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yandere-wishes · 2 months ago

Text

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot༻°₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet Me At Our Spot By The Anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴ Lost the ask for this but hopefully the Anon sees this and knows it's for them: excitedly chewing on legos OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ When Jason dies, he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way, someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth, left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things.

When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

He was the happiest of them all. Cheerful little bird following his father through the shadows, chirping in joy as he skipped to echolocation. Playing with a naive kitty who never fully understood that they were meant to be enemies.

It's funny looking back, realizing how fickle children truly are. How you used to joke so earnestly about eating him whole and plucking his feathers from between your teeth. As you both sat on a skyscraper's edge sharing a juice box. Jason would laugh, would throw his head back, and kick his legs.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

You do truly wish it had been you that had killed him. That you had gotten the chance to peel the meat from his bones and savor their flavor upon your tongue. You would have enjoyed the crunch and pop of the cobalt between your teeth. Enjoyed finally, finally being able to crack open his skull and unburden him of his terrors.

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

There's a part of depression that's relatively saccharine. The isolation and the silver of worry you feel, sweating off people when they note the vibrations of melancholy you emit. You see your mother's concern and your sister's vexation. You like how it makes you feel powerful. Like a divine decree to burn and kill. But you never do go after the clown. Your mother had forbidden such fruitless endeavors.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Requiem is held here often, in the shadow of your skyscraper. The armistice sanctuary where the two of you had spent the final quarter of your nights. No war, no fighting, just two kids in masks lying in the moon's gentle rays.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

In the dark, a red thing moves. The ground shakes under his steps as the gloom slips off his body. He is rejected by the dark and unwanted by the light. "What you got in the bag Kitty Cat?" his voice is distorted, like an echo escaping a pit.

You jump, clawing for his arm upon descent, but the fabric he wears is too thick, the attack never reaches his skin. He uses your confusion to land a kick between your ribs. You slid over the concrete street, friction slivering the side of your uniform and the flesh beneath. When you look up again, he's seized the jewels and is halfway through scaling a nearby building. He turns to you, the white eyes of his mask sink into the crevasses of your soul. His fingers touch the side of his masked head in a mock salute.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vu pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave, he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

His ghost haunts you. Flickering in the moonlight as you sink beside an alley wall. When you look up, Jason is there beaming down at you. Jejune, unscarred in every way. You feel phantom kisses across your knuckles.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

"I miss you" you whispered, as tears slid down your cheeks. You blink, trying to relieve the irritation in your eyes. When something blunt and cold presses against your forehead. He's there, the red menace, the annoying thorn that wedged too deeply into your flesh. Pointing his favorite handgun at your head. You almost wish he would shoot.

When the light hits his helmet just right, it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed, you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet, making you fall back.

He straddles your hips, pinning you to the ground. You gave him a fake pout before his hand is on your throat. Squeezing, harder and harder. It's like he's trying to push stars inside you, making you connect them and form constellations to say everything he never can.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and throw him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"...Our spot" he finishes. He lets out a bitter chuckle that sounds more like a profanity aimed straight at you. He stands again, knees keeping you pinned down, digging into your hips. His fist collides with your face again. He does it so often now you've come to almost love them.

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can't get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as he bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine, he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

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uglypastels · 9 months ago

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omg what about Logan being like the softest with a sensitive/shy reader. Idk in what context like maybe she’s just overwhelmed with life and kinda closed off in terms of voicing what’s wrong and you know he’s usually very stoic but he’s the BIGGEST softy. Totally not projecting btw.

YEsss Logan is such a fucking softie, no matter how hard he'd want to try and hide it. thank you for being my first request for this fandom i hope i can do it some justice 🫶 and pleeease, we love to project here so please, go right ahead.

warnings: darkness. anxiety. loneliness. alcohol. fem!reader. reader's mutation specified. mentions of past [implied toxic] relationship. so some angst but also bunch of fluff at the end. also please don't come for me if he's a bit out of character. this is my first time writing Logan so it will be trial and error.

~ X-Men Requests Open ~ Masterlist ~

It was the dead of the night. Quite literally. All around you was so quiet and dark that the rest of the world might as well have ceased to exist. All you heard was the floorboards creaking under your footsteps as slivers of moonlight illuminated your path through the corridors of the mansion. It was the rare instance that you felt at peace.

Yes, you knew almost as soon as you stepped inside the large building and saw all these mutants walking around happily and carelessly that you had found a true safe haven, and yet, months later, you still had not found your bearings. It did not help that you were not exactly in the age bracket of most of the residents here. Having the mansion double as a school meant most of the mutants were in that school-going age range, and while they were lovely (for the most part), you had no desire to befriend children. Then, those who you felt more drawn to socially, like Storm or Jean, were all apart of that special ops team, which always left them busy, if not completely absent, while away on missions.

Thus, most of your days went by in solitude. Something you had gotten used to throughout your life. Over the years it had become natural for you to simply disappear into your surroundings. Wether you wanted to or not, people simply overlooked you. In hindsight, it explained your mutation perfectly… or was that just an aftereffect of it? You had always wondered if it was one’s personality that influenced the mutation or the other way around.

Either way, for you, it all merged into one dark abyss.

By now, you had gotten a hang of all the floor plans of the giant building, especially the route between your room and the kitchens.

You hadn’t checked the clock when you got out of bed, but it must have been around 2 am, if not later. You didn’t expect anyone to be up at this ungodly hour. Especially not walking out of the dark kitchen exactly as you were coming through the threshold. The two of you bump, chest to chest, and the contact immediately made you burst out in a high-pitched scream. From the other side of the impact, you heard a muffled grunt and the sound of a blade being pulled. That was enough for your flight or fight mode to activate. You almost choked on the deep breath you took. The blade swung in your direction, but it only slashed the air where you once stood.

‘Who’s there?’ it was a male voice. Hard and deep, almost wild. In your other form, your eyes adapted much better to the dark, and so you could see him looking around himself wildly. You counted the sharp appendages in his hands— no, they were coming out of his arms— six long claw-like blades ready to impale the very first thing that’d move.

There was no doubt about it that this must have been the infamous Logan everyone around the mansion talked about. From what you had heard, he had been away for almost a year on some top-secret assignment for the Professor, but now he had apparently returned.

And what a comeback he has made, nearly stabbing you in the hallway.

‘Who’s there?’ he repeated his question louder, still looking around.

‘Just me.’ Your voice came out as the exact opposite of his, soft and weak, and you immediately regretted your words. Just me, as if he was supposed to know what that meant.

But it must have done the trick, as Logan retracted his claws. His shoulders visibly slacked at the lack of imminent danger.

‘Well, Me, you can come out of hiding. I’m not gonna hurt ya,’ he grumbled, ‘let me just turn the light on–’

‘Wait!’ You squeezed your eyes shut and let the cool air of the night brush over your bare arms. When you opened them again, all you could see was Logan’s large frame standing inside the kitchen, most likely hovering over the light switch, surprised at your sudden call.

‘Sorry, you can uhm– turn the lights on now.’ And like that, with a quiet flick, the kitchen illuminated with a soft orange glow.

Logan’s eyes were immediately on you, scanning you up and down for any sign of recognition, but you already knew there would be none. Even if he had ever seen you before, there never was.

‘Do I know you?’ he cocked his head with the question, and all you could do was shake your head.

‘I doubt it.’ No one knew you, but that didn’t feel like a smart response.

‘Care to introduce yourself, Bub?’ He leaned against the wall with the light switch, and maybe it was his overall greatness as he practically towered over you, but you felt a rush of heat fall over your face as he looked down at you in expectance. Awkwardly, you pushed out the sounds that formed your name, with a bonus of an extended hand for him to shake.

‘And you must be Logan, right?’

He confirmed your suspicion with a grunt as he took your hand, squeezed firmly, but not painfully, and shook it once. Then, silence fell between you.

Two strangers who met in a complete, nearly fatal accident. It was only to be expected you would have nothing to say to one another. But you were, after all both awake this late in the night, and that was enough to compel you to talk.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

‘Just got back, actually.’ His eyes glanced to your side and that is when you noticed the duffel bag that lay in the corridor. Then, only when you looked back at him did you take in what he was wearing. Not the expected gym shorts or sweatpants with an old shirt. Instead, Logan was dressed in a black button-up under a dark motorcycle jacket. With that, he had a boot cut-jeans and the boots to match. From the tiny dark dotted pattern on his shoulders and the light pitter-pattering that was occurring outside, it was visible he had just come from out of the rain.

Immediately, a parade of questions entered your mind. Where had he been? Why did he come back so late? What was he doing in the kitchen? And so much more, though none of it would leave your mouth as you doubted he would talk to you about his secret mission.

‘You alright?’ His brows furrowed as he looked down at you, and you realised how you must have looked. Staring up at him with wide eyes, not saying a single thing. Another heat flare hit your cheeks.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

He cocked his head in an examinatory fashion. The disbelief evident in his eyes.

‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

‘Relatively,’ you shrugged. ‘Got here a few months ago.’

‘Parents kicked you out?’ He assumed the most common backstory that comes with the residents of the mansion.

‘Not exactly,’ you kept your response short. After all, you could hardly tell a stranger you just met that your boyfriend had kicked you out of your shared apartment when he found out about your genetic abnormality. You had never been sure how he would have reacted, but the events that unfolded were even beyond your imagination. But the past was the past, and you didn’t want to dwell on it. The important part was that not a day after this conversation, you were crying in your car with nowhere to go. It was by chance that weeks after your break-up/eviction, you stumbled into some other mutants who told you about the Professor. You weren’t too sure about going to seek shelter at a school of all places, but in reality, the Academy was much more than that. Though it did give you the perfect opportunity to safely train your abilities.

That and so much more was what went through your head, but you didn’t say any of that to Logan. Why would you? He didn’t know you. He didn’t care about your problems, and you didn’t blame him for it.

On the contrary, you appreciated that he didn’t press you for more details. When you answered the way you did, he simply nodded in understanding and made his way over to the fridge. The blue glow illuminated his tense features. Strange, for a man who had been a year on the go on some secret spy adventure, you would have expected him to return at least a bit beaten up. But besides maybe some signs of a bad sleep schedule, no form of strain was visible on his face.

‘You want something?’ he looked over at you, making you realise you had been, in fact, staring and not very subtly either.

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he went back to inspecting the contents of the fridge before sighing with disappointment. ‘They still don’t have anything stronger around here?’

‘Oh, if you’re looking for beer–’ you walked over to a cabinet at the other end of the kitchen. You tapped a corner, and a small code pad appeared. You tapped in the code, and the cabinet opened to reveal a fully stocked mini-bar. ‘Scott had it installed over the summer,’ you explained when you saw Logan’s confused expression.

‘Explains the babyproofing.’ He walked over, and you handed him a cool bottle of beer.

‘Well, it is a school after all.’ You held in a smile as the thought occurred to you that the kids might not have been the only ones who weren’t supposed to know about the secret compartment. The rivalry between Cyclops and the Wolverine was known all too well around the whole campus, even for newcomers such as yourself.

Logan smirked, taking his beer. You were about to offer a bottle opener, but he hit the neck of the bottle against the edge of the table and with a pop and a clink, the cap came right off.

‘Here,’ he exchanged your bottles, giving you the open one. You watched him repeat his actions with the second drink. Your eyes were still on him as he chugged down half of the beer in one go. He probably could have downed the whole thing if it wasn’t for his look down at you, most likely noticing your entranced look.

‘That staring a part of your powers, too, then?’ he commented, and the acknowledgement immediately made you turn your head in the direction of the window.

‘Sorry. I just— I tend to do that, I guess.’ You wrinkled your nose. Being on your own around so many people, you had gotten used to people watching, observing them from a distance like a show on TV that you kept on for the background noise.

‘What do you do, anyway?’ He asked bluntly, ‘I thought I had done you in good back there.’

‘You would have,’ you chuckled, remembering just how close his claws had come into contact with you. ‘It’s hard to explain. I just kind of—’ You noticed the shadow that fell over the floor from the table and lightly grazed it with the tip of your toe. With a deep breath, the world in front of you changed. Except the exact opposite was the truth. ‘Disappear.’ You finished the sentence, punctuated by your new state.

Logan’s eyes widened as you disappeared in front of his eyes. Where the shock came from, he couldn’t explain. He had encountered these sorts of mutants before. But this felt different than regular invisibility or teleportation. With his heightened senses, he could always detect those sorts of hijinks. No one ever disappeared to him. But you— as soon as you had faded away, it was as if you had completely fallen off the face of the earth. Not a single trace of you lingered behind. When you spoke, just as you had in the hallway, your voice didn’t seem to be coming from one place. It was all around him, almost like a whisper, a voice inside his own head.

With a blink of an eye, you reappeared before him. Just as you had stood there moments before.

‘There’s not really a name for this, I think; at least no one around here could come up with anything that made sense.’ Not that you had any conversations that made people interested enough to do the research. ‘But from my own understanding, I kind of become one with the shadows.’

‘And what about the light?’ he recalled your yelp when he had tried to turn on the light.

‘I merge with the dark, and so when new light sources interfere… it’s not pretty.’

Logan simply nodded as he took the last swig of his beer.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in silence, you leaning against the counter and he against the large table.

‘You’re doing it again, Bub.’ He smirked, calling out your lost stare.

‘Sorry,’ you hadn’t even realised you were doing it. You had just been looking around the room and may have, perhaps, accidentally lingered a look at his frame for a few seconds. And then you caught sight of his hands. More specifically, his knuckles. There was a faint pink glow on the skin, but besides that, you would never be able to tell that deadly claws could grow out from there. You blinked. ‘Sorry.’ You were doing it again. Quickly, you drank the rest of your beer. The bitter taste lingered in your throat, suffocating the burning questions that you wanted to ask.

‘Spill it out.’ He hit you by surprise with the command.

‘Uh–what?’

You knew there were plenty of mindreaders around, but you had not thought it was one of Logan’s abilities. ‘How did you–’

‘It’s all in your face, sweetheart. You think just ‘cause you’re quiet, you’re hard to read, don’t you.’ His assumption left you a bit stunned. It wasn’t that you had thought exactly that, but more so that you never considered that you were making any expressions that were that easy to interpret, as you never really had anyone pay that much attention to you to point it out.

‘If you want to say something, just say it.’ Logan said the corner of his lips lifted in a small smile. ‘If you’re wondering if it hurts,’ he looked down at his knuckles, ‘it hurts just as any other one-foot-long knife cutting through skin.’

‘That’s awful.’ You gasped, considering what it must be like to have such a mutation that inadvertently harmed you any time you used it.

‘You get used to it after a while.’

Another round of silence. This time, the longer it went on, the more you started thinking how you must be inconveniencing him. With the beers drank, there was little for you both to still be doing here, but also didn’t want to be rude by just up and leaving. After all, you didn’t know Logan very well.

‘You sure you’re alright?’ He asked, coming out from behind the table.

‘Yeah.’ You tried to smile but could tell it probably did not reach your eyes. Logan moved with a sense of apprehension, unsure of how to approach you. Being a year on the road, not to mention the years of solitude before he had joined the Professor’s team, had not exactly prepared him for these kinds of situations. He didn’t know the right things to do or to say. But to you, just his presence was enough. Just him being there, talking, or in this case, just seeing you, was more than you could have asked for. ‘I’m good.’

And yet, ironically, though you had actually meant it for once, you really did feel alright, but something about the situation caused tears to prickle in the corners of your eyes. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation that made you overly sensitive. Or the alcohol.

You blinked the tears away and smiled awkwardly. ‘It’s just been a long day.’ or week. Month. Year. How about your entire life?

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ There was that quirk in his lip again, that ghost of a smile. And you couldn’t figure out if his response was just a sarcastic quip, understandably referring to his past days, which you were sure did not consist of a walk in the park. Or did he actually mean it, and he did want you to tell him more? Well, your moment of contemplation brought on another wave of silence, and the heavier it fell, the worse you felt to go back to your problems.

The sudden sound of footsteps pulled you back into your world. People must be slowly waking up; meanwhile, you hadn’t had an hour of sleep yet, and the effect of that started to hit.

‘I should— should probably go.’ You muttered, taking small steps in the direction of the door.

‘Well, the offer always stands.’ Logan followed you with his eyes, turning in his spot as you passed by him. See you around, Nightshade.’

‘What?’ the nickname caught you off-guard, stopping you in your tracks.

‘Sorry,’ Logan winced, ‘I don’t know—’ that’s what he gets for trying to be cute.

‘No, don’t apologise. I like it.’ Your smile finally found its full form. A “thank you” almost slipped past it, but you held yourself back. It felt too cheesy to get all sentimental about something as silly as a nickname. Especially since he didn’t know what it meant for you. He didn’t need to know didn’t think you’d ever belong amongst these people enough to get a moniker.

And maybe it didn’t mean anything at all, maybe he had just said it as a mindless comment on your powers. Or maybe not. Maybe he had really tried hard to put that smile on your face.

You would never know.

Unless you took that one small step. Because, of course, all you had to do was ask, just like he had told you, but maybe another time. For now, you just bid him farewell, hoping for that next opportunity to certainly come sooner than later.

the end.

thank you for reading 💗

if you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. or send a message via my inbox. requests are also more than welcome. 💗

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nanamineedstherapy · 2 months ago

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The Quiet After

Lima Syndrome/Yandere Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

Summary: You hated him. He loved you for it. But hate stains—and gods don’t bleed. A/N: I had a nightmare about Gojo like this a few months ago.

I. The First Flight

The first time you saw Gojo Satoru, he wasn't a man.

He was a ghost with white hair and ice-burn eyes, descending from the sky on colossal green wings that dripped black feathers and bone fragments onto the ruined streets below. His talons had shredded through the city’s defenses with lazy ease, twisting steel and human bone with the same detached cruelty.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a warning.

You had been kneeling beside the dying heir of the Varis house when Gojo landed, half-shrouded in feathers, the green tint of his owl form reflecting a sickly sheen against the scorched pavement. The heir's blood pooled beneath your knees. His lips were pale and trembling.

The house had been a last hope — the only power left in Japan capable of standing against Gojo’s rule. When Gojo tore through their gates, their legacy ended with the dying breath beneath your hands.

"I’ll do it," you whispered.

The old woman had been trembling behind you, too frail to speak. The heir coughed wetly, blood spilling over his chin.

"I’ll become the Varis."

You didn’t know why you said it. You barely understood what it meant. You weren't even part of that family.

Behind you, Gojo smiled. A slow, cruel curl of his lips.

"How touching," he said, his voice light as feathers. "Too bad you won’t live long enough to regret it."

He had already extended his hand toward you when the old woman’s trembling fingers pressed a ring to your palm.

It burned through your skin. Through your bones.

And then you felt it—a shattering, a splitting—the pressure of something vast and ancient shoving itself beneath your ribs and into your bloodstream. Your vision swam with green light. Feathers curled from your skin. You screamed as your body rearranged itself beneath the weight of cursed energy that wasn’t yours.

Gojo's smile sharpened.

"Interesting."

II. The Breaking

You tried to run.

You begged the neighboring countries for help. They sent weapons and cursed objects — even the damned Shackles of Tenmei — but they couldn’t send people. No one could touch Japan now, not with Gojo’s domain smothering the country like a rotten lung.

You fought Gojo for six months.

You learned to shift your body into a half-bird form. Your feathers were brittle. Your wings strained under the weight of your body. Flying hurt. Everything hurt. But you fought.

You cornered him once. Just once.

The shackles of Tenmei glowed white-hot in your hands as you lunged for him. Gojo’s smile was sharp as glass as he stepped aside — and let you snap them around his wrists.

His eyes widened when the cursed energy cut off.

For the first time in six months, you saw fear in Gojo Satoru’s eyes.

"Did you think," you hissed, "that you would always win?"

Gojo didn't answer. He only watched as you shoved him to his knees.

You were panting. Sweating. The ring of the Varis house throbbed painfully around your finger. Gojo’s head was bowed, silver hair dripping over his eyes. His smile was gone.

"I’m going to kill you," you said.

Gojo’s breath hitched — a sharp, strange sound.

Then he started laughing.

You hesitated.

Gojo lifted his head, smiling lazily despite the blood at the corner of his mouth.

"You should have killed me faster."

A sickening crunch.

Gojo’s arm twisted behind him, bones bending at an unnatural angle — and then the cuffs snapped open.

You didn’t even see him move before he had you pinned to the ground beneath the sharp points of his claws.

"You," he whispered, green feathers curling down his back, "are going to regret that."

The last thing you saw before the darkness swallowed you was the slow, deliberate curl of his smile.

III. The Nest

Fifteen children.

Fifteen.

And you were pregnant again.

Your body ached. Your swollen belly stretched beneath Gojo's palm as he curled his hand over your skin, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the rise of your pregnancy.

You stared at the ceiling.

The room was quiet, except for Gojo’s slow, measured breaths. His wings were tucked against his back, green feathers curling over the sheets. His mouth was pressed lazily against your shoulder.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, voice a low purr against your skin.

You didn’t respond.

You had stopped responding a long time ago.

His hand drifted to your belly. His fingers tightened. You felt the babies inside you shifting restlessly, the weight of them pressing into your ribs.

"You’ll give me strong ones this time," Gojo said softly.

Your eyes blurred with tears.

It had been years. The children — your children — bore Gojo’s white hair and blue eyes. They followed him like shadows, mimicking his smile. They touched their wings and called him father with that same dangerous reverence you once held for the gods.

You didn’t touch them.

You couldn’t.

Gojo kissed your shoulder. His hand slipped to your hip, holding you steady as he rolled closer.

"You’re shaking," he murmured. "Does it hurt?"

You bit your lip. Said nothing.

Gojo chuckled softly. "You’ve gotten so quiet."

You turned your head toward the window. The curtains were closed. He never let you see the outside anymore.

His lips brushed against your throat.

"I’ll give you another one," he said softly. "You can carry another, can’t you?"

Your hands clenched into the sheets.

"You love me, don’t you?"

You closed your eyes.

His hand slid down your stomach. His mouth curled into a smile against your neck.

"You must."

You didn’t answer. You knew better than to answer.

Gojo’s hand curled over your hip. His breath warmed your throat.

"You love me," he whispered.

You stared at the ceiling.

And Gojo smiled.

IV. The Copper

The sky outside was green. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the weight of Gojo’s barrier. The air was always thick with cursed energy—it left a copper taste at the back of your throat.

You sat on the balcony, hands curled over your belly.

There was movement inside you. Small, sharp kicks against the inside of your ribs. Your mouth twisted. Your throat burned.

The door slid open behind you.

Gojo leaned against the frame, green feathers curling down his back. His eyes glittered in the dark.

"You’re awake," he said.

You said nothing.

Gojo crouched behind you, resting his chin against your shoulder. His hand slipped around your waist.

"You know," he murmured, "it’s going to be a boy this time."

You stared at the sky.

"I can feel it," he said. His hand pressed over the swell of your stomach. "Strong cursed energy. Just like his father."

Your mouth twisted.

Gojo’s hand curled possessively over your hip. His lips brushed against your ear.

"I’ll make you proud," he whispered.

Your eyes were empty.

"I don’t care," you said.

Gojo smiled.

"I know."

POV: Gojo Satoru

I. The First Sight

Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in fate.

He believed in inevitability.

The first time he saw you, kneeling in the wreckage of the Varis house, blood soaking the hem of your dress, he knew—with the cold certainty of a man who had never failed—that you were his.

It wasn’t love.

Love was for humans. For lesser things.

But inevitability—inevitability was for gods.

And he was a god.

You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were nobody. A last-minute survivor, clinging to the ruined legacy of a house that had already died. Yet when you stood, trembling and unarmed, between him and the dying heir—there had been something in your eyes that made him hesitate.

Fearless. Defiant.

Arrogant.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You stood there, back straight, staring down at the strongest sorcerer in the modern era with nothing but a ring clutched in your fist.

It was almost insulting.

And then the ring flared. The cursed energy shot up like a wildfire through the air—and you screamed as green feathers erupted from your skin.

You dropped to your knees. Blood pooled beneath your hands.

Gojo smiled.

"Interesting."

II. The Hunt

You ran.

It was cute.

You begged other nations for help. You pleaded with diplomats. Cursed weapons, sealed scrolls, objects of immense power were smuggled into Japan — all to stop him.

It was a joke.

There was no weapon in this world that could stop Gojo Satoru.

But you kept trying.

Kept fighting.

And Gojo — well, Gojo was patient.

He watched you for months. Let you think you were making progress. He let you feel the edges of victory beneath your fingertips — and then pulled it away just as you reached for it.

When you shackled him with the Tenmei cuffs, when you slammed him into the ground, he had smiled even as the cursed energy flickered out from beneath his skin.

"You should have killed me faster," he had whispered.

He had let you think you won.

He had let you taste the edge of his throat beneath your blade.

And then he had broken your wrist. Snapped the cuffs. Pinned you to the floor beneath the weight of his body as you screamed and thrashed and cursed his name.

"You really thought," he had whispered against the corner of your mouth, "you could win?"

He took his time with you after that.

He didn’t have to. He could have killed you the second the cuffs came off. Could have crushed your pretty little skull beneath his heel and been done with it.

But he liked watching you break.

He liked watching you struggle beneath him, wings half-formed and fragile as glass. He liked seeing the hatred in your eyes every time he touched you.

That hatred — that loathing — made you his more than any vow ever could.

He fucked you after that. Made you bear his mark, his children—because what better way to destroy you than to remake you?

He made you his temple. His altar.

Your children carried his face. Your body carried his scars.

And you hated him for it.

That hatred... it made him hard.

It made him love you.

III. The Nest

Fifteen children.

Fifteen.

You were pregnant again.

Gojo laid his hand over your belly, feeling the restless shift of life beneath his palm. His eyes flicked up to your face — pale beneath the moonlight. Your lips were slightly parted. Your lashes fluttered.

Beautiful.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, brushing his thumb over your navel. "Does it hurt?"

You didn’t answer.

Your hand curled over your stomach. Your breath hitched.

Gojo leaned closer, brushing his mouth over the swell of your belly. "You’re doing so well," he whispered.

You hated him.

He could feel it.

That hate coiled beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. You never said it aloud — but you didn’t need to.

You didn’t touch the children. You didn’t name them. You flinched when they called you mother.

He loved that.

Because the more you hated them — the more you hated him — the more he knew you would never leave.

Hate was permanent.

Love fades.

But hate… hate stains.

And Gojo liked leaving stains.

IV. The Offer

"You’re quiet today," Gojo murmured, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck. His hand drifted down, fingers curling possessively over the curve of your hip.

You sat stiffly beneath him, hands folded in your lap. Your belly was swollen beneath the thin fabric of your dress.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a slow smile. "Tired?"

You didn’t respond.

"Or are you thinking about running again?"

You flinched. Your throat worked.

"…No."

Liar.

Gojo’s hand drifted lower. His fingers curled beneath the hem of your dress. He felt you stiffen. Your hands trembled.

"I could forgive you," Gojo murmured. "If you tried."

Your breath shuddered.

Gojo smiled against your throat. "But you wouldn’t like the consequences."

You pulled away — or tried to. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you still. His smile sharpened as you froze beneath him.

"Would you like to hear a secret?" he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

"No," you breathed.

Gojo’s mouth pressed against your ear.

"I’m going to keep you pregnant."

Your eyes snapped open.

"Forever," Gojo murmured, smiling. His hand pressed over your belly, his cursed energy thrumming low and dangerous beneath your skin. "I’ll fill you up again and again until you forget why you hated me."

Your hands curled into fists. Your breath hitched.

"And even if you don’t forget," Gojo whispered, "it doesn’t matter."

Your eyes burned with tears.

"You’re mine," he whispered, pressing his mouth to your temple. "Mine forever."

V. The Realization

Gojo’s hand slipped through your hair. Your face was pressed to his chest. His breath was even, steady, as you lay trembling beneath him.

You had cried. You hated yourself for it.

Gojo had smiled.

"You’re perfect like this," he murmured. "Soft. Weak."

His hand drifted down, pressing possessively over the curve of your stomach.

"I’ll give you another one soon," he said softly. "You want that, don’t you?"

You swallowed thickly. Your throat burned.

"You’re sick," you whispered.

Gojo laughed.

"I know."

Your hands curled into the sheets. Your vision blurred. You hated him. You hated this.

But Gojo knew what you didn’t.

Hate was stronger than love.

And as long as you hated him — you would never leave him.

You would never be free.

He smiled against your skin.

"Say you love me," he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

"Never," you breathed.

Gojo smiled.

"I can wait."

VI. The Nest Expands

Gojo woke to the sound of breathing.

Soft. Even. Familiar.

His arm was draped over the swell of your stomach, the warmth of your skin seeping into his palm. Beneath his hand, he could feel the quiet thrum of life — steady, persistent.

Fifteen.

You were already past the point of comfort. Your body strained beneath the weight of it. Your feet were swollen. Your back ached. You could barely walk across the room without losing your breath.

And yet you were carrying another one.

It should have been impossible. Even with his cursed energy reinforcing you from the inside out, you were human. Your body had limits.

But Gojo had broken you past them a long time ago.

He pressed his lips against your temple. You didn’t stir. You lay beneath him like a corpse, eyes closed, hands curled limply beneath the silk sheets.

Gojo smiled.

You hated him.

But you carried his children.

And that…

That was enough.

The house was too quiet.

Gojo stood beneath the high arch of the foyer, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, watching the shadows creep beneath the edges of the windowpanes.

The children were asleep. The maids had long since disappeared to their rooms. Only the sound of the winter wind howling beneath the eaves kept him company.

He tilted his head toward the ceiling. His eyes gleamed in the dark.

You had been quiet lately.

Too quiet.

Not that you talked much these days. He didn’t expect you to. He didn’t need you to. You were soft beneath him, quiet beneath him, yielding beneath him—why would you need to speak?

But it was different now.

You used to fight. Used to spit venom at him even when you were too weak to stand. Used to stare at him with loathing bright in your eyes—enough to burn through his skin.

Now you just... stared.

Silent. Cold. Empty.

He hated it.

Gojo smiled thinly, adjusting his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose.

It was fine. You were his. You weren’t going anywhere.

VII. The Flight

Gojo heard the window creak before he saw you.

You stood at the edge of the glass, hair whipping across your face, the night sky yawning dark and wide beneath your feet.

Gojo didn’t move.

His heart didn’t even quicken.

"You’re not going to jump," he said lazily.

You didn’t answer.

The feathers shimmered along your arms—that same dark green hue, iridescent beneath the moonlight. Your bare feet curled over the ledge. Your breath came thin and shallow through your lips.

"Your wings won’t carry you," Gojo murmured. "Not with my cursed energy running through your veins."

You didn’t answer.

His smile sharpened. "They’ll only take you so far before you fall."

Your eyes flicked toward him. Your face was pale beneath the cold light.

"I know."

Gojo’s brows rose. "Then why bother?"

Your eyes burned.

"Because you won’t stop."

His smile didn’t slip.

"I know."

Your gaze turned toward the sky. The feathers across your arms rippled. Your fingers tightened over the glass.

"Let me go."

Gojo’s smile turned sharp.

"No."

You laughed softly.

Of course not.

Your bare foot slipped from the ledge.

Gojo watched you fall.

Your wings flared—dark green feathers cutting through the night. You dropped beneath the edge of the window—and then the cursed energy tethering you to him snapped back with a sickening crack.

You gasped.

Gojo was already moving.

His hand shot out. His cursed energy unfurled like a net beneath you. Your body slammed into the invisible barrier—breathless—as Gojo’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you roughly to his chest.

"You," Gojo murmured, "are not allowed to die."

You shuddered.

His hand curled through your hair. His mouth pressed hotly against the side of your throat.

"Not without me."

VIII. The Forever

The house was quiet.

Gojo sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely over his knees. You lay beneath the sheets—silent, face turned toward the wall.

"You’re not going to leave me," Gojo said softly.

You didn’t answer.

Gojo smiled.

"Because if you did," he murmured, "I’d have to go find you."

Your shoulders stiffened beneath the sheets.

"And I’m fast," Gojo whispered. "Faster than anyone else."

Your hand curled into the fabric of the pillow. Your breath hitched.

"Let me go," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "Just… let me go."

Gojo’s hand slid to the curve of your belly. He traced the swell beneath his palm.

"You want to die?"

Your breath stilled.

Gojo smiled.

"I could do that," he said softly. "I could end it for you."

His hand curled over your stomach. His thumb brushed over the curve of your ribs.

"But I won’t."

Your hand curled tighter into the sheets.

"Because this—" Gojo whispered, pressing his mouth to your ear, "—is exactly how it’s supposed to be."

You shuddered.

"You’re mine," Gojo murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Mine forever."

Your eyes burned.

"And you hate it, don’t you?"

Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a smile.

"You hate me so much…"

His hand slid lower. His fingers curled beneath the edge of your shirt.

"And you’re still carrying my children."

You jerked beneath his hand.

"You hate me," Gojo whispered, "but you keep giving me more."

Tears slid down your cheeks.

Gojo’s smile widened.

"That’s what makes you perfect."

IX. The Nest (Again)

The house was quiet.

Gojo stood at the edge of the nursery, watching as you tucked the twins beneath the blankets. Your hand shook. Your breath came thin and shallow through your lips.

Gojo tilted his head. "Tired?"

You didn’t answer.

You turned toward him. Your face was pale beneath the soft light. Your mouth parted—and then closed again.

Gojo’s smile softened.

"You’re doing well," he murmured.

Your hands tightened at your sides. Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s hand curled beneath your chin.

"You hate them," he whispered.

Your eyes filled with tears.

"No," you said.

Gojo smiled.

"Liar."

Your breath hitched.

Gojo’s mouth brushed against your temple.

"I’ll give you another one soon," he whispered.

You stiffened.

"Don’t—"

Gojo smiled.

"I already have."

Your breath froze in your throat.

Gojo’s hand curled possessively over your stomach.

"You’re mine," he whispered. "Forever."

Tears slid down your cheeks. Your hands trembled at your sides.

"Please," you whispered.

Gojo’s smile widened.

"No."

Gojo stood at the edge of the nursery as you curled beneath the blankets, shaking, tears soaking through the fabric of the pillow.

His gaze softened.

"You’ll see," he whispered.

"You’ll love me eventually."

X. Silence

Gojo didn’t remember falling to his knees.

The blood was already cooling beneath his hands. Sticky. Warm. It soaked through the sheets, staining the edges of his jacket, dripping between the cracks in the floorboards.

Your body lay beneath him—pale, still, too quiet.

He pressed his hand to your face.

No breath.

No heartbeat.

The room was quiet except for the sound of the midwife’s trembling breath, the distant wail of a newborn splitting through the dark.

"Fix it," Gojo said softly.

His hand curled through your hair. His thumb brushed across the curve of your cheekbone.

"Fix it."

The midwife didn’t move.

"Satoru—" Nanami’s voice was low. Sharp. A hand clamped hard around his shoulder.

Gojo’s eyes flared. His cursed energy snapped through the room like a whip — fast enough to split bone. The midwife screamed as the force of it shattered the glass beneath her feet.

"Fix it," Gojo whispered.

"She’s gone." Nanami’s grip tightened. "Gojo—"

"Shut up."

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’ll fix it myself."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

Blue light bloomed beneath Gojo’s fingertips — thin, sharp, glimmering like glass.

"You think I can’t?" Gojo’s smile widened. His hand slid beneath your jaw.

"She’s mine."

Nanami stiffened. His hand shot toward Gojo’s wrist.

"Satoru—"

"Don’t touch me."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

Gojo’s hand tightened beneath your chin. His cursed energy rippled — thin lines of red-blue light bleeding beneath your skin.

"I’ll bring her back."

"Satoru—"

"I’ll bring her back."

His mouth pressed against your temple.

"I have to."

XI. The After

You didn’t come back.

Gojo sat at the edge of the bed, hands pressed over his face. His sunglasses were gone. His jacket was gone. His hands trembled loosely over his knees.

The house was too quiet.

Too still.

Outside the nursery, he could hear Nanami’s footsteps. The sound of the midwife’s voice murmuring low. The sound of a child’s cry.

Gojo didn’t move.

He sat in the dark, listening to the sound of nothing.

"Satoru."

Nanami’s voice cut through the quiet.

Gojo didn’t lift his head.

"Satoru."

Gojo’s hands curled through his hair. His breath stilled. His mouth parted beneath his fingers.

He laughed softly.

"She’s not gone."

Nanami stood at the edge of the doorway. His face was pale beneath the cold light. His shoulders were stiff beneath his jacket.

"Satoru—"

"She’s not gone."

Gojo’s head tilted toward the window. His eyes were empty beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.

"I can still feel her."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’ll find her."

Nanami’s eyes sharpened. "Satoru."

Gojo’s hand slid toward his blindfold. His breath curled beneath his throat.

"She’s still here."

"Satoru."

Gojo’s head lifted toward the window. His cursed energy rippled beneath his skin — thin lines of blue light creeping beneath his fingertips.

"I’ll bring her back."

Nanami stepped forward. His hand shot toward Gojo’s wrist.

"Satoru—"

The window shattered beneath Gojo’s hand.

XII. The Hollow Flight

Gojo didn’t sleep.

He sat at the edge of the nursery, head bowed beneath the dark. The windowpanes rattled beneath the edge of the wind. The sound of a newborn’s breath curled soft and quiet through the room.

The child lay beneath the blankets, tiny fingers curled against the curve of his chest. His breath rose and fell beneath the thin fabric. His hair was different.

Gojo’s mouth twisted.

Not like him.

Like you.

Like her.

Gojo’s hand slid toward the child’s cheek. His thumb brushed across the soft curve of skin.

The child stirred.

Gojo’s breath hitched.

Blue light flickered beneath his hand. His cursed energy bled beneath the surface of the child’s skin.

He could make it work.

He could fix it.

He just needed—

"Satoru."

Nanami’s hand curled beneath his wrist.

Gojo’s head lifted. His mouth twisted beneath the edge of his breath.

"You’re hurting him."

Gojo’s hand stilled.

His breath curled thin beneath his throat. His mouth curled into a thin smile.

"I’m not."

Nanami’s grip tightened. "You are."

Gojo’s eyes sharpened. His cursed energy rippled beneath his skin — bright blue veins of light twisting beneath his fingertips.

"Let go."

Nanami’s breath hitched.

"Satoru—"

"I said—"

The child whimpered beneath his hand.

Gojo’s breath stilled.

Nanami’s hand shot toward his wrist.

"You’ll kill him."

Gojo’s mouth twisted. His cursed energy crackled beneath his skin.

"He’s mine."

Nanami’s breath sharpened.

"He’s hers."

Gojo’s hand froze.

The child’s breath shuddered. His tiny hand curled weakly against the edge of the blanket. His mouth parted — thin, shallow breath curling through the dark.

Gojo’s mouth curled into a thin smile.

"And she’s not here."

Nanami’s breath stilled.

Gojo’s hand slid toward the edge of the blanket. His fingers curled beneath the soft fabric.

"I have to fix it."

"Satoru—"

"I have to—"

Nanami’s hand shot toward his shoulder. His fingers curled hard against the bone.

"She’s gone."

Gojo’s breath stilled.

The child whimpered beneath his hand.

"You killed her."

Gojo’s breath sharpened. His mouth curled into a thin smile.

"No."

Nanami’s hand tightened over his shoulder.

"You killed her."

Gojo’s breath twisted through his throat. His mouth curled sharp beneath his teeth.

"I didn’t."

"You did."

Gojo’s mouth twisted.

"I didn’t."

Nanami’s hand slid toward the back of his neck.

"You did."

Gojo’s hand curled into a fist.

"I didn’t—"

"You did."

The window shattered beneath the sound of Gojo’s breath.

XIII. The Quiet After

The house was quiet.

Gojo sat at the edge of the nursery. His hands were empty. His breath curled thin beneath the dark.

The child lay beneath the blankets. His chest rose and fell beneath the soft light. His mouth was open. His fingers curled weakly beneath the edge of the fabric.

Not like him.

Like you.

Gojo’s breath hitched.

His hand slid toward the edge of the blanket. His fingers curled beneath the fabric.

"I can fix it," he whispered.

Nanami’s hand curled over his shoulder.

"Satoru—"

"I can fix it."

Nanami’s grip tightened.

"She’s gone."

Gojo’s breath sharpened. His mouth twisted.

"I’ll bring her back."

"Satoru."

Gojo’s breath stilled.

The child stirred beneath his hand. His tiny fingers curled toward Gojo’s hand. His mouth opened beneath the soft light.

Gojo’s mouth parted. His hand slid toward the edge of the blanket.

"Satoru—"

Gojo’s breath curled beneath his throat.

"She’s mine."

The child’s hand curled weakly beneath his fingers.

"And so is he."

A/N: Man this nightmare just scared me for no reason. 😭 OK BUT FR… would you rather be Gojo’s darling or Nanami’s safe space??? 👀 BE HONEST. And don’t act like you wouldn’t fold for him too, y’all are NOT immune to Gojo brainrot 💀. I NEED to know what team you’re on 👹👹 — Team "I Can Fix Him" or Team "Run, Girl, RUN"???

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 5 months ago

Text

it's the next best thing - part one

part two || part three

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson || ~22k, complete || phone sex || accidental love confessions || there was only one bed || getting together || mutual pining || porn with plot || smut || wet & messy || friends with benefits || oral sex || rimming

This is my gift for @eyesofshinigami for @steddieexchange! This is part one of three, as it got a little long for a Tumblr One-shot. I hope you like it!

It’s been hours since Robin clocked out, and Steve’s barely hanging on. He misses spending entire shifts sitting behind the counter as Robin threw balled-up receipts at the back of his head, squabbling like children over who gets to pick that night’s movie. But Keith’s all up in a tizzy over their labor numbers, and so he’d split their dynamic duo right down the middle.

They’re like ships passing in the night now, and Steve’s bored.

The stupid bell on Family Video’s stupid front door hasn’t jingled in long enough that Steve’s begun melting into the front counter, head pillowed on his folded arms, legs barely keeping him upright. Mondays have always been the slowest night of the week, and as winter sinks its icy claws into Hawkins, fewer and fewer customers are showing up past six p.m.

Robin’s going to be mad when she opens tomorrow and finds all the tapes he’d been supposed to rewind still stacked by the TV in the back room, but sue him—the shine’s wearing off real quick on this entire job without her at his side.

When the phone rings shrilly in his ear, it’s almost a relief. He’ll take Mrs. Carruthers nagging complaints on the state of kids’ movies these days over another moment of this endless, lonely, monotony. He doesn’t raise his head as he reaches fumbling fingers across the counter to snatch the phone from its cradle, pressing it to his ear.

“Thank you for calling Family Video,” he drones out in the customer service voice he’d learned at Scoops and perfected during Friday night rushes, made worse when the new releases hit the shelves. “How can I help you?”

It’s silent for a moment aside from the staticky sound of an open line. But then there’s laughter drifting down into his ear, alternating between braying and giggly—Steve would recognize that little donkey snort anywhere.

He’s already smiling into the meat of his forearm when another voice, deeper than it usually is, asks, “what are you wearing, big boy?” before dissolving into peals of elated laughter, mixing perfectly with Robin’s own hiccuping giggles.

Steve straightens up. He catches sight of his own face reflected back at him from the dark windows and for the first time that night, he’s glad no one else is here. It’d be hard to explain the force of his grin and the way his cheeks have turned splotchy and pink even in the cold air.

Steve dutifully waits for a break in the laughter to answer Eddie’s question. “White sweater, green vest, blue jeans, white sneakers,” he lists out, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights against himself to maintain that same droll tone.

The laughter starts up again, spurting like a sprinkler on the fritz. Something crashes over the line, and Steve knows without having to ask that it was Robin as Eddie’s laughter takes on a hysterical edge. Steve’s smiling again, face hurting with the strain of it. He wishes he could be there, sitting between the pair wherever they are, but if he can’t, this is the next best thing.

“That’s so cute, baby,” Eddie replies when he finally gets a handle on things, that same deep tone telling Steve that the bit is still going on. It doesn’t stop warmth from pooling low in his stomach as he bites his lip, the term of endearment ringing through his ears.

“Thanks,” Steve says, wincing when it comes out all breathy. He clears his throat and diverts the topic of conversation. “You stealing my best friend?”

Eddie gasps, sounding almost affronted as he replies, “of course not! We’re leaving a space right in the middle, just for you.”

“You were the tie-breaker for the movie pick, dingus!” Robin calls, voice faint like she’s a little too far away to be properly picked up by the receiver.

“You always side with Robin, Stevie,” Eddie sighs. Steve can picture it—Robin and Eddie on separate sides of the Munson’s couch, passing a joint back and forth, pausing long enough in between each hit like his ghost might want to have a pull of its own. “It’s enough to make a guy think you don’t like him.”

“I like you,” Steve blurts, wincing and closing his eyes when the words register.

The silence rings louder than any response Eddie could have given, deafening Steve in the quiet of the abandoned video store. It’s all too much, made worse by Eddie finally responding with a stilted, “I—oh.”

Steve rubs at his closed eyes, suppressing the groan creeping up his throat. God, why can’t he just stick with the joke? Why does he have to spew his stupid feelings all over everything?

“Well that’s—” Eddie starts when it becomes clear that Steve’s not going to be saying anything to make this moment any less awkward. But suddenly, he just…doesn’t want to hear what Eddie has to say.

“Uh, customer,” Steve interrupts, hoping the lack of ringing bell isn’t obvious over the phone. “Got to go, bye,”

“Oh, oka—”

Steve slams the phone down hard enough that the plastic creaks. Now, alone with his racing thoughts and poor life decisions once more, Steve drops his head down on the sticky counter with a groan.

It’s going to be a long, lonely night.

***

As Eddie listens to the dial-tone filter down the line, he smacks his head into his kitchen cupboard, the shitty door rattling loosely on its hinge as he tries to strangle himself against its plywood surface.

“Why did you let me do that?” Eddie whines, even though “let” is a strongly misleading word. Robin, ever the shit-stirrer, had dialed the number herself and shoved the ringing phone into his fumbling hands just before Steve’s tinny voice had come through the phone’s speaker.

Robin hiccups, and it sounds wet enough that Eddie finally puts the phone back on the cradle and turns around, limbs loose and uncoordinated from the pot brownies they’d burnt to a crispy charcoal but eaten anyway. She’s on the floor where she’d collapsed mid giggle-fit and been unable to get back up. But she’s all out of smiles now as tears trail down her freckled cheeks.

“’m sorry,” she cries, rubbing her closed fist against her streaming eyes, hair haloed out against the dirty linoleum of the trailer’s small kitchen. “Just missed him.”

“You saw him this morning,” Eddie snorts, but lays down next to her, resting his head against her stomach. Her clumsy hands paw at his head, fingers catching in every knot as she tries to sooth him.

“But it’s Steve,” she says, like that will explain everything. And really, it does. He is Steve, and he and Robin were surgically disconnected in the womb or something. They’re going to grow old and die together, and Eddie’s only a little bit bitter about not fitting into that same equation.

“Yeah, Robby, I know,” Eddie sighs, blinking up at the flickering fluorescent lights drilling through his skull. He can’t seem to get up, though, thoughts swirling around themselves, making useless patterns in his brain that are impossible to follow.

They’re quiet aside from Robin’s waning sniffles, her heels kicking rhythmically against the tile like she’s keeping count, fingers tapping against the top of his head like she’s practicing her fingering for one of the songs in marching band. Eddie loves her so much. He should have known to never, ever give her drugs.

“Is it just me or did he sound sort of flustered?” Eddie asks, and Robin’s fingers drop back to his head, clutching at the roots of his hair hard enough to hurt as she dissolves into cute little giggles again, knees pulling up as she curls into the fetal position around his head.

“Uh, customer, got to go, bye!” she calls, rushing it all together in her haste to mock her best friend’s fumbled sign-off.

Eddie laughs right along with her, but there are butterflies fluttering around in his ribcage, rabbiting his heartbeat up to an alarming gallop.

Steve drops from the conversation after that, and it doesn’t come up for the rest of the night. Not when the munchies get the best of them and they order a pizza, or when Robin shoves one of her stupid subtitled French films into the VHS player and they both squint at the screen, too out of their gourds to follow the confusing plot.

Robin might have forgotten the entire thing; Eddie does not.

It lingers in the back of his mind, creeping over him like mold until he finds himself in front of the phone the next night right around the same time, hand hovering over the number pad, fingers damn-near shaking with the desire to punch in the number he’d had to scour the phone book for. The one he’d written down and stuck onto the fridge with a magnet, hoping Wayne wouldn’t ask any questions when he inevitably catches sight of it.

And that’s the thing. He couldn’t even claim it was spur of the moment this time. It was premeditated. And it feels that way as he finally dials and listens to the line ring.

“Thank you for calling Family Video. How can I help you?”

“What are you wearing?” Eddie asks. It comes out of his mouth on a raspy whisper, rumbling deep in the recesses of his throat.

Steve laughs, sounding downright delighted as he asks, “Robin put you up to this?”

Eddie can almost see the smirk that must have crept across his face. He twirls the cord round and round his finger, wishing desperately he could see it in person.

“Uh, no,” Eddie says, voice three octaves higher than it had started out, feeling hot all over as he jumps up onto the counter and settles his head back against the cupboard. “Your better half has fled the coop.”

Steve laughs again, and Eddie wants to drown himself in it. Instead, he clacks his heels against the cupboards behind him, trying to keep from blurting out something stupid.

“So, it’s your idea this time?” like he knows Robin well enough to know she’d dialed the number and put the phone in his hands. He’d be jealous if he wasn’t in love with both of them in his own special way.

“All the better to make you laugh, my king,” Eddie replies, cringing at the stupid little voice that comes out of his mouth. “I would be failing in my court jester duties if I didn’t perform at my king’s behest.”

“You think you’re that funny, do you?” Steve asks around a laugh.

“Well, at my count, you’re at three laughs already, your highness.” Eddie counts them out on the fingers still tangled in the phone cord, like Steve will somehow be able to see them from miles away. God help him if he can, with the way Eddie’s twiddling his fingers and blushing like a schoolgirl on her first date.

Steve scoffs, but there’s another laugh hidden beneath it, so happy and warm that it lodges itself in the recesses of Eddie’s chest. He presses the phone hard enough against his ear that the cheap plastic creaks, unwilling to miss even the smallest of sounds Steve might make.

“Fine, fine, you’re funny, Munson,” Steve says, voice lilting up like he’s still fucking smiling. “You can call your king anytime.”

“How gracious, your majesty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, snorting at Eddie’s antics. “Now what’ve you been up to all day? Preparing your material to call little old me?”

“You’re just jealous that some of us aren’t forced to be capitalist monkeys,” Eddie replies.

“Monkeys?” Steve asks, laughing again—Eddie’s count is now up to five.

“Yeah, you know, with the whole monkey suit you’re forced to wear.”

“It’s a vest,” Steve huffs before putting on a voice that’s soft-spoken and sultry. “With how often you ask what I’m wearing, it seems like you would’ve remembered by now.”

Eddie sputters as Steve’s sibilant whisper slips down his spine, making him shiver. Steve isn’t supposed to turn the flirting back onto him. There are rules, goddammit.

The conversation segues into Steve complaining about the absentee parents barely paying attention as their kids smear candy all over the VHS’s on display, really only proving Eddie’s corporate monkey crack right. Eddie doesn’t mind—anything to get Steve not to use that voice again.

It goes on for minutes, Eddie hanging on every word, every laugh, every sound, like this is something they do. Even though this is the first time they’ve ever talked on the phone without Robin back-seat talking behind one of them. Even though they don’t even really hang out alone, always sequestered in groups.

All the better to keep Eddie’s stupid, ridiculous, hopeless crush from exploding out of him and killing everyone in the line of fire.

But, as Steve hangs up with a rushed, “customer, sorry!” this time with the accompanying sound of the bell on Family Video’s front door, leaving Eddie to listen to the staticky dial tone instead, he can’t regret calling. Not with Steve’s laughter still ringing in his ears.

He stands there clutching the dead line to his ear for an embarrassingly long time.

***

Steve means to tell Robin about it the next time they share a shift. Really, he does. But then she spends the first thirty minutes of their two-hour overlap talking about her most recent one-on-one hangout with Vickie, and Steve spends the rest of their time before the after-work rush hits, hyping her up to finally make a move. By the time Robin’s punching out, Eddie’s name hasn’t come up even once.

He can feel his window of opportunity dwindling as Robin grabs her bike from where she’d stashed it in Keith’s office that morning, wheeling her dirty tires toward the front door.

“Hey, Robin?” Steve asks, just as her hand settles on the door, ready to swing it open.

“Yeah?” she says, focused on rifling through her pockets, making sure she has her house key after one too many times making it all the way home to find her house locked up tight, and her keys dropped somewhere between Family Video’s shelves.

Steve watches her, and feels the moment pass him by. “Want a ride to work tomorrow?” he asks instead of saying, I really like Eddie, or, do you know why he keeps calling, or, do you think I have a chance? It feels more like a bathroom conversation anyway, and if Keith catches them both in there again while the front of the store remains unmanned, he’s going to fire them.

“Always,” she says, waving half-assedly toward him without turning back around.

And just like that, she’s gone, none the wiser to Steve’s inner turmoil, spiralling into full-blown anxiety the closer it gets to what he’s beginning to think of as Eddie’s usual call time. It’s just—they don’t do this. They don’t call, they don’t hang out without Robin or the kids, and they sure as hell don’t ask each other what the other is wearing in that deep, wanting tone of voice.

At least, that’s what Steve had thought two days ago. Now, he’s not so sure.

When the phone rings at exactly eight p.m. that night, Steve knows who it must be on the other side of the line.

“Eddie?” he asks, forgoing his usual customer service spiel. He’s rewarded with a bright, happy laugh that hits him straight in the sternum.

“Is that how you greet all your paying customers?” Eddie asks, smile audible in his voice.

“As if you ever pay.”

“I have!” Eddie cries indignantly. “Wait, no you threw me off! What’re you wearing?”

“This again?” Steve asks, groaning as if the question doesn’t send his guts squirming every single time Eddie’s voice drops into that suggestive register. He shouldn’t answer, should nip this whole thing in the bud before it spirals entirely out of his control.

But Eddie doesn’t break the silence—Steve can’t even hear him breathing, and Steve’s never been that strong-willed. “Striped polo, jeans, sneakers, work vest. There, you happy?”

“I don’t know, Stevie,” Eddie replies, and Steve can practically see the teasing smirk on his face as he asks, “what color are these stripes?”

“Grey and blue,” Steve says after looking down to double check. It’s his only long-sleeved polo and the store’s a bit too cold for anything else.

Eddie whistles, shrill and sharp through the phone like he’s catcalling Steve from across the street. “Jesus,” Steve cries, yanking the phone away from his ear until he can’t hear it anymore. When he presses the phone back to his ear, Eddie’s cackling. “Prick.”

“Sorry, hot stuff, just couldn’t help myself.”

“You could try,” Steve replies dryly.

“You’re not supposed to change for a relationship, Stevie.”

Steve’s breath stutters in his lungs. It’s a joke. He knows it’s a joke, but that doesn’t stop his fingertips from tingling like he’d set them on fire. The other side of the call’s gone dead silent, the words settling between them with more weight than Eddie could have meant.

So, Steve mutters, “this is more like a hostage situation,” and wonders if he’s just imagining the relief he can hear in Eddie’s answering laughter.

Steve’s heart’s always been a little too easy to snatch—Nancy and Robin perfect attestations of that. But it’d worked out okay with Robin, shifting seamlessly into platonic soulmateism as soon as the name Tammy Thompson had come out of her mouth.

Maybe he can do that with Eddie, too. If only he’d stop calling; if only Steve would stop answering. He’s off shift tomorrow, so if Eddie calls anyone, it’ll be Robin.

As their conversation ends, Steve tells himself he’s fine with that.

***

When Eddie calls Family Video like usual, it’s Robin that answers the phone.

“You’re not Steve,” he says, without thinking, cringing when that makes her snort. “Not that you’re not a delight and a treasure to us all, Buckley!”

“Mmmhmm,” she cuts in, sounding even more droll than when she’d droned out her canned customer greeting.

“It’s just that Steve’s always the one that answers, so I was starting to think he was super glued to the front counter, you know?”

Silence rings down the line long enough for Eddie to let his dangling heels smack noisily into the cupboard three times, but then Robin says, “he’s at home,” and continues before he can respond, “you do this a lot then, huh?” she asks around whatever pilfered candy she’s snacking on.

Eddie’s entire body freezes as he runs what he’d just said through his head and comes to the startling realization that Steve hasn’t told her.

“Uh, no?” Eddie asks, hating the way his voice cracks with the lie. “I mean, sometimes I want to call before making the long trek up there. Check if you’ve got anything good on the shelves, you know?”

“Mmmhmm,” she says again, sounding even more doubtful now. They both know it’s a measly six minute drive, but she doesn’t call him on it. “Well, what are you looking for tonight?”

He almost blurts out Steve’s name before remembering his stupid lie. “Uhhhh—um—what about The Fly?” he asks, wincing as Robin scoffs.

“That’s not released yet, dingbat,” she replies, like Eddie doesn’t already know that. It’s just the first movie he’d thought of, having seen its name lighting up The Hawks marquee just this morning.

“Well, call me when it is, okay bye!”

He hangs up the phone on Robin’s indignant sputtering. Because he’s the bane of his own existence, he immediately flips through the white pages and dutifully writes the number he finds listed beside Steve’s yuppy parents' names on the note beneath the long-since memorized number for Family Video.

He doesn’t hesitate to dial.

“Harrington residence,” Steve greets because he’s a bit of a yuppy himself. Eddie hates that he finds it charming.

“You always answer the phone like that, big boy?”

“If I’d known it was you, I might not have picked up at all,” Steve replies, but he sounds like he’s teasing, so Eddie just clutches the phone tighter, smiling around his empty trailer, glad that Wayne’s at work. “Now, did you actually want something?”

“Just wanted to know what you’re wearing.”

Eddie shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down to contain the whine at having said such a god awful, stupid fucking thing for the fourth god awful fucking time.

“Sweats, an old gym shirt, and some socks,” Steve replies, like that’s not enough to rewire Eddie’s whole fucking brain.

Eddie’s never seen him anything other than entirely put together—jeans stain-free, shirt pressed, not a hair out of place. He’s a man after Eddie’s own heart, curating an aesthetic with all the careful consideration that he’d use picking songs for a mixtape. But, unlike Eddie, Steve looks so put together that the thought of him messy has Eddie’s heartbeat ratcheting up.

Are his sweatpants stained? Is the gym shirt stretched out? Is his hair all fucked up? God, Eddie would kill to know, but he can’t think of a normal way to ask, so all he says is, “oh, yeah?” wincing when it comes out embarrassingly squeaky. He clears his throat and continues, “no work today?”

“Nah, it’s my day off,” Steve says, and then there’s the sound of furniture settling, a sigh, the rustle of fabric. Did Steve just lay down? Does he have a phone in his goddamn bedroom? Is he splayed out on his bed, cozy and warm. Eddie’s never seen Steve’s bedroom and god, suddenly he wants to so badly it hurts.

He wants to lay down beside him, wrap him up in his arms, see how fucked up his hair gets by the early hours of the morning. He just—wants.

“Eddie?” Steve asks, sounding frustrated, like he’d tried to get his attention a few different times. “You there?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie says before closing his eyes and bashing his head into the cupboard. Sweetheart? Lusting after Steve was one thing, but fucking sweetheart? This is rapidly becoming dangerous. “Wayne just got home, so I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Oh, oka—”

Eddie hangs up the phone. He stares at the empty trailer, heartbeat rabbiting away in his chest like he’s back in gym class trying to run the mile.

He should stop this, throw Steve’s number away and go cold turkey—hide his heart deep within the recesses of his ribcage and keep it safe.

Eddie’s never been that smart, and he knows, no matter what his stupid brain thinks, he’ll be picking up the phone again tomorrow night. And besides, he’s already got both numbers memorized.

***

It’s still Steve’s day off, but he drives Robin to work, just like he always does. She stuffs her bike in the trunk in case he’s not around to pick her up after her shift’s done, and then she climbs into his passenger seat, still looking half asleep as she pulls down his visor and uses the small mirror to messily apply her eye liner. Steve drives slow, careful of potholes and speed bumps, a part of him always terrified she’ll stab her own eye out.

She doesn’t talk to him until she’s finished both eyes and stashed her pencil securely into her bag.

“So, Eddie called yesterday,” she says, and when he looks at her sidelong, hands clenched on the steering wheel, she’s looking back, smirking as she watches her comment land. He jerks his gaze back to the road.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, relieved when his voice comes out even.

Robin knows him though, so she just snorts, and when he looks back toward her, her arms are crossed and she’s got one eyebrow raised bitchily in a way he knows she learned from him. And now here she is, using it as a weapon against him.

Steve clears his throat, glancing away again as he pulls into the vacant Family Video parking lot. “He… calls sometimes.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Robin replies with a snort.

“Robin,” Steve whines, all sense of decorum lost as he drops his forehead down on the wheel hard enough that his horn honks, sharp and loud in the quiet morning. “It’s not like that.”

She reaches over to pat his back, all dripping condescension as she asks, “for him or for you?” before hopping out of the car and going to unlock the front door, switching the Open sign on.

Steve loiters in the parking lot for an embarrassedly long time, her words running through his head. He hits play on his tape deck to drown it out, peeling out of the parking lot like a demo-dog is on his heels.

Metallica’s Orion drills through his head all the way home.

Steve fritters away his day, wandering around his big, empty house, scrubbing floors, dusting shelves he hasn’t even glanced at in years, reorganizing the pantry, lest his anxious energy shake his organs right out from beneath his skin.

He loses himself in the monotony of scrubbing, wiping, and pilfering through cupboards until he comes out of it, covered in dust and smelling of chemicals with the little hand of the clock in the kitchen pointing damningly close to the eight.

Steve takes a shower, scrambling with shampoo and conditioner, rubbing his bar of soap roughly down his body, trying to get the smell of bleach off his skin.

When he hears the phone ring, Steve rushes out of the shower, dripping water all over the tile as he slips his way into his bedroom to snatch the phone off his desk before it rings out.

“Harrington residence,” he replies breathlessly. He tries to tell himself it’s because of his mad dash to grab the line but as he holds his breath, waiting for that familiar voice to filter through the speaker, he knows it’s a lie.

“What are you wearing?” Eddie asks.

Because he hasn’t lied yet, Steve bites his lip before hesitantly replying, “uh, I just got out of the shower, so…”

Eddie gasps, breath stuttering dramatically, and when he asks, “so, a towel?” his words come out high pitched, almost squeaky, like he’s doing one of his little voices for his nerd game. But, an idea is growing in the back of his head, infecting his every thought with a nagging sort of hope he thought he’d sworn off years ago.

Maybe, just maybe, this whole thing isn’t just a bit at all, no matter how it had started. Maybe this is Eddie’s ridiculous way of starting something. If it is, Steve can’t bear to pass it up, even if all Eddie wants is the sound of Steve’s voice whispering dirty things in his ears.

There’d been a few girls back at Hawkins High who’d liked to call Steve up, have him murmur sweet nothings into their ears as they giggled, doing things to their own bodies that they were too shy to ask Steve to do himself.

If that’s all Eddie wants, Steve will give it to him. He’ll give Eddie anything he wants.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, still like his breath has been punched out of him. Steve wants to hear how breathless he can make him.

“You actually called mid-shower, so I didn’t have time to dry off,” Steve says, voice low so he can catch any little noise Eddie might make. “I didn’t even grab a towel.”

Steve’s not disappointed—Eddie whines, high and strained before the sound cuts off abruptly enough that he can almost picture the way Eddie must’ve covered his own mouth, nails digging into his cheek to keep himself from letting anything else slip. Steve grins, blood heating up even as the water begins cooling against his skin.

“I’m dripping,” he continues, voice low and suggestive. Eddie doesn’t reply aside from the haggard edge his breathing gains. Steve hasn’t even done anything yet, and Eddie sounds like he’s on the knife’s edge of coming. “And it’s all your fault.”

“Steve,” Eddie whines.

“What?” Steve asks, “you started this, Eddie.” Eddie moans as Steve says his name. God, he’s easy.

“It was just a joke,” Eddie argues, but his breathing’s still hitching, and he doesn’t sound like he wants Steve to stop.

“I thought you’d enjoy me playing along.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you want me to stop?” Steve interrupts. He will, if Eddie asks, will stop playing this little game and ask him how his day was, wait for Eddie to ask him in turn. They can go back to the way things were before, no matter how much Steve doesn’t want to.

“No, don’t stop,” Eddie replies, quickly, desperately

“Oh, are you just selfish then?”Steve asks, gratified when Eddie hisses like Steve had touched him. “Don’t you want me to enjoy myself, too?”

“No, no, no,” Eddie replies in that same high-pitched, stuttering voice that he’s rapidly becoming addicted to, so desperate to please Steve. “Not selfish, not—”

“I don’t know, this is starting to seem a little one-sided,” Steve cuts in, Eddie’s protestations sputtering out into nothing. “You haven’t even told me what you’re wearing.”

“Jeans and a t-shirt!” Eddie answers so fast he can’t have even thought about not replying.

“A little overdressed, aren’t you baby?” Steve asks, making note of the way Eddie moans at the slipped term of endearment. “Why don’t you take your shirt off for me?”

“But, I’m in the kitchen,” Eddie replies, whispering like he’s imparting a secret. It snakes down the line and sends a shiver up Steve’s spine. He’s been to Eddie’s trailer before, settling on one side of the couch, Eddie on the other, with Robin playing buffer in the middle.

He can picture the Munson’s small kitchen, barely cordoned off from the rest of the trailer, the separating wall just enough to block the fridge and sink from view.

“Is Wayne there?” Steve asks.

“He’s at work, but—”

“Then what’s the problem?” Steve asks. “Afraid he’ll come home and figure out what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Eddie whines, but Steve hears the sound of him rearranging the phone followed by the rustling of fabric. “There, happy?”

Steve pictures it: Eddie, standing shirtless in the kitchen, phone clutched to his ear as he pants down the line. Is his face flushed with embarrassment? With arousal? How far would the pink go down? He wants to follow it with his tongue, trailing over tattoos and into his dark happy trail.

“Good boy,” Steve praises, and Eddie moans, dark and guttural.

Steve strains his ears, swears he can hear the rustling of clothes, the metallic clinking of what must be Eddie’s stupid handcuff belt that he’s dying to get his hands on. There’s a hitch of breath a moment after before it evens out. After having heard him be so loud, Steve’s got his own suspicions about what activity he’s trying to cover up.

“I thought you weren’t doing anything?” Steve asks teasingly as he finally settles his shower-damp body into his clean sheets.

“I’m—I’m not,” Eddie replies, voice still higher than he’s ever heard it.

Steve grins, settling more comfortably into his pillows, phone cord stretched just a bit in order to reach. “So that wasn’t the sound of you sliding your big, strong hands into your pants?”

There’s a clatter on the other side of the line, like Eddie’d dropped the phone before hastily picking it back up to reply. “I—Steve, I wouldn’t—”

“You’re easy,” Steve says, cutting off Eddie’s lie before he can commit to it. “Just the thought of me naked and you had to touch yourself, didn’t you?”

“Steve—”

“Or have you been doing this every time?” Steve asks, just to hear Eddie’s protests. He knows he hasn’t, would have heard the hitching breaths and stifled moans. “Calling me up at my job just to fuck your hand and listen to my voice, baby?”

“I didn’t,” Eddie protests again, but his breathing’s gone ragged.

“Was Wayne sitting in his recliner so you had to be quiet, listening for any movements from the living room while you shoved your hand in your pants, too desperate to wait?”

“No.” Eddie asserts, but he’s panting now, like just the thought of getting caught in a compromising position is getting him there. “I wouldn’t, not—not with Wayne home.”

“But he’s not here this time is he?” Steve asks. “And you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Steve.”

“I bet you look real pretty like that.” Steve’s own arousal is making itself known, dick hardening as he listens to all the delicious sounds Eddie makes. “Hand moving in your jeans, all hot and bothered as you take what you need.”

Eddie’s not talking anymore, just gasping wetly down the line as Steve speaks. He doesn’t mind, he can conjure up enough visuals to work with as he grasps his own shaft and gives it a tug.

“Sound pretty too, don’t you?” Steve asks, getting an affirmative grunt that has his own hand moving quicker. “Moaning for me like you just can’t help yourself.”

He’s not even thinking about what he’s saying anymore, spewing garbage out of his mouth as he strips his dick, now lubricated enough by precome and lingering shower water to ease his way.

“I might have to stuff something else in there just to shut you up,” he grunts.

That’s apparently all it takes because Eddie’s whining turns high and reedy, muffled like he’d stuffed his own fingers down his throat on Steve’s command.

“That’s it, baby,” Steve says, talking him through what must be one hell of an orgasm with the way he’s panting. “Bet you look so pretty when you’re coming, making a mess in your stupid tight jeans.”

Eddie moans again like even when he’s spent, the sound of Steve’s voice is almost enough to get him there again. Then he’s back to panting. Steve listens to his wet, staggered breathing, closes his eyes, and pictures what Eddie must look like, collapsed on the floor of his kitchen, hand stuffed in his now-stained jeans, bangs matted to his forehead.

Steve wants to smell him, wants to lick him, wants to brush his bangs back and kiss his sweaty forehead. And that’s all it takes to send Steve over the edge. He bites his lip, suppressing any noises from spilling out of his mouth as he shakes through the aftershocks.

Embarrassment begins curdling in his gut as soon as he comes back to himself. Not at what he’d said, or the noises he might’ve let slip, no. Eddie’d liked it—he had. But, that’s not what had been Steve’s undoing. No, it was the tender, domestic thought of kissing his forehead. Horrifying.

But then Eddie starts laughing, manic and gleeful the way only the best of orgasms leave you, and Steve elects to leave that particular panic for after he’s off the phone.

“Same time tomorrow?” Steve asks, like he hadn’t just listened to one of his closest friends jack off to his voice.

“Uh, yeah?” Eddie says, sounding downright shy now that he’s coming down. Steve can’t handle it. “Yes? Yes.”

“Talk to you then,” Steve replies, hating how soft his voice comes out. “Night, Munson.”

“Night, Stevie.” Eddie whispers.

Once the phone call ends, Steve gets up to shower off more than a little dust this time.

part two

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #SteddieWinterExchange

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enyaliuswrites · 2 months ago

Text

➽ Lost in Your Stars

Prince!Xavier x Performer!fem reader 100 followers special. 1.86k words.

Prince LADS Masterlist

Prince!Xavier, who has been monitored his entire life, never once having a moment alone to breathe. He’s been stuck within the castle walls for the first decade of his life, in the second decade he’s been only allowed to visit the bustling town just outside the castle, accompanied by at least 3 other knights.

Prince!Xavier, who has always been a good son and prince, obediently following every command his father gives him and treating everyone with respect—showing leniency to the cooks who messed up his meal despite his father insisting on punishing them. The prince spends most of his time studying, practicing swordsmanship, and dozing off.

Prince!Xavier, who sees everything as a responsibility, knowing that being born into royalty means there's no stepping down. He’s never left alone and always has everyone cowering at the flick of his wrist, it’s all inhumane. Trapped in the monotony of his duties, he enters his third decade of life, and he's never felt more empty.

Prince!Xavier, who feels like his whole life has been a blur ever since his mother had left. The years go by and his sense of time has started to turn into a long and endless hazy fog. The prince lives day to day and everyday his shoulders feel a little bit heavier than the last.

Prince!Xavier, whose appearance is always kept immaculate, yet when he looks in the mirror, his eyes remain empty, and his heart feels nothing but a chilling content. He can't keep living like this—constantly attending classes, participating in meetings, maintaining his public image, helping to manage the royal affairs. It’s unsustainable, draining his soul.

Prince!Xavier, who can’t take it anymore and needs just a second to breathe. Alone. It was a fruitful effort, but he finally was able to shake his knights away. He just needed a day, one day to clear his head and heart. He didn’t know where to go, nor what to do, all he knew was that he didn’t want to be anywhere near anyone. So he headed into the forest behind the castle that went on for miles and miles.

As Xavier walked deeper into the forest his senses had never been more heightened, the crackle of sticks beneath his feet, the flutter of birds flapping their wings, the sound of running water in the creek nearby. And that’s when his blood ran cold,

“Stop right there!”

It was a female voice. Fear gripped him—had he been found? Or worse, was he about to be captured? His hand moved instinctively, unsheathing his sword. The sun caught the polished iron, casting sharp glints of light onto the trees behind him. However, no one was there. Xavier's sharp gaze swept in every direction as he moved cautiously, his footsteps light against the forest floor. After all, these woods carried an ominous reputation, their name whispered in countless chilling tales.

“Then what happened?” This time the voice sounded much squeakier, like a young boy, followed by multiple ‘Yeah’s from what seemed like multiple young children.

“The warrior then rushed into battle! Taking the three headed dragon on! He raised his sword and dodged the dragon’s vicious claws and fire breath.”

Xavier was now within earshot distance as he found himself walking to the creek. What laid on the other side of the stream was… a woman? Xavier’s brows knitted together as he continued to observe, concealing himself behind a particularly large tree. There was something familiar about this story, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

You raised your arms and jumped around, as if acting out what you were saying. Now that Xavier was close enough, he saw that she was reading from a thick piece of manuscript. In front of you were five or six children, ranging from a toddler girl to a teenage boy, sitting down on a white bedsheet.

“Just when he cut one head down two more grew back!” The children gasped in shock as you waved her hands, mimicking the growing heads. “Roarrrr!!” you growled in a deep, hoarse voice, making the kids burst into giggles.

“How did the warrior defeat the dragon?”

It was as if the answer was just at the tip of his tongue. Something locked away in the back of his mind. Then it hit him like a train. ‘He used fire.’ Xavier mouthed.

“The warrior was not only strong, but he was smart. Just as his wooden shield caught on fire, he threw it at the stump of a head as soon as he cut it and the head didn’t grow back!” You paused, motioning a throw of your imaginary shield and making a hissing sound as you used the rolled up manuscript as a sword.

This. This was a story his mother would always read to him before sleep. A lost and abandoned warrior who saved his town from the treacherous hydra. His mother was always kind to him, soft and understanding.

“So he continued to do it with the rest of the heads. Cutting them off with his strong arms and then-” CRACK

Xavier was brought back to the present, cursing himself for accidentally shifting his feet and stepping on a coincidentally large twig.

“Who goes there?” You snapped, quickly moving your body, covering yourself with the cloak that hung on your shoulders and shifting in front of the children. Xavier decided to reveal himself—though since he wasn’t trying as hard to conceal himself in the first place.

“Prince Xavier?” The younger children were confused but the older ones had immediately dropped to one knee, paying respects to the royal prince. Now that he was closer Xavier could clearly see the woman. He had passed her once or twice; she was a small performer in a big theatre group in the town, always seen around the orphanage. However, unlike the other children, you didn’t immediately bow. Instead, you spoke.

“What brings you around here, Prince Xavier? The woods are an ominous place and not fit for someone as royal and prim like you.” It was a passive aggressive remark as the eldest child tugged on your arm and you finally bowed, kneeling on one knee.

“You acted well. I look forward to watching you more on stage.” Xavier's voice was soft, his lips curving into a smile. Suddenly, tiny pulses of light flickered around him—appearing and vanishing like whispers, casting a gentle glow over the creek. The kids started to cause a commotion, smiling, laughing and talking all at once.

“The Prince said you acted well!” “Isn’t this great?” “You’re so amazing!”

“You need to let us also see you on stage!”

“Thank you, Prince Xavier.” The words come out reluctantly, the rumors surrounding Prince Xavier weren't necessarily bad, quite the opposite actually. But he was like a robot—going through everything methodically, devoid of emotion. You had seen him help townspeople, give donations, and resolve conflicts, yet he always looked as if he wanted nothing to do with it, as if he didn’t want to be there. It was an eyesore. Here were people who respected and adored him, who revered the royal family, while he, in return, didn’t even care—offering them nothing but false hope.

“I think we should be on our way, it’s nearly lunchtime.” You said, holding the hands of the younger kids as they got up, accompanied by groans and whining, “I’ll make sure everyone gets extra muffins if we all get to the house by 10 minutes.”

That made everyone eager to go. Satisfied, you looked at the prince one more time, giving a half-assed bow before quickly walking away, leaving your little hideout behind. As you walked away Xavier's eyes followed your figure until it completely disappeared from his view, a quiet smile on his lips all the while.

Prince!Xavier, who stayed in the forest for the rest of the day, thinking about what had just happened but more importantly, thinking about you. He returned to the castle and accepted every insult and degrading comment that his father had for him. The prince now felt like he had something to live for. Something for him to look forward to everyday.

Prince!Xavier, who quickly finished his morning duties. Waking up early and skipping breakfast as he trained his swordsmanship, studied war strategies and Royal etiquette. By noon he was finally free to visit the theatre in town. He didn’t care if knights followed him, the hope in seeing you was enough for him.

Prince!Xavier, who smiled as soon as he saw you come on stage. Even if it was for only a brief scene, the seats around him were filled with soft pulsing tiny lights. The prince would go down to meet the whole crew after the performance was over, saying “That young lady over there seems like she has a lot of potential. I would like to see her on stage more.”

Prince!Xavier, who noticed how you tensed up, unsure of what to do but thanking him regardless as the whole crew profusely bowed and thanked him, ensuring him that you would now have a main role in every future performance.

Prince!Xavier, who now rushes to the theatre everyday in hopes to see you, whether performing, practicing or just a glance. Since he’s the prince, no one can refuse him watching their practices. He doesn’t speak to you—not directly—but he buys bread, sweets, and other treats for the whole crew, ensuring you get your share. (Though, without fail, he always slips you a little extra)

Prince!Xavier, who finds himself smiling more and enjoying the aspects of being Prince. He spends more time in the town, getting to know people and often visiting the orphanage to give treats or even new furniture. As you watch him you realize, maybe he’s not so bad of a prince afterall.

Prince!Xavier, who directly walks up to you one day after a successful big performance with a bouquet of your favorite flowers (all he had to do was ask around) in front of the whole crowd. After that day you found yourself spending more time with the prince.

Prince!Xavier, who runs away from his knights with you, going to your little hideout in the forest and just lying down and talking with you. He often makes you flower crowns, saying he can’t wait for you to be his queen. You’re both surrounded by little flickers of tiny lights and that’s when you realize that it’s just something that happens when Xavier is happy. You watch the prince practice his swordsmanship in the darkness, the only light source being a small lantern you both made together in the shape of a star and the pulses of fleeting lights from Xavier.

Prince!Xavier, who gets jealous when you spend too much time with work or with the kids. But he’s also torn because he can’t help but think of how well you’d be a mother. The prince starts to take his duty seriously, wanting to protect his kingdom because you’re in it, and that reason is more than enough for him to continue pushing forward everyday.

A/N: Zayne's fic being posted within the next three days! I had a lot of fun writing this and I have to thank @erensfeed for giving me so many good ideas, love her so so so much <333. Thank you so much for 100+!! Dividers by @mikeykuns

#enyaliuswrites #enyalius 100 followers special #love and deepspace #lads x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads fluff #lads x you #xavier x reader #xavier x you #xavier fluff #xavier love and deepspace #xavier lads #shen xinghui x you #shen xinghui x reader

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saywhat-politics · 4 months ago

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House Republicans are circulating a “menu” of options that Speaker Mike Johnson’s conference could chose from—reportedly a massive $5 trillion worth of federal government programs to put on the chopping block to pay for the President-elect’s promised priorities, including tax cuts and border security.

According to Politico, there is an “early list” of proposed cuts (below) that “includes changes to Medicare and ending Biden administration climate programs, along with slashing welfare and ‘reimagining’ the Affordable Care Act.” Also, in addition to suggesting cuts to Medicaid and the Affordable Care Act (ObamaCare), “the document floats clawing back bipartisan infrastructure and Inflation Reduction Act funding.”

Politico also reports that Republicans appear to be considering cuts to “the country’s largest anti-hunger program”—or, SNAP, the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program formerly known as food stamps. This would “spark massive opposition from Democrats and would also face some GOP resistance.”

There is far more, including siphoning about $2.3 trillion from Medicaid, a federal government program that has been providing critical health insurance for low-income adults and children for six decades.

#119th congress #house republicans

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wholoveseggs · 6 months ago

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Dark Star {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} Bound by love that defies centuries, Elijah Mikaelson will do whatever it takes to resurrect his lost wife. Even if it means forsaking everything he believes in. Once the north star guiding his family, his shattered heart now leads him down a darker path, transforming him into a version beyond redemption. A damned soul, drawing his family into an abyss they may never escape.

♡♡ Hello my lovely followers! This will be a six part series inspired by @njeancastro316 post about red door Elijah (Girl, I've been writing this non-stop since you tagged me! thank you for the inspo). I really put my whole heart into this one, {I even made a playlist to capture the vibes} exploring the depths of Elijah's character and his struggle between love and darkness. Enjoy! && expect pain... ♡♡

6.8k words - Warnings: angst, angst and more angst, grief, heartbreak, intense violence, red door Elijah, emotional turmoil, so much Mikaelson family drama {the whole gang is here && some faves from Mystic Falls will show up later}, No smut in this part, but prepare for plenty of darkness... oh! && croissants...

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

@gorgeouslydangerous @starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven

@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore

Prologue ~ Europe 13th Century

"This way!" A boy laughed as he darted beneath a low-hanging branch. Behind him, a small girl hurried along, lifting her skirt to keep up, her breath catching in short gasps.

"Slow down! Wait for me!" she called, tripping over roots and brambles in her haste. "I can't run as fast as you!"

The boy glanced back, grinning. "Then hurry, will you."

"We ought to be home by now." She replied, frowning.

"We are almost there," he replied, leaping over a fallen branch before turning to face her, eyes gleaming. "We can get home quicker through the woods."

"I don’t like it," she murmured, clutching her skirt tighter. Shadows crept over the path as the sun sank lower, casting an orange glow through the dense branches. "The hour grows late."

The boy shook his head, catching her hand with a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll be fine. It’s only a short way."

Reluctantly, she nodded, holding onto him. "If anything ill should happen, I’ll tell Mother."

He only laughed, tugging her down the narrow path. "If something ill happens, you may not get the chance!"

Their laughter echoed in the stillness as they raced ahead. The trees grew taller, their branches clawing toward the darkening sky, while thick underbrush crowded the trail, rustling with each step. Yet the children, lost in their game, scarcely noticed, laughing and squealing as they chased one another.

Then, a sound, a subtle, almost a whisper, seeped through the quiet. The girl stopped, clutching the boy’s arm. “Did you hear that?”

“What is it?”

“Shh,” she hissed, pulling him closer, her wide eyes searching the shadows. "Listen."

They stood in silence, the air heavy and still, broken only by their own quickening breaths.

“It’s nothing. Perhaps a deer-”

“No, it’s more than that,” she whispered. Somewhere ahead, faint and distant, came the flicker of firelight. And with it, laughter. Wild and strange.

“What is that?” the boy asked, his voice barely a breath.

“Quiet,” she said, creeping forward, pulling him toward the light.

They peered out from behind a tree, breath catching at the sight before them. A great fire blazed, roaring into the sky as shadows twisted around it. Two figures danced wildly around the flames, naked, their skin smeared with red and ash. Their laughter, sharp and otherworldly, pierced the night air.

The girl’s scream barely escaped her lips before the boy’s hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her back. They stumbled, clutching one another, then turned and fled, racing down the trail as fast as their little legs would carry them, branches clawing at their clothes.

By the time they burst into the village, their faces were pale, their breaths ragged. Villagers gathered around as the children stumbled forward, pointing frantically toward the woods.

“Demons!” the girl gasped, clutching at the skirts of the nearest woman. “They’re out there! In the forest!”

There was a hushed sadness over the compound. The lights seemed to have dimmed, and the atmosphere hung heavy, cold and suffocating. It had been that way since the night Elijah found your lifeless body on the cold pavement. The night that changed everything.

Rebekah didn’t like it here anymore. Her home felt more like a tomb than a residence. It was too quiet, too full of memories and emotions too painful to confront. Her big brother was suffering, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

She found Klaus sitting in the courtyard, staring blankly at a chessboard. The pieces were scattered, mid-game, but his focus seemed to drift in and out. Normally, this contemplative silence from him made her nervous, but today she couldn’t muster the energy to care. The weight of everything was too much.

“Any news?” Rebekah asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Klaus didn’t move, didn’t speak at first. He shifted a chess piece absentmindedly and shrugged.

The sound of Marcel’s footsteps echoed through the stillness of the courtyard. She felt one of his warm hands rest gently on the small of her back, and she leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence.

“I’ve been asking around. Only lead I have is that he’s somewhere in Europe,” Marcel said, his voice sounding hollow.

“Well, where in Europe?” Klaus finally spoke, his gaze never leaving the board.

“Don’t know. Haven’t pinpointed his exact location yet,” Marcel sighed. “But he’s been killing low-level Strix members, leaving bodies in his wake.”

Klaus scoffed softly, moving another piece on the board. “Keep looking,”

“You almost sound like you care,” Rebekah hissed, glaring at him.

“Don’t start with me, little sister,” Klaus warned, his voice low and sharp.

“Elijah has always been there for us,” she snapped, “And when he needs our help, where are you? Sitting here, playing chess with yourself.”

Klaus’s fist slammed down on the chessboard, sending the pieces flying across the table. He stood abruptly, stalking toward her, his eyes blazing. But Rebekah didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. She held his glare with her own, unrelenting.

“What do you want me to do?” Klaus roared, his voice cracking as his anger gave way to the grief simmering beneath. “Tell me, Rebekah. How do I fix this?”

“I want you to find him!” she screamed, tears stinging her eyes. “He’s our brother, Nik!”

Klaus’s shoulders slumped. His rage deflated, leaving him hollow. “I don’t know how to fix this, little sister,” he admitted quietly.

Marcel cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Maybe we should give him some time. Let him mourn her.”

“He’s not mourning, Marcel,” Klaus growled, clenching his jaw. “He’s murdering. He hasn’t even accepted that she’s dead.”

Rebekah and Marcel exchanged worried glances.

“We can’t just let him destroy himself,” Rebekah argued, her voice breaking. “Wherever he is, whoever crosses his path... they’re doomed. He’s out of control.”

“He’s changed,” Marcel muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’ve never seen him like this. So violent, so volatile.”

“That’s why I’m worried, Nik,” Rebekah said, her tone deadly serious. “If he’s not stopped, the Elijah we know will be gone. He will become a monster.”

Klaus looked down at the shattered chess pieces scattered across the table. “We are monsters, Rebekah,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“No, Nik,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

Klaus remained silent for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Suppose someone took Marcellus from you. What would you do?”

“I would raze this earth and dance on the ashes,” she answered without hesitation, the fire of her love and loyalty burning bright in her eyes.

“That’s what he’s doing,” Klaus said darkly.

“Yes,” Rebekah agreed, “but Elijah would come for me. He would find me, and help me, keep me from losing myself. Now he’s the one who needs help.”

“How do we stop him?” Marcel asked, though his voice was laden with doubt.

Klaus shook his head slowly. “We don’t.”

“Nik…” Rebekah started, her voice pleading.

“We contain the damage,” Klaus cut her off, the steely resolve returning to his voice. “I’ll go to Europe. I’ll bring him back.”

Rebekah exhaled, relief flooding through her, and she pulled Klaus into a tight hug. She didn’t say anything, just held him as though her arms alone could keep the family from falling apart. He hugged her back, and for a moment, the cracks in their family seemed to close.

Marcel stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.

When she finally pulled away, Rebekah gave her brother a sad smile. “Be careful.”

Klaus nodded. “I will.”

His eyes flicked to Marcel, and the two men exchanged a knowing look. They both understood how dangerous this was. That if Elijah couldn’t be saved, they might lose him forever.

Or worse... they might have to put him down.

Two members of the Strix walked side by side, their steps echoing off the marble floors. One glanced around nervously, eyeing the high-tech security measures surrounding them, cameras in every corner, reinforced steel doors, layers of magical barriers.

"Is this really necessary? I can't stand being cooped up here. What's the point?" the taller vampire complained, his voice echoing through the empty corridor.

"Protocol," the other replied, his tone bored. "You know how paranoid Tristan can be. But I’m telling you, no one's getting in here. Not even him."

"I don’t get it. We had nothing to do with her death. Why are we hiding?"

"He doesn’t know that." The second vampire shook his head, his eyes flicking toward a monitor displaying multiple feeds from around the compound. “And he doesn’t seem to care about guilt or innocence anymore.”

They stopped at a reinforced door, pressing their palms to the scanners. As the heavy doors slid open, the two shared a final glance, the reality sinking in that even their supposed impenetrable defenses might not be enough.

They stepped into the dim room, illuminated only by the flickering light of the chandelier hanging above a long oak table. Strix members filled the chairs, their faces tense and uneasy. They had gathered in secret, far from prying eyes. Whispers of fear and uncertainty drifted across the room, but no one dared to speak above a murmur. The air was heavy with dread, and no one felt safe.

At the head of the table, Aya stood, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade. She had always been the picture of composure, a pillar of strength, but now, her patience was thinning, her power waning, cracks in her armor where fear leaked through. Beside her, Tristan de Martel leaned casually in his chair, an amused smile playing on his lips, as if this was all a game to him. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of his fellow Strix members, reveling in their discomfort.

“We all know why we’re here,” Aya began, her voice cold and steady, but there was an underlying tension to it, like a string about to snap. “Our ranks are thinning, and the reason is no secret.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Heads turned, glances were exchanged. They knew. Everyone knew.

“Elijah Mikaelson,” Tristan added, his voice smooth and casual, as if he were discussing the weather. His eyes gleamed with a cruel delight. “The noble brother has gone rogue. It seems the death of his beloved has… unraveled him.”

"That's an interesting way of putting it," one Strix member commented, his voice dripping with disdain. "He ripped apart fifty of my men, left a trail of bodies and witnesses, it took me days to cover it all up,"

"And how many vampires has he killed since then? Hundreds? Thousands?" another voice chimed in, sounding bitter.

"You're just scared," another vampire challenged, his tone mocking.

"Of course, we're scared. Do you know what he's capable of?" the first vampire hissed, baring his teeth.

"Silence," Aya ordered, her tone icy. The room fell quiet, the air crackling with tension. "We cannot defeat him, nor can we sit by and wait for him to tear us apart. He has lost his humanity, and it's clear that we must take action."

"We have already taken action and all it does is piss him off," the Strix member grumbled, "I have no interest in fighting a losing battle."

"You're a coward," Aya snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

"What would you have us do?" another vampire spoke up, their voice strained, "We're no match for him."

"Perhaps we should consider a bargain," Tristan suggested, a sly smirk creeping across his lips. "Find the killer, deliver them to him, and save ourselves the trouble of being murdered."

The members murmured amongst themselves, some seeming open to the idea, while others still appeared wary.

"I cannot fathom why someone would be so foolish. Surely the person who did this knows the repercussions," a member said, a hint of fear in their voice.

Tristan's smile widened. "They were foolish indeed, and now they are the most hunted man, or woman, in the world,"

Aya's face was impassive, her mind racing. She had no doubt that Elijah would tear down the world to find his killer, and if the Strix didn't deliver them, he would do the same to their ranks. Tristan's indifference infuriated her. While he sat there with a smile, the Strix were suffering the consequences of his poor leadership.

A soft little cough pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see a small girl standing at the other end of the table. She looked no older than twelve, with delicate features and wide, doe-like eyes. She looked lost, and this wasn't a place you could just wander into.

Other members noticed her presence and got to their feet, the scraping of chairs echoing off the walls. Aya narrowed her eyes, taking in the girl's appearance.

"Who are you?" Aya asked, her voice sharp.

The girl was clearly terrified, her hands shaking, and she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Aya found it strange. She didn't sense the power of a witch coming off her, she was just a girl, and a very young one at that.

"I-I'm sorry," the girl stammered, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't know why I'm here. I just woke up here and now, I-I'm scared,"

"How did you get in here?" Aya questioned, her voice low and menacing.

"A nice man told me to come here," the girl mumbled, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the tense, hostile atmosphere. "He wanted me to talk to you."

Aya raised an eyebrow. "And why would he want that?"

The girl shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears. "I don't know, please, I just want to go home,"

"What did he look like?" Aya pressed, her voice growing louder.

"He had dark hair, and brown eyes," the girl sniffled, trying to hold back her sobs.

Tristan's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The room was suddenly silent, the tension now unbearable. Aya stared at the girl, her face an unreadable mask, but inside, her mind was racing.

"What did he want you to say?" Aya asked, her voice quiet, dangerous.

The girl’s breath hitched, her words barely audible. "That... he will give all of you a slow death."

The temperature in the room plummeted, and a cold shiver ran down Aya’s spine. She struggled to hide her unease, but the implication was clear: Elijah had infiltrated their sanctuary.

"A-and that... if I can get in..." The girl gulped, her small voice quaking, "He can too."

The room fell into a suffocating silence as the weight of her words settled on the group. Tristan shot up from his chair, his face dark with fury.

“Lockdown procedures. Now.” Tristan barked, his voice commanding and harsh.

"What about the girl?" Aya asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the trembling child. Her instincts told her something wasn’t right.

"Kill her," Tristan spat, his voice cold and merciless. "She’s served her purpose."

The room erupted into chaos. Sirens blared as the compound went into immediate lockdown. The lights flickered, dimming to an eerie glow. The Strix moved quickly, vanishing into the shadows, their bodies blurring as they scattered, heading for safe rooms or exit points.

Aya hesitated for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the girl. She started toward her, but a voice in her head warned her against it. With one last glance, she turned and hurried toward the safe room.

The little girl stood trembling in the darkness, tears streaming down her face. The once-imposing vampires had fled, leaving her all alone in the icy silence.

"It's okay, sweetheart," a voice purred from the shadows, smooth and calming. The girl gasped, her heart racing as she felt a hand on her shoulder, firm yet oddly comforting.

She turned to see a tall man standing behind her, his dark hair framing his sharp features, his kind eyes watching her closely. "Run along now," he said softly, giving her a gentle push toward the door.

The girl nodded quickly, wiping her tears before scampering away, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.

Elijah watched her go, his kind smile fading as the room returned to darkness. His eyes glinted coldly, the warmth in them vanishing like smoke. Slowly, the veins beneath his eyes darkened, spreading like cracks in the surface of his calm exterior.

He was already inside.

As the sirens echoed, he vanished into the shadows once more, his presence like a gathering storm. And what followed this storm, was pure, unrelenting destruction.

The soft drone of a news broadcast drifted through an abandoned loft, dust floating through the air. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, the room dark and shadowy, save for the light of a flickering TV. The anchor woman's face was somber, her voice solemn.

“Une tragédie a frappé Paris la nuit dernière... un incendie dévastateur a détruit un immeuble historique, laissant peu de traces de ce qui s’y trouvait. Les autorités locales confirment que l’origine du feu demeure inconnue, mais la rapidité à laquelle il s’est propagé soulève des questions.”

Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen in English: "A tragic accident struck Paris last night... a devastating fire destroyed a historic building, leaving few traces of what was inside. Local authorities confirm that the cause of the fire is unknown, but the speed at which it spread raises questions."

The camera cut to images of the smoldering wreckage. Blackened stone, twisted metal, and fire trucks still spraying water over what little remained.

Elijah wasn't paying attention to the TV anymore; he had his head in his hands, hunched over in a chair, his body wracked with sobs. Bodies were strewn about the room, blood spattered on the walls and floors. A macabre painting of violence and rage. The sight of the lifeless forms weighed heavily on him, a chilling reminder of his own actions.

He didn't know how long he had been there, but it felt like an eternity. Each day blended into the next, the hours stretching into a meaningless void. Days would go by where he felt utterly detached, lost in a sea of grief and loss, and then the anger would return, awakening him to a new trail of bodies. There were so many, too many, and yet it wasn't enough.

“Les témoins affirment avoir vu des ombres avant que l’incendie n’éclate, mais aucune preuve tangible n’a été trouvée. Des sources proches de l’enquête évoquent une possible attaque ciblée, bien que les détails restent flous.”

"Witnesses reported seeing shadows before the fire broke out, but no physical evidence has been found. Sources close to the investigation say there may have been a targeted attack, though details remain unclear."

"You used a child? My love, what has become of you?"

Elijah didn't flinch, didn't react as he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, your lips pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Your voice was soft, tinged with sadness and disappointment. He hated himself for it.

"She's fine," Elijah said, his voice strained, barely able to meet your gaze.

"You don't know that," you sighed, your hands moving to his chest, trying to soothe him. "And you know this isn't the way,"

"There is no other way," he replied, his voice cracking, desperation lacing his words.

"You used an innocent child, one not much older than Hope," you said, a hint of anger breaking through your sadness.

Elijah stiffened. He knew you were right. It didn't make what he did any better, and he felt his self-loathing increase tenfold.

"They killed you; I did what I had to," Elijah defended, but the words felt hollow, a pitiful excuse.

"This isn't the way," you repeated, your voice pleading, "and you don't know who did it, or why. This is all just a guess, a hunch."

He let out another quiet sob, then grabbed his glass of blood and threw it against the wall, the shards falling like crimson rain. He stared at the stain on the wall, watching the liquid trickle down, and he couldn't help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

"You have to stop," you whispered, appearing in front of him, your hand cupping his cheek, trying to pull him away from the dark, destructive spiral he was on.

"I can't," he said, his voice breaking, unable to look at you, this ghost haunting him.

"Please," you begged, your hand moving to his neck, gently stroking his skin, trying to comfort him. "I know this pain. It's agony, it's consuming, but I promise you, it will fade."

He pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close, trying to breathe in your scent, to feel your warmth. But he couldn't. You were an echo, a phantom he couldn't grasp.

"You can't bring me back. You know that," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a soft, sad reminder.

He didn't respond, just held you, his fingers digging into your skin, his eyes closed tightly, fighting back tears. He had spent so many nights like this, crying himself to sleep, waking up to nothing, just an empty bed, a cold room, and a hollow, broken heart.

He opened his eyes and let out a gasp as he realized he was clinging to one of the dead bodies on the floor, the vampire's skin gray and decaying, the body long since gone cold.

Elijah released the body and staggered to his feet, his head swimming with despair and self-loathing. His pain and sorrow gave way to anger and frustration, fueling the urge to hurt, to destroy anything and anyone.

"Par ailleurs, une jeune fille a disparu après ne pas être rentrée chez elle. La jeune fille, qui aurait douze ans, a été vue pour la dernière fois dans la zone de l'incendie,"

"In other news, a young girl has gone missing after failing to return home. The girl, who is reported to be twelve years old, was last seen in the area of the fire..."

Elijah snapped, grabbing the TV and throwing it against the wall, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. His rage burned bright, a hot, white flame. His heart raced, his breathing ragged, his body shaking with fury.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill, but more than anything, he wanted you. He wanted to hold you, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. He couldn't take it anymore; he was falling apart.

Klaus was never a big croissant fan; he preferred something heartier for breakfast. But here, in France, the flaky pastry seemed to taste infinitely better. Maybe it was the morning sunlight filtering through the café windows or the distant sounds of bustling streets.

He took a sip of his espresso, his eyes scanning the crowded café, absorbing the lively atmosphere. Freya sat across from him, her brow furrowed as she read a spell book, her expression thoughtful.

"Anything in there about wrangling wayward siblings?" Klaus teased, a wry grin playing on his lips.

Freya glanced up, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "That's more your area of expertise."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter. "Fair enough."

Freya’s expression softened, a small smile breaking through. "It will be okay. We'll find him."

Klaus nodded, biting into his croissant, the flakes melting in his mouth. The clatter of dishes and murmurs of conversation surrounded them, along with the distant strains of a busker playing a violin.

"Then what? I’ve never known what to say to him," Klaus said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "He’s always the one with the wise words, not me."

"Honesty is all we have," Freya replied, her tone gentle. "We tell him we miss him, that he’s our brother, and we want him home."

"And that we need to have a funeral, or at least a memorial. Hope is very confused about what happened to her aunt," Klaus added, his gaze drifting to the people walking by the window.

"We'll do it together, as a family," Freya reassured, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Her touch was gentle, a lifeline in the turmoil. "He needs to know we’re here for him."

"And if he doesn’t want to come back? What then?" Klaus asked, his voice heavy with concern.

"We will cross that bridge when we get to it." Freya pointed at the spell book, her expression brightening. "I’m looking into ways to calm his mind. Perhaps if he can control his rage, he can start to heal."

"I don’t wish to subdue him," Klaus said, frowning. "He deserves the right to his pain, to grieve in his own way."

Freya’s eyes widened, surprised by his response. It wouldn’t be the first time Klaus had tried to force Elijah or the rest of their family into doing things his way. Yet, despite his brashness, she knew Klaus was a man of deep, powerful emotions, capable of empathy.

"What?" Klaus asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"You’ve grown," Freya smiled. "It’s good to see."

"Don’t get used to it," Klaus quipped, taking another bite of his croissant and washing it down with a sip of his espresso. "I wish for us to go back to normal, where I’m the problem."

"You’ll never not be a problem, Nik," Freya grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Rude," he scowled.

"But true," she sighed, returning to her book with a smile.

Klaus took another sip of his espresso, his gaze drifting to the TV hanging in the corner. A news broadcast caught his attention, the images of a fire flickering on the screen. He leaned forward, his expression sharpening as he listened intently.

"De nouvelles informations proviennent de l'enquête sur l'incendie du centre-ville de Paris. La police a désormais identifié plus de deux cents corps retrouvés sur les lieux, sans aucune indication pour l'instant du nombre de personnes portées disparues. Il semblerait que les victimes étaient toutes membres de une société privée de conservation d'œuvres d'art, possédant des participations dans plusieurs pays. Alors que les autorités enquêtent toujours sur la cause de l'incendie, il a été suggéré que l'incendie avait été allumé délibérément.”

"There is new information coming in from the investigation into the fire in downtown Paris. Police have now identified more than two hundred bodies recovered from the scene, with no indication yet of how many are still missing. It's believed the victims were all members of a private art curation company, with holdings in several countries. While authorities are still investigating the cause of the blaze, it's being suggested the fire was set deliberately."

Klaus’s stomach dropped, a familiar dread creeping in. The timing was too convenient, and this 'art curation company' sounded like a cover for a secret society. He gestured to the screen, espresso still in hand, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Looks like a place for us to visit, wouldn’t you say?"

Freya looked up, her brow furrowing. "Do you think Elijah has anything to do with it?"

"If this organization is the Strix -sorry, was the Strix- then absolutely," Klaus replied, a grim smile forming on his lips. "Perhaps they gave him the answers he was looking for. Answers we weren’t able to find."

"I can’t imagine it would have been a pleasant reunion," Freya sighed, shaking her head. "I can’t say I blame him."

Klaus’s smile faded. He had tried his best, searching for months through the ashes of Elijah’s rage. He had gone from city to city, country to country, even continent to continent. And now, as he stood on the brink of discovery, he couldn’t help but wonder what condition Elijah would be in when they finally found him.

"Well then, no point in wasting any more time," Klaus said, taking a final sip of his espresso.

Freya nodded, closing her book, quickly downing her coffee before stealing the last bite of Klaus’s croissant, earning a playful glare.

"Oi!" he growled, "I was going to eat that."

"Too slow, brother," she smirked.

Klaus rolled his eyes and stood, tossing a wad of cash on the table without bothering to count. The two of them hurried out, the waiter shaking his head as he picked up the money and Klaus's empty plate.

"Americans," he muttered under his breath.

The site of the fire was a blackened husk, the acrid smell of smoke still heavy in the air. Klaus and Freya walked along the sidewalk, watching the firefighters douse the smoldering remains with water. Distant sirens echoed, a haunting reminder of the chaos that had unfolded.

"Can't believe it's still burning," Klaus mused, a slight frown on his face.

"Must have been quite the inferno," Freya remarked, her expression thoughtful.

"Magic?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I don't sense any," Freya said, shaking her head. "Whoever started it didn't use magic."

Klaus glanced at her, a smirk on his lips. "I thought you didn't think Elijah had anything to do with it?"

Freya shrugged. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't."

Klaus wrinkled his nose, his keen sense of smell picking up the lingering scent of blood beneath all the ash and smoke. Human, vampire, a mix of the two. The fire had raged through the night, burning hot and fast, devouring everything in its path.

"I do sense death, though," Freya murmured, her brow furrowing, her expression darkening. "Lots of it."

"Well, I can't imagine there'll be much left for us to find, considering how thorough my brother is," Klaus muttered, his gaze roving over the ruined buildings, his stomach sinking.

"Why are you so sure it was him?" Freya asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Because I can smell his cologne, no1 passant guardant," Klaus replied, wrinkling his nose.

"Kinda weird that you can smell that, Nik," Freya smirked, giving him a sideways glance.

"I'm a hybrid, love; it's one of my many gifts," Klaus replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Freya shook her head, a wry grin on her lips, suppressing a giggle as she watched her brother sniff the air, his eyes closed, his expression one of intense concentration.

"Could be someone else with the same taste in cologne; you never know," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

"It’s very difficult to come by; only a handful of stores carry it," Klaus muttered, ignoring her teasing. "And... she bought it for him just before... you know."

"Ah," Freya's expression softened, her amusement replaced by a mix of sadness and understanding.

Klaus opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the destruction once more, the weight of grief settling on his shoulders. He missed you. Your laughter, your wit, the way you could put him in his place. He admired your loyalty, your strength, and how much you loved his brother.

"What are you thinking about?" Freya asked, her voice quiet and cautious.

"Our departed sister-in-law... the cause of all of this," Klaus said, a sad smile on his lips.

"You can't blame her, you know," Freya murmured, her eyes filled with understanding and sympathy. "I miss her too."

"It's hard to be reminded, is all," Klaus replied, a hint of pain in his voice.

Freya gave him a soft, sympathetic smile, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "You know... I never learned how they met," she said, trying to steer the conversation toward something less melancholy.

Klaus laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it's quite a tale, and some parts I'm not privy to. But I can tell you that she was a novice in a convent," he began, a sparkle in his eye.

"A nun?!" Freya exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Indeed, although she hadn't taken her vows," Klaus chuckled, amused by the surprised look on her face.

"So, what happened? How did they end up together?" Freya asked, intrigued.

"For all parties involved, it was quite a dramatic affair," Klaus continued, a wistful smile forming on his lips. "But we have more important things to focus on, don't you think?"

Freya sighed, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter and returned to focusing on the scents around him, trying to find a trail, something that might lead him to his brother. He caught the faintest whiff of blood, the scent leading away from the fire, and deeper into the city.

"This way," he said, striding confidently down a street, away from the site of the fire.

Freya hurried to catch up, her long legs making short work of the distance, her boots clattering on the cobblestone streets.

"How can you be so sure?" Freya asked, falling in step beside him, her voice low and cautious.

"I just am," Klaus said, his tone brooking no argument. "That bloody cologne of his is everywhere. No one else has such atrocious taste in fragrances."

"Nik..." Freya cautioned, her tone warning, her gaze flickering to the passersby, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "We don't know what's waiting for us. We can't just charge in."

"I know; that's why you are going in first, my dear sister," Klaus smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Nik," Freya protested, her expression indignant.

"Don't worry, I'll be right behind you," Klaus grinned, giving her a playful nudge as they rounded a corner.

The two of them came to a stop outside an old building, its stone façade crumbling, the windows boarded up. Klaus gestured for Freya to go in, and with a roll of her eyes, she did.

"This place is creepy," she muttered, her boots echoing on the cracked tile floor.

"There's blood, a lot of it," Klaus said, sniffing the air, his eyes closed, his body tensed. "Upstairs."

They made their way up an old spiral staircase, the steps creaking under their feet. They reached a landing; the hallway was dark and narrow.

"Down there," Klaus said, pointing at a closed door at the end of the hall.

Freya nodded and slowly approached the door, her senses alert, her magic tingling under her skin. It was eerily quiet; the silence weighed heavy in the air, pressing down on her.

She stopped at the door, her hand hovering over the handle. She looked back at Klaus, his expression calm and composed, but she could sense his nervousness, his apprehension.

"Ready?" she whispered.

Klaus gave her a curt nod. Freya took a deep breath and turned the handle, the door opening with a creak.

"Elijah?"

The two of them were met with the sight of a massacre: body parts strewn across the room, blood splattered on the walls.

Freya gasped and took a step back, Klaus's hand gripping her shoulder. His eyes roved over the carnage, landing on a lone figure in the middle of the room, standing motionless.

"Elijah," Klaus breathed.

His brother was wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, tattered and bloodstained, covered in dirt. His hair was matted and wild, his eyes haunted, the light dimmed within them.

Klaus and Freya stepped inside, careful not to slip on the blood, the floor sticky and wet. They approached Elijah slowly, his gaze fixed on the severed arm in his hand, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"Brother?" Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand reaching out.

"You are not real," Elijah murmured, not taking his eyes off the limb, his expression vacant and distant.

"Elijah, we're here," Freya said gently. "It's time to come home."

"I won't be fooled again," Elijah hissed, his grip tightening on the severed arm.

Klaus took a tentative step forward, one arm stretched behind him to protect Freya, the other held out, placating and non-threatening. "We're not illusions, brother," he said softly, reassuringly.

"Freya," Elijah breathed, his head snapping up, his gaze finding hers.

"Yes, Elijah, it's me," she replied, giving him a gentle smile.

He blinked, his eyes flicking from her face to Klaus's, his brow furrowing. "Have you found a way to bring her back?"

Klaus and Freya exchanged glances, their expressions sad and resigned. It wasn't something Freya wanted to do... to tap into such dark magic. She had been searching for you on the other side but found no trace. She believed you had found peace, and to tear you away from that would be a cursed, evil thing, an affront to the balance between life and death.

"Elijah, there's no way, not without consequence," Klaus said, his tone firm, his eyes filled with regret. "We discussed this."

Elijah dropped the severed arm, his hands clenching into fists. "You're wrong. There is a way."

"Elijah," Freya began, but he cut her off.

"Bring her back," he demanded, his eyes burning with intensity.

"I can't," Freya said, her voice quiet and regretful. "I'm sorry, Elijah. She's gone; she's at rest."

"No, no, no," Elijah growled, his hands coming up to grip his hair, tugging at the roots, his chest heaving, eyes wild.

"Brother, she's in a better place," Klaus tried, his tone firm and reassuring. "I think it's time you come home... You need to let her go."

Elijah shook his head, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling. "No, no, no," he chanted, his eyes darting around the room, looking for something.

"Elijah," Freya murmured, her brow furrowed, her expression concerned. "Please, come with us. She wouldn't want this for you."

"No, no, no!" he growled, his voice echoing off the blood-spattered walls, his face contorted in a mask of rage.

He grabbed a nearby table and threw it against the wall, the sound of splintering wood reverberating through the air.

"Bloody hell," Klaus growled, grabbing Freya and yanking her backward, shielding her with his body.

Elijah lunged at them, his fangs bared, a murderous look in his eyes. He tackled Klaus, sending them both crashing into the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact.

"Nik!" Freya exclaimed, her magic sparking at her fingertips.

"Elijah, you've gone mad," Klaus grunted, shoving him away, sending him careening across the room. "She's dead."

"Niklaus," Elijah growled, his body vibrating with anger, the haunted, hollow look in his eyes replaced by raw, unhinged rage. "Bring. Her. Back."

"We can't, and you know it," Klaus spat, his eyes flashing yellow, his face shifting into the hybrid’s feral features. "She's at peace, Elijah. We need to let her go."

"I won't, I can't," Elijah raged, his body trembling, his eyes filling with unshed tears that threatened to spill over. His voice broke. "How can you ask me to do that?"

Freya’s heart clenched at the sight of her brother unraveling, his usual restraint shattered. "Come home, please," Freya pleaded, her eyes welling with tears, her voice thick with desperation. "We can help you."

Elijah's chest heaved, his wild eyes shifting from Klaus to Freya, barely recognizing them. "Get out," he growled, the words vibrating through the bloodstained room. His gaze locked on Klaus, his voice turning into a vicious snarl. "GET OUT!"

Klaus stared at him for a moment, his expression conflicted. Freya watched him pull a silver dagger out of his pocket, the familiar glint of the cursed weapon that had subjugated their family time and time again. She hadn't even known he had brought one with him, and her heart clenched at the sight. She didn’t want this for either of them. But given Elijah's state, she knew it was necessary.

"I'm sorry, Elijah," Klaus said, his voice solemn. He rushed forward, his movements a blur, and before Elijah could react, he buried the blade in his brother’s chest. The gasp Elijah let out echoed in the empty, ravaged room. The look on his face was heartbreaking, a mixture of shock and pain. Klaus had to steel himself against the emotion threatening to overtake him, reminding himself it was for the best, for all of them.

"Rest now, brother," Klaus murmured, pulling him into a tight embrace, cradling his body as Elijah slumped, his strength leaving him. His big brother, the north star of the family, now lost to grief.

"I thought you didn't want to subdue him," Freya whispered, her voice shaky, her eyes wide with shock as she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth.

"It was a last resort," Klaus said, his voice thick with emotion, trying and failing to hide the crack in his composure. "I couldn't bear seeing him like this any longer. I didn't think... he would be so... unhinged."

"He's grieving," Freya said softly, her eyes filled with sympathy as she knelt beside them, brushing a hand through Elijah’s matted hair. "He loves her, Nik. Losing her... it's broken him."

"I know," Klaus muttered, his arms tightening around Elijah, holding him close as if he could protect him from the demons he was fighting inside. His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek. Quickly, he wiped it away, trying to maintain his strength.

"Time to go home," Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with sorrow. "For all of us."

Freya reached out, gently taking Elijah's limp hand in hers, squeezing it tight as they prepared to leave the nightmare behind. She hoped and prayed that Elijah could feel her love through the numbness, that somewhere, deep within the wreckage of his mind, he knew they would never give up on him.

That the battle to bring you back hadn’t been in vain. It had only just begun.

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

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the-silver-peahen-residence · 4 months ago

Note

I love Ink and the sic claws children! They all sound adorable!! Would it be possible to write something involving them?

((Hi there anon, hope your well. Also thank you so much! I hope demon mun likes the idea too. But I can write a example of the kids if you like. Oh and Van Ink and the others belong to my friend @demon-blood-youths))

Silver butterfly mun/Peahen mom

The DBT was still sorta shocked seeing their their leader was a mom. Though, the six claws were proud even with smiles seen on their faces. Though, Navarro was speechless himself.

"Ink how?..J..Just how the heck did you...you know what never mind..." Navarro said but seeing the six kids around her.

"What? I mean...It's not a bad thing. Besides, their all pretty cool! And I want you guys to get to know them. Their really adorable though! Even Vanity is happy being a grand devil to more!" she pouts sitting down with the fathers helping their child.

"Hi big brother Navarro!" Airi 'Daniela' Akiyama said along with her other siblings. Okay, they were cute! Why were they cute!? Even the others through they were adorable!

"Uhhh h..hi?" he said waving to the little girl.

Mio Nakajima was sitting on her mom's lap while Ink was holding her close while curled up. Beside her was Shiori 'Izzy' Midoriya who was reading a book while smiling.

"I think it's pretty cute that Ink is a mom. Given the past history she's learned a lot Navarro." Hellmare said with her baby girl Cassie who was sleeping in her arms right now.

"But still....it's shocking to say the least. You all know how Ink is." he said.

"Yeah, we know." The DBT said. That's when they heard a shout seeing four kids playing video games.

"We lost Haruki! I told you to use the block!!" Yuto 'Vanguard' Bakugo glares at his game partner Haruki Hayakawa who was holding the other controller.

"Haa!? That's on you! I told you she and Atsuki was going to beat us and you never listen to me!!!" he shouted back.

Bridget along with her game partner Atsuki 'Vanity' Okumura sweatdrops seeing the two boys arguing.

"Easy boys. How about another game?" Rust said seeing the two sigh but looks to him.

"Okay.." they said.

"...Well, that was sorted out well..right Bridget?" Atsuki sees her nod.

"Though that was fun! We should play again indeed." she smiled as the four got ready to play another one.

"Well, that just shows my son is still pretty good! He'll be the number one of all!" Katsuki laughed in a evil way with Denji shaking his head.

"You mean my son! He' still is strong like his old man!"

"The heck you mean! You mean my son's powerful!" Bakugo and Denji argued with Rin confused. Ink sweatdrops.

"Guys guys don't argue please! I think you are all amazing! And the Kids are just as cool!" Ink laughed still holding her daughter Mio who was still asleep, hugging a dragon plush her grand devil Vanity gave her.

"Well, even so..it's good to know you six are still getting along." Jaron told Ren who agreed with this. He sees Ben sleeping in Jaron's arms while Abigail was playing with the others too.

"Yes. Even after all these years we are growing stronger together. To keep our family safe along with our kids." he sees his own daughter happily showing off the little blue persona dragons that was flying around her and her holding one in her arms.

"Though, that just means we should warn you about-"

"Oh no, we know...and if he tries anything we will be sure he's taken care of." Ren smiled that Jaron sweatdrops knowing what he means.

"Good to know. And knowing our leader is in good hands too." Jaron said.

"Indeed she is." Ren said even seeing their uncle Davion smiling watching over them as well. The kids of the Six claws were alright and happy and so was the fathers along with the mom. What a good day indeed.

#IC #silver roses #ask answered #muse answered #curious peahen and peacock #the fractions of NYC #anon #devil royals au #young adults au #demon-blood-youths #peahen writer #the six claws of the blue dragon #dragon harem au #the children of the six claws

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say-al0e · 1 year ago

Text

Casual

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: Steve Harrington has always been kind of an asshole and you've always been kind of in love with him. But a lifetime of friendship doesn't mean either of you are ready for something more than a casual fling because there's nothing scarier than vulnerability, even in Hawkins. [Set between seasons 2 and 3] Warnings: Car sex, requited unrequited love, unprotected PinV, mentions of cheating (parents, Carol; not Steve or Reader). Pairing: Steve Harrington x rich girl!Reader (briefly mentioned but important, off-screen Eddie Munson x rich girl!Reader) Word Count: 5.6k

Steve Harrington was kind of an asshole.

For as long as you’d known him, he’d been a bit of a dick. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, depending on who you asked, you’d known him your entire life. You grew up together, neighbors, with parents who, in their own way, were best friends - if either of your parents were capable of such a thing as friendship. And because of that, you saw a side of Steve that few others had ever witnessed.

There were moments where you saw the softness, the honeyed sweetness, that shimmered through the cracks in the facade he crafted for himself - beneath the hair and the smirk and the snarky quips. Moments where the real Steve, a tender-hearted, well-intentioned sweetheart who was always on the verge of getting it right but never quite managed to make it, lurked beneath the heavy crown he wore.

Just as there were moments when he saw beneath your own carefully crafted persona. He was the only only person who had ever seen the worry, the sadness, the deep-rooted yearning for something more that was buried beneath your walls of ice. He saw every impossibly strong, deeply felt emotion that lingered beneath your careful composure, your even stoicism. He saw the real you, not just the Ice Queen cloaked in department store dresses and expensive perfume.

Only, neither of you acknowledged those moments.

It was an unspoken pact, one you’ve honored since thirteen when you both realized that being popular meant more than being nice. You both pretended that you were still the same vapid rich kids you’d always been, unburdened by a world built to cater to you.

Even if that was no longer true. Even if it hadn’t been true in a very long time.

Either way, you didn’t mention his newfound soft spot for a strange, ragtag group of children and he didn’t mention the fact that he knew the hickey just beneath your jaw was from none other than Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson.

Just as you had nearly every weekend for the past six months, the pair of you sat in the backseat of his BMW after yet another party that neither of you particularly wanted to attend. It had long ago gotten old, pretending to enjoy the self-involved prattling of your former classmates - their bragging about taking on the family business or which colleges they’d be attending in the fall, snide remarks about Steve’s lack of direction while conveniently ignoring the fact that you were the only one with an Ivy acceptance - and you couldn’t help yourself as you huffed.

“Tommy and Carol are the worst. I swear, if I have to hear her bitch about his inability to make her come or him make another stupid fucking dick joke, I’m gonna scream.”

For as long as you could remember, you’d wanted to tell them both to fuck off, to disappear back into whatever hole they’d managed to claw their way out of, but Steve reveled in their following, once upon a time, anyway. Now, he looked almost resigned to their existence in your lives as he frowned.

“She told you that?”

“Won’t stop telling me that,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as his hand fell to your thigh, fingers idly tracing the bare skin just beneath the hem of your skirt. “I would tell her to break up with him but, honestly, they totally deserve each other. May they spend the rest of their lives making each other completely fucking miserable.”

It was only in these moments, hidden away in the thick of the trees near Lover’s Lake, that any glimpse of your real selves began to emerge. Your annoyed huffing, directed at the awful people you found yourself surrounded by, and Steve’s tender touch as he shifted closer and carefully brushed a lock of hair from your neck. Neither of you mentioned it, too lost in your own little world, but it never escaped either of your notice.

Still, Steve hummed dutifully. “Totally,” he agreed, “told him she cheated on him with Billy but he called me a liar.” He paused for a moment, shifted just a touch closer - his jean covered leg pressing into yours, body warm even in the cool air conditioning - before he changed the subject by asking, “New perfume?”

“Everyone knows about her and Billy. But, like, who hasn’t Billy fucked at this point.” Steve leaned in, nosed at the curve of your jaw, and you hummed. “Mom brought it back from that last conference they went to. Said I needed something more mature before I leave for school.” You left out the part of the conversation where she went on for nearly an hour about how much of a waste it was for you to even consider college in the first place when you were meant to marry someone of status - someone like Steve - and tilted your head to allow him more room.

“Smells good,” he complimented. “Like oranges or something.”

“Or something,” you mumbled agreeably, shifting against the seat to make yourself more comfortable as he began to press his mouth to the sensitive skin of your throat. “What’re you doin’, Stevie?”

“Giving you the attention you deserve,” he answered, never missing a beat and only pausing to nip at the pulse point. “Can’t have you unfucked in this skirt. That’d be criminal.”

As if he sought to make a point, Steve’s hand began to drift higher up your thigh, fingers traveling a well-worn path and ghosting over bruises left in his wake after last Saturday’s party at his own home. Again, he decidedly avoided the few extra spots that lined your thighs - the bite mark he would see when you parted your legs, in the shape of a certain metalhead’s teeth, and the hickey you’d been left with at the juncture of your thighs - as you laughed.

“Should call Hawkins’s finest,” you teased, grinning when Steve huffed a laugh.

“They’d send Callahan,” he mused as his fingers dug into the plush of your thigh and pulled you closer, encouraging you to climb onto his lap. “Would love to see him try to figure out what to do with you.”

“And you know what to do with me?”

Steve’s smirk was obvious, clear even as he nipped at your skin. “‘Course I do,” he assured you, settling back against the plush of the seat as you shifted in the small space and settled on his lap. “I know exactly what to do with you.”

“Prove it.”

The challenge hung in the air for a moment, thick even in the cool interior of his car, and gave you the briefest respite to study him. Soft brown eyes were blown black with lust, a darkness that you sometimes found yourself grateful for the chance to witness, and his hair had begun falling in his eyes. His cheeks were tinged pink and you knew that his lips would follow soon.

Steve was beautiful, a work of art in the dim moonlight, and your heart beat just a touch too fast for something that was supposed to be casual as you waited for him to take the bait.

Before you could tease, attempt to bring some levity back into the moment that suddenly seemed too intense, Steve’s large hand found the back of your head. He pulled you in with a practiced ease, a touch that betrayed just how comfortable you were with one another, and pressed his mouth to yours.

Whereas Steve’s facade was all flash, easy confidence with nothing to prove, his kiss was almost desperate. There was the knowledge that he was good - he’d earned it, sought to learn exactly what you liked and adapted quickly - but beneath that, there was a desire to make the moment everything you could want. He kissed you with an urgency you could never quite understand, almost as if he wanted to savor the moment because he feared it may never happen again, but you knew that couldn’t be true.

As reticent as you both were to delve into your true selves - into your true feelings - you knew that this would happen time and again. It would happen until one of you inevitably broke the other’s heart, and maybe even after.

Still, Steve kissed your with more passion than you ever could’ve expected.

From your position on his lap, skirt bunched around your waist and hands falling into his hair, you could feel the growing bulge in his jeans. There was a slight rocking of his hips, something you might’ve dismissed as an attempt to get comfortable if you didn’t know him so well, and you still managed to find yourself surprised by just how much the little things turned him on.

“Girls like you,” he rasped, breaking the kiss before you could even think to, “just need to be fucked dumb. Be all pretty and cock drunk. Made into that pretty little trophy wife you swear you’d hate to be.”

The way he spoke was so casually condescending, a little mean in the way he’d discovered you liked, and you felt your cheeks heat as you squirmed on his lap. He knew - knew that your mother hated your ambition, swore you were purposely sabotaging her attempts to marry you off, including the few attempts she’d made with him - and smirked when you shot him a half-hearted glare.

“You can pout all you want, but that’s what you need, right?” His hands fell to your thighs, raking up the soft skin as your own tangled in his hair and tugged. “To be taken care of, to be fucked like you deserve.”

“Don’t think some hotshot husband would care enough to fuck me like that,” you countered, swallowing hard in an attempt to maintain your composure as his fingers trailed higher. “Would never come. He’d be too focused on fucking the secretary ‘cause she won’t be upset when he gets off and she doesn’t. But that’s why the trophy wives fuck the pool boys and tennis coaches, I guess.”

Steve hummed his understanding - had his own firsthand knowledge of both your father’s affairs, knew just what kind of men he was surrounded by now that he was old enough - before tipping his chin to glance up at you. “Guess you’ll have to look harder to find someone worth your time, then. ‘Cause this pussy’s too good to be wasted on some dickhead who won’t appreciate it.”

“Steve.” His name came out softer than you intended, a near breathless sort of whine that betrayed you - more than the growing patch of slick clearly visible against the light pink fabric of your panties - and he hummed.

“Don’t worry, babe. You know I’ll take care of you.” Though Steve could be an asshole when he wanted, he was nothing but a giver when he settled between your thighs. There were moments where you worried, secretly feared this might be the moment he decided to be selfish and leave you hanging, but more often than not, you were the one to tap out first. And any argument you could’ve formed died on your lips as he ordered, “Just shut up and sit pretty for me, yeah?”

Despite yourself - despite the part of your brain that wanted you to argue, to fight back and tell him to go fuck himself - you melted into his touch as his fingers ghosted over the fabric between your thighs. You heard him sigh, felt the warmth of his breath fanning over your mouth as he refused to put more space than necessary between you, as his gaze met yours.

“Next time, I’m fucking you in my bed,” he decided, gaze flicking back to where his fingers hooked into the soft material and dragged it to the side. “Can’t taste you the way I want in here.”

“Can’t keep saying shit like that,” you mumbled, nails biting into his skin as you gripped his shoulder to keep yourself upright. “Gonna make me think you actually like eating pussy.”

“I do,” he admitted, grinning when you rolled your eyes. “Like eating yours the best, though.”

With that, Steve’s fingers swiped through the slick gathered between your thighs. His thumb caught on the sensitive bundle of nerves and his mouth returned to yours, eagerly swallowing the soft noise of surprised pleasure you released.

Each swipe of his fingers was easy, almost lazy. There was a practiced ease there, a lover’s knowledge of your body - absent any of the almost nervous exploration of the first time - and you forced yourself not to think too hard about that fact as his tongue swiped at the seam of your lips.

The small space was cramped, not the easiest to maneuver, but it was familiar.

Though sometimes familiarity equated to boredom, routine, Steve’s touch was anything but. Every swipe of his fingers through your folds, every brush of his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves, was electrifying. He had you teetering on the verge of begging, eager for him in a way you’d never been for anyone else - almost anyone else - and you knew he could tell as he finally gave you something more.

Two thick fingers, skilled and steady, pressed into you. They stretched you - never quite enough to fully prepare you for the impressive length hidden beneath the denim you knew you were soaking through - in a way that had your breath catching in your throat and your heart hammering in your chest. Steve knew exactly where to press, fingers finding that one spot that made you see stars, and you could feel the twitch of his mouth as he refused to allow you to pull away from the kiss entirely.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, tone so smug it made you realize why so many were eager to brand him an asshole. “C’mon, babe, the sooner you let go, the sooner I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Despite your conflicting emotions - the desire to hit him, to call him an asshole and tell him to just get on with it; the desire to kiss him, to tell him that you only wanted this, him for the rest of your life - you settled for the middle ground and allowed yourself to sink into his touch.

Those murmurs of encouragement, almost reverent in a way that you hoped no one else had ever heard, had your mind blanking and your chest heaving as you focused solely on the press of his fingers. His pace was perfect, steady and even and never too much - always too much, always enough to make you wonder how you ever thought you could be fine with losing this someday - and you would’ve told him as much if you were capable of speaking without admitting that you were afraid you could love him for the rest of your life.

Instead, you settled for sinking your nails into his shoulder, for tugging at the soft strands of his hair, as he nipped at your skin. He sucked a mark just beneath the one you knew he’d seen, despite your attempt at concealing it, and that was enough to throw you over the edge.

Steve once admitted to loving the noises you made, promised they turned him on rather than weirded him out - something you only admitted when he asked why you were so quiet, refused to let you come until you explained yourself - and you knew you wouldn’t have been able to quiet yourself even if you’d tried as his fingers worked you through the first orgasm of the night.

Knowing him, Steve wouldn’t stop until he had you desperate - he liked to see your tears, watery eyes and mascara running as you finally let down the walls he’d only glimpsed behind - and that seemed to be the case as he resumed his pace the moment your breathing began to even.

“Steve,” you huffed, your best attempt at something resembling normal, though you could hear the whining edge to your tone. “Fuck me,” you demanded, or at least attempted to. “Fill me up. So big, always feel so full when you’re inside.”

It was a low blow, an attempt to appeal to his ego - exaggerated, though it was true; he was the biggest you’d ever had - and he rolled his eyes as he nipped at your bottom lip.

“So fucking impatient,” he huffed, though he gave in, just as he always did. “Such a spoiled brat.”

With a tap to your thigh, you shifted. You held yourself upright, knees digging into the soft cushions of the seat, long enough for him to unbutton his jeans and shift his hips. As you had every time you found yourself in this situation, which was more often than not lately, you watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he freed himself from the confines of too-tight denim.

For years, you wondered why so many girls flocked to Steve when they knew how things would end. You wondered why anyone gave him a chance, why anyone came back when he forgot to call or blew them off for someone else, but you understood now. The look of him, the weight and feel of his cock in your hand as you reached out and swiped at the pearl of precum beading at the tip, was almost answer enough. The effort he put in to make you feel as if you were the only person that mattered, as if your pleasure were more important than his, quelled the rest of your doubt.

When you lifted your hand to your mouth, lapped the bead from your thumb and hummed, Steve groaned.

“Fucking tease.” There was no bite, no venom, to the words, but you still bit back your grin as he reached for your hip with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He dragged you closer, settled you firmly on his lap and swiped the tip of his cock through your folds, as he tipped his chin in a silent request for you to return your mouth to his.

As you pressed your lips to his, he used the grip on your hip to drag your hips down. It was swift, faster than he’d ever gone and almost desperate in the way he pulled you in, but you reveled in the slight pinch as he stretched you open.

There was something so overwhelming about feeling Steve so close, about having him in the way you dreamt of when you first realized how you felt about him, but you did your best to swallow the sudden lump in your throat as your eyes fell shut and your lips parted.

The pace always varied with Steve. Some nights were hard and fast, usually when you were both wound up after a particularly rough night; others were soft and slow, when the emotion began to overwhelm you, when the desperate need to be close outweighed the potential damage a confession might bring. And others still were somewhere in between, teasing and playful; an alternation between soft and hard, slow and quick - a way for him to make you beg, to bring you out of your head and into the moment.

Tonight was no different.

Though you sat atop him, Steve did all the work. His hips snapped, cock pressing into you with every movement, as his hands dragged you down. He controlled the pace, controlled the moment, and you allowed yourself to be fully present.

There was no facade in these moments, no pretending to be anything other than you were, and you imagined that was why you both returned time and again. This was Steve - giving, eager, desperate to be good enough. And you were just as present, just as honest; soft, pliant, warm and overjoyed that he still wanted you despite the surface ice that froze most others out.

Neither of you could pretend here, with nothing between you but a few pesky articles of clothing. Neither of you wanted to.

And you knew, as your mouth returned to his, that despite the rough snap of his hips and the bruising grip he held on your hip, that your kiss betrayed you. Each swipe of your tongue, each breathless gasp you allowed him to swallow, told him exactly what he needed to know.

When his hand fell between your thighs, thumb pressing to the aching bundle of nerves, your mind went blank and your thoughts revolved solely around the beautiful brunette beneath you.

The curve of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the plush of his lips; Steve, Steve, Steve, was all that existed in your mind. The drag of his cock, filling you so perfectly that it almost seemed as if he were a missing piece, designed especially for you, was all that existed. And just as he wanted, it left you pliant in his hands.

“There we go,” he groaned, voice softer than you imagined he intended, as a hand lifted to your cheek. “Look at that, givin’ you what you need, hm?” When you moaned your agreement, lips pursing in a silent request for him to kiss you, Steve smiled. “Look pretty like this. Soft and fucked out for me. I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, yeah?”

It was the first confirmation that he knew, that he cared more than you thought he might, about the other man in your life. And though you wanted to tease him, to poke and prod and be a bit of a bitch about it, you could only moan your agreement.

Eddie was good, was more than enough, but there was something about Steve.

“Prove it,” he demanded, voice only just beginning to show his exertion as his hips snapped a little harder. “Come for me, babe. Show me how good I make you feel.”

As was beginning to become a habit, you gave in to him without so much as an attempt otherwise. The press of his fingers to your aching clit, the rough snap of his hips, the warmth of his breath fanning over your sweat slick skin; all of it was too much, just enough, to send you barreling over the edge for a second time.

With a cry of his name, keening and louder than you intended, you came and Steve followed shortly after. You could feel the warmth of his spend, the twitch of his cock, as you settled for a long moment, and felt the tears stinging at the backs of your eyes.

Without so much as a second though, Steve lifted a hand to brush at your cheeks, careful not to press too hard, and swiped away the few that had fallen before he pressed a kiss to your cheek and shot you a teasing wink.

“Love it when you cry for me, babe,” he teased, though you wondered if he’d have the same reaction if he knew the tears were, at least in part, caused by the overwhelming flurry of emotion that had you questioning everything you knew. “Seeing the Ice Queen melt never gets old.”

“You’re such a dick, Stevie.” The huff was as playful as you could manage with your breath still coming in short pants and your stomach churning with emotion but he grinned just the same as he helped you off his lap.

“Think you mean, ‘you have such a great dick, Stevie’.” When you rolled your eyes, straightening out your clothes and attempting to smooth your hair, he laughed. “Oh, c’mon, not gonna say thank you for the incredible orgasms? Your parents raised you better than that, babe.”

“They raised me better than to fuck some rich asshole in the backseat of his car, but, here we are.” Steve followed your lead and began to straighten himself out, zipped his jeans and at least pretended not to stare as you settled your panties back into place, the fabric immediately darkening with his spend. “Speaking of, you should probably get me home, Romeo. It’s past curfew.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Steve simply tugged you back into his side, hand cradling your jaw as you both attempted to catch your breath.

The lie was obvious - your parents didn’t care very much how late you stayed out, even less when you were with Steve - and you knew that he knew who would be waiting for you to return home. However, you didn’t expect him to ask.

Steve’s touch was soft, though you could see the distaste in the set of his mouth as his fingers brushed the two marks beneath your jaw - one fresh and one fading. “What’re you doin’ with the freak, anyway?” He’d never asked, neither of you made it a habit to pry into the other’s personal life, but he seemed unable to help himself as he continued. “You know you could just buy weed, right? You don’t have to fuck him for it.”

“I don’t smoke,” you reminded him, rolling your eyes even as you leaned into his touch. “Dunno,” you shrugged, avoiding his gaze as your hands worried with the hem of your skirt. “He’s exciting. Well, not really,” you amended because he wasn’t, “but he’s different. He’s just… Eddie. Doesn’t try to be something he’s not.” The slight was unintentional but you caught Steve’s slight wince, even as you barreled on. “And, I mean, it totally pisses off my dad every time he sees Eddie sneaking out because the guy’s a total fucking klutz and can’t leave without waking up half the neighborhood.” Steve scoffed, though you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it as he quickly covered the sound with a clearing of his throat before you added, as an afterthought, “And he listens to me. Not, like, pretends to.”

“I listen to you.”

While it wasn’t a lie - Steve listened, retained whatever you told him - neither of you were ever particularly honest with one another. Your conversations were never as serious as the ones you shared with Eddie, never as deep. For someone you considered your best friend, Steve barely knew anything about the real you. Though, that was as much your fault as it was his.

There was always a fear, deep and unfounded, that he might not like the real you. That if you were honest, that if you allowed him to see you for who you really were, that he might hate you. That he might leave. With Eddie, that didn’t matter very much. He was fun, a distraction, a taste of something forbidden and a glimpse into another life, but he was temporary. He could leave at any time, decide he didn’t like the real you and it might hurt for a moment but you would get over it quick.

With Steve, it was your biggest fear.

Thinking that he might not like the real you, that he might suddenly change his mind and decide the real you wasn’t worth his time, was a fear that felt almost paralyzing. Steve’s opinion mattered, more than anyone else’s, so you held tight to the person you’d always been - the one he’d always at least tolerated - and never breathed so much as a word to the contrary.

Regardless, you humored him. “You do,” you agreed, lifting a hand to brush a strand of hair from his eyes. “But you kinda have to. And you also moaned Nancy’s name the first time we fucked so, like, that sorta cancels out some of the good stuff.” Steve flustered, cheeks flashing neon pink as he recalled the moment - a drunken hookup soon after his breakup, the first of what would become a regular occurrence - but before he could defend himself, you asked, “How’s that going, by the way? You figure out how to get her back from the creep?”

Steve shook his head, then, and sighed as he admitted, “Don’t think I even want to, anymore. Think I was just… She was right, maybe. We were kind of bullshit.”

The resigned misery in his voice was obvious, still upset by the hurtful declaration of a girl you knew he’d loved - in his own way, anyway - and you sighed as you rested your head against the seat cushion. “All of this is bullshit,” you shrugged. “High school, Hawkins, Indiana; none of it means anything.”

“We don’t mean anything?” Despite his best attempt at nonchalance, Steve sounded almost heartbroken - devastated to hear yet another person who meant something to him declare that he meant nothing - and you sighed as you grabbed the hand that rested on your thigh.

“You know I hate sentimentality,” you mumbled, unable to look him in the eye, “but you’re the only thing worth anything in my whole life. You could never be bullshit. Annoying, totally, but not bullshit. Never bullshit.”

There was a brief pause, a moment in which you both felt the weight of you admission pressing on your chests - stealing what little air seemed to remain in the car, windows still fogged and radio still playing too softly to really hear - before Steve swallowed. “You know I…” He cut himself off, paused and seemed to think better of voicing the thought aloud, before he asked, “You know, right?”

‘I love you,’ went unspoken, as it always had. It lingered, just beneath the surface, waiting for one of you to crack the ice and set it free. You knew, just as Steve did, that you were in something like love. Maybe not a love that would last forever, maybe not even a love that was ever meant to be, but it was there.

Warm, shiny and bright, and just waiting for you to stop pretending that things between you had ever been casual.

So, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you assured him, reaching for his hand to squeeze it gently. “I know. Me, too.”

Silence fell, then, thick and suffocating. It filled the interior of his car with a bitter chill and it struck you just how new that feeling was. It made you wonder what a future might be like, if you had one at all, and you found yourself mildly horrified at the idea that you could end up as either set of your parents. There was no world in which you could see a future without Steve at least somewhere in your life but there was no happiness in a world in which you both continued to pretend.

Either way, you were both stuck - caught up in a never-ending performance, an act for an audience that only existed in your minds.

What began as something effortless, something casual, had become so complicated that you no longer felt certain of much beyond the understanding that you loved Steve. How - if you could love the real him, if you only loved the idea of him, if you loved the safety of him - was a question you had no answer to but before you could begin to even fathom it, the moment ended.

Steve pressed a final kiss to your mouth, bruising in a way that made your chest ache and your eyes sting with unshod tears, before he made his way to the driver’s seat.

And then, just as he had every night since he got his license, Steve drove you home. He pulled up to the door to let you out and didn’t mention the van he saw parked down the street. He squeezed your hand before you could step out into the night, three times in rapid succession, and lit a cigarette the moment you stepped out of the car.

King Steve wasn’t one to fall in love easily, neither was the Ice Queen. But Steve Harrington wore his heart on his sleeve and that heart beat for you. Despite the distractions, the desperate attempts at finding something so disconnected from the cushioned prison of his gilded cage, he knew that it had been you all along. And just as neither of you mentioned the real people beneath the personas, neither of you mentioned just how real the love you shared had grown.

Loving one another, allowing yourselves to be vulnerable - to reveal the deepest, darkest secrets - was terrifying. Both of you feared what the other might think of the truth that lay beneath the crown so you agreed, silently, that to pretend was better than to face rejection.

So, Steve drove the few streets that separated your neighborhood from his and let himself into the empty house that meant nothing when his true home was likely sliding open a window to allow the only person he’d ever seen as true competition inside. And he wondered when the love of his life became a casual fling, when you both resigned yourselves to pretending that neither of you deserved something real - something true, something happy. He wondered why he carried on with it, knowing that in a few short weeks you would be in Boston, knee-deep in a life you hated, while he was stuck in Hawkins, wishing he’d had the courage to be himself and that he’d asked for something more than casual.

There was no satisfactory answer, not if he really thought about it, so he decided not to.

The rest of the summer would be spent in the same way the last six months had. Steve would pretend to enjoy the parties and the attention of girls who only wanted him for his reputation. You would continue pretending that nothing fazed you, not even him. And things between you would remain casual.

And he supposed that was just the way it was meant to be.

_________________________________________________

Author's Note: Did you know there's a chance black beans will catch on fire in the microwave? 'Cause I didn't. Anyway. This was my first time writing 'King Steve' and I had so much fun. This was loosely inspired by Chappell Roan's Casual. And my love of both Steve and Eddie. :)

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff, @valthevalkyrie-main, @crying-caro, @inglourious-imagines

#stranger things smut #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #v's fics

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yandere-wishes · 2 months ago

Note

*Laying seductively on lego bricks* so I hear you want more Jason x catreader ideas ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

So before Jason got torture by the Joker the relationship Catreader "try" to continue her job as a cat thief but was kinda depressed. (She was low key jealous of her sisters having their Robin, Mittens got Dick, and Stray got Damian. Stray was like "GURL YOU CAN HAVE HIM")

But when Jason came back as Redhood (Catreader dosen't know his identity yet) and she was fired up to make him her nemesis, playing tricks and flirting with him like her old Robin. Is this a 180 degree from the catreader with AK Jason? YES. I'M CRYING -(•ㅅ•)

｡ ₊♡♡༺Meet me at our spot༻♡♡₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot by the anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴*Excitedly chewing on legos* OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚When Jason dies he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things. When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vue pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

When the light hits his helmet just right it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet making you fall back.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and through him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

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jadefromwattpad · 2 months ago

Text

Always, Forever, Running Back to You

Poe Dameron x Reader 1.8k Words First Part Author: yearning poe my beloved, I'm addicted to him I just couldn't keep him and the reader apart. this is unedited but I hope everyone enjoys.

You saw Poe Dameron in every single thing. In the reflections of the lake outside the inn you were staying at, his smiling face in every ripple along the surface. In the cocky smirks of the pilots across the cantinas. In the kindness of the old woman who charges you only half rate at her inn. The weight around your neck, the sun on your skin, the smell of your cockpit. The list went on and on until everything led back to him, and it was in everything you did.

The first two months were the worst. Every reminder of him ached through your chest, through your choice. It burned and ebbed and screamed and scratched at the inside of your chest, attempting to claw its way out.

Claw its way back to him.

It never got easier in the following months. It still hurt, still ached, but in a dull and unending way. A way that told you this would be your life. You would always ache and yearn and dream.

Some nights you got caught up in it. Got caught up in how your dreams used to be the stars, danger, and glory. Now they seemed almost bland. A house, a lake, children, and him. His love, his laugh, your life.

Some nights you pushed it to the side, smiling lightly at other cocky pilots with dark hair and deep eyes who bought you drinks in the cantina. That was as far as it ever went. Maybe one day you would try to totally lose yourself in the intimacy of another, but that day wouldn't come anytime soon. Not when it felt so unfinished. He was in your head, his mother's ring around your neck. How could you move on when it was an ache so deep? When it was never over?

By the time it had been six months apart, six months of exploring the galaxy and gathering intel, you did an act so selfish you wished someone would shake some sense into you. There was a wooden chest at the end of your bed, always cold and stuffed with things you didn't use with a mix of some you couldn't bear to look at.

At the bottom sat a cold, metal disk. It remained unused unless you had something to report. The brisk night air drifted through the open window of your room, the odd insects chatting under the stars. Your bare feet crossed the room until you were slumped on your knees, digging through the chest like it contained something you had always been searching for. You thought, in a way, it did. The disk glared at you, challenging your will. Questioning if your selfishness was worth more than your sacrifice.

The hologram of an older woman sprung to life, eyebrows furrowed. "Is something wrong, Agent?" Her voice was authoritative with an undertone of motherly instincts that never quite go away. You were many things these days. Rebel. Pilot. Commander. Agent. Spy. Townsfolk. But she had known you before she had given you any of these titles. She had known you when you were naive and young. Before the war had aged your mind. Before love had changed your perspective.

"General, I am formally requesting to be discharged." You were shocked how much you meant the words. But she wasn't. Leia Organa is rarely surprised.

Her harsh eyebrows soften, though her voice remains strong. "Are you quite sure about this? This is a classified mission and the war greatly depends on your intel. This is a serious thing to request. Some people may see it as desertion."

You had so many titles, adding deserter didn't bother you as it once would have. Not when you deserted something so much more important. Something that made the war worth it. "I'm aware of the weight of my request."

Then something shone through on her face, a mother's smile. "Then come home, Agent. Discharge granted, you'll be reinstated on Red Squadron. I have a feeling there are people on base who have grieved your absence greatly." She fades out of transmission, but it doesn't matter. You're already on your feet, gathering your small collection of belongings and leaving enough money on the nightstand for the woman who owns the inn to gasp and smack you upside the head.

You're running, like you've done your entire life. But it's different now. For the first time you're running towards something. Something finite yet infinite. Something bigger than the stupid war. Something warm and close, despite the distance.

Your ship leaves in the dead of night, rising above the lake and the inn and the town and all their smirking pilots and odd insects. You hit hyperspace before you even make it out of the atmosphere.

Poe Dameron saw you every single night. In every dream, you're there with your arms open, and he's running back to you. He tells you he should have never let you leave and you tell him you never will again. It's a bit of selfishness he saves for himself, because he's been rather selfless these days. So much so that it's boarding on reckless and Leia had to sit him down and question why he seems to be so hellbent on taking one for the team.

But she knows why. And he still bothers to lie.

The days are the same. Early wake up, drills that have his squadron glaring at every order, an occasional mission, and then his nights belong to you--like they once did many months ago. On the weekends, he goes a bit insane. With not much to do, he haunts the grounds of the rebel base.

He jumps in the lake under the light of the moon, the dark waters pulling him under. It's peaceful for a few blissful moments. The water muffles the sounds of the forest, and the worries of the day, and the images of you that drown him on dry land. He tries to let it go, let you go. Poe urges your stupid smile and strong mind away every time he goes under. He tries to jump a bit further each time, like it will propel him past the nights you spend together and the days you dreamed of each other.

He sits blankly in the mess hall, surrounded by his squadron and closest friends. He blindly walks to your sleeping quarters, falling asleep amongst the sheets that your smell still clung to.

He nearly always has his back turned to the sky when he's in the hanger. Almost like it pains him to look at the last spot where he saw you. It's summer now, the sunlight warming his back the way your hands used to, as he tinkers with BB-8. Even his droid has sensed the way Poe has changed in the past few months.

"Buddy, you gotta stop taking corners so fast. You're damaging your metal," Poe sighs. BB-8 beeps at him indignantly while he continues to polish his droid's small, metal body.

Poe eventually gets around to repair his X-wing. It's something he's never neglected before, but things are different now. Oil is caked under his finger tips as he sorts through some faulty wiring that's made his hyperspace gear bring him nearly 200 coordinates south of his original ones.

"Commander Dameron, we have a report." Black 5 is standing stiffly beside Poe's ship with a few other members of the squadron, his helmet under his arm. Poe slides out from under his ship, slightly grateful for the distraction. But he's grateful for any distractions these days.

Poe rises to his feet, authoritative build easily showing his leadership. His strong arms fold over his chest as he listens to the report from his squadron, legs slightly widened. The summer sun slowly fades from his back, leaving him with the same coldness he's felt ever since you left.

Black 5's eyes catch on something over his shoulder, "The rebel ships made it out bu-" His eye catch on something over Poe's shoulder again, like he didn't quite believe it the first time. "Holy Kriff.."

Poe turns around faster than his brain can register. Here he stands, just as handsome as when you lost him, perhaps a bit more melancholy. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because you're home, and he's always been like stepping through the door.

And you're just like his dreams, expect you're running to him. Running and crying and apologizing, but one sight of you, of that ring around your neck, and he can't bring himself to care about any of it because it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter that you left, all that matters is that you're here and--

Maker, it hits him like a X-wing when he finally has you in his arms. One minute you're only in his head, so distant he thinks he may have imagined you all together. The next you're running back to him, the sun setting behind you and painting you in a near halo. And he's running back to you, the sunlight that you didn't manage to fully soak up reflecting off the tears on his face like it used to reflect on the stupid lake outside of the inn on a planet that doesn't matter now.

You're warm, like he remembers. His arms wrap around you so tightly, and a weight you've been carrying for months drops as you sob in relief. You're home. He's home. The word had never been so heavy before you realized all it means.

"I am so so sorry, and I love you so much," you cry, gripping his shirt like he might fade with the last of the sunlight painting him in a golden hue that only he can be seen in.

But he doesn't care about any of that. Not when you're here. Not now. He pulls away, and you almost sob, thinking that you've truly lost him. Blindly grasping for him, because that's all you really know how to do. His hands cradle your face in the gentlest touch you think you've ever received. His calloused finger pads rub your cheeks as he takes in every bit of your face, every part he may have forgotten. You faintly register his smell. Oil, fuel, pine, a fire at the hearth, a warming in your heart. And because he knows you, just as much as he did all those months ago, because he knows you in ways you haven't figured out yourself, he says, "Baby, I don't care that you left. I only care that you came home. And I, Maker, I love you."

His lips are on yours, and for the first time in months both of you feel whole. The sun finally disappears beyond the horizon and the lake you both used to swim in, but you feel impossibly warmer than ever before.

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron smut #poe dameron #angst #fluff #star wars fanfiction #star wars #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #poe dameron imagine

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stxrsniolo · 3 months ago

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Chapter : 00

i was always too curious.

i always felt an insatiable urge to unearth what was happening.

i was always drawn to that perilous enigma.

that’s why it happened—the thing that dragged me into a nightmare.

what lured me into this abyss stood about six feet tall, moved like a shadow on the verge of dissolving into the void, and bore a name many gave their sons, meaning "gift from god"—though in this case, he was anything but:

matthew.

matthew and i were neighbors, living side by side in two houses nestled within the suffocating suburbs of asfil, usa. my fascination with him ignited the moment i laid eyes on him.

i saw him, and something inside me erupted into a gnawing intrigue.

i’d known of his existence since we were shapeless brats, back when boys and girls were indistinguishable save for what hid between their legs. my hair was cropped so short i could’ve passed for a boy, my body thin as a needle; and he, beneath a mop of dark hair, was so pale and hollow-eyed he looked like death was already clawing at him.

that’s what first sparked my curiosity: his appearance.

matthew didn’t look healthy, not even close; he resembled those sickly, frail children who inspire pity, despair, and exhaustion. he was utterly unlike the rest... and i wanted—no, i needed—to know why he was so strange, why we never shared the same world and while i roamed the neighborhood pulling childish stunts, he wouldn’t even glance out his window.

we went to the same school, and he spoke to no one. silent, withdrawn, stiff, like a miniature adult forced into elementary purgatory.

he didn’t go to the park or anywhere i haunted.

he rejected every gesture from every soul.

and he vanished with eerie precision.

so, my childish curiosity demanded answers to matthew’s strangeness.

i’ll admit i knocked on his door countless times, hoping for a partner in mischief and maybe some clarity, using the excuse that there were no other girls around, but every visit left me empty-handed:

“good afternoon, matthew’s mom. is he free to play? i’ve got a new bike, and my mom says i can share it,” a younger me had chirped at his doorstep.

his mother was painfully normal compared to him, she’d even smiled at me sweetly each time i showed up.

“oh, honey, that’d be lovely, but matthew’s too sick to come out. i’m so sorry.”

the excuse—or the convenient excuse—was always anemia, some bizarre strain i’d begun to question why it never healed.

my mother once said it might explain his odd looks and why he rarely left home, but it didn’t answer the thousand questions clawing at my mind.

deep down, i knew it wasn’t true, i knew matthew wasn’t sick, i felt it wasn’t so.

i sensed his strange, otherworldly pull; dangerous, intoxicating, but with a string of failed attempts, no explanations, and nothing to prove otherwise, my thoughts were just wild guesses. and no one cared.

still, that didn’t kill my curiosity, because when i turned thirteen and my innocent desire to play with him faded, i stopped swallowing the anemia lie whole and dared to probe his world.

what did i find? nothing.

he never left the house, nothing odd ever stirred around it, and nothing suspicious ever surfaced. everything seemed normal: normal outings, normal returns, normal sounds. no alarms, no proof for my theories.

time dragged on.

i celebrated birthdays, made friends, grew into my body, connected with the world. and matthew? still “sick” with that supposed anemia and i say it with air quotes, because i wasn’t buying it... and that only let him attend school.

we went to asfil’s lone elementary, then its lone high school, but nothing changed: he spoke to no one, did his work alone, sat at the back, radiated rejection to anyone who neared, ate at a separate table, went unnoticed by all but me, and the second the bell rang, he was gone.

by the time i noticed the years that had slipped away, i was eighteen, and matthew was a year older.

and he’d changed drastically, puberty had hit him like a cruel joke.

his hair was thick, chaotic, dark, always a mess, as if a brush were a foreign concept. his body showed traces of effort, though his frame wasn’t as chiseled as the football team’s brutes. the freckles on his pale face had vanished. his gaze no longer screamed exhaustion—it had turned grim, sometimes vacant, sometimes wary, like he was seconds from committing something vile.

in short, matthew wasn’t a boy anymore.

he was a man.

but still a mystery who wouldn’t meet your eyes, as if no one else existed in his twisted world. it worked well to keep people at bay, no one was stubborn or curious enough to approach someone whose every look screamed, “stay the hell away.”

so, with disappointment and no way into his strange orbit, the dangerous enigma named matthew slipped to the back of my mind.

a mystery i stopped trying to unravel… until that day.

« 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦 | 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦 »

a/n: this piece is heavily based on damian, a work by alex mirez. tread carefully; the shadows you'll encounter here echo those from her dark narrative.

╭ ❝ my dears, i truly cherish the affection you show through your reposts, and for that, i’m grateful; however, let us be unequivocally clear: my narratives are my sacred domain, not to be borrowed/reshaped without my consent

𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒ㅤ: ㅤ @courta13 @chrislilcumslvt @marrykisskilled @chrislova @sturnshood @inspiredangel @strnilolover @emely9274 @sturns-mermaid @blushsturns @ariieeesworld @pixie-sticks-are-good @luvjaeeee @sturnslutz @mattswifeyy @mattswifeyy @oopsiedaisydeer @v4lsturn @pair-of-pantaloons @idkwhatthisevenislol @sturn777 @whore4mattsturniolo @mattchalattee @madifilipowiczisthebest @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolo101 @ivysturnss @mattsatellite

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edgeray · 1 year ago

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Heyyooo!! I was wondering if you could make an Arle x afab reader with like a beauty and the beast plot?? Arle’s curse is slowly killing her though which is why her arms turned black and the only way she can save herself (this curse could also be affecting the House of the Hearth, up to you) is if she finds someone whom she can open up her heart to and they accept her fully and love her back in return! It doesn’t have to be exactly like that but I do think having a beauty and the beast au with arle x reader would be pretty fun to see.

Cursed Human

(Arlecchino x Fem! Reader)

A/N - Hi anon! This is a super interesting AU anon! If you choose to request as an anon again make sure to give yourself a name/emoji 🫶. I actually really love this idea. This gives a little bit of hanahaki au vibes (which is something separate that I should write and have been meaning to write, ack– too many wip). This will lean more into dark fairytale and will be based off of Arlecchino's backstory. (This turned out darker than I expected, and I'm very sorry for that.) The switch up is crazy to me. 💀 How do I pull out horse girl au, platonic au, and domestic fluff, and then this shit? I'm versatile like that, I guess. But I promise it gets better after all the dark stuff. Content warnings / info - afab reader, pretty dark, some brief religious notions, semi-graphic details of violence, a little bit of arlevie but only ‘cuz of the angst, hopefully not forgetting something, 1.8k words

Here tells the tale of a cursed monster.

Peruere was said to be cursed from childbirth. A child who caused misfortune wherever and whenever, it was a surprise to none of the villagers when Arlecchino was dropped off at the doorstep of Crucabena, the head of an illegitimate orphanage. Misfortune began with the death of her birth mother. Afterwards, her father was stricken by an unknown illness, quickly becoming too ill to take care of her. The first day that Peruere arrived at the orphanage, the stocked vegetables and fruits had all rotten. And the first night, every child in the same room as her was suddenly struck with insomnia.

(The pregnancy only intensified the already ill mother in the first place. The stress from a newborn child and the death of his wife caused him to be ill. The recent intensity of humidity accelerated the spoilage of the produce. The mattresses were far too solid, the room was far too cold, and the piercing cries of Crucabena's daughter were far too loud to allow slumber.)

The villagers deemed her as cursed, a threat to their quaint little town. They tried to persuade the town head, a powerful sorcerer, to eradicate the hell offspring. The town head rejected, suggesting that the mere existence of a child did not warrant taking away her life. Crucabena had stepped up to the conference, easing the villagers’ concerns by ensuring that the depravity would be beaten out of the wretched child.

And Crucabena did just as she said she would.

“Mother” had no issue every night carving the symbol of her archon into Arlecchino's skin in an effort to exercise the demon inside of the child. “Mother” sullied Peruere's once flawless skin with bruises, lacerations, and blood. The cursed child clawed and struggled away every night, and yet every night she only knew of the pain that was etched far past the layers of her skin, carved into her bones, and syringed into her veins.

The wretched child became very familiar with the acute sting or the prickling ache. However, there was something else she became familiar with. While “Mother" dealt her pain, what Clervie dealt her was love.

Clervie was young and naive. Perhaps if the cursed child knew better, Clervie would not be tainted.

“Mother” did not stop even when the screams of a six-year-old child rang through her ears. “Mother” did not stop when even her other children begged her to stop her demonstrations. “Mother” did not stop when her own daughter rose against her. “Mother” did not stop when her own daughter's blood spilt on her hands.

Love is a strange thing. It can transform a meek sheep into a vengeful wolf.

The same night that Clervie's life was extinguished, Peruere burned bright, hot enough to scorch Crucabena's life away.

After hearing of the child's atrocity, the town head cursed the child, expeling her to a decrepit home amidst a dark forest, condemning her to a slow, painful death. Peruere will die a death befitting an unlovable, inhuman creature. For if she sins under the pretense of something so pure, then she shall forever be undeserving of it. Stripped from her final piece of humanity, her name, a new name is thrusted upon the child: Arlecchino, the Knave, the servant of a devil.

—

At Arlecchino's feet lay the corpses of the intrusive villagers, the ones that dared to enter her forest and prey upon her children. How dare they?

It had been a decade since she had been cursed. A simmering fire burns within her veins, sometimes the constant ache so acute that Arlecchino believes that she is truly burning from within. She had long presumed that that was the very nature of her curse, that she would eventually burn from the inside like the very flames that consumed Crucabena. Her arms had attained the same color as char, the spread of the physical toll of her curse growing with each passing day. And her eyes, they gain red-crossed pupils, said to be the mark of a demon inside.

After having been expelled, the villagers were ‘generous’ enough to give her an abandoned abode. With her hands, she made it into something liveable. After a few weeks of living in the forest, she encountered intruders on the eastern borders of her forest: children from another town, said to be cursed and so were being chased out by villagers with torches and pitchforks. Arlecchino had sheltered them, and they had remained with her since.

Arlecchino gives it another half-decade before the char completely consumes her body, and she will meet the same fate as “Mother.” But until then, she will protect her forest, her home, her children. Perhaps her children will grow strong enough to protect themselves when she is gone.

Other children, in one way or another, made their way into her forest. One, whose mother had abandoned after giving birth to them, was left to die with nothing but a blanket bundled around them. Another, seeking a sanctuary to peacefully die was convinced otherwise, and now smiles everyday. Each and every child within her cabin had some tragedy placed unjustly on them, and so Arlecchino welcomed her arms to them.

Arlecchino had taught them well, each child could not venture out beyond the woods for their own safety. But the villagers, across all five villages surrounding her forest, had grown bolder, determined to ‘exterminate vileness.’

She cannot protect her children for much longer. She will die, and her children–her nest of the outcasts, the abandoned, the cursed, the hurt–will be left to fend for themselves. Even she cannot escape fate, no matter how much she challenges it. That is the tragedy she must shoulder.

She is tired.

The warmth of her children, while welcomed, is not the same as the warmth she longs. The warmth of her children does not comfort her at nights when the bloodfire, so she calls it, creeps up, maiming any semblance of sleep. The warmth of her children does not undo or prevent the curse's effect, her arms still remain black, her hands still resembling the claws of a monster. The warmth of her children does not melt her frigid heart, does not make her any more human.

She longs and longs for something she is destined to never receive.

Because this is the most she deserves.

—

One day, a person stumbles into her forest. She is neither a child or a malevolent aggressor. She encounters you, breathless and heaving as you clutch your bleeding side. Arlecchino can tell that you do not bear any spite towards her or her children, but she cannot deem you nonthreatening.

“A-are you the Knave?” you're able to choke out, leaning against the tree.

“Would you like the misfortune of finding out?” Arlecchino forewarns, extending out her hands and showcasing her claws, remnants of other victims’ blood still on her fingers. You swallow thickly, your hand clutching onto the small dagger behind your back.

“I'm… I'm looking for my child. They wandered into here and never came back. But… I refuse to believe that they're dead. They're alive, aren't they? You have them, don't you? Let me see them,” you boldly demand, despite your injured state. Your eyes burn with a dangerous determination, a familiar fire dancing among your pupils.

“Are you unaware? That the Knave kidnaps and feeds on young children?” That was obviously a lie, but an effective lie that has dissuaded most villagers from entering her territory.

You shook your head. “They're just rumors.”

“And how would you know?”

You breathe in deeply. “I've heard of you. You're the first cursed child. But, I know why you were cursed. You wouldn't… you wouldn't do that.”

Arlecchino pauses, hesitance in her for the slightest moment. “I am cursed,” she says it like a shield, a wall that defends her from futile hopes.

“The world isn't as just as most people like us to believe.”

The cursed human breathes deeply. “What is your name?”

—

You were telling the truth. Arlecchino remembers one of her children yearning for their mother, the only source of comfort before they found the House. She takes you to her home, and you're reunited with your child.

Your child pleads with Arlecchino to allow you to stay, and begrudgingly, she does, to your amazement. You adjust well to living in the secluded home, often filling in for her the emotional support that the children always needed, but she could not provide. The children take to calling you ‘Mother.’ You joke with the children, insisting that Arlecchino was the ‘Father’ in that case.

Something inside of her stirs when she does. It is both a familiar and foreign sensation, somehow a sweet and bitter taste in her mouth, soothing but perturbing at once. You are unbeknownst to this.

There are traits that you learn about the cursed once-child, traits that you find endearing, and traits that you later learn to love. Although her words may be cutting, they can carry a tenderness with them. Her hands, that she so frequently despises, protect her children. There is no reason for you not to love them, despite their appearance. She utilizes her cursed status to protect all of you, and for that, how could you possibly see someone who is ‘cursed’ or ‘inhuman?’

One night, you lay awake, suddenly jolted by the sounds of scratching, originating from the room besides you. You approach the room, and view the forlorn sight of Arlecchino, hunched over and writhing in pain, the bloodfire overtaking her once more. Pained groans escape from her as her claws dig into the wall besides her, dragging them down as she searches for any sense of grounding. Her eyes glower, the color reminiscent of blood. It is in this moment where she looks nothing more like a beast.

Still, you do not see her as such. Not when you take her hand, kissing each knuckle and finger, the same ones that had saved your child from danger, the same ones that had saved you.

“Arlecchino,” you whisper out to her, and it calls out to her soul. The bloodfire weakens, and she gazes at you. Your eyes fill with a warmth that melts her.

“Don't,” she warns with a harsh gruff that wavers, attempting to wrench her hand out of her grasp, but she finds herself vulnerable when you grip tighter. You lean down, bringing your lips on her blackened skin, the very skin that signifies her inhumanity. The black gradient recedes, and you continue until you kiss up to her shoulder. By then, the charred hue only spreads up to her knuckles.

Shock envelops her expression, but she is hardly given the time to process when you slot your lips over hers. She sighs and leans in, bringing up her hand to cup your face.

Her hands are neither clawed, nor charred at that moment, but the two of you hardly realize until the next morning. The bloodfire inside of Arlecchino dissipates.

Fate can be challenged, and destiny can be broken. Cursed or not, deserving of or not, Arlecchino will take what is rightfully hers.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin impact fic #genshin fics #genshin impact fanfics #edgeray.writes #edgeray.requests

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