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hiatuswhore · 1 year

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Viper IV

Reputation: The Princess of Conde, said to be a lover of games. Perhaps chess, a game requiring one to think many steps ahead and anticipate your enemies next move. For every missteps brings you closer and closer to defeat.

VIPER III: Versatility

YOU NEVER KNEW FRENCH COURT TO BE SO DULL. The privy council drolling on about issues they will never resolve. No plots or ploys, you settle on a ceasefire allowing the Queen Consort a period of reprieve. You busy yourself with strolls with Sebastian and feigning interest in many high Lord's pursuits of your hand. This does not stop the Queen Mother from focusing on your every movement. Nor are you a fool to the servant in your ranks who reports to her. All information they receive perfectly curated to your liking.

Sitting at your vanity, you huff like a child on the verge of a tantrum. Whispers containing scandals so minuscule you are certain the histories will write you as the first to truly die from boredom.

“Dahlia, any news on the parchment I sent to my brother?” You ask. The shake of your handmaiden’s head garnering another huff. “He wants me to come home, but I have far too much to do here.”

“Princess, you must stop fussing so I can finish your hair,” Dahlia’s silvery voice and gentle touch gaining an apologetic smile. The light tapping of your chamber door stills your handmaiden, your head turning toward the door. Dahlia crosses the room. Opening it, she bows respectfully before lowering her gaze and stepping aside.

“My King,” You rise to your feet, a grin on your lips as you curtsy. Francis chuckles, shaking his head as you ask what you can do for him.

“My wife seems to believe you have a vendetta against her. I am no fool of the deep care you hold for your brother. This afternoon you will invite her on your evening stroll, just the two of you,” Your head tilts to the side, a wide smile taking your features, hiding the thorns beneath rosy-colored petals.

“While I admit I was not very fond, I thought to have clarified my intentions with your wife. Very well, we will have a lovely evening at once,” Clasping your hands in front of you, stepping forward, you peck his cheek. His nose grazes your cheek as he turns to meet your gaze.

“We are not children anymore. You know this is not appropriate,” His words leave him in a breathy whisper. You wet your lips, offering a warm smile.

“I meant nothing untoward, Francis. You are dear to me. I would never have you jeopardize your honor,” Only run it off a cliff, the heat of his skin warming your own at the proximity. His head tilts forward so slightly you nearly miss it as he stiffens. You pull away first, brushing past him with a knowing smirk.

The long corridor from your chambers holds a sea of faces that matter little as you make your way to the kitchens. Fetching to chalices of wine, your smiles large as Mary and Catherine’s eyes land on you. They stand in the throne room, speaking quietly amongst themselves.

“Queen Mother. Her grace. My apologies for the intrusion. I hoped to steal the Queen for a stroll. I even brought us wine,” You say, holding out the chalice. Silence dances between the three of you. Both Catherine and Mary eye the cup in your hand warily, the smile on your lips wicked. She knows she cannot refuse. To do so slights the Princess of Conde--another slight against the De Bourbon family, her kin-in-law.

“Of course, Princess,” Mary swallows thickly, her voice wavering as her fingers brush your own against the cup. She glances at Catherine a final time before joining your side. You wear a kind smile, your airy aura filling the halls. You ramble to Mary just as you do with a dear friend, noting how the chalice in her hands has stayed there.

“What a lovely day. Isn’t it lovely?” Stepping outside, you turn to Mary, her strained smile and stiff posture fueling your amusement. Catherine stands with Francis on the second-floor terrace watching the two of you.

“Very lovely indeed,” Mary mutters, following your toothy smile up the terrace. She’s greeted with differing expressions. Francis wears one of encouragement as Catherine stands as though a guillotine awaits.

“Mary, you are not very good at this game. You went to Francis of your fears, rightful fears, but now here we are. Let me help you understand your particular situation. This is a game of reputation. I very publicly invited you to wine and a stroll. The part the people do not know is that it is at the King's behest. Now imagine if word spreads, you refused my efforts for peace after all you brought upon my brother? What a lecherous cunt,” You scoff, speaking barely above a whisper, shaking your head, a smile painting your lips. Mary’s eyes narrow, her shoulders falling at her side. Stepping into the trap before it was even set.

“I am the Queen. You are my subject in my court!” The ferocity of her tone unlike anything you ever expected of her. You would have commended her in another life, but now your smile falls as you stumble back. Mary’s frown distinct as your eyes well with tears. You shift your gaze down sharply, cowering like a frightened child—the antithesis of your nature.

“My apologies, your grace. Will you excuse me?” You curtsy, wiping the faux tear from your cheek. Mary’s eyes bounce around the open grass field. Ladies and Lords alike lounge around different fixtures watching the exchange. Realization cuts through like a blade to skin, your sorrow not reaching your eyes. Oh, how this game suits you.

“Princess,” Mary breathes out, watching as you fiddle with your fingers. The comely and giving Princess standing before the aggressor, the cruel Queen.

“My apologies, your grace. I know our histories are—” You cry out, the approaching mop of blonde hair arriving with impeccable timing.

“Mary, a word,” The clench of the King’s jaw clear despite the mask of calm he wears. You offer a respectful curtsy heading back toward the castle with your head low. Inside, Catherine greets you with a sneer; taking her hands, you smile.

“I detest you. You wretched girl,” Catherine squeezes your hands tights, to onlookers a warm exchange between family. The Queen Mothers' smile as warm and deceitful as your own.

“Oh, Catherine. To hate me is to hate yourself. I learned all I know from watching you,” You lean forward, kissing both her cheeks. The softening of her glare was not lost on you before excusing yourself. Like wildfire, the word spread of your exchange; invitations of tea and strolls pouring into your chamber like water to a glass.

By noon, you receive word of a private family supper. You naturally assume it to be the workings of Francis but still consider others. While Mary navigates your game as well as a blind man at sea, you await Catherine to guide her hand. You wear a courteous smile as the hundredth invite for tea arrives, your empty promises of soon arranging a meeting becoming almost instinctive.

“(Y/n)!” Your eyes widen at the squeal. Claude rushes down the corridor, her arms wide open. She nearly tackles you to the ground in a hug, squeezing so tight it may very well suffocate you.

“Thank god! This place is so terribly boring,” You exclaim, stepping off to the side. Claude smirks. “I was so upset to learn I had just missed by mere hours the day I arrived.”

“I hear my brother's wife made you cry, and I know for certain that is not the case. You must tell me your machinations at once,” Claude whispers, leaning in close. The two of you stop at the corner, appearing like giddy children.

“That would spoil the fun dear cousin!” You say, crossing your arms and mirroring her smirk.

“The Scottish Queen is doomed then, but that must wait. We have much to catch up on,” Claude hooks her arm in your own. She leads you down the hall, her animated rambling taking the whole of the conversation as you listen intently.

“You slept with Ser Harlin?” You gasp, stopping in your tracks. The French Princess bit her bottom lip, grinning like a madwoman. She spares you not a single detail of her exploits with the pagan warrior, a burly man of few words.

“How have you not? I know, no Lord who looks like him. We must have our fun before our brothers decide to try and marry us off,” Claude says, shrugging your shoulders, your matter-of-fact tone dripped in certainty, “I believe my brother knows if he forces a husband upon me, that poor soul will not make it to our marital bed.”

“Well, if Francis makes me marry, can I count on your diligence in my indoctrination to widowhood?” Claude teases. Nodding your head, you stand straight up with a playfulness to your tone, “I swear this oath to you in perpetuity, my princess.”

“I see you two muck about once more,” Francis greets his sister with a warm hug, his eyes meeting yours with a long pause. Claude’s gaze bounces between the two of you, chuckling shamelessly.

“All these years and nothing changes. Well, you two clearly need a moment. Mother!” Claude calls out, skipping away before either of you can say a word. You bite the inside of your cheek, certain you will not lead this conversation.

“I wish to apologize on behalf of Mary,” Francis says, studying how you render your face expressionless.

“It’s clear the Queen does not seek forgiveness, but who I am to ask that of the Queen. I do not believe she likes me very much. I think I should soon leave,” You shrug your shoulders, pursing your lips. A huff leaves him, taking the bait as easily as you threw it.

“You will do no such thing. I want you here, so that is where you shall be.” Francis taking your hand in his own, the closeness intoxicating—inviting far too inappropriate for the open hall. You wet your lips, watching his eyes travel to them.

“Of course, my King.” The batting of your lashes and low hum of your voice garnering a deep sigh. Francis closes his eyes, rolling back his shoulders as he releases your hand. “Are you unwell, your grace?”

“You very well know what I am at this given second,” He tilts his head, giving you a knowing look. Leaning in closer, your pointed stare and lopsided grin doing the young King no favors.

“You are King, Francis. It is well within your right to reach for what you want. Who you want,” Placing your hand on his shoulder, you trail your pointer finger up the side of his neck and back down at a tantalizingly slow pace.

“I will not be my father,” Francis says, disappearing into his own mind before you. Your hand travels up to his cheek, pulling him back to the present, testing your limits with your thumb tracing his bottom lip.

“You could never. Far too honorable. Too good,” You draw your words out, the slow whisper and dark eyes evaporating those around you from view. The few who linger in the corridor pretend as though you both are not the center of attention. You lean up, pecking his cheek once more, resting your cheek against his, your breath tickling his ear. Your eyes on the dark mop of hair down the hall, “I am your first love. Mary shall be your last, it seems. Your grace.”

You step back, noting how he stares at you, the adoration clear as day. Curtsying, you brush past him. At the end of the hall, you stop shoulder-to-shoulder with the Scottish Queen. Her glassy staring forward as though someone has commanded it. You do not spare her glance on even turn to address her, your face now one of stone.

“Please, Princess. Ask anything of me, and it is yours.” Mary swallows thickly, her eyes on her husband's back as he continues down the hall. When he turns the corner, she turns to you, your gaze still forward.

“Your demise.”

MASTERLIST

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serpililo · 1 year

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GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS!! LISTEN LISTEN PLZ LISTEN!!...NARCISSISM WALLY OK I LOVE IT AAAAA

I'm obsessed with Narcissistic Wally!!

This Au belongs to @/BP10146 (twitter)

https://twitter.com/BP10146?t=UN-_MvAU7Af84pbny4lJsQ&s=09

#drawing #welcome home wally #wally #wally darling #welcome home puppet show #wally welcome home #welcome home #welcome home au #narcissism #Narcissism Wally #fanart

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nicadilly · 1 year

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Edit: tfw when u create a fair amount of fanart for the author and commish a 40$ fic only to be mistreated and never get ur money back lol. Got a refund :) Wish the emotional anguish thing never happened but ill heal. They also gaslight on the reg so keep that in mind. if someone told me back in January 2022 i would become an amogus fan/simp for MEN i would laugh. YET HERE WE ARE.

Some of the main characters from @crinklytinfoil ‘s series that is currently causing severe brainrot. @krysmcscience is to blame bcs if it were not for their fanart i wouldnt know abt the fic oops... (also it is a dead dove fic so check it out at your own discretion!)

OH almost forgot about my obligatory “THIS IS NOT THE ARCANA???”

#only doing the edit bcs theyre doing some weird petty erasure of history on their fic notes lol #GUESS my aus werent that bad if ur keeping the latte fic up but deleted my arcana commissions :P #its your broken au now lol #also AFAIK author stomped on my drawings #self admitted info lol #so clearly questionable respect for other creatives #not to mention other ways it manifested #textbook narcissism @ crinkle #and krys is just a delusional dumbass and a homewrecker thats all #crinkle himself said krys never grew out of high school and yeah it shows #unmanaged behavior from what ive heard #among us #among us game #imposter #aliens #tentacles #creepy #stop lookin at me with your big ole eye...#bet u cant guess who is my fave #I do have some old arc/ana posts to upload #but i dont have time to do it atm so maybe in two weeks? if uni allows it #val/erius reverse vo/re...#innersloth #body horror #terato #alien #ao3 #archive of our own #the best laid plans of crewmates and imposters #a penny for your sus

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hershelwidget · 27 days

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the two emotions

#hershel’s octonauts au #i legally have to tag that everytime theres more than one character from it thats the law #p.o. crump #hahah !! points and laughs at jazz !! bro has no tag !!#.my dumbass is just now realizing theres More Overlap between the two i initially thought #uh. something something ‘last straw’ .. idk #LISTEN I MAY HAVE CONFUSED NIHILISM FOR NARCISSISM. SOMEHOW. IT HAPPENS #LEAVE ME ALOOOONEEEE

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lottiecrabie · 11 months

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waiting for pfms mattys return and also linecook. re read it an embarrassing amount of times it’s so over for me

SAMEEEE whoever writes that shit needs to get on that Now (i’m the one who has to write it this is all my fault) i reread my fics all of the time too lol i get you

#though maybe it’s just narcissism #No actually i am just my prime reader🫰#linecook!au #pray for my soul #ask

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starwarmth · 2 years

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She knows it doesn’t matter, in the long run. That this moment isn’t as important as the next time he succeeds in feeding that gaping hole within him. Ego, ambition, misplaced genius — she doesn’t know what it is. All she knows is she’s spent her life being second place to it, except for right now. They come in snatches, these moments, when her dad returns to who she thought he was, the dad of her childhood, the person she loved. The moments fade in disappointment or dissipate entirely during the next bout of violence, but she holds onto them with both hands when they occur. Maybe life is only about the little moments, and you’ve just got to connect them to make sense of it all, to find meaning to it. Maybe you don’t see the end of rainbow, but find pieces of it when the sun shines just right.

She closes her eyes, pressing down a sob. This will pass, she tells herself. It always does.

But he’s here, smelling just the same as Sunday morning, and she can pretend for a moment that it doesn’t break her heart to love him.

#bratkid AU #glad I’ve waited a bit because I think I want to go in an even more interpersonal relationships in this the second time around #because Steph doesn’t just gain a biological father (Bruce)#she also loses one (Arthur)#and yeah he wasn’t really hers to begin with #but she was his in her own way #with Steph i think you can really pinpoint how Arthur committed crimes out of ego and narcissism #unlike how I like to headcanon Willis which is out of poverty (and blowing off steam by treating his wife and kid horribly at times)#but with Steph a theme in bratkid is how she’s never *chosen*#no one ever chooses her #Bruce feels like he has to take her in #her mom leaves Bruce with full custody #and with Arthur…Steph could never be enough #which is a thing she feels aka ‘why aren’t i enough for you?’#WHICH #Dick feels!! towards Bruce!!#like I said more interpersonal

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witchakyeon · 2 years

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❧ Honey | Xiuleo Oneshot

“Do you consider yourself attractive?”

Taekwoon rolled his eyes dramatically and set his wine glass on the coffee table. “Of course I do. Are we looking at the same thing?”

Minseok lifted his eyes from his cell phone and snickered, which made Taekwoon snicker, and before they knew it, they were laughing so hard their stomachs were sore.

“You’re a narcissist!”

“I am not! Don’t blame me for taking pride in my appearance!”

“That’s exactly what a narcissist would say!”

“Fine,” Taekwoon chuckled as he ran a hand through his messy curls. “I’ll let you answer this one for me, then. Do you think I’m attractive?”

Read the rest here 🧡 2022 Prompt Collection My AO3

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catherine-reznitchenko · 2 months

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Narcisses au soleil by Catherine Reznitchenko Via Flickr: Normandie, France. www.catherine-reznitchenko.fr

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psalmsofpsychosis · 2 years

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writing!!!! is amazing!!!!! like the way you set a plot and then you start writing and your writing shoves a whole fuck you up your ass and says "okay now here is MY plot"!!!!!

#like the discoveries!!!! your story talking to you like a little alive and ferocious and untamed wild animal!!!!#writing is so exciting to me it feels more alive than breathing #Anyway i'm writing a sorcerer!luke and merman!din AU and i love loving my own ideas and being invested in them #fellas out there apologizing about writing ''self indulgent'' pieces while i'm in this corner like #yep i have a case of narcissism but it's hyperspecifically about my stories i take pride in how much they reflect my apeshit mind

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vanilladove · 7 months

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~ get free (1/3)

pic creds luvpngs | gif creds akashi-tetsuki

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞�� pairing: asylum patient!nikolai x asylum attendant!fem!reader

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre: v suggestive w/ plot (yasssss); read at your own discretion

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ content warnings: unhealthy relationships, infidelity, slightly yandere(?) nikolai, dubious consent, nikolai himself is a warning lol, also sorry if the asylum! au is inaccurate

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ summary: reader is an asylum attendant and is assigned to their newest admit nikolai gogol. ALSO this fic is heavily inspired by @/cherikolya's fic she's the one i'm running with- pls check it out and support her! also i'm splitting this up into 2 parts bc watching the aot anime has been breaking me and consuming all my thoughts, but i still want to post:( ˚₊‧꒰ა read pt 2 & pt 3 here ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ word count: 5.7k (oops...what can i say nikolai makes me delulu)

"Nikolai Gogol. Age 26. Male. Charged with terrorism, first-degree murder, and treason among other things, but he got off with an insanity plea. Look over his file before he comes in later." The man behind the desk tossed the neat file carelessly onto the acrylic surface, exhaling boredly after giving his monotone rundown.

"I'm being assigned to him? But I already have other patients to take care of!" You inquired, fists forming at your sides as you already imagined the overtime and exhaustion you were going to rack up.

"Attendants don't grow on trees, do they? Don't assume I'll give you special treatment. Besides, I'm handing your other patients off to the new girls, so you'll be able to focus on Gogol. He's high priority." The man butted back.

Tch. You sighed and grabbed the file, mumbling a "fine" and turning to leave his office.

"Goodbye, dear." He spat it out like venom with a forced smile. You glanced back once more at the man: your boss--or rather husband--before heading out the door. You two were simply a marriage of convenience--a business transaction. In exchange for funding to build a new asylum on par with Mersault to rehabilitate criminals, your father had offered your hand in marriage to his business partner's son, who had become entranced by your beauty after seeing you once in your father's office. He wasn't too bad of a man at first, and you both related over your occupation together, but your marriage started to go sour after he realized you weren't just a pretty face or obedient wife, and it worsened after his narcissism and egocentricity started to show. He was too traditional and trapped you in his cage of rules and regulations. Even sharing the same bed and having dinner together couldn't reignite the nonexistent spark between you.

You walked back to your office and closed the door behind you before making yourself some herbal tea to calm your nerves. Laying down on the plush couch in the middle of your room, you looked through your new patient's file, trying to memorize all the details.

Nikolai Gogol, huh? What kind of person are you? You shivered reading the list of his crimes, which seemed endless and cruel.

An hour or so had passed before you heard a soft knock at your door. "Miss?" Another attendant had come to fetch you. "Your patient is waiting for you in the white ward." The white ward was where "high priority" or more dangerous patients were kept.

"I'll be out in a moment!" You called out, getting up from the couch and tidying up the space before fixing your hair and pulling down your uniform. It was a black flowy dress with puffy bell sleeves and a white rounded collar. The dress itself was a bit too short, being designed and chosen by your gross and perverted lovely husband. You walked out the comfort of your office and followed the attendant to the white ward.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"Miss, this is your patient Nikolai Gogol". The attendant gestured to the tall man standing in the hallway outside of his room. He was strapped and held by two guards, with several others surrounding him holding special guns. He had a neutral smile on his face that turned upwards upon seeing you. You couldn't help but be momentarily mesmerized by the man in front of you. He wore a loose white button up and white linen pants--the standard male patient uniform--and his white hair was messily layered with a long, neat braid on his shoulder. His eyes were the most captivating to you, one emerald and full of life and the other a dull blue with a scar. Without the jester attire donned in his file pictures, he actually looked quite...handsome and prince-like?

You snapped yourself back to reality after remembering who you were dealing with and bowed slightly, just enough to stop your dress from riding up.

Observing the situation, you could sense the belligerence seething from everyone else. Not that you could blame them, the new patient was a dangerous anarchist. Your personal philosophy was always to treat the patient as humanely as possible in order to build trust and security, so you tried to not think about your new patient's file information. Just focus on diffusing the energy of the space and getting the jester to somewhat like you.

"Hello, Nikolai. I'm your attendant and will be taking care of you for the duration of your stay here," You looked back up and smiled gently at him, starkly contrasting the hostile glares from the other attendant and guards. "Let's get along, okay?"

Nikolai's eyes widened immediately and he tried to move closer to you. "Whaaaa! Nice to meet you, pretty miss! I can't believe such a beautiful girl is taking care of me!" The two guards forcibly stopped him from taking another step and the others pointed their guns at him.

Nikolai frowned and stopped squirming. "Hey! All I did was talk! Put those scary things away!" He giggled as the guards retracted their guns slowly and stuck his tongue out at the other attendant, who looked disgusted yet scared. He wasn't intimidated or scared at all. The guards then opened the door to Nikolai's room and placed him sitting down on his bed. Before you could follow to begin debriefing, the other attendant tugged on your arm lightly.

You turned back at looked at her. She had a fluffy blonde bob, light green eyes, and freckles. Lacey, one of the young new hires your husband mentioned earlier. "Um Miss, aren't we supposed to follow the script when interacting with patients? I thought smiling at them and speaking casually promoted unwanted feelings and was unprofessional?" You cringed, loathing that she sounded just like your husband when he was lecturing.

You shot her a fake sugary smile, "Oh, yes, I usually just take a softer approach with more unstable patients. Don't want them to stab you in the back immediately, do you?" You tried to answer lightheartedly, but your efforts clearly failed by the way Lacey had a horrified look on her face from your little joke, like it was the worst answer you could've said. You awkwardly coughed and put your hand on her shoulder.

"Right, thanks for reminding me, Lacey. It's great that you remembered the boss's words." Rolling your eyes once your back was turned to her, you stepped into Nikolai's room. You already dreaded Lacey telling your husband about you deviating from protocol and the long talk he would have with you at home.

"Four of us will be staying here to observe the debrief, Miss. This man is dangerous." You nodded as each of the four the guards stood in a corner of the room and the rest filed out of the room. You pulled up a stool and sat down, giving your new patient a run down of his daily schedule and how the asylum operated. The whole time, his eyes watched you excitedly like a puppy and he giggled and nodded frequently in between your sentences. It was strange and unsettling, but you were slightly relieved you didn't have to deal with an aggressive patient.

Scooting closer to Nikolai, you pulled out a small water bottle and a case of different pills. "These are your daily meds, Nikolai. I'll come to give these to you every morning at six before breakfast. I'll monitor your progress and adjust your dosage as time goes on." He nodded as you stood up and placed the water bottle on the stool, putting on a white latex glove and pouring the pills out into your hand. "I'm going to be administering them to you just for today. Open your mouth and don't close it until I'm done, okay?"

"Okay, missy! I'll be a good boy and try not to bite your pretty fingers off!" Nikolai perked up and giggled like a child getting candy. You mentally cringed and prepared yourself for the worst as you stepped towards him. What could you expect? This man was dangerous and had no reason to listen to you. The guards tensed up as you moved closer and pointed their guns at the jester's face. You swallowed as Nikolai opened his mouth, obnoxiously saying "ahhhhhhhh" and bouncing in his spot lightly.

Heartbeat increasing, you placed your free hand under Nikolai's jaw, thumb supporting his chin and lifted his face up slightly to you as you dropped the pills into his mouth. Mind racing and anxiousness clouding your vision, you missed the way he gaze softened. He closed his mouth and leaned into your touch more, nuzzling your delicate fingers. You swiftly pulled away, turning your head back to grab the water bottle behind you, attempting to hide the light rose that dusted your cheeks, unsure of whether it was from fear or embarrassment. Nikolai's eyes were still intently on you, so you secretly hoped he had missed that.

As you opened up the water bottle and stepped back towards Nikolai again, he shook his head. "I already swallowed them, I don't need any water, miss attendant." He opened his mouth again to show you proof before you sighed out an "okay" and tightened the cap back on. You grabbed the empty pill case before gesturing to the guards to put their guns down. They complied and two came over to slowly undo the restraints on his upper body, making sure to hold him back immediately after.

"Well, Nikolai, that's all for today. Thank you, and I--"

"Whoa, missy, you have a ring! Too bad you're already married!" Nikolai interrupted, his head poking up but quickly being pushed down by one of the guards. You cursed yourself silently as you froze in place. Since you had to move around a lot and constantly clean, you wore your wedding ring on a simple gold chain as a necklace instead. It was usually tucked under your uniform, but it must have slipped out when you were laying on your couch earlier. You cleared your throat awkwardly, tucking your necklace back into your uniform and trying to get rid of the instinctive frown on your face that appeared anytime your partner was mentioned.

"Yes, I'm married. Anyways--"

“But you held my face so lovingly just now. Won't your husband get mad? You're supposed to do that to him, not your new captive, right?"

You tightened your fists at that.

"That man…does he treat you well, pryntsesa?" Even though his head was held down, his dark gaze still cut into you, now not as innocent as it was before. You were sure the cheeky man was smirking too, taunting you with an otherwise harmless question.

You let out a fake laugh and an even faker wide smile in response, just eager to leave and go home now. Whatever charm you had your patient initially under had clearly faded away. "I'll see you tomorrow at six, Mr. Gogol." Nikolai's smirk turned down after hearing the name change, but quickly turned back up again followed by loud hysterical laughs--unbeknownst to you, who had already left his room.

"So the little ptashka wants to play games, does she?"

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"Thanks for dinner, dear." Your husband said, wiping his mouth with a neatly folded handkerchief.

Shocking. Is he being...nice?

"Of course, I've already packed your lunch for tomorrow, too." You replied, occupied washing dishes and organizing the kitchen again.

"So, how was your first encounter with Gogol?" He inquired, walking over to you to put his dishes into the sink and lean against the counter beside you. You stopped for a moment, surprised he was making conversation with you today, as he usually retreated back to your shared bedroom or went to the living room to watch the news.

You were about to start until you noticed his brows furrowed and his arms crossed. You took your rubber gloves off and placed them next to you.

Oh boy, he's about to lecture me, isn't he?

"What are you really trying to say?"

He exhaled. "Well, Lacey--"

That snitch. You couldn't believe her.

"Ahhh, Lacey. The sweet young new girl you hired as extra help. What about her?" Your spouse's eyes narrowed.

"Respect your coworkers, dear. Lacey told me about your unprofessional interaction with Gogol. Smiling at a murderer and treating patients as friends doesn't exactly align with the asylum's values, now does it?" He said sternly.

"I was just trying to immobilize him. You can't exactly make a patient trust you when everyone's just shooting daggers at them, y'know?" He didn't look convinced. "Besides, this has always been my approach since I started in this field, and it's never failed me. You more than anyone should know I have the most successful recoveries among all the staff."

"Fine. Just make sure your unorthodox tendencies don't rub off on the other staff." He looked down at your neck. "And don't tuck your necklace under your uniform anymore. Don't want all the delinquents getting the wrong idea. You're off the market now" He lifted the chain of your necklace and traced the outline of the ring before letting go and walking to grab his coat and a pack of cigarettes.

"Going outside for a smoke break. You should get to bed and get some sleep for the long day tomorrow" He replied before walking out the door, your eyes following him.

You didn't miss the way he swiftly grabbed the keys and fixed his hair before leaving.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"Good morning, dove!" Nikolai chirped upon you entering his room.

"Good morning, Nikolai. Did you sleep well?" You asked softly, taking his medication out and handing it to him, along with some Ukrainian candy.

"Mmhmm, yes I did! I had a sweet dream, too, doll, but I can't tell you what it was about!" He said excitedly. Used to his antics, you only laughed in response and watched as he took his pills--still without water for whatever reason and unwrapped the minky binky candy, popping it into his mouth.

Five weeks. That was how long it'd been since Nikolai was admitted to the asylum.

Despite your initial worries of dealing with a monster, you and Nikolai had gotten along quite well. He seemed to only listen to you, though, much to the dismay of the other attendants. It was beneficial for you though, since it meant you didn't have to work overtime seeing to other patients.

Nikolai had developed a habit of calling you by anything but your name, bestowing several different pet names on you--a new upgrade from "miss" and "missy".

He also became increasingly touchy with you as well: constantly holding your hand--intertwining his fingers with yours, braiding your hair, and hugging you when he felt "cold". Perhaps you were desensitized to it or just touch starved, but you rarely complained about it. You would rather keep him happy and easy to deal with, anyways.

"Look, pretty girl, I finished all my meds!" Nikolai exclaimed as he opened his mouth to show you proof that he swallowed them all.

You gave him a friendly smile. "You aren't having any bad side effects from your meds, are you?" You found it a bit odd that Nikolai's dosage never changed, since no one could pinpoint his exact condition. It made your job easy, though, so you tried not to think much about it.

"No ma'am. I had some trouble sleeping at first, but it's all gone now!" He stood up from his bed and watched as you straightened it up--simultaneously checking for anything suspicious. There never was anything somehow.

His hands loosely wrapped around your waist as he pressed himself against your bent back and rested his chin on your shoulder, causing you to push your hands into the sheets and wrinkle the thin blanket. You let out a surprised squeal when you felt his warm breath on your ear.

"Love, can we eat breakfast in the courtyard today?" He whispered softly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You felt yourself blushing as you turned around and pushed him away, his hands still remaining on your waist.

"Y-Yes, N-Nikolai, we can go to the courtyard today." You said, finally stepping away to be free of his touch just for him to hold your hand. He flashed a happy smile at you while skipping out the door, tugging you along with him.

"Yayyyy! Me and ptashka are going on a date~"

"...It's not a date, silly." You replied back, blush still faintly across your cheeks.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You inhaled the fresh courtyard air, still holding hands with Nikolai as you walked on the cobblestone path. His breakfast to-go box and your lunchbox were on the nearby bench; you both already ate, but Nikolai basically ate most of your food, claiming the dining hall food was "stale and dry" compared to the pillowy cream puffs you'd brought.

"Wahhhh! Look at the fishies, dove!" Nikolai exclaimed, waving his finger at the koi fish swimming in the fountain. They eagerly swam towards him, probably thinking he was going to feed them. He giggled, eyes focusing in on two of the fish.

"Don't those two look like us, love?" You were snapped out of your previous trance and looked down to see a black koi fish and a larger white koi fish together cuddling into each other.

"Oh, I guess they do. Because of our uniforms, right?" You looked back up to Nikolai to see him frowning and still staring at the fish.

"No, dove, because they're in love..." He said lowly, to the point where you almost couldn't hear him. His gaze softened as he looked back down at you and cupped your face gently.

In love? Us?

Eyes widened, you felt confused as you looked away, not sure how to respond or think. The sudden action caused Nikolai's hands to drop away from your face. You closed your eyes, not wanting to see his disappointed face as you stammered, "We're not in lo--"

Your eyes flew open again as you felt something hard in your hand.

A bouquet of lavender roses was in your hand, with Nikolai giving you a big grin with his hands behind his back. "Pretty flowers for my pretty girl." You blushed, forgetting about what had just happened. You had always loved roses and their romantic charm.

When was the last time your husband brought you flowers?

"Lavender roses symbolize delight and love at first sight. They remind me of you." Your eyes widened again as you looked up, Nikolai turning serious and gazing at you affectionately, like you were really lovers.

You found yourself getting lost in his heterochromatic eyes. Somehow, you felt peaceful like this. Even though he was a dangerous criminal. Even though your heart was already sworn to another man.

"Thank you, Nikolai. They're beautiful." You said smiling at him, this time being genuine and not passive. You were falling into a serene state, only able to focus on him. His action had somehow touched your conflicted heart and put you in a good mood.

He laughed happily in response, pleased by your reaction. "You look lovely when you smile like that, sweetheart." He pulled your other hand back to the bench so you could sit.

"Also, you should give me a nickname, too. I have so many, but you only call me Nikolai~" He pouted, scooting next to you on the bench.

"Hmmmm...What should I call you then? Niko? 'Lai? Nikolas...?" You pondered, both of you slightly cringing at all of the options, each one sounding worse than the previous one.

"I know!" Nikolai exclaimed, grabbing your hands--still holding the flower bouquet--and clasping them together, "Kolya. Call me Kolya. That's what my close friends and family would call me!"

Family? You mean the ones you murdered? You tried to shake the thought.

"Kol--Ahh!" You cried out as you felt a deep prick on your left ring finger. You pulled your hand away from Nikolai's and dropped the bouquet, watching the blood drip down your finger and down to your thigh.

Nikolai's eyes filled with concern, "Love! You're hurt!" He rushedly rummaged through his breakfast box and his pockets, trying to find a napkin to stop the bleeding. You tried to calm him down, telling him you were fine, but he wouldn't listen.

Suddenly, he seized your left hand and brought it to his mouth, closing his lips around your ring finger. Shivers ran down your spine as you felt him running his tongue over your finger, getting every last drop of blood and kissing the spot slowly when he finished.

Heat rushed into your cheeks as the air felt thick, no longer serene and peaceful. Nikolai's eyes darkened, and an unreadable expression fell on his face.

"There's still some there, dove." He gazed down at the blood that had dripped onto your thigh. Your stomach churned at the thought of what he would do next as he pushed you down onto the bench and brought his lips to your inner thigh, leaving soft kitten licks all over the spot and lightly groaning.

"Niko--Kolya, s-stop--" You tried suppressing the moan threatening to spill out from the contact on your sensitive skin. You tried to push him away softly, but he wouldn't stop, now pressing light kisses that travelled up your thigh to your sweet spot. He was getting close. Too close.

You pushed his head away, not trying to be soft anymore, and sat up again, moving to the far side of the bench. You pulled down your dress again to cover your now reddened thigh.

"W-We can't do this. It's wrong. You're my patient, and I'm your attendant. And..." You hesitated, regaining your composure, "...And I'm married." You said, biting your tongue. The gold necklace suddenly felt heavy around your neck, like it was pulling you down.

Nikolai laughed bitterly, "You don't love him though, myla. He's kept you trapped in a cage. Is that what you want, dove? Do you want to be trapped in his cage?"

"I--"

"Miss! Mr. Gogol! There you two are! We've been looking everywhere for you both. There's a group wellness activity starting for all the patients, and they're waiting on you." You turned around to hear a familiar high-pitched voice.

Lacey. The snitch new girl.

You put on a fake smile. "My apologies, I completely lost track of time. Lacey, you can escort Nikolai to the group's meeting spot. I'll be retiring to my office for the rest of the day." She nodded as you grabbed the bouquet and your lunchbox and took one last look at Nikolai before standing up from the bench and turning away, "I'll see you tomorrow, Nikolai." You didn't wait for a response back.

It felt too awkward. Everything felt confusing; you knew your place but you also wanted to be free. You liked Nikolai but you didn't know if those feelings could be considered love. You surely didn't love your husband...

All you could do was hold onto the roses and gaze up at a dove flying across the sky. For a moment, you wished to be like that dove. To be elegant, at peace, and loved.

You wished to be free.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to scan your access card and enter Nikolai's room. Today was a special day, after all.

"Good morn--"

"Love! You're finally here! I was waiting for you~" Nikolai exclaimed as he lunged towards you, burying his face into your neck. He wasn't wrong; The extra time you spent collecting your thoughts and debating going in or not made you two minutes late.

You lightly pushed Nikolai away--not before he caught your hands and intertwined them with his again--and tried to put a neutral smile on your face. "Nikolai, I have good news for you."

His face lit up as he clasped your hands and brought them towards his chest, "What is it, dove? Are you divorcing your husband and leaving him for me?" He shook your hands excitedly as you eyed him disappointingly. He really wasn't going to drop this lovesick act, was he?

You shook your head and cleared your throat, "No, as a reward for good behavior, you can choose a special place to visit and an item to keep in your room. Your options are the courtyard, the gy--"

"The library. I want a book to read." Nikolai stated, suddenly turning serious, taking you slightly aback; you didn't take him as the type to be able to sit still and read for a long time.

"Alright, the library it is then. Take your meds first, and then we can go, 'kay?" He nodded excitedly as you turned away from him to make his bed and do the usual check. Nothing suspicious, as usual.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ��₊˚

The guard greeted you both as you approached the grand library doors. It was an old wooden room with tall glass windows that contrasted the relatively short bookshelves. It wasn't exactly a popular destination for patients, so the books were mostly dated and collecting dust. The natural light inside made it one of your favorite break spots during your trainee days, so it was a bit nostalgic for you.

"There are security cameras around the library, but radio in if anything happens." The guard explained sternly, looking over at Nikolai and then you, "Do you need assistance with your patient, or will you two be fine alone?"

You shifted your gaze over to Nikolai, who had a slightly mischievous smile on his face but maintained a serious expression. "We'll be fine alone. He'll behave." The guard nodded at you before opening the door and letting you two in. The door shut firmly and you tried to grab Nikolai's hand, but he dashed away from you towards the large stained glass window before turning to face you.

"It's so big in here, ptashka. I haven't been in a library in sooooooo long. I actually love to read, y'know?" He said, smiling and motioning for you to join him. The colorful stained glass reflected on his face, casting multicolored kaleidoscopes on his face.

You joined him, admiring his beauty momentarily before leaning against the window and crossing your arms. "I didn't know that, no. To be honest, I didn't think you were much of a reader.." You said lightly with a giggle.

Nikolai grinned back, "Heh. There's a lot you don't know about me, dove." He looked away, lowering his voice a bit, "But that's fine. You'll have plenty of time to learn everything later~" You looked at him confusedly, not quite catching what he said, but you remembered the reason you came and grabbed his hand again.

"Anyways, was there a particular book you were looking for? I know this place pretty well." He laughed in response.

"Ah, is that so? Well, I'm looking for The Overcoat. It's my favorite book." Nikolai said proudly, like he was trying to impress you with his literature selection.

"The books are sorted by last name. Do you know the author?" You asked, leading him towards the bookshelves. Nikolai just squeezed your hand and started skipping forward at a fast pace, practically dragging you behind him as he started giggling hysterically.

"Nope! Not a clue, hehe~" You paused and frowned at him. Who didn't even know the author of their "favorite" book? "The genre's fiction, though, if it helps~" Nikolai said giddily, turning towards you and swinging your arms from side to side. You sighed and slowly headed over to the fiction section. There were about 1,000 books to go through, so you weren't exactly too excited. Not that it bummed you out too much, though, since your husband had asked you to help the new girls clean if you finished early with patient duties. You supposed you'd rather spend your time with Nikolai finding his book.

You both agreed to search the shelves simultaneously, Nikolai looking on the higher shelves and you on the shorter ones. The space between shelves was quite narrow, making his chest rub against your back several times. He wasn't shy either, grabbing your hips to maneuver past you, causing you to jolt when he pressed himself behind you.

Starting to lose count of how many books and shelves you'd checked, you were falling into a tired daze until Nikolai's sudden shout woke you up. "I found it, dove! I'm the winner! Me, me, me!" You looked over to Nikolai, who now had his book in his hands, and shot him a relieved smile.

He hurriedly headed towards you as you gave him some congratulatory praise. "Guess our work's done here, then. Let's get some lunch and call it a da--"

He hugged you suddenly, making you yelp as he giggled and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back against him. He leaned in by your ear, squeezing you tighter, inhaling your scent, "Say, dove, do you still have the roses I gave you from the courtyard?" You perked up toward him as he smiled, awaiting your response.

You did. You'd placed them in a small glass vase--trimming the thorns off--and put it on your dresser. Somehow, the sickly sweet smell was stronger in your room than it was in the courtyard. "Yeah," you smiled, "They're in a vase by my dresser. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them because of how beautiful they were." Nikolai snickered at that, delighted that you'd cherished his little gift.

He slowly smirked, "Your husband doesn't give you flowers, does he?" You tensed up a bit under his arms but relaxed again, frowning and looking down.

"No, he doesn't. I think the last time was during our honeymoon." Nikolai cuddled into your neck after that, rubbing your sides like he was trying to comfort you.

"What a shame, love. You should leave him for me. He doesn't deserve you." Nikolai said, his teeth barely grazing your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Was the space always this narrow?

"I can't. It doesn't work like tha--"

"Why not, though? Leave him for me. I'm actually perfectly sane, y'know? I know how to make you happy, how to free you from his cage..." He paused, "How to touch you..." His hands on your waist trailed down, pushing your skirt up higher.

"H-hey!" You stammered, stopping his hands from going further with your own, "We can't do this. There are cameras here." You anxiously looked around, trying to find them, but Nikolai's hand grabbed your face and pulled it back down to him.

"Shhhhhh. Stop worrying, myla. This is a blind spot. It's covered by the light, see?" He tilted your face up slowly again toward the camera, which was in fact covered by a big, dusty lantern. How convenient.

He pushed your skirt up again and grinded himself on you, and you swore you could feel his bulge pressing up against you. "You've been driving me crazy, dove, since yesterday I've only been able to think about you," he grunted, slipping his hands into your loosened dress and under your lacy bra to palm and squeeze your breasts. "The sounds you made...I wanna hear them again."

Your head was screaming at you to run away and get the guard, but you couldn't ignore the wet spots on your matching lace panties from your arousal. To be honest, you didn't remember the last time you'd been this intimate with anyone, and your body was clearly craving touch. Your breath hitched as Nikolai kissed below your ear, working his way down to the crook of your neck. You were starting to feel lightheaded.

Becoming more desperate for a reaction, Nikolai suddenly pinched your sensitive nipples and bit down on your neck, causing you to yelp in pleasure. "A-ahh K-Kolya--" The sudden impact caused you to push back against his clothed member and grip onto the sturdy shelf in front of you for support. You could feel him grinning in satisfaction, letting out a low groan.

"Mmm there's the pretty noise I wanted to hear~" Nikolai replaced his lips with his tongue, trailing slowly up and down your neck as you kept bucking against him, needing more friction. "Dove," he heaved as you mewled upon feeling his tip brush against your clit through eachother's clothes. He couldn't handle seeing you start to lose yourself. "F-fuck, kiss me".

Nikolai grabbed your hips suddenly and turned you around, so your back was against the wooden shelf. You looked up at his face; he was panting heavily, eyes filled with lust, and a few strands loose from his usual kept braid. The sight of him made your cheeks flush and your panties even wetter. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, bringing one hand to his lips and tracing his bottom lip with your thumb. You gazed intently at his lips. Just one kiss will be fine, right?

Both of your noses were practically rubbing against each other as Nikolai started to dip down. "Kolya, I--"

BAM!

You instinctively pulled away as you recognized the sound of the old library door being kicked down. As the stomping of the guards' boots grew closer, you pushed Nikolai off your body and fixed your dress. Nikolai shot you a surprised glance as the guards knocked down the heavy bookshelves to open up the space around the two of you, eliminating the narrow confines. You couldn't process what was happening as five guards circled around Nikolai, drawing their guns and pointing them at him as he put his hands up. Another guard was slowly approaching you, lifting the walkie talkie up to his mouth.

"06, copy. Patient Gogol has been surrounded and apprehended successfully. We're on our way to the interrogation room," He glanced over to you, still sitting down in shock, "His attendant's here, too. We'll bring her to you, Boss."

Boss? Your husband? Shit, had you been caught?

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't even notice Nikolai being handcuffed and pushed out the door--or the way he looked back at you--until the guard put his hand on your shoulder and called out your name. "Miss, we need to get going. We'll explain everything once we're with the boss again." He helped you up as you trailed slowly behind him with a churning stomach and The Overcoat clutched tightly in your arms.

˚₊‧꒰ა part 2 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧꒰ა part 3 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#vanilladove #vanilladovebsd #bungo stray dogs #nikolai x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #nikolai smut #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs #bsd #nikolai gogol x reader smut #nikolai gogol #nikolai gogol smut #nikolai x reader smut #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #not me having to rewrite this twice bc tumblr didnt save properly #way too many words lol #splitting this up into 3 parts bc aot has been breaking me

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weebsinstash · 30 days

Note

I know you mentioned that you aren't a big fan of pregnancy AU stuff in Hazbin, but hear me out...

Imagine Yandere Valentino getting his Darling pregnant to have a living bargaining chip to make sure she doesn't even try to leave him

New idea. What if the only people who can procreate in Hell are red string soulmates, or, it's like akin to ABO in the sense that not everyone or every combo of people could create a baby.

I was thinking about a yandere Valentino who has Reader as his red string soulmate whatever and you run away after seeing how truly abusive he is to other people, worrying for your own safety, and you're missing for like a straight year before Valentino finds out where you are, and... he's all but KICKING DOWN the door of your apartment, and he's looking at you like a hungry predator ready to pounce on you, cornering you, and

a baby starts crying from the other room and you're SPRINTING to the noise and Valentino finds you defensively holding a little bundle to your chest, growling snarling baring fangs holding a knife whatever at him, and Valentino thinks you adopted some other man's kid, some little imp bastard or something, and he's furious, he's raising his voice, he's getting closer, he's-

making perfect eye contact with a little tiny baby replica of himself as it turns to look at him with its big red eyes and chubby cheeks and fat arms and. It takes Val a few seconds to process it. The baby looks right at him and is whimpering and gurgling, upset, but doesn't cry. The baby boy sneezes and his antenna flip back and forth. He's got lil hearts in his fur and his teeny antenna are already so fluffy.

'Oh but aren't baby moths technically caterpillars--' shut the fuck up, you're demons and also that would be ugly as fuck. You want to give birth to a 20 armed baby or something. No. We save the truly inhuman babies for the human x monster/alien/whatever prompts. Your baby comes out a mini mothperson and it's fluffy and chubby and fucking adorable and also shut up

Val is just, SMITTEN, the narcissism is turned up to 100, he's rapid cycling emotions, "*GASPING* OUR BABY IS SO FUCKING CUTE, WHAT THE FUCK, I WANT TO HOLD HIM" "So I knocked you up good huh 😏" "*already on the phone in a group call with the other Vees and taking 200 pictures* you should see this thing, he looks just like me, can you even believe that, I can already tell he's gonna be so handsome and successful cuz he's MY son" "aw, amorcito did you think you needed to run away to protect our baby because I have so many enemies? You're such a good mama ❤️❤️❤️"

You spend like MONTHS lovingly protecting and sheltering your child until he's a healthy giggling little chubroll and Val has him for like two days and suddenly your baby has his ears pierced with diamonds in them and Valentino is walking around in his high heels and slutty bodysuits with your son in a papoose cuddled into his chest fur. You're holding your sleeping son while Val is beside you and someone sneezes across the room and the baby stirs and here's Valentino, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, MY SON IS SLEEPING", like, NOT ANYMORE YOU DUMB JACKASS???

'Oh gee why is Valentino suddenly funding and producing more erotic films involving moms and breeding and pregnant people and lactation-' you fucking know why and honestly I think it'd be SO FUNNY if he's like, "oh yeah, don't worry, I want you on birth control too mami. I missed fucking you and I kinda wanna do a lot of that without worrying about another little niño or two. At least not for a while :)"

Valentino on the red carpet being his cunty fashionable self while his baby is in a sling and they're both wearing matching outfits. Your baby boy has a tiny iced-up watch that's worth more than the entire building you were living in before his father found you. Your "husband" is posing half-naked with your baby on the cover of Demon Playboy which he owns, "HELL'S HOTTEST NEW DILF" like I COULD NOT WITH THIS MAN

And obviously he's got new kinks now that you're a mom and he absolutely fucks the hell out of you to the point you would get pregnant again without the birth control 😳 valentino on some real "is this the milk you've been feeding my baby with, let me try some" type stuff where he's milking you dry during his bang sesh and your son has to have formula that night because your tank is EMPTY 💀 YOU'RE A RAISIN LIKE THAT SCENE FROM SCOOBY DOO ZOMBIE ISLAND--

God. I've read horror stories about women getting pregnant again even WHILE being on multiple types of birth control so, then you get knocked up again Because Of Course You Would, You're Taking More Creampies Than A Professional Rodeo Clown, and what does Valentino say? "Fuck it, I wanna keep it! I can't just MURK my baby after it beat the odds, that's so ME!" And now you're having twin girls 💀💀💀 who knows, maybe having some daughters would teach Valentino to actually respect women--

I feel like you would wake up one morning and be genuinely hysterical because your baby is missing and you can't get in contact with Valentino and you're freaking out at the absolute highest level and it turned out to be some dumb shit like Val just took your son along with him for THE ENTIRE DAY and didn't think of mentioning it to you because "but you were needing a break and we were bonding, mami. We were having our guy time. I was leaving for work and he looked at me and he SMILED AT ME. What the fuck was i supposed to do, I couldn't just LEAVE HIM, he wanted his papi"

Of course, all these ideas hinge on the concept of Valentino actually caring for his baby. He could still genuinely use it as a tool against you. You're out running errands and suddenly you're getting a call. It's Valentino. He wants you to come home; you left the baby with Kitty so you could go out for a little while for some 'you time' since you've been trapped at home hiding ever since you ran from him before learning you were pregnant. It's not even about you leaving the baby with a nanny; it's about you not being home when Valentino came to visit you and him being uncomfortable not knowing exactly where you are and exactly what you're doing

Well, you got a little smart with him. You've just spent the last about 11 months living through hell with your pregnancy and hiding; you deserve to get some fresh air and walk out on the town and--- in the middle of you lecturing him you can just hear your baby making baby noises through the phone and Valentino just adopts this... tone in his voice, "amorcito, I came to spend time with you and our little frijolito and you're not heeee~ere. You know I can have trouble concentrating when I've had a few drinks and, earlier i dropped my phone on accident and i thought 'oh, it's good i wasn't holding something important"

You're home within 20 minutes and Valentino is cuddling into you while he puts some garbage on TV and pretends not to notice how you're trembling as you hold your son and send the occasional wary glance his father's way...

#valentino x reader #yandere x reader #yandere hazbin hotel #hh #sinprompts

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simpletale-officiale · 9 months

Text

INTRODUCTION!

SIMPLETALE is an AU that aims to parody undertale. while also giving it its own original twist, although its not just limited to undertale, as we also aim to parody other silly little bits of the multiverse. like underfell, underswap, heck. maybe even underverse! you can find some of the AU's included in the lineup drawn above, as well as in the descriptions for the askable AU's further on in this post

the AU uses old concepts for undertale, and some fanon misconceptions. to make a funny and entertaining story, but also one with worldbuilding and some slightly more serious bits. unfortunately we cannot show the rest of the cast for simpletale currently because that's spoilers and we want to keep it secret for later (;

(be sure to frequently check this post, as characters could be added to be askable in the future)

questions are not just limited to characters though, you can also ask us, the creators, questions about the production of simpletale, or even our own opinions on it! maybe even some questions about areas...? but ill be nice and give some suggestions. "whats your favorite thing about simpletale?" "whats your least favorite thing about simpletale" dont be shy, ask!

moving onto the characters.

the simple. the basics. the one and only's!

the simpletale bros!

sans- a rather cheeky, clumsy, and humerus fella. likes getting a laugh out of others, often through humerus actions, he ends up annoying the shit out of his brother a lot of the time, and they argue a lot, they love being brothers though, and most of the time they make up rather quickly. usually tries to speak as little as possible and be as straight to the point as possible. has a fast food addiction

papyrus- a bumbling perfectionist imperialist. believes himself to be superior to others, even when in a low position of power, he was accepted into the guard because..... they needed someone to do the paperwork, dogs ain't that good for writing. despite this he believes himself to be the most important and supreme member of the guard, despite the most important thing he does being signing the occasional tax document or punting a trespasser (usually just random preteens) 20 feet into the air. a bit of a narcissist with a sailors mouth but he does actually care for the people in his life, despite coming off so rude most people find him annoying though ):. basically papyrus autism thrown to a hundred. banters with sans often when he tries to knock papyrus ego down a peg. tries to act menacing, but hes really just an 80's cartoon villain goofball. cooks the most delicious food you will ever taste, we let bro cook for a REASON.

the simpled is swapped?

the simpleswap bros!

they started out exactly like simpletale sans and papyrus, but decided to parody each other for shits and giggles, and then got all their friends along, which created simpleswap. their personalities are a bit altered from the simpletale brothers due to reasons but their whole swapped personality thing is a gag and they might break character once you say something outlandish or spook them.

papyrus- apathetic, and a bit apolitical with almost everything. started smoking weed to parody sans fast food addiction but actually started smoking it regularly, so hes like.... high. always. once you get through his apathetic and at times, cold and careless character, he can be surprisingly kind and humble, honestly a pretty decent guy. finds his old self cringey and dumb. works as an accountant on the side, cooks pretty tasty food, and often makes tasty weed brownies????

sans- cheeky, energetic, and plays this character of perfection to parody papyrus narcissism, think of the character of perfection kind of like how liquid chris works, effectively doing anything papyrus did, but better. still tries his best to get a laugh out of everyone, hes in better shape then simpletale sans and is overall more athletic, playful and energetic, takes the whole parodying eachother thing less seriously then his brother. him and fellsimple sans are best pals

their bold, their brash, they certainly dont belong in the trash, an-OUCH I FELL AND BROKE MY FUCKING KNEEES-

fellsimple.

this one goes slightly more heavy into parodying fanon

sans- has anger issues, plays up this role of being a punk, "fuck the government" "acab" "i dont believe in consistency" you get the point, a bit of a greedy fuck, loves gold, as well as sharp stuff and gold, he has some.... taboo fetishes like hes probably into bdsm. being the only one out of the skeletons to not be asexual as well as being the only one to be straight. rides a motorcycle, but likes trucks more, probably secretly works with trucking, simpleswap sans is his best friend and he loves to drink with simpletale sans, tough attitude, but is secretly just as silly as the others.

papyrus-has a job as a guard but ends up skipping most of the time because the guards are pretty horrible people and they make him pretty stressed, likes books and philosophy, probably plays this fake role of an evil, heinous guard at work, if ever does it that is. hes a real cheapskate compared to sans, but will buy good books or vinyl albums at a high price if he feels their high enough of quality. hes shy compared to the other papyruses.

sans

....aaaand error.

a bit of a sleazy fella with a PLAN. he doesnt destroy aus here but does more heinous stuff, like rob banks in AU's, make illegal businesses or currencies, clash with rival gangs, and occasionally fights with ink (although their relationship is very sexual, parodying the fanon misconception that errink is canon) ask him the right questions, and he might even bring some of his gang members along to answer (; his personality is somewhat apathetic, but he always has a PLAN!!!!!! AND YOU CANT FIGHT NATURE JOHN......

NOW, THE FIRST ERROR GANG MEMBER!

killer: nickname: assassin has been unlocked!

coming from an alternate timeline of simpletale where sans got bored? varisk (frisk replacement) decided to mentally manipulate him into thinking that robbing and killing is a better option then doing nothing. and pays him for it eventually papyrus was killed in crossfire and sans murdered varisk, the pin on his jacket is a soul, but souls are useless in the simpleverse, blood is much more valuable. he's a silent but professional skeleton. cares deeply about his boss and coworkers.

EXTREMELY good with firearms as well as chains. its hard for him to move his mouth, so its almost always locked in a constant smile the liquid that leaks out of him is like an oil like substance, touching it for too long burns your skin, its incredibly cold though. he's ruthless and aggressive in battle and is often the tank/brute in whatever operation dysfunct has going on. usually smug and professional, but can also be very gentle around those he deems friendly enough.

picked up by error after an.... incident in his au.

the nightmare and dream brothers!

nightmare: claims to have been "betrayed" by his brother (dream stole his sandwich) believes dream causes all his misfortunes and bad luck moments. kind of acts like a spoiled rich kid with a military obsession. started the gang by feeding into errors idea of a free multiverse, where there are no governments and an independent existence for everyone. a world with anarchy and fun. he can be a good manipulator at times, but is all bark no bite. pretty cringe, both him and his brother claim to be "gods" but in truth, their both mutations/byproducts of the simpleswap universe "glitching" creating this disgusting blob and a ball of light (think like sans bad time eye) inside of a husk body. both are amortal and seek to destroy the other, or at least piss each other off for as long as possible.

dream: LOVES shit talking about his brother plays this role of an innocent cutesy kind emperor, when he is everything opposite to that, except for emperor I guess. he is an emperor. believes causing nightmare misfortune will bring him luck in some form (it doesn't, but hes too stupid to realize) if he gets the chance he would probably torture and give his enemies a VERY painful, but quick death. he wants his brother to be at the bottom of life, the worst point in his life, before he plans to KILL. speaks in a very Shakespearian way. is a snobby fuck. not really greedy. but will do ANYTHING in his power to make his enemies die the most painful death he can give them. not cruel to his people, but gaslights them a lot. claims what he does is for the "greater good" acts nice, and very kind to his "friends" but would betray them the moment he finds anything better. the type of guy to give you puppydog eyes after burning down your house

AND ME!!!

thanks to kyne for activating my dastardly plan to take over this tumblr, im not just gonna be thrown away as a simple outcast at that pub anymore, im fuckin important goddamn it!!!!!

i also may edit the intros a bit add my own flare you know but the importance is i am now your stand in if you ask anyone thats in the multi-bar!!!!

bio: 404 was born omnipotent, automatically more powerful then all the other simpletons. he would become aware of how through an alternative reality known as the prescratch timeline where that version of him speaks of what he was destined for. nobody believes him however and that bitch error keeps harassing me about talking shit well guess what whore i dont fucking need you anymore because ive found myself somebody who won't just use me and then throw me away when its most fitting fuck you never talk to me again bitch

liks: chaos, delinquency, anarchy, NOT following the rules, 100 gecs (the one with the stupid horse), being powerful, super transformations, hyperpop, chains, gold, copypastas, big hot strong men that could absolutely penetrate me hard, 100 gecks (literally, i have 100 of them as pets and its awesome!!!), flexing, being totally dripped out, colors associated with errors, busting it down (gay kind not cool kind)

dislinks: order, rules, politics, leaders, having to follow instructions, horror sans from the evil guys fuck you you stole my place on that group which im not that upset about anymore after realising they all suck anyways but i still hate you because you refuse to actually fight and keeps saying random quips everytime youre on screen like actually shut the fuck up, gex, women because im severely femalephobic and extremely homosexual so they terrify me, error (cheater and liar dont ever trust him with anything), ink who stole my man with her fuckin cursed woman parts and apparently in the prescratch timeline everyone calls her mommy????? kinda sussy BUT THE SIMPLEVERSE IS LIMITLESS! Because there is a multibar just down the road > (https://simpletale-officiale.tumblr.com/post/727125546167828480/farm-sans)

CREDITS

Undertale by @fwugradiation

Underswap by popcornprince and @underswapped3

Underfell by @underfell

error sans by @loverofpiggies

Killer sans by @rahafwabas

Dream and nightmare by @jokublog

Sigh.... 404 by.... @vibeless15

469 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge.

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing.

The threat of being caught propels him forward.

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip.

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary.

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps.

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here.

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence.

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender.

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes.

You're scared.

You're beautiful.

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking."

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else."

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown.

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear.

You glare at him.

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you."

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant.

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–"

"Holy stars, is that your hair?"

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No."

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor.

"You have to leave. Leave!"

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat.

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter.

You don't laugh, nor do you smile.

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly.

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay."

"She won't give it."

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't.

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly.

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely.

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after."

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword.

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly."

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease.

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do."

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate."

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair.

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly.

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything."

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best.

He's very, very fine.

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward.

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey.

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense."

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them.

"They're how I spend my summers."

"Looking at them?"

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling."

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time.

"I painted them myself."

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks.

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden.

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days."

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You aren't married?"

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!"

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps.

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold."

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo.

"Argento."

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks.

"You're talking about money."

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes.

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower.

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!"

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–"

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet.

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning."

He doesn't move.

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious.

"Please," you whisper again.

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small.

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling."

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper.

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?"

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight.

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous.

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that."

"Sorry, mother."

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving.

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument."

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother."

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you."

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does.

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections.

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs.

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps.

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars."

"No, you shouldn't have."

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger.

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores.

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled.

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously.

But she is not kind.

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents.

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot.

"It's dusty down here!" you call.

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling."

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother."

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before.

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like.

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page.

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour.

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered.

Footsteps sound up the stairs.

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide.

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely.

He holds his breath as the door creaks open.

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?"

He waves his hand from under the bed.

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him.

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile.

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed.

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars.

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing."

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them."

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange.

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?"

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars."

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me."

His eyes widen.

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again.

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?"

"It's not what you think."

"I think it's exactly what I think."

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians."

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do.

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head.

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!"

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults.

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out.

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely.

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here.

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark.

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids.

—

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns."

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation.

"No."

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee."

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says.

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon.

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow.

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving.

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table.

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were."

"This isn't how you negotiate."

"Good thing I'm not negotiating."

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence.

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows.

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?"

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow."

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge.

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings."

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit.

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless.

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse."

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion.

"Do you have any better shoes?"

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No."

"You don't get out much, do you?"

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches.

Poor girl, he thinks.

"Don't worry too much about it."

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun."

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes.

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon.

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow.

"Are you coming?" Steve calls.

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward.

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath.

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose.

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass.

The world is even bigger from there.

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town."

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh."

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped.

Steve seems content to languish in silence.

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb.

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me.

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine.

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon.

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says.

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?"

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same."

"I'm an excellent navigator."

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape.

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice."

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this."

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first.

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there.

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen.

He's still a two-timer. Case in point.

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back.

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute."

Adorable.

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room."

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension.

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade.

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?"

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly.

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath.

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection.

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper.

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee."

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely.

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint.

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?"

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together."

Steve frowns but hands over the money.

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough.

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?"

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you.

"Both of us," he says, nodding.

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together.

"Why did you say that?"

"It's what's expected of us."

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent.

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?"

"You're not my husband."

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back.

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say.

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married." He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying."

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage.

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care."

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag.

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but."

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me?

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways.

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him.

If they can, they aren't listening.

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks.

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted.

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view.

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone.

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?"

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery.

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own.

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water.

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure.

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung.

"The water’s barely hot."

"I've never had a hot bath before."

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?"

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?"

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you."

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble.

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon."

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck.

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity.

Your shoulders relax.

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves.

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure.

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine.

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room.

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat.

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?"

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress."

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention.

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown.

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself."

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands.

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another.

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning.

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand.

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it.

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends.

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around.

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays.

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue."

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair."

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?"

"We aren't going back down there."

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself."

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea."

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns."

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on.

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door.

"Well?" he asks, holding it open.

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you."

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen.

"What is that?" you ask Steve.

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?"

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can.

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room.

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks.

"Not in any of my books."

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound."

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem.

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you.

"Turn to me."

"What if my hair catches?"

"You aren't close enough for that."

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot.

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties."

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you."

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry."

"I have–"

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?"

"No."

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season."

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?"

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long."

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further.

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?"

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it."

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close.

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you.

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left…

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk.

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?"

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further.

"I'm okay," you say.

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy.

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis.

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back.

He looks at your face until you're uneasy.

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm.

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges.

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles?

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while.

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song.

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough.

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow."

"Good, huh?"

You try not to cough. "It's rich."

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?"

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you."

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing.

You look up, puzzled.

"Come on."

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand.

He leads you up the small platform to the piano.

You look to him inquisitively.

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard."

"How do you adjust how loud it is?"

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys."

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys.

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you."

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe.

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this."

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings.

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks.

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say.

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song."

"I only know the one."

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are.

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays.

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears."

"Is that yours?" you ask him.

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid."

"Only plays them."

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching.

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?"

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning.

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters.

"What?" you ask.

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!"

Steve's smile is gone.

"Eddie," he says tiredly.

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy."

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head.

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks.

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us."

"I don't owe you anything."

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon.

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor.

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree."

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

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

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