#of course now i wish i knew how to play just to have that skill even tho im not a singer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

munsonthings86 · 10 months ago

Text

sunshine

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: a love-struck steve cooks you dinner for the first time

warnings: cursing, alcohol, bit of backstory, oversimplified summary, steve's parents kinda suck (when do they not), best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, soft!steve

an: i think this is my favorite thing i’ve ever written. i'm so in love with these two. i hope you all enjoy this one as much as i do. * don’t copy my work * (also pretend there's a big city near hawkins for the sake of this pls)

wc: 6.0k

“Ow!” Steve hissed, nicking his finger yet again as he made his best effort to dice pesky onions. The knife was razor-sharp as it was fresh out of its packaging, having never been used yet. Frustrated, he squeezed the band-aid he'd spent a solid ten minutes looking for, tighter on his finger, earning a harsh sting.

"Goddamned knife," he whispered, tightlipped, but as soon as the complaint left his lips he wished to yank it back in. It was the chef's knife you'd bought him along with many other thoughtful housewarming gifts to celebrate Steve moving into his first apartment. Steve had insisted that you return some of the gifts, noting that "one gift was more than he could ever ask for".

In spite of his pleas, you didn't return a single gift. Of course, you didn't. You had bought items you knew Steve would need but would ultimately forget to buy for himself. Just to name a few, you'd gotten him a trash bin for his bathroom, a record player, and the best utensil set that the rest of your Family Video paycheck could buy.

Peering at the odd assortment of household objects you'd lugged into his barren apartment with a bright smile pulling at the corners of your lips, an expression of gratitude and bewilderment claimed his face. Steve's round, chestnut-brown eyes ogled yours as you ranted and raved, explaining your thought process behind each purchase.

The record player was for nights like these. Peaceful nights indoors, simply enjoying each other's company without the tense presence of his parents who would shout for him to turn that damn music down if he even thought about letting the needle hit the groove of the record.

"Now we can play music as loud and as much as we want to," he remembered you saying, blushing at your use of the word "we". Though you two were only best friends and have been since grade school, Steve couldn't help but fantasize about a life with you. You, drowning in one of his bigger-than-you t-shirts, prancing around the apartment as you listened to some your favorite records.

He'd begun pondering on how he would rearrange the bit of furniture he had, that'd allow for space for your belongings as well, before you lured him out of his thoughts, defending the bin.

From what he gathered, you bought the garbage bin due to his burning inability to keep his bathroom clean. Steve was someone who took great care of his appearance, always well-kempt and attentive to even the smallest of details.

His bathroom did not reflect this, whatsoever. He had a bad habit of harboring empty cans and bottles of Farrah Fawcett spray that littered the already limited counter space he had in his en suite bathroom.

Steve was such a boy when it came to tidiness.

Everyone knew that about Steve, though. What they didn’t know, however, was how skilled he was in a kitchen. After being left to his lonesome whenever his parents would venture off to one of their many business trips, Steve spent his nights learning to cook after his allowance dwindled and he couldn't afford pizza delivery anymore. The second he'd clock in for his shift at Family Video, he'd make a beeline to where you stood, stocking VHS tapes, and instantly began buzzing and bustling about the new recipe he tried the night before.

You had begged him to let you come over one night to taste one of his home-cooked meals, but his response was always the same. "You can't rush perfection, sweets. But I promise, when I'm ready to grace the world with my master chef skills, you'll be the first to know."

You would roll your eyes dramatically at him but admittedly, you felt a sense of pride wash over you whenever Steve would tell you about his cooking endeavors. It may not seem like a big deal to others, but you knew how much his parents being so negligent, so often, bothered him.

Though they were never the most warm and affectionate, there seemed to be a colder chill and heavier sense of loneliness in the house when they were gone. That's why you never denied Steve whenever he'd call late at night asking if it was okay to spend the night at your house.

He always felt at home there.

Steve learning to cook for himself meant that his parents' absence was finally beginning to help him grow; no longer craving validation and tenderness from his family. He got that when he was with you. That's what the utensil set was for. A silent sign saying that though his parents weren't there, you were.

"Don't get me wrong, sunshine, I love the gift, but why's this knife so funny looking?" Steve asked, squinting his eyes at the sharp object that looked like it was from some alien universe. It had three square-like holes infiltrating the blade, and the tip came to an up-turned point that split in two. The handle was the only average looking part about it.

"That, my friend, is a cheese knife," you answered matter-of-factly, gazing at the box that had all of the included utensils neatly labeled.

"They make knives specifically for cheese?"

"Apparently, yeah," you snorted, tossing the empty box off to the side of the room with the other discarded cardboard that you made a mental note to move to the recycling bin on your way out. Steve never recycled. Bad habit he picked up from his parents, you figured.

"Well, I can't wait to use my weird new knife. Thank you. Seriously," Steve smiled softly as he watched you with those big brown eyes that voiced his gratitude and sentiment louder than his words ever could.

"The best weird chef has to have the best weird equipment. You're welcome," you grinned, toying with the loose thread dangling from your distressed band tee, as your eyes collided with Steve’s.

Looking at Steve was hard.

In the midst of quiet and almost intimate moments like these, the nerves bolting through your body screamed at you to look anywhere else, but the greed of your heart yearned for you to keep drinking in the deep chocolate pools that were Steve Harrington's eyes.

The two of you gazed at each other for another second, though it felt identical to a blissful eternity, until Steve furrowed his eyebrows after registering what you'd just uttered. "Did you just call me weird?" He asked, hand on his hip as if he's offended, though he truthfully isn't because he's positive you're infinitely weirder than he is, and he's more than willing to debate with you for hours on that topic.

"Nooo," you sang, quickly turning away to distract yourself with some unpacking that Steve had called you over to help him with, which you happily agreed to. A little extra time with him was time well spent.

"Yeah, okay," he rolled his eyes. He happily tucked away the flashy silverware he'd poached from his parent's kitchen into the darkest corner of the drawer, leaving the less flashy but much more appreciated utensils you bought him, front and center, ready to be shown off.

"Oh those? My best friend got them for me. Aren't they nice? Did you know they make knives for cheese?" He imagined himself saying, hoping he'd get the opportunity to boast about them to his guests some time soon.

Steve smiled to himself at the memory, angling the cutting board that harbored a pile of diced onions that he'd at last conquered, into a bowl, sliding them off with the blade of a knife that was a lot less odd shaped compared to his trusty cheese knife. It didn't even have to be that specific memory. It could've been any imagery of you being the effortlessly sarcastic, intelligent, breath-taking person that you were, and it would be the warm light to inevitably guide him out of whatever dark mood that dared to plague him.

Steve was so helplessly in love with you.

April 14, 1978, he could never forget the day, was particularly dreary. So dreary it made Steve begin to question why the spring time was thought to be such a radiant, pleasant season when all it ever did was bring rain and provoke people with allergies. Steve slammed his blaring alarm off with a groan, never bothering to pry open his tired eyes.

The sky was dark and dreadful, concealing the golden rays of the sun he yearned to see. As he trudged through the house, reluctantly gearing himself up for yet another torturous day of middle school, Steve silently prayed for some unorthodox happenstance that would call for the canceling of school.

But much to his dismay, that wasn't the case.

When the bell pierced through the classroom speakers, alerting the beginning of Steve's favorite class, P.E., he rushed to the locker room, jumping into his gym uniform, as he was determined to continue his unfaltering streak of dodgeball victories.

Steve was in the zone, taking out his opponents left and right as if it was nothing. If dodgeball was an Olympic sport, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he could've won multiple gold medals.

Then you came.

Sauntering into sixth grade gym class, adorning a lengthy, bright yellow dress with your hair done up, looking as anxious as can be. It was your first day at Hawkins Middle and you'd just transferred halfway into the semester, all thanks to your parents decision to move to the small town, leaving New York City and all your friends behind.

Everyone turned their curious heads to peer at you, whispering amongst each other, prompting you to clutch your books tighter to your chest as if to shield yourself. Your soft smile as you looked around at your new classmates instantly made Steve's chest and stomach warm and gooey inside, making him want nothing more than to walk up to you and convince you to be his friend. Steve hated how gossipy his classmates were, as it clearly made you uncomfortable, but he couldn't bring himself to look away either.

The way the illuminous medallion hue complimented your skin tone was nothing short of art. To him, you were the sun personified. The sun he was so eager to see.

Due to your lack of sports attire, Coach Daniels had you sit on the bleachers, watching as the other kids resumed their game of dodgeball after mumbling a "warm" welcome to you, per Coach's request.

Steve lost his first game of dodgeball that day. He just couldn't seem to focus when you were perched just a few feet away, thumbing through your withered book, looking like one of the prettiest girls he'd ever laid his adolescent eyes on. Steve, or the boy with the hella good hair as you dubbed him in your diary later on that night, was too enamored with you to be bothered by the taunts coming from his friends. He jogged over to you, offering to keep you company until fourth period began, which you happily accepted.

And ever since then, the two of you have been as thick as thieves.

"Hawkins PD, open up!" Steve recognized your muffled voice, though you deepened it, to imitate a police officer. Your signature three knocks followed, urging butterflies to erupt throughout his stomach, as he longed to see you. It couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours since the two of you had last seen each other, but even one hour without you was an hour way too long for poor Steve.

"It's open", Steve called, tossing a hand towel over his shoulder, setting the stove ablaze, planting a pot over the flame. Right on time, he thought.

"Hey, Harrington," you smiled as you struggled to enter, cradling two bottles of rosé wine and your purse in your arms, pushing the door open with the help of your hip.

"Hey, sunshine. Lemme get those for ya," Steve offered, stowing your bearings on the counter gently, while you kicked your shoes off, mumbling a "thanks".

A warm amber light casted from the ceiling of the kitchen spilled into the shadowy living room a few feet away, like a neglected can of paint. The only thing that remained un-melted by the darkness was the quiet record player, as if the generous light knew you'd be looking for it the minute you walked in.

"How was your day?" Steve smirked as he watched you rush over to the object he swore was the only reason you liked to come over, sifting through the vinyl's searching for your favorite one. What’s Love Got To Do With It by Tina Turner. Steve spotted it before you did. Absentmindedly, you responded, “Not too shabby, ya know? How was yours?”

“Yeah, it was alright.”

You crouched down to the two tier storage table, running a finger across the spines of the records, searching for your beloved song. It quickly became the song you most adored when you'd bought the tape for your Walkman a few years prior. Your days weren't complete unless you played the song at least twice, so much so that Steve found himself quietly humming the song to himself whenever he'd miss you. He even caught himself doing that dumb little finger dance you normally did whenever you listened to a song you really liked. He'd never tell you that, though.

Much to your dismay, you couldn't seem to spy that sneaky record. You dropped your hand disappointedly, faintly fearsome that it'd been misplaced. Steve's apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't exactly tidy either. “It’s right there, sweets. To your left.” So you diverted your attention to the left. No Tina Turner. “No, your other left.”

“Here?” you pointed. Steve hummed in confirmation.

“Well, that’s not the left, Steve. That’s the right,” was your response that you punctuated with a roll of your tired eyes. Apart from knowing how to get to Skull Rock with his eyes closed, the boy had zero sense of direction. It was something you found both endearing and infuriating. It depended on the day, really.

“Potato, potahto.” Oh, Steve. Melting butter into the burning pan in front of him that he almost completely forgot about, all thanks to your beautiful presence, he began sautéing his diced onions along with some fresh garlic. "Well, speaking of 'potahtoes' you need to be cooking some, 'cause you promised me dinner tonight," you smiled tight-lipped, cocking your head at an angle.

You felt the unpleasant sensation of your stomach growling, cursing you, at the heavenly thought of food as your shift at Family Video earlier today was unforgiving to your non-existent breakfast. You fumbled with the vinyl a bit as the mouthwatering aroma of home cooking stormed your senses and Steve spoke once more. "Feisty today, aren't we?"

"Just a tad," you laughed quietly.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you but tonight we're not having potatoes. I'm making your favorite," he pointed, shuffling the pan to give it a gentle stir. He made sure to turn to face you in time to see your hopefully delighted reaction. "Alfredo?!" you spun around with a glittering grin, almost knocking over Steve's plant. A fake one, of course. A real plant was a bit too much responsibility for him.

At the nod of his head, your cheesy smile soften to a smaller, less toothy one as you watched Steve while he resumed cooking. What you failed to share with your best friend was that the last phrase you'd actually use to describe your day was "not too shabby". Besides waking up almost an entire hour past the start of your shift (Keith made sure to give you an earful about that) and everyone and their mother in town deciding to be at Family Video today, it seemed like your day was never-ending. The only thing keeping your mood from turning stink to sour was the idea of going to see Steve.

Steve was kind of magical in that way. Anger, sadness, anxiety, you name it, it was no match for Steve. Though he was no poet, he had this way with words that would never fail to make you feel so comforted. So safe. Any instance where Steve had to talk you out of whatever mental turmoil you were enduring, it felt you were being endlessly wrapped in a cozy, tight blanket, sheltering you from all the darkness.

How Steve knew you were having a shit day and needed your favorite meal along with your favorite boy? Lord knows. His ability to read you without even needing to be near you was nothing short of wizardry. But like you said. Steve was magical.

"You're the best," you proclaimed, prompting a mumbled sly remark from your chef for the evening, before the music began. Being here, along with the divine sound of Tina's ethereal voice and pasta boiling in water, was more than enough to make you feel like you were right at home, though your true address was miles away. When the time to depart would make its cursed arrival, it was never easy to leave, especially with the way Steve begged for you to stay, using those unfairly adorable puppy dog eyes that paired beautifully with his lengthy lashes, against you.

And it always worked. Well, not always. You had some degree of self-control. But more times than not, you couldn't help but to cave in to his protests. How could you resist? It was Steve.

With a satisfied grin that carved deep smile lines into his blushing cheeks, he'd tuck his sheets snug around your body, repeatedly asking you if you were comfortable enough. His bed was cloud-like, plush and doughy and his pillows smelled like his shampoo and conditioner, a hint of cologne on his comforter. It was like you were trapped in a cocoon of Steve. You wanted to tell him you were beyond comfortable, that there, in his bed, you were in just about your favorite place on Earth but, habitually, you concluded that a simple nod would suffice.

Crawling onto the empty space beside you, he made sure to face you, leaving a soft squeeze on your shoulder before humming "G'night, sunshine," closing his eyes and tucking his hands under his head. And like always, Steve was a perfect gentleman, dead set on never getting under the covers himself when you'd sleep over.

Guilt would disrupt your relaxation at the sight of the brisk night chill building little hills on his freckled arms, though you selfishly loved the way he'd cuddle up to steal some of your body heat. His plump lips would part as he drifted into a peaceful slumber, light snores and chirping crickets being your lullaby.

You hoped to have another night like that soon.

In the midst of times like those, storms of wonder and doubt raged on. Was Steve like this with everyone else? Were you being silly thinking that you and Steve could be more than friends? Being Steve's best friend for nearly a decade, you knew he wasn't exactly a prude. His King Steve era was honestly one of your least favorites. Though he reserved his usual tenderness and affection all for you, you've witnessed a whole slew of girls enter and leave Steve's life, and none of them looked like you.

You wanted nothing more than to be one of the girls he'd have leaned up against his locker, arm resting next to their head, cheeks fanned by his minty breath as he whispered honeyed words. You craved dates at the drive-in theater in Steve's burgundy 1983 BMW only to neglect the movie and end up making out, like he did with other girls.

When Steve would bring his latest lover around, desperately, you did your damnedest to bury your jealousy and and fill its grave with merriment for him, because if anyone deserved to be happy, it was Steve. But the girls at school only wanted to be with Steve because of his status and all the flashy things he could buy them.

The flashy things were dull to you, though.

You wanted to be with Steve because you wanted to hold his hand and press soft kisses to his cheek. To hug him a little tighter and little longer than a best friend normally would. To run your fingers through his fluffy hair whenever he would grow stressed because you knew it calmed him down. To make him breakfast in bed when he was sick and even when he wasn't. To love him your fullest potential.

But you had to settle for this. Calves tucked under your thighs with a blanket draped over your legs as you stared off into space, longing for someone you thought you couldn't have, not knowing he was stealing glances of you wondering what was running through your pretty little head.

Resting your arm against the back of the sofa, holding your head up, your lips were downturned in a pout, eyebrows pulled together as you studied the throw pillow a few inches away from you. A little pillow can't be that interesting, something has to be bothering you, he thought. He was unapologetically curious to know if pressing his lips against your own would make that frown melt into that sweet smirk you usually had.

Steve hated when you were unhappy. It made his mind race. Did someone say something to you? Did someone do something to you? Did you eat today? How was your shift? Why did you lie when you said your day "wasn't too shabby"? Obviously it was shabby. Look at your face. That tired and troubled, cute little face. What can he do to fix it? You were his sunshine, you deserved to be happy, always.

Giving the pot a final stir and turning the flame off, Steve carelessly tossed the grease-stained hand towel flopped over his shoulder, down by the sink, strolling over to where he'd earlier set down the two bottles of wine. White Zinfandel. Neither you or Steve were wine connoisseurs, but when you called Nancy panicking about how extensive the selection at the liquor store was, she swore by it.

Balancing two glasses and a single bottle of the rose-tinted alcohol, Steve took an extra glance at your face, deciding to scoop up the second bottle into his arms. By the looks of it, it was gonna be one of those nights.

You tried to hide your smile as you noticed he was coming over, a slight grin on his face as he set the glasses down. You and him both knew he was only coming to cause trouble. He set the delicate haul down on to the thrifted wooden coffee table in front of you, slipping you one of those comforting 'Steve smiles' he usually did.

Like the forgotten towel, he threw himself down on the couch next to you, warm hand having a much softer landing on the plush of your thigh; a familiar and welcomed touch. Habitually, you curled up closer to him, no longer able to hide your smile.

"Why so glum, chum?" He tilted his chin down, slightly poking his bottom lip out, as he looked at you through batting eyelashes.

Laughing through your nose and subsequently parading a grin that displayed nothing but teeth and hollow happiness, you remarked, "What do you mean? Don't you see me smiling?"

You were fooling absolutely no one. Steve knew you were sad. And, goddamn it, he was gonna get it out of you.

"You know exactly what I mean, you weren't smiling just a few seconds ago until I came over. You're welcome, by the way, I'm flattered that I have such an effect on you," he smirked, placing a hand on his chest in gratitude.

"Okay, now I'm glum again," you roll your eyes at his not-so discreet cockiness. You hid your face in your hands, resting your forehead on Steve's shoulder. It was hard with muscle, but soft with tenderness and safety. "I was smiling at the wine, for your information."

The palm of your hand that pressed against your face muffled your words, but Steve could still understand what you said, it was evident in the way your tone was laced with satire.

"Ah, yes, that makes way more sense" Steve replied, monotone. His thumb began coasting along your skin as he urged you, "Alright, jokes aside. How are you really feeling?"

Hoisting your head up, you almost answered before he continued, "And don't give me that 'not too shabby' crap 'cause that frown you had going on earlier already snitched on ya."

When the hell did he get so observant? Steve was no idiot, but sometimes things needed to be spelled out for him. But come to think of it, you never had to spell things out for Steve whenever it came to you. He just always had a way of knowing.

"I don't know, Steve. Honestly. Some days are just a bit tougher than others. Today was one of those days," you murmured, avoiding the attentive gaze he was burning into your shifty eyes.

He slowly nodded as he processed your words, head falling on top of yours as you again found comfort on his shoulder. His eyes fluttered shut as you began mimicking the affection he was giving you on your thigh, rubbing his arm through the creamy cotton material of his crewneck. You hadn't seen it before. This one was new. So were the jeans he'd paired with it.

"Why're you dressed so nice, Harrington?"

He laughed more to himself than to you. "Well, the food can't be the only thing that looks good, you know? Wanted to look nice too. It's our first dinner together, after all," he mumbled the last bit.

Steve felt the skin around your eyes tighten against his shoulder as your eyebrows scrunched together. "We've had dinner together before, though."

"This one's different," he replied, almost instantly. You'd hoped Steve's eyes were still closed so that he wouldn't see the bashfulness you were weathering, plucking the corners of your lips into a soft smile.

A silence fell between the two of you. Not unusual. Not awkward. Never unusual or awkward. There was a mutual cherishment of moments like these. Shamelessly invading each other's personal space on the couch as if it was made to only fit one person, music playing lowly the distance, but preferring to listen to the sound of the other's breathing.

"How can I make you feel better, sunshine?" Steve questioned, voice still hushed. The volume of your voice wasn't much louder as you responded, thoughtlessly, "You don't have to ask me that. You make me feel better without even trying."

"Oh yeah?" He craned his neck so that his head was impossibly closer to yours, awaiting your confirmation. Steve knew that you enjoyed his company, as he did yours, but he was only joking earlier when he gushed about having such an effect on you. It was now his turn to hide his blush, when you hum, nodding your head fervently.

These were the warm moments that confused you so much more than any subject in school ever did. And unbeknownst to you, it messed with Steve's head too. He'd never been this close with anyone before. Especially not with any of his "girlfriends" in the past. Sure, they'd cuddle and talk about their feelings. But it never felt the way it does with you. Steve was in love with you. It was hopeless.

And he had to make it known. Soon. If not, he swore he'd explode.

"Ready to eat?"

"Mhm," you buzzed, untangling yourself from the envelop of Steve. As he pressed his knuckles into the sofa, willing himself up, you reached for the bottle of wine and a glass, but your hand only made it so far until it felt the sting of a petty swipe from the boy next to you. "Ah ah, missy, dinner first. Lord knows how many hours its been since you last ate."

You snorted, "Relax, it hasn't been that long."

"Oh yeah? When was the last time?" He looked at you with raised eyebrows and an expression that said he already knew your answer was going to be ridiculous. And if there was anything you learned tonight, it was that Steve was highly skilled at knowing when you were lying, so instead, you left him with a goofy smile and giggle that told him he was absolutely right in his assumption.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," the spot where he sat went cold as he left to the kitchen, fixing two plates for the both of you. You moved the drinks and glasses over to the dining table, using a nearby lighter to ignite the accompanying lavender and vanilla scented candles. Tina Turner's vinyl was replaced with Tears for Fears' album Songs from The Big Chair instead, as Steve used his elbow to dim the kitchen lights, hands full with heavy plates of pasta.

"Oh my gosh, this looks so good! Good job, Stevie," you cheered, as he set your plate down in front of you, pouring you a much needed glass of wine. Your hands shook with hunger or excitement, or both, as you picked up your fork, ready to dig in. "Yeah, don't get too psyched yet. Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks."

"I'm sure it does."

His knee rests against yours as he sits adjacent to you, gathering food on his fork, though his eyes are peering at you, awaiting your verdict. The mouthwatering smell of garlic, butter, cheese and other heaven-sent elements overwhelm your nose and you feel like you can't eat it soon enough. You pause for a beat and so does his heart, hand over your messy mouth as you chew. Steve's hand twitches as he contemplates wiping the sauce from the corners of your lips and licking his finger clean.

"Steve," you begin, eyes flickering shut. "I'm gonna need you to cook for me every night. This is so fucking good." The tension in his face eases at your palpable delight, mission well accomplished. He was proud of himself. Very proud. Almost as much as you were of him.

You throw your head back, the purest form of satisfaction consuming you. "I'm glad you like it, I've been trying to nail it for weeks," Steve laughs, finally taking a bite for himself.

"Well, you've succeeded," you beam, washing it down with a sip of wine. Everybody Wants to Rule the World begins playing and you smile at Steve, knowing it was his favorite song at the moment. You nod your head along as Steve hums. A truly peaceful pocket in time.

Through the large windows opening the living room to the rest of Hawkins, you had the perfect view of the bright lights and mountainous buildings from the neighboring city. It was like the sky had flipped on its axis and the stars weren't in the sky anymore, they were among the trees and high rise properties.

"Steve, look how pretty," you point towards the window as his gaze shifts from you to raindrop-riddled glass. "I love being able to see the city so close. Sucks that we can't see the stars, though. I've always wanted to go stargazing."

"Yeah, I remember you mentioning that a while ago. We gotta go one of these days," he replied, shoving a forkful of alfredo into his mouth.

"Oh, did you wanna go too?"

He shrugs his shoulders, chewing before speaking, "Eh, I'm not really a big stars guy. Besides, if I wanna see a pretty little light, all I gotta do is look at you," he says inattentively, going right back to eating as if he hadn't just said the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you.

"Shut up, Harrington," you roll your eyes, letting out a half-hearted laugh as you take your last bite. How could he flirt with you so easily? So carelessly? Couldn't he see that you loved him and that whenever he says things like that it does something to you? Clueless boy.

"I'm serious. Why do you think I always call you sunshine?" He replies, not a hint of irony in his face.

"Steve," you warn, sitting back in your chair. You didn't know where this conversation was going, and you'd be damned if you got your hopes up for what you always got whenever you did: absolutely nothing.

"It's why I love when you wear yellow. Reminds me of the first time I ever saw you," he pressed. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Clueless girl.

"Steve," your voice wavered. "What? Why do you keep saying my name like that?" He laughed, dryly.

He grew worried that he was saying too much. Saying things that a person shouldn't say to their best friend. He took a sip of his wine. Then another. Then another. He was considering just downing the whole glass. Maybe he was saying too much.

Screw that, he was in love with you.

"What're you saying to me right now?" You charged, voice a little harsher than what you'd intended, but you demanded an answer. A straightforward one. "I'm saying that I'm done hiding it."

"Hiding what?"

"That I love you."

The revelation yanks your parted lips shut, unsure of what to say next. You had dreamed for what felt like a lifetime for Steve to say those words to you and at last, it was no longer a dream, but instead reality. The rapid pace of your heartbeat could be felt in your chest and ears, and the butterflies in your stomach were more wild and untamed than ever before.

Steve's eyes didn't leave yours, though the stillness from you was killing him. The silence between you two that was once never awkward or unusual, was now painful and nearly unbearable.

Your dilated pupils scanned over his face, relentlessly. The jokey, teasing grin that he often sported when he was messing with you was unaccounted for. Holy shit. The gate to your thoughts opened once more. "You're serious," you whispered.

"How could I not be?" Steve watched you with adoring eyes, the warm light of the candle giving the melted chocolatey pond the sweetest infusion of honey.

"Kiss me."

Forks and butter knives fall to the ground with several, loud unpleasant clanks as Steve leans over the square dining table, hungrily pressing his lips against yours. His lips are garlicky and a little chapped, as yours probably are as well, yet the kiss is nothing short of perfect.

His mouth does a passionate dance against yours as you follow his lead, embracing the plush little pillows with your own. It was both everything you've imagined it'd be and nothing like you'd thought at the same time. You already knew Steve was an amazing kisser. Anyone who went to Hawkins High knew it. But experiencing it for yourself was completely different and new. It was euphoric.

The two of you have to reluctantly pull yourselves off of each other to catch your breaths. This moment was a long time coming.

Steve's hands are still holding onto to either side of your face, unwilling to let you go just yet. Truly savoring every second of the present. His breath fans across your cupid's bow, as he smiles against your lips. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

Giggling, you wrap your palms and fingers around his wrists, rubbing your nose on his. "Sorry," you shrug, feeling his thumbs caress your warm cheeks.

"Don't be," he shakes his head, engulfing your soft lips into another kiss.

message from jojo: pls comment and reblog if you enjoyed! it means a lot <3

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f0point5 · 8 months ago

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would you consider writing the time when max realized that he loved yn?

i remember that he was like in a mindset of idgaf what happens with her im js happy being best friends and having her in my life but i wonder how he got to that point

The way this came out…idk I hope you like it 😂 I really wish I’d retconned this whole situation but I stayed true to the fic timeline.

I just…I really hope you don’t hate it 🫠

✨Set after Max wins his 3rd championship in Qatar✨

Honestly, who (is he) to fight the alchemy?

Max has been in love before. He knows what it feels like. It felt like winning a race. The adrenaline, the elation, the satisfaction, the sliver of relief. He didn’t think there was a better feeling, and if you feel that when you’re with someone, then that must be love.

He never felt like that with you. So he wasn’t in love. He loved you, but he wasn’t in love. Thank God for that, he’d always thought to himself. Max didn’t put effort into games he wouldn’t win and the games you played with men didn’t have a rule book. He was just so lucky, to have you as a friend, and a roommate, and a feline co-parent, and that’s how it would stay.

Except, when the journalist had asked him if you were going to live with him after he retired, he didn’t know what to say. Of course you would, except, how would your boyfriend feel about that? And of course he wanted you to, but he wanted a family, too. But you were family, in some complicated way that he’d never realised before that moment might mean that you wouldn’t always be…with him.

And he didn’t have the desire or the language skills to explain that to a random German journalist. He’d rattled off some answer about how he never knew what the future would bring. It was true, he didn’t think much about the future. But he should have, because when he did it always had you in it.

He wanted a house, and a wife, and kids. It wasn’t like he envisaged doing all that with you. Except, he hadn’t envisaged doing any of it without you, either. It was always you imagined having breakfast with, you he imagined would teach his kids to ski, you he thought about when he thought about buying one of those mansions in the hills above Monaco. Naively, he hadn’t imagined either of you with partners that would mind you and Max living your lives together. It sounded fucking stupid when he thought about it. But, it’s not like he was going to marry you, because he’s not in love with you.

It’s not like I’m in love with her. He’d said that before.

Aren’t you, Max?

Isn’t he?

Is he?

So now here he is, at this totally-not-a-party party, celebrating his this third world championship, wondering if he’s in love. Wondering if that even matters. The music is loud, not enough to drown out his thoughts. He can’t even drink too much because he still has a race tomorrow. He feels lightheaded enough.

He doesn’t know why he’s questioning himself. He has an answer. He knows what being in love feels like, and he doesn’t feel that about you. How he does feel about you, is…not quantifiable. Except he’d really like a name for it right about now. One that’s not going to spin his whole world off its axis. But then, he’s not exactly the axis, is he? Not really.

He should feel like the centre of the universe tonight. He’s lost count of how many times he’s received praise and congratulations, plaudits, and pictures, even gifts. Everyone wants to be in his orbit, everyone wants to talk to him, everyone except you.

You’re leaning against the balcony, bopping along to the music, talking to his dad of all people, your flushed face and lazy grin telltale signs you’ve had too much to drink. Jos is as close as he ever gets to smiling, a telltale sign he’s had too much to drink, and the two of you are, as usual, talking over each other. His eyes linger on your long legs and gentle curves. It would be cutting a corner, to say he’s in love with you, because how can you not be at least a little bit infatuated with the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen? But that’s not love, exactly. Even half drunk, with all this talk of spinning and the party beginning to blur at its edges, the only thing he can see clearly is you. You don’t even notice him looking, because you’re so used to feeling eyes on you.

No, being around you has never felt like winning much of anything. It actually feels a bit like he’s fighting for his life. It feels like…driving, he realises, as the gin starts to hit.

Being around you was like being in the RB19. Like being behind the wheel of something that could kill you, but fits you like a second skin. Like the illusion of having control of a force of nature. It was like living on a knife edge, but building a home there. Comfortable with the uncomfortable, they’d called him, and nothing had ever made him as uncomfortable as you.

If that was being in love, he’d probably been in love with you for as long as his dad said he was.

You don’t notice him looking, but Jos does. He waves Max over, and Max is glad for an excuse. His body gets up before he’s decided to, and he blinks furiously as he walks, trying to focus his thoughts enough to hold a conversation with you when he’s beginning to think he might-

“Maxy,” you say, grinning like it’s the first time you’ve seen him all night.

Fuck. Fuck.

Oh, fuck. The gin’s coming back. For a second he feels like he’s either going to ask you to marry him or vomit all over you.

“I’m leaving. She’s all yours,” Jos says, and Max steadies himself. His dad leans over and gives him one last hug before switching to Dutch. “Get her to bed. And yourself, also. You’ve still got to race tomorrow,”

Max nods and waves him off, closing his arms around you when you wobble, leaning into him for stability. Jos gives you a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd, and you teeter again, pushing you further into Max. The extra weight is like a balm on what is now a gaping, raw wound, with the nerves exposed. He will never recover from this.

You turn in his arms, scrunching your nose in displeasure as you look up at him. “I hate this hat,” you flick the brim of his World Champion cap. “Worst hat they ever made you. Next year, we do a better one,”

“Okay,” he says, chuckling as the hat leaves his head.

“Can I have this?” You’ve already put it on.

“Sure,”

Take it. Take my Valkyrie. Take the trophy. Take my last name.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He doesn’t know how he’s looking at you. Is it different than he looked at you two hours ago? Different then when you were 19?

He just shrugs, tipping the hat back for you, since it’s so big. “You’re drunk,” he yells over the music.

You lean in, so close that he’s intoxicated by the scent of your perfume, champagne, and Red Bull. He turns away from you slightly, because he’s had too much to drink to be this close to you.

“I know,” you whisper to him, your lips grazing his cheek as you talk. That’s not helping. He turns back to you, finding your eyes searching his. For the first time, he’s worried what you might see. Because you’ve always seen him too clearly. It was awful, then exhilarating, now it’s just fucking terrifying. Your eyes narrow and Max thinks you’re about to outright accuse him of wanting- “You’re supposed to be drunk, too,”

He laughs. He laughs at your pout, at getting away with it, for a little while longer, at least, and he laughs because on the night he’s won a world championship he realises he lost his heart a long time ago.

Loving you didn’t feel like a winning a race, it felt like driving in one. And after all, isn’t driving all he ever wanted to do?

“I am, Engel,” he says, “trust me, I am.”

#max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #max verstappen fanfiction

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flamingpudding · 2 years ago

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Sooo I had this idea most likely inspired by a bunch of other fanfics I read...

Follow up part: 2

Ghost kid in Gotham

The Beginning

So far Danny counted two times in his live that he had died or at least sort of remembered dying.

The first time he died, he had been eight and in an horrible turn of events was forced into a fight to death with his twin. All because Danny couldn't be like his brother. He couldn't kill, he continuously nearly fails his missions if it weren't for his twin finishing of targets that were supposed to be his. The league had seen him as the black sheep of the family. He was no assassin material yet his twin brother still protected and adored him. But then their grandfather saw how he became a weakness for the true heir. All because Danny couldn't get his shit together during one mission they were sent on together. Resulting in his twin sustaining an injury.

So Danny was sentenced to death in an obvious fight the entire league knew he could nore would ever want to win. The fight had drawn out his twin at least attempting to get him to fight back to show their family that he was worth keeping by showing his skills, even if Danny couldn't kill, he could still fight excellently. But Danny didn't play along, instead he let his brother kill him with the final blow. He didn't even bother attempting to dodge.

His first death had probably been very cruel towards his brother, but at least it meant that his twin, Damien would live on.

Though he didn't expect that right before his body could grow cold forever, that their mothers still had somewhat of a heart and dunked him into the pits and revive Danny the first time. (Only later through Clockwork did Danny learn that he had been dropped in a pit of contaminated ectoplasm which probably was also the reason he even survived - well sort of survived - his second death)

He did come out as a feral kid though he barely remembered his time at the Chicago Orphanage. His former parents the Fantons had told him that he had been a feral kid the first year they had him. Apparently for the longest time Jazz had been the only one that could touch let alone get in hugging distance of Danny without getting bitten. Jack liked to show off the bite marks as lovely memories his sweet little Danno gave him the first time he hugged eight years old Danny.

The second time he died, he had been 14 and to this day he still thinks that a dare was one of the dumbest things one could die from. Of course his adopted parents weren't normal. They were ecto-scientists, studying ghosts or rather ecto-entities. And of course they were treading the line of mad-scientists with an entire lap in the basement and ecto-weaponry laying out and about throughout the entire house.

So when his parents build a portal to punch their way into another dimension that didn't work his friends just had to dare him to get in there to take a photo - or had it been a video - of it.

Who would have guests that the on batten was inside the damn thing instead of outside and that his stumbling and catching himself on the damned button would just so happen to punch open that portal with him in the middle of it all.

Let him tell you, getting electrocuted was not a fun way to day, nor is getting revived yet again by ectoplasm that was spewing out of the portal and mixing with his DNA. At least he got some cool powers from that accident and did not go feral like he did the first time round.

Danny shuddered, imaging if he had gone feral back then with Phantoms powers. Good he truly would have been the menace Amity still couldn't decide if he was or not.

Either way that were the two time he counted in his death tolls so far. Of course there were a couple of other times. Like that one time Sam made a wish. But he didn't really count them since well they didn't have any sort of big change that followed them.

But right now. He was probably close to his third accounted death. Strapped to the table. His chest pretty much sliced open and he was pretty sure that one of the tubes on the table across the room still contained his liver his Mo- Maddie had taken out and the other his arm that had been cut off by Agent K to test his healing.

Well he should have known better than to let his sister convince him that his adoptive parents would turn on him. Looks like that with their working with the GIW and him on the table they had finally broken the last bits of trust both Jazz and him had in them.

Danny had long lost the energy to plead with them, that it was still him. At least he would be a full ghost once the bloodless and missing limbs did him in. Really his human body wasn't as resistent as his ghost body. But at least staying in human form would protect his core. Really the worst that could happen was his human side dying right now.

Letting out a mute sigh Danny closed his eyes letting exhaustion take his mind into oblivion. The only sad thing was, that he never got to find out how his twin Damien was doing and if he was still with the league…

TIME OUT

When Clockwork first had set the path for this timeline he did not realize how damaging his king's parents' reaction was. As he looked at his king strapped to the table, cut open and even missing limbs, he for a brief moment regretted that he only ever watched the timelines and sent others to intervene. Rarely did he himself interfere but this time he had to. Otherwise his king would lose the part that made him the kindest among all the ghosts in the Infinit Realms.

Carefully he removed his king from the chains holding him down and took him with him. Away from the horrors he was facing and away from the Family that was supposed to preserve his king's kindness and humanity.

It looked like he had made a grave mistake but it was something that was still possible to fix. The timeline had yet to turn into a doomed one. And so Clockwork decided to take his king away and bring him to a place that would have a close amount of ectoplasm as Amity had as well as one of the strongest Spirits in existence to protect him until he was ready.

Looking down at the teen in his arms, Clockwork also decided that his king did not need the painful memories his supposed family gave him. A blue light engulfed his kind as Clockwork let his powers work. Turning the clock back only for his king. The missing limbs returned and his open wounds closed as the body in his arms shrunk.

In mere seconds the Master of time was holding his king at the age of his first death in his arms, yet the state was not the same. The scars of his second death were still present, telling that his powers as halfa were still present in his king's small bodies. With this his king would be ready to be dropped off to his next family. Hopefully Clockwork wasn't making a mistake again but keeping his king truly safe this time.

TIME IN

Lady Gothem was not impressed with the Master of Time as that old man dropped off the body of their king with little to no explanation. Last she knew her king was supposed to be a teenager, a halfa so powerful that the Infinite Realms were supposed to become a much safer place than they ever had been under any of the previous kings.

All the Master of Time had offered her was a cryptic - and honestly when was that old cogwheel not - message of protecting his king and returning him to his family. Really the next time she they meet she would not miss the chance to lecture Cronus. But for now she studied the young sleeping king in her arms, noting the similarities he held to the youngest of her knights.

Ah, so that was the family the old cogwheel meant. Well it looked that her knights were not only hers alone now but would also protect her king now. But who to bring him too, she mused. Surely her dearest among them would have no qualms taking the child in but he was currently not in their home. The little knights of other haunts have requested his help and called him away to that watchtower.

Mentally the city's spirit went through all her knights until her thoughts stopped by one in particular. The knight she was going to request help with from her king anyway. What better way was there than taking care of two problems with one action. He would surely take that child to the others as well as receive her king's help with his little contamination problem.

With her decision made, Lady Gothom made her move.

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sordidmusings · 11 months ago

Text

Fixing What Ifs (Mihawk x F!Reader)

A/N: For this ancient request (told you they are not forgotten just severely neglected 💀). I really hope I captured the type of scene you were looking for! Debating on writing a follow up smut because sex as the culmination of pining?? That's that good good right there that is.

Listening to: Prove Your Love - Fleetwood Mac, Go Slowly - Radiohead, Love Song - Lesley Duncan

Word Count: ~4.5k

Warnings: Fem!reader, a gratuitous amount of mutual pining, kind of bantering?, Mihawk leans opla in that he has such sass, a few flashback scenes, Mihawk is a Man who does not know how to deal with being in love, but he’s trying like a lot, I mean he even kisses your wrist, probably idiots in love, there's one brief allusion to Buggy cuz I Need Him

Snippet:

“You say that as if we’re too old to have options.” He spoke quite steadily, but you noticed his golden eyes flicking to you, ravenously seeking your reaction. You knew he was trying to cover at least a little; your equal skills in observation were a beauty and a bane to him. It was your favorite source of bickering, giving you many lines to smile at when you were stuck in lonely nights tracking targets.

“You are in your forties,” you teased. Again, you took a sip to think. You meant to find some words to match his characteristic tone (“Joints still working well enough to properly share a bed?”), but instead what came out was “though you’ve aged better than I imagined in our twenties”. You blamed that you had finally looked over and taken in his face, sculpted angles all alive and aglow in the torch-light. There was also that defined chest that he maddeningly always insisted on showing everyone. You probably would too, looking like that.

“You should know by now I always exceed expectation,” Mihawk said without a hint of gloating, just simply stating an absolute fact.

“There’s still many places I’ve yet to see that proven,” you responded, words coy and teasing but smile easy and affectionate. Mihawk would need much more intimacy before he admitted how that smile stalled his thoughts. You would need much more boldness before you let him know you noticed when you managed to halt his breath.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

“I’ve chosen another I want you to try. Push your glass this way,” Mihawk prompted gently. Years of knowing him let you pick up the hints of eagerness hidden under his usual drawl.

You watched Mihawk’s hands and forearms work as he opened another bottle to share. He had foregone his coat tonight, instead draping himself with a well-cut white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and buttons undone to below his sternum, of course. Toned muscle danced under his skin with every twist and turn, leading you to great distraction throughout the process of him serving you. After enjoying the sculpt of his large hand while it gripped the full bottle to pour your glass, you changed your attention to the luxurious material of his shirt, fluttering over his chest and playing against tanned skin and his heavy gold cross. You wished you could find an excuse to pull at that hem, testing the softness of the material and making it reveal more for you.

The dark green bottle thumping back down on the bartop brought your attention away from your companion and back to your refreshed drink. You did feel a bit guilty that Mihawk’s description of the new wine was going near completely ignored (you at least caught the words “oak barrel-aged”, flattered he remembered your offhand comment about that preference from months ago). You just couldn’t get yourself to pay attention; your mind was swimming through multiple years at once any time it wasn’t grounded by his visage. Wistfulness had a stranglehold on you tonight, keeping you locked between painful yearning and bittersweet nostalgia. The comfort of hearing his smooth voice accompanied by the quietly unfolding lives of every stranger in the bar did reach you, however. You took solace in that while you went for your first sip.

“You’re much quieter than usual,” Mihawk prodded with dry displeasure. That displeasure was interrupted when he got to enjoy your usual show of flicking your tongue out to lick your glass and then your lips upon the first taste.

You took another, much longer sip of your drink to delay the need to respond. It was an easy choice of diversion; the wine was exquisite as always. You’d tell him as much if you were more in the mood for the gloating, simpering glow he’d get from earning a stroke to his ego from you.

“I thought you’d like that,” you offered quietly. You swept a fingertip around the slick rim of your glass, mindless in your feeling and seeing and doing. This absent state let Mihawk watch for every detail of the action to better imagine how that trailing fingertip would feel against his skin.

“Clearly you’re not as observant as you think,” he dug back, this time with much more amusement warming his voice, yet not quite enough to completely melt the snideness out.

Despite yourself, you smiled. Years of rivalry softened you to affection. Over those years of pushing yourselves and each other, bitterness became respect, respect became comradery, and comradery became admiration. In you, that admiration had long bloomed into devotion, petals bursting open in a stalwart stand against his consistent frigid air. Some days they withered, but then he would reach to you, hearten you, or defend you in a way that would have new buds growing more and more numerous until you had a field that could withstand winter's chill, turning to ice sculptures in each frost instead of decaying pulp.

“I blame your wines,” you chuckled, still taking yet another sip despite the accusation. “They have me stuck reminiscing.”

“I’d advise against that; it’s a trying endeavor. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Mihawk teased, doing a great job of masking his fondness with wry wit. He did venture to expose his curiosity, however. “Where and when does your mind have you trapped?”

“Our first meeting.”

Mihawk barely managed to keep from choking on his wine. He didn’t want to tip you off on how much that memory affected him. And it would be a shame to waste such an expensive drink.

“Why would you be thinking of that ridiculous affair?” There goes the effort at keeping you in the dark.

“What?” you asked with mock shock. “The only thing that was ridiculous was how little you trusted the top marksman to do her job.”

“You didn’t exactly scream competency,” Mihawk defended, hiding his fluster behind rudeness and the rim of his glass. The dim lighting of the bar would have hid it for him anyway; the few torch chandeliers did wonders for turning him to a living Baroque painting, but they were known for their shadows more than their breadth of hues.

“That is one thing you always did have on me,” you relented easily, more set on imagining the immaculately groomed and glaring warlord who first saw you than needing to keep a score with his modern counterpart at your side.

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

“They asked for me for a reason, you’re more useful elsewhere.”

“I’m useful everywhere you’ll find,” he dismissed easily, as sure of that fact as in the rising of the sun each day. You were a hard one to shake, but the way his namesake hawk’s eyes cut through you had you feeling exposed and vulnerable. It had you needing to make him just as small as the little pieces his endlessly picking gaze had shredded you into.

“Then go be useful as something other than my shadow. Some of us are actually working.” Even in your exasperation fueled anger, you sounded more like you were asking than telling. The ease with which he commanded was yet another skill you’d spotted on him so quickly in these few days together that had you feeling out of your league. You were beginning to think he took great joy in your mounting discomfort with the way he hovered around, always looking for another soft spot to peck at.

“You’ve been laying at this spot for days, Viper, with nothing to show for it,” Mihawk said, phrasing the truth quite unfairly. Viper was the code-name gifted to you in your work; the snakes could sit still as the dead for weeks, waiting for the one moment that prey finally crossed their path. That same dedication was what he was attempting to disturb now. “I could have rooted the rats out within the hour of mission's start.”

“Then it’s a good thing this task is mine and not yours,” you spat back, finally finding the will to sound truly mean. There was much you were uncertain of but your methods were a strong sense of pride and no one got to question them. “I’m sure the trafficking victims would do really well avoiding harm in the slaughter you’d start. They are known for being battle-ready after all; I’m sure they’re just playing victim right now so they can partake in a song-worthy escape and claim their glory.”

“You think I have no skill to guard and fight at the same time?”

“I think it’s not worth the risk to innocents just to feed one man’s insatiable ego,” you grumbled, spreading yourself out on your familiar and beloved blanket to begin this day’s long watch. You lined one eye with the one-of-a-kind scope of your rifle, taking comfort in settling into your power. “Better to wait until they show themselves and pick them off from miles away, letting them panic at the suddenness of death from a foe they’ll never see.”

Your memory never granted you Mihawk’s perspective on your first job together. You never figured out that he was hovering not from hatred of your perceived incompetence but an uncontrollable need to have you in his sight. He’d never had to contend with such an impulse before and found himself completely at the mercy of its whims. Garp was not happy with the freshly titled Warlord; he was meant to be helping eradicate the rebel legion that had taken this island over to ravage it for resources (humans included), not keep checking out their prized sniper like he’s a fifteen year old with his first female fixation.

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

“Surely I can be of much more entertainment to you in the present than in whatever foggy memories you have,” Mihawk said, successfully bringing you back to him.

“Yes you can,” you admitted with too much authenticity and affection for your tastes to just leave that flavor in the ari. After a moment of thought, you softly bumped your shoulder with his and added, “You’re practically a whole circus over there, how ever could I look away?”

You didn’t expect the long and tired sigh to deflate the man next to you, leaving his upper body draped on the bar. The sound seemed to have come from so deep in his lungs that it was born from his very soul.

“Please keep all talk of circuses and especially clowns to a minimum,” Mihawk pleaded into his forearms. He lifted head to look at you with one of the grouchiest and most sour faces you’d seen on him in a long time, before plopping it back into his arms. The whole thing was only made more endearing with the way the bar had pushed his hat askew.

“What’s with that look?” you laughed. “You usually save that one for Shanks.”

“I wish it was Shanks,” he grumbled petulantly. Your laughter always brightened him back up and he longed to turn and see the beauty of it on your face, but instead chose to keep to his brooding to prolong the sound just that much more.

If it wouldn’t send him up the wall, you would have told him how much you adored when his brooding turned pouty. It sapped him of his persistent decorum and made him feel closer - more touchable. The slouch it brought out in him always had you valiantly fighting the urge to wrap his curved chest in a firm hug. It was unfair how perfectly suited for one he looked, resting his elbows on the bar and opening him and his luxury shirt and his warm skin up for your reaching hands and arms. You shook your head after a mourning sigh and took another sip of heady wine.

“I wish it was Shanks too. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him.” The soft spot you always showed for the Red Haired Pirates only threatened to drag Mihawk’s mood low again. It was amended slightly by your cute, happy gasp before you said, “We should go visit them soon! I’ve got a bigger chunk of free time after the next two months.”

Mihawk was always amazed by how easily tiny little gestures from you perked him back up and got his heart leaping. All you did was choose to say “we”. He wished and wished that it was always “we”, but he’d take what he could get. Even if it meant dealing with the usual treatment whenever you were both with Shanks and his crew.

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

Mihawk was not fond of the look Shanks was sending his way. It was all too smarmy, built on equal parts smugness and giddiness. Disgusting.

“You dog! When I tried to imagine what could have the unshakable Dracule Mihawk off his game I never would’ve guessed it was our dear Viper,” Shanks teased cheerily, bumping his shoulder into the rigid one of the swordsman next to him. Mihawk was affronted - he nearly spilled his drink from Shanks’ boorish behavior.

“Didn’t know she was yours,” Mihawk grumbled, attempting to sidestep Shanks’ prompts to have him speak his infatuation aloud.

Shanks was fighting poorly to hold in his laughter; Mihawk was absolutely sulking while he watched Yasopp teach you more gun spinning tricks. You and the sharpshooter were always all joy and play, easily finding common ground in marksmanship but with the added fun of showing your separate specializations to each other. Each bout of laughter from your direction brought another brooding line to Mihawk’s furrowed brow. This standoffish air was his habitual defense against the raw ache he’d been tending to since the two of you met.

Every time I try to play, I end up wounding her, he lamented. Why can I not earn your laughter?

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

Mihawk lightly shook himself of the memory. On instinct, he turned to look at you and found you already looking at him but not really seeing him. He quietly huffed through his nose at losing you again to your own mind. He decided to give you a moment before getting to the bottom of whatever it was that had you in your funk. Beyond selfishly wanting your rapt attention, he was worried for you. You were prone to take pause and think long, especially when in quiet company, but you seemed truly lost in your own mind, taken against your will.

Mihawk’s accurate read on you was more proof of the years tentatively building rapport with each other. That intimacy you shared, which lacked the intimacy you so craved, was what had you held hostage in one of the many examples of your entwining lives.

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

The quiet in the air was broken only by Mihawk’s calm breathing, his occasional quiet sips of today’s wine, and the gentle rustle of a turning page. Your own breathing was silent, having gone so long and smooth it was imperceptible due to an instinct trained in so no need of your body could get in the way of your shot. Luckily, your targets were always at such a great distance that Mihawk’s casual lounging would never alert them that they were being hunted.

“It’s been twelve hours since you’ve eaten,” Mihawk told you in a bored tone, eyes never leaving the pages of his book. You made to ignore him and continue your work, but he had never been able to stand your attention off of him for long. “Almost three since you’ve taken a sip of water.”

“Sorry, Mom, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” you mumbled back evenly. You had long lost the majority of your bitterness toward his nitpicking, instead just glad he was around and saying anything to you.

“If I was your mother, I would’ve commanded you to just let me take the target out in the first place so we could leave this boring island,” Mihawk complained.

“You really gonna take a swing at them from two miles off?” you asked, smiling as you imagined the chaos wrought from such an action. It would be a catastrophe, but it would also give you quite the show. Over your time knowing him, you’d seen Mihawk’s innate beauty and untouchable prowess countless times, but it was never enough to sate you.

“You’re not the only one who can hit a target from that distance,” Mihawk reminded you and you hoped you weren't imagining the tone of a smirk shaping his voice.

“Yeah, but I’m the only one of us who won’t cause a tsunami in the process,” you giggled at him.

Again, your diligence robbed you of the chance to see the poignant longing overtaking Mihawk’s face when he smiled at you. He relished every step he’d gotten closer to being the source of your joy.

~ ~ ~ ••• ~ ~ ~

“You’ve disappeared again,” Mihawk complained after sending a haughty tut your way.

You offered an apologetic smile and were happy that he accepted it readily. All those memories, years of feeling, and liquid courage built a full storm inside of you until you knew you needed to allow yourself some time in the eye of it. Being surrounded by the roaring weather would be nerve-wracking but you hoped the calm at the center helped protect you from those shredding winds. You blew a heavy sigh over your drink, refusing to look from its dark, blooded tint when you asked, “Have you ever wondered what it would’ve been like if we were together?”

He didn’t answer right away. Usually Mihawk was a man who was quick with his words, as sure in speed and precision with their strike as he was with that of his sword. You respected that sureness and bold weaponizing of his thoughts, but you deeply appreciated that, with you, he would take the time to truly parse his words when he felt the need. It suited your nature better; your patience was as legendary as your ability to shoot the wings from a fly that was miles off from the end of your rifle.

“You should know by now I always exceed expectation,” Mihawk said without a hint of gloating, just simply stating an absolute fact.

“Mihawk, my dearest adversary and cherished… friend,” you hesitated on the word, never having claimed him as such to his face before. He rewarded your bravery with a gentle bump of his knee against yours and with the bare fondness that began softening his stare. “We have been playing this game, dancing this dance, for decades now. Am I really meant to believe that one question changes everything?”

“The right question can,” he asserted immediately. He opened his mouth to continue, but for once you were the one striking quick with your words.

“You are a man who does not hesitate,” you accused, staring cuttingly into his focused gaze, not backing down at the way it became shielded. “If you want something you take it.”

“And?” Mihawk prompted, tone the most biting it's been all night.

“And,” you repeated. “And…”

You sighed in defeat and turned back to your drink, closing yourself away. He was more than smart enough to know where you were going with that, but he insisted on making you be the one to say it. You wouldn’t allow him to make you insult yourself, especially after you had ventured to bring up the tenuous topic in the first place. If he refused to argue or even acknowledge your conclusions, then you’d let your drink be the friend to assuage those old hurts. The echoed sigh to your side did little to move you from your new stake out with your wounds and your wine.

Mihawk pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to call you foolish so his own mind would stop branding him with that word. He had been ever vigilant of you throughout the years, not only in an effort to soak you in every moment he could, but also to latch on the moment he noticed you offering him a true opening. You had finally bared your throat to him and he had managed to fail at your final test to check that he would not stoop to bite - that he would only beg to kiss.

While taking his next sip of wine, Mihawk extended an olive branch in the form of a thigh pressed firmly into yours. He was barely able to keep in the frustrated growl that pressed at his chest when you shifted yourself away. You did turn your eyes to him out of curiosity, however, but he missed the look completely, too busy reassembling himself. It let you watch carefully as the flaming lights turned his hat’s extravagant feather amber in their glow when he lifted it off his head to place on the bartop. It let him run his fingers back through his thick black curls, trying to shake his disappointment off with the teasing of his strands.

He looked over at you and finally caught on to your observing. Mihawk let his regret pour over his face, even letting his lips twitch into a momentary, rueful smile. You replied with a tired smile of your own. In the end, it turned sweet and loving; a bad habit of yours with the swordsman. You pressed your thigh back to his.

In a rare show of humility, propelled by the heat of your thigh warming his and the sweet crinkles your smile brought to your eyes (Just for me, he thought with doting greed), Mihawk took your hand and bowed himself low to touch his forehead to your knuckles. His thumb soothed gentle circles into it while he stayed lowered to you for a few long breaths. He was eager to enjoy the feeling of your skin and the decadent scent of your perfume, strong now with the proximity of your wrist. You had chosen something sultry and heady with its deep notes of orchid and amber and wood, all calling to him until he acted with thought a millisecond behind instinct.

He flipped your hand over, slowly and gently, cradling it palm up in his large hand. Still stooped, he had to move scant inches to brush the tip of his nose across the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, savoring the pull of your perfume going deep into his lungs and leading his mind to a content haze. He sealed the small caress with a feathery brush of his lips over your pulse, wishing he could make himself press harder to feel your heart thump against his lips. He longed to know if it raced with the same jumping cantor as his.

When he sat back up he was met with a vision from his dreams. You had fully turned your face to him and it was lit with a deep flush made more rosy in the fire-cast light of the bar. No ambient chatter nor clinking cutlery could keep his ears from delighting in the hitch of your breath in and the contented sigh out. Another smile indulged him, this one easily crowned his favorite with its happy chuckle, pressing cheeks, and bare affection.

“I am a man who takes what I want,” Mihawk confirmed your words delicately. He continued to hold your hand, now enfolding it in both of his. You felt bright tingling shooting from the contact and the press of your thighs. They made you twenty again, staring down the most handsome and insipidly arrogant man you’d ever met and cursing your heart for its clear choice. “I take what I want, not who I want. People aren’t for the taking, little viper.”

You laughed at the title, never feeling it sat quite right. You felt you wore it well at work only. The imagery it brought up of femme fatales and their hypnotizing looks and lethal wit made you feel like a young girl cloaked ill-fittingly in her mother’s best event wear, barely able to peek your head out of the wool coat dwarfing you. Mihawk noted your discomfort with the title throughout the years but never found the proper words to have you see that all who said it were reverent when they saw how well the word wrapped over you.

“What if-” again you hesitate. You scrunch your face in anger at your nature, but before Mihawk had time to bring a hand to your face and soothe it back into a smile, you force out the words. “What if I am for the taking?”

Mihawk’s thumbs stopped their massaging and you felt his thigh jump to tense against your own. Staring into his widening eyes and how they glowed so beautifully - too beautifully to be within your reach - you immediately wished you could suck the words right back into your lungs. You made it this far though, so you instead worried at your lip and clung your hand onto Mihawk’s stalled hold.

Finally, he unfroze.

“For the night only?” Mihawk probed, wanting answers but worrying about making you close off again.

“Do you only want the night?” You tossed back to him, unwilling to turn this propositioning into a confession of the long years you have built a deep and sturdy love for him, no matter your attempts to welcome others into its halls.

“What I want,” Mihawk said, gentle and deliberate in coloring his tone with humble honestly, “is to be what you want.”

You were taken aback by the confession, but you were even more awed by the look he was giving you. He was still slightly stooped, broad shoulders gently curved and bent towards you, pulled down under the need to lower himself below you but body still gravitating towards you with the magnetism he’s been weak to since you first crossed paths. Framed by those shoulders and his wild curls, Mihawk looked to you with the sadly tinted longing you had felt seize you in his presence all this time. While the furrow of his brow and glimmer of his eyes had your brain buzzing with more hope than you’d dare let it host before, your chest squeezed at the conflict you saw in him; you knew that torment in your very bones.

“You always have been,” you whispered on a trembling breath. Mihawk’s eyes went wild for a moment where his whole body tensed and you felt his urge to pounce on you steal the oxygen from the room. He thanked the gods for a majority of his life spent learning control and restraint, while he got himself in order and pressed the firm kiss he’d longed for to your wrist instead.

“Come with me,” Mihawk commanded through lips still pressed to your skin, though it was the closest you’d heard him to begging in your entire life.

You let yourself partake in a longtime wish by moving your other hand to card your fingers back into his thick hair, happy to find that it was just as soft as you had imagined. Their trailing came back around to have your palm cup his jaw. He leaned into the touch, tickling your hand with the rub of his precise facial hair when he allowed himself one small nuzzle into your loving hold. That hand guided him up to meet your eyes so he could see the love you held for him finally displayed openly in all its abundance.

“Wherever you ask me to, I will go,” you promised.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

#mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #opla mihawk x reader #opla mihawk #one piece #request #my writing #fem reader #x reader #one piece x reader #mihawk x you #mihawk x y/n #one piece fanfiction #mihawk fanfiction #opla

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footballfanficwriter · 7 months ago

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The last dance

Summary:Kylian's last game for PSG

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as we settled into our seats, awaiting the final match of the season. The atmosphere was electric, but there was a bittersweet edge to it, knowing that this is the last time we are watching Kylian in his PSG jersey. Beside me, Raphael fidgeted with excitement, his eyes shining with anticipation.

"Mommy, do you think Daddy will play well today?" Raphael asked, his voice filled with hope.

I smiled down at him, ruffling his hair gently. "Of course, sweetheart. Your daddy always gives his best."

As the match unfolded, every play felt like a moment frozen in time. Kylian moved across the field with his trademark speed and skill, but the goal remained elusive. The tension in the stadium grew with each passing minute, and as the final whistle blew, there was a collective sense of disappointment.

Kylian was called for a post-match interview, his expression a mix of resignation and gratitude. The interviewer approached him, holding out the microphone.

"Kylian, a tough game today, and unfortunately, no goals for you. How are you feeling about your last match with PSG?" the interviewer asked.

Kylian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's always tough when you don't get the result you want, especially in your last game with the club. But I'm grateful for the memories and the support of the fans."

The interviewer nodded sympathetically. "You've had an incredible career at PSG. What are some of your fondest memories from your time here?"

Kylian smiled, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "There are so many moments that I'll cherish forever. Winning titles, playing alongside incredible teammates, and feeling the love of the fans. PSG will always hold a special place in my heart."

The interviewer leaned in, eager for more. "And what's next for you, Kylian? Any hints on where you might be headed?"

Kylian chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm keeping my options open for now. I want to make sure I make the best decision for myself and my family."

The interviewer nodded, scribbling notes on his notepad. "Understandable. And what message do you have for the fans who have supported you throughout your time at PSG?"

Kylian's expression softened, his gaze turning towards the camera. "I just want to say thank you. Thank you for your unwavering support, your passion, and your love. You've been with me through the highs and the lows, and I'll always be grateful for that."

As the interview ended, Kylian made his way towards us in the stands. His steps seemed heavier than usual, and I could see the sadness etched in his expression. When he reached us, he pulled Raphael into a tight hug, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry, Raphael. Daddy couldn't score today," Kylian said, his voice choked with emotion.

Raphael hugged him back, his small arms wrapping around Kylian's neck. "It's okay, Daddy. You're still the best football player in the world."

Kylian smiled through his tears, his heart swelling with love for our son. "Thank you, Raphael. You always know how to make Daddy feel better."

Then, Kylian turned to me, his eyes searching mine. He reached out and pulled me into his arms, holding me close.

"I wish I could have done more on the pitch today, especially for you and Raphael," he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm sorry."

I hugged him back tightly, feeling the weight of his words. "It's okay, Kylian. We're proud of you, no matter what."

"I just feel like if I had done more it would've been better"

"All that matter is that you gave your best"

"Thank you" he says kissing me

"You're welcome"

As we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, I felt a surge of love for this man who had given his all, both on and off the pitch. In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of the match and the warmth of Kylian's embrace, I knew that our bond was unbreakable.

We made our way out of the stadium, hand in hand, our love shining brighter than ever before. And as we looked towards the future, I knew that no matter where life took us next, our love would always be our greatest strength.

The next day, headlines and articles flooded the internet, highlighting Kylian's departure from PSG. Comments poured in from fans and pundits alike, praising his contributions to the club and speculating on his next move. But amidst the frenzy, there was one image that captured the hearts of fans around the world.

A photo of Kylian, Raphael, and me leaving the stadium together, hand in hand, appeared on social media. The image captured a moment of raw emotion and love, and people couldn't help but be moved by it.

Instagram comments poured in, expressing admiration for Kylian and our family. "A true legend on and off the pitch," one comment read. "Wishing you all the best in your next adventure," another said. The overwhelming outpouring of support was a testament to the impact Kylian had made, both as a footballer and as a person.

As we read through the comments together, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and support of fans around the world. And as we looked towards the future, I knew that no matter where life took us next, our love would always be our greatest strength.

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spid3namy · 1 year ago

Text

— FOOTBALL

pairing : football player e!1610 miles x cheerleader black!female reader

summary : you and miles have a sweet little before and after game ritual

contains : fluff , kissing

word count : 577

notes : this is my peace offering for the angst i made earlier and all the angst that will be coming later on LMAO

“Amor, I gotta get on the field. I can’t keep kissin’ you right now.”

You pout but otherwise let go of Miles’ face, your hands dropping to your thighs. Miles gives you a sweet smile and grabs his helmet from beside you, giving you one last kiss before he runs towards the field.

You let out a dramatic sigh and stare at him as he goes to his teammates. You were proud of him and all but sometimes you just wished that he didn’t have to leave so soon! Maybe you were just being clingy.

Actually.. You knew you were.

That was besides the point though! The point is, you already missed him and he was only three feet away from you.

“Y/N! Hurry up and get over here!”

You blink and look over to whoever was yelling at you. Your teammate, Kylie, was screaming for you to hurry up so you could do your cheer routine for half time. You let out a heavy sigh and pull your hair up into a high ponytail, putting your cheer bow on before you jog over to the other girls.

You already knew that you would be the loudest person cheering for your boyfriend. You always were. It often gets you in trouble. Not that you really cared. Sue you for wanting to support your boyfriend.

You couldn’t help but stare at the way that Miles played. He was so skilled. It was kinda hot.

It wasn’t a secret that you found him hot. Especially when he was playing. Hell, everyone knew he was hot! But you were the only one lucky enough to be dating him.

The game was pretty fine, Visions obviously won. Miles was the MVP as always. Most games were the same. Miles would steal the show before you and the rest of the cheer team did your amazing routine during half-time.

Miles loved watching you cheer. He went to every practice whenever he didn’t have practice just to see you. He was so hopelessly in love with you. Everyone could see it. Now, Miles wasn’t the stereotypical jock, he was actually really smart. He was a “nerd” as you called him. He took pride in his smarts and good grades. He never really had to worry about getting kicked off the team.

When the game had ended, Miles immediately went to go find you. He always did.

“There you are, hermosa. I was lookin’ for you”

You chuckled and rolled your eyes playfully, allowing your eyes to move to look at him. Of course he was. You even knew he was looking for you. He was pretty predictable.

“I ain’t even go no way, Miles.”

Miles chuckled and wrapped an arm around your shoulder, much to your dismay. You loved him, of course you did, but you hated how he would be so close to you whenever he was sweaty. Some girls might be okay with that but you definitely weren’t.

“You stink, Miles.”

“Hey!”

“What? It ain’t my fault that you’re all sweaty and stinky.”

“Oh like you smell any better.”

“Don’t play with me, Miles. I will hit your ass.”

Miles chuckled and rolled his eyes playfully, allowing himself to turn his head towards you. He grabbed your chin lightly and kissed you sweetly. It was his way of shutting you up without actually telling you to shut up. He knew you were no joke.

Kisses were always your game rituals.

#☆ namy writes #earth 1610 miles x reader #earth 1610 miles morales x reader #e1610 miles x reader #earth 1610 miles fluff #miles morales fluff #fluff #miles morales x you #miles morales x reader #miles x reader

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saylorsaysstop · 1 year ago

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Smart Mouth | Stephen Strange x Fem!Reader 18+

a/n: so this little fic stems from a dream i had a couple nights ago that went just like this... note to self. don't take a melatonin and read spicy strange 😋 or do if you want to wake up the following morning in quite a sweat 😅🦋

warnings: spicy strange, hint of choking, Strange is def a dom while reader is a sub, no full-blown smut but enough to tease, and Wong being comedic relief

“Why are you hiding from Strange?” Wong asks from his spot at the table in the library. You lift your eyes to stare at him, pretending that the book in hand occupies your attention.

“I’m not hiding from him.” You huff.

No, you most certainly were hiding from Stephen. You had annoyed him earlier during a training session to the point that you had the audacity to question his skill. And he was a man who never wanted to be tested, especially by the likes of you.

“I heard you screaming at him earlier,” Wong whistles.

“Wong,” you mutter with a warning shot behind your tone.

“Yes?” he responds with a snort.

Huffing, you roll your eyes and return to the book. Of course, it was a book you’ve read many times before in the past, one that if Stephen finds you reading will judge you immensely. They were words that you simply glanced over, the meaning behind them not in the least of your worries. You just wanted to get away from him. But now you regretted coming to the library because you knew Wong loved to tease you about your unbridled attraction to Stephen.

“Stop staring at me,” you can feel the intensity of his eyes on the side of your head but he did that all on purpose. He chortles, tsking you as he flicks to another page. He knew it wouldn’t be long before you and Stephen broke one another. He just loved witnessing the buildup. He claimed that you and Stephen’s interaction was far more interesting than a soap opera on television. As you slide further into your seat, your ears catch the faint flickering of what could only be–

“What are you doing?” Stephen demands, stepping out of the portal. His dark red cloak – which you nicknamed Cloaky to get on Stephen’s nerves – whips with the movement.

“She’s hiding from you,” Wong belly-laughs but quiets when you send him a death glare.

“You’re hiding from me?” Stephen approaches you. “You should be learning.” he takes the book from your hands. “Why is this here? This is Twilight.”

“Is it?” you answer defiantly, pretending that you had not one ounce of care in your bones. Which at this moment, you didn’t. “Huh. Guess vampires like mystical arts too, yeah? Can you finally tell me why Edward Cullen sparkles in the sunlight?”

Wong snorts from behind you, this time Stephen delivering the fatal glare.

“What is wrong with you?” he demands, crossing his arms in that judgemental way he only knows how to.

“Nothing, Master Doctor. Nothing.” you shrug her shoulders. Stephan pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Can you go away now? I was really enjoying my read.” you pluck the hardcover out of his hands.

“You didn’t look like you were enjoying your read. You looked like you were hiding from him.” Wong continues to play both sides.

“Stay out of it!” You and Stephen both announce at the same time. Stephen looks down at you and huffs.

“Come on,” he slams the book shut and tosses it in Wong’s direction. “We’re trying this again.”

“No, we’re not.” you shake your head at him. “You got your balls twisted because I told you that I could do better than you. Maybe drop your ego and listen.” you cross your arms over your chest.

“You know what your problem is? That mouth. It constantly runs. No wonder you can’t learn anything. When you should be paying attention to someone greater at the arts than you, you’re running your mouth! Do you have an off-button?” Stephen hisses.

You snarl. “Sure do. But it’s in a place you’ll never touch,”

Stephen grows heated by your words. Wong wished he could summon popcorn because his daily soap opera was on and boy was it getting good. His eyes look back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, seeing how Stephen would possibly react to the strong-willed nature of you. The elder draws in a sharp breath hands resting on his hips. You scoot your chair back, wood scraping against the floor, and stand before him.

“Well? Anything else before I’m dismissed?” you smile.

He underestimated you incredibly. You take another dangerous step closer and rest your hands on his wrists. “Or is this the part where we kiss and makeup and I promise to do better?” you pout, bottom lip dramatically pushed out. Stephen’s blue eyes appear much more like blue flames. The heat of his body radiates, almost pulverizing your resistance to not try and tear his clothes off.

“We can’t keep doing this and you know it,” Stephen lets down his resolve only slightly but it was far too much because you sneakily took the sling ring off his hand and in one quick motion, opened a portal to the outside of the sanctum. You had at least managed that art. You giggle as you toss the ring back to him, the portal collapsing shut, the only fragments left being an amber-colored spark.

“Oooh, she’s good,” Wong comments. “She got you real good, Strange.”

“Wong!” Stephen growls. “Who’s side are you even on?”

Wong shrugs his shoulders. “Right now? Hers. Stealing your slingy and opening a portal to escape through? Smart girl.”

Stephen looks down at the ring in his hand.

“I can’t believe she stole my slingy,” he mutters before shaking his head and opening a portal to chase you. You’re happily walking down the sidewalk in front of the sanctum, the loud beeping of car horns informing you that Bleecker Street is very much alive.

You whistle, unknowing of the consequences that are about to find you. You take the next corner and walk just beneath an oak tree when out of nowhere, a portal opens and Stephen is darting out in front of you.

“Oh crap,” You skid to a halt, turning around and racing in the other direction. He was walking like prey after their meal, blue eyes bright like an incoming iceberg. Only this time, you were the Titanic about to be struck.

You quickly speed-walk, whispering incoherent sentences in your mouth. You glance over your shoulder and see that he’s disappeared into thin air. Maybe the city was on fire. Maybe Bruce decided to throw something at someone’s car. Maybe Thor–

“Where are you going?” Stephen’s voice is loud and right in your face. A gasp flees your mouth as Stephen’s tall stature looks even bigger when you’ve been caught. You swallow and look up at him, his body inches from yours.

“Away,” you say, attempting to duck out from under his arm but it was useless. Stephen entraps you against the yellow parked taxi cab, hands bracing the hood. You can only peer so many inches above his muscular forearms. His chest rose and fell in a steady pattern but his facial expression told the story. With a clenched jaw and twitching hands, you had royally ticked him off.

“Are you mad because I took your stupid ring, made a portal, and ran away from you?”

“Actually, yes. Yes, I am.” Stephen grumbles. “You’re inexperienced. That was stupid.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh so now I’m stupid?”

Stephen grimaces. “Women… No. You’re not stupid. But what you did was stupid. You could’ve opened a portal to a different place where I would’ve had to save you instead of punishing you.”

You chuckle, observing him under your lashes. “Whatever. You’re not gonna do shi-”

Your words are cut short and your breath is strangled when Stephen suddenly wraps his hand around your throat. He presses the entirety of his weight against your body and for a moment, you can feel every ounce of heat radiated from beneath his robes. He glares at you with a sinister look in his eye, his hold on your throat making you experience a head rush.

“You listen up and listen well, darling. That little game you played? Irresponsible. You’ve made me very upset, but do you understand what that means? It means you’re deserving of a punishment, and oh darling am I going to punish you… I’ll have these pretty little cheeks all damp with tears, this aching core of yours dripping with my cum. I’ll have you so spent you won’t be able to train tomorrow morning. You’re my toy tonight and I’m not going to stop playing with you until I’m satisfied. Do you understand?”

Your body develops chills. He turned you on so badly. You lick your lips and nod your head as he presses his thumb over your pulse, feeling the sudden ramping of your heart rate.

“What does a good girl say to the man who owns her?” Stephen’s warm breath fans your lips.

“Yes sir,” you gasp, feeling his grip loosen. He lets your throat go and you cough, working to catch your breath. “Good girl,” Stephen grips your hand and opens a portal– one that leads you directly into his bedroom for the punishment of your life.

#doctor strange #doctor strange smut #dr strange #stephen strange #stephen strange smut #marvel #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x reader

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diejager · 2 years ago

Note

Ooo I just love how you write platonic yanderess

Can you write a platonic yandere Ghost with his little sister😗

Of course. Of course.

Pairing : Big brother Simon "Ghost" Riley & little sister reader

Cw: canon violence, death, Ghost background, death, murder, dark, platonic yandere, protective Ghost, murder, mental breakdown, depression, trauma.

Wc: 1.3k

The last thing he wanted people to know - even his team - was about his civilian life, the secrets he held under lock and key near his heart, and a hard appearance. He protected what little was left of his old life fiercely, he wasn't Simon Riley anymore, he was "Ghost" now and that's all people knew. All the pain and torture he went through, from digging himself out of his grave to finding his family murdered, dead in the home they thought safe.

He remembered going home, exhausted and ecstatic to see his family, he celebrated Christmas with his family, drinking and eating at Tommy's house, you sitting next to him - your older brother. He was lucky that everyone was free that night, you both had unpredictable schedules, him being a red beret and you a field medic. Although he never had the chance to work with you, you were always skilled with your hands, bandaging and nursing his wounds.

You fixed him up when your dad got too drunk, Simon used to wrap himself around your body and receive every hit and berate of degrading insults your dad liked to spew. Simon protected you and you played his nurse until it became too real, you left for military service a few years after him, wishing to help the one who protected you so often.

He left to drink with friends on the eve, military buddies, you promise to come back once you got something from your flat near the edge of Downtown Manchester (it was a bit far, but always noisy, it helped quell the nightmares that silence brought).

He rushed home when he finished with whatever Sparks had done, ending him and his accomplice. They knew where he was before, it put his family at risk, then the call he got only solidified his fears when he stepped into Tommy's house, door open and lights off.

He found you sobbing, kneeling over Tommy and Joseph's bodies, cradling them. The dread and devastation he felt were overpowering, his life in the military had cost him his happy family. He was served revenge on a silver platter, a few scrapes here and there, but you two had disappeared in the dead of Christmas.

Everything from public relationships to your face was a risk, and somehow, he managed to keep you by his side wherever he served. You were the medic and him the lieutenant; (Name) and Simon Riley were dead, simply Doc and Ghost. That's how the world knew you and how Task Force 141 called you. Doc and Ghost, stuck by the hips, wearing similar masks and worked spectacularly together.

You were the last of his family, of the life he had before the murder - his dreamy heaven - so he kept you close, he protected you like he did when you were younger. If they got too close, he'd dispose of them immediately. Your safety was his top priority, whatever he did was for you, and the purpose he built himself was to ensure that you'd live.

He wanted you to stay, the agonizing pain of feeling lost and alone was harrowing, and he couldn't risk the chance of losing you too. They haunted him in his sleep, the memory of their deaths and his regrets, it all loomed over him like a reminder of his mistakes - his failures. The 'what if's lingered in his mind, the 'should have' and 'could have' becoming a mainstream of his thoughts when he looked at himself in the mirror; what if he never joined the army; what if he was there that night; he should have been there with them, instead of drinking at a bar; he could have saved you the grief and pain he felt, the one you shared like an open wound.

It should have been him.

He told himself that so many times, to you and himself, always mumbling about it at night, pointing the finger at himself for the loss. You stayed by his side, smaller arms wrapped around him like a blanket of comfort, warm and reassuring with words that pushed back his demons. He loved you so much, for being here and for always sticking to him.

You don't blame him for it, he doesn't understand how you don't, he saw it as his fault for bringing the enemy home.

"'S not your fault, Si," you whispered to him, his mental state too fragile for loud noises. His ears were ringing, almost so loudly that he thought his mind would implode on itself. You knew he felt everything much stronger, being the eldest of the trio he felt more responsible. "You're not to blame, Si. None of it, ya understand?"

He liked how your hands held his, gripping him tightly to bring him back to earth, far away from his violent mind. You supported him when he crashed and he held you when you broke, their deaths never left you, it simply brought you closer together than you'd think possible.

You closed yourself from others and built a wall of brick and cement, yet you smiled and socialized freely, you spoke enough for you both - or so Ghost insisted. He grew colder, callous, and brash with others, reserving his sweeter and softer side for you.

He stood near you, practically looming over you with his height of 6'4, broad shoulders, dark fatigues; a giant wall of muscle, you'd tease him, though you knew he was only protecting you. He's grown wary of everything that tried to approach you, he would stand before any approaching figure and glare them down.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, you were told from the file Price sent you, walked to meet you, smiling broadly and eyes squinting from the bright sun that bared down on the base. Besides him was Gaz, Kyle Garrick, olive-skinned and leaner than both males - blockheaded blokes, you called Simon and Soap.

His newly formed habit stood out the moment Ghost moved to block you from their sights, standing high and sneering when they stood feet away from you. You saw them flinch, hesitation seen through their eyes before they closed in, greeting Ghost who stared at their hand.

"Doc, pleasure meeting you, Soap, Gaz," you moved around Ghost, tapping his forearm reassuringly, his tense form slumping slightly. "He's Ghost, sorry 'bout him, he's not much of a people's person." Ghost huffed as you shook their hands, peering between them to the other duo approaching: Captain John Price and Gary "Roach" Sanderson.

Ghost acted once more, moving to guard you even though he knew Price prior to the formation of Task Force 141, you both knew him. You shook his hand, bowing your head lightly out of respect for the experience and battle-hardened man.

Other than guarding you, he hoarded your attention like a dragon hoarding his gold, keeping you by his side wherever he went as much as he stuck to yours. Per your conditions, you and Ghost would always be assigned together, and Price sympathetically complied. You bunked together and ate on the same table, he warded away unsavory glances and you lashed out at those that glowered at Ghost.

Although you'd burn the world for Ghost, he took it a step further, he took it upon himself to take care of whatever plagued you. Be it harassment from a fellow soldier, he'd disappear the next day; be it an unintentional threat to your safety, properly disposed of; be it someone who's trying to get close to you, too close to you, would find themselves jumping into an oncoming train.

He did as he should to keep you from harm, any kind that would mean losing you. A desperate man takes desperate measures, and Simon "Ghost" Riley is the most desperate elder brother in the world.

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unconventional-lawnchair · 4 months ago

Text

We'll heal together: Chapter Two

I'll Look After You The Fray

Harry Potter x Reader (Platonic) / Alastor Moody x Reader (Platonic) / Peter Pettigrew x Reader (Platonic) / Sirius Black x Reader (Ambiguous-Past)

Masterlist

Summary: {Y/N} {L/N} makes her first appearance, as dreams haunt her day-to-day life. Harry finds out more about her, after a run in with Draco.

Cw: Use of {Y/N}, grief, sad Harry times, wizard slurs, discussion of death and betrayal, reader in pain, mild descriptions of panic, friendship with peter (I am so sorry) (please reach out if I missed something}

Wc- 4349

“Get up! To your feet!” Alastor Moody’s voice boomed through the empty clearing behind the Potter’s manor. It was cold, the sun had yet to rise and the bellowing voice could be heard echoing off the trees that encased them.

“Get up, a death eater won't let you take your beauty rest!” Moody barked and sent another spell beside your feet to make you flinch.

You were shaky, weary to gather yourself off the slightly moist morning grass. You were lucky he had allowed you to change into proper dueling gear, Mad-Eye had woken you up mere moments ago and dragged you down the stairs for a surprise training session. You were upset, at first, of course you were, who in their right mind wakes up at 3am to drag their apprentice down the steps to TRAIN? You knew he had been at work for the ministry for the last week, your training with him becoming scarce, as he picked up on a lead of one of the Death Eater's new targets. You wanted to be mad, the first time you saw him in days and he was forcing you awake and into the bathroom to get ready for a rather brutal duel. You really wanted to be mad.

That was, until you heard what Mad-eye had gone through. He was a tough nut to crack, and when he loved, he loved hard. So when Albus mentioned in passing about the scene he walked in on, the very family he was sent to protect. Parents, both muggleborns who were outspoken about Voldemort and the death eaters, having been found in their bed without ever reaching their wands, you understood what this was about.

You could play along with this for now, knowing the comfort it would bring him far outweighed your cranky demeanor. He never said it, but you knew how terribly each failed job affected him. He was Alastor Moody for Merlin’s sake! He was known for his skill, his witt, his power. A fiercely loyal Hufflepuff, with the attitude to match it. His reputation was his downfall, however. Such high expectations to meet, and when he failed on something as simple as just missing an attack by mere hours, there was nothing he could do. Nothing outside of making sure his successor KNEW better, could DO better and would BE better. This was war, and with a mentor who is more than anything you could ever wish for, you were grateful. Even more so that he cared enough to do this.

You drew your wand, hands tightening around the base as you raised yourself to your feet, thumb rubbing the blood from your cut lip before sending a few sharp spells his way, each he deflected.

“Sloppy! Run it again!” He demanded as you began to breathe heavier. You rolled your shoulders and snapped your wrist to send a few more spells his way. Tightening his lips into a firm frown he sent them back ten fold. You were just barely able to pull up your shield. Your limbs were aching, your throat was dry, you were sweating and the feeling of the burning sun rising meant you had been at this for hours now. “Moody, I’m exhausted.” You tried to placate him.

“Quicker! Your movement is off. You'll get your whole group killed!” He spat and sent a few more spells towards you that you more easily flicked away. Seems he wouldn't be listening to reason. “Lock your wrist! Loosen your hand!”

“That doesn't even make sense! Do you want me to drop my wand?” You teased lightheartedly, smirking as he leaned forward on the base of the tree behind him. You quickly shot a spell to his feet. “Scourgify!”

Before he could even scold you for your aim he was startled by the spell. Looking down as bubbles and suds slowly gathered and grew at his ankles. “What's this? Going to defeat your enemy with some bubbles? Come off it!” He tutted before his frown grew deeper. “This isn't a joke, Vixen!” He bellowed, not noticing the gleam in your eyes.

You smirked before you sent a sharp and quick, “Depulso!” To send him slipping back and landing on his bum. Much like a muggle cartoon character. Quickly accio’ing his wand and holding it up in victory.

Distant cheers sent a shiver down your spine, eyes shooting over to the hill. There they were, Peter and Lily, gathered at the top, coming down with what seemed to be a thermal cup and some wrapped up pastries. You hadn't even noticed your stomach aching.

You looked at Mad-Eye with a hopeful smile, he gave you a firm studying look before he huffed and waved his hand to dismiss you, still gathering himself. You lit up and tossed him his wand before meeting your two friends half way.

“Here, some tea.” Lily mused and handed you the cup. You opened it and took a few quick sips, made just how you like it. Lily knew you better than anyone. “Lily, my love, the light of my life, tell me again why you are with Potter of all the people in the world?”

Lily gave a faux sigh of disappointment, “Well, my dear friend, it seems that I have a type I like to keep around.” She tutted and you tilted your head much like a crup. “Absolute lunatics. Where were you off to so early in the morning? Was it just to train?” She tried to reprimand you and you put your hands up in defense.

“I am a victim here! Do not scold me!” You chirped and Lily threw her head back in a laugh as Alastor walked passed you three and muttered praise you were just unable to understand.

“Was it fruitful at least?” Peter spoke up, you looked up to him and nodded with a brighter smile. “Now, I know why I am up, and I know that Lily likely was up before me-”

“Untrue!” She chimed in, making you giggle.

“But why are you up, Peter? You need your rest, you have a mission today.” You scolded and Peter gave a small smile and shrugged. “You were up.” He muttered as if that was the only reason he would ever need to do something. Peter had always been like this, just to appease people. But since school, you and him have been rather close. You two had shared plenty of solo missions and adventures, he always had your back and you his. Moody didn't particularly like him, thought he was a coward, so when you two were chosen as partners, he nearly blew his top off. You didn't feel the need to explain yourself, Peter would always have your trust. Something your childhood best friend, James Potter, constantly complained about, how you always took his side between the two. To be fair, Peter may have stolen your trust, but Potter did plan to marry your best friend. So you two could call it even.

You closed your eyes softly and enjoyed the warmth that filled you with their voices. The idle chatter slowly faded out, leaving just a small bit of ringing to your ears.

The ringing grew louder and louder, before it was overwhelming.

Suddenly, your eyes snapped open as the alarm clock on your bedside table went off. You groan out loud, covering your face with both hands before you slam down on the mute button. “Bloody hell! I was so close to figuring out what that damn dream is about!” You laid in the bed for a moment before flailing your arms about in pure frustration. “Ugh!!”

Jumping out of bed and meandering over to look at the full length mirror, gazing at yourself before sighing. Those dreams.. they were becoming too vivid. You swore you could feel the cut on your lip and the pain of your battered limps. You needed to know what sparked this creative spunk in your mind. Creating a loose narrative with so much intensity and detail. A wizarding world? Spells and charms? Even full fledged characters? You had never been an overly obsessive person, but those dreams, they felt warm. They felt safe in a way you had never felt before. They felt like a piece of you, almost like home, and even if your current friends said it was likely nothing, you still felt so much longing for the faces you saw when you closed your eyes. Maybe that's why you couldn't ignore it.

You shook the thoughts away and hummed, grabbing yourself a change of clothes and hurrying off to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Once you had finished getting ready, you put on a simple outfit, just a tank top and some jeans. Walking down the stairs from your suite above the shop, you slipped on a deep rich brown apron, tying it around your hips before glancing at a dark window and gathering your hair up into a newsboy cap. It was the easiest way to keep the cleaners and special concoctions made to keep each flower bundle alive and well, out of your hair, and in turn your pillows. Sending your reflection a wink and a pair of finger guns you wolf whistled as if you were checking yourself out.

You wandered behind the register and began to set up for the day. Your ears began to burn at the sound of scratching at the back door. You lit up, turning sharply on your heels and walking over. You opened it and a silver tabby dashed inside. You cooed and gushed at her, closing the door behind you as you followed the feline.

She jumped onto the cash register and then to the counter before looking back at you.

“Awe, Glasses! I missed you, where have you been?” You continue to coo, as you go back to work. Glasses had made it clear early on she did not want to be pet, and she seemed well groomed and maintained, so you assumed she belonged to one of the neighbors. She was an absolute darling. She had these strange square-like markings around her eyes that made them look like she was wearing spectacles, and thus, with no other leads to go on, her name was Glasses.

“You know, I’ve had more dreams,” You spoke up to the cat, waving your hand in a dismissive way, despite how they were eating you alive from the inside out. “About this fantastical world, and people I don't even know. I mean, truly, who named their child Moody? Alastor Moody?”

You continued your rant about the dreams you had. You loved your friends, the ones you met after moving to this small town, but it seemed the stories you told them began to go on deaf ears. You couldn't exactly blame them, who wanted to listen to such a random bunch of tales? The same ones you told them about a million times before? So having Glasses, who only seemed to sit around and enjoy the fauna, unable to stop your rambles, was therapeutic to rant to. “And, in my dream, I saw the boy again. Peter? Long blonde hair and chubby cheeks, when he walked down the hill I swear I could feel his hugs. You know that kind of person? Just an absolute power house of comfort.” You clicked your tongue before you lit up. Speaking of comfort. “Oh! Oh! And Lily, such pretty eyes, she made me tea. I could practically taste it! I feel like I’m going mad, Glasses! I care so much for them, these imaginary figures.”

Glasses laid across the counter in a relaxed way, eyes trained on you as you spoke. Like a little person.

“And I feel so empty when I wake up. Like something that once filled my chest is torn from me. I learned so much of that world, sometimes I want to stay asleep for days just to see them. To talk to them. As if I know them deep down.” You sighed and shook your head. “I truly am going mad. They feel like family. At least, that's what I think it would feel like.”

A loud meow sounded out in the room as the bell above the shop door chimed, you snapped your head up from where you were pruning a few flowers, smiling sweetly at one of the many regulars.

So the work day begins.

~~ Harry’s POV ~~

Harry had been on edge for days now. Since the fat lady was attacked, the conversation between Dumbledore and Snape, and then the Quidditch game, he was tired of waiting around like a sitting duck.

He didn’t want to feel so reliant on anyone, even the Headmaster, waiting around for the next bit of news he would give him so graciously. So, after a failed escape attempt and being nabbed by the twins, he found himself in Hogsmeade under the protection of his invisibility cloak, with the Marauders map tucked under his arm.

“A bit grand for you, don't you think, Weasel-Bee?” Draco’s voice filled the clearing just a few meters away from the Shrieking Shack. Harry gave a low groan at the sound, turning down a small path he was lingering by, around the exit of Hogsmeade.

“Oh, not very friendly I see.” His voice continued and Harry swore his eyes had never rolled harder in his head. Even his voice brought hives up his neck, he wondered when Malfoy would be hitting puberty, considering his voice still resembled that of a shrill child.

“I think it's time we teach them to respect their superiors!” Malfoy sneered, a smirk taking his lips before Hermione scoffed.

As he got closer, he could make out the figures standing by the fence. As he suspected, Malfoy, his goons, Ron and Hermione.

“I truly hope you don't mean yourself!” She clapped back, stepping in front of Ron as Malfoy ground his teeth and leaned forward. “How DARE you speak to me? You filthy little Mudblood-”

Harry had long since heard enough, gathering some snow in his hands before he chucked it at the spoiled boy, knocking him right on his head. Huh.. maybe he should have been a chaser, he thought cheekily. Much more luck with his muggle given gift of ‘mess around and find out.’

Then absolute panic ensued. Harry made a point to make an absolute fool of the boys, before they were sent running with the sound of Hermione’s laughter and Ron’s confused sounds and squeaks following behind them.

Ron’s face twisted to pure panic as one of his hat’s tassels were toyed with, making Hermione laugh harder. Her lips curled downwards as she attempted to hide her smile as her hair was lifted up above her head. “Harry!” She whined in delight and Harry laughed. Absolutely thrilled he managed to make her smile after such a horrible insult.

He threw the cloak off and Ron groaned. “Bloody hell Harry! That was not funny!” He tried to scold but it came out as more of a whine. He pouted as the other two continued to giggle and shake their heads. There was so much aching joy in his chest he couldn't help it. This is what this year should have been about.

~~~

As they walked through the alleys of Hogsmeade, Harry found himself zoning out. Not that he didn't enjoy his friends' presence, far from it actually, it brought him enough peace and calm to be able to fully remove himself into his thoughts. He knew they would still be there when he came back to. He felt safety with the two, safety he had not felt since the night he heard Sirius Black made it into Hogwarts. He was knocked out of his thoughts as he heard that name but aloud, Sirius Black. His head snapped over to look at the Hogshead’s door, seeing two people he did not recognize mention the escaped convict. “Why would Sirius Black be here?” He heard the owner nagging, before the Minister leaned into her ear, and not at all softly spoke his name to her. “Harry Potter.”

“Harry potter?” She gasped and the minister shushed her.

This was his chance! His chance to finally be ahead of it all, to know even a small bit of what Dumbledore knew, what everyone but him seemed to know.

Hermione frowned as she watched the interaction. Seeing the lady lead Hagrid, McGonagall, and the minister into the pub. “Harry don't you dare-”

“A bit late, aren't ya?” Ron spoke up and Hermione looked between them to see Harry had already disappeared, met with Ron’s smirking face instead. She gave Ron a frown and he shrugged.

“And WHY didn't you stop him?” Hermione scoffed and Ron simply looked over and watched his footprints lead into the Hogshead. “Was I meant to?”

Hermione groaned. “Harry!”

But her words fell on deaf ears.

Harry shoved himself into the pub and up after the four who made it upstairs. Sneaking into the room right behind Madam Rosmerta, finding himself a corner to lurk in as they spoke to one another. His breathing was heavy but concealed by the space he made between himself and them assisted by the cloth blocking his lips.

“Now!” Rosmerta groaned and turned to the other three in the room. “Tell me what this is all about.” She huffed and walked to the center, looking down at McGonagall as she sat and fixed her robes.

“Well,” The professor spoke up and Harry almost held his breath as if he could hear her better. “You remember, years ago, when Harry Potter’s parents realized they were marked for death and they went into hiding?” She declared and crossed her legs, gesturing for Rosmerta to sit with her, the girl shook her head, too wound up. The professor nodded and continued. “The only two who knew about their whereabouts, {Y/N} {L/N} and Sirius Black acting as their secret keepers.”

Rosmerta nodded and narrowed her eyes slightly at her when she continued. “After {Y/N} {L/N}’s death, when You-Know-Who found them, we could only assume one person had done it. Sirius Black had sold out Lily and James.” She declared this new revelation.

Harry’s eyes widened and his breath hitched in his throat. What? His parents trusted him? Sirius Black? And there was that named again, {Y/N} {L/N}. Those two names, his parents trusted them, deeply, and Lupin spoke so highly of her. What had happened? He narrowed his eyes as if seeing them better would allow him to understand what they were saying.

Rosmerta tutted, rolling her tongue in disgust. “Weren’t Sirius and that girl engaged? If he was the rat that had been betraying them, how would {L/N} have not known?”

“It was mere days after! All three of their deaths,” The professor announced. “Not even a week after they both became their secret keepers, {Y/N} was found dead by Dumbledore, Sirius almost lost it. Her and Mary's hideout had also been completely ransacked, that's where they found Mary MacDonald, you know.” She wagged her finger. “Unfortunately, {Y/N} never shared who her secret keeper was, and they never revealed themselves, so we could only assume-”

“Sirius Black sold out his Fiance!?” Rosmerta declared in a horrified gasp.

“Ex-Fiance, but yes, that is the running theory.” McGonagall spoke in a low and patient tone. Almost as if she didn't quite believe herself. “They broke the engagement off a year before everything happened, just a few months after Harry was born.”

“So, a scorned lover?” Rosmerta tried to pry and the professor held her hand up and shook her head.

“Could we please get back to the point at hand?” The minister nagged from where he stood by the fireplace, done with what seemed to be schoolgirl gossip. “Not only did Sirius Black lead him to the Potters’ that night, but he also killed Peter Pettigrew!” She proclaimed and threw his hands in the air.

“He killed Peter Pettigrew?” Rosmerta gasped and McGonagall raised her hands before she let them clap down on her lap. “Yes! The little lump of a boy! Always trailing after James and the others!”

“Well, what happened?” Rosmerta pushed as the Minister shook his head and walked over to grab a drink from across the room, mere inches away from Harry as he began to hyperventilate.

“Well that night, Peter Pettigrew? He would have gone to warn the Potters! If he didn't run into Sirius Black.” She waved her hand in exacerbation.

“Black was vicious, he didn't just kill Peter, he destroyed him.” The minister dramatized. “All that was left… was his finger!” He mused and walked back to the group of people gathered by the couch.

“And Black, he may not have lifted his wand to the Potters but he’s the reason that they are dead.” The professor chimed in and Rosmerta gave a scandalized sound.

“And what's worse!”

“It gets worse?”

“Sirius Black was, and still remains to this day, Harry Potter’s Godfather!” She stated, making Rosmerta gasp.

“No.”

Harry saw the vision around his eyes grow blurry, his breath growing more erratic as he stepped back. Sharply turning to leave, before Hagrid stood up and walked to the door. He cursed internally, Merlin Hagrid! You bloody mess! MOVE!

He stumbled back and slipped down to the floor. Hugging his knees as he tried to settle himself before anyone noticed.

“That is why the dementors are everywhere. I do find it unfortunate, and I am deeply sorry for their transgressions in Hogsmeade itself. You know, however, just how important it is to keep Harry Potter safe.” The Minister spoke and Harry buried his face in his knees. He felt every single word like it was a knife to his chest. His father has trusted him, that man that had betrayed so many people who could have been his family, his own! To know now that other people were still suffering, not just because of Black, but to protect him? Guilt filled his chest and leaked out with the tears that tried to soak his cheeks.

“That being said, I believe there are other matters to speak to.” The Minister mused and nodded to Minerva who stood. “Just a moment, Minister. I know you came to speak on the complaints with the residents, but I have something to speak with you about. It's rather important, and it just can't wait.”

“Very well, McGonagall.” The Minister mused and turned to face her, hands on his hips. “But do make it quick.”

“I will, Rosmerta? Hagrid? A moment please?” She mused and the other two nodded. Rosmerta shared a look with the professor before leaving, shuffling past Hagrid who squeezed his way to the door.

“I’ll be waitin’ for ya’ by the door Professor.” Hagrid declared with a bright smile and she returned it.

“I will be down soon, Professor.” She returned and Hagrid lit up, stumbling over his words in a fluster and hurrying out the door. Walking away before he quickly hurried back with a spill of apologies and actually closed the door this time.

Minerva shared a look with the minister who stifled a chuckle. “Now, what is it, McGonagall?”

“Well, as you know, I have been checking on our… Vixen.” McGonagall mused and put her hands to her hip with a click of her tongue. The Minister’s eyebrows raised before he suddenly remembered, not everything about the story they had told was entirely true.

“Right, right, our Vixen. Now, how is the old girl doing?”

“She’s remembering things. She remembers Peter, Lily. Merlin, she remembers Moody!” She waved her hands and the Minister nodded thoughtfully.

“Ah, I see..” He mumbled. “That puts us in quite the predicament.”

Harry felt his ears burn, focusing on their voices to keep himself sane and silent in the room. Trying not to choke out his sobs as he shook his head.

“Truly. She thinks them to be dreams right now, but who's to say it will be kept that way?” Minerva sighed. “It's only a matter of time before she remembers it all.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I need your permission, but I would like to ask Dumbledore to undo the Obliviate spell on her.”

“Hm..” He mumbled and narrowed his eyes at the fire and there was a moment of silence before he spoke up. “A horrible time, truly.”

“Why is that, minister?”

“Then, it wouldn't just be Harry in danger, would it be?” He tutted and Minerva paused before she slowly nodded. “And who's to say she wouldn't try to stake her claim over Harry?” he mused and Minvera gave a long sigh.

“Is she much worse than that horrid house he stays at now?” She tried to argue and the minister shook his head.

“I haven't a clue about his home life.” He lied. “But, she was presumed dead. She is no longer his Godmother, she has none of those rights. Especially if she returns,”

Harry’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth. Godmother? He had a Godmother out there too? And she was Obliviated? He didn't want to hear another word. He was confused, scared, he wanted to get away. To wallow in his own emotions in peace. To release the lump in his throat that was threatening to asphyxiate him.

He stood to his feet and rushed out of the building, shoving past patrons who couldn't see him. Right past Hermione and Ron. He needed to get away.

Eventually he made it to a clearing and doubled over, holding his sides as he leaned on his knees and let out a wail. It was, not as he suspected, silent and painful to his lungs and throat. He lost his breath but no real sound left him. A noise that resembled more Scrabbers than a human, he squealed. Then, as his soft sobs took over, he heard footsteps behind him.

And there they were, Ron and Hermione, just like they always were.

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maximotts · 1 year ago

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18. “so perfect all tied up for me.” With your dollhouse au? I’m imagining those silk ribbon bondage rope not just tying you down but wrapped around you because Wanda thinks it’s such a pretty sight <3

I'm a different person posting this than I was yesterday when I started this fic... and then it got Deleted in drafts and I saw my life flash before my eyes. This is edited kinda, but honestlyyy I just needed to conquer it at this point lmao

please don't flag this fic, I have warnings clearly labeled

Doll House AU. masterlist. wc: 1.7 cw: 18+ only, please. smut, fluff. loose ribbon bondage. body worship. inspection. fingering (r receiving). oral (r receiving). size kink if you squint. overstim. mommy kink. snuggly aftercare. and then all the usual Doll House warnings.

Wanda and Doll spend an intimate afternoon in bed, Wanda perfecting her ribbon tying skills while judging your patience

⁛— 2nd birthday sleepover.

"There you go, all nice and pretty..."

Silk ribbons adorned your figure, wrapping you like an extra present to Wanda, from Wanda. She'd spent the past hour fawning over you atop your plush bed, shedding your morning outfit only to replace it with buttery soft threads. "So perfect, all tied up for me."

It wasn't tight enough to restrain you really, if you truly wanted to wiggling away was an option— but you didn't want anything of the sort. Wanda's undivided attention was the best kind of afternoon you could hope for.

Curious as ever, you still had your questions. "Mommy, why aren't these tight?"

Shrugging your shoulders showed off the little movement you could make, careful not to undo any of Wanda's hard work. The older woman laughed and kissed your hip above the ribbon she'd tied over your curves, amusement filled green eyes gazing up and instantly bringing a dopey smile to your face. "I don't want to tie you down, not today at least."

"Then what are we doing?" Oh you wished so badly you could reach up and kiss her, but your wrists tied at your middle stopped you from bending too far, again more fearful of messing up whatever goal Wanda strove for.

And that was the most of what you were doing, Wanda testing your patience, whatever willingness you had to let your reverence of her outweigh your own desires... so far you were performing perfectly.

“We’re playing, of course. Silly thing,” Wanda sat up between your legs, crawling over your prone body until she could reach your neck for her next area of focus. It was an excessive show of possession, biting endlessly along your throat, leaving marks she'd be tending to for days after, relishing in how helplessly you squirmed under her; this could easily become her favorite afternoon playtime. "Aren't you having fun?"

Lithe fingers slid under the thick ribbons at your legs, playfully tugging just to hear your surprised squeak. Your legs fell apart with nearly no coaxing, Wanda’s fingernails scraping over your inner thighs just the way she knew you adored. Small shivers rattled your body as best they could within your restraints, ever conscious of leaving them in place, and the moment she laid eyes on your glistening sex she remembered why she’d decided to keep your lower limbs tied separately.

“I asked you a question.” The only answer she received was your meek nod, an action that resulted in a faux pout from Wanda, more concerned with how often you forgot you were allowed to speak now rather than whether or not you were truly enjoying yourself. That much was evident.

“It sure looks like you’re having fun,” Spreading your folds apart was just as easy as your legs, leaving you completely vulnerable to Wanda’s impromptu inspection. No matter how long you stayed with her, there was a persistent shyness about you, but your longing for your mommy’s approval always won out. It would be so easy to uncurl your hands where they rested bound together a mere few inches above Wanda’s, to push her away and cover yourself… but you didn’t— just as Wanda expected of you.

Today’s obedience earned you a reward, but Wanda wouldn’t spell it out for you, preferring instead to continue her game of testing self-restraint. It was better to train you into behaving even without possible reward, no matter that she already spoiled you rotten every chance she got. Two wet digits left their examination and came to settle on your waiting lips, your patience forced but steadfast. “Say please.”

“Please mommy, may I clean your fingers?” The drawn out please was so adorable Wanda wanted to suffocate you, but instead she sated herself with your grateful sigh around her, your tongue diligently licking until she drew them away.

Her hand came back to settle between your supple thighs, fingers sliding easily through your sex, knuckles just barely grazing your clit. Curious fingertips fell down to your entrance, gathering warm wetness from where you were dripping and bringing them to her own mouth this time. She always wondered if you knew how desperate she was to have you, but one look down at your dazed expression answered that for her easily. “Did my playtime make you all icky? Do I need to clean you up?”

Admittedly, the past hour of Wanda’s gentle touches, sweet words and even sweeter kisses left your brain fuzzy. The tingling in the pit of your stomach had grown into a calm and pleasant ache, much gentler than the gnawing, desperate clawing that plagued you whenever Wanda was rough. Sometimes she left you at that painful edge, frustrated to no end and chastising any complaints she caught. Today if she’d left you with nothing, maybe you’d be able to manage the evening with dull nagging, but the notion of an orgasm at the end of your slowly building high was too tempting to pass by; you had to make your need known. “Make it better, please… want it so bad.”

“So now you speak up, whenever you need something from me…” Wanda took her sweet time traveling down your front, lips brushing over every curve and divot so that when she finally placed one last adoring kiss atop your mound, anticipation buzzed through your veins. “You can cum as much as you’d like, but don’t you dare untie yourself.”

Sometimes Wanda’s rewards were straightforward, a simple start and finish before she sent you off. Surprisingly, you preferred rewards you worked towards together, ones like these where her tongue drew intricate patterns over your clit, teasing and testing just how far gone she could pull you while you remained committed to following her rules. It was harder than it looked, knowing you had the ability to twist and turn with every perfectly placed stroke, but willing your body to stay confined, to preserve Wanda’s ribbon-tied handiwork.

Thankfully they allowed space for the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the clenching of your core as the first wave of orgasm washed over, knocking your head back into your plush array of pillows as you erupted into a fit of moans and pleas. “Mommy.. Mommy, please.. again! Wanna cum again-”

“Such a needy doll, so pretty all tied up for me and begging for my mouth.” It was a brutal inner battle to keep from bucking your hips, fingers fidgeting at your midsection to keep busy in anything other than Wanda’s hair. When she descended again it was all worth it, warm mouth suckling at your swollen bud to distract from the three fingers prodding at your hole.

The stretch was maddening, an instantaneous full feeling sending you over the edge again before Wanda even got the chance to move. She groaned around you as she felt your walls clench, free hand coming to wrap securely around your upper thigh; instinct drove you to back away from the thick intrusion, but she couldn’t have any of that. “Shh, sweetheart, let mommy play a little longer.”

“O-Okay..” Your previous pleasant need evolved into something more, something starved within that only reared its head when Wanda’s intentions turned heady. Careful not to toss around too much, you relaxed as your thoughts settled into a low hum, taking every thrust and each curl of her fingers until individual orgasms merged to one neverending bliss.. you’d lost count after three anyways.

After some unmeasured amount of time, Wanda granted you a reprieve, leaving you dreadfully empty and weakly clenching around nothing. You felt limp head to toe, unable to even raise your arms without Wanda’s help as she worked to slowly unwrap you. She took her time so as not to startle you, smoothing over any tiny indent her ribbon left from your movements and doting on it with a cautious rub of her thumb.

Once she was done, she was genuinely surprised you hadn’t dozed off; the act of overstimulation alone was occasionally enough to leave you napping for hours. But today heavy eyes lazily followed her every move, bottom lip quivering more visibly by the second. “You did a wonderful job today, my love. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise was much appreciated as always, but you’d been missing one thing terribly since Wanda had first given the instruction to lay back while she unfurled her ribbon and tired as you were, you needed one last clarification. “Can I touch you now, I want a hug…”

“Of course, we’re long past our game.” You were in Wanda’s lap after the second word, curling into her and wrapping your arms around her middle in the tightest hug you could muster. Any time she searched your thoughts, they were full of her, the urge to be near her so strong Wanda was surprised whenever she got a moment to herself these days.

It was the sweetest form of devotion she could imagine, the pure need to keep her presence in whatever capacity; your lovey ways never failed to render her heart gooey. “That’s why you were so pouty just now, my poor little snugglebug.”

Giving your tummy the gentlest tickle before drawing the sheets closer, Wanda scooted you both until she could lay you down; not that the position mattered much when you stayed attached at the hip. Content little noises rumbled against Wanda’s arm as you made them, keeping still even as you craned your neck to cover her cheek in appreciative smooches. “Nap with me, mama. I’m sleepy.”

“If you insist,” Now it was Wanda’s turn for restraint. It’d take little to no effort to pull herself from your grip even without her powers; there were a myriad of things waiting for her to do downstairs… but she stayed put. The desire to see your smiling face when you woke up in a while, ever excited to wake up in her arms, far outweighed any living room cleaning.

#I'm so exhausted pls forgive typos #doll house au #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #dark!wanda maximoff x reader #maximotts 2nd anniversary #motts writes.#maximotts

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love-lilly02 · 9 months ago

Text

The Challenge- Ch. 7

An- hey. (drops random half edited chapter that’s probably the shortest one i’ve ever written) see ya🚶🏾‍♀️

A total of two months, three and a half weeks and six days.

That was how long you had been MIA. Each time another day was added to that count, you grew more restless than before. You wanted to go home, to sleep in your bed, eat american food, damnit just to have a different color shirt to wear.

And yet you were still stuck here.

Each day started off the same. You would wake up at the ass crack of dawn, eat something akin to breakfast with Nikolai and wait to see if today was the day you were going back. Instead, he would silently place a knife on the table— some days it was different— and walk out of the room. The same routine, every day. for the past two months.

It was enough to drive any normal person insane. and it had almost driven you insane, definitely would have if you weren’t in the military.

You had managed to work up the courage to ask why he didn’t immediately send you back one day, why he tolerated you staying with him for this long.

“If i send you back they do things different. Look at you oddly, treat you weirder. Here you can rest, regain your skills.” He had said, not pausing to spare you a glance.

“I take you back when you ready.”

according to him, you had not been ready in a long time.

you never really gave up hope. Not actually, you knew logically at some point he had to bring you back to them. And going back on your own was a suicide mission, one even worse than the thing that had gotten you into this mess. So you waited.

If it took five months or seven years, you would wait.

Kate Laswell was a woman of action.

She knew this for a fact, it had been thrown back into her face so many times she lost body parts to count it. Which is why your disappearance bothered her so much. You were a person of action as well, it’s what prompted her to introduce you to the 141. So then why had you been MIA for the past three months? The thought sat there constantly, turning even the best days sour.

That, and what you were doing to the team.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, although you did have to look a bit harder to see the changes. Especially in people like Ghost and Price, whereas Kyle and Soap might as well have worn their emotions on their sleeves. She wished she could do something to help, to find where exactly you were. Or if you were alive, even.

All given evidence suggested otherwise.

She had replayed the shitty camera footage of your disappearance, watched it frame by frame, pixel by pixel. Mutiple times, and she couldn’t figure out how there could be a way for you to get out of there. It just wouldn’t have added up.

But she didn’t give up there, of course she wouldn’t.

She kept searching, looking for any sign of you. As a civilian, one of the russian’s captives, anyone. anything could come into play, you were a smart girl and everyone knew it.

Unfortunately, that also meant you could cover up your tracks well.

It took another month for anything good to come up. And that something good came as salvation always does.

In the form of a call.

John had made an attempt to push the situation out of his mind, to allow you to handle your own business. His thoughts screamed at him to be more active, to do something more, but there was literally nothing for it.

Or so he thought.

The call came in while he was walking out of a meeting, silently dreading the mound of paperwork he would now have to do. When he saw the caller ID he had to do a double take, and he rushed to answer the call.

“Nik?”

“Captain. It’s been a while, no?”

“Damn right it has. Makes me scared.”

His old friend laughed, and Price could imagine the way he was shaking his head.

“Yes, yes. But i have gift—what? okay, okay sheesh. I have… surprise… for you.”

Price just stared. “Is there someone else there? What’s goin on Nik?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a lot of rusting.

“Um. Hey.”

Price almost dropped the phone.

The process of getting you back wasn’t as hard as they thought it would be, but it certainly took a very long time.

In reality it took two weeks. But to them each day felt like a decade.

The entire flight took 11 hours, and they weren’t allowed to meet you halfway (something about using military vehicles for non military purposes. all four boys thought that was absolute bull shit but they couldn’t do anything about it) So they did the next best thing.

wait.

And they waited. and waited. Each time a chopper landed on the helipad they were rushing to the window, seeing if it was you. It got to the point that they had someone constantly surveying that area of the base, just so they could be immediately notified.

And finally, finally you were back.

It was a whole ordeal, theatrics that even soap had to roll his eyes at. The moment you got off the plane you were swamped with people asking questions, doctors trying to assess how you were alive and unharmed, people just staring in awe.

But you ignored them all, scanning the crowd with a panicked expression. It didn’t disappear till you saw the four of them, standing far, far away from the mob of people surrounding you.

Nik walked out behind you, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. The two of you made your way down the ramp to the group, and Price smiled for the first time in a long time when he saw you.

“Welcome back, kid.”

this was gona be an akward chapter anyways, i had NO idea how to write the reader's return. I'll make it up to you guys next time, pinkie promise

My Masterist

#cod x reader #poly 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost x reader

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nogenderbee · 1 year ago

Note

Could I request Diluc, Kaeya, Childe and Ayato with an s/o who has amazing good fortune and luck?

Sure! I did these in oneshot format because I thought it'll be a bit more interesting ^^ Well hope you like it dear anon!

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ 𝕃𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕪 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕞 ₊˚ˑ༄

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Ayato x lucky!reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ @bleachtheidiot

You visited Diluc in Angel's Share to classically ramble about your day and adventures. He seemed to expect you by now before as soon as you say down, your favorite juice was right under your nose and when you looked at your partner, you noticed his eyes softening. It was like alternative of a smile since he can't let other read: Venti, Kaeya or Rosaria see him like that and risk getting teased to death.

But going back to current time... there was almost no one else close to bar so it was basically just the two of you.

"So how was it? I heard you accepted one of more dangerous missions today."

He gave you the strict look and you knew just by that that he was worried for the whole day even if he didn't wanted to admit it!

"Yeah, but it was easy! My luck never disappoints me~"

"That's great and I don't wish it to be otherwise but you should stop relying on it so much. It's just luck. What it won't be on your side one time?"

"Oh stop worrying so much! I'm all safe and sound!"

"And I couldn't be more glad for that..."

He was gently caressing your hand by now. It may seem like normal gesture but you could see he's being a bit mean because he cares about you. Maybe next time you should take some extra stuff just to make him less stressed text time?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You and Kaeya were just hanging around on Mondstadt's festival. There was game based on luck so of course he encouraged you to try it! And naturally, you win every single one of them~ Eventually it ended with hosts stopping you from playing because you'd win all prizes in this tempo...

"See? I told you it's worth checking out!"

"Did you had something to do with it again?"

"What are you assuming me of? But just maybe I made a bet with host that you won't loose a single round! I'm treating you to dinner tonight, my dear~"

You should've expected it honestly... he will use every opportunity to show how amazing luck his partner has after all. But you can't really complain since he's treating you to dinner!

But he doesn't do it just to use you or so, it's more like showing everyone your amazing talent. And you can see it by the way he always compliments you before even suggesting bets or anything like that.

"Another bet? Really?"

"Well yes but you know it's not me who suggested them... they were just a bit too confident that you can't have those sort or luck."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Childe brings you everywhere with him. And it's even worse if you know about him being part of the Fatui... he'll always bring you to negotiations, competitions, fights and so on.

Since that one time when you both were just shopping in Liyue Harbor and he won over 3 negatiations with you on his side, he literally started calling you "his lucky charm".

That's how you ended up watching him fight on the sides, like today. It doesn't matter if it'll be whole boss or few slimes, he'd always tell you to give him some of your luck with that grin on his face.

And when he comes back after his win, he'll be a bit flirty, saying how it's all thanks to your luck even tho you both know very well it's thanks to his fighting skills.

"Thanks for cheering for me there! I couldn't have done this without your help~"

"C'mon... these slimes were nothing for you... you said it yourself plenty of time."

"But it could've been your luck this time! You won't mind accompanying me for some time, right?"

"Aren't you just trying to show off by now?"

He definitely does try to only impress you... and you're sure of it by the way he sends you that little grin of his symbolizing he's planning something.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You came to Ayato rambling about how lucky you got with winning a prize on some festival. He was genuinely happy to see you smile like that and the way you were so sure it's because you're lucky person is making him adore you even more.

"I guess I just have incredible luck! No one won this one before me and it's the one I liked the most anyway!"

"Of course. I'm so proud of you, my love."

It's not immidietly noticible but he doesn't really believe in so called "luck". He's sure it's a simple coincidence but that sparkle in your eyes just makes him go with your thoughts to not accidentally ruin this day for you.

"Well then, why won't we celebrate your another lucky day by going out for dinner?"

"Well I can't say no to that!"

He softly smiled at your reaction. He liked to spoil you in the first place but he adores how childish you could be sometimes.

He'd always listen to you rambling about your newest achievements and how it's all thanks to your luck with a smile. He's saying that he's proud of you and acts as if he's sure that's how it is, but in reality he thinks it was just coincidence. As much as he doesn't want you to ALWAYS rely on your luck, he can't just tell you what he thinks in the face, you're simply too pure in his eyes.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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rippersz · 1 year ago

Text

The meat is cold.

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader oneshot)

«——..✞..——»

“She eats the hearts first, before they go bad— as all hearts will.” ~ Jessica D. Thompson

«——..✞..——»

“Are you going to eat me?”

You’ve asked her before but you repeat yourself anyway.

Larissa blinks. Long and slow. Sizing you up. Running her blue eyes over the length of your arms and stretch of your legs. Something flickers there. You briefly wonder if she’s questioning how fast you can run. You briefly wonder if she’s salivating over the thought of catching you.

“I didn’t plan on it, but now that I look at you closely, I think you want me to.”

You swallow.

She’s wrong, of course. She’s wrong. It’s just her own delusions. She thinks and perceives what she wants to think and perceive. Truth does not matter to a liar. The sweat on your palms says it all.

“I don’t.” Your voice is firm, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough. Somehow it feels like-

“I don’t believe you.”

-like she won’t believe you.

“Why not?”

A weird heated pleasure fills you at the sight of her smirk. Red, curling, slight, full of undeniable mirth. She really does find you funny. She really does enjoy your time together; you’ve never doubted that.

But you should. You really should. You don’t want to be one of the sheep. You don’t want to play with the facade and finally accept her for what she is on the surface. You don’t want to know her as the school principal. You don’t want to die.

“Because you’re still here. And the door is unlocked.”

Yes. You knew that. She rarely locked it. Mainly because that wouldn’t be very professional, but also because she wanted to give others the option of leaving. Anxious or angry students, tired staff members, pleased parents… they could leave whenever they wished. You could leave whenever you wished. You could leave right now.

Then why aren’t you moving?

“Who is this?” You sniff, looking down at the plate in front of you, desperately trying to grasp for some control.

You agreed on dinner at some point. She took you up on it by surprise earlier that morning. The food, she said, was on her. The meal, cooked to perfection thanks to her skills, was supposed to be delicious. To anyone else, it would be. They’d have been nearly finished by now, praising her to the heavens and letting out little noises of appreciation. But you know what she is. And you know that you’ve never really been interested in eating people before.

“I don’t see why that matters,” is the smooth response you get - quickly followed by the clink of silverware and the cut of meat and the gentle hum of a woman satisfied. You can’t bring yourself to look up.

“…Did they deserve it?” You’re not sure of what else to ask - you just know that you don’t want to leave. You would never admit that out loud, never willingly, but it’s the truth. You are the killer’s favorite. You are safe. You are better than them.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve it at some point or another?” Her voice is light and airy- twinkling with a complete lack of care.

“No,” is your immediate sharp response. It sort of slips off of your tongue by accident, but when you look up to gauge her reaction, you’re surprised to see not even a hint of shock or anger. Instead, all that paints her eyes is intense recognition. Like she knew you’d say that. Like she knew you were a morally correct hero hiding a dark heart.

“No?” Her fork spears a piece of meat. ‘Sirloin,’ she’d said when you first sat down. Yeah, right. “Why do you say that?”

You fix her with a look. A very obvious look. A look with a tilt of your head. One that says ‘You and I aren’t the same Larissa, but you know exactly what I mean.’ One that says ‘Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.’ One that says, secretly, ‘I don’t know. I just know that I’ve been told no good soul deserves death.’

Your mouth, on the other hand, says “Just because we all end up dying doesn’t mean we all deserve it. There are some amazing people out there that would have made the world better if they were still around.”

She seems to think over your serious response, rolling it around within her vast mind. While she formulates a suitable reply, her lips move with each chew of her steak - you try hard not to focus on that. When it comes to killers, good ones at least, there’s always that thing said about them: they’re charming; handsome or pretty; they’re alluring in a way that no “normal human” could be. Larissa Weems has never been the exception. She is no different. It can be disturbingly easy to get lost in the other things she has to offer. Like her beauty. Or her intelligence. Or the way her eye contact makes you feel like the most important, most recognizable, most wonderful thing in the entire world. You’d compare her to a drug but she is something worse than that. She is an aura. A feeling. She is something entirely different. You think it’s partly due to her outcast status. She’s not a ‘fur’ or a ‘fang’ or a ‘scale’ or a ‘stoner’. She’s not just regularly odd or eccentric. She’s not even mythical.

And yet?

And yet.

The very atoms in her body, the skin across her bones and veins and muscles, the makeup of her organs, can shift shape. Can adjust. The image is crafted in her mind and suddenly is mirrored onto her body. You’d never seen it in person, up close, but you know it’s true. You know it’s a wondrous thing to see. You know some sick desperate hungry part of you twists with the desire to watch her body become something entirely different. You know you want to see her in her element.

Whether it’s bloody or not.

“You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain… I think that sums it up perfectly. The longer a person stays in good health, the more bitter they become. No one truly wants to live forever, Y/n. You know this…,” Larissa pauses, taking a moment to slip her long fingers under and around the belly of her wine glass so she can take a sip. You watch as her throat moves with a swallow. “…And those who go against nature and insist that they do want to live forever, that they’ll somehow find the world to be better as the years go on, well…,” blue eyes suddenly move to you, slicing into your gaze. “They’re liars, of course.”

Of course.

Liars. Of course.

You know it’s the truth.

You hate when she’s right.

You hate when she knows she’s right. There’s that playful little sign in her eyes, glowing with satisfaction, glowing like the cat who captured the mouse.

“I hate you.” It’s a small whisper. A little defeat. Another start to the same cycle. You indulge her, you meet with her, you keep her secret, you dip into your own psyche and pull out your weird fascination with her mind. You go at it until you find yourself becoming tired of thinking so much. Then you tell her you hate her. Or you yell at her. Or you storm out or slam the door or just fall silent and allow for the excitement to pitter out into nothing. But eventually, every time, at some point, you let it die.

Only to revive it again. Only to get lost, once more, in her beauty and allure. Her stupidly literal killer charm. Her strange instinctive ability to easily slip out of trouble and cover her tracks. Not that there were many tracks to cover in the first place. She’s very very good. Worryingly good. No one suspects a thing.

You could fix that, though.

You could put an end to her reign of terror.

You could say one word, provide one sample of one of her dinners, drop a hint or two, and she’d be placed behind bars faster than you could blink.

You could save so many people.

You can save so many people.

You can snatch up a piece of the cold meat on your plate, walk right out of her office, and race down to the Nevermore van. You can do it. You’re not terribly fast but adrenaline pushes the human limit. And though you’re not human- seeing as you can control fire- you’re not too keen on burning her alive. Such an act would probably result in Nevermore’s demise as well - and that would break your heart.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You look up from your hands and study her face. There’s a sudden tiredness there. It’s small, minuscule, but the lines in her skin look deeper and the weariness in her gaze looks shinier and the mask, you realize, has slipped. She’s frowning- not a lot but just enough. And she’s not looking at you. Well, she is, but not into your eyes like she usually does. No, no, she’s staring at… at your chest. At your heart. You’re sure she doesn’t have X-ray vision but some part of you wonders if that’s what she’s trying so hard to see. Your pumping life. Your beating force. If it expands and contracts for her and her only… or if it breathes to destroy her. If any of her interest, her fascination, even matters in the first place. She’s never told you why you’re so special; so important; so cherished, but that doesn’t deter her from her advances. From her fluttered lashes or easy smiles or husky laughs or occasional indulging conversation. It’s not seduction at its finest, but stalking at its lowest. Like she’s watching you through the underbrush and you know she’s there and she knows that you know she’s there and you both stand still because maybe, by some miracle, if you don’t move, you can enjoy the silent attention of each other for just a little longer. Because you can’t help but think that maybe if she were more normal and more caring and didn’t enjoy the taste of long pork over the taste of regular pork, you’d be able to somehow fall in love with her. Start a life with her. And not have to worry about her waking up one day and deciding that she wants to prepare and plate your kidneys for supper.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You hear her clear her throat. You watch as she takes another sip of wine. You see her hand shake. You see the appetite she once had perish on her tongue.

“I hate you,” you’d said.

Did you mean it?

Will you ever mean it?

Why are you doing this to yourself?

Why do you love her?

Why does she not see it?

“I know,” is Larissa’s final response. Something dies behind her eyes. “I know.”

And the cycle continues.

«——..✞..——»

A swift dive into some stranger fic topics. I figure if Larissa were to be a ‘baddie’, she’d be a cannibal. I may make this part of a little series of scenarios. Hope you’re all doing well. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

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v3nusxsky · 7 months ago

Note

Hello! 👋🏻 I would love a little smutty Larissa x Morticia x Reader oneshot if I'm the first ask. Please and thank you 😊

Can we keep her? 18+

*Authors note~ I’m so sorry I haven’t posted in a while placement has been hectic with so many assessments needing to be done for me to pass the year which ends in two weeks! But have this little brain child*

Trigger warnings ~ established relationship Mortica x reader, mommy dom! Mortica, sub r, sub leaning switch!Larissa, talks of past Tish x Larissa, oral fixation (r), thigh riding (L-M), praise kink, degrading kink, oral sex, fingering, sensory play?, blindfolds, overstimulation kink, mirror sex, aftercare obvs

Prompt^^^

Being Nevermore’s Literature professor was in all honesty a dream come true. Ever since your time as a student in the school you’d wished to end up here. And that you did. Larissa couldn’t wait to offer you a position after being your last placement before you qualified. The skills you possess are honestly some of the best she has seen and therefore makes you an asset to her staff.

But if you know Nevermore, which you do, it always provides the unexpected. The youngest member of staff just so happened to unknowingly gain the interest of a certain raven haired beauty. Morticia Addams. But it was not the only time you’d been on her mind, no, when you were studying you often ended up shadowing her class as Larissa felt you needed to be well rounded in classroom management. Your nature making you quiet and reserved and a little afraid to assume your natural authority over the class. Which is why Mortica was perfect for you.

Thinking back to how it all started out with you and your girlfriend always brings a smile to your face. When things got tough she was always there, rain or shine to support you. Also you’d be utterly insane to not notice her radiant beauty she so effortlessly wears. Everything about her was perfect. Beautiful skin like the pale moons reflection on the lake. Raven hair as dark as night, perfectly straight and never out of place. Dresses that hugged her body as if they were her skin. And the height that woman has often brings you to your knees. Truly, she’s magnificent. So of course it was only natural to see her celestial being in your dreams.

You knew of her psychic abilities and she knew that you process the ability of mental projection. Now you have a higher ability than most would assume which allows you to project thoughts feelings, create alternative worlds with your imagination and even switch realities. Mostly, you enjoyed your ability and the fact you could use it to help others, but you’d never would’ve thought that your own mind would let out your secret desire.

You’d been utterly exhausted the whole day which resulted in your head snuggled into the woman’s neck as she read a French book out loud to soothe you to sleep. And like always the smooth silky voice and the steady thumps of the heart bellow you worked like a charm. Only to send you into the spiciest dream you’ve ever had.

“Mommy” you whined pitifully as you squirmed under Larissa’s gaze. The blonde seemingly confident as she towered over you, not even throwing her past crush a glance. “She is a pretty thing Tish, I could do so much with her” the shifter murmured thoughtfully, clearly talking about you and not to you as she ignored your desperate state.

“Ah, mon amour, you aren’t in control here are you darling?” Your lover reminded the principal, clearly stating that she is in control of both you and the blonde. “Will you be good for me sweet girl?” She practically coed at the older woman while actively ignoring you. “Yes mommy” came the mumbled response, her shyness soaking the words. “Oh my dear Rissa, we both know you aren’t shy in this department darling” came her chuckled teasing words. You’d know there was something with them in the past, but purposely not spoken about until this interaction.

It was then that you became overwhelmed with your thoughts of the two women together in the most intimate and inexperienced ways that your grip of control faltered and everyone in the room was blessed with the image of Larissa Weems in her youth, riding your Tish’s milky thigh in a frantic rhythm. “Oh! You’re so good Rissa, keep going for mommy, I want to feel you cum for me darling” she would murmured into the blondes ear before taking it between her teeth and tugging gently.

Unbeknownst to your slumbering self you’d given your girlfriend the opportunity to hopefully bring her first crush and lover to the bedroom without fear of upsetting you. Seeing the sexual dream that had caused you to entangle your legs to hers, effectively pressing your now dripping warmth to her leg was enough reassurance. All she needed now was the principal to agree.

To say Larissa was expecting the potion teacher to barge into her office with such a personal invitation during school hours would have been insanity, but then again the Addams family love to make keep her on her toes. Truthfully, Principal Weems kept her ex lover former crush on the staff for many reasons. Her teaching for one, to be close to her for another, and the third being those pesky lingering feelings that never left once she left the gates of Nevermore with Gomez. One swift divorce had her back where she belongs it still not hers. No. Because she wanted you.

Meetings with the principal after hours were not uncommon for you as a first year qualified teacher however, seeing Tish sat on her desk as their lips fused together like a centuries old dance was definitely a first. Not that you were complaining at all. In fact, you decided to let them feel the affect they have on you, causing Larissa to let out a whimper of need. “Patience sweetheart, this isn’t about us yet” Morticia reprimanded as she pulled herself away from the shifters body. “Would you care to join us sweet girl? I know just how much you enjoyed your dream the other night, and mommy wants to give that to you baby.”

That’s how you found yourself reliving your first part of your dream, word for word squirming on the sofa by the warm fire. Two pairs of eyes drinking in your now semi naked form. “Much better sweet girl you’re so pretty for mommy baby” your girlfriend praised before swiftly moving to grab the blindfold she’d stashed away before your arrival. From there you were promptly ignored by the older women as Mortica claimed her dominant stance causing Larissa to slip into a happy medium, content to please everyone.

Slender fingers trailed your exposed abdomen ever so lightly that it may as well have been a ghost. A phantom feeling only to be chased away with a rougher texture on your plush thighs. “Mm” you purred happily, Morticia always knew just what you craved without you needing to say it. So there was no surprise when she instructed Larissa to fetch a cold water bottle and roll it over your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. “C-cold mommy” you whimpered with an adorable pout on your luscious lips. “Oh my poor baby” the faux sympathy rolling off her words in waves. Soon enough there was a soft tassle being dragged all over your body like a snake looking for its prey as it slithers over your bra clad chest.

Soon enough both women grew tired of their little game, deciding that you were all simply too clothed for the occasion. Tish instructed you to try and undress her while your vision was not present but you ended up reaching for Weems instead. A quick tut of disapproval soon had you swivelling around to please her only to lose your balance. “Such a silly baby, can’t even undress me. Well Larissa will have to do it seems I know she can be a good girl for me.”

Only when Larissa freed the older woman from her garments did she get permission to strip down herself while Morticia ripped the skimpy lace off your body. “Please can I play with her Mommy?” Larissa mumbled completely star struck by your bare body. With a wave of the other woman’s hand Larissa immediately yanked you onto your hands and knees and settled under your body. Mortica coming to sit on the arm rest and spreading her legs for you to be eye to eye with her aching core. “Get to work little slut, be good for me baby.”

You immediately delve into her awaiting cunt, blindly missing your target by an inch causing your lover to grab a fist fall of hair to guide you, all while Larissa happily began to kiss and lick your pillowy thighs before eating you out like a starved woman. Soon enough the office was filled with the sweetest moans where French and English words blended together in the height of her enjoyment. Larissa simply moaning shamelessly into your soaked pussy causing you to mirror her with the raven haired woman’s clit pulsing between your lips. “Oh fuck baby! Right there pretty whore. Best whore for mommy” her praise only spurring on your determination to please her. Only when you decide to plunge two fingers into her greedy core did she cum as you happily lapped up your reward before tumbling over the edge yourself.

“Oh sweet girl your blindfolds all wet.” She mock gasped before ripping it off your head to examine it. “Messy whore” was offered by the blonde whose mouth was coated in your arousal and cum. All while you were blinking rapidly trying to maintain your position not wanting to disappoint them. Inevitability your shaking legs failed you causing you to collapse against the sofa earning a time out.

That’s how you found yourself sat on the floor, let’s spread wide, hands behind your back as you watched Tish bring Larissa over the edge time after time, lavishing her on sweet praise with ever orgasm, while you sat untouched and ignored. Every little needy sound that slipped past your lips bought the blonde another high. Every time you moved from your position brought your girlfriend a chance to feel the bliss while you sat there watching another woman have her screaming and crying out with pure pleasure. On one hand you were jealous as sin on the other it was hot as hell and what a spectacular show to be blessed with. Perhaps that’s why you behaved.

Tish had simply lost count of how many times she’d rode the waves of pleasure, simply forgetting how good Larissa is in the department before she had some experience. However, she’s not as young as she was back then and her body simply requires a break which is why Larissa gets you resting against your mommy’s front, legs spread as she instructs you to keep your gaze on the ceiling. Fuck. Mirrors. Everywhere, you realised. “Gonna make you watch how much of a filthy slut you look like as you fall apart for another woman” she stated before setting to work in trailing her fingers through your slick. “So fucking messy sweet girl, eyes on the ceiling or I’ll make mommy hold your head that way” the blonde threatens before unleashing a whole new burst of energy on your pleading core.

“Tish, the whore won’t look” Larissa grumbled noticing how your head had dropped to the side after the second orgasm. “Mommy, too much” you slurred letting out a little squeal when Larissa touched your oversensitive clit. “One more sweet girl, mommys right here, one more baby you can take it. Look how pretty my girl looks.” Her praise combined with the principals three fingers curling just right to hit the perfect spot had you seeing stars and drenching the sofa below you all. It was only after working you down from the high did you let out a sob of “no more” over and over.

Larissa hurrying to find the pre set out aftercare things while morticia hummed a French lullaby, your favourite when this deep into sub space. Your eyes filed with a haze as you immediately began to root around for more skin to skin contact. When Larissa returned with water and sugary treat you seemed to far down which worried her. Yet Tish seemed to know just what to do. After sipping her water and encouraging you to do the same with the support from both women you settled in between them both. Completely submerged into your subby mindset you gently grabbed Larissa’s hand and brought her fingers to your lips before ever so lightly drawing them between your lips. Immediately a content sigh left your body as you snuggled more into your mommy muttering around the slender fingers, “mm we keeps her?” Without knowing Morticia already planned on it.

Word count ~ 2161

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