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gyudons · 1 year

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michelle yeoh becomes the first asian and only the second woman of colour to win best actress at the oscars

#I CRIED #READER I CRIED #MOMMY!!!!!!!!#just a girl from ipoh and look where she is now #michelle yeoh #oscars #acadamy awards #oscars 2023 #everything everywhere all at once #eeaao #eeaaoedit #userbbelcher #chewieblog #film #tv

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rynezion · 8 months

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how was the 'touch' option the most hesitant, tender, heartbreaking thing ;-;

[ID: a two-panel, green-orange comic of a half-elf woman hesitantly touching bg3 Karlach's jaw.]

#bg3 #karlach #madrigal tav #my art #my comics #reader i cried #big wife!!!!!! big wife!!#she can pet the owlbear cub now!!!!#bg3 spoilers

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revisitnormal · 1 year

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crying b/c of the smallest acts of love

i found on social media a very old friend from childhood, one who i haven't spoken to in well over a decade

it turns out she lives in the same city as i do now (something that was never the case when we were little) and after a while of messaging back and forth in the app, she asked if we could text instead

i carefully wrote out the number she gave me, and went to put it in my phone

only to find it was already there, waiting

#personal #my contact list has gone through so many purges #the fact that i couldn't bring myself to remove her number #after all that #after years and years of silence #reader i cried

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sttoru · 9 months

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Toji and bath time with baby Megumi. That is all 🖤

mhm mhm i present to u the life toji deserves,

ෆ tags. dad!toji x female reader. toji being a good dad & bathing megumi on his own. fluff.

“hold on, buddy.” toji mumbles as he holds megumi in one arm, the other stretched out to dip his fingers in the water. he quickly checks the temperature of the filled tub and after confirming that it’s lukewarm, he moves on to kiss megumi’s cheek.

“mama said you’re a real crybaby if you get in alone, so daddy will join ya. consider yourself lucky, kid— i don’t do this just for anyone.” toji lets out a breathy chuckle at his own jokes. despite megumi being way too young to understand what toji was saying to him, the man still got a kick out of teasing and playing around with his son.

toji carefully gets into the tub, holding megumi in his hands and slowly lowering the small baby into the water. this causes megumi to kick his chubby legs around while squealing loudly. the drops of water splashed onto toji’s face and he shakes his head with a small smile because of his son’s actions, “hey, hey, easy now, kiddo.”

once megumi was settled in the tub, toji hums thoughtfully as his eyes dart around the bathroom, clearly trying to recall the instructions you gave him beforehand. he couldn’t really remember the order of the things you told him, thus he decides to freestyle this new experience of giving megumi his bath.

“oh, hold on.” toji gets an idea and reaches over the edge of the tub to the near counter, sliding open a drawer and grabbing a bottle of bath foam which he doesn’t even bother reading, “i’ve seen your mama put this in whenever she bathes you. it creates bubbles or somethin’ like that.”

toji pops the cap open and pours the fluid in the water. he doesn’t pour only a little, no, he pours a lot. “should be enough,” he shrugs and tosses the bottle aside, grinning down at megumi who was too engrossed at the way the clear liquid moved between his small fingers.

and it turned out that it was more than just enough in the end. in a couple seconds to a single minute, the entire bath was overflowing with bath foam— it even threatened to spill out of the tub. in a blink of an eye, megumi was gone and engulfed by a sea of bubbles. not that the little boy minded it; toji could hear a few curious babbles and saw his son’s fingers try to move the foam out of his face.

toji couldn’t help it and started laughing his ass off at the sight of megumi disappearing behind the wall of foam (totally not trying to help his kid at the moment). he hadn’t had a good laugh like that in days.

after calming down—though still wheezing a bit between words—toji finally pushed the foam aside and picked megumi up, also wiping away the possible bubbles that got into his eyes, “heh— c’mere, buddy. can’t let ya drown in those bubbles.”

megumi was holding onto his dad’s face, two tiny hands patting both of his cheeks while toji was clearing the foam from megumi’s body, making sure that nothing got into the boy’s eyes. once thoroughly checked, toji kept laughing a little, chuckling at the way megumi was just innocently staring back at him.

the poor baby didn’t even understand what had happened to him seconds ago, yet was still smiling and giggling once he saw how happy his dad was.

at that exact same time, you were passing by the closed bathroom door. the muffled laughter made you curious as to what was going on, though just by hearing the sounds of joy, it seemed like your husband and son were having a great time. the fact alone made a smile appear on your own face.

#ෆ : parenting 101.#jjk x reader #toji x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #tell me why i cried a bit when making this #TOJI DESERVES A LIFE LIKE THISSSSSS #says this ten times louder for the ppl in the back

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epiphanytear · 1 year

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Oh my god, the Bangtan bomb 😭💜

#bts rambles #reader I cried

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gardnhee · 1 month

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faint memories - zuko

୨୧- tw/content. angst with a pinch of fluff, intentional lowercase, not proofread, little cursing here and there.

୨୧- zuko x afab!reader

୨୧- note. this applies to both animated and live action zuko!! requested by my baby @lovlyrickyyy 🤍

୨୧- dividers by @plutism !

୨୧- wc. 1.2k

“stop…moving!” you grit, holding zuko’s face as he glares at you, small wince erupting from his throat.

“how do you expect me-“ he hisses, hands instinctively flying up to get a hold of your wrists. “to not move when there’s this huge fucking burn on my face!” zuko retorts, grip tightening on you. you sigh, heart dropping as you no longer see that glint in his eyes. the glint that is now replaced with sadness, pain, suffering.

zuko’s chambers grew dead silent, no more arguing, no more disagreeing from you or him. just silence.

a small smile spread on his face as he now caressed your wrist with his thumb, pressing a small kiss to it, “i’m sorry for grabbing so hard.” this made your head perk up, blush spreading across your cheeks. you shake your head, “i understand.” the room goes silent again.

only thing that could be heard were the faint yells of the firebenders training outside and the mouse like footsteps of whoever passed by the unnecessarily and stupidly huge doors.

you kept applying the ointment onto zuko’s wound, sitting back with a small huff to examine him. to you, even with that huge scar on his face, he’s still as handsome as ever. you noticed how he tried to hide it from you, looking down at his trembling hands as the events from earlier are still fresh in his mind.

he slumped back on the bed, eliciting a whine of disapproval - you weren’t done tending to him. zuko ignores this as he just lays there, gazing up at his tall ceiling with a blank stare.

you knew him all too well, which means you also knew he was hiding something. refraining himself from talking. you hated it.

“zuko-?” you started as his body jerked up from the wine red sheets.

“i’m getting exiled.” he didn’t let you speak, words crawling up his throat as he was unable to hold them back.

you felt as if all air had been knocked out of your lungs, like a punch to the gut. your chest heaved, eyes squinting and eyebrows knitting together.

“w-what?” it’s not that you didn’t hear, in fact zuko’s words unfortunately fell on very perceptive ears.

“i’m-“

“you’re joking, right?” you chuckled awkwardly, fading into nothing as his eyes saddened. “i’m sorry.” was all he could muster. you frantically shook your head, disgusted that he felt forced to apologize for something he had no control over.

“how long?”

zuko hummed, eyes spaced out somewhere, looking everywhere but at you. you bit your lip, kneeling towards him, cold and shaky hands cupping his cheeks.

“stop avoiding and answer me, zuko. how long?”

zuko’s eyes peeled away from wherever he was previously glancing at, “however long it takes.” he mumbles and you frown, “what do you even mean by that.” you sigh, sitting back in defeat as you run your fingers through your hair.

“until i catch the avatar.”

you scoffed, “that’s fucking ridiculous.” zuko agreed silently, but that wasn’t enough for you. nowhere near, actually.

“i’m going to speak to your father.” you stand, making him stand with you, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“you can’t, yn.” he reaches for you in vain as you yank your hand back. “don’t try to stop me, zuko.” you were beyond pissed, tone dripping venom as zuko stood in front of you, obstructing your way to the door.

“move, goddamnit!” you hit his chest repeatedly, each strike more desperate than the last. “how are you just…okay with this?” you sobbed, forehead propped against his chest, his arms falling beside him, stiff as a statue.

“what more can i do?”

he made a good point, so good that it shushed you with a slap to the face.

“i’m leaving.”

“yn please wait-“

“im. leaving.” your lip quivered, voice shaky, eyes watery. zuko nodded, moving back to his bed, sitting on the edge.

you made your way to the bed as well, grabbing the ointment and placing it back on the metal tray.

“i hope to see you again, yn.” he murmured, back facing you as you stayed quiet, not wanting to entertain the idea of him leaving. sadly, it doesn’t matter if you entertain said idea or not, it’s happening anyway.

the moment you stepped out the door, that was it, even the hope of ever seeing him again started to dissipate.

by this point you were halfway down the dim hallway, ready to turn the corner back to the servant’s quarters. you looked back, guards standing proud and tall outside the prince’s room. you bit your lip, gazing down at the cold tray in your hands, caressing it with your index finger.

after taking a deep breath and preparing yourself for a life without your first love, you walk off, never to hear from zuko again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“fucking hell!” zuko groaned as the memory made an unwanted visit for the nth time this week, standing from his cot like bed. he looked outside the small ship window, eyes landing on an endless ocean, stretching far and wide, separating him from you.

it’s been 3 years since zuko had the pleasure of laying eyes upon you. your pouty lips - which he longed to kiss - sparkling eyes, and beaming smile, he missed it all; every single second of it.

he made it his mission to capture the avatar, whatever it took, zuko will bring him before his father and finally get to feel your embrace again.

the fact that he didn’t seize the opportunity to confess, to tell you just how much he loves you - vocalize the burning desire to make you his partner - was eating at him from the inside out.

zuko paces around the room, breathing heavily as he grows anxious. his patience is running thin and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stay civil.

with three curt knocks zuko turns, uttering a ‘come in’ as his mind was somewhere else. a soldier walks in, with a small bow of his head, he exclaims, “we’ve found the avatar, sir!” this made zuko’s face brighten, nails no longer trapped between teeth.

“where?” the prince breathed, unspoken urgency in his voice. “here in the south pole, sir.” he raised a brow, “how far?” “close by, approximately 2 nautical miles.” despite his shocked expression, zuko was elated.

“good job.” was all zuko said before strolling out his suffocating room. his palms grew sweaty, his heart hammered against his chest. he simply couldn’t contain himself.

he will see you again.

oh, he’s just imagining it; walking up behind you and surprising you, indulging in your warm laugh, welcoming eyes, and safe presence.

this is something he simply won’t - can’t - pass. zuko has the target within reach and he’s going to hold on tight, so tight the avatar will have no choice but to turn himself in.

a way one ticket, an opportunity peeking its face through the blur that is his life.

no matter the circumstance, he will not miss or give up - no, he’s coming home to you, forever this time.

୨୧ - hope you liked it!! this is kinda rushed so im sorry if there’s any spelling errors :( please like, comment, and reblog. would be highly appreciated 🫶.

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specialgrades · 7 months

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— thinking about . . .

men who swear up and down they’re not into you— or men for that matter. men who flirt with women as often as they can. men who drink a little too much during a night out and start grinding against you in the dimly lit club you’re in. men who’s legs feel like jelly and skin feels hot as you guide their hips against yours. men who turn to putty as you drag them outside. men who forget every bit of elegance when they’re pinned against the wall. men who weakly beg for you to fuck them right there in the decrepit alleyway. men who wake up the next morning barely being able to walk and can’t look you in the eye now. men who sport dark hickeys and bite marks from you as they attempt to flirt with another girl to distract from how good you made them feel the night prior.

VINSMOKE SANJI, spirit albarn, ryusei shido, satoru gojo, michael kaiser, josuke higashikata, warren worthington iii

#🧋 ; thirsts.#male reader smut #wrote this purely for sanji. but it fits them as well #idc that shido gives hard dom vibes to the straight girlies!!! that man bottoms and he cries so prettily #dom male reader #top male reader #kinda shit but y’all get it right. we’re on a wavelength right #sanji x male reader #spirit albarn x male reader #ryusei shido x male reader #satoru gojo x male reader #michael kaiser x male reader #josuke higashikata x male reader #warren worthington iii x male reader #realized i should tag them. because i love attention

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catcze · 6 months

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Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

"What flowers do you like?"

Wriothesley asks one day, trying to seem nonchalant. Trying to make it look not as obvious that he's already mentally running through a list of Fontanian florists.

But you hm to yourself, frowning. "I... don't know. I've never really received flowers before," you say with a shrug, acting like it's no big deal. Wriothesley, though, has to catch himself before he drops the pen in his hand.

"Never?" He asks with wide eyes, head snapping in your direction, jaw dropping the slightest bit. "None of your past relationships ever got you flowers?"

You shake your head, not really bothered by the fact, and although you're nonchalant about it, Wriothesley immediately feels the gears in his head turn. That mental list of florists runs through his mind at double the speed. His finger absently taps on the wood of his desk, mind racing as he does some rough estimations. Unaware and unsuspecting, you merely go back to perusing the books in his office, running your hands over their worn spines, oblivious to the clench in Wriothesley's jaw and the determined glint in his eye.

A week later, and Wriothesley returns from the surface with a bouquet in his hands. It's nothing too big or ostentatious— that's not really his style. Instead, it's simple in its beauty and easy on the eyes. All sorts of flowers have been included, even ones not native to Fontaine. Cecilias from Mondstadt, Glaze Lillies and Qingxin from Liyue, Padisarahs from Sumeru, and even Fluorescent Flowers from Inazuma's Chinju forest, among others. All arranged by hands more skilled and talent more honed than he could ever hope to achieve.

Wriothesley knocks on your door, heart stuck in his throat, and can't help but laugh a little at how cliche it all looks. Him, standing in front of your door with a bunch of flowers in hand, desperately trying to fight down his blush when he hears a 'coming!' faintly behind your door.

When you swing it open, your greeting is caught in your throat, eyes wide as they behold the blue and white blossoms Wriothesley brought for you.

"What... what's this? What's the occasion?"

But he shakes his head, and at his behest you take the bouquet into your arms, holding it carefully. When you bury your nose among the petals, they smell sweet but not saccharinely overpowering. It's enough to make you want to cry.

"No occasion," Wriothesley says, one hand going to scratch at the back of his neck, his smile shy and bashful. "I just wanted to get them for you. Wanted to be the first person to ever get you a bouquet of flowers, you know? But importing them took longer than i expected and, well, I told the florist that I was giving it to someone very special so they spent some extra time on the arrangement..." He trails off, clearing his throat nervously. "...Do you like it?"

And that sets loose the tears behind your eyes.

Wriothesley panics a little when he sees how you blubber, sobs making your shoulders shake as you hide your face in the flowers. His eyes widen, a frantic apology on the tip of his tongue while he fears that he messed up somehow. But then you tackle him into a hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close until you can bury your head in his chest and cry. His arms wrap around you almost hesitantly, but when you nuzzle closer into his embrace and they tighten around you.

You're barely able to speak through your tears, words muffled around his undoubtedly ruined shirt.

"I love it." I love you, you really mean.

And how can you not? This sweetheart of a man bought you flowers just because he wanted to. Because no one else had before, and he wanted to be the first person to do so. All his sporadic trips to the surface for the past week make sense— you doubt procuring so many imported flowers so quickly was an easy task on top of troubleshooting the various hiccups of the fortress and sorting through some documents that found themselves on his desk. But he did it anyway, just because he thought it'd make you happy.

"I'm glad," Wriothesley murmurs. He rocks you back and forth in his embrace until your happy tears begin to subside. Then he clears his throat. "So, can I buy you another one next week, too?"

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

#astronetwrk #「 🐈‍⬛ 」 catcze.desserts #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #cw gn reader #genshin impact #wriothesley #I saw a reel on instagram and ran to my laptop #im ngl i contemplated Wrio putting a ring in the bouquet and proposing to you at the end but idk it felt too out of the blue HAHAHA #another fic maybe 👀👀#reader cries because i cry at the slightest gesture of love and kindness haksjdn hashtag self indulgent LMAOOO

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dustofthedailylife · 6 months

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Playing an emotional video game with the Genshin Men

A/N: Managed to squeeze a short and sweet Indie game (that hit me in my feels) into my busy schedule at the moment and now I can't stop thinking about playing Games with an emotional story with the Genshin men... There aren't many men included in this brainrot because this was just a random shower thought. I could throw it on my WIP pile and flesh it out at some point if you want.

Neuvillette would put his arm around your shoulder while you start crying over what is going on in the game. And while he wouldn't outwardly cry it suddenly starts pouring outside.

Alhaitham would be surprised to suddenly see tears streaming down your face as you're playing the game. He isn't sure how he should react or console you. He would hesitantly lift a hand and begins stroking your back and put your head on his shoulder in silence.

Kaveh watched you play the entire time and gets heavily invested in the game as well. So when the emotional scene comes up you're both just bawling together on the couch. He's definitely the type of guy who would discuss everything about the game in depth with you later on.

Wriothesley starts massaging your scalp with his free hand as he watches you play. And he doesn't want to admit it but the game too hit him into the feels. So he attempts to hide his face from your field of view and blinks some tears away, while being your shoulder to cry on.

#🍁 dust brainrot #genshin impact #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #neuvillette x reader #kaveh x reader #wriothesley x reader #genshin brainrot #genshin fanfic #genshin modern AU #just random shower thoughts #the game I played today truly hit me in the feels #I'm just a sucker for life stories #and the game literally played like an artwork #and the music #*cries*

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honeymaki · 7 months

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Dabi needs the sloppiest messiest grossest loudest head. Like hands on his thighs, tongue out, jaw slack, choking and drooling and moaning and gagging, taking it down to the base and swallowing, sucking the tip till you’re shaking, smearing precum over your cheeks when it slips out of your mouth cause you’re squirming and he’s grinding his hips. Like hand on heart leaving stains on the couch and needing to shower after, like taking a Polaroid of his cum dribbling from your mouth, eyes red, pupils blown, cheeks swollen, keeping it in his wallet - kind of head.

#meOWS MEOWS #I would I would suck his dick every day if he wants #he’s so nasty he’s so hot I’m also nasty #cries over him #🍡.nsfw #Dabi x reader #bnha smut #cw.oral #Dabi smut

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rinneverse · 1 month

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cw. gn!reader x wriothesley drabble, just a wee bit of being comforted by him, suggestive towards the end, minors dni please and ty :)

“baby, what’s wrong?” wriothesley asks, pulling the covers of your bed away from your face.

“nothin’, honey.” you frown as you're pulled from your cocoon and attempt to tug the covers back over yourself. he's stubborn though, only pulling them back when you try to cover yourself up again.

“nothin’ my ass,” he gently counters. the bed dips under his weight as he takes a seat on the edge, gently brushing his hand along your shoulder when you burrow into your pillows instead.

“seriously. just feeling a bit down, that’s all.” you sigh in defeat, voice muffled by the pillow you clutch tightly to yourself.

wriothesley gently coaxes you into his hold, settling against the headboard as his strong arms wrap around you. despite your grumbling, you nestle further into him.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to talk,” he starts, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. his usually gruff voice is soft, a tone reserved for you and you only. “but i’m here for you regardless. i want you to tell me if there’s anything i can do for you, alright?”

“okay. i will.” you mumble. your ear presses against the warmth of his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling you into a relaxed state as broad hands stroke your back.

“that's my baby.” you can hear the smile in wriothesley's voice, a soft murmur against your temple. he tilts your chin up with a calloused finger, trailing kisses along your cheek, the slope of your jaw, ending with a slow kiss against your lips that has you forgetting what was making you upset in the first place.

when you pull away, you catch his gaze, icy blue depths filled with such love and adoration for you that it makes you feel love-drunk. you pull him in for another kiss, soft and sweet, curling yourself into the warmth of him as he holds you close.

“i can fuck the sad out of ya, if you need,” he murmurs against your lips, chest rumbling with a chuckle under your palms as you rest them there.

you press your lips together to suppress a giggle as you look up at him. “you're a horndog, you know that?”

“only when it comes to you, dear. now, does that sound good? need me to fuck you better?” there's a glimmer of hunger in his eyes as he watches you, cool hands dipping under your shirt that make you shiver.

you press another chaste kiss to his lips before you reply. “okay. but i'll be real upset if this doesn't make me feel better.”

“oh, i promise you'll be satisfied—” wriothesley grins wolfishly, the glint in his eyes your only warning before you're being flipped, pressed into the bed by the delicious weight of wriothesley settling on top of you.

he kisses down the slope of your throat, gently nipping at your pulse point before he continues: “—you know i don't disappoint.”

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#☆ oakie writes #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #wrote this on a whim bc i was sad and am very much yearning for him :(#cries sobs

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tmuse-ac · 9 months

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learnin' to draw the new bby in my style, so please take this canon eclipse love <3<3<3

y/n is giving all their love to the new bby

(also yes, my fixed eclipse design will have ze lil' fangy)

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marxo-fm · 9 months

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Sessions

Part One. Part ii and Sessions playlist is out now.

Summary: You’re König’s therapist, and he is utterly and dangerously obsessed with you. He will do anything and everything to make you his.

Warnings: Adult themes and language, plot with smut, smut smut smut, thigh riding (omg this is crazy) stalkerish!König, toxic!König, innocent!reader, virgin!reader, König is filthy…FILTHY, praising.

Words: 4.2K

A/N: I’ve played COD before but just a little so I have no clue about it all (LMAO) but anyways my fyp is invaded with König and Ghost, not complaining, so I decided to write a little something. I heard he’s unstable (?) and there’s a bunch of fics where he has a therapist so I was like…lemme write something like this. I will give credits to writers who’ve inspired me once I find their accounts because I lost them smh. So don’t thank me for this, thank them. Also thanks to Brittany Broski, my rightful leader, for talking about König on the Broski Report Podcast. Made me want to write him some more tbh. ALSO THE GIF??? So scary in the hottest way.

It’s been awhile since König’s last therapy session with you, and it’s been driving him crazier by the minute. He realized now, just how much he wants you, how much he desperately needs you.

——

Weeks turned into days, then hours, minutes, and then seconds. Every tick of the clock had König going mental. The thought of not spending those seconds with you drove him mad and drove him with such urgency to have you by him. To be inside of you, at that.

Fists clenched then unclenched, König couldn't stand it any longer. Desperation ran in his veins like a predator watching their prey. He wanted nothing else but to see what you were up to, and visiting your home, was just the solution to his thoughts and needs.

(…)

It's been a few weeks since your appointment with König, and you're growing concerned. You look at the empty chair in your office, that's been sitting lonely for quite a few weeks. He hasn't called or informed you on why he's been absent, and you're sure he never will

In all honesty, you have no clue why you're so upset about it. Upset about a client who's been absent for weeks too much to count. Maybe it's because you can't help him anymore, well—not anymore, he's still your client. But the mere fact that he's not there to tell you about his problems and stories, or how his day was, bothered you.

Sure, he has things to do. So much more important than meeting up with your therapist right? Surely not, you want to help König to the best of your ability—but he made it so difficult.

You get a phone call that snaps you out of your haze, you pick it up. Only to hear a client of yours on the phone bringing their appointment up, which is today. "Yes! Today at six, correct." You assured, sitting down promptly on your office chair. You're glad you have clients today, something that'll keep you busy.

(…)

König is sitting outside in his car in the rain. The pattering of the rain took over his rather obsessive thoughts. Not only was he in the car alone, but he was right outside your home.

He peeks through your window, seeing only a dim light through the blinds of your house. His chest rose as he took a deep breath, chuckling to himself about how insane this all is. Going all out for your therapist? Never would he have thought to be doing such thing, but he can't help his desires.

He sighs, he gets the urge to exit his car and step foot inside your house and it made him feel dizzy. The thought of just stepping foot inside your property and seeing the items, the furniture—and so forth—that belonged to you. Something you've chosen out and purchased for yourself, with love. Now that, drove him on edge.

He finally exits his car, slamming it shut behind him. The rain drops hit his huge frame and he takes bigger steps to the front of your house. Eager to see the place you call home. The place you eat, sleep, and breathe in. It's all insane, he thought, but he's König. Insanity doesn't faze him.

"Fucking hell, the fuck am I doing?" He chuckled to himself as he somehow manipulated his way into your house. His wet boots are off and placed on the rug that says, "welcome" which is funny in this situation.

He looks around the well kept home, the dimly lit kitchen and living room, as well as the deliciously scented candle that's lit in the living room. Smells like you, coconut and bliss. He takes it in, like the maniac he is.

There was nothing really intriguing to the eye in your home, it's simple and basic, but still very homey. You had your favorite comics on the tv table and the tv was obviously shut off, books were stacked against the bookshelf and a few magazines were on the tables. You love to read, guess that's new information for König to keep to himself.

His big frame hovers over your iPad, without hesitation, he opened it. There wasn't a passcode, just a simple press of the home button and he was in, it wasn't like you had anything to hide and König found amusement in that. König chuckled, there was simply nothing on the iPad besides dates on your calendars that showed you have appointments throughout the month.

"Busy little one, aren't you, Mein Schatz?" He breathed through his mask, though he took it off for the time being, there was no reason to hide himself through a mask when home alone.

He misses you, and it's getting more painful not having you there with him, in your home. He's wondering what you're up to now, and how much time he has left before that lock of your front door turns.

It's a bad idea, he's already seen everything he wanted to see, and now it's time to leave.

Quickly, he puts his wet boots back on and turns the door knob slowly. He looks back at your place and then smiles, this surely won't be the last time he's inside. And he'll make sure it'll be the both of you inside the home at the same time.

(…)

"Anything else you'd like to share, Ghost?" You question Ghost, his eyes telling you so much he hasn't said yet, and you doubt he'll tell you more. You wish he'd say more though, but you're actually proud of today’s session. He shared more than the other sessions, that's always a huge milestone.

"No." He said sternly, his British accent thick and his voice gravely. "Okay great. I'll see you next week then?" He cleared his throat and walks to the door, "busy."

"So when are you able to?" You wonder, "I'll call when I can." He opens the door from your office and leaves. You sigh, at least you tried to the best of your abilities. You close your notebook shut, putting the notebook back into your drawer as you finally set the pen down after.

So, where we're you again? Ah, it's time to go home. Finally.

Well—not just yet. As you're getting your things ready to leave, you hear your office phone ring. Your brows furrowed in confusion as to who's calling this late, all sessions are...closed.

"Hello?" You question, hearing heavy breathing over the phone—you shudder. "Schatz, it's me." The German accent rolled off the man's tongue over the phone, your heart dropped in response. König.

"K-König?" You stuttered, in disbelief at the sudden call. "Mhm, I'm calling to apologize for not coming to our sessions but if I'm being honest...I want to have a session soon this week." He explained over the phone, your brows scrunched.

You're free this week, no sessions left, well one session now. It surprised you that König chose to call you so late over an appointment, but it didn't bother you, just—stunned you. "Of course, when would you like-" König interrupts you suddenly, "tomorrow." He breathed, his voice lower than usual. Laced with huskiness and exhaustion, and need.

Tomorrow? You can't turn that down, because you know that if you do, he won't come to another session for a long time—you feared. You clear your voice over the line, heart beating faster by the second and you're not sure as to why. Must be the sudden urge to come to a session, or maybe because he wants it soon. It's not like you're busy tomorrow or anything, but the mere fact that you'll see König after God knows how long made you nervous.

Something must be wrong, you're sure of it.

"Sure! Tomorrow at two, promise me you'll be there?" He never breaks promises, not with you he doesn't. He agrees over the phone, and the date is officially set. Grabbing your pen you just placed down, you take your König's personal journal and write the date down for tomorrow.

(…)

He was trying to stay composed but it's getting hard. His desires have become more stronger by the minute, and he wanted nothing more than to have you by him.

He ended the call, smirking under the mask after finally hearing your soft voice over the phone. You invaded his mind like a virus he's unable to get rid of, but in all honesty he doesn't want to get rid of it. He would stare at pictures of you all day, and the thought that bothers him the most—the one that boils his blood—is knowing that you have sessions with other men that's not him. Most of them he despises, the other ones he's not really worried about, since well—they're his friends.

It's almost sickening how much he wants you, how much he deeply needs you. Now, König sits on his bed. Mask off and so is his shirt. Revealing nothing but his well crafted muscles and his mind going hundreds of miles per hour of just you.

And to fix that "issue" he takes his rough right hand and puts it underneath his sweats, and then under the hem of his boxers. Finally, he grabs his thick cock tightly and leans his head back. Nothing but images of you holding his dick for him instead, and that just about does it for him. Quickly, he starts to slowly stroke up and down, groans fill the silent room. His strong hand grips the sheets of his bed, the delicate fabric became victim to his touch.

The rings in his ear became louder as he swiped his thumb over his tip that was already leaking, everything around König became a blur as he thought of you continuously. He's never been this obsessed with someone until he met you. He gripped onto his dick harder and his body starts to burn with flames too powerful to put out—and his heart beats quicker.

He's closer to his high than ever, throwing his head back due to the aching pleasure that consumed him. His eyes look at the ceiling, all that hunts his mind is you. You hunt him every second of his day, even when it's König hunting for you. His insides began tightening, the way his cock began to throb in his hand and how his precum brushes against his calloused fingers when his hands move to his sensitive area.

He lets out a final grunt as he looks at the mess he made in his lap, wishing you were there to clean it all up. His orgasm hit him harder than ever, and his breath is shaky. Stunned at how good you made him feel, it wasn't him that made himself feel good, no—it was you. All of it.

He tensed at first, letting rope after rope of his come dirty his abs and sheets. "Look at what you fucking do to me, Liebe." He whispered, beads of sweat roll off his forehead.

(…)

The next day passed, the day König booked his session to see you. Of course he wanted to talk to you about what's going on, but he mostly made the appointment to see you. It's been a long long time. He puts on his uniform and mask, getting all ready for his missions and well—seeing you.

——

You hear a knock. A knock so familiar and it wasn't just like any other knocks from your clients. König had a habit of knocking exactly four times, and it's a habit he has with you. You shout, "welcome in!" as you take your notebook and pen out. You put your glasses on and present yourself professionally.

König's huge frame stands before you, and you gasped. It's been so long since you've last seen him, you’re now practically strangers. "König! You're here." You proclaimed, welcoming him with a simple hand motion to the chair. "Hello, Mein Schatz." He greets, his voice husky. He looks at you through his eyes, investigating the way you sit professionally and have everything well kept and neat. It almost bothered him, in a good way.

You broke the tension with a question, “anything new?” He continued taking a good look at you, hungrily. It doesn’t show through his mask, but his eyes tells you everything you need to know.

You cleared your throat, waiting for König’s response. “I don’t like the new addition to the missions.” He said sternly, his fists clench and you could tell that bothered him to the extreme. “Why is that? Do you perhaps think they’re weak and unnecessary?” You queried.

He shifts in his spot, “Ja, I don’t like unnecessary addictions. I find it a nuisance.”

“Is it because you prefer having the men you’re familiar with more.. than the new men looking to work the same missions as you?” He prompts his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to the conversation. He is clearly interested in answering. “Yes. Exactly. We don’t need anymore men, we have quite enough of them.” His German accent is thicker, deeper. Cutting through like knife to butter. Your pen wrote down his answers as well as your thoughts in the notebook.

He watched you like a hawk, looking at you closely while you do your job. “Is there anything else, König?” You wonder, his dull eyes sparkled when he hears you say his name. “Hm,” he voiced, “you.”

Your brows furrow at his answer, you cross your legs and place your pen down. Unsure of what he means, and well of course, the therapist you are, you think maybe he has something he needs to say about you. “Did I do something wrong?” You stammered, unable to look him in his piercing gaze.

He chuckled, and you think maybe you embarrassed yourself with such question. “No, Mein Schatz, I need you.” He put forth. Your stomach drops at his answer, crimson red swipes across your cheek and you feel as though you’re going to pass out.

Never in a million years would you have thought to hear König admitting to the fact that he needs you. It stunned you in all honesty.

“I can’t seem to stop thinking about you, Ich werde verrückt.” He points his index finger to his head, “what does that mean?” You question. The part where he spoke in German, you wonder what he means.

He stood up, and you scooted your chair back in response. “It means I’m going crazy, Liebe, you drive me crazy.” König voiced.

You mistook his answer, mistook it thinking that you made him crazy in the worst way possible. “I-I’m sorry, we can gladly stop our sessio-“ he interrupts you, and it’s not the first time.

“Ts ts, I don’t want to. I meant,” he paused, then began, “you drive me crazy with need.” He explained.

You never knew you made him feel that way, and you look around the office just thinking about how unprofessional this all is. “König, when would you like your next session?” You dismissed what he said earlier, you just need to recollect yourself. Your feelings, thoughts and emotions. He just looks at you, quietly.

You walk to the door, and he walks behind you. Each step he took was heavy—and loud, sending shudders throughout your body. He stood behind you, the heat radiating from his body and on to yours.

His right arm reaches out for the doorknob and your heart dropped into a million pieces. God, he knew how to make anyone nervous.

He opens the door for you, and he finds himself out first, but before he does, he says something. “Next week, Friday.” He states, and then walks out of your office.

You take deep breaths, like you’ve been choked and you’ve lost all oxygen. You’ve realized now, just how much König’s little actions made you feel hundreds of butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

(…)

König steps foot inside your office. It’s Friday, and what happened the last session felt like it happened yesterday. His mind is all you, it’s all its ever been. Now he will use this opportunity to his dismay. “Hello, König.” You greet professionally, seated on your black chair.

König takes a careful look at you, he misses you immensely although it’s been a week. He noticed your outfit. Your tight black skirt that hugged your curves perfectly, and your white button up accentuating your breasts. He could open your legs wide right then and there and devour you like he hasn’t eaten in days, he’s drooling at the thought.

You turn to speak, and his entire attention shifts to your plump lips. And of course, König’s mind is filled with dirty thoughts. Too lewd to think out loud.

“Is there anything in particular that you would like to discuss today?” Your soft voice made his ears ring, and he couldn’t help the bulge forming in his pants. König wanted to admit that you’ve been on his mind, but he held himself back and contained it. “I’ve just been stressed.” He admits, and it’s true. All the mission stuff had him drained by the second.

“Oh? And why is that?” You questioned, he manspreads on your couch in the office, using the space to sit comfortably. His long legs and big thighs were spread apart, making it a perfect seat for you to sit on, is what he’s thinking. You gulp at the sight in front of you, and he takes his time with his answer.

“I don’t know, honestly. There’s just something new everyday.” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

You get up from your seat and prompt yourself next to him. His knees touching yours, and your actions shocked König—just a tad. That’s a lie, it shocked him, a lot.

He wanted to fulfill his fantasies right there, he had you in his sight and reach, but again—containing himself. “Talk to me, König.” You comfort, rubbing small circles on his hand. The action caused him to flinch, but he doesn’t say anything—yet.

After a few seconds, he answers, “I got into a fight with a lieutenant. I’d rather save that for another session.” Groaned König. “Okay, if that makes you comfortable.” You drawl, “how about coming to three sessions in a row? When would you like your next appointment?” You made sure to ask if there was anything else, but to your surprise—there wasn’t.

“Today.” He states sternly, you’re confused. “It’s already today, König?” You trailed off, dissociating at his answer. “I know, Liebe, I want our session to begin today.”

“But we’ve already finished our session for today.” You argued, all that König had contained was finally let out. He grabs his hand and wraps it around your throat, his actions made you let out a loud gasp, and with that—König lifts his mask up and kisses you.

You instinctively kiss him back, aware of how unprofessional this all is, but oddly enough—you didn’t really care.

König groans against your hot mouth, sending vibrations down your entire body. König felt like he was in a dream, finally kissing you didn’t feel real, you tasted too good to be real. He finally has you in his reach, and in his mouth. Your scent overtook his senses, and it drove him right over the edge. He could fall off and die happily, knowing he’s finally tasted you.

You deepen the kiss, and he bit your bottom lip in return, alerting you to open your mouth wider and let him in. He wants to devour you whole and you just let it happen. His tongue finds yours, and there you both are, kissing each other so roughly. His grip on your neck tightens just a little, not too hard, still allowing you to breathe. Though the kiss had you suffocating already.

More, more, more. Is what König says to himself in his mind, but you let go of the kiss. String of saliva leaves his mouth as you let go. Oxygen had left your body entirely, and you’re there gasping for air. You wouldn’t be surprised to see if your lips had been bruised from the rough and deep kiss. You’ve never been kissed like that before, or ever.

The both of you pant, you can’t believe what just happened. You’ve fully realized what he meant earlier, insisting he has another session. This is the session, and you don’t think it’s going to end soon. “Come here.” He ordered, patting his thigh. Your eyes dart to his big thighs, thighs that could crush you if he wanted to.

You did as he said, sitting right down on his right leg, in your point of view—to your left. He holds your waist tightly, balancing you so you don’t fall. Though you’re already holding onto his broad shoulders for support. “Why do you have me like this?” You question, flustered. König loves to see it, to see you flustered even though you never tried to admit it. He had that power.

“Liebe, do you know just how much I crave you? How much I’ve wanted to see you like this…?” he began, “you’re going to do as I say, right?” He asked lowly. You nod, heat rushing throughout your entire body from his needy words. You never knew how much he needed you, and it actually hit you. König, out of all people.

Secretly, you loved that. His desperation made you admire him, it must’ve been so difficult to contain such desires and feelings. Unaware of what he’ll say or do next, you wait. Patiently.

“Ride me, Mein Schatz.” Your mouth gaped open at his words, his fingers dug deep into your skirt, so deep you’re afraid it’ll leave a bruise. “K-König, what?” In disbelief, you stay still. You’ve never done anything of the sort, for fucks sake, you’re a virgin. König doesn’t know that—yet. Though you plan on telling him. And you plan on telling him now.

“I’ve never done this before, I’m a virgin, König.” You murmured lowly, but still loud enough for him to hear. “Oh, meine Prinzessin,” he looks at you like some prized treasure you are. His prized treasure that he wanted to display for the world to see. “Do you want to do this?” He consented, you look at him with eyelids so heavy.

You’re more than sure you want to do this with him, virginity isn’t a game, and you knew that. He knew that too. But you want to give it to König and you’ve already confirmed it before saying anything.

“I…I do.” You cup his face, hidden back underneath his mask. “I can’t go on if you’re not sure, liebe, tell me—do you want to do this?” He repeats his question, and you want to shout at his face the word yes, but you remain calm. “I really do, König. Show me the real you.”

“Want me to show you?” His accent is stronger laced with hunger, pulling you closer to him. He got the affirmation he needed, and you nod in assurance. He grabs your hips at once, and slowly moves them back and forth. Your brows furrow at the feeling of your soaked panties grinding against his rough combat pants. The new feeling had you addicted and König loves to see you fall apart little by little.

His cock ached and pressed harder against his pants as your hands grip onto his broad shoulder, tighter. The friction from his pants and your grinding made you let out a moan you didn’t know you were capable of making. A moan König could only hear in his head, except it became reality, and König was trapped in a haze. He saw the way your face contorted in pleasure, the way your lips pout as he helped you ride it out.

“So beautiful.” He huffs, pulling you back and forth even faster. You could feel your stomach twist into knots, alerting you that your orgasm is near, but riding against his thigh wasn’t enough. You needed more. “K-König…please.” You whimpered out, he tilts his head, getting the hint.

“Please what? Mein Schatz?” It felt like he was teasing you, but maybe he just needs to know what you’re saying please for. “Touch me.” You demand, desperately needing his rough and big fingers to touch you. “Ohhh darling, you don’t have to ask me twice.” He does just as you asked, rubbing slow circles with the pad of his thumb on your clothed cunt. He smiled under his mask at how wet you are.

The bundle of nerves formed tightly, forming at the very pit of your stomach. Flames ran through your veins and your body burned with lust. You found it difficult to hold his gaze as your orgasm is nearing. “You’re too good to me, liebe, you’re doing so good.” He praised, his eyes focused on your motions and he could just come at the sight of that. “K-König! I’m going to-“ he interrupts you, grabbing your hips with both of his hands and moves you back and forth impossibly faster.

“Come, schön, be a good fucking girl for me and let it out. I know you can do it.” He grunts, talking you through it. His praising and words of encouragement did just enough for you to reach your high. It felt like fireworks were exploding in your stomach, and your legs shook. It was all too much to bare, and you still rode it out.

“Attagirl, wasn’t so hard now was it, meine Liebe?” He appeals, holding your waist still as you tried to regain every last bit of dignity left with each inhale and exhale. “You think we’re done yet? Oh love, we’re just getting started.”

——

NOTE: This is just part 1 peeps, I honestly thought it was getting a bit too long (imo) so I thought—hey—why not turn this into a mini series? Hehe. Stay tuned for part 2, coming very soon. Also, if you’d like to be in my tag list, it’d be my pleasure. Just let me know in the comments. (Btw, English is definitely not my first language…so if there are any grammatical errors and mistakes, please let me know in the comments so I can fix them.)

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stevebabey · 1 year

Text

not if it’s you.

word count: 7k summary: After the events at Starcourt Mall, you have a hard time convincing Steve that he’s allowed to be not okay. You want to take care of him. And if you harbour some more-than-friends feelings at the same time? Well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. [angst + hurt/comfort + friends to lovers]

You’re bone-deep tired.

The red and blue lights of the ambulance feel branded onto the inside of your eyelids, there even when your tired eyes slide shut. The cool metal on the ambulance door soothes your forehead and for a moment, head tilted against it, you could honestly just sleep even with all the noise.

It’s been a hell of a night.

You blink. You need to keep yourself awake, you’re not home yet. Gazing blankly across the crowded parking lot, reporters and townspeople milling between the yellow police tape, you can feel your brain begin to try to grapple with all the events of the night.

It’s like some warped horror flick of memories, parts of the film blacked out that you can’t quite recall. The elevator, the Russians, and some god-awful melted monster of people — even in your mind the image makes you shudder.

The longer you think about it, the more it feels like the stress is fusing with your bones, attaching itself to every cell in your body. It makes you shake, a forceful twitch of your head to put all the thoughts to rest.

Process it later. Make sure you can stay stitched together physically tonight. You must look a tad loony from the outside, twitching and shaking, but considering your night it’s more than warranted.

The gash on your arm is the worst of your injuries. A jagged stretch of torn skin that was gifted by one of the Russian soldiers who had hoped it would loosen your tongue. And when that didn’t work, the pliers nearly had — you would’ve told them anything when they took them out and lined it up with one of your fingernails.

But Steve then had done something stupid — kicked to get a guard’s attention since his yelling obviously hadn’t made a difference, let one of them lean down real close, and then headbutted him with all his might.

Relief had shocked your system, some broken cry as you slumped over when the pliers moved away. Fingers saved, if only briefly.

It had all turned to dread when they had lugged him out of his chair, preparing for round two of questioning. You had felt it then, a twisted gurgle of emotion lurched up your throat — violent enough it might have made you sick if you had managed to open your mouth. You hadn’t. There was a chance you would’ve said something worse, some jumble of feelings that wouldn’t have helped.

So, you had bit your tongue. Tasted blood and pretended that closing your eyes meant you couldn’t hear Steve pleading in the room over.

He hasn’t said much since the two of you had been sat in the back of the ambulance, gloved hands of the paramedics roaming over skin to find and treat injuries. There’s just one guy left now, still hovering around Steve with a flashlight and treating him with much less care than you’d like.

Steve looks as tired as you feel and when he can’t focus enough to look ahead, the paramedic prods his cheek unkindly. Steve winces.

“Hey,” you snip, cutting into the interaction. “Are you done? Can we go home?”

The paramedic turns the flashlight on you, blinding you for a moment. It confirms your asshole hypothesis of his character and you cringe at the brightness. It’s gone in the next moment, finally clicked off. He observes you both for another moment before an annoyed drawl comes out.

“Yeah, scram. But first you,” He jabs a finger at Steve who blinks but doesn’t react. “Lots of rest. No big brain work, no alcohol, and don’t run any marathons or anything.”

Steve nods, then grimaces at the pain the movement causes. You can’t help the wrinkle in your brow as you watch - you startle a bit when the paramedic turns his pointed finger on you.

“And you. His pupils are still dilated so keep an eye for seizure symptoms. Wake him every couple of hours and get a CT scan tomorrow.”

Some part of you is perturbed that he’s put you in charge of taking care of Steve. Another part gleans and blushes because you’d accepted the task the moment he’d asked, without question.

“Tomorrow?” You ask hotly, at the same time Steve says, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

The paramedic shakes his head, tsking as if you’re bothersome school-children not patients, and steps back with his hands raised. “Figure it out, I don’t care. I’ve got a dozen other people to check over.”

He winds around the door of the ambulance and leaves the both of you alone. A cool wind skirts through the parking lot, ruffling your hair. A sigh wrestles out your chest, a pathetic attempt to alleviate the tightness in your chest.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated the colours blue and red more than right now. The blazing colours atop police cars that flood the parking lot, the colours of Steve’s Scoops uniform, the colour of blood seeping into your pale blue shirt.

If you squint, you can see your own car parked alongside Steve’s in the distance — it feels like a lifetime ago when you had driven in and parked up. Your keys are lost down, down below you, taken in the interrogation. You stand to shake off that train of thought.

You turn back and offer your hand out to Steve. After all the blows he’s taken tonight, you desperately want to offer him kindness. Offer him a touch that doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him flinch or wince. Steve stares at your hand for a long moment, eyes contemplating — and then puts his in yours.

He lets you pull him to his feet.

One of the police cruisers takes you to Loch Nora, Steve and you tucked away in the backseat. His hand is still in yours, barely holding it in his tiredness; when the car rounds a corner though, you can feel his fingers clench tighter so your hand doesn’t slip away.

They detach eventually when the wheels roll up on the curb outside Steve’s house, late in the night. Like the rest of the sleeping houses, the lights are all off. There are no cars in the driveway. The loneliness of it yawns out down the drive, like visible smoke plumes that escape every window.

Steve somehow looks tenser at seeing it; he still forces himself out of the car, bloody sneakers scraping against the gravel. You follow. It aches to move too much, even just shuffling out of the car feels like moving a mountain. The door clips closed quietly behind you. You hear the engine fade back down the road.

Steve is still stuck in place — you have a feeling he’s not looking at the house at all but stuck in thought, looking through the timber and paint and seeing all the horrors of the night. You step up beside him and gingerly reattach your hands.

It seems to surprise him, jumping ever so slightly at the touch and turning to look at you. “I didn’t...”

I didn’t think you’d stay. The sentence dies in his throat, a little embarrassed by how relieved he is that you’ve stayed with him - so much it shows in the quiver in his voice. Steve doesn’t finish it because then you’ll hear the other part of the sentence, even without him saying it. No one stays.

“C’mon,” you urge him to walk with you, beginning to drift up the driveway.

There’s no rush, you’ll wait as long as he needs to before moving, but it’s colder out tonight. Maybe it just feels that way with all your tiredness, the frostiness nipping at your skin. All your energy is focused on staying on your feet, on helping Steve. There’s none left to keep you warm.

He ambles after you like walking is an afterthought and following you is the priority. His sneakers drag, soft scraping noises with every step. You can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head, his fingers squeezing as if he’s checking you’re really still here with him.

The front door is unlocked and it’s only when it snicks shut behind you, do you wonder if you’ve overstepped. It’s awkward, but only a bit. You’ve been in Steve’s house before — though, who hadn’t with all his parties in sophomore year?

But not quite like this. Not just the two of you, and never holding his hand.

The events that had transpired last fall in Hawkins had thrown Steve into your life, along with a dizzying revelation of new dimensions and an unsettling truth about monsters that came right out of your nightmares.

Though, maybe it made more sense to say you were thrown into Steve’s life. You had always known of him - he couldn’t say the same about you.

Like the hoards, freshmen you had not been immune to the boyishly good looks and charismatic nature of Steve Harrington. Once upon a time, before someone called him King Steve and it stuck, there had been a crush.

But like red wine on white linen, with time — and plenty of distance — it had faded.

Not even the adventure that bound you two together, the tunnels that snaked beneath Hawkins and your shaky hands lugging him into the car, had been enough to reignite old affections. Not his insistence on you leaving the tunnels first, not even the way he clutched you when you all made it out. Not unscathed, but alive.

Pitifully, it had been his shoddy attempts at flirting in his ridiculous sailor uniform to kick-start your heart back up.

You had sighed, chin in hand, and leaned into the foolish feelings — because going crazy over a boy felt the most normal thing you could do. And after demodogs and slithering vines kept creeping from the past into your slumbers, normal was all you wanted.

But Steve needed you as a friend, more so considering his fallout with Tommy H and Carol had become permanent. He flirted with customers, every girl you’d recognised from your year, but never you.

It felt a good enough reason to bite your tongue. Keep him close, but never as close as you’d like.

But now you’ve done it again — been pulled along on another adventure that’s brimming with terrors that will take years to forget.

Everything feels worse this time round, a decay that ebbs away your hope. It’s somehow harder to heal from wounds that come from evil, but not the supernatural. It’s all the heavier when the boy who holds your heart made himself a punching bag so you didn’t get hurt.

The warmth of his hand, squeezing for only a moment, brings you back to the present. To now, still standing in the entryway to Steve’s house. You blink, coming back to yourself, and turn back to him. There’s a crinkle between his brow, and worry washed across his features.

“Are you okay?” He asks it tentatively like he’s afraid to spook you. It sends a rush to your system, a pleasant throb in your chest. You can’t deny you like knowing he worries. That he cares.

“Yeah,” you croak out, nodding as you speak. “Do you— I mean, you don’t mind me staying, do you?”

Suddenly, the potential embarrassment of inviting yourself in, even with the good intentions of taking care of Steve, is overwhelming. The next words tumble out without thought.

“I just, I don’t want to be alone right now.” It’s a bit hurried, tinged with nervousness. You stammer. “And I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

Something like pure affection blooms in Steve’s chest at your words, the heat of it stealing his breath and pain for just a moment. It’s a different sort of ache in between his ribs, something white-hot and pure.

He hadn’t been able to voice his relief when you’d gotten out of the car and stayed with him — and it fails him now at your admittance.

You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want him to be alone.

Steve doesn’t think he’s deserving of your good will, nor the kindness in every touch. He can’t help how he consumes it greedily, drinks in the touches like he knows it’ll be taken from him soon enough. His eyes stay fixed on you.

There’s something so alluring about your silhouette, the golden street light let in through slits in the door. It halos you, soft amber that softens every curve. You’re enchanting, even when bloodied.

Steve’s not sure his heart has felt like this before — so molten hot, valves working overtime, ribbons of affection tied tight across his chest. He’s sure they’ll leave scorch marks, testimonies to his bleeding heart that pulses with each beat for you, for you, for you.

Because you’re still here and something in his trodden on heart perks up before he remembers to crush it. It’s not that Steve has never thought of you as more — god, the mere thought of you as more to him.

More than a friend, more than this, it’s enough to make his head spin. To make his hands shake and return a nervousness to his system he hasn’t felt since sophomore year when he first laid eyes on Nancy Wheeler.

But you’re not Nancy. In the best way, that makes all the difference,

You were some breath of fresh air, bursting into his life in all the middle of his estranged drawn out break-up with Nancy — brash in all the right ways, kind when he needed, and far too soft to be tangled up in any of this mess.

You’re still too soft for it now, and it shows in the jagged cut torn into the fabric of your skin — it doesn’t matter how it happened, Steve still feels like it’s his fault. It’ll scar, red puckered skin that twists down the expanse of your shoulder. A living reminder of the night burned into you to carry forever.

It hurts Steve maybe more than he’s warranted to. You’re both just friends.

But when Steve thinks of how he’s accidentally pulled you too close, put you first in the heart, it aches evermore.

He’s not sure when you went from barely a friend to this — you’re a crush, an Achilles heel, the unattainable from the moment he met you, the moment he knew you. Steve feels like he’s been building himself towards you, pushing his growth to aim for anywhere near enough for you. You’ve been too good for him from the start.

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

Steve realises after a moment that he hasn’t said anything when your fingers start to slip from his. His grip tightens to keep your hand in his.

“No, I— Stay. I...” It’s a struggle to say it, too many years of suppressing any urge to ask for comfort. “I don’t want to be alone, either. Or for you to be. Stay.”

Your lips, chapped and still with a hint of blood, twitch into somewhat a smile. “Okay.”

This time it’s Steve who drags you along, both slowly moving up the stairs. Each step threatens to reopen the scabs that have only just begun to form. It’s like some micro-dose of torture, Steve thinks, hearing your winces behind him.

The fluorescence of the bathroom lights is bright enough to make your eyes fly shut. Steve’s braver, taking only a moment to pause. He ignores how the lights dance, a sickening comparison to his experience with the drugs that had barely left his system. Though it’s the last thing he wants, Steve drops your hand to begin his search.

When your eyes blink open, prepared to face the lights, you’re a bit perplexed to see Steve hunting through the linen cupboard. He produces a towel, white and fluffy.

You cringe internally at the thought of sullying the pale colour with blood but it’s but a blip in tonight’s problems. Besides, the Harrington’s could certainly afford to replace it.

“Here.” Steve murmurs. You both seem to have agreed to keep softly spoken for the night.

He presses the cotton into your hands as he walks, ready to shoulder out and take care of himself. There was an en-suite in his own room — and sure, it would hurt like hell rinsing his wounds but he’d done it last year. Blasted the heat so he was wincing at the burn atop his skin and not the ache underneath it.

“Steve?” You question, turning and halting his feet. He pauses, confused by the questioning expression on your face. He gestures to the shower, hiding how the movement makes his ribs sting painfully.

“You can shower here and- and the guest room’s all made up.” The words trip a bit on the way out, weakness beginning to weigh on his voice.

Somehow being back home crumbles his walls sooner than he’d like. Tonight has been heavy, a burden that lies thick on his shoulders and creeps down, taking root in his muscles.

But Steve will do what he had done last year; take the punches, burn them off in the heat of the shower — hot enough that he can’t feel any tears — and then deal with it.

“No, s’not that.” You shake your head, a strand of hair coming loose. “I... What about you?”

What about all the blood? The bruises and cuts? You’d seen the scars littered on the skin of his face from Billy, cuts that had healed wrong and left marred skin. Wounds left uncared for, only healed with time.

The question only begs more confusion from Steve. He gestures to somewhere behind him as he says, “There’s another shower, don’t worry.”

He pulls a smile to ease you. It wobbles at the ends of his mouth. Something claws into your heart, a profound heartache at the thought it doesn’t even occur to Steve to take care of himself.

“Steve,” you begin, beginning to get a sense of the wall you’re encountering.

Steve Harrington has some very thick defenses and not without good reason; they’ve got him through some treacherous times. Even now, he uses it like a crutch, a seal to hide away horrid memories. Ignored in favour of temporary strength.

You don’t need his display of strength — you’re not one of the kids that needs to be shielded from the reality that even Steve has a breaking point — certainly not when his state is far worse than your own.

But you have a feeling he doesn’t know how to switch it off. Steve doesn’t seem to understand what you mean when you say you don’t want him to be alone.

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

“I’m- I’ve done this before, alright?” He insists, eyes darting between yours, features turning stonier. You can see his defensiveness begin to curl his shoulders in. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Are you?” You say, not unkind. “Tonight was— Steve, you were tortured.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. Steve’s face falters, his icy expression dissolving with a shudder he can’t stop. You watch it warp him painfully, jaw clenching and eyes misty; he blinks furiously to clear them. You continue.

“You can’t just- just bounce back from that. Nobody can.” You shake your head as if it proves your point. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve done this before, this— this is a lot for anyone, even—”

“Well then, why are you still here, huh!” His words interrupt your own, tone angrier than you’re expecting. “If this is so much!”

His chest rises and falls quickly, brows draw together like it hurts to breathe so harshly. The words don’t sting, but his tone does. You reel in your hurt and focus past his anger, focus on what it really is.

A final line of defense. A ploy to make you upset or angry, to make you emotional enough to storm out and leave him to lick his wounds alone. Another way to ignore it, compartmentalize what happened instead of facing it head on.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to make him deal with it so soon. But you care, too much to pretend to ignore his pain.

“Steve.”

“Don’t.” It wobbles, voice weak. His anger has already drained away in a moment.

“You’re not alright,” you insist, voice barely above a whisper. “C’mere.”

You don’t give him a choice, your free hand reaching out to snag his own, which hangs loose at his side.

Steve stumbles forward as you tug him back into the bathroom. Without his anger, he’s pliant and goes without protest. Your gentle fingers on his chest nudge him in the direction of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing through the back of his soiled Scoops top.

“Can you do something for me? Can you...” You bite your already bloody lip, nervousness sketched across your features.

How can you say this without giving too much away? It feels too intimate, like flying too close to the sun, well within the realm of potentially hurting your own feelings. You’ll do it for him gladly.

“Can you just...let me take care of you?”

It hurts like a sucker punch to the gut. Like a breath has been forced out of his chest, because when was the last time someone has asked him that?

Silence stains the air.

“It won’t be pretty.” He croaks finally, still giving you an easy out. Still prepared to spare you the ugliness of his emotions.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” You respond, lips twitching. You bare your heart and half hope he sees it — sees it and knows he’s loved when you say, “Not if it’s you.”

Another beat of quiet.

“Okay.” Steve breathes, so faintly you barely hear it. Then as if you’ll rescind the offer any moment, he nods fervently.

Your smile is genuine, maybe the first in hours and something in you relaxes. He won’t fight you on this. He may have taken the beating earlier for you but, at the very least, you can do your best to patch him back up — let your hidden feelings translate into a gentleness he so very deserves.

It takes only a quick rummage beneath the sink to find a first-aid kit. It feels wildly underprepared; an afterthought purchase once upon a time that was only ever intended for scraped knees. It hasn’t ever been opened. The tear of the zipper is the only noise in the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles.

As expected, there’s not much in it. It contains a box of plasters in multiple sizes, one roll of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a mixture of other pills and eye drops.

Some loose safety pins rattle around in the bottom as you take inventory. It’s not stellar and you’re no doctor, but it’ll do. It has to do.

When you finally look up, wondering where to begin on his injuries, Steve is regarding you with a look you can’t quite name.

If you were sure of yourself, you might call it awe.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re here, helping him, and it can be awfully easy to mix up feelings when you’re getting stitched up. You don’t let your hopes rise, not even for a moment.

Steve’s blood sings, ears rushing with the sound of it when you step closer. You’re so damn close. Steve can’t ignore the scent that carries with you, his brain involuntarily committing each detail of you that he can get to memory - lest he never gets you this close again.

You want to take care of him; Steve thinks this might be a dream.

Nimble fingers work to gather some cotton with antiseptic and then you’re holding it up, posed, and ready to mend.

“Can you sit up on the counter?” You ask, all sweetness. Steve obliges easily, despite the protests from his sore body that cries out as he shifts up. You smile, then warn, “This might sting.”

It’s overwhelming as you step closer, between his legs, and take the cotton to his face with a gentleness Steve hasn’t felt in years. His eyes close instinctively.

It does sting. The wince leaks out through his clenched teeth, soothed instantly by your soft apologies that pour out like honey.

For a moment, it’s easier this way; with his eyes closed, Steve can pretend this is usual. That when he gets roughed around, there’s someone to tend and clean his wounds — instead of just himself and the harsh rinse of the hot shower.

He tries and fails not to think of last year, his poor attempts to patch himself up. Hands too shaky, touch too rough.

The memory bites. The injuries of tonight somehow feel worse. A tinge of bile taints his mouth and Steve swallows it back down, concentrating on you.

You’re not quite humming but soothing noises, low and soft, come from your throat. Steve’s not even sure you know you’re doing it. His hands clench emptily as his side — the split knuckles make them hurt and when you’re this close, the itch to hold you is near unbearable.

It doesn’t take long for the first cotton pad to turn a violent shade of pink. Steve’s face looks a tad clearer than before but uncovering old blood means finding new wounds.

Your stomach burns pitifully as you take them all in. There are too many to count, a thousand different hues — broken blood vessels that run in all directions, little labyrinths under his skin.

Why does it hurt so much? Even with your bound shoulder that still sends out pain with every motion, it all dulls away when you look at Steve. Lashes fluttering, eyes still closed, marred with wounds you’re begging to ease. You know it hurts so much because you care.

Love is pain, you suppose, with only a twinge of bitterness. It’s swallowed instantly, consumed and disintegrated by the fact you get this. The boy you love, between both palms, trusting you to take care of him.

A year ago, you’d met only the steely exterior he’d put up — and thought it had simply been remnants of King Steve. Maybe Steve Harrington was as much of an asshole as half the town said.

He was all bite, glowers, and clipped answers. With time though, he’d softened like snow melting in the sun; all the parts of him trickling into your life until he was cemented by your side.

He hadn’t even let you patch him up after the scrap with Billy that had taken him out. You hadn’t felt you could ask.

But this time...your throat grows a bit thicker at the trust that binds the pair of you. Affection rushes your system and forces a sharp inhale from your lungs. You step back.

The space makes it easier to breathe. Dials down the chances of pressing your lips against his skin — if only to give him a mark born of love. Hands searching through the first-aid kit again, you produce some painkillers and locate an arnica pill.

You give yourself one more moment; inhale and withhold the tidal wave of devotion that begs to spill from within you.

“Take these, please.” You say quietly, uncurling one of his fists to press the pills into. He swallows them dry.

You prep more cotton and begin again with the gentle touches, coaxing off dried blood. This time, Steve’s eyes stay open. He watches you, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

You work away the blood from a cut above his eyebrow and when it’s clean, your thumb follows. You caress along the broken skin as if you could meld it back together with pure will.

Steve’s chest grows tight. Something about you being here, taking care of him makes the night’s memories all too present. Nausea sways in his gut. It’s impossible to shove them to the back, to press them down, when it feels like each cut is being reopened. Cleansed with a douse of love.

You’re altering the history of each wound but to do so, he has to recall how each of them was carved into his skin. It hurts. Why are you still here?

Steve’s head pulls back unexpectedly, eyes shuttering closed in a scrunched expression. You startle a bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

He makes a strained noise, effectively gutting you with it. If you weren’t so close — an inch further and you could press your forehead to his — you wouldn’t hear it. Hear the tiny whisper that scratches out the word, “Why?”

“What?” You whisper. You don’t understand.

“Why...Why are you...?” He’s clearly struggling to find the words he wants. His hand reaches up, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose before he drops it again. His chin quivers. It stops your heart for a moment to realise he’s crying.

“I don’t— I don’t understand.” Steve grinds the words out, voice thick. A tear splatters, seeping into the blue of his uniform. He won’t look at you, eyes trained on the loose thread on his shorts.

“Steve?” you murmur, wary and heavy with concern. This is— you don’t know what this is.

“I don’t understand.” He repeats, shaking his head slightly. He seems to choke on the next words. “You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody...”

He trails off, some whimper of sorts forcing its way out his throat. You’re stuck, absorbing each of his words and putting together the pattern that Steve can’t seem to voice. I don’t understand. You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody... Everybody leaves.

Oh.

Rich King Steve who’s got it all. The house, the car, and any girl he fancies, all of them fawning for a look from him at one of his legendary parties.

His lack of parental supervision had been lusted over in high school, furious whispers of envy over the fact he could get away with parties every weekend. That booze went missing and he never seemed to catch any shit for it. It occurs to you now that nobody was around to notice.

The absence in his life is vast and suddenly blindingly obvious — a chasm in his chest that is bleeding all his secrets to you.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

When you surge forward, injuries be damned, and your arms loop around his neck, there’s a moment of stillness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, hear his ragged inhale, and then— he sags into you, finally, finally letting himself lean on someone else.

His arms wind around your middle in a desperate motion, tugging you closer and the fabric of your shirt clenches between his fingers. His face buries in your neck and hot wet tears soak the collar of your shirt. You can hear his raspy noises, soft cries as he clings to you like a lifeline.

“Why did this happen to me?”

It fucking hurts to hear. You don’t know how to tell him there’s no why — that there is no reason that can justify why he’s gone through this much suffering. Just the bitter fact that, sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

“Steve,” you feel like you’re saying his name an awful lot tonight. You say it because you can’t begin to think of how to answer his heartbreaking question. “I—“

“I-I used to think,” The words are muffled into your neck. His grip on you is nearly tight enough to hurt but you don’t dare relent any space. His voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough to hear. “That- that it was like karma, yanno?”

“Steve, no,” you whisper, horrified. If he hears you, he doesn’t show.

“B-Because that first time,” He’s stuck on some belittling ramble about himself, continuing between his sniffs. “I definitely deserved it. But then I grew and I changed.”

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

“And then last year, it made sense, yeah? Billy, he was— a real piece of work.” He sniffs again, his voice a little harder at the mention of the deceased.

The tension falls away at the next sentence, voice wobbling through the thickness in his throat. “And I used to be like that, so—“

You pull back instantly, hands shifting back from around his neck. It effectively halts him, and whatever he was saying dies in his throat. Your hands move to cradle his jaw and, as lightly as you can with his injuries, you tug him from his hiding place and stare him in the face.

Steve’s eyes look bigger and browner full of tears. His nose is red, just the tip, and runs messily at the onslaught of tears. Pink splotches bloom underneath his cheeks, patchy and warm, his face etched in complete misery.

It wrecks you to see. More so to think he’s been shouldering all this alone since ‘83.

“People don’t deserve suffering, Steve.” You state it strongly enough that he can’t refute the truth, punctuating with your thumbs on either cheek, pressing light touches.

“You don’t deserve suffering. You never did.” Your voice quivers a bit, some shred of your heart shriveling pathetically at the fact you even need to tell him this. Your hands shake ever-so-slightly. A hot tear streaks down your cheek.

Steve crumbles. You don’t resist when he drops his head down, only move back in— offering a place to hide away again. You let him stay hidden away, a sanctuary in your arms, safe when he’s buried in the curve of your neck.

“And- and just ‘cause,” you say, sniffling a bit now. He holds his breath, a sharp inhale that quietens his whimpering crying. “Just ‘cause no one has stayed before doesn’t mean you don’t deserve this, Steve.”

His fingers press harsher into your back and your feet stumble a bit, pulled off balance. Adjusting your arms, you pull him tighter yet, hoping that the closeness will make all your sentiments seep in. Your shoulder aches terribly; you don’t dare move away.

“You know that, right?” You whisper, unable to stop your fingers from grazing the nape of his neck softly. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

A soft kiss to the side of his head, barely noticeable between his shakes, but it eases the strain on your heart. Time wanes and melts beneath the glow of the bathroom lights, an unending amount of tears that you suspect reach back further than just the memories of tonight.

You stay like this, holding him close. You give him all the time he needs, sweet nothings mumbled until he feels strong enough to face you— to face the world.

Eventually, Steve’s breathing slows, crying turning to trembling gasps. When he finally does retreat, you curse internally because of course, only Steve Harrington can still look devastatingly beautiful after crying.

Tears cling to his lashes, sparkling reflections. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

Silence ebbs. Steve gathers himself, another sniff, and wipes his nose before he lifts his head. You can see in his face the moment he’s about to apologise; the word sorry is about to come tripping out his mouth. You beat him to it.

“I’m sorry to inspire more tears,” Your voice, still quiet, aims for a comforting jest. “But I’m not quite done cleaning you up.”

You twist the cotton between your fingers to show him. Steve blinks, eyes focusing on your hand, perhaps surprised you’re still taking care of him. He forgets about his needless apologies.

“Though, your tears did a lot of the work.” You say cheekily, a smile teasing at the edges of your lips. It makes him huff a laugh. Steve could nearly cry again; you’re so nice. He thinks about the last time cried, thinks about Tommy’s sneer, his scoffed words that told him toughen up, King Steve.

He lets you wipe them away, clear his face and patch it up as best you can. Any tension from before, the mental barb-wire defenses he had still held up to keep you out, has ebbed away. It’s softer now, easier between you two.

Trust flows from Steve in the form of his allowance, letting you fuss. It flows from you in the form of your touch, which still dances too close for just friends. You let your fingers dot the kisses across his face since you can’t.

“You’re good at this,” Steve murmurs, breaking the silence. He allows himself the privilege of your touch, his fingers burning where they graze your sides.

Patching people up? Injuries from last year made sure you got decent practice on yourself. You’re decent, you’ll admit.

Maybe he means taking care of him. You’re proving to be very good at that.

You want to. Somewhere rooted in feelings that sway closer to love, genuine love, is the urge to be the one who does it. The shoulder to cry on, the one who carries his woes when it gets too much — and you want him to do the same for you. Achingly, you want to take care of him; and him, you.

The thought burns so viciously through your chest, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip a bit meanly. It stings.

You don’t notice it, trying to rein in your drifting heart that sings to be closer to him, but Steve does. His fingers twitch; he wants to rescue it, pull it from your harsh grip with his thumb.

He does.

You stop moving.

His thumb is calloused, a bit rough against the supple plumpness of your bottom lip. The blood beneath it tingles, gloriously hot at the attention. Either all the air in the room has been sucked out or you’ve stopped breathing.

You’d hazard a guess it’s the second, given the stillness your body has taken on. Muscles locked, eyes frozen on his face — the only part of you that moves is your heart, thundering pumps going far too fast.

Steve’s gaze stays on his thumb on your lip. You’re desperate to find out what to call the emotion swimming in his eyes.

“Steve?” you say his name yet again, lips moving against his thumb. He blinks like a frog, one eye after the other, and drags his gaze up to your eyes.

His hand shifts, brushing across your mouth to hold the side of your jaw, cupping it sweetly. The cotton falls from your grip as Steve urges you closer with a gentle tug.

Then his eyes are back on your lips and even though it feels like slicing your own heart open to do it, you speak before he can kiss you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, eyes crushing closed.

You want to terribly. The want for his kiss warbles from deep within you, a yawning ache. But it might just finish you off if it’s all heat of the moment — a kiss that is just some twisted thank-you because Steve isn’t used to being taken care of.

You clear your throat, swallowing heavily. “Not— not if it’s just for tonight. Not just because I stayed, please.”

There’s a pause. His shaky exhale breezes across your face. It’s possible your ears might be ringing as if straining to hear the sound of Steve’s heart— dying for a clue to what he’s feeling. You’re not brave enough to open your eyes and read it in his face.

His thumb scrapes across your bottom lip again and then— then, he kisses you, impossibly tender.

The tiny gasp that escapes you is consumed instantly, swallowed up by Steve’s kiss. He kisses gentle, touch so soft that it has you searching for more the moment you’ve got a taste of it.

You barely get a moment to lean into it, to kiss him back before Steve breaks it. He hovers close, close enough that you could steal another taste of his lips if you wanted. You want to— the ferocity of your eagerness sends a shiver along your spine. He speaks before you seize the opportunity.

“I want to.” He says, voice a bit raspy and the words inspire enough bravery to look at him, eyes creasing open. “I- I’ve wanted to for a while.”

You nearly sink in your relief, knees trembling for a moment as your hand comes up to enclose the wrist of the hand that holds your face. Thumb sweeping short strokes, you clutch the tan skin and lean into his caress.

“You mean it?” You whisper, far too excited. Your heart may as well be on your sleeve, cards once played close to your chest now splayed on the table. Your tone reveals all, spilling with hope, even as you ask whether it means the same to him as it does to you.

Yes. The word seems stuck in his throat, suddenly too thick to speak. Because it’s only three letters and that can’t possibly cover what Steve means when he says I’ve wanted to for a while.

That you’d somehow snuck into his life and intertwined among all of his heartstrings, like spun gold mixing until the whole organ felt terribly tangled in a way he’d never want to change.

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

But you? You were the thump on his heart. Not a push for change, nor for growth — but permission to grant himself a second chance in love.

“I mean it.” He says, emotion coating each word. “Yes, god, I really mean it.”

And you let him tell you over and over again with his mouth pressed to yours, searing kisses that make your head dizzy and pulse speed.

Steve knows he’s not alright — not physically or mentally after what he’s faced tonight, not with the vice grip on his chest that had clung tightly and all the ugly parts of him had all slithered out for you to see.

He also knows that he will be alright, sometime in the far future.

When wounds have healed, when scars are beginning to fade, and the nightmares start being every couple of nights, instead of every night, then he’ll be nearly okay. It’ll take time, lots of it.

But when your gentle hands coax him to bed and you slip beneath the covers beside him, leaving a warm quick kiss upon his shoulder — Steve thinks that, maybe, that future isn’t nearly as far away as it seems.

Your hand finds his under the sheets, twisting your fingers together to act like an anchor in the inkiness of the night.

There are no nightmares that night.

—

tags below! @hawkinsindiana @harringtonbf @spideystevie look technically there’s no tags this is just all da bitches i’m always talking to <3