#especially not as a pure and good emotion

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@luci-in-trenchcoats

This one was both a little heartbreaking and adorable, but oh my word I loved it! I floundered back and forth between the two, because the situation of the reader not remembering who anyone was made me a little sad, but seeing how Dean took care of her was so sweet 😭

“Keep looking,” said Dean as your hand touched the photo. You flipped the page and found more. One looked it was from inside a beat up diner, Dean sharing a pie with you. Another was of Dean doubled over in laughter while Sam’s face was covered in whip cream. Flipping the pages you saw more and more, pictures of all three of you, the man in the trench coat too. At the end was one of you in a t shirt that was obviously too large for you, a mug in your hand, and your eyes were shining at whoever took the picture. Glancing around the room you saw a few more photos, each with the man sat in the chair, the one sat carefully watching you.

I love the way you described the scrapbook and gave us all a little "montage" of what was inside of it. It really adds on to the emotions in this scene, not to mention the idea that the reader makes scrapbooks and photo albums for Dean had me melting 😭 It's such a cute thing for a reader to do for him, especially because I think Dean is the kind of person who doesn't focus on the good things in his life and has a tendency to "forget" them.

“Maybe not pure in every area of your life,” he said with a smirk before letting it fall away. “But you’re so good I don’t have a clue why you’re with me of all people,” he said as you brought your hand to lay on top of his. “Because you’re what I want and need,” you said, looking at him, feeling your eyes shine like they did in that picture.

Oh my word, the scene where Dean tells the reader what to remember was so well written. It made me so emotional and then the follow up conversation when the reader tells Dean what she would tell him- OH GOODNESS it was so good 😭

This entire fic is so fantastic! Thank you so much for sharing this with all of us 💕

The Blonde Man

Request: Could you write a Dean x Reader where the Reader loses their memory and it’s Dean answering the question, “What would you tell me if I lost my memory?”

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,967

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[pretentious-blonde]

aftermath

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve is wrecked, haunted by the thought that he’d lost you for good. but when he finally braced himself for the worst, your answer shattered him in a way he never saw coming

warnings: 18+ emotional distress, angst, depression, major self-hatred, crying, smut, but like make up smut, minor bruising/scratches during intimacy (consensual), this is heavy guys

a/n: i hope this makes up for the cliff hanger. you do need to read this to fully understand what is going on. hope i did the make up justice!

series masterlist

You’ve been living in your pajamas since Friday, the same ratty jumper and threadbare bottoms you’ve slept in for days. The curtains in your living room are half-drawn, letting in just enough gray light to remind you it’s daytime—though you’re not quite sure which day it is anymore. 

Tuesday, probably. 

You’d asked for the whole week off, a near-unheard-of request, but you couldn’t face the world after what transpired. Your hoarse voice must have been enough to convince your boss of your current state, though he most likely believed it was a result of a bug or the flu. You were grateful he didn’t press further. 

Everything in your flat reminds you of him. The bookshelf he painstakingly built and shoved into the corner. The stupid T-shirts he left behind, folded on your desk. The toothbrush tucked in next to yours in the bathroom. You’ve cried more than you ever thought possible, especially as day after day passes with no call, no communication. Nothing.

That’s why you’ve barely left, lying low in your own sorrow. You should be out celebrating your first ever published article—yes, that finally got the green light—but even that feels tainted now. Steve had helped you with the idea, reading every paragraph you placed in front of him for inspection. Thinking about it only reopens the wound.

By late afternoon, you’re in a numb haze, scrolling absentmindedly through the same TV channels, when a sudden knock on your door makes you freeze. Your pulse spikes with pure dread. You beg some higher power as you take a few tentative steps toward the entrance, pleading for it to be anyone else but him. 

“Who—who is it?”

A boy’s voice answers. 

“It’s Dustin.”

Surprise fills you, but you tug the door open anyway, still half-hidden behind the frame. The teenager stands there, head tipped back to look at you with wide eyes. He takes in your rumpled clothes, your blotchy cheeks, the dark circles under your eyes—and his face softens with genuine concern.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi?” You can’t hide your confusion. You’ve met him enough times to be friendly—even invited you to his birthday party—but this is definitely not the level of closeness where you expect him on your doorstep.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone polite.

“Uh—yeah,” you say, stepping aside. You’re mortified at the state of your living room—blankets and tissues strewn around, half-eaten toast on the coffee table. But Dustin doesn’t so much as blink. He just walks in, glances at the chaos, and settles himself on the couch.

“Have you heard from Steve?” he asks gently, but the question punches you right in the gut. Your breath catches, tears immediately threatening to spill. He sees the way your eyes go misty and holds up both hands in alarm. “Whoa, hey. No, wait, why are you crying?”

“Sorry,” you manage, swiping at your face with the edge of your sleeve. “I just—I don’t think me and Steve are… together anymore.”

“Alright.” The boy exhales, like the missing piece just slid into place. “Well, that… would explain a few things.”

“Explain what?” you ask, voice shaky.

He glances around, looking conflicted. Then he pats the space next to him on the couch. 

“I think you need to sit down.”

Something about his earnest, grown-up tone makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time, but you sink down anyway. You stare at your own hands, picking at a loose thread on your jumper.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea?”

“Um… yeah.” You blink, surprised by the shift. “Top cupboard in the kitchen.”

“Okay… You stay there.”

He heads into the kitchen and starts rummaging through your cupboards like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You watch him, baffled as to how this kid is behaving. 

He returns, balancing two mismatched mugs in his hands. He places one gently on the coffee table in front of you and then settles next to you on the couch. You notice the way he glances around at the mess once again, but he doesn’t comment on any of it—just holds his own mug close, like it’s offering him a little comfort.

“Um,” he begins, voice hesitant, “I need to ask you… about Steve.”

Your grip tightens on your mug. 

“Have you…have you spoken to him?” you try not to let your voice crack. 

“Sort of.” Dustin exhales. “That’s why I’m here. He didn’t show up on Sunday when he was supposed to, and when I tried talking to Robin, she just told me to stay out of it.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking troubled. “I’m worried. Robin says he’s gonna quit—his job, I mean—and I haven’t been able to get ahold of him since Thursday. I was hoping maybe you knew what was going on.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears pressing at the corners of your eyes again. The puzzle just kept getting more complicated, first his outburst, and now he’s quitting? None of it made any sense to you. 

“Dustin, I wish I fucking knew what was going on,” you admit, voice trembling. “But I don’t. Steve made it very clear how he felt about me.”

Confusion crosses his face. “He…made it clear?”

“More or less.” You manage a bitter laugh, though it hurts. “Let’s just say…there’s no chance of me diving back in to figure out what’s wrong, okay?”

“You won’t?” he presses, leaning forward, his mug clutched between both hands. “I know it’s a lot. But the only time I’ve seen him act like this was when…” He hesitates, almost like he’s afraid to say something more. 

You speak before he has the chance to elaborate. 

“Yeah, well…” You suck in a breath, blinking away fresh tears. “I’m pretty sure it’s over between us.”

He sets his mug down so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t spill and scans your face, as if trying to analyse the best approach to this situation. 

“I wouldn’t be asking, except… I’m scared.” His lower lip trembles, and suddenly you realise how much this is hurting him, too. “He never talks to anyone about how he’s feeling. Not really. You were my last option.” He swallows, looking away. “Whenever I call and he hears it’s me, he hangs up. He’s shutting me out. And Robin. And—everyone.”

Something tightens in your chest. You see Dustin’s fear written all over his face, and it hits you how much he looks up to Steve—how much he cares. 

Without thinking, you set your own mug aside and pull him into a hug. At first, he’s stiff with surprise, but then he slumps against you, like the weight of this worry is too heavy for him to carry alone. You press your lips together, forcing the tears back as you hold him. 

“Okay,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I’ll try. I’m not making any promises, but…I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” he says, relieved. “Thank you so much. I just—I don’t know how else to reach him.”

You nod, your throat still thick. 

“I’m not making any promises,” you repeat, needing him to understand that you’re as shaken as he is. “But I’ll figure something out.”

He offers you a small smile, picking up his mug again. You both take a few moments to sip your tea—hot and soothing, but not nearly enough to un-knot the anxiety in your stomach. Still, Dustin’s presence is oddly comforting; it’s nice not to be alone in this, even if it’s a teenager by your side.

“So…” You clear your throat, stealing a glance at him, gaining the courage to lighten the sullen mood. “Are you gonna tell me how you know where I live?”

“I’ve seen Steve practically sprint here a bunch of times.” A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Took me about three tries before I got the right door.”

You let out a laugh, but then something clicks. 

“Wait—three tries?”

Steve had never felt so low in his life. Five days holed up in his room, only sneaking out to the ensuite to splash water on his face or raid the kitchen for whatever snack he could grab—mostly stale crisps and soda—before retreating back inside. 

The place was still a wreck, remnants of that explosive outburst he couldn’t even remember starting. Not that it mattered, really; he’d be getting kicked out in a few months, so why bother cleaning up?

He’d turned off the ringer a while ago, but the calls still came, filtering distantly through his phone on his bedside. Sometimes he picked up the receiver out of some faint, mechanical impulse, but he never spoke. Except once, to Robin. 

’M not feeling so good… might quit, but I dunno.

He’d mumbled it out, half-delirious, knowing she’d recognise the alarm in his voice. She’d shown up at the door not long after—he could feel her worried presence behind the wood—but he couldn’t make himself stand, couldn’t find the will to undo the lock and let her in. Plus, he’d moved the key. 

She had her own life anyway, right? 

Her own happiness, her own girlfriend.

His body ached from lying in bed so long, muscles protesting every slight movement. His mind felt worse, drifting in a haze of guilt and regret so heavy that sometimes he wondered if he could even take another breath. 

He had no more tears left to cry, not after everything that went down—especially with you. The memory of your face—that hurt, that fear—was seared into his brain. Even when his eyes closed, he saw it.

Part of him wished you had stayed, just so he could apologise or explain or… something. But another part felt a grim sort of pride that you walked out. You deserved more than the pathetic shell he’d become, and he knew it. He’d flung the ugliest parts of himself at you and he couldn’t even figure out why. 

It felt like some twisted reflex, lashing out the moment he’d felt cornered.

It stung especially hard because he remembered every time you’d cried into his arms about your job or life in general, how he’d held you close and never once used your own aspirations against you. He’d admired your drive—even if it sometimes left him feeling insecure. 

So how had he ended up painting you as the villain for doing what you love?

Now, it all felt rotten inside him. He could see exactly how cruel his words had been—every insult sharpened by his own self-loathing. And there was no taking them back. He’d never understood before what it meant to watch someone you love crumble right in front of you and realise it was your own damn fault. 

It hollowed him out, left him lying in stale sheets, counting the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for the strength to rewind time.

But it was too late. And with each hour that passed in that cramped, messy room, he felt himself caring less about fixing anything—less about everything. Because when he closed his eyes, you were always there, the memory of your wounded gaze burning behind his eyelids. 

And he didn’t think he deserved a way out of it.

The moment you pull into the driveway, your hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckles. You can’t shake the memory of your last conversation—if it even counts as a conversation. 

Part of you wants to slam your car into reverse and leave Steve to his own devices. He hurt you, humiliated you, and you haven’t forgiven him. But you made a promise, if not to him, then to Dustin. The kid all but worships him, and someone has to check on Steve.

Seems like you were the logical option here. 

So you climb out and make your way to the front porch, heart pounding with each step. The absence of his parents’ car in the driveway tells you they’re gone; the Harrington house is eerily still. You knock, loud and firm, each rap echoing in the silence.

No answer.

A chill snakes up your spine as you bend down to lift the mat—nothing. You bite down on your lip, anxiety churning. But then you notice the pot beside the door. You reach in, fingertips brushing over cold metal, and pull out the key. You feel bitter that this is the thing he decides to listen to. 

Stepping inside feels like walking into a tomb. The air is dank, a smell of something musty that makes your nose wrinkle. You notice the coffee table, still shoved askew from wherever he’d kicked it last time. 

A glimpse of the kitchen stops you in your tracks. The muffins he must have finished are perched on the counter, days old now, untouched. They look sad, deflated. You can’t decide if you’re more confused or hurt by that. Mail lies in a messy pile on the table, corners curled, unopened envelopes scattered. It’s like the whole house has been abandoned.

Each step up the staircase feels heavier. Despite the countless hours you’ve spent here—movie nights, lazy mornings, heated make-out sessions on the couch—it all feels foreign now. Wrong. The hallway is silent, the lights dim. The air clings to your skin, intensifying the sense that you shouldn’t be here.

You notice his bedroom door, slightly ajar. You pause, trying to calm the growing panic in your chest. 

You didn’t come to intrude. You just needed to make sure he’s alive. 

But a quick glance through the gap reveals a sight that stops your breath short. Clothes strewn everywhere, books and tapes littering the floor, a desk chair toppled on its side. The place looks destroyed. 

Not in a casual, messy way—this is carnage.

You push the door open, and the state of the room hits you like a punch to the gut. This isn’t just sloppy. It’s the aftermath of something far darker. A breakdown. And there, at the center of the chaos, is Steve—sprawled on his bed like a shadow of the person you once knew.

He stirs at the creak of the door, blinking groggily. When his gaze lands on you, his face pales even more, if that’s possible. He looks so different, like a ghost wearing his skin. His cheeks are hollow, hair unkempt, eyes ringed with shadows. 

He doesn’t speak—just stares, wide-eyed and stricken, as if he can’t believe you’re really standing there.

Anger simmers beneath your ribs, fighting with a rush of pity so strong it nearly chokes you. You’re furious with him, furious for how he treated you, but the sight of him like this—broken, listless—makes your stomach lurch. 

No one deserves this.

You snap into problem-solving mode. No words, just action. 

You stride to the window and yank it open, letting a sharp gust of air sweep into the stale room. Behind you, Steve finally rouses enough to realise what is happening, but you cut him off by walking past him, heading into the bathroom.

The pipes groan as you turn the faucet. Steam fills the air, and you test the temperature with your fingers. Your mind runs on autopilot: 

Get him up. 

Get him clean. 

Breathe some life back into him.

When you return, he’s half-upright in bed, blinking in confusion. You hold out a hand, expression set in stone. For a moment, he just stares.

“Come on,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but firm. He looks at your outstretched hand like he isn’t sure what it means. 

You try again, gentler.

“Steve… let’s go.”

Slowly, he sets his feet on the floor, wincing at the effort. You guide him toward the bathroom, every step feeling like treading on eggshells—somehow both intimately familiar and gut-wrenchingly new. 

You still hate what he said, what he did—but seeing him like this, you hate the situation more.

No words pass between you as you ease him toward the tub, your body moving on memory. Your gaze flicks over his clothes—so easy to remove in moments of warmth and laughter, but now the act feels unnatural.

You pause, fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt, and look up into his sunken eyes for permission. His nod is barely there, just the smallest tilt of his head, but you accept it.

Stripping off his clothes feels like undressing a corpse; his limbs move sluggishly, offering no resistance. You gather his T-shirt and jeans, tossing them aside on the sink, your stomach twisting at how distant he feels in your presence. By the time he’s left in nothing but his underwear, you can hardly meet his gaze.

“You got it from here?” you ask unsure.

He nods again, a weak gesture that does nothing to reassure you. You scoop up the discarded clothes, slip out of the bathroom, and softly shut the door behind you.

Outside, his room looks just as you left it—an absolute wreck, the fallout of some internal war. Despite the roil of anger and pain under your skin, something in you is set on fixing whatever can be fixed.

So, you get to work.

You gather wrappers and empty bottles, muttering under your breath as you fling them into the bin. Next, you scoop up the random VHS tapes littering the floor, shoving them onto the shelf in a messy row. 

He can reorganise later if he wants to. Not your problem.

The clothes get tossed into a laundry basket, clean or not—it doesn’t matter anymore. You strip the bed, sheets and blankets in one swoop, hauling it all downstairs and stuffing it into the washing machine along with the rubbish. 

You don’t even know why you’re doing this, not when your own place is a disaster. But each step feels necessary in a house that’s clearly falling apart from the inside out.

In just under half an hour, you’ve turned the carnage into something that resembles a house again—no longer a battlefield. Even got rid of the stale baked goods in the kitchen. 

Your heart thumps in your chest as you head back upstairs, nerves jangling when you hear water draining from the tub. You catch sight of his half-open drawers and rummage for something soft—a pair of old joggers, an oversized sweatshirt.

At the bathroom door, you knock lightly before pushing it open just enough to slip inside. Steam clings to the tiled walls, but the sight of him makes your chest tighten. The towel wrapped around his waist might hide him as he brushes his teeth, but you can see the exhaustion carved into every line of his shoulders. 

Even clean, he looks terrible. Empty.

He notices the clothes in your arms, glances between them and your face, then finally takes them from you without a word, toothbrush hanging awkwardly out his mouth. 

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” you say softly. 

It’s the only explanation you can offer before turning on your heel, escaping the suffocating press of sadness that fills the bathroom. 

He emerges, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing the sweats you picked out. He looks like he’s expecting a lecture—or worse—and some part of you can’t help but want to give it to him. 

After all, he hurt you. Yet the sight of him, freshly washed but still sunken-eyed, strips away most of your anger, leaving something more complicated in its place.

He glances at the newly cleaned space. 

“You… you didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, voice scratchy. He won’t meet your eyes.

“I know,” you shrug, your tone clipped. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He swallows, nodding once. 

“Okay.”

Silence. 

He moves to sit on the far edge of the mattress, opposite you, as if he’s afraid to cross an invisible boundary. You can feel the tension stretching between you—a chasm carved out by wounded pride.

“Are you seriously not going to talk?” you finally bite out, the frustration tightening your chest.

He flinches, as though your voice itself is too sharp. 

“I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“A ‘sorry’ would be nice,” you snap, though your anger is already warring with pity. He looks so frail.

“I’m… sorry.” He ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes. 

A beat passes, and you feel your patience fray. 

“Great.” You swing your legs off the bed. “If that’s all I’m getting, I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” His voice cuts through the air, urgent and tremulous. “No—please. Don’t. Just—”

You pause, catch a glimpse of his face, and see raw panic etched into every line of it. With a sigh, you sink back onto the bed, crossing your arms.

His relief is almost palpable, but it’s quickly replaced by shaky breaths. His hands tremble, and he can’t seem to keep them still on his knees. Panic floods his features, twisting them into something agonised.

“Steve,” you say quietly. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“I—I can’t—” he stammers, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I just—fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

You shift toward him without thinking, placing a hand on his quaking shoulder. 

“Shhh, hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, gentling your voice. “Just breathe. Start from the beginning, okay? We’ll work from there.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, haunted and glassy. The weight of everything unspoken hangs between you: all the damage he’s done, all the nights you spent upset and alone, all the ways you once trusted him.

You can’t forgive him—not yet. But you can’t leave him like this either.

“Please?” you add, your own voice betraying a shaky undercurrent of worry. “Just… talk to me.”

Like you once did.

He takes a ragged breath and nods, swallowing hard. His hands cling to the bare duvet as though it’s a lifeline. 

You wait as he struggles to form the right words. And he tries—is trying—lips parting and closing in fits and starts, heart pounding so loud you can almost hear it. 

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he says, voice ragged. “Never should’ve spoken to you like that. I—I don’t even know where it came from.”

“It clearly came from somewhere, Steve. But we’re not talking about us right now.” You quietly shake your head, eyes fixed on him. “We’re talking about you.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping as he stares down at his unsteady hands. 

“Okay,” he whispers, “yeah. Okay.” A deep breath. A hesitant glance at your face. Then, almost in a flood, the words come out once more.

“My dad… my dad got in my head. T-told me I was nothing, a disappointment—couldn’t even bear the thought of me.” His voice quivers, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to block out the memory. “I just—I don’t know how—don’t even know who I am anymore. He just—just looked at me, like I wasn’t even worth the conversation.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t speak—just let him continue.

He scrubs his hand over his face, eyes flicking to the doorway as though someone might burst in at any moment. 

“I was going to come see you on Friday, I swear—you have to believe me, angel—I really was. But he caught me on the way out, and…” His breath hitches, panic threading through his words. “He was just confirming what I already thought—what’s already true. That I’m a fucking failure.”

He presses a palm to his chest, as if trying to steady his heartbeat. 

“And I know that,” he says, voice shaky. “I know I’m nothing special. And in that moment, I just— I wanted someone to feel what I felt—even…even you.”

You swallow, stunned by how raw and desperate he sounds. Even in your worst nightmares, you never imagined him this broken.

“I know it’s not fair—but I’ve seen this story before. You’ll get bored of me—I know you will.” He glances up at you, eyes pleading for understanding. “You say you won’t, but you will. And I’m sorry—so fucking sorry. You have to believe me. I never meant to be mean to you or—or scare you.” His mouth twists in self-disgust. “God—I can’t believe I made you feel that way… Like you were ever unsafe with me.”

You reach out, gently placing your hand on his arm, and he flinches—more out of self-loathing than fear. 

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft, but firm, “Breathe for me, okay?”

A shuddering exhale racks him, and he bows his head, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, you think he might push you away—tell you not to touch him, that he doesn’t deserve it. But the words never come. 

Instead, he stands there, quietly shaking under your hand, a broken boy who’s convinced himself he can’t be saved.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in at the sight of him—at the guilt, at the rawness, at how he’s clinging to these warped ideas of his own worthlessness. 

“I don’t know how to fix this.” He keeps going, voice splintering as he tries to get it all out before he loses his nerve. “There’s no fixing this—I’ve got three months.”

“Three months?”

“He’s kicking me out… basically—my dad. If I don’t get my shit together, I’m done here.” His breath comes in ragged gulps, the admission shaking him. “And I know—God, I know this is so unfair. So fucking unfair on you, sweetheart. I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. I never should’ve—” His voice breaks, and he drags a hand across his mouth. “Never should’ve asked you out that day you came into the store—never should’ve done this to you.”

You want to protest, to tell him he’s talking nonsense—but your words get stuck behind the wave of memories that crash over you from all those months ago. 

That first day, his dorky smile lighting up the entire shop. The way he nearly jumped out of his skin when you said yes to hanging out. Building that bookshelf together in your living room, both of you laughing as he insisted he didn’t need your assistance. 

The time he showed up at your door unannounced because he just sensed something was wrong. Showing you off to all of his friends. All that progress, all those private jokes, all that slow, deliberate peeling back of each other’s layers—cut to ribbons by a single night’s outburst.

Now, here he is. Tears still clinging to his lashes, voice choked with regrets. The ache in your chest flares hot—hurt and a fierce tenderness all mingled into one. 

You couldn’t bear it any longer. 

You slide closer without a word, pulling him into your arms, and he clings to you. Trembling so violently it’s like he might shatter if you let go. His breaths come in spurts, each exhale sending a tremor through his body. You press your forehead to his shoulder, eyes burning. 

“Steve?” you ask softly after a minute, voice muffled against his sweatshirt.

His head lifts, eyes rimmed in red. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, brushing the hair off his clammy forehead. 

“Have you eaten?”

“Uh, no?” His brow furrows. “That’s not really—why are you asking?”

You pull back just enough to fully meet his gaze, then lean in, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. He freezes, almost like he doesn’t believe what you’ve done is real.

He doesn’t question it, just grateful that it means you’re not leaving him alone. He won’t read too much into it now, doesn’t want to assume that you’re here for good.  

“Because,” you say, “we’re gonna go downstairs and make something to eat.” Your voice is calm, like talking to a scared child. “And then we’re going to figure out what to do.”

“You’re staying?” He stares at you, confusion and hope warring in his eyes. “But—why?”

“Because, Steve,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching in a sad smile. “You said it yourself. I’m independent.” You pause as you cup his jaw, running a thumb over his cheek as you gaze up at him. “And you’re going to learn how to be, too.”

He sits at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the way you move around in front of the stove. If he blinks just right, he can almost pretend it’s a normal day—just you and him, making an impromptu meal after a long shift. 

He watches you crack eggs into a pan, stifling a sigh when you scrape the shells into the trash. You’d hoped for something more elaborate, but the fridge was nearly empty—most of the produce spoiled. He curses himself silently for not taking care of it.

A pang of guilt floods him, prompting him to stand, to do something. He goes to the cupboard, rummages around until he finds the familiar box of tea bags you keep here for yourself. He lifts a mug, glances back at you. 

“Tea alright?” 

You shoot him a quick look over your shoulder and nod. 

“Yeah. Tea’s good.”

So he gets to work, carefully measuring out just enough hot water, placing a teabag in each mug. He adds a bit of sugar and a splash of milk to yours. 

Just how you like it. 

When he turns back around, you’re already plating the eggs—fried sunny side up, edges crisp and a little burned around the rim—along with a couple of slices of toast.

Just how he likes it. 

The two of you sit down across from each other at the table. The clink of cutlery against plates sounds almost unbearably loud in the silence. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch him push at the meal with his fork, taking tentative bites at first. Then something shifts. He goes from nibbling to devouring the entire plate in a matter of moments, like a man who hasn’t seen food in days.

A pang grips your stomach. Clearly, he hasn’t had anything decent to eat in a while. You slide your plate toward him. He gives a shaky protest. 

“No, I’m good.” 

But you shake your head.

“I already ate,” you tell him gently. “Not really hungry. Please, eat.”

He studies your face, then seems to accept it, nodding slowly. Within seconds, he’s finishing off your portion, too. You sip your tea, quietly reeling at how hollow his cheeks look, the bones more pronounced than you remember.

When the food is gone, he rubs his hand over his face and slumps back in his seat. 

“You’re not at work?” he asks, voice low.

You exhale a thin breath. “I… took the week off.”

“What?”

“Yeah, well,” you say, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, “I was kind of upset. Didn’t want to hide in the red room if I needed a cry.”

Remorse surges in his eyes, and he ducks his head. 

“Sweetheart… I know it doesn’t make up for anything I did, but from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

“Steve,” you begin, voice trembling slightly, “it’s fine. We’re focusing on you right now—”

He shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I know, and that’s important. But there’s something I gotta ask...” He presses his palms to the table, steadying himself. “What I did was unforgivable. If we’re over—if you can’t do this anymore—tell me. I just—I need to know.”

Your heart lurches; the raw plea in his voice stabs at you. 

“Steve—”

He lifts a hand, begging you to let him finish. 

“I don’t care if you—if you need space, or if you don’t want to see me for a while. I get that. I just… I need to know that I still have a chance. That once I figure this shit out—I haven’t—haven’t lost you completely.”

You swallow hard. The weight of his gaze feels almost too much to bear, but there’s no hesitation in your reply. 

“You haven’t lost me.” Your voice softens. “I....I love you too much.”

His face crumples with relief, a choked exhale leaving his lips. You reach out, tentatively resting your hand on his, and for a moment, the two of you stay like that—clinging to the thin thread of hope that still binds you together.

Finally, you clear your throat, pulling your hand away.

“So,” you say, steadying yourself, “we need to figure out what you’re going to do. Are you sure your dad will kick you out?”

“Yeah. He will.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t lie. He cut me off already when I didn’t go to college—he follows through on every threat.”

“Okay. So what about renting? You make enough to cover it, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I do, but there’s hardly anything on the market. And what there is…” He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid. 

You know all too well how soul-crushing it can be to search for a decent place in Hawkins. It took you months to find yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, nodding, “I know.”

A hush settles between you, the quiet palpable, almost electric. He fiddles with his empty plate, pushing around the leftover crumbs with his fork, while you stare at him, mind churning over possibilities. 

Then a single thought sparks—a ridiculous, terrifying idea that sets your heart pounding.

“Steve?” you say softly, and his eyes lock with yours. “I… I might have an idea.”

His eyes scan your face, searching for any hint of hesitation. And then, suddenly, it all clicks into place for him. 

No. 

There is no way you’re suggesting that. It’s absurd. It’s idiotic. It’s not even something he’d ever let himself consider.

“No,” he rasps almost immediately, shaking his head. “No, angel, I can’t—I can’t do that. Are you serious? That’s yours—not mine. I can’t just—whatever you’re—I mean, after what I said? After what I did to you?”

Finally, you see what you’ve been searching for all week—you see your Steve. 

The Steve you’ve always known. The one who never wants to impose, who refuses to be a burden, who won’t ask for more even when he desperately needs it. The remorse in his eyes is painful, and it only solidifies your decision.

This is your boyfriend, Steve. And God, if it meant keeping this version of him—the one you cherish, the one you love—you’d let him stay with you forever.

“This is my offer,” you say. “I’m offering it to you. If you want to treat it like a last resort, that’s fine. But…” Your throat bobs with emotion as you draw in a shaky breath. “I really, really want to wake up with you every day. Split the rent. If your dad’s so concerned about your future, why don’t you make one? One you’re actually proud of... One with me.”

He blinks, tears shimmering in his eyes, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he struggles to compute what you’re saying 

You’re insane for doing this. 

In his eyes, at least. You’re supposed to be the smart one—the one who thinks things through, who knows better. And this? This is the furthest thing from a smart move.

But he sees it—the way your eyes shine with conviction, how your expression doesn’t waver, how every fiber of your being is offering this to him, fully and completely. 

You’re not lying. 

He knows when you are. And this? 

This is real.

“You… You really mean that?” His voice trembles, and the raw hope shining through makes your heart twist.

You nod, eyes glistening with your own tears. 

“Yes. I really mean that. I’m ready to do this—seriously.”

A choked sound escapes him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His body aches with the need to have you near him. 

“Come here,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Come over here, please?”

You push your chair back, crossing the short distance in two steps. The moment you’re within reach, he pulls you onto his lap, arms locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

His hands come up to brush the hair away from your face, the gentleness almost undoing you. Then his lips meet yours in a lingering kiss. It tastes like promises and second chances, and he pours every ounce of relief, every fragment of devotion into it.

“You’re not gonna regret this,” he murmurs between soft presses of his lips, voice thick with emotion. “Swear on my life, I’m gonna spend every single day showing you how much you mean to me. You’ll never—ever have to worry about anything again, long as I’m around. You know that?” He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough. “You’re an angel—call you that all the time, I know, but you have to understand I mean it—fully. You’re a godsend—straight from fucking heaven.”

You feel your heart swell, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. A little laugh slips out—half joy, half disbelieving relief—while you bury your face in his neck, letting him cling to you as if letting go might shatter the fragile moment.

Eventually, you have to pull back, your lips still tingling from his. 

He inhales shakily, a new determination igniting behind his tired eyes. A tear slips down his cheek, but he doesn’t look away. 

He couldn’t. 

Even if he wanted to.

Because this girl—this stupid, stubborn, impossibly insane girl in his lap—has just given him the one thing he never thought he’d have. 

Salvation. 

A way out. A chance to live his life—not the one dictated by his father, not the one shaped by expectations he could never meet, but his life. The way he’s dreamed about since leaving high school.

It’s been a few days since that heart-to-heart—since all the raw emotions and apologies spilled out and brought you two back together. You find yourself trudging up the stairs to your flat, a small duffle bag clenched in your hand. 

It’s not your bag. It’s Steve’s. 

He insisted on carrying the heavier stuff, so he’s right behind you with a large cardboard box balanced carefully in his arms. He keeps throwing concerned glances your way, reminding you not to overdo it, especially after the whirlwind you both survived these past few days.

When you offered him your place—opened the door to your home, and more importantly, to your future together. It felt cathartic at the time, but neither of you were naive enough to think it would be easy. Later that same day, the two of you ended up at his dining table, drafting a meticulous list: bills, rent, utilities, a hundred different phone calls you’d need to make to set everything up. 

You were both determined to do it right. He kept emphasising that he’d pull his weight, that he’d take on more than his share if it meant showing you how committed he was. The idea of this new life with him thrilled and terrified you—but mostly, it filled your chest with a heat you could hardly articulate.

Hours passed, and by ten at night, you were rubbing at your eyes, complaining of a headache from all the numbers and paperwork. He looked at you, concern shadowing his features. He’d noticed your exhaustion well before you said anything and felt guilty for letting you push yourself so far. Relenting, he agreed that you both needed to step away and breathe.

That night, you slept at his place, and the sensation was immediately familiar—like returning home. Wearing his old Hawkins Phys Ed shirt, you crawled under the covers and felt his arms circle around you. He held you so gently, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. You could feel his shaky exhale against your hair as he tried not to tear up, clearly thinking about how damn lucky he was.

Even after you drifted off, he found he couldn’t sleep. Not with the guilt still gnawing at him, not when the knowledge of how he’d hurt you weighed on his mind.

Call it self-inflicted punishment or penance, but he carefully slipped out from under your arm, doing his best not to stir you. 

With measured steps, he made his way back downstairs, returning to the scattered papers on the table. He picked up the old calculator he thought he’d never use again, muttering every sum under his breath. Even though it was late, the methodical tap of buttons and scribble of pencil across paper soothed him.

Each calculation that confirmed a real, shared future gave him the momentum to keep going, no matter how sleep-deprived he felt. Some of the equations he did twice, not wanting any part of this to be left up to chance. 

When you woke up sometime later, you realised the bed was still cold on his side. Anxiety prickled through you as you called his name into the darkness, flipping on the lamp to peer through the dimly lit bedroom. The quiet of the house led you downstairs, where you found him hunched over the table, eyes rimmed red from strain, pencil in hand. 

He didn’t even notice you right away, so lost in thought—tallying numbers, crossing them out, re-checking them. Your heart melted at the sight of his serious expression, that little line between his brows telling you just how deep in concentration he was.

Padding across the floor, you stepped into his line of vision. He glanced up at you, and the softness in his eyes nearly made your breath catch. Leaning back in the chair, he waited—almost timid—until you climbed right into his lap. His arms came around you instantly, hugging you like he was grounding himself in your warmth.

“Should be sleeping, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice husky with fatigue. “S’almost two.”

“You’re not in bed.” You told him in a drowsy mumble as you burrowed yourself further into his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. “Thought I’d finish what we started. Want to make sure all of this works out.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” you gave a small shake of your head.

It was true. All these papers and logistics would still be there tomorrow. There was a movement in his eyes but he still wasn’t quite ready to give it up. Wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn’t going to lose this too. 

“Please?” You pleaded, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “Wanted to sleep with you... Haven’t had the chance all week.”

At that, he broke. His expression gentled as he brushed a few stray hairs out of your face. 

“Okay,” he whispered, like he was surrendering to something bigger than both of you. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

You led him quietly back upstairs, exhaustion weighing down both your limbs. The moment you slipped under the blankets and into his arms, you felt a warmth settle through your bones. He held you close, and you could sense his heart thudding in his chest as he finally let himself relax. 

Within minutes, he was drifting off. 

That was four days ago. Now, everything’s official—all the logistics sorted, all the phone calls made. You stand in your bedroom, setting his duffle bag in the corner of your room. Behind you, he carefully places a large box on top of the dresser. When you turn, he meets you with a soft, lopsided grin that crinkles the edges of his eyes.

“Is that it?” he asks.

You cross your arms over your chest and nod slowly, taking in the modest stacks of his belongings that are now scattered around your bedroom. 

“Thought you had more stuff than this,” you say, frowning. 

“I decided to get rid of a few things.” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “New start and all that.”

“You threw them away?” You scowl in mock indignation. “Instead of giving them to me?”

He chuckles, stepping closer to hook an arm around your waist. 

“Sweetheart,” he lets out a low chuckle, nudging your chin with a gentle finger. “You now have full access to my entire wardrobe, and you’re complaining?”

“Hmmm.” You pout as he leans in, you let him kiss you—warm and tender. When you finally break away, you clear your throat. “Did you call Keith?”

“Yeah,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “Got my job back—already squared things away about my time off. Robin forgave me for being a complete idiot, and Dustin too.”

He’s got a second chance, and he’s not going to blow it.

When you told him how Dustin had turned to you for help, you saw the panic ignite in his eyes again—fear that he’d let everyone down, especially the kid who looked up to him like a brother. 

So you’d forced him into the passenger seat, driven to Dustin’s house, and watched from the window as Steve hesitated on the porch before finally knocking.

You weren’t sure what was said in that living room—he spent an hour in there. You do know that, by the time you joined them, Dustin had tears in his eyes, but they were happy tears. And Steve looked lighter. Like he’d scraped the burden off his shoulders and left it on the welcome mat. 

The three of you ended up sprawled in Dustin’s living room, eating too many slices of pizza, and watching a random comedy on TV. By the time you left, your heart felt a little sturdier.

No more tantrums. No more breakdowns.

You’d believed him too, especially with how his eyes shone with fresh resolve.

“I, uh, moved some of my stuff around in the bedroom,” you tell him. “Had a few spare drawers or whatever—you’ve got the bottom two, and there’s some free hangers in the wardrobe.”

His eyes flick to the space you’ve made for him, you catch the gratefulness that softens his entire expression. He looks at you like he still can’t believe this is real—that he’s here, that you made room for him. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in for a slow kiss, his lips lingering on yours.

When it ends, he presses his forehead to yours, murmuring a playful “thank you.” But before you can reply, the gentle press of his mouth becomes more insistent. His hands shift to cradle your jaw, and you melt into him as the kiss deepens—hungry, a little desperate.

“Steve,” you mumble, pulling back just enough to speak, though his lips still ghost over yours. “We need to unpack…”

He hums, not letting you stray far. 

“We can unpack later,” he murmurs. “Got all the time in the world.”

You want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters—makes your heart ache. When he dips his head to nip gently at your neck, you let out a breathy laugh, your hands coming up to clutch his shoulders. In one swift move, he lifts you onto the bed, settling you against the pillows.

Your pulse skitters in your chest as he looms over you, his warm, steady gaze sweeping across your face. 

“Can I?” he asks, voice hushed. “Wanna say thank you properly—wanna make you feel good.”

A little huff slips past your lips, your cheeks hot. He’s ridiculously sweet, and he knows it. He sees you hesitate for half a second, so he leans in, pressing a series of gentle, coaxing kisses along your jaw, his hands finding purchase at your hips. 

“Please?” he murmurs, breath fanning against your skin. “Wanna take care of you. You gonna let me, angel?”

His thumbs begin to knead soft circles into your sides, and you feel your heart skipping a beat—or maybe five. You tug him closer, inhaling the comforting scent of his shirt as your arms loop around his shoulders, deciding then and there you’ll never get enough of him.

You blink up at him, heat already flushing across your cheeks. The second you mumble your agreement—“Yeah, all right. Okay.”—his face lights up with a grin so bright it makes your stomach flip. 

He leans in, giving you a quick kiss before pulling back to yank off his shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest shift, and you can’t help the way your eyes trail over his skin. Your own shirt follows suit as well as your bra, stripped away and tossed onto the floor, and then he’s on you again—breath warm and urgent against your mouth, hands skimming over your bare sides.

He’s nipping gently at your bottom lip, then your jaw, and you feel that fevered press of his body. Each touch says he needs this. Each breathless kiss says he’s missed you.

“Wanted to do this all week,” he murmurs, voice raw with relief. “Can’t believe you chose me, sweetheart—I mean—could’ve had anyone.”

Your heart clenches at the genuine wonder in his tone. You cradle the back of his neck, pulling him down for another firm kiss. 

“I want you,” you say, voice catching on the words. “Only you.”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes falling shut as though your confession alone is enough to undo him. 

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk. “Well, I gotta show you how grateful I am, then. Gonna make you see stars, baby. You deserve it—so fucking beautiful.”

Heat crawls up your face, and you instinctively try to duck your head, flustered by his praise. He catches the motion, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. 

“Oh? You getting shy on me?”

“N-no…” you protest, but it comes out smaller than you intended.

“That sounds like a ‘yes.’” His voice is teasing as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. Before you can work up a witty retort, your trousers and underwear are slipped down and off, leaving you bare. His gaze darkens appreciatively. “You don’t like it when I say nice things?”

You shake your head, but the denial dissolves the moment his hand slides between your thighs. Calloused fingertips brush against your slick skin, and the breath escapes you in a shaky exhale. His responding chuckle warms your ear. 

“Oh, baby, I think you're lying—just look at you.”

A mortified whimper bubbles out—though your body clearly isn’t complaining. It’s a mess of conflicting emotions: the embarrassment of his unabashed words and the molten desire pooling low in your belly.

“It’s—it’s embarrassing when you talk like that,” you manage to squeak, squirming under his touch.

“Embarrassing?” he echoes, sounding far too amused. He presses his hand more firmly, and a moan slips out of you, your thighs quivering at the sensation. “Can’t have that,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss down your neck. “Was so mean to you, angel—don’t deserve you.” Another slow swirl of his fingers has you arching up. “Gotta make it right—s’only fair.”

You part your lips to respond, but all that comes out is a broken, breathy sound. The rhythmic press of his hand is driving coherent thought right out of your head. He watches you, clearly reveling in how easily he can undo you.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping to a low hum. “You sure you don’t like it when I tell you how pretty you are? How perfect you are for me?”

You give a pitiful whine, your cheeks practically on fire. It only seems to spur him on, his fingertips slick as they work you open. Each thrust of his hand feels so sinfully good that you can’t tell if you want him to keep talking or just shut up and kiss you senseless.

Steve was always all sweet words and gentle smiles in bed, but this was different. He was savouring you, getting off on calling you names—not the degrading kind, but the ones that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten.

His cocky little grin flashes again. 

“Aw, baby, you’re so sensitive.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against your ear. 

You let your eyes fall shut, surrendering to the flurry of sensation he’s stirring inside you. The desperate tingle in your stomach builds with each curl of his fingers, and just when you think you might be careening toward the edge, he pulls away. You open your mouth to protest, only to watch him stand up and strip out of his jeans and boxers.

He shifts back onto the bed, bracing himself over you, and a sharp bolt of arousal lances through your core when you feel him—hot and hard—rubbing insistently against your clit. 

“Gonna fuck you, baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Gonna show you how much you mean to me—how good you are to me—”

He guides himself to your entrance and pushes in, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside you. Your jaw goes slack at the delicious stretch. Both of you gasp at the same time—like you’ve just remembered how good this can feel when all the walls are down, when you’re both so desperately in need of one another.

A shudder runs through him. 

“God, I missed this,” he groans, beginning a slow, steady pace. “Missed you.” He leans in, mouthing at your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can get his lips. “Gonna do this every day—after every shift—hell, before every shift. Want you on my cock anytime I can have you.”

The rhythmic drag of him thrusting deeper and deeper has you arching your back. Your nails instinctively rake down his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. The sting must register because he lets out a rough moan.

“You gonna scratch me up, huh?” he rasps, his pace growing more determined. “Gonna leave a mark on me?”

“S-sorry.” You freeze for half a second, peering up at him through hazy, pleasure-blurred eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt you—”

“Could never hurt me—not after what I did.” He shakes his head, eyes burning with intensity. “I—I want it, baby. Wanna feel you tomorrow—everytime I move—wanna remember who’s at home waiting for me. Our home.”

Something about that—our home—sends sparks of electricity tearing through your veins. 

“Steve,” you breathe. Your voice cracks with urgency. “Shit, I’m gonna—”

He knows what you mean before you even said the words. Bearing down, he snaps his hips a bit faster, and his words become even more ragged and desperate, tumbling from his lips in quick succession. 

“So fucking smart—so fucking pretty,” he manages between thrusts. “Always so sweet for me—God”

His chest is heaving, damp with sweat, and he’s pounding into you like he can’t hold anything back. He feels you squeezing around him, and it only drives him further—spurs him on like he has something to prove. He can’t give you much, but what he can offer, he gives tenfold. 

This is what he can give you, and fuck, he wants to give you so much more. He’d give anything to make you happy—to make you feel even a fraction of what you’ve given him. He needs you to understand. Needs you to feel it.

“Always working so hard—taking such good care of me—making me feel so fucking good—aren’t you, angel?” he mumbles brokenly, delirious. He’s teetering on the edge, and you feel it in the way his strokes start to falter. “Need you to know how much I—Fuck—need you to cum on my cock, baby. Won’t stop ’til I feel it—please.”

You’re too strung out to do anything but obey that fierce longing in his voice. With one more thrust, you tumble into release, your body seizing beneath him. The rush has you clawing at his shoulders, your head thrown back as waves of ecstasy roll through you. You vaguely register him letting out a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, the tension in his body snapping as he spills into you.

For a few seconds, you both just hover there—lost in the throbbing aftermath that feels electric and tender. Your vision spots with warm, dizzy bliss, and you’re semi-aware of him collapsing onto you, his lips brushing your temple in a dazed kiss.

You pull away from him, chest still heaving, and the giggle that slips from your lips sounds almost delirious in the quiet that’s settled around you both. his flushed cheeks crease into a satisfied grin as he tilts his head, studying you.

“What is it?” he asks, brushing his fingers through his damp hair.

You push at his chest—just enough to make him tumble to the side—and roll your eyes. 

“You talk too much.”

 “Me?” He gives an exaggerated gasp. “That’s weird. Usually you love my mouth.”

Heat crawls up your cheeks as you huff, trying to will away the memories of just how much you do love his mouth. 

“Yeah,” you grumble, “but when you talk like that…makes my head all scrambled.”

“Oh, I know, baby. I’m so mean, aren’t I?” He pouts exaggeratedly. 

Another huff leaves you, though you can’t hide the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement. He leans over the side of the bed to grab his discarded shirt and jeans, and you start to do the same—only to freeze when you catch sight of his back in the low light.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe out, eyes going wide.

“What is it?” He whips around, alarmed by your tone. 

 “I, uh…I actually did leave marks on your back.” You grimace a little, shifting your weight to your knees. The faint, reddened lines stand out against his skin—four vivid stripes that trace the path of your nails from earlier.

He glances over his shoulder with a casual shrug, though the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his real reaction. 

“Oh yeah?” His voice dips lower, interest obvious.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, feeling a hint of guilt.

“I wanted you to,” he replies without hesitation, and you notice the flicker of heat in his eyes. “Shows I was doing a good job.”

“Still feel bad,” you mumble, cheeks burning. You move closer, fingers ghosting over his shoulder blades. 

“You know…” His grin widens. “Could always kiss ‘em better. Hear that helps.”

You scoff but lean in, pressing soft kisses to each mark, and he practically melts under your touch. 

“Better?” you ask softly, lips brushing the raised skin.

“Much,” he murmurs, letting out a shaky sigh. There’s a definite pink tinge staining his cheeks now—you’ve managed to fluster him now.

"Aw, you getting shy on me?" You tease as a giggle bubbles up your throat.

"Shut up." He huffs as he leans down to pull on his boxers, holding out his shirt for you to slip on. "Shower?"

You nod as you pull on your clothes, letting him guide you to the bathroom, his touch gentle.

He doesn’t let you lift a finger—cleaning you up was his job tonight, just like making dinner, just like everything else.

He promised you wouldn’t have to worry about a damn thing ever again, and Steve keeps his promises.

Any stress?

That’s his job now. Not yours.

Because you’ve already given him the greatest gift anyone could ask for. You. Your trust, your future. And he’s going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.

He didn’t tell his dad he was leaving. Didn't see the point.

If the old man wanted to find him, he could, but it wouldn’t change anything. He had made his choice, and for the first time in his life, it wasn’t about living up to someone else’s expectations.

He blocked out the past, because the only thing that matters now is you—safe, warm, cared for, loved. He would spend every day proving that you’d never have to doubt that again.

[cherrycheolkat]

Hey!! for the bingo game i was thinking if you could write something about knotting & marking with cheol!!

hiii yes!! yay cheol - i don't write enough for his cute squishy cheeks (face or butt).

okie, so this def went in an a/b/o way, but that seems obvious given the knotting. anyway, hope you like this.

♡ kat

bingo squares: knotting + marking

summary: y/n helps seungcheol through his rut and gets knotted and marked in the process

word count: 1.7k

genre: a/b/o, alpha!cheol, omega!reader, ruts, enemies to lovers (barely), implied pining, kind of fluffy ngl

warnings: penetrative sex, fingering, oral sex, knotting, marking, breeding kink

it had always been fun to tease seungcheol, mostly because his aversion to you was so intense that it bordered on absurd. so naturally it became your favorite past time to mess with him, especially when you were younger. you knew you had won every time he looked huffy and mad, with arms crossed, and his lips pressed into a hard line. 

for ages, there was nothing quite so good as knowing you had gotten under the alpha’s skin, until you weren’t sure when it changed exactly. and it wasn’t a total change because it was still fun to annoy him, just a bit less.

to be fair, you had known one another forever, virtually, and you didn’t hate him - he was the one with the issue. but maybe he was right that you were a little demented since you had literally kicked your feet with glee when his parents and your parents thought it would be a good idea for you to live in the same building when you both moved to the city for work after college. 

but you weren’t a bad neighbor - there were limits to how much you were willing to annoy him because every once in a while he would truly look like the most tired alpha to ever alpha, and you would usually send him delivery from the one restaurant you knew he liked - not that you kept track or something.  

but fast forward to several days before, because the real issue was when you noticed that he seemed very off and weird, even for him, and you couldn’t help but ask what was wrong. of course, he just rolled his eyes and mumbled something about ‘why would you care’, which was annoying. but when you saw his mail was piling up, you sort of wondered if he were dead or something. you tried knocking, loudly, even - still nothing. plus, you didn’t want to be late for work and decided you would try texting him. maybe. 

you thought about it - you even typed the message, but sending it was another thing because he did always shoot you these annoyed looks when he saw you. which only made you want to be a menace, but that was harder since you presented as an omega and starting noticing scents. like how his was this amazing peppery floral scent that practically made your mouth water every time you were close to him. the fucking elevator was your enemy in that regard. even if you weren’t in it at the same time, you could catch his scent. you had maybe fingered yourself a few times thinking about just how good he smelled. 

you didn’t message him. instead, you chose the totally normal option of using the fire escape - it wasn’t that many floors to climb. plus if his apartment was like yours, you would be outside his bedroom and be able to see if he had like died or whatever. with that solid plan, you went through your day. and by the evening, you ignored the rain and climbed the rickety as fuck fire escape ladder to the fourth floor. it was surprising to know he didn’t have black out shades - they seemed on-brand for him, but no, just thin, fluttery curtains that reminded you his mother probably did his shopping. you leaned against the glass to see that he was in bed, wrapped in maybe 45 blankets. it was pure impulse to tap on the glass, and then the old desire to see some emotion from him kicked in a bit too. so you kept tapping.

it took a few minutes to see any movement. so you kept tapping until he was in front of the window.

“it’s raining,” he said through the glass.

“yeah, so can i come in?”

he stared blankly for a moment. “you’re insane, you know that, right?”

you nodded, “you do keep reminding me.”

he rolled his eyes, but he still opened the window. he went back to flop on his bed while you climbed in through the window. you were shocked for a moment by how heavily his scent hung in the air and by how intensely floral it was, but peppercorns were actually kind of floral, you reasoned. 

“so can i do anything to help?” you asked, glancing around his room - it was neater than you would have guessed. 

he groaned, “please don’t mess with me right now, y/n - it’s not fair,” he grumbled and burrowed back into his blankets, which was much cuter than it should have been. 

you sighed and walked over to his bed and sat, “i’m not messing with you - you’ve looked like shit, i was worried - you know, since we used to be friends and stuff, besides if you died, i feel like i would definitely be judged by your mom, who i do like, and you would haunt me just for fun.” you reached out to feel his forehead as you spoke - he was shockingly warm. 

and then it clicked in your mind - alpha, looking like shit, all warm. “oh, shit,” you tilted your head to look at him, “don’t you use blocks and stuff?”

he stared at you for a moment like he was deciding something, “they make me sick - sicker before you ask - they’re way worse than this.” 

you barely realized you were smoothing his hair from his face. you watched him close his eyes while you petted him. you tried to remember all the things about alphas in ruts - you knew it could be really painful, fucking helped, but sometimes just being around someone could help too. you wanted to be surprised that he was the type to just hibernate and tough it out, but it actually tracked pretty well since he wasn’t the most social. 

you bit your lip lightly, “i can order food?”

he nodded, “stay and eat with me?” he stared up at you, his big eyes made you weaker than you ever liked to think about. you found yourself nodding because it was just staying for food. 

you ordered food, and took a shower to get warm so he would shut up about how you would catch a cold - it also meant borrowing clothes from his extensive collection of sweats and pajamas. based on his wardrobe alone, he really stayed home too much. you sat next to him in bed and didn’t complain when he leaned against your thigh - you assumed it was his way of saying he liked when you played with his hair before. you ate and watched tv.

it was uneventful until you tried to leave, and he sulked and asked you to stay the night. you stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was somehow concussed. but you agreed, which meant being integrated into his burrito blanket situation, which would have been fine if it hadn’t felt like the equivalent of snuggling with a space heater. you woke up at some point during the night, thinking of opening the window, which made him whiny. 

you made the executive decision to solve the problem by kissing him. for a few minutes, it was nothing but finally knowing how good his lips felt and heavy breathing from both of you. 

 he broke the kiss just enough, “y/n - it’s - you don’t need to”—

“you’ll feel better right?” you cut him off with your question. 

he exhaled loudly, “yeah, but it’s not how i…” he trailed off - you could feel the gentle way his hands held your waist, his thumbs making little shapes against your skin. you blinked quickly, understanding where that sentence was headed. 

you took a deep breath, “it’s how it is - it can be cute later,” you kissed him roughly, feeling like he deserved it for being this much of an idiot. 

you didn’t mind the rush to undress or the way he had you on your back in what felt like seconds. he kissed you as much as possible while his hands moved your legs and hips into the positions he liked. you moaned when his fingers pushed in.

“fuck you’re so tight,” he groaned, working his fingers in deeper, stretching you as he did.

you gasped at the pace he was setting, especially when you felt his cock brush against your hip and realized how big it was. you reached down to jerk it while he prepped you. he moaned softly, “my good little omega,” he whispered against your skin. you blushed and nodded, especially when he bit the one spot just beneath your ear. your eyes immediately rolled back, and you came all over his fingers - slick and cum mixed just right to take his cock.

he was breathing heavily - you were already gone - his scent and bite were enough to send your mind reeling. but you quickly came to ground when you felt his cock push into you for the first time. he stilled for a moment when he bottomed out inside you. and then he started to move. you yelped at the stretch and felt his hand cover your mouth.

“shh, baby, just a few minutes - i won’t last,” he groaned and started to snap his hips, “fuck,” he muttered. he sounded on the verge of tears. 

you reached up for him, your hand tracing over his chest and stomach - you knew you were speaking but weren’t really sure what you said until you both seemed to pause when you babbled about how you wanted his knot. 

he nodded, “mmmh, yeah, princess, i’ll knot you,” and thrust harder, the tip of his cock unquestionably hitting your cervix, “breed you full too - all my pups, baby girl - i want you full of them,” he whispered against your throat, his lips teasing the mark he had already made. when his teeth grazed the skin, you pulled his hair roughly in anticipation of another bite. and when his teeth sank into your throat, and his knot started to catch and stretch you even more, there were so many sensations - you were certain that holding onto him was the only way to stay tethered to the earth - you knew your fingers were digging into his skin. but you didn’t care when your orgasm hit - it was a rush of perfect bliss that morphed into floating in nothingness until you felt him pulling you close, pressing soft kisses against your skin. 

you had no idea how long his knot would last, but it didn’t really matter when you were lying across him, body limp and pliant and sleep taking you so easily. 

a/n: thanks for submitting an ask and thanks for reading

if you want to see the original bingo, go [here] and new nsfw only bingo is [here]

tag list: @syluslittlecrow ☁︎ @gyuguys ☁︎ @haik-chu

♡ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here] & this is my [master list] if you want to read more

[rollingeevee]

First off, happy early/almost birthday, second, would the Beasts ever be ab*s*ve towards their darling? Like physically, emotionally, mentally, that kind. If so which ones and which type?

Tysmmmmm!!! I had quite a bit of fun yesterday! ^^

Now for your question

Trigger Warnings for below the cut: talk of ab*s*

Okie uhhhh short answer is yes. When you think about it, a bite in and of itself is abuse, at least if the darling is unwilling, since, every time their darling tries to escape, they find themselves in pain. I will say that none of the Beasts are physically abusive (any physical harm they may bring to their darling is purely accidental or a result of their bite’s effects) but mental and emotional is not beyond any of them, especially Shadow Milk (no surprise there). I will once again remind that the Beasts in BBaAK are yandere in nature, and yanderes aren’t exactly known for having healthy love lives. The Beasts are obsessive, possessive, territorial, and controlling, among other things. They take whatever means they must to keep their darling in line if they feel there is a need for that. You don’t wanna force their hand, right? So just be a good darling and behave…

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Can u not tag malleus or other characters when u hate on them pls it makes me sad

Hello, and thank you for reaching out about this! I do apologize for your discomfort 💦

I believe that this ask comes as a result of this post, as that’s the most recent post I can think of which might match the description of “hating on Malleus”. You’ll note that there is now a Malleus Draconica critical tag, which you can block if you choose to. This way, you won’t come across it while browsing my blog.

I’ve also gone ahead and retroactively tagged other related posts (although they’re mostly posts from the past year or two). There are similar tags for other characters, such as #Vil Schoenheit critical and the like. These tags are put on posts in which I discuss why I don’t like a particular character. I hope you can use these tags and the blocking feature to best curate your own experience on this blog.

The reason why I elected to make a new tag rather than exclude my posts altogether from the main tags is because I don’t think that it’s conducive to shut away “negativity” about a character when Twst is a game that actively promotes characters of a dubious nature. It encourages us to embrace both the good and the bad aspects of its large cast of colorful characters—so I don’t think there’s anything wrong with pointing out their flaws or why someone might not like X or Y for them. This can make some people uncomfortable, certainly. However, I don’t think that’s a reason to prevent sharing of this critique with others who might gain new insight from it. I say this as someone who has gained insight myself by reading about characters I dislike, and someone who has been told that their works have entirely changed people’s minds about certain characters. It goes both ways.

Even if someone dislikes a character I happen to like, I find it helpful to read conflicting opinions to gain a fuller perspective. I want to give others that opportunity as well. I realize that not everyone may share this sentiment though, which is why there’s always the option to block what you don’t wish to see. (Prioritize your own comfort!!) I think people should be able to choose not to look at content that upsets them, but I don’t think it makes sense for this content to be hidden from others who may be interested in seeing “the other side”, if that makes sense!

I also believe that fandom—especially as of late—seems to conflate critique with hate, to the point where the slightest criticism of a character or content is labelled as “hate”. This can lead to a dangerous area where anything that isn’t immediate and glowing praise is deemed “bad”. That’s not an area I want this fandom to hit, as it would inevitably limit our ideas (although this also applies to all other fandoms).

In reality, “hate” and “critique” are NOT synonyms of each other. Hate is hostile and exists purely to shame or to tear down the content in question. It doesn’t consider the other side or care to ask questions. Critique is judgment or opinion of that content, and it is usually meant to help improve the content. It has us ask “why?” and “how?” To put it simply, hate is “you’ll never be better” and critique is “you can do better”.

In this instance, perhaps the previous anon’s statements (“[…] now I'm a hater. Like wtf. He’s so incompetent.”) are hate. (Even so, they’re entitled to feel the way that they do, even if the way the opinion was expressed was over-the-top.) I do think I was emotional in my response, but I don’t think I expressed myself in a hateful manner overall. I opened with what is arguably a defense of his behavior and then went on to point out a legitimate character flaw Malleus has and how not everyone reading those vignettes would perceive that flaw in a gracious manner. It’s not blind hatred; it’s valid critique and it comes from a place of wanting to see him improve as a person. I try to not character bash because no one (myself included) feels good seeing others hating on their favorites. Malleus has flaws, and so do all the other characters. Those flaws should be acknowledged, and it’s up to the individual to determine whether those flaws result in liking or disliking that particular character.

I’m not saying that everyone should agree with my stance on the Malleus Dorm Uniform vignettes or how I feel about Malleus in general. What I am saying is that not all negative statements made about a character should automatically be categorized as “hate”. I worry that if we stretch the definition of the word too loose, it could become a situation where any and all critique is silenced 💦 What happens when no critique is allowed? Everyone begins to think the same way or has to be fearful of expressing an opinion, and fandom becomes so much less fun for everyone involved… And, worse still, the canon content itself can feel confident resting on its laurels and not actually put forth the effort to “be better” (since there’s no negative feedback coming from the fandom).

Again, I encourage you to curate your online experience!! Do whatever makes you the most comfortable. If you don’t like seeing something, there is zero shame in blocking it or taking whatever steps necessary to disengage. Lastly, please take care to not to overgeneralize what counts as “hate”!

Thank you for your time 🙇‍♀️ I know I probably rambled for way longer than necessary cnsbjwvuwgejbe

[eastsideofthemoon]

Discovery's Most Afrofuturistic Episodes

Star Trek Discovery, in general, is Afrofuturism. It's a show that centers a Black woman's story - her trials, tribulations, and triumphs - in a world of science and technology. Also, much of her story is a reflection on what it is like to be a Black woman in today's world. But even with all of that, there are episodes that are especially Afrofuturistic, and since it's Black History Month, I want to shine a light on them.

1. The Girl Who Made the Stars

This story is pure Afrofuturism. In this Short Trek, we get a rare glimpse of little Michael Burnham with her biological father, Mike Burnham, Sr, as he's comforting her by telling a story about how a little Black girl's bravery created the stars.

The story takes place in the village of the /Xam Abathwa, an African tribe, who are called the "first people". This story proclaims that the first people on earth were African - Black Africans.

Also, during the opening monologue of S2.01 (Brother), Michael references this story, linking it even more into the canon of Discovery and Star Trek as a whole.

2. Lethe

This episode tackles both assimilation and covert racism. I don’t believe it’s by happenstance that Michael, who’s Black, is surrounded by white Vulcans. Through a mind meld with Sarek, we see in this episode the extent to which Michael Burnham has had to assimilate, in the worst way, to Vulcan culture in order to integrate into their society. Her hair is straightened, her speaking patterns altered, and any expression that is uniquely her, primarily her emotions, are suppressed. More poignantly, we learn the truth to why Michael wasn’t accepted into the Vulcan Exploration Group. Despite being more than qualified, it was the bigotry of the VEG only wanting to make room for one non-Vulcan participant because of race, not merit. Sound familiar?

But as the Bible says, The truth will set you free. When Michael learns that not only was she lied to about not being “good enough”, but she was set free from feeling she needed to suppress her true self in order to appease a system never designed for her or even trying to include her. And at the end of this episode, we see Michael beginning her journey of self discovery. There’s a lot to unpack in this episode, which I’ll have to do in a separate post.

2. Perpetual Infinity

I really want to write a longer piece on this episode, but I'll keep it concise for now.

This episode shows that Dr. Gabrielle Burnham, a Black woman, was the genius who created the Red Angel suit and cracked the code on time travel. Unfortunately, due to Leland's negligence, this beautiful family's lives were permanently disrupted, and Dr. Burnham uses the time traveling suit she created to try and save her husband and daughter. In this episode, Michael and Dr. Burnham are finally reunited.

This episode is especially important as it firmly establishes Michael Burnham's origins. We learn about her biological parents, who are both scientists, and get a glimpse of her home life before Vulcan. What we see is a loving family, who relished in their daughter's curiosity about space.

Despite the Red Angel saga having mixed reviews, I believe most people missed what that story was actually about: A love story about a mother and daughter. In short, 2 Black women, a mother-daughter duo, compromised of 2 scientists, save all sentient life via technology.

3. The Hope is You pt 1

Michael jumps 930 years into the future, and the first person she meets is a dark skinned Black man, who introduces her to this new world and new tech she's never encountered. The rest of the episode is essentially us following them as our guides into the 32nd century. Seeing 2 Black characters centered in a show, set so far into the future, is still pretty unprecedented, even in sci-fi.

4. Unification III

This is another episode I want to do a longer breakdown, but for now… I like to call this episode "Claire Huxtable in Space". Dr. Burnham aka Mama Burnham, gives a full display of a Black mother. And I believe her portrayal was as authentic as some of TV's most celebrated Black mothers like Aunt Viv and Claire Huxtable.

A lot of people in the fandom have misinterpreted Dr. Burnham's interaction with Michael during the T'kal-in-ket, either as 1) being too mean or 2) rightfully putting Michael in her place. Both are wrong. Dr. Burnham was doing what Black mothers do - supporting their child(ren) by giving them the truth. Dr. Burnham didn't lay out Michael’s short coming to embarrass her, but it forced Michael to defend herself and Starfleet. By doing so, Michael was able to see she did belong, and it ultimately led to her achieving her goal of acquiring the SB-19 data.

DS9 gave us a wonderful portrayal of a Black father in Benjamin Sisko. But throughout Star Trek, we hadn't really gotten a strong portrayal of a Black mother. Thanks to New Trek, we got two in Dr. Burnham and Captain Freeman.

Plus, this episode is full of Black love. We begin and end the episode with tender moments between Michael and Book, we get the Michael and Dr. Gabrielle reunion and the beautiful moment between Michael and her mom, where Dr. Gabrielle tells Michael that she (Michael) always knows where to find her.

5. The Hope is You pt 2

This is the episode where Michael Burnham becomes CAPTAIN Michael Burnham. To see this woman be given a second chance and watch her make the most of it, and see her be triumphant in achieving captain status was EVERYTHING!

Furthermore, to see a Black woman in a position of power while rocking her braids meant a lot to me. Black hair has been heavily politicized throughout American history. The Crown Act had to be created in order to protect Black people from having our natural be discriminated against in the workplace (and in other settings). So, the significance of Capt Burnham’s image being associated with her braids is highly important. (Side note: I may have to do a separate post on Black hair in Star Trek Discovery, as most of the Black characters sport natural Black hairstyles).

In this episode, Discovery officially became about a Black female Starship captain in the far-off future.

6. Anamoly

Commander Bryce is MVP! Thanks to his hobby with kitesurfing, he's provides the strategy on how to help Book "ride the wave" out of the anamoly. A Black man saves another Black man with the use of science and technology.

7. All In

Michael and Owosekun, the team up we deserved. This gif above is just pure Black girl joy. Similar to The Hope is You pt 1, this episode primarily follows Michael and Owosekun as they go on a mission to stop Book and Tarka from buying isolynium. And they are dynamic together! They hustle their way to winning big in a fighting ring. Owo reads Tarka down, and Michael proves she's always one step ahead.

8. Coming Home

In the season 4 finale, we not only see Captain Burnham lead her team to success, we also see her standing with earth's president, a Black woman (Stacy Abrams). Seeing two Black women in positions of high power, one being the highest authority on earth was something I didn’t know I needed to see. Lastly, the last image of the season is an image of the continent of Africa from space.

9. Life, Itself

In the series finale, Michael meets her creator, a Black female Progenitor, which, in retrospect, feels like a full circle moment to The Girl Who Made the Stars. In The Girl Who Meets the Stars, she’s told a story that the first humans were Black Africans, and then she meets a Black Progenitor.

Then, in the epilogue, we not only saw that she made it to old age, she and Book are thriving and created their own family, demonstrating that the Black family unit is still intact in the far future. That we as a people and our culture still exists.

And for those who think a mixed or biracial family would be more progressive, well, this family is compromised of a human woman and Kwejian man, and their half human/Kwejian son. So they're mixed/biracial.

In closing, despite Bryan Fuller creating the character of Michael Burnham, it was Brandon Schultz, one of Disco's Black writers, who was the catalyst in moving Discovery into including stronger portrayals of Afrofuturism. I highly recommend listening to his interview with the Syfy Sistas (a phenomenal podcast in its own right). On this same podcast, they interviewed Sonequa Martin-Green (definitely go listen to that interview, star date 12/23/22) and she asked them what they wanted to see in Discovery. (This interview was done before the cancellation was announced.) Based on their suggestions, and the fact that SMG said she was going to give their suggestions to the writers, I have a firm belief S6 would have been even more Afrofuturistic.

Although the term “Afrofuturism” was coined in 1993, the concept has been around for decades. Some of the earliest iterations of it go back to the 1920s. We, as a people, have always seen ourselves beyond the limitations our society has tried to dictate to us.

The Afrofuturism and representation in Discovery, DS9, and Lower Decks ALL MATTER. There is no need to be on some crab in the bucket behavior just because there's a new Black character that others relate to different or more than who you relate to. There's beauty in the multiplicity of our portrayals of various Black characters and their stories throughout the Star Trek universe and sci-fi in general. I just hope more of us learn to appreciate it all.

Happy Black History Month

[cookie-lore-keeper]

hiya hiya!

I had seen your post on why shadow milk is obsessed with pure vanilla and wanted to ask ya something. sorry for it being long

with pure vanilla's awakening and that whole conversation after (ive only seen snippets here and there. sorry) as well as the trailer where shadow milk looks guilty. he does briefly resemble pure vanilla with his eye.

do you think this could lead to a possible change for the better after a crash out, or do you think the awakening will make shadow milk worse?? I'm curious what you think

I personally don't want a redemption, but It would definitely feel good, especially with pure vanillas . If I win, we both win comment

Post Anon is talking about

Hello there, Anon!

Honestly, it really could go both ways. The video might've shown Shadow Milk Cookie with the same eyes as Pure Vanilla Cookie to show that they are two halves of the same coin. I've already yapped a lot about that before on this blog, so I won't do it here.

I truly do think Shadow Milk Cookie can be redeemed, but it would be a long, long road with character dives so deep you might as well just stick your whole arm down someone's throat and talk about what you feel down there (I apologize for the imagery).

This post explains Shadow Milk so well. Essentially, he's a narcissist. He only loves himself, he sees everyone else as less important, he is ALWAYS right, and he ALWAYS gets his way because if he doesn't that'd be unfair. At his core, he doesn't want love. He wants another version of himself that will do his every command.

And I agree with that a lot! His entire goal of corrupting Pure Vanilla Cookie was to prove that they are the same! That PV is just like him! He cares about PV bcuz that's another version of him!

But, while that post does such a good job at explaining his narcissism, that doesn't stop the fact that, at his core, he still wanted to he understood, and that he still paused snd repeated "...friend?" In such a soft tone that it shook me to my very core when I first saw it. He corrupted Pure Vanilla Cookie because, while he wanted someone like him, he also wanted someone to understand him.

Pure Vanilla felt his loneliness. Like the post said, loneliness doesn't equal sadness. But, Pure Vanilla Cookie still brought it up, and the two were one in the same for a bit, and Pure Vanilla Cookie could feel Shadow Milk Cookie's emotions. The way Pure Vanilla Cookie brought it up, it feels like there is some sadness to Shmilk's loneliness.

At his core, all Pure Vanilla wants is someone that can truly understand him.

What proves this even more to me is his cakehound (his THIRD cakehound, btw. Greedy bastard).

Shadow Milk is often associated with a Wolf in Sheep's clothing (his beast raid monster, the title screen showing sheep and wolves, and his whole "the boy who cried wolf" story) while Pure Vanilla Cookie is often associated with sheep. He was even a shephard when he was younger!

Like, c'mon. This is definitely a metaphor for these two.

Honestly, at this point, their friendship wouldn't be healthy. What Shmilk wants is to corrupt Pure Vanilla Cookie to where PV just becomes another version of him, which, in his mind, would count as a friend. But again, no matter how twisted that is, THAT DOESN'T STOP THE FACT THAT HE WANTS TO BE PURE VANILLA COOKIE'S FRIEND.

With how the story is setting up, I do hope and think that Shadow Milk Cookie will get a redemption. But, it would take a looott of time.

[inkedmoth]

InkedMoth's Favourite Fics!

A (currently) short list of my favourite fics, this is still a big WIP so will hopefully grow and be added to as time goes on!

Top Recommendations:

In Search of a Queen (ff.net) by @Arkanfire / DoodleWolf Hobbit - Thorin (and Kili & Fili) Lives - Thorin x OC

I have So Many Thoughts about this fic that at this point it lives in my brain rent-free, and is a comfort fic I re-read whenever I'm feeling down. Before I truly got into fanfic, this was the only fic I read, as my old friend Arkanfire was the one who wrote it. But MY GOD it's such a wonderful fic, the main character Rúin and her family are all wonderfully developed and full of their own quirks and personalities, there's interesting and unique side characters (Old Lavri my darling ❤️), tension and angst and romance, and not to mention a delightfully slow slow-burn between Rúin and Thorin which feels so organic and natural, even if she did hit him in the face with a book 😂

10/10 will recommend everyone reads this, and while it's not completed, every chapter is a delight!!

Burn Like Cold Iron by @scyllas-revenge Boromir Lives - Boromir x OC

It's one thing to read a Modern Girl in Middle Earth, it's another thing to have that modern girl piloting a helicopter to escape Isengard and crash landing it out in the wilderness. And if THAT doesn't make you want to read it I genuinely don't know what's wrong with you (affectionate) This is the fic that made me go "you can DO THAT???" and motivated me to try my hand at fic writing, so you can thank Scylla for the 100s of K I've written since reading this delight!

Catch the Wind by @esta-elavaris / eriathiel Pirates of the Caribbean - Norrington Lives - Norrington x OC 🔞

I think I stumbled across this fic by a recommendation post from Scylla, but it was The Best accidental find of the year! This fic made me see Norrington's character in a whole new light, it goes into such wonderful detail as to the world of PotC, and develops characters while staying true to form! It's a long one at 400+K but GOOD LORD it's a worthy binge read! Esta has such brilliant writing style, it's well worth checking out ALL of her fics!

Pints, Profanities and Serious Predicaments Saga by @Erathene LotR - Aragorn x Reader/OC

I love this cursing barmaid so much you don't even know, I want to be her co-worker SO BAD purely to have gossip sessions and shit talk the patrons and check out the lanky and grimy Ranger that keeps dropping by. I'm not normally big on Reader pov's but good lord I'd read the entire trilogy narrated by this girl, it would be hilarious.

Veiled Hearts by @Konartiste LotR - Éomer x Lothíriel

My first foray into Éomer/Lothíriel fics and oh boy was it a good one to start off with! There's emotional conflict, a slow burn, building up of friendships and trusts, and is a delightful read every step of the way. I can't wait to see how their betrothal plays out in the second part, but if you (like me) can't wait that long, I also highly recommend reading Konartiste's The Marriage Bed of the Brute and the Bookworm(🔞) to tide you over in the meantime!

Pride of Greenwood by @Fishing4stars Hobbit - Thranduil x OC

The sheer level of lore and world-building that's gone into this fic is mind-boggling, I especially love the use of welsh, the bards acting as advisors to the leaders, and the plight that brought Thranduil to the greenwood. I've already gotten unreasonably attached to the side character of Braignir! Updates regularly and is well worth subscribing to!

The Unravelling of Hard Words by @Eternal-Vambraces Boromir Lives - Boromir x OC

Do you like Boromir? Do you like the peaceful yet raucous life in the Shire? Do you like flower symbolism? Do you want Boromir to have a Good Time at his friend's wedding? Then this is absolutely the fic for you!! It's delightful and soft and with just a little bit of angst to sober you up, and a very satisfying ending. AND it comes with art!!! I cannot recommend this fic enough!

Fics I adore

E v e r y t h i n g by @esta-elavaris

Don't Fret Dear by @celeluwhenfics (Gen)

The Poison Room by Vintage_Jewel (Faramir/OC)

Scales, Gleaming in the Dark by Seeing_Blue (Hobbit)

Sowing Seeds by @erathene (Aragorn/Reader)

Worlds Apart by @erathene (Aragorn/Mer!Arwen)

there's gotta be more than this I need to do some digging

(If you know any of these folks tumblrs, please let me know so I can tag properly)

🔞 Spice it Up 🔞

All of these fics are going to be varying levels of NSFW, some are just spicy, some are straight up smut, you have been warned!

A Tight Space by AnnaFan (Faramir/Éowyn)

A Week Is A Long Time In Politics by AnnaFan (Faramir/Éowyn)

Sword Master by @scyllas-revenge (Boromir/Reader)

Speaking Tongues by @ass-deep-in-demons (Boromir/OC)

Nights in Rohan Series By NeumeIndil (Gamling/OC)

[killer-bug-boi]

Stars

TW: child neglect, suicidal thoughts, favoritism, emotional abuse

For as long as sal could remember, his father had always favored his younger sister, Lila over him, despite her not even being his child. As much as he absolutely adored Lila, he could never shake the hatred he once felt every time he looked at her, the petty rivalry they once held for each other, all the fights they'd have over his father's approval and love, the fights Lila would always win. He felt invisible next to her when in front of Tre. It was as if he only saw her problems to fix, but his were nonexistent to him.

he used his poetry and stage performances as escapes of some kind. His writing immersed him for hours, the metaphors he'd come up with for something as simple as watching a sunset or walking out in the rain, and when he was on stage, wearing the extravagant costumes for the parts he played, he felt seen, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥, and best of all, when the crowd would clap and cheer, he felt loved, especially when he was cast the lead roles. Every time he'd step off stage after a show to meet with his family, his grandmother would always hug him and tell him what a good job he did. It was rare that Tre would ever even be there, but when he was, he'd barely look at sal, and when he did, it was always a look of indifference and sometimes just pure hatred, as if he was disappointed in what his son had become.

With all of this to deal with on his own, he occasionally found himself staring out his window at night, wondering "𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦? 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺..", but he'd catch himself each time, scolding himself for daring to think such things, but that wouldn't stop the ideas like that from flooding his brain, if anything it only made it worse.

And tonight was no acception to that. Sal was sitting up on the roof of his house, hugging his knees to his chest, staring at the ground below, trying to clear his mind. The night was cold.. and silent aside from the quiet, almost Inaudible sounds sounds of the few people downstairs who were awake laughing and talking, a stark contrast to what he'd been feeling. It felt as if they were mocking him, laughing at his internal suffering. He placed a hand on the roof tiles next to him, leaning back slightly, his eyes drifting up to the sky, the stars dotting the dark blue and purple background serving as some form of comfort to ease his pain. He subconsciously reached a hand up to the sky, as if wanting to hold it where it was, to keep one of the stars as his own.

Eventually, the internal aching he felt died down, and he was left there, a slight, sad smile tugging at his lips, feeling a lot less lonely with the stars surrounding him. But more than anything else, he felt comforted, and at ease. He layed back on the roof, "thank you.." he muttered to the stars as if they could hear. He let out a quiet, tired laugh, finding the whole situation pretty funny, and began slowly dozing off into a peaceful, deep sleep

[isfjmel-phleg]

#😔 i got one question wrong bc ive been thinking too hard abt grant on young justice lmao

#there was one question where i kind of disagreed with the answer but out of all the options it did make sense #and thinking about it now i kinda get it but like also. bro was going thru it and there was not many people lining up to be his mentor or #like. invest too much time in his emotional well-being. AND ill make an ammendment to that #there's no one who he interacts with regularly that is ready and willing to like be his mentor or whatever in a super big overt way #BUT j'onn j'onzz? THE martian manhunter was absolutely down to mentor/train grant #wish dc had done something more with that it would've been so cool

#circling back to information relevant to the question i can see how kyle kinda stands out as someone who is there for grant and has #emotional talks with him and such. bc when he takes grant to mandra's funeral and talks to him about alex it fucked me up.. #him making sure grant doesn't touch the ground so he's not breaking the ban... him taking grant back to her grave after her dad freaks out #about him being there bc he blames grant for her death... him not yelling back at grant when grant is pissed off and telling him to take hi #back so he can explain what happened to mandra's father... him doing this after fighting with grant earlier that day and apologizing to him #for a comment that he made... him asking if grant is okay while they're at mandra's grave and telling him he knows that grant didn't #kill her and giving him advice and telling him that no matter how bad you feel about something it's never going to be enough to fix things #so you have to let go and move on but it's okay to be sad about it... him not judging or anything when grant is crying.. #the pure and simple fact that he stands out there for who knows how long getting SOAKED just so grant can say goodbye and take the time he #needs. ALSO HIM GIVING GRANT SOMETHING HE DIDNT GET BC HE SAYS SMTH ABT NOT GETTING TO GO TO ALEX'S FUNERAL AND SO HE BROUGHT GRANT TO #MANDRA'S SO HE CAN HAVE THAT LITTLE BIT OF CLOSURE AND HE COULD SAY GOODBYE AND EVERYTHING UGHHHHH

#im ill they make me ill im gonna have to go process this for a couple business days #also it is kinda peak funny that the legal loophole kyle finds is just. don't let damage touch the ground. it's like the floor is lava but #if they lose they both get arrested lmao #op im so sorry abt all the tags i like to yap (via @house-on-sand)

First of all, congratulations on having the highest score of any quiz-takers to date! I am impressed. It was an intentionally tricky quiz.

If the question you're referring to is the one I'm thinking of, I probably could have phrased it better. "Mentor" maybe wasn't the best term, but during Grant's first time with the Titans, Kyle was the older teammate who was most likely to take an interest in Grant's emotional well-being, although it wasn't a full-time thing, and I should have made that more clear. My intention with the question was to challenge the popular fanon of Roy as Grant's "dad," which isn't really accurate, especially during the New Titans era. Grant has had a lot of short-term "mentors" that have all contributed in their different ways to his growth.

But yeah, J'onn takes more of an interest in Grant than any other adult hero at this stage, which gives additional poignancy to his turning out to be Grant's principal genetic donor. I wish that their relationship had been explored more. If Justice League Task Force hadn't already ended by the time Grant left the Titans, it would have been interesting to see him join that team and learn to work with J'onn as his team leader/mentor/father and how that would have affected relationships with the rest of the team.

Kyle taking Grant to Mandra's funeral and later her gravesite to grieve in more privacy is such a painful, beautiful moment, and a good bonding experience for them. No one else on his team would have quite understood about this specific situation (just as Roy will be the right one, much later, for Grant to open up about his past to).

I can't believe they didn't exploit the can't-set-foot loophole the next time Grant goes to Georgia, during his JSA era! At that point he's got multiple teammates with powers or equipment that could keep him off the ground, and no one even thinks of it.

Nothing to be sorry about at all! I too like to yap about this topic and I appreciate every one of your tags :)

A very niche quiz, but why not. It concentrates on Grant's earliest appearances, in his solo series and New Titans mostly. There are forty questions and it's carefully detailed, including citing issues for reference, and I had more fun making it than I should have.

[cosmicredcadet]

Lovelessness and lack of any attraction making me realize that i don't understand any relationships in terms of love.

How do you know you're romantically interested in someone? how is that different than loving them in literally any other way? Hell, how do you know you love your friends? When do you even apply the label of friend? How do you decide you want to be someones friend even? What about family? we're just expected to love them from birth but why? How do you know you view someone as family? why are we expected to love people we just happen to be related to?

I dunno, I'm writing some friendships, found family, and just adopted family and biological family relationships and I'm realizing that I'm struggling with actually like...showing why characters "love" each other in these ways. What makes this character want to be a parental figure to another character? what makes this characters friends any more important than other people in their lives? I'm writing what society tells me but I don't actually think i understand any of it.

I can understand connection and characters enjoying each others company and caring about each other but when it gets to the love part? the part society demands there be for the relationship to be full and real and complete? I find myself lost every single time. shouldn't them caring for each other be enough? why do they need this confusing emotion for them to truely be friends or truely be family?

Why is the label of a "strong bond between people" locked behind the paywall that is the undefined idea of love? Why is love a requirement and not an option for these sorts of bonds? a bond without love doesn't mean you hate the person or dislike them even. it doesn't mean you're apathetic. it just means you don't love them. I don't get why this word is so important. I don't get why it's expected.

[cubbihue]

Hi! this is kinda an art request if u dont mind. And it's angst related, can you draw like where wanda and cosmo obvs have seen for a while how (human) timmy has been treated by his real parents. I just want to see like the "last straw" which lead Cosmo and Wanda wanting them to make Timmy as their own. (IM HAPPY THAT TIMMY HAS A FAMILY THAT LOVES AND CARES FOR HIM)

The "Last Straw"?

Cosmo and Wanda have seen humans at their best. They've seen humans at their worst. They've seen anything and everything that they've gone numb and used to what humans get up to.

But nothing's shaken them quite like Timmy's case did. Nothing has ever made a Fairy feel such strong human emotions than what Timmy made them feel, on that one particular night.

The thing that broke Cosmo and Wanda was Timmy himself.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Okay but forreal, now more than ever I desperately NEED Aya to eventually wreck Fyodor's shit somehow. I already wanted her to get her revenge before, but I didn't think Fyodor would even remember or know who she was, and would massively underestimate her for that reason (just like Jouno knew that Fukuchi would underestimate her). But now the story has instead created this twisted, fucked-up dynamic between them, where Fyodor not only knows her, but is protective of her for reasons that are not his own: he has taken the pure, noble, kind, fatherly love motivating Bram to protect Aya and warped it into something horrific, vowing to protect her body only while not caring how much her heart and mind has been scarred, and claiming to be doing it for her own salvation, when he cannot possibly understand the selfless feelings Bram had that made him want to protect her and care for her — feelings that he does not have. He may genuinely have some sort of affection for children (the way he treated Karma, "blessings for the children", this), but it is twisted and hollow and is quite possibly only him unconsciously acting out the motions due to behavior instilled in him from the feelings of all the people he's subsumed in the past.

All this is to say that, now the narrative has specifically pitted Aya and Fyodor together as direct enemies: she not only had reason already to hate him because he killed Bram, but because he's also taken Bram's love for her and defiled it, dishonored it and him and all that he was; meanwhile, Fyodor has given himself an arch nemesis that he no doubt takes great pleasure in seeing how much she hates him/how much despair he's brought her, but paradoxically at the same time feels a compulsion to "protect" her that draws himself to her and that he can't ignore. Aya has to defeat him somehow (not permanently, mind you; Dazai will undoubtedly be his final end), and the setup for Bram being able to fight back enough to stop Fyodor from the inside with her help is all right there, too. Their love for each other is still enduring, stronger than ever, Fyodor is proof of that right now, and they will be able to defeat him together, at least enough that Bram can be freed and come back to Aya. Dazai told Fyodor that he would lose because he doesn't understand and underestimates the power of friendship bonds and love, and there is no better a time for that to happen than here, when he is literally using someone's strong love for and connection with someone (acting as that person and claiming to know how they feel and to be the same as them) in a way that he cannot understand, which will be his undoing.

[jesseesgroove]

Punk Ain't Dead It Got Too White

It irks me when people say shit like "punk is dead" or these endless essays about the death of punk. But, like, of course. Of course rich and wealthy white kids from the suburbs cosplaying poor kids from the sticks because thats' how they "feel on the inside" filling up the local venue on a Thursday night in a neighborhood that used to be Black and or brown will make you feel like the scene you once worshiped has passed on. OF COURSE you feel like punk is dead. Because it no longer belongs to its creators. Punk came out of the homes of the working class. Youth abused by the system or their abused parents or abandoned and needing to put that rage somewhere to survive. The way that soul and hip hop and gospel were created to express sorrow and rage and hope and joy for the people also feeling it in need of relief. Punk was the expression of the BLACK working class. And then the poor white WORKING class. That suffering, that pain, is what made punk great. The way revolution rises from unbeareable conditions, so does incredible art. It is no longer coming from the source. Not for a long time.

Once the goals become fame, profit, status, respect - that's pop story. I got nothin against pop. But, capitalism and revolutionary do not go together, no matter how you wanna twist it. It's like thanking Jesus for bein rich. Jesus said keep his name out yo greedy ass mouth, ya feel me?

[irenespring]

It appears I have once again failed to notice the obvious "villainous character may have been fake crying in impactful interaction with other character for manipulation" option, probably for autism reasons. However, I will maintain that I was also right to ignore it because it's less interesting than the alternative.

Like I get the whole "ooohh incoming plot twist/betrayal" intrigue but come on. Look me in the face and say that's more compelling than the "character who has before shown no convincing empathy is suddenly hit exactly in their empathy weak spot and has no idea how to deal." Especially a schemer character who is used to perfectly controlling themselves. Now they have a weakness! That's a problem for them! It throws a wrench in their plans and they have to adapt! That's more fun than the villain's plan going off perfectly, surely.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I'm so heavily anti-advertising that all pitches sound goofy silly to me/I can never take them seriously, so I have no idea how I'll manage to to advertise my game even if I do finally finish it soon-ish lol...