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supercutszns · 4 months

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a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.

#perrie’s fics #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #pjo #pjo series #pjo x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fluff #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #charlie bushnell #this is far longer than i wanted it to be so sorry.#don’t usually write in 2nd person or present tense so i’m just trying not to look at it #the evil men with curly hair have won again

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marvel-ous-m · 1 year

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After Starcourt, Steve and Robin began a new tradition- 'spa nights'. Robin would make them homemade face masks (“peaches and yogurt? On my face? That’s disgusting Robin.” “Shut up and put it on, dingus.”). They would put in a shitty tape from Family Video and Steve would paint their nails. (“How do you even know how to do this Steve?” “I’m a babysitter, Rob, it’s in the job description.”)

The school year started and Robin got a lot more busy- what with it being her senior year and all- but they still made time for spa nights. They were less frequent (maybe once a month instead of every other week), but they happened.

Vecna came, they killed the bastard, and they all lived- somehow, miraculously, certainly not unscathed, but they’re all alive. They beat him. A few months later, after the almost-end-of-the-world, Robin brought up their spa nights. (“Come on, Steve, it’s been months. My brain needs a vacation, my face needs a vacation, my nails need a vacation.”) Steve agreed, acting reluctant (but was secretly really excited to get back to one-on-one time with his best friend).

Except the kids find out, namely El and Max, and they beg Steve and Robin to join them. The two acquiesce, and then Eddie hears about it and joins the party, too. Uninvited. (But nowadays he doesn’t need an invitation. He shows up, bright personality and even brighter smile, and brings a constant, welcome addition to the party. Along with some… feelings that Steve can’t even start to try and acknowledge.)

The spa night comes and everyone crowds into Steve’s living room. Robin has put together a new face mask recipe (“ugh, what is in this?!” “Just shut your mouth and put it on, Red.”), Eddie brings his braiding skills, and Steve provides the nail polish.

Only now, his hands shake.

It’s something he’s noticed by now. The nerve damage from fighting the bats and Vecna, the 24/7 anxiety, the brain damage, something that they faced over spring break has left him with a tremor that he can’t quite get rid of. Sometimes it’s small, sometimes it’s more noticeable, and tonight… well, it’s not great.

Robin wiggles her fingers at Steve, ready for their tradition of him painting her nails, and Steve hesitates. It’s a small thing, but his shoulders tense. He hasn’t mentioned the shaking to anyone yet, and he knows that he wouldn’t be able to get the crisp, clean paint that he used to. The tremor would make itself obvious, and he just can’t face picking up the nail polish bottle. It’s a sign of the new weakness, one that he can’t admit to others, can barely admit to himself… he can’t face being seen as weak. As flawed. As-

“Hey! Are we painting nails?! Here, lemme have a go. I haven’t done it on anyone else before, always just painted my own.” Eddie interrupts Steve's train of thought in his easy way and grabs the nail polish from just below Steve’s hand. He plops down between Steve and Robin, admiring the color the later had chosen. “Robin’s Egg Blue, very fitting, Birdie.” Eddie winks at her and starts painting, accomplishing a more polished finish than Steve was ever able to get before Spring Break.

And Steve just watches. Quiet, his hands on his knees. He watches as Eddie paints Robin’s fingernails blue, then Max’s a bright red. Eddie paints Eleven’s a deep purple shade, then gives himself a fingernail in each polish that Steve has to create a rainbow of clashing colors. Afterwards, once the paint has dried, the girls all wash their face masks off and curl up to watch the shitty movie Robin had picked.

Eddie turns to Steve then, a bright yellow shade in his hands. “Want a turn, sunshine?” Eddie must’ve seen the look on Steve’s face, the flash of pain, because his voice turns to a whisper before Steve can answer. “I can help you keep your hands steady, Stevie. Don’t worry about that. Just relax and lemme treat you to a manicure.”

Steve startles at that. He thought he'd been better at hiding it. “How did you know?“

“How wouldn’t I know, Steve?” Eddie grabs Steve’s hand, a gentle but firm grip holding his fingers straight and steady. “I paid attention. I noticed. We all came away from that fight with a different scar, and we all need some extra help with different things now.” Eddie speaks as he paints, carefully brushing away any mess with the corner of his thumb. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but I get it if you can’t tell anyone just yet. I’ll be here to help, though. Just like this. If you want it.”

Steve’s quiet still, but now in an effort to keep his emotions at bay. He’s never had anyone do… anything like this for him before. Eddie moves on to paint his other hand, and they sit in silence while the sound of the shitty rom-com washes over them, joined by the occasional giggle or mocking comment from one of the girls. Eddie does a second coat, brushes any scraps of excess paint away with an alcohol wipe, and caps the nail polish with a gentle smile.

Steve admires his nails, then glances up at Eddie, his eyes welling. “Eddie, thank you-“

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’, it’s just a paint job-“

“No really, Eddie. Thank you. For everything. For noticing. No one’s ever-“

“I’ll always notice, Stevie.” Eddie squeezes Steve’s arm, then turns slightly to watch the movie, his hip pressed against Steve’s.

Years later, in retrospect, Steve realizes that the spa night was the night he fell in love with Eddie Munson.

#my writing #steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #domesticity after the vecna fight >>>>#Hope the past tense/present tense shift wasn't too jarring for u guys #my writing style is unique (by unique I mean stupid)#stranger things post s4 #steve harrington/eddie munson

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drippyboycunt · 8 months

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"oh good, you're right where i left you," i say smiling at the sight of my pup leashed to the leg of the coffee table. "you didn't try to get on the couch while i was gone, did you?"

"no sir, i promise i was good this time."

without a word, i walk over to the couch and look for any signs of disturbance. everything is exactly as i left it.

"and you didn't touch yourself?"

"no sir."

"good. because after all," i say squatting down and reaching a hand between their thighs, "this is mine. is that clear? it belongs to me."

my pup's face flushes as they nod their head.

"i asked you a question. speak."

"y-yes sir. it belongs to you."

"aw, don't sound so nervous. i can feel your body sending a different message, my sweet pup," i tease. "besides, you know i hate being hard on you. it's just that even the dumbest mutts have to learn to behave."

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misc-obeyme · 6 months

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had this idea where dia sees mc while at RAD, wiping some tears away from their eyes. he has a brief "i'll kill whoever caused this" thought before asking mc what happened :((( and they just laugh bc they're tired and have been yawning a lot

Oh ho ho anon, I love this idea so I had to write a little drabble about it. I hope that's okay! I just love protective Dia lol.

Diavolo is wandering the halls, smiling at students as he passes by, taking in the bustling activity of his school. It's a normal thing that he does and while he's maintaining his usual air of friendliness, he knows he lights up when he spots you across the hall.

Diavolo makes his way toward you, ready to call out your name. You were turned slightly away, but now you move slightly and come fully into his view. His heart sinks as he watches you wipe tears away from your eyes.

The way his stomach collapses in on itself as he feels the anger rising in his chest causes him to pause. He takes a deep breath, knowing he should speak to you first, but he can't stop that fleeting thought. I'll kill whoever caused this.

You look at him when he puts a hand on the small of your back. To his surprise, you smile brightly, clearly happy to see him.

"MC," he says, his tone low and serious. "I'm afraid I saw your tears just now. May I ask what happened?"

Your smile turns into a bubbling laugh that sends him reeling. Did he so badly misinterpret your mood?

"I'm sorry," you say through your laughter. "I was just yawning because I'm tired. It makes my eyes water."

Diavolo stares at you for a moment before laughing himself. "Ahaha! I see! Forgive me for jumping to conclusions, MC!"

"That's all right," you say, clearly amused by this turn of events.

Diavolo's expression becomes serious as he meets your eyes. He cups your cheek and says quietly, "If you ever do find yourself in such a situation, I hope you will come to me for assistance."

He watches as a slight blush rises in your cheeks as you reassure him that you will. It's enough to quell his desire to protect you, for now.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

#I've been writing my drabbles in present tense instead of the usual past tense #not sure how I feel about tbh #anyway I love this idea hee hee #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me shall we date #obey me diavolo #om diavolo #diavolo obey me #obey me diavolo x reader #om diavolo x reader #diavolo obey me x reader #anon asks #misc answers #misc writes

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scyllas-revenge · 1 year

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Leap of Faith

aka an Only One Bed headcanon with no context whatsoever

because this popped into my head and I wanted to be able to write and finish something for once god damn it. @the-girl-with-the-algebra-book this is for you 🥰

Legolas/Human Reader (gender-neutral)

Word count: 663

Rating: G

Read on AO3

New!! There’s a part 2 here!

Legolas is instantly flustered at the sight of the single bed, his eyes darting between you and the pillows and back again. Despite himself, he’s half-contemplating diving out the window to freedom—but at the look on your face, he forces himself to take a shuddering breath.

You’re more than happy to share the bed, you reassure him: there’s plenty of room, and you’re a heavy sleeper, so he won’t disturb you. But he rejects the offer smoothly. Elves do not sleep like mortals, of course, and he need not lie down to find his rest as you do.

For the first time, he regrets it.

Legolas is a gentleman: he turns away quickly as you slip out of your traveling clothes and boots and slide under the covers, but the rustling of your garments and slide of fabric against your skin is so loud in the silence of the little bedroom, so intimate, that his heartbeat lurches in his chest. By the time he risks a glance back at you, you’re buried in blankets and pillows, looking more at peace than he’s ever seen you.

And now there is nothing to do but wait for dawn.

He pours water over the coals in the fireplace as your breathing evens out in sleep. He paces quietly. He sighs. Time slips by, and his eyes dart to you more and more often.

He’s curious. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. Legolas has so rarely been around mortals, and the way they sleep is fascinating. You’re deeply, wholeheartedly asleep—no wide-open staring eyes, no mind still active and wandering, elf-like.

He’s curious. Your chest rises and falls under the blankets, your breaths even, calm. In through the nose, with the slightest snore, then out through the mouth in a warm puff. He finds himself stepping closer to the bed, transfixed.

He’s curious. That’s all. His elven eyes can make out the darting of your pupils beneath their lids, the slight parting of your lips. He leans closer, unconsciously. Perhaps you’re dreaming—and he hopes, with a sudden jolt, that you’re dreaming of him. And as though in answer, your lashes flutter restlessly, a single word escaping your parted lips: “Legolas.”

Oh, fine. He’s far more than just curious.

Legolas is perched on the bed beside you before he is aware of it, his heart in his throat. Perhaps it meant nothing—very likely it meant nothing, for rarely was there sense to be found in mortal dreams. He should move away, and stop staring longingly at your sleeping form. You would hardly appreciate it if you knew.

Or would you? You had invited him to share the bed with you, after all.

Thoroughly defeated, Legolas slips under the covers to join you. Even in sleep, you’re enough to overpower him. And even in sleep, you turn toward him, clutching at his torso and pressing yourself close. His breath hitches.

Your hands clutch tight to his tunic as you nuzzle into his side, and Legolas curls against you, your legs tangling together. A shudder runs through his body.

He breathes in and out as evenly as he can, in imitation of you, and closes his eyes against the pillows, just as you did. Perhaps he can sleep as you do, just this once, so he can survive this overwhelming closeness. Keep his eyes shut tight and his mind closed off from the world, so he can outlast it.

It frightens him for a moment—the uncertainty of his tight-shut eyes, the lack of awareness of the wider world. How odd this mortal sleep is. It feels like a leap of faith. But your breath is warm and even against his neck, your hair soft as it splays against the exposed skin of his neck and collarbone, and his heartbeat slows, sleep—true sleep—stealing over him at last.

This leap is an easy one to take, for he has faith in you utterly.

#legolas #lotr fanfic #legolas x reader #only one bed #oh god i've written in the present tense for real this time #what have i done #this started out as bullet points BULLET POINTS at least i've polished it a bit more than that

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elumish · 2 months

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I was thinking recently about the idea of a tragedy in present tense versus a tragedy in past tense, and how a tragedy in present tense is about how there is still a chance to have it end differently and we have no choice but to watch every chance be missed or squandered or fail, and a tragedy in past tense is about how there is no chance for a different ending because the ending has already happened. Orpheus has already looked back. Every time, he has already looked back.

#tragedy #past tense #present tense

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trans-cuchulainn · 3 months

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favourite Irish phrase I've learned from reading books is "beidh ár bport seinnte" (or tá, depending on how hypothetical the situation is). our tune is played, lads. it's over.

#english also has 'the jig is up '#but the irish phrase seems to have stronger connotations of We're Fucked And It's Done #also idk if the idiom means just 'tune' or 'jig'#i would think of port as jig specifically but that's bc i learned dancer vocab before normal vocab #irish #gaeilge #in this specific instance in the book I'm currently reading it's conditional i think #but I've seen it in present tense in a different book

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pizzaqueen · 1 year

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Eddie is forever grumbling about “losing” his shirts, storming out of their room and flopping dramatically on the couch, declaring his favorite shirt is gone forever, it was there one minute and now it’s just gone. Gone gone gone!

And Steve will sigh and say it can’t be lost, shirts don’t just get up and walk out and Eddie will say this one did! all but harrumphing. So Steve will go in their room, look through the same pile of shirts Eddie looked through a moment ago, and come back out, holding it up, saying “this shirt?”

And Eddie will say it wasn’t there when he looked and they’re all black, it was camouflaged, and take the shirt half-annoyed, half-sheepish and murmur something about how there’s definitely a shirt stealing gremlin living in their walls that takes Eddie’s shirts then puts them back for Steve to find and make Eddie look like an idiot

And Steve will roll his eyes and try not to smile knowing it will happen again and again. And some days he finds it amusing, others annoying, but it’s all part of living together

#steddie #Steve x eddie #steddie headcanon #Eddie munson #Steve harrington #brought to you by me being convinced I lost my softest Metallica shirt for the last two days #and then finding it right where I’d already looked lmao #Steve definitely does this too and doesn’t have the excuse of most of his clothes being black :P #or he does the where are my glasses thing when they’re on his head lol #we’ve all been there right?#also why did I write most of this in future tense except a couple of sentences in present ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#alsooooo sorry if someone’s written something similar!!!#i had a vague feeling after posting someone might have 🙈😫#pizzaqueentxt #pizzaqueenfic

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bri-cheeses · 30 days

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“Have you ever been in love?”

The question seems to take Evan by surprise. “What?”

Barty repeats the question, shifting up into a sitting position. His hands dig into the ground, still damp from last night’s rain. “Have you ever been in love?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, looking down at his feet, Evan quietly answers, “Yes.”

Suddenly, Barty is mad at himself for asking. He can’t even say why he asked in the first place; he simply had the thought, and being the impulsive person he is, he asked without thinking. Now he wishes he hadn’t, if only to have avoided this odd burning in his chest caused by Evan’s answer. And really, he should drop the topic, based on downcast tint to Evan’s response, but he can’t seem to let it go. So instead, he presses the issue.

“When?” he asks, looking intently at Evan.

At that, Evan looks to his left, purposely avoiding eye contact with Barty. He stubs out his cigarette on the grass next to him, a thin curl of smoke rising up from it as he does so. “A long, long time ago.” His voice is dark with something Barty can’t name.

“Did it end well?”

Evan cuts him a look. “Who said it ended?”

At his words, something twists inside Barty. Suddenly there’s a lump in his throat as he works to get out his next sentence. “Well, you said a long time ago. So I thought that it was a, uh, past thing.”

“Yeah. It was a long time ago. When I… fell in love.”

Barty knows he’s the one who started this conversation, but he really hates the way Evan says love in reference to some mystery person. At least he used past tense, though, meaning it’s a thing of the past.

“So what happened?” Barty questions.

“They didn’t want me in the way I wanted them. Still don’t want me that way.” There’s something bitter in Evan’s tone, and he’s gone back to refusing to look at Barty. In contrast, Barty stares at him intently. He feels as though he’ll be able to see through Evan’s exterior and into his insides, where all his secrets are hidden, if he only looks hard enough.

“Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” Evan’s voice is biting as he sharply turns his head back towards Barty.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Barty leans back onto his elbows, tearing his gaze from Evan. It’s almost comical how their positions have changed; now, Evan stares at Barty, and Barty looks out over the lake in an effort to avoid his gaze.

“It was no one important, okay?”

“Oh.” Something settles in Barty when he hears that, even if Evan’s tone contrasts with his dismissive words. “They were—still are—an idiot, though. Just for the record.”

Evan laughs in that disbelieving way of his, as if he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Barty says definitively. “I mean, you’re perfect. And whoever can’t see that is an idiot.”

“Perfect?”

“Yup.” Barty means it, too.

“Yeah, well,” Evan scoffs, “it isn’t good enough for them. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, you’re good enough for me,” Barty says hotly. “So don’t worry about that asshole. Because and me? We’re best friends, and you’ll always be good enough for me. You know that, right?”

Evan is avoiding Barty’s gaze again. He picks at the grass next to him, focusing on that instead. “Right,” he says somewhat bitterly.

“I mean it,” Barty insists. “You are.”

Evan looks at him, smiling sadly. “Thanks, Bee. But it’s getting cold. I think I’ll head back inside if that’s all right with you.”

“I—okay. Yeah, uh, sure.”

With that, Evan gets up and begins the walk back to the castle. Barty watches him go, thinking their entire exchange over.

He’s not entirely sure where the conversation went sour enough to get Evan to leave, but clearly something must’ve caused his abrupt departure. Even if Barty had thought he had said the right things to get Evan to cheer up again. He had meant what he said, too; Evan always would be good enough for him. Barty honestly couldn’t imagine a better best friend.

So Evan shouldn’t, Barty thinks heatedly, have ever been hung up on some asshole who couldn’t even see how amazing he is.

Barty continues to sit there, close to the shore of the lake, and watches Evan’s retreating form. And as he watches Evan reach up to wipe at his eyes, trying and failing to act like it was nonchalant gesture, he resolves to find out who Evan was talking about. And he’s going to make them, whoever it may be, pay for how they hurt Barty’s best friend.

#Barty you IDIOT #ugh #also Evan never said that it ended buddy #just that he fell in love a while ago (translation: Evan knows how to dodge questions)#also did u not notice that he kept switching between past and present tense #also Barty��s repeated insistence that Evan is perfect AS HIS BEST FRIEND #ah my heart #i want to grab Barty by the shoulders and shake some sense into him #i say that as if i’m not the one writing this #btw someone needs to take the angst away from me because i’m having wayy too much fun with it #rosekiller #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #slytherin skittles #marauders era

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mxnsterbabe · 2 months

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Male Troll/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,343 Tags & Warnings: plus size monster Part One (here) | Part Two (coming soon!) Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You’re an escort, but the last thing you expected was to fall for your favourite client.

You pause outside the sleek facade of the restaurant, the cool evening air caressing your skin. Glancing at your phone one last time, you scroll through Sorrel's profile, absorbing every detail. Sorrel, an unusual name for an even more unusual client.

Trolls rarely make their way into the heart of the city, preferring the solitude of their natural dwellings. Yet here you are, about to meet one for dinner in one of the most upscale places in town.

Your job often demands a chameleon-like ability to adapt, to mould yourself into whatever your clients desire. A laugh here, a sympathetic nod there, all performed with the ease of a well-rehearsed play.

Sorrel's request is refreshingly simple: just company, and above all, authenticity. It's both refreshing and daunting. How long has it been since you were asked to simply be yourself?

Taking a deep breath, you tuck your phone away. Your reflection in the restaurant's glass doors gives you a moment's pause—a young woman, elegantly dressed, poised on the edge of an unfamiliar encounter.

With a final steadying breath, you push the door open and step into the warm, amber-lit interior.

A pretty waitress, with a smile as polished as the cutlery, guides you through the restaurant when you enter. The beauty of the place unfolds around you; all soft lighting and hushed tones. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over tables draped in pristine white linen, each adorned with delicate glassware and silver.

The murmur of conversation blends with the gentle clinking of dishes, and soft, classical music plays. It doesn’t strike you as the kind of place a troll would like; they’re known for their love of natural living, not fine-dining.

As you take in the opulence, a flutter of self-consciousness washes over you. The elegance of your surroundings makes you feel suddenly underdressed, and you can't help but wonder about Sorrel. The cost of dining here must be astronomical; does he intend to make a statement, perhaps to showcase you as a trophy of his affluence?

As you approach the booth, you see him. Sorrel is a striking figure, a hulking presence that commands the space around him. His mossy green hair, a wild, natural crown, complements the dense fur that covers his body. His eyes, sharp and discerning, fix on you, and there's an intelligence in his gaze that belies the brutish stereotype of his kind. Despite the tailored suit that strains slightly against his muscular frame, there's no disguising the power in his broad shoulders, the soft curve of his belly. The suit, while elegant, seems almost a concession to human norms, doing little to mask his inherent, rugged appeal.

A wave of unexpected attraction washes over you, stirring a flush of excitement in your stomach. It's an odd sensation, this pull towards someone so different.

Gathering your composure, you slide into the booth, the soft leather cool against your skin. The space between you and Sorrel crackles with an energy as you offer a gentle smile.

"Hello," you begin, your voice well-rehearsed. You're acutely aware of your posture, the calculated tilt of your head, the practiced smile. Sorrel asked for authenticity, but it’s difficult when faced with such an imposing man.

Sorrel's response, however, is not what you anticipate. His voice, deep and resonant, carries a gentleness that seems at odds with his formidable appearance. "Good evening," he rumbles, his sharp eyes softening. "I hope the night finds you well."

As he speaks, the tension in your shoulders begins to ebb. There's a sincerity in his words, a vulnerability that peeks through the confident exterior.

With a smile, you turn to the menu. You hesitate, the array of exquisite dishes foreign and intimidating. There are a lot of words, and a lot of words that you don’t understand.

Maybe sensing your uncertainty, Sorrel leans in. His hands brush against yours, and the warmth of him makes you shiver..

"The risotto is my favourite. The salmon, too - it’s this one here, at the bottom."

You glance up at him, face flushed. You’ve been on countless escort jobs, and it’s always just been that. A job. Yet, as you soak in Sorrel’s warmth, his fur tickling your palm, something stirs inside you.

The words stick in the back of your throat as a waitress arrives. All you can do is nod in agreement as Sorrel makes a suggestion, and the waitress departs with your order.

There's a lull in the conversation, a moment of silence as you take in the man before you. "I must admit," you find yourself saying, breaking the quiet with a nervous laugh, "I didn't expect someone like you to be in a place like this." The words are out before you can stop them, and a flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks. "I mean, I made assumptions based on... well, what I thought I knew about trolls. I'm sorry."

Sorrel's laughter, rich and warm, fills the space between you. "No offense taken," he assures, his smile genuine. "I often find myself frequenting these types of restaurants. The same way the forest holds its charm, so does a well-crafted dish or a beautifully composed piece of music."

"I've not had the chance to dine in places as grand as this very often," you admit with a laugh, the restaurant's opulence still wrapping around you like a soft blanket. "It's a rare treat. You must do quite well for yourself, Sorrel. What is it that you do?"

Sorrel sets his glass down, the light catching the deep green of his eyes. "I left my clan some years ago," he begins, his voice solemn now. "We had... differing views on how to engage with the expanding human world. I believed in integration, in finding a way to coexist beneficially."

You lean in, captivated by his story, the depth of his conviction. "So, what did you do?"

"I started my own company," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "We specialize in eco-friendly construction materials. It sounds dull, I know, but it’s something I care about."

Your chest flutters. "That's incredible," you respond, genuinely impressed. "Although, I’m sorry about your family.

He shrugs. “Don’t be, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back home.”

The arrival of the meal serves as a delicious interruption, and the garlicky, savoury smell makes your mouth water. The risotto you chose under Sorrel's recommendation is creamy and rich, with the earthy aroma of truffles enveloping you. Sorrel's salmon is presented with an artistry that matches the taste, the fish's delicate flesh flaking at the touch of his fork.

"This is incredible," you murmur, savouring each bite, your previous apprehensions about the evening melting away with the flavors on your tongue.

Sorrel smiles, watching you with a contented gaze that makes your heart flutter. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."

You smile, delving in, beginning to forget that this isn’t a real date. As you eat, the conversation meanders from the culinary arts to travel, to the hidden corners of the world each of you dreams of exploring. He’s a traveller, like you, although he’s visited places you could never dream of.

As the main course plates are cleared away, Sorrel suggests a dessert to share, a classic tiramisu that promises to be as light as air. When it arrives, you both lean in, the spoon Sorrel hands you brushing against his, sending a spark of electricity through you. You scoop a small portion, the dessert's creamy layers dissolving instantly on your tongue, and you can't help but close your eyes in appreciation.

"Good?" Sorrel asks, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

"More than," you reply, opening your eyes to find his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that quickens your pulse.

It's easy, in the soft lighting and over the shared sweetness of dessert, to forget the nature of how this evening came to be.

It's only when the waiter discreetly presents the bill that reality nudges you back into your role. Sorrel doesn't hesitate, reaching for his wallet with a grace that belies his size.

"How would you prefer the payment?" he asks, his tone casual but with a hint of something more, perhaps a reluctance for the evening to end in such a transactional manner.

The question jolts you back to the present, a reminder of the professional boundary that, for a fleeting moment, had seemed all but erased. "A bank transfer would be fine, thank you," you manage to say, your voice steady despite the way your stomach twists.

As you stand to leave, the warmth of the restaurant's ambiance contrasts sharply with the cool detachment now settling over you. Sorrel escorts you to the exit, his presence as reassuring as it is imposing.

At the doorway, you turn to him, the night air cool on your skin. "Thank you, Sorrel, for a truly wonderful evening," you say, sincerity lacing your words.

"Thank you," he replies, and something like regret flickers in his eyes.

On impulse, you rise on your toes and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. It's a small gesture, but it carries the weight of all the evening's revelations, his fur soft against your neck.

“Goodbye, Sorrel.”

“Goodbye. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As you part ways, the night swallowing his towering figure, you're left with a warmth that no chill can dispel. The memory of the evening, of Sorrel, lingers like a sweet aftertaste, leaving you wondering just how you’re supposed to forget about him.

***

A week slips by, quieter than usual, leading you to pick up part-time shifts at a local hotel to fill the gaps. The monotony of the days contrasts sharply with the vivid memory of your evening with Sorrel, which lingers no matter how much you try to forget.

When a new request pops up on the escort site from Sorrel, your heart leaps. The anticipation, the unexpected thrill of seeing him again, infuses your routine with a newfound energy. Preparations for your meeting are made with a care and attention you hadn't realized you'd been missing.

The park chosen for your rendezvous is entirely different to the opulent restaurant of your first encounter. As the evening draws in, the tranquility of the park, with its towering trees and the soft murmur of the evening breeze, soothes your nerves.

You spot Sorrel at the agreed-upon spot, his imposing figure somehow at peace among the natural surroundings. Today, he’s wearing a more casual fitted black shirt that hugs his generous curves.

His face lights up as he sees you approach, a genuine smile spreading across his features.

"It's wonderful to see you again," he greets, his voice carrying a warmth that wraps around you like a comforting embrace.

"The feeling's mutual, Sorrel," you reply, your own smile reflecting your genuine happiness. "I wasn't sure if you'd... well, want to meet again."

"Why wouldn't I?" he asks, his tone laced with genuine confusion and a hint of amusement. "Our last evening together was more enjoyable than I've had in a long time. I've been looking forward to this all week."

Your heart flutters at his words. It’s your job, you know, to be liked - but hearing it from him sends a thrill through you.

"I'm glad,” you say. “I've thought a lot about our last, er, date."

Sorrel's gaze softens, the park's gentle evening light casting a serene glow over his features. "I've found myself doing the same. There's a simplicity in your company, a peace I've come to... crave."

The admission hangs between you. It's clear that the bond formed over that dinner has only deepened with time, but you have to wonder if this feels all a little too real.

"Would you like to take a walk?" Sorrel suggests, gesturing to the winding path that leads deeper into the park.

"I'd like that," you agree, and together, you begin to walk. You link an arm through his, enjoying how big and sturdy he is. It’s difficult to resist the urge to lean in close, soaking up the scent of his cologne.

The park around you is quiet, the occasional rustle of leaves and distant sounds of the city the only interruptions to the silence.

As you walk alongside Sorrel, the proximity and the gentle brush of his hand against yours send ripples of excitement through you. Each step seems to synchronize with the beating of your heart, a rhythm that echoes the growing closeness between you. The thrill of all surprises you, and you find yourself leaning deeper against his plush side.

The small talk that fills the air between you is comfortable, and you find yourself eagerly listening to Sorrel’s deep, rumbling voice. You chat about the park, and the mundane details of your respective weeks. Yet, beneath the surface, there's a tension, as if there’s something more floating beneath the surface.

It's Sorrel who breaks the veil of casual conversation, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "You know, I've always found myself caught between two worlds," he begins, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "In the city, I'm too troll for most people to understand. Among my own kind, my views, my... aspirations make me an outsider. Too modern for my own kind, but too different for everybody else."

You listen, your heart aching at the vulnerability he's willing to share. The loneliness of his position between two worlds, becomes achingly clear.

"That's part of why I sought your company initially," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "I needed to feel understood, even if it was just for a moment, even if it had to be... bought."

The honesty of his admission strikes a chord within you, the professional facade crumbling further with each word.

"Now," Sorrel pauses, taking a deep breath, "my mother is ill. She's asked me to come home."

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy with the gravity of his decision. The silence that follows is filled with a thousand unasked questions, each one a reflection of the complexity of his situation and the depth of your concern for him.

"What will you do?" you find yourself asking, the question laden with more than professional curiosity. It's a question born of a connection that's deepened beyond expectation, a genuine concern for his well-being.

Sorrel stops walking, turning to face you. In the fading light, his expression is a mix of resolve and uncertainty, green eyes thoughtful.

"I don't know," he admits, and in that moment, the vulnerability he displays, the raw honesty of his predicament, draws you even closer.

You stay quiet, allowing him a moment to think.

Sorrel's gaze drifts away for a moment, lost in thought, as if he's trying to piece together the puzzle of his future right there in front of you. "I think I need to go back," he says finally, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of resignation. "I want to be there for her, help her heal. She's always been the anchor of our clan, and without her strength..."

He trails off, the weight of his responsibilities, of his love for his family, evident in the pause. "Once she's well, perhaps I'll return to the city. Or perhaps not. The truth is, I don't know where I truly belong."

The vulnerability in his admission, the open-ended nature of his future, pulls at something deep within you. You reach out, almost instinctively, your hand finding his. The touch is electric, and you let out a muffled sigh.

"It sounds like you've got a tough road ahead," you say, your voice soft but full of empathy. "Being there for your family, making sure your mother has everything she needs to recover... it's a beautiful thing to do, Sorrel. It speaks a lot about the kind of person you are."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and in his eyes, you see a mixture of gratitude and something else, something deeper.

"Thank you," he whispers, and there's a warmth in his voice that wraps around you like a comforting embrace. "For understanding, for... for being here with me now."

The moment stretches between you. So does the quiet. The world around you fades into the background, leaving only the heavy thrum of your pulse in your ears.

"You should do what's best for you," you find yourself saying, your words laced with an unspoken sadness at the thought of his departure. "Your family needs you, and it's clear your heart is with them, too."

Sorrel squeezes your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in your words. "I guess I always knew my path would lead me back home, eventually."

A twinge of disappointment tugs at your heart as the reality of Sorrel's impending departure settles in. Despite the professional boundaries you should adhere to, you can't deny the longing that has blossomed between you. Yet, beneath the layers of what-ifs, you find resignation setting in.

As you both resume walking, the conversation gently shifts, weaving through lighter topics. You admit, you’re grateful for the change of topic.

You share stories of your travels, the places Sorrel has been, places you’d love to go.

"I've always wanted to visit Thailand," you mention wistfully, the image of crystal-clear waters and verdant landscapes painting your words. "The culture, the food, the beaches... it seems like a world away from here."

Sorrel listens intently, his interest genuine. "Thailand is beautiful," he agrees, "you should go sometime."

The conversation takes an unexpected turn when Sorrel, with a look of determination, insists on paying you extra for your time. "Consider it a contribution towards your Thailand adventure," he says, his tone brooking no argument.

You hesitate, aghast at the number when you check your bank account. Three-thousand dollars. The offer touching yet tinged with the finality of a parting gift.

"Sorrel, that's too generous, I can't—"

"Please," he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. "Let this be my way of ensuring you get to experience the beauty of the world. You deserve it."

The sincerity in his eyes, coupled with the depth of gratitude you feel, crumbles your resistance. "Thank you," you say, the words barely a whisper, laden with a mix of emotions. "I'll never forget this."

You don’t know what else to say; but as it is, you don’t need to.

As you stand there, on the brink of farewell, Sorrel leans in. His kiss is unexpected but fervently returned as you stand on your toes, arms looping around his wide, plush waist. His lips are firm against yours, nipping at you with a passion that ignites a fire within you, the heat of his touch searing through the cool night air.

The kiss deepens, and for a moment, the world falls away, leaving only the two of you locked together, pulse racing.

As the kiss ends, a lingering warmth remains. You stand there, caught in the afterglow, the night air now charged with longing.

Sorrel's gaze holds yours, a myriad of unspoken words swirling in the depths of his eyes. "This... This was unexpected," he murmurs, the raw honesty in his voice mirroring the vulnerability in his gaze.

You nod, a gentle smile curving your lips despite the ache in your chest. "The best things usually are," you reply, your voice soft, laced with the bittersweet tang of parting.

There's a pause, a moment suspended in time, before you lean in for one final kiss. This one is softer,, a whisper of a goodbye in the brief touch of lips.

With a light-heartedness that feels forced, you step back and offer a playful smile. "Keep in touch, okay?" The words slip out, half in jest, half in hope, even as you understand the impossibility of the request.

Sorrel's smile is tinged with a gentle sadness, an acknowledgment of the unlikelihood of such a promise. "I'll remember this," he says, his voice a low rumble, rich with emotion. "I'll remember you."

You know, from the snippets of his life he's shared, that returning to his clan means stepping away from the world as you know it. The isolation of his people, their disconnection from the modern trappings of communication, almost brings tears to your eyes.

As you part ways, the echo of his final words lingers in your heart. The night wraps around you, and you shudder.

You hope to see him again someday. Somehow, you have the feeling that you will.

#exophilia fiction #exophilia #monster fucker #monster boyfriend #monster romance #monster x reader #tag: mxf #tag: male monster #tag: female reader #tag: sfw #tag: troll #tag: plus size #trying something new bc some people like present tense??#think i'll stick to past tense tbh

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not-rab · 1 month

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part four of Music and Memories, a Marauders band AU

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2014

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part three | part five

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brekitten · 2 months

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Bruce doesn't dream.

He never has, really - at least, not that he can remember. He never even had nightmares from the night his parents died. Maybe that's why; maybe he just subconsciously trained himself to not dream after that night, in fear of the nightmares that were sure to come. But the point is that he does not dream.

And yet.

The dream always starts out the same, every night, every time he closes his eyes and slips into the embrace of sleep. He's in a pitch-black room, one so dark that he can't see his hands even when he raises them right in front of his face. He knows, somehow, that he can walk for hours without coming into contact with anything - walls, furniture, anything at all to indicate that he was even in a room. Yet he knows that he is, although he's not sure why, as there really is no reason for him to know that.

The dream changes, after a while of walking. He knows that he won't find anything, no matter how far or how long he walks. This place is empty, desolate even. It fills him with dread every time. The change is never consistent, always bringing him to a different place each night.

(Once, it was a dusty old bedroom, one that made his heart ache, although he didn't know why. He had taken notice of the various space-themed decorations, the model rockets and NASA posters and stars on the ceiling. It was clearly a child's bedroom, but it hadn't been used in a long time. Another time, it was a darkened lab, illuminated only by the strange vials of green liquid lined along the many, many shelves. Bruce had wondered, after he had awoken, if it was Lazarus Water, but that felt wrong. It was something else. Something more. It had made him uneasy, and he got the feeling that something terrible had happened there. He didn't get a chance to investigate the gaping hole in the wall before he had been whisked away to another part of the dream.)

This time, he is in a brightly-lit white lab, and he has to blink stars out of his eyes at the abrupt change in lighting and color. He looks around; it seems like a typical lab, but everything is pure white, except for a green stain on the table. He can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of the cuffs on the table, and though he still doesn't know what the green substance is, he gets the horrible feeling that it's blood. A lot of it.

He uses what little time he has to investigate the lab. There is an abundance of medical supplies, but many look unused, with the exception of the scalpels. The pit in his stomach continues to grow. Why were there so many? He reaches toward a vial of red liquid, wrong wrong wrong this is wrong, when the dream changes again.

Now he's in what is clearly a cell, except even the cells in Arkham aren't this bare. The only thing it contains is a familiar white-haired teenager, who is chained to the floor with cuffs that glow the same green as the vials of Lazarus Water that he's seen before.

Though Bruce has never learned his name, he has been in every dream, the one constant (besides the empty room, of course) in each one. The kid has never spoken, never done more than watch, but Bruce has always gotten the feeling that he was the reason for these strange dreams.

He knows that he should be more worried. If some kind of meta has managed to get inside his head, there's no telling what could happen. But he can't bring himself to be. Something is wrong, and it's not the teenager.

He can't help but think of his own children.

Something feels . . . off this time. The kid isn't looking up, isn't even moving - he seems limp, almost, as he kneels on the ground, weighed down by the chains keeping him there. Green blood - Bruce knows it's blood now, it has to be - drips from his still figure, pooling on the ground underneath him.

Bruce can't move. He desperately wants to, what could he even do? but it's like he's frozen in place. He can only watch as the teenager slowly, agonizingly, looks up at him, his bright green eyes dull and filled with fear and desperation and hope and -

Bruce wakes.

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steddie-there · 1 year

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It Sure Felt Nice When He Was Holding My Hand

Steve had finally managed to escape.

His mom was holding one of her parties again, a "summer soiree" as she called it, so she'd dressed him in pressed khakis and a butter yellow button-down shirt and "Oh the cutest little blue bow tie, Steven, don't you just look darling? Now come say hi to mommy's friends."

He hated bow ties. He always felt like he was suffocating with one around his neck.

He hated his mom's parties. They made him feel like he was suffocating, too.

So the second he saw a chance to leave, he took it. One of their neighbors had walked in with her new baby and his mother made a big production of cooing over the little girl; Steve rolled his eyes - she hated babies, Steve knew, because she always told him how messy babies were and how much she'd hated cleaning the messes he made as a baby. But, not one to waste an opportunity, the moment she looked the other way, he had raced out the back door into the woods, running as fast as his little eight year old legs could go. He ripped the bow tie off and dropped it in the yard behind him as he crossed into the line of trees.

Which brought him to now. Wandering in the woods, farther than he ever had before. He could hear the burble of a creek ahead, and it drew him on like a moth to a flame. He wanted to splash around in the water and mud, splatter it all over his pristine clothes, even though he would get in trouble for it later. He would already be in trouble for running off, what was a few more minutes added to the lecture?

But at the edge of the trees, he stopped short. Someone was already there, kneeling next to a little rowboat bobbing in the water.

Steve couldn't see their face, just that they were wearing faded jeans and big boots with the laces undone and an old two-sizes too big blue flannel shirt and they had dark brown curls just grazing the edges of their shoulders. He watched for a moment as they seemed to lay something into the boat. Tilted his head, trying to see what it was.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, breaking the quiet murmur of the woods.

The person whirled around, hands coming up defensively, flowers scattering over the ground, and now Steve could see it was a boy, probably about his age. He had the biggest brown eyes Steve had ever seen. Right now, they were opened wide, startled at Steve's sudden appearance.

"Sorry!" he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

The other boy's shoulders dropped as he relaxed. "It's okay, just didn't think anyone else was out here," he told Steve, sending him a quick smile. Something about it made Steve want to smile back.

For a moment they just looked at each other.

"So, what are you doing?" Steve asked again, trying to peer around the other boy to the boat.

The boy glanced behind him, then turned back to Steve and his grin turned mischievous. "I'm having my funeral," he announced.

Steve just blinked at him. "Your... your funeral?" he asked, baffled. "But you're -"

"Dead," the boy assured him with a solemn nod.

Steve giggled and the other boy looked pleased at his reaction.

"Wanna help me pick more flowers?" he asked and Steve nodded, dropping to his knees, not caring about the grass stains he would surely now have on his pants, and gathering the little yellow blooms into his hands.

They worked in silence for awhile, until Steve asked, "So why are you having your funeral in a boat instead of being buried?" He was pretty sure most funerals involved graves and dirt, not boats and flowers.

"For the symbolism!" the boy declared, throwing his arms wide. Steve scrunched his nose, not sure what he meant by that. The boy peered at him from the corner of his eye, then whispered, "I don't really know what that means, but it sounded important."

Steve giggled again. "You're weird," he said.

Despite the fondness in his tone, those big brown eyes seemed to shutter and grow dim, the other boy shrinking into himself at Steve's words. Hastily, he assured him, "Not, like, bad weird. Good weird. Like, cool weird. Fun weird."

That earned him a wide grin and a shoulder bump.

"So how did you die?" Steve asked, leaning back on his hands and watching as the boy artfully placed both their bunches of flowers around the pillow already inside the boat.

"Carrots," the boy said seriously.

"Carrots???"

"Carrots," he nodded. "They're evil. And my wicked uncle made me eat them for lunch. So I died." He shrugged, as if dying from carrot ingestion was just a casual, every day experience.

Steve bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing again, mimicking the other boy's solemnity. "Ah, I see."

They both glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, bursting into snickers when their eyes met.

"Okay," the boy said, standing and dusting off his knees, not that it did much for the grass and mud clinging to the denim. "Hold the boat while I get in."

Steve moved to kneel on the muddy creek bank, grabbing the side of the rowboat and keeping it steady while his new friend stepped in and settled down with his head on the pillow. The boat rocked a little as he did, water splashing up onto Steve's shirt, but he ignored it, not letting go until the other boy had stopped moving. He sat back and brushed his hands off.

"Now what?" he whispered after a moment of silence.

"Now... I guess we sit and be sad?" the boy answered, sounding unsure and giggling quietly. He flung a hand up to his forehead dramatically, declaring, "Alas, poor me, we knew me well!" Then he wrapped his hands around a flower and laid them on his chest with his eyes closed.

Steve laughed at the dramatics, then pulled his knees up to his chest and, also closing his eyes, sat quietly for a while. He listened to the wind in the trees, to the birds chirping around them, to the bubble and splash of the water flowing around the boat.

Steve opened his eyes and stared down at the boy in the boat. His curls were spread over the flowers, eyes closed, hands clasped on his chest, and Steve sighed faux-mournfully. "I wish you weren't dead. You're funny."

The boy pursed his lips, considering. "I could, maybe, be brought back to life. If I got a kiss from a handsome prince." He cracked an eyelid open, peering at Steve. "That's you, by the way," he whispered loudly.

Steve giggled yet again. "Me? A handsome prince?"

The boy nodded, some of the flowers tangling in his curls as he jostled them. "The handsomest," he said, before closing his eyes again.

Steve considered him for a moment. He looked at the creek at his feet, then down at his not-so-clean-anymore clothes, then shrugged and stepped into the water to stand next to the boat, feeling it rise to about his waist. Resting his hands on the side of the boat, he leaned over, bringing his face very close to the other boy's. For a second, he just stopped there, feeling the other boy's breath hit his cheek.

Then he kissed him on the nose.

The other boy laughed aloud, a ringing, joyful sound that Steve thought might just be the best thing he'd ever heard. His eyes popped open and he stared at Steve, eyes sparkling, dimples framing his grin.

Steve grinned back. "So. Did it work? Are you alive again?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," his friend answered, "Definitely." He bit his lip and seemed to be thinking about something.

Steve waited.

"You wanna get in the boat, too?" the boy finally asked and Steve was clambering inside before he even finished his question. His movements rocked the boat from side to side and they both laughed as they held on and settled next to each other, staring up at the clouds.

Steve tried to concentrate on the cloudy pictures the boy next to him was pointing out in the sky. But he could feel a hand brushing against his own and he wondered what it would feel like to hold it. He had only ever held his mom's hand to cross the street and Carol's while they ran away from Tommy when they played tag at school. Maybe it would be different, holding a boy's hand. There was only one way to find out.

He wrapped his fingers around the other boy's.

The boy paused his detailed description of a dragon he could see in the clouds, turning his head to look at Steve. Then he smiled, a small, secret smile that felt like it was just for Steve. Steve smiled back. Tangling their fingers more tightly together, they both looked back up at the sky.

Steve wasn't sure how long they lay there, talking about the clouds and the trees and their favorite places in Hawkins, but when the sun started to set, he sighed.

"I have to go home now."

The other boy nodded. "Yeah, I should go, too. My uncle is probably worried about me."

Steve grinned at him. "Not such a wicked uncle, after all?"

The boy rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Nah, he's pretty great, actually. Aside from making me eat carrots."

He said the last word so viciously that Steve couldn't help his laughter.

"He even said he'd start teaching me to play guitar tonight!"

"That's so cool!" Steve said. Decided not to say that all he'd get when he got home was a lecture.

The boy climbed out of the boat first, then turned to help Steve. For a moment, they just stood silently, smiling at each other. "Well, I'll see you around!" the boy says brightly, starting to walk down the creek, pulling the boat along with a rope.

"Yeah, see you," Steve answered, turning to his path home. He got a few steps away before he realized something and ran back to the clearing by the creek. "Hey, wait, what's your na - " he started to ask, but the boy had already disappeared into the trees. Steve sighed and walked away with his hands shoved into his pockets.

That night, Steve lay in bed, ears still ringing from the very loud thirty minute lecture his dad had given him when he showed up, muddy and grass stained and an hour late for dinner. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if that afternoon had maybe been a dream. But in his mind's eye, he could see the clouds drifting past and he swore he could still feel the other boy's fingers tangled with his own. He closed his eyes and smiled. He knew he'd spend the rest of the summer locked indoors, his dad had promised that; knew if he even so much as glanced at the woods, he'd get another lecture. But it was all worth it, he decided, as he carefully tucked the memory of that afternoon and the boy with the big brown eyes and curly hair away into a safe corner of his mind.

In the fall, he looked for his friend at school, but only succeeded in meeting a girl a year younger than him, Nancy, when he mistook her brown curls for the ones he was looking for.

By the time middle school rolled around, that afternoon at the creek had been shoved so far to the back of his memory that he didn't even look twice at the strange new kid with the buzz cut, no matter how familiar his brown eyes looked from across the cafeteria.

And then high school and the Upside Down and new friends and new terrors and a morning at work interrupted by two of his munchkins desperate to prove a friend's innocence.

Which is how he found himself staring into the biggest brown eyes he'd ever seen for the first time in over a decade.

"Carrots!" Steve all but shouted as the shock of recognition began to wear off, heedless of the sharp glass at his throat. Eddie flinched back as the others stared in confused silence.

"What?" Eddie asked, baffled.

"You died because your uncle made you eat carrots. You had a funeral in a rowboat and - "

Eddie's wide brown eyes went impossibly wider at Steve's words. He cut Steve off, lowering the bottle as a shy grin crept over his face, warring with the terror still present in his stance. "And a handsome prince brought me back to life."

"It is you!" Steve beamed. Eddie beamed back, his shoulders relaxing, and Steve felt the insane urge to kiss the tip of his nose just as he had all those years ago.

The moment was interrupted by Dustin clearing his throat. "Um... what the fuck, Steve?"

Steve and Eddie laughed. "It's a long story," Steve said. Then he sobered. "And we have more pressing problems." He looked at Eddie, saw the way he curled back in on himself. Put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to sit down. "Eddie, what's going on?"

Eddie looked up at him with a gaze so haunted Steve just wanted to pull him into his arms. Settled for soothingly rubbing his shoulder.

"You won't believe me," Eddie said brokenly.

"Try us," Max told him. Steve squeezed his shoulder, and Eddie took a deep breath and started talking.

--..--..--..--..--

Later, after bats and battle, blood and bandages, after mouth-to-mouth and "I swear to God, Munson, if you die on me I will resurrect you and kill you again myself, don't think I won't," they're in a hospital room. It's just them, the others having gone home to sleep an hour ago. But Steve can't bring himself to leave. Can't quite bring himself to tangle his fingers with Eddie's where they rest on the hospital bed, either, although he desperately wants to.

"You know, that's the second time you've kissed me back to life, Stevie. Gonna make a habit of it?" Eddie jokes.

Steve looks up at him, breath catching when their eyes meet. Despite the lighthearted tone, Eddie's gaze is serious. Warm. Those wide, wide eyes locked on Steve intently.

It makes Steve feel brave. He laughs a little. "Actually," he says, "I was kinda hoping I could kiss you sometime when you're not dead."

Eddie's eyes widen even further before he ducks his head shyly, looks up at Steve from under his lashes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve says, finally tangling their fingers together.

And there's that secret smile Eddie has, the one that seems like it's only for Steve. "I think I'd like that," he says.

"Good," Steve whispers and leans in.

--..--..--..--..--

also on ao3!

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #inspired by the song If I Die Young #holy crap this got away from me 😅#I was just listening to the song the other day #and had this vision of little eddie surrounded by flowers in a boat and little steve leaning down to kiss his nose #2400 words later 😅#anyway hope y'all like #also yes the tense change at the end was purposeful #the majority is a story that already happened. a memory #the last part is a more immediate present thing still occurring #or at least thats how im justifying it 😅

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thebirdsandthebats · 5 months

Text

TIMBER FICLET

Bernard washes Tim’s hair for him.

(A little angst/fluff and hurt/comfort, mostly just these two being in love and domestic)

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“Ow.”

The complaint is quiet. There’s no real fire behind Tim’s voice, more a sound made for the sake of breaking the silence than anything else. He doesn’t even wince as gentle fingers poke at the cut on his temple. He’s sitting in a dining chair, moved in front of the kitchen sink so Bernard can stand in front of him and clean up his cuts. Out of the two of them, it’s Bernard who hisses at the touch, looking a little queasy.

He still has it in him to steel Tim with an unimpressed look. “That didn’t hurt, so don’t pretend it did.”

Tim huffs out a laugh as the hand tilting his chin up moves to squeeze his cheeks. “Why do you look like you’re gonna be sick, then?” He asks, words muffled by his squished lips, and Bernard shakes his head. He releases Tim’s face in favor of picking up the damp rag and dabbing again at the cut. It stings, but not bad. Bernard has already gotten all the grit out, and his dabbing seems to just be a distracted motion at this point.

He chews his bottom lip. “Because it looks worse than it is. I don’t like seeing you hurt at all, but I really don’t like knowing they got close enough to do this,” he sighs. Tim slumps in his seat. He reaches out and takes Bernard’s free hand in a silent apology. Their fingers fit together easily, a familiar comfort to both of them. Bernard drops the rag on the counter and pauses to look Tim over again. Distractedly, he reaches up to play with a strand of Tim’s bangs.

He smiles. “You keep your hair so neat now. I remember when there was a bottle of gel in it every day.” He fingers a strand of black hair, soft and freshly trimmed. Nothing like when they met. Tim cringes at the memory. Yeah, he’d had a big thing for spiking his hair back then. Nowadays he prefers to keep it short and out of the way, even if Stephanie had lamented the loss of the longer hair he’d settled into for a while.

Tim leans into the touch. “And yet I still get all kinds of gross stuff in it every patrol,” he teases. Bernard’s fingers still. His eyes light up the way they always do when he comes to a realization that he likes.

He leans forward, further into Tim’s space, and beams at him brighter than the sun. “Can I wash it for you?”

“I—” Tim leans back and blinks rapidly. His nose scrunches as the question processes. “You want to wash my hair?” He asks. It’s an odd request. Nobody has washed Tim’s hair for him since he was a very small child. Even through his worst injuries where he needed help getting to the shower, Tim has managed to avoid it because hair just wasn’t a priority. He reaches up to feel his own hair, fingers brushing Bernard’s as he rakes them through his bangs. Hm. Not so overwhelmingly gross that Bernard would make washing it a personal mission.

Tim’s head falls to the side in a bewildered tilt. “Why?”

Bernard shrugs. “I like taking care of you.” He speaks simply. “I think it would make both of us feel better.”

It’s not something Tim would have imagined allowing someone to do. But when Bernard asks, he can’t find any reason to say no.

Tim doesn’t even leave the kitchen. They’d never both fit in his tiny shower. Within a couple minutes of Bernard grabbing their supplies, Tim finds himself leaning his head backwards over the sink’s edge, the back of his neck cushioned by the towel draped around him. He hears the water running for a bit to heat up, and he watches Bernard’s face as the blonde tests the temperature.

He chews the inside of his cheek when he concentrates. Always has. Cute, Tim thinks.

The detachable sink head is pulled down. “Ready?” Bernard asks gently, and when Tim lifts his eyes to Bernard’s own, he’s struck dumb by the sheer amount of adoration softening his expression.

Bernard…really cares about him. Enough to dote on him, to cook for him, to wash his hair for him, and what has Tim done to deserve that? He’s so troubled by this thought that he doesn’t answer immediately. It takes Bernard tapping his forehead with a finger to chase those thoughts away.

His expression is…difficult to put a name to. “Still with me, love?” He whispers. Tim nods. He clears his throat.

“I’m here. Sorry.” He shakes his head a little. “Ready when you are.”

Bernard smiles. “I’d give anything to spend a day in your mind.”

Tim would never want him to experience that.

Warm water showers him as Bernard moves the stream to his head, and Tim sighs at the feeling. The water thoroughly soaks his hair within a few moments when Bernard pushes his bangs away from his face and into the spray. It’s the perfect temperature, and the sink head’s pressure feels nice from so close.

It isn’t long before the spray is moved, and Tim hears the pop of a shampoo bottle’s lid. He glances over, and Bernard is letting a decent amount of Tim’s expensive shampoo pool in his palm. He sets the bottle aside and moves back in, and Tim hums as he feels his boyfriend’s fingers start to work the shampoo into his hair. He works first to build a lather but Tim’s hair is shorter these days, so it only takes a moment before he’s running his fingers from root to ends, coating every strand in soap. He blinks down at Tim when he notices him watching his face.

“Baby, relax. You don’t have to keep your eyes open,” Bernard insists. Tim hadn’t realized how intense he probably looked while staring. He laughs a little, and though he doesn’t always like the vulnerability of closing his eyes when he relaxes, it’s Bernard. He trusts him. His eyes fall closed as short nails scratch at his scalp lightly. The scent of his shampoo floats in the air like steam from the water’s heat. It’s a scent that he loves. He’s used the same shampoo for most of his life. It was the same brand and scent his mother used. It smells like home, the same way that Alfred’s laundry detergent and Stephanie’s body wash and Bernard’s hoodies do.

Tim sighs again, but this time, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He smiles a little. The scratches against his scalp and the slight tug of his hair as it’s washed feels…really nice.

He isn’t sure how long Bernard shampoos his hair before he finally pulls the warm spray of water back overhead to rinse the suds away. It was definitely longer than his hair length warranted. There’s something so domestic about this moment, and when he drowsily blinks his eyes open to check in on his boyfriend, the blonde’s expression looks just as content as he feels.

“Conditioner next,” Bernard says quietly, like he’s hesitant to break the silence that had fallen over them. “Doing okay?”

Tim nods sleepily. “Mhm,” he confirms. It was probably for the better that he’d be finishing soon, because once Tim let himself melt into the feeling, he knew he could easily fall asleep under Bernard’s affectionate ministrations. The conditioner goes on with just as much care as the shampoo. Tim actually leans his head back into the feeling as one hand scratches at the nape of his neck, the other one running through his bangs almost leisurely. Caressing his hair, almost like he’s being pet. The mental comparison doesn’t make him bristle the way he usually might. Nothing about the gesture feels condescending or insincere.

Soft lips brush his forehead. Butterflies stir in Tim’s gut at the unexpected affection, and a smile tugs at his lips. “Love you,” he murmurs. Bernard’s hands still for just a moment. Then, the lips are back again, this time kissing his cheek. The tip of his nose. His chin, just below his lips. When he finally kisses Tim’s lips, they get lost in it for a moment as Tim stretches his neck upwards to meet him.

Tim’s gripping the sleeve of Bernard’s sweater by the time he pulls away. “I love you, too.” He says like he’s desperate for Tim to believe him.

Tim does.

They sink into comfortable quiet again as Bernard rinses his hair. He’s thorough, making sure all of the conditioner has been washed out before he finally turns off the tap. The room suddenly seems much quieter now that the constant shower of water has stopped. Bernard tugs the towel around Tim’s neck up to tousle his hair. He rubs firmly enough that it jostles his head around, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he does it.

Tim sticks his tongue out, rising to the bait but not truly annoyed. In fact, he’s relieved to see Bernard teasing him again. The tense worry from earlier had faded into something far sweeter.

Bernard finishes with the towel and drops it unceremoniously on Tim’s head. “There. Do you feel any better?” He asks. The smile can be heard in his voice, even while Tim is busy tossing the towel aside.

“Yeah. I think I do feel a bit better.” It’s an understatement. Tim feels lighter than he has in ages. Bernard looks relieved to hear it.

“Me too,” he confesses. Tim stands and stretches, lifting his arms high until his back pops. What he really wants after all that is to crawl into bed, preferably with Bernard, and sleep until his body feels fully rested. It’s not a luxury he often gets.

Tonight he feels like indulging. “Thank you, Berns. Really.”

“Tim, it’s no problem. I wanted to—oh,” Bernard perks up as Tim starts towards his bedroom, rather than his laptop where he’d usually spend hours after patrol finishing reports. Tim’s heart stutters pleasantly when he hears the footsteps immediately begin following him. “You’re sleeping already? Did I break you?”

Tim shakes his head at the last question. “Big spoon or little spoon?” He glances backwards as he pulls back the comforter. Bernard looks thrilled.

“Big. I wanna hold you,” he says, painfully earnest. And Tim still isn’t great with earnest, but god, Bernard makes it look so easy. So he lets himself be held. He lets himself drift off, feeling secure with strong arms squeezing tightly around his middle. He lets himself sleep in far later than he usually does.

And every now and then, after a particularly close call on patrol, he lets Bernard wash his hair for him.

#this was an exorcise in present tense and it kicked my ass #this fic has HANDS #anyway they’re gay and they make me sick /pos #why do they act like that. i cant stand them #batfamily #dc comics #tim drake #bernard dowd #timber #timbern #fic #fanfic #ficlet

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