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charliespringsleftconverse · 5 months

Text

Kiss Me Again

Word Count: 8,645 | Masterlist | Read on AO3

Writer’s Notes: I was going to have a friend proof this for me but they were busy so I did some multiple self-revisions in the past few days in hopes that I caught as many grammar errors as possible. Apologies if I missed any! Anyway! This is a college AU ACOTAR Feysand fic. The concept was idiots in love. As in, they’ve baaaasically been doing couply stuff but they were too blind to see or acknowledge that they’d been in love and acting as a couple for a while. <3

I don’t typically write AU fics, so this is a first for me! That being said, it was so much fun to write. It’s actually the longest one-shot I’ve written! A HUGE Happy Holidays to @thegloweringcastle <3 I hope you enjoy it and finally find out who got left at the supermarket! 😂

Thank you to @acotargiftexchange for putting this event together once again! I LOVE participating in this every year! <3

Squinting at the scribbles below, my eyes attempted to decipher the notes I’d borrowed. I had been able to make out the date thanks to the simple fact that it hadn’t been written in cursive like the rest of the details. It was a lost art form for me just like any other calligraphy-related configuration. I would have written down my own notes for the humanities course I was taking, in plain print, had my younger sister not lost the key to her dorm room. With her roommate out of town for the week, there wasn’t much Elain could have done outside of calling her Resident Assistant, which, to her dismay, also happened to be her ex-boyfriend. So, rather than having to face Grayson more than she needed to, she’d called me.

Lucky for Elain, I kept a spare. All of my sisters and I did, actually. Nesta, Elain, and I all had a key to each other’s place. It had been especially helpful when we all lived on campus last year. We could just walk into each other’s rooms at any time. Like when I needed help with my homework for Calculus with Analytic Geometry and borrowed Nesta’s notes from her sophomore year. Or when Nesta needed to borrow my curling iron for a date. And, of course, how could I forget the night that Elain and her then-boyfriend broke up. She had refused to leave her room for two days. I had never been so grateful to have access to a spare key. Nesta and I had been so worried having not heard from her for more than a day. We spent that entire weekend taking turns bringing her food from her favorite places across town in hopes that they’d brighten her spirits. Thai food from Adriata’s Palace, Italian Cuisine from Neve’s Garden, and Mexican from Rita’s Margaritas. I had never seen my sister so devastated in her life. Although to be fair, Elain had never dated a boy before Grayson.

I turned the notebook a bit to the side in hopes that the lighting from the new angle would bless me with a hint as to what words hid behind Mor’s beautiful script. Mother above. Shaking my head, I bit my lip. I should have listened to my mother when she said that learning cursive would be an invaluable skill. She was certainly right in thinking that it was a dying skill. It was dead on me for sure. Hell, the only people I knew who still wrote in cursive were sorority recruitment leads when they made their colorful, extravagant banners with fancy lettering and doctors. Which would make sense at the moment given who I had borrowed these notes from. Zeta Tau Alpha’s latest Chapter President. My mother was certainly wagging her finger at me from wherever she was.

I sighed.

“You look more concentrated than my morning orange juice,” said Rhysand, sitting across the table. His violet eyes studying me, his brows raised in concern. We’d—he’d been studying for the past thirty minutes, meanwhile, I’d just been heavy-breathing and decoding what looked like a cipher like a treasure hunter in search of the coordinates to an ancient Greek secret temple. But unlike an archeologist, my work proved unfruitful.

“I’m trying to decipher Mor’s handwriting,” I said. Leaning back on the chair, I let out another loud sigh. “It’s beautiful. But I can’t read cursive for shit.”

Rhys and I had known each other since freshman year. More specifically, ever since I accidentally dropped a shoe on him from the fourth floor of the residence halls. I had originally been aiming for my roommate Viviane to catch, who to this day still wanted to room with me. She hadn’t wanted to come up again to retrieve the missing shoe and I didn’t want to go downstairs in a towel as I’d just come out of the shower and was still undressed.

The natural decision was to just fling the sneaker out the window of our dorm room, obviously. What we didn’t account for was my terrible aim and Viviane’s lack of hand-eye coordination. Not only did Rhys get bumped in the head by a single white platform Vans but he also got pushed into a bush by Viviane. She had been so busy looking up, that she forgot to look forward and completely missed the 6-foot man inches from her. It had been a miracle Viviane herself hadn’t impaled the shrubbery along with him. I’ll never forget the mortified look Viviane and I mirrored, eyes wide and hands over mouth. All I could think was, he’s concussed. I concussed a man.

Personally, if someone had smacked me on the head, I would have at least yelled at them. Maybe even called them a prick. Rhys, however, was a different breed of man. He had certainly groaned on impact but as soon as he realized he had backflipped into a small hedge and held a women’s size 8 shoe on his lap, he laughed. He let out a full belly laugh. This man—this stranger—had the audacity to laugh given the circumstances. I suppose I should have realized from that moment that nothing could truly take him by surprise or upend his day. A trait I admired. One I hoped seeped into my bones by osmosis or whatever symbiotic science allows personal characteristics to flow from one person to another.

I apologized profusely to this man. In a towel from my window. In my pajamas after I ran downstairs. In his residence hall, after Viviane helped me put together an apology basket when we discovered he lived across from her boyfriend Kallias. Even then, this 6-foot-something of a man thought it was funny. Every. Single. Time. To which I convinced myself, I’d more than concussed him. I convinced myself I’d done serious damage for a man to laugh at that level of pain. Although, I suppose that if two people showed up in their dinosaur onesies at 9 pm on a Thursday evening with a basket for me, I’d also laugh. But still.

It wasn’t until that very week that I realized Rhys and I shared similar classes. We were both in English Composition, Principles of Chemistry, and Introduction to Sociology. Which, quite honestly, are more than enough courses for you to figure out if you have the same schedule as another student. What can I say, I’m oblivious—an ongoing theme in my life.

Another thing I’ll never forget, the smug look on Rhys’s face when we were paired together in English Composition for a research paper on the portrayal of minorities in the media. I’d wanted to find the nearest cliff and jump off it but destiny had other plans. No, fate looked me straight in the eye and said, “Hold my drink, bestie” because two years later, here we are. Best friends.

Rhysand snatched the paper out of my hands. “The Gate of Athena Archegetis was dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens, Athena.”

My hand rushed to jot down what he said. The table vibrated from the ferocity with which I scribbled on my notebook. What I couldn’t crack in thirty minutes took Rhys all of two seconds to read out. Why our professor for that course didn’t allow laptops or tablets for note taking, I’ll never understand. I was just grateful I had something legible transcribed now.

“You can read that? It might as well have been written entirely in Latin,” I said.

“I’ve had practice reading my cousin's handwriting for years. I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t, at this point.” Rhysand chuckled. Passing the page, he eyed the notes, likely reviewing the contents from the course he’d taken himself the semester before.

“I, unfortunately, was blessed with my father’s handwriting.” I tugged at the sleeves of my V-neck indigo cardigan and shyly pointed at my hideous penmanship. It might as well have been written by a third-grader. It was practically childlike. There wasn’t much fixing that could be done at this point in my life when it came to my writing unless I signed up for a calligraphy course. And even then, life had no guarantees.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. An art major who couldn’t read or write a visual art form. Who could paint true-to-life full-body portraits, vivid illustrations of natural landscapes, and dramatic high-colored oil paintings but couldn’t read or write in cursive. I dropped my shoulders, frustrated with myself, and propped my legs up on the tufted dining chair pulling them against my chest with my arms wrapped around.

Rhys’s eyes were back on me. He had a way of reading me like a billboard sign, and I could tell he was trying to figure out what was going on through my mind, what today’s bold neon letters were. I was never sure how he did it but he always knew exactly what I was thinking. Which either meant my face was easy to read and I had the worst poker face of all time or…he just knew me.

“The ‘A’ in cursive is not a sharp letter. It’s more rounded and looks the exact same in both upper and lowercase. Similar to the way you’d write it in print,” he said.

There were several traits I admired about Rhys outside of his keen observations and nonchalant perspective on life. Like his level of empathy. I knew what his academic grades looked like but boy did I also want to know what his emotional quotient score was. Whatever it was, that score was certainly high. He never made anyone feel like their shortfalls were a hindrance. Nor would he want to. That wasn’t his style. Rather than point out my flaws and make me feel embarrassed, he read the notes aloud.

“The Greek language served as a lingua franca,” he continued.

“That last phrase was actual Latin,” he added. Rhys flipped through the pages of Mor’s notes. I could have asked him for his own from last semester since he’d been able to sign up on time. I, on the other hand, had been wait-listed. Hence why I was taking the course in the spring. It was one of the few classes we all needed to graduate as it was one of the general requirements for all offered degrees. I probably should have asked him for his notes since I could his penmanship but I’d been too caught up with Elain yesterday to even consider asking.

“Here’s another one, in vino veritas,” said Mor, raising two bottles of wine toward us. “In wine there is truth.”

“Amen,” said Cassian, lifting a third bottle.

“I thought you two went out grocery shopping,” said Rhysand. Laying the notes on the table, he crossed his arms eyeing the two figures by the door. The corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched as he raised an eyebrow at his cousin and roommate.

“We did. We brought back the essentials,” said Mor. Smiling back at her cousin, she winked at him before closing the door to the apartment with a kick of her red platform heels.

“Hmm,” Rhys hummed.

Bringing his eyes back to me, Rhysand continued reading off the notes while the other two flocked into the kitchen. I bit the inside of my lip as I followed along the soothing sound of his voice. His warm tone always calmed me when we studied together. Which was why I was his favorite audience member when he needed to practice his presentations. I’d listen attentively, the first time. I’d even provide feedback, the second time. But I’d almost always fall asleep to the sound of his enchanting mellifluous voice any other time after that.

“It’s wine night, Rhys. You know the rules,” said Mor from the other room. Every Friday was wine night, the one day of the week our friend group could get together with no interruptions or excuses. No one had an evening class on Fridays or a night shift so things worked out this semester. Most of the extracurriculars each of us participated in typically held events over the weekend so we’d truly lucked out with everyone’s schedules this time. It wasn’t something we were likely to have again so we were taking advantage of every Friday we had before some of us graduated.

Though, that was one of the rules. No talks about graduation. The point of wine night was to live in the moment and enjoy however many Fridays we had left as the “Inner Circle.” It was a silly name Cassian spewed one night after downing 3 bottles of wine, and it kind of stuck. We didn’t exactly call our group that but we did change our group chat name accordingly.

“You too, Feyre.” Mor’s voice echoed.

Another rule. No homework. That rule was more of a precaution so none of us would accidentally email professors the wrong file while inebriated. To be fair, I was only taking notes but we all tried to abide by the no homework rule as best as we could.

“Give me a few minutes, and I’m all yours,” I said.

“You’re telling me you’ve had all day to write those and you still haven’t?” asked Mor, her voice trailing from deeper in the apartment as she stepped from room to room. She had her apartment across town but, like me, she practically lived here too.

“Yeah, well…there have been some delays,” I said, fidgeting with my pencil. My face began to feel warm as blood rushed into my cheeks. Biting my lip, I kept my eyes down. I didn’t want to let Mor know that I hadn’t been able to write her notes because I couldn’t read her notes. Not that she would make fun of me for it but I knew that if I confessed the truth she’d barge me with questions. And I simply did not feel like answering any of that in front of everyone else. All I wanted was for something to distract her from prying right now. Just about anything would do. A pigeon flying in through the window. The fan in the living room mysteriously falling onto the table. A fire alarm. A knock on the door. Anything would do. Please.

“Weren’t there three of you when you left?” asked Rhysand.

I felt my body relax, and my shoulders dropped. I hadn’t realized the muscles down my back had tightened and tensed so firmly until my body loosened and eased back into the chair. My eyes lifted, meeting Rhysand’s whose amethyst orbs were right on me. He winked. The man knew I’d been on the brink of jumping out a window and needed assistance to divert the tall blonde in the kitchen and I loved him for it.

“Azriel!” said Cassian and Mor in unison. The sound of shoes running filled the kitchen accompanied by that of drawers shutting in a hurry, and the jingle of keys. The pair dashed around the apartment like parents who’d just forgotten their child at the supermarket, which was exactly what had happened. Somewhat.

A knock sounded at the door.

The four of us froze and exchanged glances. The only thought I had in my mind was of Azriel, hoping he hadn’t walked all the way back here. Mor took slow steady steps towards the entrance and when she reached the doorknob, she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together. Ever so delicately, she turned the knob and pulled the door towards her.

"Today was not my best day. I dare say it didn't even make the top five," said Azriel. He had one hand reaching the top of the doorframe, leaning slightly. His handsome face held no clear emotion but his eyes. His cold eyes stared down at Mor, making her smaller than she was. Oh, he is pissed.

“You left something at the grocery store,” said Nesta, pushing past the brooding body. Her heels clicked as she waltzed into the room wearing a black satin sleeveless dress that hugged her in all the right places from her chest to her hips. The slit on the right side exposed her up to her mid-thigh with every step. Cassian’s eyes immediately caught the movement as they slid up her body, stopping once they met her eyes.

“I would never have left you, Nes,” said Cassian. He took a step toward her, almost challenging her gaze. She held it, eyed him up and down sizing him up, and spun to face the rest of the room. With her back to him, she placed a hand on her hip, blatantly ignoring the door-framed-sized man behind her.

Cassian stepped closer and slid his hands around her body, holding her closer. Nesta didn’t fight him. If I had blinked, I might have missed the slight shift of her body against him, leaning against his chest even closer. It was beyond anyone’s pay grade to understand where they stood in their relationship if it was even that. They’d been on and off for so long that their situationship was like the weather, something that had to be measured in every room.

“I despise you,” said Nesta, with a hint of a smile on the corner of her lips.

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Cassian.

“Are you headed out tonight, Nesta?” I asked.

“I only came to deliver the lost puppy,” said Nesta, taking a step forward and away from the figure wrapped around her. Cassian’s jaw ticked as she untangled herself from his embrace. “I’m headed out with the girls.”

Gwyn and Emerie, I thought. That’s who she almost always referred to. They’d been her closest friends since freshman year and they’d been inseparable from the moment they met. It was surprising that they hadn’t come up with her since they all lived together.

“Gwyn’s downstairs waiting for me, and Emerie is already in the car,” she said.

There it was.

“You should take better care of pretty things,” said Nesta, walking towards the door. Elegantly spinning, her eyes met Cassian’s from beneath the doorframe. Her fingers slipped up her thigh to her waist sensually, her eyes never breaking contact as she spoke. “Someone else might steal them.”

She closed the door on her way out, leaving the rest of us too stunned to speak.

“I’m gonna marry that woman,” said Cassian.

“Wine, anyone?” said Mor.

——

"I almost fist-fought you last night when you took the blanket," I said. Tugging on the dark blue throw-over, I pulled it over myself enough to cover my legs entirely as I sat criss crossed on the couch. The star-filled spread was dark and fluffy like Amren’s black Bombay cat. With three glasses of wine in me, if I closed my eyes and traced my hand down the blanket, I could almost picture Ruby on my lap. She was soft and cud—

A pull on the blanket brought my thoughts back.

“You snore. Loudly," said Rhys.

"I do not snore, you liar." I scoffed, tugging back on the blanket.

We’d both fallen asleep on his bed last night after an intense studying session. Although our schedules were no longer as identical as they’d been during freshman year, we still shared one or two courses every so often. Like this semester, we had Solar System Astronomy together. We’d stayed up late on the balcony of his apartment looking up at the constellations seeing how many we could name and then placing their locations on a star map.

With 88 constellations in the sky, as recognized by the International Astronomical Union, we’d been able to spot at least seven. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion, Cassiopeia, Cepheus, Draco, and—my face was beginning to feel very warm.

"How did the blanket end up on the floor? No wonder I was freezing," said Rhys. He was leaning against the backrest of the couch, one hand on the armrest holding his glass of wine. Rhysand’s dark lilac eyes sparked with mischief. He was baiting me and I was definitely too inebriated to ignore his comments.

“How could you be freezing? You’re a freaking furnace!” I exclaimed.

“Then why’d you steal the blanket? I’m basically primed for cuddles.” Rhys’s other hand reached around me and tugged me towards him. I laughed against his chest, and let my body lean into him.

“Mother above, you two bicker like a married couple,” said Mor. She was leaning against the doorway leading to the balcony. With the door open, the cool breeze blew in, brushing her long golden hair past her shoulder. Her eyes darted between where Rhys and I sat on the couch and then shifted to something behind us. I was too focused on the elegant way she held her glass to glance away from her posture.

“It’s not bickering if I’m right.” I slapped Rhys against his chest playfully. His chest vibrated with a chuckle.

“Az, play that one song from the other night,” said Amren. With her wine glass inches from her lips in one hand, she pointed at Azriel with her other. There was a lot you learned about a person while under the influence. In Amren’s case, during the day, she was a short-tempered finance major student who ate boys and numbers for breakfast. There was no doubt that she’d be valedictorian of the College of Business Administration. She studied hard, but she also played hard.

“Thisssisss my jaaaaammm.” Amren’s words slurred. She raised one of her hands as if meaning to touch the ceiling lamp like a fly attracted to a zapper light. Swaying to the rhythm, Amren praised the white light above.

“Oh, she is gone,” said Mor, taking a sip of her wine.

All eyes were on Amren now as she led an interpretive dance to the beat of Dance the Night by Dua Lipa. Her choreography involved a lot of hands swaying in the air. While her claps to the music were slightly off-beat, she was giving it her all. She was the choreographer—the lead dancer. She was Barbie at the giant blow art party and the rest of us were just Ken.

“Here’s another piece of Latin for you, Feyre. Nemo saltat sobrius,” said Mor, nodding at Dance and Flex Barbie™.

“What?” I asked. Clumsily leaning forward, I propped one hand on Rhy’s thigh as I leaned closer to Mor in hopes I could read her lips over the music. I felt a hand steady me from behind.

“Nobody dances sober,” said Azriel.

“Unless you’re Azriel, then you don’t dance. At all,” said Cassian. The couch bounced as he threw his body on the empty spot on the other side of me. He smiled at Azriel, threw his hand over the sofa's backrest, and leaned back.

“I’ve definitely seen him dance,” said Rhys.

“No way. In his room?” Cassian chuckled.

I took this as an opportunity to make myself more comfortable, while they were distracted. Shifting my body, I leaned further into Rhys, the shape of his own welcoming me back to my spot. A soft giggle escaped my lips as Cassian grabbed my feet and placed them on his lap. Somehow my body had slid down Rhys’s and I was fully lying across the sofa on top of the boys. I was comfortable. So comfortable, I could fall asleep.

“At a party, actually,” said Rhys, his eyes glanced at Azriel while a small smile edged on his face.

“With a girl?” Cassian’s voice sounded surprised.

“With a girl.” Rhys nodded.

“No fucking way,” said Cassian. He couldn’t help but smile at Az, his mouth gaped.

I understood Cassian’s reaction, Azriel didn’t dance let alone run or jog for anything. He was an enigma; an unsolvable riddle. The man was calm, cool, and collected at all times. Always unfazed by things that would distress the common Joe. It was slightly unnerving. If someone spilled wine on the carpet, Azriel wouldn’t panic at the thought of a huge red stain on the rug. He’d walk into the kitchen, no questions asked, and come back with a dry cloth, dish soap, and hydrogen peroxide, and blot the patch until it made you doubt if anything had actually been spilled. Whereas Mor and I would have stared at the ink-stained rug and exchanged wide-eyed looks before quietly agreeing that the room could do better without a rug.

Azriel shrugged completely unbothered.

“With wh-

“I don’t kiss and tell,” said Azriel. Cold eyes stared back, silently telling Cassian to back off without any need for words.

“You’re just jealous he didn’t kiss you,” said Rhysand. He was trying to diffuse any rising tension. I could feel the sound of his voice vibrating across his chest. At some point, I’d given him my glass of wine or he’d taken it from me very smoothly. It would have been a disaster if I’d spilled it over the three of us on the sofa. I would have felt especially bad about it considering it was new. Their last one had moved on to a better place after Cassian put a hole in it from jumping on it during a karaoke session two months ago.

“Hell yeah, I am!” Cassian exclaimed.

Azriel raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin on his lips. "Are we about to kiss right now?"

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Rhysand.

“Come here, you,” said Cassian. Throwing my legs off him, he jumped across the room embracing Azriel. The room filled with laughter at the show the two of them were putting on. Even through the loud ruckus, the short-tempered finance major was far too deep into her slumber to awaken. At some point, Amren had tucked herself into the armchair by the window and nodded off. She looked cozy and peaceful with her head lying on the armrest. We’d learned long ago that it was best to leave her alone when she dozed off. A lesson learned the hard way.

Through the open doors leading to the balcony, the sky was briefly illuminated with a bright light followed by a faint sound of thunder. I glanced at the digital clock beneath the TV sitting on the television stand. It was late and I needed to get home. There was still a buzzing feeling that tingled across my body from the earlier drinks but I didn’t live far. It was ten minutes max walking. Plus, if I left now, I could avoid the rain.

Sitting up, I scanned the room looking for my shoes. “I should get going,” I said.

“Let me call you a ride,” said Mor, already taking out her phone.

“Mor, I live within walking distance,” I said, gathering my shoes.

Azriel jumped in, “I barely drank. All I had was a sip earlier. I could give you a ri-

He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes glanced toward the other side of the room at the sound of boots hitting the hardwood and the sofa shuffling. I didn’t think too much about it, not that I could in my current state. I was more focused on figuring out where I’d placed the key to my apartment.

“Do you want us to walk with you?” asked Mor.

Holding on to the wall, I hooked two fingers into one of my white platform Nike and pushed my foot into the shoe. Was it counterintuitive to own sneakers with shoelaces if I never had any intention of tying them? I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought as I did the same with my other shoe. It was unclear to me if I genuinely found the thought funny or if it was the alcohol coursing through me. Before I could respond to Mor’s question, I felt the close warmth of a tall figure standing near me.

“I’ll walk her,” said the familiar voice.

“Rhys-

“That wasn’t an offer, darling. That was me making a statement,” he said.

I sighed, looking up at him. It was late, and I didn’t feel like arguing knowing that it would delay my departure before the oncoming storm. Having someone walk you home wasn’t the end of the world. It was an act of the purest love. That someone cared about your well-being enough to ensure you’d made it home safely. That’s what I loved about my friends. The genuine love we all had for each other.

Sliding my baby blue nylon backpack over my shoulder, I double-checked I’d gathered everything. I went through my mental checklist. Phone, wallet, keys. Patting my pockets, I ensured I had them. I made sure to hug everyone goodbye before heading out. Well, everyone except Amren, who was ever so sweetly tucked in the armchair with a blanket twice her size. Likely one of Cassian’s massive blankets.

When I turned, Rhysand was already by the door holding it open for me. Slipping his hand over my shoulder, he grabbed my powder blue bag and placed it over his. With the motion, my white plush bear keychain swung against the two baby penguin pins on the cerulean fabric. My backpack had a very soft aesthetic that stood out when held by Rhys who was dressed in dark tones from head to toe. It didn’t fit his aesthetic. At all. I was about to object that I could carry my own bag but his voice interrupted my thoughts. “Don’t put the top lock on the door, I’ll be right back.”

As we headed out, the sky flashed again. The air felt cool against my skin and smelled like dew. It was a calming, fresh scent. It reminded me of potted flowers and succulents like the ones I had by the window in my room. The ones I always forgot to water but always survived, courtesy of one Elain Archeron. She knew I couldn’t keep anything alive, plant or fish, so she’d made sure to get me greenery that required minimal attention, which reminded me that I hadn’t watered them in a week. If it started pouring by the time I got home, I could stick them out the window and have them be watered au naturale.

I jumped at the sound of thunder and instinctively grabbed Rhys’s hand. His fingers wrapping around mine were warm and rough whereas mine were cold and soft. He squeezed my hand and held on to mine as we continued walking. “It caught me off guard.”

“Mmhm,” he said.

The wind picked up slightly as we headed down the illuminated path amongst the trees and apartment complex gardens that stretched across an open space. Rain was certainly on its way, it was just a matter of when. We likely had a couple of minutes before the downpour began. Thunder sounded all around us, and one, two droplets landed on my cheek. Damn. Other than being way off in my calculations, I’d also forgotten to borrow an umbrella before we left. There was no avoiding that we were going to be caught in this.

“I’m glad I grabbed this before we left,” said Rhys, opening an umbrella large enough to cover us both. At what point he’d grabbed the umbrella was beyond me. I stepped closer to him as he fumbled opening it. He gave it a slight jiggle with one hand that became more aggressive by the second as he attempted to push the sliding metal piece with his fingers. After about a minute, the section loosened up allowing for more movement. The issue now lay with the broken stretchers that were meant to hold the fabric.

“Who the hell leaves a broken umbrella in the umbrella stand?” said Rhys.

“Someone who forgot to throw it out?”

“That’s why trashcans exist,” he sighed. Rhys let go of my hand and continued fumbling with the umbrella trying to see if the pieces would lock into place. Thunder sounded above us and more drops of water began falling slowly picking up.

“If we pick up the pace, we can make it before it really hits,” said Rhys. His eyes surveyed mine and I could tell he was both disappointed and worried that he’d let me down somehow. But unless he was secretly in cahoots with Mother Nature, there was no way any of this could be his fault or something for him to blame himself for.

“I’m sorry about the weather,” said Rhys. The way he rubbed his neck and his brows drew together, I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on his face for something out of his reach.

I shook my head and smiled up at him. “What are you sorry about? A broken umbrella that you had no idea was broken? The sky? Rhysand, unless you secretly own a weather machine, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Forget the umbrella.”

“In fact,” I continued, “I think this is an opportunity.”

I took my bag and the umbrella from his hands, chucked the latter in the nearest bin, and placed my bag on the ground.

“An opportunity?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the moment, but I’d always wanted to dance in the rain like in movies and musicals. I felt bold and giddy at the idea of doing so now. All I could focus on was this tune from the third High School Musical installment. “Take my hand, take a breath.”

Standing in front of him, I stretched out my hand and offered it to Rhys. He looked puzzled but accepted my offer. “Pull me close, and take one step.”

“A song with instructions? I can follow that,” he said. A small smile formed on his lips.

“Keep your eyes locked on mine,” I continued.

His violet eyes twinkled beneath the moonlight and it almost looked like stars danced across his eyes as they softened, placing his other hand on my waist. He knew exactly what song I was referencing. After all, I’d made him watch it enough times with me. “And let the music be your guide.”

I nodded, cuing him to step with me. With his eyes wholly fixed on me, we slowly stepped into time, our shoes gently tapping against the pavement.

“Won't you promise me,” Rhys chimed.

Pulling me closer against his chest, Rhysand guided me across the makeshift dance floor—the walkway between the trees—with a step here and a half turn there. We were dancing through the gardens illuminated by the night sky and lamp posts down the pathway as we waltzed further in.

“Now won't you promise me, that you'll never forget.”

“We'll keep dancing,” added Rhys.

“To keep dancing.” A smile curved across my lips.

“Wherever we go next.” Our voices intertwined as we spun together, my hands held on to him tighter as the rain picked up. Swaying through the path of greenery, the scenery around us dissolved. It was just Rhys and I.

Thunder crashed above, and the true downpour began.

“It's like catching lightning the chances of finding someone like you,” we continued. I couldn’t help but smile brightly up at him as rain trailed down his face. The buzzing feeling from earlier that had coursed through my body now turned into a tingly feeling that reached from where Rhys was holding my hand—my fingers—to my chest. No, my body wasn’t buzzing, it was humming. We might have been dancing but I was floating in his embrace. I couldn’t look away from him.

With every lyric, raindrops painted our clothes a shade darker. My indigo cardigan was now inked navy as we swayed to the invisible music. My feet splashed against puddles, drenching my white shoes in rainwater. They’d likely be gray by the time I got home but that didn’t matter. As our feet shuffled across the pathway, the sky reflected itself over the water on the trail creating an illusion of stars beneath our feet. We were dancing among the stars.

We sang the rest of the song, never messing up the lyrics or missing a beat. We might have been recreating a moment by singing a song from one of my favorite films but this waltz was entirely made up by us. Rhys’s hand still grasping mine, spun me around as we brought the sound of the music in our chests to a slow end. His eyes were still on mine as we held our soaking bodies close. Was he always this beautiful?

I couldn’t help but marvel at his handsomeness and let an intrusive thought get the better of me as I ran my fingers across his cheek. He leaned into my warm touch, eyes softening. His eyes glanced from mine down to my lips. Please, I pleaded. I could feel my heart racing and my chest tightening at the thought of his lips on mine. Rhysand cleared his throat as his hands gently let go of mine, breaking the spell.

Taking a step back, he scanned me from head to toe and chuckled. “I bet we look like drowned rats to anyone looking out their windows.”

I shook my head, holding back a smile.

“I feel like one too,” I said. Looking down at my jeans, there was not a dry spot on them.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Had we just had a moment? I must have hallucinated it in the dark lighting. There was no way that Rhysand had looked like he’d wanted to kiss me two seconds ago. I wasn’t ignorant, I’d known Rhysand was objectively attractive. He had a strong jawline and he was fit from working out every week with Cassian and Azriel. He had nice cheekbones, luscious lashes, soft lips, and intelligent eyes. He was delightful to look at. He was…

Who was I kidding, he was handsome beyond compare. I just had never seen him in that way until now. Mother above, I was oblivious as they came. And I wished I could have blamed the alcohol for all of it—the way I was feeling, the thoughts I was having—but the truth was, I’d burned it out of my system with that dance.

‘We should get going,” said Rhys.

He grabbed my bag off the ground and we walked the rest of the way in awkward silence. I kept glancing sideways at him every so often. I’d definitely hallucinated that moment we’d had for a split second. The rest of the way to my place, I spent it looking at the ground contemplating while Rhysand stared at the stars as if searching for a cosmic answer.

By the time we made it to my place, we were full-on drenched. I was sure my hair looked like a wet mop attached to my head. I patted my pockets in search of the key and found it in the left back pocket of my jeans. They jingled in my hands as I fumbled looking for the right one.

“I hope you’re not planning to walk back in this. At least let me offer you a towel.” I glanced sideways as I turned the key.

He didn’t argue. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. He’d stayed quiet and simply nodded as I led him in. With Viviane at her boyfriend’s for the weekend, there was no one home. All the lights were off as we walked in. I flipped the light switches as we stepped through the place in search of something dry. In the hallway closet, I found some towels for us. Meanwhile, I could hear Rhys in the kitchen opening and closing the cabinets.

As I turned the corner, I could see him pulling out two teabags from a box before his head turned in my direction. "I'll put the kettle on."

"So sweet of you, you're an angel," I said.

On top of being handsome, he was very thoughtful. Was I really falling for my best friend? I couldn’t help but keep my eyes locked on him as he turned on the stove and prepared tea for us. I bit my lower lip and turned towards the dryer that was hidden behind a sliding door. Neither of us was shivering or in any danger of getting frostbite, but a warm towel would certainly go well with tea. After a few minutes, the machine beeped just as the kettle began hissing. I pulled both towels out of the dryer and practically moaned at the warm touch against my skin.

“Would you like a dry towel?” I offered.

“You don’t want my wet handkerchief to dry your wet face?” He glanced sideways at me as he poured water into each cup with a smirk painted across his face.

I giggled and walked further into the kitchen. As soon as he placed the kettle back on the stove, I threw a towel over my shoulder and placed the other one on his head as he turned around to face me. I ran the towel over his head, drying his hair before sliding it over his shoulders and wrapping it around his body.

I looked up at him. “My hair is soaked, Rhys.”

The clothes we were wearing could have easily squeezed out two gallons of water. I could have probably fed my succulents with the amount of liquids soaked into our outfits. If I could have thrown myself in the dryer too, I would have knocked out two birds with one stone.

Standing in front of me, wrapped around in my towel, he looked adorable. Rhys’s eyes met mine and I could have sworn time stopped. All I could do was stare up at him. Oh gosh, was I staring? I blinked rapidly and dropped my gaze.

“You still look beautiful,” he said.

I felt my heart stop and my breath hitch. My hands stilled on his body still holding on to the light blue towel. Did he mean it in a friendly way? I glanced back up. His eyes peered down at me searching for something in mine. My lips parted as if to speak but I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I closed my mouth and swallowed.

“Feyre.”

The way he said my name made my heart skip. He took a step, closing the gap between us. My name sounded low like a prayer on his lips. If he was praying, then I wanted to bless him but I needed a sign. I wanted a clear sign that he wasn’t just whispering my name in an empty apartment for no reason.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?” I half whispered.

His eyes glanced from my eyes to my mouth and back in a triangle manner. A small smile painted itself across his lips like a prayer answered. “You caught that.”

It wasn’t a question, he was making a statement.

“I wanted to be sure your head was clear when I kissed you,” said Rhysand.

“Rhys?”

“Yes?”

A pause.

“My head’s clear now,” I said.

Rhysand's head slowly leaned forward, stopping inches from my face, giving me time to take a step back if I wanted to back out. I didn’t. I wanted—needed, to know what his lips felt like on mine. If they were truly as soft as they looked. His fingers titled my chin up and kissed me. Gods, his kiss was more than soft, it was life-changing. His lips were gentle against mine, so sweet and delicately slow like he’d been waiting an eternity for this moment and now that he had it, now that the moment had arrived he wanted to savor it. If I’d been floating earlier when I danced with him beneath the rain, then I was soaring above the clouds and beyond the moon now.

His hands cupped my face as mine slid into his hair, pulling him closer by the neck. Neither one of us parted to take a breath. I could tell this wasn’t just any kiss, this was the kiss. The one that would change our lives—my life—forever. The kiss I’d compare any other to. I could feel his chest against mine as our legs brushed against each other. Rhysand's hands slowly slid down my shoulders and arms and made their way down and around my waist. We pulled each other closer, our bodies seeking contact where they could as we continued wrapping ourselves against each other. We were two colliding stars, bursting with sparks and ever-changing hues.

After what felt like forever, I pulled back slightly, eyes closed. Blood had rushed into my cheeks, and there was no doubt that the heat against my flushed face had painted them rosy. I could feel his head leaning against mine, both of us breathless. Mother above, I truly was oblivious to everything. That definitely wasn’t a friend kiss. That was an I-want-to-be-more-than-friends kiss.

Rhysand’s hand came up against my face tucking strands of semi-wet hair behind my ear. It felt like he was looking at me for the first time or trying to memorize every freckle on my face. A beat passed and he broke the silence. “I think I’m falling in love with you. I think I have been for a while.”

My heart skipped at those words—at his confession. My mouth gaped. There were no words. I wasn’t sure what to say. All I could focus on was the rising and beating in my chest as I focused on taking the next breath. Had this really just happened? Had we truly just kissed? Did he just say that he—

“I’m hoping you didn’t just kiss me to then break my heart, Feyre, darling.” He cupped my face as he spoke the last two words.

“I never knew you liked me,” I said, stumbling on the words.

“Now you do. And correction, I said I love you.” The corners of Rhysand’s mouth turned up. I couldn’t help the way my eyes widened in disbelief. He’d said the words again.

“You love me?”

Rhys chuckled as he shook his head. He lifted my head with a hand beneath my chin as if inspecting me. “Did you hit yourself with the dryer door? Do I need to kiss you again? Or maybe hold your hand as we walk through a storm? Or dance in the rain while quoting your favorite movie?”

He loved me. He loved me, and he not only meant it with the words he’d spoken, but Rhys had demonstrated and proved time and time again that he truly meant it, body and soul. A man who could talk the talk and walk the walk. Dare I say, he was a man after my own heart.

“If you let me, I promise I’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt how worthy of love you are,” said Rhys. The back of his hand caressed my cheek.

“I’ll do anything with you, Rhys. As long as it’s you,” I said.

His lips met mine again, this time with more passion and intensity. Wrapping my hands around his neck once more, I felt the towel slide off his shoulders and plop to the ground. Rhys's hands traveled around my hips, to the back of my thighs before he lifted me into his arms. Instinctually, I wrapped my legs around him and deepened our kiss. I wanted him closer. I wanted his body against mine without the barriers of our wet clothes.

As if he’d read my thoughts, I could feel us moving down the hallway to my room. Every kiss turned deeper than the last and I knew I couldn’t deny myself the truth. I was completely and utterly in love with him. And I was a fool for not noticing before that maybe I had loved him longer than my body knew. Longer than I truly knew. He was my safe space, my person, my best friend. He was everything I could want in a man. He was everything. Rhys was everything.

Gently laying me against my bed, he pulled back slightly to look down at me. His eyes were like lilac-blue stars glistening against the moonlight as he marveled at me. It was almost like he couldn’t believe that this was real. I placed my hand on his cheek, rubbing my thumb. His lips smiled against my warm touch.

“I can’t stop smiling when I look at you,” said Rhys.

He gazed at me like a painter setting eyes on their muse. Like he’d been seeking inspiration his entire life and now he’d found it. Rhys shook his head in disbelief. “How did this happen?”

The question wasn’t for me to answer, it was rhetorical. He was speaking his thoughts aloud as if waiting for a cosmic answer to shine through the window. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Feyre.

“When I wake up, when I’m about to fall asleep, even in my dreams I can never stop thinking of you. When you’re not with me, it feels like something is missing. And, gosh, I hate poetry, but when I think of you…I can’t help but imagine that this is what the greats write about. This feeling. It’s like poets are reciting their writings in my head.”

I could feel the corners of my eyes becoming damp. I could spend the rest of this night in his arms simply admiring him. His honest eyes were full of more unspoken words of love. I could feel the wetness of my clothes seeping into the blanket below but I didn’t care. I thumbed his lips, his Apollo’s arched bow, memorizing this moment. I could feel my shaky voice escaping me as I spoke.

“All these years, I thought we were just friends, and I was okay with that…but now I realize that maybe I’ve felt like this for a while about you. That I’ve loved you without knowing that this is what it was.”

“You love me?” A smile spread across his lips.

“Did you hit yourself with the door coming in? Or do I need to kiss you again?” I mimicked his earlier question.

He gently rubbed his nose against mine, his lips inches from my own.

“Kiss me again,” he whispered.

I moaned against his lips this time. I wanted him to hold me, to touch me, to kiss me, to say my name. I wanted everything and more. We tugged against wet clothes, which were much harder to take off thanks to their added weight. They stuck to our bodies and made it difficult to slide out of them. But we didn’t care. We kissed and laughed our way out of the heavy wet clothing until we were skin to skin. Until we were finally warm in each other's embrace. And for the first time in a while, I prayed.

Rhys.

I prayed the rest of the night as his body melded against mine, pulling prayer after prayer from my lips. His name, the only one I wanted to whisper against the moonlight shining through my window. It was only our names echoing from the other’s lips against soft I love yous with every touch and shift against hips. We were dancing like stars in the night sky, and holding on to each other as if we’d collided into one. Our whispers and sighs grew more uneven. He was my gravity, my center, and I was his. With Rhys’s eyes on mine and a final waltz around the universe, I felt my world burst like a nuclear fission. Like a star reaching its last evolutionary stage.

Rhys kissed me again, softer this time, and wrapped me in his arms as we lay beneath the comfort of warm blankets, tangled in each other. Pulling me against his chest, he whispered. "Did you know that rainy day cuddles are two times more effective than sunny day cuddles?"

“Don’t you have to tell Cas to lock the door for you,” I said.

“That can wait,” said Rhys, kissing the top of my head.

35 notes · View notes

scoops-aboy86 · 13 days

Note

♠️♥️Steve's parents leaving for the month on a business trip and Steve taking advantage of the situation to try something new. He doesn't know where his size kink started, maybe sometime when he had Nancy in bed, his hands holding her dainty ones. Or maybe when he had shotgunned a couple beers and the pressure of his stomach made his cheeks flush, but it was something he wanted to explore to the fullest. It's new, and a little exhilarating, and it also makes him a tad embarrassed but he sets out on testing himself.

The first night he locks all the doors, shuts all the windows and locks himself in his room, unconsciously afraid of getting caught despite no one being home, and he sets the scene; Steve cleans the room, sets up his mirror in front of his desk to see himself, and he even brings in an extra table to put the food out. He got a couple burgers, a case of beer, some twizzlers, some cokes, and an ice cream pint. Realistically he knows he won't finish it all but he just wants to see what he can.

He dresses himself in an old polo, straight fit, and a pair of jeans. It's quiet as he works his way through the meal, stomach bubbling as he chugs down drink after drink and by midnight he's painfully full, undeniably hard, and hungry for more.

Motivated by his own arousal, the damage to his waistline is fast and the looks, little comments he gets from his old friends, Nancy, even Robin sends him over the moon.

I have toiled over a response to this for like. Three weeks or so? It's 6.5k words and I think I'm finally happy with it.

Pre s4. Steve's parents aren't awful in this, they're just kind of... okay but out of touch. Also, in Robin's defense, her comments and concern are not so much because of Steve's weight as they are about the fact that he hasn't flirted with anyone (that she's noticed) in a while.

🔞 Contains: kink exploration, weight gain kink, stuffing, a dash of humiliation kink, getting together, and even some praise kink slipped in at the end. 🔞

Steve has always thought about it somewhere in the back of his head, is the thing. He wasn’t quite one of those kids who stuffed pillows down his shirt while playing when he was younger, but he’d thought about it. Contrary to what many of his friends might say, he’s actually a very thoughtful guy—you just have to not rush him.

It takes eighteen whole years and a well-timed business trip that has his parents jetting off to… wherever, he honestly wasn’t listening, for Steve to actually act on those thoughts.

And look, he likes his parents. They’re always around for his birthday and on Christmas. His dad is a stickler about eating at home and his mom always insists on balanced meals, so there’s always a steady rotation of predictably portioned protein, vegetables, and starch on the table every night. It’s just…

They don’t understand him, alright? They’re analytical and Steve’s a people person. They’re into math and spreadsheets and statistics, and he’s more kinesthetic, shit at algebra and trigonometry but took to geometry like a duck to water. They read a lot, whereas Steve prefers to be out and doing things with his friends, or at the very least getting behind the wheel and going for a drive.

It’s fine though, because they try. There’s a pool and a basketball hoop in the backyard, monuments in their attempts to, if not relate, then at least cater to their only child’s interests.

But this interest is so in the other direction that it’d be off their map entirely. Off most people’s maps, by enough that Steve makes sure all the doors are locked and all the windows pinned tight before locking himself in his room. The food is spread out, his desk already cleared for the purpose and an extra side table dragged to put the full of Cokes, beers, and ice cream on.

He sits in his desk chair, spins back and forth a few times to make sure he can see everything in his carefully positioned mirror… and then he just eats.

Not fast, not to start with. Sure, he skipped lunch to try and heighten the experience, but you don’t start a distance race at a full-out sprint. He takes the burgers at a steady pace because he’s genuinely hungry, gulping his way through a couple Cokes before switching to beer. That way the effects of the alcohol are slow to kick in, gradual compared to the pressure building within him.

It catches up to him slowly enough that he only notices while trying to use one of the Twizzlers as a straw and snickering to himself in his quiet room when all he manages to do is suck suds. Tipsy and full, the polo that fit him comfortably back in freshman year is already tight and has him fighting the urge to pull it up, release the tension. Instead, he smooths his hands down the fabric, tugging it down, but then unbuttons his jeans and watches that lack of constriction send it riding right back up.

“Fuck, fuck,” Steve moans. He scrambles to grab a spoon and the ice cream carton, testing that it’s soft enough to scoop easily if he just leaves it on the desk before jamming his free hand into his boxers where he’s hard and throbbing, half stroking and half just grinding sloppily into his palm while he jams more ice cream into his greedy mouth.

At first he thinks he’ll have just the top layer or so, about a spoon’s worth deep and then he’ll stop. But he can’t get it to look flat, he wants it to look all even so when he puts it back in the fridge his parents might not notice! Meanwhile, he’s cramming in bite after bite and moaning in between, maybe missing a few opportunities to declare the container flat and his gorging over. The tightness of his shirt and of his hand sliding frantically over his shaft is just so distracting, a dual assault, and when he looks down his panting turns into a down-to-his-toes groan because he looks like he’s swallowed a goddamn beach ball.

It’s the combo of beer and dairy, making him bloat up even more. That’s crept up on him too, and fuck, he’s so goddamn full but he’s also so close, can’t stop now—Without stopping to think, Steve drops his spoon and groans his way through a lunge for the last can. He falls heavily back into place with it in hand, cracks it open, moaning, and starts desperately to chug. More and more of it escapes out the lax corners of his mouth, dripping down the front of his polo and it’s almost, almost, almost—

It feels so good when he comes, and that’s how he knows this isn’t a one-off. Setting the empty can down next to the ice cream with a jarring hiccup, Steve reaches down, wipes his hand on his jeans and reaches up to cradle his belly gingerly. Feels it churning and bubbling under his palms, and imagines how it might feel to be this full and tight, but also soft.

He lets his head loll back where he’s slouched in the desk chair, and just drifts on the feeling while the room wobbles slowly on its axis around him, lost in rosy daydreams.

It’s a while before he comes back to himself well enough to stand, struggling sluggishly out of his messy clothes. There are red impressions where his jeans were pinching him and he gets distracted for a moment in just feeling them with his fingertips, reading the lines like braille. His skin feels hot to the touch, sweat beaded on his upper lip and dampening his hairline, and every movement makes him feel like he’s about to burst. Still, he’s not… that big. Like, relatively, compared to how he normally looks, but not overall.

Not yet.

Without a doubt, he will absolutely do this again. He could come again, just from this feeling alone, but his eyelids feel even heavier than the rest of him.

After steeping in that knowledge for a minute, he crawls into bed. Every jostle to his packed belly makes him grunt and burp, an exquisite burst of relief; he ends up sprawled on his side and practically melts into the mattress, falling once more into that all-encompassing sense of fullness until the food coma stupor lulls him to a deep and restful sleep.

The next time—because of course there’s a next time, he’s been dreaming about it and waking up sticky and hungry—Steve does the same. Soda and beer and way too much junk food, in his room because his parents aren’t home to lecture him about eating in bed and the possibility of ants. All the doors are locked again and he starts out eagerly, already palming himself through his sweatpants.

From a stack of microwaved corn dogs and a few bags of chips to a little round grocery store cake meant to feed eight people, he doesn’t want to stop. Can’t stop, because he wants to be able to grab himself and get entire handfuls. Even just little ones, as… as an experiment.

That’s a lie. He knows, as he catches his breath after coming so hard his toes curled and comes back down to earth with a fierce stomach ache that he’s gradually figuring out how to soothe with well-placed massaging over his belly, that a little might not be enough.

He wants more, and there’s no one around to stop him.

It takes a while for his friends to notice, but the evidence creeps up on him. Steve loves it, can feel himself getting a little bit softer and his clothes a little bit tighter every day. Whenever he doesn’t take a special night to stuff his face, he still eats a bit extra at dinner and feels all over himself, reveling in the slow transformation, part of him wishing he dared to go faster.

Nancy is the first to comment. He doesn’t run into her often, but one day Steve is picking Dustin and Will up from the Wheeler’s and she opens the front door instead of her mom.

“Oh, Steve, hi,” she says awkwardly, looking him quickly up and down while clearly trying not to be obvious about it. “I, um. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” Steve replies honestly. “Family Video pays a little better than Scoops, so, you know. That much closer to getting my own place soon. Me and Rob are keeping our eyes peeled for a rental in town, since she’s planning on taking a gap year once she graduates.”

“Oh.” Nancy sounds falsely gentle, like she doesn’t think he quite understands something. “You know… Robin talks all the time about how one thousand percent platonic you two are.”

Steve frowns slightly, puzzled. He says that just as much, he’s pretty sure. What’s Nancy’s point?

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “I’m not sure she’s… in the same place as you are. Metaphorically.”

“Or literally,” he tries to joke, grinning in an attempt to blow past this weird little moment. Puts his hands on his hips, pleasantly aware in the back of his mind that there’s already more give there than there used to be. “I mean, look around. Not a single Robin as far as the eye can see right now.”

But Nancy is dogged in her pursuit of the truth, be it a supernatural mystery or trying to subtly guide Steve to a realization he doesn’t actually need to have. “Look, I can tell you’ve been in a little bit of a slump lately. It’s… perfectly understandable, after everything that happened. I’m sure you get nightmares still, god knows that I do—all I’m saying is, you're a good guy, Steve. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it, especially after the way we… the way I let things end between us. You deserve so much better than someone who’d just be settling for you. There will be other girls who see how special you are, no matter what you, um, look like.”

The words spark off a little coal deep and low in Steve’s core, a lick of embarrassment giving way quickly to a strange giddiness that she’s talking about his weight. She’s talking around it like it’s a bad thing, reminding him how taboo his not-so-little guilty pleasure is, and god it’s getting him going.

That night, he sets up his spread of way too much food and drink on the dining room table for the first time, and only bothers to crawl as far as the living room couch afterwards. He falls asleep pawing at himself and wakes up the same way, his ex-girlfriend’s words still echoing in his head like a treat worth savoring.

Funnily enough, he sleeps so well these days that nightmares are hardly ever a problem.

The next comment he gets is from a different Wheeler, a fact which is just… It’s something. He’s open to the possibility that the entire family might secretly have it out for him; less likely things have happened in Hawkins, after all.

“Hey Steve,” Mike says, grinning like he’s trying not to because he hasn’t even voiced whatever joke he’s been sitting on for the entire ride home from a Hellfire night at school. He’s hovering by Steve’s window, which is rolled down because it’s still warm enough even this late in the year. “Have you ever considered becoming a cop?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, amused by the teenager’s gleeful anticipation but meeting it with a bitchy look on principle because he knows the punchline is going to be at his expense. “No, Mike, I haven’t. Why?”

“Because it looks like you’ve got the donut habit for it,” Mike crows, and promptly bolts, running off down the long drive towards his house with a cackle, leaving Steve to just… sit there, poker faced.

Beside him, Dustin squawks and just about shoves his entire upper half out the passenger side window to yell after his friend. “Mike, don’t be a jackass! We need Steve to keep giving us rides!”

In the rear-view mirror, Lucas’ eyebrows have shot up, his mouth twisted like he too doesn’t approve of the joke, but doesn’t want to add to the spectacle by commenting on it now that the perpetrator is out of range. Dustin drops back into his seat and turns to Steve with a pleading look.

“Don’t listen to him, man, you look fine. You look great, event! Please keep picking us up after Hellfire, please please please, my mom would never let me stay out so late if I had to bike all the way home unsupervised, even though I’ve done way worse—”

“Dude,” Steve interrupts, “chill.”

He’s partly saying it to himself, too. Luckily his shirt is untucked and effectively hides the effect that being told he looks like a guy with a donut habit now is having on him—although in truth, he doesn’t get donuts all that often. Once or twice a week at most and usually at Robin’s suggestion, because it’s far more efficient to make a bunch of pancakes without ever having to leave the house or, like. Put on clothes that actually fit.

“It’s fine,” he continues, trying to will down the heat he can feel in his cheeks. “Mike’s a little shit, I’m not going to take that out on you guys. Judge you for your choice in friends, sure, but you know… whatever.”

Steve is quick about dropping Lucas off down the street and Dustin a couple minutes later, and then speeds to the nearest place that’s still open and sells donuts.

Under the pretense that some will be left over for Robin in the morning he gets an entire dozen, six classic chocolate glazed and six jelly-filled. He already has one in hand as he drives away, the sugar lighting up his taste buds like a non-traumatizing fireworks display. When he gets home he pulls straight into the garage and doesn’t get out until the box is empty and he’s licked all the chocolate frosting and powdered sugar from his fingers and lips.

He goes inside to find a message on his parents’ fancy answering machine letting him know that their month-long trip has been extended by a few weeks, couldn’t be helped, and Steve celebrates the news by ordering two pizzas and a side of cheesy bread.

“Are you okay, Steve?” Robin asks the next day at Family Video, a thin veneer of faux casual over her concern. “I haven’t seen you flirt with any of the customers lately, and there have been some real babes among the selection.”

Steve doesn’t tell her that the pretty girls he would usually go for have started giving him pitying, sometimes even disgusted looks the more he softens up. It gives him a thrill every time. Robin’s mistaken it as a defeated retreat, but sometimes he mumbles an excuse to take his break and spends it in the employees only bathroom, braced against the wall where he can best watch himself rubbing and squeezing his belly and thighs, jerking himself off while cramming his mouth full of emergency granola bars from his pockets. Staying quiet is a struggle, but if he keeps his mouth full—

It’s on the tip of his tongue to just tell her, because it’s Robin. His best friend and pseudo-sister, a platonic soulmate forged in the fires of Russian torture and monsters from an alternate dimension. They’d once spent an afternoon going over how to go down on a girl, complete with diagrams and real anecdotes and Steve demonstrating techniques on his hands while Robin took notes. They talk about everything.

But then the bell over the door rings, breaking the doldrums of no customers for the past hour as a scruffy guy from the ‘bad’ side of town (literally a couple streets over from the ‘good’ side of town; there’s not a lot to Hawkins, at the end of the day) slinks inside. Steve vaguely recognizes him from school

Isn’t he that guy that used to yell shit from on top of cafeteria tables sometimes? Munson?

The guy notices him looking and gives him a quick once over, eyebrows ticking expressively upwards as he takes Steve in—and yeah, that’s Eddie Munson, isn’t it? President of the kids’ precious Hellfire Club and the cool new friend who Dustin won’t shut up about, but who pretty much everyone outside of that nerdy little circle calls the Freak.

Feeling those eyes on him starts something simmering beneath Steve’s skin and he makes a point to turn and put his profile on display, his growing belly beginning to precede the sides of his vest just a bit as a testament to not only the large meals that he’s now indulging in nightly, but the constant snacking as well. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Munson eyes him for another few seconds, then slips off into the horror section of the store.

This is actually the closest Steve has gotten to flirting with customers in a while, and it doesn’t even ping on Robin’s radar the way his usual peacocking always seemed to. The idea of being in stealth mode, flirting in code, is surprisingly appealing. Steve doesn’t even care that it was with another guy, which… Maybe he should examine that, at some point.

He ends up not examining shit, nor telling Robin anything. She sends him on his lunch break before Munson finishes browsing, and since his stomach is already grumbling to be filled, he goes without complaint.

It’s not enough for Steve to just feel himself slowly swelling more and more with each passing week; stuffings become a nightly occurrence, and he takes his breakfast cereal with heavy cream in the mornings.

Predictably, his pants start getting tight. His shirts stretch out around his middle, but gradually the sleeves start to feel tight on his arms, too. Every morning when he wakes up, he feels himself over and could swear he’s bigger than he remembers from the night before. Stretch marks begin to appear all over his body, but his favorites are the ones that bracket his navel as the brunt of the weight gathers in front of him at the waist.

He sizes up his clothes but doesn’t even make it out of the mall (not in Hawkins, the next town over) before he gives in and stops at the food court. Line after line, he collects his meal and wolfs it down before hefting himself to his feet and getting another. Hits every fast food restaurant and snack stall there, saving the Baskin-Robbins for last and working his way through the largest sundae on their menu. Absolutely stuffs himself, not content until he’s jam-packed and his breathing is labored, the waistband of his new jeans getting its first workout.

Afterwards, he drives home in a cozy daze of food overload and amazement at how thoroughly his instinct for secrecy has gone out the window. Being in a different town helped, but he’d just put his gluttony wholly on display and there could have been people who knew him in the crowd.

He goes to pull into his driveway… and his parents’ car is there.

And look, he loves his parents. They’re good people, they’ve been supportive even though his life trajectory had started off promising but trending downwards ever since ‘83. But he panics, okay? He is practically bursting out of the bigger clothes that he just bought. The fucking tags are still on because he’d been in too much of a rush to get to get what was actually his second lunch of the day!

Accelerating hard back onto the street, the Beemer’s tires screech and burn rubber as Steve takes off.

It’s not a conscious choice, the road that dead ends overlooking Sattler’s Quarry, but that’s where Steve ends up. He turns the engine off and just sits there, staring out into nothing in the gathering dusk, nursing a dread that sits heavy in his gut and sours the pleasant ache of being full.

Why’d they have to extend their trip? Just one month might have been fine, the change a little less jarring, easing them into his new appearance and bigger appetite. Now it’s been closer to two and a half. And it’s only in the past couple weeks that he’s really been going all out every single day, but that’s made a noticeable difference.

When anyone else looks at him, that change makes him feel powerful. Like he’s finally taken control of something instead of just being along for the ride the way he’s felt his entire life, always a step or two behind everyone else. And considering he’s nearly died several times over the past couple of years, mostly from putting himself in the way of others getting hurt, he figures he’s earned this. The satisfaction of taking every opportunity to treat himself, of growing softer and the way it feels when he touches himself now, of getting so full he can barely move, all of it. There’s a bounce in his step that he never had as the slim and sleek King of Hawkins High, and every jiggle that causes is a little thrill.

But it’s different when it’s his parents.

They try, but they’ve never really understood him, even less so since his involvement with the Upside Down. They would definitely never understand this. There’s bound to be a breaking point somewhere, and Steve can’t stand the thought of it being over something that makes him feel so happy.

He’s already the screw-up that won’t follow in their footsteps, who couldn’t even get into his safety school… Dread seeps, cold, into his bloodstream at the possibility of seeing that same quickly-stifled disappointment flicker in their eyes when they realize the last bit of the son they used to know, the former athlete, is gone now too.

It would be like Nancy calling him bullshit all over again. He can’t risk it.

While he worries, he absentmindedly makes himself more comfortable. Unzips his new jeans to let his belly breathe, peeking out from under his shirt as he runs his hands over new rolls and reddened marks. It helps; feels grounding as he attempts to soothe the anxiety churning away inside.

He kneads at himself like dough until the feeling of his increasingly squishy belly stuffed so full of food starts to feel good again and he begins to relax.

Steve doesn’t even realize he’s dozed off until a tap on the windshield startles him into opening his eyes to a view of the star-speckled night sky… and the silhouette of Eddie Munson, casually holding up a lit Zippo while sitting cross legged on the hood of Steve’s car.

“What the hell?!” Steve yelps, even as he recognizes him, and Munson’s mouth twitches into a grin that’s just visible in the bare flicker of flame. He gives a little wave that’s more of a salute and slides off the hood to lean by the driver's side window.

“Sorry, Harrington. Didn’t mean to startle you there.” Munson’s voice is deep, a low rumble through the glass. “Long day? Or do you just have an exhibitionist streak in spite of your golden boy pedigree?”

To his intense embarrassment (and a tickle of thrill, even now), Steve realizes he’d fallen asleep with his belly out, pulled completely free from the front of his pants and resting proudly in his palms over widened thighs. His budding love handles spill over the sides, too, the bottom of his polo pushed all the way to the dip in his belly button. Several inches of red-streaked skin is showing, burning as though the other boy’s gaze is a physical brand, hot to the touch. Immediately, Steve tugs his shirt down.

“I don’t, uh—That’s none of your business,” he replies weakly, face warm too. But, god, being caught on display like this is definitely doing something for him.

Would Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson judge him for having a boner right now? It’s not as obvious with his belly clearly dominating center stage, but…

“Hmm. Right you are,” Munson says with a smirk. He dips, picking up something from the ground. Steve has to squint to make it out in the moonlight, but it’s… it’s a paper bag. With grease stains. And a diner logo, the good one, the one that had been second best in town until Benny’s had shut its doors.

Munson waggles the bag by the window, and Steve can’t smell it yet but he can imagine, mouth filling with saliva and stomach giving a rumble of interest despite the tension. He looks at the bag, then at the person holding it, then points to himself in an unspoken, for me?

“If you want it.” Munson’s tone is casual on the surface. There’s an undercurrent, but Steve can’t tell if it’s the kind that will get him teased or fed, or… or both.

He does want it, even though he’s still kind of full. (It’s not like he’s been in the habit of denying the whims of his appetite lately.) And he does want both. Wants Munson to give him the food then let a hand drop to his stomach and feel the result of all his efforts, sink fingertips into his softness, get a good hold, make him wobble. There’s something in the guy’s eyes that makes it easy for Steve to imagine.

So he gestures towards the passenger side and says, “Come around and get in, then.”

Munson dawdles a bit, as though he didn’t actually expect Steve to accept… but he does circle the car. With a flailing but effective slide over the hood that somehow doesn’t spill the food and makes Steve want to laugh, even though he doesn’t let it go farther than a twitch at the corners of his mouth. Then he climbs in and shuts the door; the cab quickly fills with the scent of fried food.

“Triple order of onion rings,” Munson is saying, setting the bag in between the seats so Steve can easily grab them—he’s already reaching, mouth watering. The first bite is crunchy with that savory-sweet soft center of cooked onion, so perfect he almost moans. It comes out like more of a grunt as he snags another.

They’re still warm.

“I came by earlier and saw you in here,” Munson continues. He seems relaxed enough, knees spread and body turned at an angle so he's leaning in the crook of the seat and the door, facing Steve. Watching him. One long arm propped along the bottom of the passenger window, black lacquered nails tapping idly against the front console ahead. “Left, drove by that place on Washington by pure coincidence… I figured that if you were still here by the time I got back, I’d offer them up in tribute, and if not, that’s my dinner figured out.”

Steve chuckles around a third onion ring. “You’d have three orders of onion rings for dinner, Munson?” And he’s not being a hypocrite, honestly—he’s eating these as a snack, for fuck’s sake, god he’s gotten so greedy—but he’s talking to a walking bean pole here, decently muscled but in a slim, wiry way that would get him pulverized in most competitive sports.

“Please,” the other boy retorts dryly, “Munson is my father. Call me Eddie.”

“Oh. In that case, call me Steve.” He holds out his hand the way his dad taught him to when introducing himself—realizes it’s got grease and crumbs, wipes it on his shirt, and holds it out again.

Eddie just grins lazily at him, unmoving. “I know your name, man. Kind of flattered that you know mine, and flattery goes a long way with me.” He leans forward, teasing at the boundary of Steve’s space. “You can have the whole thing if you want. Eat up, big boy.”

The last two words are practically purred. Steve’s eyes fly to meet Eddie’s, his breath stuttering at the subtle edge to them, the static charge they leave in the air. And Steve has never stuffed himself with anyone watching before today, preferring to snack heavily before hanging out with his friends and again after to fill whatever gaps digestion had managed to leave him in that time… It’s a day of firsts.

Like being told to eat, when just about everyone else keeps implying he should do the opposite.

Under Eddie’s steady gaze, Steve eats with an onion ring in each hand so his mouth never goes empty while reaching for another. They talk, a little awkwardly at first because they have practically no common interests, but when Eddie brings up DnD and Steve says something about the kids, that’s where things take off. Eddie is observant and does a good Dustin impression, enough to make Steve laugh repeatedly with his mouth full.

“I’ve heard lots of stories about you,” Eddie says at one point. “That kid worships you, dude—they all do, but Dustin in particular won’t shut up about how great his ‘older male friend’ is.”

Steve wrinkles his nose and takes another bite. “He called me that? Ugh, what a little weirdo.” But his tone is affectionate, and Eddie smirks back until— “He calls you the same thing, you know. I’ve told him to cut it out, it’s like he’s trying to make me jealous enough to play that Dragons game with you guys or something.”

Eddie throws his head back in a laugh, and Steve likes that it’s a full body event. Kind of wants to lean against Eddie’s thin chest while he does it just to feel the vibrations through his rib cage, the texture of black leather jacket under his cheek, which… is a new thought to have about another guy, for Steve. The food is making him complacent, movements slow and syrupy as bite by bite he creeps back towards that state of delicious fullness. He just needs—

“Would you mind grabbing me something to drink from the back seat?” Steve asks, taking a rare moment of one hand being empty to shift himself a little, subtly prod at the underside of his filling belly to try and gauge how much room he has left. Eddie’s gaze feels like a brand on him, burning straight to the pleasure center of Steve’s brain, and he wishes again that Eddie would make some sort of comment about how much he can eat when it’s obvious he’s already had a lot. “There’s, like…” He doesn’t remember what’s actually back there, just that he’s heard things bumping and clunking into each other in the foot-well for a bit. “There should be something. Maybe open it outside though, I think stuff’s been rolling around back there for a while.”

With an expressive arch of his eyebrows, Eddie contorts around until he’s on his knees and peering into the back seat.

Meanwhile, Steve has a clear view of the most flat-as-a-pancake ass he’s ever seen in his life. When he mentally compares it to his own—because he’d been surrounded by changing room mirrors not long ago, he is well aware that his booty has some bounce to it—he has to pause his eating to adjust himself again. And if this time, rosy cheeked and starting to breathe heavier, he leaves one hand tucked under his belly to provide a different kind of friction… he is prepared to lie about why, if asked.

Christ, first the food court and now this. He can’t believe himself today. It’s dangerous, reckless, out of control, and not going to help him with the impending Situation waiting for him at home.

It’s intoxicating, though. He loves it.

“Here,” Eddie offers, twisting back to uncap a water bottle with his teeth and hand it to Steve ready to go.

Hot, Steve thinks, and squeezes his dick through his jeans under the cover of his bloated belly with a shudder. (He is going to get caught if he keeps doing that, a knowledge that makes him gulp the water down even more eagerly than he might have otherwise.)

Eddie doesn’t sit back down right away, though, leaning back in there and coming up with another water and two cans of Coke. While Steve finishes his water and breaks off from it with a wet gasp, the other teen opens his door, drumming his fingers on one of the pop cans to disarm at least some of the shaken up carbonation for a few seconds, then pulls the tab. It hisses and froths, and Eddie yelps a little as he hastily brings it to his own lips and tries to suck up the fizz before it hits the ground.

“Sorry,” Steve says with a breathless chuckle. The can is still three fourths full when Eddie hands it to him. He downs it in one go, easy—a blessing, since lukewarm Coke isn’t his favorite flavor ever, but he feels a little kick as soon as it hits his already full stomach and shifts in vague discomfort.

For all that they don’t really know each other, Eddie notices immediately and pauses his tapping on the next can. “You good, dude?”

“Just—” Steve resettles, crams the onion ring queued up in his hand into his mouth, and digs the heel of his now free hand into the top of his belly, pressing until he feels the belch coming. It bubbles out around the food in his mouth, loud and satisfying; he lets his eyes fall half closed at the release of pressure, palm gliding smoothly over his rounded gut without a care for his audience. “‘M fine,” he sighs happily, and then reaches to pull the last of his snack from the greasy bag.

“Damn.” Eddie sounds almost impressed. “You really know how to pack it away, don’t you Steve?”

Part of Steve preens at the words, mouth full and aching in his jeans. His shirt is riding up again, just a little, and he’s tempted to ask Eddie for a belly rub. Not enough to actually get the words out, he’s not that far gone, but god, he thinks about it.

He pops the final onion ring in his mouth and sucks the last traces from his fingers—is still thinking enough to try and not get these pants greasy so he can go back tomorrow, exchange them for the next size or two up. Something with room to grow, because he’s definitely full, panting, and even sweating a bit, but he’s not done. Doesn’t want to stop until he’s fucking huge, about to burst.

Another burp sneaks up on Steve, reminding him of something. “Is that other Coke up for grabs? You can have it if you want, I just—”

“It’s for you,” Eddie cuts in easily, voice so low and smooth that Steve actually shivers. Then he leans in, close enough for Steve to feel body heat radiating near his arm. “I know what you are, Steve Harrington,” he murmurs. His eyes are hypnotizing so close, all dark brown veined with deep gold, and they dip down to watch Steve’s mouth.

Where Steve is paused in the act of still licking at his own fingers, struck dumb by the heady proximity. He’s seen the hunger in Eddie’s eyes before: in the mirror, while examining himself for new stretch marks. On Eddie it’s still wary, ready to pull back at any moment if things go sideways, but it’s there. Like maybe Eddie wants to kiss him, safe enough from prying eyes out here, at the edge of the quarry at night.

“Saw you flaunting it in Family Video,” Eddie continues, eyes slipping further down to Steve’s bulging, bubbling middle as he leans infinitesimally closer. (Steve is helpless but to do the same, a squirming and impatient part of him eager to snatch at and swallow the offered bait whole.) “And I thought to myself… ‘My my, isn’t King Steve getting fat.’”

Fat.

It’s the first time someone’s said it out loud. Steve’s cock gives a kick where it’s straining under his other hand, the one still tucked under his belly and pressing between his spread legs, and he bites his lip to hold in a moan. He knows that it’s written clear as day across his face, though, and that’s dangerous—he doesn’t know Eddie, isn’t sure why he would trust the guy with this when he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Robin, his best friend.

Except.

Eddie’s eyes grow darker still, his own breath speeding up a tick where it brushes against Steve’s cheek. And Steve has this thing in him that it feels like no one would understand, but maybe Eddie has that same thing too… or maybe not exactly the same but complimentary, and pulsing like an itch that needs to be scratched, just like Steve’s. Maybe they want the same things and this is the only chance they’ll ever get to know, fully and truly know, what that’s like.

Maybe, Steve thinks with a distant pang, if he can armor himself with these moments where someone finally sees and understands this part of him, he’ll be able to face his parents with some amount of confidence.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. It feels like he’s been thinking forever, but also like the word spilled out before Eddie even finished calling him what he is now, what he’s craved and what he’s become. Has no idea where he’s actually fallen between those two extremes and doesn’t care, just, humiliatingly, whimpers when Eddie pulls back.

“Don’t worry, big boy,” Eddie tells him with a condescending pat on the apex of Steve’s belly—a touch that makes him gasp followed by a helpless burp, makes him jiggle where his love handles are exposed, zings straight to his leaking dick. “Just getting you your drink like you wanted.”

Steve giddily watches Eddie repeat the process of opening the shaken can, sucking up what he can that tries to escape. He doesn’t hand it to Steve this time, though. Instead, Eddie holds the warm aluminum to his lips, a kiss once removed as Steve chugs it obediently down.

His eyes roll back, falling closed. He doesn’t know what will happen next; all he knows is that he wants, needs a satisfaction he has yet to quite fully achieve by himself, constrained by his own limits

“That’s it,” Eddie whispers, a sound that wraps around Steve and holds him tight, enthralled. He wants to roll in it, dip his fingers in Eddie’s velvety smooth voice and lick them clean while Eddie watches, while Eddie touches him.

Just as he thinks it, Eddie’s hand settles on the crest of his belly, pressing gently but inexorably in slow circles, lighting up his entire body and massaging out little, hiccupy burps. Their gazes meet, Steve’s eyes heavy-lidded and blown while Eddie’s are dark and endlessly deep, and Steve’s lips part in a breathy whine as he unconsciously spreads his legs a little wider. And then Eddie’s next words sweep him away, send his eyes rolling back in his head as pleasure rolls through him like thunder—

“Good boy.”

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