[he3ts]

❛ MASTERLIST ❜

i'm ruining my career ,, seized by a blind rage

𓆞 maria. 18. italian. kdrama lover.

wattpad. ao3. spotify

( SQUID GAME )

masterlist

( FRANKENSTEIN 2025 )

adam frankenstein

( STRANGERS FROM HELL )

masterlist

( CRIMINAL MINDS )

masterlist ( soon )

( RIVALS )

masterlist ( soon )

[levanswrites]

𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 2.5k summary: you don’t do dates. you do the backseat. you do frantic, messy sex on hideous shag carpet, killing time in a metal box while you both wait for the world to change, or maybe for it to just end. the rules of the crawl are simple. but whatever this thing with steve is? it's not even close. warnings: 18+ mdni, st5 spoilers, friends with benefits to ...?, piv sex, touch/affection-starved!steve, sex as coping, ‘no-strings’ relationship, fwb with rules, rough hate sex, van sex, no-kissing sex (?), light power play, dirty talk, teasing/taunting, end-of-the-world angst, lil bit of mean!steve but in a nuanced s5 way, oh look he’s love-starved in this one again a/n: ...fine. I caved. here’s angsty van-fucking w steve

Crawl nights always start out the same.

You, in the passenger seat, snapping gum between your teeth with your boots kicked up on the dash. Steve, slumped beside you, flipping through that same dog-eared copy of Cosmo he’s read so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep.  

Crawl #8.

Two hours, eleven minutes, and counting.

The walkie’s been quiet tonight. And god, do you hate it. Because nights like this have started to feel dangerous in a whole new way. Because silence leaves room for thought, and thinking opens up doors you can’t afford to walk through right now.   

The van’s parked beneath the treeline on Cornwallis, though it’s less than a pathetic excuse for a cover. The branches are stripped bare this time of year, skeletal limbs clawing at the sky, dripping silver in the cold moonlight.

There’s nothing to do here. Nothing to chew on except the same square of Wild Cherry Bubble Yum, sucking the sugar dry until the flavor’s gone and your jaw starts clicking louder than the aimless buzz of static.

It’s been months of this. Months of driving around in circles, chasing ghosts, getting nowhere. Months of Hopper’s vapid updates crackling through the radio while you and Steve rot in the van like two strangers locked in the same cage.

Except, you're not exactly strangers, are you? 

No. Not after hours spent side by side in the dark, listening for things that aren’t there, waiting, hoping, pretending that this isn’t the closest thing either of you has had to a date in months.  

But you don’t do dates.

You do the backseat.

You do frantic, messy sex on ugly shag carpet, killing time in a metal box while you both wait for the world to change, or maybe for it to just end already.

You fuck until it hurts, until your skin stings and your lungs burn, until the sound of your own blood is louder than the relentless beep-beep-beep-beep of the telemetry signal.

You fuck. You wait. Then you fuck again.

No restaurants, no movies. No roses or candles or foreplay.

None of that normal, mundane shit. Not anymore.

It’s just this. This van. This backseat. This hideous carpet and those cheap vinyl seats that squeak every time the car rocks.

This strange, suspended limbo where you touch each other like it doesn’t mean anything—just habit born of frustration and boredom—only it’s getting harder each time to keep pretending that’s true.

The windows are fogged up like hell tonight, late-December air leaking in through the busted seal on the back door. It nips at your skin, makes you squirm, sends a chill sharp enough to forget the gnawing emptiness that’s slowly eating you both alive.

Your foot’s wedged up against the ply lining, his jacket bunched beneath your head in a makeshift pillow. His skin glistens with sweat, slick to the touch; boy runs hotter than a furnace, even in the dead of a Midwestern winter. You feel his palms burn against the back of your thighs when he hoists up your legs, hooking them around his waist.

If you close your eyes, if you pretend hard enough, you can drown out the high-pitched beeps bleeding through the headphones beside you. Replace the crackle of static with the desperate slap of skin on skin, the creak of the van as it rocks and shudders with each snap of his hips.       

But it's his voice that shatters your focus, his chest heaving against yours while he pants close to your ear:

“You know we’re—we’re not supposed to be doing this, right?”  

No shit.

It’s kind of funny, actually. You almost laugh.

But the sound that comes out of your throat is less a laugh and more a strangled exhale, one that’s cut off and jagged because, well, it’s a little difficult to make noise when he’s fucking into you this fast, this hard, his weight pinning your ribs to the carpet with barely any room for air.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you manage, voice thick with breath and taunting mirth. Your words get punched out in uneven bursts that match the frantic pace of his hips. “Did you want to stop so you can ask for permission?”

You tip your head back, glancing pointedly at the walkie sitting on the dash, then turn back to him with a smile so saccharine it's nearly cruel. Lips pouty, brows scrunched in mock sympathy, it’s all, Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.   

It’s the same bullshit game. Every time.

You poke, you prod, you tease and you push, because he always has to push back. The suggestion that he can’t keep up, can’t fuck you good enough to hold your attention, that’s his hairpin trigger.

You feel it in the muscle running down his back, how it ripples under your fingers as his pace quickens, hips snapping harder.  

It used to fluster him. God, it used to make him sputter: pink cheeks, hand to the back of his neck, indignant little huffs and breathless excuses. Back then, a jab like that—must be losing your edge, huh, Harrington?—was enough to make him roll his eyes and pretend he didn’t care as much as he did.

But the end of the world has a way of sanding people down.

And Steve Harrington has been ground into something different.

Sharpened by way of dulling, it’s left him callous. Darkened his appetite where he once craved softness: vanilla sex, vanilla sweetness.

Now, he doesn’t flinch at sharp edges. Doesn’t crave the normal, mundane shit. Not like he used to.

“You’re really kind of—hah, fuck—insufferable, you know that?” He breathes, teeth dragging down the curve of your neck, lips sealing around your pulse point to suck. It’s not hard, doesn’t hurt, but it stings all the same when you realize he's keeping it gentle on purpose. Aiming for bruises soft enough to fade come morning. None of it ever meant to last.

“Insufferable, huh?” you murmur, laughter breathy and slurred as he grinds you down into the carpet. “Jeez, big word for a guy who—”

You don’t get to finish. Not when he shifts, driving up at an angle that has your back arching off the floor. The pressure makes you clench around him involuntarily, a sharp gasp torn from your throat.

“Who’s what?” He’s impossibly close now, nose to nose, every ragged breath he draws leaving you gasping for your own. His arms cage you in, sparing no room to squirm away as he quickens his pace. He’s zeroing in on one spot and one spot only, hitting deep enough to make your eyes sting, pressure winding tight in your stomach.    

“Finish it,” he murmurs, undercurrent of a command that has you clenching around him harder. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Say it then. Come on, baby.”

And it’s strange, isn’t it? This push-pull inside him. The way he taunts with a word so sweet and disarming as baby. The way he’s rubbing over your clit, caressing, really; two fingers, gentle circles and careful pressure. His other hand’s holding yours against the carpet, only he isn’t holding you down, no, he’s holding you in. Holding you close, holding onto you, fingers laced together, palm to palm.

And all the while, he’s got you pinned under his gaze. Staring down over the bridge of his nose, molten amber, sharp as broken glass, those eyes don’t miss a single thing. Sweat beads at his temples, hair falling into his eyes with every thrust as he tilts his head just so, predatory smile playing at his lips while he revels in the rapid flutter of your lashes, the way you struggle to return his gaze.

You squirm under the weight of it all, his attention, his intensity, the thick press of him nudging deep-deep-deeper inside.

"Yeah? Right there?"

He lets out a quiet sigh, almost a laugh, tongue lolling out to drag across his bottom lip. A flash of white teeth, a hairline fracture in flawless porcelain, it’s all mock sympathy; Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.  

“You close already? Gonna come for me?”

“Shut u—oh my—fuck!"  

The pleasure slams into you all at once, more pain than relief. You clench around him like a vice, pulsing helplessly, squeezing, whimpering, endless waves of blinding-white heat crashing through you. The force of it cuts deep crimson half-moons across his skin.

“Shit!” He comes not a second later, collapsing onto his elbows and burying his cry into your mouth.

You’re still trembling through the tail-end of your orgasm when he slants his lips, licking into you, tongue sliding over yours in a slow, insistent rhythm that steals what little breath you have left. You’re too wrecked to question it, too gone to do anything but part your lips for him, panting wildly into the heat of his mouth. The aftershocks are making your whole body jolt, stomach tensing each time he draws out slowly before sinking back in, fingers refusing to let up on your throbbing clit.

He doesn’t stop talking afterward, either. Never does.

Quiet praises muffled against your lips, words tumbling free like he can’t hold any of it in:

Yeah, there you go. Keep coming. Let me feel it. So pretty, you know that? All fucked-out on my cock.

The blood’s rushing so fast past your ears it’s hard to hear much of it at all.

And yet, in the deafening roar of your own pulse, his words feel more real than anything he’s admitted in the light of day. 

That's it. All mine, just like this.

...

The Wild Cherry bubble pops in the quiet of the van.

A tacky patch of it clings stubbornly to the corner of your mouth, and you chase it with your tongue just to have something to do.  

The van smells like warm vinyl and sweat. Crisp deodorant. Steve’s shampoo.

Heat still clings to your skin in places you don’t want to acknowledge. Your thighs tack slightly against the faux leather when you shift.

Another pop of the bubblegum punctuates the silence like a starting pistol, restlessness coiling in your stomach until it snaps into confession:

“I think we should establish some rules.”

Steve freezes mid-page flip. For a guy who acts like nothing rattles him anymore, he’s still a stickler for order. Rules are the anchor he clings to when everything else is falling to shit.

His eyes snap to you.

“Rules?” he repeats. “For what?”

As if he doesn’t know.

You don’t bother answering, just let your gaze drift to the back.

The place where you’ve been making all your worst decisions since Crawl #4.

The ridiculous, shag-carpeted shrine where your self-control goes to die on its knees. Where Steve Harrington’s mouth has done just about everything, including the thing Rule #3 is about to outlaw in permanent ink.

He follows your gaze, blinking once, twice. His jaw tightens so sharply you can hear his teeth click.

Looking back, that should’ve been your first warning.

But you, idiot that you are, reach into the glove box instead, pulling out the beat-up WSQK notepad with the frayed spiral and the coffee stain on the cover.

You start writing.

Rule #1: No talking about it outside the van. Rule #2: No touching once we’re done. Rule #3: No kissing. Rule #4: This e—

“—Woah, okay, hold on—give me that.” He snatches the notebook from you mid-scribble, lifting it up to read.

His eyes skim the list, and you watch his expression shift in real time.

Steve Harrington has never been good at hiding his face. It’s always been a little unfair to him, expressive in ways he’d probably kill to tone down. He tries to school it now, but you catch everything.

Confusion. Disbelief. Annoyance.  

“No talking… fine, whatever,” he mutters, eyes darting back and forth. “No touching once we’re—” He squints, incredulous. “No kissing?”

He looks up at you then, blinking like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“But... we did that already. Like, a lot.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah. That’s why we’re making this list now.”

Something in his expression pinches, subtle but sharp. “Right. Sure. I mean, yeah. Makes sense if you were... if you weren’t into it.”  

You shake your head, unconsciously mirroring the divot between his brows. “It’s not about that, Steve. I just… I don’t want this turning complicated, that’s all.”

He scoffs, quick and humorless. “Yeah, 'cause there’s nothing complicated about this, right? What, a whole legal contract just so we can... make out in a van?”

“Make out?” you echo, raising a brow.

He reddens. “You know what I mean.”

Wordlessly, you pry the notebook from his hands and finish writing the last rule.

Rule #4: This ends when the Crawls end.   

He falls silent. Stares at that line for a long time.

Long enough that you start to wonder if he’s about to laugh, or call this whole thing off, or just climb out of the van and never look back.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes aren’t the same. They’re muddled, knotted, dark with something you’ll never be able to put words to.

“The hell does that mean?” he asks quietly.  

“It means… when the Crawls are done, this stops.” you say, equally quiet.

He blinks, slow. Once at you. Once at the notebook.

His head drops again, nostrils flaring in a tiny, sharp breath.

The page crinkles under his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice low. “Okay. Rules. Sure.”

That should’ve quieted the ache inside you. It only stirs it up worse.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the page, jaw working quietly as he idly spins the plastic ring along the spine.

He draws in a breath.

“Except, just—” He falters, swallowing it back with a light shrug. “That third one seems kinda unrealistic, don’t you think?”

You tip your head, letting your voice lilt playfully. “Why, you don’t think you could do it?"

His eyes snap to yours, quick, sharp, the dim light doing nothing to soften the way he's glaring.

You hold his stare for all of one, two, three seconds before he huffs and looks away, eyes rolling to the ceiling.   

Without looking at you, he thrusts his hand out. “Gimme the pen.”

You place it in his palm.

Jaw tight, he bends over the page and scribbles something fast at the very bottom, the scratch of the pen hissing sharp.

You don’t see what he’s added until he tosses the notebook back into your lap.

And later—when the weight of your own choice collapses in on itself and you’re left trying to make sense of the pieces—you’ll remember the way his hand trembled.

You’ll remember the tight press of his lips. The quiet, swallowed words he never let out.

And you’ll realize this was the moment where things truly went wrong.

Two letters. Pressed so hard into the paper you can feel them from the other side.

S.H.  

[spider-stark]

FLICKER LIGHT

pairing | steve harrington x byers!reader

summary | steve gives you a ride to the hospital when your brother gets sick and finds out boogers are (basically) the reason you hate him so much

warnings | steve's pov, reader is jonathan & will's sister, reader hates steve, steve is in love with reader, bitchy!reader (cut 'em some slack, their brother is in the hospital you monster), tried to keep reader gender neutral but probably flubbed somewhere, steve's parents suck and his childhood is the reason why he likes people who emotionally torment him, they just be saying stuff?? dialogue goes wild, only lightly edited so, ur mom

word count | 4.8k

Your dirty Chucks tapped a worried beat against bleach-white linoleum.

Steve watched them bounce from where he sat in the chair next to yours. He had his arms folded over his stomach, leaning back in a way that he hoped made him look casual and not like the sleazy douchebag you always remembered him as.

This sucked. Life sucked.

Aside from you, him, and the night nurse tucked behind the registration desk, the hospital waiting room was a total wasteland. Steve hadn't known it was possible for Hawkins to have so few emergencies. And, terrible as he knew it was, he actually wished there were a few more right about now.

He needed noise. Something to distract him from your erratic footfalls and the dull hum coming from the TV hanging in the corner, playing outdated commercials on a loop.

Reach out and touch someone, coaxed the pretty housewife in an AT&T ad.

Steve curled his fingers into the sides of his shirt, nails scraping over his ribs. Can't you see that's what I'm trying not to do? he wanted to ask her.

He wanted to reach out.

He wanted to lay a hand on your arm. Give you his sweetest smile. Promise that everything would be okay.

It didn't matter that he didn't know that for a fact. That his medical license was nonexistent and his track record as a successful psychic was, well, also nonexistent. He would promise anyways. And if things turned out to be not okay, he would find a way to make them okay.

But Steve liked having fingers. And touching you without permission was a surefire way to lose a few.

So he kept his arms folded over his stomach. Watched your shoes bounce, ignored the housewife's bad advice, and slipped into the molasses-thick torment of his own never-ending thoughts.

How well do you have to know someone before you can offer comfort that helps instead of hurts? Steve would've guessed Vaguely-Acquainted-via-Small-town-Lifestyle-and-Shared-Trauma-at-the-Hands-of-Freaky-Nightmare-Creatures would've been well enough, but had no doubt you would disagree.

He stole a glance at you from the corner of his eye.

God...was it weird to think you looked beautiful like this? Legs bouncing, gnawing on your thumbnail? Glaring holes through the double-doors labeled Authorized Personnel Only like they'd just smashed your brother's camera, and you were definitely about to kick their ass for it.

Steve was familiar with that glare.

Steve dreamed about that glare.

That was the moment he'd started trickling into love with you, he was pretty sure. When you found him two days after the camera incident, caught the front of his polo in your fist and pulled him so close that the tips of your noses nearly brushed. His face was already bruised from Jonathan's right hook, and with the way you were growling at him, he should've been worried that Little Byers had come to make the damage permanent.

But he hadn't been worried.

He had been too focused on the cute way your upper lip curled with every threat. How every hue in your eyes swirled together to make his new favorite color.

And when you walked away, he knew — knew — that from that moment on, he would do anything to stay the subject of your attention.

Steve frowned at the double-doors. Was it weird to feel jealous of a couple of hunks of wood and steel?

Uh, yeah, he answered himself. Totally insane, actually.

Before he could try to shake any further sense into himself, you slammed your Chucks down on the linoleum hard enough to make him flinch. To no in particular, you shouted, "Holy shit — is everyone here just fucking terrible at their jobs or does it actually take two-fucking-hours to figure out if someone's dying?"

Steve fought the urge to smile at you. Mouth like a sailor and a heart like a man-eating mermaid. You were the whole package, really.

Unfortunately the night nurse didn't seem to agree. She paused mid-crossword puzzle to shoot you a sharp look through her colorful, thick rimmed glasses before slamming the frosted divider shut.

In his head, Steve could hear the gritty voice of his old basketball coach during a bad fourth quarter. You're up, Harrington! Blow it and this whole team goes to hell.

Double unfortunate, since Steve had a bad habit of blowing things when it came to you.

"Hey..." His voice was practically a whisper, his hands pinned firmly against his ribs as he watched you for any sign of reaction. "No one's dying, okay? Will's a strong kid. He's gonna be just fine."

Your head snapped his way. The look on your face was terrifying enough to make the demogorgon blush.

"Oh yeah? And when did you earn your doctorate, princess? Before or after finishing high school with a negative GPA?"

Youch.

He took a long, steadying breath. This was fine. You had a right to be upset right now, and Steve had experience dealing with childish outbursts.

"Kids get sick," he told you calmly. "It's probably the flu! Dustin had it a few weeks ago. Maybe Will picked it up from—"

"Did Dustin sweat literal buckets, all but vomit up his own intestines, and then pass out on your bedroom floor?"

"Well, no, but—"

You cut him off with a razor-thin smile. "Then shut up."

You slumped back into your seat. The double-doors won your attention back and your dirty Chucks resumed their worried beat.

Steve felt like an idiot. Good news was that if he was an idiot, then Dustin was, too.

This whole thing had been the kid's idea anyhow.

"She's terrified!" Dustin cried when Steve answered his call, so loud he winced and pulled the phone back from his ear. "Apparently she already checked the Wheelers' and Jonathan's not there, and their mom's working another late shift and you already know that Melvald's phone doesn't work for shit."

Steve hadn't known that, actually, but he did interrupt with a stern Language, Henderson! that Dustin decidedly ignored.

"She wanted to see if I could get Mom to take 'em, which honestly speaks v o l u m e s about how terrified she is, because I've always thought she kinda hated my mom for all those comments about the holes in her jeans, which like, fair, ya know? Anyways, she wanted Mom to come get them, but I told her that wouldn't work because its already past eight, so you know Mom's already down at the library with her fellow knitters." Steve didn't like what it said about his social life that he did know that much. "I told her I could try calling, but that the odds of any of those old bats hearing the phone were pretty much slim to—"

"Dustin."

"Hm?"

"Not that this isn't riveting stuff, buddy, but maybe you should take us back a few steps and tell me what's got her terrified?"

The past few years had prepared Steve for something World Ending Awful. Who was dying? How many of the kids were involved? Did he have time to get his bat? Had demodogs somehow infected all of Hawkins with demorabies or something?

So, when Dustin had simply replied with "Will's sick," Steve had been a little shocked.

Not so shocked that he didn't immediately reach for his keys, though.

"Now's your chance!" Dustin cried before Steve hung up. "Saddle up, cowboy! Show her your good side! Make her love you!"

Steve hadn't bothered reminding him that all his sides were good. Maybe because he didn't believe it. Maybe because he knew you wouldn't, either.

At the risk of getting his head bitten off, Steve sighed and sat up straight. "Hungry?" he asked you.

"Nope."

"Thirsty?"

"Nope."

"How about—"

Your Chucks stopped bouncing. "You were on the swim team, right?"

Steve hesitated. This was a good sign, right? Changing topics, showing interest in him?

"Uh, yeah. I was, actually."

You nodded your head real slow. "Makes sense."

"What does?"

You gave him another smile, sickly sweet, yet sharp enough to cut straight through his chest. "Why you ask such stupid questions," you told him. "All that time spent holding your breath must've fucked with your brain."

Double youch.

Forget feeling like an idiot. Steve felt like a kid again, ashamed and embarrassed, learning to forge his parents' signatures so they wouldn't see his report cards or discipline letters and wonder why their little boy was so damned bad at everything.

Not that his parents would've ever been home long enough to sign anything for him anyway.

Nor would they have ever called him their little boy.

Steve pushed to his feet. Refused to look anywhere but at you, equally entranced and terror-stricken by that glare he never stopped dreaming about. Push me all you want, he wanted to tell you, but you'll never push me away.

Steve didn't know why you still hated him. But he knew what it was like to be too afraid to let people close to you — and how disappointing it was when no one cared to put in the effort to try.

"Come on," he said.

You gave him a look. "If you think I'm leaving Will, you're out of your goddamn—"

"We're not leaving." He wasn't as close to Will as he was the other kids, but he'd never leave any of them anywhere. "But we are going to the cafeteria. So come on, get up and get moving, tiger." When you still didn't move, staring at him like he just suggested going out back to swallow a family of porcupines, he added, "Now."

You stood up. No protests, no Fuck you, princess.

Steve hoped he did a good job masking his shock.

"Do you even know where the cafeteria is?"

Nope.

But that hadn't stopped Steve from leading the way, letting his (yep, very much so nonexistent) psychic intuition guide the two of you down several empty white halls, silently hoping to come across a directory.

"It's gotta be around here somewhere," he said. Because yeah, it did have to be somewhere.

You clicked your tongue. "Astute observation, genius."

Steve sighed and kept walking. He didn't know what else to do.

You were several feet behind him, and had been since leaving the waiting room. At first Steve had thought that maybe he'd been walking too fast; Dustin often told him as much, though rather than fall behind like you were, the little asshole would usually just shout out: Hey fartwaffle! My legs are shorter than yours, remember?

A growing knot in his stomach had told Steve that any insult you came up with would've been far less loving than Fartwaffle.

So, in an effort to avoid the much unwanted sequel to Oxygen Deprivation is the Reason for Your Obvious Faults, he'd slowed down so you could catch up.

You'd started walking slower, instead.

Following him around a corner into yet another long, white, empty hallway, you asked him, "Are you even hungry?"

"Starved," he lied.

When Dustin had called saying you and Will needed a ride to the hospital, Steve had actually just finished dinner. A TV dinner on a TV tray, pulled right on up to — you'll never guess it — the TV.

The American dream, he thought miserably, cold mush and bad sitcoms.

For a good minute, there was only the scuff of your shoes dragging over linoleum. Steve imagined you were glaring at the back of his head — maybe thinking about how good his hair looked, but probably not — flipping through potential insults to use against him like they were options in a jukebox.

He was starting to look forward to hearing what you'd pick. Would it be an attack on his brains or his personality? Definitely not his looks. If he was lucky, you might even pick something that would piss you off enough to grab him by the shirt again. He wouldn't mind having you touch him.

In his head, he could hear Dustin making a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. You need therapy, dude.

But when you finally spoke, it was with nothing more than casual curiosity. "Is the cafeteria even open this late?"

Huh. He hadn't considered that.

"I don't know," he admitted. Then, spinning around to face you, walking backwards with a charming smile on his face: "But hey, bright side! Even if it's not, vending machines are always 24/7, right?"

You didn't look impressed by his optimism. Or his ability to walk backwards without stumbling.

"You do know we've passed about a dozen of those already. Right?"

You were mocking him. And grossly exaggerating the number of vending machines you'd passed.

Steve decided to let both things slide. "None of 'em what I wanted."

You snorted at him. "And what's the princess in the mood for?" you taunted. "A five-star meal and a bottle of chardonnay?"

His smile faltered first. Then he turned around, kept walking, walking, determined not to bite. They just have to get it out of their system, he told himself. It's not about me. They're just worried about Will, and I'm as good a target as any. Except maybe it was about him, at least a little bit. Not just any target, their favorite target...

You kept going. "What, is chardonnay not good enough for you? Too lowbrow?"

He kept walking.

"How about champagne?"

He kept walking.

"Or is that even lower brow?"

He kept walking.

"Maybe you should just ditch Will and I."

He stopped walking.

"Find some place nice," you drawled, "tell 'em to whip you up something fancy, like a Negroni with orange peels imported from—"

He turned to face you. And his expression must've been serious enough, because it got you to stop talking. "I don't drink," he said, a tinge of annoyance slipping through; he hadn't had a drop since babysitting had become more important (and fulfilling) than partying every weekend. "And unless you consider a nuked Swanson meal to be five-stars, the 'princess' isn't eating any better than the peasants, alright?"

"Are you calling me a peasant?"

"No!" But he'd certainly stepped right into that one, hadn't he? "No, because in this scenario—" he motioned a bit too wildly between the two of you, frustration trumping sanity "—you would be the evil witch who lives in the woods and makes stew out of innocent children, convincing alllllll the townsfolk that every nice guy is secretly out for their turnips or something!"

Your brows pinched together. "Wait, what? Why turnips? An why am I making stew? Why not pie, or casserole, or—"

"Because no one likes casserole!"

"I like casserole!"

Steve threw his hands up, laughing, like that was his last straw. "Of course you like casserole. Of course!"

You drew a breath through your nostrils. "Fine," you said, clearly offended. "I'll make pie, then."

"Fine! You're an evil witch who makes pie out of innocent children and I — without any ulterior turnip motives! — wander through the woods with Chef Swanson wondering what in the ever-loving hell I'm supposed to do to make the witch forgive me for—" what, exactly?

He'd already apologized to Jonathan for the camera incident. Had even bought him a new one to smooth things over!

But there was something else. There had to be! Something he'd done that had made you hate him so much that nothing, absolutely nothing he did could ever make you feel anything for him but pure vitriolic loathing.

You were going to hit him.

He was sure of it — more sure than he'd ever been of anything. Your pretty hands were already curled into fists at your sides. And honestly? Fair. Steve was man enough to admit he'd maybe lost his cool a little, calling you a child-eating witch or whatever. If Dustin were here, he'd probably tell him he'd graduated from Fartwaffle to Diarrheamuffin in a second flat — and Steve would have to agree.

So he closed his eyes. Waited, and hoped you hadn't inherited your brother's nasty right hook.

But the hit never came.

He only heard you sigh. "You're such an idiot, Steve Harrington."

The words played on a loop in his head. Not the idiot part, surprisingly, but his name. Steve Harrington. He was pretty sure this was the first time you had ever said his name. And he was absolutely positive that he would remember for the rest of forever how your voice had curled around every consonant, making every letter sound prettier than it was.

He peeked an eye open to find you wearing an expression he couldn't read. "Uh, yeah," he said. "You may've mentioned that before."

Your snort came dangerously close to a laugh. "Clearly not enough." Placing a hand on your hip, you asked him, "Do you really not remember?"

Steve tried to think.

But all he ended up thinking of was those scammy game shows Dustin's mom liked, where whenever a contestant got an answer wrong they'd sound off that huge, embarrassing buzzer.

If the two of you were in some brightly colored studio instead of a dim hospital hallway, Steve was sure the look you were giving him —annoyed, vaguely pitying — would've definitely been the sound guy's cue to hit the buzzer.

You sighed and shook your head. "Forget about it," you said. "Let's just find the—"

"I'm sorry."

Did those words mean anything on their own? Steve didn't think so. They were empty until you gave them meaning, and he had full intent to give them meaning, but his mind was moving so fast and words started spewing up his throat like holding onto them for even another second would kill him.

"For everything, alright? All the stuff with your brother and his camera and—I don't hate Jonathan! And him and Nance are great together, alright, so there's no bad blood or ill will or anything, okay? I'm even sorry for hating on casserole! And for calling you a witch, because you're not a witch, and even if you were you'd probably be some really pretty witch who makes all the other witches wish they could do something about the boils on their noses, alright? So just..." He dragged a hand through his hair, catching a breath. "I'm sorry. Really sorry."

In his head, Dustin's groan of Oh, brother! overlapped with Robin's hiss of Stop talking, dingus! And Steve was sure they were right. He'd blown this, just like he'd blown everything else with you.

But then it happened.

One corner of your mouth curved upwards. Not much. Not enough to count as a real smile, but...close.

And Steve knew. Knew that he would keep talking for the rest of his life, say all the dumbest stuff he could come up with, if it meant you'd keep almost-smiling at him.

He took a half step closer to you.

You didn't back away.

"Tell me," he promised, "and I'll say I'm sorry as many times as you need me to."

Every hour, every minute, every second. He'd apologize until his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat ached around every syllable. And when his failed, he'd write it out over and over and over again in his best handwriting.

Because you deserved that much.

Because even if you didn't, he would've still wanted to do it for you.

Because he admired you, dammit. How you would do anything to keep Jonathan from being the butt of a joke. How you were always there for Nance and Robin and all your other friends. How you had taken all this Upside Down bullshit on the chin, constantly swallowing fear by the mouthful to keep Will safe.

He even admired how you hated him. Because at least you were consistent.

Steve liked consistency.

You drew a long breath through your nostrils. Wrapped your arms tight around your middle and stared down at your Chucks in a rare display of uncertainty.

Steve prepared himself for the truth. To learn whatever egregious, unforgivable sin he had committed against you.

"It happened in first grade."

Oh, sweet mother of—

"Seriously?" Steve was trying not to laugh. But to find out that mean Little Byers had been nursing a grudge against him since the days of Froot Loops and sappy cups? Oh, that was just too rich. Double chocolate cake with extra icing type rich!

"So you hate me," he clarified, "because of something I did when I was, what, seven?"

"It was a bad thing!" you cried, cheeks already turning red.

He nodded thoughtfully. "For sure, for sure; cause everyone knows seven year olds are evil little devils known for committing emotional warcrimes with crayons and fart jokes."

You scoffed at him. "You know what, if you're just gonna be a dick about it—" you went to turn around.

Steve caught you by the elbow, sputtering, Waitwaitwait!

"No more jokes." He lifted his free hand in a solemn three-finger vow. "Scouts honor."

"Were you even in the Boy Scouts?"

No. "Maybe."

You rolled your eyes at him. "You're lying."

He couldn't help but smile. He loved that you could tell.

"C'mon." He gave your elbow a light squeeze, surprised when you didn't immediately yank it away from him. "Tell me about first grade."

You did.

It had been the year of the Lovebug Boogie Bash. The two of you'd had different teachers, and yours had decided to make her whole class cut out heart-shaped cards from pink construction paper, write their very original poem inside, and give it to whoever they wanted to ask to be their date.

"Worst part," you told him, "is that I was actually sort of excited about it. I spent all morning on that stupid card, and I even liked the stupid poem I wrote."

Steve didn't like how sad you sounded.

He didn't like that even though he had no memory of it, he already knew who you'd asked to the Lovebug Boogie Bash.

You gave him a thin smile. "I gave you the card at lunch. You read it, then got up on the table and recited my poem for the whole school. Apparently you ripped it in half after that, but I don't know if that's true; Jonathan pulled me out into the hall before you'd even finished reading, so."

Shit.

Steve didn't know how long he stood there. Mouth open, still holding your elbow, trying to think of something, anything, to say.

"I—"

"Ms. Byers!"

The air shifted, the hallway suddenly far less intimate as a doctor rounded the corner behind you. You spun to face him. When you didn't immediately bombard the guy with questions about Will, Steve wondered if you were also hung up on how much the guy looked like Orville Redenbacher.

"Good news," announced Dr. Movie Theater Butter. "Your brother is awake and keeping fluids down."

You visibly sagged with relief. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"A simple flu," he answered kindly.

Since you weren't facing him anymore, Steve didn't bother hiding his I told you so grin.

Redenbacher went on, "Now, to err on the side of caution, I would like to give him another IV to stave the effects of dehydration. But afterwards he'll be all ready to go home, so if you would like to head back to the waiting area to get started on his discharge paper—"

"Can I see him?" you asked.

Dr. Movie Theater Butter gave no objections. Having offered to show the two of you to Will's room, Steve followed at a distance until he spotted a directory on the wall, where he then quietly slipped away to find his way back to the waiting room.

Those discharge papers weren't going to fill themselves out.

Will was asleep within seconds of Steve helping him from the wheelchair into the back of his BMW.

You were worried about how exhausted he was, but Dr. Movie Theater Butter had assured you this was normal for the flu. At that, Steve had wanted to tell him about the anomaly that was Dustin Henderson, who — when sick with the same strain, more than likely — had seemed even more hyper than usual.

He relented only because Will was already dozing off, and you were giving him that pursed-lip smile that said Go on, princess, brag on Dustin like you're his little soccer mom.

Steve closed the car door as gently as he could.

When he turned around, he found you looking down at your dirty Chucks, toeing a loose chunk of asphalt.

Moonlight shined over your face. A soft breeze rustled your hair.

It wasn't weird to think you looked beautiful like this.

Steve thought you looked beautiful all the time.

Eventually you muttered, "Thanks."

"For?"

You opened your mouth, then paused, as if a thousand words had rushed to the tip of your tongue and you had no clue how to actually say any of them.

"Everything," you decided. And everything was more than enough.

But Steve decided to feign consideration anyway. "I don't know." He clicked his tongue. "I don't think that's good enough."

Your head shot up, brow furrowed.

He explained, "I'm mad at you. See, you—" he pointed "—had access to all sorts of goodies to prep for the Lovebug Booger Bash—"

"Boogie."

"—but I," he touched a hand to his chest, "was extremely limited. So basically what I'm saying is that if this sucks, blame Tonya, okay?"

Steve wasn't sure he'd ever seen you look so confused. It was cute, though no more than your usual man-eating grimace. "Who the hell is Tonya?" you asked.

"Mean night nurse whose crossword you interrupted. Once I finished Will's discharge papers, I had to ask her for a piece of copy paper. And scissors. And a pen. And a dictionary so I could try to find something that rhymed with 'rose,' but..." He pulled the paper from his back pocket. "Dictionary was a no-go," he warned you, "so have a little grace, yeah?"

It was, unarguably, a very bad card.

The scissors Tonya had given him were so dull that cutting felt like a job for He-Man, making it look less like a heart and more like a brand-new shape no one had ever heard of before. He'd drawn more hearts on the front to try zhuzh it up, and stars that, no matter how hard he tried, kept coming out sort of wonky. It probably didn't help that it was littered with chicken-scrawl patient notes from Tonya — a HIPAA violation, probably.

But on the front in his very best handwriting, he'd written: Picked your nose in the last ten years?

You took the card.

Opened it.

Read it.

Steve tried ignoring the sound of his own heart racing. Tried to wait for you to collect your thoughts, to be the first to speak, to decide on your own how this interaction ought to go.

He failed miserably.

"I know we never found the cafeteria, but if you want me to lift you up on top of the car, you could—"

You started reciting the poem he'd written on the inside. "Roses are red, violets are blue. I know I'm a decade late, but I'd like to pick your boogers too." Your eyes lifted to his, totally unreadable.

Steve chucked while rubbing the back of neck. "Ol' Willy Shakes would probably kill for lines like mine."

"Shakespeare's rolling his grave." You held the card up. "This is awful. Like, finding out Leia is Luke's sister type awful!"

"Who?"

"Return of the Jedi?"

"Return of the Whosawhatsit?

You looked more aghast at that than the card. "You've never seen Star Wars?"

Of course he had; one didn't graduate from the Dustin Henderson School of Babysitting without a minor in George Lucas. But it was more fun to get under your skin, so he shrugged instead of saying that.

You shook your head, reeling, before discarding that argument for another. "And what's with the booger talk? You do know there's a difference between boogie and booger, don't you?"

"Pretty sure they're synonymous."

"No they're not."

He stepped closer, playfully bumping your arm with the back of his hand. "Remember when I asked for grace?"

"Remember when you humiliated me before the Lovebug Boogie Bash?"

"Nope, but the Booger Bash rings a few bells."

You laughed, and Steve wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or having the best night of his entire life. "There's no hope for you," you said, "is there, Harrington?"

He felt his cheeks getting warm. "Probably not," he admitted.

Your fingers absently traced over the card's jagged edges. Steve studied every inch of your face. Admiring it, searching it, wondering what clues Nance looked for to be able to read Jonathan so well.

Did you forgive him? Had he at least a taken a step in the right direction?

You pressed the card against your chest, then glanced through the back window at Will's sleeping form. "We should get going," you said softly.

Steve nodded and opened the car door for you. Forgiveness could wait another night.

He'd wait a million if that's what it took.

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

probably ooc, probably a million errors, but i'm just vibin.

thanks for reading! :)

[djo]

Steve + his chainsaw STRANGER THINGS 5.03: The Turnbow Trap

[he3ts]

FOR YOUR TOUCH

voluspa masterlist / masterlist

pairing: adam frankenstein x blind reader

warnings: nothing, just fluff, literally. this oneshot belongs to the world of voluspa, my fic about adam. for now, you'll only find the masterlist, which i'll start posting soon. english is not my first language, be kind. thx for reading !! jacob elordi my baby, i love him.

── ୨ৎ ──

The fire in the small room lit the narrow space before the Creature's rigid figure, offering warmth as it would have in a home lived in by ordinary people. Its flames painted shifting shapes on the walls, long shadows stretching and recoiling like uncertain arms, and it was amid this unsteady motion that he turned his eyes toward you. You were sitting on the rough carpet, knees drawn to your chest, your small body wrapped in your thin dress, never enough for winter, yet the only thing you had to shield yourself from the cold, from hunger, and from that loneliness that lived in your house like an uninvited tenant.

Adam was there, and it seemed almost impossible to fathom that such an enormous, disproportionate figure, made of angled lines and imposing weight, could be so near you without the world splitting open, without the floor giving way, without the air becoming too tight to contain him.

You had already shared everything; loneliness and rejection bound you together, and you were gentle, with a heart as pure like spring water. For months, the thought of you had tightened something in his stomach in a way he had never understood. He had seen it in your eyes, eyes without life or future, yet attentive to every slightest sound. You knew his footsteps, his breathing, his towering presence compared to your own.

Amid the soft crackling of the fire and the faint whisper of wind slipping through the window cracks, you lifted your face, tilting it toward the place where you sensed him standing. Your breath was unsteady, your heart beating in your throat. That mass of silence and warmth was impossible to ignore, even for someone like him, who found himself increasingly unable to look away from you. A sense of protection ran wild through his veins, something nearly impossible to erase.

"Can you sit next to me?" Adam flinched, but he had done it.

Timidly, you pushed a lock of hair behind your ear, blushing, uncertain whether it was from the fire or from the question hovering on your tongue. And then you asked it, in a voice made of air, caution, and longing all at once. A longing for belonging. To be strange together. Monsters, together.

"Can I.. can I touch you?"

The question didn't fall like a feather. It fell like a stone into water.

Adam didn't react at first; his whole body stiffened, the visible seams that held him together pulling in different directions, resisting. His eyes lowered, lost, and his lips parted slightly, but no sound came out for long, heavy seconds. Because no one, ever, in all his life, if one could call that imposed existence a life, had spoken such a request. No one had expressed the desire to know him through something so intimate and disarming as touch.

But you could not see; you were rapidly losing your hearing as well, and the only way to keep him close was through touch. The heart, the warmth, they never lie, you had told him, afraid of losing him. And he had stayed. With you.

Finally, with an effort so visible it seemed he was pushing past a landslide within himself, Adam lifted his gaze toward your face, your skin porcelain smooth, flawless, the opposite of his.

"If you want, yes"

It wasn't a confident yes, nor a sure one, nor a brave one. It was a trembling yes, hesitant, a yes carrying all the weight of the fears sewn onto him the moment he opened his eyes for the first time and saw nothing but horror in the faces around him.

You moved then, softly, so softly it was almost invisible, as if your body knew stillness was the only way not to frighten him, and you slowly extended a hand toward him, your fingers opening in the air like the petals of a shy flower.

And he, who had remained motionless until then, trapped in an unnatural silence, began to move toward you. He bent his knees with a clumsiness betraying his unfamiliarity with intimacy, sitting beside you in a way that, though careful, still landed heavy, making the floor creak under his weight as though the whole room held its breath.

The difference between your bodies became stark. You, small, delicate, your bones sharp from years of too little food, bare feet barely grazing the carpet, your back hunched, your head tilted in listening. And him, gigantic, shoulders so broad they swallowed half the firelight, huge hands resting on his knees like objects too large to be stored away, and a breath that, if one listened closely, carried a tremor born not of cold but of nerves.

"If you’re afraid... I can… stay farther away"

Adam murmured, leaning slightly away, frightened by your gaze. You shook your head slowly, a tiny, nearly invisible movement. "I'm not afraid"

Your fragile hand moved through the air until it found his forearm.

Your fingers rested on his uneven skin, warm in a way you did not expect, and your touch, delicate and precise, accustomed to sensing the world through the smallest shifts of heat and texture. You brushed his skin while he flinched, not enough to startle you, but enough to reveal how much that gesture meant to him. You explored gently, the way one explores an unknown surface, smooth and rough all at once, and at every millimeter your fingers advanced he seemed to hold his breath, torn between the instinct to flee and an even stronger instinct to remain anchored there with you.

"You're hurt," you said, pulling your hand back. "What did they do to you?" Your breath hitched, fear knotting your stomach. "Why did they hurt you?"

Your fingers moved again, calm and slow, tracing from his forearm to his upper arm, following the lines of muscles, unnatural joints, stitches holding together something that was never meant to live. Every new inch made him shudder, for every touch was a trial, every caress a risk, every human gesture a chance for rejection or horror that he didn't know how to face.

He didn't withdraw, despite the tremble in his hands and the rigidness of a body seemingly rebelling against the gentleness you were offering.

"Nothing," he answered, pained. He wanted to tell you everything, to give you every crumb of attention and kindness he had been denied all his life. "I'm a danger for you"

But he suffered.

"For me?"

"For everyone"

When your fingers reached his shoulder, an unexpected tremor shot down his back and up to his neck, a sensation so strange it nearly made him gasp. You sensed his fear and paused for a moment; then your fingers rose slowly to his neck, tracing the line of his jaw, touching his skin with such tenderness. Adam felt his heart surge, beats speeding into something almost painful, irregular, uncontrollable, as his chest pumped blood and fear in equal measure.

Your touch reached his face. Adam closed his eyes, feeling your fingertips glide along his cheek, brushing the scar that ran across it. He expected fear from you, but you smiled, and your cheeks warmed like the fire. You didn't pull away; you continued, treating every scar, every crease of his skin as though nothing in him was wrong.

And as your touch traveled across Adam's face, he trembled with an emotion he didn't know, one that had no name, spreading fast through his veins. Was it fleeting? Lasting?

He could have sat like that forever.

Still and seated, your back slightly curved, your face tilted toward his, you barely breathed, hit by that sudden sense of belonging to someone.

"I feel safe with you"

Another caress. Soft. Along his neck.

"They see me as strange. In the village. Just because I'm blind," you whispered. "But you stayed"

Motionless, he felt the weight of those words like a slow, thin blow to the chest. Your hands continued brushing his arm, gentle, insistent, and he felt every millimeter of your skin, a shiver running along his spine.

"I…" he began, his voice rough and cracked like old wood straining under too much weight, searching for a thread of thought he didn't know how to shape into words. He didn't know the names for what he felt; he didn't know whether it was fear or survival.

"I've grown attached to you," he finally said, and this time it was his hand that reached to touch your face. "They don't see you the way they see me," he confessed, voice trembling, closer to a sigh than to speech. "I'm not like them. I never want to run away from you"

Your eyes filled with tears, for no one had ever dared use kind words in your presence. Your fingers found the curve of his lips, brushing that uneven line that split his smile. He leaned in slowly, like a frightened animal, afraid any movement might shatter what you were building.

Your face was there. You were there. His lips brushed yours.

His mouth was cold, rigid at first, then slowly pressing, learning, trying. A slow, trembling kiss, almost timid, yet firm. He stiffened for a whole second, his body unprepared for the possibility of receiving, of being wanted, of being sought. Then he yielded, because he liked it, this new sensation he was discovering with you, because he trusted you, because you were right, perfect. Your noses bumped softly, your lips gentle against his, deepening the kiss shyly. His enormous hands trembled in the air before finally settling over your hands with infinite care, covering them.

Gently, you pulled away just a little, your brows nearly touching, breaths mingling.

"I've never kissed anyone," you confessed. "I liked it" Then you smiled. And he tasted that happiness fully.

"I did too, my little flower"

[lokihiddleston]

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST (1991) FRANKENSTEIN (2025)

[aphrostiel]

adam has become my muse

[he3ts]

VOLUSPA , masterlist

heard i have, odin / of the great ages, / i remember where you hid your eye / in mimir's famous well.

pairing: adam frankenstein x blind reader

warnings: blind reader, physical disabilities, body image issues, both are marginalized, the reader is described as thin (sorry, but in the story she has nothing to eat!), slow burn, first experiences for both. angst. english is not my first language.

plot: adam did not know joy. in truth, he did not know anything. not in the way humans know things, at least, not as a warmth rising from the chest and spilling into the blood. for him, feelings had never been a gift from god; they were storms crashing down on him without warning, sudden tremors he had no idea how to handle. he was like a child. his heart, if that unstable engine pulsing inside his stitched chest could be called that, had never been trained to feel emotions. he had never been taught to welcome them. he had never been allowed to live them.

giving them a name was impossible. it was human. it was distant. it was despicable. what he felt now, that strange sway between warmth and pain, between desire and fear, was something that escaped every definition. maybe it was a fleeting emotion. or maybe it would last forever, an open wound that would never fully close. the only fragment of affection he had known in his short existence had been so brief, so fragile, so stolen, that it seemed almost like a badly remembered dream.

the creature shook his head, wet hair falling onto his cheeks, heavy as chains. anger flashed through him, a violent, explosive anger, a bitter, deep rage born from the unending rejection the world had imposed upon him since his first breath. that feeling he knew well. it was a garment he had always worn, as ill fitting as his own body was for those villages full of warm light in their windows and clean hands that would never dare to touch him. touch. touch. touch.

the world was beautiful, in the eyes of men. but not in his. because he was not a man.

he. was. not. a. man.

he closed his eyes, embittered. he felt his heart beating slowly, in a rhythm that seemed almost like torture. one. the heavy blood rising. two. the air entering his lungs like shards of ice. three. a dull ache behind his ribs, hurting like a punch far too familiar. four. the thought of victor, incurable. five. the shadow of rejection. six. from whom? seven. you. white eyes, radiant skin, you were as beautiful as the moon to him. eight. the awareness of being alone. of having a heart that worked, but in the wrong way.

snow was falling thick and silent, the flakes resting on his face like tiny frozen hands, innocent, unaware of the pain they caused. adam lifted his gaze to the sky, squinting against the milky light of morning. the flakes melted instantly on his rough skin, embroidered like canvas. it was the heart again.

always the heart. that muscle that did not entirely belong to him and now beat with a stubbornness he did not like.

feelings. a big word. a fragile word.

the only truly beautiful thing he had ever experienced had been given to him by elizabeth. the only one who had dared to look at him without trembling, the only one who had glimpsed a shadow of humanity in him when everyone else saw only seams, scars, and disproportions. she had cared for him. even though he was a monster. even though he was unwatchable, inconsistent, unnatural. in the girl’s heart, a kindness had taken root, so pure it was unreal. and he had lost her. like everything.

he remembered her, yes.

he remembered her voice, her gentle hand brushing his wrist, her eyes filled with compassion and not terror. elizabeth had been the first scream of beauty in his chaotic existence, and even that small thing had been torn from him. by fate, by men, by victor, by the entire world.

now it was the heart again. screaming, tearing at the flesh around it. with you.

with your fragile figure walking among the trees like a wrong note in a perfect melody. with your quiet voice, barely a whisper. with your white, vast eyes that saw more than light itself. adam could admit it was absurd, having such eyes without pupils, without life, they looked as if they were turned inward.

something inside him was moving.

growing. living. he was terrified.

FOR YOUR LOVE, I AM DYING.

chapters. ( SOON )

oneshot.

for your touch.

[he3ts]

adam frankenstein doesn't get laid on the first date, he's not a dominator, he doesn't even know what sex is. this man deserves a good slow burn. i said it... I DONT CARE!!!

HE'S SO GOLDEN BOY

[he3ts]

ADAM FRANKENSTEIN X BLIND READER I'M FALLING ...

[itsluckylolita]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐄𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter Summary: You are introduced to your uncles betrothed, but not without tension arising between your father and the alluring woman your uncle is promised to.

Pairing(s): The Creature/Adam Frankenstein x Fem!Frankenstein’s daughter!reader

Warning(s): MDNI!! Slowburn/build, HEAVYY YEARNINGGG BY BOTH PARTIES!!! Descriptions of gore and abuse, disturbing imagery, period-typical sentiments, future chapters contain smut, a problematic and high-key emotionally abusive father-daughter relationship, read the hashtags for the rest!!

Word Count: 4k

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

Your father was never one for art, he was a scientist. A surgeon. He had no time for the frivolity of paint or the joys of a kiln. Victor Frankenstein only pursued art as far as it could allow him to understand the human body, to beget his sketches of corpses and skeletons within the dozens of notebooks he went through. That's why you were such an anomaly to him, a girl not of medicine and academic amusement but of artistic recreation and poetic sentiments, borne of his own seed.

Throughout your childhood you would catch him staring at you as you painted or sculpted, heavy brows set low on his face as he attempted to understand how such a girl could be his child—could be his father's grandchild. He told you one morning that you were more akin to your mother and grandmother in many ways, your facade dark and beguiling as theirs were. You could see the resemblance when you would sit in front of their portraits, admiring the work of the artists who immortalized them within oil and varnish. You’d never seen your mother smile, her presence upon the wall was that of a foreign ingénue, her dress not of British fashion and her hair not of British taste. She was not frowning as she looked down at you, but rather impartial. She held a neutrality which you sought to replicate since you were a child, the polite clasp of her hands displaying the rows of rings and bracelets she wore. The piece of jewelry which stood out to you the most, however, was that of her necklace. It was a choker, made of dark ribbon and holding at its centre a ruby heart. The heart itself was carved to resemble the real organ, cavities and passageways highlighted by the shimmer of the gemstone both in the painting and real life.

Your hand reached up to your neck, toying with the gemstone that decorated your collarbone since your father gifted you the heirloom when you were fifteen. You frequently wondered if your mother enjoyed the arts as much as you did, thought of if your grandmother sculpted any of the pieces in your home now. You did not know, your father would not speak of them eagerly and you would rather have him kept happy than melancholic. The trials he went through during one week with his research was enough to break a lesser man, and you refused to be the final crack in his porcelain mind. You let your hand fall back to the page of the book you were reading, blinking as if that would rid you of your musings. You flipped through a few chapters, admiring diagrams of the human form in what might be viewed as grotesque to those who were not familiar with what it was to be a genius. Your father having raised you made you uncaring to such vulgarities, instead finding a fascination with the odd and unexplainable.

“Y/n, we have a guest!” Your fathers call echoed throughout the house, alerting you from where you sat upstairs by the fireplace. It was a half hour past three, the usual time when your father returned home from his studies. You were oft released from your college at two, meaning you had thirty minutes to do as you pleased within the townhouse your father owned. You found that reading his anatomy books delighted you the most.

“Who?” You questioned loudly, folding the corner of the page you were on before closing the book.

“Herr. Heinrich Harlander, the uncle to your uncle’s betrothed!” Victor shouted, and you furrowed your brows. The uncle to your uncle's betrothed? 

“You mean William? Uncle William is to be married?” You clarified, listening to their resounding footsteps travel up to you. You’d met your uncle on a few occasions, only in passing and rarely for long.

“The very same.” Your father said as he reached the top of the staircase, taking off his top hat and tossing it to be found later, most likely by you. A second man appeared not far behind him, a long black cane helping him keep his balance. The man, Heinrich you supposed, was tall and slender but old—older than your father. His ivory skin was dry with time, and his clothing was expensive, fine dark linens and velvet tailored expertly to his figure. His top hat hid a majority of his dark hair, smiling eyes regarding you with admiration. You stood up, placing the book on the small table beside you and walking delicately towards the men.

“My heart,” Your father held open his arms, and you embraced. Heinrich stood watching, and you couldn't help the hair that prickled the back of your neck. Understand, you had a sense for people, a sense not many others possessed—not even your clever father. It was as if something within you was able to discern the unsavoury nature of humanity, as if their foreboding essence was woven inside your bones. 

“Herr. Harlander.” You curtsied, the maroon of your skirt splaying at your feet before you stood once more.

“Miss Frankenstein, I have heard so much about you from your uncle.” Heinrich smiled, and you found no warmth behind his bared teeth.

“Please, call me Y/n. You are to be family, after all.” You insisted, holding your hand out towards him. Heinrich took off his top hat before he grasped your hand graciously, pulling it towards his thin lips and leaving a chaste kiss upon your knuckles.

“You are more beautiful than your uncle claimed. Baron Frankenstein, you are a very lucky man indeed.” Heinrich let out a hearty laugh, your father joining him.

“She has all of her mothers charm and none of my vices.” Victor smiled. It was true, your father may have been present during conception but he could not mold you in his exact image. In fact, your story was similar to his in that you were your mothers child, in nearly all ways. 

“Though your vices come in handy, do they not?” Heinrich inquired, and your father’s eye twitched subtly.

“Certainly, but that is a conversation to be finished in three days' time.” Victor hummed, and you looked between the two of them.

“What is to happen in three days?” You asked, taking the leather binder your father carried with him like a bag and placing it on one of the nearby tables.

“Your uncle and his fiancé are to come to Edinburgh, they are to reside in Herr. Harlander’s quarters nearby.” Your father sauntered over to his drink chest, unlatching it to retrieve a bottle of fresh milk.

“William is to marry my niece as you know, Elizabeth, and seeing you now I think the two of you should be like-minded once you meet.” Heinrich pulled a small compact from his pocket, popping it open to reveal two photos. You leaned closer, admiring the black and white images with a soft smile.

“She is certainly beautiful.” You complimented.

“That I cannot dispute. I took these photos myself, I could take one for you, if you’d like.” Heinrich offered, the generous gesture earning him a wider grin from you.

“Perhaps, Herr. Harlander, after I have seen my uncle.” You accepted. Heinrich looked back to where your father was guzzling his drink, no decorum in the way he swallowed the opaque white liquid, before Heinrich put his top hat back on.

“I shall bid you two good evening, then. Baron, Miss. Fr—” Heinrich stopped himself, “…Y/n.”

“Good evening.” You curtsied again, watching his head scan the anatomical figures and specimens as he made his way back down the stairs. You turned to your father, staring at him until he sprung up from his seat.

“What have I done now?” Victor sighed, placing the bottle down on the chest and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Nothing I am not accustomed to, father. How was the disciplinary tribunal?” You implored, skirting around him so you could pick up the top hat he discarded earlier. You dusted its edges, holding the fabric up to the light.

“I have been expelled.” Your father confessed, though he had no remorse in his tone. Your mouth fell agape, and you slammed his top hat onto the nearest surface. Victor snapped to look at you, dark eyes wide.

“Expelled? Father, you would have had the highest academic degree, you would have made history! You said—” Your angered rambling was stopped by your fathers equally loud voice. He drew nearer, ripping off his coat and tossing it onto the couch he once sat on.

“I said that I wanted to challenge the bounds of science, and that college is not yet ready for my genius! I have exposed them to what greatness is and god-willing they will heed my words!” He barked, running a hand through his black curls.

“You know I am no fool, Y/n, I am ahead of our time. I am ahead of God.” He blasphemed so easily, your father. As if God had no ability to strike him down, as if he truly believed he was the only man who held power in the world.

“You forget, father, that my great mind comes from you. It may express itself differently, but I know you more intimately than anyone else. You had no need to get yourself expelled, that was your own hubris taking control.” You spat out, unthinking for a moment. You loved your father, you truly did, but his lack of foresight and impulsivity would not jeopardize everything your mother left. You see, your mother was wealthy before her passing, wealthier than your father and with twice as many estates to her name. When she died, all of her possessions and material prosperity were left in your fathers hands, and what foolish hands those were. You could not let him squander her fortune, especially since all he had before he met her was a degree and a heavy heart.

“Ha! Perhaps you are right, perhaps I am Icarus and you Daedalus, hm? Perhaps I am the child and you the father, is this what you suggest? That I am a fool compared to you?” He crowded into your space so quickly you barely had time to gather yourself, his hand flying up to your neck. He held it, brushing his thumb along your pulse point. The action could have been felt as tender, but the underlying threat was present in his dilated eyes.

“I will find another college, I will continue my pursuits, and you will be able to keep my genius within paintings and sculptures. I only want what is best for you, mon cœur, je ne veux que le meilleur pour tout le monde.” my heart, I only want the best for everyone. Victor's brows curved upwards, as if the fear in your gaze put him through pain.

“I trust you, father.” You reached up to his forearm, squeezing it softly, “I only worry for our wellbeing.”

“…You have always held an understanding within you, Y/n. I know not who gave it to you, for you certainly inherit none of my wickedness.” He allowed his hand to drop back to his side, and you let out a tense breath.

“I believe we all have wickedness, and it began with the original man. None of us are immune, and none of us ever will be, I simply try to live with…compassion.” You swallowed, regulating the incessant thump of your heart. Victor reached up and stroked your cheekbone, his darkened expression lightening to one of fondness and love. He let out a small huff, before turning to grab his bottle of milk and meandering towards his work desk. The next three days were calmer, with your father staying engaged upstairs among his studies and experiments, while you continued to attend college and socialize amongst your peers. You were excited to see your uncle on the morning of the third day, eagerly clothing yourself in your finest dress when your father came to collect you. You wore a striking crimson gown, with black accents and a crimson-black bonnet that framed the shining visage of your face.

“You are a vision of beauty, my dear.” Your father praised, taking your arm in his free one. The other appendage held his trusty binder, as always. The walk to Heinrich’s quarters was modest, no longer than fifteen minutes and no shorter than five. The streets were alive with the bustle of everyday routine, and you kept your head angled downward so your bonnet shaded you from the bright mid-day sun. The footman at Heinrich’s estate welcomed you in, leading you through a long hallway until you emerged into a brightly lit room. You recognized it as an artistic studio as soon as you entered, a woman standing clad in a sheer dress among a decoration of fruits and flowers.

“Baron Victor Frankenstein and his daughter, Miss Y/n Frankenstein, sir.” The servant bowed. Heinrich quickly dismissed the woman, eagerly having a second servant help him shoulder on his frock-coat.

“Forgive me, welcome.” He held out his hand to your father, who shook it in kind.

“Herr. Harlander.” Victor nodded. The woman breezed past you all like a spirit, her long shift trailing in the wind behind her as she left.

“Herr. Harlander.” You curtsied afterwards, Heinrich once again kissing your hand.

“A young art, photography. Already a passion of mine.” Heinrich chuckled, watching the woman go before clapping your fathers back.

“Follow me, Baron. We must discuss.” Heinrich gave your father a pointed look, and you clenched your jaw.

“We will only be a moment, dear.” Heinrich insisted, ushering your father into an adjoining room. You never liked when your fathers work became mysterious, as soon as others were involved you were reminded of where you appeared to stand with him intellectually. You took their departure as a chance to explore the room, mulling about the decorations with quiet footsteps. You let your fingertips brush over a skull, admiring the dull bone before your attention was drawn to another doorway. At its threshold stood a slender woman, delicate face framed within azure feathers and curved figure clad in a deep turquoise dress. Her hair was auburn, styled to perfection atop her head while upon her neck was a choker of blue jewels and gemstones.

“Y/n Frankenstein?” Her voice was as gentle as her disposition, and you found yourself at ease as she crossed into the room. From behind her came William, blonde curls and pale skin the same as the last time you saw him. He was taller, you noted.

“Y/n!” He smiled, walking to you with open arms. You embraced, the high collar of his shirt brushing against your cheek.

“Uncle!” You giggled, pulling away in time for your father and Heinrich to reenter the room. When your uncle saw his brother his face lit up even more, practically bounding towards the elder with a laugh. Elizabeth, you assumed, approached with measured steps. Her head tilted slightly, and she smiled as she trailed a finger along the small hairs that shaped your forehead. Your stomach tightened.

“You look kind, as William said.” She spoke as if her compliment was a secret, only to be shared between the two of you.

“May I introduce the woman I am to marry, Lady Elizabeth Harlander.” William’s voice made both of you turn to the brothers. Your father clasped his hands behind his back, taking less than four steps forwards before he bowed. His eyes dragged over Elizabeth, jaw ticking for a moment.

“Absolutely delighted.” He said, voice nary above a whisper. Elizabeth did not deign to respond, ending the brief introduction with an elegant nod of her head.

“Come, let us have afternoon tea.” Heinrich clapped his hands together, motioning towards the door William and Elizabeth had entered from. Soon enough the five of you were sat at the end of a long dining table, your uncle and his fiance on one side, you and your father opposite to them, and Heinrich at the head of the table. Servants floated in with plates of decadent pudding, their cream colour reminiscent of the skull on Heinrich’s set.

“So, I hear that you fair well in your studies, Y/n?” William inquired, taking a sip from his goblet.

“Indeed. I was recently featured in a magazine as one of the most notable students, although I believe there is always room for improvement.” You answered humbly, eying the pudding as it was placed in front of you.

“And you, brother, I can’t say I was shocked when you were expelled.” William remarked with a chuckle, and your eyes narrowed.

“However the manner and virulence of your expulsion, uncalled for, certainly.” Your uncle proclaimed, and your father leaned into the elbow he had resting on the table.

“Oh no, it was called for. I earned it. I made it a point to earn it, wouldn’t you say, Herr. Harlander?” Victor gloated.

“It was quite an exit, I assure you.” Heinrich added.

“Why provoke them? Why not just carry on without calling attention to yourself in such a manner?” William reasoned, and you let out a scoff. Everyone’s attention was drawn to you, and you looked up from where you had dipped your spoon within the pudding.

“I apologize, I forget myself. It is simply amusing to me that you of all people would assume my father to refrain from provocation.” You ate a bite of wobbly desert, airy flavours of vanilla and caramel melting on your tongue.

“She’s right, you almost sound like father.” Victor implied, and he continued on as he saw the confused faces of Heinrich and Elizabeth. 

“He was a most tactful man, our father. He was precise, discreet, measured—I, on the other hand, fail to see why modesty is considered a virtue at all.” Your father waved around the spoon he held, as if it was a sixth finger on his hand.

“Victor’s always been one to harvest attention. Even as children, I mitigated his voice by staying silent.” William spoke to Elizabeth but the sentiment was made to be heard by all.

“Perhaps too much and far too many times, wouldn’t you say, Victor?” William turned to his brother, pointed in his choice of words.

“If life can be regenerated, not as a mere simulation, but as a divine act by physical, chemical means—why whisper it?” Your father insisted, and it was Elizabeth’s turn to let out an indignant huff. Victor’s gaze snapped towards her, and his brows lowered.

“You laugh?” He breathed, “You’re amused?”

“I must be, yes.” Elizabeth all but rolled her eyes, placing down the spoonful of pudding she was scooping up.

“Are my ideas not clear?” Your fathers head tilted. His work was his life, outside of you, and he did not take kindly to misunderstandings about it.

“You certainly expressed them loudly enough.” She challenged, and you swallowed harshly. You were the only woman to ever speak to your father in such a way, and you were barely a woman at all—merely a girl lulled into comfort by blood relation.

“Are they not worthwhile?” Victor placed his own spoon down.

“Ideas are not worthwhile by themselves, I don’t believe.” Elizabeth shrugged, eyes never leaving your fathers.

“Enlighten me, please.” Victor inclined forward, clasping his hands together.

“Take the war, for example—” The words made Heinrich stand abruptly, pushing his chair out with a scratch.

“William, cigar and brandy in my study?” He suggested, although you knew it was a demand rather than request.

“Surely you’ve heard my niece expound on the matter before. You’ll excuse us.” Heinrich mumbled, letting his cane lead his body as he and William left the room. As William did so, he left a feather-light touch upon Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“Pray, carry on. Ideas.” Victor held his glass up, and a servant moved quickly to refill his cup with milk. Elizabeth’s eyes flickered to you, assessing the way you continued to nibble on the pudding, before she continued.

“Well…honour, country, valor.” She began, dabbing her napkin gracefully at the corner of her lip.

“These surely are worthwhile, elevated ideas by themselves, wouldn’t you agree?” Elizabeth posed the question, and your father nodded subtly.

“And nevertheless, men are dying for them. In a decidedly unelevated way.” Her lips curled as she spoke, disgust playing on her plump lips. 

“Face down in the mud, choking on blood, screaming in pain. Men that were fathers, brothers, or sons to someone out there.” She spat out, and you found it a marvel how she kept her wispy disposition with such vitriol hidden underneath.

“Men that were fed, cleaned and nursed, and schooled into this world by their mothers, only to fall on a battlefield far away, far from those that provoke these tragedies.” Her eyes flickered briefly to the door her uncle went through.

“Those men remain at home, untouched by blood or bayonet, their skin unpierced, their blankets warm and clean.” Elizabeth’s eyes were glossy, the deep brown full of woe.

“That is what happens when ideas are pursued by fools.” She finished, and you became rigid.

“And you think me a fool? Hmm?” Your father presumed, tilting his head further. Elizabeth stayed quiet for a long moment, before a sly smile graced her features.

“Run to your brandy and cigars. The boys are waiting.” She whispered, and your father looked at you. When you continued to consume the desert in front of you, he let out a quiet scoff, allowing for a servant to pull out his chair so that he could leave. You watched him go, and he turned to give one final glance to the two of you, before the door was shut behind him.

“You ought not to humour him, my Lady.” You suggested, and Elizabeth raised a brow.

“Please, call me Elizabeth, and why do you suppose so?” She picked up her spoon, eating a bite of the pudding she’d only half finished.

“My father is a clever man, but he is still a man nonetheless. He may expound upon his thoughts to his peers but he does not like to be challenged by those close to him—even if it appears so.” You warned, finishing your last bite of pudding.

“I think it exposes a man’s character when he is able to be challenged, your father appeared quite content to have his ideas questioned.” Elizabeth hummed.

“Perhaps…” You conceded, unwilling to argue with the lady who you grew fonder of by the second.

“Do you not challenge him? As his only child I would think you of all people would be his conscience.” She said, finishing her pudding.

“I question him, and on the occasion I challenge him, but in recent years he finds it a disrespect rather than a kindness. I believe it comes with my emergence into womanhood, I am no longer a curious child but rather an opinionated woman.” You divulged, dabbing your lips with your napkin.

“You are seventeen, are you not?” Elizabeth asked, and you nodded.

“Yes, but I shall be eighteen in the coming months.” You chirped, and servants helped pull out your chairs so the two of you stood across from one another.

“Hm…” Elizabeth murmured, circling the table so she stood directly in front of you.

“You strike me as a bright young girl. Do not allow for your fathers misalignments to become your own.” She gave you a pitying smile.

“Retire with me to the drawing room, I would be pleased to hear more about your artistic pursuits.” Elizabeth took your hand, and the two of you ushered yourselves into the opposite chamber. You spoke with Elizabeth for an hour or so until your father came to fetch you, marking the end of your introduction with your future aunt. You were sad when you left, sorrowful that you would not see her for months or maybe years until the wedding day. However, you knew not then what fate had in store for you.

If you had known, you might have warned her of the agony to come.

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

A/N: I’m so happy with all the positive comments on the prologue, and I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! Let me know what you thought and if you had any favourite parts! I have lots of plans for this series, so stay tuned! Xoxo

Taglist (Request to be added!): @homiesexual-or-homosexual @roroobsessed @uniquecutie-puffs @did-i-dream-you @anne-rose-03 @gojoswaterbottle @violetgasm @wiseyouthinfluencer @wonderfrost 

[muntitled]

Playtime

Pairing: Nam-gyu x fem!reader

Summary: You weren't ready to kill anyone in Hide And Seek, thank God he's there to help

Warnings: Language, Blood, Gore, Violence, Religious Trauma, Murder, Mentions of Rape Dark Fic, Smut (+18, mdni), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dub/Con, PiV, Rough Sex, Blood Play, Ingesting Bodily Fluids, Dom!Namgyu, Sub!Reader, Mutual Masturbation, Spitting, Dirty Talk

A/n: I'm not responsible for the media you consume

Nam-gyu could taste colours.

He's quite sure that if he jumped off a high enough ledge, he'd fly.

Ever since they entered the gameroom with its low ceiling and labrinth streets, he's been on a bender unlike any other. A bender he's struggling to enjoy in its entirety because something almost akin to a conscience has been niggling away at him ever since he ran into you during Hide and Seek.

He was straddling a corpse, playing in its blood while Myung-gi called for him to hurry up.

You'd run into the same alley. You and your frightened eyes and your red vest clean of blood. He'd been smiling but that's because his face couldn't conjure up any other expression even if he tried.

And he did try.

He tried stepping towards you. Only to show you how to properly hold that knife you carried with such uncertainty.

But you'd already fled.

He knew you didn't have it in you to kill anyone.

That's why he was doing this. He was a good boyfriend.

"I don't get why we can't just kill it" Myung-gi watches with displeased eyes as Nam-gyu drags the living body of a middle aged man through the

He's stalling their movements significantly trying to pull the man whose own legs have no use for him now. Nam-Gyu made sure they weren't working. He made sure the man could not run. But he also made sure the man wasn't dead.

Nam-gyu's still twitchy, from the pills and from all the blood. It could've been so easy to stick another knife inside a hot body- it would've been way more fun. But then he thought of you. Your wide eyed gaze. Your trembling hand around the whimsical dagger.

That's when he stopped himself. That's when he whispered, to the frightened old man in the blue vest, “I'm not gonna be the one to do it,”

He could've killed this man. He could have watched the knife sink right through his blue vest.

He giggles to himself. Thinking about those corpses and their doll-like eyes. Their comatose little bodies. The fear. The peace.

"Thing is," he's speaking without noticing he's speaking. Nam-gyu drags the man through the ground like he's lugging a sack of potatoes. Like they don't have 15 minutes left in the game.

The man is either infuriatingly heavy or Nam-gyu's too high- it's proving to be a Herculean task even with his two hands on the collar of the old man's shirt. Myung-gi doesnt slow down his very serious gait but he cranes his ear back. "I kinda... like," Nam-gyu giggles to himself, still trying to find the space between reason and hallucination, "I kinda fucked things with my girl when I-" he rolls his eyes, "killed that bitch Se-mi," he groans as he pulls the man closer to an already open door. A dead end. "So now I kinda have to make up for that. You're in love too, you get it."

"You dont know what love is," says Myung-gi and before Nam-gyu enters the dead end door he looks at the man, chest rising snd falling from all that heavy lefiting. "Why would you say something so hurtful- and so true?"

"Why are we stopping here-"

"Tonight I'm gonna need her." Nam-gyu says, kicking the metal door further open to reveal you cowering in the corner of a dimly lit room. Dragon flies are painted across the wall and yet you're crouched like a shy little beetle in the corner. Nam-gyu nearly stops himself from cooing.

"I get antsy at night." He says, turning back to Myung-gi who regards you with a pitiful gaze. "Im so sick of jerking off-"

"Stop talking."

"I needed to get her a gift." Nam-gyu gestures wildly at the old man he's lugged across the streets, the man with wild eyes and broken legs.

He drops the man's collar and the blue vest's head hits the ground with a loud thud.

Nam-gyu's already walking towards you in the corner.

"Here, babe, I've brought you a gift-"

You're out of it. Spiraling. Cradling your legs. Trying to tell yourself this was never supposed to be about hurting others. It was only supposed to be about surviving. And now, here you were, face-to-face with the very reason you're in these games anyway.

"What am I supposed to do with him, Nam-gyu."

"Isn't it obvious?" He crouches down in front of you. Over Nam-gyu's shoulder, you notice his accomplice, player 333 looking immeasurably ill.

"Kill him, silly," as soon as Nam-gyu's words drop, Player 333 steps out of the room, murmuring lowly under his breath. Soon its just you, an old man pleading for his life and Nam-gyu.

You're shaking your head when your eyes meet that of the man you're supposed to kill.

Round.

Wide.

His fight or flight activated and going crazy. Someone who's prepared themselves for their own impromptu death.

Nam-gyu, still crouching in front of you, drags your face back to him by the tip of his finger.

He's blood soaked and crazy but familiar. His presence grounds you.

"I'd rather they gun me down-" the words dont leave your mouth before hes clamping your mouth shut with his hand. His mood is like a switch. Gone is his smile.

"Dont do that." He says, "babe, don't do that- I fucking killed that bitch, Se-mi, now you wanna suffer the same fate?"

Your words are muffled through his mouth but your tears spill over his hands "We're all going to hell anywayI-" your mind is flooded with Bible verses. Church sermons. All of them from your childhood. All of them condemning you. They're kickstarting a wave of panic and regret and shame and you're falling. You're drowning.

"Babe," he cradles your face once more, his thumbs drifting over yojr tear streaked cheeks, "Hell? We're already here. This is it, okay? I'm just gonna need you to be a big girl and do this one big thing for me." You look over his shoulder and you see the man's eyes, pleading. He could've tried to crawl to the door. He could've tried. But he's smart enough to know when he's right between the predator's jaws."

"What did you have out there, Princess? Hm?" Nam-gyu's still cradling your face like a baby. His bloodshot eyes are still gazing down at you like you hung the moon. His hands are trembling and he's leaving blood on your cheeks but you listen.

"A junkie boyfriend who left me in crippling debt?" You ask,

"Ok, I deserved that-"

You've avoided Nam-gyu since the lights out massacre. Since he lost himself to this place. And now, here you were, needing reassurance from the worst possible voice of reason. His eyes tracked your movements ever since hide and seek began. It was almost like a mirror of when you two were dating outside the games. The only difference is, he had been the liability then, with the shifty eyes, you'd save him...

This time he promised he'd save you.

"But you forgot something," he leans in closer until his lips graze your ear. For once you're feeling something other than fear. Other than existential doom. When he whispers his next words, gone is all hope for your humanity.

"That asshole who raped you," his voice is gentle, "Made you loose your job? I killed him."

Your brows furrow and you try to pull back but he's smelling your hair now, patting down on your braids like you mean something to him. Like you're a thing he's enjoying playing with.

"You what?"

"Yeah babe, you think I'd let him rape you and get you fired? I was a shit boyfriend, yes. But I loved you out there, and I love you in he-"

In between his words that resurrected all the ghosts of the outside world, everything that landed you in this hell in the first place, you'd detangled yourself from his limbs. By the time Nam-gyu finished his confession- about the disappearance of your boss right after you lost your job- your knife was already digging clean through the blue players vest, already unwrapping Nam-gyu's little present.

Just one kill and it saved you from yet another game.

You're out of it

Unable to look away.

The world is still.

The knife feels stable, like it's being held between two boulders.

You now know what it feels like to kill someone but before you can really drown in it, you hear his voice boom behind you

“Jesus fuck! That was so hot, did you see its eyes?!” He's pacing on unsteady feet across the room,” biting at his fingernails before crouching down beside you.

“Babe you need to see its eyes when you do it, that's the best part fuck-” you watch with wide eyes as something foreign overtakes Nam-gyu's entire being. You'd only seen him like this one other time. The lights out massacre. When he stabbed that girl over and over.

Now he's trying to open the eyelids of a corpse, as if you weren't sitting there.

“Fuck, he's already gone,” hes slapping at the corpses cheek but yku look down at your blood soaked hands bleeding heavily.

“It's okay,” he says, speaking louder than he needs to, “It's okay, Princess, we'll get another one-” You're about to protest but he's already standing up, dragging you off the floor in the process. His hands are cold and trembling in yours.

His lips are dry and warm as they pepper kisses all over your face.

“Which means-” more and more kisses- and maybe even a lick- “we have ro be really quick yeah?”

“Quick with what-”

He's already pulling his pants down far enough to pull himself out and your eyes widen as you step back. His pupils are blown. Two obsidian orbs, like the death in the room was another pill to him

“Y-You wanna have sex now?” You gesture wildly, “Here?”

He steps closer until he's completely made your personal space, his own. You turn your head away but he's breathing right against your cheek, plastering his body to you, “I need to fuck you,”

“Gyu-” he's twitchy and his words are slurred, and he's grinding against you with the urgency of a desperate man.

“Please-” he pushes your hair away messily, kissing up the side of your neck, “Play with me just for a bit, hm? Look at how pretty you look with all that blood on you-fuck-” he chuckles lowly, bringing your hand down until you're wrapping it around his exposed cock. “I nearly came watching you do it…” he whispers, squeezing your hand around his cock, “C'mon there's no one here…”

“There's a corpse right there-”

“He's not here anymore.” he's stroking himself using your hand. A part of you wishes you'd be more disgusted. A part of you wishes your moral code was still intact. But the body betrays. And right now your cunt is leaking while your boyfriend with his wild eyes jerks himself off with your hand, as if you were an object. “C'mon, please,”

You're not even sure why his asking anymore. His other hand is already mapping out the contours of your hips, already slipping under your shirt to paw at your breasts

You gasp when he pushes himself between your legs humping frantically against you as he pebbles your nipple between his thumb and index.

“Need it so bad, Princess, please,”

Your hand around his cock isn't even moving anymore, his hips are pushing forward in an act that has your mind slipping.

“I could fuck you like this,” he mumbles, “-without actually fucking you…”

You moan out loud, back arching off the wall, “I swear I'd cum,” he says, “That's how bad I want it-”

“Are you… Nam-gyu are you high?” You try to grapple onto reason with both hands because you were sinking fast. Your eyes were heavy lidded and you were jerking him off now on your own accord.

“Mm, and horny, babe I need it. Don't tell me you don't need it-”

“He spits on his hand before making it disappear through the waistband of your sweats-”

“Jesus this pussy-” in your hand, his cock twitches, right when his cold fingers make contact with your cunt, slick with its own arousal.

“Y-You're disgusting-” you try to say. As if your hips weren't rolling against his hand, as if you didn't drag your hand up and down the length of his shaft.

“Only for you-” his eyes roll back, “I'll be whatever you want me to be,” he says before dipping down to whisper. “I'd live inside you if I could-” That alone has your mind descending further and further into this pit of hellfire you're both swimming in.

“That's it,” his hand rubs circles around your clit. Fast, demanding circles that have you wincing, “Your pussy wants me so bad. You want me so bad I’m- fuck-” Its like he’s not talking to you and that alone makes you delirious.

“Gonna let me cum inside?”

Right when you're on the edge of it all, right when your about to cum, it stops. He's pulling your pants down- slotting himself messily between his legs before he brings his hand under your mouth.

“Spit.” He says, “Spit for me baby quickly.”

You do.

And when he uses it to lube up his cock your head hollows itself of all reason. You need him just as badly and soon, you're bucking upwards, guiding his cock in.

Through the slightly open door, your heart screams. Helpless, violent screams, and for a moment you delude yourself into believing you really have died and gone to hell.

But now the head of his cock is slicing right through you. He stabs you with it, slamming himself in until he's fully sheathed inside you. Your hand paws at his back. You wish he was shirtless so you can sink your nails into his back. Bring him closer. Until you've consumed him whole.

“You're pussy's so good- fuck. Between this, and the pills… Don't know which is better, baby-” he's already fucjing you at a quick and desperate pace against the wall. He lifts your leg up by hooking a hand under your thigh, only slotting himself in deeper.

With his other hand, he lifts the knife up. He lets it glint under the fluorescents. He lets you see it

“I could hurt you too.”

There's no rule that says I can't. I could make you all pretty with your eyes all empty. He presses the knife to the side of the neck as he fucks you, his eyes keenly zeroed in on your hot, sweating dark skin against the pointed tip. His cock oozes precum inside you.

“But your eyes are already pretty, yeah? My pretty baby

“Gyu- I'm gonna cum-”

“Fuck-”

He tilts the knife a little too deep, until a single bead of crimson dots your throat. You don't notice but he does.

“Im gonna cum inside you,” he says, fucking you harder against the wall. You nod, and when he dips his head between your neck to lick that bead of your blood, you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Wanna taste you, your pussy, your skin, your blood- fuck-”

He's shooting his load inside you as he spews his unholy vitriol. It fills and then it spills and you're creaming around him as you slip into your own orgasm. It muddies your head and you cry out clutching at him like you want him completely inside you..

The door opens.

A blue vest, stops and stares at you two with wide eyes, before shuffling out.

You're both breathing heavily, both on a high that feels impossible to come down from. He's tracing patterns with the knife on your skin and you know next time he cuts you it won't be an accident.

[he3ts]

( SQUID GAME MASTERLIST )

✴ nam gyu,, oneshots

౨ৎ crawling towards the bunny, how far can a rockstar's love go?

౨ৎ poison, one has one wound, which never closes.

౨ৎ never forever, the first love is the one that hurts the most. like the memory of you.

✴ nam gyu,, series

౨ৎ blue sky, no one can hurt you like he can. ( masterlist )

౨ৎ for your love, i wanna hold you in my arms tonight. for your love, i'll do whatever you want. ( masterlist )

౨ৎ let the world burn, a ruined dancer and a drug addict who cannot see beyond his own eye. in summer, love blooms, which unfortunately ends with the arrival of autumn. ( masterlist ) ( extra )

✴ the salesman,, series

౨ৎ thirty one days, a recruiter and an fbi agent. you are mutually obsessed with each other, what could go wrong? ( part one )

౨ৎ voodoo, he will never leave you, obsession has caught up with desire. ( part two )

✴ hwang in-ho / 001,, oneshots

౨ৎ god bless me, he'll only want you for one night anyway.

౨ৎ the lady in red, lady in red is dancing with me, cheek to cheek. there's nobody here, it's just you and me.

✴ se mi,, oneshots

౨ৎ illicit affairs, loving her is bad. loving her is dangerous.

✴ cho hyunju,, oneshots

౨ৎ i'm not good, you know it's wrong, you know you shouldn't.

✴ thanos,, series

౨ৎ heartbreaker, if we depart tonight, please just be my love. ( masterlist )

✴ kang dae ho,, oneshots

౨ৎ betty boop, the eyes, chico, they never lie.

────────────୨ৎ────────────

MASTERLIST.

[dovediva]

he's so beautiful i wish he was alive

.

[he3ts]

SQUID GAME. TOMORROW. NAM GYU I'M COMING BACK TO YOUUU

[gnawu]

..

[muntitled]

Boa

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're just a kid, caught in a gangster’s crosshairs. What happens when you don’t deliver like you should…

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Mentions of Rape, Smut +18 (mdni), Dark fic, Dubious consent, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: I'm not responsible for the media you consume. I wrote this for me so...

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

You don't want to look up at him but you have nowhere else to look. Your heart sinks when you see a smile form slowly across his lips… Somehow you knew you'd never be rid of him.