#but it’s also why I’m so vehemently against him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cno-inbminor · 1 year

Text

repertum

plot: no matter how much you want alhaitham, you don’t think you can ever have him. he may or may not try to prove otherwise // ft. lumine and nahida

warnings: afab!reader, 3.4 spoilers, smut but reader and alhaitham get blue balled, angst, fluff and comfort later. probably some incorrect game lore and timing/mechanics.

a/n: :)))))

EDIT: Part 2 (FINAL) | AO3 Link

“I don’t–” You rush out before your breath hitches. “-- think this is a good idea, ah–”

Alhaitham keeps you pinned to the wall of your apartment, pelvis undulating against yours in an erratic beat. He drinks in every gasp that leaves your pretty little mouth, the same lips that have haunted his passing thoughts for the past month. His fingers dig into your waist and he leaves subcutaneous blooming sore spots on your shoulder and collarbone, relishing in your hisses of pain and pleasure, if the grip you have around his neck is any indicator.

Your words send a spike of adrenaline – he vehemently denies the possibility it may be fear instead – through his veins, to do anything to keep you right where he wants you, and he gives into the primal urge to dig his teeth into the very shoulder he’s been nibbling and sucking onto for the last ten minutes. The resulting yelp from you keeps him sated, and he places a soft kiss where he’d bitten you; a stark contrast.

Alhaitham lifts his head to look into your eyes, pupils swallowing over your irises and your eyelids half-open. He takes pride in having been able to push you towards such a state of inhibitions. “And what would make you think such a thing?” His lips ask against yours, tone dark with an alarming amount of clarity that you find absolutely unfair and unjust.

Despite his protests, there are several reasons why this isn’t a good idea. To be a scholar and also involved with the Akademiya’s former scribe? You’re practically begging to be academically slaughtered by the masses, as everyone knows Alhaitham has the ears of the General Mahamatra and, at times, Lord Kusanali herself. It goes both ways – having always been regarded as the level-headed, purely rational individual, most would agree that his current actions are the complete opposite. Those traits themselves are a recipe for disaster – sure, you could be witty and hold your own, but it was clear to you that you could not give him what he needs, he neither for you.

The sexual tension between you two is palpable. You briefly remember the day you first exchanged words with the man right before his new promotion. Both of you had reached for the same textbook one early, early morning, and being that it was the only copy in the entire library, you were determined to get your hands on it.

“I believe my hand was here first,” you said in a matter-of-fact tone. Part of you was screaming at yourself for even thinking about going against Alhaitham in any way, but this research paper is due next week and you will not let anyone hinder your progress. “I can give it to you when I’m done with it.”

Annoyance with a hint of amusement had crossed his features as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, the action drawing your gaze. The man had always been a great distance from you, but now seeing him up close, you can understand why some of the other scholars made it a point to mention just how attractive this man was. The brains, brawn, and looks all in a single individual? The archons were quite unfair, if you had anything to say about it.

“I believe the scholars understand they should not hinder any work of mine. It would be best for me to take it, and I will return it once I no longer need it.”

You wanted to wipe the smugness of his face. With a kiss or with a book thrown at him, you don’t care to differentiate – but the confidence he exuded was starting to irritate you, and you ignore the beginnings of an unwanted heat swirling in your core. “Well if the Scribe would so kindly lend it to me, I only need it for the next 36 hours and it will be all yours afterward. Surely your work can wait for that long?”

He took a step towards you to level with your impertinent gaze. Part of you thought you had had the higher ground, granted you were standing on a step ladder so you could reach the book, but you then saw that even with the extra centimeters, you were simply at about the same height as the man. Again, unfair.

“What is your name?” He interrogated.

“What is it to you?” You snapped back. If he really wanted to, he could demand to see your student identification credentials. But part of him wanted to hold back, to watch you bend to his will.

“I may consider granting you your wish if I can learn of your identity.”

The look of surprise on your face had been the beginning of his downfall. Normally the other scholars would have cowered beneath his presence by now. Yet the little spurts of fight from you had elicited some excitement from within, a feeling he hadn’t felt in quite a bit of time. Such emotions were for the weak for they clouded one’s judgment and logic.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I will take this and, once again, will return it when I am done with it.”

He outstretched his hand to lay his claim on the book’s spine, fingers pressing gently against yours that were still adamant in your pursuit. Both of you made it a point to ignore how the touch made goosebumps form on your arm, thankfully hidden underneath your clothes. The Akademiya’s Scribe knowing you by name never boded well, but it was 2AM and you were perhaps too desperate.

In a state of unfounded confidence and irrationality, your fingers moved to intertwine with his. Watching his jawline slack the slightest bit fueled you, and you dragged your hands off the shelf and pressed them against his chest. With it, you leaned into the bounds of his personal space, using everything you had left in you to keep his eyes on you. Perhaps his pupils had become dilated, you can’t remember at this point, but it was enough distraction for you to use your other hand to snatch the book from its confines between other hardcovers. Once acquired, you disentangled from his grasp and took hurried steps off the step-ladder, clutching the book to your chest. You backpedaled some decimeters away to create some much needed distance. Alhaitham seemed stunned into silence. Or perhaps he was plotting your murder.

“(Y/N).”

And before you disappeared around the corner, he called out to warn, “I will see you in 36 hours.”

For many weeks afterwards, he made it a point to alert you of his presence whenever you were in the Akademiya’s building. If you were furiously annotating notes from multiple annals spread across your table, he would saunter by and subtly brush his cape against your clothes. If you were simply reading for pleasure, a knee pulled up into your chest because fuck Akademiya propriety, he would make sure to sit at the table across yours and in a chair on the side facing you head on. Did he let himself stare at you too much, finding some enjoyment in watching your facial expressions as you read? Perhaps. If it was late at night and you looked incredibly stressed, he would invite himself to look over your shoulder and observe your information, only to point out some details and offer tidbits of advice. Sometimes you found yourself in deep, research-heavy conversations and got a taste of Alhaitham’s inner workings, which only made you want more.

Tonight after a big project, he invited you to a drink at Lambad’s Tavern, though it was under the guise of needing some help bringing food back for his roommate afterwards, and you were going there anyway. Tucked in the corner, you, aided by alcohol, had let your inhibitions fall. You would need to be passed out to not feel the heat and weight of his gaze on you for the entire night, and you found yourself reveling in it. Yet it didn’t make sense – why would he find an interest in you, out of all the people within Sumeru? Alhaitham could have his pick of anyone, yet he decided to put his eggs in a basket with your name and face on it.

The thoughts stewed inside, even as he made a nonchalant offer to walk you to your apartment. “It is late, and you have no means to defend yourself.” That had been the end of it as he walked towards the path leading to the outskirts of the city, and you had no choice but to follow. At your doorstep, underneath a waning gibbous and cloudy skies, Alhaitham’s body language communicated his hesitancy in leaving you alone for the night, and with a swallow, you had invited him in for a cup of coffee.

He gave a nod. The door clicked shut. And as soon as your eyes with hints of lust met his, he made his move – surging forward to pull you into a kiss, and then spinning to press you against the wall with his thighs slotted between yours. The faint, yet unbridled moan for just mere kisses made his chest swell, and he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip.

“It’s just not – Haitham – a good idea,” you pant, thoughts back in the present moment.

“I disagree,” he retaliates, pulling back to remove your shirt. The rate of his disappearing self-control only increases when he does everything to commit this moment to memory. You’re so beautiful, he laments, torn between wanting to maintain the sanctity of your figure and forcing you to succumb and accept his attempts to claim you. He wants you to feel his kisses and bites for days, so you would never forget and inevitably crave his touch.

You don’t want to argue with him now, not when you finally have him in your hands. Your lips desperately meet his again as you unclip your bra and shrug it off. He follows suit and undoes his cape so he can pull his sleeveless shirt over his head, groaning when he pulls you close and his bare skin takes in the heat emanating from yours. Feeling your hardened nipples slide against his pectorals should not be so alluring, yet he finds himself wishing you two could stay in bed for eternity, naked and entwined and drunk on each others’ touch.

Fingers dig into his silver-gray locks and tugs, to which he answers with a punishing nip on your neck. “Bedroom,” you plead so prettily and he can only let you draw back to lead the way. He wastes little time in pressing forward until the back of your legs hit the bed frame, causing you to fall back. From mere kisses and heavy petting, the look on your face is already so sinful, and Alhaitham can’t help but imagine how you’d look once his cock was inside you.

“You siren and minx,” he sighs in faux displeasure, planting gentle pecks down your chest and abdomen until he hovers over the band of your pants. He tugs them and your underwear down with the aid of your lifted hips – and doesn’t miss the glossy thread of your slick from your vulva to the damp cotton. When it eventually breaks, he feels twinges of regret for not being able to catch it on his tongue and have a taste of you, like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

His hands have a firm grip underneath your thighs and pushes them towards your chest. Alhaitham curses when he has the full view of your pussy, puffy and wet and demanding any attention. “Haitham, please,” and you sound like you’re on the verge of tears.

“Hmm?” His voice teases as his fingers spread and his thumbs are so, so close to where you want them to be. Your pitiful cry is answered with– “Use your words. You surely have never had a problem with that.”

You beat a fist against his chest in retaliation, though there is little to no force behind it. The pathetic attempt at communicating your embarrassment is not lost on you.

Yet despite the heated blood in your veins, the near desperation to climb this high, your heart stills at the smirk sitting devilishly on his lips. You suddenly become hyperaware of every part of your body that he is seeing and touching, and the rational part of your brain returns once more to remind you, again, that this is not going to end well.

In the years that Alhaitham has roamed and trudged through the hierarchy and floors of the Akademiya, everybody knows he is not one for intimate relationships, whether it be deeper friendships or romantic partnerships. So for him to spend his precious free time with an ordinary scholar such as you, no legacy or prestige to your name – it made no sense. You are more than ready to understand that if this night were to run its due course, the end result would be the same if it were to never happen.

The dread that settles into Alhaitham’s body is murky and viscous as he watches sobering clarity fill your system, most noticeably in your eyes. Irises expanding, pupils shrinking, the life and spark from earlier swept away, don’t make much sense to him as you gently remove yourself from his grasp. “Y/N?” He inquires with some of the most uncertainty he’s felt in the last ten or so years. Adrenaline dissolves into veiled panic as he watches you slip on a new pair of underwear and an oversized sleep shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling too well,” you supply in a meek voice, looking around and eventually finding his shirt from earlier. The man appears as dumbfounded as he can behind such a blank and austere face such as his, pulling the material back over his head and looping his arms through in a trance. He doesn’t remember following after you but finds himself back in your living room where his cloak had been haphazardly thrown onto the ground. With the way you slide it over his shoulders and make no mistake in securing it properly, he feels as if ice cold water has been dumped over his head.

And then you’re both at the front door and all he knows in this precise moment is that he really, really doesn’t want to leave.

“Thank you again for the drink,” you say, voice cracking near the end and gaze avoiding his at all costs. “You didn’t have to.”

Alhaitham chooses to say nothing, and despite how much the inner turmoil is wrecking your nervous system, you know this is for the best.

Right?

“Did I do anything wrong?”

Yes. No. Of course. Not at all. Maybe.

“No, I just don’t feel well. Maybe the alcohol isn’t agreeing with me.”

At the same time you twist the doorknob and pull, you stand on your tiptoes to plant a shaky kiss against his cheek.

“Goodnight, Alhaitham.”

It’s clear that he’s being banished now, door wide and a clear signal for him to leave. While he may want to slam the door back closed and demand all the answers he needs to the sudden change in your behavior, he simply nods and steps over the threshold, pausing when he fully steps into the hallway. The man doesn’t have the gall to face you straight on, but he lets you take one last look at his side profile, eyes glancing briefly over his shoulder.

“Have a better lie next time.”

This is for the best, you repeat to yourself minutes later when you’re curled underneath your blankets.Your breath shudders as the tears begin to stain your pillowcase, and before you slip into a fitful slumber, you worry about what dreams will greet you.

Alhaitham doesn’t see you for a whole week.

For seven agonizing days, 108 frustration-ridden hours, you are nowhere to be found or seen, as if you decided to hole up in your apartment and never leave your own self-made prison. It’s embarrassing, to a certain degree, just how much he’s been around the library, constantly on the lookout for your figure. Kaveh caught him reading the same page of a history book for at least ten minutes on one of those days, but chose to keep his mouth shut for once and snarky remarks to himself.

On day 8, Alhaitham wonders if he’s begun to hallucinate when he sees you in plain view at the market stand, attempting to barter with the owner to get a better deal on some vegetables. But it’s your voice he hears, your hands he sees, your hair that makes his fingers twitch in a thinly-veiled hidden desire to run them through. He’s left standing in the middle of the street looking like an idiot, yet others perceive his heavy gaze upon your figure to assume that you’re about to get into some trouble and the General Mahamatra was calling in a favor of some sorts.

On day 11, he catches you running up the pathway that leads to the Sanctuary of Surasthana, which is bewildering and confusing in its entirety. What business do you have being anywhere near the residence of Lord Kusanali? Even he as the former Scribe, favored and the most unwilling Acting Grand Sage, and one of the saviors of the Dendro Archon, has not been there since the whole hubbub died down, and it’s been months.

On day 14, you run into the traveler who seems to be making her rounds of saying goodbye to various citizens. Alhaitham had spoken a number of times about her and her travels and you knew her next destination was Fontaine. Not far from home, but far enough away to rid yourself of all these ugly, human emotions and get over this huge crush on the aforementioned man. With unfounded confidence, you call for her attention with shaky breaths.

“Can I help you?” She questions softly, not missing the clear distress in your body.

“My name is Y/N and, um, I’m a scholar at the Akademiya. Though I guess my attire gave that away,” you laugh nervously, gesturing to said clothing. “I’m, uh, an acquaintance, I guess, of Haitham’s? Anyways, that’s not really important, but you’re going to Fontaine, right?”

Lumine nods and stays silent.

Well, here goes nothing. “This might sound really weird but…can I come with you?”

Perfect, golden eyebrows rise in surprise – it’s not everyday a mere stranger so brazenly asks to travel with her, especially to another nation.

“I have some research that is taking me there, but I’d prefer not to travel alone. I was going to leave soon, but just now when I heard you telling people goodbye, I thought I’d try to ask? I’ll pay for your help, and I can even help you find and cook food! Hopefully you don’t find a Vision-less person like me a burden but I promise I won’t get in the way.”

Lumine looks you up and down once more while her thoughts process. You look harmless and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have another set of hands along the way. Fontaine really wasn’t that far away once they crossed the border. It was becoming clearer to her that you truly did need to get to Fontaine, and not just for research. Perhaps –

“Could it be that you’re running from something?” She asks with curiosity.

“...wow, nothing really gets past you. It’s more like…someone,” you confess, sheepish and embarrassed.

“Are you in danger?”

“Not at all, no!” With hands waving in front of you, you speak with clear denial. “I’m trying to figure some things out and, well, I’d rather do it when I’m not constantly at risk of bumping into him.”

“Clearly I don’t know the details of your situation but…wouldn’t it be better to just be honest with him?”

You take a glance in the direction of the Akademiya and allow a bittersweet smile to grace your lips. “I think my honesty would simply be a burden for him.”

“And you know that because…?”

“Because he is that kind of man. There is no need for him to have a place for me in his heart. But I’m really bringing the mood down – could you please consider my offer? I forgot to mention I can be quite handy with a dagger if need be.”

Lumine and Paimon exchange a look, the fairy shrugging. “We leave tomorrow at first light,” the traveler speaks up. “Is that enough time for you to gather everything you need? If not, as long as we leave by midday, we don’t mind waiting.”

Perfect.

“It’s more than enough time. I pack light anyways.”

“We’ll meet in front of the Sanctuary then. Paimon and I need to meet with Lord Kusanali before we depart.”

You barely get any sleep that night, a ball of nerves and excitement. Your neighbor has been kind enough to hold your spare key to check in on your apartment every once in a while, waving you off when you begin to discuss forms of repayment for their generosity. The last time you ventured out of the main city and its surrounding areas was perhaps a few years ago to get a look at the famed Palace of Alcazarzaray. Alhaitham had briefly spoken of Kaveh a few times, though his tone was an odd amalgamation of genuine respect and scathing admonishment. In fact, you met the architect once when he came to the Akademiya to ask (more like loudly demand) for a copy of their house key. That was one of your first deep dives into how much of a teasing asshole Alhaitham could be, and you had already been spending most of your hours with him.

Fontaine has only ever been presented to you in sketches and paintings, so for a chance to see it in person…you can’t wait.

When your alarm goes off, you practically jump out of bed, throwing on your travel attire that you had set out the night before. With your research materials in a bag and travel essentials in another, you give one last look at your apartment. Who knows when you’ll be back?

#alhaitham x reader #genshin impact smut #al haitham x reader #alhaitham #genshin impact angst

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cannibalizedyke · 2 years

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omg ok i’m sorry this’ll be the last one for now i feel bad 😭😭 but eddie x fem!henderson!reader with mutual pining and dustin is totally sick of it and just tells eddie what reader thinks of him and when eddie approaches her she’s just like “dustin you little shit”

i’m sorry again for putting so many requests in 😭🫶🫶

NO NO SEND MORE COREY BABY I LOVE YOUR REQUESTS I LOVE GETTING EDDIE REQUESTS HON

dude i love henderson!reader it's probably my favorite thing fucking ever

also!! in my head the reader is adopted, i don't want anyone to feel like they aren't being included bc they don't look like dustin :)

part two

💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗👛💗

You always volunteered to drive Dustin and his friends to Eddie Munson's trailer for Hellfire.

It wasn't because you cared about your brother, it wasn't because you wanted to be helpful, it wasn't for any good sentimental big sister reason. No.

You drove Dustin to Hellfire because it gave you an excuse to see Eddie, the boy you'd been crushing on since your freshman year.

Eddie didn't know this, of course. He thought you were like, a good person or some shit, no matter how vehemently Dustin tried to convince him that could not possibly be further from the truth. You were nice, but you weren't gonna waste your time doing stuff for your little brother. That wasn't like you at all.

"Stop shitting on your sister, man," Eddie said, rolling a die. "She drives you to Hellfire, she obviously really cares about you."

Dustin sputtered. "Cares about me!? Sure, but like, not enough to waste her time driving me, Mike, and Lucas here! She drives us cause she's - " Dustin shut his mouth, eyes wide.

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Cause what, Henderson?"

Dustin shook his head vigorously. "Nah, she would kill me if I told you."

Eddie licked his lips. "Ooh, so your sister has a secret?"

Dustin looked absolutely terrified.

"Tell us, tell us," Eddie started chanting, and before long everyone else had joined in.

Dustin was scared of you, but he was more susceptible to peer pressure. "(Y/N) drives us cause she has a giant crush on Eddie!" Dustin covered his mouth.

Eddie's mouth dropped open. "No fuckin' way, man, you're makin' shit up." He laughed. "Tell us the truth, Henderson."

"It is the truth!" Dustin insisted. "She like, talks about you all the time, like to her friends and stuff. She thinks your rings are really hot." Dustin winced.

"Dude, your sister really likes me?" Eddie asked, leaning forward with wide eyes.

"Yeah, but don't give her a hard time about it, okay? She's sensitive to rejection, man."

Eddie snorted. "Give her a hard time? Nah, man, I'm gonna ask her out."

"What!?" Dustin shrieked. "No, no, siblings are off limits."

Eddie smirked. "Too bad you don't make the rules." He checked his watch. "Oh, and it looks like she'll be here in just a few minutes to pick you up." He rested his feet on the table and reclined back in his throne. "Dude, why didn't you tell me sooner? Your sister's hot as hell, man, I'd go out with her in a heartbeat."

Dustin groaned, covering his face. "That's disgusting, Eddie."

A banging sounded at the door. "Dustin!" you yelled. "Hurry your ass up!"

Eddie perked up. "I'll get it!"

"No, no, Eddie, no!" Dustin begged, but Eddie was already running toward your knocking.

"Let's g- Eddie?" You looked at him, eyes wide. "Oh, um, hi." You swallowed.

"Hey, Henderson." Eddie relaxed against the doorframe, grinning at you. "So, Dustin told me you have a crush on me."

Your mouth dropped open in horror. "DUSTIN I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU - " You started toward your little brother, who screamed.

Eddie held you back. "Nah, nah, (Y/N), let him be. If he hadn't told me I wouldn't have known I could ask you out."

You stared dumbly. "Ask me- What?"

"Wanna go out with me? I mean, I know you're totally out of my league, but - "

"Fucking hell yeah," you replied breathlessly.

Eddie grinned. "Great. Here, tomorrow night at nine? You can pick a movie."

"Sounds awesome." You were still in shock.

"Oh, and here." Eddie slipped off one of his rings and handed it to you. "Since you think they're so hot." He winked.

You glared daggers into Dustin. "You fucking owe me, you dick."

"Yeah," Dustin squeaked.

"Let's go." You grinned at Eddie. "See you tomorrow, Munson."

Eddie grinned back. "See you then."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x henderson!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson

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tatorthots · 1 year

Text

— a jealous encounter

Featured: wanderer x afab!reader x Childe (implied)

cw: suggestive themes, jealousy, cursing, (slight) hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, (slight) possessiveness

Synopsis: Jealousy is nothing more than a pathetic human emotion. It’s truly almost humorous how insecure and weak-minded mortals are, getting riled up simply because the object of their affection gets a little attention. Of course, the former sixth harbinger is far above such trivial emotions (he’s not)

a/n: scara being jealous, soft, and sulky because I said so and also I used sm names for scara because I didn’t know what name to use and I panicked btw have you guys been playing the windtrace event?? I literally can’t stop playing it help

art credit: @Liann1009 on twt

The swaying of forest leaves reflected off the clear spring waters of the still river you had come to rest by. The sun was still high above the fluffy clouds and its warmth gently kissed the skin of every living being and creature under it. It was truly a beautiful day in the outskirts of Sumeru City. And along with the chirping of birds, the sound of your laughter resonated through the forest breeze like a soft melody — absolutely enchanting, he thought, if it wasn’t caused by that damned insolent insect.

Archons, could the man not get a break? Is this finally the ‘divine punishment’ mortals so often preach about? Glaring sharp eyes quietly trailed the tall, orange-headed idiot as he fumbled around you like some love-sick child, far too comfortable with you for the latter's liking. Feelings of disdain soon turned to seething anger. Despite all my efforts, slender fingers dug into the grass underneath him, he still manages to ruin what little I have. Had he not gone through grueling enough changes? Did sacrificing absolutely everything to start anew mean so little? He gave up his past titles, erased his previous relationships, and severed every last thread that connected him to his past self — aside from you — and yet, here stood the bane of his existence during his time as a Fatui Harbinger. And to make things worse, you’re actually friends with him.

Childe, he sneered.

“Ajax, how could you get so excited over anemo slimes?” You giggled as your eyes fluttered into crescents and you bashfully hit the freckled man next to you. You couldn’t help but tease your longtime friend for getting so excited over a few anemo slimes floating around a tree. Though you’d admit, the straight edge determination reflecting from his ocean eyes as he stood straight and strung his bow back to aim made your stomach swirl slightly. You noticed the way his fingertips elegantly let go of the string and effortlessly sliced through the anemo slime mid-air, despite being positioned below and meters away from the distant cliff side tree the anemo slimes were hovering around. It’s amazing, you thought. But what earned him your admiration was the simple fact that he wasn’t trying. Childe didn’t need to. Even when he’s doing something in lighthearted fun, so long as it involves weapons, he’ll breeze through any obstacle or ‘challenge’ with ease. That’s what made Childe, Tartaglia.

However, there was someone who didn’t share that sentiment.

Honestly, Scaramouche doesn’t even know how he ended up in this archon-forsaken situation. The day had begun like any other day, with your limbs intertwined with Scaramouche as he gently stroked your hair and counted the seconds in between as your chest slowly rose and fell — an action he vehemently denies that he does because he longs for your touch; not to mention that it just so happens that the feel of your body against his calms the occasional insecurities and self-deprecating voices whispering in his head. Scaramouche lightly shook his head in flustered contempt when he caught himself softly smiling and gqze slightly softening at the memory of your skin against his, useless thoughts aren’t going to aid me in figuring out how or why I’m stuck here. internally groaning he thought of when you woke up today. you had found him already awake and tidying up the room you had both stayed in the previous night. As you sat up rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you watched Scaramouches quick and precise movements as he prepared your traveling satchel. Funny, you thought, he does all this and I never hear a thing. As much of a light sleeper as you might be, no matter how many chores he’s completed before you wake, you never hear a sound stir you from your slumber. Of course, when you finally got out of bed you found yourself presented with a small plate of assorted fresh fruit waiting for you on the kitchen table, a sight you see every morning. However, you’ve long learned better than to outright thank him for breakfast, or any small acts of service. Not because you don’t appreciate his quiet considerations, but because you learned that Scaramouche will act like a total brat if you confront him about his kindness. Insults range from calling you a moron to being labeled delusional, so you’ve figured it’s best to enjoy these little things and thank him in that way. Lastly, Scara thought about the events that happened after breakfast when it was time to set off yet again. Ah, that’s right…, he begrudgingly remembered. it was as soon as you left the inn that you happened to bump into a tall figure. An apology left your lips quickly before you hurriedly scrambled to catch up to Scaramouches' fading figure until a hand cautiously grabbed your wrist.

“Y/n?” The stranger spoke. At the sound of your name, you quickly whipped your head around to see a messy head of orange locks and a familiar lopsided smile being directed at you. “Ajax?” “So it is you—!!” Sculpted arms immediately wrapped around your frame and lifted you into their embrace. “It’s been too long!”, the voice beamed, and your momentary confusion soon turned into joy as you wrapped your arms around his neck and softly giggled. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on a mission in Inazuma?” You questioned as he set you down with his hands still latched onto your hips, “Well I was mostly there for personal affairs, and I just arrived in sumeru a few weeks ago on assignment,” his voice softened as his head slightly tilted to the side, “I’ve been missing you.” Raising your hand to cup his cheek, you brushed your thumb across the freckles adorning the mighty 11ths features, “I’ve missed you too, Ajax.” Then as if a light bulb had just lit up in his head Childe clasped his hand over yours, “Are you free today? Why don’t you go sightseeing with me? My treat!” “Ah, well I’m actually traveli—“ but before you could finish your sentence you felt cold fingertips clasp around your forearm and roughly snatch it away from the gingers hold, “She’s traveling with me,” indigo irises narrowed menacingly on Childe, and the pure aura exuding from the raven-haired man was comparably hostel to the icy and dreadful snowstorms of Snezhnaya. Scaramouche forced himself between you and Childe, standing protectively in front of you as the latter glared down at him with a smile still plastered across his lips, “Comrade. Who’s this?” Childe inquired, “Oh! This is m—“ you tried answering but Scaramouche cut you off once more with an exaggerated scoff, “The question is who are you?” Crossing his arms and holding his head ever so arrogantly he continued, “Tch. Don't you have any common decency? Or are you just too impertinent to practice basic respect?” A short, dry laugh left Childes lips, “I see.” Crossing his arm and raising a hand up to lightly tap his fingertips on his jaw, Childe feigned ignorance, “Y/n never minded my touches,” with a taunting smile and desolate eyes, he chuckled, “in fact, I’m all too familiar with where she prefers to be touched.” And with that Scaramouches patience snapped, “You dare to—“ sensing the oncoming altercation you quickly grabbed a hold of Scaras hand and guided him behind you, “You’re both very important to me,” you began, “and if I matter to either of you then you’d respect those who matter to me,” glancing between the two men you sharpened your tone, “I’d like you both to get along.”

That was the last thing Scaramouche recalled before he found himself third wheeling the rest of the day. With each moment seemingly getting worse and worse. What an infantile reason to get excited about. They’re practically oversized balloons, his attention darted in Childes direction and his usual scowl was now replaced with a daggering glower, Evidently, this damn worthless scum is filled with much more hot air than any damn anemo slime in the sky.

Scaramouche wasn’t ignorant, it was clear to him since that nuisance came around that his former Harbinger ‘comrade’ had deeper feelings for you than he let on. After all, despite his distaste for the man Scara had spent adequate enough time with Childe to learn a few aspects about him; firstly, Childe can be described by humans as having an extroverted, ‘charming’ persona, and he has no trouble making friends wherever he goes, however, he never lets anyone touch him — it’s a subtle habit and not one easily picked up on; a far cry to the current situation in which Scaramouche has had to swat his hand away from you for the fourth time in a minute. Secondly, despite the hours upon hours the idiot could spend rambling about fishing or spar training, he never actually shares any personal information about himself, and yet, he’d gone as far as surrendering his real name to you. Not to mention he had no problem speaking to you about how much his siblings would ‘love’ you, of course, they’d love her, he scoffed, who doesn’t fall for her? Lastly, and most notably, Childe has no glimmer of life in his eyes. To be honest, if Scaramouche had to think, the only other time the 11th showed even a hint of a glint he would say it would be when Childes tearing his enemies limb from limb — an idea Scara is finding more and more appealing. So then, he thought, I guess I’ll just have to stomp on that little light of his. Tapping his foot impatiently on the ground an ominous shadow gloomed over his face as he lost himself in his thoughts, she’s mine. mine. mine. It had been long since Scaramouche had realized his feelings for you, and he had made it very clear to you that he had no intention of sharing you with others. No, Scaramouche no longer wanted just your friendship, he wanted you.

“Shall I go buy some snacks from a food stall nearby before dinner, comrade?” Standing from his spot next to you, Childe towered over you with his body leaning down to loom mere inches from your slightly warmed face, “I did say I’d treat you today..” half-lidded eyes traced your movements as he brought a gloved hand to cascade across your cheekbone, “didn’t I?” His voice was low and his smile smug; Childe knew full well what he was doing in front of Scaramouche, and he basked in it, though it’s not as if these actions were all too new either. “A-ah.. I- um,” stuttering over her words, huh?, Childe mused, how cute. However, the mere sight of this atrocious act almost made Scaramouche use his anemo vision to slice that wretched excuse of a warrior in half. With a soft smile, you leaned into Childes hand, making the man’s eyes widen in slight surprise as a light dust of pink spread over his face, “That’d be great Ajax, thank you.”

Internally groaning, Scaramouche rested his arms on his knees and hid his head behind his arms as his pretty lilac eyes stayed focused on you, there’s her smile again…, his brows faintly knitted together when he felt his chest start to ache, always caused by something else. He couldn’t help but wonder whether you were truly happy wandering through the lands of Teyvat with him.

“Then I’ll make it quick!” With a goofy smile and a wink, Childe went off into the city walls. Leaving you and Scaramouche resting alone with nothing more than the sound of the river flowing and the city chatter lightly busting in the background. Closing his eyes, Scaramouches brows quirked in annoyance, that self-serving imbecile didn’t even bother to pretend he even remembered me. The feeling in his chest was all too familiar to the electro Archons puppet. Clutching where his heart should be he couldn’t understand why this feeling wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t learned his lesson despite starting anew. Maybe I was meant to live this way… he thought. Feeling a small tap on his shoulder, Scara whipped his head up to see you sitting right next to him, your body lulled to the side and brushing against him as you tilted your head down to get a better look at his sulking face. For a second he was stunned by the suddenness of your closeness, but then he was held captive by your feathery lashes and beaming smile; a warm smile finally directed at him. How quickly his chest went from hurting to blooming with warmth was almost pathetic. Even if you were the reason why he was drowning in misery, even if his pain had been caused by your ignorance, you were still the reason why he felt joy. It’s always because of you…, without realizing his hand had already reached to gently tuck the loose strands of hair blowing across your face, and just as quickly as he realized he retracted his hand in a huff of frustration and embarrassment.

Humming in acknowledgment, you stared off into the grassy mountains of sumeru, “You’ve been awfully quiet today,” your voice was soft and tranquil, “how uncharacteristic of you, no?” Glancing to the side you smiled when you saw him lightly scoff under his breath as he turned his head away from your direction.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re rambling on about.” He grumbled.

“Shall I elaborate?”

“I’d rather you not.” Piercing irises threateningly glared in your direction.

“You’ve been ill-tempered,” you began, and Scaramouche rolled his eyes, “hmm which isn’t all too out of the ordinary, but you’ve definitely been lashing out at every little thing.” With a knowing glint, you glanced at your longtime companion, “Not to mention your aggression with Ajax.” And at that Scaramouche grimaced at the way you spoke his actual name, “You force yourself between Ajax and I whenever he gets close, you demean every single thing he says, you smack his hand away when he reaches out to me — even if it’s just to hand me something, and you taunt and mock him every chance you get,” pausing for a second you let out a heavy exhale before softening your gaze, unsure of whether what you say next is the right thing. “Kuni… all of that isn’t what worries me,” at that you felt his entire body stiffen, seemingly holding his breath as if every ticking second was more important than the last, “I noticed the nail marks you have on your palms from all the time you’ve spent clenching your fists, and I see the conflict that’s been raging behind your eyes since this journey with the three of us began,” balling your owns fists on the fabric of your clothes you let out your final observation, “As small as the changes are, or as hard as you try to hide it, kunikuzushi, I see you. I’ve memorized every expression, studied every curve and line that forms on your features and what they mean… I know you fear that I’ll abandon you,” you purse your lips at the thought, “So how dare you. How dare you ever think I would abandon my other half.”

The absolute, incredulous stare Scaramouche gave you almost made you choke out a muffled laugh. Catching the anemo holder off guard and speechless was a prize all too rare to witness. Yet, what caught your attention wasn’t that you’ve managed to leave him stunned and tight-lipped but instead the unfamiliar red that spread from his cheeks to his ears. There was a quiet gasp from your lips as you admired how beautifully his pale complexion was set off by the searing color. Instantly, your ears perk up as he speaks.

“I.. you don’t…” he began, but immediately he stopped himself. Then, a moment passed. And then a minute. The tension between you two seemed to pile up in pressure, and you now found yourself holding your breath and feeling your heart start to quicken as you stared at him. Awaiting what was to come next. With a defeated look and an airy sigh, he finally turned his full head toward you. “You really are foolish y/n,” his voice was strained, and his eyes peered into yours with such a soft intensity, “hah, really.. you couldn’t be more incompetent, could you?” Swallowing the lump in your throat, your glistening doe eyes simply gawked at him almost owl-like, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at your dumbfounded face. Then that’s when he smiled. A true, genuine, adoring smile, “Haven’t you realized that I’m in lo-“

“I’m back—!”

Childe’s voice ripped through the tension and practically grated Scaramouches ears while you jumped, startled at the sudden noise. Snapping your head to Childe, you saw him holding a small bag with the label titled Puspa Café. “I hope you don’t mind what I got us!” Reaching his hand into the bag he pulled out a crispy, sweet-smelling Candied Ajilenakh Nut dessert, “When I was walking through the different vendors, I was quite surprised to have found a dish that looked so similar to one of the desserts my motherland of Snezhnaya has!” Childe puffed his chest and extended the sugary sweet to you, “Though I’m confident the one from home tastes much better than this, I’m happy to share something similar with you,” softening his azure gaze as you took the dessert from him he continued with a gentler tone, “but I hope to one day treat you to one back home.” Blinking once, then blinking twice, you quickly glanced over at Scaramouche now positioned with his knee up and resting his arm on his knee to hide his face once more, I wonder what would’ve happened…, you pondered, but you knew better than to prod the conversation given the current situation. I suppose it’d be best to ask again later, turning your attention back to Childe you offered a thankful smile, “I’m sure one day we can visit if Kuni agrees to go.” At that, both men froze for a second. We..?, now it was Scaramouches turn to stare owlishly at the dancing grass brushing against his fingers, and without noticing he felt his entire body relax as he let out a quiet, small sigh of relief. Whereas Childe clenched his jaw in annoyance while still forcing an easy-going facade, I need to get rid of him, “Sounds like a plan comrade!” Was all he could muster through slightly clasped teeth as he sat down next to you. Humming to himself in deep thought, Childe wondered what to do about that asshole little leech that stayed glued to you.

All of you sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes — well, two were lost in their own thoughts either processing or scheming, whereas you simply sat between the two men enjoying time together as you feast on your sweet treat. "Ah. Comrade, you seem to have a few crumbs," "Hm?" Moving your hand up to brush away the stray pieces, Childe gently stopped you, "Allow me." He softly spoke as he leaned in close and carefully swiped away the crumbs; his hand then cascaded across your plush skin and caressed the curve of your jaw. Gazing into his eyes and cheeky smile, you found yourself at a loss, feeling both embarrassed and shy from the gesture.

Scaramouche, however, was not at all pleased. This little game of Childes has gone on far too long and writhing in self-loathing had been nothing but a waste of time. You were his. You’ll always be his, and there wasn’t a human, harbinger, adeptus, or archon in this damned world that could ever change that. So, with swift movements, he laced an arm around your waist and pulled you on top of his lap and into his possessive embrace. The sudden movement had stunned both you and Childe and you had no time to react as your eyes glanced up at the smug smirk spreading across Scaramouches lips. His eyes were low and scowling intently at Childe, while the Harbingers smiling face quickly fell, replaced by a much colder and sinister glower. “All this time and not once did you offer me one of those burnt little treats,” Scaras voice was low and mocking, and you could feel the icy touch of his slender fingertip tracing down the side of your face to the base of your chin to guide your full attention towards him, “guess that just means I have to take one myself, won’t I?” And in a quick moment, his lips came crashing down on yours. His kiss was rough but cautious, and you could feel the longing and desperation emitting atop his soft lips. At first, your eyes blew wide open in shock, but then, no matter how hard you tried to focus on what was going going on or move your body to react, all you could fixate on was one little detail, his lips taste.. like a Zaytun peach.

Parting his lips from yours, his eyes quickly scanned your face for any hint of disgust, any reaction, anything. You could clearly see the worry pooling in his irises, but before regret could creep up on him your eyes turned into crescent moons, and a pretty pink blush flushed your cheeks as you smiled dotingly at him. He was taken aback. At first, he was shocked, then confused, he even felt a little angry, but mostly he felt love. Turning his attention from you to the glaring daggers and clenched fists Childe had, Scara smiled in triumph and narrowed his eyes in slight. “You’re right, Harbinger,” bringing his thumb up to glide across his lips he licked them, “this treat isn’t bad, hah, not bad at all.”

side note: happy new year everyone!! and happy birthday to my first, and most cherished, Zhongli ᥫ᭡

Reblogs and Interactions Are Appreciated!! ღ

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dollwritesarchive · 1 year

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𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 — 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐚

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), “instant loss” trope, oral sex ( m!receiving ), facefucking, it gets a lil sloppy, enemies to fuckbuddies ??, light degradation, but also some praise, all characters featured are 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ requested by anonymous. my first time writing for genshin, do not bully me or i’ll cum. do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. thanks for reading < 3

“No more.” you mumble, and collapse on the floor at his feet. why did it have to be him? why did your initiation have to be a battle when your wits were much sharper than your daggers? why must you face him?

Tartaglia had been a menace for as long as you’d been a prospect, every meeting he simply glared at you, and you at him. he hated how, in his own words, ‘fox-like’ you were. “A sly vixen who can hardly wield the blades she uses like mere accessories,” he’d said once, and you’d hurled one at him ( and missed ), which only allowed his point to be proven as he sank back in his seat and quirked a brow, “see? Miles off. It’s as I said. She wouldn’t be able to hold her own in a true battle.”

you couldn’t argue with that, either, but it was his arrogance that really bothered you. he was such an asshole.

which is why you were shocked when, upon being welcomed into the Harbingers, Pierro had suggested you face Childe in battle. after all, he’d been the only member that had vehemently denied your right to be there. “If you bested him,” Pierro explained to you in secret when you rejected the opportunity, “he would be so shameful, there’s a chance he would fall to his knees and sob.” even if he’d only said such a thing in order to convince you to go through with it, it’d worked. the possibility that you could break the egotistical Childe, and you could do it with your fellow Fatui’s blessings was too sweet a revenge upon him to relinquish. so you’d agreed to fight him.

a terrible idea, really.

Childe, who could’ve ended the spar in the blink of an eye, had decided instead to draw it out. truly exploit your lack of skill with a weapon and highlight all the wrong moves you made. he’d allowed you to tire yourself out with swings and jabs that would never reach their true destination, until you were crumbling and panting in front of him, your knees dug into the dirt.

he scoffs and swaggers towards you, glancing at the daggers in your hands, “Surrendering already, are we?”

“Childe,” you grumble, looking up at him with your breath labored. you were squinting, brows knit tight together, “if I take another swing, my arms will surely fall off. I’m done.”

“Aren’t you just pathetic?” he laughs, boiling your blood, and nudges your wrist with his foot as if to see for himself. both daggers slip from your grasp and clatter against the ground. he then uses the tip of his boot to fling one out of your reach, and then the other. “Go ahead and say it, then.”

“I… I surrender.”

his eyes light up, an elated grin etching his lips upwards into a victorious simper as he steps closer, planting his feet on either side of you. one hand rests its palm against the crown of your head at first, and he tilts his head to the side, looking down at you, “And you know what happens when you surrender, don’t you, little vixen?”

you shake your head, but avoid his gaze, attempting to glare holes into his feet, but his gloved digits clamp down, grasping a fistful of your hair at the root to force you to crane your neck and stare up at him. when you do, you’re taken aback to see his body angled the way it was, leaning back with his groin pushed close, the crotch of his trousers sporting a thick, hard tent. “What happens?” you ask, forcing your eyeline over his erection and along the length of his torso. was victory really such a euphoric sensation?

but Childe sinks his teeth into the lower counterpart of his grin, clenching your hair tight, and reveling in the way you droop, helplessly, before him on your knees. “You’re left completely at the mercy of your opponent.” he answers, his free hand flees to his belt and unfastens it, while the other holds your head steady, “And he can do whatever he wants to you.” your eyes fall to his belt, and then the waistband of his bottoms when his hand slides underneath and rubs himself in strong, quick circles. you couldn’t help yourself, you exhaled— the display pooling between your thighs. it didn’t help how sharply he drew in a breath, and how fiercely he stares down at you, gauging your reaction to his performance. “Do you know what I, your victorious opponent, really want to do to you right now?”

you could figure it out easily enough, but you still shook your head, the words refusing to fully register in your poor, empty mind. he was too distracting, and you inched closer to him, the very tip of your soft tongue flicking at the seam of your lips when he pulls his cock out. presenting it to you as if it’s another one of his weapons, he grips hard to its base, tapping the swollen head against your lips. you practically whimper once the raw scent of him tickles your nostrils— his arousal tying your guts into knots.

you know you shouldn’t, but you long to taste him.

he notices the way you melt closer, and he scoffs, impressed. “You don’t?” he teases, rubbing his tip to smear your lips with sticky sweet, musky precum. your couplet parts to pepper the expanse of the broad, pink head in lazy, nearly drunken kisses, your eyelids fluttering as you whine again. “I think you do,” he mutters, tugging your head back by the grip on your tendrils, prying you off of him so he can tease. you pout, and lap at your lips, but stare only at his cock, just out of reach. “I think you want me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours as much as I want to.”

he was toying with you, giving you enough slack to make a fool of yourself by wanting him, and then he’d pull you away. you sigh, soft and wanton, and mutter as if it doesn’t matter to you either way ( an easily saw through lie ), “Do it already, then. What are you waiting for?”

“You to beg me for it.” to this, you glare, open your mouth to speak, but he’s already pulling you close again, running the length of his rigid, veined cock against the part in the seal of your lips. you can tell he likes the way it feels by how hard of a breath he sucks in, and how his eyelids flutter, “Tell me how no one can beat the Almighty Tartaglia, and how desperate you are to have my cock in your throat.”

“You pig.”

“I’m waiting.”

this motherfucker.

you feel a white, hot rage bubbling in your gut, and you start to tell him exactly where he can shove it, but your lips betray your own mind, and you find yourself submitting to him, instead. “No one can beat you,” you purr, your words slurred as he smears his manhood over your lips. your tongue caresses one, pesky vein and you hear him mewl in pleasure.

“Keep going.” he growled, lusty.

“You’re the.. the Almighty Tartaglia. And I need to feel your cock in my throat, please… please let me have it.”

what were you doing?

Childe was pleased, at least, chewing on the lower counterpart of his pout when he pulls on your hair to snatch your attention back to his face, and when he does, the hand on his base abandons its post and seeks out your lips. warm, clothed digits push their way in through the threshold and pry your mouth open, and he juts his hips forward, wanting to replace those fingers with his cock, that was hard and adamant for wanting attention. “Easy peasy, that’s what you are, hm? A hopeless, little loser, falling right into subservience of your superior. I bet you want to make me cum, badly, don’t you? Wanna taste it? Wanna feel it pumping down your throat?”

you want to tell him no, just to see that smug grin of his knocked off his features, but to your dismay, you’re nodding to each of his questions, doe eyes trained on his countenance, fanning your thick lashes as your tongue lazes out to flick at his fingers before suckling on them.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for me?”

another eager nod, and this time, he retrieves his digits from your lips, and your tongue follows, hanging out over your chin. he takes one look at it and grins wider, spanking the muscle with the head of his cock. you squint each time, wanting to reach up and take hold of him at the base, but you don’t. instead, you shove both hands between your thighs, one pressing your palm against the ground to keep you steady, and the other prodding underneath your skirt to rub against your panties.

“Show me,” he practically begged, grabbing the thick trunk and guiding it into your waiting, open mouth. finally. you whine around the girth, hollowing your cheeks to be able to accommodate all he was trying to shove into your cavern at once. but he tasted so delicious, it didn’t matter how rough he was, you’d take it. “Suck me good.”

and you did.

creating a vacuum with your lips sealed as tight around his shaft as you could, you slurp and bob your head, dragging your flattened tongue against his bulging veins and gurgling satisfied moans, sending heated vibrations through him, and Childe dropped his head back, a humiliatingly depraved moan erupting from his parted lips. the weight of his hand on your head pushed it down, and you could hear a faint, “Yes.” and it was whiny and hungry all at once. the quiet vocalization of his pleasure spurs your fingers to wrench your panties to one side, rubbing your now exposed and swelling clit.

“More,” he demands, bucking his hips into your rhythm, forcing the thick tip to the back of your throat. you gag at first, glancing up at him with tears forming in your eyes, but only for a moment before you adjust to the ferocity of his pumping, and you bat the tears away. “You can take it.” he’s smirking down at you, red cheeked and panting with his eyelids heavy. he gazed at you as if he’s drunk off the pleasure, chest heaving, and presses his cock into your mouth until he bulges out one of your cheeks, stretching it to surprising proportions. “Fuck, that mouth’s so warm, I want to just— live in it…”

your middle finger pushes into your clenching hole, and you whimper; your lower belly is all knotted up, and it’s all you can do to ride your own palm, pumping your finger knuckle deep as you take every inch of him into your mouth and suck until your eyes want to cross.

Childe groans, pulling at your tender roots, his free hand fondling his own balls. if he would just let you take control, you thought, you’d give them plenty of attention, too. but he wasn’t about to give that power over to you. besides, he much preferred the fervent thrusting where his thick tip wormed its way into your throat with each bottom out. “So messy,” he purrs, but he’s wearing a cheshire grin, “I love it.” you could feel what he meant. not only were you soaking your hand and the ground beneath you in your slick, but you were drooling from both corners of your mouth, spit and precum cocktailing and dribbling down on to your chest. your available hand reaches up to rest against his abdomen, but not to stop him. “Gonna make you drool like this all the time, now.” he snickers, “Now that I know you love it, too.”

the best you could muster was a cluck and a nod, reaching your own climax before he does. you couldn’t believe it— you’d never cum from sucking cock before. but there was something about Childe, and you hated that he was the exception. your moans turn into helpless, muffled squealing, and you start to quiver, your eyes rolling back as pleasure takes hold of you.

your display certainly wracks Tartaglia, because he grunts and his hips stutter, hands shaking as he holds on to you, “Mm… Fuck, gonna cum—“ but that was truly all the warning you were given before he’s pounding into you, balls swinging heavy to slap against your chin, and each, full thrust pumps another splatter of his release down your throat.

what you can’t swallow, you push to the front of your mouth and it oozes out from the corners of your sore lips around him, twitching and softening. only when he’s completely spent, does he pull out, leaving you spitting and sputtering.

you breathe, ragged, looking up at him with stray tears on your face, but not for long because he squats down, eye level to you, and grabs your chin, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. just tasting himself on your mouth elicits a happy moan, which you swallow, both hands fleeing to grip his collar so he could pull you to stand with him, but your legs were too weak, and you melt against him. somehow, his body was still tight and strong, and he can support how wobbly you are. one of his knees press between your thighs to tease your sensitive cunt, and you whine into his mouth, squirming against it.

“I think I love the taste of my cock on your pretty, swollen lips,” Childe purrs when he finally breaks the kiss, nipping at your chin with his teeth, “but I’m much more excited to find out exactly how sweet your cunt is.”

#childe #childe x reader #childe x you #childe smut #Tartaglia x reader #Tartaglia x you #tartaglia smut #tartaglia #Ajax #Ajax x reader #Ajax x you #Ajax smut #genshin childe #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact imagines

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beestriker015 · 3 months

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Scarlet Witch x male mutant s/o

S/o met Wanda after he became the newest member of Magneto’s Brotherhood of Mutants when the master of magnet found and saved him from a group of anti-mutant hunters.

“Y-you saved me? Who are you?”

“My name is Magneto, I am a mutant much like yourself. What is your name?”

“N-nice to meet you Magneto. I’m s/o.”

He says while still shaking in fear from almost being killed moments earlier.

“You need not be afraid of me s/o. Unlike those barbaric humans, I mean you no harm. In fact, I have an offer for you.”

“A-an offer?”

“Yes. I know what it is like to be discriminated against by humans, so I formed a team consisting of mutants to fight against the mistreatment of our kind. I can offer you a home, a family, a cause to fight for. What do you say s/o? Will you join us for the benefit of mutant kind?”

After thinking for a moment, s/o nods and accepts Magneto’s offer, making the older mutual smile.

“Excellent, welcome to the Brotherhood of Mutants s/o.”

Now a part of Magneto’s team, s/o quickly became friends with Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, aka Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch.

Attracted to his kind personality while also finding the way he stutters really cute, Wanda quickly became enamored with s/o and would vehemently defend him from the more rowdy members of the brotherhood.

Despite having a genuine friendship with the two Maximoffs, s/o soon came to regret joining Magneto’s group when he realized his leader’s intentions.

“Y-you lied to me Magneto! You said we were fighting against mutant discrimination! What you’re doing isn’t right! Subjecting humans to violence and oppression is not the way!”

Needless to say, Magneto did not take kindly to s/o’s words.

“Do not lecture me about what is right! If you value keeping your life, you will do as I say s/o! Now, since Wanda and Pietro are so fond of you, I’m willing to forget we had this conversation. Next time you question me though s/o, there will be dire consequences. Am I clear?”

He tells the younger mutant in a threatening voice, causing him to flinch.

“Y-yes Magneto.”

Unfortunately for Magneto, both Wanda and Pietro overheard everything and have secretly shared s/o’s dislike of being villains for a while now.

“How dare he threaten s/o like that! I have half a mind to-”

“Calm down sis, I don’t like it either, but what can we do? Magento saved us, we can’t just go against him can we?”

Wanda turns to face her brother with a serious expression.

“….Maybe it’s time we do just that. I don’t know about you, but I no longer wish to be a member of the Brotherhood! I’m planning on taking s/o and leaving Magneto for good. Are you with me Pietro?”

“….Alright sis, I’m in.”

With that, the two begin working on their plan as s/o heads back to his room in tears, walking past his two friends without noticing them.

Later that evening, s/o is laying in his bed as Wanda enters his room.

“Hey s/o, how are you doing?”

She asks in a sweet voice, making him blush.

“I’m ok Wanda.”

Taking a seat on the bed next to him, Wanda wraps an arm around s/o, causing his blush to deepen.

“Don’t lie to me s/o, I can tell you’ve been crying.”

Shaking off his blush for a moment, s/o proceeds to tell Wanda what happened between him and Magneto, despite her already knowing.

“I really don’t w-wanna be here anymore Wanda. All the violence, the hate, this isn’t what I w-wanted.”

“I know s/o, which is why my brother and I are planning on leaving….and we’re taking you with us.”

She says much to s/o’s shock.

“B-but Magneto will kill me if we betray him.”

“No, he won’t. I won’t let anything happen to you s/o, I love you too much.”

“Y-you love me?!”

Wanda smiles and kisses him gently on the lips.

“Does that answer your question s/o?”

He nods as Wanda chuckles at his flustered expression before telling him the plan.

A few days later during a confrontation with the X-Men, Magneto is furious that his children and s/o announced that they are leaving the Brotherhood of Mutants and will help fight against them.

“You three dare turn against me?!”

“We’re fed up with being criminals! You may have saved us Magneto, but Wanda and I will serve you no longer!”

“Pietro’s right! You claim mutants are superior to humans, but you subject them to the exact same horrible treatment and prejudice that the humans are guilty of! You’re nothing but a hypocrite Magneto!”

She exclaims with a cold glare as s/o stands by her side.

“Y-yeah! From now on Magneto, we will fight to i-improve human and mutant relations, not further worsen them like you do b-buckethead!”

“S/o! You turned my children against me didn’t you?! I will see to it that your life ends here!”

He orders the Brotherhood to attack as Wanda and Pietro stand protectively in front of s/o.

“No one is laying a hand on my boyfriend!”

“Yeah! Keep away from my best friend!”

Wanda blasts several members of the Brotherhood away as her brother deals with a few of the others.

“I should have let those humans exterminate you back when I met you s/o! Now I shall rectify that mistake by ending you right here and now!”

Magneto shouts in anger as he goes after s/o personally, but the shy mutant uses his powers to defend himself.

(I never stated what s/o’s powers are so feel free to use your imagination.)

Once the X-Men join in on the battle, Magneto eventually orders his mutants to retreat while swearing vengeance on s/o for both his and the Maximoff siblings’ betrayal.

“You may have won today, but heed my words that the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants shall return to make you all pay! Especially you s/o, when next we meet, your death by my hand shall be a slow and excruciating one!

While the Brotherhood make their retreat, leader of the X-Men Charles Xavier rolls up to the three now that the battle is over.

“While Magneto believes in mutant supremacy, I dream of a world where mutants and humans can coexist peacefully. If you three want, you’re more than welcome to join the X-Men.”

The three look at each other before turning back to Xavier as s/o speaks up on behalf of his girlfriend and best friend.

“We appreciate the offer Professor, but for now we’d like to politely decline. Even though yours is different from Magneto’s, we don’t want to be part of a group of mutants right after leaving another. Pietro, Wanda, and myself wish to find our own way, but if you ever need us we’ll be glad to lend a hand.”

He says as Xavier nods in understanding while both Pietro and Wanda are surprised at the fact s/o didn’t stutter even once while speaking.

“I see. Well if you change your mind, you’ll always be welcome to join us.”

The X-Men leave as s/o smiles at Wanda and hugs her.

“T-thanks for always being here for me Wanda. I love you.”

She smiles and kisses him before returning the hug.

“I’ll always be here for you s/o. I love you too”

“Um…hello? I’m still here to you know!”

Pietro says before being brought into the hug by his sister and best friend.

“Sorry Pietro. I hope you know that you’re the g-greatest friend I’ve ever had.”

“Heh. Right back at you s/o.”

Despite everything he’s been through, s/o knows he will always have his girlfriend and her brother to rely on, no matter what the future may hold for the three mutants.

#marvel #marvel x reader #marvel x male reader #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x male reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x male reader #male reader #marvel mutants #brotherhood of evil mutants #x men #quicksilver #magneto

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softlyspector · 1 year

Text

Credence

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: You meet Steven, and learn a lot about Marc.

Tales Untold; Part IV - Series Masterlist

Pairing: eventual Marc Spector x Reader (eventual minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings (this chapter): mental health issues, feelings of guilt, angst, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: I want to give a big thank you to all of you who have been keeping up with this series. I love you so much, and thank you for all the continued love and support. It means so much. Comments and feedback are so appreciated! Please let me know if any additional warnings need to be added. For full series warnings, please check the series masterlist, which will be updated as parts are posted!

IV.

Tales Untold, Chicago 2:41 AM

The silence of the street is deafening in the wake of Marc’s words.

Nothing on the street moves. The warmth of the spring breeze ruffles the hem of your robe and all you can do is blink at him, not sure how to respond to Marc telling you he’s not Marc. You slide your gaze away from him, eyes tracking over the dark street, like the answer might be hidden in the tree leaves or between the gaps of the paving stones.

Your storefront has never looked more empty, and the memory of Marc laboring in the sun a few days prior comes unbidden. He’d been so careful, repotting the flowers that could be saved into new homes until he could get the supplies to rebuild the flower boxes. You’d sat on the front step, your help vehemently refused by him again and again as he broke down the old flower boxes and took down your sign.

You’d liked watching him, the shape of his hands so capable and strong. The least you could do was keep him company and so you’d sat there on the step, long into the slow afternoon, only occasionally getting up to get him something to drink.

Marc often forgets to take care of himself. He doesn’t think to eat sometimes, nevermind drink something to keep hydrated.

His words ring in your ears again and you blink away the memory.

I’m not Marc.

You glance back at Marc, eyes flicking over him, still not sure what to say, still not sure how you’re meant to reply.

Confusion and just a tad of hurt, spikes in your veins. What was with the accent? The apologetic shine in his eyes?

I’m not Marc.

Maybe you’d heard him wrong.

He opens his mouth to continue, fingers still anxiously twisting together in front of his chest.

“Marc?” you shake your head slowly and cut him off before he can speak. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“Sorry, sorry, doing a shit job at explaining myself, yeah?” He chuckles nervously then wipes at his cheeks, the briny residue of tears still staining his skin. “Dunno what happened. Somethin’ bad must have.” Marc shivers even though the early morning air is warm and humid.

Sweat beads along his brow, pearling against his skin and slowly rolling down his temples and into his mussed hair.

You swallow, trying to place the accent in his mouth, trying to place why he’s speaking to you in an accent at all.

It’s one that’s unfamiliar to you - London or just British you can’t tell.

I’m not Marc.

The sudden unfamiliarity of him makes you want to pull back from him. The confused hurt burbling ever higher in the back of your throat.

Marc’s shoulders twitch in another violent shiver that finally breaks you out of your shock.

Odd accent or not, he’s shivering and obviously distressed. “Marc, honey,” you beckon him forward, stepping back from the door. “C’mere, come inside. You look like you’re freezing.”

He hesitates, mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally manages to make the words come out. “I’m - I’m, please listen,” he pleads gently with you. “I’m not Marc. My name is Steven Grant. I’m not sure what’s happened, yeah? Just…I just woke up on your street.”

For one defensive, mean moment, your heart folds in on itself and you consider slamming the door in his face. After you’d spent so much time together, opened your home to him, he was…what? Fucking with you?

You tighten your grip on the door, prepared to shut it and tell him to fuck off. How juvenile, and cruel. And for what purpose? To get back at you for what happened outside his father’s house?

Everything you know about Marc flashes through your mind's eye. It just doesn’t sit right with you, weighs oddly on your heart.

It’s not something Marc would do.

Distress lines the body in front of you. Your eyes trace over those broken capillaries again, the tacky sweat and tears drying on his skin. His shoulders hitch a little as he sniffles and you realize he may start crying.

You relax your hand on the edge of the door, taking a long breath.

That did leave the question of what was actually happening, though.

He’s disheveled and distressed, swiping the sweat away from his temples with a shaking hand while he waits for your judgment.

You think briefly of the stress Marc always seems to be under, the fear in his eyes when he’d found you conversing with his father, how you’d considered his reactions far too exaggerated for someone with just a tense relationship with a parent.

Maybe, maybe the stress had finally caught up with him.

It didn’t matter really, you wouldn’t leave him standing there on the street no matter what.

You glance back at Marc - Steven, you mentally correct yourself - and smile. He still looks nervous, like he’s afraid you’re going to turn him away. Like he’s been rejected before, like he’s been accused of lying before, and he fears it's about to happen again.

“Okay. Steven,” you give a firm nod, the name an odd taste in your mouth. It feels strange to see Marc, and call him something else.

You just need to understand, you think. You just need to understand what’s happening.

“Steven,” you repeat his name, trying to get used to it. Deciding you should treat him like someone you don’t know, if he’s insistent that he isn’t Marc. And if you don’t know him, he might not know you. “Are you comfortable coming inside?”

He nods, stepping closer to you and his voice wavers, “Don’t think I can go back there…not while I don’t know what’s happened. I’ll explain everything! Honest, I will. Sorry, I know how confusing this all must feel. I’ve-I was, when it first happened.”

When what first happened?

You don’t ask just yet, smiling again instead while you hold the door open wider to let Steven step inside.

“You’re shivering,” you fuss at him, closing the door gently and twisting the lock back into place.

You reach out and cup your hands around his shoulders, rubbing his arms lightly. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. His skin is clammy and chilled, tacky with a dried anxious sweat.

It’s something you never do with Marc, you don’t usually touch him at all. But the action doesn’t feel strange with Steven, and he leans into it, accepting, stepping closer to you.

“Explain what?” You ask as gently as you can, the dark of the shop hemming you in close, cocooning you together. “Steven?”

“Something must have happened with Marc and our dad…that’s the only thing that could explain it, yeah? Why I was - this doesn’t usually happen. Not anymore. He must be really upset.” He seems anxious at the thought, and you find it hard to keep up, to understand what he’s saying when he’s talking about himself like Marc is another person.

Which, you suppose, he must be.

An idea fractures in your mind, something you’d read about online once. Back when you were still thinking of finishing college, when you thought getting a degree in psychology might be a good idea.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as gently as you can. “I still don’t understand. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Steven takes a breath and meets your eyes, frowning apologetically.

And it is Steven.

Because the longer you look at him, at the sloped curve of his shoulders, the soft cast of his gaze, and the fluttery nervousness of his hands, the more you realize this truly is not Marc Spector before you.

It can’t be.

He doesn’t even look like Marc, not really.

“Steven,” you trail your hands down to his wrists, note that his hands are still shaking. “What happened?” And then, not quite knowing if it was the right thing to ask, “Is - is Marc alright?”

Steven nods at you, nods and nods and doesn’t look away from you, his eyes growing round and soft. “Bloody hell, you are gorgeous. Marc doesn’t tell you that. He thinks so too.”

“Oh,” you feel something pleasantly warm pool in your gut. “No, he doesn’t. Tell me, that is.”

It’s strange, to be speaking to Steven about Marc, like he isn’t there.

And he isn’t, you suppose.

You just need a bit of time to adjust to that.

“Okay, Steven,” you repeat his name, trying to convey that you’re starting to understand just a little. “Would you like to come upstairs?”

Tales Untold, Chicago 3:04 AM

Steven is much chattier than Marc, and much more willing to part with information.

You settle him on the same stool Marc usually takes at your kitchen island, and go about making a cup of tea for each of you. “Sorry, I only drink tea at night so I only have chamomile. It helps me sleep.”

“That sounds lovely, actually,” he says, his eyes soft as his gaze follows you around the apartment. He’s much calmer now, the hitch in his breath gone.

So you make the tea, and find that Steven takes his with just the slightest amount of honey.

You’ve only ever seen Marc drink coffee, and always with too much sugar and a splash of milk.

With the first sip of tea, his shoulders loosen just a fraction, the muscles in his face and neck relaxing.

Even so, his limbs are looser than Marc’s ever have been and you realize you’ve never seen Marc fully at ease. “So,” you move around the counter and grab the blanket from the sofa to drape around Steven’s shoulders, worried that the shaking in his limbs might never stop. “You’re Steven.”

Steven nods at you, hands cupping around the warmth of the mug in front of him. “I’m sorry about bothering you so late,” he falters. “It was very kind of you to let me in at all…I know how I must sound to you.”

“You don’t sound any particular way,” you quickly chirp. “Really. It was more of a shock than anything. I should be apologizing to you.” Before he can contradict you, you continue, “And it’s no bother that you’re here,” you assure him. “Really. Uh -,” you hesitate. “Marc is here all the time late. He was drunk on my doorstep the first time.”

Steven chuckles. “Yeah, I remember bits of that. What an absolute plonker he was.”

You stifle a laugh, and then wait, sensing he’s going to get to explaining things to you without your coaxing, in his own time.

Very different from Marc then.

“Not sure - I mean if you’re confused then obviously - obviously Marc never talked to you about it.”

You tilt your head and wait for him to continue. “Talked to me about what?”

“Us. Me and Jake. Why would he though? No need, yet, yeah?” He chuckles uncomfortably.

“Jake?”

“Sorry, I’m still not, not explaining things right. Probably just makin’ it more bloody confusing.” He shakes his head, eyes clenching closed briefly.

You smile, “Just a bit.”

Steven blinks back over at you, watches you for a moment, not looking away like Marc would. It’s odd to feel his eyes linger for so long, gaze trapped on yours.

His brows are tilted out and up, rather than lowered over his eyes, divoting that little space between his brows with tension.

“Well, I guess it's better to just say it, innit? Marc didn’t explain things to me properly and that turned out just bloody brilliant, didn’t it? No.” His smile is warm. The brown of his eyes is warm, like melting molasses to Marc’s umber.

You don’t try to hide the laugh that bubbles up. Strange as the situation is, it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like something that was always meant to happen. You reach out and lie a hand against Steven’s forearm, silently encouraging.

“Marc has Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Steven says, watching your hand, the slow stroke of your thumb against his skin. “Well, I suppose we all do, really. I didn’t know about Marc for a long time. It was an accident that I found out at all. He would have kept himself a secret from me if he could have.”

His skin feels warm now, and you’re glad the chilled feeling has retreated. Your heads are bent close together, and when you look up, Steven’s nose nearly brushes yours. So, you’d guessed right earlier, that fleeting thought. “What happened?” You ask.

His brows quirk up. “You…believe me?”

You blink, not expecting to be questioned. “Should I not?” Then, a hot anger creeps in, “Do people usually not?”

He swallows, and you release his arm and lean away from him, trying to remember he’s a stranger, that Steven and you do not know each other despite how familiar he is to you. “Just, just a bit strange.”

“I believe you,” you reassure him. “Of course I do.”

He hesitates, then continues, his words stilting and slow. “Marc is protective,” he explains. “He’d rather shoulder everything alone.”

You smile, and drum your fingers against the counter to quell the urge to touch him again. “That does sound like Marc.” When Steven takes another sip of tea, tucking the blanket tighter around his shoulders, you continue, worried you were making a mess of things or not reacting appropriately. “It’s really nice to meet you, Steven. I’m sorry about how I answered the door.”

Steven’s face relaxes, his shoulders loosening a bit more. “You couldn’t have known. I’d say you’re taking everything rather well.” His face is loose, a curious expression tilting his features. “You are really very kind. I see why Marc likes you.”

A nervous flutter beats in your belly and then moves up to knock against your ribs. It’s an innocent enough sentiment, still, you find yourself oddly delighted to know Marc does actually enjoy your company.

You can’t imagine what makes Steven say it, though, so you just smile. “That’s such a strange thing to hear about yourself. Thank you all the same,” you move off the stool and back around the counter, giving him a little more space.

You retrieve your own cup of tea, watching the familiar body glance around your apartment with curious eyes.

His gaze lands on the piano in the corner, the key lid still slid back from the last time you’d played for Marc. Steven opens his mouth and you expect him to question you, but instead he merely murmurs, “I see why Marc likes coming here so much.”

You nod, “I play for him each night. It’s why he decided to do some repairs for me. He’s pretty closed up about the piano though. Think maybe it’s something to do with your mother.”

Anger you don’t expect wells up inside you, wriggles between your teeth. You tuck your robe tighter around yourself with a sudden chill, thoughts of Marc’s insistence that you not get out of the truck, his body physically blocking yours from the house, flashing through your mind.

You know the origins of DID, and a lump forms in the back of your throat.

He must be so angry at you, for not listening to him.

Angry, or terrified. You can’t decide which is more likely.

You’re brought out of your reverie when a crisp piano note floats through the room.

Steven has moved to stand by the piano, staring down at the keys with a soft expression. When he glances up, he looks a tad embarrassed. “Has Marc told you why this is so important to him?”

“No,” you take a few steps forward. “He won’t even touch it.”

Steven depresses another key, decidedly not sitting down. “Does he know how to play it?”

You laugh and move to sit on the piano bench, feeling the ghost of all the times you’ve sat next to Marc there, his shoulder gently pressing into yours, the contact so light it was almost nonexistent, like he was afraid to take too much, make too much of a mark. “He said he used to know.”

“Maybe when we were children then,” Steven surmises, taking a seat next to you. “Reminds him of something.”

“You don’t know?” You ask, surprised.

“Won’t bloody tell me, no. Said he would sometime.” He continues quickly, “And he will, just needs a bit of time.”

You watch his hands, not touching the keys now but hovering over them, tapping out a silent song. “Looks like you know how to play it. Maybe you should try.”

Steven hesitates, hands hovering still over the keys suddenly, fingers frozen. “Not sure I should. I don’t know why Marc won’t.”

“He’s trying to protect you from something,” you guess.

Steven slowly shakes his head, fingers lowering and knotting together in his lap, “Not this time, no. I don’t think so. Usually I’d say yes, but I don’t think he’d keep bringing us over here around it if it were something bad.”

“He said he’d tell me,” Steven repeats, anxiously, like the words aren’t quite coming out the way he wants them to. Like he’s preemptively trying to protect Marc from your judgment, though you have none to level against him. “He - he tries to tell me things. But he’s not good at it yet. Talking about things, that is.”

You nod, “Yeah, I understand.”

Steven’s hands hover over the keys again, tapping out music you can’t hear. “He hasn’t told you anything? Nothing at all?” You shake your head and Steven rolls his eyes, but it's with a gentle affection. “Bloody hell, Marc,” he mutters to himself.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “We don’t know each other that well.”

He turns to stare at you, his knee pressing into the side of your thigh. “Hang on,” he blinks at you, “Marc, he’s here everyday, yeah?” You nod. “What an absolute twat. Really? Nothing?”

You find yourself smiling, leaning closer to Steven, “Yes, well, I haven’t exactly asked. And like you said he’s kinda closed up. I know a little but I try not to push him.”

Steven fidgets, glances around the room. “I could tell you - just a few things.”

You hesitate. Though you want to know more, about Marc, about Steven, you don’t want to know if Marc doesn't want you to.

“I’m not sure-,” you start to hedge.

“Just about me then,” he smiles. “Nothin’ to do with Marc. He can tell you when he gets his head out of his arse.”

You snort, the laugh that bubbles up so unexpected. “Alright then. Just about you.”

Steven is beaming at you, “You have a nice laugh.”

He smells like Marc, of course he does, wide brown eyes watching you with an unearned amount of affection. “Sorry,” he chuckles, just a bit self-deprecating. “I do feel like I know you, just a bit.”

“I understand.” You look away and clear your throat. “I feel like I know you too.” You meet Steven’s eyes again and then turn to the keys, slowly playing the song you always tap out for Marc. “Can I ask who Jake is?”

“As far as we know,” Steven answers easily. “There are three of us. Jake, he’s rather elusive. Rarely around really.”

You nod, and Steven leans into your side, much more heavily than Marc ever has. The warmth of him against you is nearly hot but not unpleasant. “Mm,” you hum so he knows you’re listening to whatever he wants to tell you.

Steven tells you that they don’t usually switch without the other’s knowledge, not anymore. “So, something must have happened, that the switch was involuntary, yeah? It only happens when we’re upset.”

You tilt your head, beginning to see why he’d been so anxious. “When things get too much,” you tread lightly.

“Yes,” Steven smiles at you. “Exactly.” His grin fades, “Don’t remember anythin’, though. Just - just staring at your shop.” You don’t have time to contemplate that, your body reacting on instinct as you suddenly turn and take his hands, a horrible thought occurring to you.

“Are you-,” you glance over his hands, press your fingers up his arms. “Hurt. Are you hurt?”

His smile is sad and gentle. “No. Not physically anyways. That’s somethin’ we don’t have to worry about anymore.” He avoids your gaze when he says it, an odd grief lodging in his eyes.

You find it hard to breathe for a moment, something hard sticking in the back of your throat.

Their mother, then.

Anger pools in your gut but you swallow it. It’s bitter. It burns going down.

“Well,” you release him. “That’s good to hear.”

It’s silent for a moment, in which you stare at Steven and he stares back at you. “He must feel very safe. To come here to you.” He swallows. “To bring me here. Us.”

“You’re always welcome,” you say. “Any of you. Even Jake. You’re all safe here.”

You’re surprised to see a tear streak down his cheek, before he leans in and takes your hands and deposits them back on the keys. “Keep playing. Please.”

Tales Untold, Chicago 5:13 AM

The sky is starting to lighten when you finally stop playing.

Steven offers to leave, or to sleep on your couch.

But all you see is the grief in his shoulders, the cast of shadow beneath his eyes, the broken capillaries, the pin pricks of red. You imagine how hard Marc must have been crying and decide you can’t let either of them be alone.

Steven doesn’t protest so much, or outright refuse when you tell him to sleep in your bed. It’s big enough, you argue, and you don’t want him to be alone, not even across the room.

Something in his face crumbles when you say that, and a torn, aching, raw hole of loneliness in them makes itself known to you.

You imagine Marc, if he could even be convinced, would lie stiffly next to you.

But Steven relaxes, laces his fingers with yours across the stretch of sheets between you and tells you how much he likes the stained glass that hangs in your window.

“I’ve been thinking of making some, for downstairs in the front window.”

“You made those?”

“Yeah.”

“Bloody brilliant. They’re beautiful.”

You smile.

Steven’s eyes are on your hands in the dark, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand. “Maybe I could help you? Since Marc is helping with everything else.”

“I would love that.”

He tells you about his job, about London, until his voice slows and slurs and eventually stops altogether.

You stay awake until his breathing evens out and slows. Only then, do you let a couple tears slip out and take a shuddering breath.

Tales Untold, Chicago 7:24 AM

Pale sunlight streams from between the slats of the blinds. It bends around the stained glass hangings, purples and reds splotched against the far wall.

The light wavers over the floor in long ribbons. The room is warm, the threat of the first truly hot day looming.

And Marc can’t make heads or tails of where he is for a moment.

His last memory is the heaving, soul crushing grief blocking his throat, the divoting fingers of the past gripping his lungs in tight fists. He remembers staring up at the front of your shop, empty and dark, without your sign and those pitiful fucking flower boxes.

The worming hurt had seized him again. He couldn’t brother you, not like this, not again.

Not after you’d seen too much, not after he’d frightened you and made you flee. You had wanted nothing to do with him. You had been eager to be away from him, and that’s something he could never blame you for.

Another howling sob had climbed up the back of his throat, so hot and hard he’d choked on it, swallowing down the sound until the pressure behind his eyes felt like it might bleed.

And then -

Nothing.

Just flashes of what came after, of you opening the door to Steven, your hands on piano keys, the twist of your mouth when you smiled.

Now, bright sun.

He blinks into it. Something heavy and warm rests over him, something soft and weighted with fragrance.

Marc freezes when he recognizes the scent.

Lavender and rosemary. You.

The sun retreats, his eyes adjusting to the light, and he finds himself blinking at the changing screen patterned with baby’s breath and tulips.

The thing on his chest is a cream colored duvet.

He’s in your fucking bed.

Surely not.

Surely Steven had not-

Slept next to you. Imposed them on you like that.

He shifts, and finds the bed empty. But the sheets on the other side of the bed are rumpled. And when he slides his hand across the mattress he finds it still warm with fading body heat.

Marc jerks his hand back like he’s been stung.

A headache begins at the base of his neck, the weight of this, of you knowing about Steven, of you and Steven bonding, combined with the night before, is too much.

He's not upset you've met Steven, he's more concerned with what Steven might have told you.

The conversation with his father floats back through his mind. The way you’d been all too keen to get away from him on the street. You hadn’t let him take you home, you clearly hadn’t wanted him to come over for dinner like he normally did.

He’d been trying, so fucking hard, not to let you see, not to let you get too close and see too much. You don’t deserve that, no one does, to have to carry inside them the things that he already did.

What had Steven told you? Marc doesn’t know. His memory is nothing but random flashes.

Marc sits up slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses the duvet back and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Steven?” You call out at the sound of him moving around.

He freezes, the cut of your voice light and hopeful.

Do you always sound like that? He suddenly can't remember. Maybe it was a tone reserved for Steven.

Fuck.

He clears his throat, disentangling himself from the sheets. “It’s me,” he rumbles.

You appear around the side of the screen, eyes wide. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure who-,”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, not quite meeting your eyes. A hard knot of shame swells in his chest, choking him. “So,” he grates. “You met Steven.”

He sounds irritated to his own ears, but he doesn’t correct his harsh tone. He doesn’t move to meet your gaze, training his gaze on your sock clad feet instead when he stands.

“Yes,” you say, stepping back when he moves from around the changing screen to face you fully. “I did.”

Marc huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, his headache increasing in intensity. “Great.”

A long silence slips between you. Tension floods his shoulders and rakes up his spine. Shame makes a familiar home in his heart, curling tight around the arteries.

He finally turns his eyes up to yours.

But you’re just watching him with a quiet intensity. Gently, like you’re speaking to a wounded animal, you say, “He’s lovely. Me and Steven got along well. I’m glad I got to meet him.”

When he doesn’t answer, you continue, “Are you okay? What happened? Steven didn’t seem to know.”

“No,” he lashes out, hating himself even as the words spill forth.

It’s easier. Hatred and embarrassment are easier to swallow than your acceptance. He wants your hatred and rejection and embarrassment. Because at least that makes sense. “Still told you plenty though, huh?”

Marc curls his hands into fists at his sides, waiting for you to snap back at him. You just shrug and step back, circling your kitchen island. “Yeah, we talked. Nothing important really.” You pull down two glasses from one of the cabinets. You have to stretch and your shirt slides up, revealing the soft skin of your lower back.

He shifts his eyes away from you, trying to hang onto the fraying threads of the shame and anger welling up inside him.

But you aren’t rejecting him, that’s clear. Not in any sense of the word. You aren’t treating him any differently than you normally do.

He feels inadequate, bad. Guilt lingers long against the wings of his lungs.

“I’m going to make some iced coffee.”

You don’t ask if he wants any, and Marc doesn’t answer. The acrid emotions floating inside his lungs like black smoke, starts to fade when he realizes you aren’t going to engage him at all. You aren’t going to entertain his anger or his shame. There’s nothing to be angry or guilty about.

“Come sit down,” you direct. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But you should probably talk to Steven if you can. He was pretty upset.” You fill the glasses with ice, the clink loud in the quiet early morning. “He really didn’t tell me anything,” you add quietly. “Really he didn’t.”

Marc takes a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment, before he crosses the room to sit on his usual stool. “I shouldn’t have come over here,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face, elbows braced against the counter. “You didn’t want us here.”

You turn and offer him one of the cups, sliding it over the counter to him. You plant one hand on your hip and tilt your head at him. “Really, Marc? Who said I don’t want you here? It certainly wasn’t me. Steven just explained that you have DID. Okay? That’s it. And that’s nothing to - to be ashamed of. Okay? And I don’t think Steven remembered what happened so he didn’t tell me anything else. He couldn’t.”

The glass is patterned with bumblebees. Marc traces a thumb over one of them. “Yeah? Wasn’t that enough?”

“Enough?” You ask, confusion coloring your voice.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s crazy, even if you don’t recognize it yet. You don’t know everything, but this should be enough. Enough to put distance between the cradle of your care and him.

And how much he’s come to rely on you.

“Oh,” you whisper suddenly. Because you’re smart and intuitive and you just seem to always understand, even when he doesn’t say anything. “Oh, Marc, no. No.” And then, your voice light, filled with a strange levity, “I really like Steven and you promised to make me planter boxes.”

He chokes down the laugh that threatens to burst free. “Yeah, I did.” His shoulders loosen, the adrenaline flooding his system eases out and leaves him feeling exhausted, wan and dried out.

“Right. So you aren’t allowed to go anywhere just yet. I don’t want you to anyways.” You push a bottle of coffee creamer across the counter to him. “Here. I saw this one at the store and thought you might like to try it. It’s probably sweet enough for you.”

He just nods and takes it from you.

You round the counter and sit next to him with your own cup, fingers sliding up and down the sweating glass nervously.

“Can I tell you what I felt when I touched the piano?” He freezes, doesn’t dare look over at you. “My…I don’t like to think about it like a power. Because it doesn’t feel that way, and I don’t control it. I don’t want to control it. I trust it to know when I should know something.” You pause, swirling the straw in your glass. “And the piano wanted me to know.”

Marc turns to look at you, and finds himself reflected in your eyes. You look ashamed, guilty. Your smile is warped, sitting on your skin like you expect to be rejected. He remembers that first time you’d mentioned it, that the piano remembered him. You’d looked embarrassed then, too.

And the next time. So, shit talks to you, huh?

You’d snorted, avoided talking about it.

He must be silent for too long, because you nervously continue, fingers drumming on the counter. “I know it’s weird. It’s okay if-,”

“No,” he interrupts. “No. Tell me.”

“It’s weird, I know-,” you repeat again before you pause and take a breath. Your mouth opens and closes several times, like you don’t know how to continue.

He wants to tell you it's okay. Instead, he says, “Tell me.”

You blink and then smile, taking a sip of your coffee and watching from the corner of your eye to see if he does the same. He rolls his eyes and lifts his own glass.

You’re right, he likes the coffee creamer. White chocolate mocha, the bottle says.

It’s so sweet it makes his teeth itch. He loves it.

“It’s good.”

“I knew you’d like it,” you chime before you clear your throat. “When I touched the piano that first time, and everytime after that really, it felt like peace. Like happiness. Maybe like gold and mornings. To me, it’s like a conversation. And all it wanted me to know is that it was not ready to leave it’s home.” Marc stares at you, eyes flickering down to your hand which rests next to his, not touching his skin, not quite. “It was waiting for someone. Wouldn’t say who.”

You swallow. “So I never suspected, Marc. About your mother. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened but I’m sorry and I understand why it’s so complicated for you. The piano and being here and how it used to be hers.”

Steven might not have told you anything, but you’ve been able to guess, at least about some things. He fidgets, pressure spilling down his sides, raking over the skin of his belly. He inches his hand into yours, so your pinkies are touching. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I’m sorry,” you say and you sound like you mean it.

Marc moves his hand until it’s settled fully over yours. Your skin is soft beneath his calloused palm. “There’s a lot you don’t know. You don’t have to be sorry about any of it.”

The shame has retreated, replaced by this odd acceptance.

You flip your hand up and press your fingers through his.

Tales Untold, Chicago 6:59 PM

He’s repointing your brickwork, or starting on it at least, digging out the old mortar from between the bricks and letting it lie where it falls.

You’re sitting on the step up to your shop, quiet in the setting sun. You look content, capable hands sanding down the sides of the first completed flower box he’d brought over the day before.

“Before…before things changed, we were really close.” You look up but Marc doesn’t look at you. He speaks to the brick. “My mom and me. We played the piano together. All the time.”

You carefully set the box down, leaning your elbows against your knees as you listen. “She started drinking a lot. Piano got covered up. We never played it again. Maybe that’s why you feel good things from it. Because that’s all it knows. That’s all I remember.” He jams the chisel into the mortar hard, sweat drips down his temple, slides along the curve of his cheek.

“I’m sorry for - for what happened the other day with my dad. I didn’t mean to scare you.” You shift, sitting up straight but Marc still doesn’t look at you, shoving the chisel between the bricks again without preamble. His arms strain, and he thinks he should stop, that he’s digging in too far.

“After you left,” he continues, even though he can see you opening your mouth in his peripheral vision, probably to contradict him, but he doesn’t want you to have to lie for his sake. “After you left, my dad asked about you. Too many questions. Why I didn’t want you to come inside. He asked like he didn’t know how hard it is for me to go inside.”

Marc knows, he knows you’ve already guessed at the abuse. Steven had told him how you’d asked if he was hurt. And Marc remembers, can see your face in his mind’s eye, the gears turning in your head as you put the pieces of who he is together.

You’re too intuitive for your own good.

So he might as well just get the words out.

“I…usually handle it better but I was so -,”

He was so fucking scared. Anxious.

“Stretched thin,” he says. “That I couldn’t - that the truth just came out.”

You haven’t moved, and Marc sets the chisel down, his hand shaking. “What happened?” Your soft voice asks as he sits on the pavement and leans back against the ruined brick wall.

“I reminded him,” Marc says, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Of why this has been so hard. I reminded him of everything that happened in that house.” He manages to look over you, fastening his eyes on your ankles, the old pair of sneakers you wear. “Told him that’s why you’ll never fucking visit. Not as long as I’m there.” He swallows, “Especially now that I know…I don’t want you to touch something, see something you won’t be able to forget.”

When he finally drags his eyes up to yours, the last part is easy to say. “Went to bed. I shouldn’t have tried to sleep, not when I felt the way I did.” He swallows, thinks briefly about how pretty you look in the sun. “Nightmare, from the stress probably. I could feel how close I was to slipping but I couldn’t stay there and - and I’m trying not to become her, so I can’t drink and -,”

Marc doesn’t finish that thought, and the silence stretches for a long minute.

“What was the dream about?”

What it’s always about. Rushing water. Begging cries. Bruised hands. Slamming doors.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head. “I shouldn’ta come here. But, maybe I knew - you and Steven would put things back together.”

You stand, hesitating for only a second before you join him on the ground. You push your head against his shoulder and let out a long breath. “You can always come here. You’re safe here. Steven and Jake too.”

“Not sure you wanna leave the door open for us like that,” he tries to joke.

But you just nod fervently against him, “Yes, I do.”

He should let you go. He shouldn’t tell you these things.

Instead, he twists his fingers with yours. “You gonna paint that one tonight?”

“No,” you squeeze his hand. “It’s almost dinner time. I thought we could order Chinese.”

He nods, presses his nose into your temple even though he shouldn’t accept your comfort.

“We gotta get out more,” you say suddenly. “Outta this shop and you outta that house.”

He nods against you, eyes closed, breathing in the lavender and rosemary of you.

His hands are dirty but you still clutch at him like he’s not sweaty and gross. You inhale against him like he’s made of something much more valuable than flesh and blood.

“Do you want to reconcile with your father?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Well,” you start. “You could bring him to dinner here. It’s a start. It’s neutral ground.”

Marc doesn’t answer but you don’t demand one from him. Like you know he’ll answer you sometime, eventually.

“We gotta go to a Cubs game,” he says. “I haven’t…there’s a lotta stuff about Chicago I miss.”

“Like the Bean.”

He snorts, “Oh yeah.”

“Pizza.” You lift your head, “Navy Pier. Skydeck. Shedd.”

“Yeah. Mostly the pizza though.” Then, hesitant because you’re like a mirage, like something too good to believe. He squeezes your fingers, feels you echo the touch, squeezing right back. “Wanna go to a Cubs game with me?”

“As long as you buy me pizza afterwards.”

He can feel you smiling against his arm when you duck your head.

Marc huffs out a gentle laugh. His chest feels distinctly lighter. “Okay.”

“It’s a date.”

Thank you for reading! Another special thank you to those keeping up with the series, and for all the continued love and support.

Comments and feedback are so appreciated. New parts will be posted Saturdays at 3PM EST! You can add yourself to the tag list on the series masterlist.

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#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fanfic

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16eggsforxio · 3 months

Text

anecdotal inspiration

Joshua x writer!Reader (anxiety edition)

3444 words, fluff

Summary: Joshua finds out who’s been writing books for the children in the Hideaway. It’s you, unfortunately.

Author’s note: Joshua who loves to read and reader who loves to write has been in front of me the whole time. I have been but a blind fool

-------------

“Pardon me, but are you the one who wrote those?”

It had all started about a year ago. You had always been a daydreamer, maybe a little airy-headed, and you often found yourself penning down idyllic fantasies down into tattered notebooks since young. Growing up, you’d filled thousands of torn pages with your whimsical stories, leaving them half-complete before you began a new one, and it was a hobby that had followed you into adulthood. Now that you lived in the Hideaway, you surprisingly found yourself having more time for it. Embarrassing to admit, but you weren’t the most capable on the field, so you often had quick and short assignments.

And then one day you’d accidentally left one of your notebooks open at the library while searching for other books, and Harpocrates had chanced upon it. You had vehemently denied any relation to the notebook, and Harpocrates who had seen you walk in with it and place it on the table of course hadn’t believed you at all, but instead of mocking you or your scrawls, he had offered a suggestion with a wise smile. The children at the Hideaway, although only a few of them, didn’t have much to read. Children’s storybooks weren’t a priority to obtain, so they usually just had the same few to recycle over and over. Why not write new ones for them? Your handwriting was neater than sufficient, he had said, and your writing was pleasant.

Not knowing how to turn down his proposition, and also not being totally against it, you had agreed. Harpocrates then dedicated a row at the bottom of the shelf in one of the corners for you. It felt a little improper to you—there was no title on the cover since it was a notebook, only on the first page in your handwriting, and the books were usually worn out a little, but every time you slotted a new one onto the shelf, a few days later the children would come bounding to you with praises and enthuses of joy. Harpocrates must’ve told them it was you. You didn’t really mind.

Except, now, Joshua Rosfield had caught you sliding in your newest finished piece onto the bottom shelf.

“Uh—!” You managed a strangled noise.

You had never spoken to him before. Clive had brought him in a few weeks ago and introduced him in the Ale Hall one day, and you had bowed your head in greeting, and that was pretty much the only interaction you had with him. He mostly kept to himself, too. To be honest, he looked much too ethereal and you were afraid that if you stood too long around him you’d be incinerated to ashes just by his aura, so you didn’t try to approach him either.

Needless to say, you really wanted to run away. You stared up at him, wide-eyed.

He cocked his head inquisitively, and then you noticed in one of his hands was clutched a notebook that you’d finished writing in and put on the shelf for the children a few months ago. You hoped Leviathan would awake from its dormancy and swallow you whole right that instant.

“I’m sorry. I was just wondering if you are the author of those books,” he repeated, as if you didn’t hear him the first time.

Shoving your new book into the shelf, you leapt to your feet without meeting his eyes.

“Sorry—I have to go somewhere!”

“Ah, wait—” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

Bowing your head and staring at the floor, you bolted right past him and out of the library.

-------------

You escaped back into the dormitories, the largest common area in the Hideaway and where you figured it’d be harder for someone to locate you. Returning to your room was an option, but not one that you entertained; you’d been cooped up in there for hours in the early half of the day, revising your story before publishing it in the little corner in the library, so you were reluctant to go back again.

In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have run away and heard Joshua out. He had seemed curious about them, even if he completely wasn’t their target audience. It could’ve been nice hearing an adult’s opinion on your storybook, too… Or, alternatively, maybe he’d been very unimpressed by your books and was about to tell you off for wasting space in the library and to make way for some real books. Oh, god. You felt like you were going to vomit. You stopped walking through the corridor and paused to lean your head against the wall, focusing on your breaths.

“Miss!”

It was a young, chipper voice. Blinking, you removed yourself from your pathetic posture, standing up straight, and looked down. The children, your loyal recipients of your books, were eagerly jogging towards you.

“Miss!” They tugged at your long skirt. “Is there a new book yet?”

“Are you writing a new book?”

“I want to read a new story, Miss!”

“Hey, now…” You reached down to carefully pat one of the boys on his head. Children were a little easier to manage, you found. Or maybe it was because they adored you. “I just put a new one on the shelf, actually.”

They were positively beaming. “You did?”

“What’s it about this time? Is it romance?”

The girls in particular asked you that question fairly often, but you found yourself quite hopeless at it. Perhaps it was because you’d never had anything going on in your life romantically before, but the words just wouldn’t come out. How were you to describe what it felt like being in love, anyway?

Grimacing, you shook your head. “It’s an adventure story.”

“Oh, another one!”

“I wanted to read a love story, too…” One of the boys was pouting.

You laughed, gingerly tugging them off your skirt. “Maybe sometime.”

With hopeful glints in their eyes, they turned and began making their rambunctious way to the library, no doubt about to fight over the single unread copy on the shelf. You watched them leave with a faint smile, waving to their retreating backs, before frowning and sighing.

Really, how were you supposed to describe love?

-------------

Maybe some of the books in the library had an answer for you.

So, the next day, you returned with a notebook, this one used to pen down ideas rather than hold finished tales, set on finding some sort of inspiration from some book.

Unfortunately, Joshua was standing at one of the shelves.

Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for him to be around. You usually waltzed past him, and, being too lost in the sprawling ink of the book, he usually didn’t notice you, or you assumed so. The last encounter had certainly… well, shaken things up, to put it in a crudely nice manner.

Stopping a few paces behind him, you shifted awkwardly, before clearing your throat. “Um, Lord Rosfield.”

Joshua looked up, turning his head gracefully to look at you. You were absolutely jealous. When someone interrupted you when you were deep in thought, you would always jump and freeze up like a frightened chocobo in a completely unflattering way.

“Yes?” Without missing a beat, he added, “Simply ‘Joshua’ would suffice.”

“Right, well, Joshua.” It sounded foreign on your tongue. “You see, about yesterday…”

You diverted your gaze from him to the floor, only catching the view of him in your peripheral vision. Ugh. This was so horrible.

Joshua blinked, turning to face you fully.

You moved your tongue about in your mouth almost peevishly, like you had something stuck between your teeth.

“When we met at the library yesterday…”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” he unexpectedly said. You stopped and looked back at him. He wore an apologetic smile. “I must’ve disturbed you—”

“No!” You shrank back immediately. You hadn’t meant for that outburst.

Joshua looked a little taken aback. “Ah, no…?”

“No,” you repeated, almost stupidly. Hugging your notebook to your chest, you bowed your head. “I—I must’ve come off as rude yesterday. I—it wasn’t my intention, I was just… well, I’m sorry.”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush before you could change your mind. Anyhow, that should get your message across. You raised your head hesitantly.

Joshua waved a hand dismissively. “No worries. You had something to tend to, if I remember correctly.”

No, there had been nothing to tend to at all. “...That’s right.”

“I hope you finished it with ease.” The smile he flashed at you was so brilliant you thought you might melt into a puddle of goo. “I was curious about the books in that corner. You’re the one who’s been writing them, I take it?”

In that instant, your brain fired a million thoughts simultaneously. What if you lied to him and said you were helping someone else? Then he’d ask you who you were helping. What if you said you had just finished reading it and were putting it back? No, reading a children’s storybook at your age was much too embarrassing.

Eventually, you settled on a sullen, “...Right, it’s me.”

On second thought, maybe writing a children’s storybook was worse than reading one.

But Joshua’s eyes only sparkled the same way the children’s eyes had the previous day. He took a step towards you. You uneasily took one step back, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Harpocrates told me someone had been writing for the children, you see,” he said, closing the book he’d been reading shut. You had never taken Harpocrates as a traitorous old man, but life was full of surprises. “I thought it was a wonderful idea, so I had a look at some of them. I hope you don’t mind.”

You minded very, very much. “No, it’s alright.”

“They’re very well-written,” Joshua continued, painfully enthusiastically. “The plotlines are simple, but novel. Most of the premises appear quite similar at first, but the ideas are actually all unique and fresh when you properly read into it, aren’t they? And the characters—they’re all so distinct and likeable in their own way once you really get to know them. Even when some of them come off as standoffish at first, they all have their own deeply thought out motives.”

You were holding on for dear life. “Uh… um…”

“And you took great care writing these for children, didn’t you? It’s all handwritten, but they’re all very neat. I spotted not a single mistake while looking through them. And the language used, the words you chose, your style of writing—they’re catered to the children, but even as an adult, it’s hardly painful to read. It was a delightful experience, if I had to describe it.”

“Well… thanks,” you managed feebly. Leviathan, any moment now…

“I’ll be looking forward to your next volume, too.”

“Right, thank you…”

But you had to admit: all your effort, every second of care that you had spent at your desk, hand cramping, felt like it hadn’t gone unnoticed by him. And it felt a little nice.

Joshua tilted his head at you like he hadn’t been off on a tangent praising you seconds before. “So, what brings you to the library? I don’t imagine you already have another one completed.”

You started. Right, your original purpose. “No, I don’t. I came to…”

It’d be a terribly awkward time to yank out a romance novel off the shelf and start meticulously studying it.

“...I came to research something for my writing.” Not a lie.

Joshua’s smile lit up even more, if that were even possible. “Oh? What about?”

You cleared your throat, even though it was empty. “Just… stuff.”

“Would you like me to help you find anything?” He leaned towards you.

“No… thank you.”

“Alright.” He leaned back, and you finally took that as an opportune moment to leave. As soon as you turned, his hand shot out to grab your arm. You almost flinched. “Pardon my rudeness. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Joshua, Clive’s brother.”

Yes, you knew. You introduced yourself in a mutter.

Joshua let go of your arm. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

You looked away sheepishly and mumbled something vaguely similar back.

-------------

Weeks had passed since then. Now that that embarrassing introduction was out of the way, you found it much easier to slip into the library. Harpocrates always welcomed you, and even if Joshua was there, he didn’t bother you much. At most, upon first seeing you, he would quiz you on what was upcoming in your latest story. You entertained him as best as you could, and surprisingly, you found his questions becoming easier and easier to answer, but not because he was the one who changed. You never really saw him around the romance section, so you could always read in peace.

Or that was how it was supposed to be.

One sunny day, you had arrived at the library with your notebook in tow, as usual, and Joshua began asking you questions again, both of you sat down at a table, in a way that reminded you of the children who adored your books.

And then, out of nowhere, very casually: “Are you trying to write a love story?”

You choked on air.

Joshua frowned. “I’m sorry. Did I have the wrong impression?”

You stared at him, aghast.

“It’s just that you’ve been frequenting the section where most of the romance novels are kept, so I thought…”

He’d been watching you?

Admittedly, he’d been a good friend to you. He was always considerate and never pushed to overstep any of your boundaries. He was just… nice to be around. Like being near a campfire in the freezing winter. You could forgive it.

You folded your arms and looked away. “It’s—something like that. I guess.”

With that, he wore his excited smile again. “Really?”

Restraining a groan, you nodded. You did not look at him. “The children have been pestering me about one for a while, so…”

“I see. They’re at that age, I suppose.” Really? To you, they still felt all too young. “I might be able to help you in that department. I’ve read a number of them myself.”

“You have?”

You looked at him dubiously. He looked much too eager to help, leaning over in his seat.

“Yes, I have.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. If it were you, you would’ve died of embarrassment.

He certainly had never struck you as that type. “I’ve never seen you reading one, though…”

Joshua shook his head. “Not when you’re around. You would prefer to remain undisturbed when reading those, wouldn’t you?”

You had never said that out loud, but he was spot on. Biting on your bottom lip, you looked down at the table. “Yeah, I guess so…”

“How about it? Would you like my input?”

Something about receiving a lecture about love from Joshua made you feel queasy. “It’s… It’s okay. Thanks for the offer.”

“Alright.”

The fact that he was into romance novels surprised you. He usually had his head buried in some history book, although to be fair, he had just mentioned purposefully being aware of you when you had come to do your… studying…

This felt more shameful by the second. You slumped in your seat.

Joshua reached over to grab one of your hands on the table worriedly. “Are you feeling alright?”

You straightened your posture again. “I’m fine,” you blurted out, drumming your free fingers on the tabletop. The palm of the hand under Joshua’s was starting to feel sweaty. “Could I ask you something?”

He canted his head. “Of course.”

“It might be offensive.”

He pulled his mouth to the side doubtfully. “Go ahead.”

You opened your mouth, wrangled down the hesitation down your throat, and tried to look him in the eyes, but settled on the space between his brows.

“Why are you so interested in reading my storybooks? They’re for children…” Then you immediately added, “Not—Not that there’s anything wrong, with that, of course, it’s just… a surprise? No other adults read them… except Harpocrates, but that’s him. I guess. Don’t get me wrong—I’m really flattered that you enjoy them, but I was just curious.”

Joshua blinked at you owlishly. “That must be the longest I have heard you spoken in one breath.”

“That’s not… Could you answer the question?”

Joshua retrieved his hand to rest his cheek on it, elbow propped up on the table, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. A finger on your hand that had been occupied until recently twitched. You felt like you could be honest with him. But it wasn’t too much of an invasion of privacy, was it? Maybe you should retract your question if he didn’t feel comfortable. You would hate for him to be put on the spot.

He finally looked down back at you. “Has Clive told you anything of our mother?”

Was he dodging the question? That would’ve been fine, but you didn’t know why he was bringing in another heavy topic. Word on the grapevine spread to you that their mother had killed herself in a fit of hysteria right in front of her sons, after all. Clive, personally, had said nothing to you about her, though.

“Not really, no.”

“...Of course.” Uncharacteristically, Joshua looked down at the table. Usually you were the one to be doing that. You tilted your head. “She had always wanted for me to be the best in every way. I was already sickly as a child, and she prohibited me from overexerting myself on battlegrounds. She often ordered me to stay within the walls of the castle as well.”

She sounded awful, but you couldn’t ascertain his feelings for his mother with his vague language, so you held your tongue.

“I found solace in reading. I enjoyed books written for children, of course, being one—but my mother didn’t appreciate it as much.” He was wearing a forlorn smile. “She wanted no risk of my future position as the Archduke. At her insistence, I was to read less of those ‘silly stories’ and more of educational books.”

You felt personally insulted at that one. “She sounds a little rude.”

At the sound of your voice, Joshua lifted his head, eyes almost bleary like he’d woken up from a bad dream. “Perhaps she was.” Again, vague. He was still smiling—this time, it reached his eyes. “To answer your question, I’m not quite sure yourself. If I had to guess, perhaps reading them feels like making up for the lost time I had as a child?”

And then, catching you completely off guard, he snatched one of your hands from the table and clasped it with both of his hands. You did not have time to react.

“Thank you for writing them.”

Even through the gloves, his hands felt very warm.

You were suddenly acutely aware of how softly his golden locks fell over his face, the deep lapis of his probing eyes—every ridge and feature of him was striking you with vivid clarity.

You stood up from your seat abruptly, pulling your hand away and folding your arms tightly.

“It’s—It’s no problem. Sorry, but I should really get going.”

With a brisk walk out of the library faster than ever before, you forced yourself to ignore how warm your face was getting.

-------------

“Miss, you did it!”

You had just returned from some field work, exhausted, sweaty, and generally feeling like you needed a hot bath, when the children had crowded you once again. It was right in the middle of the Hideaway, and even though there weren’t that many people around at this time, you still raised a finger to your lips to sign the children to lower their voices.

As usual, they paid no heed to you. They came and tugged at your skirt again. “You wrote about love!”

Behind, one of the boys feigned a disgusted expression. He’d grow out of it, probably.

You took turns patting their heads as always. “Did you enjoy it?”

Of course, you were in no position to write a full-blown romance novel, and that most likely wasn’t ideal for children, either. Instead, you’d just written another adventure story, like you always did, but this time dashed with garnishes of intimate feelings. Not enough to be the main focus, but enough to be visible.

“Yeah!” Then, looking a bit confused: “Why did you suddenly write about it, though?”

The sunlight streaming through the cracks of the Hideaway looked golden, too.

You inclined your head down at them and gave a silly grin.

“Maybe… you could say I had a little inspiration?”

#joshua rosfield #joshua rosfield x reader

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randomwriteronline · 11 months

Text

“Now,” Arezu began whistfully, “Not to pit two exquisite Ladies against each other, but - if they had to fight, who do you think would win between Lady Lilligant and Lady Sneasler?”

“Sneasler,” Ingo replied instantly.

There was a hot second of stunned silence.

“No hesitation, huh,” Mai noted.

“I am basing myself purely on typing,” the man began explaining as he briefly stopped carving the second wooden spoon he would give as a traditional wedding gift to Palina and Iscan: “If both had been pure Fighting it would have been a perfectly fair fight, but Lilligant has the disadvantage of being part Grass, which Poison happens to be supereffective against.”

“That’s why your Tangela hates me,” Melli commented.

“She does not,” Ingo replied.

“Why does she suffocate me then?”

“I have told you already, her hugs are not an attempt at your life, she is simply made out of a mass of vines which can sometimes result in hazardous situations despite her best intentions.”

“Is there someone Lady Lilligant could take on?” Arezu distracted them.

Ingo turned to her without missing a beat: “Avalugg, Basculegion, and possibly Kleavor, though it would be a very tight match.”

“No she could not take on Lord Avalugg!” Gaeric blurted out.

“He is doubly weak to Fighting and his Rock type would not do him many favors against Grass,” the other man replied, shattering his hopes in one fell swoop.

“But he’s-!” the warden fumbled on his words for a moment, waving his arms vehemently to find a comprehensible enough way to explain himself before having to resort to just: “Big!”

“Fair argument!” Ingo admitted. “But typing wise, he’d be done for. It’s a very unfortunate pair, mostly on account of neither type covering the other’s weaknesses. He would similarly lose against Sneasler, Arcanine, Basculegion, Electrode, Kleavor, and... No, that should be it, I believe. Ursaluna would would put up a valuable effort, but wouldn't survive the Ice. My condolences, Miss Calaba.”

The woman didn’t even move from where she napped, just gave him an ok.

Melli laughed at the disheartened Gaeric.

Mai smacked him to get him to stop.

“He’d be good against Braviary,” Sabi predicted.

That got her a gentle pat on her head, away from the braids she was getting done: “Indeed,” Ingo nodded, “Flying is weak to both Ice and Rock. He’d also fare pretty badly against Kleavor - Bugs are awful for Psychic types.”

“But he’d be good against Sneasler?”

“Oh, he’d decimate her. Both of his types are supereffective against her. Wyrdeer too, she’d have no chance against him. For more information on how weak Poison is to Psychic please refer to Melli and his many defeats at the spoons of Alakazam.” and he ducked to evade a halfhearted slap. “Also Ursaluna! Ground is another powerful weakness of the vitriolic type. Congratulations, Miss Calaba.”

She gave him a thumbs up and continued not caring.

Palina hummed, struggling for a moment with Sabi’s green hair as she tried to untangle a knot: “How’d my young Lord do?” she asked with genuine curiousity: “He hasn’t been mentioned much, has he?”

“Fire type seldom has trouble in matchups, so he’d be fairly fortunate in a fight against most of his fellow Nobles...” the expert mumbled: “Lilligant, Kleavor, Avalugg as I’ve mentioned, Electrode - Ursaluna would asphalt him, though. Together with Basculegion they are his worst enemies. In a fight, of course, I’m well aware they’re on excellent terms.”

Iscan waved a little to reassure him: “The Lord isn’t a big fighter anyways, he probably wouldn’t do too well.”

“Oh, he’d be quite good actually! Plenty of the Nobles would be in trouble against his Water and Ghost combination, he’s rather fiersome! Electrode is the only one to be a total threat to him - those two are probably the ones to look out for the most. Terrific typings, the both of them.”

His sleeve was tugged to take him out of his musings: Lian twisted his mouth at him to properly figure out how to express his question, looking particularly pissed as he side-eyed what Ingo refused to look at but knew was probably a very smug Diamond warden with a burning desire to bury the guy alive, which would have severely worsened not just inter-clan relationships but also the fairly relaxed gathering they were having.

“So - this is all just, theories, right,” the kid began.

“Yes, based on types.”

Lian hummed deeply, pressing his mouth flat, and a fairly well-known feeling he could only denominate as Oh No took over Ingo as he dreaded the question.

“So you could tell who would win between Almighty Palkia and Dialga?”

Now that was something not to be touched with a 25 and a half foot pole, as evidenced by the other Pearl wardens shooting a glare at Lian and most of their Diamond counterparts paling notably.

Ingo, bless his heart, completely lost the religious implications somewhere in the cogs of his battle-analitycal machine churning in his brain.

“That would require an actual battle to be determined, actually!” he answered without missing a beat: “Both of them are Dragon types, meaning they have at the same time a massive advantage and disadvantage on one another, so effectively the chance at one prevailing over the other just based on that is rendered null, and since their secondary typings of Steel and Water are completely neutral to one another, a fight between the two of them would end up being rather balanced. It would also probably be an incredible spectacle with a very high chance of completely tearing reality as we know it apart according to professor Laventon’s studies, so it would be best for them and the rest of the world to remain on good terms and never have the chance to settle the score between them if they had any to settle.”

The young warden mumbled an agreement.

Not the way anybody expected a bomb like that to be defused.

But oh thank fuck it worked!

“What about the third one?” Iscan asked meekly. “The worm?”

Ingo buffered for a second: “Dragon-Ghost,” he recalled. “Same exact situation as the other two. No certain prevailing, and we should hope not to find out.”

“Ghost is good against Ghost, right?” Palina intervened.

The man nodded. A funny thought striked him: “With enough determination, it could be taken down by Basculegion. And by Avalugg as well.”

Gaeric cheered at his Lord’s good honor being restored.

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ceebit · 1 year

Text

⸺ ۫ ⟡ SMALL ACTS OF INTIMACY

ft. bang chan, lee know, changbin, + hyunjin

note : ‘cece, why are we writing about snow when summer is around the corner?’ i’m so glad you asked ! it was 48 degrees this morning. take that as you will.

chan – routine is dropping both his bags and his career at the front door, shoes discarded and worries momentarily forgotten once the smell of your favorite food hits his nose. it’s a bit chilly in the apartment–you’ve probably opened the windows to let some air in again–but he doesn’t mind. he follows the stream of light into the kitchen where he finds you faintly humming the tune of a discarded project (his heart swells with a sudden burst of affection), standing over something hot on the stove. wanting to see you in your element, he waits a moment before letting himself be known.

he purposely buys clothing in a size one too big on him, partly for the comfort of being swaddled, and partly for his shameless liking to pretend not to notice your liking to taking his clothes. you stand in the kitchen, at ease with black hoodie number-whatever just barely brushing past your thighs, but he doesn’t care. it’s the thought that counts, doesn’t it? it’s cause you missed him, didn't you?

routine is seeing your face light up each time you catch him peeking around the archway, grinning in the face of his sheepishness at getting caught over and over again. his arms circle around your waist, his hello faint. warmth was always near with you—even when you remember the open window once you feel him shiver.

minho – fingers tangle with yours in an uncharacteristic show of nerves, face vacant of anything other than cool indifference. hidden underneath the table, away from the prying eyes of the public, you squeeze his hand in hopes to ease his mind about the dinner reservation with your parents—they’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now, you’d told him a way’s back. you were met with a small smile and a minho-esque comment about bringing flowers, laughing as he hounded you for wanting to impress your mother. the flowers sit next to him now, wrapped in parchment paper, but his antsiness persists still.

you don’t blame him for being nervous, even if he’d vehemently deny it up, down, right, and center. meeting the parents was always a big step—and knowing you both would be watched was enough to also want to hide under the table like a small child—but he’d wanted to be there. wanted to make a good impression.

your thumb brushes over the back of his hand in what you hope comes off as a soothing gesture. he meets your gaze for a moment, eyes roaming over your features, and squeezes back gently in response. he brings your intertwined hands up for a kiss against the back of your hand. sharing a smile, unbeknownst to your audience of two watching the two of you in your element with matching fond looks from a few feet away.

changbin – frustration seeps at the edges of your sanity, cold and unwelcoming. deadline after deadline piles upon your shoulders, forcing healthy habit after habit to be pushed further into the darkest corners of your mind to rust. lunch breaks become extra time to squeeze in just a few more letters to reach that word count, and your somewhat feeble attempt at a nighttime routine gives way to the few hours you’re even lucky enough to snag.

you don’t mean to push hangouts or leisure activities away, either. your texts are one-worded or forgotten with a reply unfinished in the bar, calls short with clear exhaustion seeping through your voice alone. he knows you don’t mean it. your space is your space regardless of if you fall back into your old ways.

so he leaves snacks where he knows you’ll see them, water bottles with post-it notes of shakily drawn smiley faces at the ends of words of encouragement or reminders to go outside for ten minutes or something funny jisung said at work he knew would make you laugh. he knows you’re sorry, that work is work and will forever be ever demanding, but he hopes you know he’s here for you through the sticky notes and crudely drawn doodles you now keep in a desk drawer safe and sound.

hyunjin – the cold weather sits as heavy as the piles of snow shoveled to the streets to clear the sidewalks, gusts of wind sharp to the touch against your skin even underneath your hat and thick gloves. you don’t even remember why you let yourself be persuaded to leave bed at this hour–but you certainly couldn’t forget the what. he’d been adamant about leaving your comfortably warm apartment for… for what, exactly? a surprise, he’d quip back with a grin, smile wide enough to make one spread across your lips as well. damn him for being cute enough to forgo a night of well deserved cuddling under the thickest blanket you owned.

hands shoved in his pockets, he squeezes your fingers excitedly, but looks over in concern when your hands begin to shake from the cold. his nose scrunches up in distaste, tinged a bit red from chill himself, and before you even think to open your mouth to poke fun at his sudden rudolph cosplay, he unwraps his scarf and begins to wrap it around your neck. your protests fall upon stubborn ears, and you can’t help but laugh when he glares at your attempt to unravel the little bow at the end.

his gaze softens, even as his shoulders bunch up from the loss of warmth. snow litters the ground in soft flakes, landing on your hat and your coat. surprise forgotten, he takes comfort in the welcome feeling of your head resting against his shoulder in content.

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aidaronan · 5 months

Note

24 for the Steddie/Spotify wrapped prompt!

Welp. This one got away from me and is less a ficlet and more of just... a fic, but here we go! 24 - Scary Kids Scaring Kids - Watch Me Bleed

Lucky Number 42

Tags & Warnings: Blood, Time Loop, MCD but it’s a time loop so…, maybe it's supernatural or maybe it's maybelline It’s March 27th for the 41st time, and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sickly colors of the Other Sky. He won’t forget the blood either, the way it stains Eddie’s shirt and mats up his pretty hair. The way it gushes through Steve’s fingers as he tries to hold it all in yet again, as though if he just squeezes tight enough, it’ll finally—finally—work this time around.

“Guess we’ll try again, huh?” Eddie smiles, red pooling in the cracks between his teeth. “Fuck, Stevie, why’s it always so cold?” Nearby, Dustin sobs uncontrollably. Steve won’t forget that sound either. It’s seared into his brain, all of it. The same day over and over and over again, both of them stuck in it together. Changing everything, changing nothing.

“What is it you told me, Eds? 42 is the answer, right?” Steve squeezes his hand tight, his heart so full of love and yearning and clogged-up grief that he can feel it all spilling painfully into his chest. “That’s gonna be it for us. Lucky number 42.”

But whether he heard him or not, Steve doesn’t know. Eddie’s gone again, his eyes empty, his hand limp. Steve sinks into the dirt and hugs his knees, letting his forehead fall against his folded arms.

He has a mental tally running, everything that’s worked, everything that hasn’t.

There’s really only one direction left, the one direction Eddie wouldn’t entertain when Steve suggested it 28 days ago, 24 days ago, 15 days ago, 7... The more they fell for each other, the more vehement Eddie got about how that particular avenue was off limits, ‘un-fucking-entertainable, actually.’

It’s the only way though, has to be. There isn’t any other way left.

Taking a few deep breaths, Steve raises his head and crawls for Dustin, still crying, completely unaware of how many times they’ve been here before.

“I love you, Dustin. I love you and I’m sorry your childhood got absolutely shit on, and I hope you know you deserve better than all this.” Steve will say it again on the next loop, too, when it’ll actually (hopefully) count. But he needs to say it now. For himself.

“This can’t be happening,” is Dustin’s choked-out reply.

Steve wants to say that it’s okay, that he’ll fix it. But he and Eddie have also talked about how maybe all of it’s some kind of personal hell built just for them. So maybe there is no fixing it.

All Steve knows is he can’t watch Eddie die again, and he can’t watch anyone else die in Eddie’s place.

So…

So.

“I know.” Steve holds onto Dustin’s arm, waiting for the girls to make their way back to them so they can get out together, so Steve can shower and fall into bed and do what needs to be done. “I know,” he says again. And he does know. Fuck, he knows 41 times over.

It’s exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes later—it always is, give or take five minutes—when Steve finally lays his head on his pillow., curled protectively around Robin’s back. It’s another half hour or so before she cries herself to sleep.

Then countless unquantified minutes before Steve manages to drop off. On the edge of consciousness, he dreams a voice quietly speaking the number, “two.”

When Eddie asks the plan for the day, Steve lies. They sneak into the woods near the clearing and they have each other wholly, primally, sex forged from bonding in a way that only they could ever understand. And then they plan.

And Steve lies.

He suggests they rehash Day 13 with Day 42’s knowledge, plus Day 17’s solution for saving Max. He talks Eddie through the hang-ups, through the objections, feeling a sickening mix of resignation and guilt with every inch of ground he gains in convincing him.

In the end, Eddie nods. “Let’s do this then. Lucky number 42.”

“The answer to the universe, life, and, uh, all the other stuff.”

Eddie huffs a small laugh and looks at Steve fondly, cupping his cheek. “How many roads must a man walk down indeed.”

When they kiss for luck, Steve focuses on every single millisecond, on the way Eddie’s lips feel, on the hands on him—small of his back, back of his neck—and on the feeling of Eddie’s hair sliding hairspray-rough through his fingers. Every little breathy sound, every note of birds calling, bugs flitting.

Life.

It may not have been everything Steve wanted, but he got to have this. For one fleeting moment, he got to fall in love and to be part of a small family of misfits. Some people never got that lucky.

“I love you, Stevie.”

“I love you too.”

It feels like a blink before they’re outside of the trailer, Dustin locked in the bathroom in Right-side-up Hawkins. It’s just them and their makeshift armor—spear and nail bat against the swarm.

Eddie looks at him and nods.

Steve looks back and chokes down a sob, summoning all the bravery he possesses. “Eddie. I’m sorry.”

“Wh—”

This is the easy part, years of sports and fighting all culminating in this moment. At full speed, Steve plows into Eddie, tackling him to the ground, covering his body with his own.

They’re already biting by the time Eddie reacts, fighting like hell, pushing with all the strength of someone who spent years hauling around band equipment and theater props. Eddie’s strength is mostly in his thighs though, a force he uses to drive the rest of him. If Steve keeps him on the ground long enough…

“You motherfucker. You motherfucking fuck! You fucking son of a goddamned…” A feral scream, a shove that Steve counters by squeezing Eddie’s arms tight against him. Eddie growls, broken and desperate, “Stevie, please.”

They’re both fighting hard and with all the love in their bones. Apologizing over and over, Steve forces his fingers deep into the dirt, gripping the roots of rotten hell-vines hard even while the bats chew, even while he cracks his fingernails, and his hands bleed along with his body.

He’s halfway dead by the time the bats drop, and he knows it.

Eddie pushes him off and gets onto his knees and Steve can’t help but smile because Eddie is gloriously and beautifully okay. There’s a bite on his arm along with a few scratches from their tussle, but that’s it. He’ll make it this time. He’ll make it.

“I did it,” Steve says, falling onto his back despite the fact that it’s nothing but open wounds. “I did it. You’re alive and no one else is gonna…”

Eddie replies with a broken scream, with hands that reach for the bloodied hole on the side of Steve’s neck, that try to turn him over to see where else they need to press.

“Don’t.” Steve grabs weakly at his wrists. “Please, just… Let me. See if it works.”

“Fuck you, Steve.” Eddie blinks out several tears. “Fuck you. I said not this. Not this.”

“It’s the one thing we haven’t tried, Eddie. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to go, you know. Why we couldn’t break—” Steve coughs wetly. “God, it really is cold, huh?”

“Just… Just stay, okay, Stevie. Be stronger than me. Hold on, and that’s how we’ll break it, yeah? With you living.”

In the distance, Steve can hear Dustin finally bursting out of the trailer, crying his name.

He blinks up at Eddie’s brown eyes and smiles at the warmth of his hands on him.

Somewhere else, he can hear voices, unfamiliar and new.

“Oh,” Steve says, the edges of his vision going black, swallowing up Eddie’s face. “So there really is something else after all.”

Death, it seems, is darkness. Not terrifying but restful. Not cold, not warm either.

Just floating, quiet and peaceful.

“Two.”

A voice flows out of the void, a voice Steve thinks he may have dreamed once or even more than once. It’s quickly followed by more, all speaking rapidly from everywhere and nowhere.

“Four in cold blood. Undoing.”

“Two from love’s sacrifice. Healing.”

“And so it is. See how it all knits back into one.”

“Then it is done. Send him back.”

Steve tries to open his mouth. “Where—?”

He never finishes the question.

Steve blinks awake to the rhythmic sounds of a machine beeping.

He slowly turns his head to find Robin curled up in a chair next to him, snoring softly with a book steepled open in her lap.

“Rob?”

She startles awake and locks eyes on him before exclaiming with a smile that goes instantly tearful, “Holy shit. Steve.”

From a lumpy bag by her feet, she unearths a walkie-talkie, nearly flinging it at him in her haste to use it. Her hands are shaking when she brings it to her face.

“Hey, uh, everyone. We’re… We’re having a good hair day.”

There’s a chorus of voices, all of them expressing some kind of joy and relief, all of them saying they’ll be there as soon as they can.

“Already in the van. Munson over and out.”

He’s there within five minutes, hair in a messy bun that implies he might have genuinely thrown it up while steering with his knees.

Standing in the doorway, he pauses, eyes on Steve. Steve feels like his entire stomach might drop out under the weight of that gaze. If he’d had any reason to wonder if Eddie remembered all the loops, he’d have no doubt now.

“Hey Rob, can I have a minute with Stevie boy here before the entire Scooby Gang shows up?”

“Uh…” Robin looks back and forth between them, furrowing her brow at Steve before getting up. “Yeah, sure.”

She softly closes the door on the way out, and just like that they’re alone.

“I should kill you all over again for what you pulled, you know?” Eddie says, sitting down and reaching for Steve’s hand.

“You should.”

“But then again, here we are.”

“Here we are. How long was I…?”

“Dead? Or here? Because you did die. I checked your pulse, listened for a breath, fucking everything. And then the girls showed up and out of the blue, you twitched a fucking finger, so Nance and I… You’ve been in the hospital for a week.”

“I had a dream. Maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream at all. I don’t know.” Steve thinks about it again, the infinite peace of the void. “There were, uh, voices, and I think they were saying you and I both had to be willing to die for each other. Like specifically two people in love. To undo Vecna. Are the gates…?”

“Closed, but that could be because Nance and Robin flambéed him alive.”

“Yeah.”

“More things in heaven and Earth though, Stevie. We did just repeat March 27 for a month and a half. Maybe someone was looking out for us. Or they just really fucking hate Vecna. There are many options for motive here.”

Steve rubs at Eddie’s knuckles with his thumb. He hadn’t even taken the time to put his rings on. “So many.”

“It’s over though,” Eddie says. “All of it. The suits cleared my name in five minutes and Hopper ripped the local PD a new asshole. Only question now is…” Eddie gives the spot where they’re holding hands a pointed look. “Now what?”

Steve thinks for a second, mouth twitching at every stolen happy moment in those 42 days of hell. Every smile, every kiss, every sneaky sweaty fuck. Every little conversation that made him laugh, made him feel, made him fall. “Do you remember Day 19 when I asked where you’d go if you ever left Hawkins?”

“I do. By then we’d already given each other hand jobs so I had exactly zero qualms about saying I’d go to San Francisco where I could be gay as hell and also make the heaviest of metal.”

“Yeah, well.” Steve shrugs. “I’m assuming I have to stay in this hospital for a little longer and probably sign, like, another pile of papers that say I won’t tell anyone the government broke Hawkins because they were experimenting on little kids. But after that, why not?”

“Why not? Just like that? ‘Eddie, let’s move in together and also let’s do that in California.’ That easy, huh?”

“We just lived through the end of the world 42 times, Eds. Why the hell can’t it be?”

Eddie laughs quietly and looks down at his lap, shaking his head, a few tendrils falling out of the bun as he does.

Outside of the room, Steve hears a series of sneakers squeaking on linoleum. The door bursts open and Eddie quietly pulls his hand away. But he’s smiling ear to ear when he leans back to let a gaggle of teens throw themselves semi-gently onto Steve for half-hugs.

“Well okay then, Stevie,” Eddie says over the sound of six other people talking at once. “If that’s what you want.”

#steddie #fanfic #mine #spotify wrapped but make it fics #time loop

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