#probably because i've been wanting to get this out for several weeks now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

skeltnwrites · 3 months ago

Text

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end.

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it.

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play.

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver.

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.”

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.”

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!”

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!”

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!”

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.”

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?”

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms.

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.”

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.”

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy.

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears.

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents.

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?”

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.”

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.”

“You buying?”

“Maybe. If you’re nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ”

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm.

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same.

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it.

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it.

“Oh, shit. What happened?”

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?”

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope.

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she?

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition.

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds.

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly.

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.”

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight.

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t.

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?”

And a third, “Is she gonna die?”

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.”

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm.

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope.

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods.

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart.

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened.

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car?

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands.

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?”

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.”

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat.

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him.

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.”

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand.

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point.

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears.

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.”

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out.

“What?” he asks her.

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.”

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

“It hurts,” she sobs.

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.”

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it.

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.”

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors.

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk.

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask.

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit.

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air.

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels.

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.”

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.”

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.”

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions.

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep.

“Pen,” you start softly.

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours.

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?”

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that.

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.”

“June second?”

“No.”

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?”

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.”

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted.

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?”

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.”

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back.

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies.

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room.

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management.

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either.

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s.

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.”

He nods, gratefully, you think.

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.”

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating.

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return.

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around.

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something.

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor.

“You okay?”

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods.

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.”

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward.

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all.

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains.

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.”

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!”

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.”

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.”

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all.

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that.

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called.

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again.

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck.

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?”

“I want Daddy.”

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.”

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob.

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry.

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.”

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue.

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–”

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time. “He’s right there, see– Steve!”

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose.

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope.

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend.

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?”

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions.

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.”

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit.

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt.

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?”

“‘M hungry.”

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin.

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?”

No, her head shakes. “Stay.”

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?”

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?”

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside.

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!”

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door.

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened.

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot.

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room.

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?”

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying.

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?”

“M’s.”

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say.

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open.

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead.

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along.

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile.

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.”

“No, feed me,” she implores.

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.”

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you.

“Yummy?” you ask.

She nods and pops another few in her mouth.

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths.

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?”

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin.

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?”

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?”

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force.

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders.

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret.

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital.

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around.

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh.

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff.

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life.

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?”

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.”

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently.

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?”

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud.

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.”

Penelope tips her head. “Four?”

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.”

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.”

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder.

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks.

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat?

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?”

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest.

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?”

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble.

“That’s okay. Doing so good.”

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.”

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave.

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either.

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details.

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch.

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door.

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing.

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up.

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm.

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass.

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life.

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break.

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them.

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on.

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.”

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob.

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.”

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair.

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is.

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out.

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do.

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.”

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.”

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too.

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans.

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated.

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference.

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side.

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back.

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor.

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!”

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches.

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?”

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.”

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back.

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets.

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious.

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer.

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last.

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t.

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up.

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.”

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.”

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.”

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in.

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide.

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician.

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets.

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly.

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.”

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet.

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up.

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?”

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks.

“Pink?” the tech calls.

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell.

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.”

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off.

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off.

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD.

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure.

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go.

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot.

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him.

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it.

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn.

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help.

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field.

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?”

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo.

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.”

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.”

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?”

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.”

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.”

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?”

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.”

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.”

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.”

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away.

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs.

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.”

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits.

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.”

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.”

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny.

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there. “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say.

A sigh whistles through his nose.

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?”

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.”

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–”

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.”

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.”

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.”

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.”

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.”

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had.

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth.

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this.

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy.

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely.

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.”

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head.

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel.

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been.

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that.

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one. Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be.

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things.

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you.

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again.

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?”

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.”

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness.

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined.

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers.

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat.

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!”

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!”

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.”

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?”

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.”

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Silly me.”

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can.

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him.

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first.

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?”

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one.

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers.

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.”

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing.

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough.

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #dad steve harrington #steve harrington angst #stranger things #tsof #stranger things fic #the shape of family #skeltnwrites

627 notes · View notes

stargirlygirl · 14 days ago

Note

Hey, how you doin baby girl?😏

Soooo, since you are the master of writing realistic smut fics, I’m gonna leave this request queen.

Like u know how every vagina is different and stuff. I think people who struggle w having sex don’t get much representation (crying rn). I’m obviously not a virgin anymore but honestly my himen is so strong and my space inside is pretty small that even when I did it several times I still don’t feel much pleasure and it annoys me a lot, like I feel invaded and so annoyed (or it’s the men I slept with, idk). It also doesn’t help that I can’t feel relaxed.

So Caleb, Sylus, both, or which one you want (ik both of them are probably packed down there). With a reader that struggles w being relaxed and her body not helping either. The reader insisted they are not a virgin and they can get to the good part but oopps. So they/ he are/is already inside but it’s clear as day that reader feels more discomfort than pleasure and idk, either stopping and getting to a pretty good aftercare or just continuing w some good old oral and dope aftercare. Your choice.

Or not do this ask. I don’t mind. Just wanting to tell you that you are wonderful and beautiful 😽🫶 may you wake up w Caleb next to you, amen.

star girl's initial words: thank you so much, girlie for requesting!! i hope you like this one. i went with your idea as the context and then built on it (i hope that's okay).

you're not alone in your experience, and i can relate to how frustrating it must be that penetrative sex hasn't been an enjoyable experience for you. because we expect p-in-v to feel amazing, right? it's made out to be THE most sexually pleasurable experience, the ultimate end game, if you will. media (cough porn in any format cough) and a lack of awareness for women around penetration plays a big role in this.

from personal experiences (sorry if this is tmi just skip if it is), it's pretty ridiculous to expect penetrative sex to feel great when you've had no practise. i'm still a virgin (literally 19; i'm still baby) but like... yo ain't nothing of that size is going in there without weeks of coaxing.

AND, often when you (as a woman) don't enjoy penetrative sex, i feel like others make it out to be a problem. like there's something wrong with you, when there's nothing wrong at all. we're all different, and some of our bodies need to be accommodated for differently.

however, how much of this do i actually capture in the fic? it's debatable. but i hope i've captured enough so you feel some comfort when reading this.

you find sex painful

sylus x fem!reader

summary: based on nat's req, you're mid-sex with sylus when he finds out that penetration is painful for you. so, he tries his best to help with your pain.

contains: nsfw, smut, sexual touching (f!receiving), squirting (first time), swearing, fluff, sy buys dilators for you, 3.4k words

note: i've shifted the focus to sylus helping you, rather than how penetration is painful. this post is not meant to be prescriptive.

“Just put it in, Sy,” you whine, bucking your hips up to meet his.

Your boyfriend sighs, “Kitten.” He’s been trying to pump you with a second finger for the past ten minutes, but every time he slips it in, you squirm in pain. And now, you’re insisting that he just shove his huge cock in.

“Please, Sy. It’ll be fine, I promise,” you try to persuade him. Your hips are propped up on a pillow, dripping pussy glinting in the warm candlelight. He’s sitting on his haunches, tip leaking at the sight of you. Spreading your legs a little wider, you notice Sylus’s crimson eyes dropping to your cunt.

Battling himself, he counters, “And what if I hurt you, sweetie?”

“You won’t!” You exclaim in your desperation. “You won’t, baby, so please, just fuck me already,” you plead. His jaw tenses as he considers your eagerness.

At last, he agrees, “Alright. But if it hurts, we stop, darling.” You nod fervently, your heart rate spiking as he shifts over you and grabs a condom from his bedside table.

Sliding it on, your boyfriend positions himself between your legs. With a final few rubs to your clit, he slides his covered tip up and down your folds. You moan, back arching slightly at how good it feels. But once he’s dipping into your hole, all of that pleasure dissipates.

It’s like you’re being split open; he’s so thick. You bite down on your lip, stifling your screams as your fists clench the black sheets.

“It’s too much, isn’t it, kitten?” Sylus stops, barely inside, and stares at you. You shake your head energetically.

“No, no, it’s fine, baby! I’m fine, really,” you insist, but he can see right through you. Pulling the head out, it slaps against your clit, making you whimper.

“Syyyy—”

“No. I refuse to hurt you, sweetie,” he murmurs, yanking off the condom and tossing it into a nearby bin. Leaning over you, he places his large hands on either side of your head.

Your boyfriend kisses your forehead and mumbles against it, “We can do anything else you want, but not this.” You know you should just accept his words and move on, but something drives you to retaliate.

“I’ve done this before, Sy. It’s fine, like,” you shrug. He shakes his head, silver locks tickling your skin. His nose brushes yours, hot breath dousing your lips.

Sylus’s voice is a deep rumble as he asks sternly, “You’re telling me that your previous partners have… gone ahead when you’re clearly in pain?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Sy—”

“It is,” he grumbles. “It’s a very big deal, sweetie.” Drawing back, he lowers himself onto one elbow while his other hand cups your cheek.

Stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, he says firmly, “Your pleasure comes first, is that clear? I won’t hurt you, even if you’re used to the pain.” Your resolve immediately falters.

“Sy…” you whisper, a loving warmth spreading throughout your body.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you tug him into you. His cock is sticky against your inner thigh, and he’s so heavy, but you don’t care. His rare sincerity is what you live for, especially when he’s so sweet during moments like these.

“I love you,” you confess quietly, rubbing your cheek against his. Those muscular arms hold you tightly, reassuring you that not even death can pry him away from you.

“I love you, kitten,” he says low, peppering featherlight kisses on the shell of your ear, and down to your lobe before nipping at it affectionately.

You spend the night being pampered by Sylus. He showers with you: cleaning you up, drying you off, and moisturising your skin before you can do the same for him. You sleep in his meaty arms, your cheek squished against his broad chest, so you can listen to his soothing heartbeat.

The next morning, you wake up to empty bed sheets, which smell like leather and oud.

Sighing, you roll out of bed and freshen up. By the time you make it to the kitchen, there’s a note on the countertop. You pick it up with curious fingers and read your name in Sylus’s handwriting. Flipping it open, the note reads:

Good morning, sweetie.

Breakfast is in the oven. Text me when you’re ready. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.

Yours truly, Sylus.

Giggling to yourself, you set the note down and crouch to the oven’s level. The light is on, a golden pastry glittering beyond the glass.

You pull the door open by the handle, sugary heat rushing out. Slipping on an oven mitt, you pull out the baked goodie and shake it onto a plate.

“Awww,” you pout. He got you a croissant from your favourite bakery and kept it warm. You almost tear up from the tender gesture while making yourself your morning non-negotiable beverage (for me, it’s peppermint tea, but I know y’all might like coffee).

Setting your mug down on the island bench, you haul your croissant over to you and take a bite. The puff pastry is crunchy and deliciously sweet. It melts on your tongue; the butter is rich. Your tastebuds relish in the delicate flavour, a low moan falling from your now sticky lips.

Humming fondly, you finish your croissant and enjoy your drink before texting Sylus that you’re awake. He responds immediately with Come to my office, kitten.

After rinsing your plate and mug, you scamper off to your room and throw on a decent outfit before heading to Sylus’s office. There’s no sight of the twins as you navigate the halls, nor as you stop outside the door. Rapping on it a few times, you hear your boyfriend’s muffled voice permitting you entry.

Pushing the door open, you’re greeted by the sight of your handsome lover. Fitting black button-up, tousled silver locks, and rimless glasses perched on his sharp nose. He beckons you to come closer. Once at his side, you press a kiss to his cheek.

“Morning, babe. Thanks for the croissant,” You chirp. He hums low, pecking your jaw and encircling your waist with his arm.

Pulling you onto his lap, you squeal gleefully, “Sy!” He shifts you so that you’re facing his monitor, your legs dangling over his. It makes him chuckle, seeing how cute his girl is.

Grabbing his mouse with one hand, he starts clicking away on the screen while explaining, “I’ve been thinking about last night, sweetie.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, your heart rate accelerating a little. Typing away on his keyboard, those arms encase your frame. You barely have time to register his search before he hits ‘Enter’.

“Dildos?!” You exclaim.

He smirks, “Don’t act so innocent, sweetie. I know you’ve used one of these before.” Twisting your back, you slap his chest playfully, earning an uproar of laughter from him. His chest vibrates against your back, making it difficult to frown as he clicks on a sex toy website.

“I’d like you to pick a few,” he grins cockily.

“Sy,” you sigh, rolling your eyes.

He drawls, “Let’s start with a small size, and then you can work up to my size. How does that sound, kitten?” His tone is gentler than usual as he heads to the filters tab and adjusts the results. You know he’s trying to help, and you appreciate it… But it’s just so embarrassing. Covering your face with your hands, you groan into them wordless frustrations.

“How about this one?” You hear the click of his mouse, your face heating up with the knowledge that there’s a dildo being enlarged right now for your inspection. Dropping your hands in your lap, they hit your thighs with a faint slap. You stare at a clear dildo.

“Look,” your boyfriend says. He expands the specifications and reads them aloud to you, “Great for beginners. Glass. Five inches—”

“Five inches?! They don’t have anything smaller?” You ask anxiously.

Five inches might not seem like a lot in today’s climate of booktok romance and fanfiction misinformation (myself included to an extent), but for you, who struggles with painful penetration, five inches with a good girth is not feasible for you just yet.

Sylus says gently, “Let’s have a look.” Hitting the back button, you watch red-faced as he scrolls through numerous dildos. Some are realistic, others transparent and streamlined. Six inches, eight inches, nine inches.

“Anal training kit. What about this, sweetie?” He hovers his cursor over the image, zooming in on three dildos ranging in size.

“Can you click it?” You ask, hand reaching for his covering the mouse. Your boyfriend releases it and allows you to control the mouse. You click on the product and read through the specs.

“Four inches. Made from PVC,” you recite.

Sylus remarks, “PVC isn’t body-safe, dear. Why don’t we browse another store?” Regaining control of the mouse, he closes the tab and searches for small dildos this time.

You two spend who knows how long going through several stores’ dildo selections. Finally, you settle on a set of dilators made from certified medical-grade silicone.

Your boyfriend happily pays the exorbitant price with a sincere smile and a promise: “You’re not alone in this, alright? I’ll be right here, kitten. If you have any issues, you know where to find me, yes?” Shifting in his lap, you nod and lean in, kissing him lovingly.

“Thanks, Sy. Thanks for supporting me,” you murmur. He nods slightly before returning to typing in his black card’s information.

Ever the accommodating partner, he lets you sit on his lap as he goes back to arranging shipments and taking business calls. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his Adam’s apple as it bobs, completely relaxed and content to stay like this for hours. He holds you tight when possible, but there’s no need with how securely you’re clinging to him.

“Something wrong, sweetie? You’re clutching me like a baby sloth does to its mother,” he teases.

You giggle into his neck, “Mommy Sylus.”

“Tch.”

“You were asking for it,” you grin, defending yourself. He rubs your back soothingly, his dark office silent. Until his ringtone blares.

Sylus reflects, “I suppose I was,” before answering the line.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

“Your fingers are like—mhmm— this size, right?” You breathe out, clutching his wrist. You’re on your back, your boyfriend on his haunches as he eases a medium-sized dilator in and out of your cunt.

You’ve been using the dilators Sylus bought you most days of the week. It’s become a habit for you two to shower together and then insert a dilator before bed. Usually, you spend around 15 minutes adjusting to the size. But since you’ve been progressing quickly, your boyfriend wanted to try something different tonight (with your permission, of course).

He smirks down at you, “Curious, kitten?” You nod, your lip drawn between your teeth harshly.

Slowly, he pulls the dripping dilator out and sets it on a nearby towel. Climbing over you, he catches your lips in a tender kiss. The way he presses against you, the emotion in the rhythm, he’s asking for consent.

Drawing back, Sylus hovers close as you give your answer, “I want to try it, Sy. I think-I think it’ll feel good this time.” He hums, the sound reverberating deep in his throat.

Stealing a peck, he shifts and grabs the water-based lube that goes with the silicone dilators. Squeezing a decent amount on his rough palm, your partner smears the cool gel all over your pussy. His fingers slip up your folds, causing you to buck your hips. You moan quietly, heat rising to your cheeks like it did the first time he helped you insert a dilator. He chuckles low, squeezing more lube onto his fingers and rubbing it in like lotion.

“Alright, darling. Shall we start slow?” He teases, his silver brow arched. You hum in agreement, shimmying your hips closer to his lubed-up hand. Those slender fingers make contact with your aching cunt again. His fingertips roll over your clit; your breathing shallows.

“Sy,” you pant, encircling his wrist with your fingers once more. You slide his hand down to where you need it most.

With his signature grin, your boyfriend prods at your entrance. His other hand brushes your hair back, your eyes finding his in the disarray of anticipation. He slips his middle finger in slowly, whispering sweet encouragement as he does so.

“My, my, look at how well you’re taking me, kitten. Does this feel good?” You don’t respond as he pushes in knuckle deep. Already, you feel so full of him, but his lack of movement is torturous.

Gazing up with lustful eyes, you whine, “Sy, please.”

Leaning down, his nose ghosts yours as he repeats himself, “Tell me, darling. Does this feel good?” Arguing for the affirmative, Sylus curls his finger up, the tip pressing against your ridged walls in the most delectable way possible.

“Sy!” You squeak. “Feels really good. Please—” You rock your hips on his finger, desperate for more.

He chastely kisses your nose before steadying himself on his elbow to keep close to you. Sliding his fingertip down, your lover repeats the come-hither motion, shrewd eyes trained on your face. He observes every single detail, from your frequent lip biting to your eyes clamping shut from ecstasy.

The pressure in your tummy builds. But it’s not just in your tummy, it’s a little lower, too.

Drawing his now-drenched finger out of you, you mewl at the loss, “Sy, baby. Why-why’d you—”

“Quiet, sweetie, or you’ll miss the best part,” he murmurs. You open your mouth, about to ask him what he’s referring to, when you feel it. Two fingertips poking at your fluttering hole.

“Relax, dear,” Sylus instructs. A small whimper escapes your teeth-marked lips as he manages the tops of his two fingers inside. He remains there for a moment, letting you clench and unclench until you’re ready for more.

Pushing them in at a leisurely pace, he reminds you, “Now’s not the time to act all tough. If it hurts, kitten, you need to let me know.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, eyes on the lewd sight of his fingers sinking deep into your pussy.

A couple of months ago, you were in this position. Sylus’s fingers buried in your cunt, stretching you out. Then, he had been preparing you for his dragon dick what’s to come. But now, he was focusing on your reactions to ensure your pleasure.

Pulling his fingers out halfway, he eases them back in.

“This alright?” He asks lovingly. You nod, a quiet whine tumbling out of your lips.

Your boyfriend sighs, “Say it, darling,” while kissing the corner of your mouth. His fingers curl, making you gasp and moan. You gaze at him like you’re etching every angular feature into your memory (you already have).

“Feel really full, babe,” you manage out, pleasure wracking through your system as his fingertips hit your g-spot again.

Sylus clarifies, “How so? A good kind of full? Or is it overwhelming?” Your lips press together, muffling a sweet moan as he continues fingering you oh-so-deliciously.

“Good. ‘S good, Sy,” you whimper.

Turning your head, you nuzzle his neck with your nose. Sylus has never cared for when you hide from him, especially at a time like this. When he needs to see you, to pick up on all of the little things you tell him with your eyes and incessant lip bites.

Kissing your hair, he mumbles into your scalp, “Won’t you look at me, kitten?” Whatever you hum into his skin is lost as a guttural moan tears through you.

One good thing about you being so close to his ear is that your boyfriend gets to hear your pornographic sounds like they were amplified by state-of-the-art speakers.

He groans, cheeks rubbing the side of your head affectionately while slipping his free arm beneath and around you.

Rolling you onto your side, Sylus whispers, “Throw your leg over my hips.” You obey, doing exactly that as he pulls you flush against his chest. His scent alone makes you moan, and his body is so warm it makes your insides all gooey. Or maybe that’s from his fingers. Probably both.

The squelching of your sopping cunt fills the dark bedroom. Through the window, the stars gaze upon your intimacy. Perhaps they cheer for you, rejoicing in the pleasure you’ve been able to find in something so daunting months prior.

“Sy— fuck! I—” Your moan cuts you off, arms tightening around his neck.

You hold onto Sylus like you’re stuck in the middle of the ocean, fighting for your life, so you don’t drown in the depths. But your ocean isn’t filled with water. Abundant are the sensations rippling throughout your body. Every movement of his fingers sends more and more arousal gushing from you.

Pressure accumulates in the pit of your stomach once more. It feels like he’s pushing down on your lower tummy, but you know he’s not. Drawing closer, you feel like you’re gonna wet yourself.

“Sy, wait! Wait, fuck, feel like I’m gonna pee,” you exclaim. But your boyfriend doesn’t heed your warning. If anything, it spurs him on.

“Do you now, sweetie?” He murmurs all seductively, his breath fanning your ear. You try to respond, but all that pours forth are broken whimpers and breathy moans.

He chuckles, “Don’t be afraid, darling.” You cry out into his chest, one of your hands flying to his working forearm, and he presses into your walls harder.

“Sy! I’m serious, Sy! I swear ‘m gonna—”

“You won’t. Now, let go,” he commands, his voice all gravelly.

It only takes a few more pumps until you’re diving headfirst into oblivion. The pleasure is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. You can feel the mess you’re making, but you can’t seem to care as moans rip through you and your body convulses like you’ve been possessed.

“Fuck,” Sylus groans, watching as you squirt all over his hand and arm. It sprays onto his clothed thigh and drips onto the inky sheets. He’s never been more proud.

Your boyfriend praises you, “Look at how good you’ve done for me, kitten.” He kisses your sweaty hairline, your thighs clamped tightly around his still hand. Slowly, he slides his fingers out and draws them up through your folds. You whimper as he rubs a few lazy circles on your cilt, making your body jolt.

“Sy, please,” you rasp out. You’re exhausted, your limbs as mushy and pliant as he chuckles. Sylus gently maneuvers you onto your back and kisses your lips reassuringly.

He says low, “Stay here, sweetie, while I grab another towel.” You nod feebly, too weak to protest. Like you’d want to, anyway. The last thing you want to do is move right now, let alone follow your long-legged boyfriend off to the linen cupboard. And good thing you don’t, or you would have seen the wet patch at the front of his sweatpants.

Listening to the rustling of the bedsheets and thudding of his footsteps, your breathing grows steadier. Your eyelids feel heavy, as does your body. Next thing you know, Sylus’s callused hands are caressing your thighs, pulling them apart before he wipes you up with a damp towel. The soft, cool cotton is refreshing.

You sigh as you feel your partner’s warmth shift, his body hovering over yours. Plush lips place longing kisses on your brows, then your eyelids, cheeks, and finally, your lips.

He mumbles against them, “Was that your first time squirting, my love?”

“Mhmm, maybe,” you grin tiredly.

“Maybe?” He repeats before pecking your lips.

You giggle, “Yes.” Slowly, Sylus bundles you up in his arms and pulls you on top of him after lying down. His now-dry fingers stroke your hair, and his short nails occasionally scratch your scalp.

In his embrace, you release all your fears and doubts about this entire process. Never did you think this could happen. That you could 1) enjoy penetration and 2) squirt from it. But Sylus has shown you that through his love that anything is possible. Even though you’re not where you want to be, the improvements along the way have been nothing short of magical.

embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments m.list

star's final words: oh the vaginas ahem hymens i looked at in prep for this. not that i didn’t know what they were beforehand, but i def know a lot more now.

helpful links for your education:

cleveland clinic ⟶ what is the hymen? healthline ⟶ does it hurt when your hymen breaks? bien australia (these are the dilators i was talking about; i haven't used this product and i'm not promoting this product; i cannot attest to how effective they are) ⟶ vaginal dilators

#★’s works #love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sylus smut #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus qin smut #qin che x reader

240 notes · View notes

scribescrawls · 7 months ago

Text

On a more silly note, imagine the High Guard after the whole killing Sentinel thing happened/banishment and a few weeks later call a meeting with Optimus and they go “hey so I know we’re at odds at the moment but are we ever going to get payed for the last 50 cycles?” cause I mean technically I don’t think they were ever officially fired so much as declared dead to the general public and secretly being hunted down during that time. Do they go up to Optimus and are just like “so I get that we don’t really work here anymore but like can we still get our severance pay and our backlog of paychecks?” Cause I’m pretty sure since they were military the government was paying them before the whole Sentinel betrayal thing and any funds any of them had has probably been seized by the state (aka Sentinel during that time) or frozen sitting somewhere in account of being presumed dead. Does Megatron not want to have this meeting but the entire High Guard are grumpy about it like "no I want to get payed! I want my stuff/money back!" so now he has to sit across from Optimus in the most awkward meeting after their fall out as Starscream shouts across the table negotiating if they still qualify/are entitled for the Cybertronian equivalent of military/veteran pension for their previous cycles of service.

Cybertronian Civil War on hold due to the nightmare of bureaucracy and paperwork because tracking down at minimum 73 different case files of each High Guard member and getting them all in order when probably half of the information was purposely destroyed by Sentinel means it will probably take a while. How many times has Shockwave and the rest of the High Guard have to sign documents to declare "yes I am alive" "no I did not fake my death to commit tax fraud". Or dealing with banks and other organizations going "please provide proof that you are indeed Starscream." Starscream going "I'm literally Starscream and standing in front of you what other proof is more clear! You are literally looking at a photo of me on the datapad!" "Apologies, but unless you have x, y, z document I am afraid we cannot simply take your word that you are Starscream. If you are missing these documents please fill out these thirty forms as alternative verification of identity". Also imagining Thundercracker going "hey do you think my buy five get one free drink stamp card still works. I've been sitting on that free drink for 50 cycles…"

Funniest thing if Shockwave was a senator before joining the High Guard and there was a small period of time where he actually was declared dead before it got cleared up back in the day when the Primes were still alive, but now they can't find the paperwork that cleared up that it was an error and he was still in fact alive so now he's been declared doubly dead.

Shockwave: It's document 37C!

Elita: Repeating it for the fifth time will not change the fact that it does not exist!

Shockwave, done with being declared dead: It exists! It's added every time my taxes get filed each cycle! Did I suddenly imagine the last thousands of cycles of my life!

Elita, losing her own temper: There is no document 37C! Listen here Blinky, I can easily resolve this matter by getting you declared dead for a third time for real!

Optimus stressed and trying not to cry: Maybe we should call for a break in the meeting...

When the break is over no one can find Optimus who has decided to play hooky from his responsibilities because he'd tired and feels like he's going to lose it dealing with all the sudden responsibilities of being leader of an entire planet. I like the idea that it's Megatron who finds him. Megatron going "if I have to suffer through these meetings so do you" (he was secretly also ditching the meeting and accidentally bumped into Optimus because the place is technically their old spot that they sometimes went together, both thought it would be abandoned and no one would find them there). It's awkward, there are hurt feelings on both sides, but maybe they slowly get to talking and at least commiserate how much they hate paperwork. Also funny if they find out they both also have to resolve their own "declared dead by Sentinel" paperwork considering he said they both died after the Iacon 5000 lol.

Also I think it would be funny if these meetings drag on for so long that Optimus is just like instead of commuting back and forth from the surface to Iacon every day just stay here in the city it will save time. Banishment temporarily rescinded. Even more funny if they also have to deal with the Quintessons so half of these meeting turn into war meetings to deal with and fight the Quintessons off their planet where both sides are like "we're not on the same side!", but also eventually have to work together to win. So it's basically an officially we're not on the same side, but all actions say otherwise lol. I like to think Bee likes to hangout with Soundwave during meetings and finds him so cool, and Soundwave actually likes listening to Bee yap finding him endearing.

They eventually realize that it would be easier (and less paperwork) to just reinstate the High Guard and at this point so much time has passed that they've basically been doing their old job anyway as they fight the Quintessons together. Banishment permanently rescinded for all parties involved. I like to think megop over the course of these meetings and fighting together against the Quintessons make up. Things can't go back to the exact way it was between them, but that doesn't mean they can't rebuild something new between them. I like to think both groups have differing ideas of how to lead and how to deal with situations, but I like to think eventually they get to a point where they can compromise and work with differing ideas depending on what's best for the situation at hand similar to the 13 Primes who probably had conflicting and contrasting personalities and approaches but were able to use these differences to work together and make them stronger as a united front.

Cybertronian Civil War avoided through the sheer slog of paperwork and bureaucracy.

449 notes · View notes

alastor-x-reader-stories · 9 months ago

Text

"Bite Me" - Alastor x Reader - Part 2

You....really shouldn't have bitten Alastor.

It was a threat, yep, and the guy did need to learn his actions had consequences, but...er. Was that really worth this?

The Radio Demon had practically been your shadow for the past week. His expression never changed, his tone never shifted. You were like, 90 percent sure he was thinking of the best way to kill you for maximum pain.

Pain wasn't good. You were allergic to it.

...That line usually got a chuckle out of whoever heard it, or in your case, whenever you thought it. However, this time, it didn't quite tickle your funny bone as it usually did.

Because Alastor was standing right there.

And staring at you.

In your goddam bedroom.

"....Hi." You said, chewing on your bottom lip.

Alastor's gaze darted for a second to your lip, then back to your eyes. And he said nothing.

"...Did you need something?" You said.

He continued to stare at you, unblinking.

You sighed "Listen, if you're going to kill me can you just hurry up already? I'm sure it beats how awkward this is."

Other than the slightest twitch of an ear, he still didn't respond.

You huffed, narrowing your eyes as a growl permeated through the air. "At least say something!"

He didn't.

"OKay, fine!" You snapped, throwing your hands up in the air. You crossed them over your chest with a pout, giving Alastor a mean side-eye. "Keep standing there doing nothing. I guess I could use a new hat rack anyway."

"...You don't have any hats?" He said, tilting his head to one side.

"I'll get some so I can justify having a hat rack." You said, tail flicking.

"Mhm... So, how sincere is this threat?"

"What?"

Alastor straightened his posture, taking a couple long strides to stand right at your bedside. "You make a lot of threats, my dear. And I've only ever seen you carry 1 out."

"Usually people listen to me." You said, rolling your eyes.

"So you've never actually follow through before?" He tilted his head to the opposite side than before. His grin seemed to stretched a bit, ears becoming less stiff.

"Does that make you happy?" You said, turning to face him "That you're the first idiot who made me actually do something?"

From how he practically beamed you can only assume it did. You sighed, flopping down onto the bed on your side. The intent was to ignore him until he got bored and went away or got sick of you and killed you.

Instead you found a shadowy tendril wrapping around your middle, rolling you onto your back. Alastor grinned down at you, his body a perfect 90-degree angle bent at the waist.

"I'm the first one you've bit?"

"...Yeah?" You said, raising an eyebrow. "I mean. I think I bit people when I was little and pretending I had rabies, but not really intending to hurt them..."

His grin widened. "How did I taste?"

...

"What."

"I want to know. How did I taste?"

Oh right he was a cannibal. You grimaced internally. Was that just something cannibals got giddy about? 'Hey I'm the first person you've eaten hurrah!'

The tendril around you gave a firm squeeze. You sighed and met Alastor's crimson eyes, giving him a flat look of your own.

"Dry and tough- like badly made jerky."

He laughed. "Well, of course! You bit into my jacket! Silly creature, you."

"....Well, you asked."

"That I did, that I did." Alastor hummed. He tilted his head too far to one side, leaning in closer to you "Would you care for a taste without my jacket?"

"No." You responded curtly.

The silence was palpable. Neither of you broke eye contact or changed your expressions for several moments. Those moments seemed very, very long.

His eye slowly twitched up and his ears dropped ever-so-slighty-

"Hm. Well, it's not like you'd manage that anyway."

"Probably not. Are we done?"

Another beat of silence passed before the shadows tendril dissolved into mist and Alastor was standing up straight again.

"Now, I wouldn't say this matter is done, but I suppose it could wait."

You sat up, staring at him. The more you stared, the more his eyes couldn't seem to decide on what to focus on. Was he...nervous?

That encounter didn't go anywhere else significant. He simply said a farewell and left you to your own devices.

===========

Your eye twitched as you took a long, deep breath.

Alastor was being so horribly, horribly annoying.

The last couple days he resumed his role as your shadow, but this time solely with the task of irritating you. He'd chew loudly, he'd step in an off-rhythm on purpose, he'd claw the surface of things you couldn't stand the sound of and it made your ears hurt and your jaw ache from how much you were grinding your teeth.

You had enough.

"Will you LEAVE ME ALONE!?" You snapped at him. He didn't so much as flinch, simply tilting his head and he leaned closer to you.

"Or what?"

"I'm going to shove your hooves so far up your ass you'll be coughing up horseshoes for a week-"

"I'm a deer, not a horse." He said, eyes crinkling up in amusement at your 'threat'.

You hissed out an agitated breath before taking a couple deep, long breaths and you felt your jaw lax (a little) and your temper die down a bit.

"...Yeah, you're right." You said after a moment "And I'm sorry. I didn't really have much of a reason to snap at you like that."

His eyes narrowed and you couldn't be bothered to wonder why. You said a curt goodbye and meandered off, feeling his eyes trained on your retreating form. You couldn't be bother to think about that, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi it's me the writer. Letting you all know that this is not planned in the slightest and i'm just winging it. No smut will happen EVER though because I don't wanna write it. So kindly look elsewhere if that's what you want. I will put a poll here though with considerations for potential next installment

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader

807 notes · View notes

forget-you-morelike-fuck-you · 2 years ago

Text

That's What Friends Are For- E.M.

I've been really thirsty for Virgin!Bestfriend!Reader x Eddie so I poured myself this taaaallll drink of water. Hope you love it xx

You've never had an orgasm, and Eddie would be happy to help remedy that.

Part 2

Masterlist

TW- 18+ MINORS DNI!! Cursing, mentions of smoking, heavy petting, pet names (angel, sweetheart), a lil crying (but in a good way), fingering (lmk if I missed any)

Pairings- Virgin!Bestfriend!Reader x Eddie

Word Count- 4,802

(Gifs not mine, credit to owner!)

It wasn’t something that you’d normally ask, but with the haze of weed clouding your senses and the exaggerated moans of the poor actress being exploited for the dumb action movie you and Eddie were watching out of sheer boredom, you couldn’t help yourself. You turn to Eddie, the cogs in your head turning in overtime as the words reach your mouth before you can even put too much stock in them, “What does an orgasm even feel like?” Your eyes narrow as you imagine it, the sounds of the woman on screen echoing in your mind. There’s no way that real people sound like that, no, this is just some stupid movie that you and Eddie had never even heard of before digging it out of the pile of tapes beneath the TV. “I mean, I guess it’s gotta feel good, but does it feel that good?”

While you ponder the probability of the sounds onscreen being at all accurate for real-world scenarios, Eddie’s face pales, the light high he’d been enjoying completely knocked out of his body at your words. Despite being best friends for the past several years, you never really talked about your sex lives with each other. For you, it was because it didn’t exist. For Eddie, it was because the only person he really wanted anymore was you. Every other person in town combined couldn’t interest him half as much as you, and he had definitely looked. Pining after your best friend for years wasn’t really something Eddie was interested in doing, not that it helped. Of course, the only reason you hadn’t made a move—aside from the fact that you were thoroughly terrified at the thought of being rejected—was because you thought that Eddie was something of a ladies’ man. You knew he was much more experienced than you, not that that was a difficult feat, but you knew that he at least went on dates. And you never wanted your attraction to him get in the way of your friendship anyway. If he liked you, he would’ve made a move sooner, right?

Wrong.

Eddie had fallen head over heels for you about a year after you had met, both of you juniors in high school. You went away with your family on vacation for a couple weeks that summer and came back... different. You were more confident, and even though it had only been a short separation, you looked different, more womanly than gangly teenager. He liked you before, but some switch inside his chest flicked, like the lights were finally turning on in some long-forgotten roller coaster ride. He’s had it bad for you ever since, suffering in silence because he knows how shy you used to be, and still are to some extent. He would never, ever want to do or say anything to make you uncomfortable, including putting his feelings on the line in exchange for your amazing friendship.

Still, the news that you didn’t know what an orgasm felt like was surprising. He knew you were private about your dating life, and he always respected that. But you had had boyfriends before. And you were both in your early 20s now. Surely you had been with one of them. Or even figured it out on your own...

“What?” is the brilliant response that flies from Eddie’s lips as his brain short circuits. You look back at his face, having wandered away, lost in thought. Eddie half expects you to backtrack, but still, to his surprise, you double down.

“What does an orgasm feel like?” He can tell your Mary Jane consumption must be fueling this line of questioning, but if you’re really curious...

“Um, well...” Eddie flounders, trying to find the words to say. You keep your focus on him, your thoughts trailing only slightly as you wait for him to respond. “It... It does feel really good. I don’t know exactly what it feels like for women, but for guys, at least, for me, it’s like my whole body kind of explodes, but in, like, the best way,”

You mull this over for a moment, your eyes darting between Eddie’s face and the screen, which has since moved past the over-exaggerated sex scene back into shootouts between the good guy and the bad ones. “Okay, well, have any of the girls you’ve been with ever sounded like that?” You were genuinely curious, trying to imagine what could feel that good and coming up blank.

Eddie chuckles a bit, eyes flicking up in a memory, “Well, one, but I’m pretty sure she was faking. Some women think they have to sound like that because that’s what the movies show them they’re supposed to sound like. But really, there are all different kinds of... sounds... that people make when they’re feeling that good,” he explains, his surprise relaxing now into amusement just slightly.

“Oh,” You look back at the screen, apparently done with your questions. Eddie feels his heartbeat fading back into its normal rhythm after the near heart-attack you had inflicted upon him, and things go quiet for a minute before you turn your head back toward him, mouth poised open to speak. “Do you think—Never mind,” You quickly shove the thought back down your throat, remembering that Eddie’s not supposed to know you’ve been in love with him forever.

The possibilities of what you were about to ask him makes his heart race again, until he’s burning to know. “What is it?” He asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Your lips press together and shake your head as a heat spreads over your face, giving you a moment of clarity amid the warmth of the high. “No, it’s okay, it was a dumb question,” You wave your hand in dismissal, and pray that Eddie doesn’t press it further in fear of your mouth working faster than your logic. Of course, you have no such luck.

“There are no dumb questions. If you want to know something, all you have to do is ask. Would I ever judge you for anything? And really think about that, because I’ve seen you pick a pickle up off the floor and eat it,” He laughs, trying to diffuse the tension. It helps a little, and with his reassurance and that fleeting moment of clarity far away, you open your mouth again, hesitating as you find the right words.

“Do you think... that you could maybe... show me?”

Eddie’s eyes bulge from his skull, and he’s afraid that his heart has totally stopped for a minute. But after an agonizing moment, a thick thump of his heart breathes life back into him, and he can only pray that you can’t hear it as it loudly thump, thump, thumps in his chest.

“Show you..?” It’s a begging question. He’s not exactly sure which part you want to learn, and he wants to make sure he doesn’t assume anything.

You turn away again, the mortification laying over you in a thick blanket. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... You can forget it,”

Eddie doesn’t want to mess this up, and the visions of you making such pretty little sounds for him, or better yet, unraveling under his touch, automatically send all of the spare blood in his body downward, so quickly that he almost becomes dizzy. He has to make an effort to shift his body to hide his growing erection as he tries to reassure you. “No, no! Don’t worry, I’m listening. It’s okay, I swear! What do you want me to show you? I... I can do my best,” His voice is sincere, sincere enough to make you look sheepishly back at him, your lashes low as you try not to look in his eyes.

You take a deep breath, your head buzzing with adrenaline as you form the words. “Would you show me how to have an orgasm?”

Eddie swallows hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat. He’s trying so hard to make this seem as chill as possible, for both of your sakes. If he gets too eager too quickly, there’s no way he wouldn’t just bust in his pajama pants, and he might scare you. His mouth is dry as he nods quickly, “Um, yeah. I- I can definitely try,” He watches as your face grows redder by the second, but you give a small smile, one that makes Eddie lightheaded again as another shockwave of want shoots through his half-hard cock. “Do you want to go to my room?” He asks softly, gauging the look on your face as you still avoid his eyes.

“Yeah,” You murmur, but your legs won’t move. There’s a want in you, despite not knowing how to indulge it, and as Eddie gets up from the couch, offering a hand to you, you take it and squeeze, finally looking up at him. Eddie feels like he might faint in that moment, your hazy eyes doe-like and innocent, not making it any easier for him to keep calm. He pulls you up to your feet and you follow him, your hand in his, to his room.

You shut the door behind you, flicking the lock on the knob despite being the only ones home, and turn to face Eddie, who stands just behind you, still not believing what might happen. “S-so, um...” He begins, feet shuffling beneath him. “For girls, it’s a lot harder to... finish. It takes a lot of warming up first,” Your brow furrows.

“Warming up?” A blush breaks out over Eddie’s cheeks, and he reaches out to let his fingers trace up your arm, ghosting over your shoulder and up your neck. A breath hitches in your throat as his palm cups your face, and suddenly, you think you might know what he means. Nevertheless, he explains.

“It’s a lot easier when you’re feeling good from other things first. Like touching, kissing... things like that. It can be painful if you don’t do it right,” Your lashes flutter as he leans in slightly, and you can feel his warm breath fan over your face.

“Oh,” Eddie lets out a breath of a laugh at your breathless response, and already you feel yourself turning to putty in his hands.

“I want you to tell me if you don’t like something, okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings. If you want me to stop doing something, or you want me to do something specific, you tell me. Okay?” The demanding edge in his whispers snaps you back to reality, and you feel a warmth building deep within you. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. Sure, shadows of this have been felt watching risqué movies with sex scenes or kissing your prior boyfriends awkwardly in the backs of their cars, but that pales in comparison. This is a new, deep burn in the very depths of your body.

“Mhmm,” You try to lean closer to him, to feel more, but his other hand goes to your waist, holding you in place. Your eyes meet his, and they’re unexpectedly hard, his brown eyes serious as he looks at you.

“I need you to say it. I need to know you can say it,” Your breath stutters again at his words, but still, you find your voice.

“I- I don’t like that,” You whisper, and it’s all you can do. Eddie nods in approval, but his eyes want you to continue, “I want you... I want you to kiss me,” You can hear the hammer of your heart in your ears, your blood singing as the anticipation grows. Eddie’s eyes return to their normal softness, gazing into yours like he’s seeing the sun set over the ocean for the first time.

“Are you sure?” Eddie whispers as he inches toward you, his face leaning down ever closer. This might be the closest you’ve ever been to him, and the thought sends a delicious shiver up your spine. His nose just brushes yours, and your eyes flutter shut.

“I want you to kiss me, Eddie,” It’s barely a breath, but he hears you, and gently, gently, his lips meet yours, barely a brush of skin against skin. You hear him suck in a deep breath before letting his lips move against yours a little more firmly, the hand on your waist snaking around your back to pull you closer to him. You let your hands find the back of his hair, which is up in a cute, messy bun, and your fingers wind themselves around a few loose, curly tendrils there. Then, Eddie’s lips move across your cheek, down toward your jaw, and the first sound comes loose from your lips.

It’s a tiny noise, but it might as well have been Eddie’s favorite song, the way he revels in it. He can feel the pounding of your heart in your chest as you press yourself against him, not really knowing what to do other than let Eddie work his way down your neck with his lips. “E-Eddie...” You whimper, hands gently grasping at the fabric at the back of his worn t-shirt.

Eddie stops then, immediately, waiting for your instruction. He had gone too far, hadn’t he? He had done something to make you uncomfortable and now you’d never ever talk to him again... “Can we lay down?” You ask, breathy and quiet in his ear. He presses a firm kiss to the top of your shoulder in relief, elated that you were enjoying what was happening before pulling away.

“Yeah, let’s get you comfy,” He smiles one of those easy, lopsided smiles that takes your breath away, and you feel the butterflies that usually reside in your stomach move downward to your core. You instinctively clench your thighs together to try to squash the foreign feeling, but as Eddie moves to lay down, you see the bulge in his loose pants, and it sends a new swarm flooding your body. With a deep breath, you join Eddie and lay next to him, his face only inches from yours. His hand reaches toward your face, gently brushing a few stray hairs behind your ear. “Do you want to just keep kissing, or are you ready to try something else?” He asks. You think it over, biting the inside of your lip as you bite back the embarrassment of being so inexperienced next to him.

“Can we try something new and still do some kissing?” You smile sheepishly, not being able to hold his gaze as your face heats. He lets out a small laugh, not at you, but because you’re so nervous.

“Yeah, we can do that. Is it okay if I touch you? I can just try a few things and you can figure out what you like,” He suggests, his eyes roaming over you. You’re not wearing a bra, because you never did when you and Eddie were just lounging around watching movies and smoking, something Eddie had to get used to quick when your body started really developing. Once or twice when he was a few years younger, he had to fake an upset stomach just to relieve his aching cock in the bathroom upon seeing your pert nipples through the fabric of one of his old t-shirts.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” With your permission, Eddie’s fingers gently reach the hem of your shirt, slipping under and running his calloused fingertips over the smooth skin of your side. You let out a gasp, your eyes screwing shut, and he notices the way your hips move of their own accord, trying to scratch an itch you’ve never felt before. He has to bite back a moan of his own just at the sight of you, so beautiful, so willing beneath his capable hands. He lets out a shaky breath as his hand moves up your side, leaning in to kiss you like he said he would, like he was aching to do again, and you accept his lips greedily, your hands pressing into the sides of his face as he glides across your skin, not light enough to tickle, but enough to send tingles over your skin, goosebumps forming in the wake of his caress.

When his hand comes to cup your breast, not daring to flick over the sensitive nub just yet, you let out your second noise as he gives a little squeeze there. This one is muffled by his lips, pressed firmly to yours, and the vibration of it shoots straight down to his cock, which twitches willfully in his pants, wanting you more and more every second that passes.

With a light touch, Eddie lets his thumb just brush your nipple, and it sends an electric shock through you, leading to your third noise, a much sharper sound that almost sounds painful. But when your lips press into his even harder, Eddie is only spurred on and he does it again, then lets his full hand grope over the full mound, rubbing across your breast with his palm. Eddie lets his tongue trace over your bottom lip then, and you open your mouth to him, not really knowing how to kiss with tongue, but unwilling to stop to make a comment about it as your body ignites to a new level of fire and electricity.

Your legs are continuously rubbing together now, the friction glorious but not enough, and you want to feel more. You’re panting in between the long stretches of kissing, and while you don’t want to stop, you also need to tell Eddie what you want. So, instead of rushing back to his kiss, you press your thumb gently to his bottom lip, pupils blown with need. “Can you take my shorts off?” You ask, your confidence building. Eddie nods all too eagerly, and he gets up onto his knees to shift town toward your bottom half. You roll onto your back and lift your butt to make it a bit easier for him, his hands finding purchase at your hips, fingers dipping just below the waistband when he stops.

“Do you want me to take your underwear off too?” He asks, wanting to be sure. You bite your lip again as the embarrassment floods back.

“I’m not wearing any...” You admit, giving a small smile. His hands grip at your hips a bit harder then, and his sharp breath only helps your growing need. This is the most beautiful you’ve ever seen him, towering over you like this. You can see the long outline of his length through his pants now, and you let your mind wonder what could happen if this goes even further than you originally intended. It’s enough to make your hips roll in Eddie’s hands as he starts pulling down your sleep shorts. You close your eyes, trying to keep your embarrassment from making you chicken out when you’re finally about to get what you’ve always wanted.

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes, and your eyes shoot open as you stare at him, mortification building in your chest.

“What? Is it bad? Do I look weird?” You ask in a flurry. Your hands go to cover your face, thighs clenching together to spare yourself when Eddie pries your legs apart again.

“What? God no! You look... You look fucking amazing,” There’s a wonder in his voice, and you peek through your fingers to find him staring down at you, the look on his face amorous, hungry almost, like you’re his favorite meal in the world. It takes you aback, but nevertheless, there’s a twitch in your hips again, seeking a friction that you can no longer achieve for the time being. Eddie gently lowers himself on top of you, and you let out a moan when you feel the fabric of his pants brushing over your bare pussy. You let your hands fall as you try to push yourself into him, but there’s a hand holding onto your hip now to keep you down. “Oh my god, please, can you try not to do that right now? I am already in serious danger here, angel. If I feel even a little bit of you against my dick I’m fucking done for,” Eddie breathes a laugh to cover the moan in his voice, his face hovering over yours.

“B-but I want—” Eddie cuts you off with a deep kiss, his hand squeezing into your hip as you desperately try to feel him against you again.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. I want this one to be about you, okay? If you still want to in the morning, we can circle back,” Eddie offers, and you give a small nod. “Okay, then. I’m gonna touch you now, okay? I’ll go nice and slow. If you want me to change what I’m doing, just tell me,” You nod again and the hand gripping your hip travels down and his lips meet the hollow of your neck, giving just a tiny nip at the skin that sends your hips up again in need. Eddie tries to hold it in, but he can’t help but moan softly against your skin as he continues his journey.

His fingers ghost just over the sensitive bud of nerves then, and the shock that goes through your body is even more intense than before when he was playing with your nipple. Your arms fling around his back and you grip the fabric of his t-shirt like a lifeline. “I’m gonna take good care of you,” Eddie whispers as he travels up your neck, “I’m gonna make you feel so good,”

The promise is punctuated by a soft circle around your clit, and your whimper is so pathetic it startles you as it tumbles from your lips. You can feel how wet you are now; how hot your core is against his fingertips. It’s so blissful, so wanton that you feel your walls clenching around nothing, another new feeling that sends your head reeling. Eddie continues his gentle pattern around your bud, sucking sweet bruises into the skin below your ear between whispers of sweet nothing that spur you forward on your quest into the unknown world of this beautiful feeling.

“E-Eddie,” You plead, head thrown back in pleasure. Your fingers pull his shirt so that your hands connect with his skin, “Can you go—Can you go a little f-faster, please?” Eddie nods into the crook of your neck as he complies, fingers moving just a bit faster, a bit firmer against you, and your chest starts heaving in pants again, moans spilling from your mouth more freely now. You grind into his hand pathetically as the intense pleasure grows. You feel like you could cry at the feeling, so blissful and beautiful and everything you’ve ever dreamed of as Eddie works you further and further, his lips only ever leaving your skin to whisper sweet nothings to you.

“You’re doing so good... I can’t believe I get to do this for you... Been wanting you like this for so long...” Eddie nips and sucks and licks across your neck, up your face, across your lips, and you’re just so consumed by him that you feel hot little pinpricks in the corners of your eyes, your throat going thick as the tears begin.

When Eddie catches sight of the first one, he slows his work on your core, afraid that you had changed your mind. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?” You feel a pang of panic then, not really knowing why but knowing that you were desperate to reach the edge you were approaching. You pull at his shirt, not being able to verbalize your excruciating need for a second.

“No, no!” You plead, “Don’t stop, please... I just... Please don’t stop...” You don’t know why you’re crying. Maybe because it feels so good, maybe because the emotions are just so new that your body is startled by them. Either way, Eddie is reluctant but believes you, because he trusts you and you trust him so completely that you don’t think that there’s any way that either of you would or even could hurt each other.

Eddie picks up the pace again, his lips focusing on yours now to help keep you from crying. Your fingernails scratch up his back as you whine and writhe beneath him, coming closer and closer to something. There’s a tenseness in your stomach now, and it’s building. There must be a precipice close, a pinnacle to all of this pleasure and need Eddie has been giving you. Your panting breaths become more ragged, and Eddie gets the feeling that you’re close.

“That’s it, angel. You gonna cum for me?” He practically moans against your mouth, and it’s another agonizing minute of this pressure inside you building before you feel it.

Your hands clench Eddie’s shirt as you unravel. Your tears are flowing freely down your face, mouth open in a loud moan that reverberates on the walls of Eddie’s small room. Eddie keeps drawing circles over your clit as you ride through the waves of your first ever orgasm, kissing down to the top of your chest and back up to add to the pleasure. Finally, you feel it start to subside, the wide waves lessening into ripples as your breath starts to even out again. Eddie slows down again, and finally stops after a few more seconds, wanting to draw out your bliss as much as he can. He kisses you deeply, the hand on your pussy traveling up to grip your side, sliding up past the hem of your shirt as he holds you firm. You can feel the slick on his fingers cooling down on your skin, and it sends a new wave of shivers through your body.

You kiss each other for a long time, not wanting to go back to reality where you’re just friends, but finally you have to pull away for air. You look at each other, both of you quiet. There’s a new electricity in the air, charged with the anticipation of what you’ll say to each other now that everything has changed.

“How was that?” Eddie settles on, his brow set in a concerning furrow. He wants to make sure that you had the best experience he could’ve offered you, because that’s what you deserve. You deserve to feel this good all the time.

Your soft eyes bore into his and you nod slowly, trying to etch every detail of this night into your memory forever. “It was amazing. You are...” Your hand comes to hold his face, and he leans into your touch in such a way that your heart melts for him even more. “You’re so amazing, Eddie, thank you.” You give a little laugh then, at how silly it sounds for you to thank your friend for giving you an orgasm. Eddie laughs a little too, and he stretches his lips to kiss the edge of your palm.

“Anything for my favorite girl,” He whispers, smiling that easy smile that you love so much. Pride sparkles in your chest at his words. God, you love him so much...

“So...” You feel a blush creeping on your face again, “You’ve been wanting me... like this?” You think back to the words he whispered against your neck that made your insides turn to mush.

Eddie flicks his eyes away from you, embarrassed. “You caught that, huh?”

“Was I not supposed to?” You giggle, your smile sending shockwaves through Eddie’s body.

“Well, I just didn’t think you would. You seemed to be pretty distracted if I recall,” He jabs playfully, his gaze returning to you. His eyes soften at his next thought, “What do you think about that?”

This is it, this is where everything changes. It’ll never be the same after this. “I...” You begin, building your courage. “I’ve been wanting that, too.”

Eddie’s face moves through confusion, surprise, and then settles on joy, his smile widening to reach his sparking brown eyes. “Yeah? You’ve been wanting that too?” Your smile matches his as you nod, letting out a breath of a laugh with the relief settling in your chest.

Suddenly, Eddie squeezes you in a bone crushing hug, peppering kisses over your face as you giggle. His lips settle on yours again, and it’s like taking a drink of cool water after wandering in the desert. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to this, but by God, you’d be happy to.

You keep kissing and cuddling for a long time, talking like you usually do, how best friends do, but now it’s just better. Best friends, but there’s no more hesitancy, no more wishing for more, because now, you have everything you could ever want.

#eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things fic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie #eddie x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie my beloved

3K notes · View notes

dayntee · 2 months ago

Text

10 Things Solavellans Agree On

Since I've been rolling around in Solavellan Hell for the last six months like a chinchilla in a dirt bath, I've been collecting little headcanons across the community.

I thought I'd share some of them. If you don't see yours that you absolutely swear by, you are honor bound to reblog or reply to this post so I can know about. These are either things I've had hours long conversations about or just notice a particular trend across several fanfictions/art.

He is an ass man. There's no way he isn't. He just can't keep his hands to himself.

He'll take any excuse to punish himself for his mistakes. Because everything is his fault forever. (Pretty sure this is just a fact tbh)

He has a horrendous sweet tooth. It's not just frilly cakes, he just enjoys sweet things in general.

He's a generous/caring lover. He gets his fulfillment out of his partner's fulfillment, not necessarily his own.

He's 8 inches and uncut. Boy is packing in front as well as in the trunk. (I can't take credit for this, the NSFW portion of the Fen'Harem is to blame and there was... uhhh a lot of consensus.)

He has a breeding kink. Thanks for this one, Trick; we know it was a joke, we just also all agree with you.

The travel to and from Crestwood makes no goddamn sense. Did he drag Lavellan out a week's travel by horseback just to panic and dump her? Was the ride home awkward as fuck? Did she bitterly leave him to walk his ass home? The world may never know.

Lavellan cried to dehydration and/or got irresponsibly drunk after Crestwood, and some poor member of the Inquisiton had to deal with it. Jury's out on who, I've seen Dorian or Varric most frequently, but my personal headcanon is Cassandra (who was 3 steps away from beating Solas' ass at any given moment afterward).

Solas, on the other hand, had a sad wank. Possibly several. Man has probably sad wanked a lot from Crestwood forward to be honest.

Whatever happens after Veilguard with these two, it involves a lot of fucking. It doesn't matter what your headcanon was for whether or not they had banged up until this point; once they retire to the Fade, everything is sexy times.

Bonus: 5 Personal Headcanons

These ones are less widely accepted, but my personal thoughts. Enjoy.

He's a mischievous partner. He knows where Lavellan is ticklish, taps her on the opposite shoulder when he approaches, and does other little pranky things (that are harmless, but teasing).

He's a switch. This is probably the most contested thing about any character, but I feel like Solas is too ephemeral and malleable a character to forever be a dom or sub exclusively.

Hates restrictive clothing. Veilguard was literally a form of torture; his loose hobo robes are his actual comfort zone.

After Veilguard, legitimately wants to learn everything he can about Dalish history. He didn't give it any mind before, but now it's clear how much it matters and the reason why is now by his side for the rest of forever.

I'm kind of a non-mage Lavellan truther, but I like the separation it gives them; they already have so much overlap in common as a mirror it's nice that there's one thing that really sets them apart. Mine was a rogue, but I have a special place in my heart for warrior Lavellans who have definitely fireman carried that man to bed more than once.

#dragon age #solavellan #solas #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age inquisition #solas dragon age #headcanon #fen'harem #I wanted to write something silly today #but hadn't the energy for fanfiction #this is what you get instead #sorry not sorry

157 notes · View notes

puck-luck · 3 months ago

Note

Happy 1 year!!!! I can't believe it's been a year already wowee, which also means I've been reading your fics for 10 months-ish, and that's insane to me (I don't remember when I started following tho, may have been around late July or early August). BUT IT'S BEEN A WHOLE YEAR!!

I'd like to order a mocha with peppermint (best friends to lovers) and cinnamon (size difference) for Luke Hughes??? (lmao whats new)

I ask the same thing every time I know, I'm sorry I just love a good size kink/difference😭

we r in it for the long haul, meg. i am so appreciative of your continued friendship, love, and support <3 i am always happy to write luke with a size kink for you :)

note: this is mocha ish because it's their first time being like this? i'm realizing it's kind of hard to make every requested mocha super deep and meaningful so they're all going to be meaningful in different ways, big and small :))

“Come on,” Luke hisses. His brothers and friends have mostly abandoned the bonfire in the backyard, thinking they spotted a deer near the water and chased after it. He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the house. “Come on, come on.”

You laugh. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they won’t find us,” Luke plots in a low voice. You make your way inside the house, then go to Luke’s secret hidden spot– the pantry. It’s a very well-kept, entirely classified spot.

At least, it is when Luke hinges the lock that he installed.

He snickers, nose scrunched up as he towers above you. He bends into your space as you giggle with him.

You and Luke have been having a lot more moments like these since he invited you to the lakehouse for two weeks this summer. It was hard the first couple of days, since you hadn’t met Luke’s brothers or his friends yet. They’re busy and they don’t really visit Michigan that often during the school year, so you and Luke have had plenty of time to get close. You consider him to be your best friend and he says that you’re his, but he makes you swear not to tell Dylan or his brothers.

“What should we do now that we escaped the boys?” you whisper. Your back is against the food-lined shelves and Luke is in front of you. The pantry is nearly dark, save for the slats on the door that allow some light to shine in, and you’re in the mood to do something completely crazy. It probably has something to do with the thrill of sneaking away without getting caught and hiding in close quarters with someone who you know so well.

If you’re not mistaken, Luke’s eyes flicker to your lips for a split second. His gaze comes back to yours, but you caught him. His giggle grows quiet, then stops altogether. His lips part imperceptibly, a quick inhale making his throat bob like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He stares at you, then his vision dips again.

You’re not sure if you can believe what you’re seeing. “Luke…?” you trail off, tilting your head to the side.

“I…” Luke starts. He closes the gap between you slightly, hand coming up to the shelf above your head and resting there. He shakes his head and leaves his trance. “Sorry, I, uh… lost my train of thought. What was the question?”

A smile tugs at your lips involuntarily. “I asked what we should do,” you repeat. You look up at Luke, who is still leaning over you, and your hands twitch with the urge to tug him closer and have his body blanket yours. It’s just crazy enough for the adrenaline running through your veins. You hadn’t put much effort into thinking about Luke like that before, or wondering what it would be like to kiss him, trying to prioritize your friendship. In this cramped space with Luke’s heat radiating off his body and permeating your space, you find yourself following Luke’s lead and letting your line of sight slip to his lips.

The curve of his Cupid’s bow is so severe. It’s cartoonish almost, how it rises and dips and rises again. With him standing over you like this, you want nothing more than to rise on your tiptoes and tug him down to your level and take that lip between yours.

When you look into Luke’s eyes again, you can see a slight battle raging. He’s stuck between knowing that you just looked at his lips with purpose, the same way he looked at yours, and not wanting to mess things up between you. You know that’s how he’s feeling because you’re feeling similarly, although you’re more leaning towards the “fuck it” option.

“Can I…” Luke murmurs. His mouth forms the question more than it actually verbalizes it and since you’re staring again, you see the yearning there.

“Luke,” you whisper, tilting your chin up to make it easier for him to meet you there.

The first kiss is sweet. It’s soft. Luke brings a hand to your waist like you’re something that will break at his gentle touch.

It’s you who deepens it, who is the first to part their lips and invite the other in for more. It’s you who relishes in the way you’re almost straining to reach Luke’s mouth. You’re the one who touches his curls and has him bend even further down if he wants to keep kissing you– which he does.

Like a pair of addicts, it’s impossible to break from the kiss. Now that you’ve started, you just can’t stop kissing each other.

Luke brings his palms to the backs of your thighs and lifts you, your legs automatically looping around his waist. He pushes you against the back wall of the pantry, where there are no shelves to get in your way, and he continues to kiss you. His tongue dances along your lips, testing the waters and seeing if it’s okay to take this next step, and you moan and open your mouth further to grant permission.

You don’t realize how Luke is rutting against you until he breaks the kiss and leaves a wet, open-mouthed trail down the side of your neck, finally biting over your pulse point and panting over your skin. When you do, you suddenly can feel that he isn’t just big height-wise– his cock might split you apart if you ever get the chance to lay in his bed and take it. You’re salivating at the thought, but distracted by Luke’s broken groan.

The next realization is how wet you are, then how titillating it is when Luke’s bulge catches on the seam of your jean shorts.

Your hands fly into his hair and fingers weave through the curls. “Lukey,” you whimper, arching your back off the wall and pushing into his grinding hips.

“Sorry, I just–” Luke apologizes breathlessly, voice higher than it usually is.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” you admonish with a frown, tugging his hair until he lifts his head to look at you. “Don’t.”

“Okay,” Luke agrees. His cheekbones are flush and red and it’s so cute, even in the dark you cal tell, that he’s blushing. His lips brush against yours from mere proximity and you take it upon yourself to seal them together again and taste his desperation.

The only time you part now is for a hushed whisper here and there, a bit of praise or compliment leaving you or a curse and plead leaving Luke. You’re really saying the same things back and forth– “So good, Luke, oh my God,” and “Hm, fuck, you feel so good, gonna come”– but the difference in your tones is what sets them apart.

You’ve just released a “please, Luke, I want to feel you,” when the door of the pantry rattles and Luke freezes. He’s completely blocking your body with his, so if the tiny lock he installed doesn’t hold up, no one will be able to see you. Another thrill passes through you– he’s so big. Imagine all the possibilities…

Though, there’s no avoiding what you’re doing when the boy breaking into the pantry realizes Luke is in there, or when Luke stumbles over his words trying to explain how you “felt tired and went to bed.” The friend at the door just laughs and says “Sure, man,” before walking away.

Luke is blushing again and he hides in your neck, too embarrassed to continue. That’s okay, though. You’ve still got a few more days at the house and your first time seeing Luke come should probably be in the light, right? And maybe not in a cramped pantry where anyone could hear you…

#1 Year of Puck-Luck!#andy writes anything🍄#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes smut #luke hughes blurb #lh blurb #lh43 #andy's friendies!🫛

315 notes · View notes

keraiiszn · 10 days ago

Text

ᴏᴜʀꜱ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄!𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐗 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

ᴘᴛ. 2

ʙᴀʙʏ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ, ꜱᴏᴄᴋ ᴅʀᴀᴡᴇʀ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ, ʟᴀᴛᴇ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴘɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ʀᴜɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ — ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜɪᴄᴄᴜᴘ, ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ.

If someone had told me six months ago that I'd be watching my deadly, composed fiancé reorganise the baby's sock drawer for the fourth time this week while muttering about "proper size categorisation," I would have laughed until I cried. Now? I'm just trying not to pee myself laughing, which is a legitimate concern at thirty-nine weeks pregnant.

"Elijah" I call from our bed, where I'm propped up like a beached whale surrounded by pregnancy pillows. "The baby is not going to care if the newborn socks are arranged by colour or by cuteness factor."

He pauses, a tiny yellow sock in each hand, and turns to look at me with the most serious expression I've ever seen him wear. "But what if they have a preference? What if they're a colour-coordinated baby?"

I snort, which immediately turns into a hiccup, which somehow triggers the baby to start what feels like a full kickboxing routine against my ribs. "Oh, now you're awake," I mutter, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot is trying to escape through my skin.

Elijah drops the socks immediately and rushes over, his hands hovering uncertainly over my belly. The man who can disarm opponents without breaking a sweat looks panicked when our baby decides to practice their karate moves.

"Are you okay? Is it time? Should I get the hospital bag? I knew I should have packed a backup bag for the backup bag—"

"Breathe, babe," I interrupt, catching his hands and placing them where the baby is currently attempting to break free. "They're just saying hi to daddy. Watch."

As if on cue, the baby settles at Elijah's touch, and he gets that look—the one that still makes my heart do ridiculous, fluttery things despite the fact that I currently resemble a penguin who swallowed a basketball.

"Every time," he murmurs, wonder clear in his voice. "He always calm down for you."

"It's because you have magic hands," I tease, waggling my eyebrows. "Among other talents."

He flushes slightly, which is adorable on a man who radiates danger for a living. "Y/N..."

"What? I'm pregnant, not dead. And these hormones are no joke—I'm basically a walking ball of feelings and inappropriate thoughts."

Before he can respond, my stomach lets out a growl that could probably be heard in the next county. Elijah's eyebrows shoot up.

"Hungry again? You just ate an hour ago."

"Yeah, but that was dinner. This is the second dinner. Different." I pause, considering. "I think I want pickles. And ice cream. But not together—that's gross. Although..." I tilt my head, genuinely contemplating it. "Maybe together. Sweet and salty, right?"

Elijah stares at me for a long moment. "It's eleven-thirty at night."

"Your point?"

"The store is closed."

I give him my best innocent look, the one that usually gets me exactly what I want. "But you love meeeee."

He's already reaching for his keys. "I'll find an all-night place."

"You're the best baby daddy ever," I call after him as he heads for the door. "Get the good pickles! The garlicky ones!"

"I don't even know what the bad pickles are," he mutters, but I catch the smile he's trying to hide.

Twenty minutes later, he returns with not just pickles and ice cream, but also prenatal vitamins (because, of course, he checked if I'd taken today's), those weird crackers I've been craving, and a bag of mini doughnuts.

"You bought out the store," I observe, accepting the jar of pickles like it's a precious gift.

"I wanted to make sure I got the right ones." He settles beside me on the bed, watching with fascination and mild horror as I alternate between pickles and vanilla ice cream. "How is that good?"

"Don't knock it till you try it." I offer him a spoonful, and his face goes through several interesting expressions.

"That's... not terrible?"

"See? Our baby has excellent taste already." I pat my belly proudly. "Speaking of which, we need to finalise names. We can't keep calling them 'the baby' forever."

Elijah groans. "Not the name discussion again."

"Yes, the name discussion again! What if they come early? What if I go into labour tomorrow and we're standing there like, 'Hello, Baby McBaby Face'?"

"I still like the names we talked about," he says carefully, which is code for 'I'm trying not to restart the Great Name War of last Tuesday.'

"Okay, but hear me out—what about something unexpected? Like... Storm?"

"Storm?"

"It's dramatic! Powerful! And it goes with your whole mysterious vibe."

Elijah looks like he's genuinely considering it, which is both sweet and terrifying. "What if it's a girl?"

"Storm works for a girl, too! Very fierce warrior princess."

"You want to name our potential daughter after weather phenomena."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." I take another bite of the pickle-ice cream combo. "Weather is powerful. Unpredictable. Beautiful."

"Like you," he says quietly, and there he goes again, being all romantic when I'm eating the weirdest food combination known to mankind.

"Smooth talker," I mumble around my spoon, but I'm grinning. "Fine, what about something unique? Alheri? Journee? Kairo? Something our kid won't have to spell for people their entire life?"

"I like Alheri," Elijah admits. "Strong queens were named uniquely, you know."

"And for a boy? James is good. Classic. Respectable.”

I wrinkle my nose. "But also kind of... boring?"

The look he gives me is long-suffering. "You're going to suggest something like Phoenix or Raven, right?"

"Phoenix is cool—"

"No."

"What about—"

"No mythical creatures, no weather patterns, no gemstones, and nothing that sounds like a stripper name."

I gasp in mock offence. "I would never suggest a stripper name for our baby!"

"You suggested Candy last week."

"That was a joke!" I pause. "Mostly."

Elijah drops his head into his hands. "We're never going to agree on this."

"Sure, we will. When I'm in labour and screaming at you about how this is all your fault, you'll agree to whatever name I want just to make me stop yelling."

He looks genuinely alarmed. "You're going to yell at me?"

"Oh, honey," I reach over to pat his cheek sympathetically. "I'm going to say things that will make you question every life choice that led to that moment. It's normal. All the pregnancy books say so."

"Maybe I shouldn't be in the delivery room," he mutters.

"Try to leave and I'll hunt you down myself," I say sweetly. "After I push a human being out of my body, because that's apparently what we're doing now."

The reality of it hits us both at the same time—the fact that in just a few days, there will be an actual tiny person who depends on us for everything. The mood shifts slightly, becoming less playful and more... holy crap, we're about to be parents.

"What if we're terrible at this?" I ask quietly, suddenly feeling very young and very unprepared.

Elijah sets aside the pickle jar and pulls me closer, carefully arranging himself around my belly. "Then we'll be terrible at it together. And we'll figure it out as we go."

"What if the baby doesn't like us?"

"Babies don't have a choice. We're stuck with each other." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Besides, look how much practice we've already had taking care of each other."

I think about all the times he's held my hair back during morning sickness, how he learned to make my favorite tea exactly right, the way he talks to my belly every morning like the baby can already understand him. And how he lets me reorganize his perfectly organized drawers just because the nesting urge is real and I needed to organize something.

"We're going to be okay," I say, more to convince myself than him.

"We're going to be better than okay," he corrects. "We're going to be disgustingly happy and sleep-deprived and covered in baby spit-up, and it's going to be perfect."

"Even when I'm crying over diaper commercials?"

"Especially then."

"And when you're reading parenting books at three in the morning because you're convinced we're doing everything wrong?"

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "You noticed that?"

"Babe, you colour-coded a feeding schedule. For a baby who isn't even born yet."

"Organisation is important—"

I silence him with a kiss, tasting vanilla ice cream and the promise of chaos and joy and sleepless nights ahead. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.

"I love you," I whisper. "Even if you do think our baby needs a sock filing system."

"I love you, too," he replies. "Even if you want to name our child after natural disasters."

"Storm is growing on you, admit it."

"Not."

But he's smiling when he says it, and as I settle back against his chest with my ridiculous snack and his hand protective over our baby, I think maybe we've got this whole parenting thing figured out after all. We'll make it up as we go along, argue about everything from feeding schedules to bedtime stories, and love this little person so fiercely it'll probably terrify us both.

And if our biggest problem is what to name them, well, we've got at least eighteen years to come up with nicknames anyway.

"Fine," I concede, closing my eyes as exhaustion finally starts to win. "Alheri or Kairo?"

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Alheri or Kairo”

The groan he lets out vibrates through his chest, and I fall asleep smiling, dreaming of tiny socks and big adventures and the beautiful, chaotic life we're about to begin.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ

@queenofklonnie22,@plan3tch1ld

#stack x reader #michael b jordan x reader #blackfemreader #black tumblr #black reader #black creator #keraiiszn writes #raiiszn

141 notes · View notes

houseofanticipation · 5 months ago

Text

I put you in the basement at first. Obviously. I can't just give you free rein of the house, not when you still believe there's a life for you outside it. No, you stay in the basement, and because I don't have you trained yet, you stay chained to the wall. This is probably about as frustrating for me as it is for you. You don't like being chained to a wall? Imagine how tiresome it is for me that I have to come all the way downstairs every time I want to rape you.

When some of the fight has gone out of you (it may be as short as a week or as long as several months, depending on how willful you are), I let you roam the basement freely. There's not a lot to do down there, but at least you can pace if you want, and I'm sure it's a relief to have that cuff off your ankle. At this point you're probably still planning to escape eventually, but you've realized you need to be smart about it. You need to wait and bide your time. Be a good girl for me and let me get complacent, and eventually I'll slip up.

Of course, what you're telling yourself each day you wait is that some amount of rape is acceptable. When you hear me coming and get on the bed preemptively, so I don't have to beat you down. When you spread your legs for me instead of trying to resist. When you touch yourself beforehand, just to make yourself wet enough that it's a little less painful when I force myself into you without lube. With each little act of acquiescence, you're telling yourself, I choose this. I have weighed the options, and this rape is what's best for me at this moment. I think you'll be surprised by how much that sentiment can build up.

One day, a few months after I unchain you, I leave the door open. Not by a lot, not enough to be obvious, but you notice. It seems like an accident, like I got careless and forgot to make sure it latched on my way out. You wait until you think I'm asleep and then you make a break for it. I let you get as far as the driveway before I stop you. And when I use you that night, believe me, it is brutal.

In the coming weeks I "forget" the door more and more often. Maybe the second time it happens you really believe you've just gotten lucky again. But by the third time you see the game: I don't bother with the door because I'm not worried about you escaping. I'm stronger and faster and smarter than you, and I know when you're going to try to escape before you do.

My favorite little trick comes a few weeks later. At that point I've stopped bothering with the door entirely, and you no longer try to escape every night. You're biding your time again, waiting for the crack in cage, only this time the cage is bigger, and it's harder to tell where the walls are. But on this night you do try to escape (you think you've figured out my sleep schedule), and you make it all the way down to the road. You flag down a cop car as it drives by, and explain breathlessly to a horrified officer that you've been held captive, raped, beaten, that the man who did this to you lives right up there on the hill, that any second I'm going to wake up and notice you missing, and you need to go now. The officer calls for backup, puts you in the back seat of his car, and proceeds to drive you right back up to my house, where I'm waiting for you.

As a bonus for helping me out, I let him rape you right there in the backseat of his car.

It doesn't take many games like that before you stop trusting anyone at all. You walk half a mile down the road to my neighbor's house, he gives me a call the second he sees you coming up the driveway. A long-haul trucker picks you up in passing, and he takes you to a local dive bar where he and his buddies can have their way with you while you wait for me to come pick you up. All it takes is a few well-placed friends to make you believe I somehow know everyone in the world, and they're all going to give you up the moment you ask for help.

So you stop asking for help.

You're tired of the punishment. You're tired of the brutality. Better some rape than cruel, brutal rape. Isn't it? You stop trying to escape. You stop resisting. You come when I call, you suck when I tell you to suck, you swallow when I tell you to swallow. And in return I keep you comfortable, well fed, taken care of. Not such a bad trade off, really.

I know I've won when I can go on vacation. I'll just leave one day for a long weekend. I don't bother telling you where I'm going, or how long I'll be gone. You wander the house, maybe even go out in the yard, but you don't try to run. There's a little voice in the back of your head telling you this is all a trick, I want you to run, I'm out there waiting for you to break the rules so I can hurt you worse than I've ever hurt you before.

You decide not to risk it. Better to stay here, where it's safe.

#rapekink #rapedoll #rapetoy #r@pe kink #rape/noncon #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #cvmdump #cnc abuse #cnc gaslighting #cnc cumdump #r@petoy #library 🜞

344 notes · View notes

ineffable-romantics · 2 years ago

Text

Some thoughts on why and how I believe Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship would incorporate sex/why I do not read them as wholly asexual:

This is something I've seen the most discourse about in this fandom, and I've had a few thoughts of my own that I really wanted to expand upon in a full meta/character analysis post. I do understand that this can be a contentious topic, so first, let me clarify a few things:

First of all, this is going to be long. Tbh it probably won't be that organized either. I ramble and I'm not very good at editing, so just... you know. Be warned. (*Hi, it's me from 2 days after writing this; I'm really not kidding, it's LONG)

These are all my own thoughts. They might not be hot takes, because recently I've seen more than a few people come to the same conclusions on a lot of these points as I have. But I've also had these notes in my drafts for about a week and a half now, and have been continuously adding to it as things have occurred to me. This post is essentially just somewhere for me to collect the separate but related meta I've been kicking around in my head.

I fully respect anyone who does see and prefer an asexual reading of this relationship. These are my own thoughts and interpretations as someone who is not asexual. I am in the LGBT+ community, so while I do know a few things about the asexuality spectrum, I am by no means an expert.

This is NOT something I expect, need, or even necessarily want the show (or, God forbid, Neil's tumblr ask box) to address. Tonally, it's just not that kind of show. Newt and Anathema's sex scene was very much played for laughs, and it worked for that reason. If the show found a way to address it in a way that was both appropriate for the tone of the show and ultimately satisfying, then great! But there is so much more to this relationship than sex, and I didn't need a kiss to confirm their love, so I certainly don't need a sex scene. As immortal beings (as I assume they'll stay) there is so much of the rest of their lives we'll never get to see. You can headcanon them as asexual and potentially be right. I can headcanon them as not and be equally potentially right. Again, these are just a collection of my own thoughts, because I think the question of sexuality (or lack thereof) is just as interesting a facet of these characters as any other.

Note: Tbh I've been second-guessing this whole post and debated deleting the whole thing several times for being silly or unnecessary, bc I don't want anyone to think that this is the only thing I care about when it comes to this story/characters. But if nothing else, it's inspired me to write in a way that nothing has in a very long time, so I've decided it's worth continuing, if for no other reason than that.

This is going to be a mixed bag of textual reading, subtextual reading, and a full-on reach or two. It's been a while since I've been in an English class, but if my teachers expected me to find a deeper meaning behind blue curtains, you can expect me to read too deeply into the symbolism of a loaded rifle or an ox rib. (This is probably not what my professors had in mind when grading my literary analysis papers but oh well) My point is, if it feels like a reach, I'm as aware of it as you are. I am in no way saying that all (or even any) of my points made were deliberate on the part of Neil or the actors or the writers or the directors. I am no longer the delulu Apple Tree Yard child of my youth, I promise.

If anything said here is in any way offensive or hurtful to anyone in the asexual community, please do not hesitate to message me or comment and let me know exactly what it was. I promise you it is not my intention to do so, and am happy to clarify or outright edit anything that reads that way.

With all that being said, let's talk about why I think Crowley and Aziraphale would absolutely fuck nasty incorporate sex into their relationship.

Note: I am out of practice with essay writing, so I think I'll just go down the bullet points of notes I have been making, and expand on each as best I can

Food

Where better to start than with Aziraphale's introduction to Pleasures Of The Flesh? (Just a heads up, this entire post may feel very Aziraphale-heavy, and with good reason).

This might be the least hot take here. We've all seen the Job minisode. We've all seen That Scene.

Whether this was intentional or not, the symbolism here is off the charts. Eve was tempted by an apple. So why not go a similar route and tempt Aziraphale with another fruit, or cheese, or bread, or literally anything else for his first experience with food? Instead, we go with a huge, glistening slab of fresh meat that he proceeds to absolutely go feral upon, moaning and gasping into his meal while Crowley watches with what definitely doesn't look to be disgust or even satisfaction with a good temptation. There's surprise at the ferocity of Aziraphale's appetite, certainly. But ultimately he looks to be intensely fascinated by it, while the thunder crashes, the music crescendos, and the earth literally shakes around them.

(It's also interesting to note how very little it takes for Crowley to tempt him with the ox rib. One murmured suggestion, a bit of unwavering eye contact, and vavoom Aziraphale immediately meets him in the middle.)

Cut to Aziraphale devouring the rest of the meat with Crowley splayed back on a makeshift bed, drinking wine and continuing to watch him indulge through half-lidded eyes. Outside a thunderstorm rages while they're learning secrets about each other in warm flickering firelight. It's cosy, it's intimate, and if they'd thrown in a bearskin throw blanket, it might as well be a post-coital scene straight out of Game of Thrones.

The next time (chronologically) we see them discuss food is when Aziraphale "tempts" Crowley with oysters in Rome. So Crowley first tempts Aziraphale with meat and then Aziraphale tempts Crowley with what is widely regarded to be an aphrodisiac. Interesting.

And then chronologically after that, the Arrangement begins to form, which has always reeked of a friends with benefits situation. Just to throw that in there.

It's What Humans Do

In the very first episode, we're shown Gabriel's obvious disgust and bewilderment towards Aziraphale eating sushi, calling it "gross matter" and being proud of the fact that he does not sully his body with it. Aziraphale initially tries to defend his own enjoyment in it, before passing it off as something that humans do, as something he simply has to do in order to blend in (which we know very well is not the case).

He does this again in season 2, passing off Nina and Maggie being in love as "something humans do". But it isn't, is it? Angels are beings of love, and can sense it, and understand very well what it is... up to a point. Even romantic love is obviously within their wheelhouse, given what we now know happened between Gabriel and Beelzebub (we'll come back to them).

What the "humans do" that angels wouldn't understand is messy, physical forms of love.

But here's the thing: Aziraphale and Crowley love doing what the humans do. They love drinking, they (or at least Aziraphale) love eating. They love music. Crowley loves driving and sleeping and watching rom-coms and sitcoms. Aziraphale loves reading and doing magic and earning little licenses and certificates for achievement in his various hobbies. They love to playact at being human so much that they've stopped playacting and started building a genuinely human lifestyle for themselves and with each other.

Once together in an unambiguously romantic sense, why do we think they wouldn't also want to explore one of the most prominent, intimate, powerful human expressions of love and desire with each other?

Angels, Demons, & Asexuality

Here's where I really want to clarify that in no way do I mean that sex is necessary for a healthy, fulfilling, and loving romantic relationship, or that the lack of desire for sex makes you any less human. Asexuality is a sexuality as valid and human as any. What I would say is that it is definitely in the human minority compared to allosexuality.

Angels and demons, on the other hand, are predominately asexual. Sexless/genderless unless Making An Effort. (Which, btw, is a concept introduced as early as the original book; why even bring it up as a possibility? Why not keep angels/demons being sexless/asexual as a hard and fast rule, if not to open up the potential for later use? Chekhov's Effort, if you will. And isn't that something that Aziraphale in particular is shown to do time and time again? He makes an effort in French and driving and magic, doesn't he?)

And this is why I don't believe Aziraphale and Crowley necessarily need to be asexual, narratively. There is already a huge amount of ace rep within the angels and demons (and no, not just the horrible ones. Muriel also doesn't "drink the tea" and has no reason or desire thus far to Make An Effort, and there are certainly other angels and demons who aren't horrible like the archangels seem to be who likely wouldn't Make An Effort either).

The central conflict for Aziraphale and Crowley is that they are on their own side, the ones who went native, the ones who are so different in so many ways from their respective hives. It would make sense for them to also break away from traditional angel/demon asexuality.

I say "traditional angel/demon asexuality", because I would also like to note that I would absolutely not rule out demisexuality for either of them. This post is being written to as a response to people who specifically believe that they (like the rest of the angels/demons seem to be) would be sex-averse in a relationship, and that it wouldn't be a factor in their relationship. I could easily read them as demisexual, but I do think there would be no real way of verifying this, because they've never been able to form as close an emotional relationship with anyone else but each other. Certainly not in heaven, and I can't imagine they would be able to form that kind of attachment with any of the humans, who they love and emulate but ultimately regard as the separate species they are. So yes, they could either be allosexual or demisexual, in my opinion.

Then again, now that I think about it, Making An Effort itself could be a great metaphor for demisexuality, since they would be entirely sexless/asexual until they have enough of an emotional connection with someone to consciously manifest otherwise. Since the other angels and demons don't generally form those types of emotional connections with anyone, there hasn't been a precedent for it.

Except...

Brielzebub

We do have a precedent for it now, don't we? Gabriel and Beelzebub fell in love. They are a direct foil for Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, speedrunning right through their courtship and finding their happily ever after on the other side of things.

For being such a 1 to 1 comparison, it feels deliberate that they did not kiss. They held hands, they were gooey with each other, but they did not kiss. That feels like such a deliberate thing to omit when you know what's to come at the end of the episode between Crowley and Aziraphale.

And going back to the food = sex metaphor for a moment, let's notice how even as they fell in love over the years, even when pints and crisps were there on the table in front of them, they never felt the desire to reach out for them. They didn't need to. It's a date (love story) even if you aren't eating dinner (sleeping together).

Yes, I know Jim liked hot chocolate. No, I am not counting it because I don't consider Jim and Gabriel to be the same person with the same proclivities, and Jim was highly suggestible at the time anyway.

Gabriel and Brielzebub's big happily ever after moment (as of now) was one between two asexual supernatural beings. They did not need to kiss to drive the point home. They showed what Crowley and Aziraphale could have, if they would only acknowledge it.

Crowley & Aziraphale's Dissatisfaction

But they do have that already, don't they? If you really think about it, what do Gabriel and Beelzebub do with each other that Crowley and Aziraphale don't already? They hold hands, they spend time together, they create little rituals, they give gifts, they're visibly and verbally affectionate with each other, etc. They are more or less already in a romantic asexual marriage relationship with each other, aren't they?

And it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them.

At the beginning of the season, Crowley is immediately shown to be unsatisfied with the way things are. Obviously part of it comes from living in his car, but it seems to be more than that (especially since Aziraphale makes it clear that the bookshop is just as much Crowley's as his, implying that he could have been living there the whole time and is choosing not to, for some reason?). You could argue he's feeling unmoored without Hell telling him what to do, but isn't that what he wanted? Isn't that what he still wants, by the end of the season? All season long, he's never indicated the desire for a new job, or a new project. He stopped the apocalypse because he wanted the freedom to openly spend time with Aziraphale, to spend his time on Earth however he sees fit. Until Gabriel arrives, he has exactly that (minus a flat).

So where does the dissatisfaction come from? And if it represents anything to do with his relationship, what does he want out of it that he isn't getting already?

I think Crowley only really comes to the realisation of what he's missing when Nina names it for him, not only putting them in the category of romantic, but physical (outright asking if they are sleeping together). These two posts [1], [2] go into more detail about what I mean, but I think it really pushes him into acknowledging that their relationship is more human than either of them have stopped to consider, and what that might mean as far as everything a human relationship can entail.

After all, Nina and Maggie only advised that he should talk to Aziraphale, make clear his feelings. The decision to kiss him, to tip them over the edge from nonphysical to physical, that was all him. And no, kissing isn't sex, but I wonder how taboo even that might be in the kind of all-encompassing asexuality most angels seem to identify with. (If they're disgusted by food and drink, I can only imagine what they think of snogging, much less sex.)

Aziraphale doesn't have this moment of someone observing their relationship from the outside. He loves Crowley, and as of 1941 probably even knows he's in love with him in a way that Crowley doesn't understand yet. Which makes sense, since love is technically his job, he'd be more likely to recognise it for what it is.

However, Aziraphale's reference for romance and relationships is Jane Austen. It's chaste. It's dancing and dinner and doing sweet things for each other and roses and candles and handholding. He contextualises his love for Crowley in that soft fantasy sort of way, where it's there, it's obviously there, but it's neat and easy and unspoken. Not to quote Glee in this, the year of our lord 2023, but it's all very "the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets".

Someone should tell that to Aziraphale's face, then.

I'm not going to pretend I know what Michael Sheen's script notes were, but there were definitely some Choices™ made. Because yes, there were plenty of moments in both seasons with Aziraphale looking at Crowley in a sweet, loving, smitten way. And then there were moments that were yearning.

But yearning for what, exactly? All of those sappy Jane Austen tropes already apply to the two of them. So why are there moments where Aziraphale is looking Crowley up and down like the last eclair in the window and licking his lips and visibly exhaling like he's trying to get in control of himself (see: Bastille scene + Crowley telling Muriel to ask him if they have any other questions about love)? Why is Aziraphale not only unconcerned when Crowley shoves him bodily up against a wall in s1, but staring at his lips and a beat too late in noticing Sister Mary's arrival? Why are some of his lines so suggestive? I'm sorry, but the car ride after the church explosion might as well have been the beginning of a Pizza Man porn with a really weird Blitz theme. If even my mother picked up on that vibe, I can't imagine it wasn't intentional on part of both the dialogue and the delivery.

(This section may feel like more of a reach/joke, but I'm really only 20% joking. These are writers and actors who are EXTREMELY good at their jobs; they know what they were doing here.)

More importantly, I don't think Aziraphale is even aware that there is more to what he wants. He lives in the Jane Austen fantasy and it never even occurs to him that he might be interested in anything further. It never even occurs to him that, as an angel, there is anything further to be interested in in the first place. Until Crowley forces it to occur to him. Just like I believe Nina forced Crowley to confront the idea that romantic love is what he's been feeling all along, I believe Crowley forced Aziraphale to confront the idea that physical intimacy is something he's been wanting, without even realising.

Aziraphale's Hedonism

Expanding on Aziraphale for a moment. We talked about his relationship with food, but we all know that Aziraphale is defined by his love of things that Feel Good.

It isn't just that he and Crowley love human things. Aziraphale loves the best of the best, or at least his version of it. He doesn't just love food, he loves going to fancy restaurants. He doesn't just love clothes, he loves soft, cosy, warm, plush clothes, or shiny, flashy, bougie fashion. He loves the warmth of tea and cocoa, loves getting drunk, and sitting in a comfy chair in the sunlight. He doesn't just experience, he indulges.

Given the emphasis put on things that Aziraphale loves just because they Feel Good, it feels narratively strange to assume that he wouldn't enjoy the feeling of being touched, or that he wouldn't be willing to try it, at least once, with someone he cared very deeply for. And just like the ox rib, I think that once he gets the first taste of things, he would absolutely tip over into complete and utter self-indulgence.

Dancing

I also think that dancing could be construed as a huge metaphor here. After all, we're told flat-out that angels don't Dance. Except one.

I would argue that Aziraphale, in fact, Made An Effort to learn how to Dance. He threw himself into the gavotte with delight (at a Victorian gay club; noted) and worked hard to be good at it. He's chomping at the bit to Dance with Crowley, working up the nerve to ask him with undeniably romantic intent and eagerness. So, angels don't Dance... unless they Make An Effort to do so.

We are told that demons, on the other hand, do Dance, but not well. Makes sense, since they're the ones who would want to encourage a deadly sin like lust, but have as little understanding of human love and physical intimacy as the angels. Crowley, however, is shown to be an excellent dancer at the ball, especially in his compatibility with Aziraphale.

(But Aziraphale WandaVisioned the ball so everyone knew how to dance! Yes, he did. However, the rest of the brainwashing doesn't seem to affect Crowley in any way, and they did actually live through the time period where this sort of dancing was a social norm; I'd be surprised if he never needed to learn. After all, the demons can't spell either, and Crowley is at least functionally literate, as far as we know.)

As of today, it's also been confirmed that when Aziraphale asked Crowley to dance, Crowley replied with "you don't dance." Not "WE don't dance". So going along with the metaphor, Crowley is just now discovering that Dancing is something Aziraphale is interested in at all, much less with him, and not denying that he himself is interested in Dancing. In his defense, I believe he was asleep for a few years while Aziraphale was learning the gavotte, so he wasn't exactly aware of Aziraphale's hot girl summer.

Love Languages

I want to expand on that; Crowley and Aziraphale's compatibility. Specifically in regards to their individual love languages.

We all know Crowley's love language is Acts of Service. I don't think there's any debate there. He loves it, Aziraphale loves it, they're both aware of it, we're all aware of it, God and Satan are aware of it, no surprise there.

You may disagree with me, but I believe Aziraphale's love language is Physical Touch, for a number of reasons. One of which being his aforementioned hedonism. Aziraphale likes things that Feel Good, remember? He likes soft clothes, and well-worn books. Neil himself has said that they like holding hands. And any time he is taken by surprise (Brielzebub getting together, the wave of love in Tadfield, etc.) what is the first thing he does? Reaches out for Crowley. He stops him with a hand to the chest in the pub. He leads him by the hand to the dance floor. He guides him by the waist in the graveyard. He reaches out during the entire Brielzebub scene, whether he can reach Crowley or not. Despite his own turmoil, he grasps at Crowley's back during the kiss.

The one time Crowley reaches out for him (not counting the kiss yet; we'll get there), he is aggressively pushed against a wall (by someone he loves and trusts) with a complete and utter lack of concern (and perhaps some interest, depending on how you read it).

And when he isn't reaching out for anyone, or there isn't anyone to reach out to? Well, he's wringing his own hands together, squeezing his own fingers, as if to find that physical comfort in himself.

So. With that theory in mind, we have Aziraphale (Physical Touch) + Crowley (Acts of Service). Throw in 6000+ years of deep love, cherished companionship, and forcibly repressed longing, and there is a very real potential of this combination resulting in fierce sexual compatibility. Where Aziraphale would want to touch and be touched, to indulge in physical pleasure with someone he adores, in the same the way he indulges in every other fine thing in his life. And where Crowley would want to indulge him in return, to give him everything he wants, and to take pleasure in Aziraphale's pleasure, in the same way he enjoys watching him take joy in food everything else.

So Aziraphale is an angel who is insecure about his own less-than-holy desires, who would want to treat Crowley like a luxury to be touched and cherished and adored. And Crowley is a demon who has, over the millennia, been unhappy about how they've been forced to deny even their friendship with each other, who would want Aziraphale to feel comfortable and safe and encouraged to indulge in earthly delights. That sounds like a stunning recipe for sexual compatibility to me.

"You said 'trust me'" / "And you did"

Just like the Job minisode, the Blitz is RIFE with symbolism (intentional or otherwise). This one will be quick, but I did want to touch on it because I thought it was interesting. Maybe I'm reaching at this point, but I'm assuming you read the tin.

First of all, Crowley not wanting to admit to never firing a gun before; comes off as someone who very much does not want to admit to their crush that they're a virgin ("You must have done this lots of times!" / "Umm.... yyyyyeah.")

(You could make the argument that Aziraphale having a firearms license and a Derringer in a hollowed-out book is symbolic of him not being a virgin while Crowley is. I disagree, for reasons I'll go into later, but it's a valid reading. However, I see it more like keeping a condom in your wallet; it's there in case you need it, but the opportunity has not yet risen no pun intended.)

More importantly, the theme of this entire minisode is trust. We already know they trust each other with their lives against the rest of Heaven, Hell, and the world. But specifically, this is about the importance of having complete trust in your partner in a charged, physically vulnerable, intimate moment, where the only danger is between the two of you.

Aziraphale needs to believe Crowley would never hurt him if he can help it. Crowley needs to trust Aziraphale's unwavering blind faith in him. Frankly, it all feels very symbolic of two people deeply in love losing their respective virginities with each other.

The trick is a success, and they share an intimate candlelit dinner in which they reaffirm their faith in each other. Aziraphale also begins to voice his agreement with Crowley, that maybe Heaven's rules shouldn't have to be as black and white as they are, and that there are benefits to... blurring the lines, shades of grey, wink wink (at which point even my mom was like, whoa guys, this is a family show).

Btw also: Can we all agree how much it looked like Crowley was getting ready to get a lapdance in that one scene? You know the one.

Also also: "Aim for my mouth"? Come on.

The Birds & The Bees

Now that I think of it, there's also something to be said for the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale are both obviously familiar with where babies come from (how they're made and how they're born) while the other angels aren't.

Something something Aziraphale and Crowley fundamentally understand sex and reproduction in a way the other angels (and probably demons) very much do not, nor have any desire to.

Probably not important. Just thought it was worth mentioning.

The Kiss™ & Religious Trauma

The Kiss. Where to even begin?

This has definitely been the hardest one to start, because there is so much going on here that I definitely won't be able to cover it all, and will certainly miss a few things here and there.

Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss afterwards is the most interesting to me. And I don't mean directly after, I don't mean the "I forgive you" part. I mean the way he touches his lips when Crowley is no longer in the room and he no longer needs to save face, when he is completely alone. Had it been directly after the kiss, it would have been rightfully read as horror, or disgust, a shield to discourage further action.

It's not. It isn't just a touch, it's a press. As desperate and angry and unexpected and imperfect as the kiss had been, Aziraphale is pressing it into himself, recreating the feeling as best he can. Beneath all the poor timing and shock and hurt from their fight and fallout, I think it's fair to say that it was something he enjoyed. Something he doesn't think he should enjoy, something that Feels Good that he only allows himself to indulge in when completely alone.

Remember, Aziraphale's idea of love is Jane Austen and gentleness and courtship and fantasy. If he'd ever even considered kissing an option, it might have been gentle pecks, cheek kisses, forehead kiss, hand kisses. Soft, safe, chaste affection.

Crowley's kiss turns all of that on its head. He introduces physical intimacy in a very real, very messy, very human way that I don't think Aziraphale ever even considered could apply to them. Considering what other angels are like and what they look down on, even Aziraphale's Jane Austen fantasies probably would have been considered taboo.

So for their first kiss to be rough and desperate and passionate in the way it was, of course he was confused and in shock. It was deeply physical, and as overwhelming and awful as it was in the moment, it Felt Good. Enough that he grasped at Crowley and kissed back, if only just for a moment, before stopping himself. Enough that he actively pressed it into his lips afterwards, in private, to remember.

I adore how Neil has decided to evolve these characters past the first book/season. More so in this season, Aziraphale and Crowley have both become such interesting allegories for queer people on either side of the spectrum of toxic religion. Aziraphale in particular obviously, because he is the side that so desperately wants to believe, to make a difference, and to unlearn all of the propaganda he's been fed over such a long time. Just like so much of organised religion, there is so much that he is told, time and time again, that he should not want, that he is silly or stupid or outright wrong for wanting. It reminds me so much of the severe Catholic guilt one might feel for wanting/engaging in sex for the first time, and the stigma of being queer layered on top of that.

What is so critical to Aziraphale's character is that he goes on wanting, and more than that, actively pursues. He was convinced to go up against Heaven and Hell and stop all of Armageddon because he wanted to go on listening to music and eating lunch and reading books and enjoying the simple company of the person he cares most deeply for, even if that person is supposed to be the enemy.

All this to say that if angels are as generally asexual/sex-averse as I believe them to be, narratively speaking, it would make sense for Aziraphale to be singular in that regard as well. Mirroring his first experience with food, it would make sense for Crowley to be the one to first introduce this new messy, physical, human dynamic between them, for Aziraphale to hesitate (obviously we are at the Hesitation phase at the moment), and then (eventually) for him to dive in wholeheartedly, to absolutely glut himself on this new thing that Feels Good. It would make sense for his character development to show him overcoming his metaphorical Catholic guilt and pursuing the sexual intimacy most (if not all) of the other angels would scorn.

(I can't help but remember that plot idea Neil described from the unwritten sequel, with Aziraphale in a hotel room trying to watch a full porno by way of the free 2-minute teaser clips so he wasn't technically sinning by paying for it. I so hope this is used in season 3, because gosh, I wonder why Aziraphale would suddenly be so interested in observing human physical intimacy after 6,000 years. Lonely and doing a little surreptitious research there, angel?)

Crowley, on the other hand, is the queer person who has broken free from his toxic religion. He prides himself on being his own person, on their his own side. He doesn't have the hang-ups Aziraphale does. He doesn't worry that he's going to be judged or cast aside for wanting things he's not supposed to. So it only makes sense for him to be the first one to suggest/initiate physical intimacy. It makes sense for him to be the one who "goes too fast" (another fantastic example of this dynamic beginning as early as s1; what is that conversation in the car meant to represent, if not Aziraphale being overwhelmed by the intensity of their relationship, and his fear of succumbing to it when he believes he shouldn't? It's also interesting that this is the first conversation to take place in Soho, just after watching Aziraphale realise he's caught feelings for a demon, with the red glow of lust serving as the backdrop).

Do I think the kiss in and of itself was sexual? No. I think it was a passionate and devastating last-ditch effort on Crowley's part to convey the way he feels for Aziraphale. Not just that he loves him, but that he loves him in the most human way possible. But I do think that the kiss represents how they can move forward from here, and what they might want to explore with each other once they feel free enough to do so.

In Conclusion

I am sure, deep in my bones (unless we are explicitly told otherwise), that this was both of their first kisses no, I'm not counting the gavotte, and that neither of them have ever thought to do anything else physical with the humans while they have been on Earth. Like I said before, they adore the human race and lifestyle in general, but ultimately view them as a separate species altogether, and they seem mostly happy to keep to themselves and each other, unless otherwise necessary. I just can't see either of them being drawn enough to a human to pursue anything close to sex. If Crowley in particular has had anything to do with sex in the context of temptations, I'm positive he would be inciting lust amongst the humans themselves, not involving himself directly. At least not that directly.

So, like every other human experience they've had on Earth, sex is something new that they could explore together, just the two of them, on their own side. A deeply intimate, tangible declaration of their love and everything they've gone through to earn it. A visceral finger to give both Heaven and Hell. A renewed appreciation for their corporations and for each other's. A enjoyable method for immortal beings to simply pass the time in each other's company. A new and exciting way to Feel Good, and all the variations that come with it.

You might agree with this post, or you might not. Whether this is something that is ever addressed or not, it doesn't matter to me. This is a brilliant love story either way, and I genuinely feel so privileged to witness it.

But I just can't find it in myself to imagine, given everything we know about these two characters, that sex isn't an experience they would both consume with wholehearted enthusiasm, curiosity, and profound, ineffable adoration.

___________________________________

Bonus feature: the very silly notes I made to myself that inspired this post

2K notes · View notes

heavyhitterheaux · 7 months ago

Text

Baby, It's Cold Outside

See Me Through You Blurb

Synopsis: Joe confesses his concerns to you about playing in cold weather coming back from his wrist injury

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Balancing your plate of snacks along with your drink was successful as you had finally reached the top step on the staircase before making your way back into your bedroom where you figured that your husband would be sleeping seeing as it was the night before game day.

The door was open just as you had left it, but what you didn't expect was to see Joe laying down, but wide awake staring off into space.

Getting comfortable on your side of the bed, you set your drink down on the dresser as you successfully balanced the plate on your small baby bump which you were very proud of.

“Oh! Babe! Look! I can put the plate on my bump now! It's big enough.” You excitedly told him as he turned around to face you.

Seeing it, he quietly laughed to himself before stealing a fruit snack from the plate.

“You okay? It's eleven, you should have been sleep two hours ago.” You asked him and he took a deep sigh before answering you.

“It's cold outside.”

“Yes, baby. I know, It's November. What? You want extra cuddles?” You said while laughing.

“I'm never turning down extra cuddles, but I've never played in the cold with my wrist.” He said as you saw him massaging it.

Setting the plate down to the side of you, your left hand lifted up to run through his hair before leaning down and kissing the top of it.

“You're nervous.”

“That's an understatement.”

“Well it's been cold all week and everyday that you came home from practice you didn't mention anything to me.”

“Because you’re going to worry and that is the last thing I want or need. I felt like I did okay in practice, but not as good as I wanted to be.”

“You’re my husband last time I checked, of course I'm going to worry. No matter how you look at it, your job is dangerous.” You replied as you shrugged.

“I just… I think I'll probably have a few heaters on the sidelines to help keep it loose. Other than that, I'm not sure what else to do.”

“Go out there and do your best. That's what you can do. No matter what the outcome is tomorrow, I know you're going to be amazing. You staying up all hours of the night is not going to help you. Did you even go to sleep at all?”

“No. I've just been laying here.”

“Babe…..”

“I'm just frustrated with how this entire season has gone and now this is something else that I'm adding to it.”

“I know this season hasn't been what you expected, but you have consistently showed up every single week and gave it your all. That is something to be proud of because if it was me, knowing my ass I would have been like bye yall I'm going to sit in the locker room. But not you and you’re a leader for a reason.” You quietly said as he cuddled closer to you.

“And I'm going to be there tomorrow cheering for you the entire time.” You added and in response, Joe leaned over to place several kisses on your lips.

“And like I tell you every single day, I'm proud of you no matter what.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow imagine #joey b #joe burrow fluff #joe shiesty #cincinnati bengals #nfl imagine #joe burrow fanfiction

380 notes · View notes

cheshiresense · 6 months ago

Text

Ok so I've actually gotten several asks about what Starrk's relationship with Unohana/the Fourth is/was like, but I don't have time atm to get into it, but I also want to toss out some of my headcanons about it because I've thought about it a lot, so I'll just list out a few headcanons in no particular order and get back to those asks later.

- First of all, Unohana is actually super protective of Starrk, but in a way that just confuses and/or scares people. Like she’s the sort to say dead serious no joke “my lieutenant is a gentle soul, you will answer to me if you upset him” while Starrk’s murdering his way across a battlefield and his reiatsu is eating a bunch of people for lunch 😂😂

- Unohana never thought she even had any protective instincts but Starrk just brings it out in her. At her age, with her experience, she can better sense just how old he actually is, just as she can sense-smell the amount of blood on him, so she knows he's lived a long time and killed a lot of people. But she can also tell he's not like her, he doesn't enjoy that sort of thing—when he kills, it's probably either because he has no choice or because he does it out of a sense of duty to whatever it is he believes in enough to fight for. Case in point, literally no one as powerful as she knows Starrk to be would choose to enter the Fourth with an honest interest in learning even more about healing than he already does. He's patient with even the weakest unseated Shinigami, and Unohana no longer has to personally come running every time the Eleventh decides to stop by to harass her officers because Starrk is there to stonewall them at the gates. But at the same time, the grief and loneliness she can sense in his reiatsu makes her want to shed blood because it never goes away. He can coax the shyest officers out of their shells with that no-pressure-calm he's constantly radiating, and for all that he'd prefer a nap over conversation any day of the week, he's also indulgent with members of his own squad when they ask him questions about a lecture or for a spar when he has time. He's reliable and steady and everything the Fourth needs him to be, with a reserved personality and a long-suffering air about him but careful hands and an even more careful mind in everything he does. And yet, hidden beneath all that, Unohana has never met anyone so constantly, miserably tired all the time. So yes, in her opinion, Starrk is a gentle, even fragile soul. She doesn't know - yet - what broke him so badly, but he's also hers now—she chose him, and he chose her, and she doesn't think she's imagining the way the Fourth feels stronger and stabler with his presence, with the easy way he shoulders the weight of a division right alongside her, with how their subordinates walk around with more confidence too in response to having two monsters watching over them now. For his competence as her second-in-command alone, she would've shielded him from anyone who upset him. But for the way he follows her around, genuinely eager to learn; for the way he sits with the younger officers and answers their questions and shows them new Kidou spells and treats them to snacks and protects them on missions; for the way he can stare down her Bankai without flinching and only grumble afterwards about how he deserves a week of sleep for such a hard spar but never even bat an eye when she reaches out to heal him with the very hands that had done their level best to rip him apart for several hours only minutes earlier; for the way he can give back just as good as he gets and allows her the chance to let herself off her own self-made leash every few weeks without having to hold back—for all of that and more, she would challenge anyone who dares try and force him to draw his blade against his will or break him any further than he already has been.

- I headcanon that for students who want to enter the Fourth, they have to take a separate written exam before they graduate. Results aren't great because there isn't actually much of a medical track at the Academy, plus it's generally considered uncool to end up at the Fourth, so there aren't many who would even take the exam, and of those who do, most can't even finish the entire thing, and minimum pass percentage is probably something like 50% lmao. At this point, it's less an exam and more an assessment of where the student is at so the Fourth's seated officers can sort the newcomers more easily when they have to start them on the basics. Then along comes Starrk who not only finishes the entire exam but also gets everything right, and it catches Unohana's attention enough to get her to make the trip to the Academy to speak to Starrk herself just to find out more, and the more she finds out, the more she thinks she'll finally be able to name a lieutenant with the kind of standards she's always wanted to be able to measure them by. At the end of the impromptu interview, she asks one more question—she asks him if he'd be willing to take one more test and become her official student. The lieutenant seat is his either way, but she's never had a personal student before. She won't be teaching him from scratch, which is a shame—someone with potential and a learning curve like Starrk's should've been scooped up long ago. But there's also more than just medical Kidou and surgical procedures she can pass on to him, and he may be a gentle soul, but he's a gentle soul with something he fiercely wants to protect, and that means there are other things she can teach him. He says yes, and that day, on the day they meet for the first time in any timeline, in a training room deep beneath the Academy, all seals activated for both privacy and containment, and even then they'd barely held—Unohana unseals her Bankai for the first time in centuries, and Starrk weathers every blow with the unyielding bedrock found beneath mountains and deserts and canyons and oceans, timeworn but timeless and enduring all the same. In the aftermath, both of them bleeding from multiple wounds with a good chunk of their reiatsu depleted, she thinks, yes, this one will be mine. He is strong enough to stand with me, tempered enough to be unafraid of me, old enough to have experienced the worst the world can offer, and wise enough to accept and bear it. And yet he remains... soft, at heart. Kind, in a way I do not fully understand, but it is precious nonetheless. It is something that should be protected. He is someone I can protect, so he will be mine.

- She'd prob also be like "let's get this signed and sealed before the old coot catches wind of another dual-wielding Shinigami and thinks he has first dibs just because he got the other two" 😂

- She would 1000% give Shunsui a shovel talk. It's probably the most terrifying shovel talk anyone has ever received in living memory ganbaa shunsui be brave you can do it.

- As for Starrk, he adores the fuck out of Unohana. But he’s also constantly baffled by how she kind of mothers him sometimes, in really off-putting ways (to others) but he doesn't realize that. Like the first time he goes out on a not-a-date with Shunsui, Unohana will be like "I wrote a dissertation called 101 Ways to Sterilize a Man, please read it over, I require urgent feedback" all while staring gloomy-eyed straight at a sweating Shunsui from behind Starrk's back because she'd watched this brat grow up, so she knows his skirt-chasing tendencies better than most, knows the way he likes beautiful people, likes flirting with them and charming them, likes the novelty of a new relationship and the thrill of the chase, and so she also knows the way it always ends with broken hearts but hardly ever his own. At most, he'll pout for a few days or a few weeks and mope and whine to Ukitake, and then he'll move on. He's always earnest and genuine in the moment, treats his lovers with all the respect and affection in the world when they're together, but he bores easily, and for all that he plays a good game of being open and friendly and approachable, Unohana has rarely met anyone more guarded when it comes to matters of the heart than Kyouraku Shunsui. He'd grown out of genuinely pursuing people in more recent decades, goes through the motions but no longer seems very interested in romance or even short dalliances, mostly only flirts these days with his long-time female acquaintances who all know better, but it would be easy for him to fall back into old habits. If he dares to be as careless with Starrk's heart as he'd been with previous lovers, Unohana won't stop until the Eighth Division will require a new captain.

- Starrk totally calls Unohana Shishou-san eventually. He has a thing for nicknames. Shunsui is of course Taichou-san. Shiina is Sensei-san. Unohana is Shishou-san. One person per category. It's an odd quirk of his.

#bleach #coyote starrk #unohana retsu #shunstarrk #ichigo & starrk time travel verse #myscrap

164 notes · View notes

thebenjiblackwoodexpress · 9 months ago

Text

Fire on Fire Part. 3

Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Description: Aegon made a promise to his niece 6 years ago that he would marry her. Separated by distance and the passage of time, Aegon still intends to keep his promise to the only girl he ever loved. When Rhaenyra returns with her children to King's Landing, Aegon hopes to get Y/N to fall in love with him all over again but quickly learns her heart may not be so easily won. So ensues an elaborate game of cat and mouse which Aegon is determined to win.

Previous part Dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Writer's note: Hiiiii! I'd recommend reading the previous 2 parts for context of when they were teenagers but you could probably read this as a standalone. There will be future parts. I've played around with time, so Rhaenyra and her kids spend around a week at KL before the events of Lord of the Tides.

Warnings: female reader with Targaryen features, targcest (uncle and niece), sexual innuendo, Aegon being fairly toxic and possessive at points. Childhood friends to lovers to enemies to lovers vibes. Aged up characters. Will be canon divergent. Aegon isn't a rapist in this because if Ryan Condal can write fanfiction, so can I.

The sky looked just as it had when he'd watched Y/N disappear into it on her dragon 6 years ago. Standing at the entrance to the Red Keep, in the same spot he had that very day, Aegon could almost pretend that no time had passed at all until he saw her step out of the carriage behind her mother, his sister. And it felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. She was still Y/N, with the same silver hair that shone like a thousand glittering stars and the singular beauty he could only describe as cutting. But she was more mature now, her features more defined, a woman rather than the girl he had known and loved. He was much changed, too, and he wondered for a moment if Y/N would even recognise him now. But she was not even looking at him. Her lilac eyes were trained upon his brother Aemond, fixing upon the eye patch that concealed his scar. Don't look at him, Aegon thought. Look at me. And that same possessiveness he'd long held towards Y/N, for as long as he could remember, simmered to the surface.

As if he'd called her name, her eyes met his, widening slightly in recognition. The world around them seemed to fade away as they stood gazing at one another, and Aegon felt an uncontrollable need to be close to her suddenly. He wanted to touch her face, trace its contours, and measure the passage of time in their subtle changes. He wanted to pull her to him and wrap his arms around her, to press her body against his and see if it still felt like something inevitable and completely right. He wanted to kiss her and see if those lips that could speak such cold words could still feel like fire against his. But most of all, he wanted to talk to her, to hear her speak his name again, to hear her say anything. Y/N had been the first and last person to truly understand him. They had always been one in the same, and he wanted so badly to feel that familiarity once again. A sharp pain in his ribs jolted him out of his stupor as Aemond not so subtly jabbed him in his side.

"Aegon, won't you greet our guests?" His mother's voice sounded terse and strained. She must have tried to get his attention several times before he'd heard her.

Hands clasped behind his back he inclined his head towards Rhaenyra first.

"It's good to see you again, sister, nephews."

And it was. A part of him had always wanted to be close to his elder sister, though the tense relations between his mother and Rhaenyra had rendered this but a wistful dream. And he'd had a close friendship with Jacaerys in childhood. Though, any residual affection he had could not extend to Lucerys. He'd cost his own brother his eye, and Aegon had long blamed the boy for his separation from Y/N. He turned to his niece again, once more finding himself lost in the depth of her eyes.

"Niece." It was almost embarrassing how tender the appellation sounded in his mouth, and Aegon knew this had not been lost on those around him for he could see Aemond wince out of the corner of his eye.

"Uncle." By contrast, Y/N's voice was cold and devoid of any emotion, her gaze steely. Aegon's heart plummeted. He'd expected her anger might have waned in the 6 years they'd been apart, that she might have missed him as he had her, though perhaps not as acutely. He'd been quite certain that he'd loved her a great deal more than she loved him. But he still remembered the promise he had made to her on that fateful day at Driftmark when he'd taken her first kiss. He had said that he would marry her one day. Aegon intended to keep this promise and vye for her heart all over again. He had wanted one girl and one girl only his whole life and if she were still a little angry with him he was prepared to weather the storm, to take her ire in his stride and forge a path back into her heart. With renewed determination, he quirked his lips up at Y/N in a smile that was full of intention. He couldn't feel too sorry to have her frown back at him. She'd always been particularly beautiful to him when angry, blazing with an intensity only the stars could manage.

At supper, he noted that Y/N took up her old spot opposite him as if by habit. Though she said but little, and nothing at all to him, he had observed a slight pinkening of her cheeks as he'd continued to try and catch her eye all evening, prompting a satisfied smirk from him which she seemed to bristle at, steadfastly avoiding his gaze from then on. It seemed his niece was determined to play hard to get. Aegon was all too willing to accept the challenge, thoughts whirring in his mind of how best to get Y/N alone so she would have to speak to him.

Aegon was up earlier than he thought he'd ever been in his life, dressing quickly before the sun had even risen. He paced the floors of his chambers in nervous anticipation until he saw the first pinpricks of sunlight break through the blanket of the early morning sky. Then, he briskly walked to his niece's old chambers, where she'd happily been installed once again, much to his pleasure since it was but a short distance from his own.

He leant against the wall beside her door, preparing to wait for her until she emerged to break her fast. She couldn't very well deny him her company if he just happened to be in the vicinity of her chambers and offered her his arm to walk her to the morning room. He jumped slightly as her door opened with a soft click, having become lost in his thoughts as he waited. Lost in thoughts of her in truth, of what dress she might wear, of how her maids might have arranged her hair, and how she might react to his being right outside her chambers. The reality was far from what he had pictured, her eyebrows pulling together and her expression taking on a blackness he misliked. He'd always been good at reading her emotions, for she always wore them on her sleeve around him. This emptiness was unnerving to him.

"Good morrow, uncle."

Aegon tried not to be ruffled by her indifferent tone, only investing his own with more energy.

"Good morrow, Y/N. I thought we might head to the morning room together. My mother and sister would be pleased to break their fast with you there." He didn't rightly know whether they would. He didn't care, but it wasn't a bad ruse.

Holding his arm out to her in invitation and drawing up the most charming smile he could muster, Aegon silently pleaded with her to take his arm.

"Please offer them my apologies. I don't much like to eat early in the morning. Besides, my mother has requested my presence in her chambers."

Aegon's face fell, his arm dropping back to his side limply as he watched Y/N speed down the hallway away from him. She was lying, that much he knew. She simply didn't want to be in his presence, and that knowledge sent a jolt of pain through him. For the first time, Aegon considered that he might not be able to win Y/N back. Perhaps he'd been foolish to think they could start right where they'd left off, despite their estrangement of 6 years. He realised that in trying to protect his mother and brother at Driftmark, and in so doing inadvertently call Y/N a bastard, he might just have lost her for good. It didn't help that she'd returned in the first place to reaffirm Lucery's right to Driftmark once the Sea Snake passed. But he couldn't believe that. He couldn't give up on her, not without a fight. They'd played many games as children. Now, they would simply play another. If Y/N wanted a game of cat and mouse, then he would be obliging.

"Just the princess I was looking for."

Aegon smirked as Y/N nearly dropped the book she was holding. The clever minx probably thought it unlikely he should find her in here. But she must have forgotten all of the times he'd sought her out in the library in their youth, when he'd first realised he was in love with her and would have done anything to be at her side. His mind wandered to the feeling of her hand running through his hair as she'd read.

"What for?" It took Aegon a moment to understand what she was asking, though he quickly shook himself out of his reverie. He was hardly going to win Y/N over if he continued to just stare at her stupidly.

"I was hoping to get your recommendations on some reading material." At her look of incredulity, he slowly moved towards her. As he got closer, he noticed her taking minute steps backwards, her back hitting the bookshelf behind her as he came to a stop right in front of her.

"You? You want to read a book."

Aegon smirked at her.

"Don't look so surprised. I read to you once, didn't I?"

As if by fate he spotted the familiar spine of the book he'd once read aloud to her when she was overcome by a wave of seasickness and barely able to keep her eyes open. His voice had lulled her into a peaceful sleep.

Placing one hand on the bookshelf on one side of her as if to steady himself, he reached across her body with his other arm to grab the book, effectively encasing her in his arms. At her sharp intake of breath he smiled to himself, presenting the book to her innocently.

Y/N sounded a little breathless as she spoke.

"You remember?"

Aegon stepped closer, shifting his hand so that his fingers just grazed her bodice. He spoke so lowly she couldn't have heard him had he not lowered his head until theirs were nearly touching.

"I remember everything."

Y/N only stared at him with wide eyes at first, but he caught her gaze flicker briefly to his lips. Experimentally, he trailed his fingers down her side. A feather light touch, he didn't want to push his luck. And then she was stepping away from him, turning to the opposite book case and grabbing a thick and dusty book, which she promptly shoved against his chest.

"I think you'll like this one better."

And with that, she was scurrying away from him once again, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor of the library as she fled.

Looking down at the red tome in his hands, Aegon laughed. No one had been able to exact such a genuine sound from him in years.

Of course, she'd hand him the Book of Holy Prayer. Gods only knew what tales she'd heard of him to think he'd have need of such a thing. He placed it back in its rightful place on the shelf, he reclaimed the romantic novel he'd dropped as Y/N had forcibly shoved his arm away from her. As he left the library, the book under his arm, he winked at the maester, who'd just entered holding a bundle of scrolls. It had likely given the poor old fellow quite a fright to see Aegon of all people coming from the library, more still with a book tucked under his arm.

Perusing the novel that afternoon gave Aegon an idea of how he could convince Y/N to spend some time with him. He thought in time she might come to appreciate the deviousness of it. As they sat opposite each other at supper once again he addressed her directly.

"Y/N, I wondered if you might play a game of Cyvasse with me on the morrow. We used to enjoy playing together as children and I can have a board set up."

He caught Y/N exchanging a glance with Rhaenyra before turning back to him.

"I apologise, uncle. But I don't remember the rules."

Aegon's smile only grew at her refusal. He'd anticipated as much.

"I'd be more than happy to catch you up to speed."

Another curious look at her mother prompted Aegon to think she might actually be asking for her permission. It was evidently denied.

"Alas, I don't think I'll have any free time for games tomorrow. But thank you for the kind offer, uncle."

Time to put his plan into action, Aegon thought.

Lowering his voice and leaning across the table so no one else could hear him, he played his card.

"Y/N I'm starting to think you don't want to spend time with me. In which case I might be forced to recite some passages from one of your romance novels as this evening's entertainment."

His threat seemed to have had the desired effect as she gawped at him, mouth hanging open like a fish. Though a very comely fish, Aegon thought. The novel didn't have anything too damning in its pages, but it did contain a few rather silly passages he was sure Y/N would rather not be aired publicly.

She whispered through gritted teeth.

"You wouldn't dare."

Aegon smirked.

"Oh, I would." He started to rise from his seat as if to address the rest of the family sat around the dinner table before she promptly stomped on his foot under the table.

He hissed in pain, glaring at her.

"Seven hells Y/N."

The raucous they were making had earned them several looks from his mother, and sister, but they quickly returned to their conversations as he smiled blithely back at them.

"I'll play a game with you if you keep your mouth shut. OK?"

Aegon smiled brightly at Y/N's acceptance of spending time with him.

"Excellent, that wasn't so hard was it? I'll come by your chambers tomorrow to get you."

Y/N glared at him the rest of the night, seemingly trying to scorch him and turn him to cinders beneath her gaze. Aegon was simply pleased to have her full and undivided attention on himself. She wasn't looking at his brother now. She was looking at him.

Aegon thought Y/N remembered the rules of Cyvasse pretty well, considering she was currently sat across from him and thrashing him. What had looked like a small victory for him had quickly turned sour as he glumly looked a the board.

Y/N was comparatively gleeful, with a self-satisfied look gracing her features.

"The rules seem to have come back to you, niece."

Taking another one nof his castles, Y/N leant back and smiled broadly at him.

"I think you're just bad at this game, uncle. Your problem is that you never have a strategy."

Aegon's hand hovered over the board as he considered his next move, but he looked across it into her eyes at her assumption.

"You'd be surprised. I'd say I have a pretty clear idea of what I want and what I have to do to get it."

His mouth upturned as he saw her swallow down a retort.

He gasped suddenly, pointing behind her at nothing at all. As she whipped her head around he quickly reached across the table separating them and made a grab for her trebuchet piece, concealing it within a closed fist. She turned back towards him with an air of suspicion, looking from him to the board and back to him again as he presumed an air of innocence.

"Ah, perhaps I was mistaken. I thought I saw..."

"What piece have you taken, Aegon?"

He grinned at her. That was the first time she'd said his name since she'd arrived.

He presented the piece to her, quickly retracting it when she made a grab for it.

"I'll give it back to you if you give me something I want in return."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. He knew she was too competitive to abandon a game mid-play. She'd want to see it through and so she'd humour his request.

"What do you want?"

Aegon leant towards her, so close her breath was fanning his face as she followed his movements. He raised his free hand to curl a tendril of her hair around his fingers.

"I want you to take a stroll in the garden with me on the morrow." It seemed like the type of thing lovers would do in Aegon's mind, at least the type of lovers he'd read about in Y/N's books. So he thought she might like it. He wanted to do all of the things that happened in her books with her, if that was the type of love she sought. If she'd only let him.

Y/N let out a shuddering breath as if she'd been holding it waiting to hear what he'd request.

"Is that all?"

With a final stroke of her hair he dropped his hand and leant back in his chair.

"That's all."

"No."

Aegon quirked his eyebrow up, not having expected her refusal to such an innocent request.

"No?"

"I don't trust you. You're playing some game."

Aegon smiled coyly at her, weaving the piece he'd taken from her between his fingers.

"I thought we were both playing a game, my dear niece."

He didn't mean Cyvasse, and he didn't think she thought he did either.

With an agility he hadn't known she'd possessed, Y/N made a quick grab for the piece that was almost successful, though he pulled it back out of her reach.

"Give it to me, Aegon."

Ah, there you are, Aegon thought. That was his fierce girl, half savage and half his.

He reclined nonchalantly back in his seat.

"Come and get it then."

Her irritation with him plain to see on her face, Y/N rose and moved around the table to stand before him with her hand outstretched expectantly.

Aegon placed the trebuchet piece in her hand before quickly enclosing his hand over Y/N's and yanking her towards him. Not expecting his ruse, she fell into his lap with a shriek, and he quickly entrapped her in his arms. He grinned at her devilishly, more than a little pleased with this turn of events.

Y/N pushed against his hold, huffing in frustration as he didn't move an inch.

"Let me up, you swine."

"Only if you promise to go on a stroll with me."

Y/N glared at him wordlessly, though she stopped struggling, seeing it was futile.

Aegon tutted at her. "I'm quite comfortable like this and don't think I'll have any desire to move anytime soon. If you want your freedom, you'll have to give me what I want, I'm afraid. Is spending time with me really such an awful prospect?" He couldn't help the tinge of insecurity that came through in his words. Did she really hate him that much?

But it seemed to be that note which finally struck a chord with Y/N. Sighing with resignation and relaxing against him, Y/N looked at him sternly.

"Fine, but I will hurt you if you try to ravish me behind some bushes. I've heard about your reputation."

Aegon felt a levity in his heart again. He could see the smile Y/N was trying to conceal, hear the jest in her words.

"Oh darling, I wouldn't dream of it." He would. He definitely had. But he wouldn't tell her that. Instead, he finally released her from the cage of his arms and let her stand up, though he immediately bemoaned the loss of her.

Aegon had quickly captured Y/N's arm and wrapped it around his, firmly tucking her arm in the crook of his elbow as soon as he'd seen her enter the garden. He'd been worried for a short while that she wouldn't come at all. But there she was, utterly resplendent in the morning sunlight.

"Come then, Y/N. Tell me what you've been up to in Dragonstone these past 6 years."

Y/N looked up at him quizically.

"What do you want to know?"

Aegon responded immediately.

"Anything. Everything. Just talk to me."

And, finally, she did. Aegon didn't care if it was minutes or hours or days that passed because Y/N was speaking to him, laughing with him again, just as she had when they were children together. Everything was going a little too well, however, for Aegon was too busy staring at Y/N to realise he was walking them into a path of rose bushes. Evidently, she was too busy staring at him to notice either, giving Aegon only a few seconds to grab hold of her and turn her towards him before she fell into it. Regrettably, the rapidity at which he'd turned her had caused her dress to fan out and get caught in the thorns.

"Oh bother." Y/N had sighed exasperatedly, reaching down to untangle herself before Aegon had stopped her and crouched down himself.

"Allow me." This seemed like the sort of thing a romantic interest would do for his beloved in a novel. Aegon remembered Y/N had always like the part where the knight rescued the princess best.

To his surprise, Y/N only started swatting at him frantically.

"Aegon, get up. If anyone were to come across us and see you under my skirts, they'll think.."

"What? Oh, no I don't care if they think that."

"Aegon!"

"I'm just joking. You're being ridiculous. Anyway, I'll be quick."

He paused, unable to resist teasing her a little more when she was blushing so deliciously.

"But, if we were doing what you think your imaginary spectators would think we were doing, then..."

She grabbed a chunk of his hair suddenly, giving it a threatening tug.

"Aegon, I swear if you finish that sentence I'm going to shove your face in that rose bush."

He chuckled, happy enough to have her fingers in his hair. He redirected his focus back to the matter at hand, though her constant shifting made it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

"Stop squirming."

"I can't keep my balance."

Aegon pretended to sigh exasperatedly whilst hiding his smile. He patted his shoulder in invitation.

"Fine then, just sit on my shoulder while I do this." He could see Y/N looked sceptical at first, but she perched tentatively on his shoulder after a few moments, her hand resting on his back to support her.

The soft tread of footsteps had the both of them snapping their heads up to see Aemond turn the bend. He halted in his steps upon seeing them, although he quickly turned back in the opposite direction, his lips turned upwards in a smirk that seemed to say this was exactly the position he'd expect to find them in.

Y/N threw her hands up.

"Perfect."

Aegon reached up from detangling her skirts to pat her thigh reassuringly.

"Not to worry, my sweet. No one would expect you to throw your lot in with me."

She slapped his hand away, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not your sweet."

Aegon simply smirked at her.

"You're right. I do prefer you venomous."

Seeing that he'd left her speechless for once, he turned back to the thorn bush and, with one final tug, successfully untangled Y/N's skirts. He couldn't save the mesh, which was torn in several places.

Rising from his crouch, he didn't expect to see such a forlorn and despairing look on Y/N's face as she stared at her torn dress. He felt a jolt of panic rush through him that he'd actually offended her with his teasing, frightened her even...

"Y/N, look, I'm sorry if I upset you or frightened you. I was only teasing."

She waved away his apology, pointing towards her skirts.

"No, I'm used to you. It's my dress. The mesh is hard to come by and it was my absolute favourite."

Aegon immediately regretted not being even more careful, hating to have upset Y/N by ruining her dress.

"I'm so sorry Y/N. Can't it be mended?"

She shook her head softly, looking up at him with a smile devoid of any malice or sarcasm.

"I don't think so. But it's just a dress after all. Thank you for helping me, Aegon."

He bowed his head respectfully as she passed by him.

"Of course."

Aegon watched after her as she disappeared into the walls of the Keep. The dress clearly did matter to her, and so it mattered to him. In the hopes of remedying his error, the Prince went in search of the Keep's seamstress.

Viserys hadn't been best pleased to learn that whilst he was confined to his sick bed, Queen Alicent had not arranged for a banquet to be held in Rhaenyra's honour. This was an oversight he commanded her to resolve quickly. Thus, it was that in a few days hence the family would host a banquet with all the most important nobles in attendance. The whole affair seemed rather farcical to Aegon since this was hardly a friendly visit, with the succession to Driftmark hanging in the balance. He only hoped that the dress he had requested to be made for Y/N would be ready in time. The Keep's seamstress had assured him she would be able to get hold of the same diaphanous mesh material of the one he'd inadvertently torn. Aegon was anxious to please Y/N, to give her a reason to consider him again as a suitor for her hand. He had little doubt his mother and Rhaenyra would be steadfastly opposed to such a match for that had been the case when they were adolescents. But he wouldn't allow their petty arguments to keep him and Y/N apart any longer...provided Y/N felt the same. She seemed increasingly amenable to his advances, taking his arm when offered and allowing him to lead her to meals, and her manner was much warmer and familiar when they talked now than it had been only a few days ago. But he could tell there was still something amiss, a wall she had built up between them he was determined to break down.

On the morning of the banquet, the seamstress knocked on Aegon's door to show him Y/N's completed dress. He was satisfied with the outcome, the material was just as grand as her previous dress had been. He only hoped she'd think so, too, once she saw it. Perhaps she would even wear it later that evening. Before sending the seamstress off to Y/N's quarters with the dress, he quickly scribbled a note to his niece.

Quelos,

Please accept this dress as a replacement for the one I tore in the rose garden, along with my sincere apology. The material is as close a replica of your favourite gown as I could procure. I hope it will still please you and that you will wear it tonight at the banquet.

Aegon

Aegon had already drunk several cups of wine by the time Y/N entered the banquet hall, though it was her elegance and refined beauty that sent him stumbling back a pace rather than the alcohol. She was wearing the dress, and it fit her perfectly, swirling in burgundy pools of fabric around her with the intricately woven black mesh over the top. Returning his gaze to her face, he jolted slightly to see that she was already looking at him too and smiling softly. He felt himself smile back at her by reflex though as soon as he took a step towards her, his mother was calling for all the guests in attendance to take their seats. He made a beeline for the seat next to Y/N, roughly shoving Jacaerys aside and ignoring his cry of indignation.

Aegon heard Y/N trying to conceal a giggle with a cough, and smirked at her as he sat down. He turned to face her, leaning against his hand. "I take it you like my gift then?" Aegon was aiming for mild interest but he was genuinely curious to know what she thought of it. Smoothing the material out on her skirts, Y/N smiled brightly at him.

"I think it is very beautiful. Thank you. You didn't have to."

Aegon leaned further towards her.

"I wanted to."

The evening passed surprisingly pleasantly. Though Aegon didn't know if that was just because he was so preoccupied with trying to make Y/N laugh. He'd earned a pretty endearing snort from her with his impression of Lord Beesbury, much to her embarrassment. Though he did notice her continually glancing at his cup as he allowed a servant to fill it multiple times throughout the night. He normally needed to be drunk to get through these sorts of things, but Y/N's company made him want to stay sober, so he turned his goblet upside-down on the table, stopping a servant from filling it again. Y/N looked at him in surprise, her eyebrow quirked up. Aegon simply shrugged at her, though his ears perked up at something Rhaenyra had said at the other end of the table to his mother.

"The betrothal is all but arranged. There is just the matter of..."

Aegon's heart was thrumming in his ears, cold dread filling him. She couldn't mean Y/N? But the way Y/N was looking sheepishly down at her plate and refusing to meet his eyes all but confirmed it.

"Are you to be married?" Aegon could barely repress the rage he felt, gritting his words out.

Y/N nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes." By the sound of it, she wasn't too pleased about the arrangement either. Aegon grabbed Y/N's hand and pulled her up, ignoring her shocked expression, and he dragged her along with him to the centre of the banquet hall, where a dance was just about to begin.

"Dance with me." It wasn't a request. The time for patience was long passed. Aegon wasn't going to let Y/N slip away from him again to marry some other priggish Lord. He pulled her close to him, speaking lowly with anger lacing his voice.

"When were you going to tell me you were betrothed?"

Y/N looked surprised by his animosity.

"I didn't think it would matter to you. From what I've heard there are many other girls who've taken your interest since I left."

Aegon bristled. She didn't think it would matter to him.

"And we're you jealous? Like I was when you flirted with other lords and knights?"

"No, we no longer have any claims over one another. You can do as you please."

Aegon gripped her waist tighter.

"How can you say that? Is your heart still so hardened to me after what happened at Driftmark that you are blind to how I have pursued you ever since you returned? I apologised for what I said, sent you letters explaining why I had to say it. And you didn't reply to a single one." Aegon's voice was raw, thick with desperation. Y/N stared up at him in confusion.

"You sent me letters? I never received them."

Aegon felt his heart plummet. He had thought her lack of response meant that she hated him. To know she hadn't even read them was just as upsetting.

Aegon loosened his grip, holding her more gently.

"Then you don't know?"

"Know what, Aegon?"

"That I love you. I never stopped."

Y/N took a sharp intake of breath, searching his eyes for the truth in them, he thought. Then her gaze hardened again.

"I apologise if I have given you a false impression, uncle. But I am betrothed. I'm tired now, I think I'll retire for the evening."

Aegon was stunned by her coldness, her harshness after he poured his heart out to her. He was stunned only a short while before he shook himself out of his despondency. No, he didn't believe she no longer felt for him, and he wouldn't allow her to marry another man if there was any possibility of her returning his feelings. He followed her back to her chambers, not bothering to knock before letting himself in. Y/N jumped at the sound of the door opening, looking at him like he had three heads.

"What in the Seven Hells, Aegon! You can't be in here. Someone will see you."

Aegon shut the door behind him.

"I don't care. I need to know if you love him. That fool you said you're set to marry

Y/N shifted uncomfortably.

"I... like him. We like each other."

Aegon took broad steps towards her, stopping only when they were a hair's breadth from one another and placing a hand on her waist possessively.

"Like? Is that all you wish for, to be liked? You deserve to be passionately desired and fiercely loved." He tightened his hold on her for emphasis.

"It doesn't matter what I want. Mother has arranged it."

Aegon frowned.

"Of course it matters."

Y/n placed a hand on his chest to push him lightly away from her.

"What do you want from me Aegon?"

Aegon smiled sadly at her.

"You have to ask?"

Y/N shut her eyes briefly before fixing him with the full force of her gaze, which had long had the ability to bring him to his knees.

"We can't relive the past. Even if I wanted to. It's just too late." All Aegon could hear was that there was a part of her, however small that part might be, that still felt that frenetic energy between them. That wanted him too.

"I think we can. Maybe you'll fall in love with me all over again, if you give me a chance."

Y/N's eyes lit with something he couldn't place before immediately dulling into that blank mask of indifference he'd come to hate.

"Too much has happened. I think you should leave, Aegon"

Aegon grasped desperately at a reason to get her to just listen to him.

"Quelos, please." Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his. In them, a tenderness he'd not seen in years. He nearly sighed with relief at the sight of it.

"No one else calls me that."

Aegon approached her again, though he did not touch her this time.

"You are very like a star. In it's beauty and light. In is cold indifference and untouchable distance from mere mortals like me."

"I'm not indifferent to you." Y/N's reply was so instantaneous he scarcely caught it.

"What?"

"I said I'm not indifferent to you." Y/N was looking at him with such an affectionate expression, Aegon felt his heart was fit to burst. This was as close as she'd come to admitting she still held any feelings for him other than resentment at all.

"That's good. Because I find myself quite often overwhelmed with how much I feel for you. I always have an excruciating need to be near you. To talk to you, even when I have nothing to say. I think I have wished for you and nothing but you my whole life." He whispered the last, as if fearing that voicing his confession any louder would shatter this fragile understanding between them.

He hadn't realised how close he'd come towards Y/N, if he leant forward only a little their lips would touch. He also hadn't realised she was clutching his tunic, pulling him towards her even when she was trying so desperately to send him away.

"Are you telling the truth?" And for once Y/N looked insecure. Had she thought his feelings a lie after Driftmark or had she thought they would change?

"Yes, nuha quelos."

Her eyes widened. He'd never called her "his star" before.

Caught up in her beauty and the growing suspicion she might just feel the same for him, he made to kiss her only to have his head snap back violently when she slapped him.

"Seven hells! What are you? Dragon or girl?"

Holding his throbbing cheek, he relented in his anger as he looked up to see Y/N holding a hand over her mouth, her eyes alight with fear. He softened his voice, dropping his hand from his face so she didn't think she'd seriously hurt him.

"It's alright, Y/N. That was my fault. If you don't want me to kiss you, then I won't."

"But I did want you to kiss me."

Aegon blanked, then threw his hands up in confusion.

"Then why did you slap me, you infuriating woman?"

Y/N shuffled towards him sheepishly, tentatively raising a hand to stroke the red mark she'd left on his cheek.

"Since the day that you first kissed me...I have never been close like that with anyone else. I panicked."

Aegon held her hand in place over his cheek.

"Why?"

Y/n turned her gaze to the floor.

"I didn't want it with someone who wasn't you."

Aegon felt his heart stumble at her words. Smiling tenderly at her, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger to gently turn her gaze back to him.

"Good. I'd kill a man if I knew he'd touched you."

Y/N fixed him with a rueful glare.

"That's hardly fair. I'm supposed to be fine with you whoring yourself about the Red Keep, chasing after every skirt you see?"

Aegon smirked at her.

"So you do care?"

When she made to move away from him in annoyance, he quickly gathered her back into his arms, speaking affectionately to her to make up for his past deviances.

"It is you who has my heart. Who has always held it."

Y/N melted against him, though she still looked a little unsure.

"I don't know what to do."

Aegon stroked her cheek

"I'll teach you."

He leant down slowly, routinely searching her eyes for any doubt, any hint she didn't want him to kiss her. As she tilted her head up to meet his, he pressed their lips together. After a few moments, she began to respond, and it was just like it had been in their youth. Each brush of her lips against his felt like a fire burning through him and like a wound knitting together all at once. It didn't matter to him that she was inexperienced. He only wished he hadn't bothered kissing any other girl's lips. When she pulled away to catch her breath, he pressed their foreheads together, wanting to maintain this closeness between them.

"What did you write in your letters?"

Aegon chuckled at her sudden curiosity, entangling his fingers in her hair.

"Mostly, I was just begging you to forgive me for what I said at Driftmark, telling you I loved you and that I missed you."

Y/N stroked a hand across the plane of his chest.

"I missed you too."

Nuha quelos~my star

Quelos~star

Tagging:

@callsignwidow @lady-dragon-rider

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #hotd #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen oneshot #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen fanfiction #aegon the second #king aegon #aegon ii targaryen #hotd aegon

155 notes · View notes

velvetvisionsaurora · 2 months ago

Text

Synopsis: When talented producer Y/n (known professionally as the mysterious "Celeste") accepts a position at JYP Entertainment to help Stray Kids with their comeback, she expects to focus solely on creating music. What she doesn't expect is the immediate connection she feels with Han Jisung—the group's quick-witted, sensitive rapper and producer who's been following her career from afar.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Heartbreak

<<Previous Next>> Masterlist

Chapter 12: Sacrifices

"So when did you first realize you had feelings for Han?" Hyunjin asked, leaning across the café table with the intensity of a professional interviewer. "Was it love at first sight? Gradual realization? Moment of epiphany?"

"Can you please lower your voice?" you hissed, glancing around the small café nervously. "This isn't a public television special."

It had been three days since Hyunjin's dramatic discovery of your relationship with Han, and you'd foolishly agreed to have lunch with him and Felix—a decision you were rapidly regretting as Hyunjin treated the outing like an exclusive scoop for a gossip magazine.

"He's physically incapable of being discreet," Felix explained apologetically, though his own eyes sparkled with similar curiosity. "But seriously, when did you know?"

You sighed, realizing neither would drop the subject until you offered something. "I don't know exactly. It was... gradual, I guess. Working together, seeing different sides of him. There wasn't one specific moment."

This wasn't entirely true. You could pinpoint several moments when your feelings had crystalized—Han's vulnerable sharing of his solo tracks, your dance at the street festival, his thoughtful apology after movie night. But those felt too personal to share, even with friends who knew about your relationship.

"And the physical attraction?" Hyunjin pressed, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Because I've seen the evidence firsthand, and it seemed pretty intense."

"Hyunjin!" you exclaimed, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as Felix nearly choked on his drink.

"What? I'm just saying what I observed as an objective third party who accidentally walked in on—"

"We know what you walked in on," you interrupted hurriedly. "And I'm not discussing that aspect of our relationship over lunch in a public café."

"Fine, fine," Hyunjin conceded, though his smirk suggested the topic was merely postponed, not abandoned. "Let's talk about the future then. What happens when you go back to LA?"

The question landed like a stone in your stomach, effectively dampening the mood. Nine weeks remained in your contract—a countdown that loomed larger with each passing day.

"We're taking it day by day," you said, repeating the line you and Han had agreed upon. "Not overthinking the future."

Felix studied your expression, his usual playfulness giving way to genuine concern. "That's a good approach in theory, but... feelings have a way of getting more complicated, not less. Nine weeks is both a long time and not long at all."

You pushed your food around your plate, appetite diminishing. "I know. Believe me, I think about it more than I should. But what's the alternative? End things now to avoid pain later?"

"Or consider options that don't involve ending things at all," Hyunjin suggested. "Long distance? Visits? You transferring to JYP permanently?"

"My life is in LA," you reminded them, though the thought didn't bring the certainty it once had. "My career, my apartment, everything."

"Careers can be transplanted," Felix pointed out gently. "Especially for someone with your talent and reputation. JYP would probably offer you a permanent position if you wanted it."

The suggestion wasn't entirely new—the thought had crossed your mind on particularly weak moments when contemplating separation from Han seemed unbearable. But the practical complications were significant, not to mention the professional implications of making career decisions based on relationships.

"It's too soon to be thinking that way," you insisted, as much to yourself as to them. "We haven't even defined what we are beyond 'secret girlfriend' and 'day by day.'"

"Has Han said anything about what he wants after your contract ends?" Felix asked, his perception cutting straight to the heart of your unspoken concerns.

"No," you admitted. "We both avoid the topic. It's easier to just... be present."

"Avoidance as relationship strategy," Hyunjin mused dramatically. "Bold choice."

"Says the relationship expert," Felix teased, nudging him.

"I'll have you know I've had many deeply meaningful relationships," Hyunjin protested with dignity.

"With your mirror, maybe," Felix quipped, causing you to laugh despite the heavy turn in conversation.

"You wound me," Hyunjin clutched his heart theatrically. "But back to the matter at hand—what's your next secret rendezvous with lover boy?"

The nickname made you roll your eyes, though you couldn't help smiling. "Tonight, actually. He's coming over to work on his solo tracks."

"Ah yes, 'work,'" Hyunjin used exaggerated air quotes. "Very professional. Much music. Such production."

"We do actually work," you defended, though your blush probably undermined your credibility. "Just... not exclusively."

"Well, make sure you lock your door this time," Hyunjin advised sagely. "My innocent eyes can't handle another traumatic experience."

"Your eyes are many things, but innocent isn't one of them," Felix laughed.

The conversation shifted to safer topics after that—comeback preparations, the group's upcoming schedule, Felix's latest culinary experiment. By the time lunch ended, your spirits had lifted, the camaraderie with Felix and Hyunjin a welcome respite from the secrecy that characterized most of your time in Seoul.

"Text us if you need alibis tonight," Felix offered as you parted ways outside the café. "Hyunjin and I are masters of distraction if anyone gets suspicious."

"I don't even want to know what that means," you laughed, grateful for their support despite their relentless teasing. "But thank you."

"For friendship and discretion services," Hyunjin declared with a dramatic bow. "We accept payment in cake and gossip."

"I'll keep that in mind," you promised, waving goodbye as they headed back toward the company building while you returned to your dorm.

The afternoon passed slowly as you caught up on production notes and correspondence with your team in LA. Your manager had been sending increasingly detailed questions about your return—projects waiting for your attention, clients eager to work with you again, the apartment you'd sublet that would be available upon your return.

Each message felt like a reminder of the life waiting for you across the ocean, a life that had once been all-consuming but now seemed strangely distant compared to your Seoul existence. The thought of returning to your LA routine—without morning encounters with Felix and I.N., without late-night production sessions with 3RACHA, without Han—created a hollow feeling in your chest that you tried not to examine too closely.

By evening, you'd pushed aside these uncomfortable thoughts in favor of anticipation for Han's visit. You arranged your dorm for both comfort and productivity, making sure your production equipment was set up properly while also tidying away any evidence of the day's disorder. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed your appearance—casual but intentional, comfortable but flattering.

When the knock at your door came precisely at seven, right on schedule, a familiar flutter of excitement coursed through you. Eight and a half weeks into your secret relationship, Han's presence still affected you like the first time, a reaction that showed no signs of diminishing with familiarity.

You opened the door with a smile that faltered slightly when you saw Han's expression. Something was off—his usual warm greeting replaced by a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Hey," he said, stepping inside as you closed the door behind him. "How was your day?"

"Fine," you replied, studying him with growing concern. "Lunch with Felix and Hyunjin, then production notes. Are you okay? You seem..."

"I'm fine," he insisted, though his posture remained tense. "Just tired. Long day at the studio."

You weren't convinced, but decided not to press immediately. "Want something to drink? I have that tea you like."

"Sure," he nodded, setting his laptop bag down but making no move to unpack it. "Tea would be good."

As you busied yourself in the kitchen, you cast occasional glances at Han, who had settled on your couch looking uncharacteristically stiff. None of the usual relaxation that came with being in your private space was evident in his body language. Something was definitely wrong.

"Here," you said, offering him the steaming mug as you sat beside him. "Want to tell me what's really going on?"

Han took the tea with a murmured thanks, staring into the cup as if it might contain answers to questions you hadn't asked yet. After a moment that stretched uncomfortably long, he finally looked up, his expression so serious it sent a chill through you.

"We need to talk," he said quietly.

Three words that never preceded anything good. Your heart rate accelerated, anxiety blooming in your chest. "About what?"

Han set his mug down carefully, as if the simple action required his complete concentration. "About us. This... situation."

"Situation?" you repeated, the word feeling clinical and wrong for what existed between you. "That's what we're calling it now?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Han continued, not quite meeting your eyes. "About where this is going. What happens next."

Your lunch conversation with Felix and Hyunjin flashed through your mind. "I thought we agreed to take things day by day. Not overthink the future."

"That's not sustainable," Han said, his voice flat. "Not with your contract ending in nine weeks. Not with the professional complications. We need to be realistic."

The sudden shift in his perspective blindsided you. Just days ago, he'd been calling you his girlfriend, insisting your connection was worth whatever complications came with it. Now he was speaking like a business consultant assessing risk.

"Where is this coming from?" you asked, confusion mingling with growing dread. "Did something happen?"

Han ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you'd come to recognize as a sign of inner turmoil. "Nothing specific. I've just been thinking more clearly about the situation. The contract clause exists for a reason. Your career has to come first. The comeback is too important for distractions."

"Distractions?" you echoed, the word landing like a slap. "Is that what I am to you?"

"That's not what I meant," Han backtracked, frustration flashing across his face. "But you have to admit, all this sneaking around, the secrecy, the risk—it complicates things that should be straightforward."

"So what are you saying exactly?" you pressed, needing him to be direct rather than circling whatever point he was building toward.

Han took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "I think we should end this. Go back to being colleagues. Friends. Before anyone else finds out and there are consequences we can't control."

Though you'd sensed the direction of the conversation, hearing the words spoken aloud sent a wave of cold shock through your system. "You want to break up."

"I want to be practical," Han corrected, though the distinction felt meaningless. "Felix and Hyunjin know already. It's only a matter of time before someone else discovers us. The professional risk isn't worth it, especially when..."

"When what?" you prompted as he trailed off.

Han's expression shifted to something carefully neutral, as if he'd practiced this part. "When I'm not sure my feelings are as deep as I thought. The secrecy, the forbidden aspect—it probably intensified everything, made it seem more significant than it is."

The statement struck with devastating precision, targeting your unspoken insecurity that the circumstances of your relationship had manufactured an artificial intensity. That without the thrill of secrecy, the connection might prove less meaningful than it seemed.

"You don't mean that," you said quietly, searching his face for signs of the Han you knew—the one who looked at you with unguarded affection, who shared his most personal creative work, who remembered tiny details about your preferences and history.

"I do," he insisted, though something flickered in his eyes that contradicted his words. "I've had time to think more clearly, and I'm not convinced this is more than a temporary attraction complicated by proximity and professional collaboration."

Each word felt calculated to create distance, to diminish what had grown between you. The clinical assessment was so unlike Han—the emotional, intuitive artist who expressed himself through music and poetry—that it raised your suspicions even as it cut deeply.

"So all those things you said about caring about me beyond the physical, about feeling a connection you've never experienced before—that was what? A line to get what you wanted?"

"No," Han protested, genuine distress breaking through his composed facade. "I meant those things when I said them. I just... I think I got carried away with the idea of us rather than the reality."

You stood abruptly, needing physical distance to process the emotional whiplash of his words. "The reality seemed pretty clear when you were calling me your girlfriend three days ago. When did this dramatic realization occur? After Hyunjin caught us?"

"It's been building," Han claimed, though he wouldn't meet your eyes. "The more I thought about the complications, your eventual return to LA, the professional risks—it made me question whether what I'm feeling is worth all that."

"And you decided it's not," you concluded, hurt morphing into anger at his unilateral decision. "Without discussing it with me. Without even giving me a chance to weigh in on my own relationship."

"I'm trying to be responsible," Han insisted, standing as well but maintaining distance between you. "Your career could be seriously impacted if this gets out. The contract clause—"

"Don't hide behind the contract," you interrupted. "If this were just about professional concerns, we could discuss options, find solutions. This is about your feelings changing, or apparently never being what you claimed they were."

Han flinched slightly at the accusation. "I never intended to mislead you. I genuinely thought... but now I'm not sure, and it wouldn't be fair to continue something I'm uncertain about."

The explanation felt hollow, rehearsed—at odds with everything you'd experienced together. But the raw hurt coursing through you made it difficult to see past his words to whatever might lie beneath them.

"So that's it?" you asked, hating the slight tremor in your voice. "We just go back to being professional colleagues like nothing happened?"

"It's for the best," Han said, the phrase sounding like a line from a script rather than his genuine belief. "Better to end things now before they get more complicated, before anyone else finds out."

You crossed your arms, anger becoming a shield against the pain threatening to overwhelm you. "Well, thank you for your honesty, however belated. You're right that professional considerations should come first. The album, the comeback—that's why I'm here, after all."

Han looked like he wanted to say more, to soften the clinical dismissal of what you'd shared, but instead nodded stiffly. "I should go. We both need space to... readjust."

"Of course," you agreed with forced composure. "I'll see you at the studio tomorrow. Nine o'clock, right? For the final vocal arrangements?"

The deliberate return to professional topics created an invisible barrier between you, one that Han seemed simultaneously relieved by and pained to accept. "Right. Nine o'clock."

He gathered his laptop bag—still unopened, you noted distantly, the pretense of working on his solo tracks abandoned entirely—and moved toward the door. There, he paused, turning back with an expression that contained a complexity his words had lacked.

"Y/n, I—" he began, then stopped, whatever he'd been about to say dying on his lips. "I'm sorry."

The simple apology could have meant anything—sorry for starting this, sorry for ending it, sorry for the pain he was causing. Before you could ask, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

You stood motionless in the suddenly empty dorm, the silence deafening after the emotional earthquake that had just torn through your world. The mug of tea Han had barely touched sat cooling on your coffee table, a mundane detail that somehow made the surreal conversation more concrete.

It was over. The connection you'd been nurturing for weeks, the feelings you'd finally allowed yourself to acknowledge and explore, the secret joy that had sustained you through the challenges of your assignment—all finished in a single conversation you hadn't seen coming.

The professional mask you'd maintained during Han's departure crumbled as the reality sank in, tears finally spilling over as you sank onto the couch. The worst part wasn't even the rejection itself, but the clinical way he'd framed it—reducing what had felt profound and genuine to a temporary attraction intensified by circumstance.

Had you completely misread everything? Assigned deeper meaning to interactions that were, for him, merely convenient and temporary? The possibility was humiliating, a professional blindspot you couldn't afford.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Felix: "How's the 'music production' going? 😉"

The innocent teasing, unaware of the dramatic shift that had just occurred, brought a fresh wave of pain. You couldn't bear to respond, to explain that there would be no more secret rendezvous or private moments to joke about.

Instead, you curled into yourself on the couch, allowing the tears to come freely now that you were alone. Tomorrow would require composure, professionalism, the ability to work alongside Han as if your heart wasn't shattered. But tonight, in the privacy of your dorm, you could acknowledge the depth of what you'd lost—not just a secret relationship, but the profound connection that had made Seoul feel like home.

Han leaned against the wall outside your dorm, eyes closed in silent agony as he listened to the faint sound of your muffled sobs through the door. Each stifled cry felt like a physical blow, knowing he was the cause of your pain while being unable to explain the real reason behind his actions.

The memory of his meeting with Manager Kim earlier that day replayed in his mind with merciless clarity.

"Han, a word in private," the manager had said after the morning rehearsal, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "My office. Now."

Confused but compliant, Han had followed, wondering what special project or feedback warranted a private meeting.

Once the office door closed, Manager Kim's professional demeanor had hardened into something more concerning. "I'm going to be direct. There are rumors about you and Producer Y/n having an inappropriate relationship."

The statement had hit like a physical blow, though Han had attempted to maintain a neutral expression. "Rumors? From where?"

"It doesn't matter where," the manager had dismissed. "What matters is whether there's truth to them. You're aware of the contract clause prohibiting romantic relationships between producers and artists, correct?"

Han had nodded, mind racing to identify who might have spoken, who might have seen something. Felix and Hyunjin knew, but he trusted them both implicitly. Perhaps someone had noticed a lingering glance, interpreted a professional interaction as something more.

“I'm not asking for a confession," Manager Kim had continued, his tone softening slightly. "I'm warning you as someone who cares about both your careers. If these rumors are true, end it immediately. If they're false, be even more careful about appearances."

"What exactly would happen?" Han had asked, unable to prevent the question despite it being essentially an admission. "Hypothetically, if there was a relationship."

The manager's expression had turned grim. "For Y/n? Immediate termination of her contract. A formal note in her professional file about breach of contract. Blacklisting from future JYP projects, which would likely extend to other Korean entertainment companies. Her reputation in K-pop production would be essentially destroyed."

The severity had stunned Han into silence, the potential consequences far exceeding anything he'd imagined when balancing professional risk against personal happiness.

“For you and the group," Manager Kim had continued, "it would depend on timing and circumstances. Disciplinary action certainly. Nothing career-ending, but significant nonetheless."

The disparity had been clear—your career would bear the brunt of any discovery, while he and the group would likely weather the storm with minimal damage.

"Like I said," the manager had concluded, standing to indicate the meeting was ending, "I'm not asking for confirmation or details. I'm just ensuring you understand exactly what's at stake. Whatever decisions you make from here should be fully informed."

The "fully informed decision" had been agonizingly clear. Han couldn't risk your career, your professional reputation, everything you'd worked for—not for a relationship that had an expiration date anyway with your eventual return to LA. The only solution was to end things cleanly, decisively, in a way that would ensure you wouldn't fight to continue something that could destroy your career.

So he had lied. Claimed his feelings weren't as deep as he'd thought. Suggested the intensity had been manufactured by circumstance rather than genuine connection. Said whatever would make you accept the ending without questioning too deeply, without pushing back in a way that might lead to discovery.

Each word had been carefully chosen to create distance, to diminish what existed between you, to make the break as clean as possible—and each one had felt like a betrayal of the truth, a denial of the most genuine connection he'd ever experienced.

Now, listening to the muffled evidence of your pain through the door, Han wondered if he'd made the right choice. If there might have been another way to protect you without causing this devastation. But the risk to your career had been too great to ignore, the potential consequences too severe to gamble with.

With leaden steps, he finally pushed himself away from your door, unable to bear the sound of your grief any longer. The walk back to his own dorm passed in a blur of numb detachment, his mind already constructing the professional mask he would need to wear tomorrow in the studio, the composed facade that would hide the truth of his breaking heart.

Nine more weeks of pretending indifference. Nine weeks of working closely together while maintaining artificial distance. Nine weeks of seeing daily reminders of what he'd sacrificed for your protection.

It would be the performance of his life—one with no audience except his own conscience, no applause except the cold comfort of knowing he'd protected your career at the expense of his own happiness.

As he entered his dorm, finding it mercifully empty of roommates who might question his expression, Han allowed himself one moment of complete honesty before locking away his true feelings behind the necessary lie.

"I love you," he whispered to the empty room, the words he couldn't say to your face, the truth that would have to remain his secret burden to bear. "And that's why I had to let you go."

Next>>

Taglist: @iknow-uknow-leeknow @loveconsumingmedia @lze325 @hanniesbubuwife @offl-ine @leaz888 @seungmins-strawberry @hhwangsmoon @river121798 @psychobitchsthings @sammhisphere

62 notes · View notes