#Hot and Cold imagery

[bode-rook]

Gonna start shipping Astarion and Karlach just to annoy the haters. I’m calling it Astarlach

#they are bi4bi and there’s nothing u can do about it!!! #fr tho she cant touch people and he’s Weird about being touched it’s perfect #both covered in scars #both forced into slavery and would do anything not to go back #astarion #karlach #bg3 #Hot and Cold imagery #it just gets better

[robsheridan]

[Update: Apocalypse in Pink part 2 is out now]

Before Barbenheimer, there was “Apocalypse in Pink,” the August 1983 theme of fashion/culture magazine SPECTAGORIA. The issue’s controversial imagery of Barbie-esque models attempting to stay gorgeous and glamorous amidst nuclear annihilation sought to, in the words of editor/photographer Sera Clairmont, “revel in the morbid absurdity of the new American condition,” an “anxiety vibrating underneath all our plastic smiles.”

“It’s The Hot Pink Cold War,” Clairmont wrote in her introduction. “It’s ‘Material Girl’ on the radio and ‘WarGames’ at the drive-in. It’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ interrupted by the emergency broadcast signal. We’re told to look sexy, dress fashionable, make money, and spend money, but be sure we’re just the right amount of terrified about the bomb. Get that Malibu dream home, keep working on that perfect body, sip cocktails by the pool in your little pink bikini and watching the stocks go up — but STAY VIGILANT! and for God’s sake vote Republican, because that dream home could melt into a pink plastic inferno at any given moment. Just don’t stop smiling as the blast liquefies your skin into bubbling ooze like a Barbie doll in a microwave - it’s bad for the economy.”

***Continued in PART 2***

---------

NOTE: This is a work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

#rob sheridan #barbie #barbie movie #barbenheimer #synthography #nightmAIres #ai horror #ai art #synthography horror #alternate history #writing #spectagoria #sera clairmont #horror fashion #ai fashion

[proxima-writes]

Title: No Closer Could I Be To God

Pairing: Post-outbreak!Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary:

The closest he’s been to a god in these last few miserable years has been between your thighs.

Dear Reader:

This one is for the homies with religious trauma. If you enjoy this little fic, please comment or reblog! Title art is "Through Cataclysm" by Andreas Birath (b. 1974).

Warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), infidelity, no use of y/n, no reader description or age, single POV - Joel, post-outbreak Jackson, heavy religious themes and imagery, unprotected p in v, oral sex - f receiving, dirty talk, pet names, begging.

Joel Miller gave up on the notion of a benevolent god around the time the light faded from his daughter’s eyes and he was left to hold her lifeless body. Since then, he’s only seen glimpses of that former goodness in the world — in Tess and the way she fought tooth and nail for their survival and in Ellie, once she quit being such a pain in the ass.

But perhaps the closest he’s been to a god in these last few miserable years has been between your thighs.

“Joel!” You cry out, squirming beneath his tight grip. He’s got you laid out on the work bench, thighs hugging his head as he licks and sucks your clit until you’re singing his praises. The storage shed is hot, sweat gathering at his neck and beading at his temple and making his fingers slip against your damp skin.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth away from your center and licking his lips to gather every drop of you from his flesh. “You’re fuckin’ loud today.”

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice breathy as your chest heaves with desperate breaths. “It’s been too long.”

“I know,” Joel agrees, standing up and leaning forward to steal a kiss, your hot mouth opening immediately for his tongue to explore. You taste like shitty instant coffee and mint, his favorite flavor as long as you're the source. “‘M sorry.”

Your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scratching against his scalp. He drags his lips across your jaw, down your neck, sinking his teeth briefly against your pulse point to make you shiver.

The modest dress you’re wearing is rucked up around your waist and Joel reaches down to slip his fingers past the elastic of your underwear, sinking two digits inside of you and groaning at how tight you are, how warm and wet you get for him. Your quiet whimper reaches his ears and he wishes he could hear you without restraint, wishes he knew how loud you could be. He’s fairly certain it’s as close to a choir of angels he could ever get.

Especially since he’s destined for hell. But that’s neither here nor there. Right now, he’s in heaven.

He removes his fingers, reaching up to slip them past your lips for a quick clean. Your tongue glides across his fingertips and your eyelids flutter shut as he uses his free hand to work his belt open with clumsy movements. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, just enough to expose the hard length of his cock.

Joel pulls his hand away from your face, using his spit slick fingers to pump himself. With his other hand, he reaches into the chest pocket of his flannel shirt for his knife.

Your eyes go wide as he pops the blade open, slipping the cold steel beneath the elastic of your panties and tugging sharply. The fabric snaps, echoing your gasp, your mouth dropped open in surprise. He doesn’t give you long to recover, sliding his cock through your wet folds and smiling in satisfaction as your expression shifts from incredulity to pleasure.

“You ready?” Joel grunts, his tip catching at your entrance. You nod your head rapidly, but he’s in the mood to hear you beg. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Please, Joel,” you murmur. Your lashes glisten with captured tears and the sight makes his blood run hot. “Please, please, please!”

Joel presses forward, sinking into your body with ease. You have one hand on the workbench behind you to support yourself but the other grips his shoulder tightly, fingernails sure to leave little indents in his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Christ,” he hisses, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “Always feel so fuckin’ good. How is it always so fuckin’ good?”

“Need you to move,” you reply. “Please, Joel.”

And what is he if not your good and faithful servant?

Joel draws his hips back and thrusts sharply, lifting his head to watch your face as he does. This is his favorite part, staring into the Garden of Eden, enjoying his forbidden fruit. You whimper and moan, teeth digging into your bottom lip to keep quiet.

When he feels that knot of pleasure coiling tight in his belly, he curses and chases it all at once. It’s always over too soon when all he wants is to worship at your altar for eternity.

“Angel,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your low back as your own circle his shoulders. “Need you to come for me, baby.”

You whine, high and petulant. “No, no, no,” you chant, “Not yet.”

Joel leans forward to capture your lips with his, the action more of a sharing of breath that lacks any coordination of a proper kiss. He slips his hand between your bodies to circle your clit, the responding moan swallowed by his greedy mouth.

“Good thing you don’t make the rules,” he grunts, hips stuttering as you begin to squeeze around him. He may not inherit the kingdom of god, but he at least got a glimpse of heaven today.

Your legs drop from around his waist and he lifts his head to find your gaze. He always worries what he’ll see — disgust, guilt, and shame have all been reflected back at him before. But today…today you just smile softly, your skin damp with sweat and your lips swollen from his kisses and your teeth.

“Joel,” you murmur, pressing a palm to his cheek. “I have to go.”

Joel nods, knowing you’re right. He’s kept you long enough. Gray light filters through the dirt caked window of the little shed and you should get back to your home to get ready for Sunday service.

“I’ll see you around,” he replies, wrapping a hand behind your neck to pull you forward and give you one last hungry kiss before stepping away to right his pants. He holds a hand out to you to help you down from the work bench and watches as you fix your dress.

You give him one last watery smile before leaving through the flimsy wooden door. It slams back against the frame, the sound sharp to Joel’s ears. He sighs, counting to himself as he catalogs the spiderwebs and rusted tools in the shed.

There’s a flash of white in the corner of his eye. The mangled fabric of your panties sits discarded on the ground, and he leans forward to pick them up, pocketing them. For what, he’s not sure, but he’ll take any piece of you he can get.

Even if it’s just the part you’ve carelessly left behind.

________

Later, your husband stands at the dented podium to deliver his Sunday morning sermon to the good people of Jackson who still turn to religion for comfort and guidance. Joel isn’t one of those people, but he sits on a rough wooden bench across the aisle from you. Your panties are still tucked away in his pocket and he wonders if you’ve cleaned up already, or if you’re still full of him even as you sit there watching your husband.

“…And we see this spoken of in Proverbs 7:25 — ‘Do not let your heart turn to her ways or stray into her paths. Many are the victims she has brought down; her slain are a mighty throng. Her house is a highway to the grave, leading down to the chambers of death’.”

Joel looks towards you as the words settle among the crowd. Your gaze remains steadfastly on your husband, but your hands move restlessly in your lap. When Joel looks up at the podium, he finds your husband’s righteous glare trained on him.

Maybe Joel was wrong. He hasn’t found heaven in you.

He’s just found a deeper hell.

Joel Miller masterlist

All masterlists

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #tw infidelity #tw cheating #tw religious themes #tw religious mention #tw religious imagery

[luveline]

if you’re open to it, could you complete the trio and write smth abt james seeing reader’s scars for the first time, too? ty x

ty for requesting ♡ fem

cw past self-harm [no graphic imagery]

It should surprise James as someone who's never thought about hurting himself, but he has two very important best friends, of which he'd do anything for, who aren't of the same disposition. So when he notices the pale skin of your scars where they criss-cross your chest, your stomach, your thighs, he's almost ready for it. 

You attract sad souls, Sirius had said once, mostly joking. 

But James doesn't think that's true. He just thinks there are more people who needed love and didn't get it than first appears. 

You sit up in your sun lounger. James pretends not to notice when you see him, smiling to himself as you grab your cover up. 

"The sun doesn't feel real, right?" you ask, sitting next to him on the picnic bench. "Late September heatwave. What will global warming think of next?" 

"It's miserable," he says agreeably, though he loves the heat. "That's nice." 

"This?" you ask, waving at your cover up. It's ruched fabric made to drape at your hips, almost like a skirt. 

"Yeah, that. You look really pretty." 

"Thanks, James." Your smile is all kinds of dazzling. "Nice of Sirius to host a party, huh? Now we can make the most of the sunshine. Did he put you in charge of food again?"

He nods to the spread in clingfilm behind you both. It's safe in the shade, the sun kissing to your knees and not much further. "Doesn't he always?" 

"It's good for me. I like your samosas." 

"Which ones? The kheema ones?" He nudges you amicably. "You have good taste. I made a bunch of sliders too, cucumber sandwiches. Don't limit yourself." 

You stay by his side and eventually peel back the clingfilm on one of the plates, stealing quarter sandwiches with one of your legs pulled up on the bench. Your bikini is little and your coverup slips to one side down your leg, scars plainly on show. He has no intention of bringing it up, until you notice what's happened and flinch. He can't hide that he's seen fast enough, horrified when you fluster, you waver, your eyes pinched with humiliation. "Sorry," you say, laughing awkwardly. "I'm flashing you. Sorry." 

He casts a glance around the back garden. Most of your friends squeeze into the lazy spa sweating themselves to death in the sun, and the remainder drink cold drinks by the stereo. No one's watching you but him. 

"You don't have to be embarrassed," he says. 

"I just didn't want you to see." 

"Me?" he asks, startled. 

"I mean. Not like that. Not not like that." You tear the crusts off of your sandwich and put them on the plate like you're looking for something to do. "Not like anything." You smile at him a raw shade off of happy. 

"Shortcake, it doesn't bother me one bit. You think I care about that?" He ducks his head. "You're you. All of this," —he makes a small gesture at your front— "is you. I want to see all of it. You don't have anything you need to hide." 

"All of it?" you ask strangely. 

He doesn't get what you're saying but then he does, suddenly, blood rushing to his face and his ears hot as a flame. What a weird thing to say, he stresses to himself. You stupid man. "I'm not a pervert," he says. 

You gawp. He gets hotter, if possible, scratching his hair back from his eyes. 

"I mean, you're beautiful," he says, "anyone would be lucky to see it all. Oh my god." 

You put your ruined sandwich on the edge of the plate and fix the clingfilm as he dies of shame. He's thinking well, courting you was fun while it lasted, all those bad jokes and better hugs, he loved every minute of your attention. 

You laugh. "Most of the time I don't care about them," you confess, and he's so happy to hear your voice rolling over his embarrassment he could run a lap, "they're old. Can't do anything about them. But I didn't want you to think I was some sort of freak." 

"Is that what you think you are?" 

"No, of course not… Silly for doing something like that." 

"I don't think it was silly. We do what we can, right?" He eases his arm around your shoulders in a hug, his hand eager to rub at the top of your arm. "I don't think you're some sort of freak, you're my type of freak." 

"You really don't care?" 

"I care," he says gently, touching the tip of his nose to your cheek before giving you a more friendly amount of space. "A lot. Especially about you, okay? But I don't care about them unless you do. I like you, yeah?" 

"I like you too," you say. 

"Wanna prove it?" 

James asks you to make him a plate of things to graze on while he finds you both a drink. It's not his most romantic of lines, but it means you end up at his side for a dedicated while, flicking condensation at his chest. You don't worry about the coverup again. 

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

[novlr]

How to write the heat?

Quick Tips on How to Write Heat

Heat can have many connotations in your stories beyond just temperature. It can be a sensation, an event, or even a metaphor for something else. The way a character internalises or experiences heat will also be unique to them, so here are some quick tips on how to use imagery to convey heat in a variety of ways.

In Nature

Use colours like red, yellow, or orange

Parched scenery, like cracked earth and dry leaves

Bright sunlight

Mirages

Blistering winds

Heat waves radiating from hot asphalt

Animals huddling in the shade

Wide and barren landscapes

Hot sand to contrast with cool water

Wilting vegetation and a change in colour

The sound of cicadas

Foods and Objects

Hot peppers with bright colours

Spicy dishes (and how characters handle them)

Melting ice cream and frozen drinks

The sizzling sound of food in a hot pan

The smell of a barbeque

Cold drinks that provide relief

Flip flops, shorts, and tank tops

Sunscreen and hats

Metal and leather that is too hot to touch

Salt or minerals left on surfaces after liquid evaporates

Faded colours on objects left in the sun

Peeling paint

The hiss of steam from a kettle

Character Moods

Short-tempered

Lazy

Discomfort

Easily frustrated

Disinterested

Relaxed

Energised

Joyful

Exhausted

Adventurous

Anxious

Fearful

Irritable

Lethargic

Contemplative

Restless

Overwhelmed

Rejuvenated

Impatient

Distracted

Apprehensive

Isolated

Embarrassed

Motivated

Character Body Language

Wiping sweat from their faces

Fanning themselves

Shifting uncomfortable

Sluggish movements

Licking lips and swallowing due to dehydration

Shedding layers of clothing

Unconsciously moving toward the shade

Constantly drinking

Breathing heavily

Squinting or shielding eyes

Flushed skin

Panting or shallow breathing

Avoiding physical contact

Actions and Events

Seeking shelter during a heatwave

Roadtrips in a hot car with the windows open

Swimming at a pool, lake, or a beach

Sharing drinks with friends at a cafe, bar, or beer garden

Planning holidays to cooler climates

Staying indoors to read to watch TV where it’s cool

Watching the sunset or sunrise when it’s cooler

Going out at night to avoid the heat of the day

Beach parties and barbeques

Wildfire warnings

Outdoor markets and garage sales

Camping trips

Positive Aspects

Heat can be a time of joy, where families and friends can enjoy time together doing outdoor activities not available to them the rest of the year. Food becomes lighter, the days are longer, and people tend to get more exercise. There are also positive ways to describe the juxtaposition of something hot after immediately experiencing the cold, like a hot drink on a cold day.

Negative Aspects

Not every association with heat is positive. Hot weather brings environmental damage like droughts and wildfires that affect agriculture and wildlife. It can also lead to physical discomfort, like heat rash, dehydration, sunburn, sleep disruption, or being forced to work or exercise in uncomfortable environments.

Helpful Synonyms

Scorching

Blistering

Temperate

Boiling

Fiery

Burning

Inferno

Glowing

Simmering

Sweltering

Torrid

Steaming

Tropical

Flaming

Feverish

Stifling

Roasting

Searing

Tropical

Radiant

Common metaphors

Passion or desire

Anger and conflict

Pressure or stress

Excitement and energy

Change or transformation

Danger or warning

Life and vitality

#writers #creative writing #writing #writing community #writers of tumblr #creative writers #writeblr #writing inspiration #writerblr #writing tips #writblr #writing advice #writing resources #quick writing tips #creative writing tips #references for writers #writing references #let's write #learn to write #how to write #writing help #writer tips #writers corner #writers community #advice for writers #help for writers #helping writers #writing setting #writing characters

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

You know what really gets me about ATSV

ATSV: How to do a face reveal right

[A SHORT essay on why I think Miguel and Hobie are Hot On Purpose.]

Jessica's face is completely uncovered. Ben's face is shown right away. Pavitr appears in his mask but immediately shows his face in his own intro. Margo is always unmasked too.

CMIIW but: Miguel and Hobie are the only new characters whose faces were hidden until WAY after their first lines.

You mean to tell me, two of the finest characters in the movie. The characters who look like THIS

Are shown first as this:

- for a reason!! The writers knew what they were doing 😭

They - knowing the two would receive the most fan attention - deliberately delayed their face reveals simply for the sake of the drama.

When we first meet Miguel - it's as Spider-man

He's playing the cool, cold, heroic leader (despite Gwen's teasing). We come close to seeing his face, but like him, we stop short.

They give us a taste of Miguel before we actually meet him, or see his face and full design.

The opening scenes of ATSV leaves us holding our breath.

The end of ITSV sets Miguel up to a big problem in ATSV, but he's abscent for the majority of the movie, working behind the scenes.

We spend the majority of the movie holding our breath, knowing that eventually Miles will have to meet him, we'll have to meet him, and it leaves the viewer even more excited - or anxious - for Miguel.

When we meet Hobie - it's as Spider-Punk

Just the same as Miguel, we're given a HUGE dose of Hobie before he even hits the screen.

Hobie is the talk of the town. Miles has an imagined problem with him - so we have a problem with him: We don't know who he is!

ATSV sets us up for Hobie. We know we'll meet him, but unlike Miguel - as so very in character for Hobie - we don't know where, or when, or how.

Even after his first appearance - he kicks it up a notch.

And although he could've remained masked for the entirety of his intro, instead - the animators choose to have fun with it.

They highlight the fact. Hobie outright taunts the viewer; He KNOWS you want to see his face. Sure, he'll demask himself - but he doesn't give you the satisfaction.

But Hobies face is an intentional mystery. He wants to keep you guessing, revealing in the anticipation.

He's already told you his name - but it's his character design that we're left dying for.

I know as soon as they got in the elevator I was like 👀 - he not gonna keep that mask on right. cause I know he fine

I find it so funny that the two characters that are thirsted after on the highest level are the only ones that reveal their faces in later scenes.

Like even when they walk into Miguels lair

Like bro what the fuck are you posing for? Dramatic effect 😐

It goes to show that writers genuinely know who will be fan-favorites.

The ATSV design and animation team made a ridiculous amount of content for Hobie - going so far as to design his house, and make detailed imagery of his world.

They knew it'd never be included in ATSV. But they didn't care.

They made it anyway cause they knew people would want more of him. They knew that either in BTSV - or a solo entry of his own - people would really like Hobie, and really want to know more about him.

The knew that people would go NUTS over Miguel's redesign - because it's such a stark difference and upgrade from his teaser seen in ITSV.

In the beginning of ATSV, the design changes aren't that apparent. But as ATSV goes on, and we see Miguel's behavior, we immediately understand why they chose to make Miguel SO MUCH LARGER than what they were planning in ITSV.

They knew that you'd hear Oscar Issac's voice and it'd be a wrap. The way he looks is just ICING on the cake. They don't need to show you Miguel right away, they're going to make you thirst the whole movie before you actually get to see him.

They knew you'd see Hobie kick through that force field and be shook over him.

Gwen and Pavitr yell out 'Hobie!' when he arrives - because that's what we're all screaming in our heads.

'Oh shit - he's HERE.'

His face reveal is just the final nail in the coffin of 'yeah, im down bad for this dude. it's a wrap.'

I just LOVE IT i LOVE IT it SO CLEVER

the writers being like 'nah make them thirsty hoes wait'. Im watching Mumbattan fall apart in front of my very eyes and I'm still like... 'So about that Hobie bloke.... what's his deal'

We are all so predictable. They're laughing at us. They made Miguel dummy thicc because they knew. They just knew.

#spiderman #atsv #spider man #marvel #across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spider punk #spiderpunk #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #spider-man 2099

[the-kr8tor]

Imagine the twins grow up a little let’s say 5 years old and they ask the most random questions it would be so funny? Like “why happens if the earth stops spinning?” “Why is the water blue?” “How does snow happen” and obviously “how are babies made?”

Cuteeee!!! Thank you for requesting! 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, No specific physical description of the reader, Dad! Hobie AU, Twin AU, Billie and Ramona AU, Mom! Reader. FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The twins have gotten good at sneaking, scarily good. You have no idea how they've gotten this great at sneaking and bypassing Hobie's spidey senses but you have a hunch that they heard your conversation with Hobie during what was supposed to be their nap time. With his head on your lap and your fingers scratching at his scalp he dishes out a complaint to you, well you both thought it was just you.

Hobie was complaining that his spidey senses can't feel when the three of you approach him from behind. Citing that it has probably been ignoring you and the girls because it's used to your presence and dubs you and his girls a non-threat. He has also grumbled that it only activates for you three when there's danger; like the girls almost falling from the playground or you almost burning yourself from a hot stove. He's deeply annoyed because he misses the little tingles that never fail to make him smile whenever you or his girls are near.

You take this new information into consideration, when you enter a room he's in, you always call his name or knock on the wall so he still gets that warm feeling when you're in his presence. Unfortunately for him, the girls have better ideas.

Both girls keep popping up from somewhere when you least expected it, their footfalls silent, guess they've learned from the best. Then suddenly you hear their voices asking about life's greatests mysteries.

Once, while you were preparing their bath, Billie appears behind you, asking why water in the pool and ocean are blue but not in the tub. You almost fell in the water back then.

A few times the girls have materialized in Hobie's workshop, scaring the crap out of their father. Again asking him a barrage of questions that has Hobie answering promptly of course.

The sun is just about setting, the backyard looks gorgeous in the sun's rays. The metal bench is cold underneath you but with Hobie's arms around you, you don't seem to mind the chill.

You and Hobie cuddle outside in the garden, laps covered in the same patchwork blanket you've gifted him all those years ago. The breeze picks up and you snuggle closer to him, he presses sweet kisses on your temple as his hands rub up and down over your arm. The girls are in the living room watching their cartoons, the telly's light shines in the backyard, illuminating the flowers and veggies all four of you planted.

It's quiet, too quiet.

“How does the telly work?” Mona’s sweet voice rings out in the silence making you and Hobie jump in each other's arms.

“Fu–blo–what?!” Hobie saves himself from accidentally swearing right in front of Mona.

She peeks out from the arm rest, too small to fully reach up, her eyes are curious, hair disheveled from lounging on the settee.

“How does the telly work?” She repeats.

“Oh, lovely, you scared us a bit. Come here” you pat the seat in between you and Hobie. He lifts her up, placing her on his lap.

“Curious, eh?” Hobie pokes her side, she giggles, snuggling closer to her dad.

—

“I've finally got them to go down” you flop yourself on the dining chair, eyes growing heavy. “Remind me not to give them ice cream before bed.”

Hobie wipes his hands on a cloth, the last bit of dishes all cleaned and drying on the rack. He flings the towel on his shoulder, knowing what the imagery does to you.

Before he could throw a witty remark, you're already making grabbing hands towards him, lips pouting from impatience. He obliges, crossing the small gap between you.

You grab him by the ribbon of his sweatpants to get him impossibly closer to you. He's situated in-between your legs, knees knocking with yours. He chuckles lowly, hands placed on your jaw to look at you fully, his thumbs rubbing softly at your tired eyes.

“Missed me? I was home the entire day, lovie”

“Shut up and kiss me, Hobart”

Hobie rolls his eyes, already bending at the waist to meet you halfway.

“How are babies made?” Billie and Mona suddenly appear by the kitchen doorway, holding hands in their blue pajamas. They remind you of a horror movie.

Your soul and Hobie's left your bodies for a second.

“Girls–you scared us!” you clutch your non-existent pearls.

Hobie's head is on top of yours, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Sorry,” Mona apologizes, “Annie said they came from storks but Shane says they came from fairies.”

“And Ricky says they come from parents sleeping together. Daddy always sleeps with you mummy, why isn't there a baby yet?” Billie continues.

Oh childhood wonder. Your brain is already trying to find the right combination of words to answer their burning question.

Hobie chokes on air, you slap his arm as a warning. He lifts his head up with a lopsided smile.

“If you sneaky sneaks didn't interrupt there'd be a baby soon enough—”

“Hobie!”

“We don't get it” they simultaneously say.

#request done #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #hobie brown #the kr8tor's creations #x reader #atsv fanfiction #spider punk #atsv fanfic #atsv x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown x fem!reader #spider punk x fem!reader #spider punk x you #hobie brown x you #hobie x reader #dad! hobie brown #ramona and billie au #twin au #hobie fluff #fanfic

[twilightarc-gm]

Why do you like jiang cheng?

At the risk of liking him for the wrong reasons, let me be verbose and annoying about it.

A short anecdote: I finished the donghua before the novel and I liked JC's aesthetic so I was happy to have that imagery in my head for the novel, but mostly I came out of the donghua like "cool story, the ending was frowny face though" and I came out of the novel like I was lost in the IKEA store "there's stuff here but it's not what I want and it's organized in a way that's hard to navigate through." Bit like giving me a puzzle to solve.

Anyway, imagine a cat bapping at a thing trying to get fandom to show me what to do with MDZS (i.e. reading fanfic) and then I come across anti-Jiang Cheng stuff.

//record scratch

I'm sorry what?

Why?

NO.

I started then on Shuangjie reconciliation fic and quickly evolved into Jiang Cheng "Apologist" ((I actually don't think he has anything to apologize for even if he would do so anyway.))

I've been in the xianxia/wuxia sphere of media consumption for a year or so before trying out MDZS and JC just fits so well as the main character of his own story; destined for a position of power through birth, friends with someone in his life that causes conflict, seemingly betrayed by said friend when needing that friend the most, losing and losing and losing as his trust in said friend proves unfounded because the friend walks a path he can't follow, and then he's left with the tragedy that befell the world because--ultimately he trusted this friend too much.

It's a classic story of love and attachment and how good intentions can have massive consequences. Two men entwined by fate and in the end there's a battle on a hill (off screen in this case) where one is forced to "kill" the other.

MDZS could have ended with the past timeline, and I would have liked it more but at least in the present timeline we get Jiujiu and a-Ling.

Anyway: Excerpts and Commentary Below about WHY I LOVE JIANG CHENG, courtesy WANYIN

Of all the clans to offend, you don’t offend the Jiang Clan, and of all the people to offend, you never offend Jiang Cheng.

We stand by a badass mf in this house. The first thing we learn is that he gets credit for killing a big baddy and the second thing we learn is how fierce the rest of his reputation is. He brooks no shit and leaves no quarter. Amazing 💜

Well, I was done for at "gaze like two streaks of cold lightning" so RIP me, I guess. Reminds me of some antis that are like "you only like him because he's hot" which isn't true but it is a nice plus. He's described as inferior to LWJ so like, if it was only about hotness then wouldn't I like LWJ???

“I am his uncle. Do you have any last words?”

At the sound of that voice, every drop of blood in Wei Wuxian’s body seemed to surge to his head but then immediately drained away again. Thankfully, his face was already a mess of ghastly white, so it didn’t look strange when he went a little paler.

A man in purple attire strode over. He was dressed in a narrow-sleeved light robe, with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A silver bell dangled from his waist, yet there was no sound when he walked.

This young man had fine brows and almond eyes, with a chiseled handsomeness to his features. His eyes were deep and intense with a hint of aggression, his gaze like two streaks of cold lightning. He stopped and stood three meters away from Wei Wuxian. His expression was like that of a nocked arrow on a bow, ready to shoot, and even his composure was suffused with arrogant pride.

Jiang Cheng ruled the Jiang Clan of Yunmeng alone, so it could have been said that he was in a state of isolation.

🥺 Alone?? And he could still afford 400 Immortal Binding Nets? Self-sufficient king 🤩 And like, his reputation is so fierce and he's boiling over with anger in that scene, but still he restrains himself because he did the cost-benefit analysis! And then later he takes a huge risk on WWX, like he always does for WWX, and that doesn't work out for him--like it always does.

Seeing that nothing had happened to Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng was greatly relieved. However, that relief soon turned into a furious reprimand:

Parent behavior. Enough said.

He has a twisted smile when encountering a trigger for his PTSD and then he decides to fight it instead of letting it paralyze him. He's such a doer. Like, every other moment of the day he's carefully calculating pluses and minuses to every choice (valid) but when it comes to facing his personal demons he's ready to throw down. Excellent.

A moment later, Jiang Cheng’s lips pulled into a twisted smile. His left hand subconsciously began stroking that ring once more.

He said softly, “Excellent. Back, are you?”

He let go of his left hand, and a long whip dangled from it.

“Oh? Then please enlighten me, what is your type?”

Walking A-Spec flag very concerned about what the man who might be his shixiong thinks about him, more at eleven!

Wei Wuxian waved him off and then hooked his arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. “Who cares? I’ll tease him a bit more before I go. You’ve already collected my corpse so many times. Once more won’t hurt.”

Okay but big lol that JC doesn't get to collect WWX's corpse that final time. //sounds of sobbing

A smile appeared on his face, but then he immediately humphed.

He's so grumpy and adorable! I love him! pre massacre JC is precious and I just want him to have someone to bring out that smile again.

He literally didn't have to do this. He makes all these excuses how he'll be embarrassed if WWX is rolling around 😂 Perfection. Boy, you are still carrying him and he doesn't want you to stop.

Jiang Cheng, walk slower, you’re gonna throw me off.”

Not only did Jiang Cheng want to throw Wei Wuxian off, but he practically wanted to bash his head into the ground to create a human crater. “So fussy even though I’m carrying you!”

“I didn’t tell you to carry me,” Wei Wuxian reasoned.

Jiang Cheng flew into a rage. “If I didn’t carry you, I think you’d hang out at their ancestral hall all day, rolling around on the floor. I can’t afford this embarrassment! Lan Wangji took fifty more strikes than you, but he walked away on his own, and you’re not embarrassed, pretending to be an invalid? I don’t want to carry you anymore. Get the hell off!”

“No, I’m wounded,” Wei Wuxian said.

Alrighty, like I'm just going through the entire book at this point.

Let me see if I can make this more concise:

Sacrifices himself despite his very dutiful nature that would oppose this. He throws away all his responsibilities for WWX, again and again, carrying on a tradition of favoring WWX over his own health and happiness. Citing: JFM favoring WWX to the detriment of his marriage, JYL dying to save WWX, and JC (exhausted and with little or no power) running into danger to save WWX ala distracting the Wen patrol and 2nd Siege.

Can't be honest in his affections and makes up excuses to do nice things for others.

Loves and understands his sister. She wanted JZX so he made it happen when LLJ had absolutely no reason to reinstate the marriage contract between Xuanli. JGS notes in the CR arc that he didn't want the marriage for his son in the first place and that there were better options than YMJ, and that was before the war! JC helped her get to Yiling to show off her wedding dress! Even though she married out he still felt so attached to her son he couldn't not co-parent Jin Ling.

Yes, he has Zidian, but he also has a second horsewhip that he keeps on him which is very exciting to know.

The narrative hates him but he survives. (He survives because the narrative hates him).

Most BAMF entrance in the novel at the temple scene with the busting the temple doors down and coming in from the rain with an umbrella. Like sure the narrative hates him but small blessings that rule of cool still counts for something.

Mama's boy.

Just some dude, shows up late to treasury room nonsense, knows all the gossip, no one has faith in him including himself, but he keeps going and doing what needs to be done even when he's so so tired and his shixiong shows up 3 months late with a ghoul lady and a latte, or disappears to liberate slave property without warning first and now he's called into a midnight meeting after trying to get some much needed rest and now he's got consequences to deal with. Someone help him!

An expert at sneering. Threats as a show of worry and care. This makes all the little and brief smiles so much more endearing.

Sandu Shengshou is an amazing title, get out of here if you don't agree. Holy Hand of the Three Poisons? Brutal, perfect 💜 It gets used like, ONCE. Crime against me personally.

Link to Blorbo Sheet for JC

He loves, he hates, he wants to hate he's not allowed to love. Zero middle ground, he's all in and there's no way out.

//is shot and dragged off stage

But just as the Wei Wuxian of the past who’d extracted his golden core for Jiang Cheng had been unable to tell him the truth, the Jiang Cheng of the present could no longer bring himself to speak up.

#jiang cheng #canon jiang cheng #asks answered #twi posts #yunmeng shuangjie #quotes

[sarafinamk]

Fallen Angel (Smiling Critters Space Riders AU Reader Insert) Part 1

Summary: You failed as the Prototype's "archangel," and this is your punishment; being left to die while at the mercy of your enemies.

(This is my contribution to the Smiling Critters Space Riders Au. Please check out the talented @onyxonline for more context. I hope y'all enjoy.)

TW: Blood, Injury, Near Death, Imprisonment, Trauma, Death Implications, War, Witchcraft, Religious Trauma, Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Religious Cults, Religious Worship, Slight cursing

----------

You had one job: lead your people to victory. You are a warrior, a healer, a messenger. You are an archangel that needs to spread the word of the Prototype by any means necessary. You need to do your part to save the souls tainted by the condemned ways of the heretics. That’s why you’re here in the first place. Instead, you failed…

It's hard to say how long your mind has been hazy for. All you know is that it burns so much. Fiery hot and raging cold sensations dance and mingle around your body especially where blood was pouring out. The feeling of liquid invading and burning your lungs worsens the more you try to gasp for air. Flashes of light won’t stop assaulting your eyes even as spots of darkness slowing dance their way into your vision. As you close your eyes and try to ignore the sharp tingling in your eyes, one thought stands out among the rest.

‘So, this is what damnation feels like…’

A blurry orange figure looms above you followed by a red and a blue one. They shield you from the harsh light, prompting you to slightly open your eyes. More figures loom around you. All the sounds echoing around you are drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. You suppose that this is a fitting punishment. You failed your people, yourself, and the Prototype. And now they have come to take you away, to give you your just deserved judgement. The thought alone is enough to make you whimper as your body curls around itself protectively. You try so hard to ignore the inferno now growing where your wounds are. This proves to be futile as hands pin you down, preventing you from curling in on yourself. The sounds grow more urgent, louder even. You couldn’t resist their grips anyways. You should’ve known it was futile to fight the inevitable. As blackness conquers the last of your vision, you pray that you will be granted mercy. You pray that your sins will be forgiven. You pray that your dedication to your duties will lead you to the happiness you have been promised. You pray that you have done enough to grant you eternal happiness. And you pray that you will continue to do good in the next life you are given…

----------

The team has been waiting outside the operation room for hours. Bubba and Bobby wasted no time getting you into operation considering your critical condition. Dogday has been pacing nonstop since getting you onto their ship. He was the one who insisted on taking you with them despite the protests from his teammates. Memories, emotions, and questions spiraled around and around his head, never giving him a second to rest. You’ve caused a lot of damage to not only his team but other parts of the galaxy. Dogday, however, being the sunny, kind-hearted leader he is will be damned if he just left another victim of the Prototype to die. Given the state of your injuries, unfortunately, the chances of your surviving in the long run are slim to none. That was stated by Bubba himself. Regardless, they still had to try, at least.

The canine knew that part of it was wishful thinking from Bubba and a couple others. Dogday can’t say he blames them for disliking the idea of helping one of the Space Riders’ most dangerous enemies. Leaving you to suffer the consequences of your actions means one less enemy to worry about. No one knows how or why you became the Prototype’s archangel apart from your Divinity powers. And maybe Catnap is right about the fact that Dogday’s heart is too forgiving for his own good. It’s just that that thought of leaving you, lying down, alone, and bleeding on the battlefield doesn’t sit right with him. That is not what the Space Riders is supposed to represent. They’re meant to give victims of the Prototype a second chance at life.

If you survive… maybe he and his friends could give you that chance. He hopes, at least. You could help a lot of people and use your powers for good. The riders could have a powerful friend and ally by their side. You could protect them like how you always protected your troops and the Prototype in past battles. You could have people to turn to and not leave you to die alone in the battle the moment things spiral downhill.

Dogday isn’t entirely naïve, though. Even if you survive, and you do agree to change your ways, there will be a lot of obstacles in your path. The obvious one was getting backlash from the Commander and members of HQ. The riders would have to disclose that they are hospitalizing one the most wanted enemies in the galaxy sooner or later. Given everything you’ve done, people are going to demand justice. Some will want to draw blood in the name of vengeance. Dogday would rather not risk that possibility. Maybe he and Bubba could find a way to convince the Commander and the Council to let you serve your sentence here under the riders’ supervision while you are being treated.

Time was passing so agonizingly slowly compared to Dogday’s thoughts. He wishes he could get some news on your condition now. At the very least, a slow update would suffice. Anything would do to finally put his aching head to rest. As if the heavens finally decided to answer him, the doors finally opened. Everyone, asleep or otherwise perks up hearing Bobby approaching. Her eyes droop, but her small, satisfied smile told everyone what they needed to know. Dogday breathes out a sigh of relief. You still need to be monitored for the time being. The surgery may have been successful, but that doesn’t mean it will be a guaranteed smooth sailing recovery. There are still a lot of risks that need to be accounted for at this time. The Space Riders rescued you in time, and that thought is enough to finally put the canine’s whirlwind of thoughts to rest. Dogday can now focus on the next priority; figuring out a way to disclose the recent events to the people of HQ.

#smiling critters #dogday #poppy playtime #poppy playtime 3 #poppy playtime chapter 3 #poppy playtime dogday #poppy playtime smiling critters #poppy playtime catnap #catnap #poppy playtime au #space riders au #smiling critters au #onyxriders #hoppy hopscotch #picky piggy #craftycorn #bobby bearhug #bubba bubbaphant #kickinchicken #platonic #x reader #poppy playtime x reader #gn reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #angst #hurt/comfort #recovery #platonic relationships #platonic love

[jamil-s-wifey]

Howdy~! Loved your writing! Can I request a fluff/angst scenario in which Jamil Viper suddenly had a nightmare of hurting his fem! s/o during his Overblot and when he wakes up, he quickly rushes over to Ramshackle to check on her, make sure she’s okay? Please and thank you!

Hi, hello hun! Thank you very much, I'm glad my writing brings a smile to people's faces! I love writing comfort fics, so this is right up my alley! Every comfort twst fic has been consumed by yours truly! I hope you enjoy!

WARNING: Dead bodies and mildly gruesome imagery. I kind of went overboard with the nightmare portion-

Drip drip drip

The only sound which could reach his ears was the incessant dripping of ink, covering the ground beneath his feet.

Slithering snakes obscured his peripheral vision, red hot rage filled his veins. The school was in shambles, in every corner there were bodies littering the ground - weakened and malnourished students, who lost their lives under his fanatic dictatorship.

He was the master, but the master of what? Of ruins, of a rotting building, of a dying student body, controlled against their will, of darkened cold nothingness hidden behind lavish feasts and glittering gold. And then there was you - his jewel in the rough, his biggest treasure, kneeling before him, eyes filled with hatred, fear... and exhaustion. You dared not look him in the eyes, but your downward gaze spoke volumes - the love of his life who refused to succumb to her master's wishes.

"Pitiful. You keep disobeying your master. Haven't I taught you manners?"

You refused to answer him, gaze never leaving the ground.

"My treasure, have I not given you everything?" His voice lowered threateningly. "Or perhaps you'd choose to follow in your classmate's footsteps. Perhaps it was foolish of me to believe you'd be anything different than those mindless slaves."

You didn't answer.

"Or perhaps they've contaminated your brain. That must be it, why else would you refuse so adamantly the life of a goddess. Oh, my love, we must cure you."

He grabbed you by the hair, pulling you up. On instinct, you closed your eyes, refusing to catch his gaze.

"Smart little girl." He whispered in your ear. His snakes left painful bitemarks on your skin - covering older ones who'd begun to fade.

That's how it had been for a while - you'd lost track of time. He'd call upon you, lavish you in expensive jewellery, feeding you feasts made by the bloodied hands of your classmates, whisper sweet nothing in your ears. Then he'd get angry at your lack of response and throw you away, leaving you alone in your chambers.

Only this time, it was different.

"Perhaps I should turn to a more radical form of treatment?" His strong hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing.

Your breath became ragged, strained.

"You chose this. I am merely delivering."

You grasped his hand, trying to wiggle away, but it was useless. You felt the ink on his hand seep into your skin and clothes, contaminating your very being.

Your gaze slowly faltered, eyes closing, before he threw you on the ground.

_____________________________________________

As the heavy thud reached his ears he opened his eyes, frantically looking around. He was in his room, it was the middle of the night. He was sweaty, breath ragged. He'd fallen off his bed and that's what woke him up. He searched around for any indication that indeed it was all just a nightmare. With trembling hands he pushed himself up to sit on his bed. His hair was a mess, his heart was beating so loud he felt it might burst through his chest. He felt sick to the stomach, a twisted feeling of guilt, despair and disgust eating at his very core.

His gaze turned to the framed picture on his bedside table. It was you two, on your visit to the Scalding Sands, your arms are wrapped around him and a cheerful smile graced your features.

Was that smile...even real? Or were you being controlled?

Without thinking, he grabbed his shoes and sprinted out of his room, dead set on seeing you, rules be damned.

_____________________________________________

You were woken up by a hurried, frantic knocking on Ramshackle's front door. You slowly got up, cautiously making your way to the entrance. Even though you knew it couldn't be anybody threatening, besides you had the ghosts and Grim as back up, a little caution never hurt anybody.

What you didn't expect to see is your frazzled boyfriend, engulfing you in a bone-crushing hug the moment you opened the door.

"Whoah, Jamil. Are....are you okay?" You gently hugged him back, fingers gliding through his hair, untangling any knots he might have.

He didn't respond, instead pulling back to look you in the eyes. You looked at him dead in the eyes, no fear or disgust in your gaze whatsoever. All he saw was worry and perhaps curiosity. His eyes were glassy with untold emotions, gaze heavy with guilt.

"M-may I come in?" He inwardly cursed himself for stuttering.

"Of course, you can. Come in, come in." You grabbed his hand, leading him to your couch. "What happened? Here. I'll get you some water, did you sprint here?"

Before you could get up, he pulled you to him, hands gently cradling your face.

"Jamil, my love." You breathed out, reaching out to cup his face, "Did you perhaps have a nightmare?"

His guilt-ridden gaze moved to the floor. Somehow, only from you, he couldn't hide a single thing.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He wasn't sure what to answer. Now that he was with you and his head had cleared up, he realised how bizarre the situation was. Of course it was a nightmare.

But that didn't get rid of the weight on his heart.

"I... dreamed of my overblot. I saw... destruction everywhere. And I was hurting you. Constantly. And the fear in your eyes, it looked so real. I -" he sighed deeply. "You died... By my hands." He felt a lump forming in his throat.

"Oh, Jamil."

"And I know it's just a dream, I know but-" he couldn't keep talking. It all overwhelmed him so much.

"Jamil."

"S/O, I-"

"Jamil!"

He snapped out, turning to you.

"Jamil, I have never, ever, for a single moment, felt afraid or disgusted around you. Your overblot happened, we can't change that, but you didn't hurt me. You didn't then. And you haven't since. And I know very well, that you'd never intentionally hurt me in any way. I trust you and I feel safe around you."

He let out a shaky breath. "How do you know you're not being controlled even right now?" It was stupid of him to ask, but his mind wasn't letting him rest.

"Jamil, both you and I know you can't keep using your unique magic indefinitely. So far, every single thing I've done, I've done on my own accord."

"And you don't fear me..?"

You looked at him dead in the eyes, with the most unwavering, serious gaze you could muster.

"How could I fear the man I love?"

He pulled you in for a gentle kiss, which he poured all of his emotions into.

"I promise you, I won't let any harm come your way, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and content, and free." He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Love, you sound like you're about to propose." You teased, trying to lighten the mood.

A small smile graced his features. "Perhaps in the future.", He thought to himself.

"How about we go back to bed, you are most certainly staying the night here, mister. I'll be right next to you when you wake up."

"I'm sorry for barging in at such an ungodly hour."

"Oh, shut up~. You know you're always welcome here, and besides, I'd always prefer to have you next to me when I sleep."

He didn't really understand what he did to deserve you, but you were his beacon of light and he swore to treasure you and keep you safe for as long as you let him.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x mc #twst imagines #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x yuu #twisted wonderland jamil #jamil viper #twst jamil #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil viper x mc #jamil viper x yuu #jamil viper x y/n #jamil angst #jamil fluff #jamil comfort #twst fluff #twst angst #twst comfort #disney twst #twst fanfic #twst headcanons #twst

[jesncin]

Okay, I'll bite, what are your feelings on the trans conner pitch?

Oh boy! Thank you for tossing me this bone because I have a lot of mixed feelings!

I notice that people online are very hot and cold about the Trans Superboy Pitch, they either love it or hate it and that doesn't leave a lot of room for nuance + discussion. So to be respectful to a fellow trans peer in the industry, I want to do a fair review/analysis of Skyrocket: the trans Conner Kent pitch by Magdalene Visaggio.

My general takeaway from the pitch is that I like the premise, but the details fumble the execution for me. I can really feel from reading the pitch that Visaggio cares about Superboy. She understands that he's a very weird legacy character who has struggled to find proper footing in the DC Universe after all these years. An effective legacy character is one who is able to spin off and expand upon the themes of the character whose mantle they carry. But the cheesy whatever-goes 90's-ness of Superboy's original run didn't give future writers a lot to work with in terms of a Superman Legacy Character.

It's why I genuinely believe the later retcon reveal that -part of Conner's DNA is from Lex Luthor- is a fantastic addition to his character. It takes a character who was just kind of screwing off to gentrify Hawaii back into the center of Superman's good vs evil conflict. But now Conner's problem is that his story is too tied to his origin and Superman's shadow. Placing Conner with the Kents in Smallville afterwards made him narratively redundant. What's next for him?

So let's dig into the pitch!

I like what's at the heart of this pitch. It's a very season-3-ATLA-Zuko "honor wasn't all it's cracked up to be" arc and I think that suits Conner's character really well! It's the details I have gripes with:

"Conner has been largely relegated to the Jason Todd of the Superfamily" oof, haha that's not a particularly fair characterization.

The constant comparing of Superman to Christian imagery. He's described as basically "Jesus goddamn Christ" in the pitch. The Tyrannical Kryptonians are named Saint, Shepherd and Savior. No surprise I don't like seeing a character who allegorically represented Jewish immigrants to be constantly compared to Christian imagery and deified.

It's inevitable with pitching to the company, but the pitch is bogged down by a lot of convoluted plot points. I get that it's necessary to pitch event tie-ins and universe hopping shenanigans, but it's a lot.

Leland feels like a plot device in this. I'm sure there were plans to flesh out the brotherly clone relationship between him and Conner so that he can feel like his own character, but from the summary he just kind of revolves around Conner the way the pitch describes Conner revolving around Superman. Oops!

Conner's relation to Luthor and Superman works as a story about legacy, bloodlines and the things parents pass down to their kids. It's best when handled thematically and not literally because it's easy to get into essentialist "good genes" vs "evil genes" near-eugenics talking points. Unfortunately this pitch has a lot of that vibe. Leland has more Lex genes so he's super smart. Conner and Leland are able to start a schism in the Future Tyrannical Kryptonian House by "proving their truer genetic link to the original Superman, unsullied by thousands of years of tinkering" thereby gaining allies. Not great!

The part where Conner wants to find "his own Metropolis" by moving to Dripping Springs, Texas. That's Jinny Hex's field of operations, so is it really his own space? I would've just given Conner a new town so he can better stand on his own and build out a unique cast system.

Okay let's talk about the trans stuff!

I get that it makes for an Iconic Visual Superhero Moment, but I really don't like the part where Conner steps through a magical crystal and pops out the other side as a trans woman. It robs her of having that discovery on her own. The pitch says "I believe that this is as natural a move as Iceman's coming out". And just?? Man, remember when Jean Grey read Iceman Bobby Drake's mind and robbed him of his agency by outing him through that invasion of privacy? For a pitch all about Conner's journey of defining herself, it weirdly robbed her of that moment.

The pitch does such a good job talking about how Conner feels like her whole life revolves around Superman and how pointless wanting to be Superman feels now that Jon Kent has taken the mantle. She has Clark's genes, goes to Clark's hometown school, is raised by Clark's parents and all that. So then why is she eventually named after the women in Clark's life? Constance "Connie" Lara Kent. Clark's Kryptonian mom and human grandma? Was the world so small that she could not name herself after anyone else or come up with a new name? Connie doesn't even get to name herself, her new name is one Martha Kent bestows her with. It's hypocritical, and doesn't have the same impact that Superman giving Superboy a Kryptonian name does.

Speaking of which, this right here is my biggest gripe. It's not in the pitch itself but?? Wait- why go on about how Conner deserves a name that's not given to her and then turn around and make Martha name her? Sure, Connie comes up with the superhero name "Skyrocket" herself but surely she also deserves to name herself considering the thesis the pitch built up about self discovery and agency right?

Also with all due respect, this is the whitest queer take on Conner's identity. I wish white trans people could understand that you can have multiple true names that reflect different parts of you.

When Clark gives Superboy the name "Kon-El" it matters that it's given. It ties so well to the idea of familial acceptance into a nearly-extinct culture. You wouldn't know how to reclaim that part of your identity when that culture's been wiped out, so of course it's an honor to be trusted with a name that preserves Krypton's culture. This is a common practice with diaspora reclaiming cultural names from closed cultures, they are gifted their names by someone more culturally connected. I think the pitch having Martha name Connie is trying to echo this, but it doesn't hit the same without that cultural context. It also undercuts the genuine joy Conner felt from finally having a name he truly identifies with. Conner was only ever referred to as Superboy before then. When Clark gives him the name Kon El, Conner cries out that Kon El is his "real name". It's one of his defining moments, and to have that be diminished by saying "It's still a name someone else gave him" is so disappointing.

Then there's the design.

This is gonna lean more into preference, but I'm not the biggest fan of this design! I get what it's going for but it has too much going on everywhere. It also doesn't have that proto-punk look original Conner had, so it ends up not feeling like him. It's too superhero, and not enough casual-wear-on-a-supersuit that Conner sports really well. I see how it fits in with the everyone-in-Superfam-is-wearing-jackets-era, but I also think those new designs don't look good either. Especially Supergirl's. I feel like Conner should be more punk post transition. No respectability beam for her!

Also the name Skyrocket? It's giving knock off-brand toy vibes to me I'm sorry D: People on twidder suggested Supernova and that sounds way better! Even Visaggio stated she prefers that name so you can't be mad at me for this.

Overall big conclusion feelings!

I've been following Visaggio's work for a while because it's awesome seeing trans people getting picked up in comics. While there are some things about her writing I like, for the most part I've felt like her work isn't my cup of tea. I tried reading up a bunch of interviews she's in to try to understand why her writing wasn't clicking with me, and what I discovered is that we have fundamentally different approaches to queer storytelling.

From Paste Magazine. I get where she's coming from, trans characters deserve to have multi-faceted narratives that don't overly center how they're othered at the expense of further characterization. But also? I just actually find the interior lives of queer people and identity interesting. I like writing the kind of escapism and joy that's informed by surviving and inheriting hardships rather than erasing those things or skipping past it. I think this is why Connie is robbed of her trans discovery in the pitch. Why we don't get to watch her grapple with gender identity in a political way. Queer stories about queer struggles are considered archaic and unnecessary nowadays. It's part of the escapism Visaggio values in her work; to give a place of respite for trans readers from the cruelty they experience in reality, but I don't connect to stories like that personally. Whenever I try to share queer Indonesian art and writing with my peers, I'm often told it's too painful to look at. That our pain doesn't fit the modern expectation for happy, empowering queer stories. "trans people get enough hardships in real life, they don't need that in their fiction" Visaggio still talks about her newest projects like this btw.

I'd love to see a take on Conner that more holistically continues the political immigrant themes of Superman. The white parts of fandom love interpreting Conner's identity crisis as primarily a queer struggle, but it's also one of a person grappling with his mixed heritage. He's a diaspora kid separated by a generation away from Krypton. He has yet to make peace with the Luthor side of his identity, one borne of generational trauma and resentment for one's roots. Instead of a take where his queerness separates him from the pressures of legacy, I want to see a Conner take that has themes that are intersectional about his mixed diaspora and queer identity. I want his superficial punk aesthetic to graduate into actual punk ideals. The anti-establishment and radical love philosophies of punk culture would make such a cool extension of Superman themes and it would make so much sense that someone facing so many intersections of marginalization would be radicalized from their experience. I want a queer Conner who isn't just empowering and idealistic, I want one that also gives space for queer readers to feel like their pain is seen too. Conner isn't "Truth, Justice and the American Way" he's famously "Truth, Justice, My Way".

There's a tendency in media criticism to treat marginalized talent as infallible, and I don't think that fair to creatives like Visaggio. Being able to look at their ideas with nuance instead of essentializing it as being Good or Trash is the best way to respect diverse creativity. And my nuanced feelings are that a white queer person who looks at Conner's story and just sees the queer part and dismisses the diaspora mixed heritage side of him,,, is not going to give me the Conner story I want to see.

#askjesncin #superboy #kon el #conner kent #jesncin dc meta #media criticism #the thing about conner superboy is that his character is a mess #and I love a mess. I could talk about mess all day #this is a long way of saying that white queer people will never be able to give me the queer stories i need

[anananass]

NSFW Wriothesley x Fem!Reader ~ Snake Eyes

warning: Nsfw, as per usual

Tags: oral (giving), praising (as usual), almost getting caught, semi-public sexy stuff, sucking under the desk (spoiler), inappropriate usage of a tongue piercing, slight choking, dom Wrio but he is soft, he gets a little bit pissed and turns into a small asshole at some point (not directed at you, never)

wc: 2,2k

summary: spicy time under his grace’s desk. It was about time you spoiled your beloved Lord a bit, though someone disturbs your fun time.

note: piercings are hot

“I have an idea.” You insisted with a glint in your eyes proving that what you were about to say would be of tremendous interest to him.

The Duke raised a curious eyebrow and immediately offered you a smirk of intrigue, but he kept silent, awaiting your thoughts with much enthusiasm and utter craving.

You were seated right under his desk, between his legs doing something seemingly… interesting. Your hands were already resting on his hips at a narrowing distance away from his crotch. Despite that, his throbbing tent remained uncovered though if someone were to walk in on you two, it would be like you were just about to do something unholy. Not that it would be the first time the two of you would be caught doing something like that, but that wasn’t of any importance right now.

Voyeurism aside, your idea was innovative, something he’d easily get obsessed with, but You wouldn’t just serve it on a silver plate without starving him a little.

Hushed and delighted, you peered deeply into his icy eyes, your vision thinning into a squint with each second that passed. You just required a little stimulus, nothing more, but the Duke’s tolerance was running out and with it, his hunger only kept growing.

A little impatient with your quietness, Wriothesley gently wrapped his fingers around your neck, leading you to lift your gaze. Something a little unexpected, but he’d surely use that to his advantage in some way, right?

“Go ahead, spill it.” He urged you through ragged breaths that he hardly held under control, though the seductive eyes you were giving him made it even more difficult. “Don’t just leave me hanging like this.”

You felt his grip tighten around your throat, the applied pressure feeling pleasurable with each second he was digging deeper and deeper into your sensitive skin.

Maybe you shouldn’t have toyed with his grace like that when he expected something the most, or maybe you should have done it every time if that meant he would choke you just the way you liked it.

His clutch only caused you to gulp your arousal. “What if I do things a little differently this time?” you finally spoke out but as soon as he gave you that look of intrigue, you felt your cheeks boil.

“Is that so?” he questioned in a guttural voice that sent cold shivers down your spine until you were nothing but a trembling mess. “Why don’t you show me?” he tilted his head and soon after, tightened the grip around your neck.

The way he said that in such a hoarse voice made your knees weak and you didn't care about toying with him anymore, you just wanted to savor the opportunity of pleasing him in a new way.

“Yes, your grace.” you murmured softly, emphasizing the words ‘your grace’ and he seemed to like that with how much his member was twitching underneath that thick layer of fabric.

Upon hearing that, he expected you to lower your head but instead found himself watching you open your mouth. Shortly after, the imagery of you sticking out your tongue for him to see the snake eyes you had on your tip made him wonder if that’s what you meant by different. Just what were you planning to do with that hint you gave him? He couldn't figure, but that was fine, he would feel it soon enough.

With how much you were making him question your plans, you felt this new necklace of yours loosen up. That was your opportunity to surprise him with a new sensation, one he’d surely hope for once more in the near future.

Slowly, your digits crept closer to his aching bulge. You took all the time to unbutton his grace’s garments, making sure nothing would hinder the treatment he was about to receive. Wriothesley watched you closely the entire time, paying close attention to every single thing you were doing, and the closer you got to removing his boxers, the more he felt his breath grow steadier. Still, he wouldn't rid you of the image of a cocky smile smeared all across his radiant face. He knew very well that it was your fuel, apart from other particular reasons that are best known among you two.

Finally, once you took away the last layer of cloth and watched his member come out with an incredible bounce, you gave the hardness a good look before lifting your gaze back up. You let out a playful chuckle that was suspicious enough to push him to move his hand to the back of your head, and once enough time passed, you lowered your head.

The first thing you did was wrap your fleshy lips around his dripping tip. As a consequence, he let out a muffled moan that only went lower with each inch you were beginning to take in. Oh, he liked that so much. It was a sensation he could hardly explain, but the way his mouth opened partly and his eyes grew heavier was enough to make you aware that you were spoiling him rotten.

Soon enough, your lips parted ways with his head and without a place for pause, you stuck your tongue out and began running it down his shaft at a slow pace. You applied close pressure to where the Pierce would make contact with the sensitive buds of his length. The cold sensation of the steel had his blood boiling with a different kind of arousal. You wondered for a second whether he liked it or not but once you saw him bob his head back, clench his teeth, and growl, you figured you hit the spot.

“Jesus, Y/N.” Wriothesley gasped, letting out another moan the moment he felt you hit the base of his member. His free hand seized the hardwood of the chair, and every time he sensed your tongue grind a bit more diligently he dug his nails in and clawed. Soon after, you noticed his other hand grab onto the back of your head, tugging at your hair with each moan that escaped out of his throat.

Hearing him so weakened pushed you to take another go but this time with a little more spice. You lifted your head and instead took his head inside once more, this time gradually bobbing your head up and down whilst applying the same pressure against his slickness. You slowly increased the speed at which you were taking him in and out, and with it, rubbed his nerves harder and harder.

“Fuck.” was all he muttered while finding it difficult to keep his head straight and not just arch it back against the chair. Yet you looked so nice taking him in like that, he couldn't just miss on all that.

His grip tightened, so much that you felt him beginning to push you deeper into him. Simultaneously, he began bucking his hips into your mouth, as if his instincts were activating. Shortly, you sensed them evolving into gentle thrusts which was a little surprising, but maybe he just didn’t want to mess that pretty face of yours.

It was a little hard to keep yourself in place with all the ongoing motions, but thanks to him holding your head down like it was nothing, you only needed to reinforce your touch around his knees.

Groans began pouring out of his mouth with each second you spent like that, it was a melody to your ears. This was your first time seeing him so vocal during a simple act like this one, it was intriguing really, and definitely, a must-do again. Well, you’d surely do it again with how much he was enjoying himself in that position.

The aroma of his precum mixing with your saliva was infatuating. A flavor of bittersweetness exploded in your mouth and at that moment, all you could think of was how this quickly would surely turn into something more lengthy, as it always does. Every time he proposed that you two have a little fun time between breaks, that break would end up taking more of his time than you anticipated. It made you feel hot thinking about it, so hot that you too began accompanying him with some whines of your own. That and the addition of his continuous growls caused your folds to soak a little. Your insides were beginning to boil in anticipation as you looked forward to what he would do in return for you because let’s be honest, he would repay you back.

How could His Girl leave unspoiled after treating him so well under the desk? Until then, you decided to focus on the task at hand.

Suddenly, you heard the loud clicking of the metal door making a pounding sound as if it just got closed. Did someone enter his office? You questioned in your head, taken aback by the unannounced visitation. You halted your motions as you’d normally do but the Duke kept moving your head in and out, desperately signaling you he didn't want you to stop. He even flashed you a serious look whilst his brows furrowed into a demanding expression. He looked more tense than before but that was probably because he was preparing himself to deal with the situation.

Then, he took his hands away from you, allowing you full control, hopeful you’d keep going since your body was hardly noticeable under his desk. So you obliged and deepened yourself in his length. Truthfully, this moment was hindering. You had to keep silent which was a lot more difficult than you imagined. Even he could feel it since you squirmed slightly.

“Your grace-” finally came from the voice of an officer that was already going all the way up.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” wriothesley barked back, a little annoyed with this intrusion. “I thought everyone knows they should first check whether I’m available or not.” he pointed out this time more roughly. His eyes analyzed the scenery to see when he’d make eye contact with the officer. You seized that opportunity to rub your teeth against his shaft to toy with him a little, and in response, he held back a muffled groan.

Despite your successful attempt, his eyes didn’t lower to your head anymore although you could feel how much he was yearning to do it.

“Yes your grace, but-” the officer spoke out upon reaching the final step. “I have just finished the cafeteria report you asked for.”

“Is that on the priority list?” Wriothesley didn't hesitate and cut him off almost immediately. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was people coming up with low-priority tasks rather than high-priority ones. That and being bothered during his special break time. “Didn’t I specify this is a low-priority objective on this week’s list?”

“Yes but, I just finished it.” the officer cried out, sounding perplexed as to why the Duke was displeased with his arrival.

Right before he could answer, you accidentally brushed your tongue a little too hard against his member. Not only did it cause it to throb, but the consequence had a small effect on Wriothesley too. He frowned and stayed silent for a little longer than he meant to, maybe because he was composing himself.

“Then you could come by later on and tell me all about it. Right now I’m on a break.” he insisted, sounding more distracted than present in their conversation. “So please, help yourself and leave this for further discussion. Take a break too, a small one.”

You didn’t hear anything more from the officer but a hum, after which he finally spoke. “Yes, your grace. Enjoy your break!” the young man exclaimed, sounding clueless. Immediately, you heard his footsteps once more, and finally the pounding of the door.

Wriothesley sighed deeply as soon as it was the two of you again. He leaned back on his chair and reached for your head once more. His fingertips caressed your hair, drawing small circles.

“Sorry about that.” his apology took you so much by surprise that you gradually decreased your pace until finally retracting your face so you could look up at him.

“What are you apologizing for? There is nothing you should apologize for.” you contested.

“I know but-” he paused for a second, time in which he backed his chair away. You stared in bewilderment at his gesture but trusted that he wasn’t just terminating this moment. “How about you come out of there?” his hand reached for yours to guide you out of the desk. “And allow me to return the favor?” he urged as soon as he had you right in front of him. Then, he further directed you to come sit on his lap, your knees must have been sore from all that time spent there.

You were about to reply but when the corners of his lips curled into a broad smirk and his face slowly capped the gap between your faces, you gasped with utmost anticipation. His hands began wandering around your hips, gripping bits of skin with each inch they traversed. His member on the other hand throbbed against you, which left you desperately squirming for more.

“Yes, please,” you whined as the gap between your lips and his narrowed even more, though you noticed that his mouth was merely trailing closer to your neck.

“Right away, darling.” Wriothesley chuckled and didn’t wait even a second to begin nibbling on your sensitive skin.

#genshin impact #genshin smut #wriothesley smut #wrio smut #wrio x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact imagines

[tadpolesonalgae]

Mer!Azriel x human!reader: The Dregs of Tragedy

A/N: Something about writing Az as a creature other than Illyrian just makes him end up being so cold and cruel and I have literally no idea where that comes from?

Warnings: Bitta’ blod, Az saves reader in a way, you have an awful husband in this

Word Count: 4,970

-Part 2-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“If your husband hears you talking like that, he’ll string you up with the rest of them.”

You flinch at the imagery, but stay firm—were you even a fisherman’s wife without nerves of steel and a stomach made of iron? “I don’t care what you say. It’s barbaric either way.” Joanne shakes her head, hair pulled back from her face as the carving knife splits the fish’s head from its body. “It’s barbaric what they do to us, sweet lass. A sailor’s death will never be kind, but to be dragged below the waters by those clammy hands is not a fate I would wish on many.”

Quirk a brow, lips tugging up at the edges. “Would Hildebald be among those few many?” You ask, making the fishmonger’s wife shoot you a sharp glare.

“Do not ask me to speak poorly of him. The gods listen between breaths.”

“The gods lay back while we are beaten and bloody,” you say, carefully lowering your voice. “I fear them as much as you do, but I will not succumb to terror. Virtues protect me, I carry honour close and pray to valour for my husband’s safe return, but that does not mean I would be unhappy should he be snatched from my side.”

Joanne runs her eyes over you appraisingly, face carved deep with age lines, hair wispy and grey. “Listen closely, lass,” she instructs, “we have little power in what happens to us, don’t squander the hand you’ve been dealt, for many others would gladly take your place. Your husband works hard at sea, and has been parted from his gold to pay for you—and we all know your father put an unreasonable dowry on your head.” Her misty sea-foam eyes flicker about, on constant edge should the wrong ears catch the conversation. “Just be grateful for what you have, lass. Look to the skies and you’ll go falling over your own feet,” she hisses, a clear end to the conversation.

You open your mouth to speak back—just because he’s paid for you doesn’t mean he can bruise you bloody—but her watery blue eyes skip over your shoulder, just as a hard, heavy palm settles atop the skin, pulling you in close to a tall, strong body, trained and battered from the seas. “Fish for supper?” He asks jovially—it must have been a good sail. Turn into him, like a creature seeking protection from a vastly superior beast, tilting your head to peer up at your husband. “I got a fresh loaf from the bakers so I was thinking of a soup,” you say, pushing up onto your tiptoes to deliver a chaste kiss to his rough skin, coarse hairs scratching your cheek. “They even added in a fresh lemon to go with it all.”

Light, sharp blue eyes cut to you, something passing behind them that has your stomach sinking. “Of course they did,” he mutters, “it’s in their nature to covet another man’s catch.” He shakes his head, arm tightening around your ribcage almost painfully. “Joanne, you can accompany my wife to the bakers from here onwards,” he drawls out the order like he’s stood behind his ship’s wheel. He turns back to you, fingers stroking along the underside of your breast, eyes glinting. “A hag ought to even out the balance of your beauty,” he murmurs, and you attempt not to cringe as his hot, fishy breath fans across your face.

Instead you dip your head in a demure show of embarrassment, ducking away from the smell. “You find me beautiful because you spend your days at sea with only fish to admire,” you dodge the compliment like you’re expected to, the picture of humble grace. “I assure you, I am nothing much at all.” That seems to please him, squeezing you a little too tightly. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the town,” he says, greasy hand stroking your side. “That is why you are mine. I would not have picked you out if there was a better catch.”

You paste a shy smile onto your lips, tucking away a stray hair over your ear, gripping the wicker basket tighter.

The night will be unpleasant but blessedly short.

————

The surf is calmer today, fog rolling across the grey-blue landscape.

You shouldn’t be down at the cove so early in the morning, but you hadn’t wanted to sleep beside him for a moment longer. Desiccated, scratchy skin pressing to your back, a meaty arm pressed around your waist. So you’d come down to the alcove to clear your head, allowing the crips, salty air to clear your mind before the day ahead. Though sailors will soon be passing by, so you can’t afford to wait too long.

Release a heavy breath, staring out at the deep blue of the ocean, long since desensitised to the scent of brine and seaweed that makes inlanders cringe. The waves are slight, appearing almost still as you survey the view. Had it not been for the steady babble and crush of water, you might have believed the world to be frozen.

Your mind drifts to tales of the mer, stories told to every child to encourage fear and awe into their hearts. Of their cold and clammy hands, capable of pulling fully grown sailors from the docks should they stand too close to the edge. Of their damp, bluish skin, like an eel’s on their chest and arms, but scaled and sharp on their long, thrashing tails. Of their razor-sharp teeth, used to shred and tear at their prey before finally doing away with the catch.

But more than any other feature, folk melodies revolve around their deadly song. Said to be sung so sweetly it could lure any sailor to wish for his end to be at their cold, wet hands. To be dragged below the water’s still surface into their dark and murky layer, fed enough air to be kept alive and aware but never enough to resist as the flesh is torn from their bones.

You move forward, walking along the rickety platform, wanting to look down into the water at the end of the pier, despite the danger you’ve been warned about. The water is still high, but has already begun draining away, the tides lowering. You hum absently as you approach, an old tune that’s often strummed around celebratory bonfires, logs crackling and embers burning bright against the wet blues and greys of the sea-town.

Something catches your eye, ripples coming out from beneath the pier you’re stood on.

Brows furrow, and you walk forward quietly. Maybe a sea creature is hiding beneath the platform. A smile tugs at your lips at the idea—you’d like to see more of the animals when they’re alive instead of with their head severed into a slimy, bloody basket.

You lower to your knees as you come to the edge, muffling your steps so as not to scare it away, if there really is something there.

Peer over the ledge, gaze going to one of the two beams supporting the platform.

Eyes latch with coal black, ringlets of damp, silky hair curling over blue-tinted skin.

Lips part in a scream as you jerk back from the edge, scrambling away before it’s spindly hands come groping for your legs. Heart pounding, you thumb free the small dagger from a dress pocket, gripping it between trembling hands as you frenetically eye the waters below. Waiting for it to attack one side of the pier…to try and drag you under so it can feed on your flesh.

Breath clouds, tendrils curling from your lips as you tremble, replaying the depth of blackness in your mind, the deathly tint of its skin, the unnatural beauty of the lethal creature.

Nothing.

Utter silence.

Shakily, you get to your feet. Had you imagined it? There’s no way.

Heart pounding, you again make your way to the ledge, prepared to toss yourself back should its hands suddenly rise from the water. Swallow, gripping the dagger tight as you shift closer, enough to see a head of dark, slightly curled hair. No doubt the drying sea salt bringing out the waves.

Ease a shuddering breath as you again meet its eyes—charcoal black and utterly depthless. Designed to see in the deepest parts of the mighty ocean. That’s when you notice the tinge in the waters surrounding— him. It’s a male face. Dark lashes, smooth skin, cropped hair.

Eyes dart back to the sea, bleeding red around him.

You note the fishing wire that’s gotten him tangled to one of the beams upholding the platform.

He’s been caught.

Lips part in relief—he can’t hurt you. And yet— “You’re not singing…” you murmur to yourself, eyeing the soft-looking mouth of the creature.

Features coil, twisting themselves into something frighteningly fitting as lips pull back from teeth—dozens of tiny, shredding teeth, set in two neat rows with noticeably protruding incisors. You flinch back on instinct, but remaster your fear, reminding yourself he can’t move. Swallowing, you thank the gods for your iron stomach as you return to the edge. Dagger still gripped tight.

The wire has wrapped itself around his torso from what you can see—probably having gotten tangled first with the creature’s tail, then only constricted tighter as he tried to escape. Much like seaweed.

Brow tightens as the waves continue washing at the shore—the ocean’s draining. What will happen to him, if he doesn’t break free? His lips look dry now you’re peering closer, lines running beneath the stunning black of his vicious eyes. They can survive without being submerged in water for days, but the wire… How long has he been here for?

His mouth opens, and you freeze, tales of their deadly song returning, but instead of the painful melody you were expecting, what comes out is a rasping screech. Garbled and furious—a wet hissing noise, as if he’s seething his warnings.

There’s wire against his neck. Already slicing deep against the powerful column of his throat, stopping much of the noise escaping. You stare down at the creature, tangled and caught. A mighty beast that’s been stripped of any way to protect itself. You wonder if it fears or loathes the helplessness. Perhaps a little of both.

You peer into its eyes, the vicious fury contained within, like he’s already promising to repay the pain you’ll inflict on him tenfold.

Your throat rolls as you stare at him. He’ll die if you leave him—it’s a miracle of some kind he’s managed to remain undetected for so long, though you suppose not many people come down here. But what if someone else finds him?

A queasy feeling tightens around your throat as you imagine the tide sweeping out, gravity pulling the weight of his body down into those slicing wires, forcing him to rest in the tangle until the water returns to yield him to near weightlessness. But what if one of the sailors finds him?

You know what they’ll do. What they already do to the mer they catch. How they’re mutilated, then strung up in the air for the salty winds to whip at, for birds to peck at, slathered in fish blood and other small carcasses to draw creatures in. Sometimes fires are lit beneath their long, powerful tails. Slowly cooking them alive.

Hadn’t you been protesting against the brutality just the other day?

The mer struggles again, water rippling as he writhes, so certain he can break the man-made wire holding him. So desperate to do so.

You look around once���twice. Check no sailors have yet begun to pass over the paths that lead beside the shore. Slowly lower to your knees, gripping the dagger. Black eyes pick out the steel, and he thrashes more, hissing violently as his features are again carved into that picture of grizzly vehemence. Exactly how the stories have told them to be.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say clearly, slowly. If he’s smart enough to capture and kill fully grown sailors, he should have something to pick up on tone. Some kind of sense that will tell him it’s better to let you near than to go through with the fate he’s seemingly been dealt.

He hisses again, still baring those teeth at you, but he’s no longer struggling. No longer bringing the wire deeper into his body. It’s a good start. You just need to make sure he doesn’t grab you once cut loose. What a foolish way to go.

You breathe deeply as you move closer, reaching forward.

His muscles tense, tension tightening his shoulders as the blade nears him—it would be easy for your hand to drag the steel across his throat, but the very idea makes you uncomfortable. Watching murder happen and doing it yourself are still very different. You don’t think you could quite stomach that.

“I need you to keep still,” you say gently, clearly. If he makes a sudden movement with the blade so close… You slide it beneath the wire, placing the sharp edge to the restraints, pulling in attempts to get it to break. He hisses suddenly, and you realise it’ll be cutting into his throat so you change tactics, gently sawing until it snaps free.

The mer coughs, wet gasps being hauled down into no-doubt powerful lungs, spluttering as his gills spasm violently.

You can only allow him a little time before setting to work on the next one, further below the water, binding his shoulders tight to the post. Settle closer to the platform, aware of how his eyes silently track every angle of your movements. Whether to make sure you don’t attack, or to plan his own, you don’t contemplate. Just reach deeper, aiming for the next wire. Repeat the gentle sawing motions until that too snaps off.

A gush of relief washes over you as his upper body moves free from the bloody mess, but then he hisses and jerks back, pressing to the beam. His noise sounds strained instead of violent. A noise the product of lacerating pain. There’s most likely more wire tangling his tail, but— you can’t reach that.

The unearthly face tilts, dark eyes boring into you with urgency and— Great Gods. Hunger.

“What are you doing down here?”

You flinch at the rumble of your husband’s voice and the creature goes preternaturally still. As if he also recognises the sound. You could swear his skin leeches of the bluish tint, becoming colder and more translucent. The dagger drops from your hands, bouncing loudly on the wood of the pier. Settles at the edge, and you jerk away, turning to face the towering man approaching you.

Panic grips you as you spy a broad, pale blue hand rising silently from the water. Reaching for the blade.

You shift, angling your body to block him from your husband.

“I wanted to see if I could see the sea bed,” you explain hurriedly, managing what you hope is an appropriately embarrassed smile. “Sadly the tide’s in, so I think it’s too deep. Do you know when it’ll be out again?” You ask, trying to distract from the position he’d found you in. His brow narrows, heavy boots clunking over the rickety pier. “You shouldn’t be so near to the waters,” he mutters, moving forward and you hastily get to your feet, the dagger gone from the platform.

Bruising, meaty hands roughly grip your upper arms, forcefully turning you to face him. The smell of grease and hot fish washes over you and you fight your cringe. “Yesterday it was the bakers, today it’s the seas,” he mutters, “it’s not right for you to be this close to—” Follow the direction of his gaze, down to the edge of the pier.

He pushes you to the side, allowing him to galumph past, staring down to the post the mer had been tied to.

Watch his bulky silhouette as hands pull into flesh-beating fists, your bones already aching. “Is everything okay?” You ask softly, shaking your head to yourself. “I’m sorry for taking so long to make breakfast—I got sidetracked on my usual pathway. Let’s return home.”

He doesn’t move, the world silent save for the steady wash of waves at the shore. Your husband turns then, brows pulled into a hateful bunch atop sea-roughened skin. “Why were you peering into the waters?” His voice is low and blunt, eyes sharpening to glacial blue, regarding you with a hint of suspicion. You smile, “I told you, I was looking to see the bottom but the tide’s not yet out.”

Heart is pounding—could he have already known the mer was there? The bluish skin had almost drained, as if paling with fury.

Then he’s walking to you with intent, hands brutally gripping your upper arms, tight enough the bones trembling beneath his sailor’s grip. “Why were you peering into—”

Something gleams over his shoulder, grazing the muscle of his bicep as your dagger flies past, blood spitting onto the deck as the blade lodges into the wood. Cold blue eyes freeze, snapping from the weapon dug into the pier back to you. “That’s yours,” he accuses, lowly. “You set it free, didn’t you?”

“I don’t—”

His hand smacks across your cheek before you have time to prepare, the corner of your mouth stinging as something hot trickles down your chin. Lips part, raising your fingers to the drip-drop of blood.

“You set the damned thing free,” he rages, practically snarling with fury. Before you can do anything against it, he’s turning, gripping you so tight you’re afraid your arm will splinter. “Björn! Bertram!” He bellows, calling to the sailors that are no doubt beginning their morning routines. He’s muttering to himself, about capturing it again before it can get too far out to sea, dragging you along behind him.

You stumble, tripping up as you go, almost bumping into him as you’re roughly pulled back along the pier. He whirls on you then, backhanding you hard enough you almost careen backward. But his meaty hand is encompassing your throat, strangling tight as he pulls you close enough for his greasy, fishy beard to coarsely scratch your skin. “Stupid, foolish hag,” he snarls out, “you’ll be strung you and up cooked alive for that.”

Your stomach churns as you struggle, nails clawing at his knuckles, scratching deep enough to draw blood, more of it drip-dropping onto the rickety pier. You gasp for breath, rasping and clawing at his hand until he snarls, shoving you back. Tripping over your skirts, the back of your head smacks against the wood hard enough to have your vision blurring, white spots dancing through your view. Billowing grey clouds wash overhead, looking about to rain down.

Weakly, you push up from the damp platform, in time to see your husband pluck the dagger from the ground—what had tripped you up. Eyes flash with fury, flipping the hilt menacingly as he advances, drawing out the fear. You whimper, scrambling back until your hand slips over the edge, almost sending you tumbling into the murky depths. “I should have known,” he spits out, “there were whispers about your thoughts. I should have paid them more mind.” The dagger glints in his hand, so quickly turned to your own throat.

“I’ll take my time with you,” he mutters, “take the fingers that cut the fish free.” Flips the blade in his hand as he towers over you. Muscles coil taut, unable to move, unable to fight as the steel glitters beneath the overcast light. He moves to grab you—to take your fingers, to cut you up.

A deafening screech sounds, rasping and raw, then a pale blue shape leaps from the water. Jaws are unlocked to a monstrous angle, neat rows of sharp, flesh-shredding teeth bared as that giant tail thrashes with the force to propel him clean from the water. The muscled weight of the mer crashes into your husband, knocking him from his feet as he’s stolen beneath the water’s surface faster than you can blink.

The sea ripples in his wake, then calms to nothing, continuing to lap at the shore, hiding all traces of the deadly attack.

“Mer!” A bellowing voice roars, and your eyes are dragged to the beginning of the pier, two hulking sailors—Björn and Bertram—stood among the heavy, rolling fogs that have seemingly thickened out of nowhere. Their weighty boots thud on the deck as they begin storming forward, weapons gripped tight in case of another unseen attack.

Your heart beats in your mouth, fear and panic sweeping you under as you freeze with terror. You shift to move back, but have forgotten you’re already at the edge, hand slipping back over the ledge of the pier.

Eyes go wide, unable to scream as powerful, cold-blooded hands wrap beneath your arms, hooking over your shoulders and you’re dragged down beneath the sea’s surface. Water swallowing any trace of struggle as it seals overhead.

You thrash and writhe, hands shoving out as you try to free yourself from the iron grip of the mer that’s dragging you down to his sea bed. He turns you around, then cold, soft lips are settling over your own, breathing fresh air into your lungs. Tasting slightly coppery. You don’t question how it’s possible—they’re creatures of magic—just greedily gulp the extra seconds of life down as you feel his powerful body ripple with motion, muscle working as the large tail propels you deeper into the ocean, stolen away from the sea-town you’d grown up in.

Fear seeps into your blood as images of his tiny, shredding teeth flash through your head, the charcoal of his large, onyx eyes.

You should never have risked freeing him. He’s as cruel as the songs warn.

————

Spluttering as you break the surface of the underwater cave, your eyes ache from being squeezed shut for gods know how long.

Gulp down air to fuel your panic driven heartbeat, briny salt water stinging as tears drip down your cheeks. You quickly blink them away, unable to dry your eyes thanks to the cold water having soaked your clothes, down to the bone. His tail moves in strong motions, keeping the both of you afloat, yet he hasn’t bitten down. Mouth remains shut, as if waiting for you to ready.

Peel open your gaze, instantly latching onto his dark eyes, glittering black as he watches you silently. The oddly shaped ears either side his head twitch, looking like the webbed feet of some of the marine birds you’ve seen. Birds that have feasted upon mer flesh when it’s been strung up to be picked at.

As soon as you can manage, you’re trying to writhe away from the creature, but the stories haven’t done their strength justice. It’s like being held by stone, muscle as unforgiving as the cold, jagged rocks the surf crashes upon. Dread sets in, spiralling your mind as you thrash against his grip, desperate to spare yourself from the horrible fate of his gently prying teeth.

“Let go of me,” you plead, trying to squirm out of his hold, eyeing the hewn rock that makes up the underwater cave, seemingly being kept in an air bubble. Gaze returns to gleaming black in time to see as a transparent film blinks across his eyes, making you startle, yipping as you flinch away in horror. Teeth catch on the edge of your mouth with the recoil, reopening the small wound, courtesy of your husband, vision again blurring with the sting.

You struggle as he starts moving, but he’s pushing you toward the ledge of the rocky cave, not dragging you below—deeper into his layer. Breathing stutters as your back presses into the jagged rock, his blue-tinted hands spanning your hips, turning you around and pushing up from the cold sea. You scramble away so quickly you graze your knee on the sharp rock, splitting skin as blood begins seeping into your skirts.

Wince at the pain, but push as far back as you can, finding the stone now to be surprisingly smooth, as if carved away. Breathe heavily, shivering against the icy temperature of the submarine cave, hugging your limbs close by as the mer watches silently. Tears helplessly drip down your cheeks, teeth chattering as you try to put a stop to your crying. You’re a fisherman’s wife, for goodness sake. Were a fisherman’s wife?

Throat rolls as you push back into the smooth wall of the cave. “What did you do with my…with Alaric?” You manage through trembling jaws, lungs spasming with the cold.

The question appears to aggravate the mer, lip curling at the name alone. “He’s alive,” the male rasps, throat straining to create the syllables of speech. You stifle your surprise—yes, you’d known they could sing, but you’d assumed it was in some ancient tongue, fitting for their ancient species. Swallow down your fear, curling tighter in on yourself. “Why have you brought me here?” You manage, voice thick and scared even to your own ears.

He swims closer, resting powerfully muscled arms upon the rocky ledge, tail swaying idly behind him in the lagoon. It’s then you truly take in the cave he’s brought you to, kept alight by luminescent greens and blues, crystals lining the ceiling, the sea lighting up with every small movement, as if mixed with melted moon wax. Tendrils of breath curl before you in misty swirls, teeth chattering more as shivers wrack your body, not all of them solely from the frigid air.

“You saved my life,” he rasps, jaw resting atop his forearms as he watches you.

“So you trap me in a cave?” You manage, trying to fight off the feeling of your fingertips beginning to frost over. He merely blinks at your question, that translucent film sliding back and forth just beneath his lids. “So I saved yours,” he correctly neutrally, a hint of arrogance in his dark eyes.

Brows knot together in confusion as you stare at the male. “You—… You’ve trapped me.”

“Your husband would have killed you,” he rasps, cold eyes sharpening with what you can only assume is hatred. “I saved you.” You shake your head, unaware of your lower body. “You took him because you were hungry. It served your own purposes.”

Incisors glitter beneath the icy blues of the cave, gleaming as his lip curls. Extends his arm, cold-blooded fingers stretching out as if to grab you. “Shall I return you?”” You huddle close to the wall, curling away from his deathly touch. “I’ll freeze to death if you take me through those waters again,” you hedge. “Besides, you might change your mind along the way, and—” You cut yourself off, noticing the red of his tongue. Swallow, hoping it’s not left-over blood.

His ears flutter, noting your gaze, lips pulling back as he swipes the flesh-roughing muscle over gleaming teeth. “And?” He asks, quietly taunting as the edge of his mouth quirks. As if daring you to voice the dreadful tales of his kind. Your lips purse, instead turning your attention to trying to contain your warmth. The mer shifts, as if about to slide back into the water.

“Wait!” You call out, having him pause, glittering onyx eyes turning once again to your figure. “Where are you going?” You ask, unable to entirely keep the fear from your voice. “Away,” he answers in that still raspy, raw voice of his. “I’ll be back,” he adds with a croon, tail swishing beneath him, arms running through the water as if revelling in being reunited on friendly terms. Panic sets in—if he leaves, he might never return. Might very well forget about you entirely. Leaving you to freeze in a subterranean sea cave, rotting away with the grime and stale water, all alone.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask frantically, not wanting to be around him, but not wanting him to leave either. You don’t want to die here.

Ears twitch again, watching you silently, observing like he’s waiting for a sign to show. He returns to the ledge of rock leading down into the freezing waters, again settling himself atop the hewn stone. “You know what he does to us. What you all do to us,” he rasps, close enough for you to pick out the still-healing slices on his throat. “You know how you hate us, and you know how they hate anything that does not hate with them. You knew how they’d hate you too. So why meddle?”

Skin prickles at the intense look he’s giving you, feeling as though judgement is being passed.

“I didn’t want your death on my conscience,” you mange, lips long numb from the biting temperature. He blinks slowly, the only shift in expression he shows, the rest of his features blank as a still day at sea.

“Don’t try to escape. You’ll drown yourself,” he rasps bluntly, pushing away from the ledge, returning to deeper waters. “Just wait. I’ll return.”

The mer swims to the middle of the pool, dark eyes gleaming. “Eventually.”

Then he’s swallowed in a flash of silver, darting away to one of the submerged tunnel openings, navigating his way out to open ocean. Stomach tenses, listening to the laboured heave of your breaths and the quiet hush of waves. Curl tighter into yourself, praying he returns before the warmth entirely leaves you, already unable to feel your legs or hands.

Teeth chatter in the quiet of the cave, leaving you to wonder how far below land you are.

How deeply he’s already buried you.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x yn #mermaid au #mer!azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fic

[beom1e]

come home tonight

this, of all things, was supposed to work. that’s what you told yourself, repeated in your mind every night as you sat alone in the half-empty bedroom, every possession of beomgyu’s now missing. it was always going to be him for you. why didn’t he feel the same way?

pairing choi beomgyu x fem! reader

genre long-term relationship, lovers to exes, angst, slight fluff

warnings breakup, cursing, signs of depression

at the start of adulthood, you grew to love the year’s end.

the cold air would bite at the tip of your nose and your cheeks, and as much as you could hate it, the reddened skin was a sweet reminder of the season. it was cold enough to have a few extra blankets on your bed and maybe a hot water bottle too, and then to wake up and slip on some fluffy socks and a cosy hoodie. there was imagery of orange leaves and shades of brown coming into fashion, hot drinks rising to the top of the menu and a warm meal in a cosy cafe replacing the ice cream in the park cliché of a passing summer.

people came together for so many celebrations, families being reunited and the larger population becoming more generous in favour of the seasonal charities. a wave of students would move away from their childhood homes, only to return shortly after for a loving dinner around the table and matching pyjamas and movie marathons.

you especially loved october. halloween, pumpkin, scary movies, autumn fashion, pie, soup, knitted jumpers. and you had met the love of your life then, a random october evening on what had seemed like just another ordinary day.

every year, you had to buy decorations for your dorm, both arms holding heavy bags but you were totally unbothered due to your childlike excitement. and that was when one of the bags had broke open, everything falling to the ground at your feet in a mess of orange, purple and brown decor.

the kind stranger had rushed over to help you, collecting decorations in his arms before they could roll off onto the road. that was the day you had fallen for beomgyu’s smile and stubbornness to help you carry everything home. he teased you about your love for the annual holiday, admitting he had no plans to decorate his own dorm. so of course you offered to help him do it, and the innocent trip to a decoration store with him quickly became your first date of many.

he reminded you so much of the colder months. when you could see your breath in the air, the way the wind blew your hair forward into your eyes, wool hats and thick boots, grabbing a bite to eat from the nearest hot food truck. despite his bright personality, he had always been the calm autumn after the hectic summer in your eyes.

and, inevitably, he was how you grew to hate the year’s end.

october 11th,

‘soobin’s halloween party is coming up,’ beomgyu called from the kitchen, over the sound of water running and filling up the glass in his hand. ‘do you want to come with me?’

‘sure,’ the tap was turned off in time for your reply. ‘do you want to come with me to pick up some decorations?’

‘what’s the point?’ he turned into the living room, sipping from his water. you turned back to look at him, a costume magazine in your hands. ‘i mean, if we’re not throwing a party and won’t actually be home for halloween, why do we need to decorate?’

‘it brings me comfort,’ shrugging, you turned back to your magazine and folded the corner of a page that interested you. beomgyu leaned over the back of the sofa to see what you were looking at, a scoff escaping his lips. ‘what’s wrong?’

‘don’t you think we’re a little too old to be dressing up for halloween?’ his tone was mocking, one that you really didn’t care for. in all the time that you had known your boyfriend, he had never been against letting you celebrate halloween in the way that you loved. the shift in his attitude was a telltale sign that something was up.

‘we’re not going to cut eye holes into bedsheets, beomgyu,’ you shot back. ‘we can be a couple from a famous horror series or something. like sabrina and harvey, for example.’

‘why don’t you just get some cat ears and wear all black?’ he rolled his eyes, moving around the couch to sit beside you.

‘is there a problem?’ snapping the magazine closed, you leaned and tossed it onto the coffee table. ‘we’ve done this for the past three years. why do you have an issue with it now?’

‘i just think it’s a childish idea,’ he explained. ‘most girls dress like a playboy bunny, or just find any excuse to wear leather.’

‘so my sabrina and harvey suggestion wasn’t slutty enough for you?’ the look of utter annoyance painted your features. ‘let’s come back to this when you’re done being an asshole.’

october 14th,

the call went to voicemail again. you huffed, placing your phone face down onto the kitchen table that you were sitting at. beomgyu hadn’t picked the phone up in hours, nor was he answering your texts or showing any sign that he was coming home soon. after the small fight the two of you had a few days ago, he began avoiding you as if it had been all your fault.

you thought that things would change for this particular night.

around thirty minutes after the last attempt to call him, the door into your apartment clicked open. in came the topic of your thoughts, phone in hand and screen brightened due to movement. clearly he was just ignoring you, and had no genuine reason to avoid your calls.

‘oh,’ he looked up, taking in the sight. you’d set the table with candles and wine glasses, cold food untouched on your best plates. guilt consumed him when he remembered that it was your third year anniversary, and he had been a jerk to you all day. ‘i’m sorry, y/n, i was just busy and forgot what today was.’

‘ok,’ you replied simply, arms still crossed against your chest. it was your mission to avoid his eyes, because you knew you would forgive him if you were to take in his gentle features. and that was the last thing you wanted. ‘i’m going to bed. clean this up for me, yeah?’

beomgyu watched you exit the kitchen and go into the bathroom. you were wearing a dress he had bought you for one of your birthdays, one that he told you was his favourite. your hair and makeup had been done to perfection, and yet there stood beomgyu in jeans and a t-shirt and nothing prepared for you. no gifts, no surprises, not even a ‘happy anniversary’ wish or a bouquet of ‘i’m sorry’ flowers.

‘y/n, wait,’ he followed quickly behind you, pulling the bathroom door closed before you could open it all the way. ‘i messed up badly, i know, but i want to make it up to you.’

‘are you going to build a time machine so that you can go back in time and actually remember our anniversary?’ you laughed bitterly, shooting him a glare. ‘can you just get out of my way?’

he removed his grip on the handle, stepping aside. once inside the locked bathroom, you slid down to the floor so that you were sat with your back to the door and your head in your hands. did he not love you anymore?

‘i know you don’t want to talk to me right now,’ he continued on from the other side of the door. ‘i was an asshole. i started the fight and let you take the blame for it, and i didn’t even remember our anniversary, but you did all of this for me even though you were still angry at me. i’m so sorry, y/n, and i don’t expect you to forgive me.’

‘good, because i don’t forgive you,’ you whispered, tears threatening to fall. ‘i think i’m going to stay with a friend for a while… just until i can face you again.’

‘y/n, please don’t do this,’ beomgyu rested his head against the door, eyes closing in defeat. ‘please don’t leave. i’ll go… i’ll go stay with yeonjun for a week… to give us both some time to cool down and think.’

‘if that’s what you want,’ sighing, you wiped away at your tears. ‘and i won’t be going to soobin’s party.’

‘i wasn’t expecting you to,’ he frowned, lifting his head from the door and pushing away from it. ‘i’m sorry, y/n. seriously, this was all my fault.’ the floorboards creaked beneath his shoes as he walked away. that was your cue to get ready for bed, while he silently cleaned up the kitchen.

after you showered and changed into some warm pyjamas, you headed straight for bed without a worry about what beomgyu was doing. it was clear to you now that he had finally fallen out of love with you. 

the hours you had spent making him his favourite meal, the expensive gift you left waiting for him on his bedside table, the dessert still sitting in the centre of the oven, the smile on your face as you found a ribbon perfectly matching the colour of his favourite dress of yours. that was the evidence. he didn’t even care, clearing everything away and spending the final hour of daylight in the living room alone. it was over.

october 15th,

it felt wrong. it felt empty. you’d spent the entire night tossing and turning, something in your muscles and joints and bones aching and preventing you from peacefully drifting off. when you woke up, beomgyu was already watching you with hurt in his gaze. if not for the painful connotations, it would have been sweet. two lovers waking up side-by-side in their shared bed, his eyes scanning over her features. except he was wondering where it all went wrong, and not how he got so lucky. he wanted to speak, but he had nothing left to say.

you rolled over to face away before making the move to get out of bed. the bedroom door closed loudly behind you after you disappeared. he sat up after, looking around the room filled with so many memories of the two of you. he came to the conclusion that he wasn’t ready to lose you just yet.

so he hurried after you, meeting you in the kitchen as you made yourself a morning coffee. you had this unmoving expression on your face, but your eyes were sad.

‘i don’t want to run away to yeonjun’s,’

‘i think we should break up,’

‘y/n, no,’ beomgyu was stubborn, that was one thing you had learned about him during your relationship. whether it was getting the last word in or completing a difficult level on the game he was playing, he wouldn’t give up until he got it. ‘we don’t have to break up to fix this, i want to be with you.’

‘no, you don’t,’ you mumbled, sniffling. he hurried to pull you into his arms, not wanting to see you cry if he was the reason behind it. ‘you don’t love me anymore.’

he didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t even sure if what you had said was true or false. he just let you cry in his arms, tears stinging at the corners of his own eyes as his t-shirt began to soak through. falling out of love was nobody’s fault, it certainly wasn’t his decision. he would never choose to lose you.

it felt like hours before he let you go. the grip you’d had on the material of his shirt left behind creases in two places, some of your hair stuck to your neck from where his head had been buried, tears of his own having inevitably fell.

but after the moment you shared, beomgyu was packing a week’s worth of things into the suitcase you’d taken to jeju last year and you were sitting in the middle of your bed with your knees to your chest. you had promised each other forever and you were willing to give him forever. how could he lose interest in you in just three years? how could he fall out of love with you when you were still so enamoured with him?

the very place you were coexisting in was the home you had built from the ground up. it was just a rented apartment — one that had seen many couples alike come and go — but you had made enough memories in it to make it feel special. the night you moved in, your first anniversary, all of the movie nights under rainfall, the talks you had about growing old together forever. memories that had been locked into the walls and the windows and the couch and the bedsheets. and as you stared at the person who you had created all of the memories with, you felt them all slipping away from you.

all you could feel was anger, embarrassment and heartache.

‘call me if you ever want to talk,’ beomgyu was standing in the doorway then, inches away from leaving your shared home. ‘i promise i’ll pick up every time you call.’

you only nodded weakly, your hand holding the door open being the only thing keeping him inside. neither of you knew what to say. how do you say goodbye to the love of your life?

once the door was closed, he was gone. you didn’t know what the future held for you both, whether he was ever going to come back and beg for you to let him stay. or would you slowly fall out of love with him in the same way that he had fallen out of love with you? maybe this was all a mistake and you were going to laugh about your time apart with friends in the future as they sat around your table in the kitchen with you. but only a fool would believe that.

october 24th,

the first week without beomgyu, you didn’t call. he wasn’t active on social media and he didn’t try to contact you either. it was a week to yourself, time for you to work on personal affairs and find happiness outside of your relationship. at the end of the week, he came back to pick up some more things. he didn’t drop to his knees and beg for another chance, he didn’t even ask if you wanted him to come back. you were walls apart as he washed some clothes and made a snack before packing up most of his stuff and walking out.

all you could do was cry into the pillow that still carried his scent that was slowly fading. the motivation to take care of yourself faded with his presence. you called in sick to work, cancelled on all of your friends, you barely even left the bedroom. if he was to show up again like that, out of the blue, you wouldn’t be able to face him.

november 17th,

weeks turned into a month and soon it was an apartment that was half yours and half nobody else’s. all of the bills had been switched to your name, not even the netflix subscription under his name anymore. the bedsheets and pillows had been washed of his scent completely. all he was to you was an untouched contact in your phone, the last few texts displaying arrangements for him to come pick the rest of his things up the night before halloween.

nobody broke up with anybody, you assumed he called it quits the first night he spent at his friend’s house. you told everyone it was a mutual agreement to break up, they hardly pitied you that way. some would apologise for bringing it up and give you that sympathetic frown, others would claim you weren’t right for each other, but they were wrong. he was the one for you, you’d been sure of that ever since the day you met him.

he was always kind, nobody expected it. he loved to joke around with his friends and play video games as if it was a paying job, but he was mature. he always had a logical solution when you turned to him for one. it was only when he knew you needed to laugh again that he would tease you or make an immature joke that received an eye-roll.

he knew you more than anyone else ever had. your favourite drink that he would always arrive with at the university library when you studied together. your forever loves, the movies you never got tired of and snacks you could eat until the end of time. the way you liked to be held in his arms before bed, the exact technique that would make you fall asleep when he played with your hair. how long you liked to shower, your favourite scent in perfumes and shampoos and detergent. your go-to flavour of ice cream, foods you would never eat even if you were offered a large sum of money.

god, you missed him like crazy. he seemed fine.

your relationship slowly disappeared from social media as if it hadn’t even happened. he was the first to delete the photos and posts about you, even the photos you had taken of him. you simply followed suit, not wanting to seem pathetic. although you archived every one rather than permanently deleting them, and a small part of you hoped he did the same.

everybody adjusted to the break-up, cutting themselves off whenever they mentioned his name around you. they tiptoed around you as if they knew that you would fall apart just thinking about him and what you’d once had. but you didn’t want it to be over. the lack of his presence in your life only caused you more pain, you just wanted him back.

the closest you had gotten to beomgyu since halloween was yeonjun showing up at your door. ‘he wanted me to return this,’ he’d said, holding a key out towards you. it was missing its keyrings, just a key attached to a metal loop. ‘and if you want it, i have his new address.’

of course you declined. he heartlessly sent a friend to return his key to you, but offered you an entrance into his new life without you. you wanted no part in his game, but avoiding beomgyu was impossible. you lived in the same area, shopped at the same stores, had the same friends. eventually you would have to talk, and you would have to find out what exactly happened between the two of you.

visiting the convenience store late at night was a common thing for you to do. you were wearing some old, checkered pyjama pants and a hoodie too big for your frame. it was going to just be a quick run in and out for some snacks and painkillers for your stubborn headache when you saw him standing there in front of an illuminated fridge.

he was staring between two drinks, one in each hand as if he was making a decision. his attire was much more put together than your almost-pyjama situation. he was dressed as if he had been out all day, like he had been out with somebody else, probably on a date considering he was dressed the same as he would when you he took you out on dates.

it was unknown to you, but beomgyu dressed up and came to the store in search for you. then it could be an accident that you bumped into each other, if this time was successful. he was always trying to accidentally bump into you on purpose.

you took off down an aisle as far away from him as you could, eyes searching for the painkillers that you typically bought. once you grabbed them and moved to another aisle, you heard beomgyu heading towards the cashier. thinking you were in the clear, you walked down the aisle he was previously occupying in search of the snacks you craved. as you approached the end of the aisle, the boy you were avoiding turned the corner and stopped in his tracks at the sight of you.

your feet brought you to a stop, just inches away from crashing into him. a sigh of relief left your lips.

‘hey,’ he spoke first, meeting your eyes.

‘hey,’ you whispered, gaze falling to the ground.

‘how are you?’ it was a stupid question to ask, he didn’t know where to start. all he wanted was to be close to you again.

‘well it’s a friday night and i’m about to eat a whole tub of ice cream and watch a movie,’ you laughed shortly, gesturing towards the ice cream box behind beomgyu. ‘what about you, is your date waiting for you in the car?’

‘i don’t have a date,’ the reply was simple and lacking emotion in his words, but you felt a wave of relief. it was reassuring that he wasn’t seeing anyone. it made you feel hopeful. ‘things are just a mess right now with the move and everything.’

‘yeah,’ you breathed out, then awkwardly chewing the inside of your cheek. ‘i better go, the couch is waiting for me.’

‘you forgot your ice cream,’ he twisted his head back towards the ice cream box. you came back down to earth in that moment and remembered where you were.

‘right, yeah,’ another laugh followed as you took a step towards him. he slid open the freezer from the top and you reached in for your favourite flavour. the door closing again cut through the silence. ‘goodbye, beomgyu.’

he didn’t say anything back. he couldn’t. goodbye, like you were trying to get away from him for the rest of time, like you hoped never to see him again. not a ‘see you around,’ or a simple ‘bye,’ but a goodbye. you were walking away by then as he stood frozen, so he followed you to the cashier.

as the cashier read out your total, beomgyu grabbed his card and placed it over the reader on the machine. you were left speechless, stumbling over your words as your receipt was being printed. you thanked the cashier with a smile but felt your shoulders drop with defeat.

annoyed, you shot him a glare and walked out of the store with your things. he followed behind you without grabbing his own things, the door sliding closed behind him. it was just the two of you staring each other down under the stars and the rain, neither of you knowing how to put this to an end.

‘i’m sorry,’ he spoke. ‘for everything. and i love you, y/n.’

he turned away, heading towards his parking space.

‘come home tonight,’ you called out into the dark, not even sure if he could hear you.

‘where do you think i’m going?’ he turned back around to face you. ‘i am going home.’

‘that’s not your home,’ you defended. ‘you know what i mean.’

‘i can’t do that,’ he sighed. ‘we broke up, i’ve moved out, we don’t even live together anymore.’

‘even if it’s just for one night?’ you frowned, your eyes stinging with oncoming tears.

beomgyu didn’t want just one night, he wanted to erase the past month and go back to how it used to be. it was comfortable and familiar and he loved you too much to let you go, but things had changed. the apartment would look different, you wouldn’t show the same side of you that he’d grown to love. you weren’t the same people anymore, you would never trust him the same way that you used to, and he’d fallen out of love with you. loving you could never compare to the way that he had seen you when he was deeply in love with you, like you were the sun, the moon, and the stars all in one.

‘and then what?’ he sighed. ‘this isn’t going to work.’

‘but why wouldn’t it?’ you felt a tear roll down your cheek.

november 27th,

if anybody was to ask what happened when you and beomgyu broke up, you wouldn’t know what to tell them. you were never sure if he was going to come back to you, but you still never gave up hope. that’s what people in love do, hope.

autumn was your favourite time of the year, or had been. you’d already skipped over halloween, and the novelty of orange leaves and brown clothing was starting to rub off. you wondered if beomgyu had been the thing you loved so much about autumn, because it was the time you fell in love. maybe you weren’t anticipating the season of pumpkins and coffee, maybe you were just looking to feel the same way you had when you first met him.

now that he was gone, everyday felt regular. it wasn’t exciting, there was nothing in the air. you didn’t walk around with a wide smile on your lips, kindly greeting strangers. you rolled your eyes at children jumping in leaf piles, scoffed when somebody ordered a pumpkin spice latte and pushed every cosy jumper to the back of your closet.

all that you had left was yourself. at least, that’s what you told yourself, because in reality you had everyone but him, and in reality, that was much worse.

there were so many missed calls and texts left unread on your phone, the device constantly buzzing on your coffee table. you would simply stare at the tv and switch between a million and one sitting positions in order to find a comfortable one. it always ended with your head hanging down from the couch and your legs thrown over the back of it. no plans, no purpose, no motivation, and time passing you by.

beomgyu was right, everything had changed, including you.

#tomorrow x together #txt x reader #txt x y/n #txt #txt au #txt oneshot #txt angst #choi beomgyu #beomgyu #choi beomgyu au #choi beomgyu oneshot #choi beomgyu angst #beomgyu au #beomgyu oneshot #beomgyu angst

[luveline]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write anything else for the steve zombie au with the established relationship! It's seriously so good I can't get enough

hi I hope you don’t mind me using your request for the kidnapping fic! r and steve live inside a community during the apocalypse, and she gets kidnapped :( but he’s not gonna stop til he finds her :) pls forgive typos

steve zombie!au <3 fem!reader. tw abduction, drugging, mentioned SA (reader is NOT sa and there is no graphic imagery), guns, general violence. 8k words

When you get 'home' that evening, arms aching from a full day in the community pantry, there's somebody sitting in your bed. 

"Fuck, Stevie," you say with a flinch, hand hitting your chest with an audible thud. 

"Sorry!" he apologises immediately, springing up to meet you. He's in pyjamas, a foreign sight, freshly washed up. "I got home early and thought you'd be happy to see me." 

You reach for his wrists, relief that he's not a murderer or a zombie dulling the panic. "I am," you assure him softly, "of course I am. I missed you." 

He smiles and moves in for a hug, kissing your cheek quickly. "I missed you too." 

Missed isn't truly the right word. Steve goes out on scouting and scrounging missions for the community voluntarily, and every time he leaves you worry he's going to die, because it is a very likely outcome. There hasn't been a community fatality in weeks, but that doesn't help soothe the ache of his absence. 

"You smell really nice. Did you get a hot shower?" 

"Perks," he says, faking modesty. 

"Perks," you grumble. "I spent the whole day lifting canned tuna and I don't get a hot shower." 

His smile doubles in size. "No? Well then, it's a good thing you have such a nice boyfriend," —he digs in his pocket, unveiling a green plastic shower token with a smirk— "huh?" 

"Is that for me?" you ask, grumbling completely gone. 

"If you want it. There's a catch, though." 

"What's the catch?" 

You can both hear how in love you sound. In a world where hot showers are rare and valuable as diamond, his giving you a shower token may as well be an "I love you'. It's selfless. 

"Kiss before you go?" he asks. 

"That's not a catch," you say, taking his face into your hands. His cheeks are soft, stubble shaved away. 

You rub his bottom lip with your thumb. "Get into any danger?" 

"None. Not a geek in sight." 

"Good boy," you say, thumbs either side of his lips now, leaning in for a perfect, prim kiss. 

You move back and rake the hair away from his face, upward, and for a moment he looks as he did before again. His hair falls back down and he's still beautiful, the guy you love. 

"Are you sure I can have it?"

"I got it for you," he says, "but if you really don't want it-" 

"No, I want it," you deny quickly, eyes narrowed at his nearly ditzy smile. He can be so evil. 

Steve climbs into your bed, a myriad of blankets and quilts and sheets, anything to stay warm. Honestly, you and Steve are pack rats now you have a place to keep your things, and you love to be comfortable together. That means soft things and nice smells are a must. 

You turn to your bathroom hamper and pick up one of your two shower gels, a silver of soap, and the brand new bottle of shampoo you'd been given a few days ago. It's your prized possession. 

"Don't take that soap," Steve says, "there's a new bar by the sink, take that one." 

"We really shouldn't waste it." 

"We won't." 

You shake your head at him fondly. "It's fine, I'll use it. Keep the new one for cold, sad showers." 

His head sinks back into your pillows, his face turning toward your side. He couldn't be less obvious about it if he tried, pulling your pillow toward him until the pillowcase is rubbing his nose. 

You wrap your things in a towel, also nice and soft, and hesitate at the door. Steve's eyes have closed. You know he isn't sleeping, and that if you ask him to, he'll come and sit outside of the shower stall to fend off your paranoia. But you're trying to give life here a chance, a proper one. You have no reason to fear for your safety — the shower block is only five minutes away in the old College's gym. 

You put your stuff down at the end of the bed and climb on knees beside him. 

"I'm gonna go shower now," you say. 

Steve goes to sit up, eyes fluttering open, and you hold him down, peppering his cheek with three, four, five quick kisses. "No, stay. Love you." 

“You stay and sleep. I’ll be back soon. So soon.”

"You sure?" 

"Yes," you say, smothered against his cheek. You give him another kiss for good measure, a selfish one, as most of them are. You hope he enjoys receiving them as much as you love bestowing them. Your lips practically tingle. 

"Okay. Love you. See you in twenty." 

"Twenty," you promise. 

Another kiss sneaks its way in there before you're grabbing all your stuff; your bathroom necessities, your change of clothes and your room key on a string you hang around your neck. You slip out the door and down the hall of Little Hawkins, stepping over a hallway game of speed played by two opposite tenants you recognise from high school and slinking sideways round one of Mallory's huge art projects propped up against the wall. 

It's dark outside. To keep a low profile, the community you live in, sometimes called The College, or some variation of its real name, Valley Pine Community College, opts to keep the lights off at night. There are fairy lights strung up to gently guide anyone who needs to move around, and considering it's not even 7PM yet, there are lots of people outside. 

"Hey, kid." 

You hug your bundle of things closer. "Hi, Hopper." 

Chief Hopper is standing in the middle of the squad with Joyce Byers and Jeremy Livingstone, his second in command and his co-leader, respectively. 

"Shower?" 

You smile sheepishly. "Steve gave me a token." 

"How romantic," Joyce says sweetly. 

"He's a secret sweetheart," you mumble. 

"Could you tell him to be a little more secretive? He's setting a precedent here," Jeremy says. 

The three adults laugh. You nod politely and bid them goodbye with a smile, cutting over the grass of the quad where a path has been worn by shoes just like yours to the gym. 

There's usually someone there until 10PM. Everyone needs a shower after a long day, and lukewarm ones are totally free. It's hot water showers that need a token, because they need the generator to run. Jeremy does his best to keep the distribution of tokens fair, but people still use them to barter for other things. You imagine that's how Steve came to have two. 

Sure enough, a young woman you think is called Tori sits in a chair by the door to the shower room, foot propped up on another chair and crutches on the floor. 

She accepts your token and puts it in a basket with the others, all handmade and flimsy. "You need me to do it?" she asks. 

"No, that's okay. Stay sitting." She smiles gratefully. 

The shower room is clean and cool. You put down your towel, grinning at the leftmost shower. There you are, you think cheerfully. Then a sound behind you, the soft fall of one step. 

You don't remember much after that. 

— 

Steve falls asleep waiting for you. 

He wakes, reaching for your body in bed next to his, expecting an armful of your softness, your tummy or your chest. He opens his bleary eyes in search of you when he comes up empty, mumbling your name in the dark. His arm feels heavy as he lifts it to check the time. 9.44PM. He looks around the entirety of your small room. You're not here. 

He bolts up fast, bone deep nausea spreading and pervasive, his neck protesting the sudden movement with a twinge. Thighs swung over the sheets, he stumbles onto discordant footing.

You're not out on the quad, and neither is anyone else. He follows the string lights to the gym and there are no signs of life. He makes it all the way to the shower room before he sees somebody, a girl on crutches hobbling toward him with a flashlight helmet clipped over her forehead. 

"Hey," he says, slowing, "have you seen Y/N? She's this tall, wearing a royal blue hoodie? You can't miss her." 

She falters. "I- yeah, I saw her. Maybe an hour ago?" 

"Is she still here?" 

"The building's presumably empty." 

Steve skirts around her to look for himself, but she says, "Wait, wait." 

She readjusts her grip on her crutches. "I didn't see her leave, but she wasn't in the showers. I checked." 

"You didn't see her leave?" 

"No, I thought it was weird, but I figured she'd had too long in the hot water and felt guilty about it. I was gonna tell Hopper at the town hall." 

The town hall isn't a town hall at all, it's a space cleared in the cafeteria. Hopper lingers there most nights so people can talk to him without feeling pressured by their peers. You and Steve always call it the 'snitching hour', instead of the witching hour. 

"You're sure she's not there?" 

"I checked every stall." 

He doesn't believe her, because if you aren't in the shower, where are you? You haven't made any friends yet, you aren't situated, you have Steve and you have the older lady Mallory, and that's it. 

He's not too proud to admit he sprints to the shower room, calling your name and checking behind each stall door, each changing partition curtain. The only thing he finds is a slither of soap, the shard of bar soap he'd told you to throw away, lying on the floor. 

You'd insisted you wouldn't waste it. 

He picks it up and pockets it, throwing his gaze around the room in another circle to be sure. 

You aren't here. 

He runs back up the hallways and through the front entrance, where the girl on crutches is hobbling toward the main building that houses the cafeteria. His heart races with a strange adrenaline — he shouldn't panic, right? You could be anywhere, and anywhere doesn't have to mean somewhere unsafe. You could be with Mallory, with Robin. Hell, you could be with Dustin. He's half expecting to find you in the canteen, fresh and smelling sweet, sitting at one of the long dinner tables for club night. You'd said you wanted to learn gin rummy. 

You aren't in the cafeteria and neither are the cards club, but Hopper is. He has a paperback in his lap, and a cigarette is held between his lips pointing down, illuminated by a small lamp on the table behind him.

"Woah, where's the fire?" 

"Have you seen Y/N?" 

Hopper doesn't like his tone, the panic it's laced with. His expression hardens from surprise to concern, paperback closed. "Hours ago. She was on her way to the gym. She didn't come back?"

"No." 

"She usually stray?" Hopper asks. 

They both know the answer is no. You don't go anywhere that isn't scheduled work or the gym showers without Steve; while your distrust of this place and the people here has waned since you arrived, it's still very much alive.

"Never." 

"Don't panic," Hopper says, though he looks a little unsettled himself. He hides it swiftly. "Half the people here are your age, she probably just got to talking."

He stands up, shoving his paperback on top of the fold out chair and zippering his jacket closed. 

Steve rubs his mouth, in a daze, searching his thoughts for where you'll be.

"Harrington?" 

"What?" Steve asks, looking up. 

"You might want to get some warmer pants on. We'll start searching. Door to door. Wake your friends up." Hopper clears his throat. "She's here somewhere." 

His confidence eases Steve's roaring pulse. He looks down, finds he's still wearing the polka dot pyjamas he'd fallen asleep in. He'd been too worried about you to notice. 

— 

You feel majorly unwell. Eyes so sore they beg to stay closed, throat raw like you've been forced to eat sandpaper. Your hand knocks out and hits something solid.

"Stevie," you say. Your voice is patchy, frosted over. "It's freezing. Did you," —you cough as you raise your head from your pillow— "leave a window open, baby?" 

A cold gale of wind rushes over you. Goosebumps erupt down the lengths of your naked arms, and your eyes open finally, searching for the cause of the desperate cold. 

You fear for a moment you've gone blind. 

The sky is dark. A deep, formidable blue with a smattering of stars. Your breath catches as you take them in. They appear by the handful, flecks that well like drops of blood to pinpricks. 

You are not in bed. 

This is not your room. 

"You've been sleeping for hours. You're fucking heavy, did you know that?" 

You turn your head slowly, prey and predator, hoping your stillness will deter any sudden movements. 

"Where are we?" you ask, trying to get a good look at the body next to you. 

You're not sure if it's the right question. He likes it, though, and his hand squeezes yours where your fingers rest, intertwined, against his chest. Sickness wraps around your stomach and wrings it, a strange haziness concluding your thoughts.

"Don't worry about it." 

Panic lights every nerve ending and a wretched trembling runs down your arms, your legs. You try to make it stop before he can feel it. You know your fear is a currency.

"Are you cold?" he asks. His voice is neither warm nor frigid, each syllable said with an impassiveness that leaves little to be inferred. 

"I don't have my coat." The words don't want to be said. 

"We left in a hurry." 

"We did?" 

Your throat aches. You try to remember why you're here, fingers dead still in his hold. There's something soft behind your head, a throw blanket that scratches your cheek. You don't know who he is. You don't recognise anything about him, moonlight splashing milky light over his face and neck. He has a broad scar under his jaw, but beside that, this man is completely unassuming. 

"You don't remember?" 

You shake your head. "No," you say softly. 

"You fell in the shower. I helped you up. You told me you wanted to leave." 

"Leave?" you ask. 

"The College." 

"I said that?" 

"You didn't have to say it. I know you hated it there." 

You swallow, uselessly, over and over. The night sky pours Onto you. Your pulse bumps, bumps, bumps. 

"Who are you?" you ask. 

"You don't know me?" 

His fingers tighten around yours. 

"I- I'm new," you defend.

"Of course you don't know me. Nobody fucking knows me. I thought shit was bad before all this, you know?" His grip tightens worse. "Invisible at work, at home. And there were so many people, I mean, fucking thousands of people, I was a nobody. I thought maybe now I'd be somebody, but you don't know who I am." 

Please, you think, please. What's his name? 

"Connor," you say quietly, hoping to pass it off as nothing if you've gotten it wrong. 

His grip relaxes ever so slightly. "I knew you were different. You see me, and I see you." 

He moves toward you, and he must see you flinch backward into the solid, frozen earth behind your back. His smile flickers. He leans over your face, dark, long hair tickling your cheek. 

"I know you hated that place just as much as I did. So we left." 

Looking back, you'll wonder why you acted as you did. Acting into his delusion. That night, you wait hours for him to fall asleep. He never does. Each time you try to pull your hand from his, you're met with a fiercely suspicious look. You feign sleep. 

The sky slowly lightens. You stand when he stands and you pull your hand from his whether he wants it or not, so cold you feel like you've been burned all over, so tired you're surprised you have the strength to scramble backward. 

He turns, and you notice the gun tucked into his waistband for the first time. 

"Where are you going?" he asks, hand inching up his leg.

You take a step toward him, wobbly on purpose. "I think I'm stiff from the floor." You smile at him awkwardly. 

He sees bashful where he should terrified. "I will miss the mattresses. Don't worry, we'll find you something to lie on." Your skin crawls.

"Where are we going?" 

He points southward.

You're no genius, but you assume that means The College is northward. 

A bullet can follow you a hundred feet away. Running brazenly won't work. Though you're guessing he'll kill you outright rather than let you escape, which may not be the case. He's running on delusion — he has a saviour complex, clearly, to have stolen you like this. He wants you, and you have to assume he wants you alive.

"Can I have some water?" you ask. 

The ache in your throat is a burn. You imagine this is how it feels to have a geek maw deep in your flesh, a sizzling burn, a heated fear. 

He digs through his singular rucksack and pulls out a litre bottle of water full to the cap. You take it, guzzle it, and choke when he cusses. "Fuck- Stop! Are you stupid? We have to make it last." 

Water dribbles down your chin as he snatches it out of your hand. 

"Sorry," you say. It feels as though you've swallowed a stone. "Sorry, I didn't know. I couldn't know, I don't know any of your plans, Connor." 

He stuffs the water back into the bag and procures a white length of plastic. It takes you a second to realise it's a zip tie. Much less to feel terror reignite itself in the depths of your stomach. 

"Wrists together." 

"Connor, I don't think-" 

"You're smart, aren't you?" 

Quiet stretches. The sun leaks desperately needed warmth through the thick tree branches, sun rays painting his skin blazing white as he rags your wrists together and wraps the zip ties around them. The plastic bites into your skin unapologetically. 

"I wanted you to take me," you say. "What's the need?" 

He smiles. Teeth white, gums red. Stark. 

"You're smart," he repeats. "I'm smarter. Now come on. Walk." 

—

Steve doesn't find you. 

Hopper gives him invasive free reign over the community like a dirty cop. He tells everybody at breakfast exactly what's happening. He asks if anybody has seen you. He asks if you've made plans to run away. He says that, if you're in hiding, he'll protect you, even if that means protection from Steve. 

Steve's not even mad. If you are hiding from him (you're not, of course you're not, but if you are — Steve almost wishes you were, just so he'd know you were safe) you're doing an amazing job. There are no traces of you, and as the hours stretch into a full day without you, Steve's borderline homicidal. He has slammed on every door. He has checked every dormitory room, every public space. He has pulled boards from closed over windows, and kicked in weakened door jams of every building within the fences. 

Currently, though, he's having a breakdown. Tears, ugly and messy and loud, race down his face. He's running so hot they practically steam. Robin stands on the other side of the stall. He's really hoping she'll pretend she can't hear him, but she says, "Yikes, Steve." 

"Where the fuck is she?" he asks, sounding about as numb as he feels. 

"I don't know." 

Her response is softer. Robin knows Steve isn't angry at her, and doesn't take his scathing question personally. The fear he's feeling is overwhelming, hence his tears. (The tears are made of worry, too.) 

"Somebody-" God, the thought is like white hot heat cattle poked into his spine, anger wells to the surface. "Has her. Somebody's fucking done something to her. She wouldn't just leave." 

He stares at the stall door and wills tears away. This isn't helping you. 

"Steve," Robin says, "don't bite my head off. What if she did leave?" 

It hurts because it's what he's been asking himself. Under the anger and the fear for you, there's fear of you. What if you've abandoned him? Loved him this long to toss in the towel at the finish line? 

Still, he defends the you he knows you are. "Fuck off, Buckley. I love you, but fuck you." 

"No, listen to me Steve." 

"Robin-" 

"I believe she wouldn't 'just leave' but that doesn't mean she didn't leave," Robin says in a rush, fighting to be heard. "I know she's- I know you're both in that gross, disgusting, married for sixty years, buried in the same plot, holding hands kind of love-" 

"The point?" 

"So I'm agreeing with you, asshole. I don't think she'd leave of her own volition, but she's not here." 

"What if she is? What if I go look for her and she's here and Barney from the kitchen has her tied up under his mattress?" 

"We've looked," Robin says, anger colouring her own tone now. "We've fucking looked, Steve, you and me and Dustin, Mike and Hopper, we've been in every room and hashing this out won't make her magically reappear, we need to go look for her. Maybe she did fucking leave you, and maybe she's lost. Whatever it is, you're gonna kill yourself not looking.

"Time to make a decision," she adds. "The longer we sit here the further away she gets." 

Tears burst unbidden in a race to his jawline.

He knows you better than he knows himself. He knows you've loved him for a long time, maybe since the day you met. He's loved you almost as long, and he doesn't care how selfish it sounds when he says he loves you so much more. If the last time you'd spent together is it — sorry, but Steve can't accept it. A slurred out 'Love you' and your kisses warming his cheek. That can't be all there is. 

He'd spend the rest of his life looking for you, if only to feel the weight of your body between his legs, your sleeping face tucked under his chest. Your hands, forever cold, chasing the heat of his spine as you slip them under his t-shirt. 

Hopper looks reluctant at the suggestion. 

"Kid-" 

"I'm not really asking. I need permission to get my bat back from the armoury, and food. Or forget the food." Someone knocks into his back and apologises. The cafeteria is teeming with people. Steve doesn't stop to look back to see who it is. 

"It's not about supplies. Everybody is accounted for, we checked, do you know what that means? Nobody else is with her." Nobody took her, he implies. She left of her own volition. 

"That's exactly why I need to go." 

"She took a rucksack with her." 

Steve blinks. 

"Three litres of water. Enough food for a month, and a pistol." 

You're smarter than three litres of water. And—

Steve's heart skips. "She doesn't know how to use a gun."

He knows exactly what's happened to you. Even if everybody else thinks he's crazy, or stupid, or plain naive, he knows you wouldn't take a gun, so somebody else took one, and then they took you. He imagines you with the barrel pressed to your nape and brims with indignation. 

Hopper grabs Steve's arm tightly before he can turn away. He likely doesn't want a scene in the cafeteria, not when the arts and crafts club is sitting two tables away, a whole classroom of children with delicate dispositions. 

"You're sure you want to go out there and look for her? Kid, nobody saw her leave, there's no signs of struggle. Chances are she left willingly." 

"You really believe that? Honestly?" 

His expression says everything Steve needs to know. Hopper doesn't believe what he's saying — he's feeding Steve a narrative in the hopes that it'll spare him. His decision is a hard one to make, prioritising the lives of the many over the few, and it's noble, but Steve couldn't care less about the risks. 

Hopper realises his plan is not going to work. He roughs up his hair and sighs. 

"Can't work a gun?" he asks Steve, nearly defeated. 

"She would pick the knife." 

"Fine. Better round up anybody stupid enough to go with you." 

—

"I think you're handsome," you say. 

Connor glares at you. He'd been in the middle of a self-hating rant, how he's ugly and how girls are all shallow. He's not even that ugly, but his expression, so full of hate, makes him monstrous. 

"I do," you further.

"Yeah, right." 

Your wrists hurt. The zip tie cuts into your skin even in efforts to hold your wrists together. You're raw, almost bleeding. And you're so fucking cold; this guy's an idiot, and you're gonna die of hypothermia if you can't charm him into giving you his coat. 

Your plan is awful and it likely won't work. You're trying to seduce him so you can take his gun, and hope you don't have to actually fire it. You've never killed somebody before, but you're willing to do what you need to if it means you'll survive. Your thoughts won't stop spiralling about Steve. He loves you. He's looking for you. If he never finds you, his life will be more ruined than it is already, and you'd never forgive yourself for that. You care about him too much to want to put him through the guilt of losing you. How he'd been looking for Robin, you don't want him to be that version of himself again. Closed off to everything, and everyone.

Under all that you're still hoping he's going to save you. You're gonna hear him calling. You hope — you know — Steve won't think you've left. While you haven't been quiet about your doubts living in The College, you wouldn't leave without him. Steve is the safest place in the world. 

"Connor," you say, eyes on his face and unflinching, determined to lie well, "are you kidding? Out of everyone, I only showed you how I was feeling. Why do you think that is?" 

He stares at you. 

You make a show of shivering. It isn't difficult. 

"You're the kindest person there, I know that," you say. "Nobody else would risk what you are to help me escape. Nobody, not even-" You wince. "Not even Steve." 

"Ugh, don't talk about him," Connor says. "You won't ever have to see that mindless idiot again." 

"You promise?" 

He stops walking. "You don't want to see him?" 

"No," you lie. "I- look, Connor, I know it's not something to be proud of, and I'm not proud of it, but I knew he could take care of me, you know? We were all alone, and I just needed someone to look after me. I was so scared. And I felt like I owed him." 

"You could've left him the moment you got to The College." 

You put on a sad little smile. I'm sorry, you think desperately. I'm sorry, Steve. 

"He wouldn't let me."

Quiet prevails again, the only sounds the wind and your shoes over brittle foliage. 

"I wanted to talk to you, and I think he could tell. He'd always pull me away when we s-s-saw you." 

His eyebrows furrow gently, a softness on his face that might seem genuine if there were any light behind his eyes. Connor peels off his jacket and tries to help you into it. 

"My wrists." 

"Right," he says. 

He pulls out a penknife. You know what to do, planning how you'll enact your next move in your head as he cuts you loose and helps your numb arms and fingers into the sleeves. He zips you up. You try not to breathe.

He takes a half step back, and his breath turns to a grunt, hands cruel at your wrists when you throw yourself at him. "What the fuck are you doing?" 

"Trying to hug you…" You say, heart a hummingbird in your chest. "I'm sorry, I just- I just wanted to say thank you." 

"You want to say thank you?" he asks, 

You regret it. You've already decided, as horrible as it is, that if he tries to hurt you or force you to do anything intimate with him, you're going to run, gun or no gun. This decision changes every other second. Better to let him hurt you like that and live, or better to die? 

"Yes," you say breathlessly. "I want to say thank you." 

"There's a cabin not far from here. That's where we're going. I've been getting it ready for us. You can show me how grateful you are when we get there, so pick up the pace." 

"A cabin?" you ask, tripping over your untied laces in your hurry to do as he says. 

"I've been getting it ready for weeks," he says. "Sneaking back and forth hasn't been easy, you know? Fucking migraine." 

Sneaking back and forth.

Who is he? Sneaking? Why would he need to? Who the fuck is he? You know of him as you know most people, and you'd been lucky to remember his name. If he hadn't gone on supply and scrounging trips with Steve, you wouldn't have. 

A memory. 

He'd been with Steve. 

Two weeks ago, Steve had come home depressed. Deflated, he'd encouraged you down into bed and laid out on top of you, frown pressed to your collar. You'd drawn a confession from him in ribbons, one hand rubbing his back until the tension he'd carried slipped away, the other resting at the back of his head. He'd been on a scouting trip, and he'd lost his partner. No sign of him, no signs of a geek death, nothing. He'd disappeared. 

That had been Connor, and everybody thinks he's dead. 

If they believe you left, they believe it was by yourself. You have to hope Steve believes you'd never go without him. 

If he doesn't, you are completely alone. 

—

Robin ties her shoe laces tightly. They're new, and they're startlingly white. Nothing ever looks so white these days. Bleach is a resource they can't make, and it gets hoarded by the medical team whenever they find any. Clothes here aren't dirty, but they'll never be pristine. 

She puts her foot back on to the floor next to Steve's back, where he poked around under her bed for useful things to take. Her torch, her batteries, her rucksack. 

"Robin… is this a fucking illegal food store?" 

"That's blowing it out of proportion." 

He climbs out from under the bed and drops her armful of twinkies, moon cakes, and a single Hershey's cookies 'n' creme. 

"You can take that one," she says, pointing at the Hershey's. "A treat for lovergirl. You may need leverage to win her back." 

He takes it. At this point, Robin's sure he'd cut his own hand off to bring you back with them. She kicks the rest of her contraband haphazardly under the bed and gets into a sweater, then another sweater, before zippering a winter coat over top. Robin's young, and mildly fit, not in shape but not out of it, so she volunteers for supply runs when Hopper asks for them. She can climb, and she's skinny enough to fit into places that other people can't. She's ready to go look for you. 

Steve stands and makes his way to the door, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder. 

They move out to the quad, where a sad roster of rescue squad applicants wait. Jonathan Byers sits on the low wall of the fountain, with a girl called Vanessa on one side, and a guy called Christopher on the other. Dustin and Mike stand talking, and Steve is barely in hearing range when he says, "You aren't coming, Henderson." 

He stops in front of the fountain. "Are you ready?" 

They all stand. Jonathan, surprisingly, has a gun strapped to his hip. "Hopper's orders," he says, sounding how Steve feels. 

"Steve," Dustin says. 

"You aren't allowed to come, for starters." 

"I am, we're sixteen, we can-" 

"Can't. That's why Will isn't here, right? Or Lucas? Because they actually listen when Hopper says no." 

Mike glares. "I'm not here to go save your girlfriend." 

"Awesome." Steve relaxes the tiniest bit, slapping Dustin's arm as they pass. "Thanks, Henderson, but you can't come. Stay here and make sure nobody claims our room." 

Dustin shouts a string of expletives at their backs. 

They pass through the North fence checkpoint. They're trying to retrace your steps. There aren't many to retrace. They assume you've gone North of the camp because South of it is Indiana, and Steve can't see why you'd backtrack.

They walk for hours. The sun moves through the sky all lazy and slow, tortuously so, and the only thing Steve can think of is you. It burns. 

The first hint of you is a scrap of fabric. It isn't yours as far as he knows, but he and Robin look at it, look at each other, and then pick up the pace. A half hour later they almost miss it, a black button in amongst dry earth. An hour later, there's a water bottle cap. 

"Holy fucking shit," Robin says. "She's leaving us breadcrumbs." 

"She's a smart girl," Steve says, too defensive considering Robin's praising you. "Of course she is." 

"I've been thinking," Jonathan says, his voice low and gravelly from a long period of quiet. "The theory is that she's uh, been kidnapped, right?" 

"That's the theory," Steve says tightly. Trying his best not to be a dick, because Jonathan hasn't done anything wrong. 

"So who took her?"

Steve's migraine throbs. He has this tension like a knit behind his eyes. He doesn't know who took you, he can't work it out, and it doesn’t make any sense. Hopper checked the lists and everybody in the community had been accounted for, and Steve had seen nearly every face himself hammering on doors. 

"My mom poured over that list, she ticked everybody off," Jonathan continues. 

"It doesn't make any sense," Steve says, "I know that, but she wouldn't leave like that, not–" 

"No, I'm not saying that," Jonathan says quickly. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying we have to think outside of the box. Whoever took her isn't on the register." 

"But they somehow knew enough about The College to take her without anybody seeing them," Vanessa says timidly. 

"They took her from the shower room," Steve says quietly. "Her soap was still there, 'nd the girl on duty said she never came out of the first door again, so they took her from the back, and quietly." 

"Maybe she got lured out," Robin says. "Maybe they tricked her." 

Jonathan closes the small walking gap between himself and Steve, face earnest and concerned. He looks like a friend. 

"Remember Tina and Sadie, they left two weeks ago to look for their mom? They're not on the register, they could still be close." 

"But what would they want from her?" Christopher asks sceptically.

Steve feels an inkling of memory…

"Steve," Robin says apprehensively, giving him major side eye. 

"It's fucking–" Heat like nothing he's ever felt burns behind his eyes. If he could, Steve would squat down on the ground and just sit there for a while, until this rush of fire and fear and missing you had toned it down, but he can't stop moving, so he staggers to keep walking. "Connor. It's Connor." 

"The Creep?" Robin asks. 

"I thought he died?" Vanessa asks. 

Steve picks up the pace of his steps, and tries to explain coherently, though his voice sounds ragged as his thoughts, "He didn't die, he– he disappeared. And he was so weird, he kept asking me about my girl, and just thought he was a perv, he–" Steve looks at his small group. "He was too interested in her. I should've seen it." 

"So he's not dead?" 

Steve's thinking that might be up for debate. 

—

The cabin is a shit show. When Connor bragged about fixing it up, you'd stupidly believed he actually fixed it up. His delusion stretches beyond you. It's cold to the point where your worries of hypothermia are no longer worries but eventualities, especially now he's realised the same thing and taken his coat back off of you. It hadn't fit well anyhow. 

You huddle in the corner of the room where a small wood fire burns in the stove, not too shameful to hold your numb fingers over the flame. Connor rages behind you, grumbling hate to himself and slamming whatever it is he can find against other things. Door to the frame, chair to the wall, his bag kicked across the room. You know that, eventually, his anger will turn to you. Projection of anger has rules. The wall won't look nearly as satisfying as a bruise. 

You turn to look at him over your shoulder as demurely as you can. You've smoothed down your hair, wiped your dirty face, and while you're no angel, he chose you, right? You must at least be his type. 

Or maybe you'd been an easy target. 

You wish you'd listened to Mallory all those weeks ago when she'd told you that having only Steve was a terrible idea. Not because having Steve is terrible, having Steve is everything, but because you can't imagine many people who'd be willing to fight for you. If he's coming to find you it's likely all by himself. Can Steve overpower this guy? You'd thought you could but you're not so sure. He's a tall man, an easy six foot. 

He's scaring you. 

You would try to calm him down if you weren’t worried he’d want you to show you how grateful you are for being rescued. You’d rather he rail at the window than touch you.

A sound like splintering wood has you flinching forward and away from him, hands dangerously close to the fire. You pull them away with a gasp, reminding Connor of your presence. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you say hurriedly. “You should come and sit down, huh? You’ve been walking all day.”

He sits down beside you after a pensive, dramatic minute rubbing his own head. He drops his bag by your feet and you take whatever warmth you can, hiding your shoes underneath it. 

When he puts his hand on your thigh, you try to pretend it’s Steve. Steve sitting next to you, warm and soft and ready to pull you into his lap, that place between his legs, chest to chest and eye to eye. You want his hand in your hair, and his hot back under your frostbitten fingers.even when you were new, not quite in love, he’d let you hide your hands under his t-shirt. He’s that kind of good, right down to the marrow in his bones. 

You wish you’d known what was going to happen. Not even to ask him to come with you. You think after everything the two of you deserve a proper goodbye. All that pain and all that affection and this is how it ends? 

Connor’s hand creeps further down the length of your leg. You think, alright. Alright. I’ll do whatever I have to do if I get to see Steve again. 

A sound like cracking wood echoes outside. 

Connor is up and against the wall in two blinks. You follow him, breathing shallow as you peer outside. You’d agreed to the wood fire, knowing you’d get irretrievably sick without it, but you hadn’t mentioned the rule. You and Steve didn’t have too many, just enough to keep you alive, and the most important was to know the area before lighting a fire while it’s still light out. The smoke is a dead giveaway every time. 

Another sound.  

Someone has seen the smoke. 

“What do we do?” you whisper. 

He holds up his hand. 

“What are we gonna do?”

“Let me think.”

“Should we put out the fire?”

“Shut up!” he says harshly. “Shut up, Jesus Christ. I can’t think with you jabbering in my ear.”

Connor opens his backpack and takes out a zip tie. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head emphatically, “no, you can’t.”

“It’s this or I handcuff you to the radiator,” he says. 

A silence stretches between you both. He grabs your wrists and closes the zip tie around your wrist until you’re sure your hands will fall off, plastic digging cruelly into the lines already there. 

“You’re evil,” you murmur. 

His eyes turn to frosted glass. For the second time, you think, There’s nothing there. Nothing kind. Obviously not: he’s such a loser he felt he had to take a girl captive to get some. Fucking freak. 

He takes your face into his hand, squeezing your jaw in his paw of a hand. You whimper, your teeth grinding and your bones creaking from the force of it. 

“Stay quiet.” 

You stare. 

“Say ‘yes’.”

His fingers dig into your skin so hard you know you’ll have fingernail welts. 

“Yes,” you say, feeling as though you’ve choked on your own tongue. “I’ll be quiet.”

He throws your face away and your head smacks the wall. No more happy families. You cringe and slide down into yourself, a curled ball as he leaves the room. The gun clicks in his hands as he switches off the safety, and another metallic sound follows. You know it isn’t good. 

You cower for a moment, freaked out beyond words, and then you pull it together. For Steve. You sit up and press an awkward hand to your aching, stinging jaw. There’s blood on your fingers when you pull your bound hands away. You slide onto your knees and struggle to stand, shoulders riding the wall. Your ears are posted for a sound. There are a hundred options and you don’t want any of them. Run away, get killed by whoever’s out there. Run away, get killed by Connor. Run away, get killed by a geek. Run away, survive, and never find a way to unbind yourself. Run away into the hands of someone crueller. Run away and never find Steve. 

A female voice calls out. 

“We just want to talk!”

That’s nobody you know. It’s not Robin. You try not to feel heartbroken, and when you do you try to hold it rather than have it drag you down. It’s not Steve, fine, but it’s a woman, and she’s probably a whole lot safer than Connor. 

“I’m armed!” Connor shouts. 

You walk slowly to the window and peer through. Down the cabin steps and in the grass stands a dark silhouette you know is Connor. Further along is a woman and another figure. You’re not sure who. 

“So are we!” she calls. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. What are you supposed to do? What’s the answer here?

The shouting out front continues, but that’s not what distracts you— there are sounds coming from behind. There’s someone at the back door. You cast your gaze around the room to look for something that can help you. There’s a fire poker on the floor near the wood stove. You rush to grab it, almost falling at the weight of your own head. 

The first pop of the gun makes you drop it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you scramble to grab it again, hands shaking hard as footsteps sound in the hall. Another gunshot makes you gasp, the third has you swallowing a sob. You press yourself hard into the wall with the poker held aloft. 

The door opens. 

For a second, a split-second, you don’t recognise him. 

“Steve!” Jonathan Byers shouts, grinning, “I got her!”

Thudding races from the kitchen and down the hallway. Steve appears behind Jonathan like a dream, a dizzying relief to see in all his pale sweetness. 

You drop the poker and a sob comes so hard you can’t keep your eyes open. You’ve never felt anything like this. A nightmare over so suddenly and all you can do is fight to open your eyes. 

Steve crosses the room, steps over Connor’s tantrum like it isn’t there, and wraps his arms around you. It’s a different kind of tightness, nothing like the cruel press of Connor’s fingers. Steve pulls you together, steadies you, cheek smashed into the top of your head and arms circling your shoulders. Your fingers shake, you can’t move your hands, and still you curl them around his coat uselessly. You can’t get a hold on him, but it doesn’t matter. Steve has you. 

“It’s okay,” he’s saying, strands of panic sewn between the reassurance in his lovely voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Come on.” You’re crying like a little kid. You can’t stop, and you can’t breathe. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

Steve draws away from you, barely an inch, to slide the blade of his pen knife between your wrists. The zip tie splits and you vy for him weakly, your hands to his waist. 

He shoves the pen knife into his pocket and grabs your arm. “I know, I know, but we have to go. We can’t stay here, the noise’ll draw company we don't want.” His hand roams up to your neck. He cups your face, his palm blistering to your chilled cheek. “Hey,” he says, smiling a rare smile. “My girl… it’ll be okay. I’m gonna fix it. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

He nods at you hopefully. You swallow your sobbing until it’s a wet gasping sounds and nod back. He looks at you for a charged second, before he wraps his arms around you again. Gentle, so, so careful. Your head rests in the crook of his arm, a crop of kisses laid over your cold cheek. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I’m okay,” you say. “I’m fine now.” 

—

Steve sits in the path of the window, afternoon light drizzling into his eyes and over your sleeping face. He squints against its brightness and stands to pull the curtains closed, fingertips on your shoulder. He has to stretch to reach, but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s worried you’ll disappear if he does. Contact keeps you here. 

Curtains closed, he sits back down tentatively, looking for your hand in the mess of blankets and quilts covering your body. He’s wiped the blood from your cheeks, tended to your small inflamed cuts with disinfectant. He’s wrapped your sore wrists, spent hours rubbing your frostbitten fingers, worried the cold killed your circulation. You’ve slept for hours now, only stirring when he had to use the bathroom. He’d been gone for less than a minute, a heart attack in sixty seconds, and you’d been awake and trying to get out of bed when he got back. 

He stays close. 

He just wants you to rest. 

Steve pulls back the blankets and slips in beside you slowly. You turn into his movements, and when he’s flat on his back you let your weight rest on him completely. Your breathing tells him you’re waking up, not quite slow, not quite deep. 

He takes your hand into both of his and hugs it. Found it, he thinks.

“Stevie,” you utter. 

“Yeah, I’m here.”

You smile and push your face into the juncture of his neck. 

There aren’t really words for what Steve feels. Relief like a hurricane. Guilt something worse. Love, anger, worry. It’s all mixed together and he can’t pull one from the other, but he knows one thing. 

“I couldn’t live without you,” he mumbles. 

“Good,” you say. You snort into his skin. “Not good, baby, that’s awful, but-” You pull your hand from his to wrap it around his shoulders. He pulls you up onto his chest. “Good, ‘cause I can’t live without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Your voice is scratchy from a lot of tears. He never wants to hear you cry like that again. He’s only heard it once before, when you’d fallen through the first floor of a dilapidated house a hundred miles away, and after hours where he’d assumed you’d never wake up again, you did, and you’d been in so much pain you couldn’t stay still. You’d shook for days. 

“I would’ve looked for you until I found you,” he says, unsure what he wants. He thinks, selfishly, that he’d like some comfort. 

“I know,” you say, your hand moving up, up to his hair. 

You lean back to see him, the two of you nose to nose, and stroke his hair away from his forehead one strand at a time. 

“Will you kiss me?” you whisper. 

“Depends,” he whispers back. “What’s in it for me?”

“Anything you want.”

He smirks at you. “Already got everything I want right here.”

“In that case, you’ll have to consider it part of your philanthropy, handsome. I’m a charity case.”

“How dare you say that about my girl,” he says, his feigned indignation hard to believe with the mildness of his tone, and his lips so close to yours. 

He kisses you, worried you’ll fall apart. It’s a sad kiss, not what he’d expected, though it’s better than the terrified one he’d stolen before you fell asleep. That had been nervous energy and imprecise, all the urgency of your first kiss and none of the finesse. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, peeling away from his case to frame his face in your hands. 

He could say no. Tears burn behind his eyes, his nose stings, he could burst into tears in your arms. 

“How can you ask me that?” he asks, watching as your eyes pinch into a squint and all your eyelashes kiss. 

“I love you,” you say. 

He chokes on air. “I know that. I love you, too, but you’re the one who got hurt. You’re the one who’s hurting, why would you ask me how I am? You’re—“ Too good. Too good for me. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Steve.”

You have tears in your eyes and he’s flooded with guilt. He brought it up too soon, he knows. It’s barely over — you need to feel safe, and won’t if he keeps reminding you. 

“I’m okay,” he says softly. “How are you feeling, huh?”

“I’m actually starving,” you admit, squishing his cheeks with your hands. 

“You want me to go get you something?”

You look down bashfully. “I really need to shower, Steve. You might be blind to my grime but I’m gross right now–”

He kisses you to cut you off, a sharp, saccharine kiss that makes you giggle. “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about, idiot.”

“Your girlfriend is a creature.”

“A creature!” He uses his weight to push you onto your back, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re done. You’re done,” he repeats, beaming at your infectious laughter, “you think you can talk about yourself whatever way you like, don’t you? It’s not happening.”

“Okay, I won’t,” you say, your eyes locking with his. 

He watches your lips part, feels the rise and fall of your chest under his. 

I’m so sorry, he wants to tell you. 

You’re finally smiling. He won’t ruin it.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling his lips into a big smile. 

It’s easier than he anticipates to smile. You needle your arms over his shoulders and tug him to your chest, your own smile like a brand next to his ear. 

“I missed you,” you say. “I know it’s stupid.”

He exhales heavily. “I missed you too.”

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 8: Penance

Contents | Part 7 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) "This was it. This was really happening."

Word Count: <4K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, religious imagery, explicit sexual content from the outset. Smut: penetrative sex/unprotected sex, (some)dirty talk, other things I’m sure but it’s 4am and I’m tired. Readers must be 18+

Kissing him now was different than before. 

In the church it had been desperate, chaotic, a deliverance from lust that served neither of you well. This time, though, there was no rage; no fury in his touch, no aggravation in your chest. 

Your mouths moved, deep and slow, luxuriating in the taste of one another without the fear of interruption. You weaved your hands into the back of his hair, the silky, damp locks slipping between your fingers. His lips parted against yours, a heavy breath escaping him as you tugged his head back gently, like a hot, satisfied sigh of relief. You wondered how long he'd been starving himself of this intimacy, how someone who kissed like this would ever have the strength to abstain.

His tongue swept into your mouth, so fluid yet dominant in its invasion. You revelled in the taste of him; the cigarette he'd smoked, the whiskey he'd drank at the party, the intoxicating warmth of his breath. This was the same tongue that spoke to god, that gave sermons in church and preached of chastity, now gliding against yours in a sinful union, inciting feelings within you that he'd so adamantly condemned. 

You moaned softly against his lips, pressing your body harder against him. His damp clothes were cold now, making you shiver as the rainwater seeped through to your chest. Your nipples began to harden in response, sending jolts of prickly pleasure to your core with every brush against them. 

His hands skimmed up your back, the sensitivity of his touch lost against the thick material of your jumper. You wanted him to delve beneath it, craved the warmth of his large palms splayed across your flesh. But his movements were unhurried, and you weren't sure if it was out of reverence or doubt. But then he rolled his hips beneath you, pressing a straining erection up against your centre, and it definitely didn't feel like doubt. 

There was a part of you that was surprised to find him so hard, eager, aching to break out of his confines and sink between your legs. But the other part of you knew; from the moment you met him he seemed to know exactly how to burrow straight to the core of you. To delve beyond the awkwardly timed jokes and resigned disposition to the place where it all made sense. Where you made sense. It was like he belonged within the very depths of you, and he wanted to be there. You wanted him there. Mind and body. 

The feeling was torturous; the friction, the pressure, the connection stifled by layers of clothing and his forbearing restraint. 

"Touch me," you whispered against his lips. 

"I am touching you." 

"No, touch me." You reached back and gripped his wrists, attempting to guide him beneath the jumper. 

He closed his eyes and let out a growling sigh. It made you halt, leaning back slightly to look into his eyes. 

"Please don't hate me." 

"Why would I hate you?" he replied. 

"I don't know. You just seem... angry." 

"I'm not angry, Ellis. I'm devastated." He moved his large hands to frame your face, thumbs on your cheeks, fingers curved around the back of your neck behind your ears. "You have... devastated me." 

A breath caught softly in your throat, your voice barely audible as you muttered. "I'm sorry." 

"No you're not." 

He returned his mouth to yours and you gasped at the newfound fervour in his kiss. Sharp teeth nipped at your bottom lip, his tongue less gentle in its assault. He said you weren't really sorry, and perhaps that was true; a sorry person would have stopped him, spared him, absolved him of his sins before they burgeoned beyond forgivable. But instead you let him kiss and bite and lick at your parted lips, hummed in approval as he brought his hands to your bare thighs - fingertips bruising in their rough grasp - and bore down against the hard bulge beneath his trousers.

There was a fire deep in your core, flames licking and dancing as they swept through your body. Your skin puckered with heat, every touch searing, every kiss and ragged breath drawing the blaze closer to the surface. You had never wanted someone this desperately before, never been so aroused that you could feel it tingling in your scalp, surging in your stomach and pooling between your legs as your clit pulsated with need.

You dragged the jumper over your head, turning it inside out as you impatiently peeled it from your body and threw it to the ground beside the couch. For three years, no one had seen you naked except Alfie, and there was a comfort that came with that. He'd already acquainted himself with the curves and blemishes of your body, the parts you liked and didn't. He'd seen the scar from an old bellybutton piercing, traced his fingers over the stretch marks on your hips. You never had to fear exposing yourself to him. Most of the time you never even had to; his eagerness to shove inside you completely outweighing his desire to fully undress. 

For weeks you'd opened your legs for him, closed your eyes as he clumsily thrust into your body and imagined Father Benedict there instead. You would sink into a world of steepled ceilings and stained glass, dark curls and white collars. But when it was over, you would open your eyes and be back in the house - Gina's house - with Alfie's satisfied smile gleaming down at you. 

But this time, Father Benedict wasn't a fantasy, and those piercing blue eyes were actually there, trailing over you in silence. You suddenly became very aware that you'd revealed yourself to him; bare chest, uncovered stomach, dips and contours and textures and curves, parts of you that had belonged solely to someone else for the last three years. A shyness washed over you, the urge to wrap your arms around yourself and hide. But as his gaze raked over your body, hands gliding slowly up your sides, you stilled.

A heavy breath fell from his parted lips, the exhale rattling with a soft growl. "Forgive me, Father," he muttered, his voice so low it was barely audible.

You couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, or if he really was speaking to God; begging for mercy before he'd even taken a bite of the forbidden fruit. 

He leaned forward, placing a kiss on your collarbone as his fingers dug into your hips. Your head fell back instinctively, opening yourself up to him, eyes closing as the warmth of his tongue trailed up to your neck. A shiver ran through you like static, raising goosebumps and tightening your nipples into painful, hard pearls. He hadn't spoken directly to you, and yet somehow every insecurity you had began to melt, dripping from your centre in wet, hot desire. 

You took his hair in fistfuls as he traipsed kisses down your chest, teeth grazing over the soft flesh of each breast before pausing suddenly. You opened your eyes and brought your head forward, looking down to find him leaning back to examine you curiously. 

"Are these bruises?" he asked. 

You glanced down at yourself; the motley of reds, purples and browns marring your breasts. 

"Love bites," you replied quietly, simply.

He glared up at you, half-lidded, jaw sharp. 

"Does it bother you?" you asked.

"The evidence of another man's mouth all over you?" 

"So it does?" 

He didn't respond, his silence confirming your suspicion. 

"Why?" you whispered. 

"Because I know he didn't deserve the privilege." 

You felt his words spark the nerves in your clit, like the striking of a match. You rolled your hips slightly, trying to ease the sudden ache. "Are you saying you do?"

"No." His tone darkened as he looked up at you. "But I plan to earn it." 

You didn't know what you were expecting him to say. But it definitely wasn't that. It made you wish you could see yourself through his eyes - a woman he had to earn. You leant forward and swept him into another kiss; so overcome with need and adulation, the feeling of being desired and appreciated almost as arousing as his lips on your bare skin. He returned your kiss, just for a moment, before bringing a hand to your face, gripping your cheeks between finger and thumb to peel you away.

"After tonight, no one will ever touch you again unless they're worthy of you," he said, his voice so quiet and serious, lips grazing yours as he spoke. "Will you promise me that?" 

You nodded, as much as his grasp on your face would allow. 

He eased his grip, seemingly satisfied with your response, and allowed you to melt into him again. You fumbled for the buttons on his shirt as you kissed him, popping them open one by one until you reached the collar. It seemed wrong for you to take it off. Even now as you sat straddling him, half naked and panting heavily, that strip of white plastic around his neck was like armour, an impenetrable shield, blasphemous to remove. 

"Go ahead," he said quietly, as if sensing your apprehension. "It just snaps off." 

"You don't want to do it yourself?" 

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Just do it." 

You pulled at it with shaking fingers but it didn't budge. With a slight huff you tried again, harder, hearing two quick pops, a heavy exhale from his lips. You slid it out, eyes fixed on his as you dropped it to the ground - his commitment relinquished, abandoned, discarded into the puddle of your jumper on the floor. 

He undid the last few buttons himself before placing his hands around your waist, silently granting permission for you to peel the shirt back from his body and reveal the smooth, cold skin beneath it. You lay your palms on his chest, dragging them slowly down his torso as you admired the sight, the feel, how he expanded with every breath, tensed with the tickle of your fingers. Some parts of him were soft, tender, malleable beneath your touch. Others were hard and robust, broader than you expected them to be. This person wasn't a dream, wasn't a character or a myth. This was a man. 

His throat bobbed with a deep swallow as you leant forward and placed a kiss on his chest, his hold on you tightening, body turning rigid beneath you. You trailed your lips up to his neck, revelling in the taste of him; salt and earth, soap and faded aftershave. 

"Tell me about the fantasies," he whispered through a serrated breath.

"What do you mean?" 

"I want to know what you pictured when you thought of me."

You paused before moving your mouth up to his jaw, kissing along the sharp edge, the slightest brush of stubble beginning to surface. 

"I'll tell you what I was thinking about today in my office," he wagered. 

You thought about it for a moment. "Okay. You first." 

"I was thinking about you kneeling for communion at the altar." He turned his head, his deep, gravelly voice pouring straight into your ear. "With my cock down your throat." 

You gasped gently as a rush of warmth flooded your core, making you roll your hips to ride the sudden, intense wave. 

"You give sermons with that mouth, Father," you said softly, voice trembling despite your attempt to sound playful.

His hands glided up and down your back, nails grazing lightly over your goose-bumped flesh. "Now you." 

"I never really thought of a specific scene. It's just... always you. But-" you cut yourself off, inhaling the words back into your lungs before they even had the chance to escape. 

"But?" 

You lifted your head to look at him. "One thing always stays the same." 

"And that is?" 

"You're never... Gentle." 

He buckled beneath you, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against the back of the couch, a stifled groan resonating in the base of his throat. "Hot, fiery Hell," he growled, pushing himself up between your legs.

He felt big; his cock firm and straining as it surged against your sheathed entrance. You wanted to release it, hold it in your hands, run your tongue along every inch. You wanted to acquaint the curl of your fingers with its girth, stroke, grip, tease, watch it sink gradually inside you until there was nothing left of it. For the longest time, sex had been a chore; Alfie's penis a jabbing, graceless thing that prodded around but never truly satisfied. You'd forgotten what it was like to truly crave the intrusion, to feel yourself lubricated and ready before you'd even fully undressed. 

He weaved a hand through you hair, wrenching you towards him and swallowing you in another heady, desperate kiss. The other hand slid beneath the rumpled fabric of your boxers, tracing his fingers back and forth over the crease where thigh met hip. You willed him to move further inward, mewling with every almost-touch until the sensation became unbearable. You'd waited so long for this; sat through so many sermons, suffered the ache of uncomfortable pews and unsafe bus rides, the suspicious glare of church volunteers and the boredom of those fucking support groups. It was time to embrace where it had led you to. 

You were his penance, but he was your reward. 

You reached down and began working to unfasten his trousers, battling with the complicated fly until it finally opened. He came undone with it, breathing a hot sigh into your mouth as you stroked and caressed him through his underwear. He steered his fingers over the junction of your bikini line and you gasped as they slipped easily through your wet folds, gliding back and forth before settling on your clit. 

He gave a proud hum as he rolled the pad of his thumb over the tender bud, rousing a storm in your core; sparks of lightning and deep, undulating thunder. You moaned softly, grip tightening around the outline of his rigid length. A shiver rippled through you, making your legs shake, hips bucking involuntarily and pushing you harder against his touch.

Maintaining the pressure on your clit, he moved his other hand to the waistband of your boxers - his boxers, now drenched in the evidence of your desire - silently instructing you to take them off. But you didn't want to leave him, even for a moment. Scared that your brief separation would bring him clarity, grant him just enough time to change his mind. You pressed your forehead to his as you lingered there, staring down into his eyes and searching for doubt in the flecks of his irises.

He removed his hands from you completely - the loss of contact turning the pleasure to a heavy, mournful ache - and tugged at the crumpled material around your waist. 

"Ellis," he growled. 

You gave in and climbed off him, the weight of your movements inciting a stifled groan in his chest. And in the time it took the boxers to fall to the ground, you were back on his lap, bare pussy grinding against the rough fabric of his trousers; buttons and open fly, the Y-shaped seam of his underwear and confined curve of his cock.

Was God here right now? Spying from the corner of the room like some omniscient voyeur? You'd never been one for exhibitionism. But there was a strange power that came with the thought of your naked body shrouded in a celestial gaze, deities forced to watch but unable to intervene. 

You felt Father Benedict shift a hand beneath you, shucking his trousers further down his hips and fisting at his underwear. His cock sprung free against your ass, firm and heavy as it settle along the groove between your cheeks. Your breath turned shallow at the mere thought of having him inside you, a deep shiver rippling through your core like a prophecy of that first thrust. 

You lifted yourself slightly, enough for him to reach down and grip the base of his cock, gliding the engorged head through the slick between your legs. He was eager, impatient - maybe he was scared of changing his mind too. 

"Are you sure about this?" you whispered, shivering as you felt him prodding against your entrance.  

His gaze darkened, like a crisp blue sky in the onset of a storm, and in one smooth, firm slide, he entered you. A sound poured out of you that you'd never heard yourself make before; shock, relief, pleasure, all at once. You marvelled at the stretching sensation, the way your body welcomed every inch of his cock with such ease, your inner walls flexing and moulding around the thick veins and hard ridges as it filled you to the very depths. 

His eyes clamped shut, the muscle in his jaw pulsating as he fought to maintain his composure. "I haven't been sure about anything since the moment I met you," he finally replied.

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the dimple at the corner of his mouth, trying to soothe the tension he was storing there. You draped your arms around his shoulders and let your chest fall against his, running your fingers through the back of his hair, the curls that fell over the nape of his neck. 

This was it. This was really happening. 

For the longest time you'd felt incomplete; a collection of empty spaces and uncharted lands, voids too deep and complex for anyone to explore, even you. But in the short time you'd known Father Benedict, he'd somehow managed to journey to the very centre of those places, laid down roots and watched them flourish, as swift and besieging as English ivy on fractured stone. Perhaps that was why this felt so right; because the hollows of your body were already his to pervade. 

He was bigger than Alfie; thicker, longer, the snug fit stealing the air from your lungs as you relaxed against him. No man had ever filled you this completely; flooding your pelvis with a warm, tense pressure before he'd even moved a muscle. You rolled your hips, testing the feel of him, and gasped quietly as electricity surged through your belly.  

A deep, husky groan dripped into your ear, long fingers and large palms skimming up your thighs and settling on your waist with a clawing grasp. His voice sent a chill across your skin, even the finest hairs bristling in response. 

"Ellis," he rumbled. "I'm really trying not to lose my composure." 

You kissed him softly, allowing another slow, controlled rotation. His voice rattled in the back of his throat, nails pressing half-moons into the dips of your waist. There was something charming in his restraint; how even in this moment, with his cock buried inside you, he was still trying to maintain his civility. 

You tightened your hold on his hair, deepening the connection until you were nothing but a blur of sweeping tongues and hot, heavy breaths. His body trembled beneath you as you gradually began to move, hips grinding and rotating to the rhythm of your kisses, punctuating each slide of his length with a soft, desperate whimper. 

A divine friction resonated in your core; his cock a rigid, firm stave, your pussy a soft, pliant sheath, moving together in both harmony and dissonance, like the trill of a choir. With every upstroke, your nipples grazed his open shirt, and when you bore down, an electric current hummed in your clit.  

"Fuck." The word stuck between your teeth before escaping in a sigh.

His hands caressed your back, the wide span of his fingers leaving no part of you untouched; squeezing, prodding, tickling, each stroke perfectly in tune with the motion of your hips. You rested your forehead in the crook of his neck, the feeling of his collar against your cheek making you realise he hadn't undressed. Not really. You'd stripped bare for him, offered your unclad body like a tribute for him to bask in. You were a creature of desire, his Mary Magdalene, completely devoted to serve. 

You felt your thighs growing tired, sore and shaking, a heavy burn smouldering in your muscles. You relaxed your pace, dropping your full weight into his lap as you slowed your movements to a lazy grind. The new sensation made you moan softly against his skin, savouring the longer, deeper slides, the crown of his cock sinking right down to your soul.

His head fell back, a swallow thrumming down his throat. "My god," he groaned. 

A smile pulled at your cheeks, the lord's name in vain so delicious whenever it came from him. And this one was your fault; your body guiding him to commit sin after glorious sin. You placed a kiss on his neck, seizing a moment of boldness by taking the skin into your mouth and drawing a bruise to the surface.

You half expected him to push you away, chastise you for marking him in a place he'd struggle to hide. But instead you felt his arms flex around you, thighs tensing as he moved to plant his feet firmly on the ground. A jolt of spine-tingling pleasure burst through you as he thrust to meet the languid roll of your hips, turning what was supposed to be a smooth, relaxed gyration into a hard, forceful collision. Your mouth fell open, a dazed cry falling from your parted lips.  

He growled softly in response, his control waning. 

Your pussy tensed around his cock as he slammed into you again, every ridge and groove of your inner walls melding to embrace him. He brought a hand to your face, drawing you into another fevered, hungry kiss. You obliged obediently, as though you were his to use, a disciple eager to please.

You hummed and groaned against his lips with every pump of his cock, the couch creaking beneath the weight of your union, his hand welded to the back of your head, the other on your backside directing your movements. He was driving you towards completion, filling you with a heat and pressure that grew stronger with every stroke. The feeling continued to swell, expanding deep in your stomach until it was dancing along your nerves; setting you alight.

You'd gotten used to not finishing. Alfie's premature climaxes so normalised that you no longer even protested the stuttering hips and garbled moans. Men came. Sometimes you did too, usually alone with your fingers after they rolled off you and went to sleep. But even in the times you did orgasm, it never felt like this. 

Your entire body shuddered, cells exploding and stitching themselves back together again. There was a throbbing in your clit, an ache in your core, the brushing of his cock inside you so sensitive you could no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain. 

He kept your head up with his hand, forcing you to look at him as you rode out every last wave, the aftershocks causing your walls to clench around his cock, coaxing him to his own release. He came soon after with a deep, guttural groan, sinking right down to the root as he flooded you with his seed. 

You sat breathless on his lap, still joined to him as he began to soften inside you, his eyes so dark it was like staring into the night sky. If this really was what damnation looked like, then you would happily burn for an eternity. 

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