much can sap him of his strength.

The lights above the stage flickered back on just as he slipped behind the curtains again to hide backstage. He knew within moments that Jason would be storming back here to confront him but he was ready for it. Deep down Danny could admit to wanting this job for more than just the quick cash. Around Jason, around Red Hood his core sang and purred and trilled. When he was with Jason he could visibly see the tension leak from his body, could feel his core begin the process to try and mend itself. If Danny could help him with that then he wanted to, not just because he was the Ghost King and it was his duty but because he actually liked Jason and he wanted the other halfa to like him too. 

“What,” Speak of the devil and shall appear, “the hell was all that Fenton?” The teasing tone from earlier was gone and Danny could see Jason’s handsome face twisted with a wide array of emotions. Anger, caution, worry, fear, and so many others played out in his eyes and were broadcasted by his still forming core. Honestly right now Danny could just coo, Jason clearly didn’t know about the emotions his core was sending out but it was still really cute to watch someone else go through the baby ghost stuff. 

Instead Danny put on his best anxious, scared, please don’t out me face possible and began wringing his hands together. “I just…it's hard to suppress my powers all the time. I know Batman has that whole ‘No metas in Gotham’ rule but I thought since you were running the lounge you might be able to protect me from him.” He just barely looked up at Jason through his eyelashes, letting his lower lip tremble slightly in his act. “Are you gonna fire me? I don’t know if I can get another job…” He watched Jason stiffen, mentally fighting with himself on what he should do. Pretending his powers were meta abilities was the hook, playing on the fact that Jason had a rocky relationship with Batman was the line. 

“No, I’m not going to fire you. That wouldn’t be right of me and I don’t think it's fair that Batman doesn’t want Metas in Gotham.” Calling out the protective obsession forming in Jason’s core was the sinker. The baby halfa didn’t even realize it but Danny already had him wrapped around his finger, now if only he could get him wrapped around him in a literal sense they’d be going somewhere. “I would’ve appreciated a warning though, lying to my guests about special effects isn’t a problem but I could’ve charged them more for it if I had known.”

Danny laughed, forcing it to sound a little wet as if he were on the verge of tears. “Gotta make those elites give back to the world somehow right?” He chanced looking up at Jason a little bit more now and saw the relief on his face that Danny was joking back at him. He might not realize that his core was calling out for Danny, singing in tune so to speak, but somewhere he instinctively wanted to be around him. “So that means I’m okay to keep using my powers? I wasn’t lying when I said it gets hard to suppress them and my voice tends to bring them out more.”

Jason sighed and shook his head, “Yeah you can keep using them, but try and keep them to things that can be explained yeah? Make-up, wires, that sorta stuff. Can’t have Batman smashing in here to interrogate the entertainment. It's just bad for business, doll.” And oh how Danny’s core positively purred at the nickname. Some might find it offensive but when Jason said it he all but melted. 

“Keep callin’ me doll and I’ll do anything you say, boss.” Jason’s eyes darkened for just a moment and Danny suddenly had an entirely new way to get under his skin. For a moment his mind drifts to how Red Hood would react to being called boss by Phantom, or even sir. Danny didn’t want just a one night stand or a friends with benefits situation, he wanted Jason. He wanted to meet his family, help him reunite with his family, wanted to go out on dates and kiss him and hold his hand. Danny wanted the whole package deal, Red Hood Crime Lord and all. Plus, Jason’s core was so sickly, so fractured. He clearly wasn’t getting enough clean ectoplasm and either wasn’t feeding his obsession or wasn’t feeding all of his obsessions. Danny could help, Danny could make it all better. He wasn’t as knowledgeable on Ghost Medicine like Frostbite was but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help out a little. He practically exuded excess ectoplasm that Jason could naturally cycle in to help filter out whatever is making his core sick. The fracturing…that’d be fixed when Danny figured out his obsessions and ways to feed them properly. “Anything else, sir? I do have a second song to sing.”

Jason growled. Full stop, from the throat growled. Danny’s eyes lit up green at the noise, something that clearly came directly from his core. His boss at least had the humanity to look embarrassed by the noise, attempting to cover it up by coughing and clearing his throat. “Of course, please do not let me hinder your work. The crowd loves you already.” He paused, as if to say more, and Danny tilted his head, waiting. Instead, Jason shook his head, turned on his heel, and all but fled somewhere else in the lounge. Oh well, Danny would be seeing him again to get his pay and probably again even later when he went out as the Red Hood. He couldn’t wait~

[promiscuousg1rl]

Desperate Measures — Rafe Cameron 02

Series Masterlist

Warnings: mature language, [talks of ] violence, homicide, sexual language, mental illness

“Hello Y/N.” 

The robotic tone of the voice makes you brows furrowed. You pull the phone from your ear, looking down at the screen. The word “UNKNOWN” staring back at you. 

“I’m sorry, who’s this?”

“She was a cancer, you know that right?” 

You frown at the lack of answer. You usually don’t answer phone calls with no caller ID and now you were being reminded why. “What?”

“I had to cut her out. For you.” The voice continues. “She was trying to hurt you and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Shooting upright in your bed, you rush to flick the lamp on your bedside table on. The shaking thats taken over your fingers almost makes it impossible. 

“You’re…you’re the killer. You did that, you—” 

“Yes, for you.” It soothes. You don’t want to give it any type of labels. Mostly because you don’t see whoever it as human. The things that were done to Stella’s body couldn’t have been the work of a human being. 

Goosebumps start to appear on  your arms; you don’t know whether to blame the night air coming in from your window or the fact this…thing was telling you that you were the reason a murder was committed. 

You scoff. “For me? You killed my best friend—”

“Don’t!” The demand is bellowed and you can’t help but to flinch; it’s almost like you can’t feel the sharp breath against the skin of your ear. “Do not fucking call her that okay? She was not your best friend, she didn’t deserve to be called your best friend. She was slut who took advantage of you and your kindness. She basically fucking spit in your face.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“That bitch was not your friend. She betrayed you in the worst way possible and had the nerve to laugh about it behind your back. And I couldn’t…I couldn’t just let her get away with it y/n." It rants on angrily. "I had to do it, show her that there are consequences to hurting you. That’s why I gutted her the way that I did. It was for you. It’s all for you, it’s always been for you!”

They were insane, It was insane. You and Stella were no where near the perfect pair, but taking advantage of you was something she was not capable of.  Not her. And it was obvious to you that this psycho was either playing mind games or truly thought they were doing you a favor by killing her. 

You shake your head as if it can see you. “I didn’t ask you do that, I didn’t ask you to kill my best friend I would never—.” 

Just like before, it barely allows you to get a word out. “Of course you wouldn’t baby, that’s just who you are.” It sighs. “Too nice and naive for your own good. It’s why I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. All for you.” 

“Once again I did not ask you to do that you fucking psycho! All that shit you’re spewing about Stella hurting me, what do you think killing my best friend did to me?” 

The too-big shirt your in falls off your shoulder as you stand up from your bed. Your arms wrap tight around yourself, your French-tip nails digging into the fabric of the tee. You couldn’t believe it. That this nut-job had convinced themself that killing Stella was some kind of crime of passion on your behalf. 

“I can not sleep because of you, I am having nightmares because of you. I can’t even leave my dorm because of you!” You shriek, tears fall down your warm cheeks as you start to pace across the floor. “You didn’t help me, you fucking ruined my life!”

You’re so deep into your rant that you don’t clock how loud and uneven the breathing on the other side of the phone has gotten. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Because I’m naive right? What, you want some type of thank you?” You snarl. 

“Yes!”  It barks back just as loud, making you flinch. “And I deserve one because if it wasn’t for me, that whore would still be fucking your boyfriend behind your back while everyone else laughed at you!”

“What?”

The laugh—the cackling that comes after is nothing but cruel. Your jaw goes slack and you hate it but your lip starts to quiver. As strange as it sounds, you didn’t feel pathetic like you do now. The tears that were shed earlier were of anger and rage aimed at this thing and what they were doing to you. But now, as it laughs in what you can imagine is the same manner “everyone” was said to be laughing at you in. 

But…why? Why are so quick to contemplate the true motive behind Stella’s murder, but even quicker to believe that she was sleeping with Jesse of all people. 

She’d never do that to you. Jesse would never do that to you. Right?

“You—you’re lying.” You sniffle, wiping a quick trembling hand under your nostrils. “She wouldn’t do that, Jesse wouldn’t—” 

“Lola you’re not stupid.” It censures. “You’re a smart girl. Read between the goddamn lines and face the truth. They were screwing each other behind your back for months.”

“N—no.”

“No?” It seethes. “Do you wanna know who Stella thought I was before I slit her throat? Do you wanna know who she thought she was begging to chase her when I cornered her that night? Your prick of a boyfriend.” 

Your breathing has gotten just as heavy, it’s sick how in sync you are with It. 

“As a matter of fact, before I got to her, she was on her way to be dicked down by him. How crazy is that right?” 

“I—” 

“So yes, Lola. I expect a fucking thank you for making sure that slut didn’t get one last screw in with your boyfriend before she died. I got that bitch out of your life, I made sure she didn’t get away with betraying you! Me! So before you shed anymore tears over that “friend” of yours, watch this.” 

The dial sound is quickly followed by the ding! of your phone. 

Slowly pulling the phone from your ear, you find that a video was sent from a blocked number. 

You take a shaky seat on your plush comforter before hesitantly clicking on the white arrow representing the play button. And within seconds familiar moans fill your bedroom.

Your heart drops. 

It’s her and him. Not a piece of clothing on either of their bodies as they go at it in what looks to be the football team’s weight room. The same arms that were wrapped around you the other day, are clutched tightly around her sweaty body. The same hand that held yours when she wanted calm your nerves as you entered your first college party during freshman year, is in his hair while the other is right over his heart. 

The tightness in your chest becomes almost unbearable and you find yourself trying to physically rub it out as if it’s a possible remedy. 

author’s note: i know this is very very short, but that’s intentional!

if you want to be added to the taglist pls let me know!

taglist: @zya8tracks @rafecameronsfavourite @sereneera @akisesgf @ababycake

[lovelylittlegrim]

Paint it Black

Steddie (Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson)

pre-relationship - 1.4K words - no warnings

———————————————————————

“I like when you paint your nails.”

Eddie startles at the sudden sound of Steve’s voice, even with how softly he spoke. It’s been quiet for a while between them, a movie playing in the background that they’ve both seen before, the voices just muffled ambiance.

He looks up to find Steve staring at him. “What?”

“Your nails.” Steve holds up his own hand, wiggling his fingers like maybe Eddie will understand better if he sees what Steve’s talking about. “I like when you paint them.”

Eddie looks down at where he’s been steadfastly applying black nail polish to his right hand, it’s harder than doing his left but he’s had a lot of practice and he’s damn near perfect at it these days. The layer is even, glossy, not a smudge to be seen.

“Uh, thanks,” he says slowly, unsure what else there is to say. He peeks back at Steve through his bangs.

Steve hums and drops his hand back to the couch, he continues to watch Eddie even though Eddie’s finished.

“Do you want me to paint yours?” Eddie doesn’t know why he’s asking. He’s never seen Steve with painted nails before and… he can’t imagine it when he thinks about it. Steve in his crisp blue jeans and his clean polos, black on his nails. It would look so out of place. Like some dirty part of Eddie rubbed off on him. Tainted him.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“You can paint them, it’s not like anyone else will see.” Steve slides off the couch, joining Eddie on the floor at the coffee table. He drops his hands on the stained wood and splays his fingers. “I’ll take it off before my shift Thursday.”

“You’re serious?”

“Why not?” Steve gives a single shoulder shrug, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “It’s not the first time my nails have been painted.”

That makes Eddie pause. “It’s not?”

“Robin paints my toes whenever she sleeps over. They’re probably still purple actually, I haven’t bothered to take it off, not like anyone sees my feet.”

“Oh,” Eddie huffs at the mental image of Steve with his face coated in a face mask and lotion, his bangs pulled up in a little rubber band and Robin painting his toenails every color of the rainbow.

Actually, it’s kind of cute. He wants to see Steve like that.

“So,” Steve drums his fingers on the table. “You gonna paint them?”

“Yeah,” Eddie pulls lightly on one of Steve's hands, drawing it closer to himself. “Don’t move.”

Steve doesn’t. He sits quiet and still, watching Eddie work without complaint. When Eddie’s done he leans back to inspect all of the nails, wiping at an edge here and there to clean it up, uncaring that he’s staining his own thumbs. When he’s satisfied he leans back in and lightly blows at the paint.

Somewhere above him, Steve’s throat clicks, and Eddie glances up at him through his lashes curiously.

“You’re much better at it than Robin,” Steve says after a beat. “She gets it all over my skin, doesn’t even try to clean it up.”

Eddie laughs, air puffing right out of his lungs. “I’ve met Robin so I’m really not surprised.”

He picks up one of Steve’s hands, turns it left and right to make sure he sees the paint from every angle, and makes sure there are no rough patches or opaque spots he needs to go over. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about it looking good, Steve’s just going to take it off in less than twenty four hours.

He drags his thrums lightly over one of Steve’s knuckles and then lets go, his fingers curling in on themself. “All done.”

Steve holds his hands up, fingers spread to see Eddie’s work. “It looks great.”

And it does.

Eddie grins as he twists the polish closed tightly and stuffs it back into his bag. He watches with something close to fond amusement as Steve very carefully settles back against the couch, hands on his knees so he doesn’t touch anything until the paint is well and truly dry. Eddie settles next to him, his own hands already dry enough to not cause a problem but he mirrors Steve and they watch the rest of the movie, making snide little comments about the acting and the plot.

He doesn’t let himself think about the feeling of Steve’s warm hand in his or the feeling of Steve’s eyes watching him so intently.

It’s not good for his health.

—

It’s two days later before he finally sees Steve again, the movies in Eddie hand already grievously late. Robin will chew him out but he knows Steve will waive the late fees with a stern waggle of his finger like a disapproving parent and tell him to do better next time. He’s so dorky, Eddie doesn’t know how the guy was ever cool in highschool except… Well, he does, because even now Steve is annoyingly good looking, better looking in Eddie’s opinion. More rugged even though he’s still so put together, confident in different ways and funny.

The bell jangles loudly when Eddie enters family video.

Robin looks up, eyes narrowing instantly. “You're late, Munson.”

Eddie winces. “Please accept my most humble apology, I was otherwise inconvenienced on the eve of these returns.”

“You mean you forgot until Wayne told you this morning.”

“Yeah.”

She snorts and holds her hands out for the videos. When Eddie gives them to her she says, “I better not have to rewind them.”

Eddie thanks Wayne over and over in his head for having the forethought to do that before forcing Eddie into Robin's clutches. “They are.”

“They better be.”

Eddie takes his time browsing the stacks of tapes. He knows what’s here, he spends most of his time bothering Steve and Robin but Steve’s on break in the back and he wants the chance of seeing him before he leaves.

It’s another ten minutes of staring at Night of the Comet before the door to the back opens and Steve strolls out. He spots Eddie instantly and Eddie grabs the movie he’d been stalking with and heads for the counter.

“Hey,” Steve grins. “You finally returned your movies.”

He holds his hand out for the new tapes and Eddie goes still. His eyes wide as he takes in Steve’s hand.

“Your nails,” Eddie says, ignoring all semblance of a greeting. “They’re still painted.”

Steve glances down at his hands, laughs a little quiet and awkward. “Yeah, does it look weird on me?”

“No.” Eddie thought that it would. That Steve, perfectly put together Steve Harrrington, would look tarnished and sullied by Eddie with the black paint. That he would look tainted by all that Eddie is but… “I like it.”

“Oh,” Steve grins, drags Eddie movie choices closer to ring them up. “Me too, it’s kinda like having you around even when you’re not here.”

Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah.”

It’s just a little splash of black paint, but it makes Eddie want impossible things just to see it still there. He wants more of himself on Steve. His clothes, his rings, himself. He wants to cover Steve in the things that he loves, show everyone that this pretty and perfect boy is something that Eddie Munson treasures.

“Will you paint them again?” Steve asks without looking at him.

“I’ll paint them anytime you want,” Eddie says honestly. He hands over a few crumpled bills to pay as he remembers how easy the moment between them had been. How quiet and perfect. He would probably do anything for Steve Harrington and he’s not even embarrassed to admit that.

Steve’s smile is soft.

“Thanks,” he says and then holds the tapes out to Eddie. He glances over his shoulder at Robin who is doing her best to pretend she’s not watching them. Steve huffs and turns back to Eddie, lowers his voice and leans a little across the counter. “How about tonight?”

Eddie glances back down at Steve’s still perfect nails then up to Steve’s face, his dark eyes watching Eddie just as intently as they had two days ago. His nails don’t need to be touched up yet. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“Great,” Steve says, hand brushing Eddie’s as he hands over a receipt. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah, yes, I’ll be there,” Eddie stumbles over the words.

When Eddie leaves his head is a mess of want and confusion and hope. So much hope.

[emilylawsons]

HI I’M BACK AND I FINISHED SEASON 3 AND I HAVE THOUGHTS™️

Newsreader spoilers under the cut

Okay first: THE NEWSREADER IS ONE OF THE GREATEST TREASURES TO GRACE TELEVISION AND IT DELIVERED ON EVERYTHING

ANYWAY…

The open ending as far as Helen and Dale goes—my shipper heart is a little sad we didn’t get a more explicitly romantic ending for them BUT these two have so much healing to do, and it starts with being exactly where they are. Finding peace and happiness as individuals before they give themselves to any relationship. And I think, no matter what any fan was hoping for, they can take this ending and decide how it goes for them. (Also the loving way Helen spoke to him and looked at him while she was talking to him off air. 🥹) They’re both exactly where they need to be and in their element, and that’s what the audience has been rooting for since day one.

THE PARALLELS AND CONNECTIONS TO THE FIRST EPISODE IN THE LAST ONE. Dale singing Kyrie in the car. Helen taking Dale home and talking care of him and “coming up with a plan.” Fucking brilliant.

Helen’s journey this whole season—getting a diagnosis and coming to grips with it. Being resistant at first but coming around and COMMITTING to getting better even when it’s hard and she hates it—frickin’ facing the place where she was locked up and endured additional trauma. She truly came into her own, and I’m just continuously blown away by Anna Torv and how, in every single project she does, she puts so much care and thoughtfulness into how she portrays her characters and the difficult situations they face. And she’s just a fucking incredible actress. THE SCENE IN 3.03 AFTER SHE GOT HER DIAGNOSIS AND CALLED DALE BROKE ME. I don’t think anyone else could have portrayed Helen. I just don’t. And Helen’s arc was all the more satisfying because the writers/creators decided to trust their talent and make her just as much a part of the creative process.

And Dale…oh my boy Dale. Sam frickin’ Reid the actor you are. Dale’s character arc has to be one of the most intense and challenging I’ve ever seen on TV, and Sam probably had the hardest job. Dale’s breakdown? OH MY GOD. We always knew Dale needed to break. He would have to be driven to the brink to be human again. And, just like with Anna as Helen, there was no one more qualified to bring Dale Jennings to life. Holy shit. Incredible, meaty, deep storytelling happens when you have creatives with a vision and actors they’re on the same page with. Sam got it from day one, and he saw it through to the end.

But Helen and Dale, stars of the show they are, are not the only incredible arcs we got to see. THE SATISFACTION OF WATCHING LINDSAY CUNNINGHAM GET KICKED OUT ON HIS ASS AND DENNIS SITTING IN HIS SEAT. The stuff of legends. And not just Dennis getting his moment (which we absolutely saw coming after he clocked Lindsay last season), but JEAN FUCKING PASCOE yelling at him from across the newsroom. I clapped. I cheered. And you know, I even cheered a bit for Evelyn Walters in all of it. She’s out for herself and still doesn’t get it (and Geoff was far from a victim), but she stood when it counted. She took action on one good thing. And watching them all collectively work together to get Lindsay what he deserved? Delicious.

And then we’ve got my girl Noelene who also went through The Most™️ oh… She’s got so much to figure out about standing up for herself and what she wants, and Rob’s got so much growing to do to be a better husband and father. But she did stand up for herself. She stopped being afraid to tell people how she felt and what she needed. She called Rob out on his racist tendencies and opened up to him about her work/motherhood balance, and she called out Helen for using her like everyone else and overworking her, and they both listened. She has hope ahead of her, and it was beautiful to see.

A few other small notes:

The whole Dale/Kay dynamic was so strange, but it needed to happen. Her constant comparisons of him and Geoff helped fuel his necessary fall. And it served to show what a terrible place Dale was in.

Cheryl got married!!! Good for her 🩷

Fuck Bill, and congrats to Helen for being like “I’m not gonna be punished because I didn’t wanna fuck you”

Tim gets a well deserved love and happy ending!!!

I’m really happy they brought back Linus. What a treasure.

Overall, as sad as I am to see this show go, they delivered on all counts. Everything they said they would be, they were. Every arc, satisfying. Just so beautifully and masterfully done, and with love by everyone involved. 18 episodes of perfection. And if Michael Lucas and Emma Freeman ever produce another show together and hire Anna Torv and/or Sam Reid or any of the wonderful-across-the-board cast? I will get my VPN’s worth as an American and be there for it.