#A chilly october morning | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yandere-romanticaa · 6 months

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masterlist.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who's the talk of the town once he moves and settles in. The gossip started to pool in mostly due to his looks. He wasn't necessarily what one would call "conventionally attractive" but there was this air to him that was impossible to ignore. It was hard to find him anywhere throughout the day because he spent almost all of his time in the morgue, regardless if his work hours had long since passed. The only time he could really be seen was if you would be lucky enough to see him in the wee hours in the morning, large briefcase in hand and heading straight towards the usual destination. Small amounts of people would gather in the coffee shops and spy on the man. Gossip spread like wildfire but no one had the guts to actually approach him.

One chilly October morning, you decided to be brave. Pushing your insecurities aside your curiosity ended up getting the better of you. There was no turning back.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who's caught off guard by your sudden and bold approach but he doesn't mind.

As a matter of fact, he finds it quite refreshing.

He's not saying much as the day is just a bit too early for him and despite his drowsiness, he is paying attention to you like a hawk. His soft brown eyes are focused on your lips, listening to your every word. You invited him out on a coffee but he frowns - he has to work. A serial killer has been on the loose recently and due to that individual his work keeps piling on. Families need closure and he is an important part of that process. With a sad sigh he declines your generous offer and your demeanor is like that of a balloon which was violently popped, by his own hand none the less. He feels a bit guilty and proposes the idea that you actually come to his place of work if you're so keen on getting to know him. It was a little twisted of him but he was curious to see how fast you would shoot him down on this offer but the opposite happened.

You accepted it in a heartbeat.

Well, now he has to tidy everything up.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who can't help but to feel a little starstruck once he actually meets you on this would-be coffee date. He actually prepared a selection of teas in advance just in case you didn't actually like coffee, along with an assortment of snacks to boot. You sit in the lobby and make small talk with each other. The atmosphere is comfortable as soft music plays in the background, ranging from the latest pop music to classical violin. He doesn't like the quiet, he confesses to you. He can't do anything properly because the silence is too deafening to him.

He doesn't tell you that the sound of your voice is like lovely rain on a hot summer day to him. Cooling, refreshing. Perhaps a little bit necessary. His work hours are long and odd and the only people that surround him are not even alive.

That's his own fault though. His urges are too much to handle, sometimes. He has no one else to blame for enhancing his work other than himself.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to make room in his schedule for you whenever he can. Ideally, he doesn't actually like bringing you to the morgue. The place where he works is dark, desolate and cold.

That is no place for the likes of you.

No, he likes to see you bask in the warmth of the sun with a hot beverage in your hand, a goofy smile on your lips as you tell him the plot of the last book you read or the game you had played. He never has the heart to tell you to stop, your excitement is far too precious to him.

He is aware that he is not the easiest person to approach. Aside from the fact that people get a little jumpy once they learn that he works with the dead, his personality isn't much to brag about either. Whilst polite there's a level of dryness to him, a lack of humanity which other people are not so keen on. His shoulder black hair is always messy and, yes he will admit it, his fashion choices are a tad bit archaic. He's gotten an earful from strangers that he looks less like a man from the 21st century and more like a vampire from an 18th century gothic novella.

He knows those are not meant to be taken as compliments but he still sees them as such.

You like to tease him for his fashion choices and make an attempt to improve his wardrobe but you don't want to do too much. Truth be told, you like the way he looks but you don't dare tell him.

If he were to find that out his ego would go through the damn roof.

Within weeks, his closet was filled with comfortable blazes, a sweater or two, some casual t-shirts and some fresh, crisp white button ups that go along with pretty much anything and everything. He gave you the liberty of picking everything out for him.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to act more like a member of polite society rather than a reclusive shut in. You took his hand and showed him a glimpse of the world, just how beautiful everything can be. There are so many colors and smells, all so dominating and sweet. You take every chance you can to get him outside even if he's not very fond of the sun. You chastise him for how pale and sickly he looks as you shove food at him, his lanky body showing obvious signs that he was not eating properly.

He simply was not hungry. Food could never satisfy him. He only ate because his body demanded so of him. And for you, of course. He would never turn down any food you gave to him. Ever.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to become sloppy. His cuts are imperfect and his concentration has never been worse. He stares down at the corpse on his steel table, the bright light above him giving the dead hunk of flesh an unearthly aura of peace. With his gloved hand he reached for the poor victims cheeks, which have now gone hollow and dead. Your face suddenly flashes through his head, your giggles filling his ears, in a manner similar to that of when a person is submerged under water.

What would happen if this were you?

He never could have imagined that he could ever be this charmed by another human being.

For his entire life all he has ever had were his books, notes and his own gloomy company. He was not deserving of someone like you, a creature that thrived among the living. He suddenly stabbed the corpse beneath him with his scalpel, his hand shaking from the rage which overtook him.

Why couldn't he be alive like that?

What was wrong with him?

He could never get along with human beings, no matter how hard he tried. He stopped trying ages ago because the harder he tried, the more he failed.

There was no denying the fact that he was a freak of nature.

An abomination.

If he cannot function around the living he could always turn towards the dead. They made for much better company anyway, always there to listen to him and his woes.

It was frightening how much he relied on you now. His sanity was in your hands and you had no clue.

How cruel.

He hated you. He was beyond envious of your ability to function like a normal human being. All the things which you had perceived to be normal were nothing but pure anomalies to him. And yet, the more he hated you the more he craved you. He could never regret the decision of allowing you to enter his life. It was nice to be wanted.

He loved it when you wanted him.

Do you want him in the same manner in which he wants you? Did you possess the same wicked desires which he did? Human beings are all the same when push comes to shove. Their true colours are shown once they're faced with death.

And suddenly, he knew what he was going to do later that week.

🥀 𝐀/𝐍: I'm not good with creating original characters and I apologize for that. However! I keep having the same dream over and over and I just thought that it would be neat to turn them into entertainment for the rest of the world to see. Please share your thoughts and opinions with me, they are always highly appreciated!

#yandere #yandere x reader #yancore #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yandere scenarios #yandere male #yandere mortician #yandere mortician x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere moodboard

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

Note

Hiya!! I’m obsessed with your writing. You’re my favorite writer on here, I dream of your stories!

Would it be possible to request (either with Ghost or Price, I love them both equally) something like they were young love but he breaks up with reader cos he wants to keep her safe and thinks he knows what’s best for her. Then during a mission gone wrong, they need a safe house but somehow the enemy found out all the locations of their approved safe houses. He remembered her place is close by and tries his luck. Maybe she gets mad at him for making decisions for her or maybe he learns about her difficult past that happened without with. But with a happy ending? ☺️

Only if this inspires you! Thank you again for sharing your beautiful writings!

If You Bite My Hand Again

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: How dare he show his face to you after all of these years. How dare you still find it in yourself to love him.

WORDCOUNT: 6.6k

WARNINGS: Heavy angst, abandonment, arguments, mentions of death, blood, insinuations of torture & mental illness troubles, Simon's comic backstory, hurt/comfort, sort of suggestive?, anxiety attack, somewhat happy ending, etc.

A/N: This was really fun to write, lol, enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You never should have met him. In fact, it seemed like the universe had been adamant to make you not run into each other on that chilly October morning almost…well…it has to be more than thirteen years ago, now. So long.

As you head to your kitchen and glance at the clock, the hands point to a perfect three-fifteen—an hour of pitch-blackness and whispering winds that dash past the musty glass of the windows. The thump of your footsteps blocks out the heaving sigh that falls from your mouth; rubbing at your eyes like a cat as great bags sag from tired flesh.

The dreams weren’t uncommon.

Simon still reigned supreme in the conjuring of them, ingrained into the sinews and pulled thin by a hand constantly working them—knitting a sweater of memories addled with age. Moth-eaten.

As you snap on the light of your tiny and run-down kitchen, the bulb fizzing and the dishwasher still emitting that squeal as it always does, you think about him before grabbing a glass. Water hits and fills the thing up as your eyes blankly stare, fatigued but yet never more awake.

The tremors in your hands persist.

You never should have met him.

—

Your feet take you to Primary, laces a mess atop your little shoes caked in mud and grass—you’d chased after a butterfly through the front yards, getting caught in your neighbor's bushes and having to slip your way out before she could rampage outside with her broom.

It was no surprise that your face was lit with a bright smile, eyes shining like fire that your teachers had given you a special name for—“Ember.”

The very thing that could start a blaze over and over again as long as it still was alight.

Laughing and peeing out leaves from your hair; flattening out your uniform, you stride with pride ingrained into your body. Well, you did before you heard the soft sniffling coming from down the alley.

Halting, your ears perk at the sounds, smile freezing as you blink quickly. Looking to your left, you lock onto the hunched figure of a boy.

Perhaps only a year or two older than you, you stare in curiosity as he consciously paws at his cheeks, walking out of the alley in broken and odd strides. His uniform is ruffled, wrinkled, but not in the way yours was.

He must have fallen and hurt himself, you reason with a child-like frown pulling on your lips. Blinking at his blond hair, you get a glimpse of red-rimmed brown eyes.

The boy halts, looking at you widely, fear and pain emanating from his expression. You’re the first to speak, brightness still in your eyes but a deep innocence that comes with youth. All you saw was a boy your age in pain—that was strange to you. You knew what getting hurt was like; you fell and scraped your knees often, or hit your elbows on corners. Sometimes you would cry from that…did the same happen to this boy?

“You’re crying, aren’t you?” Brown-Eyes stares, hurriedly pushing at his face to wipe tears but only succeeds in making his face red from the material of his uniform. “Did you fall down? I do that pretty often—it’s okay, my Mum says you’ll be better after a hug and a kiss!”

You smile and stand straighter.

“I,” the boy begins, sniffling. “I didn’t fall. I’m not clumsy.”

You tilt your head, confused. “Well…then why are you crying?”

“That’s none of your business!” He snaps, brows pulled in as he comes forward on the sidewalk. Your face twists as you huff in annoyance.

“My Mum says to treat everyone nicely. That wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t bloody care, do I,” you’re sent a scathing glance as he passes. “I didn’t ask for you to speak to me. Leave me alone.”

Naturally, you follow after, cheeks gaining heat.

“You’re being mean! Apologize!”

“Would you run off already?!” The boy shouts, and perhaps something fires in that small brain of yours—a thought and a semblance of self-realization at the shame that emits from his tone. A tight squeeze of vocal cords.

He was ashamed. Ashamed you’d caught him. Seen him.

Your feet slow back to a stop, watching him hurriedly continue on and hearing the quiet gasps of breath. After a moment, you grit your teeth and run the distance; seizing him around the middle in a hug of stubby fingers and tightly closed eyes.

The boy startles, body hardening and a cry escaping his lungs. “Get off of me!” He shouts, hands snapping down to yours and digging under your hold.

“No!” You call, stubbornly. “My Mum says that hugs make everything better—”

“Stop talking about your Mum!” The boy stomps his foot to the ground, chubby cheeks turning crimson as he tilts his head back to look at you, tears still dripping off his chin.

A stiff silence falls but like a green branch on a tree, Brown-Eyes’ form twitchingly loosens, his prying hands softening as you hold tight—digging your nose into his spine. He minutely flinches, but you only hug him more.

You’re both late to the building, and your teachers are going to give you scoldings. But right now, on a chilled October morning, you hug this strange, crying boy and blink your fiery eyes up at him.

After he relaxes fully and the sniffling stops, you let go and smile brightly again, looking up into his open expression of innocent confusion. Whatever had happened, he must have fallen pretty hard, you thought, pulling out another leaf from your hair. You giggle and hand it over as a gift.

The boy hesitantly picks it up and looks at it before turning back to you.

“Call me Ember.”

A pause. A hesitation. But your eyes shimmer and he relents with the memory of the hug in the front of his mind. Such a strange encounter.

He speaks, looking away from you with flushed cheeks, muttering out as his tear streaks dry.

“...Simon.”

You walk together the rest of the way.

The reality was, if you had gotten caught by your neighbor, had snatched that butterfly—had even stayed in those bushes for three more seconds, you would have missed him. And if Simon hadn’t run out of his home crying, he never would have locked onto the burning reality that was with you.

—

You put the glass to your chapped lips and take a long sip, throat bobbing as you take down the liquid with tears burning your eyes. Blinking rapidly, you swipe at the water at the sides of your mouth and shake your head, sighing.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Your voice bounces off the walls, peeling paint and moving the dust stuck atop the fridge. “Damnit, Simon.”

Today was worse than the others—everything building and stacking like some castle of misery and pain; windows too narrow to let in any light and your form stuck in shadows longer than an endless rope. There were just so many things that suffocated you now.

And in the endless nights, the brain desperately looks for comfort.

You hate that it only comes from the memories of him.

“I have to go to work tomorrow.” Your subconscious reminds you as you blankly stare out the window above the sink, seeing the streetlights and the cone of warm light—it flickers every so often, a blinking taking place like the eye of a large, brutish, wolf.

Work, then the grocery store, then back home to eat a tasteless dinner and fall back to sleep. An empty house with empty walls and empty memories.

Your hands put the glass in the sink, coming back up to rub and dig into your eyes until the itch behind your flesh stops. A thump of a low pulse is felt in the thin skin, orbs of your optics moving before you pinch into the bridge of your nose and drop them with a slap of a hand to the counter. A harsh breath exits your mouth, but it’s quickly strangled away into a sound of ragged shock.

Outside, under the light, the silhouette of a man leans heavily on the pole, feet shaking under him and face pressed into the shadows as his shoulders heave. You stare, wide-eyed, as your heart jumps to a rapid pace.

“What the fuck?” Your mouth utters, watching the man push off the light and stagger with a heavy limp and a jerking body of immense stature. Whoever this guy was, he was out of his mind—and coming right for your front door. You startle to go and secure it, feet slapping the ground and face twisted.

“What the fuck?!” Gasping, you re-check your locks and frantically look for something else—the stool where you place your keys meets your eyes. You grab it and place it as a barrier to the handle, tilting it on two legs and blinking quickly as whatever sleep-sheen that had been in your gaze leaves in one swoop of adrenaline.

Grunting wafts in from under the door, haggard inhales and a sudden slam of a body hitting the door. You stifle a scream and back up quick steps, slapping your hands to your mouth.

Sure, you might live in a shitty neighborhood, but no one had ever tried to just straight-up break in high or drunk off something. Your mind slashes to the knives in the kitchen drawer as the wall shakes again—something sliding down to the ground and a grunted whine.

Just before you run off, you hear it. An utterance; a disruption of airwaves. A whisper, a plea. Your brain ceases to function with one foot back the way you came, hand on the frame with the knuckles tight.

In one instance it all comes to a screeching halt.

“Ember…”

Who called you that anymore? The rare instance where you’d meet your classmates in the world they would mutter it; also be asked a few questions before they went on with their lives. You pause in your panic, slowly gazing back at the barrier and the stool like you’d just discovered you’re under the sights of a sniper.

There’s a sliver of something that inserts itself into your brain. Fear or hope, you can’t tell. But that can’t be right.

He left.

“Ember!” You flinch, the deep Manchester accent grating your heart into shreds. No. “It’s me!” He says, followed by a horribly gritty cough.

There’s a weak thump against the door, mumbled curses, and growls as if a wild animal mimicking human speech. You almost wished for that, considering you now knew the exact person behind the door down to his atoms. The brown of his eyes and the way his cheeks looked as they were stained with tears.

His laugh. Simon’s voice. Everything.

Simon.

You’re rushing to rip the stool away with a clatter and a jerk as it hits the far wall, undoing the locks with shaking hands as you grasp the handle and wrench it sideways.

His form slams to your feet with a loud grunt as the door hits the wall.

“Fuckin’ hell! Mind your bloody—!” Whatever he said was lost to you as you stare at the bloodied form of the man you had thought you’d seen the last of. Tactical gear, terrifying skull mask, black on black with weapons galore. But that voice told you all you needed to know.

Simon Riley is alive and very much breathing.

The same boy you still loved.

The same boy who’d broken your heart.

—

After October the years with Simon seemed to strengthen. You always walked together in the mornings—or, at least, you always waited for him. The dawn of your friendship strengthened and hardened to an unbreakable amount of mid-day rays; vast and sunny.

When he was sixteen he asked you to be his girlfriend, hand in his pockets and ache on his chin as he grunted out broken sentences. Stuttering and awkward. You’d smiled with your bright eyes and giggled before kissing his cheek—feeling his sigh and him melting into you with a grin of his own, unable to meet your eyes for a moment.

Later, when he said he’d wanted to leave his apprenticeship at the grocery’s butcher shop and join the Special Air Service, you’d been along for the ride—anything to get him away from his father and brother. You knew what was going on, even if he was still so hesitant to allow you any glimpse of his home life.

When he’d shy away at the Halloween decorations of skeletons as if the skull would jump off the page and tense at loud cheering, you knew. You did what you could, but there was only so much for you to suggest or say without him shutting down.

When you’d offered your flat as a safe space after graduation, desperate to help your Lover, he’d stared and blinked in shock; tilting his head at you before smiling softly and taking you into a hug. Wherever he went, he knew he’d always have a place by your side.

So, throughout his leaves of absence from the military, he’d come home to you—bruised and tired, but still the same Simon you fell in love with. You’d cook for him, tease at his shaved hair as he gave you those puppy-dog eyes, and talked him through your classes at University.

You would fall asleep on his chest, feeling the hard strength he was gaining and the way he held you tighter than he ever had; conscious of himself but not wanting to part with you.

The love the both of you had was akin to a blaze of fire, and you often found Simon simply staring into your eyes in times like those—watching silently and rubbing his thumb along your spine until your face burned.

He was always so gentle despite everything; you loved his perseverance, his drive to be good despite nearly every factor telling him he couldn’t be. Slowly but surely, he was forging his own life.

In 2003 he managed to take a break from the military to get his family straightened out. His brother, Tommy, went to rehab—Simon stayed with his mother and a year later he kicked his father to the curb and out of his and his family's life entirely. Finally free.

You managed to meet his lovely mum, still so bright, and even interacted with Tommy once he got out; went to the younger brother’s wedding in ‘06 and met Beth, his wife. When you saw Simon’s mother and the way she carried herself, you knew where your Love got his pride from. The two were so alike it was a sight to see.

While it may not have been conventional by any standard, Simon proposed to you in the back garden of Tommy’s cheap wedding venue. Alone, so as not to cause a scene. Willow trees and a small stream of water. Fireflies. The words ring in your soul with every waking moment, and they will stay there until it all goes silent with the grip of death.

He didn’t want to use his mum’s ring—the one that holds so many bad memories for both parties. He’d used the gold from it though. Went to a man who bled him dry for money to have it re-cast.

It was simple. A small, glinting, ruby pressed in the middle.

“It was always goin’ to be you, Ember, yeah?” he’d muttered in his deeper voice, formal attire holding you both tight. “So…don’t make me beg too much, Sweetheart. You know the old lady’ll kill me if I get stains on my suit.”

“Beg?” You responded, tears in your eyes but such a wide grin on your lips. The stars above you twinkle like the pupils of your eyes—the same burn still trapped. “Oh, Simon, come on, now.” He connects his forehead to yours, hand still in the middle of you and presenting the accumulation of all of his love. The other wraps your waist.

He was shaking slightly.

“I would never make you beg for my love, Brown-Eyes.”

You both share a breathless chuckle and lock lips, smiling like fools as he sighs into you.

In a happy world, that would have been the beginning of a perfect life. A happy house. A happy wedding. Happy deaths.

But something went wrong on one of his deployments.

Missing for months, he came back…wrong. With a fiery temper and sharp snapping words—wounds on the outside as well as inside. His eyes were feral, like a dog held back by a broken chain carting around its feet.

Simon never spoke about it—the missing days. The weeks. The months.

You broke yourself over it, trying to help but not knowing what would make it better. Some days there were flickers of soft expressions, but it was as if he were dragging himself up from a pool so deep it was bottomless to show them to you. Simon rarely smiled. He rarely sent an affectionate glance.

He didn’t let you touch him.

And then he called the entire engagement off with a letter on your counter only holding four words.

‘Don’t look for me.’

And then Simon’s mum, Tommy, Beth, and his nephew had all died. Been killed. And you were just supposed to move on? Live with that? There were times when you had breakdowns so bad you couldn't leave the house for days—the house that Simon and you had bought together.

All of those years.

All those vows and shared nights.

And he disappeared on you.

—

You have him sitting on the couch, watching silently from the chair across the room as he finishes wrapping his leg with the bandages from the first-aid kit you’d provided.

More like chucked at his gut.

No one had said a word, and the air was as tense as a noose—choking any oxygen that traveled into your throat. Simon was getting blood all over your flat cushions, the crimson saturating the fabric as you sit rail-rod straight, hand clenched on your thighs.

Simon’s avoiding your eyes.

“Take off the mask,” you hiss, pupils slits. If he wasn’t going to address it, then you were. Simon freezes, not breathing as his hands fall stationary around the bandages.

“I’ll be fine in a while—”

“Take off your fucking mask, Simon.” You can’t help the way you snap, face burning with shame and hate. How dare he show up now, after all of these years of mourning him and the relationship you’d built as kids. Simon wasn’t just your boyfriend—your fiancé—he was your best friend.

And all he’d done was left you a four-fucking-letter note before leaving you behind.

The geared man sighs silently, and you see his shoulders sag. His grip travels up as he straightens his spine in a fluid motion, pain medication working through him in waves of numbness.

His brown eyes bore through you as if he were a ghost. Under the fabric, his mouth thins. “Ma’am.”

Even his voice is older. More dead. How could this be your Simon?

Your heart bruises your ribcage as he grasps the top of his skeletal mask, gloved fingers peeling back the sown layers until you get the full image of a man more damaged than before. You have to stop yourself from sobbing right then and there; your throat going dry.

So many scars. Milky white and spread vastly—they weren’t pretty. Up his cheeks, down his brow line; even at the corner of his mouth and seeping down his neck. A crooked nose with damaged cartilage. Strangling a gasp, it comes out as a great expelling of horror, eyes going wide with shock.

You hate how you want to rush to him, take his face in your hands, and try to brush them away as if marks on paper. But you don’t make any such movements beyond a hunch of your shoulders.

“Not pretty, eh? Guess I should’ve warned you.” Simon rubs at his forehead, blond locks, hanging around his temple, and the black of face-paint stuck in his sockets. “Didn’t mean to fuckin’ drop in like this, Ember. Bloody bastard thing for me to do.”

You flinch at the name, looking away as you’d been peeling back his skin with your eyes. “What are you doing here, Simon?” Anyone with a brain could hear the cracking hardness in your words. Face blank.

He studies your features, taking in the changes and the bleakness of your expression. Brows furrow slightly before they go back to a state of nothingness. Simon glances around the room, finding the condition of things concerning but doesn’t show it.

“Nothin’ you need to worry about comin’ back to you, Sweetheart. Just work.”

“It is when the bastard who abandoned me shows up years later, bloody on my doorstep. Stop acting so self-righteous,” you growl, snapping, “I should toss your arse outside and let them have you. And don’t fucking call me that.”

Silence descends, and your words echo. It’s like now that he was here everything hurt ten times more than when he wasn’t.

“I never wanted us to end up like we did—”

“Bullshit!” You’re on your feet and stalking to him, pointing with your finger as he hurriedly stands up as well and looks down in shock as you press your digit into his bulky vest. “You shut your mouth, Simon Riley, and you let me explain something to you.”

He keeps silent, mouth parted and scars shifting around his stubble. His hands slightly held out at his sides and hovering over your hips—not touching you but there just in case. Simon’s brown ords are carefully widened at your tight exclamation. The sound of his clearing throat enters the living room before you speak again.

“I waited for you, hoped and prayed that you would show me at least a,” your throat bunches, but you push through. “A modicum of respect and show your stubborn self up at my door with apology flowers and a guilty smile on your lips. You know who took care of your family's burial plots, you fucking piece of shit,” his eyes flinch closed a bit, turning his head down as his breath hitches. “Me! You fucking disappeared!”

You know you shouldn’t be yelling, shouldn’t be pounding on his chest with a fist as if he was a door and you the knocker, but, dammit, it’s been years and he just shows up? Like this? Ten times the size he was—scarred and torn to shreds; laced with muscles and an expression of vacancy. Simon holds to your words, hanging off of them with a down-ward turned chin and eyes that lock with yours through pale lashes.

“Maybe I-I did, o…or pushed some things that I shouldn’t have,” you hold back your tears, but your voice still wavers, tapering off like a line without a hook, “but I didn’t deserve that, Simon.” The first traitorous sob breaks through. “I didn’t deserve that.”

His eyes shatter into a myriad of kaleidoscope bits and pieces, brows flicking from one point on your face to another in quick slashes of guilt. But he still doesn’t touch you. Not until you tell him it’s what you want.

Simon opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly, unable to find any words that would even matter. You let your tears slip down your cheeks, dribbling off your chin. The man’s chest hurts, pulse thumping to mirror yours.

“I waited for you and you broke me,” you whisper, mouth twisting with odium towards the man under your fist. “I wanted a life with you, Simon, no matter the trials.”

“I didn’t mean to…” The man trails off, clenching his jaw. You scoff, backing up a step and pressing your palms into your eyes.

“But you did.”

“I had to keep you safe, Ember.” Simon’s fingers twitch outward, eyes frantically moving around as you sniffle and shakily walk away to the kitchen. He follows, desperately on your heels as your spine bows forward with resounding cries of anguish. “I...I wasn’t right in the head, I need you to understand I didn’t want this! I never wanted to fucking hurt you!”

Your hand connects with the junk drawer, tearing it open and digging a hand inside as he pleads with you to listen.

“If I didn’t leave I was worried I’d do something—!”

“Then you should have trusted me!” Your hands rip out the ring held on a small leather strap. The ruby glints where it always sits, held in tarnished gold. You chuck it at his chest and suck down breaths so you don’t pass out. “I would have listened! Gotten you help! We don’t abandon the ones we love, Simon! Not us!”

Simon catches the object by slapping a hand to his chest, pinky finger latching through the leather cord before he jerks his limb back up. When he looks at the ring, he goes utterly still, gazing back up at you slowly.

“We were supposed to be different,” you sob, trapping it behind your hands. He’s shaking, brows tight and lines along his face as he brings a free hand to run through his locks, gripping the strands for a moment and pulling. “Simon,” you say again, and he looks back at you with glossy eyes. “We were supposed to be better.”

“What did I do to you to deserve that,” he stares, his jaw is loose and he can’t stop clenching and unclenching it. You can see his heart working through his breast. Bloodied. Beaten by fists and slashed with knives. “What did I do to you?”

“Nothing,” he gasps, taking a step forward. “Fuck, Ember, you didn’t bloody do anything to me besides love me.”

You sputter out, “Then why did you leave me here alone?” Your knees buckle and he darts forward, catching you under the arms as you wail out, shoving on his waist, “You never should have come back. Never should have come back.”

He lets you push him off; lets you back up to the counter as Simon tilts his head higher to stave off the tears in the sides of his eyes. He’d known coming here was a bad idea, for lack of a better word, but after the Op went bad and all of his safe houses were compromised, he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t to say he didn’t regret his actions in the past with you, or that he didn’t punish himself for them, yet at the time it was the only thing he could do to give him the sense that you would be better without him. Safe.

After everything that had happened, he wasn’t in the right state of mind anymore. You deserved so much better. But hearing all of this…

Christ, could he have been wrong? Everything blurred; hurt. Hearing your sobs was like a knife to his heart every time, digging and cutting with serrated edges at the veins and pumping muscle, carving away flesh to shed the pounding redness to light. You held that heart in your hand and in his he held the ring—the ring he’d given to you as a promise of love and honor.

A pact of loyalty.

Simon doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the blurring edges of his vision make itself known. His eyes bore harshly, prodding into you as he makes known what he’s been broken since he first locked gazes with you again. The man’s voice shakes, accent deep and tight.

He asks the first thing that comes to his head.

“What happened to your eyes?”

“What?” You ask, incredulously, brows furrowed as your hand digs into the counter to keep you upright. Simon stares deeper, the sides of his eyelids wrinkling with a not-so-hidden sheen of great concern. Unbearable pain.

“What happened to your bloody eyes?” Where had the spark gone? That flare that grew and spread like fire that was the entire purpose behind your name. An unconquerable ache for life.

You only watch him with a parted mouth and tear-stained lashes, sniffling. Simon tries again, taking a step forward on unsteady feet.

“Please, Sweetheart, d…don’t, don’t…” He can’t finish, the leather cord intertwined into his fingers as he comes closer. “Don’t tell me I took it away. Not my Ember. Not my Girl’s fire.”

Your eyes are so overflowed you can’t even see him as he hovers over you, fingers coming up to brush your cheeks as his mouth is open in hard pants of breath. “No, no, no. Fuckin’ bastard, not me. Not over me, please.” It’s like Simon’s not even talking to you but rather himself.

He mutters in fast sentences, eyes panicked. “You were supposed to be better off—‘posed to move on. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you find someone else?”

“You’re an idiot, Simon. An idiot,” you sag into his neck, nose digging into his pulse as he quivers, legs having to reset themselves. His heat melts into you as your body gives out with a final sob, “It was always going to be you.”

His arms snap around you like a vise, dragging you into him as he breaks and stifles his whimper on your scalp, breathing right by your ear; gasping for breath.

“M’sorry,” he mutters, so silent below his sniveling stutters, “M’so sorry, Sweetheart. This is all my fucking fault.”

You shake into his chest, face nuzzling and desperate to smell his scent again—tired from all the yelling and fighting. It was still late, you still needed to go to work tomorrow…but Simon.

Oh, Simon. How could he be so…him?

Your sobs are quieter than his, tiny cries that make the man’s arms tighten around you every time. Hands coming up, you can’t stop the way you want to hold him; how you wish to keep him close to you and push him away all at once. How dare he?

How dare he still make you love him after all he’d put you through?

Simon sags to the floor with you in his hold, head bowed and trying to gasp down his vulnerability as tears stain your shoulder. It’s as if the realization that he’d made a mistake had broken him back down to when he was young, past hatred of messing up infesting his brain like maggots. A fear of it, even.

The man presses quick, panicked kisses to your neck as his breath hitches every other second, rocking you back and forth.

“Didn’t mean to do it,” Simon utters. “Didn’t mean for it to hurt you—”

He breaks off and you realize that despite the years Simon’s mind was still very much fragile when it came to home life. You blink and take a deep breath, unable to get out of his unrelenting grip.

Your hand travels up to find the back of his head, spreading through his hair and massaging his flesh. When things got bad you used to do this with him. Give the man something to focus on so he could pass through his hysteria quicker.

Simon’s ribcage bangs against yours, nearly hyperventilating with how he’s trying to hide his small grunts and whines.

“Simon,” you clear your throat, trying to calm yourself down as seriousness sets in your tone. “Simon, breathe.”

Your ears twitch, noticing him listen to you as he takes down a long gasp of air and breathes out in puffs on your neck—hot and humid.

“Ember…”

“Shh,” interrupting, you shush him in tiny whispers, still rubbing at his head. “Brown-Eyes, just sit here, okay?” You feel a jerky nod, his fingers squeezing your flesh off and on as he mimics your own lung pattern.

It’s a few minutes before he goes completely still again, and you feel the burn of shame from his face in your clutch. The relationship was strained—or whatever you could call this—but you never wanted to see him in pain. Never.

You knew he was better when he sighs deeply, completely going limp in your arms; great weight leaning into you as you lean back to the cabinets to help with the pure might of his physique. With a slow hand, you un-velcro his vest and his gear, letting it hit the floor with dull thumps and clatters.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t move to help or hinder. You would give anything to know what he was thinking.

“M’sorry,” Simon whispers and you respond accordingly, softly.

“You’ve already said that, Love.” He grunts, taking in a long, deep breath.

“Need you t’know it.”

“...I do.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes and stave off your anger at everything happening right now. While it would feel better to yell at him until dawn, what would that even achieve? Everything had needed to be said, had been. And you’d never felt lighter than at this moment.

You knock your head against him, the both of you panting for breath and hands vibrating with leaving adrenaline. Sweaty and twitchy.

“You never should have done that, Simon.” Whispering, you sigh. “I needed you. I needed you here. With me.” He stays still, but you feel his lips press deeper into your pulse. You’re practically in his lap, back to the woodgrain.

In a moment of weakness, or pure longing, you pull his head back and situate your hands at his cheeks, looking over his scars and his broken skin as he lets you move him how you wish. His half-lidded, red, eyes stare—grip around you not letting up.

Simon doesn’t speak as, unprompted, you kiss the shattered bridge of his nose; you only feel the fluttering of his lashes as they tickle your cheeks.

“I was scared of myself.” He mutters. “After they died…” His family. “I didn’t want to put you in danger, Ember. Not you.”

“We would have figured it out, Simon. You know that, deep down, you do.” Brown eyes find yours as you tilt his head.

“You sure?” He asks, desperate for an answer even though he doesn’t know himself.

Thumbs run up and down his stubble. Your face creases, “...I don’t know. But we could have tried.”

Simon’s eyes close tightly, and his face tilts to press his lips to your palm, quivering breath exhaled with the strength of an open balloon. Your ring was still stuck in his digging grip, and it was never going to leave for the rest of the night.

“Yeah,” he whispers, gravely voice lax.

Studying him now, in this light, knowing he was so afraid of what he might do if he got into an episode, you were stabbed with agony in your heart. To be that afraid of yourself to that magnitude was nearly unimaginable to you.

Nearly.

“What now?” You ask lowly, the last remnants of tears drying as Simon opens his eyes slowly, looking back at you.

“Don’t know.” He admits. “I have to leave.”

“I have work tomorrow,” you relate. Your teeth find your lip, biting it.

A small awkward chokehold captures the both of you. The reality was that both of you were akin to strangers again—such was the curse of lost years and trials you’d faced along the way.

Brown-Eyes and Ember were dead, yet you still called their names like phantoms of sleek black fabric and chained recollections of a boy with red cheeks and a girl with muddy shoes. The walks to school were there, the dates, and the late nights spent in good company. Touches to skin and open-mouthed kisses. Fireflies that whizzed and the glinting of gold as wind ran through the willows.

Dark corruption stained the faint idea of happiness; of a good world. This was not reality. It was some joke of an existence.

If life were fair, Simon Riley would have never grown up in that house—his father wouldn’t have latched onto his brother and done dark deeds to wrap the little brown-eyed boy in red tissue paper and barbed wire. A present and sheen of mild sociopathy; separation of any pain or torment. A fighting boy. A boy born with blood on his hands and stuck behind his eyes every time he swung a fist.

It was a curse to love him. And it was a curse that burned your soul with his very name.

“Are you going to go?” You ask, eyes blank but yearning for what little comfort you can grab. It had been so long. Simon blinks, his head still in your hands; body not moving.

He knows he should. He isn’t sure if there’s anything left for him here or not.

Simon connects his head to yours and you still. “Do you want me to?”

“Do you love me?” You blurt, blinking at him and confused. Simon’s lips part. “Or if you walk out that door do I plan on never seeing you again?”

You're about to open your mouth and continue before his own slots perfectly against it.

You gasp lightly, taken aback but in no way opposed. He still felt exactly the same, flesh still tasting metallic and tinged with violence down to his DNA; raised with survival instincts as his greatest ally. Until you.

With you survival became secondary.

Your hands go to card through his hair, latching and lightly pulling as Simon’s body shivers; growling against your lips in a dance of heated flesh and damp cheeks. Hearts hammer with the restraint of years.

“I would never make you beg for my love,” he murmurs between lapsing passes of his mouth, open kisses and dark glances. “Tell me where you want me to be.”

You whimper against him and he goes back in, pressing the base of your skull to the cabinet as hands grip and slide, kneading your skin.

“Tell me,” Simon whispers. Pleads through grunts. “Ember, tell me.”

“Here,” you admit brokenly, pulling him closer to you as you’re lifted and placed on the countertop. “I need you here, Simon. I need you with me.”

Fingers capture your chin, keeping your head angled up as your eyes beg. Lips bush with every word, gazes wild as if two leopards locking jaws over a kill.

“Fight to get me back.” Brown sparks with purpose, a small puff of air hitting your mouth as eyes darken over. In this moment, you do not know if you’re dying or living. “Make it right.”

“Affirmative.” Simon moves his head back, taking your ring and looping the cord around his neck, he keeps it there as you watch, breathless. Your face creases with question. The man’s lips flicker when he sees this, coming back and grasping your hips as you instinctually latch to his waist.

“I’ll give it back when I’ve earned the right for you to be called mine again. Seems I have work to do, Sweetheart.” He kisses you once more, firm and true. “First, I’ll ‘ave to figure out if my Girl can get her spark back, yeah? I’ve proper gone and fucked it up.”

That night you lay in the heap of limbs and sheets that couple the both of you together. In the morning the questions would start, and Simon knew you’d take nothing short of the truth.

And he’d give you it. All of it.

Because Simon Riley knows well enough that you don’t go and bite the hand that feeds twice. Certainly not when it was you. Certainly not when it offers a love he would never hope to find again, in this life or the next.

So you keep the other close and sag into a deep slumber, not to wake for a long, long time.

And you’d both never slept better

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

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queenimmadolla · 2 months

Text

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

Summary: Tired of seeing Eddie with other women, you reflect on how much longer you can take it.

Warnings: no mentions of y/n, fem!reader, heavy on the angst, hurt with attempts to comfort, both reader and Eddie are bad at feelings, self-deprecation, Eddie is toxic and doesn’t know why, infidelity (but not technically), no happy ending.

The house is quiet as the front door creaks open, you’re quick to slip inside—chill of the October air nipping at your back. The lights are all off and your arms curl around your exposed midsection. It was colder outside but still chilly in your home, your parents out of town on a romantic anniversary road trip.

You sigh, tossing your keys on the table to run around searching for in the morning, and make your way to your room with a quick detour at the thermostat to turn on the heat. It’s a blind fumble to reach the antique lamp, once you enter your bedroom, but you refuse to use the overhead light. It would cast your room in non-aesthetic lighting, and you’re already annoyed, pissed off and depressed enough.

An irritated breath is huffed from your lips, top lip curling as you recall the very reason for your negative attitude, hands yanking your top right over your head. It’s only when you’re in your pajamas, faced with your own reflection as you prepare to remove the makeup that had been so empowering to put on but you can now feel on your face like an unpleasant mask, that you allow the hot tears of anger and hurt to fall. You almost want to laugh at yourself, mouth curling into a bitter smile as you swipe the ponds cream all over your face. As you massage it in, making sure to focus on your eyes, the smile wavers, corners tugging down as moisture still leaks from your clenched eyelids.

You don’t have to be mean to yourself, you shouldn't. Not when the guy you’re in love with already does such a good job of it.

You purse your lips, trying to hold back sobs as you recall the images of him all over a girl you didn’t know at a party he’d convinced you to go to. You couldn’t even describe her, couldn’t remember what she looked like—all you saw was your Eddie, the guy who drove you to and picked you up from work, took you on cute dates involving picnic baskets, fields, lakes, empty lots to stargaze in, nearly empty movie auditoriums so the two of you could canoodle, your tongues tasting each other as the two lovers on screen professed their undying love.

He even bought you stuffed animals, would pretend to give them life and personalities to go with it, all to amuse you. Did arts and fucking crafts with you.

But anytime you so much as brought up the status of your relationship, he’d wave it off, claiming labels were for Petri dishes, not people.

You were his girl and that’s all that mattered.

It’s what you’d repeated in your head the first time you’d seen him playing with Bianca Anderson’s fingers while the two of them were tucked away in the corner of the hideout, after one of Corroded Coffin’s sets. And again when you’d stumbled out of Rick’s house party to see him laid out on the grass, his head in the lap of a former cheerleader from high school he used to admire, her head bowed to connect their lips and his hands in her hair.

By the time he was tugging at Tina’s hair, playfully shouldering her while they stood in front of the bonfire at another gathering, you’d stopped repeating it in your head. Not even when you watched her lead him to her car.

You lost count of how many times Eddie had made other girls his, too.

And like some pathetic worm with no backbone, you let him. Okay—it’s not like you could physically stop them, though tonight your drink had ended up all over him, maybe that put a little stutter in his plans. But there wouldn’t be a too if you just fucking stopped.

Just . . .stopped.

Stopped taking his calls, stopped answering your door for him, your window, let your co-worker take over the counter the moment he stepped in, stopped looking for his car, stopped thinking about him and that stupid fucking dimple, stopped thinking about how special you felt when he had your naked body pressed against his under the warmth of blankets, his rough fingertips tracing over your sweaty shoulder. How he’d always get so tender, pull you even closer and whisper how much you meant to him while pressing slow kisses to your face. How he never wanted to lose you, wouldn’t know what to do, couldn’t live. It was the sweetest agony.

Most of all, you wish he would stop being there in the morning, all soft breaths and fluttering lashes as he tried to be as close to you as he could, even in a deep slumber. It’s how you know he means it. He means everything he tells you. There is truth to those sweet nothings, declarations, proclamations. You know it.

And that’s why it all hurt so bad, because you know he cares about you as much as he says he does and he still always fucking hurts you, always breaks your heart, but because you know he cares, you’d just let him back in like some fucking clown.

He gets to break you over and over again and you let him because he always puts the pieces back together.

You know what people say about you—everyone knows the two of you are involved and they’d see him out and about with others. Your fumbling answers about what the two of you aren’t just make it clear to them that you’re a doormat and you can’t even deny it. Just avoid their pitiful looks thrown your way.

After washing your face, you take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror; eyes rimmed red, lashes clustering together, face etched in misery. When you can’t stand the person on the other side of the mirror any longer, you flip the light switch and leave the bathroom, pick your favorite tape to listen to, set the volume low and slip into bed.

You’d teetered with the idea of smoking a little, but that would just stave off the heartbreak. Might as well feel it in the moment while you still have the sense of mind before—

Knock, knock, knock.

A humorless chuckle escapes you, muffled into your pillow as your eyes slip shut. Sometimes by the front door, just about always by the window. You think it’s another one of his little relationship doorstops; can’t be serious with you if he uses your window to sneak into your house, it’s much too intimate to walk through your front door.

Of course, he can’t let you have a moment of peace, not even when you’re down. No, he has to fix you now. That’s how the toxic cycle goes. So, dutifully, you play your part, though this time, things have changed.

You toss the blankets off and pad over to your window but you don’t open it right away. Instead, you stare at him. Take him in.

Eddie is in different attire, shirt and jeans swapped out for one of his old club shirts and some sweats. His hair isn’t as voluminous, it’s wet. He’d had to shower to rid himself of your wine cooler. There’s no trace of the Eddie you saw at the party, this one has eyes filled with sorrow and depth, almost like he’s known nothing else. You know better.

Please, he mouths through the glass. You stare a beat longer before the latch is unlocked and he’s hastily pulling it open, clambering in ungracefully.

As you watch him gain his footing, part of you wants to taunt yourself about how you’ve let this man, so below your league and wonderful, ruin your life. He’s hot, sure, but you're hotter. That’s just the truth. You denied it a lot at the beginning of your shitty cherished relationship, felt so insecure to have a man like him paying you attention when he can have everyone. But he was no man. And he still had everyone along with you. Those pitting glances weren’t just because of what you let him put you through, it was because they knew you could do better.

For some reason, the idiot who got his shoe caught on the window sill is the one your heart wants.

God, you hate him.

Rolling your eyes, you go back to your bed, climbing back into your warm blankets. Your back is to him, yet you can still feel his hesitance, see the look on his face, how his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. His stare is intense but it doesn’t unnerve you. Not this time. You feel the bed dip as he climbs in behind you.

There’s still some distance between the two of you, you can tell he’s uncertain. Then, he scuttles forward until he’s pressed to your back, arm slipping around your middle to drag you impossibly closer.

He’s surrounding you, the scent of Eddie’s all-in-one shampoo and body wash filling your nostrils, underlying smell of the joint he’d smoked to calm his nerves before coming over, and the cheap body spray he’d soaked himself in to try and hide it.

“I didn’t fuck her,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Swear I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

You don’t say anything, just stare at the poster of Roxette pinned to your wall. His arm tightens around you and you can feel his heart hammering against your back.

“I-I couldn’t do that to you,” he continues and you huff, that bitter smile from earlier returning. Eddie goes stiff behind you, but he has nothing to worry about. You won’t kick him out, won't toss him to the curb like you should. You both know you won’t. He knows you should, knows he hurts you and he honest to god doesn’t know why. Couldn’t tell anyone to save his own life.

He just—he just fucks shit up. It’s not self-sabotage because Eddie knows he risks losing you and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to exist in a world where you don’t want him, don’t want to be with him.

But he still does it anyway. Still goes and kisses girls knowing you’re watching, does worse when you’re not.

The worst part—other than hurting you—is that he doesn’t even want them. Not really. Other than in that moment, Eddie couldn’t give a single shit about them beyond being a Good Samaritan. It’s you he wants all the time.

You’re the only constant thing he needs in his life, wants around him all the time, craves, lusts after, loves, cherishes. For the rest of his life. But Eddie hurts you, and he doesn’t know why.

That’s why he can’t be your boyfriend. Evidently, he’d be a shit one. Not that he’s doing a spectacular job being your…whatever it is he was, whatever the two of you were.

Yes, he always fucks up, but he keeps part of you safe from him by not being your boyfriend. One day, you’ll leave him.

He knows it. It scares the shit out of him and he prays to deities he doesn’t really believe in that it won’t happen, that he’ll get this shit together and make right by you, but he knows you’ll leave him. You genuinely deserve better.

“I wish I didn’t know you,” Eddie tenses once more at your voice, at your statement. It’s said with nonchalance, like you were commenting on the weather. He relaxes, heart clenching in pain as he somehow holds you even tighter.

“I know.”

“I hate that I love you. Wish I would just stop.” You shimmy around until you’re facing him, Eddie’s hold on you loosens to allow it, and when you’re settled, he pulls you close again, your nose nudging along the neckline of his shirt.

“I know.” He whispers out again, vision blurring with unshed tears. He loves you, too. Neither of you ever say it directly, just make references to it.

“I will, though. Maybe not tonight, but I won’t always love you.” It’s said with certainty. You’ll take this treatment for now, but you know you won’t forever. Despite the pathetic place you’d found yourself in tonight, again, you’re making strides. Gone was the loser who would just watch him betray you after spending the entire day making you feel like the two of you were the only ones on earth who mattered. Tonight, you’d stepped in. You were growing more self aware. Soon, you would stop answering the door. Stop answering his calls. Stop loving him.

And you’d look back and cringe, maybe laugh with your friends about how stupid and naive you’d been. You’d move on, too. Meet someone who treats you as good as Eddie does when he isn’t sucking another girl’s face. They won’t kiss or fuck anyone else, they’ll only ever know you from the moment that spark ignites. You might worry from time to time, effects from Eddie, but they’ll gently coax it out of you, build your trust up and one day you won’t worry. All you’ll know is their love.

Yeah, you’d stop loving him.

Eddie makes an indistinguishable sound, you know he’s fighting sniffles. Can hear the emotion in his voice, “I know.”

You nuzzle your face into his chest before your cheek settles there, listening to the fast paced beating coming from within it and you wonder if it’ll happen tomorrow. If you’ll wake up, see Eddie sleeping in your bed, and have your first thought be how much you want him out of it and away from you without a trace of fondness for him. You’ll just wake up and not love him anymore.

You slip a leg between his to tangle your limbs, breathing in his scent as deeply as you can when your eyelids flutter shut.

And while you spend your last moments of consciousness hoping tonight’s the last night you’ll let him hold you, Eddie spends the rest of it wide awake, and hoping. Hoping if he doesn’t fall asleep, he won’t wake up to you telling him you don’t love him. Hoping he’ll miraculously become a better person for you overnight. Hoping he won’t lose you.

Hoping you’ll always be his girl.

divider ℗ cafekitsune ♡

#Eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson x black!reader #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction

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eddies-ashtray · 10 months

Note

Okay but: Eddie and fem!reader. Maybe they’re lab partners or friends or something, and Eddie has had a crush on reader FOREVER, so long that he’s just about given up on it being reciprocated. Like “I’ve come to terms with it, I’ll just pine from afar forever.” But one day reader just flat out says she likes him, or like “are you ever going to ask me out or????” and he is just absolutely floored.

Thank you for the request, anon! I hope you like what I came up with!

(Content: Lots of oblivious Eddie, a splash of oblivious reader, childhood bullying, pining Eddie, vague references to biology shit I know nothing about (sincerely, a humanities major), & a completely unnecessary backstory).

WC: 2.2k

♡*♡*♡

Eddie hadn’t always lived in Hawkins, Indiana with uncle Wayne. For his first few years, he lived with his mother and father in the city of Indianapolis. Then, when his mother passed away when Eddie was seven, and his father could no longer afford to live where they had always lived, they moved back to his fathers hometown of Hawkins.

Eddie knew right away he disliked being the new kid at Hawkins Elementary. He knew no one and no one knew him, but they all knew each other. He felt like a zoo animal; something foreign and strange for the other kids to gawk at from a safe distance, but never someone to approach, never someone to play with at recess. He was ignored and simultaneously singled out and picked on constantly.

One chilly October morning at first recess when the leaves had just begun to turn, Eddie perched on the swing in the playground, once again alone. As he stared into the damp sand beneath him, the grating sound of a familiar voice shouting took him off guard.

Instinctively, he looked up, small hands clutching the cool chain links of the swing and watched as Andy approached. He felt his stomach drop like it had when his mom took him to the fair and let him ride the kiddie coaster when he was five.

“Get off the swing, it’s my turn now,” demanded Andy when he stopped in front of Eddie on the swing.

“But…there are other swings,” Eddie said meekly, pointing to the other three swings to his left, gently swaying in the breeze.

“Yeah, but you’re on my swing!” Andy argued.

Eddie felt something else bubbling up inside him, different from the usual humiliation he felt when confronted with Andy or any of the others who saw him as an easy target. Something that quickened his breath and made his fists tighten on the chains.

“It’s not your swing!” Eddie argued back. This was the first time he had ever done so in his weeks at his new school.

As soon as he’d said it, as soon as he’d let the anger bubble over, he regretted it. Because Andy took two steps forward and before Eddie could even process what was happening, Andy shoved Eddie off the swing.

He fell into the sand with a thud, a dull ache immediately throbbing on his tailbone. And though he’d had worse injuries and the soft sand helped to break his fall, he still felt hot tears brim in his eyes and his bottom lip wobble as Andy cackled cruelly and took his seat on his swing.

But before the tears could spill over and cause him further humiliation, a small hand came into view, one outstretched to him where he lay in the sand. The hand was attached to an arm, a body, a face which he had never seen before. This girl was not in his class, though she looked to be about his age.

Eddie didn’t trust the hand, worried this was going to be another cruel joke. So he continued to lay in the sand, unmoving.

“C’mon, let’s go play over there,” she said, looking back at the play structure with the rusted monkey bars and silver metal slide.

And because she just seemed like she wanted someone to play with, Eddie decided to trust her. So, he took her hand and she helped him up, both of them grunting with the effort of it.

“I’m Y/N, what’s your name?” The girl said as they walked away from the swings.

“Eddie,” He sniffled.

And, so, ever since you had shown him that small kindness, Eddie had been quite enamoured with you. Though you had not become close friends after that day, Eddie remained grateful for what you had done for him. You had shown him that he wasn’t alone and that people could be kind.

Eventually, he found his people, but you always had a special place in his heart.

***

About a decade later, Eddie finally, miraculously, gets paired with you in biology. After all these years of admiring from afar and (as much as he hates to admit it) pining after you, he finally had an excuse to talk to you, to get to know the very first person in Hawkins to ever show him kindness.

“Hey, did you want to come over after school so we can finish filling out this worksheet? I know it’s not due until the end of next week, but if we get this done today, we can get to work on the final assignment,” You say, absentmindedly shuffling through weeks of notes and worksheets.

But Eddie doesn’t hear what you’re saying despite the fact that his eyes are on you. That’s the problem, really. Of course, he loves the sound of your voice, is eager to listen to anything you have to say, thinks he could listen to you talk about all the different shades of white in the colour spectrum or the different types of bricks that there are for hours on end.

But today, you wore a new lip gloss that made it nearly impossible for Eddie to focus on anything but the shiny pout of your lips.

Finally, you look up from your assorted papers, your pretty eyes (God, you have such pretty eyes) connecting with his.

“Eddie? You okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah. Totally…What were you saying?” He asks, head dipping lower so he can hear you over the din of the busy classroom.

You lean in slightly, unconsciously, before you repeat yourself, and he can feel your soft breath on his skin. Eddie forces himself to suppress a shiver as goosebumps raise on his forearms.

Yes, yes, he knows he’s pathetic; nearly sighing in satisfaction at the feeling of your breath on his skin. But inevitably, his feelings for you have only grown stronger since you became lab partners at the start of the term. But he doesn’t want to screw this up. And he has to admit, he feels silly for pining after you all these years, so he doesn’t want to confess his feelings, especially when he can’t be sure that you feel the same. He couldn’t face that all too familiar feeling of humiliation if you rejected him–which, in all honesty, he feels is fairly likely; you’re his polar opposite, you would look ridiculous together.

So, he’s trying to convince himself he’s okay with just being friends.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Eddie agrees to your plans.

He inhales the scent of your strawberry shampoo as you shift away and neatly stack your papers together.

Clearly, he is not.

***

Somehow, Eddie has the great misfortune (and pleasure) of ending up doing your shared homework in your bedroom. He must be in hell. More to his true feelings though, he must be in heaven.

He had assumed you would sit down at the kitchen table and get to work, but when Eddie began wandering in the direction of your kitchen, you called out to him.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Eddie says, turning to see you halfway up the shag carpet stairs. “I just thought we’d be working in the kitchen.”

“My bedroom is better. C’mon,” You say, turning and continuing your trek up the stairs. And what can he do but follow?

But Eddie can’t imagine what you’d meant when you said your bedroom was ‘better’. Is sitting on your bed, your bare right thigh grazing his denim clad left one, better than sitting on separate chairs in your kitchen? In some ways (in fact, in many ways), this is definitely better. But it is definitely not better for his concentration. Or his sanity.

“So, this one here,” You say, your shoulders brushing as you lean over his lap to point at the diagram on his worksheet. “Is the superior articular process, and this one is the inferior articular process.”

Eddie might pass out.

He watches you as you scribble the words onto your worksheet in small print and proceeds to inscribe the same words onto his worksheet in the same place.

He suffers through the afternoon, surrounded by artifacts of your life, dying to pick up every last trinket on your dresser and request a detailed history of the object, dying to unpin the photographs from your cork board and examine every last square inch of the image. He resists the urge to lean even further into you or to rest his head on your shoulder when he gets bored. He stops himself from staring as you pick out a cassette and begin swaying to the music as it croons from your cassette player.

After all that suppressing and resisting, you finally conclude, “Alright, I guess we’re done.”

And Eddie swears that despite your chipper tone, your satisfaction with finishing the homework, there’s a hint of something else. Something akin to disappointment. But he couldn’t imagine why.

He ignores it as he packs up his things, shoves his pens and his doodle-cluttered papers into his backpack. He ignores it as you walk down the stairs together. He ignores it as he laces his boots up. He ignores it as you open the door for him. And he ignores it as he says goodbye to you and walks out your front door.

He only gets halfway down your driveway before he stops in his tracks at the sound of your voice.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Eddie!” You shout. You don’t quite sound angry, more fondly exasperated than anything.

This, he cannot ignore.

He spins around on his heels.

You’re strolling down your driveway towards him with determination.

You’re stopping in front of him, looking up at him, hands on your hips like you're about to admonish him for tracking mud in the house.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Still not getting it as you stand in front of him in your frilly white socks without shoes.

“Were you ever going to ask me?” You wonder genuinely, eyes searching his for answers he isn’t giving you.

“Ask you what?” Eddie replies, genuinely perplexed.

A soft smile creeps onto your face, like a reassuring realization is coming to you.

“You really don’t know?” You ask softly.

Eddie shakes his head. You look down at your socks for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I wanted you to ask me out. Y’know…on a date?” You explain, swaying nervously, hands held sweetly behind your back.

Eddie’s lips part gently in shock, all his synapses firing at once. He cannot comprehend that his childhood crush–this girl who he’s been absolutely smitten with since he was seven–has just confirmed that she feels about him the same way he feels about her.

“Eddie? You alright?” You ask, reaching out to place your hand on his bicep. He hadn’t known he needed steadying until your hand met his skin.

With that touch, a sudden surge of confidence rises within him.

His dimples pop into his cheeks as he grins. It’s not self-satisfied or cocky. How could it be? He never would have thought she would want to go out with him.

His heart pounds against his chest as he says sincerely, “Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

“What?” Now it’s your turn to be oblivious.

“For our date,” Eddie replies simply, like he isn’t about to pass out asking the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on a date.

For a moment, your eyes light up and then an embarrassed smile spreads across your face before you bury your face in your hands. Then they slide around to frame your face and you look up at him, clearly embarrassed about your lack of understanding.

Nonetheless, you reply, “Friday, 7PM? Pick me up here? I don’t really care what we do, I-”

But you don’t complete the sentence. Instead, you glance at your socks again.

“You what?” Eddie wonders, dying to hear what you have to say.

You meet his gaze again. “I just wanna see you.”

Butterflies erupt in his belly. But he tries his best to keep his cool, to not squeal like a schoolgirl right now. That, he can save for later when you’re not standing in front of him, eyes shining in the setting sunlight.

For now, Eddie gasps in faux flattery (though he really is quite flattered) and proceeds to fan himself with his hand, like a demure princess. “Well!”

“Oh, shut up,” You say, lightly shoving his shoulder. “I had us doing homework in my bed and you still didn’t get it!”

Eddie laughs softly at your willingness to tease him back and his face flushes at the reminder of his obliviousness.

“In my defence, that’s pretty damn subtle,” Eddie quips and you roll your eyes fondly.

“Just pick me up on Friday, you idiot!” You shout as you begin making your way back towards your house.

“See you Friday,” Eddie confirms, shouldering his backpack as he watches you walk back inside and he starts slowly walking backwards down your driveway. He’s still watching before you shut the door, nearly in disbelief that any of this actually just happened, that you’re even real.

You wave as he reaches the end of your driveway. He waves back.

Eddie starts planning your date on his walk home and by the time he gets back to the trailer, he knows exactly what you’re going to do this Friday.

♡*♡*♡

Thank you so much for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!

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#eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson imagine

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strang3lov3 · 11 months

Text

A Learning Process

Extra Soft!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Your whole life, everyone told you motherhood would come easy. So far, it has not. You struggle to connect with your baby boy, Francis. You struggle to console him, to breastfeed him, everything. Joel has pretty much taken care of your son by himself in the two months since you gave birth. Today is your first day alone with your baby boy, and it ends in disaster. Does Joel also think you’re a failure of a mother? Takes place in Jackson, sometime after TLOU

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: emotional, emotional breakdown, talks of giving birth, breastfeeding, dirty diapers, taking a bath with Joel, pet names, vulnerable reader, postpartum depression and anxiety, undefined loving relationship with Joel

A/N: Just thought of this story, thought you could all use some sweet soft Joel :)

Edit: forgot to add this is loosely based on this request from @guiltgoreglory !!!

If you like this story, please leave me a comment or reblog telling me what you think!!🩷🩷

Masterlist

It’s a quiet December morning, the sunlight is just beginning to dance and sparkle on the snow outside. You’re in an old rocking chair Maria gifted you, holding your baby boy close to your chest. He’s quiet for once, usually he’s fussy when you hold him. You’re morose, wondering if it was the right choice to bring him into this world, with you as his mother.

His name is Francis. You gave birth to him two months ago in October.

It was a chilly April day when you realized you were late, not having a period since January. In a panic, you called Joel into your shared bedroom.

Those two words hit him like a ton of bricks. “I’m late,” you whispered, eyes full of worry and tears. Your words were bitter, tasting like the bile on your tongue.

“You’re what?”

“I think I’m pregnant, Joel,”

Joel sat down on the bed with you, his head spinning. He was quiet, too quiet. But not angry like you feared he would be.

Jackson was a great place to raise a child, but Jackson was still a town on Earth, which for the past twenty-odd years, has been overtaken by a brain-controlling fungus. There was no guarantee that having a baby in Jackson would be 100% risk free.

“But we’ll take care of it. I want you to come to the doctor with me tomorrow,” you started. “And we’ll deal with–”

“No,” Joel interrupted. He looked at you with his big brown eyes, so sad and worrisome. “I can’t let you do that. Not safe.”

Abortion is what he was referring to. It’s not that Joel felt abortion was wrong in any sense, he was the last person on Earth who had any right to discuss right and wrong. Abortion was risky, even in the safety of Jackson. And he couldn’t risk letting you get hurt, or worse. He was right, and you knew it. You didn’t need any convincing. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I don’t know that I’m ready to be a mom, Joel,” you breathed shakily. “I can’t do this.”

He held your hand in his own, so big and calloused from years of backbreaking work. “I’ll be with you every step of the way,” he whispered. “You didn’t get into this all by yourself.”

It was true. Joel was the one who did this to you, anyway. He was your person, or whatever you could call him. Not really your lover, not officially at least. He was just your guy, your companion in everything. And you slept together. It just was a one time, two time, okay maybe all the time kind of thing.

Contraception wasn’t easy to come by. If you were lucky enough to come by some condoms, they were most definitely expired and probably useless. You’d be better off with the pull out method, which was never that great of a birth control method.

You and Joel would often forgo pulling out, getting too caught up in the heat of the moment. You loved each others’ bodies passionately. And well, your bodies did what human bodies tend to do. They created a baby.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Since giving birth to Francis in October, Joel had taken on the role of sole caretaker to your baby boy. It’s not what you had planned, exactly. It’s kind of just how it happened.

Joel did his best to teach you how to swaddle Francis, but you could never quite get it right. He’d flail his limbs too much and you couldn’t wrap him quick enough. Joel also tried to help you learn to breastfeed, but Francis would never latch to your nipple.

You and Francis didn’t quite connect, the way most new moms do with their babies. You’d seen women around Jackson with their babies, smiling and singing to them. Their babies looked so happy, so at peace with their mamas.

And it made you feel so isolated. You could never console him, never. It seemed like he only ever cried in your arms. You and Francis were like oil and water. Sometimes you wondered if you were even his mother. He wanted just about nothing to do with you, and everything to do with Joel.

Even the pregnancy was difficult. There was no glow to your body, like everyone told you there would be. You felt ugly and swollen, and you were in constant pain. Francis’ favorite activity in utero was to do somersaults, over and over and over, which meant you’d puke your brains out, over and over and over. Joel was patient with you, of course. You were growing his child. Didn’t press you for sex or make you do anything you weren’t comfortable with. He’d just hold your hair back and promise you that everything would be alright, it wouldn’t be like this forever.

Joel, on the other hand, had no problem connecting with his baby boy. Francis and Joel were thick as thieves. Francis was silent in his arms, save for the cute little coos he’d let out while sleeping. Francis didn’t cry when Joel changed his diapers like he did with you. Francis let Joel bottle feed him, but refused to let you.

It broke your heart.

And it broke Joel’s too.

To add insult to injury, your relationship with Joel was dwindling. He was there for you, just distant. And you were distant too. You knew it could happen, lots of couples lose sight of one another after a baby. You just didn’t expect it to feel so lonesome and severe.

You didn’t play games with Ellie like you used to. Didn’t cook together. Didn’t touch each other. Didn’t even go to bed at the same time, because Joel was always with Francis. You’d go to sleep before Joel, silently weeping at all of your shortcomings as a mother and partner, or whatever you were.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“You’ll be alright today,” Joel says sweetly as he dresses himself. He speaks to you in a soft and gentle tone, soothing you.

“I’m just nervous,” you admit, still rocking Francis. He looks just like Joel. He’s got big brown eyes, just like his daddy. He’s even got the same dimple as Joel on his right cheek.

“I know you are,” he says, pulling on and tying his boots. He’s nervous too, if he’s being honest with himself. He knows motherhood has not been easy on you. It’s not that he thinks you can’t handle yourself and Francis, he just knows you’re high strung and anxious. “It’s just a couple hours. Tommy put me on the short shift today.” Everyone contributed to patrol in Jackson, and today is Joel’s first day back since the birth of Francis.

You smile weakly, but wear a brave face. He’s right, it’s just a couple hours. It’ll be fine. Joel kisses your cheek, then bends down to kiss Francis’s soft head. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

And then he’s gone.

The silence is unnatural, almost eerie. You feel your anxiety in your fingertips as you mindlessly twiddle your fingers against Francis’ back. The sun is brighter now, and it’s time to get the day started.

Here goes nothing.

“Alright, baby. What do you think, eggs and toast for breakfast?” you whisper to Francis.

Francis just looks at you and coos with his amber eyes, his mouth suckling on his pacifier. He looks so much like his daddy.

“Sounds yummy to me too,” you reply to his lack of an answer. As you shift in your seat and maneuver Francis so that his head is tucked by your neck and you’re supporting his bum, he begins to whine a little. “It’s okay, my angel. It’s okay. Mama’s got you. We’re gonna have a good day today, baby.”

You bounce him a little, soothing him. He quiets down. You make your way to the staircase, your sweet boy wrapped in your arms.

The stairs are…daunting. They’re steep, rickety, and old. They’re hard wood, but you were smart and took your socks off to eliminate any possibility of slipping. But still, it’s scary. For a second, you consider sitting and moving down the steps the way a toddler would. But you wave that idea off. Don’t be ridiculous.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. You take a step. And then another. Slowly, ever so slowly. Another now. One more.

You don’t know how it happened. You’re suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, your foot twisted and underneath your body, pinned to the hard stairs. Francis is screaming in your ear, still pressed to your chest.

You move your foot out from under you with a wince and before even checking to see if it’s broken, and hold Francis in front of you.

He’s screaming, wailing. His face is fire engine red as he cries. You quickly examine his little body to check for any scrapes or bruises or cuts. Luckily, there are none.

You do your best to soothe the little boy. “It’s okay, angel. It’s okay. Mama’s got you,” You tell him over and over that it’s okay, but you don’t know that for sure. Did he hit his head? Did you shake him?

Francis is inconsolable. You look around you for anything to grab to keep him calm, luckily his pacifier is in reach. You place it in his mouth, he spits it out. You do it again. Nothing.

You’ve got this. Just breathe.

“Okay, okay. No paci. That’s fine, baby,”

Francis’ cries never let up. He’ll tire himself out eventually. Right?

With Francis still shrieking in your ear, you check your foot. It’s black and blue, already swelling. You try to sit up a bit, put some pressure on it. The pain shoots through your entire body. You don’t know if it’s twisted, sprained, or broken.

What you do know is that you’re stuck. You’re alone, with no way to call for help. No way to move from the steps. Joel’s short shift might as well be infinite now.

A few minutes pass as you just focus on your breathing.

Breathe, is what Joel told you when you found out you were pregnant. You panicked and hyperventilated as he wrapped his strong arms around you, bringing you back down to Earth.

Breathe, is what Joel told you when you spent hours vomiting into the toilet, Frankie never letting up on his somersaults. He held your hair back, rubbed circles into the tense flesh of your shoulders.

When you were in your long and arduous labor, screaming in agony and gripping his hand. Breathe.

Breathe. When you couldn’t soothe your son, and you broke down in tears of frustration. Joel took Francis from you and walked into another room to give you a break from his cries.

You just breathe.

Finally, the ear piercing shrieks flying from Francis’ mouth subside after a while. You don’t know how long exactly, maybe an hour. He’s still crying, but it’s a different tone. He’s hungry.

Might as well give it a shot. You can do this.

You lift up your shirt, adjusting Francis so he’s flush with your body. You guide his mouth to one of your breasts, encouraging him to wrap his lips around your nipple.

You can tell he’s trying, just can’t quite figure out how to latch. You do your best to help him, maneuvering his little body and your breast to ease his struggle.

“Come on, Francis. You’ve got this, buddy,” you coo. He seems to be relaxed a little by your voice. He almost latches, but not quite. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Maybe he’s uncomfortable on this side. You flip him over and offer your other breast. He can’t quite latch there either.

He’s whining, crying. He’s frustrated, you’re frustrated. He’s hungry, you’re hungry.

“Please, please, please,” you beg him softly. “You can do this, baby. Just eat for mama.”

He still won't latch, but you don’t stop trying. Not for hours.

Francis’ hunger pangs have seemed to peter out, now. He’s asleep in your arms, most likely tired himself out from crying so much. You worry if he’ll lose his voice by the end of today.

Your ass is sore, so is your back and your foot. But you savor the peace and quiet despite the pain in your body.

You wonder how many hours it's been. You try to tell by the way the shadows on the floor change with the sun, but you can’t make out much. Maybe the shadows have moved, maybe not. You can’t tell. Time doesn’t even feel real at this point. Today is agonizingly long.

You rest your head against the banister, closing your eyes. Joel told you once to take advantage of your sleeping son.

“Get some sleep,” Joel mumbled to you. It was maybe a week after giving birth to Francis and you were peering into his crib with heavy eyelids, afraid that if you slept he’d disappear. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know, I just,” you struggled to form a sentence. You wanted to make sure your baby boy was alright. You hated leaving him.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel repeated, his gruff voice firm yet sympathetic. “Go to bed.”

Joel helped you up, your body still so tender after Francis’ delivery. You winced at the ache in your muscles. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispered to you.

You were in a trance, being led to your bed by Joel. It was like your feet weren’t even moving, just floating along and walking on nothing. Joel helped you in bed, adjusted the pillows under your head and pulled a blanket up over your shoulders.

He stepped away from the bed and made his way to the door, turning to give you one last look. Your gaze was still fixed on Francis, unwavering.

Joel sighed and walked back to the bed, this time his side. The bed creaked with each of his movements. He flipped you over gently so you couldn’t stare at Francis any longer, your head on his chest.

“Joel,” you protested. “Our baby.”

“Francis is fine,” he mumbled. “You need to sleep. I’ll watch him. Okay, mama? Mom sleeps when baby sleeps. That’s the rule.”

“I can’t sleep, though. I have to watch him,” Your anxiety wouldn’t leave. Joel felt you fight and struggle against watching Francis. You were so restless.

“Don’t sleep then,” Joel said. “Just rest your eyes. Can you do that for me?”

“Just rest my eyes?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Just give them a break,”

You groaned. “Fine,” you grumbled. You’d give them a five minute break and go back to watching Francis. “Just for a little bit. And then I’m gonna watch him.”

“Alright, honey. You do that. Hush, now. Relax,” Joel commanded you ever so sweetly. “Just close your eyes, mama.”

You did as he said, and he brought his hand to your head, dragging his fingertips through your scalp. His fingers trailed to your neck, then your back. You melted into him, turning into a puddle in his arms.

Within minutes, you were asleep, snoring quietly.

Joel knew how to read people, the right words to say to sway them in the direction he wanted them to go. You were no different than anyone else. Now, he wasn't proud of manipulating you into slumber, but he felt it was justified given the circumstances.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You wake up to a putrid smell, your ass basically numb underneath you.

“No, no,” you groan. You adjust Francis, and he begins screaming when you peek into his diaper. The kid does not like being woken up. “Fuck.” you cry.

It’s a bad one, the mess in his diaper. Francis wails in your ear as you assess the situation. You can’t just leave him in his mess.

You sigh, taking off your shirt. You set it down next to you on the staircase.

Francis screams louder when you take off his diaper and set it on the ground. He hates being changed. “I know, bud. This sucks for me too,” you sympathize with him. Then, using your shirt, you wipe him clean as best as you can. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do.

“Please, don’t cry. Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay,”

Francis is relentless. He doesn’t let up. You just hold him, his excrement is on your skin and clothes. You’re gagging as your eyes begin to water.

Your ears are ringing and sore from all the noise. Your back is aching worse than it ever has, worse than when you backpacked across the country with Joel and Ellie. Your arms are full of pins and needles and going numb, you’re afraid you may drop Francis. Your foot is throbbing angrily.

And then the floodgates fly open. Your tears are spilling, hot and fast. You’re gasping for air, hyperventilating. Francis is shaking with each jolt of your lungs and you try to still yourself, but you’re powerless against your body.

You sob loudly, almost as loud as Francis. You can’t remember the last time you cried this way. All of your frustration, pain, loneliness, leaving your body and washing over it again in heaving sobs and cries.

“I’m sorry,” you cry to Francis. “I’m so sorry.” Your voice is thick and wet.

You try your best to breathe, just like Joel told you. But you can’t. You’re gasping uncontrollably and your nose is full of mucous, blocking you from inhaling and exhaling.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, holding Francis and rocking him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m so sorry, Francis.”

You repeat it like a mantra. You apologize to your little boy over and over and over again, for hours.

“I’m so sorry, Francis. You deserve better, sweet baby,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“I was thinking we’d do soup for lunch. Nice and warm, what do you think?” Joel’s voice is faint and muffled through the front door. You perk up slightly at the sound of him and Ellie, but you’re too drained to do anything more.

“Soup sounds good. But I’ll make it. You burnt it last time,” Ellie giggles. Her bubbly voice is music to your tired ears.

“Did not,” Joel says with disdain for Ellies recollection of events. “How do you even burn soup?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re the one who burned it,”

Ellie and Joel giggle as they make their way through the house, then both of their smiles drop at the sight in front of them.

You’re half naked, covered in feces and your face is puffy with tears. Your foot is black and blue and ugly as you sit and cry, with Francis naked and messy in your arms.

Joel says nothing, just grabs Francis from your arms and checks him. Then he moves to you, checking your body and your face.

“Oh my god,” is all he can get out. “Oh my god.”

You just cry.

“What the fuck happened?”

Your eyes meet Joel’s, then Ellie’s. They’re both so concerned.

So you explain how you fell down the stairs, right after Joel left. You don’t know how it happened. You explain how neither you nor Francis have eaten. “We’ve been here for hours,” you get out between sobs.

“Oh my god,”

Joel’s eyes are glassy, his voice is shaky. He passes Francis to Ellie. “Need your help,” he says to Ellie. “Clean him up. Please.”

She nods, holding out her arms to take Francis. “I’ve got him,” she whispers, before taking him into the kitchen.

Joel helps you up, you yelp at the pain. Your foot aches, so do the rest of your bones. “I know. I know,” Joel mumbles. His heart is broken into a million pieces, he’s in disbelief that this even happened to you.

He helps you into his arms, cradling you as he walks you both up the stairs. You hold onto him tightly, the smell of his clothes and his sweat bring you so much comfort and relief. Your person is here, and he’s gonna make it all better.

Joel takes you into the bathroom and removes the rest of your clothes, leaving them on the floor. You sit on the toilet seat as he removes his clothing. You feel like such a failure of a mother.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, now,” he says softly.

“I can’t shower, Joel. My foot,” you cry.

“I know, honey’. I’ve got you,” his voice is so quiet, so gentle. “Just for a minute. Just let me rinse you, that’s all.”

Joel lifts you up slowly, being extra conscious of your foot, then lifts you into the tub. He pulls the leg of your injured foot over his hip and wraps one of his strong arms around your waist as he uses the other to turn on the warm water.

He removes the showerhead and rinses your body, watching all of the dirt and grime leave your skin. Then he places the showerhead back in its spot and switches the water to come out of the bath spout.

He maneuvers you in his arms to sit down against him in the bath. Your back is pressed to his chest as the warm water begins to fill the bathtub. All that can be heard is the sound of rushing water and your quiet sobbing.

“Shh,” he hushes you. “It’s okay, now. I’m here. You’re safe,”

“Joel,” you cry, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I know. I know,” he murmurs.

He holds you like that as the water fills, your sobs are beginning to die down. Joel leans forward to shut the water off once the tub is full, then grabs a rag and some soap to clean your body.

Only now does it hit you that this is the first he’s seen you fully since giving birth to his child. You look so different now. You curl up, bringing your knees to your chest.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers as he pushes your knees back down. “I only wanna help you, sweetheart. Let me take care of you now.”

He scrubs your body gently, washing away the disaster of a morning you and Francis shared. He can sense your insecurity still. “So beautiful,” he breathes. He’s so delicate with his movements, washing you so tenderly. So full of love and care. “Always been so beautiful, mama.”

You relax into his touch, your head resting on his chest. He’s so warm. So comforting. He feels like home. He tilts your chin up so your eyes can meet his own, so deep and dark. His fingers trace your features, your chin and your lips and your nose. Your eyes well with tears again.

“I’m so sorry, Joel,”

“What for, honey?”

“Today. Francis,”

“Hey, now,” he says. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, though,” You shake your head slightly, your bottom lip is wobbling. “I’m such a terrible mom, Joel. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Joel’s eyes fill with tears, they begin to fall down his cheeks. “You’re not a terrible mom,” he hushes you with a broken voice. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

Of course, he knows why you think that. He’s been a little overbearing with Francis, not giving you the opportunity to learn to parent the way he should have. “You’re new to this, honey. That’s all,”

You mumble something under your breath, Joel doesn’t hear. All he hears are your quiet whimpers and sniffles as you stare deep into his eyes. He’s never looked so raw before.

Some silence passes, and finally he speaks.

“Sarah was an early walker,” he begins.

Your brows furrow. Joel rarely talks about Sarah, even now.

“Once she began wobblin’ on those little legs of hers, I knew she’d be trouble. She’s the reason Tommy and I built a fence,” Joel recounted. “You know why?”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Well, she was an escape artist,” he says. “I’d be out there, doin’ yardwork or grillin’. She’d be in her sandbox, building little castles and whatnot. I thought she was, at least.” Joel pauses for a second, looking away wistfully.

Joel continues, smiling now. “Anyway. I’d look back to check on her, and poof. She’s gone. And I’d look across the street, and she’s makin’ friends with the Adlers. Workin’ her charm with them into givin’ her cookies and ice cream. She did it all the time,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Constantly. She did it constantly,” Joel replies. “Girl was trouble. Nothin’ but trouble. So Tommy and I built that fence to keep her from escapin’. ‘Course, didn’t stop Mr. and Mrs. Adler from sneakin’ her treats before dinner.” Joel chuckled at the memory. You did too.

“She sounds so sweet, Joel,” you say.

“She was,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s quiet again for a moment, remembering. “I was runnin’ her a bath one night. Right after she learned to walk, you know? And I’m focused on the water, makin’ sure it’s not too hot and not too cold. She’d kick up a fuss if the temperature wasn’t to her liking. Like, exactly. Had to be perfect.”

You smile. Joel is such a wonderful storyteller, you could listen to him talk all day long.

“Didn’t even notice her leave the bathroom. Thought she was right behind me. I just heard her tumble down the stairs, screamin’ and cryin’. Tommy grabbed her, drove us to the hospital,”

You nod quietly.

“So they run tests on her, of course. She’s charmin’ the nurse into giving her suckers and toys. She was fine, thank the lord. No bruises, no scratches. Just fine,”

“That sounds so scary, Joel,” “It was. Terrifying. I cried like a baby the whole night thinkin’ I hurt my little girl,” he says. “But you know what the nurse told me?”

“What’s that?”

“She said that babies are rubber. They’re tough. Resilient. Our little boy is resilient too, you know,”

You look away from him, picking at your fingernails. The guilt is eating you again.

“You’re new to this, mama. Go easy on yourself, for christsake. You just had him two damn months ago,”

You barely reply, just kind of mumble. You don’t know how to respond.

“Hey, look at me,” he tilts your chin and to stare into your eyes. He’s deadly serious. “You’re strong. You’re brave. You’re doin’ fine, mama. Shit happens.”

You still can’t speak. His words help, but it was still a terrible day. Maybe one day you won’t hurt over it. He understands, not forcing you to say anything.

He just finishes washing your body, then dries you off and wraps you in a towel. He carries you into bed, promising you that he’ll get the town doctor over later to check on your foot. There’s a sandwich waiting for you on your bedside table. Ellie. Such a sweet girl.

Joel leaves you to clean the mess of your clothes in the bathroom and at the stairs, and you eat your sandwich. You feel so much better getting some food in your system.

After finishing your sandwich, you hear tapping at the door. “Can we come in? It’s me and Francis,” Ellie says.

“Yeah, El. Come in,”

Ellie tiptoes in with Francis, his hair is wild and curly. Just like Joel’s. His eyes are big and lost. Ellie looks fatigued. “He didn’t like the bath very much,” she says. “But I did give him a bottle.”

“I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble,” you reply. “He can be a little cranky. Thanks for feeding him, El. You’re so good with him.”

“Yeah, I can handle him. We’re best friends,” she says. You can see in her face that she’s exhausted, though. “Right, Frankie?”

You smile softly, holding out your arms. Ellie places him in your hold gently, being extra careful to support his head and neck. She can see the worry on your face. You still feel so unsure of holding him, being responsible for him.

“Guess what?”

You look up at her. “What?” You bounce Francis softly.

“I’m gonna teach him how to say fuck. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” she giggles, that signature smirk on her face. Her eyes are so playful and bright. “And I’m gonna teach him the other ones too. Bitch, ass, asshole, shit, dick, cun-”

“Don’t you dare corrupt my son, you little shit,” A deep voice interrupts. It’s Joel, standing at the doorway. “Don’t need two demented kids in this house. You’re more than enough.”

“Hey!” Ellie gasps, feigning offense. Ellie sits down on the bed as Joel walks towards her. “I’ll teach your kid whatever words I want, old man. And I’m not demented,” She punches him in the arm playfully. “You are.”

Joel just rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

You meet his gaze, smiling at him quietly. Francis is asleep in your arms, mumbling and cooing softly. He’s so sweet like this.

Joel takes Francis from your arms, places him in his crib. Joel looks at Ellie. “Out,” he says. “Mama needs to sleep.”

Ellie gets up to leave, not before giving you a hug. You wrap your arms tightly around the girl, she’s such a good big sister to your baby boy. She doesn’t often hug you, so it’s a welcome surprise.

Joel meets you on the bed, pulling you close to his body. You rest your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. “Get some sleep, honey,”

You yawn, melting into his body. “Okay, daddy,”

He feels like home.

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lycheedr3ams · 6 months

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ℑ𝔩𝔩 𝔐𝔢𝔱 𝔟𝔶 𝔐𝔬𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

werewolf!könig x fem!reader

Prologue | October 29th | October 30th

Summary: You're a bakery worker in the small, isolated town of Heiligenblut, Austria. könig is a hunter and lumberjack who stays to himself and always has an aura of mystery and darkness. and through a series of strange circumstances, you're the one to uncover his secret. (set in the modern-day) CW: like all of my fanfics reader is fem she/her, adult content, predator/prey dynamics, werewolf-fucking, mentions of animal carcasses and blood, a bit unsettling at times. (can't think of anything else atm, this might count as dark content? not sure) WC: 2.2k

LORE EXPLANATION, READ BEFORE PROCEEDING: i had to make up some of my own werewolf lore mixed with real world history, so plz bear with me: when a werewolf falls in love with someone, and that person also falls for them, the werewolf becomes spiritually tied to this person. when this spiritual connection is created, the werewolf's ties to the spiritual realms are interrupted. the werewolf must physically bond with the person whom the feelings are mutual with to restore the werewolf's connection to the other realms. Halloween is the day when that veil between our world and the spiritual one is thinned, allowing for connections to take place. this is why people always wore costumes: to scare off the ghosts that came onto our plane during this time. i can't say anything else without spoiling it, just know most of this is NOT from folklore, i just made up my own werewolf lore bc plot~

morning

your routine walk to work on this chilly and dewy morning was interrupted by a crowd of townspeople in the main square. people from all regions of town were there, but the ones who were talking the most fervently were the farmers. they were standing in the middle of the crowd, waving their hands and not looking very happy. you removed your earbuds as you approached the crowd.

"what's going on?" you asked the woman who used to be your elementary school teacher. she glanced at you for a moment before locking her eyes on the farmer.

"there's been no prey harvested at all for the festival. the hunter hasn't brought in anything, and the farmers haven't been able to catch anything either."

your lips parted slightly in shock, and you were about to ask more questions when another farmer started talking loudly, commanding everyone's attention. "everyone is going to have to give up one of their largest and two of their smallest livestock for the festival tomorrow!"

the townspeople around him shouted in protest, and among all the voices that could be heard, the most shouted message was that they couldn't rely on the hunter anymore.

your blood ran cold. was könig even safe? surely they wouldn't revolt against him for just one failed harvest season? but your thoughts were interrupted by farmers arguing and some people going home, not wanting to hear anymore of it. you watched everyone as if from afar, like you were dreaming, until you felt like you were being watched. it was the same feeling you felt the day before when könig had stared at you. you were snapped back to reality as you turned around and stared straight into the dark forest, but there was no one there.

...

mid-afternoon

almost no one had come into the bakery today, and it was already 3pm. but there was barely any movement of townspeople outside your window. normally, the day before the festival, everyone would be pitching in to help cook, set up tables, and decorate, but it was eerily still. a few people pattered here and there, carrying some vegetables and tablecloths, but it was nothing like how it usually is. the prey was supposed to be cooking by now. that's how it went, every year. that's how it was supposed to go. things never deviated here. they were never supposed to.

you paced around the bakery for almost your entire shift. all of the baking for the festival was pretty much done, and everyone had bought the things they needed. there was too much time for your mind to wander. and in the middle of your rumination, you remembered that könig had never come for the bread he meant to pick up yesterday. you decided to pack up some bread - an extra loaf too, when your boss wasn't looking - and set it underneath the counter, just waiting for when you expected him to walk through the door and look at you with those alluring, dark eyes of his that scared off everyone else.

...

early evening

but closing time came and went, and könig did not show. when your boss wasn't looking, you put cash in the register for the bread that was supposed to be könig's and shoved it into your backpack. you had made up your mind: one way or another, you were going to find könig, give him his bread, and find out what was going on with him.

you tried not to look overly determined as you walked around town trying to find his house. you knew he didn't live within town, since no one had ever seen him enter or leave a nearby building. you tried not to attract the attention of the now restless townspeople as you scoped the perimeter woods of town. but you saw nothing so far on your walk home, so you stopped to change into more outdoor-friendly clothes before slipping away when you were sure no one would notice.

you had no idea which direction of the forest to explore first, so you went towards the most secluded part there was. underneath the canopies of the large, old trees, the forest felt so much cooler than the clearing the town was in. you rubbed your arms as you walked, clearly looking lost. there were no paths to be seen - not even faint deer paths - to guide you. the forest looked completely untouched, but you kept moving forward, remembering what direction the sun was in to get you home.

you wandered around, looking for any signs of life, and almost gave up to go back home when you leaned against a tree trunk to rest and felt deep grooves within its bark. you lifted your hand from the bark and found three deep gashes in the bark, about 2 inches deep. the sharp, straight edges of the cuts suggested that it was a claw mark. but what kind of animal that large could be in the forest? you began to feel even more afraid than you already were. you turned around and almost started charging back home through the forest when you saw a faint cloud of fog just beyond a stream. you followed the fog, slipped over some mossy rocks while trying to cross the stream, and found an old, mossy cabin in the middle of the forest.

you stared at it for a moment, trying to see if anyone was inside without getting too close. but the windows were shut with curtains, and there were no signs of life aside from the fog resting just above the ground around it, likely from the fireplace inside. if it weren't for that fog, you would think the cabin to be abandoned.

you heard a stick crack far in the forest and nearly jumped out of your skin. when you turned to see what it was, you rather saw how dark it had gotten without you noticing. without many other options, you had to swallow your fear and knock on the cabin door.

you knocked a few times, and no answer. so you knocked again. and again. it was getting darker, and you were getting very nervous. you finally decided to try to speak through the door. "i'm not sure who lives here, but i'm lost and it's getting dark."

the door opened, and you were looking up at a very tired and angry-looking könig. you breathlessly gasped at his disheveled appearance. he was never fine-groomed to begin with, but this was dirty even for him. his hair wasn't half-way combed like usual, his bandana was slightly ripped and dirty, there was mud caked to portions of his forearms where his plaid shirt was ripped. könig looked at you with narrowed eyes for a moment before pulling you inside roughly by your arm. you nearly stumbled as he threw you inside, unaware of his own strength.

"what the hell are you doing here?" könig asked angrily. "the woods aren't safe at night! the hell were you thinking?" he nearly growled.

you tried not to shrink at his tone and the sheer power he always seemed to ooze. you cleared your throat. "you never came for the bread you wanted yesterday." you took your backpack off your shoulder and reached for the bread inside. you took the white paper bag and handed it to him nervously. the crinkling of the bag nearly echoed in the eerie silence of the cabin. könig stared at the bag, looked up at your eyes, and then back down at the bread.

"you came looking for me just to give me bread?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. you sighed.

"first, you're welcome," you got a little closer to him to try to give him the bread. he backed away enough for you to notice, but he took the bread when you tilted your head in confusion. "second, i just wanted to make sure everything was okay. the whole town is in a bit of a crisis about the halloween festival tomorrow, and it's unlike you to not have a harvest."

"did you tell anyone you were coming out here?" he asked quickly.

you shook your head. "no. i made sure no one saw me."

könig thought for a long moment as he held the bread bag, now dwarfed by his large hands. he turned and set the bag down on a table. he splayed his palms over the table and leaned down, his back to you. "you need to leave."

you stood still for a moment, not sure how to react to his demeanor. this whole experience - him living in this weird cabin deep in the forest, being all secretive - was unlike anything you had ever been through. you took a deep breath and managed to find your voice. "well, you're welcome for the bread. but i can't walk home alone at night in the woods."

könig cursed under his breath. he took a shaky breath in, still facing away from you. his voice sounded strained. "how did you find my cabin?"

"i just...walked. i got lost a bunch of times. but i saw some fog from this direction."

könig cursed under his breath again. he began to pace the cabin, his hiking boots making dull impact sounds as he tread the wooden floor. he muttered under his breath as he paced.

"könig?" you asked as you tried to lean within his line of sight. his eyes sharply looked down at you as you wrenched him from his thoughts. "please tell me what's going on. maybe i can help."

könig made a sound that was half-grunt half-scoff when his eyes met yours. "you cannot help. not in ways you want to."

"what?" you asked, confused. "i want to help you. just tell me how."

könig crossed his arms as he looked down at you, his feet in line with his shoulders, standing square and tall before you. your heart started racing, but whether out of nervousness or desire you couldn't tell. all you knew was that every nerve in your body was active when he looked down at you like that, making you feel so small - in the best way - beneath him.

"why did you come out here all the way just to give me bread?" könig asked with a flat voice and neutral expression. "it was completely unnecessary."

you inwardly winced, but you got used to his less than refined manner of speech long ago. this man was anything but subtle. "you're right. it was unnecessary. but i wanted to."

könig narrowed his eyes. "and why did you want to?"

you blushed and fell silent. was he seriously trying to make you confess right here, right now? you were so afraid of rejection, even though all the signs hinted that he liked you. but you couldn't talk yourself out of this one, so you took a deep breath and spoke quietly. "because I have feelings for you."

könig's eyes grew wide, and his previously squared shoulders drifted upwards as he tensed up. you rubbed your forearm while you looked away from him.

"listen, i know you probably don't feel the same way, and that's fine. but you've just been so secretive that i was worried about you, and i know you love your bread. and i don't know why no one in the town talks to you, because you're actually nice to be around. and..." you blushed when you saw his shocked expression. "and I should probably stop talking..." you sighed, feeling more embarrassed than you ever have. your cheeks heated up as you looked at anything but the looming giant before you.

"you are wrong," he said quietly after a long pause.

you looked up at him, your eyes widening with confusion. "what?"

könig took a deep breath and seemed to regain the confident pose that he had before, almost as if he had some renewed vigor. "i said, you are wrong."

"wrong about what?" you said, slightly panicked.

könig looked down at you with an unreadable expression. "your feelings for me... are returned."

you froze, your breath stopped for a moment. "you feel the same way?" your heart hammered. this whole experience had been so equally ethereal and eerie that you weren't sure if you were hearing things at this point.

könig slowly closed the distance between you two, his arms returning to his sides. you looked up at him, feeling a bit jumpy; he had been so unpredictable this whole night. he placed his large hands on your shoulders, engulfing each one, and gently pressed his fingers into you. his attempt at holding you close, maybe? but his arms seemed to tremble, and his breathing was shaky and loud, almost like he was a crazed man. you leaned away a little, but könig brought his masked mouth to your hear.

"please," he whispered desperately into your ear, his voice slightly cracking. his entire body trembled before you. "please help me."

i wanted to get this all out before halloween, but i've had a ridiculous amount of schoolwork. the last part will be coming out this weekend, and it will be the long-awaited smut chapter! i hope you guys are enjoying. i love werewolf!könig.

some people expressed interest in a taglist. i tried to find their usernames, but i get so many notifications that it got lost. i'm sorry!!! i'm going to figure out how i can get a signup sheet for a taglist for my whole blog here soon

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cosmiccamelot · 7 months

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#october #autumn #chilly morning #morningroutine #healing #witchblr #witchythings

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bangaveragewhitewine · 7 months

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soft slow, morning glow

Steve Harrington x Reader

A prosaic peek at Steve Harrington’s inability to sleep in and stay in bed and his reasons for changing his ways.

October 1997; a cosy easy morning, where kisses are shared and ABBA songs are sung as a lullaby.

Word count: 4.3K

Content/Warnings: TW for talk of bleeding during pregnancy, borderline neglectful parents.

Mention of sex (18+), not explicit. This contains dad!Steve & mom! reader toward the end; pregnant reader. Kinda rambling. Very soft. Low angst (but not none).

Note: Thank you to my ST rewatch for making me fall for Steve all over again.

Proofread by @specialagentmonkey | Divider by @silkholland

Steve Harrington was always an early riser.

As a honey-haired little boy, he spent Saturday mornings on the sofa watching cartoons with the volume dialled low as his parents slept. He knew not to make a mess with the cereal, or the milk, rewarded with a stack of pancakes or a new toy for keeping himself amused as Richard and Katherine Harrington slept off the previous evening’s dinner party hangover.

Always the first awake at sleepovers, he would wait with bated breath for Tommy to stir or feign a sneeze to wake him.

He never had to be dragged from bed to go to school during the week, always up and at ‘em to go see his friends, play tag and swap baseball cards on the playground.

As a sporty and popular teenager, he started running when he didn’t have early swim practice or basketball. Steve rose with the sun and waved to his neighbours politely as his shiny sneakers slapped the pavements of Loch Nora.

He was never sure what he was running from, or towards, but the burn of chilly morning air in his lungs made him feel alive.

When he started going to house parties and hangouts on Saturday nights, his Sundays still started early, dragged to show face at his parent’s church. It was less about faith and god and all about appearances. He snuck out of bedroom windows, hopped white picket fences as the sun rose, fought hangovers as the priest’s voice droned and caught the eyes of pretty girls from the convent school a town over - they always blushed when he smiled at them or dropped them a sly little wink as the collection plate was passed around.

When his parents started travelling more, after the shortlived re-commitment to the church, Steve’s Sunday morning hangovers were kept at bay with cold swims in the pool or hot coffee and loud music in the kitchen as he tried and failed to focus on homework.

Steve started working right out of school as punishment for unsubmitted college applications and lower-than-predicted grades. He volunteered for the opening shifts in Scoops Ahoy and Family Video - he liked the responsibility and having a purpose, having an excuse to be out of the house before his parents could tutt and fuss and lecture him. It was easier when they weren’t there; when the office in Indy needed Richard’s attention more than his wife and son did, when Katherine spotted smears of lipstick on his collars again and insisted she spend some time with him in the city apartment.

In their absence, the Harrington house was a mausoleum of failure that Steve couldn’t bear to be in. So he raised his hand for early delivery shifts and stock takes and drove his friends to school when he didn’t have to, already awake after another night of nightmares, memories of flying fists.

Steve Harrington rose early and burned bright; burned out quickly when he realised he didn’t know what to do with himself or what his purpose was.

He filled his time with making himself useful to other people, chasing and seeking a purpose or a person to fill the gaps and spaces in his chest; the hollows once reserved for the people who didn’t return the outpouring of love he offered so freely, so innocently. He found and made a rag-bag bunch of friends, a found family, who returned the love he deserved in the ways they knew how. Woven and knotted friendship bracelets, squished candy bars, mixtapes, weed sold and rolled at buddy rates or for nothing at all.

Steve Harrington moved to the city with his best friends; a Beemer and a battered van filled with boxes and suitcases. The early morning drive made Steve Harrington glow golden in the rising sun, his excited eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses as Robin Buckley snored in the passenger seat and Eddie Munson listened to metal at an ear-bleeding volume in his van and flipped Steve off with that big grin in the rearview mirror. They stopped for strong coffee and sweet pancakes and started a new chapter in the city.

When you fell in love with Steve in 1990, he found a reason to stay in bed a little longer. A reason to slow down, soak up the sunshine glow you shone on him.

You spent Saturday nights with friends, a patchwork group cheering on Corroded Coffin and selling T-shirts and tapes at a merch table when they scored a bigger venue and a bigger crowd. Movie nights and takeout Chinese food and a stack of new and old movies from Blockbuster. Date nights at swanky bars and restaurants, with flickering candles and pizza on the way home because you didn’t want the night to end yet. You spent hours in bed together, night and morning, talking about everything under the rising sun and dwindling moon, learning about each other’s life and mapping each other’s body with kisses and gentle touches.

In the morning he gazed at your sleepy softness and took his own pulse to make sure he wasn’t dying. No heart attack, just falling in love.

He brought you cups of coffee and sweet pastries from the bakery a block away when his limbs felt restless. He always got back into bed with you to cuddle and while away the morning without a moment wasted. With Steve, those mornings were syrupy slow; he worshipped you between your thighs and held your hands as the headboard bashed against the wall.

You became Mrs. Steve Harrington in the spring of ‘94.

A small wedding. A big party for your friends. A honeymoon week where every morning felt like a perfect lazy Saturday.

When Steve found his reason to stay in bed, together you created a reason that kept you from it.

Bethany Rose Harrington. Born June 21st 1995.

Beth had her Daddy’s eyes and her Mama’s nose, and the sweetest little dimples in her smiley pink cheeks. She was her Daddy’s little doughnut, her Mama’s little bee. She inherited Steve’s charm and wrapped her extensive collection of doting uncles and aunts right around her tiny finger. She took after you in the way that Steve was completely and utterly in love with her.

Just like her Dad, Beth liked to start the day early. After a few weeks of seeking out and settling into a routine, Steve spent the earliest part of the day feeding his little Bethie her bottle of milk in the cosy armchair nestled in the corner of her pale yellow nursery. As he watched her big brown eyes gaze and blink, felt her tiny fist wrap around his finger, Steve decided that these were the happiest mornings of his life.

On those soft and slow mornings, you could hear Steve’s low murmur to your little girl through the baby monitor when his excitement to see her gummy smile or stop her sad fat tears bypassed the off-switch. You fell back asleep to the sound of Steve telling Beth about how the Cubs and the Bulls (their teams now) were doing this season, or about the walk in the park you were going to go on once ‘beautiful mama’ was awake. He sang to her; never typical lullabies, Queen and ABBA and Dusty Springfield.

Steve basked in the joy of her little smiles, soaked in the soft cooing noises as Beth found her voice to talk back to her Daddy. When she fell asleep again, milk-drunk with her cheek against his heartbeat, Steve watched the morning sky shift and brighten and listened out for the sound of your waking time. The soft thud and shuffle from bed to bathroom, running water, your yawn and stretch, the gentle steps to seek and find him and your little treasure. You filled reams of camera film, documenting Steve as a Dad, your little girl's first weeks and months. Lit by morning light, by afternoon sun and the shade of the tree in your yard, and dusky nighttime lit by nightlights.

When your laundry list of chores allowed it, you took one of your three options on those mornings of parenthood - take turns to bask in the warmth of lavender and milk-scented baby cuddles while the other showered; bring the sleeping beauty back to your bed to gaze at the ten fingers and ten toes you had created together; or leave the sleepy and full-tummied grub to sleep in her crib again to spend the slow dawn hours holding each other and trading kisses, and knotting yourselves up in the sheets together once the doctor gave you the all-clear and a prescription for birth control.

You did plenty of all three.

Summer turned to Autumn, then Winter, and Steve balanced being a father and husband with keeping a roof over your heads and the final year of his programme to get his qualification to become a guidance counsellor. His mornings with Beth were part of his routine, leaving her smiling and drooly for you when he kissed his girls goodbye. Missing him during full days of supervised sessions and hours in the college library when he wasn’t in classes bonded you and Beth, thick as thieves and lovestruck for the golden Harrington boy-turned-man. You made sure that he never missed a moment with how many pictures you took, and Beth saved all of her firsts for when he was home. You coached her to say ‘dada’ in Steve’s absence and he sobbed happy tears when she parroted it back. (He had been coaching her to say ‘mama’ during their early mornings together).

Your late nights of talking turned to early-to-bed nights, sleeping when the baby slept and when your little home was some semblance of clean and tidy. Steve fell asleep to the sound of Bethie’s breath on the monitor, your heart under his cheek and the soft stroke of your fingers in his hair, along the length of his arm.

Both of you were exhausted. Neither of you had ever been happier.

When he graduated in the Summer, you and Beth cheered and clapped for your golden boy along with his best friends - the loudest bunch in the college auditorium. A picture of the Harrington trio - Steve in his shirt and tie and graduation gown balancing a smiley baby and his degree as you kiss his cheek and tickle Beth’s tummy for the camera - was placed with pride on his desk when he started a counsellor job that landed in his lap in the late summer of ‘96. He coached basketball two afternoons a week on the side; it was perfect for him.

You go back to work part-time and you balance taking care of Beth and each other with the utmost care. With help from your family and Steve’s trust fund from the Harrington’s, you make it work. You are what he holds dear, pride of place in the centre of his chest, once vacant and hollow. The gaping space he yearned to fill with the wrong friends, the wrong girls, watery beer and too many cigarettes.

By the Fall of ‘97, Steve had learned to sleep again. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Enjoy your days off. Enjoy every moment. He is. He’s so tired but never happier.

This morning, you wake first.

Your little house in the Chicago suburbs is bathed in autumn darkness on a lazy Saturday. Six a.m. and Steve snores peacefully.

Beth is silent, dreaming of her two favourite things: fairies and pancakes. That top five list favourites is rounded out by her Daddy and Mama and Mrs. Murphy’s orange cat that visits the backyard.

The littlest Harrington is an early bird too, twirling in your tummy beneath Steve’s protective hand. Until Steve can take the morning shift, you are the early riser.

Beth is your sleepy little dreamer, she loves her bed like her Mama. She sneaks in between you and Steve (and the bump now too) when she wakes too early; you spend those mornings gazing and counting fingers and toes again like when she was a tiny thing.

This baby however seems to take after her father’s love of sport, the way she practices the aim and strength of her kicks on your bladder. You don’t officially know yet (they were less than cooperative at the last ultrasound), but you know it’s a girl. Steve swayed to boy for a day or two before realising you were right. Maybe next time…

The flush and sigh-groan from your aching back pulls Steve from sleep. When you pad back in from the little bathroom, he’s just about upright and wild-haired.

“Y’okay?” Eyes swollen with sleep, he reaches blindly for you to help you back into the cosy nest of blankets.

“Mm, needed to pee.”

You try to keep your cold feet away but Steve sandwiches them between his own size fourteen and always warm feet. His lips brush your shoulder and the back of your neck when you settle into a comfortable position; Bump dictates what will suffice as ‘comfortable’ and settles under her father’s comforting hand. Harrington’s magic touch is famed in your home; settling gassy babies and working out knotted shoulders, fixing leaky faucets and carrying all of the groceries inside in two heavy handfuls, making shadow-puppet shows on the bedroom wall and holding back your hair when you’re not well.

Slowly, small-spooned by Steve’s bigger body, you drift again. Sleep comes and goes like an inconsistent tide, and you are anchored safely in his arms. Baby names ebb and flow into your tired head and you wish Steve was awake to tell you what he thought of ‘Heather’ or ‘Ava’. Whether your (very slow) re-read of Little Women was influencing you too much to ‘Josie’. You wonder about how much candy you should get for the trick-or-treaters, and whether Beth will be too scared to help you answer the door to them this year.

You wish he was awake - because you always wish your every waking moment was spent with Steve Harrington - but you’re so glad he is sleeping soundly, snoring sweetly behind you. You wish you could take more responsibility, take the pressure he puts on his own shoulders from him, but this pregnancy is less easy than the first and you hate that you can’t do it all anymore. You take solace in the fact that Steve is asleep, not awake worrying or nesting.

Turning in his sleepy hold, you place his hand back on the bump to keep the littlest Harrington settled and content, and watch your handsome husband look like the teenager you wish you had known. You map the laughter lines instead of the ones etched by worry, counting the happy memories (which are insurmountable) as you fall back to sleep with him at last.

Sleeping Beauty herself slumbers on until almost 8 a.m., meaning that both you and Steve sleep until almost 8 a.m. too - later on you will toast coffee (decaf for you) over that parent win. For the next few months, the weekends mean Steve will be hitting snooze on his body clock when the chances arise.

This morning Beth’s little voice sings his name down the hall. Steve wakes with a smile and kisses your sleepy face as you stretch and peel your eyes open.

“You’re up, Coach.” Your voice is a tired yawn, mumbled into the fluffy duvet Steve untangles himself from.

“Bring her in for cuddles please.” You pout for a tired kiss and hum happily when he grants your wish.

Steve’s ankles crack as he walks from your room to Beth’s. She’s wide awake and wild-haired, matching her Dad, and she sits up in her bed with her bunny-teddy clutched in her fist.

“Hi bumblebee,” he gasps, his tiredness swept away by his genuine joy to see her. Steve lays down on her too-small-for-him baby bed and pretends to get comfy to sleep again. “Sleepover?” he asks, opening his arm for her.

“Nooooo, yo’bed!” Her sweet voice crackles with sleepiness and the remnants of a cold she picked up as the seasons changed.

In the warmth of your bed, you can hear the mini-eye-roll she’s giving her Dad as he plays up to her dramatics. Uncle Dustin has a lot to answer for.

“Bethie,” you call from your nest, “I miss you.”

Steve watches with barely restrained amusement as her face beams bright like sunshine before leaving him in the lurch to seek out Mama. “Hey! What about me?!”

You can hear his grumbling as he hauls himself up from the tiny toddler bed but your focus is the bundle of sunshine that bounds her way to your room in her sky-blue jammies. Pushing messy hair from her face, she squeaks happily as you lift her before Steve can beat you to it. You didn’t want another moment apart from your girl and she burrows against your chest under the toasty-warm duvet.

“Morning Betty Boop.” You press kisses to her smiling face and hear Steve stomp and flop back into the room and into the bed.

“Is Daddy not invited to this love-in? Just for Mama and Beth?” he asks, scowling at your smushed-together faces.

You cuddle Beth and stroke her back as the girl shifts her impish gaze to Steve. “What do you think, Betty? Kisses for Dada?”

She can never ever resist him and reach-grabs out to be gathered in his big strong arms for kisses and cuddles.

Steve lights up, features relaxing from his feigned annoyance, as he gives and receives morning kisses. You are gathered up alongside the titch of a girl and with her help, you smother kisses all over Steve’s happy face.

“Never ever not invited to the love-in, my love.” You kiss his shadowed jaw once and tuck yourself under his arm.

“Kiss d’baby?” Beth’s messy head pops up and looks at you hopefully.

“You wanna say good morning to Baby?” Steve asks, and she nods. “Mama?”

“I think she’s asleep, but I bet she’ll wake up when she hears Big Sis and Dada.” Beneath the pitched tent of the duvet, you lift Steve’s t-shirt and present the rounded bump for inclusion in the morning love-in.

Beth has been immensely eager to meet her baby since she took notice of your bump and realised the new baby was actually in there.

The little girl’s pillow-soft cheek rests against the curve as she hugs around your middle. “Moh’nin, baby.” Her little voice is still a little stuffed up, nasal.

Your heart and tears swell as you watch her with Steve, who kisses the bump and murmurs hello. You’re at that point of pregnancy where you could cry when the wind changes and you cover your eyes so Beth won’t go out in sympathy-tears with you.

Steve’s big hand squeezes your hand as he distracts Beth, who babbles in toddler talk to her sibling. His eyes are wide and worried as he looks up and sees the hitch of your chest. He’s had that worried look since you bled at ten weeks and the doctor put you on bed rest, just three weeks into actually knowing you were pregnant. Everything has settled bar your hormones and emotions; two perfect heartbeats, an active healthy baby, a happy but tired Mom. Steve is more scared now than he was with Beth but pretends to be brave for you.

You swipe at your hot tears, dry your hand in your t-shirt before reaching down to stroke through Steve’s thick hair.

“M’okay.” You give him a watery smile. “She’s just… so sweet, Stevie.”

Moving up to lie along your side, Steve wipes your cheek and presses a kiss to the trail of the tears left behind. “Sweetest. Sweet Bee. Feelin’ okay?”

His hand stays on top of your bump and then passes over Bethany’s bedhead when she looks up curiously.

Seeing that she is missing out, Beth decides she has had enough and wants to cuddle with you instead of the baby who won’t kick back hello. She wiggles up to lie on Steve’s chest, little fingers poking into the freckles and moles as he pulls the duvet back around you all like a cosy cocoon.

“Feeling good. You okay?”

Steve has tucked away his worry again, but you still see the pinch in his brow - though the curious little fingers might be the reason for that.

“Peachy.” He chases the poking fingers with a growling kiss, pulling a shrieking giggle from Beth. “Hello, can I help you? Why are we poking Daddy this morning, huh?”

You giggle with Beth and kiss where her fingers had pressed, modelling the gentle sweetness you know she possesses in multitudes. “Poor Daddy. See, Betty? Gentle kissies.” A kiss is snuck onto his mouth for good measure.

“Daddy,” Beth sing-songs, patting his cheek lovingly.

“Bethie,” Steve sings back to her, echoing her melody. He accepts a wet baby-kiss as you curl close to them both.

You twirl a finger in the messy wave of her hair. “What will we do today? Do you want to get some library books? Or we could… go to the park?”

Steve pats her back gently. “Oh wow. All the possibilities, huh?” His lips press to Beth’s forehead as she cuddles up to him, her fingers distracted by the gold chain he wears around his neck. “Gentle, please.” He kisses her head again and looks at you. “We can do both… Go get a t-r-e-a-t?”

You smile and nod, covering Steve’s hand on Beth’s small back. “I like t-r-e-a-ts. What do you want to do, big guy?”

Steve’s fingers slot with yours. His lips brush your head as you share his pillow - the firm one to help with his neck pain. “Just be with you two. Could stay right here all day and I’d be the happiest guy.”

You press your nose against his cheek and close your eyes; you’re both surrounded by your favourite people, it is utter bliss.

“I love you.” Your voice is soft and tired against his stubbly jaw.

“Love you. So much, babe.”

Steve tilts his head so you can share a morning-breath-be-damned kiss. He wishes he had woke up sooner, before the wide-eyed toddler, so that he could have showered you with kisses, made out like teenagers (despite the baby bump between you).

“No! Me!” The frustrated little whine makes you smile apologetically to each other, chancing one more peck before you both look to scowling Beth.

“Sorry, Bee. Mama’s too delicious for me to resist.”

“Steve!” you tuck your face in his neck as you laugh, an affectionate headbutt.

“What? The kid’s gotta know.”

The two-year-old smushes her face to her Dad’s chest, still too little to comprehend her Dad’s silly banter when she just wants to be the centre of both of your attention. You have a few months left to figure that out before the baby arrives, but it scares you that she might feel like she’s not the best thing that ever happened you (bar her Dad, of course).

Your pout matches hers and you push back the stinging Mom Guilt Tears. She is only coaxed away with sweet little cheek-kisses from you as you hum-sing Take a Chance on Me (accompanied by Steve’s tapping fingers on her back ‘take a chance, take a chance, take a, take a chance-chance.)

The girl's smile splits her frustrated face, a quiet giggle as she is serenaded by her current favourite song (you have just got I Was Made For Lovin’ You out of your head after Steve had introduced her to KISS in the car). Her little arm hooks around your head as you whisper how much you love her, soft voice tickling her ear and cheek.

Beth’s laughter coaxes a fluttering kick against your belly, which Steve feels against his side as you spoon against him. He wears the same wide-eyed joy on his face every time he has felt your babies kick.

“Oo, she’s awake again. Finally joining the party.” You rest your hand against the side of your rounded belly and telepathically tell the tiny one how much you love them too, how you can’t wait to meet them but please stay in there until they’re fully cooked and ready.

Steve’s free hand - the one not keeping Beth upright as she sits up on his torso - joins yours and echoes your telepathic communication to the littlest Harrington - I love you, I can’t wait to hold you, please stay safe in there and be nice to your Mom.

His wide palm on your bump settles the fluttering before she aims her kick right against it Hi Dad! Okay, Dad!

You share a secret little smile with him and kiss his cheek as his eyes shimmer before rolling onto your achy back, feeling the satisfaction of the pop and crack as your spine relaxes against the mattress. Steve’s hand stays on your belly, and you hug his arm to your chest, as Beth sings her toddler-babble version of an ABBA mashup for you both from her throne.

Steve’s face hurts from smiling as he listens to her, hears some semblance of the lyrics in Beth-speak. He doesn’t remember mornings like this with his parents, few and far between were the times he was even allowed to cuddle with them in bed on a weekend morning.

You glance at his face, watching shifting emotions come and go as he remembers, tries to forget and focuses on the memories being made right now in your cosy nest of a bed. You squeeze his arm and hold his hand on your belly - matching gold wedding rings clicking against each other as your fingers intertwine.

Steve squeezes your hand, three pulses. There is simply nowhere he would rather be.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington character study #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x mom!reader #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington x f!reader #prosaic fic #bangaveragefics

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sidekick-hero · 2 months

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Everyone had told Steve that college would be so much fun. Freedom from the crushing expectations of his parents breathing down his neck. Parties every weekend and a huge dating pool to choose from. An open-minded and progressive culture that made exploring his sexuality easy and fun instead of kind of suicidal like it had been in his small-minded hometown in Bumfuck Indiana.

What no one had told him was that telling his father that he didn't want to go to business school, that he wanted to teach, would result in his father refusing to pay Steve's tuition.

They didn't disown him, but his parents made it clear that they thought his time in college was a waste of time. At least as long as he was studying something his parents considered beneath a Harrington. To them, becoming a teacher basically meant becoming someone else's doormat just because he wanted to teach their kids.

So he was on his own financially, which frankly took a lot of the fun out of college. Suddenly, partying and dating had to take a back seat to the fact that paying for rent, food, and tuition meant limiting his college experience.

It meant working before or after class.

It meant working his ass off for his classes so he could graduate as soon as possible.

It meant living in the dorms instead of his own place.

Which is exactly what led to him standing outside in the middle of the night in the freezing cold of October in just his boxers and hoodie because some asshole set off the fire alarm in their building.

Steve shivered as he huddled with his fellow freezing students in the dimly lit courtyard, glancing around to see if anyone had brought extra clothes. The chilly wind cut through him, and he cursed his luck for not grabbing a coat when the fire alarm blared through the dorm. He was glad that he had his hoodie right next to his bed so grabbing it on his way out of bed was almost second nature. His sleep-shirt, even thinner and softer from constant wear, was not much in the face of the chilly October weather in Chicago.

As the students exchanged disgruntled glances and whispered complaints, Steve noticed a figure huddled alone on a bench, looking particularly uncomfortable in the cold. Squinting through the dim light, he recognized the boy who lived two doors down from him — Eddie.

All in all, they had exchanged a handful of words, for while Steve was a morning person, often up before the sun to go running, Eddie was a night person by choice. Their paths most often crossed in the wee hours of the morning, one's day beginning as the other's was ending. If Steve were telling the whole truth, he would have to admit that he had tried to time his morning runs to make it more likely that he would run into Eddie.

The guy was cute, sue him. Dimples, big chocolate brown doe eyes, dark curls often tamed into a messy bun at the back of his head so that his tantalizing collarbones peeked out from under the collar of his too-big shirts. It drove Steve a little crazy, but so far he hadn't done anything about it.

Maybe this was his chance to fix that.

Despite the biting cold, Eddie offered a shy smile as Steve approached. "Hey, Steve, right? I'd say it was good to see you, but to be honest, I like it better when I run into you in the hallway."

"Yeah, that's me," Steve replied with a small chuckle, trying to shake off the cold. "Mind if I sit here? It's freezing."

"Go ahead," Eddie said, making room on the bench.

Steve sat down and soon they were huddled together for warmth. It was surprisingly nice, even if he still wished he was somewhere warmer. In the midst of the chilly chaos that had become this random Wednesday night, Steve couldn't help but feel a strange connection forming between him and Eddie as they both sat on that lone bench watching a fire truck arrive. There was a sense of camaraderie that hadn't been present in their earlier nods and small talk in the hallway because of the shared discomfort of their current situation.

Maybe this whole ordeal could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

They started talking, finding common ground in the shared annoyance of the fire alarm and the absurdity of being forced out into the cold in the middle of the night. As they chatted, Steve couldn't help but notice how easy it was to talk to Eddie.

"You look even colder than I do," Steve remarked after a while, having noticed that Eddie's wiry frame was shaking more and more.

"I didn't have time to grab anything. I was just about to crash when the alarm went off," Eddie explained, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Without a second thought, Steve unzipped his hoodie and draped it over Eddie’s shoulders. "Here, it's not much, but it's better than nothing."

Eddie's eyes widened in surprise and a warmth flooded Steve's chest as he watched the boy pull the hoodie tighter around him. "Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate it. But now you don't have anything. That shirt looks good on you, but not really warm."

It's true, Steve can already feel the goosebumps on his skin, but he's not ashamed to use that as an excuse to huddle even closer to Eddie. "It's okay, really. I’m running a little hot anyway. Besides, you could help keep me warm?" He added slyly, giving Eddie a long look from under his lashes and enjoying the adorable blush that rose to his cheeks.

"It would be my pleasure, my knight in shining armor. Or rather, my knight in a Queen shirt." With that, Eddie opened the hoodie and gestured for Steve to lean in. Having hoped for such a reaction, Steve scooted even closer, wrapped his arms around Eddie's middle and let him drape the hoodie around them both.

As they sat there, sharing the hoodie and enduring the cold together, Steve found himself drawn to Eddie in a way he hadn't expected. While he'd found Eddie cute from the start, it was only now that he felt this almost magnetic pull toward the other boy, and their laughter amidst the chaos of the fire alarm only strengthened that feeling. Half an hour ago Steve had been ready to call this the worst night of his college experience and now he felt warm and safe, something settling inside him that he hadn't even realized was out of place.

Steve was in the middle of telling Eddie a story about the gaggle of kids he was babysitting at home and how they were coming to visit him soon. Just as he was telling him about his hunt for one of those weird dice sets with too many sides for the nerd game the kids were playing, they were surprised by the sudden sound of silence that filled the air.

The absence of the blaring fire alarm signaled the all-clear to return to their rooms.

As the crowd in front of them began to disperse, Eddie reluctantly started to remove the hoodie from around them, clearly wanting to give it back. Steve stopped him, though, enjoying the sight of Eddie in his hoodie far too much.

He realized he didn't want Eddie to give the hoodie back. He didn't want this night to end here and go back to his room, to his bed, alone.

"You know, I've got a coffee maker in my room. Want to warm up with a cup?" He suggested suddenly, trying to make his voice and eyes as inviting as possible as he looked hopefully at Eddie.

Eddie hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Steve's cautiously. But something in Steve's eyes must have told him what he was looking for, making him throw caution to the wind. "Sure, why not?"

Smiling broadly, Steve grabbed Eddie's hand and started walking toward their building. He had the feeling that he should be reeling more from the whiplash he had gotten that night, but all he could feel was the joy of anticipation.

They walked back inside, leaving the cold behind, and as Steve sipped a cup of warm coffee, he realized that sometimes unexpected circumstances can lead to the most beautiful connections. Little did he know that the accidental fire alarm would be the spark that ignited a flame of love in his heart that would burn hot and bright for decades to come.

It didn't even dim when, on their wedding day, Eddie confessed during their vows that he was the one who set off the fire alarm by falling asleep with a pizza in the oven.

#steddie #steddie fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #steddielovemonth #steve harrington #eddie munson #day 23 #Love is giving him your sweater even if it makes you cold #my writing

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alien-magnolia · 7 months

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Tainted Love

Fic description: This is a dark fic. 18+ MINORS DNI. Dom!-coded Billy Loomis + hyperfeminine, sub-coded afab reader: they are married, committing crimes together <3 and having a wonderful domestic life <3 besides all the blood and murder. Smut/horror genre: kinks include service!, blood!, knifeplay!, ropes!, choking!, spanking!, free-use!, SERVICE, d/s mental dynamics, majorrrr daddy!kink, exhibitionism

If you like this post, pls engage, comment, reblog! It means so much to me, Ty <3 WC 2.7k

October 10, 1996.

The dark red, yellow, with tinges of brown leaves tumbled down the secluded suburban street. A tan cottage stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, yard neatly trimmed, wind chimes ringing on the porch where they hung. A dim light inside. A black van pulls into the driveway, scaring away a few neighboring birds. The door shuts — a young man enters the house.

——

You were just about finished with tonight’s dinner when your partner came back from college. You loved Billy dearly, and so you did almost everything for him. It was your dynamic — and he loved it as well. You served him, your Billy, your daddy.

How exactly did you get involved with a serial killer? Involved far enough to be an equal partner in his crimes? Involved enough to be so cautious and excellent at keeping first-degree murder a secret? Involved enough to live with him?

—-

It began last fall. A chilly November morning, fog rolling in on the campus. You walked in your pretty pink outfit, donning lace and frills, kitten heels, and butterfly hair clips. You were only nineteen. Young. Innocent. You were looking for your ‘Introduction to Early Modern Literature’ class, yet happened to wander over on the other, more secluded side of campus. You stumble over a rock on the sidewalk. You fall, beautiful rosy cheek now stained with a gash of bright, red blood.

Your hands, your knees, cut up from the bumpy pavement. You start crying. This was just too embarrassing!! With your social anxiety and shyness, you really hoped nobody had seen this. You did not like to be perceived by people — that is just how you were. You look around — not a soul to be seen.

Except for a man — lean, sitting on a brick bench, cigarette in hand. You couldn’t make out how he looked, yet fear overtook you as he started making his way over. You start to scramble up, hoping to run away from him, yet your bruises were just too intense for you to do so.

His deep voice asks you, “Hey, sweetheart, you okay? You nod. “Yeah jus’ a few scratches. Can’t see too well in the fog,” you sheepishly explain. “Hey, no worries. Here, I’ll help you up, yeah?” You oblige, taking his big calloused hands in yours as he helps you stand. You finally get a good look at him. God — he was handsome. More than handsome. Extremely, extremely, attractive. You got wet just by looking at his deep brown eyes and crooked smile looking down at you.

“Hey. Don’t be too shy, hun. Come. Want me to help you fix those bruises? There’s a bathroom right around the corner, he suggests. You nod silently, agreeing, following him to a door on the left.

He begins wiping your bruises with a wet towel, trying to stop the bleeding. His tongue pokes out of his mouth as he focuses. You see more of him now. He wears all black. Smells like cigarettes and a dusty old basement. “So what brings you to this part of campus?,” he asks, brown eyes focused on your bruises.

“Just got lost. Needed to find one class but couldn’t. Maybe I’ll skip today anyway…,” you trail off. “Aw. Today’s your first day huh?,” he coos at you, with a smile you just couldn’t figure out. “Um. Yes. I don’t really know the campus, so…,” you quietly answer him, afraid to look into his eyes. His voice, his face, it all made you thirst for him even more.

“I could tell. Hey. Maybe you should skip. Been looking for someone to hang out with,” he suggests, finishing up cleaning your bruises, putting a few bandaids on you. “I’m Billy, by the way.” You introduce yourself to him, a little smile forming on your face. You ended up skipping class that day, spending time with him in that secluded courtyard, smoking cigarettes, listening to The Smiths. You ended up fucking in the bathroom a few hours later. You knew that you were indubitably attracted — glued to him and everything that he was. Something did feel a little off about how he treated others — you did not care.

So it was.

——

~Present day ~

You hear the keys jingle in the doorway, heavy boots make their way towards the kitchen, where you were. You currently donned a short little black dress, fishnets, with nothing underneath. You were waiting for him.

“Hey, sweets. Looking good today,” he compliments you, as he takes your small hand in his, moving you closer to him, wrapping a hand around your waist. You giggle as he peppers your cheek with kisses. “Sweetie. Want’a ask you something,” he insists, quietly, yet confidently. Your big eyelashes blink as you wait for his question.

“Wanna play with me tonight?,” a sinister smile adorns his face, his brown eyes filled with a hint of malice, excitement. Your eyes match his. You loved playing with him, your sessions, where you gave over complete control of yourself, to him. You trusted him completely. He led, you followed.

You were his. His prey, his little girl, his accomplice. You were his, devoted completely, mind and body. The two of you even had matching tattoos: a forever symbol of your unique relationship.

“Yes, daddy. What first?” He chuckles lowly. “Glad you asked, princess. We’re going to the van.” You smile back at him, as he gives you a kiss, pulling you closer to him by your neck. You knew what to do, sticking your hands out, as he takes a rope from the nearby drawer.

The rope felt nice around your wrists, you liked to watch him tie it. You didn’t want your freedom when you played with him. “Daddy’s girl, all tied up, huh? Come sweets. Let’s go to the van,” he sneers at you in the best possible way, as he leads you outside. Still, he manages to grab a coat for you, alongside some knives. You suspected that both of you will be using those later.

“Before we leave our house, thought we might have a bit of fun in the van, what’dya say? I think it’ll be nice for my little girl, yeah?,” he croons at you, caressing your cheek, before gripping it harshly, brown eyes boring into yours.

You’re on your knees for him in his dingy van. His waffle knit white t-shirt feels nice on your bound hands, as you see him start to unbuckle his belt, dropping his jeans to the floor of the van. “Give daddy’s cock some love, hun,” you hear, and his strong arms work to push you down to the floor. You look up at him from your back, you see him towering over you, cock in his calloused hand, slowly rubbing it. He lowers his cock and balls onto your face, you love the feeling of his heavy ball sack on your chin. His cock was wide, not too long, yet wide, weeping, with three beautiful veins and a beauty mark <3

It was all red and ready for your wet throat. You took him eagerly, sucking so much pressure, you felt his silky smooth voice moan out in ecstasy. You keep sucking, swirling your tongue around the mushroom tip of his cockhead. He pulls a knife to the side of your cheek. You stop.

“Look what daddy’s got here hun. You don’t like this little toy, do you?,” he taunts. With that, he lowers the knife to your chest, where he makes a gentle cut on it. He liked to cut you with his knife. Another way to possess you, to mark you as HIS.

“Get up, sweets. Daddy’s gonna cum if you keep this shit up.” He chuckles, and helps you up, wiping that little cut he made with a towel. That same towel now goes in your mouth as a makeshift gag.

His hands tightly grip your hips, pushing you down onto the floor of the van again. Hips spread, gagged, hands still tied, you felt his finger swipe across your clit, down your labia, trailing over your wet, wet, pussy. Your hole was clenching around nothing!! He was going to fix that.

“Aww. Look at you , sweetie. Cheeks all rosy, ass up for me, ready to be bred,” he taunts. You only moan in response. “Does daddy’s little girl want to be bred, hmm? Like a little cow?” You moan in response, he tuts, and lifts your neck up gently. “What was that?,” voice low. Shit. You fucked up.

“Yes, daddy,” your voice is muffled through the gag. He smiles again, that dark smile of his. Sinister. Evil. Exactly what you wanted to see. Without warning, you feel him push into you. Wide, throbbing, filling that sweet spot exactly how you wanted. He went slow for just a little, relishing how good his little girl, his breeding cow, dumpster, was for him. Then he went fast. Too fast. You loved hearing the sound of his cock and balls slap against your ass, your squelching pussy <3

You feel so full of him, you saw stars as his wife cock drilled deeper and deeper into you. You felt him twitch inside, your favorite part!! “Take my cum, baby. Fuckin’ take it,” you hear him grunt, as his hands press your body down into a mating press, his stomach now on top of your back. He had you caged in, tied, gagged, absolutely abusing you on his wide cock. You were in heaven. You were his now, in this moment. The both of you came, and of course, he did not let you squeeze his cum out of you.

“Keep it in, hmm? Want our visitors to know that you’re daddy’s girl.” You nod and smile, making grabby hands at him once he unties your wrists, and takes the towel out of your mouth. He lifts you up into his lap, peppering your face with kisses, smiling up at you as you giggle.

He helps you get dressed, gently cooing at you as you show him the carpet burn you got from being on your knees for so long. He kisses it to make it better <3 and even puts on your white frilly socks for you, helping you with your little black kitten heels and your dress.

“Where to next, daddy?,” you giddily await his answer. “Now, we drive. To meet our special guests for tonight,” he replies, your smile now matching his level of sinister. The both of you were about to go have some fun, with some unconventional guests as well.

——-/

It was now almost midnight. After your play session in the van, you couldn’t wait to play in front of your guests!! The both of you listen to heavy metal as Billy speeds down an abandoned road, the rotting leaves blowing towards the sides from the van passing by on the road. He pulls his van up a few meters close to the woods, and parks.

“Coat, baby.” You nod, and he puts your black puffer on. He leads you to the backseat, where a black trunk with a lock is placed. He opens it. His mask. Ghostface. He puts it on his hip, putting on black clothes over his nice ones. He gives you gloves, and a knife. One for himself as well. Binoculars.

“Come, hun. This way.” You follow him up into a tree, where the both of you take turns with your binoculars. He takes out his block of a phone. How you loved the 90’s. He dials the number, telling you to watch their reaction in the windows. “Hi. What’s your favorite scary movie,” Billy's voice drawls out to his unsuspecting victims in the mansion that you were currently hiding outside of.

Billy continued to harass them on the phone, beckoning you down the tree quietly, and closer and closer to the person’s backyard. Billy stays on the phone, pointing at you to stay put, and opens the window on the first floor. You wait outside, as he slips on in.

You knew what to do. You’d wait for his signal, then follow him in. Then, came your favorite part: where Billy shows you off to his victims <3

You see his hand signal through the window. You step on inside, and see the couple tied to each other, this time with metal chains. Billy is wearing his mask. “Just in time for the show, sweetheart. Kneel.”

You do as said, loving the absolutely sadistic smile on his face right now. He puts on your leash ( only for when in front of un-consenting others) and has to crawl to sit at his knees. “You see here, my two pretties, you two are going to watch me fuck my little princess here. After that, I’ll decide if you get to live,” he chuckles in absolute glee.

“By the way, if you two decide to make a sound, or go at my little girl here, I’ll stab ya. Sounds good? My, my, what a perfect, scary movie,” he narrates to himself, to you, to the two victims, who looked like they were about to mentally lose it. <3

He skips with the foreplay, the blowjob, the fingering. He gets right to it. He wants his victims to see his pretty girl, on his own terms. He roughly pushes you down onto the floor, strong hands positioning your hips in place, giving your ass a few harsh spanks <3 you hear the belt buckle slip, and soon enough, you can feel the warmth of his already hard cock near your puffy pussy.

Your eyes are drawn to the couple. You loved being shown off, being watched. They did not want to watch you. But that is okay. Billy is going to make them. :)

They watch in horror as he starts rutting into you like a beast, bloody knife that he used on one of the victims nearing your neck, staying there. The knife soon drops, he gives it to you to hold as he starts losing control. You were too, feeling so full of him, getting an extra serving of his cum :) was your favorite thing to do.

You smiled as the couple looked on in horror. Billy pulled out just the last second before, and came all over your face. “Look so pretty with my cum all over your face, sweet girl. Clean it up f’me, yeah?” You nod.

After you wipe it off, Billy steps back in front of the two victims. “See how nicely I treat my girl? I’m her daddy, after all. Just wanted to show her to you. She’s mine, forever will be. What a nice show the two of you got,” he chuckles, before stabbing one of them, the screams could be heard from down the block.

Billy finished off the other one, not before giving her a good slap and punch. <3 The pool of blood covers the entire kitchen tiling, making it seem red everywhere. It’s on your shoes, on Billy’s. He takes his mask off, and picks you up in his arms.

“Did so good f’me today, sweet girl. So proud of you,” he praises you. “You did good too, Billy. I love how rough you are with them.” He smiles again, giving you a tender kiss. “Let’s leave, huh? Go back home, watch a scary movie?,” he asks. You nod, staying still in his arms as he carries you over the blood, and back out to the woods.

The two of you make it back to the van. They won’t catch you. As long as you’re together, everything was just fine.

#liz’s masterlist #billy loomis x y/n #billy loomis x reader #billy loomis smut #ghostface smut #ghostface x reader #billy loomis fanfiction #billy Loomis hot #ghostface imagine #stu macher smut #dark!billy loomis smut #liz writes 🖤#pls don’t let it flop I’m proud of it!

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