#He's not taking this AT ALL what BULLSHIT is THIS

[loveinhawkins]

When Steve gets to his last year at Hawkins High, it feels like some kind of veil has been lifted right in front him. Or maybe it’s more that the veil’s actually been slowly lifting for years, and he’s noticing it all the more because it’s no longer there.

Either way, when he receives his yearbook, it doesn’t seem like the huge deal that his younger self would’ve made it out to be; he flicks through the pictures half-heartedly, doesn’t even care when the candid ones taken at sporting events catch him in unflattering poses, lip jutting out in concentration.

If he tried to voice his disinterest, Henderson would probably spout off some precocious shit about societal expectations, and Steve would pretend to nod sagely before stealing whatever dorky hat he happened to be wearing—it’s not like he could let the little shit suspect that he occasionally had a point, Steve would never hear the end of it.

The yearbook signings are predictably inescapable: people passing their books back and forth in class or in the cafeteria—and that one’s a risky move, with the threat of drinks spilling on the pages, whether accidental or malicious.

Steve thinks the fever’s dwindled out until he spends a free period in the school library. The seniors typically all bunch together in one of the far corners, the spots with the comfiest seats—loners included, like the perks of age for once outweigh the usual ridicule.

But that silent truce is not exactly being upheld, Steve notes—Eddie Munson is sitting alone at a nearby table.

It becomes painfully obvious when the signing starts up again. There’s a cluster of girls on the yearbook committee who initiate it, and soon every senior in reach is either passing over their own book or signing one.

Almost every senior.

It’s not like Eddie’s the only person ever to be held back. He’s not even the only one to be held back for next year, either: John Nelson off the swim team is in the same position, and he’s still been asked to sign.

But Steve knows that’s not what the source of exclusion is, not really.

He’s gotten good at spotting silent cruelty—good at avoiding it too, before his popularity gave him a temporary shield.

It’s all just bullshit, he thinks. It’s been a recurring thought lately.

He brings out his own yearbook because he knows it’s expected. When it’s finally passed back round to him, he ends up right near the seat opposite Eddie’s, just by chance.

But actually sitting there is his own choice.

He can tell that Eddie has spotted him even though he’s not looked up from whatever homework he’s doing; there’s a silent tension in the way he’s holding his pen.

Steve mulls it over before he asks the question. It could blow up in his face, but what did that matter, really? In the grand scheme of things, it would hardly count as a major embarrassment; it’s not like it’d be any more mortifying than telling his dad that he didn’t get into any colleges whatsoever.

So he pushes his yearbook across the table, because what the hell.

“Wanna sign?”

Eddie glances up. There’s a guarded look in his eyes, and Steve can almost hear him mentally replaying the question.

“Pardon?” Eddie says with pointed emphasis, like he’s daring Steve, let it drop and we’ll say no more about it, Harrington.

Steve doesn’t take it back. He shrugs and flicks open the yearbook, finds a blank spot and taps it once with his finger, a silent offer.

Eddie stares like Steve’s a riddle, like he’s wondering just who the show’s for—but the other students have turned away, have gone back to their seats, yearbooks temporarily forgotten.

Eddie’s hold on his pen relaxes, ever so slightly.

“You sure, Harrington?” he says. There’s still a wary edge to his voice, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, too, like he’s secretly amused despite himself. “Haven’t you heard what folks say? I could curse you.”

Steve scoffs. “That all you’ve got? I’ve dealt with way worse, man,” he says mildly.

A corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a surprised smile. Then it’s gone almost like it had never been in the first place, his gaze turning thoughtful rather than defensive.

And obviously this isn’t Eddie’s first rodeo at the whole senior year thing. Steve wonders if there’s a veil that’s been lifted for him too, wonders if he can see straight through it right now.

The bell rings.

Eddie stands up, gathering his stuff.

Steve thinks that’s the end of it: something that’s neither a success or a failure.

But then, lightning fast, Eddie darts across the table and scribbles something on the open page. Slams the yearbook shut and pushes it back over, and it feels like a challenge, like some of his caginess is back—like he’s just daring Steve to reveal that it had been a joke all along—

“Bet you’re counting down the days till you can hold your own copy, huh?” Steve says dryly, as he stuffs the book into his bag.

It’s a risk; he knows Eddie could easily take it as pure ridicule, could misinterpret it as Steve throwing the failed school years back in his face.

Eddie just shakes his head, but he could be laughing—the moment’s gone too quickly for Steve to know for sure.

“Nah, Harrington,” Eddie says easily, thrown over his shoulder as he leaves, “those things aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

Steve doesn’t check the yearbook until he’s home. He eventually finds Eddie’s signature, simple black ink right in the upper corner of one page.

Good luck, Steve. —Eddie

Some of the letters are bunched a little too close together, drifting upwards on the blank page, as if they usually need lined paper to guide them—left-handed, Steve thinks vaguely.

Within a sea of scrawled nicknames and loudly enthusiastic messages, Steve finds that he kind of likes how mundane Eddie’s truly is. Likes the sign off with minimal fuss. Just “Eddie.” Likes how he was just “Steve”, too.

And yeah, if anyone needed to be told good luck, Steve thinks, with the kind of amusement that only comes from distance—pictures his past self, freaking out about monsters come to life.

He slots the yearbook into his bookcase. By summer he might forget about it all together, left to gather dust as he works for 3 bucks an hour, but for now he marks its significance: something real, hidden alongside the bullshit.

#back with the unexpected kindness in high school agenda #pre steddie #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

[a-b-riddle]

Part Five

Can't stop thinking about the attempt of reconciliation and reader ain't having it. Our girl is going to be wilddddd y'all. Also goodnight. See y'all tomorrow (maybe)

You call Meredith when you get home.

You. Are. Fuming. She's not sure she can ever remember a time you using so many swear words at one time.

How fucking dare them? Immature? You're the immature one? You were the one trying your best to salvage four failing relationship meanwhile none of those assholes could be bothered to try and keep one. They had one person to manage: you.

"I wanna go out this weekend." "Wear something tight and borderline risk indecent exposure."

"You know what I always say," Meredith begins. "The best way to get over someone-"

"is to get under someone else." You finish. You weren't exactly keen on the idea of bringing someone to your bed just yet, but a little attention would do you some good. "I don't want to fuck someone just yet." You admitted. "I'm more on the getting drunk and making out."

"I didn't know we resorted back secondary school heavy petting?" She teased.

"University, Dear." You corrected. "I didn't peak until after I graduated."

"No." She argued. "You didn't put your books down long enough to realize that boys actually wanted to fuck you." You were glad she couldn't see you roll your eyes. "Saturday work for you? I have a late night Friday and won't be up for it."

"That works."

"Sorry." She apologized. "I plan on getting you absolutely smashed so I need to be ready to play the nanny. I know how you love to get drunk and run off."

It was true. You had always found it hilarious when you were drunk to just run. Quite literally run away. It got to a point during university where Meredith would handcuff you to her so you didn't stray.

"I won't run." Your sober mind promised.

"Uh huh." Meredith's tone told you that she knew that was a load of shit. "I'll text Tabs. Let her know the plan."

The next day at the shop was pretty uneventful. No more unexpected visitors. You still had them all blocked. Not caring if now they decided to offer up some bullshit apology.

Months. This had been a steady decline for six months. A text or a simply sorry won't fix this. You weren't sure anything could.

But it didn't matter. You were done and they obviously were too.

You had picked up enough take out to feed a family, but you didn't plan on making your lunch before work or cooking when you got home. The rest of the week you planned on just going through the motions until you could go out Saturday and hopefully get everything out.

You weren't paying attention as you walked down the hallway to your flat. Fishing in your purse for keys. You were at almost at your door when you saw him.

Sitting next to your door was a familiar face. A face you felt you haven't seen in forever.

“What are you doing here, Kyle?" Your voice was flat as you continued to blindly try and find your keys with one hand. Fuck. You really need to clean out your purse...

“My key wouldn’t work.” He explained. "So I’m out here.”

"I'm aware why you're not in my apartment since I changed the locks," you said, trying to keep your irritation at bay. "What I am asking is why did you come here?"

"You won't return any of our messages."

"You're all blocked, so technically I didn't really get any messages." "Besides, you don't get to complain to me about not responding to texts, Kyle Garrick." Your fingers finally wraps around them. God bless. "If you're here for your things, it'll have to wait. I have to sort through everyone's shit and I don't know whose is whose."

"We need to talk." He explains as you put the key into the lock, opening the door.

"Nah," you say scrunching your nose in that way he used to adore. "I'm good. But you can swing by tomorrow and pick up your things if you'd like." You say before trying to shut the door on him. You were stupid in thinking you could be faster than him.

Dammit.

"I know things haven't been good and I've definitely could have been better,'' he admits. "But can you at least try and let us apologize? Let us try and work it out."

"No." You answered, trying to close the door. Not caring if you had to resort to kicking his shins to get him out.

"Why not?" He countered.

“Maybe because I've already tried, Kyle?” You gave up on trying to shut him out. You were strong, but he didn't have any issues in besting you. “Because I actually tried with you. With all of you. You didn’t need to come here giving me excuses about your life being hectic because I’ve made the excuses for you.” You didn't miss how he practically flinched. He had always blamed his busy life. Family. Work. You stopped caring about whatever excuse he gave you and realized it was just that. An excuse. “I’ve been telling myself for months that everything you guys didn’t do for me wasn’t because you didn’t care about me. It was because of the stress of your deployments is the reason none of you tell me when you get back from until it’s time to fuck. I tell myself it’s because of the fucked up situation of me being with all of you that makes it awkward to meet your families. Families you all have that I now know I’m not worthy of meeting.” He wanted to correct you. You were. You were worthy. He was an idiot. “It’s not that I need your excuses to make me feel like what you did was justified. No matter what it was, it was apparently to you because you did it.”

He took a step back, processing everything you had said. He had been selfish. You were the reliable constant in his life. Someone he believed he never disappointed. Someone he couldn't disappoint no matter how many times he fucked up.

You took the opportunity to slam the door. Quickly turning the lock before he had a chance to open it back up.

God...

That felt good.

You had spent that evening collecting their thing in case Kyle did show back up tomorrow. You wouldn't make their lives easier by sorting all their shit and organizing it. Everything. One box. Let them figure it out. You almost had a mind to add a shirt that you knew didn't belong to any of them just to have them argue over it. Or least make them think there was someone else...

You were almost tempted if not for the premise that you wanted them to realize this was their fault. Their fuck up. But now that you were officially all broken up, you were free game.

#captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #angst with a happy ending #angst #grovel #jealousy

[stevenose]

bite back (18+)

a drabble i wrote for @cambridgemadness - thank you for your support darling!!! 🫶🏻

summary: steve’s such a goddamn sweetheart. until you convince him not to be.

contains: steve x reader; reader with a vagina; ‘good girl’; teasing; oral (steve receiving); face fucking; spitting; nipple play; corruption (steve … receiving?);

donate to my kofi for a personalized fic - click here for details!

You stare up at Steve from your position on the end of his bed, laying on your stomach. You kick your feet a little, smiling up at him. Your low cut top shows off your cleavage, which Steve stares at, eyes hooded and pretty lips parted. 

He has no idea what you’re scheming. 

“Steve,” you smile, reaching out for him. “Come here, pretty boy.”

He finally walks towards you. His cock strains against his dark-wash Levis, the gold on his belt glistening in the intimate lamp light. “You look so beautiful,” he says softly, petting your hair. He tucks his fingers under your chin and pulls your head up to look at him. “Just gorgeous, y’know that?”

You bite your lip, giggling. “All for you, Stevie.” Your fingers find his belt loops and you pull him in closer, until his bulge presses against the tip of your nose. You hear Steve’s breath hitch above you. 

“Why don’t I do something for you, hm?” he asks, running a big hand through your hair. “Let me take care of you.”

You shake your head, nuzzling his cock. “Been wanting to taste you all night.” You bat your lashes up at him, really laying it on thick. You reach for his belt, unbuckling it swiftly and pulling his jeans down slow until he’s only in his underwear. 

“What do you want, Steve?” you finally ask, looking back up at him. You already know what he’ll say. 

“Whatever you’ll give me,” he says sweetly, softly, looking down at you with puppy dog eyes. 

You nearly roll your eyes. But you have a trick up your sleeve that you’re sure will work soon enough. 

You press a kiss to his clothed cock, smiling at the stain your lip gloss leaves on his underwear. You wore strawberry tonight, real sticky stuff that should make a mess. Your fingers find the waistband of his briefs and you finally pull them down, biting your lip when his cock springs up and bounces softly against his lower stomach. 

Steve’s size is part of why he won’t be rough with you. Even though you’ve proven to him that you can take it in as many ways as possible. He’s far from the first person you’ve ever been with, but he’s certainly the biggest. The sight of him as you drooling. He’s so pretty - thick, long shaft that curves up a little at the top, a pink tip that weeps precum, cute little freckles, and full, tight balls. 

You want him to make you take all of it. 

You press a kiss to his balls first, lips twitching upwards when he lets his head fall back. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, keeps them at his sides instead of in your hair where they belong. 

“You can touch me,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to the base of his shaft. 

“I know,” he replies, voice a little shaky. “Don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

You look up at him. Are you serious?

Steve tilts his head and frowns. “C’mon. You know I’m a big softie.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation, but it will be the first time you push him on it. “What makes you think you can hurt me?”

A little kiss to a vein running up the underside of his shaft makes him pause before he continues. “You - you know. I’m strong.”

“Uh-huh,” you tease, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his cock and watching him fight off a shudder. “Super strong, Steve.”

“I am!”

“Not that I would know.” Your tongue licks a stripe up the side of him and his eyes blink shut. “Never really got to see you be so strong, Stevie.”

He scoffs, opening his eyes. They’re half hooded. “That’s total bullshit.”

You hum, flicking your tongue at the edge where his tip meets the shaft before suckling on the head. Steve sighs above you, half in relief and half in bliss, and rests one single hand gingerly on your head. “Good girl.”

You love that - when he’s sweet with you for pleasuring him. It’s all you want to do. Christ, it’s all you think about. Being his perfect little slut, at his beck and call, letting him use you however he needs. Marked up, voice hoarse, legs shaking. Which, to be fair, Steve has that effect on you, anyway. Even when he’s soft and sweet and whispers sweet nothings to you. 

You’d just like it a bit more intensely. 

You swirl your tongue around his tip a few times before pulling off. “D’you really think I’m a good girl?”

He scratches your scalp softly. “Mhm.”

“Then why don’t you give me a reward, huh?”

His brows twitch in annoyance. It’s not often at all that you see him like this. He’s usually good at hiding his annoyance with you. “My cock’s right here, baby.”

Your stomach flips and you smile, giddy at his tone. “Can you help me take it?” you ask. 

“You’re so smart, angel,” he coos, scratching your head softly again. “Pretty little brain of yours can figure it out.”

“Fine. Let me see….”

You take his cock back between your lips again. Steve moans above you, murmuring a curse. “There you go,” he groans out. “S-see? Knew you could figure it out.”

You take him a little deeper, only a quarter of his length. He usually stops you halfway, anyway, getting nervous when you gag. But you see how his eyes grow darker when he hits the back of your throat. 

You’ll make him work for it. 

You drool on his cock, bobbing your head just enough, not too far. Steve still seems appreciative, keeps his hips still and feet planted on the ground. You wait until a string of saliva runs down your chin before pulling back, keeping your hands to yourself. 

“Like that?” you ask, voice innocent. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he pants. “Just like that, baby.”

Just like that. You have him trapped. 

You continue your movements, taking Steve’s cock in just like that - not very far, not far enough. You let yourself drool some more, more thick strings of saliva dripping from his cock. Enough to keep him interested. But it doesn’t take long until he whimpers, his fingers tapping on your scalp. 

“Little more? Please?”

You look up at him through your lashes, head tilted again. “More?” you ask, voice thick. “But I thought I was doing good, Steve.”

He shivers. “You are doin’ good, baby, so good, like always - just - need a little more, y’know how.”

You blink. “I don’t think I do.”

He scoffs, tongue licking over his white teeth. “We both know you do.”

So now you take him into your throat, but you don’t wrap your lips around his shaft. It’s messy, but not tight enough. Steve sighs and his grip tightens in your hair. 

“You’re killin’ me,” he groans. 

“I don’t get it,” you pout, chin a mess. “I’m doing what you’re asking me to.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then why don’t you show me?”

Steve’s jaw clenches and unclenches a few times, his eyes darker than ever as he looks down at you. “Don’t know if you can handle that,” he finally says. 

You hum, moving up onto your knees, disengaged. “Maybe you just can’t handle me-“

Steve flips you onto your back so fast it knocks the wind out of you. Your head falls over the edge of his bed and you watch him upside-down, his nostrils flaring slightly, cheeks red. 

You smile wide. Got you. 

“This what you wanted?” he asks, jerking himself off slowly. “Want me to treat you like the goddamn brat you are?”

“Yes!”

He shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. Pinch me if you want me to stop, okay? Don’t wanna hurt you, just gotta show you what I told you you can’t handle.”

You nod, thighs rubbing together. 

He takes a deep breath, fingers moving to your lips and prying at your teeth. “Open.”

You do as you’re told, choking almost immediately on his fingertips. He reaches into your throat, fucks his fingers in and out of it before pulling away and spitting down into your mouth. You gasp, thighs clenching harder. 

“You take my fingers well enough,” he observes, “Not sure why you wanna act like you can’t suck cock all of a sudden.”

He angles your head back. You nearly giggle with glee, opening up so nice for him, sticking your tongue out to entice him when he hesitates. 

He spits again, then slides into your throat. 

You haven’t been throat fucked like this before. You gag a lot sooner than you anticipate, right as his tip hits the back of it. Steve’s hips pull back but you grip the back of his thighs and pull him in, taking his length better this time around. 

“Fuck,” he grits, thrusting slow, a little shallow. Not the whole way. “Christ, God, you’re so n-needy. So fuckin’ needy. Spread - spread your legs.”

You do. Steve leans forward, pushing your skirt up and pushing himself further into your throat in the process. You gag but he doesn’t seem to mind so much this time. “Breathe through your nose,” he instructs, his fingers running over your clothed clit. “Don’t act like such a prude.”

Smack!

You moan around his cock as his hand comes down over your swollen bud. It’s so neglected that the pain feels good. 

“Look at you,” he coos, hips thrusting in and out of your hot, wet mouth. He lets his cock bury itself deeper, firmly into your throat now. “Can’t - shit - w-wait to see how wet y’are by the end.”

He pulls out suddenly and you cough, eyes teary, looking up at him with blurred, adoring eyes. Steve leans forward and grabs your cheeks with one hand, squeezing them. 

“Look what you’re makin’ me do,” he whines. “Makin’ such a mess of you.”

“Do you like it?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Too much.”

Steve slides back into your throat and reaches forward to grope your tits. You moan and gag around him, his fingers finding your nipples and pinching them through your top. He finally shoves your shirt down, exposing your breasts, and continues pinching and tugging them. 

“This is what I wanted,” he pants, hips thrusting. “Wanted to see these fuckin’ tits.”

You gag harder when he leans forward again, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as he takes a nipple between his bitten lips. He groans uncontrollably, hips bucking, his trimmed pubes tickling your nose. 

“Touch yourself,” he moans lowly. “Know y’want to.”

You don’t hesitate, letting your hands find your clit and rubbing it in fast circles. You’re so close to cumming already just from the change of pace. From having him exactly where you need him. His cock buried in your throat, pleasuring himself, lips wrapped around your nipples, fingers pinching hard enough to make you squeal. 

“You do so good for me, huh?” he breathes against your chest, hands full of your pretty tits. “Let’s see how long you can hold it.”

He buries himself all the way. Your eyes cross and flutter shut while you focus on holding your breath, your throat bulging, Steve’s cock twitching. He whines and rests his hand on your neck, shuddering at the sight. He waits until you’re squirming, legs shifting and your hands finding his thighs before he finally pulls back. 

“Spit.”

You do, right onto your own face. It’s so humiliating but it’s so worth it when Steve groans, fisting his wet cock above you, rubbing the tip of it against the bridge of your nose. 

“You’re so good for me,” he pants. “You okay? Can you keep taking it?”

You nod, heart beating out of your chest. 

#steve harrington smut #stevenose posts #ns/fw #steve x reader #thanks again!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[acapelladitty]

ok but,,,, Mr "the" ghoul subbing for his so/ for the first time and he's all unsure and tryna be cocky but he's actually a big softie who loves being taken care of and told what to do 💥

light me up and breathe in

Pairing: Cooper Howard/F!Reader

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

Summary - After some convincing, Cooper agrees to let you give him a chest massage.

(tw: heavy petting, teasing, cockwarming, threats of violence, cannibalism mention, dirty talk)

Convincing Cooper to let you take care of him was a task better suited for the great thinkers of the world, people who had the patience and the fortitude to deal with his stubborn bullshit as he dodged your every attempt. However, time was always on your side and you weren't convinced if it was the appeal of a massage or the promise that you would stop asking if he relented, but he had eventually given in.

His upper clothing had been shed quickly enough, exposing his bare torso to your greedy eyes. A shapely sight, his body wasn't overly muscular, but clearly held a core strength as it formed a solid expanse - the skin scarred and textured across every visible inch.

Reclined on his chair, his eyes were wary but heated as he watched you clamber onto his lap with a childish eagerness.

"That desperate, huh?"

"Shut up."

Rolling your hands along his chest, the rough texture of his skin left a pleasant tingle in your fingers as you follow the natural contours of his body. Patchy and pitted beyond reason, you map out the ridges with a faint smile and your fascination with his skin didn't go unnoticed.

"You staring at me like that makes me wonder if you're thinking 'bout taking a bite?" Cooper's low voice, dulled by his forced nonchalance, filled the air between you and you refuse to look up and meet his eye as you answer.

"Maybe." You tease, trailing a finger along the column of his neck. "It's about time you had something to worry about so maybe I'll cannibalise some part of you to shut you up for a while."

"If you're gonna wrap those pretty lips around a part of me then I've got some ideas, darlin'."

Gaze flitting across his body as you ignore his suggestion, you settle on his nipples and admire the deep red colour which stands free of his chest. You can imagine him in a better time, picture how dense the chest hair which would have coated him would feel below your fingers. How fun it would be to run your digits across the thick mat and pull at it teasingly, forcing him to shift up and meet your lips with a single tug.

But no.

Hairless.

It really was a cruel world.

Still, there was more than one way to get a reaction and you clamp your thumbs and forefingers around his nipples as you pinch the nubs with malicious intent.

"Maybe I'll focus on these. They're very sensitive."

A strangled gasp escapes him but he covers it quickly by curving his thick hands around the swell of your ass.

"True that, sweetie, but if you tear 'em off I'll be taking yours to replace them. With my teeth, mind."

Pulling at the nubs even more roughly, the discomfort forces a warning rumble from his throat as he arches his back against the chair.

"Not how this works, Coop. You have to say please if you want me to stop."

Scowling, he relents regardless, having alresdy agreed to the terms of the game. "Please."

"That's better, handsome."

Hands feeling dry, you get a move on with your agreement and add a healthy dollop of the unscented lotion which you had stumbled on in an abandoned pharmacy. Its discovery had prompted this little game and you can't hold back your grin as you spread it across his skin - sinking into the intimate contact with a soft sigh.

Tense as hell, Cooper is every inch a coiled serpent ready to strike out. He's subtle with it though; matching your wry comments with his own and visibly attempting to force himself to relax into the earnest touch. For a creature who was wrapped around you like a glove when you fucked, this type of intimate engagement appeared to give him more anxiety than staring death down the barrel of a gun.

"Relax." You soothe, hands running across his collarbone to wrap around his shoulders.

"I am relaxed." He lied.

"Liar." You call him out with a teasing smile. "But if a little massage is so scary for the big, bad bounty hunter then let me make you a bit more comfortable."

Dropping your slickened hand to his groin, you cup his hardened cock through the fabric, wasting no time in opening his fly and releasing him; allowing the girthy length to jut free in the cool air.

"Wow, Mr. Howard," you tease, gripping your hand around his length and stroking along it with a firm grip, "this looks painful. What are we going to do about it?"

"Cruel to play with a man's bone and not give him somewhere to bury it." Cooper rumbled, his hips bucking into your hand as you tighten your fingers around the base of a cock, denying him any further stimulation until he settles. "Might drive a man to do something dangerous, sweetie."

"Oh well in that case." Raising yourself off his lap by planting your feet on the floor, you slip further towards his body and line up his blunted cockhead with your hole - arousal making your lips feels swollen and sensitive as you run his cock along your slickened folds. "Would be a shame to waste it then."

Sinking down on his cock, you drop your head to his neck to hide the discomforting gasp as the familiar stretch of him makes your walls burn with the sudden intrusion. The texture of his cock adds an intensity that makes your legs tremble as it rubs along those sweet spots which make stars fly behind your eyes.

You adjust your hips until you're able to sit flush against his groin, the angle a little awkward but fucking delicious as every slight jostle sparks fresh pleasure. His eyes pin you with a greater ferocity than his cock as his head tilts up to keep line with your gaze.

"Tight as a drum." Cooper growls, the feel of you wrapped around him making his hips move of their own accord as he fucks himself deeper; each small rut leaving your cunt wanting more.

But no.

That wasn't the game.

Slapping a hand to his exposed chest, the skin there still moist from the lotion - you cupped your other hand around the back of his neck and scowl at him with a playful anger.

"Hey! Did I tell you to fuck me?"

Stilling his hips, Cooper curled his lips into a smirk.

"That you did not, darlin'."

"Then stop moving and let me have my fun. You focus on keeping that big ol' gun of yours holstered somewhere I know it likes, and I'll focus on what I want to do."

"You drive a hard bargain, missy." He replies, amusement playing across his harsh features. "But a deal's a deal and, hell, I'm sure there's gonna be a reward of some kind for such agreeable behaviours."

"Keep dreaming, handsome. I'm letting you warm your cock in me. Isn't that enough?"

"From you?" Flashing his teeth with an almost feral grin, Cooper's arm snapped around your waist to pull you flush to his chest as his rough lips brushed your ear. "Never."

Squeezing your cunt around him, the action netting you a muted groan, you push him away and roll your hips as your hands return to his chest.

"Nice try, buddy. But no amount of, admittedly, great cock is going to stop me from rubbing every inch of you."

"Stubborn bitch."

Cooper mutters the words without heat, his hands returning to their original position around your ass as you edge yourself on his cock; determined to explore every inch of him before allowing him to get his rocks off.

"Yours."

#sooo hot want to touch the hiney awoooooooo #fallout #fallout 2024 #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #ghoul x reader #ghoul x you #the ghoul #cooper howard smut #cooper howard fic #ghoul smut #ghoul fic #walton goggins

[planned-obsolescence]

god-tier sydcarmy fics

no one asked but i'm suddenly overcome with gratitude that fic writers just drop these gems for FREE. we are so lucky. these are the ones i constantly reread because they make me feel so much.

all of these are rated M or E because if they ain't fuckin, i ain't reading.

five times at a simmer; once boiling over by seh28 my kink? emotional intimacy. that's what these two need more than any bullshit stars. this fic serves it up like it's a floor donut and i'm carmy straight up eating that shit.

friends, partners, and intimates by sashafiercer i'm always here for it when syd gives carmy what he deserves. and i'm DEFINITELY here for it when the dialogue between the two is so on point it gives me whiplash. written by an all time 🐐.

forget about your house of cards by minecrafter42 i love reading about how carmy can't get it together in sydney's presence. this fic presents their dynamic so viscerally that the slow burn is more like a slow simmer. i needed a cigarette after i finished this one.

temper, temper by malariamonsters have you ever read anything so beautiful it made you cry? yeah, this fic. it's at the top of the tag for a reason because it captures carmy's consuming love for syd so perfectly. i want to live inside this fic.

child with a child pretending by emilybrontay sydney has a baby before she starts working at the beef, and carmy knows what bluey is. i'm done. i am very picky when it comes to stories set in sydney's POV (my girl is a complex masterpiece, you better get her right), and this is one of the greatest, most thoughtful.

Mise En Place by badcircuit love fics that present syd and carmy as partners in every sense of the word. beautifully written, hot as fuck. another one that gets syd right. again, i take portrayals of my girl so seriously and this one is gorg.

Take Care by oysterknife oh boy. this one literally came out last week but i already read it upwards of 10 times. i will read anything oysterknife writes but GODDAMN. this one changed my brain chemistry with the emotional intimacy between the two. i love longing and yearning and this one is like a masterclass in it. the literary references made me kick my feet and giggle. as a brooklyn girlie, THIS is the nyc i wanna see: flushing, crown heights, greenpoint minus the condos, shitting on the residents of murray hill, i want it all. also the ending made me sob. not joking.

#sydcarmy #using my obsession for good i hope

[chvoswxtch]

personal

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: lately frank has been acting suspicious, and you've decided to finally confront him about it.

warnings: swearing, lots of angst

word count: 3.4k

a/n: i hope y'all have been enjoying things being nice & light & sexy & fun bc these last few chapters aren't holding back any punches. shit is about to get real. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [series masterlist]

Not even five minutes after Frank walked through the threshold of his apartment, the rumble of an incessant banging sounded on his front door. His dark brows instantly furrowed with irritation at the sound. Slipping his right hand behind his back to grab the handle of the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, he turned the knob and swung the door open with just as much ferocity as the person knocking on the other side. 

The creases of annoyance on his sharp features suddenly smoothed into recognition at the sight of you standing in front of him, but not long after, his warm brown eyes widened in complete bewilderment seeing the raw fury that was burning in your eyes. 

“Hey-”

Before he could utter another word, you forced your way inside his apartment, causing him to quickly retreat backwards, wincing when you swiftly slammed the front door shut behind yourself.

“You need to tell me what the fuck is going on with you, right now.”

Frank was utterly caught off guard by your aggressive behavior. The last time he had seen you this angry with him was when he showed up at your place after Cavella and Walker had attacked you. He was so distracted by your incensed entrance, he almost missed what you said. But when his brain finally caught up with his ears, your words only fueled his convoluted confusion.

“There nothin’ goin’ on-”

“Bullshit! Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Frank.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not lyin’-”

“You’ve lied to me three times in the past month.”

Creases of puzzlement settled between Frank’s thick brows hearing that. Had he really lied to you three times? He couldn’t even remember what he’d lied about, or how you caught onto the fact that he was. Frank admittedly had been a bit out of it when it came to you lately, but he wasn’t doing it on purpose to hurt you. He just happened to be caught in the middle of something he was trying to keep you as far away from as possible.

Taking his silence as evidence of guilt, you stared up into his eyes, wanting him to see the proof of grief in your reflection that his actions had caused. You wanted him to hear the severity in the words that lacerated your tongue as they slipped past your lips that had been bitten raw from your tortured anxiety.

“You never once lied to me before Frank, ever. I don’t know why you’re choosing to start now, but if I hear one more lie come out of your mouth, I am done. I will walk out that door and I will have nothing to do with you ever again, that's it. Do you hear me?”

That caught Frank’s attention. There was no waver in your voice, no threat in your tone, just raw emotion and sincerity. 

For the past month, Frank had been acting strange. You’d caught him in three white lies, and while they may have seemed small and trivial to someone else, they were anything but that to you. Because you’d been stuck with a pathological liar before, and there was no such thing as harmless lies. A lie was a lie, and it was a crack in the foundation of trust and integrity that you’d built with Frank, and a crack could turn into a rift, and a rift could divide you and make it all come crumbling down.

Since yours and Frank’s schedules didn’t always line up, you’d both done everything you could to make every moment count since your first date. But lately, it felt like you were the only one putting in the effort. Frank was chronically distracted these last few weeks. He was late to meet you for dates, he didn’t call when he said he was going to, and sometimes you didn’t hear from him at all until the day was practically over. And when he was with you, Frank was physically present, but mentally he seemed to be somewhere you couldn’t follow. Even sitting right beside one another, it felt like there were oceans of distance separating you subconsciously. 

At first, you’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was one little white lie. One missed call after a long day. Just fifteen minutes of waiting at the restaurant. This was Frank, the man who had saved your life more times than you could count. He was different. This was real. You had nothing to be concerned about.

But then one white lie turned to three, and one missed call turned into not hearing from him until an excuse appeared across your screen at half past midnight, and fifteen minutes late turned into not showing up at all. His behavior planted a seed of suspicion in your mind that grew like wild ivy, coveting the sense of security you had in him with leaves of doubt, sprouting spirals of diabolical hypotheticals that canvassed your brain with catastrophe. 

Every knot of faith Frank had woven into your heart with his actions over the last nine months were steadily being unraveled by his own hand in a matter of weeks. The confidence you had in him was now frayed in shreds and left you in a fit of mania, scrutinizing his every intent under a microscope. 

You had been here before. You’d been lied to, manipulated, cheated on, pushed to the brink of insanity, and eventually left behind. You recognized all the signs of duplicity and betrayal, but you’d covered your own eyes so you wouldn’t have to acknowledge them, because it was Frank. 

Blunt-and-brutally-honest, jump-in-front-of-a-bullet, remembers-every-little-detail, got-his-knuckles-bloody-for-you, killed-for-you, Frank.

And that’s why this hurt so much. That’s why this dagger of deceit tore clean right through your chest, leaving you standing in the middle of Frank’s living room, hysterical and furious for an elixir of truth that could make this pain go away and heal your belief in him once again. He’d been so MIA lately that you had spent hours camped out in front of his apartment building tonight, waiting to see his truck pull up just so you could follow him inside and finally have this conversation face to face.

Frank could hear in your voice that he’d hurt you, and even worse, he could see the evidence of it shining in your eyes. The pieces of yourself you’d lent him to patch up his own heart were suddenly bleeding at the seams seeing how his unintentionally selfish preoccupation had left you marooned. Shame didn’t begin to cover the way he felt. He knew he needed to be honest, but he couldn’t tell you everything.

Not yet.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. But it ain’t what you think, sweetheart.”

“Then what is it? Explain it to me.”

Frank took a seat on the couch and gently patted the space next to him, looking up at you with diligent patience while you internally debated between standing stubbornly or giving into his request to sit with him. After a moment you finally sat down, but you intentionally put space between the two of you and folded your arms across your chest in a silent gesture of defensiveness. Resting his forearms on the tops of his thighs, Frank clasped his right hand over his left wrist, staring down at his worn boots while deciding his next words carefully.

“I got a new assignment.”

The quiet tone of Frank’s voice and the lack of eye contact while he spoke immediately caused a spark in your nervous system. 

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Frank let a moment of silence pass before turning his head to look at you with an apologetic gleam in his warm brown eyes.

“I’ve been helpin’ Madani with somethin’.”

Pinching at the bridge of your nose, you let out a slow exhale of irritation. Frank had already strained your patience with his behavior this past month, and his obscure responses were only making it worse.

“Why are you being so secretive about this?”

“It’s complicated-”

“Complicated how? You didn’t have to hide the last job from me-”

“This one is different-”

“Different how? That doesn’t make any sense-”

“You gonna let me talk? Or you gonna keep yellin’ at me?”

The way you clenched your jaw and narrowed your gaze at his quip made Frank regret letting his own frustration get the best of him. You were already pissed off, now was not the time for him to snap back at you like he normally did when the two of you argued about something. A wave of annoyance quickly crested within you. The second you stood up from the couch, Frank’s large hand reached out to grab your wrist.

“Hey, c’mon. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Walk away from this conversation-”

“What conversation, Frank? You’re not doing anything but giving me vague excuses. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

Frank gave your wrist a gentle tug to get you to sit back down next to him on the couch. He once again waited calmly as you stood defiantly for a moment before reluctantly sitting back down. He let his large hand glide across your wrist to take your hand into his own, holding it firmly in his lap while cocking his head to the side to try and catch your gaze.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

When he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, the prolonged pause of silence caused you to eventually shift your attention back to Frank, and you could see that his brown eyes were a deep shade of contrition.

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distracted lately, and I haven’t been ‘round like I shoulda been. And you’re right, I did lie to ya, and I’m sorry ‘bout that. I’m not tryin’ to keep things from ya, sweetheart. It’s just…this one is…it’s different.” 

“Why? What makes this one so different that you have to lie to me about it?”

“It’s personal.”

Now it was your turn to be perplexed. You thought Frank was long past holding you at arms length and keeping up a fortified impenetrable steel wall around his heart and mind. He’d opened up to you before, talked about his life in the Marines, told you about the family he’d loved and lost, even spoke about them more comfortably and freely now without the shadow of grief looming over his words. Why was he back to shielding his vulnerability?

“Personal?”

Frank knew you wanted more of an explanation. You needed more. And he hated that he couldn’t give it to you right now. He hated that there was still so much that he was holding back from you, and that it was his own fault you were even doubting him in the first place.

“Listen, I can’t explain it right now, alright? But I will. When it’s all said and done, I’m…I’m gonna…I’ll have to tell ya some things first, some things you may not wanna hear and probably won’t like hearin’. But I promise, I’m gonna tell you everythin’, alright? I just need you to trust me right now.”

Every word Frank spoke hid another piece of the puzzle he was crafting, and you were left with misshapen gaps of confusion. You didn’t know what he meant by saying there were things he had to explain that you might not want to hear, or how that factored into the job he was currently working. Nothing he was saying made any sense to you, and it only left you with more crucial questions than justifiable answers. Pulling your hand away from his, you got up from the couch and started to stressfully pace back and forth.

“So the reason you’ve been a shitty boyfriend lately is because of this new assignment, that you can’t tell me anything about, other than it’s personal, but you can’t explain why that is. And it’s going to take you somewhere eventually, but you can’t tell me where, because you don’t even know yet, and even if you did, you still wouldn’t tell me. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that you have no idea how long this is going to last, but you expect me to sit here and act like everything is fine between us and trust you even though I have no fucking idea where you’re going or what you’re doing. Did I miss anything?”

Frank could hear the barely concealed hostility in your tone. He couldn’t combat a single thing you said. When you finally stopped pacing and turned to face him, staring at him expectantly, a ring of treachery was blazing around your irises. He could see it right then in your eyes. If he didn’t fix this, he would lose you.

Slowly rising from the couch, Frank stood there with a dispirited weight resting on his shoulders, a look of pleading softening his warm brown eyes. 

“I’m gonna handle this as soon as I can, I promise.”

“I can’t do another month of this, Frank.”

“Then it won’t be another month. I’ll figure it out before then.”

“How?”

The resentment you felt towards Frank was rapidly fading into pure desperation. All you wanted was an answer, a real answer. Something of substance that you could understand, something tangible to hold onto during this period of uncertainty. Frank could feel the despair radiating off of you in thick sorrowful waves, and the fact that you were close to forfeiting this argument had him instantly tensing as the chill of dread straightened his spine. He had to give you something.

“Listen, Madani gave me some intel, alright? I’ve been followin’ it, tryin’ to find proof she’s right, or if she’s just seein’ what she wants to see.”

“But why did she give it to you? What can you do that Homeland Security can’t?”

Frank stared at you silently for a moment, and you could see a look of hesitation flash in his eyes. There was something there, something you couldn’t figure out. But you could tell by the expression on his face that there was a lot more to this than it being a top secret assignment from Homeland. Whatever it was, it had everything to do with Frank. You just couldn’t figure out why. After a terse minute of silence, Frank stood up a little straighter while subtly clenching his jaw, and there was a hardened look in his eyes.

“Cause it’s connected to someone I know.”

The way he spoke that sentence with an ominous undertone sent an icy torrent down your spine. Sensing your trepidation, Frank let out a deep sigh and glanced around his apartment for a moment while lost in thought before eventually looking at you again, this time with a softer gaze.

“Look, I can’t explain it all right now, sweetheart. All I can tell ya is that Madani needed someone she could trust on this, and I owe her a debt.”

Letting those words sink in, you tried to put your biased emotions aside for a moment and think logically about what Frank was saying. Dinah had asked him for a favor. Part of you found it  surprising that she came to Frank and Billy, considering the way she acted towards Billy the day Steven was arrested. But maybe that look of distrust and disdain had everything to do with the complicated relationship they’d had that Billy mentioned. 

If Frank was working for Dinah, then he was working for Homeland, which meant he probably didn’t have a choice but to keep everything from you. And yet, here he was still trying to give you crumbs of explanations, and promising to tell you everything once this new assignment was over. At least you could lay the fear to rest that he was seeing someone else. Standing here now, you felt ridiculous that you’d restlessly jumped to the conclusion of an illicit affair. But in your own defense, it had been difficult to think clearly when Frank’s covert behavior mirrored that of past boyfriends' unfaithful performances.

As your shoulders physically deflated from your own conspiracies unraveling just to get tangled in a new set of ambiguities, you let out a deep exhale and rubbed both of your palms tiredly down your face, grasping onto the back of your neck for a moment. When you first showed up at Frank’s apartment, you had felt completely warranted in your anger. Now, you weren’t sure if you had overreacted in your manic state, or if you still had a right to be upset with Frank. At this point, you just felt drained from trying to balance on that tightrope of your own conflicting emotions.

Frank had saved your life several times over, and Dinah personally made sure that Steven would spend the rest of his life in prison. You owed them both everything. The least you could do was show them a little patience. 

“Alright. Fine.”

In the nine months that Frank had known you, never once had you conceded in an argument. Even when you were in the wrong, you struggled with admitting that you had been erroneous. Frank’s blood ran cold with the thought that he might have pushed you too far healing the casual defeat in your voice. He didn’t want you to give up on him like this. Frank quickly took a step towards you the second you took a step towards the door, reaching out to gently grab your arm.

“Hey, hey c’mon. Don’t go.”

“Frank, I’m tired-”

“Then stay. Just stay here, c’mon. It’s late, yeah? Stay.”

Frank wasn’t giving you any room to decline the offer disguised as a command. One of his strong arms slipped around your waist, pulling you firmly into his chest while his large hand gently cradled the back of your head. He pressed his lips in a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, hugging onto you tightly while resting his cheek against the side of your head. The rigid tension in your body lethargically began to melt, and Frank’s deep gravelly voice whispering into your ear dismantled the last of your defensiveness.

“Just stay with me, baby. Please stay.”

Frank knew that he didn’t deserve you. He didn’t feel that he’d earned this second chance at life he was getting. But he would be damned if he’d let anything ruin this now that he had you. He would’ve told Madani to go to hell if he’d known the favor was going to cause such a big disruption to the peace he’d found within you.

But not only did he owe his second shot to her, he desperately needed to know the truth himself.

“When will you leave?”

Frank hugged onto you even tighter, rubbing his hand along your lower back in soothing slow circles.

“M’not sure yet. But I’ll tell ya as soon as I know, I promise. And I’ll make sure you’re taken care of while I’m gone, yeah? I’ll be back before ya know it, baby.”

Hearing the soft sigh that sounded from you, Frank nuzzled his nose into your hair and whispered gently to you.

“Listen, I won’t take no more jobs like this, alright? I’m gonna handle this for Madani, and that’s it. I won’t do anythin’ else that’ll take me too far from you, yeah? I’m not gonna leave ya, sweetheart. I told ya I’m always gonna be here. I meant that then, and I mean it now. You ain’t ever gotta worry ‘bout that.”

You tried to find comfort in those words, but you weren’t in the mental state to accept any vows. You couldn’t get past the glaring truth that Frank was hiding something from you, and until you knew what it was, that crack of dishonesty would continue to slowly spread. You had a sneaking suspicion in the pit of your stomach that whatever verity Frank was concealing had the potential to shatter everything; unveiling the illusion that your relationship hadn’t been formed out of the impervious stone that you’d believed in, but rather of futile glass.

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawkfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

#frank castle #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #frank castle series #the bodyguard series #bodyguard!frank castle fic #bodyguard!frank castle series #bodyguard!frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher fic #the punisher series

[decepti-thots]

sorry, still thinking about whirl. imo the most important characteristic whirl has in MTMTE isn't the obvious ones. it's not that he's an asshole, it's not that he's funny, it's not that he's violent, it's not that he's done terrible things, it's not that he hates himself. all of those are important, and they're usually the immediately obvious traits that stick out panel to panel. but they're not what drives the narrative function of the character most across the whole run of the comic.

imo the thing that most defines the engine driving whirl's narrative function is that he is astute and perceptive. it doesn't come up in obviously quotable panels moment to moment, but the way his arc interacts with the overall arc of the comic is that whirl is the one who sees through a lot of the bullshit that's going on and the way he acts and the decisions he makes overwhelmingly rely on that knowledge. unlike most characters, his decisions are rarely defined by the emotional intensity of his own investment in this or that thing (an interpersonal relationship, an insecurity, a need to prove something) but instead by his sharp awareness of the dynamics of the people around him.

whirl knows the score with rodimus and what the whole mess that is their 'mission' is really about- or rather, what it isn't about, not really. he does not take it seriously because he understands in a very real way, it's just not serious, it's an excuse. whirl knows the score with cyclonus and tailgate and when to intervene in that whole mess instead of being kind about it. whirl understands what getaway is doing and where it's leading and that both makes his decision to initially back getaway's plan both an asshole move but also a decision made with total clarity, in contrast to almost everyone else who makes that decision. whirl knows how to get past drift's act and gets a punch in the face for it, because he smells the bullshit there immediately. whirl is not unaware of the social dynamics on the LL at all; he is choosing to be as abrasive and inhospitable as he usually is on purpose with full knowledge of what he's poking at. whirl gets to the supposed afterlife and immediately knows it cannot possibly be real!

unlike basically every other major character, there's really no point whirl makes a decision with his judgement meaningfully clouded by something. he has a strong interiority and motivations, absolutely, but above all else he is making every decision, no matter how bad or self destructive, with a level of genuine awareness and clarity that is pretty much unique, and his assessment of everyone and everything around him is pretty much unmatched if you read between his constant pisstaking. it's fantastically good, and what makes him a completely essential part of the ensemble all the way through the comic's run. nobody else can be so consistently relied on to respond to the situation presented to him as it is. (cyclonus is really the only person in the cast who recognises this, i think, and it explains why they wind up perfectly matched. see again: whirl's interventions with him and tailgate.)

#idw #whirl #meta

[khuzena]

Waiting room

Pairing: Dr ratio, Aventurine, Sunday x g/n!reader

Summary: You can love, get on your knees and wait on a miracle. There are things that are for you and aren't for you, you should know. It's for the better.

Cw. Heavy angst, no comfort, 1% fluff, manipulative men, toxic relationships, insecurities, death?, unrequited love, breakups, them neglecting you cos…, no closure, what is love?

A/n: hi, time to make you cry. I'm getting writer's block as I'm making a new novel!! It has the ‘your guardian angel’ fics plot but w my characters. 🥳

Dr ratio

He's a simple man, really.

Drown yourself in endless textbooks, advanced literature and neglect every other thing.

Like his thirst for knowledge; love is endless, affection is abundant.

Is what you initially thought.

It has been the 4th time this week that he turned down your requests, “Dear, you know I have no time for that.”

He does not try to sugarcoat his words, he does not try to make his tone less harsh, “I don't have time for dates, such a waste of time.'' He says it like it is, he says it like it's true.

Your eyebrows creased, annoyed at his flippant attitude, “What do you mean waste of time?”

Veritas takes one glance at you, then back to his nonsense book. To him, it was useless wasting his breath on arguing with you.

“Veritas, you said we'll go, you promised.”

He is cruel, his words flinty. “I do not recall making any atrocious promises to you, are you perhaps going insane?”

Insane?

“Insane? Last week, you promised me.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did.”

He scoffs, as if offended, “If I did, then I was not thinking straight. I have a thesis due tomorrow. A date can wait.”

Veritas is a man with priorities and out of all of them, it seems, you were not one of them. He'd rather his books kept him company, not you. It's obvious, his pursuit of knowledge was greater than loving you.

He lit his lamp, taking his pen and highlighting some paragraphs, what was so important with them? You could not help but come closer, skimming through the contents, it was just some theory some genius society member wrote.

“You're miserable,” it might've accidentally slipped out, but it was true; he is, in fact, the most miserable of all men.

Veritas rolled his eyes, pushing his reading glasses and annotating whatever statement was written. The candle light flickered when his heavy breaths fanned over it, not paying mind to whatever you say.

Your patience was thinning, how long was he planning to play this damned game?

“Veritas.”

You call out once.

“Veritas!”

Again, in anger.

“Veritas”

The last time, desperately.

He does not respond, he does not care. Yet your voice was ringing in his ears in an unpleasant way, “Is this about the date?”

You were taken aback by his curt reply, it wasn't just about the date. “Is that all? Do you think that's the only reason?”

“Hypothetically speaking, yes.”

“Cut the bullshit, veritas.”

Veritas glares at you, as if making a statement; a bullshit one at that. He does not have time for mindless topics, he's overworked, he's tired, he's unsatisfied.

For a moment, you have the urge to yell at him. This shallow bastard has done nothing but fool you with aureate words, he writes poetry about you and shows you off.

He loves you because you are all he has. He may be an asshole but he loves you the way he knows how to love you.

Tonight, however, you are done with his bullshit. You do not argue further, he is confused. When you leave this room with no more qualms, when you do not scream at him, he is bewildered.

“Where are you going?” It's strange that he noticed you for the first time. Only when you get dressed up and when he hears the keys jingle, does he notice every single detail.

You adjusted the cuffs of your blouser, “I'm staying at a friend's”

“Which one?”

“None of your business.”

Stunned, he drops his pen. Why are you acting so off? You're driving him insane.

“What do you mean none of my business? Stop acting so childish.”

That was your last straw, childish? Childish? The fucking audacity.

“You are more childish.”

“How so?”

“You— do I even have to explain it?”

Nothing could quell your frustration other than being away from him for the meantime, “Yes,” he loves you, he wants to know. But even if he does, he never learns; so much for a genius.

“You neglect me, you prioritise this,” it was tempting to crumple his papers, “—over me.” So you did.

He is indifferent. He does not understand how and why it hurts you. So he tries to understand it from a logical standpoint, “So you want to really go on that date?”

“I'm tired of asking”

Tired of begging him to treat you right, to love you like you want him to love you.

He stays quiet.

“I'm tired of begging for something so small.”

“You didn't have to destroy my goddamn book,” he seethed and pulled the book from your hands, too absorbed in the damage of the book he does not notice how much he has damaged you. Veritas is too blind to see you holding back tears despite wearing his glasses.

The force surprised you, “Is that thing much more important?”

“What?”

“Answer me Veritas Ratio.”

It was merely just a book, but it was precious. It was a rare one, it annoyed him to immeasurable depths when you crumpled it so recklessly.

He does not answer.

“I'm leaving,” he's not sure if leaving meant temporarily, he hopes it is. He hopes you come back again tomorrow night.

So he waits. Tomorrow came, but you did not come home.

Aventurine

He loves you, he really does.

His idea of love is adorning you with jewels, showering you with riches.

Too much that you suffocate, it hurts. You can't breathe, soulless eyes stare into yours.

It's when you realise, he's trapping you. Does he think you're stupid? What does he take you for?

“Darling! I got you a gift!”

The 22nd one this week… Aventurine makes haste and runs behind you, wearing the necklace on you, it looks… okay.

You look like a doll, his doll.

But you are not a doll, you are human.

And like all humans, we all wish to be loved and cherished as an equal.

“Do you like it?” It would be rude to say no, but it does not fit you. Sure it accentuates your neck, but it's too much.

“I…” you traced your finger over the gem, “I do.”

“Great! I'll get you another tomorrow!” It is tiring. As much as planets worth of gold and extravagant jewels excite you, you would rather be in his presence.

You do not recall the last day he's ever taken you out on a proper date, you do not recall any time where he's been open to you about his past because you know damn well his name could never just be ‘Aventurine’.

You were sitting on the couch, sipping tea with your eyes glued to your book. Before you knew it, soft lips grazed on your cheek.

“You're back earlier than expected,” he smiles as he pressed another kiss onto you, “I ditched the meeting, for you.”

Oh how you hate it when he does things in your name just to make you indebted to him. Aventurine loves you, but love is transactional.

“Is that so?” He nods, wrapping his arms around you. “I'll buy you something again, we have another business trip in Penacony.”

It makes you wonder, does he think gifts are the only thing that'll make you stay?

He could see the reluctance in your eyes, “Is something on your mind?”

You bit your lip, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

A deafening silence fills the room before he chuckles, he is everything but stupid. He knows, he knows you want to spend time with him, he knows you’d incinerate those gifts in a heartbeat just to trade even an hour spending time with him.

“Dear, I promise, next time,” he pressed light kisses on your exposed shoulder, but it isn’t enough: what truly is enough?

You want to push him away, with how ruthless he is with making empty promises so easily, “You said ‘next time’ last time.”

”I promise, I do.” Even he sounds unsure. You pick up on the hint of hesitation laced in his promises, he regrets it, but he thinks; he’s doing it for you, for the both of you.

“You said that too last month,” you scoff.

He tried to intertwine your fingers together yet to no avail, you rejected him, “Why are you acting up again?”

There’s only so many gifts can buy but he can never purchase the time lost that could’ve been spent in lazy mornings together yet he traded it all for credits. The second attempt, he forces a smile and even pulls a tiny ring for you, that gem you loved so much engraved in the centre. Words cannot express how much you despise these gifts because it was just a pathetic compensation for the neglect.

”Please, next month.” He took your hand in his and put the ring on your ring finger. “Okay?”

You cling to that possibility, to that sliver of hope when he is done with Penacony, he is relieved of his duties and he is finally free. That he no longer has to overcompensate for his absence and shower you with the time he’s lost.

You know next month won’t come, yet you are no different from a fool.

”Okay”

You wait upon endless tomorrows, two months have passed and none of his coworkers have any good news about his well-being. They’re sure he’s dead, but you still wait for that tomorrow where he is home to come.

Sunday

Love, what truly is love?

Is it when you praise your lover with endless ‘I love you’s?

Is it when you hold their hand and protect them for the impending doom to come?

or rather, is love just a fallacy built on a string of lies?

Sunday believes that he knows what’s best for you.

Before Sunday, you were allowed to make your own decisions.

Before Sunday, you actually had freedom.

The halovian swears he knows what’s best for you.

He makes sure everything you want or need, you get.

Sunday will kiss your tears away, even if he is the sole reason for them. ”It’s for your own good.” he says.

To strip you of freedom, to shackle you to him like a bird in a cage. His sweet kisses, his love, his everything; they’re all fucking poison. He does not hesitate to drown you in his poison if it means protecting you.

You cry out, “Sunday.” In desperate pleas.

But he will not listen, he’ll pretend he doesn’t hear anything.

He believes that if he gives you the taste of freedom, you’ll find a way to fly away from his grasp– he will not allow it. So he does what he’s best at, keeping you stuck to him.

”What do you want, dear?” He smiles at you like he’s never sinned.

You throw away the pathetic gifts he adorned you with, gold, diamonds and stones you could not name but they are not what you want, “I want to see my friends.”

”They’re no good, trust me.” Your friends once told you that you should go, that he’s toxic, but you were a fool to drown in him.

“What do you know about my friends?” He’s done everything to kill that flame inside of you, that hope that maybe one day you’d escape him and be free once again, you’re a fool, he thinks.

He clicks his tongue as he puts down his newspaper at the coffee table, ”They tried to take you away from me.”

”They did not, you know I would never leave you.” A blatant lie but it's stupid that you take him for a fool that’ll believe your words.

He only chuckles, your attempts to get away from him are futile, it’s pathetic it makes him laugh. “I admire your confidence, but you’re staying here tonight.”

Death has never been more alluring under his influence, but you can not die.

“Please,” you beg again, but he only presses his finger to your lips, “Shh…”

”One day you’ll thank me for taking such good care of you.” He gets down on his knees to kiss the back of your hand, “You’re safe here.”

He gets up to sit right next to you, he doesn’t flinch when you slap his face away when he tries to kiss you. The man only grabs your wrist when you try to push him away again. He kisses you with passion, in love but is it truly love when there is no trust?

There’s no use questioning his intentions, “This is for your own good.”

What good is there when there is no freedom? He thinks beautiful birds should be protected. Even if it meant being trapped in a cage, stripped of any sense of freedom, as long as you're safe, as long as you're here with him, he is content. "Dont give me that look."

Your eyes train on the way he rolls his eyes at your defiance, "Just let me go."

Sunday glares at you, his grip on your wrist tight, you're sure he's about to tear it off. "No."

When will you stop acting like a child?

The halovian is too far down the rabbit hole of self righteousness and his obsession with you that he if he needs to tear you limb by limb to keep you close to him, to keep you from rubbing away, he will do it.

His phone rings, it must be business calls again, Penacony sure is in a state of chaos when it's crumbling down. He lets go off you to take his phone.

"Yes yes... Sunday speaking."

You dont understand what they're murmuring about. All you could register is it's something about his sister.

His facial expression turned grim the more time he spent on the phone. The phone call ends and he puts it down, the life from his face drained but when he sees you, he is relieved.

You are still here with him.

He intertwined your hands together, you can feel anger and despair that he's exuding as he stares at you like a deer in the headlights. "Please, promise me."

"You'll never leave me too."

It doesn't sound like a question, it sounds like a statement.

You'll truly never know what freedom is, for that is only a privilege that you can never have. In his arms you cannot cry, because he'll drown you in his lies again and again.

On the bright side, you are never alone. You will always have Sunday, whether you like it or not.

Note: bye i got extreme writer's block at Sunday's part I had to take almost a 2 week break bc i rlly have no idea what to write for him oh my god. I absolutely did not give them justice 😥

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

#what have i done #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr fluff #hsr x reader #honkai star rail angst #dr ratio angst #dr ratio fluff #dr ratio x reader #aventurine angst #aventurine x reader #aventurine fluff #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday #sunday fluff #sunday x reader #honkai star rail sunday #veritas ratio #veritas ratio x reader

[colonelarr0w]

I love your writing so much!!

Can I request some comfort Sukuna where he finally breaks down the walls around readers heart who has been hurt previously years before…reader made him wonder why they didn’t ever let him see them cry before and that bothered him.

Sypnosis - Love wasn't for everyone, you had long since accepted that fact. But ... were you really okay with being alone?

Warning(s) - None besides mature themes and some foul language.

A/N - Oh my god I loved this request so much. Reader is definitely a little bit too much like me in this one, but it's okay because at least she somewhat fixed her issues!

! PIECE BEGINS UNDERNEATH THE CUT !

Love wasn't for everyone. 

That was a hard pill to swallow, but it was one that you had swallowed after so many years of being constantly disappointed. One after the other, it was as if the heavens above were taunting you. Either that, or they were punishing you for some heinous crime. 

Even though you wanted so desperately to experience what everyone else did; stolen glances, random flowers, gentle kisses, passionate sex, late-night dates … you had just come to the conclusion that no matter what you did, it just wasn't for you.  

And you were okay with that. 

Yet, it was annoying to then hear others come to you spewing their bullshit. 

"You just haven't met the one yet!"  "Don't worry, love will come to you when you least expect it." 

"Trust me. The moment that you stop looking for love, it comes to find you." 

"You're quiet," Sukuna says harshly, dropping his finished cigarette onto the ground and snuffing out its orange hue with the toe of his boot. Your head jerks upward, blinking for a moment before you clear your throat – you hadn't meant to fall into a daydream.  

"Hmm? Oh, no, I'm okay," you answer quickly, lifting your own half-finished cigarette to your lips and inhaling. You hoped that the smoke would ease your nerves, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.  

Sukuna's eyes roam over your figure, his mind taking notes on your expression and body language. Your eyebrows are pinched together, eyes flickering to look at anything but him, your lips are turned downward in a frown that he somewhat wishes would go away. Your shoulders are stiff, back standing as straight as a line. Your hands are shaking. 

"Tch," he clicks his tongue, turning his body and half-stepping towards you. His fingers close over your wrist, pulling the cigarette away from your lips. "You're a shitty liar." 

Your eyes cast themselves to the ground, embarrassment heating your cheeks. He falters, but he toes out your cigarette anyway, then turning to face forward again – he doesn't want to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are.  

"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a beat of silence, hanging his arms over the railing of your apartment's balcony. Your eyes flicker to him for a moment, silently admiring the way that the moonlight illuminates his face and the tattoos inked into his skin.  

"Nothing that would interest you." 

Not when it comes to you. Talk to me, he wants to say. But the words fall dead on his tongue. He doesn't turn his head to look at you, only humming in acknowledgement.  

Another beat of silence passes over you and Sukuna. It gets you wondering … did he even like being around you? After all, the only reason why he kept meeting you after work was because he had offered you a ride home. In return, you offered him cigarettes. A fair trade. 

"Interesting or not," he hesitates, biting his tongue, "'s not good when you keep all that stuff in." 

You freeze, hands tightening their hold on the railing as you stare out at the cityscape. Already you can feel tears beginning to gather along your waterline. You try your hardest to swallow them away, but nothing.  

"I-I said it was fine," you manage to choke out, trying to subtly wipe at your eyes. Sukuna notices … he always did.  

He reaches into his pocket for something, then nudging your arm with a handkerchief closed between his fingers. You take it, mumbling a quiet thanks before wiping your eyes with it. "I'm sorry." 

Sukuna doesn't answer, he doesn't have to. It's more of a silent understanding that yes, something is bothering you, but in your own time you would open up to him about it. Maybe it wouldn't be tonight, maybe it wouldn't be tomorrow … but eventually, you would.  

He shrugs in response to your apology. "Nothin' to apologize for." 

Another beat of silence passes over you both, this one more comfortable than the last. Sukuna reaches into his pocket, taking out the cigarettes that you had given him. He opens the box with his thumb, hesitating on taking another one out.  

You eye the box out of the corner of your eye … it was the only reason he even came into your apartment, wasn't it? 

To your shock, he drops the box off of the edge of the balcony, watching it through half-lidded eyes as it falls out of sight. You turn your head to look at him, finding him already staring at you.  

Neither of you say anything.    

One minute turns into two, two into four, four into six.  

"Y'know, I get the whole … wanting to be alone thing," Sukuna says, turning away from you so that he wouldn't have to look at your slightly pained expression. He leans further against the railing, gaze focusing on the blinking lights of a nearby billboard.  

"You can tell yourself all you want that you want to be alone," he finally turns to you, "but do you really want that?" 

You freeze, eyes wide like a deer that had been caught in headlights. Blankly, you stare at him, mind struggling to mull over what he had just asked you.  

Did you really want to be alone? 

"I-" You pause, swallowing the lump that had settled in the center of your throat. "I don't." 

With that, Sukuna swallows all of his pride and tugs you into his arms. You fold into him, nails biting into the back of his leather jacket – the one that reeks of smoke and of must. But at the same time, those two comforting smells remind you that right now, in this moment, you aren't truly alone.  

Do y'all want a part two of this? Or like a series of Sukuna and !Non-Trusting girlfriend? 

#colonelarr0w #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna fanfiction #sukuna ryomen fanfiction #sukuna fanfiction

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

I really wanna do something where the reveal rift/post crisis stuff and the harunel serum coincide. With some witchery and Red Daughter thrown in for flavor. Its been percolating for a little bit, and since I'm trying to focus on the firefighter cop au, I'm going to word vomit some stuff here to get it out of my brain.

Basically, Lena and Kara have their falling out, and Kara leaves Lena to be a villain. Except Non Nocere doesn't happen and Lena just wants to get on top of her shit again. Like, Lex is a dick who doesn't deserve to be alive, so why would she just sit there and suffer his smarminess? She's not on his side, she's not on Supergirl's side-- she's on her own damn side.

Except Lex anticipates that, so he has Otis grab her and he sticks Lena in a Kaznian lab where they're experimenting with the harun-el serum, trying to see if they can use it to imbue humans with kryptonian powers without sacrificing control or turning them into monsters, right? It involves long and slow exposure, so they strap Lena down, stick her full of needles, and get to work.

But Red Daughter finds out, and though Lex gives her some bullshit about trying to help Lena, she doesn't quite buy into it. She can't bring herself to act directly against Lex, but she can't stand by while Lena is in agony.

So she goes to Mama Luthor.

Posing as Kara Danvers, she pointedly asks Lillian if she knows what Lex is doing, or what he has planned. She asks Lillian if she knows where her daughter is.

Which is how Lillian discovers that Lena is no longer in National City, and she tracks her children down to the Kaznian lab. She finds her way in and locates Lena-- and she is horrified by what she sees. Lena strapped to a table with a dozen needles puncturing into deep tissue, drugged and groggy and helpless. She's there when the next round of injections hits, and sees the agony as Lena screams and struggles against her bonds.

When the effects fade enough for Lena to go slack, Lillian immediately gets to work freeing her. She helps Lena off the table and supports her all the way back to helicopter she arrived in, shooting down any guard who tries to get in their way.

Lillian only knows one place Lena might be safe from Lex-- the Tower. The Superfriends open their pounding door to find Lillian standing there with Lena all but unconscious against her. Kara is of course horrified, and brings them in immediately. When she asks what happened, Lillian snaps "maybe you should tell me, Supergirl, as it was you who brought the situation to my attention."

Kara is utterly confused. "What? I haven't seen since before the end of the world" etc. Lillian glares at her.

"Well if it wasnt you, who was it?"

At that point, Red Daughter touches down on the balcony.

"It was me."

----

Once Red Daughter explains what she knows, they hunker down and wait for Lex. Its not long before a situation pulls them all from the Tower, and only when its over do they realize it was a ploy to get Lena alone.

They rush back to the Tower to find Lex's helicopter on the roof, and two goons already in the process of dragging a limp, hooded Lena to the waiting chopper while Lex oversees the operation from inside his Lexosuit. He is not at all surprised-- or concerned-- to see them.

He holds them all at bay while the helicopter takes off with Lena inside it. But as the aircraft rises higher into the sky, a strange pressure starts to build. Suddenly, a flash of purple heat vision slices through the helicopter from the inside out. It starts to spiral toward the ground, its crash inevitable.

"Go!" Kara shouts to Red Daughter, who zips over and manages to snatch Lena from the helicopter before it hits the ground. She lands with Lena cradled in her arms, except Lena is no longer limp-- no longer helpless.

Rising slowly, the odd pressure in the air continues to build as Lena opens her eyes to reveal her green eyes have gone completely black. Around her, every loose pebble, twig, and gravel on the roof starts to shake, humming with that same pressure. The detritus on the roof starts to lift into the air, hovering from thousands of invisible strings-- the strange energy charging the air is clearly coming from Lena.

She turns towards her brother, who has paused in his struggle against Supergirl to watch the pinnacle of his creation. It's strange, though-- matter manipulation wasn't a reported effect of the harun-el.

Just as he sees the moment of Kara's similar distraction for Lena, Lex turns and winds back to strike. The energy in the air seems to snap, and every bit of floating debris shoots straight towards Lex, with enough force to pierce skin and hull alike. It shreds the lexosuit to gaping, jagged metal-- but thats not enough.

The energy in the air starts to build again, but this time it's centered directly overtop Lex, pressing down and down until metal groans and rends, and Lex starts to heave for breath under the immense pressure.

That's when Kara comes back to herself. "Lena! Lena, stop!"

Lena doesn't seem to hear. All of her attention is on Lex, and when Kara edges closer, she sees that in the center of Lena's black eyes, purple irises glint expressionlessly in the sun.

"Lena, listen to me! I know you're in there! Please, you don't want to do this."

Kara moves to stand between Lena and her brother, intent on breaking Lena's intense eye contact with Lex, but Lena's head tilts to maintain it. Only then does Kara risk reaching out to touch her, turning Lena's face to look at her instead.

"I know you're in there," Kara says firmly. "And I need you to listen to me. Killing him might be the answer-- but it doesn't have to be *your* answer. This choice will destroy. It already almost did. So I am asking you, as my friend, to stop."

The last causes Lena to falter. She blinks, and Kara hears Lex gulp down a large breath as the pressure eases slightly. That's it.

"Yes," Kara coaxes. "Come on. Come back to us. Come back to me, Lena. Please."

Slowly, the black in Lena's eyes fade to their natural whites-- but the purple remains. Behind Kara she hears the Lexosuit clang uselessly againsy the roof as it collapses, Lex still trapped inside as he wheezes. Lena stares at Kara, blinking almost drunkenly in the sun.

"Kara..."

Kara issues a tearful laugh of relief, and throws her arms around Lena, hugging her close.

"Yes," she says, her chin wobbling. "I'm here, Lena."

Lena slowly lifts her arms to embrace her back, still dazed.

"Thank you," Kara murmurs. "Thank you for hearing me."

#supercorp #harunel meets red daughter meets rift meets witch #bc what would have happened if Lenas witchiness had interacted with the harunel serum #i have questions #i wanna explore this #just dunno when #im posting and then putting a reblog in my drafts to come back to later

[midnightsxblue]

UNDER THE WEATHER

carl grimes x reader

tags: fluff but warning for sickness!

masterlist here!

─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ───

Living in the apocalypse, the only sort of sick you were ever worried about was getting infected. For some reason it’d never crossed your mind you’d actually maybe catch a cold or a fever until the prison. Even then you never got sick. The most you’d ever actually been ill was throwing up when you killed your first walker and you got a bit sniffly as the seasons changed.

Thankfully, Alexandria was the first place you actually gotten a cold at, which left you room to rest and get better without worrying about walkers n such. You didn’t worry much when you became sick, but Carl definitely did.

It’s not like you were extremely unwell, you had just a sore throat, unsteady body temperature, headache, all the annoying symptoms. You tried to act normal all morning as you were supposed to go on a supply run. You were exhausted though and it showed in your face. You arrived at the gates to meet with the group. Daryl, Rosita, and Aaron were waiting at the cars when you walked up.

“Where’s Carl?” You croaked out before clearing your throat. They all sort of consider the rasp in your voice before Daryl responds. “He’s comin. What’s wrong with you?” You try to act like you have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?” Before Daryl can respond, Carl arrives and taps your shoulder. You turn and greet him with a smile.

“Yeah, you’re definitely not going.” Rosita states, placing her hand on your forehead. “You’re burning up.” She adds. Carl looks to you and notices how pale you’re looking. He did look at you before but didn’t particularly think anything of it, he was excited to go on the run. “She’s right. I’ll stay with you.”

“No I’m going.” You complain, it’s practically a whine. “We won’t allow that.” Aaron chimes in. You release a sigh of frustration and look at Carl, realizing you’re definitely staying home for this one. “Such bullshit.” You roll your eyes and begin to walk back to the house.

“You’re welcome!” Rosita laughs and they begin to get in their cars, Carl behind you somewhat. “Hey we should get you checked out.” You hear him say. He speeds up a bit to catch up with you. “I’m okay I’d rather just go home.” You give him a small smile and continue to walk. “Well what’s wrong? I’ll try and get whatever you need-” You cut him off. “Carl it’s okay, seriously. I can handle myself.” Coincidentally, as you say this you feel an itch in your throat which prompts you to cough, turning into a chain of very violent coughing. How embarrassing.

“Yeah okay I’m gonna get the stuff you need.” Carl remarks concerned. You accept defeat and nod at him. “Fair. I’ll be at home.” You explain your symptoms and he nods, heading wherever he needed to go to find anything to help you. You go home in the meantime and change into comfortable clothes to sleep in. You grab a blanket as well as a comic and sit on the couch to wait for Carl to get back. He comes home about twenty minutes later with a bag in his hand. He greets you and goes to place the bag on the counter.

“Don’t get mad, but I told Denise to come check on you since you’re too stubborn to go to the infirmary.” Carl explains as he begins unloading random stuff from the bag he brought home. You look at him from the couch with a peeved look. “Seriously? The last thing I want is a checkup.” You frown. “It’s not a checkup if you know you’re unhealthy. Now just lay down and rest, I’ll take care of you in a moment.” He smiles. Your eyes linger on him for a moment before you continue to read your comic on the couch.

Carl later comes over with medicine that Denise told him would help with majority of your symptoms. Times like these made you appreciate being able to breathe through your nose regularly a lot more. Denise came over and checked on you as well to make sure your temperature wasn’t too high. After that you rested for a while.

“Hey.” You hear, feeling a nudge as your eyes are basically glued shut while you were napping on the couch. You pry them open to see a smiling Carl. “I made you soup.” You open your eyes fully and prop yourself up on the couch. You look at the coffee table to see a bowl of chicken soup and then back at him, sort of concerned. He wasn’t the best in the kitchen when it came to specific dishes. “Um…it was canned actually. Not sure why I lied but…yeah you can enjoy that.” He says awkwardly, you sort of giggle and he sits beside you on the couch.

“Aren’t you worried about getting sick?” You pull the bowl of soup onto your lap and stir it a bit. “I don’t care.” He responds shortly. “You don’t care?”

“Not if it’s because I’m taking care of you. You’re my top priority.”

You stare at him, sort of appalled that he cared that much. He was a great boyfriend, he was but…you never expected him to be that perfect. He stayed home from a supply run he was so excited to go to just because you were feeling under the weather. He isn’t making you feel bad about it either. There’s no way he can get any better than this. You find it a bit hard to respond to that but before you can muster up any sort of response, he continues.

“Anyway I asked around hoping people would spare some of their teabags since we’re out and so is the pantry. I got a few. Do you like honey?” You shake your head, still slightly appalled at the fact he’s putting this much effort in. He got up to go make your tea and you sit there silently as you eat your soup. He later comes back and sits next to you, placing the cup down on the table in front of you. “I hope I made it right. I had to ask Carol.” He giggles.

“Thank you.” You say genuinely. He kisses your forehead and then your cheek, not a care in the world if he were to get sick.

“No problem.”

─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ───

a/n: hey guyss i’m feeling a bit better and i thought i’d try and write today and i was able to do it comfortably soooo woot woot! i don’t love it butttt i’ll live :) sorry it’s so short. (mac read this first.)

#carl grimes #carl grimes twd #the walking dead #twd #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes fluff #carl grimes x fem!reader #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x y/n #carl grimes angst #carl grimes the walking dead #the walking dead carl #twd carl #twd fanfiction #fanfic

[rosewaterandivy]

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather. 

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction. 

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold. 

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning. 

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too. 

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. 

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat. 

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily. 

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that? 

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so! 

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town. 

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend. 

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name? 

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

_

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

[scoobydoodean]

just saw somebody saying that cas is a pushover for dean…. obviously that’s not true. but can i have some solid evidence just to make me feel more sane?

I mean Cas's baseline state is ignoring what anyone wants him to do imo. It's just when he ignores what most people want him to do, he makes this face: 🙄

And when he ignores what Dean wants him to do, he makes this this face. 🥺

But anyway:

"You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in." (4.02)

ANNA: "Uhm, guys, the angels are talking again. / SAM: What are they saying? / ANNA: It's weird. Like a recording. A loop. It says: "Dean Winchester gives us Anna by midnight, or we hurl him back to damnation." (4.10)

"[I tricked you into coming into town] Because whatever I ask [for you to turn an innocent person over to me for execution], you seem to do the exact opposite [protect them from me]." (4.15)

After kidnapping Dean to make him torture for them: "This is too much to ask, I know. But we have to ask it." (4.16)

[Kidnaps Dean and locks him up] (4.22)

[Flies away abruptly because Dean asks a question he doesn't want to answer] (5.01)

"I killed two angels this week. My brothers. I'm hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you, and you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world—and I lost everything, for nothing. So keep your opinions to yourself." (5.02) (Note: Cas blaming Dean for everything going wrong here is also some major bullshit).

CASTIEL: May I borrow [your amulet]? / DEAN: No. / CASTIEL: Dean. Give it to me. / DEAN: All right, I guess. (5.02)

Cas flies off to kill Jesse when Dean and Sam are in direct moral opposition. (5.06)

ANNA: I'd say the Winchesters don't trust me. / CASTIEL: They do. I don't. I wouldn't let them come. (5.13)

You're not gonna finish that? [Takes Dean's burger without waiting for an answer] (5.14)

[Kidnaps Dean and locks him up] (5.18)

"Maybe they're desperate. Maybe they wrongly assumed Dean would be brave enough to withstand them." (5.18)

[Beats the shit out of Dean in an alley] "I rebelled for this?! So that you could surrender to them?" [kidnaps Dean and locks him up again] (5.18)

DEAN: Whoa, wait. You’re gonna take on five angels? / CASTIEL: Yes. / DEAN: Isn’t that suicide? / CASTIEL: Maybe it is. But then I won’t have to watch you fail. 

CASTIEL: You think I came because you called? I came because of this. [The Staff of Moses] / DEAN: Oh, well, it's nice to know what matters. / CASTIEL: It does help one to focus. (6.03)

CASTIEL: I need your help. / SAM: [ Scoffs. ] That's rich. Really. / CASTIEL: [ Grunts, tosses the jar of locusts at SAM. CASTIEL performs air quotes during this speech. ] Sam, Dean, my "people skills" are "rusty." Pardon me, but I have spent the last "year" as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent. But believe me, you do not want that weapon down here. Help me find it. Or more people will die.

[Flies away abruptly when Dean asks anything he doesn't want to answer] (6.03)

Cas tortures a child while Dean pleads with him not to do it (6.03).

[Yanks Dean's wrist over without asking and slices his palm open to use his blood for a spell] DEAN: Whoa, whoa! Hey! Ahh! Why don't you use your own? / CASTIEL: It wouldn't work. I'm not human.

[Flies away abruptly when Dean is mid-sentence] (6.06)

Cas ghosts Dean for days while Dean pleads for help in prayers (6.05-6.06)

Those are some moments of note up to my current rewatch episode.

Less organized but past current rewatch point some random momence:

The entire plot of season 6 where Cas is going behind their backs the whole time culminating in him refusing to let go of his plan while Dean pleads him to do just that.

Fun lil Deancas bitchy compilation set here

[Beats the shit out of Dean flies away with the angel tablet]

Refuses to come out of Purgatory

Ignores Dean's nightly prayers in Purgatory

Ignores Dean's prayers and calls all of the tiiiiiiiime sometimes for weeks

Locking Dean in the dungeon... again. (S9)

DEAN: I'm glad you're here / CAS: *Leaves* (10.03)

Keeping Demon Dean from doing demon things :(((( (10.03)

Works with Sam to decode the Book of the Damned behind Dean's back.

CAS: No fighting. / DEAN: Tell [Claire] that. / CAS: Both of you.

"YEAH you know what I like about him? It's that he's sarcastic, but he's THOUGHTFUL and APPRECIATIVE too."

"If I plan to do anything else stupid, I'll let you know."

CAS: So I should just sit here? / DEAN: Pretty much. / CAS: NO.

[Look of utter loathing] "Dean. You are NOT a talking dog." (13.16)

"At least I don't look like a lumberjack."

Steals The Colt to kill Kelly Kline when Sam and Dean want to save her -> Does a 180 into wanting to protect Kelly and still won't include Sam and Dean, instead knocking them unconscious (12.19)

Locks Sam and Dean out of the dungeon so he can torture Donatello for information (13.14)

Also: #hot girl cas. And anyway, if Cas decreases his bitchy basline tendencies to be bitchy around Dean and Dean only, and instead indulges him occasionally by doing things like dressing up like cowboys, we should be fond of this because the angel the size of a Chrysler building who has killed thousands lets Dean put him in little outfits to make him happy and there is something very cute about that.

#and cas is my best friend #mail #hot girl cas

[youhideastar]

WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 21

This episode features one of my favorite scenes: the strategy meeting that Wei Wuxian blows into (with such force that the attendees have to cover their eyes) just to flex on all the sect leaders about how they can’t do jack shit without him, after which he saunters off with a smirk like Reputation-era Taylor Swift. Before this scene, when Wei Wuxian is bad, he’s scary-bad; but in this scene, he’s sexy bad. (You can tell Lan Wangji agrees, too, even though he’s all tortured about it. 😂)

But the other thing that’s great about this scene is how it casts a retroactive light on Wei Wuxian’s character throughout the whole flashback arc up to this point. Because when you see Wei Wuxian running around Cloud Recesses breaking rules, punching sect heirs, later running away from home to go adventuring with his bestie, you think, “this guy doesn’t give a shit about propriety and decorum and hierarchy.” But once you’ve seen the strategy-meeting scene--in which Wei Wuxian:

(1) gives the world’s shallowest, most half-assed bow to a meeting of people who all outrank him (some of them by a lot!),

(2) says a bunch of vague bullshit about the Yin Iron that boils down to “maybe I’ll have a way to counter it in a month, maybe I won’t, idk, nothing you can do either way, sucks to be you,”

(3) point-blank refuses to take questions or explain further, and

(4) waltzes out like he's got somewhere more important to be, pausing only to

(5) be really rude to Lan Xichen on his way out,

you realize that, actually, the prior version of Wei Wuxian did care about that stuff, at least a little—because this is what it looks like when Wei Wuxian really has no fucks to give.

#the untamed #wangxian #wei wuxian #cql #meta #cql meta #wujiwatch

[prythiansfavoritefox]

The first time he went back --> Tamcien, ACOFAS

"Tamlin." Lucien's face was carefully neutral, his limbs loose, nothing in his scent or his body language giving away anything about how he felt to be standing before his once High Lord again.

"Lucien." Tamlin was relieved, at least, to see that his old friend had not adopted the Night Court fashion, opting for a blue and silver tunic instead. "I see you've been keeping this place clean in case I decided to come back," he said sarcastically. Then, there was a strong scent of rust and embers as Lucien began using his magic to move some things around. "There. At least it's somewhat livable now. Don't you have servants, Tamlin?"

Tamlin didn't fail to notice that Lucien called him by his full name rather than by his nickname. Lucien had called him Tam practically from the moment he'd arrived despite Tamlin's insistence that he show him the respect due of a High Lord, and decorum, blah blah blah. After some point, he stopped fighting it because he liked that Lucien had a special name only for him.

"Some. Most are too scared to question the state of the place. Many have left." Tamlin stared blankly at a wall. He had no fight left in him. All his anger had left him the moment he'd brought Rhysand back to life. There was no one left to be angry at. Nothing left to fight for.

Feyre had ruined him, and yet Tamlin had done that. Why? Why did he still love her? Why did it still hurt that she chose him? How long would she be able to hurt him?

As long as he loved her.

But how did he make it stop? How did he make this love go away, stop it from carving his heart out of his chest?

"You ignored me. After the war." That's what Lucien wanted to talk about? Surely he'd understood how painful it was to see him in Illyrian leathers, how painful it was to see him so quickly accepted as part of another group, how painful it was to see him away from him. For the longest time, Lucien had been his, and his alone. Now he had a mate and a whole other court and family. He wondered now if he had possibly taken Lucien for granted.

Well you know, Tam, there are several courts who'd pay an arm and a leg to have me working for them, so you'd better start listening to me more oft-

Little did either of them know how those words would turn out to be prophetic. Fitting, he supposed, with that seer mate of his.

"The sight of you in Illyrian leathers disgusted me," Tamlin replied dully. Lucien snorted. "What else was I to do? I didn't have anything else to wear; all my clothes were back here."

"You could've just stayed with me," Tamlin replied. A stupid thing to say, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Rhysand would never understand and appreciate Lucien's value like Tamlin could.

Lucien leaned back against a wall, putting his hands behind his head. "Right. And continue to watch you listen to the female who raped me over me, the person who not only loyally served you for centuries, but has connections to every damn court in Prythian. If I had a little more power, I could rule this whole damn place, I know so much."

Tamlin snarled. "Don't remind me of that. Believe me, I am well aware of my transgressions."

"Then surely you see why I had to leave. Even if my mate were not trapped in Night, your attitude would've eventually prompted me to leave."

My mate. The words sent shards of glass into his heart. "The mating bond is a curse," he rasped. It had to be. Why else would it mate his parents together, Rhysand's parents together, and his Feyre with Rhysand? Why would it mate Lucien with Elain, thus taking his Lucien away from him?

"The mating bond is a blessing from the Mother herself," Lucien insisted.

"Don't just blindly spit back the bullshit the temple taught you," Tamlin snapped. His claws emerged from beneath his skin, trembling rage filling his body. "God can offer us many beauties, sure, but we already know that She can also be cruel. Is it really so hard to believe that the mating bond is not what it's made out to be? Imagine a bond compelling you, forcing you to be with someone you don't want forever."

"Who said I don't want Elain?" Lucien whispered. Tamlin stilled. Those glass shards twisted in his heart a little bit more. "You think it's just a bond compelling me to stay with her? I thought you more intelligent than that, Tam." Tamlin squeezed his eyes shut, slumping against his chair. Heartbreak was all too familiar a feeling to him at this point.

"Look, Tamlin, I'm trying here," Lucien said, his voice sounding as though he were repressing some emotion. "I know it hurts, Tam. Please, let me help you. Don't push everyone away like you always do. Don't try to go it alone."

Tam.

As though drawn by a magnet, Tamlin's eyes lifted to Lucien's. The handsome lord stared at him with an earnestness that threatened to melt all that Tamlin was into nothing. He could never resist that soft look, and that wasn't about to change.

At last, he lost control. His shoulders caved in and he began to cry into his hands.

"Tam." Lucien closed the distance between them, kneeling before him. He placed his palms on Tamlin's cheeks, brushing away tears with his thumbs. "Don't cry," he murmured. "I'm here. I am here, I am with you."

Tamlin sniffed. "You should hate me."

His former emissary gently pulled him by the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. "I know," he answered quietly. "But I don't."

He pulled away, offering a hand to stand up. "You look terrible, Tam. Have you been sleeping enough?"

Sighing, Tamlin shook his head. "Not really."

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Of course not. Go sleep, Tam."

Tamlin just crossed his arms over his chest, pouting. Lucien raised a brow at him, placing his hands on his hips. "Oh, I get it. You think because you're the High Lord, you can do whatever the hell you want. Well you know, Tam, there are several courts who'd pay an arm and a leg to have me working for them, so you'd better start listening to me more oft-"

The Spring Court lord grinned as the words sparked a far more pleasant memory of the two of them, leaping up in an instant. "As you wish, Lucien." The Autumn Court faerie smirked as he placed a hand on Tamlin's back, guiding him to the bedroom.

After tucking him in, Lucien was about to leave the room when Tamlin called out weakly, "Lu?"

He turned around, cocking his head. "Tam?"

Tamlin hesitated, a blush coming over his face. "Do you think- well could you...stay with me?"

Lucien sighed exasperatedly. "Just sleep, Tam."

"I can't. I've been trying for the past several days." Lucien took a deep breath, pinching his nose. "Fine. But don't expect to see me here when you get up."

"Ok." Lucien strode towards him and hopped onto the bed, leaning his head against the bedframe. Tamlin crawled towards him, placing his head on his lap. Lucien just scoffed.

"What are you, a six-year-old child?" he asked, but he ran his fingers through his blonde locks. Tamlin purred.

"After all this time, you still purr like a goddamn kitty cat whenever someone touches your hair," Lucien muttered, and those were the last words Tamlin heard before sleep overtook him at last.

#tamlin #lucien vanserra #tamcien #fanfic

[bountydroid]

Stitches

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Lucy Maclean (PLATONIC)

Request: Can I please request some hurt/comfort between Lucy & The Ghoul 😩 Like she gets hurt during her encounter with the gulper & Cooper breaks his bad boy/mean character for a minute and helps to stitch her up? Or Cooper gets hurt during a gunfight & tries to hide it from Lucy but fails, & Lucy brings her nice, down-to-earth self and takes care of his wounds (even though he bitches the entire time 🤣)

Notes: Okay anon this is a shorter one. I tried my best to keep him in character but also a little softer with Lucy. I mean he did cut off her finger and tried to sell her organs, so it seemed ooc to have him be all mushy. I hope you like it anyway.

Once the gulper finally retreated into the water, Lucy finally felt the result of her struggle. A large gash on her leg pulsed in pain. Tears fell down her face as she pushed herself away from the water. 

Cooper was in another world entirely as he hurriedly searched his bag for his tin of Radaway. All the vials were completely crushed.

"Motherfucker!" He shouted angrily.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should've just let you use me as bait in a poison river!" Lucy yelled back.

Cooper lowered his gun before turning back around to the water. "Fuck!" He screamed.

"You can't treat people like this!" Lucy shouted angrily.

"Yeah, why's that?" Cooper asked, his mind obviously elsewhere. 

"Because of the golden rule." She said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Do unto others as you would have done unto you."

"Those gulpers digest real slow. You got time." Cooper said to himself, throwing his bag over his shoulder before pulling out his lasso.

"No. no, no, no, no." She begged as he put it around her neck. "Where are we going? What about the head? I need the head to get my dad back."

"Yeah, well, the wasteland's got its own golden rule," Cooper replied, dragging her along.

"Yeah, what's that?" She asked.

"Thou shalt get sidetracked by bullshit every goddamn time." Cooper sighed.

"What about the dog?" Lucy asked, scurrying after him.

"He ain't mine." He responded curtly.

It had been hours since they started walking to who knows where. Lucy had no idea where they were going or why they left the head behind. Her leg was angry at the continued use and she was getting worried. 

"Please, sir," Lucy implored. "My leg hurts."

This was the first time Cooper realized she was hurt. He sighed. "Sit." He commanded. 

Lucy quickly did as she was told, looking on with a hopeful expression as he rummaged through his bag before he pulled out a needle and thread.

"But, sir.... don't you have a stimpack?" Her eyes bulged at the needle, never having had stitches before.

He scoffed in response, "Why the hell would I have one of those? Now sit still." He knelt down in front of her as he inspected the wound. It was a large gash across her thigh, angry and bleeding.

She instinctively wiggled as fear settled in her stomach. 

"I said sit still," Cooper said before putting his hand firmly on her thigh. Lucy noticed a decided lack of venom in his voice. The venom he has had since they first met in Filly. She sat as quietly as possible, letting out a few yelps and gasps here and there as he stitched her back up. 

After some time Cooper leaned back on his heels. "There." He said to himself before pushing himself up off the ground.

Lucy stayed on the ground sniffling in pain, staring at the crude sewing job. "That is going to leave a nasty scar." She mumbled to herself.

'Stop your whining." Cooper complained as he offered his hand to her to help her up. She put her bound wrists in his hand as he pulled her up with ease. 

While he was still in a hurry, Cooper let her walk a little slower after that.

Tag list: @v3lv3tf0x

#cooper howard #the ghoul fallout #fallout tv series #Lucy maclean #lucy maclean fallout