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lovebugism · 2 years ago

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hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you.

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write.

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it.

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve.

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped.

It’s a good kind of trapped, though.

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon.

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself.

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve.

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room.

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet.

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly.

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work.

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips.

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty.

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve.

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy.

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now.

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you.

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody.

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef.

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant.

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again.

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened.

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one.

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to.

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was.

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you.

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia.

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same.

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him.

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods.

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second.

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it.

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing.

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own.

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin.

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time.

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile.

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you.

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with.

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out.

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his.

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it.

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone.

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one.

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could.

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him.

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway.

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.”

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside.

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move.

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you.

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again.

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted.

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile.

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue.

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started.

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired.

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak.

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe.

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes.

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later.

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you.

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself.

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully.

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to.

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry.

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all.

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward.

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth.

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you.

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth.

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly.

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again.

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot.

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it.

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch.

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride.

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling.

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint.

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass.

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning.

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring.

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants.

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either.

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads.

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away.

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you.

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck.

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult.

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him.

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own.

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him.

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time.

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train.

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin.

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor.

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste.

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own.

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor.

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds.

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you.

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart.

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone.

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too.

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stevie oneshot #st oneshots #punchy x steve

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anika-ann · 4 months ago

Text

Ochranuj me (Protect Me) - S.R.

Part 1/2

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 8,6k

Summary: Your practice of magic is punishable by death. Your love is forbidden by law; and yet it has been blessed, more than he knows.

When the crown prince is poisoned, Knight Steven Rogers is faced with a choice: will he risk a war or the love of his life?

And what of you? If asked… shall you risk it all? For the lands where you live… for your knight?

Warnings: attempted murder, poisoning, blood, mentions of death, polytheism, mentions of pregnancy (reader/OFC), Slovak language ‘cause I can

A/N: Actual title is Ochraňuj mě (Protect Me) ...tumblr cannot handle a ň in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; fits after the events of the previous instalments

A/N 2: This is one less smut and more plot, forgive me 🤭 I hope you'll enjoy anyway. Yes, the Merlin inspo is real here. Inspo also from Bílá laň by Vesna. For music, check it out here, for visuals here.

Chodila, chodila za tebou bílá laň lásky se napila navzdory všem přísahám. Prosila pány lesa ať ji pustí za tebou zažít si, jaké to je jít za srdce ozvěnou.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Jako bílá laň svoji duši chraň, ať záři neztratíš.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Tak ať nepotká tě kříž. (kříž, kříž, kříž) - Bílá laň by Vesna

Boisterous laugh. Wine poured in gallons painting cheeks nearly just as ruddy as the warmth of the torches illuminating the high halls of the Starkerbürg castle painted the walls. Rich aroma of butter, oils, meats and spices flowing in the air, clinking of the most precious silverware and a distant sound of flutes as the musicians tasked to raise the already high spirits could be barely heard over the noise of the feast.

Under the watchful eye of the gods or the only God it was now believed there was, a celebration of peace was raving, everything but peaceful and serene; loud and overwhelming instead, a whirlwind of emerald green threaded with gold welcomed by the steady colours of rich crimson and gold. An anniversary of the peace made between the kingdom of Asgard and Starkerbürg, a party led by Thor Odinson, the king of the lands, honouring the deal his late father King Odin had made right before his passing.

The high table with King Howard sitting at the centre, his son Anthony, the crown prince, by his right, along with the woman he was courting, Pepper of the Potts; on her right, King Howard’s daughter, Princess Morgana. On the king’s left, the guests of honour; King Thor, his wife Queen Jane, and his brother Prince Loki. Knights and warriors of the highest ranks, lords and ladies of nobility joining the celebrations, servants all but running around the hall to tend to everyone’s needs.

Then, a sound of a chalice hitting the stone floor, one that would have been met with more laughter, had it not fallen from Prince Anthony’s hand, suddenly scarily pale and trembling. Cold to touch too, a terrifying contrast to his burning forehead glistening with sweat. Body sliding down the chair, barely even faint frantic motions to his chest.

Brief, deafening silence.

The traitorous calm before a storm would hit and leave nothing but death and destruction in its wake.

Chaos.

Swords drawn.

A wave of threats of violence.

A thundering voice of the King of Starkerbürg himself.

Calls for the royal physician Banner.

Images of peace and joy shattered; a single inconspicuous calm face among the sea of others in the face of a tragedy in making.

“Poison. I cannot determine what kind as of yet. Carry His Royal Majesty to his chambers!” the physician called out, not bothered by the fact he was ordering around knights and other nobility. “At once! There is no time to spare!”

Knights practically tripping over each other to tend to their prince, to their future ruler, to their brother in arms even as by rank he stood high above them. Rustle and grunts; a whisper of skirts as the culprit slipped away in the midst of disarray and cries of fear for the prince and the future of both kingdoms alike.

To think that an attack at the crown happening during the presence of a party of another kingdom – one similarly strong – was but a coincidence, would have been foolishly naïve.

Oh there were no such coincidences; this was but the first step towards a war.

And the perpetrator would be treated with that in mind.

“Aconite, most likely,” sounded the verdict, the words solemn on the physician’s lips as he fearfully raised his gaze to the King hovering over his shoulder as he inspected the second most important patient of the kingdom at the royal chambers.

The dark note in Banner’s voice snapped Steven from the haze as he, Sir Barnes, Sir Barton and Sir Wilson stood along the walls of Anthony’s chambers, tall and menacing, but just as helpless as Prince Anthony’s betrothed seated in the corner.

Whatever poison the physician was talking about, it was not known to Steven; but the message written in Banner’s expression was clear as day and terrifying like a night to be spent in the woods with rumoured presence of ghouls.

Inevitable death.

It was true that King Howard Stark might have yet to comprehend, despite his long years of ruling his lands, that one might catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, gain more by threading his actions with kindness than by spitting threats of violence; but he was no fool. He perceived the solemnity of the announcement and received it with a shadow over his already distorted features.

“This… aconite, Banner. What kind of a poison is that?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, but not bending. Not under the weight on the crown on his head, nor under the weight of the tidings he might be scared to receive. His face was but a mask of stern indifference; a silent warning to Banner to choose his next words carefully.

As if stating the patient’s condition was a choice, Steven thought darkly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage as he exchanged glances with his best friend standing by his side. When he looked back at the physician, he could see him swallow dryly even from the several feet distance. Yet, the brave man faced the King with his head held high and his expression filled with sorrow.

“A deadly kind, Your Royal Majesty,” Banner said slowly. Rage flashed on the King’s face, Steven’s stomach dropping at both the sight and the worst tidings brought. Death. “It is made from the nectar-filled blossoms or the tubers of the Aconitum lycoctonum flower. There is… no cure known to man.”

A sniffle sounded in the corner of the room, completely ignored except for Sir Barton’s compassionate glance towards the woman who was on the brink of despair at the mere thought of the man she had clearly already learned to love leaving this world forever.

The King beckoned to the guards standing by the door, making them instantly step forward with their spears ready, heading for Banner menacingly.

Steven’s feet twitched as he wanted to step forward to protect the physician, outrage rising at the injustice even as fear twisted his stomach.

Sir Barnes brushed his hand discreetly to stop him.

Steven gritted his teeth, but stayed put for now, watching the scene unfold with disdain.

Sir Barnes was correct in one thing: Anthony being poisoned and having his life hanging on a thread was horrible enough, and rash decisions and actions such as standing up to the King would only make it worse.

A raging man was an unwise man; and the King was only a man too, even as he compared himself to various deities and had nearly as much power as them – which only rendered him more dangerous. There was no point in scaring the physician to death or even hurting him, but such was the King’s power. Such was his God-given right to punish whoever as he pleased. It mattered little that Banner could barely be blamed for-

-for the crown prince’s impending death, apparently.

“Then I advise you, Banner, to find one fast,” King Howard sneered as the guards stood behind the physician now. “Otherwise, you shall meet the same fate as whoever of Asgard dared to try and rob me of my son.”

The guards grabbed the man’s shoulders and Steven’s hand instinctively went for his sword again; and he was not the only one. Still, the knights stood, hesitant to disobey their King even in the face of the glaring injustice, fighting an inner battle between honour and goodness of heart and the oath they had taken. Their loyalty was to the kingdom and the King represented it most of all, after all; even if he seemed to threaten it the most of all, too, at the moment.

Well, not on Steven’s watch.

“Wait!” he called out as he stepped forward, earning a hard glare from the King himself that should have told him to keep quiet and fall in line, but he could not. Not even for Bucky’s audible sigh behind him. Not when-

“Is there anything we can do for him as of now, is what we are trying to ask,” Sir Wilson spoke up before Steven could, moving to stand next to him.

Steven took a deep breath as his gaze flickered to his comrade, finding his face arranged in a carefully crafted humbleness – as it should be in the face of the ruler even when he was addressing the physician.

Banner’s words were kind, his voice firm and regretful.

“I am afraid there isn’t, good Sir.”

“The Royal Guard and all the knights have a clear mission given by the crown, Sir Wilson,” the King barked as he gestured for the physician to be dragged away, the poor man allowing it without a protest. King Howard’s gaze fell on his son’s pale face as he lied on the bed with nothing but soundless whimpers on his lips, before he snapped back to the four knights present. “Arrest all servants and nobility of Asgard. I shall have the King and his brother for myself. And should my son meet his forefathers, I shall have their heads on a spike by tomorrow.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and stepped out, his leave abruptly followed by Anthony’s wife-to-be rushing to her betrothed’s side, cheeks damp with tears.

Steven regarded the scene unfolding, frozen with horror and unease greater than anyone.

He feared the death of his friend, naturally, as they had just dragged the one single person with any chance of curing Anthony in the whole kingdom away from his bedside.

But Steven feared a lot more deaths too. Should Prince Anthony die, King Howard would unleash pure hell on Asgard and as a consequence, on all Starkerbürg as well.

All the knights knew that; everyone knew that. They all had a heavy feeling in their stomach at the mere thought, their feet slow and unwilling as they left the chambers one by one. Yet, Steven’s heart was heavier.

The thought had occurred to him when he had wondered what exactly the King was expecting from Banner.

To turn back time so the prince had never got poisoned?

To pray to the gods for a miracle?

To perform a miracle himself and cure what was considered uncurable?

The last idea had squeezed his heart in an icy fist, nausea clawing up his throat.

He knew someone who could achieve things as close to a miracle as possible in this realm. He had felt such miracle in his own blood, tissue and cells; he had felt the wonders strong magic was capable of when in the hands of the kind-hearted. He was still breathing solely because of it; and he knew the person who could achieve this closely, intimately even, mind, body and soul, the depth of the goodness of her heart.

Perhaps you would be able to replicate the feat of saving Steven from certain death.

Perhaps your magic was powerful enough to save thousands lives by saving one. Powerful enough to prevent a war.

But hope and miracles were not to be trifled with. Magic was not to be trifled with. Being seen practising magic meant a definite death sentence.

But would it? If it saved the future king’s life?

Surely, he couldn’t risk it; he couldn’t risk your life. Of all the things he had seen in his life, of all the things he had ever had the fortune to hold, you were the most precious one to him. If he brought you here, he could lose you. He could lose you, by his own hand no less, and that would be the highest price to pay for peace he did not even know would settle or not in the end.

No.

That was the one price he couldn’t pay. He’d much rather pay with his own life – but not yours. Gods, never yours.

But if you only could… knew a potion, could do anything at all…

As he marched with his comrades to arrest the innocent – for it could not be the work of all Asgardians at once – his jaw was tense, the dilemma occupying all his thoughts, feeling like it might tear him in half.

Until it hadn’t.

If he did nothing, the war was be inevitable. If he did nothing, he would lose you anyway.

A raging man was a dangerous man and King Stark would burn the world in the wake of his anger and grief, heedless of whoever would burn with it.

Steven stopped dead in his tracks, Sir Barnes nearly colliding with him as a result.

“Steve, what the-“

“I must go,” Steven said in a hushed voice, swiftly changing direction; or attempting to. Sir Barnes’ hand was quick to grab onto his elbow, stopping him, heedless of other knights continuing their path.

“Steve, what in heavens do you mean by that?”

“I must fetch someone. I believe she could help.”

Sir Barnes bewilderment would perhaps be almost comical had it not been for the dread pooling cold in Steven’s gut.

“…she? What—the woman you have been sneaking off to see?” Sir Barnes enquired, causing a startled and utterly confused expression to appear on Steven’s face, a small alarmed sound pushing past the man’s lips despite his effort to remain composed.

Hold on, hold on-- Bucky knew?!

The look Steven received back was unimpressed at best – of course Bucky knew. He knew Steven almost better than he knew himself.

“Save the surprise for another day. How could she possibly help? Is she a physician’s assistant? Or even an apprentice for some insane reason?”

Had Steve had the capacity, he’d glare at Bucky for the offensive tone with which he had asked the question; however, he did not have it and in the brief moment he spent pondering, he realized that Bucky was not opposed to the idea itself. It was simply the ways of Starkerbürg: to try and take a woman as a physician’s apprentice was insane indeed. King had the God-given right to appoint physicians – and King Howard would certainly never approve of a female one.

But that didn’t matter, because that was not who you were.

“She’s… she is a healer.”

“A healer?” Sir Barnes echoed pointedly, doubt colouring his words. “What does than even mean? We do not have time for this.”

Steven huffed, trying to tug his arm free from Sir Barnes’ grasp as his impatience grew along with the number of doubts whether it was ever a good idea to consider your aid; but there were no options. No time to search for them. No time to waste and no time for finesse. He needed to go and he needed Bucky to understand – and more than that.

“She saved my life, Bucky. Back when I fell from the crags into the river… when you thought I was dead-“

“You must have been lucky, fell into deep water. You had superficial injuries. This is a poison. One the best physician of the court claims to have no antidote for.”

Steven swallowed thickly, the heaviest of feelings in his stomach as he chose to reveal his greatest secret as to make a point and be released to act before it’d be too late. “Bucky, I had much more than superficial injuries. She… she helped then. She might be able to help now, but… I will need your help with protecting her should it come to it.”

Bucky looked at Steve as if he had just grown a second head, glancing around nervously as guards and knights alike kept passing them, casting strange looks at them for their stillness. Sir Barnes lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“Are you saying you were wounded much worse and yet she was able to tend to you? In such short time that you were missing then? And that she might be able to help here, now, with a poison that has no known cure?” Sir Barnes demanded hastily, bewildered and clearly irritated. “Are you hearing yourself, Steven? What kind of a healer would she have to be to-“

The almost sardonic voice suddenly fell silent, all blood draining from Sir Barnes’ face when the horrifying realization finally dawned to him. His hand fell limp, finally releasing Steven’s arm.

“Steve, this is not a subject for joking.”

Steven swallowed heavily, heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his temples. He shouldn’t have told – but he had to. He had to, right? Bucky needed to understand-

He sighed quietly, whole body strung tight in expectation of his friend exploding in rage – rage he had no time for.

“I am not joking. And you are right, we are losing precious time, I should-”

The sudden grip on Steven’s his shoulder, appearing as to stop him from leaving, was much more brutal than the hold on his elbow had been, fingers digging into flesh even over the layers of clothing.

“You— have you been… lying with a--”

Steven’s voice was quiet, but as sharp and dangerous as the sword resting in the sheath on his hip. “Choose your words carefully, Bucky. That is the woman I love and owe my life to. I would die for her, and I would not have been standing here had she not healed me.”

“That could be exactly what she wants you to think!” Sir Barnes sputtered. Steven fought the urge to roll his eyes – the absurdity of such statement was glaring.

“Oh for heavens-- I might be a fool sometimes, but I am not an idiot-”

“Debatable!” Sir Barnes whispered as madly as if he was in fact yelling. “As you’re proving it this very moment!”

Steven shook his head, the feeling in his gut growing more gnawing by the second, every frantic beat of his heart feeling like a waste of precious time.

“Bucky, you said it yourself – we do not have time for this! I must go. I will get her, but… please. Help me protect her if the King is blind to the fact she uses--- it to do good.”

Sir Barnes simply stared back, the halls empty by now as much as his gaze, however inquiring.

The grip on Sir Rogers’ arm loosened.

Silence stretched. Precious second ticked by, grains of sand in hourglass no one could turn back falling; and with each and every one, Steve’s stomach tightened further with creeping horror.

Surely his most precious, most loyal friend, having been standing by his side since childhood, would not abandon him now? Surely he would not betray him in moments that might be deciding his fate, the fate of his beloved, of the whole kingdom?

“Bucky, please. I swear-- I’m begging you. I need to-- I need to protect her. At any cost.”

“What of your sword?” Sir Barnes asked dully, appearing indifferent to Steven’s desperate pleas.

What of your knighthood? Are you willing to give up that, if you are forced to leave in the darkness of the night and never return to bring your beloved to safety? Are you willing to leave the path of the honorary knight to become a lawless fugitive?

The smile which found its way to the corners of Steve’s lips was soft; sad and torn, for it was the greatest honour to serve, to protect, to help. He had been and always would be grateful for the rare chance he had got.

But there was no greater blessing of the gods themselves than you having entered his life and taking it by the most beautiful of storms. He loved you. He loved you more than anything and anyone in this world and that was what he would not even dream of giving up.

He didn’t respond with words; and yet, the exasperation on his closest friend’s face told him he did not have to. Sir Barnes understood from Steven’s expression alone. He always had.

“Gods, Steven Grant of Rogers, of all stunts you could have pulled to get yourself hanged, you truly had to go and chose the most foolish one. My God- Steven…”

Most foolish one? Echoed in Steven’s head, the words absurd. No. The most gorgeous one, the purest one, the most blessed, he allowed himself to muse. The most honourable one too, no? Love. Where was justice, if love, the purest emotions of all, was considered a crime? Did the new religious teachings not speak of love being kind, patient, knowing no dishonour and wrongs?

That was how he loved you. Wholly and entirely, kindly, patiently, even if passionately.

It was only then when Steven snapped from his haze and finally noticed a trace of hurt on Sir Barnes’ face when it occurred to him why Bucky had taken so long to respond. He was cross with Steven; but not as much for the alleged crime, but for having kept it a secret. Keeping you a secret; the one closest to his heart, his beloved, hidden from the one person he had always trusted with anything.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. No one could know. She’s-- she is too precious. I had to protect her,” he explained softly, urgently. “And I still do. I will, with your help or without it. But… please.”

Sir Barnes continued to regard him, stunned into silence still, expression unreadable.

Then, he shook his head; what might seem as disagreement however, Steve recognized as resignation. He had known Bucky for too long to not be able to decipher which shake of a head was a no and which was an expression of indignation and regret at his own choice of a best friend.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

And with those words, Steve took his hasty leave, his minute relief drowned in the sea of worry when he sneaked into the stables to rush through the gates of the castle, claiming to be running a King’s errand.

Seeking his closeness the pretty white doe having sipped at love all despite her oath, she begged the forest spirits to let her go to follow her heart and its eternal song.

Light breeze caressing your hair like the tender fingers of your lover, brushing away a lose strand from your face. Gentle September sunrays of a late afternoon warming your cheeks, long leaves of grass tickling your ankles and your hands as you gathered brownwort, thyme and lady’s mantle, the smell almost too much despite its pleasant notes. Your hand instinctively laying over your belly as the reminder of why you were gathering these particular herbs blossomed in your mind anew, a smile settling on your face. It was not just the time of year blessing people with abundance of these flowers, a nature’s reminder the time was coming to bath in the blessed lake on the Autumn equinox; it was the sweet secret humming under your heart too, growing stronger and more beautiful by day – and slightly bittersweet for for now, it was only yours to keep, your beloved knight none the wiser.

Steven.

The very reason, you suspected, for the heavy feeling in your heart; the reason why none of the kind offerings of mother nature seemed to sooth a jittery feeling you had woken with up from your restless sleep. Unease had been crawling over your skin; a solemnity’s shadows, despite the beautiful weather and the joyful morning realisation that a barely noticeable bump was now showing on your body, a testament to the blessings of love.

The sky was beginning to colour with sunset with no clouds in sight; and yet, you could feel a storm coming, one you did not feel would be of the refreshing purifying kind. The air did not smell of rain; if you breathed in deeply, it reeked of the very death the wind seemed to whisper about in the tallest of birch trees. A warning; a witch’s intuition tuned to the finest hints of the gods of nature and forest spirits. You had tried to sooth yourself, coaxing yourself into peace by wondering if it perhaps was but a new future mother’s anxiety.

Yet, an instinct as old as time whispered to you to know better.

Which was why the wild stomping of hooves nearing your cabin should have not taken you by surprise. But it did.

You rose from your crouch so fast your head span, gathered flowers falling from your hands at the brief faint sensation; you steadied yourself just as Steven’s horse came into view, slowing into a walk as not to startle you or crush all the blossoms on the meadow.

The silent thank you to the gods for seeing your love alive and well left your lips without prompting, followed by your spine tingling with a shudder of power at its base.

Almost as if the gods blessed you for your genuine gratitude and gifted you with strength. Strength you shall no doubt need, for Steven might be living and breathing, dismounting his mare in a thousand-times practised manner, breathtaking as ever, but the distress on his face and the tension of his wide shoulders told you those shoulders carried the weight of the world at the moment.

Feet waking with motion, you met him halfway as he rushed to you, his arms quick to embrace you lovingly but so tight all air left your ribcage for long moments. Steven’s heart thundered against your ear as you hid your face against his chest. Fresh air had washed his clothes of most smells, but sweat and wine and rich spices still enveloped your senses, a tell-tale signs of the feast which he had told you about being interrupted by something vicious.

Yet, you took precious moments of simply breathing your lover in, basking in the comfort his arms offered no matter the circumstance.

He nuzzled his face in your hair, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, a steadying breath which made his heart race faster, as if attempting to outrun the very storm you had felt arriving.

You ran your hands down his broad back, feeling your own heart leaping into your throat as the silence between you, often so sweet and comforting, stretched ominously.

“Steven… love,” you whispered, attempting to shift in his embrace, only achieving his hold growing firmer, his muscles almost shaking with effort not to let go.

Oh Steven… What a terrible feat had been laid upon him?

“What has happened?”

Finally releasing your body, his hands were quick to cradle your face instead, achingly gentle, even as his eyes roamed your face wordlessly, brimming with so much emotion it stirred your unease further.

“Rytier moj?”

Steven’s face softened minutely, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as tenderly as butterfly wings despite the power – or the lack of it – in his grip.

“My love…”

Lips curling in a tiny smile, you mirrored Steven’s affection, reaching to settle your palm against his cheek, fingers of your other hand carding through his hair; your heart fluttered when he leaned into your touch, a wavering breath escaping his lips before they pressed against your palm to sooth the scratch of his beard against your skin.

Despite the dulcet image he made, eyes fluttering close for a blissful moment of nothing but love shared, you felt his body pulse with anxious urgency seemingly seeping into yours through your fingertips.

“I did not sleep well…” you confessed, his already pursed lips turning down. “I had a heavy feeling in me. Now I know the gods had not warned me simply for their own whims. What’s happened?”

Steven opened his eyes again; with a single caress of the breeze, he straightened, his aura of a knight – a fierce protector, a loyal friend, a humble determined servant – returning with its full force as did his worry.

“I need your help.”

A simple plea.

A simple answer.

“Always, rytier moj. Anything,” you promised.

One would expect relief to fill your lover’s features; instead, dread twisted them into a frown of dismay. Almost as if he had been hoping for your rejection.

Why?

The whisper of death among the trees grew louder, haunting, sending such a shudder through your body not even your lover’s warmth could hope to protect you from it, another urgent question scratching at the back of your mind.

Death, the trees seemed to whisper.

Whose death?

“Oh bosorka moja…”

Not Steven’s. Never. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

And not your child’s. You’d claw a throat open with your bare hands had anyone tried to take them away. Take her away. You had dreamed two nights prior, dreamed of a girl with Steven’s beautiful eyes and your hair caressed by the wind, her laughter filling the air as he sat her on his shoulders and she placed the daisy crown on his head-

The image had been so full of hope, so bright, so full of promise; it battled the current scent of death fiercely, one blending into another, and it felt like you were stood in the middle.

Your choice. Your power.

Your victory; or your loss.

You gulped, your gentle hold on Steven’s face growing shaky; with fear or the weight of responsibility, you weren’t sure.

“What is it, love? You are worrying me… come in. Tell me what weights down your-“

“Prince Anthony has been poisoned,” he said at last.

The whisper of the wind seemed to turn into a screech of a gale, even as the tree leaves and grass barely rustled.

The Prince… was he the one whose death you felt impending? It must have been.

In a split second, it became so clear why Steven was so shaken.

An impending death of his brother in arms. Of someone whom he served and appreciated.

Of the future ruler; quite possibly caused by the attempts of the party of Asgard.

An act of war.

Should Prince Anthony die, there would be no stopping at one death. Devastating number of lives could be lost. Including Steven’s.

No. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

But could you stop it?

Stood in the middle. Your choice. Your power.

Could you prevent a war?

Your mind was set into a whirl, various herbs and remedies for different poisonings refreshed in your mind.

“Do you know which poison it was?” you asked urgently, dropping your hands; and confused as why Steven’s remained firmly on your face, his expression speaking of pain greater than before. “Steven, love. What are his troubles? I can send a potion, pass it as a remedy from a physician-”

“Burning feeling in his forehead, weakness of muscles, trembling, cold sweat… he fainted and could not be woken up, only for a brief moment. He had trouble speaking, began to shake, fainted again...” Steven listed slowly, his unease growing with every word.

And so did yours.

Determination bled out from your body drop by drop, replaced by dread, the very weakness your lover was talking about as if settling in your own muscles and bones.

“The physician believes it might have been... aconite?” he added.

You had figured as much, seemingly endless moments before Steven spoke the dreaded word.

Aconite.

The worst nightmare of all living things; the deadliest daydream of those who meant harm and would not stop until their enemy released their last breath.

Death, screeched the breeze in the crowns of the birch trees; the yew trees, the very symbol of passing, joining in.

Death. War. Death.

Your power. Your victory. Your loss.

Your voice shook more frantically than young aspen leaves in the wind.

“Steven… aconite is deadly. I have no potion or salve for this. There is no cure-”

“That is what physician Banner said.”

“But then what…”

Your voice trailed off, words stuck in your throat, air stolen from your chest. A lighting from clear skies could struck you at the very moment and you would barely take notice of such.

It all made sense now. You having lost sleep. The whispers of death. The assumed shiver of power you shall no doubt need. And at last, Steven’s almost palpable dismay when you had said you’d help. That you’d do anything.

He had hoped you’d help.

He was terrified of it all the same.

You could feel blood draining from your face, rushing past your ears; unspeakable horror and determination swept you like the non-existent gale in the tree crowns.

“Steven…”

His grip on your face grew firmer, unsteady but urgent, his forehead pressed against yours as his eyes slid shut, his whisper a frantic promise, a confession and a prayer at once.

“I know. Believe me, my love, I know, and I have never been more scared of anything in my whole life,” he said huskily, barely audible over the wild thundering of your heart, the shaky sound of your quick breaths, even as the rest of the world faded into background, all noise ceasing. Or perhaps even the sparrows forgot how to sing, struck by fear for their life.“I would have not asked this of you if I did not fear that Anthony’s death would unleash a war with Asgard and might destroy us all… and if I did not believe I could protect you.”

“Steven-“

A thumb over your lip, gently pressing to silence your protest, Steven guided you to look up to his eyes, every word falling from his lips an oath signed by his own blood.

“Bosorka moja… I shall protect you, no matter the cost. You must know I would lay my life for you. I will, should it come to it. As long as you are safe.”

Consumed by adoration and terror at once, you slipped from Steven’s hold, shaking your head.

He had not the slightest idea what he was speaking of, the reckless fool.

He had no idea.

And he had no idea whom he would be leaving should he deliver on his terrible promise.

“These words are not nearly as comforting as you believe them to be! How would we-- how would I live without you?” you lamented, feeling the fire of power and indignation burn inside of you, chasing the fear away for several beats of your heart. “And I-- I am not even sure I can heal him.”

“You healed me,” Steven offered kindly, encouraging, confusion and the softest trace of hurt at you having escaped his touch twisting his face. He had no idea. He had no idea at all. “You said I was at the brink of death myself-“

“You were,” you spat, not appreciating the reminder – not of his injuries, nor of your past recklessness, as grateful as you were for the latter, not a single regret in your mind for having risked it all to save the handsome stranger with goodness etched into his very soul, having shone so bright it had outshined your doubts and fear for your life. But this was different. So much circumstance had changed. “But I was… I had faith in your soul, saw your good heart. I believed to be safe from you should I be too weak to protect myself after I casted my spells, and for that, I was able to pour all my magic into the healing. And I-- I was much more careless with my power then… “

You made a pause, inhaling slowly, gathering courage in the face of Steven’s features twisting further with distress.

“But Steven… that was before. I-- before we-“

“What is it, bosorka moja? Before what?”

Your lower lip trembled, regret lacing the soft touch of your fingertips to his face.

This was not how you wished for him to find out. You had told him before, erased his memory to ease his conscience and to prepare for the right moment, a moment fit for such joyful tidings; but much like him, having rushed here asking for help despite the unspeakable risks, you had no other option.

You had no choice.

You had no time.

The deep-sea blue with a forest green shade of his irises brimmed with emotion, tenderness and silent question.

With a lump in your throat, you dropped your hands again, curling them around your middle as if to protect the secret and save it for a reverent moment your love and lover – and your child – would have deserved.

Steven regarded your stance with dread visibly climbing up his throat. You could see it in his eyes, the sudden uncertainty, the questions written in his eyes growing frantic and painful.

Why had you stepped back from him? Why had you evaded his touch? Why did you seem taken by sorrow? What secret had you been keeping from him? For you must have had some. You must have not told him something crucial – and in a dark time like this, it shall come to light.

You appeared so shaken; you appeared scared. Of something he had failed to protect you from?

Or of his reaction to the revelation?

You chose your words carefully, speaking them slowly, even though you could feel him hanging onto every syllable.

“It is not only me anymore who needs to be protected.”

Steven did not understand; that much was clear from his expression, from the step he took closer to you only for you to take a step back, etching his hurt deeper into his face.

“I… I do not understand, my love. Do you have—do you know of someone who could help you? Do they need protection too?”

The they tasted of poison much bitterer than aconite; disbelief and profound pain.

You could almost hear it, the absurd questions he seemed to be asking himself. Was there… was there someone else? Someone else who had earned your love more fiercely than he had? More deserving?

The way your love remained hidden, the distance he still had to keep, laid heavy in his mind, always, now feeding his doubt; his fear that someone else now occupied the space he had so selfishly taken up in your heart.

But had only been here mere days ago, yes? Surely you could have not--- you would have not… or had you? No. That wasn’t possible. You were the kindest most loving person he had ever met, loyal to a fault – and he was blessed to be yours, to be loved, unconditionally, more than he deserved for keeping you his little secret.

You could not read thoughts; but Steven’s always seemed to be laid bare in front of you to card through. Betrayal and resignation all at once, jaw tight to mask his hurt, to hide the very doubt you read so clearly. Doubt, but not of you; of him. He had always carried it with him, the guilt of not providing for you as he imagined he should for his beloved.

Doubt, crystal clear in his gaze. It was possible, was it not? The most wonderful woman he had ever met, finally fed up, the goblet of your patience finally having overflowed, deciding to find a man worthy of you, able to take care of you, truly, one you were willing to-

You could not bear his mind screaming anymore, even as you had not heard a single word, a single thought, all of it but achy questions expressed by his gaze alone.

“No, Steven, I do not--- I merely cannot only think of myself now,” you said softly, searching for words to reveal the secret at last, not, not wanting to and craving it all the same. “I… I need to protect us.”

His shoulders sagged, doubt and heartache erased at once, tenderness at your worry for him melting into his smile.

“Do not fret, bosorka moja. I can hold my own.”

The faint smile in the corner of your mouth hurt, tears burning in your eyes.

“I know, rytier moj… and yes, I meant us, but I--- I also meant us.”

The arm you had curled around your middle shifted. Your palm spread pointedly over your belly as you met his gaze with hesitance and silent hope; for as much as you dreaded revealing the source of your worst fear, the tidings were still joyful. And you hoped with the entirety of your heart that Steven would accept them as such, much like the first time.

But first, he had to comprehend them.

Several rushed beats of your heart it took him; but then he finally did.

Suddenly, it was his turn to stand still and rigid as if a lightning from the perfectly clear skies struck him. And it might have as well.

His voice was barely louder than a breath, hoarse, laced with careful hope despite the glaring truth.

“You—we- are we-?”

A crystal-clear memory of those being the very words he had spoken the first time entered your mind, a single tear spilling over; the awe and reverence on his face mirrored his expression all the same as you confirmed.

“Yes.”

“You are with a child? My child?”

It would have been amusing, the questions, if you hadn’t been on a brink of hysteria and hadn’t there been a metaphorical sword hanging above your heads while you indulged in revealing the sweetest secret there was between lovers.

“Yes.”

Countless grains of sand in hourglass fell, Steven simply observing you, his gaze feasting on the entirety of you with newfound emotion that touched your very soul and made it shiver with delight. He observed you with such adoration and devotion you could only imagine he would show to a deity descending to walk the Earth.

And then he was surging forward, falling on his knees in front you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapping around your lower back to keep you close as he laid his forehead on your belly, shaky, slow and careful; nothing short of reverent. Despite the circumstance, all the tears prickling in your eyes found their release – every inch of your body sang, feeling Steven’s love for both you and the life he had a generous hand in creating.

“Oh bosorka moja… láska moja,” he muttered into the fabric before he looked up, hesitant fingers slipping under, to feel the very bump you had only noticed today. His lips parted in mute awe, eyes turning glassy with sheer delight and wonder at the miracle.

You allowed yourself another moment of basking in his love; feeling the delight spreading through every vein, through every bone and nerve, all the way to your very core and source of power. Your hands found gentle purchase of Steven’s hair as his lips pressed to your belly.

But then, the inaudible crackle in the air brought you both from your reverie, the breeze screeching of death instead of new life returning.

There was no choice; dread filled your being along with a haunting whisper of opportunity from a voice speaking in tongues you barely understood and yet deciphered as guidance.

You must go. You must try. Despite the risks.

Stood in the middle. Your power. Your victory; your loss.

Your only hope and your possible doom.

“I shall try my best to help, even as I do not know if I will be able to. But Steven…” you addressed him softly, revealing one more piece, one more source of joy, “our little girl must remain safe at any cost.”

The hands sprawled around your middle twitched, a single tear escaping him as his eyes shone.

“Our--- a girl? How-“

“It is but a feeling,” you admitted, earning a brilliant smile which lasted too shortly.

You smiled tightly in return, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks as Steven’s hand softly caressed your barely-there bump again, butterflies seemingly to erupting in your stomach, your heart humming.

He rose to his feet with something in his eyes turning steely, his gentle voice once against taking on a heaviness of an oath.

“I will protect you both, even if it should be the last thing I will ever do.”

One wavering breath was all the luxury you granted yourself before springing into action, not allowing yourself to lament at the potential of death weaved into Steven’s promise. You could not afford any more distraction. The hourglass was unrelenting, rushing you.

“I know. We shall get going.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a mute confusion as you ruminated through the cabinets, the fire lit, a small pot placed on it, two handfuls of water, milk thistle, ginseng roots, and sprinkle of uncaria leaves added to the mix.

“You can sit down, love, I shall only complete the potion swiftly and we will be on our way,” you assured him, reaching for a pinch of turmeric to add.

Steven did not, in fact, sit down – if anything, you could feel him grow taller behind you, as if his growing bewilderment added an inch or two to his already impressive height. His stare was firmly set on you, a little burning and slightly insulting since you could almost hear his silent questioning of your sanity.

A potion? But you had said-

You looked over your shoulder briefly, your lover’s body nearer than expected, causing you to need to crane you neck a bit.

“No, there is no potion to neutralise the poison – but this remedy strengthens a body, aids it to fight off an infection and weakness,” you explained, expecting Steven’s face clearing, but not waiting for it do so, busying yourself with reading the mental list of ingredients, recalling every indispensable element. Milk thistle, ginseng, uncaria leaves, turmeric… ah. Yes. Where herbs were concerned, rare or common, that would be all. Only one last ingredient.

A gentle hand on your elbow stopped you as you were turning to the stack of knives, halting your movements tenderly but firmly. Blinking, you lifted your gaze to Steven’s face again, disconcerted by his unreadable expression.

“Is it… safe?”

Had it not been for the large distress he was in, the feeling oozing of him and adding to your own shakiness, had it not been for the tenderness of his touch, you’d feign a slap to chase his hand away at the almost silly question – and at the sudden doubt in your knowledge and power and your reign over it.

“Steven, love, my apologies for the bluntness, but Prince Anthony is on his deathbed, so I cannot very well hurt him further and I shall have you known that this very potion you have drunk yourself-”

“For you,” he clarified, two soft syllables in contrast to your slightly exasperated words, your voice falling silent as sweet worry reflected in his sky-blue irises. Despite the circumstance, your heart seared at the fussing, no matter how groundless and ironic. “I am asking whether it is safe for you and our… our child to prepare that. I know it may seem irrational given why I am here, but-“

It was, you had to admit. And yet. You spent a precious moment, precious grains of sand falling in the ominous hourglass above your heads, placing your palm over his hand, reassuring.

“It is perfectly safe, rytier moj… certainly no more dangerous than rushing to the castle, the very heart of the Kingdom, and attempt to save the prince using the most outlawed practice in these lands,” you added with an unsteady cheekiness, earning an exasperated glare; and a full body shudder he couldn’t hope to contain.

The same tremble ran through your body; and yet, the whisper for caution was overshadowed by a tingle of energy unknown, a wordless encouragement. Almost a haunting promise from the Fate itself that bravery shall be rewarded.

But if that were true, where would the ever-present whispers of death and upcoming end fit in the mosaic then?

Shaking your head as well as the overwhelmingly bewildering sensations off, you charmed a soft smile for your lover and love – for the father of your child, already caring so deeply for the life to be born out of your love – and let your hand fall, turning back to your work as stream began to fill the cabin.

One last ingredient; a life essence to help maintain life.

You cradled the handle of the blade carefully in your hand, turning your other palm against the tip; the knife was out of your hand before you could comprehend how, pressed flat to Steven’s thigh, shielded from your touch.

“I’m sorry. I--- is that necessary?” Steven asked with a painful edge to his voice, his continued concern causing your heart to tremble.

“Yes… it is but a drop of blood, my love, I promise. A speckle of life essence to maintain life.”

His frown deepened as you reached for the knife again, fingers brushing his soothingly as you grasped at the handle. So many emotions played over his features; hesitance, concern, guilt. He must have realised you had used your blood before to cure him before you had even learned his name, another sacrifice having been made aside from having left yourself completely vulnerable to him when you had drained your magic and body alike to bring him from the death’s doorstep where you had found him at.

Then, an almost shy question, as if he felt too bold to even suggest such heretic thought.

“Life essence… would mine suffice, then?”

Where his implication was shy – that his mere mortal, human blood could match yours, the blood of a born witch – his determination was not.

He met your eye, a brilliant satisfied sparkle lighting up his irises when he read the truth in your hesitant gaze.

“Yes… it would. But-“

Your knight offered his left palm outstretched, no further questions. The bottomless trust in his gesture and in his eyes caused a lump to grow in your throat; the mere idea of cutting him, even if it was to only be but a scratch, had ache sting deep within your ribcage.

“Are you cert-“

“Would you rather I lead the cut myself, love?” he asked, his voice tender upon your hesitance, understanding the action would cause you pain – as if you were to hurt yourself instead.

And you might as well.

Your hands were made to heal his wounds, not cause them; your hands were made to erase his aches, not bring them; your hands were made to love, not hurt.

Your read in his gentle gaze as he nearly read in yours: I despise the thought of hurting you, rytier moj; It is but alright, bosorka moja.

You shook your head.

“I-- no. I may do it. I apologize, we do not have time for-“

A hand grasping your jaw, soft lips silencing your apologies; your eyes fluttered close despite seeing right through the trick. You felt the pressure of his hand against the blade, the silent sound of protest earning you a deeper kiss, a softer caress of his lips against yours, tasting sweeter than summer breeze, so achingly tender.

“There you go, bosorka moja…”

With his retreat, Steven ran his thumb over your cheek, smiling; then, he moved his injured hand into yours, leading you above the pot.

Slightly dazed and exasperated still, you sighed and carefully squeezed his wound to indeed only spare a drop of his precious blood.

As you pressed your lips to his fingertips in a thank you, you let your healing power flow through your touch, closing the cut your body should have worn.

“This had better be the only blood spilled today,” you whispered; and prayed too. You met your Steven’s stormy gaze as the contents of the pot sizzled, sweet coppery aroma rising in the air.

“It will, bosorka moja. It will.”

He sealed the deal with a kiss, sweet and desperate and bruising.

And falling on deaf ears, whisper in the crowns of the birch trees, his and your words echoed the very same song.

Blood had better be spilled…

Today, today, today…It will, it will, it will…

Next part

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Endearments used: Rytier moj (My knight) Bosorka moja (Witch mine) Láska moja (Love mine)

I hope you liked this - let me know your thoughts!

May your November be sweet and cosy ✨

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #knight steve rogers #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #medieval AU #fantasy au #fairy tale au #steve rogers #knight steve #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #witch reader #ochranuj me #protect me #anika ann

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codenamesazanka · 10 months ago

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Here's the intro snippet of my AU where Spinner wasn't able to wake Shigaraki up, the League got captured at Jaku, and Shigaraki stayed comatose for like half a year before the HPSC was able to separate AFO (quirk) from him, which would hopefully get rid of his regeneration and they can execute him.

Unexpectedly, the procedure triggered amnesia in Shigaraki, so when he woke up, he only has his memories of Tenko, pre-AFO, though mentally and physically he's still 21-years-old. (he knows things, he just as no memories or experiences attached to knowing) All Might pleaded for stay of execution, and instead give Tenko rehabilitation. It was granted.

Basically Amnesic!Shigaraki/Tenko AU.

•

On Thursdays, the man who calls himself All Might comes to visit him. He matches nothing in Tenko’s memories of the Hero Tenko once admired, skeletally skinny where All Might was wide and huge, quiet and serious contrasting boisterous brightness, and in place of the welcoming smile the Hero always had was instead a nearly permanent frown, as if the tips of his mouth were tugged down by invisible weights he carried with him everywhere.

One of those weights is Tenko himself. Yagi won’t admit it, even though it looked like a hundred more kilograms got added to the dreary pull when Tenko had said this. If it weren’t for the fact that his statement is true, Tenko would almost feel like an evil Villain (ha) for dealing such a blow to All Might.

(Honesty isn’t wrong, Tenko had argued to Dr. Neri.

But insensitivity is, the therapist replied.)

“You don’t have to visit me every week,” Tenko says to Yagi, now knowing to roll his words into smooth round balls like the clay he was allowed to play with once. “It’s boring here, and you’ve got other stuff to do, don’t you?”

Meetings to attend. Students to teach. His life to get back to.

“I want to be here,” Yagi says. “I enjoy these visits, Young Tenko.” Then he smiles, but softly.

(Smile back, the therapy voice inside Tenko’s head advises.)

“…Suit yourself,” Tenko says, shrugging, then, remembering himself, stopped his hand from rising to rub at his neck. He places his hands back flat on the table, the cuffs of his gloves clanking against the surface, metal against metal. Turning the sound into taps, he begins recounting all he had done since he saw Yagi last. “Then, this week… I read that book Midoriya recommended, the one about UFOs. I finished the forest puzzle. Dr. Neri brought in macarons, but I didn’t like them much…”

“Too sweet?”

“All strawberry flavored. I guess I’m not a fan of strawberries…”

They chat like that for an hour, Tenko grasping for details to share. His memory is at the point where he can recount every meal he had last week, if out of order. Compared to when he first started rehab, unable to pick out the words he wanted to use, or recall his own age after being told just minutes before, it’s a huge improvement.

Past that, though…

When time’s up, Yagi walks him to his cell, before leaving back into the broken world that Tenko came from but cannot recall.

•

In this AU post-Jaku, Hero Society has captured Shigaraki and most of the League/PLF; Tartarus is still locked up; now it’s promising the masses that things will ‘go back to normal’. everyone kinda wants to swept away the whole mess and move on learning not a single thing.

Most of the public thinks Shigaraki is locked up deep in Tartarus, shackled 24/7; instead of at a very guarded private villain hospital undergoing rehab. All Might really wants Tenko to be rehabilitated. He also really hopes Tenko will never regain his memories of being Shigaraki. No one does. They hope to iron out all his edges (both amnesia-induced and seemingly innate) too. Clean slate.

The story told to Tenko is that he has been kidnapped and held prisoner by a Villain for the past 15 years. He was only recently rescued, but thanks to a psychic quirk attack, he lost his memories. He unfortunately was forced to participate in criminal acts, so he's in prison/rehab. Tenko is generally agreeable, tho feeling stifled. He is very aware of this giant void of information no one is telling him, but reluctantly trusts his doctors that it's just temporary as he makes his recovery. He is also very aware of the way people treat him - so careful, so aloof, so wary - but given how he's a criminal, that's probably to be expected. Still hurts, though.

Trouble starts when Tenko slowly starts regaining his Shigaraki memories. The HPSC wants to execute him. The doctors think it's possible to have him regain his memories while 'keeping' non-dangerous, non-villainous Tenko. They just have to help him regain his memories in a controlled manner.

Enter Iguchi Shuuichi. Weakest member of the League, but still have been locked in Tartarus for the past year. He's not doing well. But the doctors think he's the safest option to introduce to Tenko to help nudge memories out, so he's now allowed weekly supervised visits to Shigaraki Tenko. Before the visits started, psychologists drilled into him what he can or cannot do, what he can or cannot bring up. They also went and mindfucked him by convincing him that his relationship with Shigaraki was fake and toxic, he was essentially accessory to AFO's long-term grooming and Stockholm Syndrome, and if he cared about his friend at all, he'll help them rehabilitate Tenko. Yeah, Shuuichi was not doing well, but he'll endure it to be able to see his friend again.

They're fast friends, Tenko and Shuuichi, despite Shuuichi's depression and nervousness. They play games together, they watch TV together, but often they can just talk and talk for the entire hour. There's a deep sadness to Shuuichi, though, that Tenko wished he could help unravel and dissipate. When he tried, once, asking about Shuuichi's hometown, about Shuuichi's school days, Shuuichi got bodily taken out of the meeting room by guards and the following week's session was canceled.

(Prohibited Topic: Bullying. Risk of triggering aggression in Tenko.)

Tenko didn't like that.

Eventually, he finds that there are many things he actually doesn't like. He doesn't like that all the books and media allowed into his cell must be pre-approved. He doesn't like the way he gets interrogated for each recovered memory. He doesn't like the way Toshinori looked so grim when Tenko decided to switch from 'boku' to 'ore'. And most of all, he doesn't like the way Shuuichi looks so empty and haunted, so quiet and passive. It's because of this place, Tenko feels. They might be criminals, they might be Villains, but they shouldn't be made to feel so small and cornered.

This is the way things work here, the doctors tell Tenko.

Then I hate it, Tenko thinks, and feels a strange intense burst of energy in his chest.

Lots of stuff happen. More bad than good. For the end of the fic, though, this is what I think:

Toga, who escaped Heroes, and has been regrouping with other escaped PLF members, shows up on Gigantomachia at the hospital to rescue Tenko. Tenko has a choice: Go with Toga, or retreat with the staff to wait for Heroes. This is where everyone waits to see if the months of rehabilitation had worked…

To everyone’s disappointment and some surprise, Tenko decides to go with Toga.

Someone yells. "Tenko. Don’t leave. You were doing so well."

"...Was I?"

"Don’t you remember? Wanting to be a Hero? You told us that yourself."

"…I remember wanting to help people. I remember wanting to be kind."

"Yes, exactly! That’s still you—"

"—That’s why. I want to save people... even if they are the ones Heroes don’t. Even if no one else does. If I want to be a hero… then it’s to all the ones that get ignored."

Then Tenko joins Toga and they goes to get Shuuichi Spinner. Let's throw in Tenko rescuing Spinner in bridal carry too, somehow.

#nalslastworkingbraincell #AU #AU Idea #fanfic #nalwrites #Shimura Tenko #Iguchi Shuuichi #Spinner #Shigaraki Tomura #My take on the 'revert Tenko idea'

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hood-ex · 10 months ago

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Finished JJK S2. Many thoughts below.

I'm kinda "hmm" over the parallels in personalities between the Yuji/Megumi/Nobara team and the Satoru/Suguru/Shoko team. Yuji and Gojo as the powerhouses with loud mouths. Megumi and Suguru as the quieter members. Nobara and Shoko as the boisterous don't take shit ones. Like idk I guess I'm just worried about Megumi in this equation and hoping he doesn't pull a Sasuke (or duh Suguru lmao) at some point.

Speaking of Megumi, he was only really involved in about 3 fights total. I missed him in the bigger showdowns with the others. On the other hand, I'm really glad Nobara got to step in and deal some actual damage to Mahito. Like I said before, fuck Mahito, all my homies hate Mahito. I mean, seriously, it felt like Yuji was getting nowhere with Mahito, so when Nobara got that hit in, I was cheering, I was hooting. I was painting "Nobara" on the back of my shirt. What an awesome moment for her.

Sorry I watched basically the entire series today so my brain is burning, my memories feel like soup rn, I'm going out of order when talking about events. Uhhh... oh I'm glad Jogo and Hanami died. I was sick of them. The difference in the fight between Jogo and Sukuna vs. Sukuna and Megumi's thingy. His... what was it called again? Eh whatever you know what I'm talking about. The pact (?) monster Megumi called forth before he went unconscious. The difference in those fights was super interesting. With Jogo, Sukuna was just having fun and not worried at all. With Megumi's thingy, Sukuna actually had to strategize a bit and such. No wonder he has a fascination with Megumi.

Too bad Sukuna killed those sisters but honestly not surprised. I did like how those sisters revived Yuji/Sukuna.

Oh?? And Choso dude?? The sibling reveal?? You have nooo idea how much I didn't want Choso to get killed off at the very end. I was hoping, I was praying, I was like absolutely not, now that I know he's Yuji's older brother, he cannot die. Ever. Everrr. Bc you know me and my thing about siblings. Love em. I was laughing when Choso was telling Yuji to call him older brother, and Yuji was like dude whaaat lmao. Like shhh, Yuji, shhh. Just accept it. You have two brothers now. Aoi and Choso. Lolol.

Speaking of Aoi, I had a moment where I was like, okay, I can get over Nanami's death because he had accepted his death, he was tired, he was ready to go, but I CANNOT accept Aoi's death. Even the thought of him dying made me start to tear up. He's definitely one of my favorite characters now, which is funny, bc I thought he was just annoying in his first appearance. But the fact that he has Yuji and Takada in his locket?? LMAOOO THIS MAN IS SO UNSERIOUS PLS. Sucks he lost a hand, but I'd rather him lose a limb than lose a life. (Fuck me, he's gonna die at some point isn't he? I will literally sob. I'm not kidding, I will sob when/if that happens.)

Oh yeah and Nanami fucks forever and always. He was so hot for wrapping his tie around his hand like that. Ugh. Love him. Gonna miss him. Hope someone reclaims his weapon. I actually didn't cry over him bc, like I said, he was just... ready to go. He was too tired to go on. I could accept that.

Bro did Maki die?? I mean surely if Nanami survived then maybe she did as well...? I hope she didn't die. I liked her.

Owww my brain hurts, I need to get my thoughts out faster. Uhh... ohhh. Oh. When Yuji witnessed Nanami's death on top of Nobara's death (not convinced she's 100% dead though bc of the medic boy being like idk she was dead but maybe she won't be bc of my healing) and on top of seeing what Sukuna had done to Shibuya... holy fuck... talk about a lot of trauma in a short time. Dude when he just gave up after Nobara's death... and he curled up and cried when Aoi appeared... that hurt me. That made me feel like I was in the stadium of the first Pokemon movie watching all the Pokemon cry over Ash's stone body. It felt like that moment. That sadness and grief just overwhelming. Damn. What a good moment though.

I haven't even talked about Satoru yet. Woooow... the way he demolished all those curses at the train station in such a short time... crazy. Sucks he's trapped in a box. Like idk what else to say lmao. Free my man Satoru.

Omg omg omg can I talk about how two of my favorite moments of the whole series ended up in this season?? So the scene where Nobara talked to that girl from Yuji's high school who had a crush on him, and she called Megumi to come meet them, and then Yuji appeared later. Ahhh!! Squee!!! Megumi was sooo cute! And he was super cute in my other fav flashback scene where Nobara spilled coffee or whatever on Satoru's shirt, and Megumi stuffed the shirt under his own shirt to hide it from Satoru. Like lmao he gave himself boobies. PLS HE'S SO CUTE. MY LIL BEANIE BABY. See, this is why I can't have this man go all Sasuke. I need him to stay on the team for cute moments like that.

And speaking of cute Megumi things, I thought it was so cute when he was planning to die, and he replayed the last words he and Yuji said to each other. Something about them like staying safe/meeting up later or whatever. And he was like sorry I broke my word, Yuji. Something akin to that. :3

Holy moly some of the dialogue goes on for way too long during fight scenes and such. Like I know they have to explain all the techniques and details of curses and such, but it makes the fight scenes seem so much longer, and I'm like goddd please just shut up and fight (I'm literally not retaining any of the info they're saying anyway asldkja)!! Also, some of the fight scenes, even without a ton of dialogue, were just ridiculously long. Like did we really need 3-4 episodes of one fight between Yuji and Mahito?? I was like somebody new please come in and kill Mahito ASAP.

LOL the way that I was like "FINALLY, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN THIS WHOLE TIME?" when Yuta finally arrived at the end, only to be like boooooo when he said he was gonna kill Yuji. Like nooo you two are supposed to be friends, okay. Be friends. Amigos. Pals. Fight side-by-side. Nah but surely Yuta will come around and fight alongside Yuji, right... right...

Wow yeah lots and lots of deaths this season. And now Megumi's sister is awake so okaaay...

Also, that Megumi dad dude was awesome as hell. He was freaking insaaane. I didn't care that he was kicking everyone's ass, I was just like let's goooo!

So anyway if any of y'all are reading the manga, please lemme know if Yuji and Choso retain a stronger bond of sorts or if that doesn't happen at all. Or if Choso straight up dies and they never get the chance for any kind of "hey that scar brain dude helped birth us so we're brothers" talk.

!!! I almost forgot!!! Why was Megumi holding Yuji's hood like this lmao. It was cute. And just. the big pile of bunnies.

#ahhhh need to go back and watch the high school yuji girl part bc it was so cute + the coffee shirt scene #i'm just like eee!! over megumi being all tsundere but he cares about his team he's so cute #jjk #season 2

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annieqattheperipheral · 5 months ago

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Ok just watched episode 3: learning to win. sway vs. mchucky

This episode was crafted so well. Gave us the introverted intellectual vulnerable hearthrob musician vs. the boisterous popular shit-talking quarterback jock storyline.

Since i like neither the bruins nor panthers it was more like watching a fun sports movie and letting the characters make me fall in love with them with those tropes in place. I really do compartmentalize how i interact with these teams and their players so ok let's break it down, here's how my heart and head battles it out:

Bruins? A bigass boo from this leafs fan. I hate them on principle just for that, for a generational og6 rivalry. But. But i respect their locker room. Their leaders have created a cohesive unit i envy tf out of for generations past present and future. They're a good group of ppl ...with a shittastic front office of old world hockeymen. Sorry to bruins fans for having to deal with that bs

Panthers? Another huge groan but for both personal reasons and the leafs thing. Yea kicked leafs ass in playoffs '23 round 2 but that's like whatever (that was leafs own doing, didn't bring it. or anything really). It's that personally i hate their style of play, it takes the fun out of watching the skill and speed of hockey. I can't abide by the dirty shit, just makes it un-fun for me.

Ok this is where it gets weird. Let's talk about the people

mtkachuk: i love him, i loved him with the flames, i love him still. Amazing kind gracious funny personable. But put him on the ice with the panthers and who? Who dis? No sir i do not know this man. I cannot explain why my brain does this but it's the only way i know how to enjoy Matthew while also having disgust for the panthers playing style. I mean maybe this is how/why we love/hate the teams we do. It hits the right or wrong chords in your own heart. So yea, that's the logic, rational or not.

Paul Maurice: i love this man and if i knew him in real life like maybe my uncle or someone, i would chat with him for hours during a family dinner party like i do with my favourite relatives who i respect so much. His interviews hug me to the core. He fascinates me with his clarity on life. I don't agree with what he has his players do, but i respect tf outta his drive and purpose and how he leads. Once again, a battle bw my heart and head *shrug*

Swayman: honestly i never paid much attention to him. I've never been a goalie crazy person so while i had classified him as one of the elite ones in the league, i wasn't ever taken by him (yes even thru all the cutesy goalie hugs). That said, it was really lovely getting to know him and what a beautiful voice. His dad was endearing as heck, reminded me of one of my colleagues. What a sweet gentle-hearted family, but also so tough mentally to get your kid into the nhl, while holding true to their vulnerable emotional side. Pretty fucking incredible i think. Sway got thru arbitration and used it as a checklist to drive himself further. Amazing. Fuck yea he's got an element of corniness to him but Matthew's corny as heck too in 24/7 florida frat boy party mode so whatever everyone's being their own true selves I'll embrace that.

I laughed very hard at the tkachuk family scenes. Good stuff. But hell no, no ty, i could not survive in that environment lmao. I do jokes yes, I'm usually the funniest person in social settings but i don't do shitting on each other stuff (why i hate hanging out with stand-up comics. improvisers tho? my favourite ppl, all about yes and'ing each other)

But all of that was great insight into the who what how why's of matthew and brady beyond any interview ever could. Pretty great what they've got going on. god how open those tkachuks can be with one another with sentiments disguised as insults and jokes, and not have feelings hurt. Ofc that family keeps on thriving. They can say anything to each other and know that they can fight back and still be supported. Like that's fuck awesome. I'm envious as hell. Just as i am tho, with how i was raised, i wouldn't survive them lol.

Lmao this epi review got loooong. Like i said,

fun sports movie vibe

Made me love sway and hate matthew lollll. I would show this to non-hockey ppl as a gateway into hockey.

Also someone pls tell matthew to get seat belts for his golf cart wtfffff!!! He's driving that shit on the road with actual cars!!! My heart could not take it😳

#faceoff: inside the nhl #lmao this one got long. matthew brings it out of me #annieQ hockey thoughts #jeremy swayman #boston bruins #matthew tkachuk #florida panthers #paul maurice #tkachuks #hockeyblr #nhl

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machineheralded · 3 months ago

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Beloved, I adore your portrayal so much, and I know I need to gush openly more about how I love your works

I know things have been hard lately between work and balancing life and stress, when you have a muse so loud, it can be rough and you can feel like you’re falling behind or will be forgotten. But when you made your come back to Viktor me and Jayce got so unbelievably excited and we’re both thrilled to write with you again. Even when you weren’t active you left such a big imprint on me and Jayce that you are definitely beyond possible to forget. Your skills are visible in how effortlessly you can weave together scenes, portray and set them up with perfect detail that it’s just enough where my mind when reading can fill the blanks in, can follow the flow of it as easily as watching a movie. As such, I can never wait to read what you’ll share next in your responses.

With how you write Viktor, to me it has impacted my views on him so much since we’ve met, cemented your portrayal of him in my mind as the only one I need to write with, and am happy to build up our own lore together. I met you through him and fell for you OOC because of the ‘glorious’ ideas shared and the passion you have for every muse you take up. You have a fascinating and incredible ability to communicate in their voices and share their headspace so well, you make them feel alive, and I will always crave plotting and writing together because I love how your mind works when piecing things together.

Even with everything coming out now with the new season, while I scramble to make sense of much with my own portrayal, your is proven more and more canon with everything we see and I’m still shocked how much you know the character, like you were one of the writers or there in the writing room giving pointers years ago ahaha. I love you a lot and I love Viktor to bits. You so amazing, and you do deserve to hear more about how you blow people away with your creations.

I have been saving this because I have been happy stimming just seeing that you had sent this, lovebug. Your words hold a lot of sway over me, and I trust a great deal. I know you do not offer empty praise: you wholeheartedly believe it.

I am admittedly losing the capacity to command language in the usual way that I can because of your words? It is very easy for me to offer praise or genuine compliments, but not as easy for me to accept them in turn. So pardon my awkward wording.

Uniquely, Viktor has never been quite this loud and boisterous before. He is taking up a lot of space & I feel safe and comfy investigating him as a muse as well as interacting with you & others. I feel... confident. More confident than before on any other muse?

But you are the driving factor to me coming back and not giving up Viktor after that last event that shut me down completely. Viktor and I feel so safe with you and Jayce, and when you asked me to go exclusive with you, I got so stupidly excited, I was buzzing the whole rest of the day. Ever since I met you, you've had such an incredible portrayal of Jayce that my Viktor attached to immediately. Your writing is wonderful. You bring such ecstatic and immaculate color to Jayce, flesh him out - show the world who Jayce Talis can be, and it's so incredible.

I cannot believe you just made a pun, babe. Oh my god.

That took my train of thought. And pfft, I just see the pattern and replicate it?

I love you so much, as ever-expansive as newly-created galaxies and as permanent as the atoms of creation, and I also adore Jayce, too.

Our muses are inseparable, and I'm so glad I get to walk upon this VikJayce/JayVik journey with you, and craft incredible lore. Our incredible lore.

#file. positivity.#file. saved interaction.#file. futureforged.#ooc. vik.#ur gay

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matrixxsystem · 9 months ago

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Luck Runs Out Part 10

After filling Raph in on the basics of what Leo had been dealing with for the past few days they all headed out with Usagi. Leo opened a portal into the hidden city, following Usagi into the East ends shopping district. He stopped outside a shop waiting for everyone to catch up and gestured to the door, it had two yokai in suits blocking the way in. There was a large sign above the door in glittery lights that read, "La Ruicko's" Usagi looked back to everyone as he spoke, "This is one of my personal favorites, I expect you all to be on your best behavior, this is my treat after all, so please remember that as you are being fitted. I cannot express with words along how grateful I am to have you all in my life.. So I hope this does it some justice." He gave the yokai a glance and they bowed their heads opening the doors for him, "This way." He said, taking Leos hand and leading them all inside, it almost looked like in lobby of a fancy high end hotel.. A small frog yokai in a neat black suit waddled up to the group with a much much taller man walking behind him. It looked like a human, a very tall man with broad shoulders and dark skin. He had dark dreads that were tied back out of his face save for a few bright yellow ones on either side of his face. He was in a suit too, probably just to show that their sizes ranged and could fit even human disguises.. He glanced to the group, his eyes landing on Raphael for just a moment longer then the rest and there was a hint of a smile before he straightened his posture, leaning down and extending his hand for the frog to climb aboard.

Once he was eye height with Usagi he gave a big smile, "Mr.Tomogui! It's so good to see you again! I so hope you've enjoyed your last purchase! What brings you in today hm? And with such a colorful group no less!" Usagi's expression didn't shift much, "Yes, we have an event this evening and I understand its a little short notice, but we need yukatas for everyone." The frog smirked a little giving a glance to the group, "You understand our fees for rush orders correct?" Usagi still kept his unamused expression, "I do. I was hoping not to spend over 30 but if it comes to more then so be it." Mikey tilted his head, "30 dollars?" The frog let out a loud, boisterous laugh, "Oh no, no no no, thirty hundred! Oh you're friends are so quaint and charming!" Usagi gave a little nod, "They are the few people I would consider to be like family to me." Everyone's jaws nearly hit the floor, Usagi was prepared to spend up to and even over three thousand dollars just for 7 outfits?? That'd be like 430 dollars per outfit- And I mean if they rounded that to 500 each that'd be like 3,500- Exactly how loaded was Usagi here?? And yes I did math for this joke because that's just how rich he is

"Excellent!!" The frog said with a clap of his cute little frog hands, "Right this way everyone! Mica here is my right hand man and will be assisting you all personally so go easy on him alright~" Gave a little wink and hopped off Micas hand, leading the group to one of the bigger rooms in the back, there was a small circular stage with a long curved couch on one side and three large mirrors on the other. "Go on now, have a seat, go on. I'll send Ikari right on over to assist you!" He waddled back outside the room and everyone hesitantly took a seat. Mica stood by the door quietly, I guess he was waiting for instructions or something, he really didn't seem that friendly or like he had much to say.. But he could also just be shy, it was indeed a mystery. After a moment a crane yokai, specifically a secretary bird, but they're pretty dang close to cranes so we're just gonna go with that. She came in wearing an intricate yukata that was a soft ocean blue, lined with a white and silver flower pattern, with a white obi tied around her waist and a darker blue kazari himo made with beads and what looked like gemstones that chimed with each step. And in contrast with her white feathers and black accents it looked incredible on her.. "Usagi-san," She said with a little smile, "I was hoping you would stop by again." Leo glanced over to him, getting a little jealous at the interaction but not saying anything since he knew Usagi didn't like anyone else like that. Usagi stood up and bowed his head a little, "Ikari-san, it's good to see you too. This is.." He gestured to Leo with a little smile, "My kareshi. Leonardo, and his family, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, April and Casey. Please treat them as you would me." She nodded and glanced over to Mica. "Mica, take the three brothers with you and the pale one, I'll fit the rest." He nodded and looked over to Raph again, pulling one of the many curtains back for them to go into one of the conjoining rooms. They hesitantly got up and followed. Leo blushed a little hiding even more behind Usagi now that he had told her they were together, he wouldn't have minded much if he'd just said 'boyfriend' but the way it sounded when he spoke Japanese was just.. It hit different is all I can say.

Ikari stepped past Usagi and took Aprils hand, "You must be April, that is such a lovely name. One of new beginnings and positive change. For you, I see a pink base with white deutzia blossoms, with a light green obi and yellow tie. Disrobe behind the shoji, the divider." She pressed a panel on the wall and it lifted up revealing hundreds of different fabrics, she picked out the ones she'd thought about and grabbed a measuring tape from one of her pockets, tossing the rolls into a another compartment that'd reviled itself. April was still standing there, she'd gotten out of her jacket but seemed unsure about the rest. Ikari tilted her head to the side a bit confused if she'd had a misunderstanding, "Well? Come here, if you want them done in time we must go fast with this." She gently grabbed her arm leading her behind the divider, "Obviously I prefer you to keep undergarments on but to get good numbers clothes should be removed. Don't worry, I am well fed with my partner, I'm a professional after all dear" April sighed a bit and complied, "Y'know I've never been somewhere all fancy like this, didn't know this is how it went down, I mean I'm not complaining or nothin' just, y'know.." She nodded with a little chuckle as she took the measurements, "I do. There are smaller dressing rooms you will be using when the yukata is complete, I would not make a lady undress in front of her family or any dansei for that matter." April laughed a little at that, "Fair enough, and- I'm sorry if this sounds weird, I'm a human so I'm not all caught up on this but your feathers are so soft- Like- It is wild, do you use anything for it?"

"Rice water and aloe, I do not take offence. I was thinking something similar about you as well, it's not often I'm able to work with humans, or soft skin."

"Aww thank you, I use this amazing thing called Life FLO it's, so good- Next time we see each other I can bring you some!"

"I would like that very much, and I can arrange a container for you as well if you would like that."

"Uh yes!? Absolutely!"

-_-_-_-_-

Mica had been going through a similar process with the others, getting everyone's measurements and selecting fabrics he deemed acceptable for them, sorting each roll into their own compartment any questions the had Mica answered, it seemed he just wasn't a big talker, he was really nice despite that though. He was gentle and patient, and he even smiled at Mikey's jokes and listened to Donnie lecture him on the importance of his yukata being made from certain fabrics only with a specific list of colors he would all to be used, he just nodded and even let Donnie look through the selection to make sure he was content with everything before Mica took it out and put it with his things. He didn't talk much but he listened and answered anytime he was asked something which was nice, he couldn't tell if Mica was being polite because it was his job, or because maybe he was just a nice guy who looked intimidating. Raph was last, he had been a bit nervous anyway for, some reason... Totally not because whenever Micas piercing blue eyes met Raph's he felt his heart skip a beat, or knowing Mica was going to have his hands so close against him to measure him.. Totally not that-

Raph didn't really have anything on today, save for the utility belt he always wore but he wasn't sure if that'd be a problem? Probably, he should be safe and take it off anyway and save them both the trouble.. He undid the belt and carefully removed it, hanging it over the dividers wall. Mikey popped behind the divider, since y'know, he didn't really respect privacy- "Hey Raphie, after this we should get food kay? Me an' Donnie wanna get boba tea!" Raph blushed a little, "Mikey-! Fine, we can see whats around here later just- Go sit back down-" Mikey smirked as he caught the expressions between the two, "Oh~ Well excuse me for interrupting~" He gave Raph a wink as if to say 'good luck' before heading back to the couch to gossip to the others. Raph let out a little sign and rolled his eyes. Mica just let out a soft chuckle, "You have an interesting family. Lift your arms please." Raph nodded and did as told, "Yeah you're tellin' me- Mikey's the youngest so he's.. Got a lot of energy heheh.." Mica nodded, gently sliding the tape down his arm, carful of his spikes and scars. "Its sweet, I used to have a younger sister who was very similar in personality. Personal space was a foreign concept to her hahah.. Oh- Sorry, I'm getting a bit side tracked here. Hold still." He wrapped his arms around Raph's waist passing the tape from on hand to the other and gently tugging as he pulled back. Mica read the numbers then glanced up to Raph, "May I ask how sharp your spikes are? And if you'd prefer to use something that wouldn't rip or if making openings would be better?" Raph was quiet for a moment his eyes stuck on Micas hands around his waist. "O-Oh! Right.. Well usually they rip through everything, My shell doesn't always but the ones on my shoulders almost always ruin my shirts.. Not sure what to do about it honestly.. They are kinda scary, maybe I should cover them up?" Mica gave a little shrug as he let go of the tape rolling it back up and writing the numbers down, "I don't think they're all that scary, I mean it's part of you, and you don't seem all that scary.." Raph blushed a little and smiled with a nervous chuckle, he'd never really been complimented before, well, by anyone other than his family at least, so he was at a loss for words. Mica set everything where it needed to be as Raph put his utility belt back on and joined everyone else, Mikey rushing to tease him about getting extra friendly with the staff. In each compartment the separate orders were placed, they each had a tag with the name and measurements of the person that it would be going to once finished. Those compartments were like mail shoots, being sent down to another level of the building all with the click of a button from the panel on the wall. It was an interesting system but it was very effective still.

After everyone had their things picked and measured it was all sent off and Mica led the group back to the other room. They'd all finished as well and April and Ikari were sitting on one end of the couch talking and laughing about something, while Leo and Usagi were cuddled up on the other end, Leo had his phone out showing a video to Usagi. Mikey ran over and dog pilled on Leo, "We're gonna get boba! Cause Mica said it'd be a little bit before anything's ready so we have time to go get snacks!!" Leo rolled his eyes and nodded, "Sounds good, though someone should probably stay incase we take too long." Donnie nodded and raised his hand a little as if in a class like he needed permission to speak of be called upon. "I volunteer Raph. He doesn't like boba anyways so.." Mikey gently slapped the back of Donnie's head, "Remember Dee we cannot just volunteer him because he might not enjoy it in the same way. "Although~" He looked at Raph nervously sitting beside them, fumbling with his fingers and glancing to Mica who was talking with Ikari, probably taking more orders or something since she seemed to be in charge of this section. "I think he'd like to stay, him and that dude got this vibe goin' yknow?"

"Not really no, I don't. But that doesn't matter too much, because I also don't care, so..." Mikey got up and went over to Ikari gently tapping her shoulder to get her attention, much like a child tugging at the sleeve of an adult. "Excuuuse me miss, but would it be alright if our big brother stayed here to make sure we don't take too long? I'm sure you'd have a way to get a hold of Usagi but just in case we split up while shopping around it would really help y'know?" She stared at him for a moment, unconvinced that's why he wanted Raph to stay behind, considering Mica had just told her, very quietly mind you, that the big red guy over there kept staring at him like lost puppy.. This was most likely related to that. She didn't mind though, despite looking intimidating and having to keep a professional air about herself she always enjoyed Usagi's company and was fairly close to Mica as well, enough that she could do him a favor like this, just this once at least. She nodded at Mikey, "Of course, we have a lounge area for customers just upstairs, and I'm sure Mica would be happy to chaperone and keep him company till your things are ready." Mikey excitedly nodded, already hatching several plans to get his brother and this new guy to talk more and eventually have feelings for each other then eventually start dating and then eventually get married and THEN eventually have kids and THEN-

Okay we're getting side tracked here, in fact, in the time to took Mikey to overanalyze this moment Donnie had already pulled him away and out of the store, down the street and towards a building that was designed to look like an old tea house. There was a big wooden sign carved with the name "老虎茶" with the carvings burned into the wood to make them darker and stand out. Leo tilted his head a little trying to read it, "Ro.. kou.. cha? Old tiger tea??" Usagi chuckled a little and shook his head, "It's Chinese not Japanese love, Lǎohǔ Chá. The Tiger's Tea. You were very close though." They pushed the gate open and saw a smallish courtyard with tables and chairs spread out, then a small shop behind it all. There were plants along the walls and posters filling in any bare spots, mostly about promotions or events going on in the area. Some in English and Chinese, others in a yokai scribble none of the turtles knew enough to decipher. Usagi stopped at the counter and took a few of the paper menus, handing them out to everyone. "Oh yeah we've ordered from here before-" Leo said as he glanced between the menu and the one behind the counter. Usagi nodded, "Yeah, this place delivers so when I'm too lazy to walk all the way here or try to get a ride this way it's pretty convenient." Mikey gasped a little as he read the menu "Ohmigosh wait wait wait- Look! They have flavored boba!!" Everyone got their orders ready and gave them to the panda yokai behind the counter, he looked so bored with everything it was almost enough to bring the whole vibe down, till there was the sound of drumbs? Out front two yokai, one robin and one sparrow, started gently banging on the drum they each had, slow getting louder and building to a quicker more intense pace. A small group of passer byes came in to see what the commotion was about and several people rushed to take their seats. They all looked a bit confused but after a moment the drums stopped and a mantis yokai in a fancy robe came out, a slightly taller lioness was behind him, she looked nervous, almost scared..

"Ladies, gentlemen, assorted guests! Please take in the greatest honor of viewing Naiya's performance with us in our shop. She has been working under me for near 20 years now and will be having her final show tonight at the festival before heading off to better things. Although I am sad to see her go I think her new calling is much more fitting for someone like herself. Give her a hand everyone!" Most people clapped or even cheered for her, but she really didn't look too happy.. Mikey tilted his head a little, getting a really shady vibe from that guy, weird.. The mantis turned towards the girl and whispered something, swooshing his long sleeves away with a huff as he left. She was in the center of the courtyard, dressed in a bedlah with all the colors of a raging fire. Along with cuffs on her tail that jingled when she stepped, her mane hair had been put into braids and tied back with matching flowers stuck in the hair. The lights around got dim as she struck a pose, music fading into the room as a she took the long yellow and red silks off from around her waist. Mikeys eyes lit up as he recognized the slow first movements, he might not be into this kind of music, but as someone who loved dancing himself, there's no way he wouldn't recognize a Dunhuang dance! Weird to combine Chinese dance with Arab fashion but having her dress in a more aesthetic way to bring in customers is understandable. It was also pretty weird that she didn't look excited though, but there was a very brief glimpse Mikey got. When the long skirt was kicked up as she spun he could see bandages on her feet, ones that were clearly too tight and causing her pain, no to mention they didn't look new.. There was suddenly a spark of anger where the whimsy of this experience had once been. He had to find out more, there was no way he could just go about his day now that this girl was clearly not being treated well considering the weird emphasis the owner used and how distressed she looked before putting her stage face on...

LRO Part 1 Part 11 (coming soon)

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 2 years ago

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White blossoms - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: It took me nearly seven months to write this fic, and I am beyond excited to finally be sharing it! (And a little nervous...) Just a story of two people falling in love when that wasn't necessarily an option... This is written from both their POV's, and I'll try very hard to not F up on the dividers between those two, okay? ❤️

If you like this fic, please remember to reblog so that others may also see it!

Pairing: Melot x OFC (Tamsyn)

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: None. They kiss. Fluff. Shenanigans. Historical inaccuracies, probably.

@deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @ellethespaceunicorn @peaches1958 @peyton-warren @summersong69 @mayloma @livisss @geralts-yenn @sillyrabbit81

“Quiet, I hear something.” Your boisterous laughter quieted down to whispers and muffled snickering. You were about to tell your friend off for making a fuss about nothing when you heard it too: laughter and singing.

“Let’s go see who it is,” the same friend suggested to the rest of your party.

“Aedan, perhaps we shouldn’t.” It was one complaint among several more curious reactions.

“You are welcome to return home, if you are so terrified.” Never tell a young man he is afraid if you are not prepared to take a punch to the gut, or so Aedan found out.

Your small group set foot in the direction of the sounds - they appeared to come from near the stream. It was not long before you saw them; local girls, sitting by the edge of the water. The singing had stopped, and they had turned to talking to Elowen - whom you all knew to have been married only a few nights ago.

“What was it like?” The question was followed by a lot of giggling, while Elowen slowly turned red in the neck.

“Did it hurt?” Another of the girls asked her. “He was your first, was he not?”

You looked over your right shoulder to Tristan, who stared back at you. His face mirrored the disbelief displayed on yours. Were they really discussing her wedding night?

“Was it enjoyable?” You snapped your head back to the ladies so quickly you feared you might break it. That voice would stand out to you anywhere.

“Was that Tamsyn, Melot?” Aedan whispered softly. He looked as surprised as Tristan had moments ago. You felt your own ears grow warm and thanked God that your hair hid them from sight. An impatient nudge to the elbow reminded you of the question, which you answered through a simple nod.

“I have not quite decided what I think of it.” None of you dared believe that Elowen would actually answer these questions. Your eyes widened even further as she continued: “I think it could be?”

“I have no interest in hearing this,” Pyran hissed before he retreated, taking Lowen with him. It was just you, Tristan, and Aedan now, and while you all considered leaving, none of you seemed able to lift your legs. So, you kept listening, and as the conversation drew to a close, the three of you saw red in the face from embarrassment at how freely they had discussed the topic.

“These conversations cannot be fit for ladies,” Aedan whispered. You worried that his eyes might fall out of their sockets if they opened any wider - the same applied to yourself, too.

“These conversations are unfit for us, friend,” Tristan laughed softly. The girls began to gather their things, signalling they were about to leave.

“But we have them, regardless,” you weighed in on the conversation. Both of your friends chuckled at your words. It was the simplest truth: you spoke of it often, in fact, and in terms that were a great deal more crude than what you had heard today. As more and more of the men your age took wives, these talks only became more frequent. But to hear the women speak of it - it felt like an entirely different matter. And those questions from shy, delicate Tamsyn - your Tamsyn, though she had only allowed you a few swift kisses - they tormented you. She had seemed so curious about the whole ordeal, but so innocent at the same time. The ladies began walking back towards the village, and you took it as your cue to leave; they would see you if you all stayed where you were.

“Melot, hurry up,” Tristan told you, but you could not move. The fabric of your trousers had caught on a branch and tearing it free would certainly make noise. You beckoned your friends to leave ahead of you. On your own you would be fine, hiding from sight until the girls had passed you.

“Go ahead,” you said to your friends, “I think I heard something.” Elowen and Morwenna shrugged and kept walking, Beryan held still until you motioned at her to go. Carefully, you walked off the path, into the woods, towards the sound you believed to have heard. There, behind a tree, not paying any attention to his surroundings as he was busy freeing the leg of his trousers from a fallen branch, was Melot.

“Do you not carry a knife, Melot?” You asked. He was utterly startled by the sudden revelation of your presence but composed himself quickly.

“I do,” he chuckled softly, “and I am positive my mother will gladly cut me with it if I tear these beyond her ability to mend them, so I had better not use it.”

“Oh, move,” you dropped to one knee and slapped his hands out of your way. They were warm, and your heart skipped a beat when you touched them. He pulled his away remarkably quickly, which struck you as strange. Had he not spent months courting you? His smile melted your doubts: Melot could smile in a way that made you feel like the only woman in the whole world. You felt your blood creep up to your cheeks, and prayed to God, he would not see it. With a few swift tugs, you pulled the fabric away from the branch.

“Thank you, Tamsyn,” he said as he got up. Once back on his feet, he offered you his hand so he could help you, and you gladly took it. Somehow, it felt even warmer than before. Upon standing up, you lost your footing on the uneven surface and tumbled into him. His arms wrapped quickly and effortlessly around your waist and pulled you against his broad chest. You felt small in his embrace - and incredibly safe, especially when you rested your hands on his arms, and felt the muscles in them tighten underneath his clothes.

“Are you alright?” He asked, concern speaking from his voice. As you nodded and whispered a barely audible ‘yes’, you felt your cheeks burn even more than they had before. When you looked up, his face was closer to yours than you had expected, and you were overcome with the sudden desire to kiss him. Slowly, you moved one of your hands to his cheek and looked up at him only to find him smiling down at you. There it was again, that feeling that you were the only one to him. Oh, how good it felt to have him look at you in that way. A warm hand covered yours, while the other held you closer to him. It was a chaste kiss you shared, like the ones before. You would have allowed him more, but he had never pressed the matter, and you felt uncomfortable offering it, for fear of what he would think of you. And so once more you pressed your lips to his, lingering a bit longer, in hopes he would attempt to deepen it, but he did not. When you moved away, however, he held you close against him. There was a troubled look in his eyes that fills you with concern.

“What’s the matter, Melot?” you asked him curiously.

“I- It's nothing.” Of course you could not believe him; something was bothering him, that much was obvious. You deliberated for a moment whether further inquiry would be considered improper, but soon decided to set your sorrows aside.

“Melot, I can tell you are lying,” you said with an edge of amusement to your voice.

“I overheard your conversation,” he admitted as his cheeks slowly started to colour with shame, “I have a question about it. But not here.” You let him lead the way along the stream, until you reached a beautiful waterfall you had not seen before. Your surprise must have been evident from the look on your face, because Melot chuckled as he wrapped his arms around you.

“No one comes here, it's too far upstream to be sensible for daily chores,” he said as he pressed his lips against your forehead.

“What did you want to ask me?” You said as you sat yourself down on a rock near the edge of the river. Melot sat next to you. He was nervous to ask his question, you could tell from the way his leg moved constantly.

“Why did Beryan ask if… it hurt?” He looked away from her, not daring to meet her eyes. These conversations were hardly proper between husband and wife, let alone two young, unwed lovers such as yourselves. You sat for a moment flushed and vexed at what he had asked. The answer to his question was simple, but should you give it to him? It was clear the men were not made aware of these things, perhaps there was a reason for that? Yet his voice was drenched with genuine curiosity, and because of that, you did not want to deny him an answer.

“Because it most often does, or so our mothers tell us,” you said softly, “no one tells you this?”

Melot shook his head. “Not once.” He looked down at his hands. “Do you think it has to?”

“Be painful, you mean?” To this, he nodded in reply. You shrugged, unable to answer his question. It was what you had been told, and so had your friends. A few had even been able to confirm the tales, so far. For whatever reason, you made Melot privy to these thoughts.

“It seems unfair to me,” he said after a while, to which you raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “That you have to be uncomfortable, and we do not.” When he said it, you laughed at how delightfully ignorant his statement was. Clearly no one made any effort to tell the boys of the monthly suffering you went through. Of course it was not a man’s business, and you were not going to let him in on it, either, but the incognizance was still striking.

“Why do you laugh at that?” He smiled kindly at you. “I don’t want to hurt you, so -” He stopped his sentence halfway through and looked at you in terror, realising what he had said.

“I did not mean to imply… That is not why I brought you h-” You believed him, instantly, but he continued his apologies. “I simply meant, if some day we would… We’d be married, of course.” His words took you by surprise.

“Are you asking me to be your wife?” You asked him so softly you suspected he might not even hear your query. He looked at you somewhat distraught.

“Not yet, I think,” he said, but it sounded more like a question than an answer, “but I have thought about it.”

“I am only a simple town girl, Melot,” you sighed, “you are nephew to the king.”

“Believe me, I am hardly his favourite,” Melot said with a smile. It was true, he was not the king’s most beloved relative, nor was he the one who had been appointed king Marke's successor. This had angered him at first, but he and Tristan had since made peace, and Melot had seen that it absolved him in part of the extreme scrutiny that came with the role, though he was still the king’s blood, meaning he had to behave. It was hard for him at times. “I have his blessing to court you.” He added his last sentence hesitantly. Somehow, it was very nice to have some confirmation, though you doubted even Melot would have been insolent enough to continue his quest for your affections if his uncle had not permitted it. It went without saying that your parents were extremely fond of the match. Still, you had never dared to dream that one day you might truly be his wife…

He took one of your hands in his, carefully, as though it might break under his touch. His were a warrior's hands, calloused and rough, yet he always held you with care - in the fleeting moments you had where he could hold you, at least. This, you now both realised, was not one of those moments. That is to say: it was not fleeting, as the others had been. You were far away from everyone, no one would bother you here.

You looked deeply into each other’s eyes, at first not realising one - or possibly both - of you was leaning forward, your faces slowly inching closer together until your lips touched. This kiss lasted longer - maybe it was not one kiss, but several, you did not know. Put quite bluntly, it was of marginal interest to you at best; the only things that mattered to you were Melot’s soft lips that pressed against yours, again, and again. When he moved away from you again, you looked into his eyes, stunned by their beautiful colour, but perhaps more by the look in them. It had taken you a while to allow yourself to be convinced that he was actually taken with you, and now each time you seemed to come to terms with that idea, he looked at you with yet more affection than he had ever before. You closed your eyes and leaned in to kiss him again, taking his face between your hands to pull him closer. He answered your kiss with a new degree of enthusiasm. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you took tenuous note of the quickening beating of your heart, and the unsteady rhythm of your breathing when you felt Melot’s lips part against yours. The wetness and warmth of his tongue startled you, but not so much that it made you in any way inclined to pull away. Your hands fell away from his cheeks, and you draped your arms around his neck. One of his hands you felt tenderly caressing your face, while the other held you at your middle with great care. He trembled ever so slightly, as though he was felled with nerves. But he couldn’t be! Your warrior, overcome with worries, and all at the touch of a woman? It was simply impossible! And yet you felt it; tremors in his hands, however subtle, as once again his tongue gently trailed your lips, requesting entrance. This time, you granted his wish by parting your lips.

In no way were you prepared for the sensations that came over you as he explored your mouth with his tongue, and you his, though you felt that you were much more hesitant than he was. Copious conversations with your friends had prepared you a bit for what was to come, but the explanations were by no means extensive, which was hardly fortuitous, if you had to be perfectly honest about it. Your heart dropped when Melot retreated, and you sighed softly when he lifted his lips off yours. For a moment, he rested his forehead against yours, and you both basked in the afterglow of the moment you had shared.

Suddenly you were overcome by sorrow. It was involuntary, but the feeling was simply too strong to ignore.

“Did you enjoy that?” The question startled you, and you were torn between telling him the truth or telling him what you had been raised to answer.

“I am afraid to admit it was quite enjoyable,” you answered plainly, “it's said we are not supposed to, is it not?”

“Plenty of things are said every day,” Melot answered, “that doesn't mean they hold any truth.”

#melot fanfiction #melot #melot x ofc #melot fanfic #tristan + isolde #henry cavill characters #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill

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lboomsky · 3 months ago

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Stayed up till 2:30 writing this banger

I have an old social media, where I said things I didn't mean as a call for help. I didn't want pity, I wanted a knight in shining armor to save me. I wanted an answer - a meaning, anything. I didn't know god then. I knew he might exist but I didn't conceptualize anything relating to him having any more purpose than what my life already had, nothing. I wanted a single hope any idea which meant anything at all - a mental salvation if you will. Over the years those calls for help become more boisterous, I typed many things that haunt me to my core because they don't sound like me and they don't feel like me. There was a single person, with a minimal emotional connection, who became my emotional baggage dump every, single day - and then one day I never spoke to them again.

Then I found purposes - every few months I had a Minecraft project to help someone with, to pour my soul into to ultimately be abandoned despite my pleas. This went on many, many times. I began to learn more about my God, this concept of hope was so tangible, it was a deep cut defense against the nihilism in my heart. A bit before that, I found love, I found someone. I had found love in earlier relationships, but it was not a healthy kind of love. This love too, became complicated in a peculiar way. I didn't particularly idealize this course of action in the past, but it all came to ahead when I learned more of the ideas that come in the package deal of Christian faith. I had very recently, escalated my interaction of this kind, this nature of deep questionability. My heart was torn and distraught, thrown between honestly and negotiation. I had no doubts at the time of my god, at least not significant doubts. I researched for hours. I looked at the same videos over and over trying to tell myself, this was how it was, this is acceptable, this works this can stay how it is, all I have to do is change this… I desperately avoided channels I had previously found heavily comforting - which could insinuate I could not keep things the same way they where, even providing it went down to being pg. For maybe over a month, I scavenged and repeated and avoided for hours, and hours, and hours on end. Whenever the thought even emerged in my mind there was no greater drive than to know then to truly know what I should do. What denomination? Who was speaking, why where they saying it? I didn't care. And when I tried to settle for one answer, there was this feeling unlike ever before, this deep, deep conviction in my heart, my soul, it was everywhere and undeniable. The feeling was no more less than the words on the pages and the thoughts in my mind. I slowly tried reasoning with the feeling, I bargained and pleaded with God to keep something in the end, to change the words, change the motives, change the feelings, change all the technicalities. Although I had perhaps consciously avoided arguments to the contrary, this innate determination within me remained deeply unconvinced by the words I would settle with for my comfort. As such, there was no comfort. The feeling persisted and no other topic was an option in my mind. One time I prayed in the bathroom, and I heard numbers for something in the bible in my head. I rushed to my computer only to realize it was not far at all from what was one of the few guiding passages relevant to my predicament, if I can recall maybe less than 5 sentences away. Could it just be a coincidence? (At this point, I honestly cannot say.) I felt I could not live without them. (I have been tearing up so, so so much while writing this, literally a waterfall.) He never stopped caring about me ever for all those years, and years. When I was first made aware of this theological predicament I had set up specific boundaries about what we would talk about, but after everything I reiterated that they would be permanent…

At this point, anyone who knows facts about me and my personality can probably cut through my vagueness. It probably shouldn't surprise you why I spoke like this, am I not just saving face? Why discuss something so private, so controversial in such an open manner? I think such worries can be beaten out of a person after enough things happen in your life, hiding only delays the inevitable.

A few months later, after the vast majority of my conviction and strife settled down...

One thing occurred that seemed so more inconspicuous than the rest of my complications, a matter of terminology - was ultimately the final line I had to draw. I wept and cried but as I failed to grasp at the words he understood what I was trying to say. With that, we were not lovers for life, but platonic friends. I still love him/her, albeit the words have different insinuations now that we both agree upon. There is still not one person who matters more to me than them.

This is not an apology, I am not asking for your forgiveness or your pity. (Maybe your pity…) I just can't keep it all silent, ignored, frozen in the darkness of memories best left forgotten. There is no forgetting, that was who I was. I did everything I had wrote, and no one else did anything I had written about.

Perhaps this is what artistic intuition truly is, the words appear in your mind from magic and they become so real they can make the feelings real to others. That is at least, the plan of writing about your life - that others might come to understand who you are and what you have become. Am I destroyed, am I heartbroken? Am I indoctrinated, am I a pathetic excuse for a human being? There exist many plausible frameworks, wherein each of these are true - and in that sense they are all equally worth considering.

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ponds-of-ink · 4 months ago

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Catching Up on Speedstorm - Chapter 3 (“A Diva’s Entrance”)

So, there’s going to be two chapters posted today. One detailing the event seen here, and one recapping everything else that’s happened up to today. Both should be pretty short because there’s a chance something massive might happen tonight (Speedstorm wise). Idk for sure, but I’m preparing for it just in case.

I know the title spoils it already, but I guess I’ll spoil it here too: I cannot believe I managed to get Miss Piggy on Day One of her event. I just hope my portrayal of her here does her a little bit of justice.. lest she karate-chops me into the stratosphere.

It was now a week or so into Oogie’s Challenge. The races had been slow-going, but there was progress. Arbee, Doctor Finkelstein, and the manager had had their meeting— And, truth be told, it was a lot less bleak than expected. All they had to do now was upgrade certain members of each team, then work on the last node itself.

Except…

There was always the chance that the manager’s latest racer would be very hard to recruit. This was Miss Piggy, after all. And a diva such as herself would not be so easily persuaded. “At least the manager is confident enough to try,” everyone figured.

On the morning of this negotiation, Mickey slowly paced under one of the Arena’s looming arches. He stopped to yawn and stretch, then rubbed his tired eyes. “How long do you think they’ll be up there?” he asked a lanky, purple-skinned fellow nearby.

“I’m not sure,” the fellow answered, checking his wristwatch. “But I know the manager’s been wanting me to wait down here for quite some time now. I hope that means everything’s going to work out just fine.”

“It probably will,” Mickey replied with a half-smile. “We just gotta wait and see what happens, Fear. Hey, maybe the Mid-Season challenges will be easier this time!”

“Maybe,” Fear muttered before cautiously sipping on his Emotion’s equivalent of coffee. “At least I’m very close to my next rank. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

A piercing shriek from above made them jolt. Both Mickey and Fear whipped their heads towards the manager’s tower. “And there’s the new thing that’s replacing it,” Fear added, his voice trembling as he walked towards his current companion.

Mickey squinted his eyes. “It doesn’t look like anything bad’s happened,” he noted, pointing to the glassy windows. “So what caused that noise?”

As they nervously pondered, the lights in the Pit Stop pulsed a different color. The rest of the racers hurried to the Stop’s elevator. “Guys, come quick!” one of them called out to the lingering pair. “Someone’s here!”

Mickey and Fear looked at each other, then at the gathering crowd. With a mutual shrug, they sped across the empty Arena. Fear met up with his fellow Emotions while Mickey rushed to the front of the crowd. He gazed in awe as the elevator slowly opened.

There stood Miss Piggy, already suited up. “My, what an entourage!” she exclaimed, letting out a flattered chuckle. “I know your manager wanted only the best for me, but I didn’t think I would get such the star treatment right away!”

“Well, of course!” Mickey responded, carefully taking her by the arm as she stepped out. “But how did you get here already? I thought it would take a few days, maybe even a full week.”

Miss Piggy let out a boisterous laugh. “Don’t be silly, Mickey-dear!” she cried out joyously, playfully tugging the mouse’s ear. “Any star such as moi knows that a good deal is worth taking— Especially if that deal pays your fee up front.”

“‘Your fee’?”

“Those four hundred or so tokens at your Shop,” Piggy clarified, now sounding a little calmer. “I would have asked for more, but I heard that your manager was a bit… shall I say… cheap.”

Mickey nodded. Yes, that was still (technically) true. Probably something that could be said about most of Speedstorm’s racing managers, really.

Before Piggy could say more, however, her eyes caught someone in the crowd. She let out a dramatic gasp and let go of Mickey’s arm. “Kermie!!!” she called out, rushing to the frog’s side. She embraced the living daylights out of him (almost knocking them both over), which Mickey took as a sign to check on Fear.

Fear, meanwhile, had just finished his own talk with Arbee. “It looks like I’ll still be the main driver in the Multi-League,” he explained, now sounding a bit more in control. “But getting Miss Piggy is fantastic! We have extra time to get ready for our challenges, which might mean we can beat Oogie faster!”

“Maybe,” Mickey said quietly, eyeing the still-embracing couple. “I just hope Ortensa can pull through. She’s still has a long way to go, last I saw…”

#disney speedstorm #mickey mouse #miss piggy #fear inside out #crossover fanfic #other characters mentioned #speedstorm: the quest for oogie boogie

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mjd2526-nova · 11 months ago

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Module 6 Midterm NCG Class

Wuchang Revolution, Fall, 1911

I had just graduated from high school where I lived in Wuchang. I was starting my freshman year in college when the Qing Dynasty was being overthrown., I can remember sitting in my dormitory that evening, studying my anatomy notes, the smell of lead and crisp paper as I jotted down summaries. The sound of rapid, meek scribbling of pencils was supplanted by an abrupt, uproarious Bang! My heart stopped, and I froze from the shock of the loudness. We thought it was a weapons malfunction at the nearby base, though the direction was wrong. The soldiers were heard shouting panicked orders and warnings of “rebels!” Soon, other voices could be heard arguing. “What happened,” one said. “Xi left a cigarette in the armory. We can still-” the other started. “No, it’s too late now. It’s now or never.”

The next day we were greeted by soldiers. I knew something was off by the casualness and victorious excitement that could be seen on their faces. One of my classmates was friends with a soldier, who explained that there was a mutiny and that the Qing Dynasty was soon to be upended. Many of the people I knew from high school, as well as some from the college, went to fight in the revolution out of giddiness. I was uncertain, but my gut said to stay and take advantage of the scholarship and pursue medicine. I remained doubly focused, and by the time I finished my semester, the Qing government was gone completely, replaced by the new Republic.,

The previous dilapidatedness and docileness of the city were replaced by the boisterousness of troop movements, demonstrations, machismo, and competitiveness to be recruited by the new warlords for the entirety of my schooling years from what I remember. Later that year in 1912, I recall with exactness the clamorousness of the guys my age headed to nearby Honan province to meet the famous Feng Yuxiang to be recruited, no experience required. They spoke of something unfamiliar to me: “Christianity,” which in my worldliness, caught my attention with its unfamiliarness. It brought them a great deal of eagerness to discuss, so I became curious. They spoke of its arrival to China changing everything, so perhaps it was something brought by those pale Europeans who were seen to wear black clothes and walk grasping a thick book.

1920 Earthquake Aftermath: Gansu, China December 19, 1920

Casualties from the Earthquake days ago are still being tallied. The results were utter calamitousness which left all of our heads ringing from confusion and devastatedness. The brutalness, tiresomeness, and gruelingness of my fellowship days cannot be understated. I previously thought I was busy at the emergency clinic from the general strikes against the Japanese hegemony in the homeland. There were daily puncture wounds, gushing from heads and abdomens throughout the lobby. While this had been challenging personally, the disastrousness of this earthquake engulfed the livelihood of all Chinese. The clinics were full with families with heads and limbs bleeding from fallen infrastructure, wrapped in bandages, awaiting attention, with much hopefulness to receive morphine. As a physician, I was sure many were there just to satisfy opium addictions. A woman shouted at the doctor in charge to attend to her injured child. The smell of infection was abundant. Unwashed gashes were ubiquitously seen, and I heard the incessant buzzing of flies surrounding them. A man’s body lay unattended by his family, who appeared exhausted. Judging by his complexion, he had passed not too long ago.

I chose the ER fellowship in Lanzhou to escape the noisomeness of Shanghai, the sprawling endlessness and meaninglessness, disillusionedness, and disconnectedness, but the chaos found me. Walking through the city to the clinic, a heavy smell of dustiness and concrete from the destruction still emanated. The roosters shouted as the sun rose. I overheard a man shouting at his wife with combined frustration and desperateness, imploring patience as their home was reduced to piles of rubble. I smelled manure as I passed the cattle beside Xigu district.

As I walked deeper into the city, rows of displaced people, now homeless from the destruction, slept in huddles across the street. The frostiness of the morning would have been worse for those outside. There was the foulness of the smell of bodily fluids. Homelessness is not easy, and nearly the whole city was displaced. I saw the disillusioned face of a man who could not sleep as he sat up close to his family.

Approaching the clinic, there were already people lined up to see a physician. A man stood crying, begging for his daughter to be seen. There was a large contusion on her forehead approaching her eyes. She also had a bandage. The father cried that as they left their home, she had been hit with a lamp pole. The nurse apologized that there was a waitlist and others were being attended to.

“When comparing reports produced in the wake of the disaster it became clear that reformist ‘New Culture movement’ intellectuals in Beijing sought to cut from the record local military and gentry relief efforts described in eye witness accounts from Gansu” (Fuller).

Nanking, July 15, 1937

I traveled to Nanking in 1937 to assist in the treatment of those affected by the assaults. Despite my Hippocratic oath, as I gleaned over each case, victimized and brutalized with unimaginableness and horridness, I saw only 1 cure to the predicament which would be to put a bullet in Matsui Iwane. Women with black eyes and other contusions hobbled in, their gait affected. Bones had been broken with beatings from rifles. Wheelchairs could be heard creaking, crouches could be heard clicking across the floor, but there weren’t enough for everyone. Jaundiced faces were seen throughout the crowds of the needy. Many of the people suffered from anemia and even scurvy, as the invaders took most of the food rations and deprived the people.

If this weren’t bad enough, sexually transmitted viruses ran rampant. Women with syphilis, emaciated and covered with lesions on the face and arms sat throughout the lobby, many of their children ran nearby, with their footsteps and voices echoing being one of the main sounds heard in the lobby. The adults were dead silent. Many of the women acquired gonorrhea. A young woman clutched her abdomen, groaning loudly from pain that could be heard down the hall. The strong smell of Baiju was noticeable walking through the halls, and one woman openly took a long, unending swig from her flask. No one was surprised or blamed them. Alcohol seemed necessary in times like this. However, as a physician, I feared the disinhibition and chaos that may ensue. The voice of a young man’s scream of pain emanated from the restroom.

The obstetrician was overwhelmed, exhausted, and demoralized. He sighed in exacerbation as he passed. When I talked to him about a symptomatic infant, he could not calm himself. He appeared truly traumatized, and he looked at people with a cold stare as if unsure of what he was seeing. On top of the this, morhpines almost never made it to all the patients that needed them, like women in childbirth. The Japanese Guard would come around and demand the morphine and amphetamine from the head pharmacologist.

Many families brought loved ones with neuroses and delusions. There were children and women who were in denial that their family members had been killed by the Japanese soldiers. Many showed signs of despondence; others were catatonic, staring blankly into space with unresponsiveness. Shell shock was ubiquitous. I cringed seeing the lobotomist and diagnostician make rounds, deciding who they would take today.

Kalgan, November 12, 1946

My patient’s 3rd story hospital room overlooked the Yanghe River. It was a calm, quiet morning, which was welcome, and I was doing checkups on the POW section today. The patient ate his noodles as I checked the clipboard. The sun shined in the window.

“Still no sensation in the leg?” I asked

“No” he responded, calmly. Despite having been on morphine for the gunshot, he wasn’t suffering excessively from withdrawals. He was confused, and he didn’t get friendly with me, but he was sanguinely welcoming. He seemed to enjoy his noodles and the nice view of the forest. Though he wouldn’t admit it, I think we were all glad for a break in the conflict.

It was incredible. I had seen gunshots far less severe kill people from infections throughout my career. This penicillin seems like it magically cures anything. It was a new class of medicine called antibiotics. It had been proposed by a man Dr Alexander Fleming back in 1928, but it hadn’t been developed into something operationalized until Howard Florey and Ernst Chain began their experiments in 1937, and tried it on humans in 1940.,18 Though it had been initiated at Oxford University, American factories took the task of mass production in 1941. I have never seen such a panacea as penicillin. It’s been available to us for about 4 years, and I am still impressed by its effectiveness.

The city was only in Kuomintang control for 1 month and things were improving. Negotiations had been underway since the 21st, and Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-Sheck called an official ceasefire yesterday. I didn’t have faith that it would last. Westerners had been trying that for a year, and the armistices were always short-lived. But I took the break from fighting as a good sign. Maybe the conflict’s end would lead to a more lasting peace.

I had met a member of the entourage of American Ambassador Patrick Hurley. The assistant had come down with food poisoning. The man was able to explain from a firsthand perspective about Christianity. Not as a sidenote either, according to him, the construct was central to his healing, and he needed a bible, that thick book I had seen before, as well as what he called a rosary. There were a few differences from what I had researched before after hearing about it the first time.

I stepped into the hall, leaving the injured man to slurp his noodles. The lobby was pleasantly quiet, and I overheard a conversation that filled the silence.

“So are we going to cut the leg” a gruff country accent asking the doctor

“Um well, actually…. Unnecessary because…” his voice faded in and out of audibleness due to various vacillating machines buzzing.

Taipai, 1951

It’s been the most peaceful year of my life. The Republic of China was established. My family moved here, and I am now the Chief Physician. I can afford to take care of them. I traveled here initially to visit to see a part of China that I had never been to before as I was on vacation. It ended up being one of the greatest decisions of my life. This was in 1947 after the capture of Yan’an by Nationalists. I presumed the fighting was either nowhere near complete, or that the Nationalists would win, and if anything, the communists’ battle would become an insurrection within Kuomintang China. In other words, business as usual. I did not expect the final outcome which came at all. If I did, I would have fled much sooner. It is a quite felicitous mistake.

Not only this, but my years of strife seem to have paid off. I am one of the most revered doctors in my field for my experience. I am the head doctor.

This island is more peaceful than at any time in my life that I have known. Furthermore, medicine has made such rapid advancements while China was warring. Infections are treated swiftly with penicillin, and now streptomycin, an aminoglycoside, is being introduced as well. Malaria is also no longer a concern, as we treat it with dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane (DDT), though this causes severe nausea. I am the head Doctor of Psychopharmacology in Taipei.

What I still struggle with are the people who don’t trust medicine, and how to assuage it when their concerns are valid. We have yet to compose an analgesic that can treat pain without causing addiction, as morphine is the primary sedative, painkiller, and anesthesia.,This apprehensiveness reduces my efforts to appear as a shill for the imperialist opioid dealers. Rural people often have this impression of me, but it is unpopular to have such an attitude given the ongoing contentions between the Kuomintang and the mainland.

1-(1-phenylcyclohexyl)piperidine (PCP)

Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane (DDT)

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