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lovebugism · 1 year

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hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you.

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write.

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it.

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve.

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped.

It’s a good kind of trapped, though.

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon.

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself.

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve.

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room.

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet.

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly.

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work.

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips.

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty.

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve.

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy.

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now.

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you.

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody.

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef.

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant.

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again.

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened.

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one.

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to.

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was.

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you.

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia.

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same.

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him.

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods.

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second.

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it.

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing.

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own.

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin.

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time.

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile.

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you.

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with.

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out.

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his.

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it.

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone.

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one.

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could.

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him.

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway.

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.”

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside.

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move.

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you.

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again.

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted.

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile.

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue.

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started.

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired.

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak.

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe.

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes.

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later.

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you.

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself.

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully.

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to.

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry.

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all.

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward.

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth.

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you.

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth.

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly.

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again.

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot.

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it.

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch.

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride.

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling.

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint.

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass.

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning.

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring.

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants.

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either.

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads.

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away.

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you.

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck.

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult.

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him.

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own.

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him.

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time.

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train.

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin.

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor.

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste.

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own.

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor.

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds.

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you.

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart.

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone.

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too.

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stevie oneshot #st oneshots #punchy x steve

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heeliopheelia · 9 months

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"i can't resist you, you know that" (niki x fem! reader)

genre: fluff word count: 0.6k requested by nonnie ♡

a/n: hi hello babes i'm back from my short break!! i just realized i've been kinda neglecting our maknae line so sorry for that... btw i tried to mix up the two prompts like you wanted me to, love!! sorry that it came out so simple and maybe a bit borning but i'm still overcoming my writer's block <33

masterlist

The forest is quiet. The sweet chirping of a bird accompanies the shimmer of the thin stream running down to your right. The weather is as close to perfection as it can get – the sunshine pleasantly warms both of your faces but not strongly enough to make you hide underneath the roof of a cap. Riki smiles politely at the couple of elders that pass you by with energetic steps, engaged in a quiet conversation.

The forest is quiet for a very short while until you break it for the seventh time in the past five minutes. A loud whine echoes through the empty path as you slowly drag your feet on the ground, acting almost as if they weighted a tone. Riki's hand holds your tightly and practically drags your tired body behind him as he continues to walk up the small hill.

"I can't do it," you breathe out, mewling out the syllables for the dramatic effect. "If you don't stop walking right now, I'm seriously gonna die. I can feel it in my bones, Riki."

"It was literally your idea to go for a hike in the first place," he scoffs, turning over his shoulder to flick your sun-kissed nose. He giggles at the way it scrunches and you smack his hand away. "You don't get to complain now when you're the initiator of this plan."

You huff, a pout making its way on your lips slowly. "You're so mean. Good to know my boyfriend finds my misery amusing."

"C'mon, none of that now." He rolls his eyes, nodding his head to the paddled path ahead of you. "There's not that much left. Only ten minutes or so till we make it to the top."

A very predictable idea crosses your mind after his words and Riki sighs as he watches your eyes widening with a sparkle, already knowing you well enough to know what you're about to ask.

"No. No, no. Stop looking at me like that," he scowls, backing away from your slouched figure. You follow him immediately, stepping even closer as your hand traps his wrist in a grip. "You promised not to do that. I can't resist you, you know that. You're simply abusing your power now."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Oh, c'mon. What's even the point of having a big, strong boyfriend if he can't even carry me for couple minutes?"

Riki scoffs at your pathetic attempt of stroking his ego. Another giggle leaves his lips as you keep pouting at him, eyes shining with the silent plead. A grown ass woman pulling a tantrum like a goddamn toddler.

His eyes drop down to your slightly puckered lips. And, Lord, you just look so cute to him right now. Irresistible, really, just like he predicted after seeing the look on your face before. You always do that whenever you're determined to get whatever it is you want. You have him wrapped around your little finger and he doesn't think you even realize how much power you actually hold over him.

Not able to help himself, he leans in and closes the gap parting the two of you, kissing you right on the mouth. The heat instantly rises to the tips of your ears and you'd squirm away out of fluster if not for his hands firmly holding you to his chest. With a sigh, you lift your hands to cup his cheeks and just when you're about to deepen the kiss, he's pulling away from you, leaving you all flushed and already breathless.

"Hop on then, you baby," he sighs as he turns around, motioning for you to jump on his back. "This time and this one time only, I give you the permission to make use of this big, strong boyfriend of yours that you're so clearly obsessed with."

"I am not!"

"Lying like that is not suitable for a lady, you know?"

You smack him in the shoulder, the sound of his chuckles instantly bringing warmth to your belly. Finally satisfied now that your legs have stopped feeling as if they were being set ablaze with each every step of yours, you cling to Riki's neck and rest your cheek against his shoulder blade, sighing in content.

"Yeah, you're right. He's the best."

permanent taglist: @bambisgirl @arizejkt19 @luvmura @milisabunny @cathy-1997 @satoruskitchenrag @ramenoil @jenjnk @jaylaxies @yoongspi

#enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen #carly's 1k event ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა #1k event: requests ✎#nishimura riki x reader #niki x reader #niki imagines #niki drabbles #enhypen fluff #niki fluff

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pxob · 1 year

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cold hands warm heart

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Fem!Reader

MINORS BEWARE!

Word count: 8502

Category: Enemies to lovers, slow burn romance, angst and fluff.

Warnings: Manga spoilers (if you squint), mention of gore and blood, injury, violence, heavy swearing, slight sexual content and kissing.

Presented in the tranquil stone garden of the Demon Slayers headquarters were nine noble warriors, each with astonishing power and unwavering resolve. Masters of their own unique breathing techniques, they represented the pinnacle of the Demon Slayer Corps. Adorned with various strengths, each Hashira was devoted to safeguarding humanity from the terrors of Demons and pledging never to allow harm to befall the Ubuyashiki clan.

As Ubuyashiki stood on the engawa, the Hashira hung their heads low in respect. Their muscles tensed as they felt the powerful presence of another.

Suddenly, the gates to the Demon Slayer headquarters creaked open, and a gust of wind stirred up the silence. Two Kakushi scurried in, bowing low as their eyes fell upon the nine pillars and Ubuyashiki. They addressed him, "Ubuyashiki-sama, she's here," before swiftly leaving.

The Hashira’s sat in stunned silence; their eyes widened in surprise as they beheld the figure before them. Your presence was palpable, your power radiating from every pore of your being, sending shivers down their spines. As you drew closer, they could see the determination burning in your eyes, and the confidence with which you moved was almost otherworldly. Your footsteps were so quiet that you seemed to blend into the air around you, as if you were a being of pure elegance. When you finally reached Ubuyashiki, you bowed with such grace that even the stone garden seemed to hold its breath in reverence.

Ubuyashiki's gentle voice reverberated through the garden as he greeted you, "How wonderful it is to have you among us." His kind eyes scanned the gathered Hashiras before he continued, "Allow me to introduce our newest member," the weight of their collective gaze fell upon you. You stood tall and met their stares with unwavering confidence, “The Night Hashira,” he continued.

“I am deeply grateful for this honour, Oyakata-sama, and to stand among the esteemed Hashiras." As the words left your lips, a sudden surge of power erupted from within you, causing even the stoic Tomioka to choke in response. The air around you seemed to hum with electricity as the other Hashiras eyes widened in awe. Tengen let out a low whistle of admiration. "Well, well, well," he said, his trademark smirk appearing on his lips, "I think we're in for a real treat with this one."

“Please, make her feel welcomed,” as Ubuyashiki's words reached your ears, you couldn't help but feel grateful for his kind gesture. A soft smile graced your lips as you bowed your head in acknowledgement, hiding the emotions that threatened to spill over. "Thank you, Oyakata-sama," you whispered, hoping he could hear the sincerity in your voice. With that, Ubuyashiki left the engawa, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, leaving you alone with the Hashiras.

You knew that earning their approval would not be an easy task, but you were determined to prove yourself worthy of your new title.

"Hello- Hi! I'm Mitsuri Kanroji," exclaimed the young woman with thick, greenish-pink locks, her voice filled with enthusiasm. She flashed you a bright smile. Beside her stood a short boy, half of his face obscured by bandages, with striking heterochromatic eyes. "And this is Obanai Iguro," she introduced her companion, who offered a polite nod in your direction.

“Shinobu Kocho,” said a young woman with hair in shades of purple.

“Ah, hello. It’s an honour to be introduced to all of you,” you said with a bow. “I apologize for my abrupt entrance,” you added.

Kanroji beamed with a warm smile, “Oh, no need to apologize, we’re happy to have you here! It's great to see another woman among the ranks. We'll finally have someone who can help keep these boys in line," she teased, winking playfully.

Kocho chuckled softly, "Yes, indeed. There's too much testosterone in this group. A little bit of feminine charm might do them some good," she added with a sly smile.

"This is ridiculous," a voice interrupted from behind you, causing Kocho’s face to turn sour.

You turned around to see a man with scars littering his body. Despite his rough exterior, you found his scars strangely attractive, a testament to the battles he must have fought. However, his attitude was far from attractive.

"You, a Hashira? We ain't ever seen you fight or train," he sneered, his eyes scanning you up and down with a smirk. "Who said ya got the capabilities? I've seen enough to know you're just a weakling who got lucky."

“Shinazugawa-san," the tallest one warned sharply. The girlish-looking boy spoke up, "He does have a point. If she proves herself, she might be worthy of our approval."

"You're entitled to your opinion," you replied calmly, your voice echoing through the garden as you met Shinazugawa’s piercing gaze. "But let me tell you, I didn't get here by sitting idly. I have faced countless demons and emerged victorious from each encounter. So, I assure you that I'm more than capable of holding my own in battle."

Your words hung in the air, and for a moment, he started prowling towards you, his steps slow and calculating, as if he was sizing up his prey.

As Shinazugawa drew closer, you couldn't help but notice the scent of sandalwood and lavender emanating from him, a combination that was both soothing and intense. It was a stark contrast to the scars that criss-crossed his muscular body.

Finally, he stopped a healthy distance in front of you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of weakness. You held his gaze, unflinching, until he finally spoke. "You talk big shit, but it’s all cheap," his teeth were gritted. "Actions speak louder than words, so show me what you can do, bitch," he spat venomously.

“Oi, Shinazugawa-san that’s enough-“

Your hand instinctively reached for the hilt of your Nichirin sword, a weapon crafted uniquely for yourself to better face the demons you were born to fight. Today, it was to confront Shinazugawa and his shit attitude.

“Stop them-“

As you drew your sword, you could feel Shinazugawa’s eyes on you, his body tensing in preparation for battle.

“I want to watch them though.”

The metal rang out as it left its scabbard, filling the air with a sharp, piercing sound.

“Tokito-kun, don’t say that.”

Without hesitation, Shinazugawa also reached for his own sword, a fierce determination etched onto his face.

“Himejima-san, please stop them.”

You knew then that this was it - a clash between two Hashiras, each one determined to prove themselves the stronger.

“Sto-“

With lightning speed, you charged towards Shinazugawa, your sword raised high above your head. His eyes widened in surprise as he barely managed to dodge your attack, but you were one step ahead. As he turned to face you, you disappeared from sight, only to reappear behind him in a flash of movement. Without giving him a chance to react, you swept his feet and tackled him to the ground, pinning his neck with the hilt of your sword, legs constraining his arms while you positioned yourself to straddle him.

Shinazugawa thrashed beneath you, his muscles straining against your hold, but you refused to let go. Your heart raced with adrenaline as you felt his hot breath on your face, but you held fast, determined to prove your worth.

“You know,” you leaned closer to Shinazugawa’s ear, your hair brushing against his cheek. “If you wanted to ask me out, there are better ways to do it than trying to kill me,” you whispered in his ear, low and dangerous.

He jerked his head forward in an attempt to brutally headbutt you, but you swiftly dodged, disappearing from on top of him in a split second, with your sword returning to its scabbard. Shinazugawa’s eyes were now glowing red, his appearance the embodiment of pure rage. "You fucking wish," he spat, the saliva landing beside you as he struggled to regain his footing.

“No, I do not,” you said firmly, your gaze fixed on Shinazugawa’s enraged expression. Turning on your heel, you walked towards the gates, leaving the gathered Hashira behind you.

“Well deserved!” exclaimed Rengoku, clapping his hands together in admiration. Shinazugawa growled in response, his eyes still glowing with fury. "Shut the fuck up, I went easy on her," he retorted as he stood up, dusting off the dirt and pebbles from his uniform and skin.

A week later, the Swordsmith Village.

“Seeing Shinazugawa-san that angry was truly painful for me,” Kanroji sighed, her expression pensive. “You must have really struck a nerve with him. No one has ever started a fight with him on first meeting.”

You sunk deeper into the hot spring, relishing the warmth as you tried to shake off the encounter with Shinazugawa.

Kanroji’s voice interrupted your thoughts, drawing your attention. "I haven't seen him since then, no one has," she said, her tone filled with concern. "I wonder if he's okay."

You lifted your head slightly, watching as Kanroji rested her elbows on a nearby rock and buried her face in her hands.

As you soaked in the hot spring, the sound of footsteps echoed from the staircase. Looking up, you saw a female Kakushi approaching.

"Kanroji-san, your blade has been restored," she said, bowing respectfully.

“Oh, how lovely! I'll be down there shortly,” Kanroji replied with a bright smile. Then she turned to you, her expression still joyful. “I hope to see you at dinner too! We're going to have such a feast, I can't wait! Just thinking about all the food makes me so happy!” As she spoke, she started to wrap herself in her kimono.

“Yes, I’ll join you. Please, go ahead,” you said kindly, as you began to submerge yourself into the hot spring, blocking out any noise that tried to penetrate your senses. You couldn't help but overhear muffled voices from above the water's surface. You recognized Kanroji’s voice, she sounded shocked, but there was a deeper tone that made your heart race.

No.

Oh god no.

You immediately popped your head up, scanning the area to see if anyone was approaching. Surely, Kanroji would have warned any potential visitors that a woman was currently bathing in the hot spring. But it appeared that she had not, typical love Hashira.

It had been a week since the incident with Shinazugawa, and there he was, standing before you. He looked just as striking as before with his artwork of scars and chiselled muscles.

You were gawking at him.

But you quickly regained your composure, realizing that you were both staring at each other in complete silence. His expression was one of shock, and you felt a rush of embarrassment wash over you.

You could practically hear Kanroji’s playful laugher. She’s going to get an earful at dinner.

He mumbled an apology, and you sat there dumbfounded. “What?” you blurted out confused.

"Like... walking in on ya takin' a bath," he replied, his words a little muddled.

As you looked at Shinazugawa, you couldn't believe that this was the same person who had tried to put up a fight with you. Just as you were about to stand up from the hot spring, the realization that you were completely naked hit you, and you quickly sat your backside down again, not wanting to expose yourself in front of him.

"Do you mind-" you began to say, but trailed off as you noticed Shinazugawa staring at you.

"Huh?" he replied, seeming to have missed your question.

"Just turn around for a bit," you said, feeling your face grow hot.

"Oh- oh yeah. Yeah, my bad," he said, quickly turning around.

"Shit," you muttered to yourself. “Sorry, could you pass that?" you asked.

"Pass what?" he asked, confused.

"My kimono, it's right beside you," you said, feeling a bit annoyed.

"What? Oh, yeah," he said, tossing your kimono backwards to avoid catching a glimpse of your naked body.

You quickly wrapped yourself in the kimono, skipping the process of drying yourself just to get out of the awkward situation. Your hair stuck to your face and the thin material of the kimono felt like a damp towel that made you shiver as your skin's moisture clung onto it.

You were freezing and Shinazugawa took notice.

As you made to pass him, Shinazugawa extended his arm to stop you, and you gave him a puzzled look. He then removed his haori and offered it to you. "You're freezing your tits off, take it," he said with a gruff voice.

You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him to find him looking anywhere but you. You felt a bit embarrassed about accepting his gesture, but the cold was too much to bear, right? So, you gratefully took the haori and wrapped it around your shivering body. The fabric was warm and devastatingly smelt of him.

He mumbled something under his breath, but you couldn't quite make it out.

“What?" you asked, looking up at him, hoping he would repeat himself.

He snapped back, "Said, get outta here."

You stared at him for a few seconds, taken aback by his sudden hostility. As you descended the stairs, you couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy about the whole situation.

You turned back to look at Shinazugawa. He was still standing there, like a statue, and you couldn't help but notice that the tips of his ears were tinted red.

As you entered the room, Kanroji greeted you with excitement, exclaiming, "I knew it would work! Your best friends now!" You were still processing the encounter with Shinazugawa, but the aroma of the dishes brought you back to reality.

You noticed the variety of dishes laid out on the table, and your stomach grumbled in anticipation. "Let's eat, Kanroji-san," you sat down at the table, still lost in thought, but the food managed to distract you.

As you ate, Kanroji chattered on about different topics, her bubbly personality keeping you company even when your thoughts trailed away. You found yourself gradually relaxing, enjoying the meal and her company.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, as he sat in the hot spring with his head tilted back, staring up at the night sky. Everything seemed to remind him of her, and it only served to further infuriate him. "She's so fuckin’ annoying," he grumbled, his frustration growing with every passing second. "Why the hell did I give her that?" He shifted his gaze to the stairs where he had last seen her, his jaw clenched tightly.

His Kasugai crow landed beside him, and Shinazuagwa peered at him, tracing his index finger over the soft feathers of his head.

“We’re going on that mission,” he spoke to his Kasugai crow, which perched on a nearby rock. Its beady eyes peered back at him, as if acknowledging his words. “Twelve moon, right?” Shinazugawa continued, his expression showing a hint of excitement. “Gon’ be a piece of cake,” He smirked.

Shinazugawa ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled deeply. “Need to get outta here anyways,” he muttered, gazing out at the surrounding landscape.

You approached the Flame Hashira with a respectful bow as he trained. "Rengoku-san," you said, catching his attention. He turned towards you with a smile and asked, "Oh! What brings you here?"

“Ah, well,” you said sheepishly. "I was hoping you could help me. I'm looking for Shinazugawa-san. Do you happen to know where he resides or where I could find him?" You paused for a moment, feeling a little nervous.

Rengoku expression softened as he noticed your nervousness. "Of course, I know where he lives. Would you like me to escort you?"

You nodded, grateful for the offer. Rengoku stood up from his seat and gestured for you to follow him. As you walked together, he asked, "Is everything alright? You seem a bit uneasy."

You hesitated for a moment before answering, "I just need to return something."

"No, Shinazugawa-sama is not here," the female servant informed you with a polite bow.

You pressed on, "Do you happen to know where he is?"

"He's on a mission," she replied.

You grew impatient and asked, "What type of mission?"

"It's something in relation to the Twelve Moon," she responded calmly.

You could feel Rengoku stiffen at the mention of the Twelve Moon. "Twelve Moon?!" you exclaimed.

The servant nodded, "Yes, he's perfectly capable."

"Shit," you whispered under your breath. "When will he return?" you asked the female servant, feeling a sense of urgency.

"It could possibly be less or more than a month," she replied in a respectful tone.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. A month was longer than you had hoped.

"Why don't you give it to her instead?" Rengoku interjected, noticing your disappointment.

You shook your head, "It's okay, I'll return it to Shinazugawa-san myself," you replied with a small smile, determined to wait for his return.

Rengoku stared at you, his eyes widening for some unknown reason. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, both of your Kasugai crows swooped in, relaying the same message.

You both ran with fervour, your hearts pounding with urgency as you raced towards your destination.

Upper Moon 2 and 3 attacking a village to the west

Shinazugawa was there, alone with those demons. The thought of him facing those powerful beings by himself sent chills down your spine, and you pushed yourself to go faster.

As you approached the village, the scene before you was nothing short of chaos. Smoke billowed up into the sky, blackening the once peaceful atmosphere of the village. The sound of screams and cries of panic filled your ears, a clear indication of the destruction that had taken place.

As you ran through the streets, you saw houses that were once sturdy and intact, now reduced to rubble and debris. The lifeless bodies of citizens lay scattered among the ruins, their blood seeping into the ground beneath them. Some of the survivors were running frantically, trying to escape the horror that had befallen them.

Amidst the chaos, you suddenly caught a whiff of sandalwood and lavender, a scent that you recognized all too well. Without a moment's hesitation, you drew your sword from its scabbard, ready for whatever lay ahead.

"Rengoku-san, follow me," you ordered, as you began to sprint towards the source of the scent.

"It's not just Upper 2 and 3," you informed Rengoku, your eyes scanning the area. Weak demons were scattered all around, causing chaos and destruction. Suddenly, one demon leaped towards you, and Rengoku yelled out a warning.

With one swift stroke of your sword, you effortlessly decapitated the demon and continued towards your destination.

“Rengoku-san,” you said firmly. “Please take care of the civilians. I'll handle the upper moons on my own.”

Rengoku opened his mouth to protest, but you interrupted him, throwing him a reassuring smile over your shoulder. "I'll be fine," you said, your tone calm.

After a moment of hesitation, Rengoku nodded reluctantly, “Be careful.”

He circled back towards the heart of the village where the citizens were gathered, offering them his full support. Meanwhile, you were making your way towards Shinazugawa, but as you got closer, you felt a sudden drop in temperature, the air growing icy cold.

The ground beneath your feet was no longer dirt, but instead, it was now coated with ice.

Doma.

You sprinted towards the scene of the battle, your heart pounding against your chest as you saw Shinazugawa fighting fiercely against the upper ranks. He was holding his on, his sword gleaming in the dim moonlight as he expertly dodged and parried their attacks.

But as you drew closer, you could see that his movements were becoming more sluggish, and sweat was beading on his forehead. He was clearly tiring, and the demons were taking advantage of it. Doma casted ice into small particles, filling the air with a freezing chill.

Your mind raced as you realized the danger Shinazugawa was in. If he breathed in that ice, his lungs would collapse, he’d be unable to fight any longer. You opened your mouth to shout a warning, but before you could make a sound, Shinazugawa unleashed his seventh form.

In an instant, the air was filled with a gust of wind as Shinazugawa’s technique cast away the ice particles, scattering them in all directions. The force of the attack sent the demons staggering backward, giving Shinazugawa a momentary respite.

“Fifth form, Shooting Stars.” With lightning-fast movements, you darted through the field, attacking the two demons from every angle.

Your swordsmanship was unparalleled as you gracefully weaved through the air, moving with a fluidity that seemed almost otherworldly. The two demons were caught off guard as you darted around them, striking with a speed that left them reeling. Your strikes were precise, aimed directly at their weak points, and you took advantage of every opening with a calm and calculated efficiency.

"Doma, you little shit," you growled. Your eyes narrowed as you saw him chanting. You braced yourself for the worst as an enormous Bodhisattva statue surrounded by lotuses made of ice spawned from the surface you were standing on. You tried to dodge, but the ice vines sprouting from the lotuses entangled you, snaring all over your body and dragging you towards the statue, towards Doma.

You struggled to break free, feeling the vines tightening around your limbs and cutting into your flesh. You knew that if you didn't act fast, your bones would break under the pressure.

"Little Night Hashira, we meet again!" he exclaimed with a smile, completely oblivious to the fact that you were only seconds away from delivering the final blow. "You are still as gorgeous as ever, and you smell heavenly too," he added, his tone suggestive.

You had only crossed paths a handful of times in missions, yet he acted as if you were old friends.

Your grip tightened around the hilt of your sword, your eyes narrowing as you glared at him. His smug expression only served to infuriate you further, the veins tightened even more.

"You’re mistaken if you think I have any interest in your flattery, Doma," you spat blood. "I’m here to end your pitiful existence.”

Doma's expression faltered for a moment, but then he chuckled. "Oh, my dear, you’re always so fierce. That's what makes you so irresistible."

But before you could retort, your attention was diverted to Shinazugawa’s whereabouts. You scanned the area, but he was nowhere to be found. Panic set in as you realized he could be in danger.

You darted your eyes around, searching frantically for any sign of him.

"Looking for someone, Little Night Hashira?" he asked with a sinister tone, grinning. "Hm... Your little Wind Hashira, perhaps?" He giggled, clearly knowing something you didn't. "He's an amazing fighter, you know. Akaza wants to turn him. He'd be an amazing Upper Moon." His voice was taunting.

A searing pain erupted in your side, causing you to gasp for air. You looked down to see a deep gash across your abdomen, blood flowing freely from the wound. You gazed back at Doma, his fan covering his mouth as he hid his smug smile.

You tried to speak, but blood gurgled out of your mouth, choking you. “Where-“ you managed to gasp, desperately trying to finish your question.

“Where what?” he taunted, pretending not to understand.

“Is he…” you wheezed, barely able to speak as the pain in your chest intensified.

“Look over there, pretty girl,” Doma said, pointing with his fan. You turned your head to see Shinazugawa locked in a fierce battle with Akaza. Your heart sank at the sight of him fighting alone against such a powerful opponent.

Your attention was quickly brought back to your own predicament as the ice vines continued to tighten their grip around your body. The coldness was seeping into your bones and you could feel your strength waning. You gritted your teeth and tried to break free, but it was no use.

"Once Akaza gets his final blow in," Doma leaned in, bringing you close enough to see the spectrum of colours in his eyes. "We will turn him into a demon. If he refuses, well..." His smile faded, “We’ll tear every single limb of his off.”

You reached your breaking point, your mind became clouded. “Thirteenth form, Nightmare.”

Suddenly, the world around you transformed into a dark and ominous realm. The air was thick with the scent of fear, and the sound of screams and cries echoed all around you. Doma was now trapped in a terrifying nightmare of his own making.

The vines that had been tightly wrapped around you suddenly loosened, and the statue that Doma had created melted away at an intense speed. You plummeted towards the ground, hitting the hard surface with a deafening thud. You let out a silent cry. The impact should have caused numerous broken bones, but you refused to succumb to the pain.

As you surveyed your surroundings, you noticed that the shadow of Doma was writhing in agony, his face contorted with terror. He clawed at the air and his own face in a desperate attempt to escape his own nightmare. You took advantage of the opportunity and prepared yourself for the final blow, concentrating all your power into your stance as you chanted, "First form, Meteor."

"AKAZA!" Doma screeched, just as you were about to land the final blow on his neck, slicing through the skin. You could sense Akaza's presence from your peripheral vision as he swiftly moved towards Doma and took him into his arms. The force of your sword met nothing but air, and the ground where Doma should have been standing erupted into a deep crater from the sheer power of your attack.

You let out a string of curses, the words echoing through the empty air. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm yourself down, but the pain you were in made it even difficult as bones were constricting your lungs. However, you refused to let it stop you from finding Shinazugawa.

You spotted Shinazugawa just a few meters away, his gaze fixed on you. He stood there, motionless, much like he did back at the hot springs. As you turned your attention towards him, you noticed Rengoku approaching you from behind.

You let out a raspy breath before collapsing to the ground, causing Rengoku to rush towards you, leaving Shinazugawa behind. As you struggled to catch your breath, Shinazugawa’s voice cut through the air.

"You lost him," he stated flatly.

Confused you replied, "What?"

Shinazugawa’s eyes widened as he continued, "You're so fucking useless. Why are you even here?"

Rengoku interrupted, his anger palpable as he yelled, "Shinazugawa! Can you not do this right now?"

Shinazugawa ignored him, spitting out his words with contempt, "You are so fucking useless, you should have died."

You stared at him, taken aback by his harsh words.

Your breathing became shallow, and your heart felt like it had dropped to your stomach. The weight of Shinazugawa’s words felt heavy, crushing down on any sense of self-worth you had left. You tried to hold back tears, but you could feel them welling up in your eyes. The pain was almost unbearable, and all you wanted to do was curl up into a ball and disappear.

“Why?" you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Quit the fucking corps," he said, his tone cold.

“Shinazugawa,” Rengoku removed his haori and quickly wrapped it around your bleeding torso. “She did more than you could have,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of anger and frustration directed at Shinazugawa. He held you close, trying to ease your pain as you groaned in agony. The wounds were deep and you could feel the blood trickling down your skin. Despite Rengoku’s efforts, the pain was still overwhelming, making it hard for you to focus on anything else.

You saw black.

“Is she in a stable condition?” Ubuyashiki inquired with a deep concern etched in his voice.

“Yes, Oyakata-sama. The Kakushi just arrived in time to prevent further blood loss,” Rengoku replied.

“I’m glad. She fought valiantly, didn't she?” he remarked, with a tone that suggested it was not a question. Ubuyashiki was well aware of your formidable strength, which could rival even Himejima, if not, surpass him. However, even such strength had its limits, and you were not invincible.

Shinazugawa sat in silence during the meeting, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor without even a single blink. Ubyashiki addressed him, "Shinazugawa?"

Shinazugawa jolted out of his trance, "Oyakata-sama."

Ubyashiki asked, "What did you tell her?”

Shinazugawa hesitated, swallowing hard and opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Eventually, he managed to say, "I told her she was useless."

Rengoku interjected, "Please continue, Shinazugawa-san."

Shinazugawa glared at Rengoku and continued, "And that she should have died."

Ubuyashiki turned to Rengoku and said, "You may leave now, Rengoku."

Rengoku looked at both Ubuyashiki and Shinazugawa, and replied, "As you wish, Oyakata-sama."

Once Rengoku was out of earshot, Ubuyashiki confronted Shinazugawa, "Why do you express your concern through hostility, Shinazugawa?"

"I don't understand, Oyakata-sama," he responded.

"You care for her, do you not?" Ubuyashiki questioned. "She's finally opening up to the other Hashiras, enjoying their company, and communicating more. Yet you try to push her back into the hole she has been desperately trying to climb out of. Do you not see the emptiness in her eyes? She looks so hollow, and you only seem to make her feel more disconnected from this world."

"She's not my responsibility. She made her own decision to get involved."

"You are a Hashira, Shinazugawa. You have a responsibility to your fellow demon slayers, especially one who risked her life to help you."

Shinazugawa’s jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for her help."

"But you needed it," Ubuyashiki countered. "And now she needs yours."

Shinazugawa opened his mouth to argue, but Ubuyashiki interrupted him. "I understand that you are not used to showing kindness, but that does not excuse cruelty. She deserves respect, and so do you. Please think about that, Sanemi."

The use of his first name caught him off guard, and he stared directly into Ubuyashiki's eyes, unsure of what to say.

“You may go, Shinazugawa,” Ubuyashiki said with a hint of sadness in his smile.

Time passed in a blur as days and nights blended together, but fragments of memories kept you grounded in reality.

You struggled to open your eyes through the hardened mucus that clung to them.

You heard the clatter of a plate hitting the ground, causing you to turn your head in the direction of the noise. Your eyes fell upon Kocho, who was standing by the door.

“Two months,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion as tears welled up in her eyes. Her vulnerability caught you off guard. “You were unconscious for two whole months, and I was losing hope that you’d ever wake up.” She slowly made her way towards you, kneeling beside the bed where you lay recovering.

“Every damn day there was an ohagi on your table that I had to clean up,” she said with a hint of annoyance. You gave her a quizzical look, wondering what ohagi had to do with anything.

“I'm sorry,” you said, even though you weren't entirely sure what you were apologizing for.

You remembered then, “Shinazugawa-san and Rengoku-san?” Kocho handed you a glass of water, which you eagerly gulped down, relieving your dry throat. As you drank, Kocho continued to speak.

"Shinazugawa-san deserves a beating," she said with a hint of anger in her voice. "I offered to create new scars for him, but Himejima-san told me not to." Despite her words, she gave you a sweet smile, a contradiction to her previous statement.

“I was scared,” she admitted. "You were in such a bad condition," she added.

“I'm fine now, Kocho-san,” you replied with a reassuring smile.

“You certainly are. We made sure to take care of you every single day," she said, before adding, “Oykata-sama would visit every day too. We often caught him doing so.”

“He didn't have to,” you said, shocked by the revelation. Kocho smiled softly. “He cares for you deeply, just as he does for all of us. After all, he sees us as his family-”

“You're awake!” Kanroji bursted into the room. “How are you feeling?” She was bouncing with energy. “Meals without you just weren't the same.”

“Kanroji-san, thank you for the ohagi,” you bowed your head. “What ohagi?” She asked with a smile.

You stared at her, “The one on my table every night, according to Kocho-san?”

“I never brought any ohagi. But if I had seen it, I definitely would have eaten it all!” She retorted with a playful grin.

As you stared out of the window, the gentle breeze rustled the curtains, and you breathed in the fresh air. Suddenly, your stomach grumbled and you found yourself craving some ohagi. "I could really go for some ohagi right about now," you murmured to yourself.

As night settled in, you took your first few steps after being stationary for two solid months. You had lost a considerable amount of muscle and weight during your recovery, but Kocho assured you that your training would come back to you in a few days.

You padded softly towards the window, staring into the gardens of the Butterfly estate. The night sky always had a calming effect on you, especially when the moon is full. The beauty of the moonlight shining onto your face made you close your eyes and bask in its presence.

You felt a subtle shift in the air as the door silently opened, a clear sign of someone skilled in stealth. Without hesitation, you turned your head towards the door.

White hair and a scarred body. In his hand, he held a box wrapped in furoshiki cloth. As he walked in, his gaze immediately went to the bed where you had been comatose.

Not finding you there, a flash of panic was evident in his eyes as he began to scan the room. Finally, he noticed you standing there, looking at him with a stunned expression.

“Shinazugawa-san?” You said softly.

He dropped the box in surprise and walked slowly towards you. His scarred face was twisted in a mixture of surprise and guilt. He reached his hand out, but you flinched, taking a step back.

That immediately stopped him in his tracks. He let out a bitter laugh and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m so fucken stupid,” he muttered, his voice laced with self-disgust.

“Yeah,” you choked out, your voice cracking as tears welled up in your eyes. You couldn't bear to look at him, so you turned your back towards him, staring blankly out the window.

"Please look at me," he whispered, his voice barely audible. You couldn't bring yourself to do it, your gaze still fixed on the window. He said your name, your first name, in the most tender voice you had ever heard.

“Please.”

The moonlight cast a soft glow around you as you turned to face him, illuminating your figure. Tears continued to flow uncontrollably down your face as you gazed at him, and the sight of him only seemed to intensify your emotions.

His body was taut, restraining himself from taking a step towards you and enveloping you in his arms. He respected the invisible boundary you had created. His eyes softened when he looked into yours, a stark contrast to his usual gaze that made your stomach churn. His moods were so volatile, but in this moment, it seemed as if he was trying to convey something deeper, something vulnerable.

He was clenching and unclenching his hand, his eyes pleading with you as he whispered, "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." The raw emotion in his voice made your heart ache.

“I should have never said any of that, I’m so sorry.”

"I just-“ he paused, his voice cracking. He rubbed his face vigorously before continuing, "I don't know. I don't even know you," he let out a sad, bitter laugh. "What the fuck am I doing?"

“You're not useless," he said softly, his voice filled with remorse. He repeated the phrase again, as if trying to erase the hurt caused by his previous words. "You shouldn't die either, fuck, why did I ever say that," he muttered, his eyes full of remorse.

You stared at him, not knowing how to respond. He looked away, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I don’t want you to die. I said those things," a tear fell down his cheek. "I said it because I didn't want you near any of this shit."

“You’re so fucking strong, I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “But I still worried. You almost fucking died, holy shit.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You hit that ground, fractured a shit ton of bones, and yet you still moved. I was so fucking scared, I just wanted you to stop but you didn’t. You kept on going and I couldn’t bear to watch it go down.”

You took a soft step toward him. “You almost had him,” he continued, tears streaming down his face. “But when that other demon left me, I thought he was going to finish you off. You had no idea how fucking scared I was.”

"Two months, I came here every single day," he choked out, "and you never stirred. I was terrified," he whispered your name.

"I didn't want to lose-" he was cut off by the gentle touch of your hand on his scarred face. He snapped his head towards you, eyes widening in shock.

“But you did,” you said gently, your voice breaking as tears continued to flow down your face. “The moment you said those words to me.” Your words hung heavy in the air as you both cried, the pain palpable.

Your hands were trembling as you wiped away his tears. Shinazugawa took hold of your hands and brought them to his lips "I won't ever say that shit again," he promised. He pressed a soft kiss onto your hands. "If I ever say anything like that again, these beautiful hands of yours can land the final blow on me."

“Shinazugawa-san,” you said. Shinazugawa gently released your hands and brought his own to your face, wiping away the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. His hands were so large, almost enveloping your entire face, and they were warm and comforting. You couldn't help but nuzzle into them, savouring the feeling of safety and reassurance that came with his touch. It had been a long time since you had felt this kind of comfort.

"Sanemi," he said, and you looked up at him, questioning.

"Please, call me Sanemi," he added with a gentle smile.

"Sanemi," you said softly.

He averted his gaze, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink under the moonlight.

As you gazed at him, the world suddenly tilted and you felt yourself losing balance. Your legs gave out and you began to fall, but Sanemi's quick reflexes allowed him to catch you before you hit the ground.

"Careful," he said, holding you tighter as you were bundled in his arms. His strong arms enveloped you, making your heart race. You couldn't help but blush at the sudden situation, grateful that your hair was hiding most of your face.

Sanemi remained in the position that he caught you in, not moving a muscle. As you rested in his embrace, you found yourself entranced by his familiar scent once again, feeling yourself becoming drowsy.

"Sanemi..." you murmured, your eyes drooping.

Sanemi stiffened at the sound of his name, realizing that you were about to pass out. He looked at you in panic as your eyes shut. "Hey, stay with me," he called out, but you didn't budge. With a swift motion, he lifted you up and carried you to the bed, surprised at how light you were in his arms.

Sanemi skidded to a stop, almost colliding with Kocho. "What are you doing here, Shinazugawa-san?" she asked him with a flat expression.

"She passed out. I don't know what happened. She was standing, then she fell and passed out in my arms. Kocho, please help." He pleaded desperately.

Her expression turned concerned upon hearing that, and she quickly made her way to your room. Upon entering, she found you peacefully sleeping on the bed, tucked into the covers. As she checked your vitals, she noticed the box that Sanemi had dropped when he first entered the room. Looking up at him with realization, she said, "You were the one bringing the ohagi."

Sanemi's frustration boiled over, "She passed out and you're concerned about that damn snack?!"

"She's fine," Kocho said reassuringly. "She's just extremely iron deficient. Since we've been administering vital minerals through injections, her iron intake has been insufficient, among other things," she explained.

“No wonder she’s so fucken light,” Sanemi pieced together.

Kocho nodded, then turned her attention back to Sanemi. "What are you really doing here?" she asked again, her tone serious.

“None of ya business," he said, still keeping his gaze fixed on you.

"You said some really terrible things to her, Shinazugawa-san," Kocho reprimanded. "If I hear even the slightest whisper that you've caused her any harm,” she gave him a sweet smile. “I will gut you.”

Sanemi smirked at that, “I’d like to see you try.”

Kocho gave you one last look before sending Sanemi a vulgar gesture and leaving the room.

As you turned on your side, you felt a slight dip in the bed. Cracking open your eyes, you were met with the sight of a sleeping Sanemi. He sat on a stool with his arms resting on the bed, which served as makeshift pillows. He was softly snoring, and it was clear that he must have been watching over you until he fell asleep.

A gentle breeze wafted into the room, causing his hair to fall over his peaceful face. Without hesitation, you reached out and brushed his hair aside. The light touch made him choke on a snore and slowly open his eyes.

He gave you a sluggish smile, then gently took hold of your hand and pressed his lips against it, just as he had done the night before. Your body froze as a rush of warmth washed over you, making you feel a little flushed.

“Mornin’,” he said groggily, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Good morning,” you replied quietly, your stomach fluttering at the sound of his voice.

He ran his hand over his face in an attempt to wake himself up. "Let me get you some food," he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

You were about to protest and get out of bed yourself until he said, "Sit your pretty ass down."

You sat down.

Two weeks later

You approached the well-trodden path that led to a destination you had visited a few months earlier. As you neared the entrance, you politely knocked on the sturdy gate, which was soon opened by a female servant, who peered out cautiously.

As she recognized you, her eyes lit up with familiarity, and she quickly bowed low in greeting, gesturing for you to come inside the manor.

She led you through the house and towards the kitchen, the clanging of stones and ceramics hitting each other growing louder with every step.

"Shinazugawa-sama has a keen interest in domestic activities," the servant informed you. You couldn't help but suppress a smile at that. As you reached the entrance of the kitchen, she said, "I'll leave you here," and smiled.

You walked into the kitchen and were immediately hit with the aroma of various dishes. As you looked around, you saw Sanemi's godly figure standing at the counter. He wore black a hakama, a shirt nowhere in sight.

He was entirely focused on his task, his eyes fixed on the fishes in front of him as he sliced them with precision. You couldn't help but admire him, the way his muscles flexed as he worked and the sweat that glistened on his skin.

The servant's words from earlier made sense now - Sanemi had clearly been invested in domestic activities lately, and he seemed to have a talent for it.

You crept towards him until you were close enough to wrap your arms around his waist. Sanemi's body tensed for a moment as he jolted in surprise, causing him to almost drop the knife he was holding mid-air.

He quickly recovered, turning around to face you with a look of mild annoyance mixed with amusement. "Don't sneak up on me like that," he grumbled, though the corners of his lips turned up slightly.

As you chuckled, your breath tickled Sanemi's skin. "Couldn’t resist," you murmured, moving closer to him. Your lips brushed against his skin as you traced the scars on his back with feather-light kisses.

Sanemi's body tensed and he let out a choked sound. However, he didn't push you away. Instead, he slowly turned around to face you, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of desire.

You smirked at his reaction and began to detach yourself from him, intending to playfully tease him. However, before you could take a step away, Sanemi quickly grabbed your wrist.

You couldn't help but let out a surprised gasp as he pulled you closer to him, your bodies now pressed together. His grip on your waist was firm but not rough, and you could feel his warm breath on your neck.

You tilted your head, gazing at him through your lashes, "You fucken minx," he growled.

Your hands trailed up his thick arms, fingers gliding over the defined muscles before wrapping around the back of his neck. You played with his white hair, tugging at the strands lightly as you gazed deeply into his eyes. He couldn't help but flicker his gaze between your eyes and lips.

"I'm a minx now, Sanemi?" you playfully teased, emphasizing his name.

"Fuckin' don't start this," he ordered.

Your eyes flickered to his lips before returning to his gaze. "I really want to kiss you, ‘Nemi," you admitted, your voice low and sultry.

Sanemi's grip on your waist tightened, and he leaned down until his lips were dangerously close to yours. "Do it," he said, roughly.

Your heart raced with excitement as you finally gave in to your desire and pressed your lips to his. His taste was a sweet addiction that you couldn't get enough of. "Finally," he cursed, his lips parting to deepen the kiss.

As your bodies melted together, Sanemi lifted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his narrow waist. A soft moan escaped your lips as his tongue traced your lips, seeking entrance, and you eagerly granted it.

He set you on the counter and your hands trailed up to tug on his white hair, eliciting a low growl from him. He bit your lip in warning, and you couldn't help but let out a whimper of pleasure. The intensity of the kiss was overwhelming, and you were completely lost in the moment, consumed by your desire for him.

"’Nemi," you whimpered, feeling his lips trailing a path down your neck. You couldn't help but pull on his hair, urging him to continue as he left a trail of kisses and nips on your skin. Your heart was racing with desire as he found a sensitive spot on your neck and began to suck on it. The sensation was so overwhelming that you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds that threatened to escape.

"Lemme fucken hear," he rumbled, pulling your hand away from your mouth.

"I wanna hear everythin’ that escapes your pretty mouth, every moan, every gasp," he murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I wanna know that I'm makin’ you feel good." The intensity in his voice sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but let out a soft moan as he nibbled on your earlobe.

"’Nemi, the food-" you began.

"Fuck the food," he said.

Notes: This is my first post on Tumblr, as well as my first foray into writing. I'm not sure how it will turn out in the long run, but if you happen to be reading this, thank you for taking the time. I hope you have a lovely day!

#pxob #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #sanemi x fem reader #sanemi fluff #sanemi angst #mitsuri kanroji #shinobu kocho #kyojuro rengoku #cold hands warm heart #i love sanemi

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the-badger-mole · 5 months

Note

If I may prompt: I would like to hear your Aang Is Not The Hero rant, if you'd like to share (I have my own thoughts along similar lines, but I'm curious about your take).

It's something I've talked about before, but I don't think Aang adds that much to the story. He is the titular "Last Airbender", but his major contributions are either being a conduit for more powerful beings (La, the lionturtle, the Avatar State, which he doesn't have control over even into the post series comics), or he facilitates getting the Gaang from one place to another. He's the reason that the plot is happening, but he's not an active participant. He barely acknowledges that a war is happening, let alone takes it on himself to figure out how to end it.

To call Aang the "Real Hero™️©️®️" feels laughable when his accomplishments are stacked up against his friends. His fight with Ozai isn't even the emotional linchpin of the series. We all know that honor goes to the Agni Kai, but even confrontation between Ozai and Zuko had more weight. Heck, even the scenes with Sokka, Toph and Suki had higher stakes and emotional importance. Sure, Aang grabbing Ozai by the chin leech was funny, but Sokka clinging to Toph as she dangles in mid-air is a heart stopping moment.

Beyond that, no one's relationship with Aang matters that much. He isn't a particularly good friend to any of them, and he receives far, far more than he gives in terms of development moments (and he still manages to hardly grow at all). His most major contribution to anyone else's growth ends up with him completely misunderstanding Katara. By comparison, Katara is a much more integral character. She is the one holding the Gaang together. Her conflicts with her friends contribute to growth moments with all of them. Even Toph, as criminally underdeveloped as she is, has moments with Katara that lead to them both growing as characters.

If we want to name a true protagonist for the story, or the "Real Hero™️©️®️" , it's Katara. Katara is the true hero of the story. Without her, the plot falls apart. Aang is the inciting incident for Katara's story to move forward. Essentially, Aang is a McGuffin. He could be replaced by a magic wand and reliable transportation and very little about the story would have to change.

#atla #anti aang #anti kataang #aang's a mcguffin #katara is the real hero

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stay278 · 5 months

Text

Where Our Worlds Collide (HHJ)

A/N: arranged marriage, Prince!Hwang Hyunjin x Painter!Fem!Reader, fluff, slight profanity(?), angst (?)

As you exit the King's study later that day, you look down, utterly humiliated.

The King had once again commented on anything and everything imaginable. You would think that you would get used to it by now, but nope. Each time hurt worse than the last. But you couldn't just give up and leave over a few insults. "Not now, or ever," is what you would tell yourself. You weren't going to let mere words bring you down.

Closing the door to Hyunjin's room, you quickly climb in to the dumbwaiter behind the painting and pulled down the door for it. Taking a deep breath, you begin to pull the strings that lifted the small platform upwards and into the secret library. As you pull down on the rough strings, worn from years of use, you feel each and every worry leave your body, one by one. It was liberating, even if it was temporary. It was the one place where you and Hyunjin could truly be free, even though socially, you were leagues apart. It was the one place where your worlds collided, if you will. As you climbed out of the dumbwaiter, the aroma of fresh tea and books rose to kiss your nose with fond memories. You smiled as you saw your dear lover reading one of you favorite romance novels in the plush loveseat that the two of you would share. In front of him sat the quaint coffee table, tea and strawberry cake resting on it. The room was circular and cozy, every wall lined and adorned with books all the way to the ceiling, from which protruded a small but magical chandelier.

As Hyunjin noticed your presence and looked up from the novel, he smiled so warmly that your heart melted under his gaze. As he walks over, he gently kisses your forehead, raising a hand to rest on the back of you neck to pull you closer to himself. Just as he pulls his lips away from your forehead, you feel them tremble the tiniest bit, a telltale sign that he was playing off his troubles, just so that you could have this moment.

"Hyunjin, stop it."

"What?"

"You always downplay what you feel when it comes to us talking about...you know, us." You sigh.

He holds your hands in his larger ones and studies them. He looks back at you and sighs. "Darling, I...I know. I'm just, I don't know, scared? Maybe? I wish I had an answer for us, and I-"

"You're doing it again. You don't need an answer for us, Hyunjin. It's not just you, and it's not just me. It's us. We'll figure it out."

"Y/n, I'm going to be straight with you."

You look up at him, awaiting his words with loving eyes.

He speaks up again after taking a breath. "I just...don't want to lose you. You're the one good thing that's happened in my life, and I'm probably going to lose you. Fuck." Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair. You can visibly hear the gears turning in his head. He bites his lip, either to stop his tears, or think properly. Right now, it doesn't matter.

You wrap your arms around him and sigh. "Let's just give it some thought, yeah?"

He nods and looks down. "Yeah."

You both pace around the room running all of the possibilities in your heads. Would you lose each other? Maybe. Would you do anything in your power to prevent that? Obviously. Would it work? Doubtful.

You padded softly over to the loveseat in the corner of the room and sat down, sighing.

After a few minutes, you sniffle in defeat. "I don't know."

Tears had begun to run down your face as you felt an overwhelming weight push down on your entire being.

As you look up at Hyunjin, he has that look on his face. His signature smirk.

You look at him after blinking away more tears, clearly puzzled. "What?"

Hyunjin gently walks over to you and kneels so that he's at eye-level with you. He gently kisses one tear away, and wipes the other one with his thumb. As he does this, he's still smirking, though his expression has gotten more heartfelt and...sincere, in a way.

"Darling?"

You sniffle before answering him. "Yeah?"

"Run away with me."

A/N: So. Part 2. Yell at me in the comments, please. I won't apologize because I've done it so much already. Thank you so much to those who've waited patiently for part two! You guys are the best. Love you! I know it's very short and probably not what you were expecting, but that's all I had in mind for this story. But on another note, I might not release again for a while, because I'm thinking of starting a series, but I'm not sure how long it will take. I'm planning to write it out completely before releasing it on a weekly basis, so that I don't completely leave you guys hanging. 😅 Again, thank you so much for your patience.

Requested tags: @soobinniex

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desceros · 5 months

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pls, wise one, when you have time, share with your children how you structure and word your writing so, so beautifully! cause you have me in a choke hold and my soul hooked to a chain with all your writings! especially your Tea fic :) I strive to become as good as you <3

oh man. this is a tough one. i kinda, uh. just do it at this point without really thinking?? so hold my hand and maybe we can figure it out together LMAO i'll use an example blurb and try and break it down as coherently as i can.

so first you want to have a pretty clear picture of what you want to convey to your reader. the more defined it is in your head, the more easily you can communicate things to your readers. eventually you'll get a feel for how much detail to go into as you describe it. you really don't need to describe the placement of every limb at every moment... but also, the placement of a hand can tell you so much about what's going on in a character's mind, so it's good to know where it is. there's a fine line between purple prose and effective set dressing.

i was just whining about not writing enough soft donnie so let's do that. he's on the couch staring at you. let's write that really quickly:

notice i don't talk about his entire body placement, but the looseness of his limbs is important. it gives a picture of his mental state without overwhelming you with too much detail.

next: i like to start with big, grand statements, then slowly pluck them apart into the minutia. things like. he looks comfortable. ok; what does that look like? what shape does he take in your head? for me, it's that he's reclining. propping himself up casually. i emphasize the 'soft. relaxed.' by having them be their own short sentences.

on that note, mixing your sentence length is very important and guides the flow of things. longer sentences are like water, bringing your reader down the river you've crafted for them. short sentences have a lot of power, because they're a lot more percussive. you want to use them sparingly so you don't overuse that and retain that feel. mix where you put your independent and dependent phrases, but also know when to mirror yourself. parallel structure can invite your reader to compare ideas or generate momentum. for example, continuing this blurb a bit:

every sentence begins the same, going from long to medium to short in a way that makes the flow of the paragraph feel a bit like a snowball rolling down a hill, like your thoughts are rushing, so that by the end you can land on a thought that's monumental and feels a little breathless. this is possible because of the parallel structure of the sentences ("like ____. like ____. like _____.") pushing the reader forward. you can of course do it in the opposite direction as well, for when you want to slow a reader down and force them to linger in a moment.

word choice is very important. i'm pretty particular about the words i use for certain things, and i really love using similes and metaphors to create abstract imagery that catches the light more than a flat statement. but it's also important to know when to use those flat statements for a high-impact statement. let's try:

this kind of falls into my philosophy on the whole 'show don't tell' thing. i'm obsessed with showing. but sometimes, it's more impactful if you tell. like... here you have a very evocative description of him. it includes little things like a reference to a red string of fate (showing it's a romantic moment for you, not platonic), wanting to keep the image in your head permanently, pretty words that mirror what your POV character feels. at the end, you can land on just. he's beautiful. because really that's all that needs to be said, right? but it feels more weighty a thing to say after what came before.

one of the best things i ever did for my prose writing was study poetry. that gave me an appreciation for the weight of a word, and how to use it effectively. the right word or phrase can really change a sentence both melodically and emotionally.

consider the difference between these:

does he want something? or does he covet it? is he unable to look away from your smile? or is he ensorcelled?

a writer's vernacular is an incredibly powerful tool, so i recommend highly that you expand your vocabulary. make sure to focus on not just the explicit definitions, but also the implicit. some words are largely interchangeable (a touch that slides vs one that glides), but some very much are not even though at first glance they seem they should (a haunting kiss vs a lingering kiss).

anyway i hope that helped a little! this kind of minutia-crafting is like, a passion of mine so i probably went way overboard OOPS but hey if it helps even a little i WIN

#ask tag #writing tag #any excuse for sweatpantello am i right ladies #god. edit btw thank you so much for the compliments i totally forgot to put that in the tags fdsakfjkj

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mindfuljujutsu · 7 months

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Moonlit Destiny: A Sorcerer's Arrangement

In the world of sorcery and ancient clans, two souls are thrust into an unyielding destiny that neither of them desires. Hanae Tsukiyama, a skilled sorceress with the unique ability to harness the power of the moon, is determined to protect her family's legacy. But when a prophecy dictates that she must marry the enigmatic Satoru Gojo, a sorcerer with a reputation as fierce as his powers, her world is turned upside down. Satoru Gojo, a free spirit and renowned sorcerer, has always walked his own path. Forced into an arranged marriage by tradition and prophecy, he finds himself bound to a woman he barely knows and a destiny he never wanted.

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

words: 5 066

warnings: None for now.

a/n: Another Satoru Gojo series!! This one has been playing on my mind for a while now, so i thought that I might as well type it out and post it on tumblr. This wasn't going to be a series, but after realising just how much i wrote, I thought it would be best to post it in parts. The second part of this series is already in the works, and I'm in the process of fine-tuning and editing it, so keep an eye out for that! I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!

Hanae found herself standing before the grand wrought-iron gates of the Gojo estate, her heart pounding like a distant war drum. Flanked by her parents, both adorned in traditional robes, they wore expressions marked by anticipation and trepidation. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the meticulously manicured gardens that encircled the grand mansion, with cherry blossoms whispering in the breeze, their delicate petals falling like pale confetti.

This meeting, though explained as a significant formality, felt to Hanae like a noose tightening around her future—a future she hadn't chosen herself.

As the gates slowly creaked open, revealing the path leading to the grand entrance, Hanae's mother, a woman whose wisdom was etched into every line of her face, gave her daughter's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Remember, my dear," her mother said, her voice filled with gentle encouragement. "This is for the sake of our clan. We carry the weight of generations on our shoulders."

Hanae nodded, her lips curving into a determined yet uneasy smile. "I understand, Mother."

The door to the Gojo mansion swung open, revealing an opulent foyer adorned with priceless artifacts and ancient scrolls. Servants in traditional attire bustled about, tending to their duties with practiced grace.

Hanae's gaze was drawn to the imposing figure standing at the center of the room, surrounded by an aura of power and privilege. Hiroshi Gojo, head of the prestigious Gojo clan, and his wife, Ayaka Gojo, awaited their arrival, both dressed in traditional attire. They scanned their guests with a hint of curiosity.

"Welcome, Tsukiyama-san," Hiroshi said, his voice smooth and confident, yet tinged with an underlying tension that mirrored Hanae's own feelings.

"Gojo-san," Hanae's father greeted, bowing respectfully. "Thank you for welcoming us into your home."

"Of course, we are meeting here to discuss very important matters," Hiroshi replied.

As Hanae observed Hiroshi's eyes on her, she felt a sense of unease settling over her like a second skin. The scrutiny was almost palpable, and she quickly lowered her gaze out of respect for her elder.

Hiroshi gestured to the woman standing one step behind him. "This is my wife, Ayaka."

Hanae and her parents bowed in greeting, receiving a nod in return from Ayaka.

Takeshi, Hanae's father, introduced his wife, Akiko, to the Gojo family. Hiroshi, in turn, acknowledged Hanae as the young woman they had all been waiting for.

Taking a deep breath, Hanae took a step forward and offered a deep and respectful bow to her potential new in-laws. "Gojo-dono, Gojo-sama, it's an honor to meet you."

Hiroshi seemed pleased with her manners, his voice tinged with a barely detectable chuckle. "Such great manners. Now that all introductions have been made, why don't we all have some tea?"

With that, Hanae and her family were led down the beautiful corridors of the traditional Japanese mansion and into a sitting room designated for hosting.

The initial moments were filled with small talk among the adults while Hanae sat lost in thought. She wondered about her potential future husband, who was conspicuously absent at the moment. Perhaps, she considered, he was running late or even contemplating skipping the meeting altogether.

The conversation in the room flowed like a gentle stream, finding moments of tranquility amidst the weight of tradition. Hanae's heart fluttered with nervous anticipation as she exchanged pleasantries with the Gojo family. Her parents' eyes held a mixture of hope and caution as they conversed.

But then, the atmosphere shifted subtly. The door to the room swung open, and in walked Satoru Gojo, the central figure in this arrangement. His entrance exuded an air of nonchalance that seemed to fill the room. He strode in casually, his steps unhurried, as if he had no particular interest in the proceedings. His gaze, obscured by a pair of sunglasses, brushed over the assembled guests before settling on Hanae.

Their eyes met, and Hanae couldn't help but feel a pang of uncertainty. This was the man she was meant to marry, chosen for her by their families and traditions, yet he seemed entirely disinterested.

With languid grace, Satoru Gojo approached, his words dripping with nonchalance. "My apologies for keeping you all waiting," he said, his tone devoid of warmth or enthusiasm. "I hope this meeting won't take too much of our time."

Takeshi Tsukiyama, maintaining his composure, offered a polite greeting. "Not at all, Gojo-san. We appreciate your willingness to meet with us."

Satoru merely shrugged, his arrogance palpable. "Well, here I am. Let's get this over with."

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the weight of his indifference settled in. Hanae couldn't help but wonder about the future that lay ahead, a future with a man who appeared to care so little about the arrangement that bound them together.

Takeshi Tsukiyama cleared his throat, sensing that it was time to broach the matter that had brought them all together. "Gojo-san," he began, his tone measured and respectful, “Thank you for meeting with us. Our families have a long history, and it is with great respect for tradition that we come to discuss the prospect of a union between our clans."

Satoru Gojo leaned back in his chair, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. "I'm aware of our families' history and traditions, Tsukiyama-san," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of impatience. "But let's not beat around the bush. We're here to discuss an arranged marriage, aren't we?"

Hanae nodded, her voice steady despite the unease she felt. "Yes, Gojo-san, that is the purpose of our meeting."

Satoru Gojo let out a long sigh, as if the entire affair bored him. "Fine, then. Let's hear what you have to say."

And with those words, the negotiation for an arranged marriage between the Tsukiyama and Gojo clans began.

"As you may know," Takeshi started, "the Tsukiyama clan has a unique history. We are the sole survivors of a clan that was sent as a gift from the gods during the prime era of sorcery."

Ayaka Gojo leaned forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. "A gift from the gods, you say?"

"Yes," Hiroshi confirmed, "it is a belief that has been passed down through generations. Our clan's history is deeply intertwined with sorcery, and our ancestors were revered for their abilities."

Satoru finally showed a hint of interest, albeit masked by his arrogance. "So, what does this have to do with our meeting today and the arranged marriage?"

Takeshi exchanged a brief glance with Hiroshi before continuing, "A prophecy, Gojo-san. A prophetess foretold that if a member of our clan were to marry the heir of the Gojo clan, their offspring would possess unparalleled power and bring great luck."

Satoru's eyes narrowed slightly as he processed this information. "Unparalleled power and great luck?"

Hiroshi nodded, hoping to emphasize the significance of the arrangement. "Indeed, Satoru. Our families have always held the utmost respect for tradition and the prophecies that guide our destinies. We believe that this union could bring immense benefits to both our clans."

Akiko Tsukiyama joined the conversation, her voice gentle but earnest. "It is our hope that this arranged marriage will strengthen the bonds between our families, preserving the legacy of the Tsukiyama clan and ensuring a prosperous future for both of our bloodlines."

Satoru leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Benefits to both our clans, you say. And what if I have no interest in this arrangement?"

Takeshi chose his words carefully. "We understand that this is not a decision to be taken lightly, Gojo-san. We merely wish to present the opportunity for consideration. The choice, of course, ultimately lies with you and Hanae."

Hanae, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up, her voice steady despite her nervousness. "I hope that we can approach this with open hearts and minds, for the sake of tradition and the future."

The room fell into a contemplative silence as the weight of their words hung in the air. The arrangement had been laid bare before them, and now, it was up to Satoru Gojo to decide whether tradition and prophecy would guide his future.

Gojo contemplated Hanae’s words for a few seconds before clearing his throat, seemingly having made up his mind. “I believe that prophecies are a bunch of bogus,” He started, taking in all the intense stares from everyone in the room.

“They tell you whatever they think you want to hear. So, if everyone in this room thinks that I’m going to let some ‘prophecy’-" he uses his fingers to air quote- “decide on my future, then you all got something coming."

“What are you trying to say, Satoru?” Hiroshi asked, a stern look on his face.

“That we not place our future in the hands of a prophecy. One that we can’t even prove is real.”

Hiroshi burst out laughing, as if everything that Gojo had just said was a joke.

“Satoru,” He started, looking at Gojo. In the next second, the smile on Hiroshi’s face was gone.

A chill ran down Hanae’s back at the quick change of emotions from Hiroshi. People who could change their emotions in a split second made Hanae uneasy.

“While Takeshi’s deal is honorable,” He said, waving at Takeshi without removing his attention from Gojo. “I will not be giving you the leisure to choose whether or not you will be marrying Hanae Tsukiyama. You will marry her, or else.”

Hiroshi’s statement left no room for argument. He was serious about this marriage and what it could mean for his family and clan. And by the looks of it, Satoru had no choice but to obey his father’s rules.

Hanae watched as Gojo’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing to fight his father’s wishes, he just stiffly nodded and said nothing more.

“Good,” Hiroshi clapped, turning his attention to Hanae.

“Now, my dear, since everything is arranged on our side, the decision lies with you,”

Hanae gulped, realizing the weight of pressure she had on her shoulders. She knew that she ultimately had no choice here, and that her father only told her that the decision ultimately laid with her. But ever since they found out about the prophecy, her parents, her grandparents, and every member of their clan has been lecturing her about the importance of her union with the Gojo clan. They all depended on her to marry Satoru Gojo.

“I agree to the marriage between Satoru Gojo and myself,” She said, raising her chin to appear brave and strong, the opposite of what she was actually feeling right now.

“But I do just have one request,” she added, before anyone could react.

Hiroshi smiled at her and gave her a nod to continue.

“Before our marriage, I would like some time for Gojo-san and myself to get to know one another better.”

The parents looked between each other, each of them nodding their heads in agreement. Hanae’s request was reasonable and was the least they could do for their children who were being forced into a loveless marriage.

“Very well,” Hiroshi nodded. “We will give you two months to get to know each other, but during those months, the wedding will be planned.”

“That means we’ll marry in two months,” Gojo stated, speaking up for the first time since getting the ultimatum from his father.

“Yes. A date will later be confirmed, but your union will be in two months' time.”

“My time can't be spent here frolicking around and getting to know some girl. I have a job, I have curses to exorcise.” Gojo said, crossing his arms. It seemed that even though he had no real say about the wedding, he was still going to make this whole process as difficult as possible.

“That will be no problem for Hanae,” Hiroshi smirked at his son.

“She will be living with you at Jujutsu High.”

Gojo scoffed, looking at Hanae before shaking his head. “And what is she supposed to do the entire time while I work and go away on missions? Just sit around in my apartment and wait for me?”

This time Hanae’s father was the one to speak. “Of course not. Hanae is a grade one sorcerer,”

“She has been accepted to teach at Jujutsu High for the foreseeable future.”

Gojo shook his head and gave Hanae a once-over, clearly judging her. Hanae was short, only measuring at 5 foot, and her build made others doubt her skills, but she was actually quite the opposite.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Satoru,” his mother scolded, speaking up for the first time. “Where are your manners? We raised you better than this. Treat your future wife with respect.”

Gojo reluctantly nodded, but seemed as if he really never actually meant it.

“Since the arrangement has been agreed upon by both families, we can now gift Hanae with her engagement ring.” Hiroshi said, ignoring his son’s little tantrum.

As if on cue, a male worker walked into the room carrying a silver tray where a black velvet box sat innocently on it. He walked to Satoru and held out the tray in an offering.

Gojo stared at the box for a second too long before reaching for it.

He stood up from his seat and approached Hanae.

With trembling hands and a fast-beating heart, Hanae stood up once Gojo reached her. He opened the box and presented the most beautiful ring that Hanae had ever seen.

The engagement ring chosen by the Gojo family for Hanae was nothing short of a dazzling masterpiece. It stood as a testament to their immense wealth and their commitment to making this arranged marriage an extravagant affair.

At its heart was a central diamond of breathtaking proportions. This remarkable gem was a paragon of clarity, brilliance, and sheer opulence. Its impressive carat weight captured the light in a way that left no doubt about its exceptional quality. It symbolized not only the significance of the union but also the immeasurable wealth of the Gojo clan.

The band that cradled this magnificent centerpiece was crafted from pure white gold, a choice that perfectly complemented the diamond's purity and sparkle. But what truly made the ring a breathtaking spectacle were the smaller diamonds that adorned the band. These gems, meticulously set in an alternating pattern, created a dazzling trail of shimmering brilliance on either side of the central diamond. Their extravagant display showcased the family's opulence and desire for the world to know it.

Delicate filigree work adorned the sides of the band, adding an extra layer of intricacy to the ring's design. These intricate patterns resembled delicate tendrils of blooming flowers and symbols of prosperity. Yet, the ring held more than just visual splendor. Etched discreetly on the inside of the band was a symbol deeply meaningful to the Gojo clan. This symbol, known only to a select few, represented the family's rich heritage, longstanding traditions, and unwavering values. Though hidden from the eyes of others, it served as a personal and profound connection to their past and their future.

Gojo gently removed the ring from the box, but Hanae was so dazed about the beautiful ring that she never realized that he was waiting for her to raise her hand. With more care than she thought he had, Gojo gently took her left hand in his and slid the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit.

“It’s beautiful,” Hanae whispered, staring mesmerized at the ring on her finger.

“It's a Gojo family heirloom,” Ayaka mused, stepping forward to look at the ring on Hanae's hand. “This ring belonged to Satoru’s great-grandmother, who was gifted this by her husband. We obviously made some changes to make it more modern and fitting for someone of your status. I hope that you’re happy with it.”

“I’m more than happy with it. I think it’s beautiful. Thank you.” Hanae smiled at Ayaka.

Ayaka gently took Hanae’s hand and patted it in a motherly fashion, and in that moment, Hanae knew that she would get along just fine with Gojo’s mother.

“We’ve prepared engagement gifts for Hanae,” Hiroshi said, giving Hanae a small smile.

“but since you’ll be staying at Jujutsu High, we’ve taken the courtesy to send it to your new apartment with Gojo.”

Hanae thought that it was weird that they already sent her engagement gifts to Tokyo before both herself and Gojo agreed to marriage. In that moment she realized that the two of them had way less say in the whole ordeal than they originally thought.

Hanae bowed in thanks towards Hiroshi and Ayaka, “Thank you, Gojo-san.”

“As per our traditions, our family has also prepared a gift for Satoru Gojo,” Hanae’s father said, stepping up to Gojo. He removed a delicate box hidden inside his pocket and handed it to a confused Hanae, who then looked up at Gojo, who was staring intensely at her. She cleared her throat and opened the box. She was momentarily stunned at what she saw.

The bracelet that her family had gifted Gojo was one that had been in the Tsukiyama family for centuries. It was passed down to each first-born male of the head of the clan, and as the only child of the head of the clan, this bracelet was now given from her father to his future son-in-law, which would then be passed down to a son of their own.

This gift didn’t only symbolize the Tsukiyama family’s rich history but also reflected their warm welcome of Satoru Gojo into their fold. It was a family heirloom that had been treasured for generations—a bracelet crafted from an exceedingly rare and striking stone, its color reminiscent of the depths of the night.

The bracelet's main feature was the exceptional stone, a unique and highly sought-after specimen with a hue that danced between deepest black and ethereal gray. Its surface was smooth and polished to perfection. The stone itself was believed to have protective properties, guarding its wearer against adversity and negative energies.

The bracelet's design was simple yet timeless. It consisted of a series of marble-sized, perfectly polished stone beads, each separated by delicate silver spacers. The clasp, an intricate piece of silver-work, held a small family crest engraved with the symbol of the Tsukiyama clan.

As Satoru Gojo received this antique bracelet, he could feel the weight of its history and significance. It had been passed down through generations, from father to son, and now, it was entrusted to him. It served as a silent pledge of the family's support, respect, and acceptance of the arranged marriage, despite any reservations that may have lingered beneath the surface.

The bracelet was a testament to the enduring connections of the Tsukiyama clan and their commitment to fostering unity and harmony. Satoru's acceptance of this heirloom marked not only the beginning of his journey with Hanae but also the embrace of their shared future and the rich traditions that would bind their families together.

“Thank you,” Gojo mumbled as he ran his thumb over the smooth stones of the bracelet.

Just when Hanae thought that perhaps Gojo was warming up to the idea of them getting married, his emotions changed in a blink of an eye. He snapped the box holding the heirloom closed and placed it in his pocket. He didn’t take it out or even try it on.

“Very well,” Hiroshi said, breaking the awkward silence between the two families. “Now that all of that has been taken care of, why don’t we discuss the part that the wives are anticipating the most. The engagement party and the wedding.”

Both Hanae and Gojo went back to their respective seats as the discussions started taking place. It was decided that Hanae would leave for Jujutsu High in two days' time, where she would meet up with Gojo and settle down in her new home. Another meeting would take place next weekend, which was only a few days away, where the upcoming wedding would be discussed. Things such as wedding dates, the house Gojo and Hanae would be living in after marriage, and who would cover certain wedding expenses would be discussed. And lastly, the engagement party.

An official announcement would be made in a few days to other clans and to the public about the engagement of Satoru Gojo and Hanae Tsukiyama, and following closely behind, only a day after the official meeting about wedding arrangements, an engagement party would be held at the Gojo residence for all family, friends, and clans.

Feeling overwhelmed by how fast things were moving, Hanae excused herself to go to the bathroom, but she sneakily made her way into the front garden where she saw a beautiful cherry blossom tree upon entering the residence earlier.

The Tsukiyama family crest was a symbol of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. It represented the beauty and transience of life, and it also signified the family’s commitment to renewal and protection, much like the changing seasons.

“The cherry blossoms outside are particularly beautiful this time of year, aren’t they?” Hanae mused. Even though her attention was on the tree before her, she could sense Gojo’s silent presence the moment he stepped into the garden.

Gojo chuckled, his steps approaching her figure, and stopped to stand next to her. He looked up at the big cherry blossom tree that Hanae was referring to. “You have a good sense of your environment. I’m impressed.”

Hanae smiled, turning to look at Gojo. “Just because I never graduated from Jujutsu High in Tokyo doesn’t mean that I’m a good sorcerer, Gojo-san.”

Hanae nodded back to the cherry blossom tree and turned back to look at it again. “Cherry blossoms always bring a sense of renewal and beauty to our lives. I think that’s why it’s my favorite flower. We have a cherry blossom tree in our garden back home. It’s been in our family for generations.”

Gojo hummed, “Then your name is quite fitting, isn’t it.”

Hanae looked up at Gojo, wanting him to explain further about what he meant.

“Your love for flowers and the cherry blossom. I think it’s quite fitting that the meaning of your name is flower blessing.”

Hanae chuckled and nodded, “Yes, my parents must have known what they were doing when they named me Hanae.”

“What about your clan name?” Gojo asked Hanae, looking at her with an intensity that she could feel through his dark sunglasses. “What does Tsukiyama mean?”

“Tsuki means moon, and Yama means mountain. It was chosen because of the technique used by my clan; Moonlight manipulation.”

“That’s interesting,” Gojo mused, now looking at Hanae with interest and intrigue. “Tell me about your technique. What can you do?”

“I’m sure nothing as impressive as what I heard you can do, Gojo-San,” Hanae chuckled. She turned her body to fully face Gojo’s towering body. “My clan’s techniques allows us to harness the power of the moon and manipulate it for various purposes. My clan is most well known for our healers and amplifiers, but we are capable of other techniques using the moon too.”

“Healers I understand. They use the moonlight to heal injuries, but what are amplifiers? I’ve never heard of that one before.”

“Moonlight amplification is when moonlight gets channelled by the sorcerer into a person of choice. It will enhance their strength and abilities, but only temporarily.” Hanae explained.

“What other techniques does your clan have?”

“Some have moonlight shields which are protective barriers of moonlight, some have moonbeam projections which are concentrates beams of moonlight used as offensive acts, and then there are the ones who have moonlit tracking. They can track the movements of curses or other sorcerers by sensing disturbances in the moonlight.”

“You never included yourself in any of those,” Gojo observed. “You said ‘they’ and never ‘we’ or ‘I’. Does that mean that none of those are your techniques?”

“Yes and no,” you respond. “I can do a bit of healing, but mostly on small injuries. My technique is moonlight blades and moonlit illusions.”

“I’m guessing that the blades are shaped by the moonlight?” Gojo asked, tilting his head curiously.

Hanae nodded, “Yes. They’re razor-sharp blades that can cut through curses and defend against attacks. For the illusions, I used the moonlight to make intricate illusions that can confuse and disorientate my enemies.”

Gojo whistled, looking quite impressed with her set of skills. “I know you probably get asked this a lot, but does your technique only work at night?”

Hanae couldn’t help but laugh at his question, because yes, he was right. That exact question always gets asked by people interested in her technique.

“The technique is more potent and effective at night when the moon is visible. However, it doesn’t necessarily work only at night,” Hanae explained. “At night, when the moon is in the sky, my powers are at their peak. I can perform more complex and powerful feats using moonlight during nighttime. During the day or in places with limited moonlight, like indoor environments, my abilities may be less potent or it may require more effort to use. The different phases of the moon also affects the range and strengths of my abilities.”

“Wow, that’s really quite fascinating,” Gojo nodded. “We should battle each other some day. It would be quite an interesting fight.”

“Gojo-san,” Hanae said, shaking her head in disagreement. “That wouldn’t be much of a fight. I’ve the stories. You’d have me tapping out in seconds.”

A cocky grin tugged at Gojo’s lips. He shrugged playfully, “I’ll go easy on you then.”

Both Gojo and Hanae took a moment to take the other in, before turning around and looking up at the blooming cherry blossom tree.

From beside her, Gojo took in a deep breath. “Hanae,”

Hanae turned all her attention to Gojo.

“You seem like a nice woman, but I’m going to be honest with you, I have no interest in getting married to you.

Ouch, Hanae thought to herself. Getting told by someone as handsome as Gojo that he wasn’t interested in you was a hard hit to the ego. But at the same time, she also understood where he was coming from.

“Gojo, trust me, I’m not a willing participant either, but I have no other choice,” Hanae began, looking Gojo in the eye in the hopes that he could tell how serious but sincere she was trying to be. “My family and clan are relying on me to get married to you, and I can’t let them down for my own selfish desires.”

Gojo scoffed and ran his hand through his messy, white hair. “I don’t understand. What’s the big deal about this marriage? Why do you have to marry me? Why can’t you get married to someone from the Zenin clan? I’m sure you could get someone there.”

“It’s much more complicated than that. The prophecy said that I should marry you. Our parents are not willing to let a sign of such great importance pass them by, not one that tells us about the outcome of our future.”

Gojo scoffed for the second time since joining her in the garden. “I see that they’ve got you just as brainwashed as the rest,”

He shook his head, “Just because the clan says so, doesn’t mean that it’s what you should do. Are you going to live your whole life following orders from your clan people? From your elders?”

“I really thought you were smarter than that.”

Hanae's frustration and anger continued to mount. She couldn't believe that Satoru Gojo had the audacity to belittle her choices and her loyalty to her clan. It was infuriating to have someone who knew nothing about her life pass judgment so casually.

Hanae's voice held a rare intensity as she continued, her frustration bubbling over. "Don't you dare question my loyalty to my family and clan. They've given me everything, and I'll do whatever it takes to fulfill my responsibilities to them. It's not brainwashing; it's love and duty."

Gojo's arrogant demeanor wavered for a moment, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. It seemed her words had struck a chord with him, even if he didn't want to admit it. For a brief moment, the two of them stood there, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.

With a clenched jaw and tears of anger threatening to spill, Hanae took a deep breath, determined not to let Gojo's words provoke her further. She knew that lashing out wouldn't solve anything, and she had too much at stake to let this confrontation escalate.

"Gojo-san, I understand that you might not agree with our traditions and beliefs," Hanae began, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "But I want you to know that I take my responsibilities seriously. This marriage isn't just about me. It's about our families and the legacy they've entrusted us with."

"Look," Hanae continued, her tone more composed now. "I don't expect you to understand everything about me or my clan, just as I don't fully understand your world. But I hope that we can find a way to make the best of this situation, for both our sakes and our families'."

Hanae turned away, returning back to the house before she got into another argument with Gojo. The tension between them remained unresolved, hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge. Gojo watched her retreating figure with a mixture of frustration and curiosity. He had agreed to cooperate, but that didn't mean he had fully accepted the situation.

With a sigh, Gojo turned his gaze back to the cherry blossom tree, its delicate blooms swaying gently in the breeze. He couldn't deny that Hanae's determination had caught his attention, but the prospect of this arranged marriage still irked him.

"I won't let them control my fate," Gojo muttered to himself, clenching his fists. He had always been a free spirit, and the idea of being bound by tradition and prophecy grated against his very nature.

While walking inside the house, a loomed in Hanae’s head. Would they find a way to coexist or would they remain locked in a struggle against a destiny they had not chosen for themselves?

a/n: Phew, that was a long one! Let me know what you think about this series. Is it worth continuing?? As I mentioned in the a/n at the beginning, I'm already working on part 2, so that should be out soon.

Please, please interact with the story if you enjoyed it, It would mean the world to me. Thanks again! 🥰

66 notes · View notes

kaytrawrites · 3 months

Text

QSMP - Crowbeast

Summary in which qPhilza is not ok, and goes off the deep end.

Notes CW // multiple main character death (non permanent), violence against semi-humanoid creature This is also very long (9.7k+ words)

---

Chayanne was slain by Code Beast Tallulah was slain by Code Beast Chayanne was slain by Code Beast Tallulah was slain by Code Beast

The feeling of icy, cold hands gripped Phils heart. He froze, staring at the words displayed upon his communicator. “Chayanne!? Tallulah!?” he screamed. He bolted past Fit, who was also staring down at his communicator in silent shock.

Messages from the other Islanders flooded the communicator.

<Etoiles> WHERE <Etoiles> WHERE <Etoiles> WHERE <Etoiles> WHERE <BadBoyHalo> WHERE ARE THEY??? <Etoiles> I WILL KILL THAT SON OF A BITCH <Etoiles> I WILL KILL THAT SON OF A BITCH <Etoiles> I WILL KILL THAT SON OF A BITCH <Etoiles> WHERE <Etoiles> WHERE <Etoiles> WHERE <Tubbo_> IM COMING

Fit followed after Phil, who was racing down the halls of the dungeon, occasionally screaming his children’s names.

Then Phil stopped dead in his tracks.

And Fit saw what had stopped his friend.

Shattered eggshells were scattered around the area, slashes and splashes of red covered the floor and walls. The air smelt of rot, blood and s̷̳̓t̵͕̿a̸͚͒ț̷͆i̷̱͝c̵͖͌. And in the center-ish of the room was a glitchy black and green figure; hovering above Chyanne’s rubber floaty and Tallulah’s red beanie.

Phil was completely and utterly silent as he slipped his scythe off his back and into his hand. He shifted his weight and leapt toward the Code Beast that had killed his children.

Fit bit back a curse and grabbed his potato cannon from its holster and loaded it up with a golden apple. He carefully lined up the shot and fired. The power of the apple shot out and blended into Phil’s aura, providing an extra boost to the enraged man.

Fit reloaded his cannon, the crushed apple core dropping to the ground. He aimed and fired again and again, trying to keep his friend alive as the Code Beast laid into Phil as fiercely as the man did to it.

The Code Beast knocked Phil back, its claw catching on the strap of Phil’s backpack, ripping it off. Phil’s ruined wings flared out to help catch his balance. Fit fired two more golden apples at his friend in quick succession. Then swapped his cannon’s ammo to golden carrots. He fired several shots toward the Code Beast, forcing it away from his friend for a moment.

He grabbed one of his splash potions and threw it at his friend’s back. The potion bottle shattered, the elixir infusing Phil with a burst of instantaneous healing. Fit threw several more, taking advantage of the small moment he had bought by swapping his ammo. Phil took advantage of Fit’s support and lunged forward to slash the beast.

“I'm here! I'm here!” Etoiles cried out, sprinting past Fit, toward where Phil and the Code Beast were locked in combat.

Etoiles whipped his shield around and blocked a strike that would have dealt a horrid blow to Phil. “Strike, my bro!” Etoiles called out as he surged forward, knocking the Code Beast back.

Phil paused for half a breath, and leapt forward to land a strike upon the Code Beast. His scythe morphed, becoming an ax.

Tubbo bolted past Fit, his own scythe in his hand. He paused for a heartbeat, looking over the battle arena. He froze when he saw Tallulah’s hat and Chayanne’s duck floaty. Tubbo screamed and leapt at the beast, screaming curses that would burn Bad’s ears.

Fit swapped his cannon’s ammo back to golden apples, rapidly firing and reloading.

Under the near unrelenting attacks of Phil, Etoiles and Tubbo, the tides of the battle turned, and Code Beast fell.

Code Beast was slain by Ph1lza

Phil stood above the body of the beast, his ax slowly lowering, and wings limp.

“Phil?” Fit asked. Phil’s knees buckled, and Fit dashed forward and caught his friend.

His eyes were vacant, his gaze flat. Fit carefully lifted the smaller man in his arms. Phil did not resist.

Tubbo picked up Chayanne’s floaty and Tallulah’s hat, and silently followed Fit back toward the waystone.

Etoiles stayed for a little longer, glaring down at the body of the Code Beast. But he followed after Fit and Tubbo.

The waystone at spawn whooshed as the group arrived.

Bad jumped at the sound, Bad freezing in his pacing back and forth. “Hey-” The words Bad was about to say died as he took in their utter, defeated silence.

Tubbo shook his head and Bad’s eyes went wide. “Are they really gone?” He asked. Tubbo nodded, and sank to his knees where he stood. Sunny sat down next to her Pa, leaning against him.

“Fit?” Bad turned to Fit for confirmation. Fit nodded, walking past Bad toward the elevator up to Phil’s home.

Bad stood in silence as Fit and Etoiles walked away. Tubbo was utterly silent, his grip on Chayanne’s floaty and Tallulah’s hat tightening. Bad turned on his heel and walked away from spawn. He was barely 50 feet away before he let out an unholy scream, and began to sprint away.

Fit took the elevator up to Phil’s home atop the wall. He flicked open the trapdoor down into the Garden of Hope and Music, and carefully descended to the air locked doors, Etoiles closing them behind. Fit pushed open the doors, and carefully set Phil down on the bed.

“Want me to stay, man?” Fit asked quietly when the man stirred slightly.

“Just go…” Phil muttered. “Just go…”

Fit slowly nodded, and rested a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “I’ll be here to listen if you need me.”

Etoiles and Fit left the quiet space. The last sound they heard from their friend was a shuddering sob.

—

The next few days were notably absent of Phil’s presence. The other islanders had gotten used to him appearing sometimes, silent and silly, when the bakery quests refreshed for the day and Chayanne and Tallulah weren’t getting up for the day. But those who usually spotted him doing the quests couldn’t catch neither hide nor hair of the man.

On the fourth day Phil finally emerged from the basement. His clothing choices were notably darker. He was utterly silent, responding with only one or two words when Fit tried to talk to him. He quietly did the quests as usual. Tucking the cookies into his backpack as usual. Leaving extra items for the quests in the barrels as usual.

But he didn’t stay out and about for long, quickly returning to the basement.

Each day he emerged he looked worse than the last time, which Tubbo mentioned to him. Phil didn’t even refute it. The next morning he wore the plague doctor gas mask he had brought back from Purgatory.

It quickly became a rare sight to see Phil out and about without the gas mask.

Well, it also became a rare sight to Phil at all.

After he hadn’t been seen for an entire week, Fit and Tubbo went to search the basement for their friend. The space was utterly silent. Fit examined the space. It was tidy. Too tidy.

Then he found the letter. It contained only 4 lines, 9 words.

“I can’t bear it. I’m gone. Don’t look. Sorry.”

Fit and Tubbo tracked down Etoiles by N.I.N.H.O, just as the sun started to go down.

“We found this.” Fit explained, handing Etoiles the letter.

Etoiles read the letter, the parchment crumpling slightly in his grip. “That son of a bitch.” Etoiles muttered. He paced back and forth. “He hates to talk about what he’s going through. I am more than ready to help!”

Fit nodded along with Etoiles’ angry ranting.

“Even The Goat needs help!” Etoiles snapped. “And Phil helped when I needed help! That old man doesn’t know when to ask for help! And he is too good at hiding when he needs help…”

Fit nodded. “Yeah. Getting information about his mental health is like pulling teeth. I just barely got out of him that he was having hallucinations a while back.”

Etoiles stopped and snapped around to stare at Fit. “Explain.” Etoiles ground out.

Fit paused, then sighed. “Yeah. So, you remember when the eggs vanished before Purgatory; well, Phil disappeared for about a week or so during that time. At some point after he came back, he took me to a part of a forest and told me that was where he had been trapped.”

Etoiles frowned. “Are you absolutely sure that?”

“Phil would not lie about that.” Fit crossed his arms, letting out a huff. “As I said, getting information about his mental health is like pulling teeth. Healthy teeth. So if he admits that he’s having issues, you can Always. Trust. His. Word.” He growled, more angry with himself than with the French cucumber.

“And how do you know what he’s like?” Etoiles asked, cocking his head.

“I faced him in War.” Fit replied. “When you face The Angel of Death in war, you learn something about him. And yourself.”

He huffed. “Look. What’s important to know is that Phil is gone. He’s left no clues about where he is…” His head snapped around, locking on a shadowy figure that zipped out of the bakery and ran toward the spawn warpstone.

Tubbo bolted toward the warpstone just as the figure reached it and vanished.

“Fuck!” Tubbo cursed.

“What the fuck was that?” Fit asked. “It wasn’t a nightmare stalker.”

“What’s more important is that it can use waystones…” Tubbo muttered. “I’m gonna need to move mine and put them in a secure box.

“Fuck man!” Etoiles said. “Now that I know you are moving yours, I’m going to secure mine too.” He palmed his warp stone. “I will talk to you soon.”

Fit nodded. “Alright. I will keep everyone updated if anything turns up.” He palmed his warp stone, warping to his base.

He turned and looked up at the wall. An aura of subdued mourning hung over the entire structure. Even the glowing trees that Phil and his kids had planted along the top were dimmer.

“Fuck!” Fit cursed. He turned and laid a hand on the waystone. He teleported back to that dungeon. He had been back here twice in the past month since Chayanne and Tallulah’s final deaths. But both times he could not bring himself to enter the room.

He slowly walked down the halls of the dungeon; the only sounds he heard beyond his ever-present tinnitus, were his own footsteps.

All too quickly he stood outside the room where the battle had occurred. He stared through the doorway, gritting his teeth. This place hurt his old friend in the worst way possible. Fit took in a slow deep breath and reached into his pouch for some of the sticks of tnt he kept there. He had to destroy this place.

He took a step in, Then a second, Then a third.

He stood over the few remaining crushed shells of Chayanne and Tallulah and flicked open the lighter. He flicked the wheel, and brought the small flame to the fuse. “Sorry kids…” He mumbled.

“NO!” A young voice yelled out, and a relatively small frame slammed into Fit. “Tio Fit! No! No! No!”

Fit lifted the lit stick away from the small person, and looked down at the raven haired child, then up at the brunette that ran up after them.

The hair of both youths were unkempt, and they had what looked like very dirty bed linens wrapped around themselves.

Fit threw the single stick away from where he and the two young ones stood.

He dropped to one knee to better look at the one who had grabbed him, face to face.

The one who had grabbed him had dark hair, with small glints of golden strands that caught the torchlight. Their eyes were a bright blue. And most notable was the skull shaped mark on their face.

Now, Fit hadn’t interacted much with Missa to memorize his facial features, but he knew Phil’s face. And this raven haired child looked an incredible amount like Phil.

Fit glanced at the other child, and even though their eyes were blue-gray, their curly poof of brown hair was identical to Wilbur’s; except far longer. And although they were darker than Wilbur, they unmistakably inherited his features.

“Chayanne?” Fit said, hoping beyond all hope.

The black haired child- no. The black haired dragonling nodded rapidly.

Fit glanced at the other child. “Tallulah?” He asked.

The brunette dragonling frowned and silently mouthed what Fit had said for a second, then nodded.

Fit lifted his hands and slowly signed out ‘Tallulah, remember the first time we met? Found you in basement by me, your papi and Forever?’

Tallulah grimaced at the last name Fit said, but shook her head. “It was only you and papi who found me. I was in an attic. Not a basement.” She corrected, her tone of voice a bit off due to her current lack of hearing aids.

“And Chayanne, do you remember that first meal I gave you? It was hashbrowns, wasn’t it?” Fit asked, praying that Chayanne would remember.

Chayanne shook his head. “Big Breakfast.” He said, insistently.

Fit let out a breath. They probably are Chayanne and Tallulah, but something was different. “How are you two… human?” He asked.

Tallulah glanced at her brother, having not caught what Fit said. Chayanne frowned then lifted his hands, flipping them back and forth, palm then back of the hand, repeatedly. While the light in the room may be dim, it was bright enough to catch on the scales on his hands and arms. He reached up and squished down his hair, exposing a handful of small horns crowning his head. “Not human.” He said.

Fit blinked. “Yeah. Not human.” He said. “How are you two even alive?” He asked, enunciating as clearly as he could.

Tallulah pointed to the shattered egg shells on the floor. “Hatched.” She tapped her chest. “Rules for life are different now.”

“Died after hatching.” Chayanne nodded. “Didn’t feel in danger like when small.”

“So, now that you two have hatched, that means you’ll revive like me or any of the other islanders?” Fit asked.

Chayanne and Tallulah nodded.

Fit let out a breath. “Ok. Then let’s get you two back to spawn.” He stood and started to leave, but stopped when he felt his sleeve being grabbed.

“No xp.” Chayanne said.

“Oh! I’ll set up a sharestone and ask Bad to bring some solid experience so you two can get back.” Fit explained. Chayanne nodded, and reached behind himself to grab Tallulah’s hand.

Fit started walking toward the waystone and sent a message to BBH.

You whisper to BadBoyHalo: I’m setting up a red sharestone. Bring solid experience or experience bottles. You whisper to BadBoyHalo: They are alive. You whisper to BadBoyHalo: I found them. BadBoyHalo whispers to you: what? BadBoyHalo whispers to you: im coming

Fit set up the red sharestone and messaged Bad the name.

The far taller man appeared a few moments later, quickly followed by Dapper, “Fit, how did you run out of experience so quick-” His words died as he saw the pair that quickly ducked behind Fit. “Who shrunk Phil?” He asked.

“I’ll explain a bit more when we get Chayanne and Tallulah back to spawn and make sure their spawn points are there.” Fit insisted.

Dapper was staring up at Chayanne and Tallulah. And now that Fit could see an egg next to the pair, if one of them curled up real tight, they would be able to fit inside a space about as big as Dapper is. Would Ramon be like these two when he hatched?

Fit shook off the thought and turned his focus to BBH, who was staring down at Chayanne and Tallulah. “Bad. Focus.”

Bad nodded. “Yes. We need to get them back to spawn.” He handed Chayanne and Tallulah a few blocks of solid experience. “You two head there first. Fit and I will follow after.”

Chayanne nodded, and he squeezed the solid experience, absorbing it. Tallulah did so too and the pair rested their free hands on the sharestone, and vanished. Dapper followed a few moments later.

As soon as the pair vanished, Bad turned to Fit. “That’s them. Without a doubt.” He said.

Fit let out a breath. “Demon thing, I guess. Weight off my chest having that confirmation.” He walked past Bad, who seemed to be visibly shaken. “We need to get those two tidied up. And see if anything about Phil’s turned up.”

“Wait. Hold up.” Bad said, grabbing the back of Fit’s jacket. “Explain about Phil.”

Fit paused, “Phil’s gone awol. Tubbo and I found a letter in his base telling us to not look for him.” He shook his head. “Look. Let’s just focus on the kids.” He warped to spawn.

Tallulah and Chayanne were sitting in the entrance to the spawn waystone room, Dapper was standing just outside. Fit glanced up at the wall and frowned. “Let’s head over to NINHO and get you two cleaned up.”

Chayanne looked up. “Dad?” He asked.

Fit glanced at Bad, who smiled. “Fit will go get him. Let’s get you two cleaned up.”

Chayanne grabbed Tallulah’s hand and signed one-handed to her, repeating what Fit and Bad said. She nodded and stood to follow Chayanne and Bad.

Fit headed around the other way from NINHO toward the elevator up to Phil’s place. He grabbed his communicator and sent a message to Tubbo.

You whisper to Tubbo: Do you still have Tallulah’s hat and Chayanne’s floaty? You whisper to Tubbo: If you have them, take them to NINHO asap. Tubbo whispers to you: I have them. Tubbo whispers to you: Why do you need them? You whisper to Tubbo: I found Chayanne and Tallulah

Fit opted to ignore Tubbo’s spamming of his communicator as he descended into Phil’s basement. He grabbed Chayanne and Tallulah’s main backpacks from where they had been placed carefully on their beds. He paused beside Phil’s neatly made bed, then walked past and grabbed Phil’s extra bucket hat.

Fit left the bunker, a bundle of clean clothes from Phil’s closet in his arms, along with the kids’ backpacks. As he approached NINHO, he saw Sunny and Empanada perched on the edge of the garden bed outside with Tubbo.

“Hey, Tubbo.” Fit said. “I’m guessing one of Em’s moms is inside helping Bad?”

“Yes. Tina is.” Tubbo folded his arms. “I would have come with you to find them, you know.”

“I did not know they were there.” Fit crossed his arms.

Tubbo looked down at the red knit hat and yellow rubber floaty in his lap. “What happened?” He finally asked.

“I found Chayanne and Tallulah in the dungeon. They are different, but Bad’s confirmed that it’s them without a doubt.” Fit confirmed.

Tubbo looked up at NINHO, and nodded slowly. “Ok. I will trust you on this.”

Fit headed in, followed by Tubbo. They headed to the bathing area. A curtain had been set up around one of the baths, Bad was knelt down by one of the others. Fit set the bundle of clothes and the backpacks down. Bad glanced up and nodded, acknowledging Fit and Tubbo’s presence, then returned to helping Chayanne scrub off a month’s worth of dungeon grime.

Fit started sorting through the clothes he had grabbed, making sure every article of clothing was clean.

Bad and Chayanne finished first, and Bad brought the raven haired dragonling over to Fit and Tubbo, bundled in an oversized, fluffy towel. Now that Chay was all cleaned up, he looked even more like Phil. Bad looked over the selection of clothes then shrugged off his backpack to grab some things. “I prepared these ahead of time for Dapper. I can make more.” Bad set some articles of clothing beside the ones Fit had grabbed.

Fit nodded. He hadn’t seen any in Phil’s base. Granted he hadn’t been looking very hard.

Chayanne slowly dressed, choosing brown trousers and one of Phil’s open back undershirts. Bad had to help get Chayanne’s wings through the shirt, being the only other person present who had wings.

When Chayanne was dressed, Tallulah and Tina had finished. Tallulah was bundled in a similar towel, and with her hair washed, it was far easier to see her twin dark purple horns. With the dungeon grime gone, the scales on her hands and arms were a pretty purple-pink. Her steps were quite unsteady, clutching Tina’s hand for support.

“Men, turn around, or get out.” Tina said sharply. Fit and Tubbo immediately turned around, shuffling toward the entrance to the bathing area. Bad stayed behind to help get Tallulah dressed.

It didn’t take long for Tallulah to be dressed, at which point Fit and Tubbo were called back. “Gonna need new hearing aids for Tallulah.” Tina said.

“I thought so.” Fit nodded. “I’ll see if Ramon wants to work on it.”

Chayanne grabbed Phil’s spare bucket hat that Fit had brought. “Where’s dad?” He asked.

Fit glanced at Tubbo. “We don’t know, right now.” He started. Not a lie. “I think it would be best for you two to stay with someone until Phil gets back. Is that ok?”

Chayanne glanced at Tallulah who looked back. “That is a good idea.” Tallulah said, nodding.

“Ok.” Bad said cheerily. “Who would you like to stay with?” Bad asked the pair.

Chayanne thought for a moment, but Tallulah spoke before her brother could answer. “Godfather Tubbo.”

Tubbo nodded. “Ok.” He knelt down in front of Tallulah and held out her red beanie. She took it carefully, flipping it around in her hands. Tubbo had cleaned it well. She put it on, tucking it under the back curve of her horns.

Chayanne stared at his old duck floaty. “It’s not going to fit.” He said. He looked over the sweaters that Fit had grabbed from Phil’s wardrobe. He grabbed a gray one that had little duckies knit on it.

Bad helped him get the sweater on, guiding him on how to tuck his dark feathered wings in comfortably.

“Who shrunk Phil?” Were Tubbo’s first words to Chayanne when the dark haired dragonling finished dressing and had plopped Phil’s spare stripped bucket hat on his head.

Chayanne snorted. “Tio please…” He giggled.

“Are you two sure about staying with me?” Tubbo asked.

Chayanne grabbed Tallulah’s hand, and nodded. “You are our godfather. Dad trusts you to care for us.”

Tubbo nodded. “Ok. Sunny’s house has some empty rooms I can set you two up in.”

It was a slow walk over to Sunny’s house, since Tallulah was having difficulties walking without support. Tubbo insisted that he’ll make her forearm crutches so she didn’t have to wait on someone to help her. And to have something to smack people with, he had slyly whispered after making that promise.

Sunny tried her best to make the space welcoming for Chay and Lulah, but Tallulah wanted to go straight to bed. Chayanne stayed up for a little longer, but was sent to bed within the hour because he was dozing off on his feet.

Over the next week, Bad checked in on Chayanne and Tallulah pretty often. Tubbo put together forearm crutches for Tallulah within 48 hours and she gleefully sat down to decorate them almost immediately. It took an additional day for Tubbo and Ramon to put together new hearing aids for her.

All through the week, various islanders reported seeing the dark figure around the spawn and the bakery. When spotted, it either bolted toward the spawn waystone, or vanished in a puff of purple particles after a few seconds. Fit managed to snap a picture of it and posted the picture at spawn for everyone to see.

A full week after Chayanne and Tallulah were found and brought home, Chayanne cornered Fit and demanded to know where Phil was.

And that was a conversation Fit had to drag Tubbo into.

“We don’t know where Phil is.” Was the hardest sentence Fit ever had to say. And the looks Chayanne and Tallulah gave in response were even harder for him to bear.

Fit and Tubbo explained that Phil had vanished leaving only a letter maybe a week or so before Fit had found Chay and Lulah in that dungeon. Tubbo showed them the letter, and Tallulah’s crestfallen expression broke him.

She silently left the house, probably heading to her casita. Chayanne left too, probably to the bunker.

Fit quietly left for spawn to check on the cookie quests. As he arrived, he could hear Bad muttering minced oaths in the room under spawn. Since Phil’s absence, Bad had been much more present to work on getting mobs for the cookie quests.

The shadowy figure that the islanders had been seeing raced out of the bakery and toward the spawn waystone. Fit sighed, but froze in his steps at the small figure that dashed out of the bakery after it. “Leo!” Foolish cried out, racing after the two.

The shadowy figure disappeared into the spawn waystone room and the sound of the waystone activating echoed out.

The small pursuing figure emerged from the room. “¡Maldita sea! ¡Casi lo pillo esa vez!” They growled, their tail swishing back and forth. Fit’s translator helpfully supplied the translation: ‘Damnit! I almost caught it that time!’

Foolish stopped his pursuit and dropped a large hand on the little dragonette’s head. “Yeah. You’ll get it next time!” He declared proudly.

Leo shoved his hand off their head with a “¡Deja de tocarme el pelo!” to which Foolish only laughed. ‘Stop touching my hair!’

“Oi Foosh!” Fit called out.

“Hi Fit!” Foolish called, waving happily at him.

“I see Leo’s hatched too.” Fit commented.

Foolish grinned. “Yes sir! My Leo’s awesome looking!” He declared. Leo lifted their chin, a broad grin on their face, as sharp toothed as their papa. Leo turned in place so Fit could see.

Their hair was deep, shiny black making their trio of golden horns stand out. Their usual red cap was flipped around backward. Cheeks and arms were covered in shimmery purple scales, and the tip of their tail boasted a webbed fin. Someone, most likely Foolish, had braided their hair into a beautifully intricate multi-braid style with pretty golden and purple beads throughout.

Fit nodded. “You look good, Leo. Dangerous.”

Leo grinned. “¡Apuesta a que lo hago!” They declared, lifting their chin in pride. ‘You bet I do!’

The clack of rubber on cobbles drew Fit and Foolish’s attention. Tallulah and Chayanne had arrived. Seeing Chayanne and Leo in close proximity, Fit would hazard a guess that Leo was shorter than Chay. Which Leo seemed to have noticed as well by the fact they started trying to stand up taller, nearly standing on tiptoes.

“Hola tio Foolish.” Tallulah said, smiling slightly. Her eyes were a bit puffy, but she looked fine otherwise.

Foolish gasped happily. “Talulu!” He exclaimed, grinning. He opened his arms, requesting a hug, which Tallulah accepted by simply thumping into his torso.

“Why is everyone here?” Chayanne asked.

“Well, Leo and I were working on the cookie quests,” Foolish started. “But when we got here, that goddamn shadow monster was already inside. Leo tried to catch it but it ran off and took the waystone again.” Foolish pouted, rocking side to side a little, still hugging Tallulah.

“Shadow monster?” Chayanne asked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Not a nightmare stalker.” Fit added. “It hasn’t tried to attack yet. If spotted it just runs toward the waystone and disappears.”

“When did it start showing up?” Tallulah asked, having turned in Foolish’s gentle hug.

“Right around when Phil disappeared.” Fit said. “He… wasn’t doing good after he thought you guys died… He started wearing his Bolas mask more often and didn’t really want to talk much.”

Tallulah extracted herself from Foolish’s hug and pulled her teleport stone out of her pocket. She stared into it, sorting through the waystones she had saved. “Where did the Chunk Error Alley waystone go?” She said, aloud.

Chayanne frowned then pulled out his own teleport stone to flick through his saved waystones. “I recognize every waystone in my list. The Chunk Error Alley waystone is the only one missing… oh.” He looked up at his sister. “Remember what dad said when he showed us that place.”

Tallulah blinked. “¡Maldita sea!” She cursed.

“Language!” Bad called out from the room below spawn.

“Papa exiled himself to Chunk Error Alley.” Tallulah grumbled, shoving her teleport stone into her pocket.

“Chunk Error Alley?” Fit asked.

“A place dad found a ways-out that was really weird. Big tall cliff walls on either side of a valley. He said that if Lulah and I ended up dying at some point, he was gonna go there and just build.” Chayanne explained. “I already checked Rose’s Sanctuary, The Nest and both Uppies. Chunk Error Alley is probably the only place he could be now.”

Tallulah nodded. “That’s probably where he is.” She looked down at her arm crutches.

“I can go check.” Fit interjected. “What are the coords?”

Chayanne looked up at Fit. “No. I can go. He’s my dad.”

“And Phil’s my friend and I don’t want to let a kid go out on his own.” Fit countered. “Especially one of Phil’s kids.” Chayanne glared up at Fit. “I’ll place a sharestone when I get there and come back to bring you and Tallulah.” He offered.

Chayanne huffed but nodded. “Fine.”

Fit leaned back then pulled out his communicator. “I should see if Tubbo’s ok with Ramon staying with you guys for a couple days while I make my way there.”

Tallulah nodded. “He should be.”

“Yup. He is.” Fit confirmed when he got a response to his message to Tubbo almost instantly. “I’ll see if Ramon’s awake and let him know what’s going on.”

Fit palmed his teleport stone and vanished in a puff of particles.

Foolish rested a hand on Chayanne’s shoulder. “We’ll find your papa, I promise.”

Chayanne looked up at Foolish, and nodded. “I hope so…”

Across the server, Fit pushed open the secure door to Ramon’s little home. “Ramon? My beautiful baby boy~...” He froze as he saw what looked like Ramon’s shell shattered into two pieces on the floor by Ramon’s bed. “Ramon!?” He shouted, his heart dropping. He dropped to the floor beside the shells, and reached out, hesitant to touch.

“Ramon?” He whispered.

“Fit, shut up…” a young voice grumbled from the bed. Fit spun to look at the bed, where a groggy tanned dragonling was peeking out from under the covers. A pair of brassy horns peeked out of his dark, messy curls. Slightly off white scales were speckled across his cheeks like freckles, and his visible arm was completely white because of the scales. His face was notably more draconic looking than Chayanne and Tallulah, also having a set of asian dragon style whiskers.

“Ramon?” Fit asked, his voice soft.

“Yeah, I’m awake now, Fit…” Ramon yawned.

“You’ve hatched?” Fit asked, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“No duh, Fit…” Ramon shuffled the blanket around so he was able to sit up properly. He was wearing what looked like-

“Is that my shirt?” Fit asked.

Ramon crawled out of bed and yawned. “First thing I could find.” He said, rubbing his eyes.

Fit had to hurry to scrounge together clothes that fit Ramon while he explained what was going on. He let Ramon keep the shirt and found a pair of coveralls Fit had gotten from the federation that were too small for his larger frame. Ramon was pleased with them; and was perfectly happy staying with Tubbo and Sunny for a few days.

Ramon packed his tools while Fit packed for the long trip away from the settlement, and followed Fit to spawn where Tubbo was now waiting with Chay, Lulah and Sunny.

Sunny immediately ran up and hugged Ramon’s leg. Ramon gladly picked up his little sister, holding her gently.

“Alright. Chayanne. What are the coords for Chunk Error Alley?” Fit asked.

Chayanne relayed the coordinates and Fit added a waypoint on his map. He flicked through his other waypoints to see what waystones he had that would be close by to reduce the amount of time he would be traveling.

He found a couple. “Alright. I'm off. I’ve got a red sharestone. I’ll set it up when I get there and come back to gather everyone.”

Chayanne nodded. Tallulah grasped Fit’s hand. “Come back safe.” She whispered.

Fit nodded, then used his teleport stone to warp to the waystone closest to Chunk Error Alley.

It took a little under twenty-four hours to get there.

When Fit arrived, he paused atop one of the cliffs and looked down over the valley below. A road cut its way up the center of the valley, various houses were pressed against the walls of the valley, flanking the road. A number of hanging bridges spanned across the expanse.

Fit looked down across the valley, looking for any sign of life. His eyes were immediately drawn to the only being.

The shadowy beast that had been seen at spawn numerous times.

It was building a house.

Fit grimaced and backed away from the edge of the cliff. He set up the red sharestone in a little depression a little ways away, and warped to spawn.

Bad was just emerging from the room under spawn. “Fit! You’re back!” Bad chirped.

“Hey Badboy!” Fit replied. “I found Chunk Error Alley. But I also found that shadow beast we’ve been seeing here.”

Bad paused, his tail lashing back and forth. “I see.” Someone emerged from the room after Bad.

The woman was brunette, a bit on the shorter side. “I have the rest of the mobs in cages, Bad.” She started to say, then looked up and smiled at Fit.

Fit recognized the woman instantly. Granted, the last time he had seen her, she was over 90 feet tall. Phil’s amazing wife, Kristin. Also known as Lady Death.

“Hi Fit!” Kristin chirped cheerily.

“Kristin! Hello! When did you get here?” Fit asked. Shit must be going sideways for Kristin to be here.

“Late yesterday!” Kristin smiled. “I finally got vacation time, and Phil’s been telling me about the island, so here I am.”

“Oh.” Fit grimaced. “How much have you been told about what’s been happening lately?” He asked.

Kristin frowned. “Well, I know that Phil’s awol right now. I can vaguely sense where he is because he’s my Angel and that he’s alive.”

Fit let out a breath. “Well, that’s a relief to know Phil’s alive. Have you met the kids yet?”

Kristin nodded. “I have! I did some baking with Chayanne earlier, then helped Tallulah in the garden. Phil raises good kids.”

“Ok.” Fit glanced over to Bad. “Bad, call everyone you can to Phil’s garden. I’ve got news.”

It only took twenty five minutes for almost everyone to arrive. It took another thirteen for everyone to shut up so Fit could recount what he had seen. “So, the area has changed from how Chayanne and Tallulah,” Fit nodded to the pair of dragonlings sitting on either side of Kristin, “described the area. There’s now a road and buildings. And the shadow beast we’ve been seeing around spawn.” Fit finished.

Whispers and grumbles washed over the assembled group.

“I wasn’t able to see if Phil was there. But Chayanne and Tallulah want to go to look for themselves, so I think a guard would be a good idea to come with.” Fit continued. “Anyone want to volunteer?”

“If it’s for my bro or bro’s kids, I’m always happy to go!” Etoiles answered instantly.

Fit nodded. “Anyone else?”

Kristin and Bad raised their hands simultaneously. “Phil’s always been a help. Yeah, he’s emotionally constipated to the point he doesn’t admit when he’s having issues, but I want to help him.” Bad said.

“He’s my husband.” Kristin nodded.

Fit nodded. “Alright.”

Missa also raised his hand. “I’ll more than likely be useless, but I want to try to be of help.”

Cellbit, Baghera and Roier all raised their hands at the same time.

“He is Bolas.” Baghera said. “No Bolas left behind.”

“As Baghs said, Phil is Bolas. He is also a friend.” Cellbit nodded.

“I’m not letting Cellbit go without me.” Roier said. “And if it comes to a fight, I can take a few hits with my Mexican Lag.”

Fit chuckled and nodded. “Is that everyone?”

“I want to come.” Tubbo said. “Ramon can watch Sunny.”

Fit nodded. “Alright. Anyone else?”

Silence. After a few moments, Fit nodded. “Ok. So the raid party is: myself, Chayanne and Tallulah, Kristin, Bad, Cellbit and Roier, Missa, Etoiles, Baghera and Tubbo. Anyone else planning on coming with?”

No one said anything, so Fit nodded. “Very well. Everyone in the raid party, pack your bags tonight, and when the sun rises on the morrow, we will set out for Chunk Error Alley.”

The group dispersed, leaving Kristin, Missa, Chayanne and Tallulah alone at the top of the wall. Fit was the last to leave, offering a nod to Missa and Kristin.

Chayanne and Tallulah dragged Kristin and Missa down into the bunker. Chayanne shoved all the beds together into one large bed, and had to drag his papa back away from the trapdoor down to Tallulah’s greenhouse with a “Don’t you dare go back down there. This is YOUR home.”

That sleep was the best Chayanne and Tallulah had in quite a while.

In the morning, the raid party gathered at spawn. Backpacks were topped up with consumables, exp tanks were filled with experience, armor was double checked to ensure it was at its best.

The raid party silently used the red sharestone Fit had set up to Chunk Error Alley.

They approached the edge of the cliff and looked down over the valley below. A waystone was resting on a raised dais down below. Etoiles was the first who leapt off the cliff toward the waystone, his glider catching the air, allowing him to land safely.

He activated the waystone, and brought his shield up, looking around for any sign of the shadow beast. Nothing. Etoiles waved to the rest of the group, who also used their gliders to descend to the waystone.

“It’s changed…” Tallulah said. “The cliffs are softer.” Chayanne nodded in confirmation.

The cliffs rose high into the sky, casting parts of the valley into shadow. Slightly ruined houses and twisting trees lined the foot of the cliffs; bridges spanned the expanse overhead.

It was a beautiful sight. And almost utterly silent; except for the bird cries.

High overhead, birds flew and screamed. Crows. Thousands of crows.

A small flock landed on the roofs of the buildings flanking the road further down the valley. At first it was the one, soon joined by seven more. An additional two joined the resting flock. Then three more landed to silently stare at the raid party.

Fit felt a shiver go down his spine at seeing the thirteen gathered corvids.

The sound of their caws high overhead grew more and more fervent. Something was coming.

A large figure leapt down from the cliff, landing silently before the gathered beings. And the raid party saw the shadow beast clearly for the first time.

It was almost totally covered in feathers, vibrantly red eyes peered upon the group above a wickedly sharp beak. It was easily taller than Fit, probably somewhere around three, maybe three and a half meters tall. It was somewhat humanoid, with two legs and two arms, but it had an additional pair of limbs in the form of two massive feathered wings extending from its back.

Its eyes narrow as Chayanne steps forward, his scythe in hand. “Where the hell is my dad, monster!” The dark haired dragonling demanded.

Purple particles swirled around the Crowbeast, and a few moments later, it vanished. The particles trailed off further down the valley.

“Fuck!” Fit cursed. “Looks like we don’t have time to search the place for Phil. We might need to fight that thing.” Fit glanced at the avatar of the Goddess of Death. “Can you sense Phil in this area?”

Kristin nodded. “He is here. It’s very hard to pinpoint exactly where.”

Fit took the lead with Etoiles and Cellbit on either side. Following behind were Kristin and Baghera flanking Chayanne and Tallulah. Roier and Missa were behind them, with Bad and Tubbo covering the rear.

The group made their way down the road, keeping an eye out for the Crowbeast.

They had to pause a few times because despite the cobbled road being relatively flat, Tallulah was struggling. Tubbo ended up carrying the small dragoness.

All too quickly, they arrived at the far end of the valley and were faced with a courtyard. Where the Crowbeast was waiting.

Chayanne pushed past Fit, his scythe in hand. “I’m going to kill you…” Chayanne growled.

The Crowbeast’s eyes narrowed. ”Leave”. It growled. ”There is nothing for you, child”.

“SHUT UP!” Chayanne screamed. He leapt into the air, his feathered wings giving him extra lift. Chayanne landed the first strike.

He clung to the Crowbeast’s head, laying into it with his scythe. The other adults spread out around the courtyard, beginning their assault.

Fit loaded a gapple into his potato cannon, firing at Chayanne. Missa grabbed his throwing knives, each tipped in a different potion effect, and threw them into the Crowbeast’s hide.

Baghera revved her chainsaw and leapt at the beast with a scream. Cellbit followed after his blood-sibling, echoing her scream. Their madness fueled screams brought the Crowbeast’s attention to the pair.

Etoiles and Bad attacked from the far side, laying into the Crowbeast’s wings. Tubbo acted as support for the trio with his potato cannon, firing gapples, occasionally swapping to golden carrots to do chip damage to the Crowbeast.

Kristin took position beside the entrance to the courtyard, and fired volley after volley of tipped arrows at the beast. Tallulah released her battle beasts from their cages, trilling a tune on her flute, directing them to attack the Crowbeast.

Fit swapped between gapples and golden carrots. Aiming at his allies between the strikes to the Crowbeast.

The Crowbeast bucked, throwing Chyanne off after about 12 seconds, and the dragonling scrambled away from the beast and took up position beside Kristin to fire more tipped arrows at the beast.

Baghera and Cellbit laughed as they carved into the Crowbeast’s hide, tanking its focused strikes with the help of Fit’s gapple support.

Etoiles was bantering easily as he blocked the few heavy strikes from the Crowbeast that were aimed his way. “Oh! I almost felt that one! Come on! Come on! You can hit harder!” His taunting was helping Baghera and Cellbit immensely as it was drawing the Crowbeast’s agro away from the pair and toward the man with the near invincible shield.

Roier kept up a fast stream of Spanish with his strikes with his orcish sword. He caught a few stray wing blows from the beast, but his Mexican Lag massively reduced the power of the blows.

”Enough!”. The Crowbeast bellowed, and a surge of power pressed down on all gathered, knocking almost everyone off their feet. Only Etoiles and Kristin managed to keep their footing.

The Crowbeast seemed to grow an additional meter in height, a shadowy aura cloaking it. The wounds they had inflicted began to close.

Etoiles struck at the Crowbeast several times. Then pulled back with a french curse as the pressure abated and the Crowbeast swung a taloned hand at him. “It’s Withering!” He called out, falling back to where Kristin and the kids were. He grabbed the bottle of milk Tallulah tossed to him, knocking it back quickly.

The Frenchman dashed back into battle, swapping from his scythe to a multishot crossbow. He loaded it with fireworks and fired into the Crowbeast. The fireworks exploded into multicolored stars, the scent of burning feathers joining the smell of blood in the air. The Crowbeast reared back, its wings flaring, before it dashed at the Frenchman, swiping at his shield.

Baghera got a bit too close to the Crowbeast’s swipes at its agile opponents and was knocked across the courtyard into one of the buildings. “Baghera!” Cellbit screamed, laying into the Crowbeast, ignoring how its Withering aura destroyed his skin and its talons rent his flesh.

Fit cursed as he fired gapples at Cellbit, the instantaneous healing almost countering the heavy blows the Crowbeast landed, and the Regen slowing the harm of the Withering. Roier leapt upon the Crowbeast’s back, hacking away at the back of its head and wings, his Mexican Lag once more protecting him, this time from the Crowbeast’s Withering aura.

Tubbo worked to keep Roier’s health high, occasionally swapping targets to Etoiles or Bad. The latter of whom had stepped back and was now firing his own bow at the Crowbeast.

Missa muttered under his breath in Spanish as he clambered to his feet and hurriedly opened his backpack to craft more throwing knives. Fit paused his attacks to hand Missa a pack of poisons to apply to his knives.

Missa quickly finished crafting new knives and applied the poisons. He returned to throwing, going slower to try to reduce the amount of missed throws, aiming for the open wounds the close range fighters had opened. And the Crowbeast’s eyes.

Bad quickly disengaged to locate Baghera. She was hauled out of the house rubble, Bad dumping Instant Healing potions over her. She revved her chainsaw again, and leapt back into the battle, driving her chainsaw into its side, shredding flesh.

Bad followed after the golden duck woman, his own withering aura surrounding his scythe. He leapt into the air, slashing at the Crowbeast’s torso.

The Crowbeast snarled and reared back. It screamed, and its wings flared and pumped down powerfully, knocking Baghera, Cellbit, Roier, Bad and Etoiles away.

The wounds the group had just inflicted began to close again, but the Withering aura seemed to lessen.

Baghera, Cellbit, Roier and Etoiles raced back in, followed by Chayanne. Bad fell back, swapping to his multishot crossbow to shoot fireworks at the now raging Crowbeast.

It attacked indiscriminately, its regen higher than ever before. Any shallow cuts were almost instantly healed.

The islanders laid into the Crowbeast with even heavier strikes, trying to wear down its stamina and overwhelm its regeneration.

It was slow going, taking multiple minutes to draw close to the point of exhausting the Crowbeast.

Baghera and Cellbit wailed on the Crowbeast’s wings, bone crunching under Baghera’s chainsaw. Roier pummeled the back of the Crowbeast’s head, being grabbed at least twice and thrown across the courtyard.

Bad had swapped from dealing damage to focusing much more on supporting the fighters, racing around the courtyard, throwing Instant Healing potions and swapping totems whenever they popped.

Tubbo had swapped exclusively to using golden carrots, shooting burning rounds into the Crowbeast’s feathered hide.

It was beginning to slow, the Crowbeast’s attacks were growing weaker, and less frequent. That spurred the fighters into one last push, attacking with everything they could.

The Crowbeast’s limbs faltered and it dropped to the cobbled ground, heaving. Chayanne took a chance leapt into the air, his grapple squawk firing out and latching onto the Crowbeast’s head. He slammed into the Crowbeast’s skull, and swung his scythe to bury the blade into its eye.

The Crowbeast is bleeding. The Crowbeast was slain by Chayanne

A ragged cheer surged from the fighters, and Chayanne stood gasping before the Crowbeast. He raised his scythe. “Where is my dad?” He demands.

The Crowbeast says nothing, simply laying panting, slowly bleeding out.

“ANSWER ME!” Chayanne screamed. “I KNOW YOU CAN TALK! WHERE IS MY DAD!?” He sobbed, raising his scythe.

The Crowbeast slowly looked up at Chayanne, the red of its eyes slowly fading. It said nothing.

Chayanne brought the scythe down, tears streaming down his cheeks. His scythe landed the final blow upon the Crowbeast just as its eyes fully cleared, becoming a beautiful, piercing blue.

Ph1lza was slain by Chyanne [-]Ph1lza

The Crowbeast lay dead upon the ground, its hide shredded by the fighters.

Chayanne stood over the body, trembling. The death message displayed across everyone’s communicators sent an icy chill over every single person awake. Even those not present at the Crowbeast’s death.

Tallulah sagged against Kristin, trying to muffle her sobs.

Chayanne dropped to his knees, his scythe clanking against the cobbles.

Missa slowly approached his son, kneeling down beside the dragonling and the transformed form of the man who helped raise the kid. Chayanne collapsed against his pa, tears streaming down his cheeks.

It was a silent return to spawn. Even Kristin’s insistence that Phil’s soul was ok wasn’t a sufficient balm for the hurt everyone was feeling that day.

The feeling of losing one of their own bit deep into all.

Over the next few days, Chayanne, Tallulah, Missa and Kristin stayed with Tubbo; Chayanne and Tallulah refused to return to the bunker that Phil had built for them.

Tubbo and Sunny insisted that Chayanne and Tallulah get out of the house after their first day of holing themselves up in the room Tubbo had provided for the pair. Kristin accompanied them on the short walk.

When the trio approached spawn, Bad was climbing up the ladder from the room under spawn. Except he was a good meter and a half shorter than usual. He paused and stared at three. His clothes were different. Far more formal than usual.

“Chayanne. Tallulah. Miss Kristin.” He said, nodding. The voice was wrong. And going by the series of events that had been going on, this had to be…

“Dapper?” Bad called out from the room. “You still have the Love Potion.”

Dapper looked down then at the red bottle in his hand. A mischievous smile wrinkled his pitch black skin. “I don't have it dad. I tossed it to you before I went up. Is your magnet on?”

It was silent down below except for the rummaging sound of Bad looking through his numerous backpacks. Dapper grinned. “I love messing with dad.” He whispered.

“Dapper, I can’t find it.” Bad said, sounding frustrated.

“Oh! I found it in my back pocket.” Dapper grinned.

“Dapper!” Bad snapped, quickly climbing the ladder.

Dapper was a near clone of his father, pitch black skin, large demon wings, a pair of small curved horns at his hairline, and pure white eyes; the only differences being Dapper had white hair while Bad had dirty blonde. And Dapper had scales.

He looked to be only slightly taller than Tallulah. Only slightly. And he didn’t look at all mad about it. Yup. If you asked him, that’s what he would say. Not mad in the slightest…

“Oh! Hello Tallulah! Chayanne! Kristin!” Bad chirped happily.

“Hello Bad!” Kristin replied cheerfully. “How have you been?”

The two adults delved into small talk while Dapper, Chayanne and Tallulah shuffled off to the side. “How are you two holding up?” Dapper asked softly.

Chayanne shrugged.

“Really shit.” Tallulah said. “I- I just want my dad back.” She let herself drop to the ground to sit, her arm crutches splayed out to either side.

Chayanne sat beside his sister, and she leaned and rested her head on his shoulder. “I want him back too…” He mumbled.

Dapper stepped around behind his siblings and hugged them from behind, also wrapping his wings around them. “I’ll see if there’s anything in my grimoires about summoning souls of the departed. It’ll probably take me like a week.”

Chayanne nodded. “When you find something, come grab me and Tallulah.”

Tallulah and Chayanne eventually drifted back to Tubbo’s place with Kristin. Each morning Kristin took the two out on a walk, and each night after dinner, Tallulah and Chayanne went on a walk privately, just the two of them.

On the fourth day after the events at Chunk Error Alley, Kristin burst into Tallulah and Chayanne’s room. “Come come!” She chirped. “Spawn! Something has happened!” Chay and Lulah followed Kristin to spawn, where Fit and Etoiles were waiting.

“Hey Kristin!” Fit said upon seeing the trio arrive. “Can I ask what’s going on?”

Kristin waved everyone over to the waystone. “Come to Chunk Error Alley!” She insisted, warping away moments after the words left her mouth.

Etoiles frowned. “Well. Let’s go.” He said, shrugging. He quickly followed after Kristin.

Fit glanced at Tallulah and Chayanne who were both hesitating in the entrance to the waystone area. “If you don’t want to go, I can send Kristin a message.”

Tallulah inhaled and stepped up to the waystone. “I trust her. Papa spoke highly of her, so I’m going to trust that things will be ok.”

Chayanne nodded slowly. “What Lulah said.” He agreed.

The pair warped to Chunk Error Alley, Fit following close behind. Kristin was pacing back and forth, waiting for Chay, Lulah and Fit to arrive. She waved to them, indicating to follow.

The group of five walked down the road down Chunk Error Alley, crows cawing overhead, eventually they reached the courtyard where they had battled the Crowbeast. Where they had slain Philza.

His warped body was gone, the blood from the wounds the islanders inflicted having long dried. Dark feathers were scattered everywhere. The courtyard now felt so large.

Kristin stepped around behind Tallulah and Chayanne and pointed toward the center of the courtyard. “Look.” She said softly.

They looked. They saw. They ran. They grabbed the man who they treasured most in the world.

Phil dropped to his knees to clutch his children. “Chayanne? Tallulah?” He said, his voice soft as he leaned back to look upon the faces of the pair.

“It’s us, dad.” Chayanne said, grabbing onto Phil as tight as he could.

“Don’t you dare leave like that. Ever ever again.” Tallulah thumped Phil’s shoulder, squeezing him like he would vanish in a moment if she let go.

The soft rustle of feathers surrounded them as Phil’s dark feathered wings wrapped around them. “I swear. As long as you don’t die on me again. I’ll stay right here. As long as you need.”

Tallulah nodded against Phil’s shoulder. “I promise we aren’t going to die. Ever.”

Phil gently folded his wings and carefully stood, letting his beloved fledglings keep hold of him as best they could. He looked up at the three waiting and smiled. “Kristin…” He said softly.

Kristin walked up and intertwined her fingers with his. “I’m here Phil.”

Phil glanced at the two others. “Fit. Etoiles.” He smiled.

“Phil! My man. You’ve been through some shit.” Fit quipped. “Certainly came out the other side looking a bit better.”

Phil burst into laughter. “Fit, oh my god.”

Fit unlooped one of the thin lengths of leather he kept around his wrist. “You might want to tie up your hair, Phil. It’s a bit longer than before you turned into a big crow man thing.”

Which was the truth. Phil’s hair was noticeably longer than a month ago. Where before it just reached his shoulders, it now reached below the bottom of his shoulder blades.

Etoiles grinned at his friend who was wrapping the cord around his blond hair into a fluffy tail, then gasped. “Oh no!” He cried out in his joking tone. “The tropes! You have the anime mother ponytail!”

Phil paused then burst into laughter. “Nooo!” He cried dramatically, leaning back a little. “What will my family do? I will die offscreen for some mysterious reason and that’ll kick off the hero’s journey for my traumatized eldest child!”

Chayanne punched his dad’s shoulder. “Dad shut up!”

Tallulah had dramatically fallen over. “Noo!” She exclaimed in the same jokingly dramatic tone as Phil. “I shall be so devastated by my pa’s offscreen death that I shall give up all music until my brother completes season 3 of his hero’s journey at which point he will return home and suddenly I’ll be ok again!”

Fit laughed at the trio’s antics. Kristin giggled then leaned in to give Phil a quick kiss. “My adorable Tech Guy Weeb.” She said teasingly.

It was a quick journey back to spawn. Fit had brought some solid experience so Phil was able to warp back to spawn, startling Bad who was in the middle of sorting out stuff for the cookie quests.

“Oh my gosh!” Bad exclaimed. “Philza!?”

“Sup Bad!” Phil chirped.

“I'm so glad you’re back!” Bad said. Two small beings ran past him and right toward Phil. “Ah! Pomme! Richas!”

The two smaller eggs thumped into Phil’s legs, making little sounds. They placed signs simultaneously, Richarlyson finishing writing first. ‘PHIL WHERE DID YOU GO?? YOU MISSED SO MUCH!’ Pomme finished up quickly after with ‘everyone’s hatching left and right im so overwhelmed’

Phil laughed and carefully knelt down to hug the pair of rambunctious eggs. “Ye. I’m back. Glad you two are ok.” He looked up at Bad. “You alright mate?”

The tall demon’s shoulders slumped. “It was so busy when you were gone. I was staying up at all hours trying to track this shadow beast thing that kept showing up at spawn. AND TURNS OUT! It was a certain angsty crow.” Bad leveled Phil with a glare.

“Oh.” Phil grimaced, his wings flaring then folding tightly against his back. “Sorry bout that mate. Wasn’t in the right headspace.”

Bad sighed. “It’s fine, Philza. At least you’re back and can start to heal now.”

Phil nodded. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Fit went and raided the bunker for clothes while Kristin, Tallulah and Chayanne took Phil to Tubbo’s. Tubbo was ecstatic to see Phil alive.

Fit brought a bunch of clothes for Phil. He ended up going with his usual outfit, but since Chayanne was wearing his spare striped bucket hat, Phil borrowed one of Kristin’s wide brimmed hats.

In the following days, Chayanne and Tallulah refused to leave Phil’s side for very long. Although his appearance had barely changed, Phil seemed far older than he had ever been. And whenever Chayanne and Tallulah left him alone and returned, he seemed… off.

So they stayed with him. As much as possible.

And when they couldn’t, Kristin took over staying with her husband.

Phil was a broken man. The Crowbeast was evidence of that. But his family was bound and determined to fill those cracks with gold.

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