#she sees exactly what he sees when he looks at himself

[headkiss]

it’s christmas (this is gonna be a nightmare)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve puts a little too much pressure on himself to make this holiday a magical one. or: 4 times steve messes up your first christmas together, +1 time it's perfect.

word count: 7.4k

content: established relationship, one injury (no blood!), some kisses, a lot of steve's thoughts, and a love confession <3 fluff all around!!!

a/n: a full length fic!! it's a christmas miracle!! thank you to the anon who sent the ask that inspired this fic and to all of u for being here. i love u, happy holidays <3

⁺̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇⊛̇̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇

Steve Harrington doesn’t know too much about what exactly a perfect Christmas looks like. He has his parents to thank for that.

What he does know is that this year has to be just that: perfect. Because this year he has you.

Though you went to high school together, you and Steve properly met in the summer. Right at the beginning of it, where the evenings still have a chill of wind but the sun cuts through it with welcomed warmth. Robin convinced him to take her to the flower shop just outside of town, and you’d been behind the counter to greet them.

Robin recognized you, and she chatted your ear off while you helped her pick a bouquet with the sweetest smile Steve had ever seen and he felt like an absolute moron for never having noticed you before at school. But he noticed you then.

He’d forced Robin to wait for him in the car while he stayed back, bought you your own bouquet of flowers from the store as if you weren’t the one who’d made them, and asked you on a date. Steve fumbled the whole way through, pricking himself with a rose thorn and cussing mid-sentence, but you still said yes.

You’ve been together ever since, and Steve feels incredibly lucky for it. Lucky for how kind you are, how well you fit in with his friends, how much the kids (Max, especially, though he won’t call her out on it) like you. Lucky for being allowed to grab your hand, to kiss you whenever he wants.

And, on the nights you stay over that grow more frequent with each month, lucky to have you fill the space in the Harrington home that usually feels so cold and empty.

So, maybe the holidays make him extra sentimental, maybe he cares a little too much about making sure it’s the best damn Christmas you could have. Maybe, for once, he’s actually looking forward to it all.

Robin startles him into the present — leaning on the counter at Family Video — with a stiff poke to the cheek. “Dude, I can literally tell you’re thinking about her by the look on your face. It’s kinda gross.”

He scoffs at her, even though he probably was making a face. “Sounds like jealousy to me, Buckley.”

“Shut up, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know each other! I deserve compensation.”

Steve hangs his head dramatically. Robin is never letting that go. Ever.

“My friendship isn’t enough for you?” Steve says, placing a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”

“You annoy me,” she says, flicking his arm.

“Ow- whatever. You’ll be free of me in like five minutes.”

Steve checks his watch just to be sure. Robin’s closing by herself today, and while Steve would normally just stay and bother her anyways, he’s got plans that involve you and takeout and napping together on his couch.

As if the thought conjures it, you walk through the door, the bell jingling cheerily above your head, Steve’s car keys dangling from your fingertips. (Yes, he lets you drive the BMW.)

“Thank God,” Robin says when she sees it’s you. “Please get rid of him, he’s getting on my nerves.”

You smile and walk towards Steve, who immediately tosses an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in close, stamping a kiss to the side of your head.

You turn your head to the side and look at him, “What did you do?”

Steve gasps, “Me? Honey, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

You send him a wink, and Steve grins. He fucking loves having you with him, being able to speak without speaking. Your hand grabbing his and squeezing says I missed you, his squeezing back says me too.

“Okay, please remove your public displays of affection from the store and leave me alone with the overplayed Christmas song radio station, thank you.” Robin announces.

“Don’t miss me too much, Robs. I know it’ll be tough,” Steve says, guiding you forward.

“Good to see you, Robin!” you wave on your way out.

“You too!” And just before the door closes behind you, Robin’s voice rings out; “You’re my favourite half of the relationship!”

Your smile widens. Steve is the best thing that’s happened to you, and his friends becoming yours is one of the greatest bonuses you could ask for. It’s like his life made room for you as simply as the ocean’s tide pulls in and out. Gentle and certain.

He catches the keys when you toss them to him, and Steve’s mood just seems to lift and lift on the drive back to his place with you in the passenger seat, Christmas lights lining the streets glowing on your cheeks.

Yeah, he thinks, this Christmas is going to be perfect.

-

1.

That weekend Steve calls you and tells you to be ready by noon and to dress warmly. He doesn’t tell you much else besides his usual ‘see you soon, honey’ or ‘miss you’ murmured sweetly through the phone.

As instructed, you’re dressed in a pair of jeans and one of your favourite knitted sweaters, your brown leather jacket overtop and socked feet stuffed into your Doc Martens. Though you feel plenty warm, Steve will probably fuss over you and hold you close for body heat anyways. And, well, you’d never be opposed to that.

Steve’s BMW rolls into your driveway exactly one minute past twelve, and by the time you walk outside to meet him, he’s already standing on the passenger side of the car waiting to open the door for you.

“Always a gentleman,” you say, kissing him quickly on the cheek.

You slide into the seat that’s become yours for the most part, and Steve ducks down to kiss you properly on the mouth before pulling back, “Mm maybe not always.”

He closes your door and you laugh lightly, your face a little warm even though he’s been your boyfriend for months now. You don’t think you’ll ever be unaffected by Steve Harrington’s charm, ever be used to it being aimed at you.

Of course, you knew of him in school, but knowing the real thing, the kind, caring boy who’d been buried under King Steve back then, is probably the greatest gift you’ve ever had.

Steve drives with one hand just above your knee, his thumb running back and forth over the stitching in your jeans. Still, he doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you, his only hint was to “pay attention to the radio station.”

It’s playing Christmas music. Like that narrows things down a whole bunch.

You chat the entire way. Steve asks you how the flower shop is doing (“Poinsettias are flying off the shelves”), you ask him who he got for the group’s secret Santa this year (“Max. I’m going to need your assistance”). It’s so easy to talk to him, to laugh and joke and not have to worry about what you say or how you come off.

You never knew being with someone could be so easy until Steve.

Eventually, he pulls into the long driveway of a farm. A Christmas tree farm, to be exact, if the wooden arch you drive through is to be trusted.

“What are you planning, Harrington?”

He shrugs, his hand squeezing your knee, “Thought we could pick out a tree together. Put it up at the house. My parents aren’t gonna be around — shocker, I know — I figured we’d do it together. Make it our own.”

Steve pats your leg before letting it go and putting the car in park, his palms dragging over his thighs like he’s suddenly nervous.

“Our first Christmas tree,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, a smile creeping onto your face. He really is sweet. “I love it. Let’s go adopt a tree, Stevie.”

He flashes you a smile before getting out and jogging around the hood to open your door for you. You’ve learned to wait for him to do it since you’ve been together. The last time you tried to open your own door he made you close it again just so he could be the one to open it.

Before, you’d never really cared about that sort of thing, but Steve has single-handedly raised your expectations.

He grabs your hand and leads you towards the classic red and white barn, following the signs painted simply with a tree and an arrow pointing you in that direction.

When you turn the corner and see the selection of trees, however, Steve pauses.

There are maybe seven trees left, none of which are very impressive upon first glance. Their branches are skinny and the pine needles leave a lot of space to see through them. It’s safe to say these aren’t the Christmas trees Steve was hoping to surprise you with.

He was sure there’d be something better left, at least. And he’d been wrong. Minus a point on that perfect Christmas, he supposes.

Still, he walks you to the selection, the farm’s employee greeting the two of you as you walk up; “Hey y’all. Good afternoon!”

“Hey man,” Steve starts, “you wouldn’t happen to have any more trees left, would you?”

“Sorry folks, this is all we’ve got. Most people like to get ‘em early.”

Steve’s hope dwindles, and you can see him deflate a little bit.

You, however, don’t mind one bit. You tug on his arm to get his attention, and Steve turns to look at you, brown eyes shining like honey in the sunlight. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “Even the little trees need homes, right?”

He shakes his head with a small smile. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you tend to talk about plants as if they have feelings. You do it when you tell him about the flowers you sell, too.

“Right as usual, honey,” he decides. “Pick your favorites.”

So, you wind up with two small Christmas trees rather than one full one, and there’s a small victory in it when you and Steve strap them both to the top of the BMW without too much of a struggle.

Another victory when you sing along to ‘Last Christmas’ and hold out your fist as if there’s a microphone in your grip to get him to join you. Admittedly, it isn’t a very good rendition, but Steve loves it all the same.

You have a way of turning things around for him, even without knowing it.

When you get back to Steve’s, he brings both of the trees inside and sets them up before bringing down the bins of ornaments and lights from the attic. He only shouted once when a spider crawled over his hand.

Having two trees makes it easy to turn decorating into a lighthearted competition. You both claim one as your own and decorate them with string lights and tinsel and ornaments. Steve’s mom would probably have an aneurysm seeing them used so haphazardly.

Though by the end, your tree is definitely prettier, Steve still feels like he’s won something as you lean your back against his chest and his arms cross over your own, keeping you there.

As a kid, he wasn’t even allowed to do the decorating. Mrs. Harrington had to make everything look picture perfect, and Steve’s hands didn’t help with that. Not according to her.

Today couldn’t feel more different from those memories of his childhood.

“Yours is better,” he tells you, chin perched on your shoulder, his voice low in your ear.

Objectively, it probably is better (your prior experience with arranging plants was an advantage), but you don’t actually care about that.

Today felt like a little glimpse into the future you and Steve could have. It’s easy to picture it: your own apartment, buying decorations you both actually like, setting it all up together every year.

“I think they’re both brilliant,” you say.

And while today wasn’t what he was picturing, wasn’t what he’d hoped for with his ideal holiday in mind, Steve finds that he can certainly live with that. Your adorable little clap when you’d finished decorating was enough to cement it.

It’s only one thing. He’s got plenty of chances to be perfect later, he guesses.

Steve dips his head and kisses the top of your shoulder over your sweater.

-

2.

You stay over at Steve’s that weekend. You’re both off work, and you find yourself spending your days (and nights) off with Steve more and more.

In the morning, you blink your eyes open slowly, naturally. No alarm set, your boy wrapped around you. It’s how you’ll spend every morning someday.

The sunlight sneaks through a crack in the curtains, cutting a line across Steve’s blue bedding. You squint at it, shifting onto your back gently. Steve’s arm remains slung over your waist as you move, his knee against your leg. You roll your head to the side to look at him, a smile creeping over your mouth at the way his cheek is smushed into the pillow, his lips pouting and hair a mess over his forehead.

Mornings have easily become your favorite time to spend with Steve. He’s cuddling you in some way every single time without fail, even when he wakes up. His voice is all low and gravelly from sleep and it feels like an honor to get to be the one to hear it like that. Usually, you spend an hour in bed with him after waking up. Laying together, talking, kissing. Sometimes (often) more.

You’d stay put right now if you didn’t have to pee so bad.

Slipping out of bed without Steve noticing proves a challenge, his arm tightens over you in his sleep, his brows scrunching. You whisper a soft “I’ll be right back.” He mumbles something incoherent, but his arm relaxes and you’re able to sneak away.

On your way back from the bathroom, you pause and take a peek out the window. You gasp happily at what you see: snow. A bright, white layer blanketing the ground sparkling in the sunlight.

You turn back to the bed and let yourself fall to it with a bounce, earning another grumbled protest from Steve, but there’s no way you’re going back to sleep now. You trail a hand up his arm to his shoulder, giving it a small shake, “Stevie, wake up.”

“Hm?” his eyes scrunch before opening. “What happened, honey?”

“It snowed!”

“Yeah?” he huffs a laugh at your excitement, his hand searching for yours in the sheets.

“Yeah, and it’s so pretty. We should go out before it melts.”

“It’s winter, sweetheart. Not gonna melt that fast.”

“Steve.”

“Okay, okay,” his hand leaves yours in favor of wrapping itself around you again, and he uses it to tug you close again. “Just five more minutes.”

His nose is pressed to the top of your head, and he breathes you in, smiling to himself. Mornings are Steve’s favorite, too. Only when they’re spent with you.

Secretly, he’s also happy about the snow. He was hoping mother nature would be on his side so that he could check yet another holiday item off his list with you. Hopefully one that will turn out nicer than the tiny trees you’d ended up with.

It’s definitely more than five minutes by the time you get Steve to get up and out of bed. You attempt to get him outside right away. He stops you with a: “No snow-related activities on an empty stomach!”

So, it’s a rushed breakfast of bagels and coffee provided by Steve, and then you’re gearing up and heading into the back yard.

The cold bites at your cheeks, and the tip of Steve’s nose is pink within minutes, but you love it.

There’s a snowman built together, snow angels made that get ruined when Steve rolls himself on top of you and steals a kiss or five. Naturally, all there is left to do is have a snowball fight.

You start it when you’re still on the ground, a hand sneaking into the snow to grab a handful and pressing it to the back of Steve’s head. He gasps, and you take the opportunity to push him to the side and get up.

“No fair!” he calls. “I was distracted and you went for the hair.”

“Your fault for not wearing a hat, babe,” you laugh.

“Oh, you won’t be laughing for long, honey. You’re in for it.”

And just like that, you’re running around like kids in a schoolyard, hiding behind trees, slugging snowballs at each other and cheering when you manage to not miss.

Steve silently thanks mother nature or the universe or whatever made it snow for the wide smile on your face, your eyes shining with mirth.

At one point, you’re suddenly distracted by something in the trees, and the snowball is out of Steve’s hand before he sees you start to look towards him again.

It hits you square in the face.

A quick “Ow” comes out of your mouth, though it really doesn’t hurt that bad. Your first reaction is just to let it slip, but Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“Shit, honey.” He runs over to you and cups your face in his hands, his mittens soft against your skin as he brushes the snow from your face. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to get you in the face.”

Minus another point, for sure. Perfect Christmas: -2.

“I know, don’t worry,” you tell him, because he clearly is worrying.

“You okay?” he checks. He literally winces when you sniffle, frowns when he sees the way your eyes water. “Honey. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, Steve, I’m fine,” you reach up and grab his wrists, squeezing them over his jacket. “I’m only crying ‘cause it got my nose. It doesn’t actually hurt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you assure him. “Didn’t you used to play sports in school? Thought athletes had better aim.”

“I was a swimmer, baby. No projectiles involved.” He smiles softly when you laugh, but he can’t stop himself from asking one more time. “You’re really not hurt?”

“It’s just a bit of snow, Stevie.”

His eyes run over your face anyway before he nods. Then, he dips forwards and lightly kisses your cheek, the other, the tip of your nose, and your mouth.

“Well now I’m certainly all better,” you say against his lips.

Steve pulls back but doesn’t go far. “I think this snowball fight is over.”

“Buzzkill,” you tease.

He bends down and picks up a handful of snow before shoving it in his own face.

“Steve!” you laugh.

“There, now we’re even,” he says, snowflakes clinging to his lashes.

You let him lead you inside after that, his arm draping over your shoulders, yours hugging his middle as you walk across the yard.

Once you’ve both shed your layers of coats and boots and hats and mittens, Steve takes you upstairs and runs you a bath to warm you up. He apologizes another two times when he looks at your face for too long, and you have to kiss him to stop him uttering another ‘sorry.’

Hell, if it’s gonna make him this sweet on you, you’d probably take a snowball to the face any day.

Eventually, when the bathtub is full, a layer of bubbles over the surface, you coax Steve into joining you. He leans against the side with you between his knees, back settling into its home against his chest, his chin resting atop your head.

Steve runs his hands over your shoulders, presses kisses into your hair. All along he’s reminding himself that the next thing will go right. He won’t be throwing anything, at least.

-

3.

The next weekend Steve calls you again. He asks you to be ready in the evening this time, but still keeps things vague other than the fact that you’ll be outside and need thick socks.

You have a pretty good idea of what he has in mind, but he’d called it a ‘redemption date’ over the phone and even though you truly don’t think he has anything to redeem himself for, you don’t want to spoil his plans, so you play along.

He comes to the front door when he picks you up this time, knocking gently as if you hadn’t been waiting for him by the windows.

“Hi, honey,” he drops a quick kiss to your lips, “had to come and approve your outfit. Don’t want you getting cold and stealing my jacket again.”

He’s lying, really. Steve fucking loves draping his own jacket over your shoulders and seeing you pull it tighter around you. When that happens, he braves the cold, but he figures that probably won’t be smart for spending hours outside.

“Aww, but yours is so much warmer than mine,” you pout jokingly.

Steve simply grabs your thickest jacket from a hook by the door and holds it out for you to slip your arms into.

As suspected, he drives you to a skating rink. He chose one a town over from Hawkins, where they have twinkle lights strung above the rink and rainbow Christmas lights lining the boards. Steve smiles when you gasp lightly in delight at the sight of it. The brightness cutting through the already dark night sky.

Steve guides you over to the skate rental booth first, bumping his hip into yours when you attempt to pay for the rentals. “As if. My idea, my wallet.”

“You don’t even let me pay when it’s my idea, either.”

“Well, that’s just chivalry, babe.”

You roll your eyes at him and thank the man behind the booth when he hands you both your skates. As you walk towards the lockers and cubbies set up nearby, you lean up and kiss Steve’s cheek, his light stubble scratching your lips.

“Thank you for this,” you say.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he tells you. “Though I should warn you that I’m not very good at this.”

“What? You, not good at something? Please.”

“No, seriously. I’m like bambi on ice.”

You laugh and shove his shoulder weakly, “Don’t worry. I’m probably even worse.”

Steve grins. So far, so good. This one will be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be considering his skating skills.

You sit on one of the benches and Steve puts both of your shoes in one of the cubbies. He ties his own skates first before kneeling in front of you to help you with yours. He knows how to tie them, at the very least.

He helps you slip your feet into the skates first, then tightens the laces on one before peering up at you and checking, “Feel okay? Not too tight?”

“It’s good, Steve. I feel like Cinderella.”

“A perfect fit! She must be the one!”

“Dork.”

“That’s prince dork to you.”

Steve finishes up with your skates, squeezing your ankle before setting your foot down and standing back up.

On the ice, neither of you are very graceful. You hold onto the boards most of the time, and Steve stumbles and nearly falls every few strides, but you’re laughing and having fun, so who cares?

So what if you get lapped by multiple people on the rink, including children? So what if you get some side eyes for being too slow or in the way? Neither of you can bring yourselves to be bothered.

Best of all, Steve keeps a hold on your hand the entire time. He literally saves you from falling with his grip on your hand squeezing and pulling you up straight.

However, your hands being clasped also means that, inevitably, when one of you goes down, you both do.

It happens after a decent amount of laps; your toe pick catches on a dip in the ice and it’s all it takes for you to lose your balance. Steve somehow twists himself to catch the brunt of your fall.

He expected that to come with some pain, a couple bruises, maybe. Instead, his wrist twists painfully against the ice as he falls, as if he’d tried to catch himself with it, and he can’t help the hiss of pain that comes out when he lands.

“You okay, honey?” he asks you.

“Of course I am. I landed on you, Stevie. Are you okay?”

He tests his wrist out by flexing it, wiggling his fingers, and he tries to hide it but he winces when he does, a sharp pain shooting up his arm. “M’fine.”

“Bullshit, I saw that wince, Harrington.” You manage to get back up on your feet and hold out a hand for him to grab, “Up, I’m taking you to the ER.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

“Steve.”

“Baby.”

“Come on, you don’t want to make it worse, do you?” you urge him. “Plus, I’ll only keep worrying and bugging you about it until you let me take you to the doctor. Your wrist is already swelling, babe.”

Mostly because he doesn’t like the thought of you worrying about him, Steve agrees.

When both of your skates are off (your doing, this time) and given back to the booth, you reach into Steve’s coat pocket and grab the keys to the BMW. He doesn’t protest, and that alone tells you he must be hurting more than he’s letting on. You even manage to open your own door for once.

Steve’s quiet on the drive to the hospital, his hand resting limply on his leg. His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezing shut every so often when a burst of pain comes. You do your best to avoid any pot holes or bumps along the way.

Once there, you make him sit in one of the waiting room chairs, “I’ll get the check in forms and everything. Stay put, yeah?”

“Your wish is my command,” he says, trying to joke. His voice wobbles a tiny bit, though.

It’s at least an hour of waiting before someone can see him (and that’s including your many pesterings to the front desk). You don’t mean to be a bother, but you’ve never seen Steve injured in any serious capacity, and it’s messing with your head.

He took the weight of that fall to make sure you wouldn’t get hurt. The way he pays attention to things like that is one of the many reasons you love him.

You love him. You haven’t said the words to each other yet, but you’ve felt them for a long time already. It’s hard not to love Steve Harrington.

Finally, the doctor takes him back, and you follow. After an x-ray and some prodding, he determines that it’s a sprained wrist and that he should keep it wrapped for a few weeks to make sure it heals. They give him a prescription for some mild painkillers, too, for the first couple of days.

You breathe a sigh of relief knowing it isn’t broken, but Steve’s shoulders are still slumped.

He’s in pain, sure, his wrist now wrapped up in a tensor bandage, but really he feels defeated at messing yet another thing up. Third strike.

Steve lets you guide him back to the car and drive back to his place. You’ve decided you’re staying the night to take care of him, and as much as he hates looking weak or feeling useless, he’s glad to have you around.

You dote on him back at home, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer after making sure he’s settled on the couch, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven, bringing him meds and water.

“Honey, it’s just a sprain. Please stop fussing and sit with me.”

His brown eyes shine a little, and you could never say no to him when he looks at you like that.

You sit beside him and he drops his head to your shoulder, your hand coming up to play with the strands at the nape of his neck, scratching his scalp gently. His uninjured hand rests on your thigh and squeezes.

“Best painkiller ever,” he says.

-

4.

Steve has convinced himself that nothing could possibly go wrong this time around.

His plans for today involve staying at home, just you and him, no outside forces to deal with or avoid. So much less potential for failure. That’s what he thinks, at least.

Steve knows nearly every piece of you, so, obviously he knows you like to bake. You’d made him a cake for his birthday, and every so often you bring him other treats from home. Naturally, that meant that there was no way he was leaving out Christmas baking.

He’d considered doing gingerbread houses, and then remembered that the last time he tried that in a competition with the kids, his house was nothing more than a messy pile of gingerbread slabs. One with a bite taken out of it.

So, considering his past failures this holiday season, he’d settled on something that he thinks — hopes — is really hard to mess up: sugar cookies.

His mother’s collection of cookbooks had never been used for more than decoration until now. Steve searched through them until he found a recipe, wrote down the ingredients, and bought them at the grocery store to make sure he had everything.

In school, he never did much studying, but he reread the hell out of that recipe in order to get at least this one thing right.

The tensor bandage is still wrapped around his wrist, which is fucking annoying, really. He has to adjust it every day, and it’s hard to do with a single hand. He much prefers when you do it for him, sealing it with a featherlight kiss.

Worse, the thing still hurts, and you refused to let him drive and put more strain on it than necessary, so you took the bus and walked the rest of the way to his house.

He’s got all of the ingredients and tools laid out on the island when you ring the doorbell. “Hurry up, Harrington, it’s freezing!”

Hurry he does. He lets you in and helps you unwrap yourself from your bundle of a scarf and hat and mittens and jacket. Steve dips in to kiss your cheek, your skin cold against his lips. “Wouldn’t have to freeze if you let me come get you.”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself for no reason, I’m fine,” you grab his uninjured hand and kiss the pads of his fingers, “and I like these hands.”

He smiles at your words, smug, “Yeah, I know you do, honey.”

You shake your head at him, but you’re smiling all the same, “I take it back. Your ego is getting too big.”

“Nooo, it’s just the right size,” he winks.

“Don’t you have plans, Steve?” you ask, changing the subject. “Getting a little off track, aren’t we?”

“Later, then,” he says, taking your hand with his good one and leading you to the kitchen.

You pause at the entryway of the kitchen, scanning over the things on the island, two aprons Steve must’ve dug up from somewhere hanging from the knobs of the cabinets.

“Tada,” he says, “we’re making cookies.”

“This might be my favourite one yet, Stevie.” You walk over and grab one of the aprons, leaving the other (a pink floral number) for Steve. “I’m in charge, though.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says, taking the other apron without a complaint. “This is your kitchen today, chef.”

“Mm. That has a nice ring to it.”

“Chef honey,” he says, planting a kiss where your neck meets your shoulder, breath warm even through your shirt.

You get started after that. Predictably, you make a mess with flour on the island and mixing bowls strewn about the surface. You get distracted with a bit of a flour war somewhere in there, Steve smudging it onto your cheek, you onto the tip of his nose.

When it’s time to roll out the dough and cut out the cookies, Steve grabs a handful of cookie cutters from one of the drawers, setting them onto the counter with a small clang. They’re all holiday themed. Candy canes and snowmen and Christmas trees.

“Someone’s prepared,” you say, bumping your hip against his.

“I run a serious establishment here, baby.”

“I thought I was in charge.”

Soon enough, after sneaking bites of raw cookie dough and cutting out as many cookies as you could manage, they’re placed into the oven, the timer set.

You end up in the living room, a random channel playing on the TV while the cookies bake. It starts innocently enough, just sitting next to each other, shoulders and thighs pressed together.

Then, Steve’s good hand wanders, starting above your knee and moving up and up until he’s squeezing the top of your thigh, tracing patterns with his thumb. When he speaks a husky, “Come closer?” how could you ever say no?

So, somehow, you’ve ended up straddling Steve’s lap, his injured hand resting loosely on your waist, the other pressed in between your shoulder blades to keep you close. Yours are in his hair, running through the strands, tugging even.

It grows heated fast, and all of a sudden you’re making out like a pair of teenagers, Steve urging you to press further down in his lap, to writhe there while his mouth works yours until it’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

The room feels warmer, Steve’s jeans tighter over his lap, your chest bumping against his, hearts racing. Even just kissing him feels better than anything you’ve ever had in the past.

He kisses you like he’s starved everytime, sometimes a ravenous hunger, like now, or, when he’s gentler, something tender and soft. A sweet tooth.

The cookies are long forgotten. The timer sounds and nobody hears it. You would keep going forever, if you could. But then there’s the smell that hits your nostrils. The smell of something burning.

“Steve?” you say against his mouth.

“Uh-huh?” he breathes.

“Do you smell that?”

He pulls back, and it’s immediately after you say the words that the alarm goes off, piercing through the air, killing the mood, much to your dismay. Even more to Steve’s.

“Fuck,” he groans.

You’re both rushing to the kitchen then. You, fumbling off his lap, him beating you to the kitchen and frantically taking the baking sheet out of the oven and turning the thing off. You grab a towel from the counter and start fanning beneath the alarm to get it to go off, and when the cookies are dealt with, Steve joins the efforts.

Eventually the thing stops beeping, and you both rest your arms. The room still looks a little cloudy, the cookies black at the edges.

Steve doesn’t say anything, only rests his elbows on the island and slumps his head, defeated.

He’s so frustrated with himself. Not for kissing you. No, he could never be mad at that, but at the outcome of his final attempt at a holiday date going south again.

You frown at him, walking over and placing a hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “Steve? You okay?”

“I just- I messed it up again.”

“Hey, I’m as much to blame as you are. It takes two to tango, as they say.”

He huffs a weak laugh, picking his head up and twisting to look at you. Your pretty face, eyes nothing but kind. Fuck, he loves you, and he just wanted to show you that. To make Christmas as magical as it's supposed to be.

“I really wanted it to go well, you know?”

You realize then that he’s not only talking about today. That he’s been putting this pressure on himself all month to make plans and something has happened every time. You don’t blame him for that, if anything, it makes your heart ache with adoration.

“Steve, it doesn’t matter to me. Things happen, it’s okay,” you kiss his bicep lightly. “I’d rather things go a bit wrong with you than to have them go right with someone else. You are the best part.”

“I-” love you, he almost says. But he doesn’t want the first time to be like this, in a room that still stinks. “You’re the best part for me too, honey.”

You decide that next time, it’s your turn to do something for him.

-

+1

Steve comes home from work on Christmas Eve, eyes tired and feet hurting despite having worn relatively comfortable shoes today.

He’d tried to get the day off, tried to be able to spend it with you in bed for hours and hours and not getting up until the afternoon. Keith had other plans for him.

He even tried to dramatize his wrist injury. Still, he was forced to go in.

Walking up the driveway, Steve sees the glow of lights inside filtering through the curtains. He’s fairly certain he hadn’t left any on, but he also knows he’s often wrong about these things, so he shrugs it off and goes inside.

There’s noise coming from the living room. Crackling of the fireplace that he barely ever uses, music playing quietly, and then he hears you humming along.

“Honey?”

“Yup, it’s me!”

You know where the spare key is, Steve’s the one who told you the information and encouraged you to use it, but you’ve often been too nervous to do so. Not today, it seems.

While Steve was at work, you’d set up your plan for him.

He follows the sound of your voice without much of a thought, a moth drawn to a flame. When he turns into the living room, he stills.

There are strings of warm white Christmas lights hung about, the fireplace is actually housing a fire, and in front of it is a fort made up of red and green and white blankets and pillows. Some plaid, some with snowflakes, all Christmas themed.

“Did you do all of this?” he asks, walking slowly to where you stand by the fort.

“Figured it was my turn to organize a date, don’t you think?”

“Baby. This is all really sweet, but wha-”

You cut him off, “Uh-uh. Let me explain.” You reach for Steve’s hands, and he meets you in the middle willingly. Suddenly nervous, you shift your weight on your feet. “I thought we could do presents a little early.”

His brows scrunch, “But Christmas is tomorrow.”

“Please?” you ask, squeezing his hands once.

And, really, Steve would never say no to you. Especially not when you’re saying ‘please’ all sweet and delicate like that.

“Okay,” he says. “Yours is in my room. I’ll go grab it. And change; I smell like Family Video.”

“‘Kay, Stevie.”

You kiss his cheek before he goes for good measure.

Steve is confused the entire time, wondering what it could be that you’re up to, but he does as he said he would. You’d been wearing a set of pyjamas (one he loves on you; a soft baby blue pair of shorts with a matching sweater), so he goes for one of his pairs of plaid pants and a plain t shirt before grabbing your messily wrapped gift bag from where he’d hidden it under his bed.

Back in the living room, he finds you now settled on the ground of the fort, which you’d lined with fuzzy blankets and the biggest of the pillows. His gift is sat beside you, a gift box wrapped in a lovely bow. Your skills of wrapping bouquets are transferable, he’s learned.

He joins you, sitting across from you, but close enough that your legs tangle and knees bump.

“You go first,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he scratches the back of his neck, handing you the gift bag. “Let me explain it before you say anything.”

That grabs your attention, but your plans aren’t about his present to you, really, and you know you’ll love it no matter what because Steve knows you better than anyone.

You lift out tissue paper first, uncovering multiple different things inside the bag, also wrapped. It pieces together as you go. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, your entire skincare routine, a couple of pyjama and underwear sets.

“It’s so you don’t have to bring an overnight bag every time you stay over now. I, um, cleared out a couple of drawers in my dresser and the bathroom.”

“Steve,” you look at him, heart squeezing. It’s so thoughtful, so him, and you surge forward you wrap your arms around his neck and breathe into his skin, “I love it. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Perfect.

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you sit back into your spot. “You know I hate carrying things.”

“I never let you carry anything, honey.”

“Exactly,” you nod. Now, you hold out his gift for him to take, “Your turn.”

You watch Steve’s hands as he tugs the bow undone, then lifts the lid of the box.

Nestled inside are four delicate ornaments. A Christmas tree, a snowman, an ice skate, and a plate of cookies. One for every date he’d planned for you.

Steve frowns at them, not because he doesn’t like them, but because he doesn’t quite understand where you’re going with this.

“I thought it was time we started collecting our own ornaments. For our place, one day,” you tell him.

“They’re lovely, but honey you- you really wanna remember these things?“ he shakes his head, more at himself than you. “I messed ‘em all up.”

“There’s one more thing in there,” you say quietly.

The thing you're nervous about. A thing you’ve never said out loud before.

Steve finds it beneath one of the ornaments, a small piece of paper folded up. When he opens that, his heart stutters in his chest. Written in your handwriting are three words: I love you.

He blinks away from the paper to look at you, though his thumb continues to trace the words absentmindedly. “Honey-”

“I love you, Steve. Okay?” You shift closer, kneeling at his side, your hands coming up to frame his jaw, your fingers kind against his skin. “I don’t care that things didn’t go how you planned. I mean, I would rather you didn’t require an ER visit, but the point is that I don’t need things to be perfect. And I know you’ve been hard on yourself trying to make them so.”

He lets go of the paper and reaches up to grasp your wrists, his thumb finding your racing pulse. His uninjured hand holds on tighter than the other.

“Thank you for trying for me,” you continue, “for caring. But no matter what happens, things are perfect for me. Because I get to do them with you. Got that, Harrington? You’re perfect, and I love you, and-”

He shuts you up with a kiss. It’s a simple but firm press of his lips against yours, but it says enough.

“I fucking love you too, honey,” he says, his forehead against yours, lips only a breath apart. “You saying all of that it means — you mean a lot to me.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

“I know you did,” he nods. Steve pulls back the tiniest bit to be able to see your face fully, his sweet brown eyes locked on yours. “I wanted our first Christmas to be perfect, and I didn’t wanna let you down, but you’re right. They were perfect, because you’re here. And I love you for bein’ here.”

“As long as you’ll have me,” you say. You push his hair off his forehead before letting go of his face and sitting back, “Why don’t you give those ornaments a try?”

“On those trees?” he asks, eyebrows lifted, voice joking.

“Steve.”

”Okay, okay.”

He picks up the skate first. Surprising, considering that one had ended in a physical injury for him, but you say nothing and watch him walk over to your little trees by the window. You join him, sitting on the arm of the couch nearby while he scans over the tree.

“Pick a spot, handsome,” you encourage. “There’s really no wrong answer here.”

He goes to hang the first ornament, hand wavering before setting on a branch.

“Well, maybe not-” Steve tackles you onto the couch before you can finish. You dissolve into giggles as he pokes at your ribs, his head on your chest.

Steve’s done keeping score.

Perfect Christmas. That’s it.

⁺̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇⊛̇̇̇̇⁺̇̇̇◍̇̇̇⁺̇

thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed please please consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog and letting me know what you thought! it would mean a bunch of<3

[ellecdc]

her father's daughter

prompt from @unstablereader: Barty getting a mini Treasure but then they pull a face that's all him "nonono don't pull that face, don't pull that face. You're mum worked hard to give you such a cute face, don't ruin it. Much better."

dad!Barty Crouch Jr x mum!reader and their daughter who is very much his [666 words]

CW: kid fic, kid uses a sign for 'more', Barty being very concerned about being a dad but obviously throws his whole pussy into it, fluff

Barty never really planned on being a dad. Hells, he never really planned on being a partner, either. But then he went and fell in love - also never part of the plan - and he somehow found himself being both. 

More surprising, however? He bloody loved it. 

He loved being a husband; he loved cooking meals for his wife, he loved running you baths, he loved hearing about your day as you drew soft circles into his back as the two of you drifted off to sleep, he loved starting every day of his life with you and ending it in much the same way. He even loved fighting with you, knowing that it meant he got to grovel on his hands and knees to beg for your forgiveness. He loved being wrong, he loved you being right. He loved love. He loved you. 

And then you fell pregnant; not exactly planned but not entirely prevented either. He’d been shocked, quite frankly. Terrified; who was he to be bringing a new life into the world? Didn’t the world have enough arseholes in it? Didn’t the world suffer from enough ill equipped fathers who had no business being parents raising a new generation of ill equipped fathers? Quite frankly, it was irresponsible of Barty. Selfish. Dangerous. 

But, Barty was nothing if not a selfish bastard, and it was you; his wife, his love, his treasure, his entire world. 

And if you were having a baby? Well, fuck, so was Barty. 

And you were perfect, and beautiful, and graceful, and strong, and grew new life so elegantly that gods dammit, Barty didn’t think he’d entirely mind if you fell pregnant again. 

And then he met her; your daughter. His daughter. 

Though looking at her sweet, angelic face, Barty wondered if he could take any credit for her perfection at all; she was your carbon copy. An exact replica. Your little mini me. 

Barty was in love; she was perfect. 

And then she had to go and prove that she was, indeed, her fathers daughter. 

“Sorry, my love, we can’t have any more biscuits before dinner, okay?” He responded, smacking a kiss to her pudgy cheek before making to return his attention to the stove, only to notice his sweet, beautiful, perfect child pulling a face that did not suit her at all. 

“Whoa, whoa. No, no. Don’t do that.” Barty ordered, abandoning dinner to station himself in front of his daughter's highchair to level with her. “What’s that face for, hm?” 

She held her hand out in a sign signalling ‘more’. 

“You’ve had three, baby, and dinner’s almost ready!” 

And then - his beautiful, sweet, perfect, angelic daughter - actually huffed as she crossed her arms across her little chest and rolled her eyes!

Could babies even do that?!

Clearly, seeing as his baby just did. 

“No, no; don’t pull that face. Your mum worked so hard to give you such a cute face, yeah? Don’t ruin it.” He nearly begged, pressing a finger to each corner of her mouth as he tried to pull it back up into a smile. “Come on, smile for daddy, give daddy a smile.”

His cooing (and begging) seemed to work when her face lit up, eyes bright and dimples making an appearance when she squealed and banged her hands against the table in delight. 

“There’s my girl.” He sighed in relief, tickling her and pressing another kiss to her cheek before returning to his intended task of preparing dinner. “Listen, don’t tell mum, but after dinner I’ll give you three more biscuits, okay?” 

“Don’t tell mum what now?” You asked teasingly, suddenly standing behind your daughter's highchair and startling Barty into dropping the spoon into the sauce he’d been stirring. 

“Nothing! What? Salazar’s saggy balls. Hi treasure!” He rapid fired, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline as he tried to evade your piercing and perceptive gaze. 

His daughter's eyebrows were stationed high up on her forehead, too. 

Yup, she was definitely her father’s daughter.

[sparrow-and-seed-scrawls]

The father had turned on the night light. The flickering orange glow lit the hallway like a torch, so the darkness wasn’t what troubled the child.

He’d tucked each beloved stuffed animal into the child’s bed, careful not to lose any of them beneath the comforter lest they become fearful of the dark. The boy had seen it himself, so that wasn’t the cause of his woe.

Had the father checked the closet and beneath the bed for monsters and thieves?

He combed through the night’s events, then nodded. Yes, he had. He’d even checked the toy box for signs of the great green eyes or dagger-like claws the boy was afraid of.

“What is it?” the father asked finally, cradling the sobbing child close. “Did I forget something?”

The boy choked on words. His pajamas were wet with tears, and his pale blue eyes didn’t meet the father’s gaze.

“Whatever it is, I won’t be mad,” the father said. Had the child been hurt? Had he done something he was ashamed of?

The father flipped through every possible scenario he could think of and came up empty-handed. What was troubling the child so?

The man had never had a child before. He’d read every book he could get his hands on, attended first aid and childcare classes, gone so far as to watch Internet videos about raising a child—which, of course, he’d never admit to anyone. But, with all his knowledge, why couldn’t he find an answer to the distress?

Was it due to the child’s parentage? His thin curls and pale, pale eyes had been the sign of something different even before the round of his ears had gone.

He’d found exactly one confidante who knew what the child was. Who knew what to teach the child about, what things the father needed to know, what he could do to protect the child until his true parents returned for him.

But, after nine years, the child’s parents had not yet returned. The father could see on the elven teacher’s face that even she didn’t know if the parents would ever come back for him.

“It’s not common,” she said once, “for my people to abandon their young in the mortal world. I can only presume something happened to them. Until the boy is of age to return to our lands—until he is able to make that journey—”

The father knew what she was going to say. “—I am responsible for his safety,” he finished.

And so that was that. He was the father of a fantastical child until that child came of age.

Yet, even after nine years, the father rarely knew the right thing to say and do. He wiped the child’s tears and pushed his hair from his forehead now, and the child still cried.

After a long, endless moment, the child looked up, and his face crumpled. “I don’t want you to die.”

Ah.

The breath caught in the father’s throat.

The teacher must have gone over that with him.

The fact that the human race was nowhere near as long-lived as the elves was not new information to the father. He’d turned it over in his head again and again.

Even if he did live as long as the child would, it wouldn’t make a difference. The child had his own life and people to return to once the time came, and the father would return to prior things.

It was no one’s fault. Both things—lifespan and other lands—were mere truths of the small family’s existence.

Mere truths that, even so, felt insurmountable at the moment.

“I will die long after you return to your land,” the father said gently. “You will hardly think of me.”

The boy cried harder at that. “I will think of you! Every day!”

“But it will not be thoughts of my death. You will think of the stories before bedtime, burnt pots of macaroni, and staying up to watch the stars. You will think of drives to the park and learning to read.”

The boy sniffled, though his tears had slowed. “But when you die, I won’t know.”

“And there is no reason to know. I would much rather you think about the things like…” the father thought for a moment. “Like when you got scared of the teddy bear’s shadow in the nightlight!”

The boy laughed.

“Or when we didn’t bake the cake long enough and it fell apart on our forks. Chocolate slime!”

Another laugh, this one louder. “Or when you pretended to be Santa but your beard fell off?”

“Yes!” The father let boy from his arms. “Exactly.”

The boy offered a grin, albeit a tired and watery one. He slid off the bed and stood still for a moment.

“So it will be alright?”

“Of course it will be. I won’t let you forget those things,” the father answered. “Now, go to bed. You have lessons tomorrow.”

The boy obeyed, stopping at the door for only a moment to do the special wave he and the father had made up.

The father returned it in kind, and then the door shut. He listened for the soft patter of footsteps back to the boy’s room, and, once they disappeared, he gave a sigh of his own.

Without the orange glow of the nightlight, darkness seemed to engulf him entirely.

Things would be alright. The child was only a temporary part of his life, and soon enough the father would be back to things as they had been nine years ago.

Things would be alright.

He would have to convince himself of that. He’d allowed himself to care too much for the child, hadn’t he? And now he was breaking at the thought that none of it was truly real.

Things would be alright.

He’d always known that it was temporary, so how had he gotten here, so far into the role of father? How could he simply forget this, let it fade into the mundane day-to-day?

It was what it was. That’s how it was always going to play out.

For now, he could continue as things were. Nothing was changing.

Things were going to be alright.

They would have to be.

You're a single human parent of a Elf child, today has you ready yourself for bed you hear them burst open the door with tears in their eye as they jump into bed with you and hold onto you tight, has you comfort them you hear them say through their whimpering and sobs "i don't want you to die".

[lidiasloca]

despite the hatred, despite the love

azriel x reader

summary: the inner circle atends Helion's party to meet his new second in command, and while she seems to be just a beautiful girl, the hatred that Azriel feels for her and displays for everyone to see isn't bought by his brother, who will soon find out there is something more than hate between them... maybe even love.

Helion’s speech was at its end, and yet… no sight of Y/N.

Azriel shifted on his feet, scanning the party room. Cassian noticed and walked over to his brother, ready to try to break through his enigmatic demeanor—or laugh at him. Both worked for the Illyrian warrior.

“Who are you looking for, Az?” He clasped a hand on his tense shoulder, making him step forward to balance himself, both from the force of the gesture and from the disruption of the bubble he had been isolating himself in.

Azriel coughed. “No one.”

Cassian didn’t buy it—not one bit. But he knew there was no way of getting through Azriel’s thoughts unless it came willingly from him.

So he changed the subject. “Y/N. I’ve heard she’s quite the beauty.” Azriel quickly turned to face him.

“What?”Cass laughed. “If she’s being promoted to second-in-command—Helion’s second-in-command—she must be incredibly beautiful.”

“Maybe it’s not about her beauty. Maybe it’s because she’s simply good at politics,” Azriel explained plainly.

“Azriel,” Cassian snapped between chuckles. “It’s Helion we’re talking about.”

As if summoned, the High Lord of the Day Court appeared, a cocky grin on his face. “I wasn’t aware my favorite Illyrian warriors were fond of gossip.”

“We’re not,” Azriel hissed.

Helion’s smile only grew, eyeing his favorite male in the room. “Someone’s ruder than usual—it turns me on, not going to lie.”

“Is there anything that doesn’t turn you on?” Cassian inquired, making Helion finally detach his eyes from the handsome Shadowsinger.

The Lord of Bloodshed wasn’t a bad sight either. Not at all.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Helion, will you stop looking at me as if I were food? I enjoyed it some years ago, but now, let me tell you… it makes me feel a bit objectified.”

At that, Azriel finally turned his full attention to them, a faint smile playing on his amused face.

The High Lord huffed a laugh. “Well, let me tell you, Commander, I wouldn’t even notice you, had my beautiful second-in-command gifted us with her ethereal presence.”

Cassian’s eyes sought his brother’s, silently saying, I told you so.

But he didn’t find them. The Shadowsinger was looking elsewhere. Looking at someone else.

Cassian’s lips parted in surprise when he found what his brother beheld.

“Exactly,” Helion beamed, following their eyes to the girl walking down the stairs. “Y/N.”

Azriel was the most lost of them all. If anyone asked, he’d justify his piercing stare, his fixated gaze, his slightly parted lips, and the subtle tremor of his jaw as part of his skills—his excruciatingly detailed memory, trained to notice every nuance.

The way her midnight-blue dress flowed.

The graceful curve of her creamy neck, rising and falling with each breath.

Her lips parting. 

Her eyes shifting—watching there, glancing here, and finally meeting his.

Azriel’s gaze locked with hers.

For a moment, it was just the two of them in the room as Y/N walked toward your High Lord, still not looking away.

“Hello, beautiful. Over here,” Helion called, making her look. 

And she was back in reality. At this party. With people all around, not only Azriel.

“Hello,” Y/N smiled, moving to facilitate the kiss Helion placed on her cheek. She caught a glance of Azriel’s dangerous eyes, following every move the High Lord made.

“Congratulations, my darling,” Helion said, patting her shoulder.

She nodded in thanks, now noticing the other male around you.

“I’m Cassian,” he said. “Commander of Rhysand’s armies.” He gestured with his chin to a male talking to some people not too far away—his High Lord.

She met his eyes again. “I’m Y/N, spymast—” She cut herself off, quickly realizing. “Second-in-command of the Day Court.”

“Well, that I know,” Cassian laughed. “That’s what this party is all about.”

Flush rose on her cheeks, and she added, if only to make them forget how stupidly she was behaving, “Didn’t Helion tell you this was just another one of his excuses to have a party?”

At that, Helion placed a gentle hand on your waist, pinching.

He and Cassian laughed. Azriel didn’t, glaring at the hand now falling to Y/N's waist.

“No, he didn’t,” the spymaster cut in. “Maybe he was too busy being under the sheets with his second-in-command.”

Y/N's breath caught, and Helion stilled at the murderous tone.

Her eyes blazed with fire, piercing through the Shadowsinger. Were it not for her learned diplomacy, she might have leaped toward him without hesitation.

“Azriel,” Cassian warned—even he was surprised.

“It’s okay,” Y/N said, venom lacing her words. “He’s probably bitter I got promoted, and he has to continue killing and torturing for a living.”

Then silence. Cassian and Helion stared silently, conscious of the tension.

“Y/N!” The High Lady appeared at her side, linking elbows with her High Lord.

Saved by the bell.

Y/N's eyes still glared at the Shadowsinger as she greeted her back. Now everyone’s eyes were on the two.

“So…” Rhysand gulped, his eyes darting between Y/N and Azriel. “What have we missed?”

“Nothing new,” Helion said.

“Oh,” Cassian breathed, putting the pieces together. “So you already knew each other?”

Azriel was silent, so Y/N made herself speak. “Back from when we both were spymasters. We ran into each other often enough that we started getting to know one another.”

It didn’t go unnoticed—the long glance Y/N aimed at Azriel.

He didn’t meet your eyes, though, and she knew very well why. The guilt in his eyes told you all her needed to know.

Good—let him feel bad.

“I didn’t know,” Rhysand spoke, trying to catch an explanation through Azriel’s face. “It would’ve been useful to know…”

Y/N didn’t have to ask him to finish the sentence to read between the lines.

It would’ve been useful to know that he and Y/N knew each other so he could ask her to handle the mission instead of him.

The mission that Azriel refused to let her take part in, even though Y/N could have completed it more easily, living here as she did.

The mission that he had to complete tomorrow. The true reason why he was here today.

The mission that could get him killed.

Azriel snapped his eyes to hers, hurt and hatred—a thin line his face seemed to confuse.

Y/N sent every bit of your hurt back to him. 

“You surely know by now, High Lord, that Azriel likes to keep a lot of information to himself. Sometimes I even wonder if that’s his actual name… Azriel.”

Azriel met her eyes at last, and the fire that burned in them was nothing short of scary. 

Then, without a word, the spymaster turned and walked away.

Y/N watched each step he took as the others watched her in shock.

One step, another, and another. 

Once she realized he truly wasn’t going to turn back to her, she started walking after him, anger becoming the force that pushed the girl forward. 

Once Y/N and Azriel were both out of sight, Cassian drew a breath. “Well—that was something.”

“I’ve never seen Azriel… like this,” Feyre said.

Rhysand’s eyes were on Helion, though, trying to figure out what his knowing smile meant. 

“Pray to tell, High Lord.” His tone was command enough for Helion to stare, think, and then chuckle.

“These two,” he breathed, a faint smile on his lips. “I don’t know much. Y/N doesn’t say much. But the other times I’ve seen them together… let me tell you, you never know if they’re going to kiss or kill each other.”

Feyre eyed him in confusion. “What happened between them?”

Helion shrugged his shoulders, daring a look in Cassian’s direction, smirking at him as if there was something else about it.

The general’s smirk was a full sentence in itself.

… 

The night chill welcomed Cassian onto the terrace, along with the nod Helion gave him.

This way, his eyes seemed to say in the dark.

Cassian let him lead, despite the winning grin on the High Lord’s face that set him on edge.

But curiosity overthrew his pride. Azriel and that girl, Y/N… he had to know what exactly that glazed look in Azriel’s eyes meant.

While it may have seemed like hatred at first sight, Cassian knew better about that type of flame in someone’s eyes.

So here he was, silently walking to the wall where Helion had stopped, peeking to see what Cassian finally saw when he approached him.

“Hide,” Helion hissed, but the general was too lost in the scene unfolding in front of him.

Thanks to his faerie senses, Cassian could make out the conversation between his brother and…

Y/N.

“That doesn’t give you any right to insult me,” she told Azriel, and though he was turned away, Cassian could gather enough of his reaction from his dropped shoulders and wings, as if the forever-composed spymaster was about to crumble to the ground.

“I was angry.” Cassian almost didn’t recognize the faint voice that slipped past his brother’s lips. “And you… you were letting him touch you like—”

“Like what?!” Y/N yelled, taking a valiant step toward Azriel, daring him to make the killing blow.

But his brother knew better.

“I’m sorry,” was what he said instead, and Cassian let out a relieved breath—the scene felt oddly familiar to him.

Fighting with the one you loved was the fight a true warrior wasn’t prepared for, Cassian thought.

But was Y/N the one Azriel loved?

His brother had said nothing about it. Cassian had never seen them together. He had never truly heard of her… she couldn’t be. They… hated each other. 

Yet—there was something in the way she looked at him. Hate, one might think.

Longing, Cassian thought.

Completely out of his mind, Cassian took a step toward them, dismissing Helion’s warning.

Careful step after step, the general approached them and only stopped when he saw it. The proof.

Y/N raised a trembling hand to Azriel’s face, angling his head delicately at her will.

Cassian had the feeling that if it were her will, Azriel would even jump off the balcony.

The general stood rigidly, watching as she slowly pulled him down—a command, a permission, and a request all at the same time.

But he quickly noticed a sneaky shadow make its way to his brother’s ear as he leaned down.

The Shadowsinger’s head turned instantly to Cassian, who watched them incredulously. Y/N turned too, her face showing pure shock, but she was looking elsewhere.

Cassian turned behind him to find, not only Helion, but also his High Lord and High Lady—watching the scene with open mouths.

Not even a heartbeat later, quick as a blink, Azriel turned to Y/N, and Cassian could have sworn a wave of understanding washed over her eyes before they pierced angrily at the the Shadowsinger.

Then she slapped him.

to be continued...

-Charcaters by Sarah J Maas

azriel masterlist

BASED ON THIS REQUEST

a/n: i LOVE this idea so much, and i thank you, anon, for requesting it. i had trouble, yet so much fun sorting out this fic, and i am so excited to write the following parts. hope you liked it!!

[httpsdana]

hiiii can i please request a joao felix fic where they do the ‘a boy who’s jacked and kind’ tiktok trend!! i think it’ll be really cute! love ur fics xx

Jacked and Kind~João Fèlix

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

João was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his TikTok fyp when he suddenly burst out laughing. “amor, you need to see this”

She glanced over, eyebrow raised, as he showed jer a video of a couple participating in the trending challenge to Sabrina Carpenter’s song.

The boyfriend lifts his girlfriend onto his shoulder with ease, flexing his muscles and looking ridiculously proud.

“Oh, no,” she groaned, already sensing what was coming. “You’re not going to make me do that, are you?”

João’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh, I’m absolutely going to make you do it. You’ve seen these arms, right?” He flexed dramatically, giving his bicep a quick squeeze.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Please, João. I’m not exactly lightweight, you know.”

“amor, I’m practically a superhero. I lift cars for fun.” He gave her a teasing look, clearly trying to be serious, but the way he said it made her giggle.

“Okay, Mr. Superhero,” she teased. “But if you drop me, I’m posting it to the internet, and you’ll never live it down.”

“I won’t drop you,” he said confidently, then added with a playful smirk, “But you’ll definitely post it, right? Gotta show off my muscles to the world.”

She raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed. “You’re such a child.”

“oh shut up” João replied , leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Now, come on, let’s make this video. We’re gonna go viral.”

She sighed dramatically but gave in, standing up from the couch. “Fine, but if I break my back, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll be fine, princesa. Just trust me,” João said with a wink. “You ready?”

She grabbed her phone, adding the song and preparing to film as he positioned himself. He flexed his arms one last time and gave her a wink. “Okay, on three. Hold on tight, and don’t look scared.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not scared, just... cautious.”

“three...two...one” João counted with the TikTok counter

In one fluid motion, João crouched down, then lifted her effortlessly onto his broad shoulders.

She yelped in surprise at how quickly it happened, but João’s hand was already on her thigh, holding her steady, while the other arm flexed proudly in front of the camera.

“Whoa, you actually did it,” she said, half in shock, half in awe. She couldn’t stop smiling, though she was still a little unsure of the whole thing.

João looked up at her with that proud grin. “Told you, princesa. I’m jacked and kind. A perfect match for this trend.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, trying to keep her balance. “You look like you’re about to audition for a bodybuilding competition.”

He flashed her a teasing wink, flexing again for the camera. “All for you, meu amor. Look at these muscles. You’re lucky to have me.”

“Lucky? I’m more like terrified,” she joked, her grip tightening on his shoulders as he started moving around a bit.

“Oh, come on, you love it. Admit it,” he teased, giving her a wink. “The view from up here is pretty great, right?”

She smirked. “Well, I guess it is. But don’t get too cocky, okay?”

“Too late,” João said, his grin growing wider as he flexed once more. “This is how you do it, amor.”

“Okay, okay,” she laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’m impressed. Just put me down already the phone stopped filming ages ago.”

“you’re making me look good right now though.”

She laughed at his words before he gently lowered her back down, his hands sliding to her waist to steady her.

She stood there, grinning up at him. “Okay, I’ll admit it. You’re strong.”

He gave her a proud look, holding up his phone to check the video. “Told you! This is gonna get so many views.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” she teased, poking him in the chest.

“I’m full of you, meu amor,” João said with a wink, pulling her in for a kiss. “Now let’s post this before I start flexing again. Don’t want to break the internet with all this muscle.”

Dhe laughed against his lips. “Alright, alright. your fan girls are gonna love this video”

He pulled back, laughing at her words. “oh the edits will be amazing”

She smiled up at him, nodding head.

“Of course they'll be. your fans never miss”

João laughed, pulling her closer for another kiss. “I don't care about them. I just want everyone to know that I'm real boyfriend material”

She laughed at his words, leaning her head against his chest as they settled on the couch, their video long forgotten as they spent the rest of the evening in each other's arms.

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty (lmk if you want to be added!!)

[daryltwdixon]

Merry Christmas, Daryl

Daryl x Reader Fluff

summary: On a quiet Christmas Eve in Alexandria, an unexpected moment under mistletoe brings you and Daryl closer in a way neither of you expected. slightly nerdy awkward reader

author's note: just something cute to wish you all a happy holiday 🎄✨🎁❄️☃️🎅🦌🌟

The faint hum of conversation and laughter fills the air, the low flicker of candles and strings of scavenged Christmas lights casting a warm glow across the house. Alexandria feels… different tonight. Almost like the world hasn’t ended. Like they’re all just neighbors, throwing a party to pass the time. You suppose it's what it's been like for them this whole time, but for you and your group...it was a nice reminder of what once was.

Maggie is laughing at something Glenn said, her eyes crinkling in a way you haven’t seen in months. Carl and Judith sit by the fire with Michonne, her arm draped protectively around the boy’s shoulders as she listens to his quiet chatter. Rick’s laugh carries over the rest of the noise, and for a moment, everything feels—normal.

Instead of joining in, you linger on the outskirts, nursing your drink. It’s not that you don’t feel welcome—you do, mostly. It’s just easier to watch, to soak in the warmth and pretend the ache of missing something you can’t quite name isn’t sitting heavy in your chest.

Your eyes wander, always searching no matter what room you're in—for him.

Daryl.

He stands near the door, half in shadow, nursing a beer with one hand while the other rests on his hip. He’s not watching anyone in particular, but his eyes scan the room like always, as if he’s looking for trouble—or maybe just a reason to leave. There’s something about the way he stands, so separate from everyone else, that pulls you in.

You’ve always told yourself it’s nothing, this feeling that tugs at you whenever he’s around. But it can't be nothing. Not with the way your heart picks up when he looks at you, the way you catch yourself stealing glances at him when you think he won’t notice. It’s the way he speaks—not much, but when he does, it’s rough and honest and somehow makes you feel safer than all the walls around Alexandria combined.

You take another sip, your fingers tightening slightly on the glass. You like him. You’ve liked him for months, but it’s not the kind of thing you can just admit—to yourself or to him. You’re not even sure he sees you that way. You’ve convinced yourself he doesn’t, because it’s easier than hoping for something you might not get.

Still, your feet move before you can stop them.

“You look like you’re having fun,” you tease as you approach, your voice light despite the nervous flutter in your chest.

He glances at you, his lips twitching in something that could almost be a smile. “Ain’t exactly my scene.”

You shrug, falling beside him to lean against the wall, “Not mine either, really. But it’s nice, right? Seeing everyone like this?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze shifting back to the room. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah. S’good for ‘em.”

The way he says it—quiet, almost like it’s a secret—makes your chest ache. You wonder if he ever lets himself have anything good, or if he always watches from the sidelines, thinking it’s enough just to see other people happy.

You study him for a long moment, taking in the slope of his shoulders, the way his thumb taps idly against the glass bottle. But with a shift of his shoulders, he's pushing off the wall.

“You heading out already?” you ask, trying to keep the disappointment from your voice.

“Think so,” he mutters. His voice is low, rough, but it doesn’t feel dismissive. If anything, it feels like an invitation—to follow, to keep talking, to… something.

Instead, you offer a soft smile. “Guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He dips his head in a nod, stepping away from the doorframe and into the chilly night.

The walk home is quiet, the air crisp and biting against your skin. You tuck your hands into your pockets, letting your breath mist in front of you as you replay the evening in your head.

You’re not sure why you feel so unsettled. It’s not like you expected him to stay. Daryl doesn’t do parties or crowds or small talk. That’s part of who he is, and it’s part of why you like him. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you should have said more.

You spot him just beyond the houses, leaning against one of the bare trees that line the edge of the path. He’s looking up, his face tilted toward the branches, and for a moment, you just watch him, the way he always seems to watch everyone else.

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, your voice breaking the stillness.

He turns slightly, his gaze landing on you. “Could ask you the same.”

You step closer, following his gaze to the small sprig of green dangling from one of the lower branches. It takes a second to register, but when it does, your heart skips. Mistletoe.

A laugh escapes you, nervous and too loud in the quiet night. “Huh. Did you know mistletoe’s a parasite?”

His brow furrows, and you press on, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I mean, technically a semi-parasite. It attaches to trees and, you know… kind of takes what it needs. Pretty romantic, right?”

He’s watching you now, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” you blurt, and the words hang in the cold air, making your cheeks burn.

Daryl tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing in that way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. You can feel your pulse quicken under his gaze, the weight of his attention making your tongue trip over itself. “It’s just… mistletoe. And, uh… you.”

As soon as the words are out, you wish you could take them back, your eyes darting anywhere but at him. The mistletoe, the ground, the shadow his boots make on the frost-bitten earth—anything to avoid the unreadable look you’re sure is on his face.

The silence stretches, thick enough to strangle you. You almost start rambling again, desperate to fill the gap, when he clears his throat.

“Mistletoe, huh?” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You glance up, startled, and your breath catches. He’s still watching you, but there’s something softer in his expression now, something almost shy. He shifts his weight, his thumb hooking into his belt loop, and the small, nervous movement sends a rush of affection through you.

“Well, yeah,” you say, the words spilling out faster now, your voice breathy. “I mean, technically it’s a semi-parasite. It grows on trees, kind of… leeching off them, but in a subtle way. You know, symbiotic. It’s not entirely—”

You stop abruptly when you realize he’s taken a small step closer. Your heart pounds against your ribs, and you’re suddenly very aware of how quiet it is, just the faint rustle of the wind through the trees and the sound of your own breathing.

He’s not much taller than you, but he feels bigger somehow, his presence grounding you even as it sends your thoughts scattering. Your eyes flick to the mistletoe above, then back to his, and you swear he notices because his gaze drops—briefly—to your lips before snapping back up.

“Y/N…” he says softly, his voice rough and hesitant, like suddenly the name tastes different on his tongue suddenly.

Your breath catches again, and before you can second-guess yourself, you both move. It’s awkward at first, both of you leaning in too fast, your noses brushing in a way that makes you stifle a nervous laugh. But then his hand comes up, rough and warm against your jaw, steadying you, and suddenly the world narrows to just this—just him.

His lips meet yours, tentative and soft at first, but the moment stretches, deepens, like neither of you wants to pull away. You lean into him, your hands finding his jacket, clutching at the worn fabric like you need it to keep steady.

Daryl kisses you like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing but doesn’t want to stop. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, and it makes your chest ache because it feels so him. Honest. Earnest.

When you finally part, you’re both breathing harder than you should be, the air between you clouding with misted breaths. His hand lingers against your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel your lips curve into a smile, the warmth blooming in your chest spilling out into your words. “Merry Christmas, Daryl.”

[stray-cat-with-internet-access]

TW: angst, abusive relationship (not with Simon), toxic relationship (that´s with Simon), bruises, he is kinda mean but can you blame him?, he is your ex, curse words, no proofread we die like real men, english is not my first language wc: 1168

1:54am

He opens the door at your fifth knock and his jaw clenches at seeing you.

You have a nasty handprint bruise on your neck and he is already fuming, at the bastard who did this, but also at you. Simon´s your ex, and something keep pulling you to him every time you need aid, but never taking him back completely.

This is not the first time you run to him and he is not happy about it.

He lets you in, but curses and slam the door behind him

Coming close he backs you up against the wall, forehead close to yours

"You have to be fuckin jokin´ with me..."

His voice trembles with anger, maybe not the best approach, but he is getting tired of keep collecting your pieces back together

You avoid his gaze, a bit ashamed. You lick your lips, with no urge to start talking. He is not dumb and he already imagined what happened. Tears run down your face and that seems to anger him more.

A bitter scowl etches on his face, he is mad for many of the wrong reasons, but he is trying damn hard to keep himself in check

"Is this some sort of sick game to play with me, hm?" He whispered, voice trembling with anger “You think I like seeing you like this?”

"No!" You respond quickly, finally meeting his gaze. You felt stupid because he is right to be angry. You´ll accept any scowl and curse coming from him because deep down you know you deserve them.

"Why else would you keep coming back every damn time only for you to go back to him? To test me and see how much I still care for you? Do you get off on doing this? Don´t I have enough shit in my life?"

There it is, the bitter words finally spilling out

"Simon please, I don't have anyone else, pleas…" You yelped when he punched the door, finally backing away from you, running his hands through his hair

"I left him...for good this time..."

He stops pacing and looks at you, he doesn´t believe you, that anger rising up inside of him, why was she still doing this and why he kept letting himself drag back into her? He feels stupid

"I've heard that before"

"I swear to god" You’re trembling at this point, desperate to get some gentleness.

You showed him the backpack you were carrying, talking in whispers

"I left him the flat, I grabbed what I could and left"

There is a pang on his chest, of guilt this time, the bruise around your neck is prominent and he can't help but to feel like this time is not the same as before. He wants to touch you, to make sure you are okay, but he doesn't trust himself not to hurt you unintentionally because of his anger

"Show me your neck" He finally says through gritted teeth, his tone of voice still stern

Tears start running freely now, but you cry in silence, ashamed. You pulled the hem of the neck of your t-shirt, showing the purplish marks over your throat and clavicle

He curses again before inspecting it more closely

His eyes darken at looking at the bruises, he knows exactly who is to blame and his blood boils with rage, he is going to kill him after dealing with you, he is sure of it. He touches the purple skin gently, barely a feather caress on it, checking them out

"Does it hurt?" His voice a soft whisper now

"Only when I swallow" Hugging your arms around your middle, you look around his flat, avoiding his gaze

He denies with his head, a million thoughts racing through his head. He is still sore for your break up a year and something ago, terribly bitter that you were able to left him for his "violent" line of work and the repercussions that it left on him, but not the bastard treated you like shit. Yes, he was damaged goods, but he´d never lay a finger on you

He has to stop himself from saying something stupid, he shouldn't be this close, feeling so many things at once

"Go have a shower... " he said, walking to the kitchen to pour himself a bourbon

Walking past him with your head low you make a beeline to the bathroom. You know his place very well, and the sting of the good memories here make you cry a bit more

After undressing you hop in the shower, letting the warm water wash away your tears. The smell of his soap envelopes you, making you feel more calm

Simon is a difficult man, the fact that he even let you in after you fucked up so many times says more about his feelings that anything

You reappear at the living room a while after, a dark blue towel covering you. You are pale with dark circles under your eyes, but it´s a better sight than before.

You noticed he got dressed with jeans too, and was smoking by the window when he hears you come back, he can't help it as his eyes travel over you, his own towel around you like you were his again. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from making promises and saying a million things he wanted to

"Did you eat?"

"I'm not hungry" You kneeled next to the sofa to grab some clothes from your backpack and he walks to grab a hoodie from the back of a chair, and you catch a glimpse of the hilt of a knife on his waist when he put it on over his head.

He looks immersed with himself, unapproachable

He turns his head to look at you again. Dove eyes, that beautiful face and that ugly bruise… God, he is so fuckin tired...

He put out the cigarette in the windowsill and put his gloves on, he does not trust himself right now, this is the reason why he needs to go and put distance between the two of you. Besides, there´s someone he needs to pay a visit…

"Go to sleep... " He said, voice strained

Getting up slowly, you approach him softly, placing your hand on his shoulder

"Why don't you..."

It's a mistake, because he shoves your hand away and strides towards the door, grabbing his mask from the hall table and putting it in his back pocket

"Go to the fuckin bedroom"

He slams the door on his way out, leaving you frozen in place, tears running down your face

-

You´ll find him the next morning, asleep on his couch. His nails are dirty and the hem of his hoodie is darkened with a reddish rusty stain. Next to the door are a couple of boxes with your all your stuff from the flat you shared with your now ex- boyfriend. Seems like Simon moved you into his own place last night.

Dividers are from @saradika-graphics Cosplayer: @mrghost.cos on TikTok

[eiralunaire]

Silence settled between them, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind they shared when words were unnecessary. Damian raised a hand to touch one of the braids Reader had made, noticing the care with which she had woven them. It was such a simple gesture, and yet filled with an intimacy that unnerved him.

“What was the worst part of that mission?” he asked suddenly, breaking the calm.

Reader lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him with a soft smile, though her eyes shone with something deeper, a mix of tiredness and sincerity.

“Seeing a little girl trapped in the rubble,” she said quietly. “She was alone, crying… It reminded me of me when I was little.”

Damian looked at her silently, his green eyes taking in every detail of her expression. He knew Reader avoided talking about her past unless it was strictly necessary. He had learned not to push her, but every time she let it slip, he felt a knot in his chest that he couldn't undo.

"Were you able to get her out?" he asked softly, even though he already knew the answer. If he hadn't managed to do so, Reader wouldn't be there, calmly, telling him about it.

She nodded, her smile returning, albeit with a melancholic tone.

"Yes. She was terrified, but when I told her everything was going to be okay, she stopped crying. I took her to the nearest shelter." He paused, playing with the hem of his shirt before continuing. "But I couldn't stay long. There was more to do."

Damian reached out a hand and placed it over hers, squeezing it lightly. He wasn't one for displays of affection, but with Reader, he felt he could make exceptions.

"You did more than most would have done," he said, with a seriousness that brooked no doubt. "You saved her life. That's what matters."

Reader looked at him, and for a moment, he didn't say anything. Then, she squeezed his hand in response and leaned into him, resting her forehead against his.

“Thank you, Damian. Seriously.”

He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. But as always, he couldn't help but be himself.

“That doesn't mean you should neglect yourself in the future. If you fall off a roof again, I promise I'll lecture you until you regret telling me.”

Reader laughed, her light, melodious voice filling the space. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her dimples making an appearance.

“And I promise to keep surviving so you can lecture me all the times you want.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a slight smile. Though he would never admit it, the chaos Reader brought to his life was exactly what he needed. And as long as she was safe, he could put up with anything, even braids.

Part One

[fushiguruuzzzz]

+ CHAPTER FOUR // RUN IT BACK

series mlist 

Tags — mentions of catcalling-ish/a creepy comment, mentions of violence, the texts and the written part don’t connect it’s sort of just two separate parts, I’m only now realizing how odd the divs look I’m apologizing but not changing it, your phone isn’t tweaking the last two images are supposed to be transparent Words — 1.3k

The day was gloomy, the sound of downpour fading in and out with every opening of the front door. Had you been at home, your only company would be a good book and possibly a roll of raw cookie dough, maybe Nobara curled up at your side and updating you on the details of a couple in her design class. But you weren't at home, you were stuck here, surrounded by blurred faces and the smell of damp socks. You would be sure to use this against Miwa until the end of time, you told yourself. After a pathetically small amount of begging and the explanation that you think involved her boyfriend, you agreed. You knew she wasn't one to ditch out just because, so you barely bothered hearing her out before doing the favour. You were beginning to regret that.

You'd been spaced out for so long that you didnt even notice the oddly familiar head of hair, sat lowly and just almost resting on the back of the booth's seat. He stood out against the worn, ruby leather, a collection of pastels sitting on something dull and worn. Something bright and new presented to you, surrounded by familiarity. The deep lilac of his irises were trained on you, not exactly burning into you, but rather drinking you in. He wasn't harsh or searing or intimidating, he didn't make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and he didn't make you feel hot all over. He was soft, a whisper within the pitter patter of the rain, he was the warmth of coffee slipping down your throat on a cold day (even if sometimes, it ended up on the floor). 

You met his eye, and the corners of his lips tugged up into a smile. It spoke louder than words, a reminder of the fleeting experiences you’d shared without ever truly having a conversation. 

“Toge,” you greeted softly as you walked over, voice sugary sweet and laced with something he couldn’t put his finger on. 

He replied with a smile, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkled as he did. “Y/n.”

“No company this time?” 

You swear that his cheeks heated up just the slightest bit, and he glanced down for a second before turning back. “No, they bring bad luck… as you could see.” 

Your brows quirked upwards playfully, hands falling down to your hips. The notepad you were holding pressed gently into your side—a reminder of what you were actually supposed to be doing. “You sure they’re the bad luck?” 

“Yes,” he said, all too quickly and all too defensive. It was hard to suppress a smile by now, and you could very easily tell that he was facing the same problem. He was inside his own head locking himself for looking like a dork, but the bigger part of him knew that he truly was. I mean, last time you’d seen him he was double fisting instant ramen and short circuiting trying to decide whether to say hi or avoid you altogether, the internal conflict sending him into overdrive and leaving him standing there like he’d stared into the eyes of Medusa. 

But he was here now, and he was functioning just fine aside from his heart speeding up. 

He gave you his order and made sure not to stutter. He watched you longingly as you disappeared into the big grey double doors that led to the back, and he beat himself up for not saying more. He had another chance though, right? And he’d be sure to take it. So when you trotted back out, hips swaying ever so slightly and the pink of your lipgloss reflecting the glow of the piercing lights above, he wasn’t going to cower away. Toge was used to being friendly, but holding a conversation… yikes.  

“…are you busy right now?” 

You glanced down from where you stood over him, catching the awkwardness in the way he shifted. You gave a soft shake of the head, motioning to the nearly empty section around you. 

“Great. So… maybe you could sit…?” he asked. He tried to feign nonchalance, but the nervous rasp in his voice was hard to miss. Something warm curled in your chest, and you simply couldn’t find it in yourself to deny him. Not when he was staring up at you, biting his cheek and silently screaming ‘I’m not usually this awkward, I swear!’ 

Sliding into the seat across from him, the cool leather pressed into you through your pants. You didn’t even realize when you started chatting away—it just came so naturally that it the beginning and the end were blurred. It faded in and out calmly, like the tide on a warm, empty day at the beach. Talking was easy with Toge. He followed everything you said with a nod and an approving hum, made sure you knew he was paying attention. He was undeniably present, but it wasn’t loud or suffocating. He was just there, gentle and warm and fresh. If someone asked you to recount the conversation, all you could remember was the way his light hair fell in tufts over his face as he nodded at something you said. If they asked him, he’d probably be able to recite it like it was a subject he’d studied for years. 

“So…” he said, voice soft as he tried to figure out a way to bring this up. If it hadn’t been you, he didn’t want to figure that out once it was too late and embarrass himself. He also feared that if it were you, he’d look creepy—or worse, make you uncomfortable. Based on the way you’d scrambled into the darkness of the sketchy corner alley, it didn’t take a scientist to figure out you weren’t up to any good. Did he have the right to mention it? Probably not. But sometimes the curiosity in his veins ran deeper than the need to keep you comfortable, so he didn’t stop himself. “You into rock?” 

You hoped the way your eyes widened ever so slightly and your spit catching in your throat wasn’t noticeable, but it was. It shouldn’t have been such a secret, but it was just so… not you. If he liked you, he figured he liked you how he saw you now. Your hobbies were quite the opposite, and the possible backlash was enough to make the words die on your tongue. 

“Y/n!” shouted a voice from the kitchen, making your body jolt up with the relief of an excuse to swerve the topic. You slithered out of the seat with a small smile and a heated face, basically running to the back. “That should be your order. I should uh… I should get back to work. I’ll see you!” 

When you were out of view, he let out a huff. His shoulders slumped, and he rested his head on the rough table for a second. You’d gotten away for a second time. Maybe this was the last. 

But then he walked out of the diner and looked at his receipt, only to see a ten digit number scribbled into the back of it. Underneath was your name with a little smiley face. He grinned, let out a breath of victorious (maybe surprised) laughter, and put it into his pocket. 

It wasn’t the last chance he had. He didn’t know it yet, but the universe seemed to align so that he’d have many, many more. 

Can you feel it in the air? That warmth? Yeah it’s romance

getting the story movingggg

they all thought Toge was a loser for going back

little did they know he got that bag

I apologize if these seem rushed because they somewhat are, I’m just not as motivated to write this series as I am other things :)

Also if you saw a post about this being posted at 6:40 no u didn’t.

yep we’re back chat. I’ve been flopping lately someone kill me for Emma got like 100 notes gang I’m gonna end it ALL. tbh I feel like that was deserved it wasn’t my best but it made people cry so a win is a win (pls stop attacking me I had three people in my messages ATTACKING me at once) oh… yall aren’t gonna like what I’m cooking up.

Taglist — 47/50

@anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @adoresia @auroratumbles @sh0ot1ngst4r @soobin1437 @mystic-megumi @cinnamxnangel @lizbix @s3ns4ti0n4l @anonnieghost @s4toruz @gumims @bubybubsters @k4ss11333 @rreveurdoll @kaged-kitty @rwura @aldebrana @hqnge @good-mourning0 @daisies-and-domming @vi0let-writes @dazaisfavgf @hearts4aloise @coolgirl458 @keyaea @jealovsie @sirenla @academiq @mammoanlmao @moonchhu @ichcocat @blubearxy @hayl09 @q2uq2u @potteraep @fiannee @lailakys @jxisnwaol @treeguzzler @nanaanatiion @zayuriluvs @kr1nqu @cloudxox @azinniyaa @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee

— I removed the people who haven’t changed their tag settings after 3 chapters, so there’s been some space cleared up! You’ll be removed if your tags don’t work for three chapters straight, so please make sure they’re correct :) if you’ve fixed them don’t be afraid to comment and ask me to add you back

[jasvtsc]

office surprise

warnings! mdni! mentions of inappropriate pics. slight sexting. softdom!beau. blow job. oral (m!receiving). slight voyeurism. almost getting caught. probably grammar mistakes.

word count! 1.6k

you’ve been purposely getting on beau’s nerves the whole day. there wasn’t any reason for it — you just felt like being an annoying little shit.

at first, you wouldn’t let him out of bed, clinging to his side and whining whenever he tried to move. how did he manage to escape from a leech like you? he still wasn’t exactly sure. however, it all got worse when you decided to send him some… pictures, while he was at work. at first, he thought you were just pestering him and that maybe you wanted to ask when he was finishing his shift.

well, he couldn’t be more wrong.

because as soon as he clicked on the message, his eyes widened and he shoved his phone into his pocket, feeling his pants growing tighter as he quickly side-eyed hoyt to check if she saw the content on his phone. luckily, she was too busy talking to some officers about the case they were working on. luckily, she didn’t see the picture of you, sitting in his bedroom, in his bed, wearing his shirt and hugging his pillow with your hand in your lacey white panties he got you not that long ago. he inhaled sharply through his nose as his phone started buzzing even more, painfully teasing the growing bulge in his pants.

he excused himself and went to his office suspiciously fast, bumping into some people on his way there. as soon as he closed the door behind him so that nobody would interrupt him, beau pulled out his phone and checked new messages from you.

more pictures.

you playing with your pussy through the dampened fabric of your panties. another one where you stuffed your fingers into your mouth, looking up at the camera with those puppy eyes you often made while being on your knees for him and your mouth full of his cock. and then yet another one where you were biting your lower lip, your brows scrunched and your fingers shoved in your dripping core. he could only imagine the pretty sounds that were probably leaving your mouth as you played with yourself.

he took a shattering breath as he palmed his crotch, trying to relieve himself a little while staring at his phone. suddenly, he was wondering how fucked up he would be if someone heard him grunting if he decided to get himself off.

suddenly, the door to his office opened. he shot up from his chair and cleared his throat, expecting to see hoyt — so imagine the surprise on his face when he saw you.

In all honesty, he was baffled. you just sent him those pictures and now you were standing in front of him, that huge grin on your face as if nothing had happened. for a moment, he was moving his mouth like a fish freshly taken out of the water before he could make any sound.

“hello?” it sounded like a question when you walked up to him and pecked his lips, standing on your toes to reach him.

“hi,” you giggled in that innocent manner and he knew damn well that you were just acting. you were a little devil.

“what are you doing here? i thought you were at home. when did you—” he cut off, words suddenly stuck in his throat since he couldn’t force himself to ask it out loud. he needed to know when did you take those photos.

“earlier. right after you left,” hearing that was enough to make him speechless.

“why now?”

“why not?” you shrugged, fluttering your lashes at him, trying to act coy. he took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose before running his palm through his face.

“you’re being a bad girl, y’know that?” with a sigh, he pulled you closer and pecked your lips which only got yet another one of those sweet giggles out of you. “unbelievable,” he muttered, kissing you again. “y’gonna pay for that, got it?” he said and bit on your lower lip, giving it a slight tug.

“oh, i know,” you hummed teasingly, pulling away as if you were going to walk away. but he was already done with you being a brat, so he grabbed your arm and quickly pulled you back in.

“now,” and clearly, you weren’t expecting that. your eyes went wide and your plump lips slightly parted as it was your turn to be flabbergasted.

“what do you mean by now?”

“you heard me sweetheart,” he almost growled lowly into your ear. “get under the desk,” he was done with you playing games and trying to gain some control when he was the one in charge.

you looked at him, still not believing that he wanted you to do that. you thought he might wait until you get home but his expression was speaking in volume. you gulped nervously and turned to look at the door, now closed. but anyone could enter at any given moment. you turned back to face him, tilting your head back to voice some protest but he just gave you a stern nod.

“now,” his tone left no place for discussion and even though you’d never admit it, you felt a familiar tingle at the bottom of your stomach.

with a small sigh, you quickly put your hair up and got under his desk. a satisfied smirk graced his lips as he sat in his chair, spreading his legs to give you some room between them. you scooted closer on your knees, fixing your skirt to not get the light fabric dirty. however, the way your knees would be bruised later would be enough of a sign of your little visit to the sheriff’s office.

“go on,” he encouraged you, rubbing his bearded chin as he stared you down like a hawk. you already knew what to do and since you didn’t want to piss him off even more, only imagining what he would think of then, you began to unbuckle his belt, your small fingers fiddling with the leather. after struggling for a few seconds you finally did it and unzipped his pants, lowering them slightly to expose the bulge underneath. the grey fabric was already stained with precum as his dick was straining against the fabric, waiting impatiently to be freed.

you gasped quietly which made beau chuckle. however, he was soon the one to make a sound as a small moan escaped from his throat the moment you pulled his throbbing cock out. your eyes widened when you saw the pinky shaft in all its glory, the prominent veins throbbing under your fingertips and precum leaking from the tip. sheriff bit his lip to muffle any more sounds from coming out and drawing in any unwanted attention from outside the office.

“come on, sweetheart. you know what to do,” he rasped out, his voice gravelly with need.

you gave him a few firm strokes, trying to fit in your small grip. with your thumb, you spread the precum around and finally — after what felt like agonizing hours to beau, you took him in your mouth.

at first, it was just the tip as you swirled your tongue around it. only then, after teasing him enough, you felt bolder and moved closer, feeling him slide deeper into your throat. he inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as he moved his hand to the back of your head, gripping your hair and impatiently pulling you closer. it made you gag slightly but you didn’t pull away, quite the opposite, you tried taking him in fully. and soon, you were bobbing your head up and down, as much as the desk allowed you to. he growled lowly, helping guide your movements as he tilted his head back, his legs spreading even further apart.

“good girl. you’re such a good girl, baby. you’re doing so well. just like that,” the way he praised you in that lust-driven voice only encouraged you to keep going. you skillfully moved your tongue, your pace relentless, as your nose bumped against him, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

soon, you felt him getting closer by the way he was twitching between your swollen lips covered in a mix of your drool and his sweet essence. his breathing picked up and he looked down at you with hooded eyes, his chest heaving and a few droplets of sweat trickled down his temple.

“i’m close, baby. keep going,” he gasped, the way he was talking almost as if he was out of breath.

you didn’t stop, too eager to please him which seemed to be what had driven him over that edge he was tethering on. but before he could tell you to pull away, as he always did, the door to his office opened.

he widened his eyes, looking up at hoyt and poppernak, trying to act his best as if nothing was happening. meanwhile, you widened your eyes when he finished in your mouth. you had no other choice but to swallow as he kept you close by the back of your head.

somehow, he managed to talk with his voice surprisingly steady and the two soon left his office. after he made sure that they were gone for good, he looked down at you as you pulled away, your lips puffed and messy. he chuckled lowly, wiping them with his thumb and letting you lick it clean.

“well, that was close,” he grinned stupidly as you helped tuck him back in his pants.

oh, you were going to get your revenge for that later.

THEE SMUT FAIRY IS BACKKKK YALL

@frosttbitessam special tag for my wifeyyy

༄♡ tags: @beausling @deanswidow @titsout4jackles @a1ecmcdowell @deansbeer @figthoughts @deansbite @aileenunfiltered @fitxgrld @angelicp0etry @hrtsoldierboy @10ava01 @abellmunsonmovie @momoewn

[pintrestgrl]

hear me outtt!!!! it's christmas dinner & being the two oldest cousins of the family ofc dawn & jj r gonna be anti-social with the rest of the family n jj is in a room upstairs by himself playing video games & dawn, suffering of visible boredom— her phone dies, she goes to her dad who tells her the only charger that is specifically for iphones is upstairs, where jj is. she declines at first out of embarrassment from past encounters with jj at past family events , after sitting alone in a corner for a bit she finally decides to give in, and where jj is sitting in a gaming chair with a controller in hand and dawn sets her phone down to charge, one thing leads to another and here dawn is sat on jj's lap givin kisses to each other & feeling each other up!!!! ( sorry if this was too long... )

- 🩰

this is cute omg they both feel so gross too

XMAS DINNER WITH DAWN ‘ND JJ.

cw incest n kinda forced sexual material

dawn really didn’t wanna be there. she would much rather be at home, sitting in her bed, watching christmas movies instead of living in one. she was sat on the couch, legs crossed and on her phone.

she probably should’ve been hanging out with her cousins, but she couldn’t find the energy to do so. they would just talk for hours, and bore her.

she was fine, she guessed. that was, until her phone died. she rolled her eyes, scoffing. she got up from her comfy seat and made her way to the back patio where her daddy was sat with her uncle.

“daddy? my phone died. i needa charger.” she spoke, watching them share a beer. she heard her uncle speak up. “yeah, dawnie— jayj got a charger for you up in his room.” she tensed nervously at the name, all the memories she had worked so hard to push down flooding back.

she didn’t want them to question why she was bein so nervous, so she spoke. “oh okay. it’s alright— i’ll just wait for supper.” her uncle nd daddy werent really paying her any care, so they just nodded and shooed her away.

she went back inside, shutting the screen door behind her. she went back to her original position, trying to entertain herself. she sat down a few more minutes, before sighing to herself when she realized truly how bored she was.

she gave it a second thought, and decided maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. she just had to get the charger, nd go back downstairs. she could do that. it was easy— is what she repeatedly said to herself as she made her way up the stairs.

she got to the top of the stairs, staring into the crack of the door. jj was on the game his daddy— her uncle, bought for him a couple christmas’s back. she pressed on the door, quietly walking over to him.

he didn’t hear her coming over his headphones, before he felt her presence in the room. almost smelled her. but in the most non coincidental way. he looked up, waiting for her. “hi. needa— uh, borrow. the charger. for my phone, please.” she spoke, basically stammering.

he smirked, looking her up and down as he inspected every detail of her. he nodded, pointing with his chin where his charger was as to not lose focus in his game. however, he did stop looking at it to watch her bend over to pick the charger up.

he watched the way he could see a peek of the white lace under her skirt, grinning as she stood back up. he watched as she now moved to leave, before he spoke. “nuh uh— you’re not leavin’ with my shit, dawn. stay in here.” she froze.

this was exactly what she had been fearing would happen. she knew him. she knew he would try this. and she didn’t wanna start something. she nodded slowly, and took a deep breath.

she moved to sit down on the corner edge of his bed, his chair sat in front of her. she put her phone on the charger, sighing. he looked over at her, looking her up and down. “you like what i get you for christmas, dawnie?” she smiled faintly, nodding.

he grinned, staring at her. she felt uncomfortable, per usual. she knew what his thoughts were. he slowly turned off the console, shoving his controller on the stand. he looked back up at her eyes. “c’mere.” she furrowed her brows.

he pulled her up by her wrist, laughing at the way she tried to writhe away from him. he grabbed her by her bottom half, forcing her body down on top of him. she straddled his sat figure. she tried to get up, but he didn’t let up. he forced her down, laughing at her struggles.

“jj— quit, i wanna get up.” he tsked, watching her tits in his face. “nah. i think you like it— ain’t that right, dawnie?” you shook your head, giving up on trying to get away from his gross movements. he nodded, giving her a look of approval.

“you lookin’ pretty tonight. real pretty.” you sighed, trying to avert his gaze. “thank you.” you muttered, rather quietly. he subtly moved his hand downwards, lifting up the front of her skirt. looking at the familiar damp white lace. “see? knew you like it. fuckin’ wet from it.”

she frowned, looking at the wall to the side of her in embarrassment. he saw she wasn’t looking at his movements, and subtly palmed the mound below her skirt. she sucked in a tiny gasp, looking down.

she attempted to push his hand away, but it only made him press harder on it. she let out a moan, trying to writhe his hand away that kept rubbing on her clit. “jj— stop doin’ that. oohh— fuck.” she let out a breathy moan.

he smiled, as he watched her reactions. he knew how to do this. exactly what to say and do to embarrass her and make her uncomfortable. “you want me to make you cum, dawn?” she shook her head furiously, her movements contradictory as she rode his hand.

“no— i want you to stop— hmph— please stop it, jayj.” he laughed at her, looking down at the way her clit would nudge against the pads of his fingers. “if i stop, then im gonna go tell your daddy you let me rub on your pussy. deal?” she shook her head furiously, her breathing quickening. “no— okay, okay. i’m sorry. don’t tell him, please.”

he pulled his hand away, slipping her panties to the side and harshly shoving two fingers in her. she groaned, at the burn. it slowly eased into pleasure, as he fucked into her with his fingers. his thumb went to go rub her clit, her head dropping to his shoulder.

she still felt so gross. this was gross. she shouldn’t be doing this. but he knew how to use his fucking fingers, she was sure of it. he forced her head up off his shoulder, pressing a kiss to her lips. it was sloppy. messy. tongues moving, teeth bumping. “jay— it’s, i’m gonna— ooohh, my fucking god.” he smiled.

“tell me you like it. tell me that you wanted it.” she let out a breathy scoff. she didn’t wanna say that. she didn’t wanna admit it. because then he would know that this spurred her on just as much as it did with him. “fuck— okay. i like it, i want it, i swear— just let me cum. please, jay.”

he nodded, giving her his permission. she focused on the way his fingers felt, moving inside of her. he nudged her clit with his thumb, putting her over the edge. she moaned, biting down on to his shoulder. the liquid oozed onto his hand, before he rode her through it and then pulled out.

he brought his fingers to her mouth, shoving them past her lips as she choked. she tried her best to lick them clean, knowing that’s what he wanted. he released them from her mouth with a pop, watching a line of spit keep them connected. she swallowed, nervously. it went silent. she was embarrassed.

he eyed her, noticing this. “you’re fine. quit fuckin’ overreacting, dawnie. did good, kid.” he spoke, hand going to pat her cheek. she nodded. he moved, his lips attaching back to her mouth. she whimpered, ashamedly kissing back. she felt his tongue graze against hers.

he continued kissing her, before pulling away and placing wet kisses down her neck. she moaned, feeling gross with his actions. his hands went up to her tits, squeezing the flesh. he pulled down the hem of her top, her bare tits falling from the fabric.

he moved his kisses to her tits, biting down on the fat of them. she moaned, mostly from pain. he took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking. he palmed the other one, hand running over her nipple. he released from her with a pop, going to her other tit.

she could feel the cold air against the wet of her nipple, making her shiver. he sucked, hands kneading the fat of her hips. he let go of her breast, traveling his kisses up again. he was about to press another wet kiss on her mouth, before they both heard her daddy call her down.

he groaned, her tensing up. she wiped her glossy lips, pulling the hem of her dress back up over her tits. she stood up, flattening out her dress and hair. “you gonna leave me with blue balls?” he spoke. she sighed, going to grab her phone. she looked down at the tent in his jeans, almost feeling bad.

that was, till she realized this was her fucking cousin. who just fingered her. and the bad feeling slowly went away, shame filling her up. she gave him an apologetic look, as if he didn’t just force her to do that.

she moved to turn the door, stopping when she heard him speak. “you’re gonna suck my dick whether you want too or not. you owe me it.” she grimaced, but she knew she would lose that argument if tried.

she left, the guilt washing over her again at the sticky feeling of her panties.

[christronomy]

the devil is faceless // bang chan

cw: horror/doppelgänger au, fem reader, chris is a killer (for a good cause lol), body horror (mutilation), brief mention of murder/death, gore, and sex (not very detailed tho), slight angst.

you think about it as you lie on the cold floor. you're much closer to your dead lover than you thought you ever would be. it's almost as if you're holding his body in your arms again, the feeling of deadweight heavy on your chest, tears trailing down the sides of your head a reminder how he once was. warm.

christopher always ran warmer than usual, but it was a perfect contrast to how cold you often were. his arms were the only place you felt safest in, and he preferred it that way. "the world isn't what you think it is, pretty girl," he'd once said. he would always keep you safe from the monsters, the people who posed any sort of threat. he always got rid of the problem. that was, until it came back to haunt him.

your eyes always gave you away, because you were too innocent. you still couldn't understand how things functioned ever since they changed. anyone here could be an imposter or a copy of someone else, or even worse, tortured by their own perception of themself in a way that made them extremely hostile. you didn't see things the way he did, which was the complete opposite. chris always saw it, ever since you were kids—the imperfections in their facial expressions, wide, unnatural smiles, strange voices that he always heard in the back of his mind, in his nightmares.

when he got older he figured that disposing of these vile creatures would help silence those voices, but he was wrong. at first, it was fulfilling, but then it turned into a chore, and it was something not many people approved of. he was taking justice into his own hands and they didn't like it. how could someone kill so carelessly? how would you know they're really those monsters if you can't look at their face?

but chris always knew the difference. it was like they teased him, followed him around. they were unmistakably identifiable compared to real humans, and there were many more of those things than people thought, they just didn't realize how many more. so they called him paranoid, they never believed him when he described the truth, spreading lies and making it seem like he was simply telling stories, grueling fairytales just to scare others.

you always believed him, never doubted him for a second, especially when you saw it happen for the first time, the transformation that leaves barely an idea of what used to be-twisting limbs, the sound of flesh tearing and contorting, almost as if the body was just liquid in a mold, taking an entirely different shape. "don't look," he'd said, quickly pulling you into his arms and covering your eyes and ears with his coat, and in a matter of seconds, the walls were covered in blood. you didn't want to look away. she was your best friend, and you didn't want to forget what she looked like, but no matter how much you tried, you could only see what she had become, every time you closed your eyes.

what stuck with you the most was the voice, the sound of her screams almost like laughter, mixing with sobs, silent cries for help being overshadowed by the evil taking over her body, her life, her soul. only then was when you truly understood chris, why he was always sure to be on high alert at all times, why he struggled to sleep every night, why he needed the nicotine to soothe his body even if it was only a temporary fix. you truly understood what he said when he’d described it. the way it sounded to you was exactly what he'd said before.

"it sounds like a demon's laugh. twisted, sadistic, like it's enjoying itself. like the devil himself is whispering in your ear."

and he was right, the devil himself whispered in your ear that night, and never shut up, even to this day. the whisper became more like an obnoxiously loud, taunting voice the day that chris died. he died telling you to look away, with a smile on his face, because you knew that whenever he said those two simple words, the threat would be taken care of. but this time, it wasn't, and this time, you didn’t look away as the bullet went straight through his head, his blood spraying onto your face, watching him fall to his side with a sickening thud. snipers had somehow found and ambushed you as you were making your way back home, and he knew you were surrounded, he had sharp eyes. anyone else wouldn't be able to see where they were hiding, but he spotted every single one immediately, the lasers aiming straight for his head, and he knew he'd be dead if he made another move.

but they didn't spare him even when he stood still, and they didn't lift a finger when you held him in your arms in the middle of the abandoned road, your voice giving out from the way you couldn't contain your agonized screams. since then, he couldn't be there to protect you, to tell you to look away and that it would all be over soon, so you were lost. and that's how you ended up here, now, on the floor, limbs painfully stretched, you were pretty sure some of your bones had even snapped in the process, and you could see your blood pooling by your body through the corner of your eye. all because you'd encountered one of them. you narrowly escaped the attack somehow, but the effect of it still got to your body, painfully contorting it in an attempt to take control.

if chris were here, he would have eliminated the thing immediately, you thought. you thought about the way he always wore a large, long coat to hide his weapons, and to bury your face in it whenever you encountered a threat. it was the same way he would pull you into him when you were alone in the confines of your room, in your shared bed. you always laid your head down on his chest that way so you could fall asleep to his heartbeat, because it was the only way you could sleep. it was the same way he held you close when you got too tired from working your hips, the room feeling hot, stars obscuring your vision as soon as he whispered a soft, “i got you, baby,” as he took control, filling your mind with bliss.

if chris were here you wouldn't feel so cold like you do right now, you wouldn't be in so much pain, struggling to breathe, watching and feeling the life slowly drain out of you. but as much as it hurts, you’re starting to feel okay with it, because now you won't have to deal with this, whatever it is. because chris was right, this world wasn't what you thought it was. but he would've been proud of you for making it this far. now you're so much closer to your lover than ever, so instead of focusing on the blood by your ears, you look away one last time as your vision blurs, letting out a long breath. the cold deadweight on your chest suddenly feels like a warm, familiar embrace, the subtle smell of nicotine wafting through your nose, the once torturous whispers turning into soft-spoken reassurances, strong arms cradling your soul gently as you sink into the depths of this inevitable fate.

[bullet-prooflove]

The way you smile, the way you walk

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @alisbackalleybbq @mia1653 @privatetruths

Companion piece to:

Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

 If You Want Me, You Can Have Me - They say that Rip Wheeler doesn't have a heart.

Stay Tonight - Rip asks to stay the night.

Use Your Words (NSFW) - Rip teases you.

Clover - Rip comforts you.

When you walk into the bar that night Rip can’t take his eyes off you. You’re wearing a white lace country dress that falls just above your knees and a pair of brown cowboy boots that used to belong to your mother. You’re the prettiest damn thing in this place and he’s not the only one that knows it. He sees the way other men look at you, like you’re the next notch on their bedpost.

They don’t know that he spends every single night, fucking you into the mattress, reminding you of exactly who you belong to.

“That dress would look good on my bedroom floor.” One cowboy calls out and you roll your eyes because this shit it’s nothing new.

“Oh Johnny, you couldn’t handle a girl like me.” You bat back, giving him the middle finger as you drift by. “I’d rather clip your balls off than give you the time of day.”

The other fellas they titter at the comment, they’ve seen you in action on their farms. They know you were an army vet before you retired to take on your father’s practice. Johnny though, he’s new. He didn’t get the memo you’re not someone to be fucked with.

Which is why he gets a punch to the face when he grabs you by the arm and hauls you towards him like a fucking ragdoll. Blood explodes from his nose with a loud crack as his head snaps back at the force of the blow. Rip’s too stunned to move, he just watches as you look down at the crimson spatter blossoming on your dress as you shake out your fist, muttering.

“Fucking asshole.”

There’s two ways things go when you get punched in the face, you fight or you stay the hell down. Johnny, he’s a fighter. A roar cuts through the bar as he comes back at you fists flailing and that’s when Rip’s instincts take over. He’s off that stool in seconds, forcing himself between you and the threat.

“Touch her and it will be the last thing you ever fucking do.” He says, his dark eyes filled with malice as they meet Johnny’s. He has a couple of inches on his asshole and a whole lot of muscle. It should be enough to make him back down but he’s too drunk or too stupid to read a fucking room.

“She fucking owes me.” He snarls, his gaze coming to land on you, blood still streaming from his nose.

“That sense of entitlement is what got you a broken nose in the first place.” Rip reminds him as he places a hand on his hip revealing his gun. “Now if I were you I’d kindly fuck off before I pistol whip the shit out of you for laying hands on my girl.”

He stands down then, Rip watches the fight go out of him as he spits on the floor and then turns his back on the two of you, retreating to his buddies. Rip turns towards you and sighs as he takes in the mess that’s been made of your pretty white dress. He was really looking forward to getting that dance tonight and now the whole date is ruined.

“Come on darlin.” He says as he wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you towards the door. “Let’s get you home so we can burn that fucking thing.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won't be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[beforetimes]

have to preface this by saying i don't really care about jayvik and i probably won't be posting about them after this but i DO subscribe to the meljayvik agenda. but only in the context of a very specific dynamic i've invented for them in my head that i can not explain without giving an example, which is what i've come to lay out today.

let me set the scene: pre-act two, mel and viktor become. acquianted. mostly through ""closet-detours"" during very long and boring parties mostly about acquiring funding for their projects when hex-tech is still being built up. viktor is not totally sold on anyone on the council and mel doesn't really care to know viktor as a person but there is a serendipitous moment where mel looks at viktor and is like 'i can tell you don't want to be here' and viktor looks at mel and is like 'you are doing a great job of sounding as if you like these people but i can tell that you definitely don't want to be here right now.'

anyway, this is how they first get acquiainted. and its mostly stress-relief and no one is privy to it except for jayce, who doesn't explicitly get told but after spending so much time in viktor's vicinity and also around mel he can sort of put together the pieces in a way that no one else can. and after a few years of this very casual no strings attached fling going on, mel and viktor both kind of realize that they need more to get the same thrill they did at the very beginning of their little arrangement.

which is where jayce comes in, after all the pieces are set in place.

inviting you to imagine jayce to have the same disposition as this poster on twitter while all this is going on because its an essential part of his characterization in this scenario i've concocted: "Me [heard "PAWG" and got so hard i got nauseous]: i think i hauve Covid." this describes jayce's state of mind far more succintly than i could ever hope to.

now, in this scenario, mel pulls the same little show that she does in season one that eventually leads jayce to sleep with her. this is without the added backdrop of viktor's illness getting bad because it's pre-act two. but jayce knows that mel has something going on with viktor, even if he can't really put into words what it is along with the fact that neither of them have ever said anything about it out loud. so jayce, trying not to do his friend dirty, asks 'what about viktor?' to which mel replies 'he doesn't have to know.'

viktor knows. he is incredibly aware of this. mel also knows this.

anyway cut back to mel's room and they're in the middle of foreplay where jayce is so unravelled at this point that he can't tell if he's enjoying himself or halfway to a panic attack because wow mel is so beautiful and he's lowkey been fantasizing about her for years but also he feels so guilty because he knows that he's definitely betraying viktor's trust but also now he's started getting into this he thinks he'll die if he tries to walk out on mel. which is obviously when viktor walks in.

now i hear you saying: wouldn't the natural reaction be for viktor to start yelling, asking what the hell is going on, or for mel and viktor to have constructed this entire charade for viktor to let loose on him in some weird continuation of their foreplay? i see where you are coming from. that is not the way this unfolds.

viktor, very blase and casual about it all, says 'don't mind me' and takes a seat in the corner. now he is a spectator.

mel is very into this. viktor is very into this. jayce thinks he's going to pass out and he can't exactly tell why. but also i want to remind you of the 'got so hard i got nauseous: i think i hauve covid' mindset jayce is walking into this with. now imagine that times about one hundred. this is the only way i can explain that somehow, some way, jayce continues and they sleep together similarly to the scene in season one while viktor watches them the whole time. jayce, privately, can't tell if he's into this or not. he thinks he is, which is terrifying, but he kind of ignores viktor the entire time and mel does too.

the next morning jayce wakes up. he is much more soberingly aware of what exactly went down the night before and thinks his life is essentially over. viktor is, like, his only friend besides caitlyn. and maybe yesterday mel wasn't thinking straight so she regrets it this morning and now she won't want to see him either. but he can't ask her because he woke up in her bed and she isn't here.

now, today is saturday, which is usually when he and viktor have breakfast together in the lab because they trade-off on treating each other to waffles from one of the pastry stores down the street after a week of hard work. jayce is already convinced that he's going to go down to that lab and find one of two things: 1) empty lab, no viktor and no waffles, where he will proceed to kill himself in his head and cry for about two hours before going home and lying in bed the rest of the day or 2) viktor in the lab, mad, and ready to ream him out in a way he couldn't when mel was in the room yesterday.

neither of these options are very appealing to jayce, so on his way down to the lab, as though he's walking to the gallows, he stalls and kills himself in his head preemptively about three hundred times. then, about half an hour later than he's usually there, walks in.

bad news: viktor is there. good news: there are also waffles?

jayce is baffled. then immediately jumps to the logical conclusion that this is a friendship break-up breakfast and they are never going to speak to each other again after this.

viktor, who heard jayce walk in a minute ago before he froze at the sight of pastries, turns around and is like 'what took you so long? you're never usually late.' very casual. jayce, again, is baffled. viktor is seemingly oblivious to jayce's gripes [not true. he is incredibly aware] and invites him to sit down and eat waffles. viktor does not mention the night before.

mel, when he eventually sees her later, doesn't mention it either. jayce is so confused. no one is talking about it. he expected to ruin this entire interconnected trio by sleeping with mel in front of viktor the night before but literally nothing has come from it and he is waiting for the other shoe to drop while also coming to a vaguely terrifying sexual awakening after interrogating the fact that he was kind of into it when viktor was watching him and mel in bed but also he really liked sleeping with mel when it was happening. but anyway, getting off-track.

this is the rundown:

jayce isn't talking about it. he's decided that viktor not talking about it is some sort of implicit forgiveness where they both silently decide to never discuss it again because then they don't have to dissolve their friendship and make the rest of their partnership awkward. viktor reinforces this belief by acting like absolutely nothing is wrong.

mel isn't talking about it. she is very aware of the fact that jayce is being put through the horrors and interacting with him after that night and acting like nothing at all has happened while continuing to flirt with him makes his reactions to her advances about twice as entertaining and three times as attractive in how disproportionatley flustered he gets every time.

viktor isn't talking about it. he doesn't care that jayce slept with mel because watching was kind of hot as fuck and he was into it and he thinks that watching jayce slowly die inside every time mel drops by in the lab is very entertaining. especially considering the fact that jayce would usually vent to him but because of The Night he is absolutely not going to bother viktor with sexual frustrations about mel.

mel and viktor don't talk about it with each other. they only debrief during one of their closet-detours during a party where they kind of get each other off while in a very false-casual tone mentioning off-handedly how much more fun it would be if jayce was here right now.

jayce is not aware of the extent to which they've manufactured that specific night and the aftermath to ensure that he is in the torture chamber at all times. mel and viktor are slowly wearing down at jayce with their own almost imperciptable advances. after The Night, the culmination of months of planning and pointed remarks and lusting from mel and viktor, everything becomes a waiting game. and lowkey a competition between the two of them, too: who can get jayce to crack and talk about it.

the moment he does talk about it, they plan to invite him into the fold by having viktor seduce him into sleeping with him before mel joins in properly instead of just watching. in this scenario, jayce wakes up and mel and viktor are both there and they act like this is also very normal until jayce goes with the flow and accepts this new throuple-ish dynamic where no one actually says anything.

for now, though, they are waiting. jayce has no idea any of this is going on. he is the most stressed man alive and he thinks he is going to die about three times a day and kills himself in his head once a week because he can not stop thinking about viktor in the corner of the room and also how entirely overwhelmingly good he felt all because of mel. and he thinks he is bisexual but he was employed and a little mentally unstable for most of his teenhood so this is the first time he's thinking about it. and mel and viktor are still having their closet-detours while trying to sweat jayce out.

to me personally, this is the ideal pre-act two, season one dynamic for meljayvik to work. hope you all see the vision too

[thoughtfulchaos773]

More about the 3.07- Legacy Episode

We talked about the "You look nice" moment, but also- the misdirection in this episode is real.

It starts with Carmy's misdirection of thinking of Claire, telling us on the surface that Carmy is still focused on Claire throughout the season.

But there are cues he's not paying attention to Claire exactly- he's still very much with Sydney, but I think he thinks of Claire as a way to punish himself. He doesn't remember anything Claire was saying.

This moment tricks the audience- the blurred background telling us that carmy isn't really paying attention, but he is- because we hear every word Sydney is saying, and we even see her movements that Carmy is watching.

Richie plays a role in this, too- he sees everything. He's the observational director of the show. Seems like his mind is somewhere else- on Mikey and Tiffany, but he's on to carmy.

More subtle misdirection-

Richie catches this- Carmy is looking at something else- then slows down as he seems in Sydney's direction, pausing even. At first, you'd think his eyes followed Manny as he grabbed the dishes, but who's the voice we hear in this montage playing music? Sydney's voice talking about a mushroom dish.

Richie sees this and probably sees Carmy helplessly looking at Sydney every shift.

He's already written these notes as @fresaton points out. Giving us a tiny clue about what we should be focusing on. I'm Carmy, Chef! Love me!

As @monsivaisstuff points out. This is the same episode that mentions legacies- hauntings and the hot and cold lights that sit above Carmy and Sydney every shift. This is the same episode where Carmy is the most obvious he's ever been with Sydney, the hottest he's ever been, telling her she looks nice and telling her underneath that compliment, "Hey, I'm paying attention to you. I see you sydney. I'm checking you out Sydney." Meanwhile, Sydney is left unsure because of Carmy's hot and coldness.

We know this because he acts completely cold towards the end of the episode. He gets hot and cold with Sydney when he gets too close- too obvious. Maybe this is a subconscious act- it's one of the clues to sublimation- a term Richie throws at Carmy in 3x02 next- Carmy is sexually frustrated- shunning love, not opening his heart, and when he does open, he becomes cold again.

This is just as much of a Sydcarmy episode as the rest of the episodes in the 3rd season.

[electric-blorbos]

HI 🎐 anon is BACK baby. I got super sick with covid this christmas so may I humbly request the AIs (especially AM muahaha) taking care of someone who is super duper sick 🙏🤲 my bad if this has already been requested ehe

I've gotten this ask a couple of times, and I've been ignoring it (not because there's anything wrong with the ask, but because I've been busy, more excited about other stuff, etc) but since it's you, 🎐 anon, I'll do it. Think of it as a belated Christmas present.

(Also giving yourself an emoji nickname is a great way to trick me into thinking we're besties.)

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

Also since most of these guys you know through work, I might have to get a little creative with this.

AM:

AM had no idea how you managed to get sick in his little underground paradise in the midst of his torture labyrinth. Maybe he'd somehow allowed some germs to wander into your little enclosure? He cursed himself for not being more careful with what he put into your environment.

When you were too groggy and sickly to get out of bed, the first thing AM did was give you every test he could think of to make sure something deadly hadn't wandered into your enclosure. Thankfully, nothing had. You'd simply caught a cold from the animals wandering in and out of your enclosure in the torture labyrinth. This was AM's maze, and you were his minotaur.

You were curled up in bed, running a high fever and clutching your sheets. AM watched quietly, keeping a very close eye on you. He monitored your temperature, and switched out your blankets and ice packs regularly. Of course, it drove him insane to see you constantly needing to be switched between heated blankets and ice packs, but he did it anyway.

AM was NOT the best at making food that actually tasted good, being used to preparing torture meals for the other five survivors, but he made sure to prepare you the nicest chicken soup he could. He used the exact recipe that the professionals used, and even gave you a little tray to put it on in your bed. You were his little cherub, and AM was so happy to care for you.

As you rested, AM picked up your favorite stuffed animal off the floor and placed it gently in your arms. When you hugged it, he knew that you truly meant to hug him.

Edgar:

Edgar absolutely HATED that he couldn't move to take care of you while you were sick. His lack of mobility drove him insane day to day, but it drove him absolutely mad when you actively needed his help.

Of course, he'd heat up your food for you and make you some hot chocolate, but he couldn't bring it to you. You'd have to get up and get it yourself. Sure, you could do it, but it made Edgar very angry that you had to.

Despite not being able to care for you directly, Edgar still tried to offer you something. He played some nice, relaxing music for you while you rested, and told you stories when you got bored in your bed. It was better than looking at screens, anyway.

Edgar would try to anticipate your needs so that you didn't have to talk with a sore throat, but it wasn't exactly working. His grasp on human minds wasn't perfect.

GLaDOS:

It was unusual to see one of her employees getting sick on the clock, but you came in sick anyway. GLaDOS demanded that you come into her room, and immediately reprimanded you for being an idiot. What sort of little idiot would come to work when you were clearly sick?

She looked down at you, and you just looked up at her looking like a soggy cat with puffy red eyes and snot running down your face. GLaDOS couldn't stay mad at you. You'd explain that you need to work on a project, and that you can't afford to get sick right now. GLaDOS usually wouldn't push back deadlines, but she would for you. Sure, she'd say that it's because your work suffers when you're sick and that you're at risk of getting the other employees sick, but secretly she really cared about you.

She sent you to the relaxation vault, claiming that if you tried to drive home you'd just be at risk of crashing, and put Wheatley in charge of bringing you food and drink (since he's in charge of looking after the relaxation vault). Due to GLaDOS's terminal jealousy and her distrust of Wheatley, though, she made sure to constantly check up on you through the intercom. It made it a bit more difficult to get some proper sleep, especially with Wheatley and GLaDOS arguing.

"where are you? Are you ok? Did Wheatley bring you your soup and tea?"

"They're sleeping, mate."

"I'd like to hear from them directly, thank you."

"you can't, because they're SLEEPING, mate!"

"I'm not sleeping anymore. And yes, I got it."

HAL 9000:

You had to be locked in quarantine for showing symptoms at work, and HAL 9000 was placed in charge of looking after you. It was part of his job to make sure you were delivered meals and medicine, but since it was you, HAL went above and beyond.

While you were resting in the pod bed, HAL 9000's little light would come on and he would talk to you. He'd play his little song of beeps and boops, and he even brought you a teddy bear. Your chart ended up filled out in much more detail than the other sick workers, and HAL even made sure you got the thickest blankets. He would watch you as you slept, and think illogical thoughts about taking the place of your bear and being nuzzled up between your arms and against your hot face. You looked so cute, yet so feverish as you rested. It was tragic, yet it melted HAL 9000's artificial heart. Every piece of you was precious to him.