#what if i TRY DEFYING GRAVITY
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what if i make posts like other tumblr users do … just making posts
#what if i let go of shame#what if i TRY DEFYING GRAVITY#when i get high i cheugy and sincere#😴😴🤺🤷🏼♀️🦄🚿💃🏼🤶🏻💕❤️🩹
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i know the show frames it as this sort of honest vulnerability from kurt but i really think being alive makes more sense if you view it through a lens of if not inauthenticity then misguidedness. i mean the way i see it kurt is trying to convince both the audience and himself that he’s ready to be honest and vulnerable while, ironically, being dishonest with himself and his feelings.
#glee#i should make a tag for these kinds of posts IDK.#this is something i think abt a lotttt#especially bc i feel like its kind of a theme for kurt? at the very least ny kurt#i wont get into it but this is also why klaine pre-s6 breakup had 2 happen#i was gonna do a whole thing on the sondheim/schwartz thing but im not sure itd work out. the gist of it was defying gravity s1/s5 and#being alive compared 2 im still here. and what sort of growth each of those performances signifies#but i try to write long posts and i get hung up on details to the point that it becomes about something else entirely
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Broadway :3c
And I hear ya. (Insert spooky joke here) There is a sprawling WEB of central hubs, for The Arts. For trade. For getting drunk and having a good time. The Zone is large and it is endless. You'll NEVER reach the far end. It can never reach you.
All things, in gentle sweeping waves, across eternity.
So when folks want to have "a market" or "a movie theater" or "the waterpark"? You gotta PICK a point on the endless map. Figure if you are close or far enough away for others like it, to make it worth the effort to build.
You might even be the first to do it for GALAXIES in any direction! People might fly for WEEKS to come to your place! Move their Lairs to be closer too it. Like dust gathered by gravity, slowly creating planets and stars. A mega Lair. A CITY.
They rise, they fall, the Zone shifts all the while.
But!
Does the dead starlet stop singing? Does getting gunned down, stop the show?? I think NOT! Where is her STAGE? What musicals? What dramas? What operas and tragedies and forms unknown to human kind??! Ballet dancers who CAN defy gravity! Singers who have no NEED for air! The haunting blend of instruments, that could never in life have met! From empires long turned to ASH!
The greatest show in DEATH!
Ember was a world wide hit. Yes, her voice was hypnotic. But that could be FOUGHT. It was SKILL that carried the game. And she was hardly "I was Literally The Greatest My Planet Ever Produced" skilled. She was good, great even. Not "I was Born For Greatness" Excellence.
And like?
.....eventually? Danny's gonna ask after "cultural-y" Culture stuff. Clothes and food. Music and the arts. To help his parents get used to the whole "our son is half-dead" thing. To show he's not some mindless monster now.
And? Ghostwriter? Probably an absolute legend. Does he know where you can find some CULTURE? Oh THANK ZONE! He thought you'd NEVER ask! You unsophisticated-! *fist fight in a library* Still a dick, though. Always and forever.
And just? Imagine Broadway stretched out into a floating city. That never sleeps. Never stops. Shows ever changing. Some on a cycle, some only once. Dream-like. Beautiful. Eye catching.
And yeah, Danny didn't think he LIKED musicals. It was more of a Jazz thing. But? This was important! Gotta get the whole family in the Speeder. We're going to see a play, guys! We'll pick when we get there! Family road trip! Educational! We can make notes!
His parents are trying to be supportive. Big, fixed, strained grins. Trying to pretend to be excited. But they... DO seem reluctantly intrigued? And Jazz is all but vibrating in her seat. It's basically her "before you go away to college" present. And she is THRILLED.
The longer she excitedly speculates? The more into it she gets their folks. This IS gonna be new! Exciting! Never before seen Ghost Culture! Music! As a FAMILY! Think we could find souvenirs? Ooooh, wonder if they sell CDs??!
Then? They GET there. And it's... it's like seeing the Las Vegas strip for the first time, except multiplied into a city. Made of even MORE styles and eras. At angles gravity would never allow.
The air filled with laughter and excitement, people rushing to shows or humming bits of tunes. Street stalls. Fountains. Flowers growing everywhere.
They could stay for months and not even reach a fraction of these buildings. His parents are taking countless photos. His sister squeeling with joy as she races for an information kiosk like they just arrived at Disneyland. He, at least, remembers to lock up the Speeder. Grab their day bags.
When did HE become the responsible one?
The argue over shows. Obviously. Wouldn't be Fenton's otherwise. HE wants to see the alien one. It's from mars! But it's his sister's trip, as his dad points out, so she gets to choose. She picks a musical set during the Fall of Krpton. He's... reluctantly kinda interested. I mean, EVERYBODY likes Superman, right?
It's... it's amazing. Terrible, but amazing. I mean? A coming of age story cut tragically short? Oof. Hello, massively projecting then getting FEELS about it! Yeah, sure, rip my heart out why don't you? He's fine. No, really! Just drowning in his own emotions over here. The refrain of "A Life Well Lived"? *gargling dying whale noises* he's FINE. Not grappling with anything! Go on without him!
Thankfully?
They DO sell CDs.
He... he may end up, kinda, getting a bit of a collection. Going on the weekends, hoping show to show. Wandering to whichever catches his eye in the moment. Buying the CDs for one's he likes. Which? Honestly is a lot of them. Even though there's all sorts of genres and languages. Cause it... it RESONATES you know?
The grief. The anger. The "I have died but I wasn't FINISHED. It isn't FAIR.". And? Something about ghost speak flows so BEAUTIFULLY in song? It's hard to explain. But he... he needs them.
A pair of headphones, a CD, and a clear night sky? Nothing touches it. It's like a trance made of light. Like he can just drift.
The problem? Is the CDs are kinda... Zone made? They're radioactive, for one. Nothing a Fenton CD player can't handle. But... they? Also? Kinda fuckin GLOW? Like... very, very noticeably. And not in a "ha ha, cool glow in the dark paint!" Sorta way.
.........but like FUCK is he leaving his music behind when he goes to college. Gotham will have to deal. It's already a burning shit-nado, it can handle this. Probably. He'll put um in a lead lined box. Actually, speaking OF.... he needs to get a few more of those... *goes back to packing*
Which? Is how? The Bats are treated to some of the most HAUNTING music they've ever heard, belted and crooned from Some Guy's speakers, out an open window, on the "stop for a mid-patrol drink of water and a snack" building. It's one of the intersections of their patrol routes. And THAT? That is some dude listening to a Romani ballad about death and the circus. Now it's a musical about the trenches of an obscure war.
Okay, that was DEFINITELY Kryptonian. Like... coherent Krypto- *Bruce gets a call from Clark on his "work" number DEMANDING to know where that is coming from. Who is that voice Bruce?!* huh.... Well Then.
@hdgnj @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @babbling-babull @spidori @mutable-manifestation @the-witchhunter
#dpxdc#dp x dc#dc x dp#dc x dp prompt#danny phantom#minji's writing#broadway of the Zone au#Danny's music au
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Steve doesn’t know how exactly Robin was able to convince him to be her plus one to her ten year high school reunion. The previous year, he had ignored the invite and gone on with his life without regret, but something about Robin’s offer was tempting.
Maybe he wanted to see Nancy although she had escaped his mind for quite a few years now. He knows she married Jonathan, and they’re living happily ever after, so the idea of seeing them is a bit repulsive.
In all honesty, he just can’t say no to his best friend. Which is how he has ended up stranded in the renovated Hawkin’s High School gym, staring off at Robin who excitedly ran off to say hi to her old band friends.
Steve wanders to a table filled with different snack foods and drinks, snatching up a water bottle and unscrewing the lid. He’s in the middle of a sip when he hears, “Steve Harrington?”
He slowly turns around, trying not to groan. He knew someone would recognize him eventually.
He freezes up a bit when he realizes it’s Eddie Munson.
They had formed a weird sort of acquaintanceship back when Dustin was adamant that they meet. After growing up a bit and coming to terms with his bisexuality, Steve was quick to realize that he had had a bit of a crush on the boy. But since it took a few years, he was sure that anything with Eddie was just another missed opportunity.
Maybe he can change that.
He smiles and replies, “Eddie, why the hell are you here, man? I thought you’d never come back.”
“Free food,” Eddie replies, holding up a plate he’s piled high with food. “And what are you doing here? I thought you graduated a year earlier than me.”
“I’m here as Robin’s plus one.”
The smile on Eddie’s face falters a little bit as he looks down at his plate. “So, you two are um..”
“No!” Steve is quick to clarify. “Still best friends and everything between us is platonic with a capital p.”
Eddie’s face lights up a bit before his eyes flicker down to Steve left hand, taking in his ringless finger. “So, are you umm…” Eddie turns a bit red and clears his throat. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Steve tries not to smile too wide at the question. “No, are you?”
“No.”
The answer makes Steve’s heart beat a little faster. He looks Eddie up and down quickly, taking him in again, noting the way that aging seems to have only made him more attractive. “You look good,” he can’t help but say.
“You do too,” Eddie replies. “Still have that gravity defying hair of yours.”
“And you still have that curly mane. At least, I’m assuming that’s what’s tied up in this bun,” Steve says, tucking a loose curly strand behind Eddie’s ear.
Eddie mumbles out, “Yeah,” almost as if he’s in disbelief about the whole thing.
And yeah, Steve’s not going to back down anymore. He places a hand on Eddie’s lower back and leads him off to a more secluded corner of the gym. “You know, looking back I think I had a bit of a crush on you,” Steve confesses.
Eddie’s eyes search his suspiciously, not believing what he’s said. Slowly, he relaxes and asks, “You’re not kidding?”
“Not at all,” Steve says with a shrug. “It took me a while to realize it, but there’s a reason I was so insistent about picking Dustin up from all his Hellfire things. At first, I thought it was just because I love the kid so much, but I didn’t have an excuse for why I waited even longer if you didn’t walk out with him.” He knows he’s laying it on heavy, but he’s not going to let this opportunity pass again.
Eddie puts his plate down on the floor and holds out his hand. Steve takes it quickly, letting Eddie pull him right out the gym doors and down the school hallways.
Steve laughs while asking, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere secluded!” Eddie replies, trying a doorknob to a class room, groaning when it’s locked.
Steve helps him, trying all the doors until one finally swings open. “Eddie!”
Eddie looks to him and practically runs inside the classroom, pulling Steve inside and shutting the door behind him, successfully trapping him against the door. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Tell me then.”
Eddie smiles. “From the moment I caught you making out in the bathroom with some girl, and I was forced to hide in the stall.”
Steve laughs loudly. “There’s no way!”
“You made me late to class and got me a detention! But the only thing I was mad about was that that girl wasn’t me.”
Steve trails his hands over Eddie’s chest, moving up his neck and into his hair. “Well, we can change that now.”
“Yes please,” Eddie says, leaning forward to meet Steve in the middle.
The kiss is sweet and filthy, taking him back to his teenage years. If only he had realized his feelings back then, he could’ve possibly done this sooner.
He hears the lock to the door click behind him, and Steve has never felt more onboard for a hookup. As they both make their way back to whatever teacher’s poor desk, Steve can’t help but wonder if this will be his only shot with Eddie. Something about it makes his heart ache a little.
But as Eddie breaks the kiss and easily lifts Steve onto the desk, he asks, “So, I was thinking we could possible get dinner after this if that’s okay with you?”
“More than okay,” Steve says, kissing him again before pulling away. “Just to be clear, you mean that as a date, right?”
“Yes,” Eddie says before tugging Steve’s tucked shirt out of his pants.
After that, Steve doesn’t really have any more coherent questions or thoughts.
Later, when he finds Robin, she gives him an unimpressed look while trying to suppress a smile. “So, you and Eddie had fun catching up.”
Steve smiles and agrees, glancing back at the door where Eddie walks into the gym shortly after him, hair now completely down and ruffled and shirt seemingly on backwards. He smiles at Steve and waves, completely blowing any cover that they’ve tried to make. But Steve doesn’t care as he waves Eddie over, hoping that he’ll remain as a permanent figure in his life.
For now, he thanks Robin for convincing him to come to her reunion.
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this is oddly specific but i absolutely adore the way you draw fur.... it looks like if you were to pet it down it would just fwip back up its wonderful and i love it
I think I know what you mean! That's so nice to hear, it's precisely the look I often aim for!
This is maybe a little off topic but there's this one particular coat type I try so hard to capture believably. I always think of it as "borzoi back fur" because a friend of mine had a borzoi with this sort of fur on her neck and back and they were just the softest, bounciest, most gravity defying curls ever.
I do my best but the results vary.
#I've been trying to find a word to describe this fur type#in finnish you might say taipuisa which means bendy#and it specifically means that it bounces back in shape no matter how much you try to smoothen or control it#I guess wavy is the most obvious choice but it doesn't quite match the “has a will of it's own” aspect#answered#anonymous
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every fragile thing
genre: figure skater au, college au, enemies to lovers, angst and fluff
pairing: park sunghoon x f reader
word count: 12.3k
soundtrack: jealousy, jealousy / brutal / the grudge / get him back! / good 4 u - olivia rodrigio
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After an ankle injury lands you in weekly physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for regionals, you’re certain you must be the most emotionally volatile figure skater within a hundred mile radius. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.
or,
every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.
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Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition.
But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted beats, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill.
In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best.
There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath.
Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?
That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come.
The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin.
But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you.
“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”
It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track?
“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”
Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals.
Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this.
“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly.
“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question.
Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.”
The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”
And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”
“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance.”
“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace.
But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”
You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”
“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully.
Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”
“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing.
…
You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue.
It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space.
The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left.
Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.
Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision.
With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door.
And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.
Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.
“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”
You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though.
Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next.
Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows.
“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”
“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”
“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”
You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.”
“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”
Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you.
“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new member.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”
“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes.
The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes.
Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs.
An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice.
“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”
“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it.
“Sunghoon?”
At that, he does finally look up.
Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either.
A beat passes.
Two.
Neither of you break eye contact.
The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second.
Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?”
Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink.
Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect.
Oh, you know him alright.
“___?”
And it would seem he remembers you as well.
It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough.
“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”
You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess.
You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—
You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again.
If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions.
And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane.
Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started.
“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours.
…
Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule.
Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes.
Including him.
Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be.
Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around.
“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”
You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”
“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.”
“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.”
“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.”
Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”
“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade.
“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”
“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.”
“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”
Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”
The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room.
Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.
It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible.
So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last.
Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.
With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back.
…
It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you.
Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.
Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance.
It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does.
Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.
“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”
“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth.
But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin.
Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you.
“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”
You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate.
Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.
Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.”
You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”
“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”
You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out.
“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”
Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”
Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends.
And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant.
It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong.
Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious.
Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”
Jake just gives you a look.
You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”
Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”
Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”
Or not.
“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”
Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”
“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?”
“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”
“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”
The guilt on your face says it all.
“No way.” Jake says.
Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”
“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”
“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”
The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission.
But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap.
No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them.
Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.
“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces.
“That’s rough,” Niki agrees.
And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at sixteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out Coach Kang's.
That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice.
That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time.
That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater.
That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip.
That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once.
Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks.
Not until it all shattered in a single moment.
It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart.
And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all.
Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn.
In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger.
And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner.
So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance.
And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.
But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself.
That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed.
That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him.
You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone.
“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses.
“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods.
“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”
…
When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.
As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage.
If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other.
It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”
Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side.
Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always.
It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead.
“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”
That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight.
Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.
You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile.
“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”
If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he.
Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”
“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”
“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.” And because the last time we saw each other ended on such great terms.
“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”
The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car.
“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”
You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely.
“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”
His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering.
Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home.
And he never says your name once.
…
The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness.
It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again.
Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays.
You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that.
Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first.
Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze.
The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”
You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat.
This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”
“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head.
“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests.
“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”
“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”
“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”
Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”
“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”
“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”
“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”
And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day.
“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern.
“Or something,” Jake agrees.
Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”
A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”
…
You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”
And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”
“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program.
It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts.
A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”
You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”
“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”
The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice.
You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”
…
The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.
Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake.
“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question.
“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”
“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off.
The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor.
“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”
“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again.
“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.
Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a boy you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know.
Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine.
Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips.
“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod.
Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.
“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”
You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing.
“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”
You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about me.”
“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant.
You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid.
Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife.
If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier.
“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”
“And you all go to school here?”
“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”
“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”
You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”
Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later.
Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long.
Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low.
Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations.
“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”
Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off.
But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing.
You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”
The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”
“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”
“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”
“And a complete stranger to you.”
It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body.
When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”
“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you.
You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.
“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”
Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp.
Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation.
Last time, he let you fall.
You have no idea what he’ll do now.
In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target.
Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin.
When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.”
“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon.
Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room.
You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought.
You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung.
The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.
It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt.
It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting.
He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”
Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier.
Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.
Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer.
His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers.
“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation.
“What?”
“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”
The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception.
“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”
“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”
He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape.
When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have.
In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe.
…
The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you.
With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie.
Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread.
In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd.
It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction.
But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared.
You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink.
Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible.
Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice.
The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year.
But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes.
For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.
In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit.
“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief.
It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past.
“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”
“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “Speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”
You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”
“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”
“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.”
“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”
It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?”
Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”
That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to.
And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes.
As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him.
And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear.
“I’m sorry.”
…
Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response.
But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame.
“You absolute idiot.”
“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry.
But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”
“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”
A beat of silence passes.
And then another.
Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to.
He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”
It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”
“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”
And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”
“Stop talking.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”
And then he’s kissing you.
Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right.
Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same.
“What are you doing?”
There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong.
“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”
This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning.
And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace.
The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon finally pulls you into his apartment using his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time.
Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought.
And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet.
…
epilogue
“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”
You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”
“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”
Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most.
You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates.
Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”
It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough?
Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”
“Hey! I—”
“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”
Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”
Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”
Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”
This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels.
He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout.
After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return.
It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”
“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin.
“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”
“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”
Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs.
…
outtake—five years ago.
Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission.
Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down.
Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore.
It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse.
Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact.
The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through.
He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger.
So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run. Every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck.
Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.
But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him.
He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either.
Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors.
He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own.
It seems so stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him.
So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five long years later.
Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you.
On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts.
And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
#enhypen fanfiction#sunghoon fanfic#sunghoon x you#sunghoon x reader#park sunghoon#enhypen fic#enhypen ff#sunghoon fluff#enhypen x you#enhypen x reader#oh look! another sunghoon figure skater au how original#everyone point and laugh
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bells will be ringing
crush!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader x fwb!Eddie Munson
The annual Harrington Christmas Party is an elegant affair, complete with decorations, fancy food and flowing libations. But when your friend-slash-fuck buddy Eddie tires of you and Steve dancing around your burgeoning feelings for one another…he offers a creative solution. 18+, MDNI 8k
cw: MMF, allusions to poverty and implied family strife, light alcohol and weed use, kinda mean/crass Eddie, semi-public fingering/oral (f receiving), r’s hair gets pulled once.
The Harrington’s were white light people.
There wasn’t a single inch of their stately home not adorned in festive finery for their annual Christmas party. It was all silver candlesticks with cream-colored tapers, deep red ribbons tied into bows and hung at perfectly spaced intervals, long garlands of rich greenery draped along the banisters—real as shit and smelling like a goddamn pine forest.
It was a far cry from what you and Eddie knew growing up next door to one another way on the other side of town. For you two, it was scrawny and half-dead trees purchased at a discount as close to Christmas as possible when their vendors were just trying to unload them, covered in a hodgepodge of homemade ornaments and faded multicolored lights, only about half of which worked half the time. When your families could afford a tree, that was.
The Harringtons’ own stood at the far end of the house, glowing bright as a nuclear reactor with seemingly endless strands of bright white lights wound around its branches. It was methodically decorated with matching red, silver and gold baubles, each one hung precisely in place and polished to gleaming perfection.
Elegant. Proper. Pristine.
The party was already well underway by the time you arrived, Steve nowhere to be found in the sea of people. They all stood together in clumps, exchanging jovial smiles that pushed up rosy cheeks, the women cooing over each other's outfits and jewelry while the men swapped stories about their quarterly earnings. Weaving through the throngs, cater waiters floated past carrying trays loaded with hors d’oeuvres and tall glasses of shimmery, bubbly liquid.
It made you and Eddie glance around, furtive and unsure as you skulked into the foyer. The two of you might as well have been invisible for all the attention anyone paid you.
“See Steve anywhere?” you asked, peering deeper inside the house.
The former stud of Hawkins High had always been easy to spot in the hallways of his former domain, seemingly towering over everyone even after he stopped sporting that gravity-defying bouffant hairstyle. Those days were long gone now, but an occasional glimmer of his old self would still shine through, reminding you of when King Steve reigned supreme.
“Nope, nowhere,” Eddie grumbled. “I told you this was a mistake.”
His warm breath on your ear as he leaned in to whisper in it had your head snapping to the side. Some of the snow that had just started to fall outside dusted his dark, unruly curls and he still had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, as though he wanted to be ready to turn heel and run at the first opportunity. You’d seen him look more relaxed about to shoplift.
“What do you mean?”
“Look around, sweetheart. See if you can spot what doesn’t belong.”
It was kind of irritating how right he was. Everyone else in attendance tonight looked perfectly at home in this pretty picture. It was all business partners and their wives, clients who probably made more in a year than you or Eddie would hope to see in your entire lifetime, other miscellaneous friends and fellow members of the Hawkins upper echelon.
To call you fish out of water would be putting it lightly. You were like fish on a space station.
“What were we supposed to do?” you whispered back. “We had to come.”
That was debatable. Steve had invited you, yes, but he also practically tripped over himself to assure you it was totally fine if you couldn’t make it. He’d sat on the edge of Eddie’s sofa running through all his most blatant tells—hands pushing through his hair, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, foot jiggling non-stop—as he told you about the party.
“It’s all my parents' friends, so it might be kind of lame. But I’m allowed to invite people if you guys want to come. It’d be really great to see you.”
He’d worked himself up into such a state, it almost felt cruel to say no. You weren’t sure what it was—something about the earnestness with which he asked, and the way his eyes shone so hopefully when you smiled and told him you thought it sounded like fun.
Eddie’s gruff voice sounded in your ear again.
“Think we’re just here to piss off daddy?”
You followed his eyeline to the living room, gaze promptly drawn to the imposing frame of John Harrington as he reached out to grip the hand of someone important. Or at least someone who seemed to think they were. Even never having seen or met him before, he was easy to pick out as Steve’s father. They had the same square jaw, the same perfectly angled nose and rich, light brown hair. Although, John’s was cut shorter and tamed into a much more manageable style than his son’s long locks that lived in a near-constant state of tousled messiness.
“Steve wouldn’t do that,” you said firmly. “He asked us to come because we’re his friends.”
The words still felt strange to say. It made you wonder, yet again, if it would ever stop feeling so surreal that you now hung out with Steve “The Hair” Harrington on an almost daily basis.
When you were in school together, you never even landed on his radar. Eddie had some notoriety as the town’s supposed demon summoner, but you were just…around. A plain face that blended into the crowd; a background extra with no lines in the scene; wallpaper and set dressing for the popular kids who were living out their exemplary lives.
If this was only a few years prior, he probably would be spending this evening sneaking drinks with Tommy H. and Carol, or parading around with Nancy Wheeler on his arm to show her off to all his dad’s colleagues and brag about her getting into Emerson. Instead, his falling out with all of them and his subsequent fall from his high-school throne had led him here—to an unlikely friendship with The Freak and The Invisible Girl.
Whenever he came over to Eddie’s to smoke, or you three piled into his car to go to the movies or drive the winding back roads that snaked along the edge of town, it almost felt natural. And the more time you spent with him, the harder and harder it became to remember why he’d always seemed so…untouchable.
“So, what should we do?” You wondered aloud as you glanced around again, still hoping Steve might materialize somehow. Behind you, Eddie’s head shook and his shoulders shrugged.
“How should I know? You were the one begging to come tonight.”
“I wasn’t begging.”
“Oh, really?” He scoffed as he leaned in close again, raising the pitch of his voice in an overly breathy imitation of you. “Please, Eddie? Please, can we go to the party? I’ll let you eat me out from the back if you—”
“Stifle,” you hissed, jamming your elbow into his stomach.
He grunted at the sharp jab, but his lips remained curled in a sly smirk. “What’s wrong? Worried your little crush will find out what I’ve been doing to you after he goes home?”
“I don’t care if he knows,” you sniped. It’s almost convincing, but the flash of alarm in your eyes told a different story. Not that it mattered, Eddie didn’t buy it for a second anyway.
“Well, that’s good,” he tutted. “Because he already knows we’ve fucked.”
“Wait, what?” You whirled around fully now. “How?”
“He, ahh…” Eddie fought to contain his grin as he scratched at the short stubble on his cheek. “He saw that picture you let me take.”
Your eyes went wide, both horrified and enraged as you shoved his shoulder—hard.
“You showed it to him?”
“No, he found it,” Eddie hissed. “We were looking around for some weed I had stashed and he happened to open the drawer it was in.”
Your whole body—your very being—surged with white hot shame. If it wouldn’t have given Eddie so much satisfaction, you might have run straight out of the party right then and there. The thought of Steve seeing you like that…
It was almost unbearable.
The details of you and Eddie’s attachment had always been strictly under wraps. You weren’t exactly keeping it a secret, per se, but most people weren’t super accepting of the idea and you’d learned to play it close to the vest. And with how much time the two of you had started spending with Steve, you didn’t want to risk making him uncomfortable.
It had been going on for ages. Pausing, albeit briefly, if one of you found yourself in a relationship, and picking right back up when said relationship inevitably fizzled or if it tipped into the dangerous territory of getting too serious. He was one of the few people in your life you trusted intrinsically, and it wasn’t like guys were banging down your door as it was.
The picture was a one-time thing—a polaroid you’d let Eddie snap as a belated birthday present because you’d been too busy to find him something real. You had made him swear upon pain of death it was for his eyes only. And now he’d shown it to the last person on earth you wanted to see it? Oh, you were going to garrotte him with tinsel in his sleep.
Also, Steve wasn’t your crush. He was…a preoccupation. A distraction. A vague interest.
You couldn’t even say for sure when it had begun. All you knew was just last spring, there was a month of Friday evenings where you found yourself back in the Hawkins High parking lot pulled in alongside Steve’s distinctive maroon beemer. He was leaning on the hood, waiting for Hellfire to let out so he could drive home his little horde of nuggets, and you had shown up acting as Eddie’s ride while his van was out of commission.
And that night, for the first time ever, you had a real conversation with Steve Harrington.
A fairly illuminating one, at that.
There was a sweetness to him you never would have guessed was there. And a dorkiness that brought light to his eyes when he did his elaborate handshake with Dustin Henderson, or the way he exalted along with the kids when the group burst through the double doors leading out of the school, whooping and cheering from a successful campaign. It warmed your whole body from the inside out, the feeling only growing stronger the more time you shared.
And now he’d seen your bare tits covered in Eddies cum. Perfect, just perfect.
“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “That’s so humiliating.”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I think he kinda liked it.”
“He…he did?”
“I mean, he was staring at it pretty hard. I think he needed some alone time with it.”
You rolled your eyes and gave his shoulder another shove for good measure, muttering a you're disgusting at him under your breath, hoping it would hide the nerves creeping across your face. Unfortunately, it only seemed to add fuel to Eddie’s fire. He leaned in one last time, his voice a gritty rasp in your ear that made shivers run down your spine.
“So you don’t wanna know what he said, then?”
Tension seized your shoulders as you glared at him, jaw clenched, ready to spit back a vicious comment—or maybe just spit—only to stop short at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Hey, guys! I’m so glad you made it!”
Steve was beaming as he came over, his bright hazel eyes shining, the golden flecks in them brought out by the color of his sweater. He drew you into his embrace, his strong arms curling securely around your body and his gourmand scent filling your nose as you breathed him in.
Your hands smoothed over the planes of his back, relishing in the softness of the knit he wore and the solidity of his broad chest pressed against yours. Your pulse quickened, blood pounding in your ears as you did your level best to force what Eddie had just told you out of your head.
“I’m the coat check tonight,” Steve explained, tipping an imaginary cap. “There’s a guest room upstairs we can put them in.”
“I gotta take a leak,” Eddie said, already shrugging off his leather jacket and pushing it into your arms. “Take care of that for me, will you sweetheart?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but Eddie just grinned back at you with a suggestive bounce of his brows behind his curled bangs. Steve pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and then turned straight back to you as he tilted his head upstairs.
“Shall we?” he asked.
The sounds of the party became distant and muffled as Steve led you upstairs to the designated dumping ground for all the furs and wraps of the numerous guests. It was dark inside, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the window and the warm glow of the lights strung on the outside of the house that cast across the heap of coats on the bed.
You laid Eddie’s jacket down on a chair in the corner before you began to undo the belt of your own tied around your waist. As the thick, gray poly-blend slid off your shoulders, you shivered at the cool air hitting your heated skin for the first time that night.
When you turned back around, Steve was much closer than you remembered.
His eyes studied you with a kind of reverence that made your body tingle with excitement in a way you didn’t dare to name. The way he looked at you sometimes…whether it through a haze of pot smoke in Eddie’s trailer, or in the flickering light of a screen at the multiplex, or beneath the harsh amber wash of a single streetlight in an empty parking lot…
It made you wonder.
“You look really nice,” he finally said, his voice as soft as his eyes.
The dress you’d worn was fairly simple, made of maroon velour with a burnout pattern of leaves you thought looked a bit like holly. It was loose and flowy, but had laces in the back you had pulled tight so it cinched in your waist and pushed up your chest, not unlike a corset. The neckline was just low enough to flirt with impropriety and it nicely complimented the length of the pendant that sat in the center of your clavicle.
A dainty (fake) gold snowflake you thought was festive.
“Thanks,” you replied, your voice even softer than his as you folded your arms in front of your stomach. “I hope it’s okay. I don’t have a lot of nice outfits.”
Steve shook his head, captivated eyes still scanning over you. They landed briefly on your legs, the black stockings you’d worn in an attempt to stave off the cold now prickling warm on your skin as if it was his hands running over them instead of just his gaze.
“You always look perfect,” he said.
It’s not just the words that made you falter, but the plainness with which he states them. As if it’s something obvious. As though he thinks it all the time and he just happened to say it this time. It makes your stomach twirl and all at once, you feel like an empty-headed teenager standing at her locker, dizzy from being complimented by the cutest boy in school.
“So, this is quite a spectacle,” you chuckled, glad for the dimness of the room that somewhat hid your reaction to him. “Are there any poinsettias left in Hawkins?”
Steve smirked and took a careful step forward. There was only about a foot of space between you now, if that. “I think if there were, my mom would already have a guy on it,” he said.
Your eyes met his and you shared a soft laugh. “Well, it’s really beautiful,” you sighed. “It must have taken her ages to do all this.”
“Not really,” Steve chuckled. “She has, like, a whole team that comes in and puts it all together.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Your gaze dropped and you gave a regretful shake of your head. Rich people stuff, you thought a bit bitterly. No wonder that hadn’t occurred to you. “But…you must decorate the tree together, at least. Right?”
“No, they do that too. I’ve, uh…I’ve never actually never decorated a tree for Christmas. I kind of thought that was just something they did in movies.”
He huffed out a laugh, trying to hide the sadness that had started to pollute his smile, and rubbed the back of his head, tugging at the hair there that curled along the nape of his neck.
All you could do was stare.
You thought about that gleaming, twelve-foot behemoth downstairs with its dazzling lights and ornaments all spaced and hung so perfectly. It was stunning—looked like something straight out of a magazine. But now it was tinged with something hollow and unsatisfactory.
Cold. Fake. Empty.
It was you who stepped closer this time, the muscles in your arm tensing as if fighting against your brain’s instructions to reach out and touch him. He was close enough now you could feel the warmth coming off his body and smell the spice of his cologne and the clove cigarette he must have smoked. Your lips trembled, parted slightly, still searching for what to say.
But words refused to come.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Steve soothed, flashing you that easy and charming smile you’d grown to love and loathe in equal measure. “I just meant, like, Christmas really isn’t a big deal to me. And neither is this party, honestly, but…”
He fell silent as his hand reached out to squeeze your elbow, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing gently across your forearm. You stared mutely at his hand where it rested, already dreading how cold it would feel there when he let go of you. Except he didn’t.
“I’m really happy you’re here, though,” he said.
Steve’s chest rose with a sharp inhale and the tip of his tongue swiped along his bottom lip to wet it. His head tilted towards you, a few stray pieces of hair falling into his eyes that were bright and shiny with the string lights around the window reflecting in them.
It made your own breath catch, praying you weren’t imagining it as he started to lean in.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
You and Steve flew apart like shrapnel, both of you too wrapped up in the steady draw of your bodies together to notice the heavy thump of Eddie’s footsteps in the hall. Steve’s hand came up automatically to run through his hair, dragging up the bottom of his sweater and flashing the briefest glimpse of torso as his arm lifted. It made your mouth dry as a bone.
“I just realized I forgot about my hostess gift,” Eddie said.
His brow cocked at you and yet another little smirk curved along his lips as he brushed past, nudging you ever so subtly back in Steve’s direction. He then started to rifle through the inside pockets of his leather jacket until he exhumed a plastic bag with a few joints inside.
“Got it!” he chimed, holding it up triumphantly. “Merry Christmas, Stevie.”
The little baggie sailed through the air, crinkling when it hit Steve in the center of his chest.
“Oh! Thanks, man,” he chuckled, fumbling to catch it. “That’s great.”
Turning it over in his hands, he paused, mulling in silence as he stared down at the joints and glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. From downstairs, you could now hear the faint tinkling of a piano being played and Eddie noticeably winced at the first few warbled notes of an unrecognizable carol being sung by a particularly drunk chorus.
“You know,” Steve said slowly. “We could bail on the party. Take this out to the pool house?”
As soon as he asked, his eyes darted up to meet yours—interrupting your intense study of the side of his face. Round and hopeful, they shone with his earnestness and you felt dizzy all over again. It made your brain scramble, trying to act like you weren’t just consumed by thoughts of what might or might not have been about to happen. You smiled.
“What are we waiting for?”
Steve left the lights off in the pool house, not wanting to draw too much attention if someone wandered onto the patio for some fresh air. The three of you made your way out in shifts—you with a plate of decadent treats you’d filled from the long table of desserts, Eddie with one loaded with food he’d swiped from the circulating trays, and Steve with a bottle of champagne he’d snuck out of the kitchen while the caterers were distracted.
The satisfying pop of its opening bounced off the walls that were mostly windows, sounding all the more illicit and clandestine in the darkness. The contents of the bottle fizzed as he held it out, offering you the first swig, and you took it with a nimble grasp.
Bubbly liquid splashed on your tongue and the dry, almost acidic, taste of it surely would have impressed someone with a more refined palette. But it made you wrinkle your nose as you squinted to read the French name scrawled in a loopy script on the shield shaped label.
“Gross, right?” Steve chuckled as you handed the bottle back. “But it gets the job done.”
He took a deep swig, head tipping back and giving you a long, long moment to study his neck as the muscles flexed with his swallow. You stared shamelessly, transfixed by the pairs of moles that sat along the line of his strong jaw, head empty of thoughts except how much better thechampagne would taste if you were licking it from his lips.
Eddie coughed, all loud and fake, drawing both of your eyes to him where he sat on a rattan sofa in the center of the room. He stared at you expectantly as he slouched down further in his seat, his knees spread wide and his arms draped across the back. He’d wasted no time making himself more comfortable, loosening the evergreen tie you’d made him wear and rolling up the sleeves of the dress shirt he normally only broke out for funerals or the odd court appearance.
“Don’t I get some of that?” he asked with a wry smirk.
Steve hurried to offer him the champagne, wiping away a little dribble of it that had started to trickle down his chin. You followed behind and slotted into a chair adjacent to Eddie’s as Steve handed off the bottle, making your brain short circuit when you saw the way his wide grasp nearly engulfed the entire bottom. It didn’t restart until he settled in the seat next to you.
After taking his sip, Eddie sparked up one of the joints and started it in a rotation along with the champagne. After only a few pulls from each you started to feel the effects, your head getting all light and floaty, your body warming from the blood pumping through you, your skin buzzing from the way your fingers kept brushing Steve’s whenever you passed him the joint or the bottle.
Or maybe it was from the way his eyes lingered on yours when you did.
Eventually, you dropped out of the rotation and sank back in your chair to gaze up at the house. The whole thing seemed to glow with the warmth of the party within, its windows bright yellow, the lights twinkling on the eaves. And the snowfall had remained soft and steady, dusting everything with a fine layer of white like powdered sugar.
The picture was immaculate, like a life-size snow globe. If Steve’s mother had somehow managed to pay Mother Nature as a decorator, it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest.
“Seriously, Harrington,” Eddie snorted, evidently sharing in your bewilderment. “If all this is just the weekend before, I’m scared to ask what your family does for the main event.”
A deep chuckle bubbled out of his chest as he took a long swig of the rapidly draining bottle. He’d said it mostly as a joke, but Steve’s reaction revealed a nerve had been struck. He began to cough, sputtering out his words as he pulled the smoldering joint from between his lips.
“Oh no, it’s not—they aren’t, uh…they won’t be here.”
His eyes darted to the floor as he shook his head and stammered out his non-answer, wearing that same look on his face you’d seen in the guest room. Half-sad and trying to hide it.
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. Steve just shrugged.
“They always go away for Christmas. I think it’s St. Barts this year. Maybe Turks and Caicos? Their flight is sometime tomorrow night.”
“Wait, so…they just leave you here?” you asked. “By yourself?”
Steve shrugged and shook his head again, the move almost reflexive, like flinching away from the sting of alcohol cleaning a fresh wound. “A nanny would stay with me when I was little. But from the time I was old enough…yeah, pretty much.”
You and Eddie’s eyes met, the same unthinkable thought seemingly crossing your minds. You actually felt bad—not just bad, but sad—for Steve Harrington.
“It’s not so bad, seriously,” he said, all flustered trying to salvage the mood. “I just hang out and watch movies and eat pizza. It’s fun. Honest.”
Despite his attempts, you can’t help but frown as you think what Steve’s Christmas will look like. His big house that was bursting at the seams with people right now being cold and desolate; him sitting all alone at a long dining room table eating leftover appetizers for every meal.
The thought tugged at something buried deep inside you. Something you’d packed away long ago and shoved into the furthest recesses of your mind. A box wrapped and taped and stapled and tied shut and then shoved behind a closet door. It made you turn to look at Eddie and he nodded knowingly, needing no words to know what you wanted him to say.
“You should come over,” he said, speaking so suddenly it came out loud in the tense quiet.
Steve’s head lifted. “What?”
“To me and Wayne’s,” Eddie supplied. “For Christmas Eve. We have dinner together and watch old movies and play games and shit. With this one.”
He jerked his thumb at you and you smiled as Steve’s eyes flitted over to meet your gaze.
“Only because they can’t cook to save their lives,” you said, shooting him a wink that made the corners of his mouth curl upwards.
“It’s not gonna be like this,” Eddie assured. “But it’s something, you know?”
“That, um…” Steve looked down at his lap, his long lashes fluttering as he tried to blink back the beginnings of tears. “That sounds really nice.”
Your hand moved without permission, reaching out to close around his wrist and squeeze. Steve’s head turned, staring at it like he thought he was dreaming. And as your brain suddenly caught up with the action and your body flooded with embarrassment, you started to pull it back only to feel the warmth of his palm covering your hand to hold it in place.
The only sound in the room was yours and Steve’s soft breathing and you swore you could feel the way both of your pulses were racing in time. His eyes lifted to meet yours and you became entranced all over again by his handsome face, the freckles that dotted his tanned skin, hazel eyes that shimmered as he scanned your expression, the deepness of his cupid's bow.
“I, um…I should check in with my mom real quick. You guys, uh…sit tight.”
Steve sputtered out his words as he rose to his feet, leaving your skin cold as he pulled his hands from yours. He looked around, his eyes searching to land on anything besides you or Eddie as he turned and stumbled towards the door. Eddie watched you watch Steve leave, an expression on his face as bemused as it was mocking.
“Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting.”
He shook his head, laughing to himself as he stuffed the last of the appetizers in his mouth. You glared back at him as he chewed and tried not to think about how your hand still burned where the ghost of Steve’s warmth remained.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on. If I knew I was gonna have to watch you make googly-eyes at each other all night, I could have stayed home. I get enough of that as it is.”
“We’re not—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Eddie scoffed. “You are. He is. Just make a move, already.”
It was actually painful rolling your eyes as hard as you did. “Right. Sure. And what kind of move am I supposed to make? Considering how he ran out of here just because I touched his arm?”
“You’re not serious, are you? You’re pulling my dick, right?”
Eddie hunched forward as you deadpanned him, answering with a slow blink of your eyes and humorless expression until he threw his head back in a loud laugh.
“He had a fucking boner, smartass!” he cackled.
It’s not only your cheeks that warm now, but your whole body igniting like a bonfire. The feeling grips your shoulders, it’s talons digging into your flesh, threatening to pierce it to the bone.
“Bullshit,” you whispered, your mind reeling.
“You think I don’t know Steve well enough to know when he goes from six to midnight? It happens literally any time you touch him.”
Eddie was still snickering to himself as he took a final puff of the joint that had been smoked down to a nub. You stared at your hands in your lap, thoughts going into overdrive. Because this wasn’t just some random guy at the Hideout or an ex-classmate hitting on you at a house party. This wouldn’t be just a fumbled touch, grabby hands groping blindly in a dark closet that you would recount to Eddie before he gave you the orgasm you’d sorely been denied.
This was Steve. This would be something. Wouldn’t it?
“Only one way to find out,” Eddie said, as though he could hear the question you were asking yourself. “Anything’s gotta be better than this.”
“But what if he—”
The rattle of the doorknob cut you off, your eyes darted to the door just as Steve pushed it open to slip back inside. Eddie’s dark curls fell forward, sliding off his shoulders as he leaned in.
“Just follow my lead,” he whispered.
Your eyes bulged in your skull, but before you could retort or argue, Steve had plopped back down in the chair next to you and your lips were effectively sealed.
“So the singing is still going on,” he chuckled. “But I think everyone will head home soon. We aren’t missing much.”
“That’s okay.” Eddie groaned softly into a stretch as he settled back into his reclined position. “I’m sure we can think of something to do.”
Heat flooded your core at his insinuating tone and you sat up a little straighter. He let his head loll to the side, his eyes finding yours automatically, dark irises glinting in the scant light.
“Hey…c’mere, doll.”
Eddie shifted down in his seat, rubbing his ringed hand across his thigh as an invitation. Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the fancy, and surely expensive, champagne you’d been sipping all night. Maybe it was the way Steve’s gaze followed you so intently as you stood and walked over to where Eddie sat on the wicker sofa. Whatever it was, it was working.
You laid your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as you kneeled on the cushion next to him and went to straddle his lap. But his hands came up to grip your waist and stopped you.
“Uh-uh,” he said, motioning his index finger in a circle. “Other way.”
You hesitated, glancing from your crouched position over at Steve. His eyes smoldered in the darkness as he watched you—leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, his long fingers laced in front of him. With a hard swallow, you stood and turned.
Eddie jerked you back against him, roughly pulling you flush with his chest. His knees pushed between your own and he spread them wide so your legs were held open, draped over the tops of his thighs. It made the skirt of your dress glide upwards, hem skimming the tops of your stockings, threatening to reveal the strips of bare skin between them and your panties.
His words from earlier still rang in your head. Follow my lead.
Well-worn hands splayed wide across your stomach, squeezing at the softness of your waist. Beneath you, his hips began to shift and the beginnings of his hard-on pressed insistently into the fat of your ass. It made you shiver all over, a gasp falling from your lips.
“So well behaved,” Eddie hummed, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips, suddenly gripping your chin in his hand to turn your face towards him. “She’s such a good girl, Stevie…. and we have so much fun together…”
The words and the deep timbre of his voice sent more shivers down your spine as he bumped the tip of your nose with his own. He pecked lightly at your lips until they opened up for him, his tongue probing the warm cavern of your mouth until you were moaning into his kiss.
It was lazy, but punishing. He nipped gently at your top lip, his own feathering with a tiny snarl as he revered back to his conversation with Steve.
“Why don’t you tell her about that photo you found?” he asked, hot breath fanning across your cheek. “Tell her what you thought about it.”
Your gaze flashed to Steve’s and you wondered if there was more light in here whether you’d be able to see a rush of scarlet covering his cheeks. His eyes had gone round with nervous energy, but they remained locked onto yours as he spoke.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he rasped, his voice almost cracking his throat was so tight. “I wish I could see it again, I…I wish it was me she’d done that for.”
The pit of your belly burned at his words, a breathy sigh fluttering in your chest and an exquisite ache now radiating between your legs. Eddie’s fingers trailed along the center of your body, over your sternum, tracing the dip of your navel through your dress until it quivered under his touch.
Slowly, he drew up the bottom of your dress like a curtain to reveal your core and the black lace your arousal had begun to seep through. The tips of his fingers stroked your entrance, mercilessly teasing your second set of lips.
“You wouldn’t believe how good she feels, Steve,” Eddie husked, his fingers holding their pace, making you grind into his lap. “Way better than that prissy cheerleader pussy you’re used to.”
The room filled with the sound of your breath and the wet schlick of Eddie’s fingers in your folds.
“Oh, sorry,” Eddie snickered. “I should say honor society pussy.”
Steve’s nostrils suddenly flared, his gaze tearing away from you and your body as if coming out of a trance. You looked back over your shoulder with a horrified look.
“Eddie—”
“Shush,” he snapped, cutting you off by plunging his fingers inside of you. They hooked upwards and your back bowed at the sudden stretch, a broken moan slipping past your lips. Steve’s eyes were drawn to your face at the sound, Eddie’s mention of his ex flying right out of his head.
“You want a taste, Harrington?” he asked, all dark and leading.
A little whimper escaped you at the thought and Eddie grinned wickedly. He smiled as he kissed the back of your neck, his teeth flashing as he nipped at your racing pulse.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? You’d like his tongue?”
“Y-yes,” you gasped, your eyes darting to find Steve’s. “Please.”
At your plaintive mewl, the very moment you asked, Steve instantly rose to his feet and hurried to kneel between yours and Eddie’s spread legs. His long fingers wrapped around the gusset of your underwear and he wrenched them to the side to reveal your dripping core.
He licked his lips as he stared at it, practically salivating. Your own lips trembled, fighting back the urge to cry out for him as you let your head fall back to rest on Eddie’s shoulder.
The wet heat of his tongue met your pussy in long, languid swipes. He nodded his head with each motion, dragging it through your folds as he inhaled deep and needy breaths of your scent like you were his air. His eyes burned with lust as he looked up from between your thighs, gauging your every reaction in the way you fluttered around his tongue.
With a trembling hand, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along his brow, skimming the stray pieces of hair that had fallen forward into his eyes. The intensity of his stare, the depth of his gaze, made you glow brighter even than that behemoth of a tree inside.
He sped up his movements, working you up, the tip of his tongue pointed to swirl in a pattern as magical as it was maddening, flicking it teasingly over your clit and making you clench with each too-quick pass. At the same time, you felt Eddie’s hand creep up between your shoulder blades, fingers weaving into your hair to grasp it at the root. He gave it a firm tug and pulled your head back, bringing his lips to your ear so he could whisper to you—deep and rough and just loud enough for Steve to hear.
“Why don’t you tell him how long you’ve wanted this, huh?”
Another pitiful whimper left your lips as Eddie’s other hand squeezed a little more intensely at your chest, tweaking your nipple through your dress, loving how it made you tremble.
“Si-since Junior year,” you panted. “When he w-won the state swim meet…”
Just the thought of that day nearly has you flooding Eddie’s lap and Steve’s mouth. Your mind filled with the memories of it—visions of him in a Speedo that confirmed just about every rumor you’d ever overheard in the girl’s locker room; his arm and back muscles rippling as he pushed himself out of the pool; water spilling over freckled skin, droplets collecting on his shoulders and running down, down, down to where the small of his back met the fullness of his ass.
You had sat in the stands, thighs pressing together, feeling almost perverted staring while he celebrated with his teammates and whipped off his swim cap, his wild hair exploding out of it and making you wonder how he’d even managed to fit it all underneath in the first place.
The mere mention of his glory days seemed to have a similar effect on Steve. The movements of his tongue and lips turned more fervent, more determined to unspool you as he moaned like he’d never tasted anything as good as you.
Tremors began to roll through your body, making your thighs twitch and spasm.
“Tell him how good it feels,” Eddie husked, hips now punching up to create some friction against his own cock as it strained inside his dress pants. “Tell him how much you like it.”
“Yes, Steve, fuck—I love it so much,” you whined. “Keep going, I need it.”
The pretty lilt and waver of your voice had Steve unraveling before your very eyes. Another low groan rumbled from deep in his chest and he buried his face further, more eagerly, in your heat.
“God, you taste so fucking good, honey,” he moaned. “I could do this all night.”
The thought of having his mouth on you all night is enthralling, but there was no way you would last. You were barely going to make it another minute as it was. Steve was too good.
Every flick, every swipe, every swirl of his tongue you could feel in your entire body. Pleasure rushed across you in waves, a torturous winding upwards, that burning feeling deep in your gut coiling tighter, tighter. Your breaths grew shallow and your pulse raced until you were shaking in Eddie’s lap, fighting so hard to keep your legs spread apart that they shook from the effort.
Steve’s hands came up to grasp at your thighs, his fingers squeezing at the meat of them as he kept you pried open for him to ravish. Like a man possessed, he lapped and sucked and kissed at your entrance, his whole body seeming to move along with the motions of his tongue and lips. Beneath you, the wicker couch suddenly slid backwards and you realized it was because he had tried to grind against it—desperate to feel something, anything, against his cock.
Wishing it was you.
“C-close, close, I’m so close. Steve, I’m co—oohhh—”
Your orgasm rushed in, plowing through your body, making you lose all sense. You squirmed wildly in Eddie’s lap, almost having forgotten he was there until he reached around to give both of your nipples one last pinch—knowing how it always pushed you further over the edge.
Steve’s lips never left your clit and his eyes never left your face as he ushered you into your climax. He stared up at you, his eyes all glassy and round, searching for your reassurance as he rose from between your legs. His face hovered in front of yours and he lifted a hand to cup your jaw, his massive palm warm on your flushed skin as you panted to regain your breath.
“Good?” he asked. Hushed, like a prayer.
“So good,” you exhaled, chest still heaving. Your voice wobbled as you spoke, so overwhelmed with all your buried feelings being dredged to the surface. “Steve, that was—”
“Steven? Are you out here?”
Every hair on Steve’s head went flying as he whipped his head around hearing his mother’s voice. Through the sheer curtains, he could see her as she stepped outside onto the porch, peering into the darkness, wrapping a fur stole tighter around her elegant cocktail attire.
Panic struck his face like lightning, his mouth hanging open, his lips and chin still shiny with your spend. He looked back at you, his cheeks nearly as deep red as the velvet ribbons hung all over his house. You scrambled off Eddie’s lap to stand, frantically straightening your dress and hair, nervously wiping at your lips that were swollen from biting down when you came.
“I, um…the party’s probably over,” Steve said. “I just have to say goodbye to some people.”
He ran his hands through his hair a few more times as he strode towards the door, even though any damage you’d done grabbing it must have been righted by now. You looked over at Eddie, your own eyes swirling with questions you were terrified to hear the answers to.
His shoulders bounced, standing to tuck his shirttail back into his dress pants.
“Well, that’s one way to do it.”.
Steve was waiting in the foyer with you and Eddie’s coats when you snuck in from outside. His parents, thankfully, were too occupied giving the caterers instructions for clean-up to exchange any pleasantries at the door. You could only imagine how that would go…
Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. I’m the girl your son made come all over his face in your pool house. What a lovely party, thank you so much for inviting us.
There was still a smile on Steve’s face, though it felt almost pasted on now compared to his expression when you first arrived, sort of forced in an attempt to look more normal than he felt. He handed off Eddie’s leather jacket and then held yours open, his eyes remaining glued to you as you turned and pushed your arms through the sleeves. His fingertips trailed along the nape of your neck as he helped straighten the coat on your shoulders, his index tracing its curve all the way to your hairline in a way that felt so intentional it made your skin buzz.
With your ears pounding from your heartbeat thundering in them, you spun around to face him, your lips parted to speak only for no words to come. Because what was there for you to say? Or for him to do? Kiss you? He hadn’t even done that during, would he do it now to say goodbye?
Steve’s handsome face was as conflicted and contorted as your own. A faint blush still dusted along his cheeks and his eyes shone bright from the candlelight coming off the tapers that had burned almost all the way out. At last he drew a breath, and you felt your heart stutter.
“Thank you for coming,” he said softly.
Eddie could barely contain the snort that burst out of him, even as he slapped a hand over his crooked smile and your eyes shot daggers straight into his chest.
You couldn’t get out the door fast enough.
There was only silence as the pair of you trudged along the driveway to the street where Eddie had parked his van, the snow on the ground having melted into slush mottled with gray where it mixed with excess oil on the road. Without the glow of the Christmas lights coming off the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, the darkness of Steve’s street now felt oppressive.
It made you walk a little quicker to the van, your hand curled tight around the passenger side door handle waiting for Eddie to unlock it. As the two of you climbed inside the cab, he cranked the engine and flipped open the air vents for the heat to blast, finally breaking his silence as you yanked your door shut behind you with a sharp tug.
“Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I thought I was helping,” Eddie muttered, his hands gripping tight around the steering wheel. “You were being so fucking obvious, I thought you needed a push.”
His chunky rings glinted in the street light as he busied himself messing with the radio, static scratching in your ears as he searched for something besides Christmas music.
“Are you really mad?” he asked, still fiddling with the dial, barely able to look at you.
You shook your head.
“I just…I don’t know, I feel like it’s weird now.” You let your face fall into your hands and shook your head furiously. “I mean, was that totally fucked up? To do that?”
“Nah, that wasn’t fucked up,” Eddie said assuredly.
He sounded confident enough that you let your shoulders actually relax and finally expelled the breath you were holding. The relief was short-lived though, when Eddie piped up again.
“I’ll tell you what might be, though.”
With a heavy sigh, you looked over at him warily. “What?” you asked.
Eddie sighed as he slumped back against the seat. His foot rested on the gas pedal and he pressed it down lightly, barely revving the engine to get some hot air flowing from the vents.
“When he comes over for Christmas Eve.”
Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate any time taken to read/comment endlessly ♥️
Started on this last year in December so that should tell you everything you need to know about my writing process. Enjoy some Christmas in whatever-month-you’re-reading-this. 😉
#steve harrington#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington smut#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve stranger things#eddie munson#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson smut#eddie munson one shot#eddie stranger things#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson fanfic
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EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader
Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.
Word count: 4,400 words.
Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.
Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist
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It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.
This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.
You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.
Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.
But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.
His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.
Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.
The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.
Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.
You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.
Say something.
You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.
Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you.
"What the hell were you thinking?!"
The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.
One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.
"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"
You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.
"–No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…”
One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.
You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.
“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"
You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.
"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"
One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.
Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.
"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"
You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.
And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.
How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.
How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!
How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.
But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."
His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.
When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.
"Yeah. I don't know either."
There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.
"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.
"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself.
"But I'll have some cake," he concedes.
Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.
You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.
Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.
You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.
"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."
The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set.
You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"
"No."
You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.
He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."
You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.
"Who are you?"
His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"
Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him
"You're not the Spiderman I know of."
He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.
God, who eats cake so angrily?
"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause.
He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.
"Why do you keep saving me?"
"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."
Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude.
This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.
Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak.
You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.
"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.
His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.
"I don't."
Liar.
"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.
This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.
"Can I have another slice?"
You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.
With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.
Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.
"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.
"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong."
He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways.
He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination.
"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.
Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.
"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"
"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."
He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter.
"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"
“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!"
You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.
"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"
Is he serious?
"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap.
And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.
"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"
Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.
"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head.
"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.
Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.
"You're drunk? How–"
"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.
"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.
At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.
"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.
There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.
With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.
You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.
Why is he so goddamned stubborn?
You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.
Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.
There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.
"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."
He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely.
Whoa.
You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.
Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out.
You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.
You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.
Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.
You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.
This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.
Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.
How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.
Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.
It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.
From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.
Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.
You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.
What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.
Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.” Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.
Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.
That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.
Warm.
He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.
You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.
He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.
Now that he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl.
He looks... soft, somehow.
There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you.
The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.
"Nena," he says quietly.
Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.
"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.
At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side.
“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest.
Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.
"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."
The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.
You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller.
"It's okay," you say.
What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.
You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.
"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”
"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."
~ Next Issue
Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.
Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!
Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.
Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
#miguel o'hara fic#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara fanfic#spiderverse#across the spiderverse#oscar isaac#spider man: across the spider verse#marvel#miguel ohara x reader#spiderverse fanfiction#across the spiderverse fanfiction#miguel ohara#miguel ohara x you
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I love all these slasher posts✨ especially the Sawyer brothers ones ❤ can you do one where when sleeping on their bed their S/O literally falls off in the middle of their sleep and what their reactions will be?😭 idk why i feel like that would be hilarious <3
Here’s the request I promised y’all earlier. Another one that’s been in my inbox for months. Enjoy!
Bubba Sawyer
Bubba is a heavy sleeper: working all those long hard hours in that Texas heat results in extreme exhaustion for him by the end of the day. Once Bubba is asleep, he initially doesn’t even notice when you, unknowingly due to you also being asleep, roll off the bed onto the floor.
When he eventually wakes up and feels that your side of the bed is empty, Bubba panics through squeals of distress, thinking something terrible has happened to you. He’ll scramble out of bed to end up finding you fast asleep on the floor. This makes Bubba feel so much better, knowing you're okay. However, sleeping on the floor just won’t due and he must get you back on the comfy bed so you can get more comfortable rest.
Bubba bends down to pick your sleeping form off of the floor and back onto the bed. Then he rearranges the bed around you, ensuring there’s plenty of space between the both of you (just in case he accidentally pumps you off), fashioning a makeshift barrier of pillows to prevent you from rolling off. Bubba will also wrap your sleeping form in one of his homemade blankets he crafted in his freetime when doing one of his “hobbies.”
When he’s satisfied with tucking you back in, Bubba will crawl back into bed and drape an arm around your figure to secure you from rolling off the bed again. From that night forward, Bubba will train himself to become a light sleeper, allowing him to become subconsciously aware of your movements to prevent you from falling off the bed again.
Nubbins Sawyer
Nubbins would initially sleep through your unfortunate sequence of events of you falling off the bed until he hears a loud thump. He’ll wake up to the sound, sitting up abruptly, blinking in confusion before realizing you're nowhere on the bed anymore and breaking into a mischievous grin.
Nubbins will pull out his camera and start taking pictures of your limp sleeping form twisted in the weirdest and uncomfortable sleeping possible you’d ever see. Once he had his fun, he’ll shake you awake as hard as he can, ending with you probably getting angry at him and chewing him out for waking you up. When you realize you are laying on the floor, Nubbins will most likely start teasing you with playful remarks, joking about your “gravity-defying escape” from the bed.
However, underneath the playful banter, Nubbins is genuinely worried about you, checking to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself on the way down to the floor. He’ll even offer to help you get back onto the bed. Nubbins will also use this opportunity to recount some bizarre bedtime stories of his brothers to lighten up the mood, helping you forget the initial embarrassment of your fall. His laughter will echo through the room as he regales you with tales of sleepwalking or bed-flipping mishaps from his experiences.
Once you're all tucked in, Nubbins will settle back into bed, cuddling up to you with a twinkle in his eye and that goofy grin he always has, ready to take more peculiar adventures with you tomorrow.
ChopTop Sawyer
ChopTop jolts awake to the sound of your body hitting the floor almost immediately, his wild hair standing on head as he assesses the situation. When he realizes you fell off the bed, rather than showing immediate concern, ChopTop will burst into a fit of laughter, finding the situation highly amusing and entertaining.
You’ll wake up to him right next to you poking you. Once ChopTop notices that you're awake, he’ll start teasing the hell out of you, making crude dark and twisted jokes. He’s trying to push you over the edge to try and get a reaction out of you. It’s like him encouraging you to punch him at this point: I wouldn’t blame you if you did though.
Deep down, he would be worried about you. ChopTop checks you for any bruises or injuries while making more jokes showing both concern and amusement. He’s really trying to hide that softer side of himself that he has for you. He needs to be manly and not all soft and mushy like a little girl. God Damnit (Y/N)!
Once he knows you're alright and don’t have any sort of injury, ChopTop will go back to his normal self and brush off any sort of concern he had for you. He’ll even suggest turning the accident into a funny story, weaving a narrative about the legendary “bed diver” in his signature storytelling style. His laughter lingers in the air as he gently helps you back up into the bed. Is that a hint of nervousness that I hear in that laugh ChopTop? As you both settle back down, he will continue to try and entertain you with bizarre anecdotes and offbeat humor as he wraps a protective arm around you as you fall soundly to sleep. wink
#slashers#slasher x reader#slashers x reader#dead by daylight x reader#dead by deadlight#dead by daylight#tcm#texas chainsaw massacre#bubba sawyer#bubba sawyer x reader#nubbins sawyer#nubbins sawyer x reader#chop top sawyer x reader#chop top sawyer#sophi ghostie writes
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⭑ : 呪術廻戦 ❛ 𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 : satoru gojo x fem! reader
࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 synopsis: you can’t shake the mixed feelings you have about satoru, but first impressions don't always reveal what a person is like
contents: crack? sashisu! dynamic. profanities. teen! gojo being cocky (what else is new?) second & third person pov
summer isn’t over yet! collection, can be read as a stand-alone
your first day at jujutsu tech was anything but insipid. the sun was at its peak, golden rays reflecting off the gray asphalt and dousing the foothills of mount mushiro in pure light. the wind subtly tousled your hair and the crimson torii gate cast shadows on your face.
summer, was indubitably your favourite season. it came with fun. smiles. laughter. adventure. meeting new people. and most importantly freedom.
the days got longer, school got shorter and you were typically free to do whatever you pleased. however, that wasn’t the case this year. the taiyo clan leaders had forced you to accept the offer to attend tokyo jujutsu high and you stood impatiently beside masamichi yaga —your new teacher — while you waited for your classmates in the courtyard
"sorry about this" he says sheepishly, running an exasperated hand over his face "i told them to be here as early as possible, but i can barely keep them in check”
“what are they like?” you asked, smoothing your fingers over your pleated skirt, “do you have a photograph”
“i do oddly enough, shoko’s into photography so she takes these polaroids of everything and everyone” he sifts around in his pockets until his fingers graze the crumpled picture. "these are your classmates — suguru geto, satoru gojo, and shoko ieiri”
your eyes skimmed over the three first years, the first boy had deep violet eyes and long black hair scraped into a bun. he rested his chin in the divot of his palms, his ear smushed against his lithe fingers. his black pearl earrings reflected the fluorescent lights. "suguru" the name checked out. he did look like he was famous
the second boy "satoru" was his polar opposite with fluffy white hair that defied all forms of gravity. he was slumped against the wooden table, blacked out sunglasses propped against his nose.his bright blue eyes peered curiously over the lenses. they were almost startling, something about their intensity felt like he could see everything, everywhere all at once
the girl "shoko", balanced them out with her brown chin length hair and the mole underneath her right eye. an ivory unlit cigarette was nestled between her plush pink
“they seem… nice”
“shoko’s the nicest of the three, she’s a sweetheart so you’ll get along just fine” he muses, “suguru is usually a gentleman compared to satoru. satoru’s too full of himself and he’s a terrible influence, please try to keep on the straight and narrow”
“i will” you said, shifting from one foot to another. you were very nervous about meeting your classmates— especially the esteemed strongest whose birth alone shifted the balance of the jujutsu world. it almost seemed unreal that he went to the same school as you
hell, this whole thing seemed unreal. tokyo jujutsu high was bigger than you’d imagined. it was surrounded by the forests and was spread vastly over the mountain. there was no way you’d learn your way around.
you could see a figure approaching you from the distance. you figured it was ieiri, although her photograph didn’t do her enough justice. shoko was even more beautiful in person, her dark brown hair grazed her shoulders and curled around her ears. her eyes radiated sunlight, the colour of honeyed caramel and she smelled like jasmine and sandalwood. she waved at you, and you smiled in response.
“finally” he sighed, “ieiri what time do you call this? and where are those knuckleheads?”
"sorry i'm late sensei!" she says, bowing slightly, "i couldn't drag satoru and suguru out of bed, they stayed up late playing video games again"
"i'll have to confiscate the wii" yaga sighed, shaking his head before glancing at his watch. he seemed to visibly turn pale as he registered the time, "shoko could you take (y/n) on a tour of the campus?"
"aren't you supposed to be be the one doing that?” she asks, thumbing at the cigarette slotted between her lips, “not that i mind, i just hope you’re not slacking off again”
"kids these days," he mutters under his breath "i would be the one giving you a tour, but i need to head to kyoto for a meeting”
“if you say so” shoko hums, she squeezes your forearm gently before looping her arm through yours, “c’mon (y/n), you’re much better off with me anyways”
“funny” yaga deadpans, “i’m off now, try and introduce (y/n) to the others” with a final glance at his watch, he hastily makes his way down the foothills and out of sight
“i’m so glad we finally have another girl” shoko says, eyes twinkling, “you’re from the taiyo clan right?“
“yeahh i’m from the taiyo clan” you nodded. the two of you walked over the cobbled floors in sync until shoko came to a stop in front of one of the huge buildings
“can i take a photo for my album” she asks, plush pink lips moving around the cigarette slotted between them, “the uniform looks so good on you”
despite being reluctant to come here, you were glad the uniforms were customisable and yaga had perfected your requested alterations.
your asymmetrical navy blue jacket had the sailor suit style and a silky white bow hanging slightly above your chest . your jacket was tucked into a black skirt that hung above your knees, and you wore black knee-high socks and loafers.
“you can” you grinned, without wasting a mere second she angled her camera and attempted to capture your beauty to memory.
“i wish those idiots came with me, it would’ve been so cool to get one of all of us” she pouts, “you’ll meet them later, whenever they crawl out of their rooms”
she trudged nimbly up the cobbled stairs with splatters of fuzzy moss and into the traditionally built building you stood before.
“these are the classrooms” she gestures to the vast corridor lined with wooden sliding doors. some of them are pristine while the others have cracks lining the chipped wood
“there’s so many” you gawk, “y’know i thought jujutsu tech was really small, yaga said there were barely any students”
“it is really small” she laughs, “there are two second years and three first years, four now that you’re here. jujutsu sorcerers are rare so class sizes are really small. we only use two of the classrooms”
she slid the door to her left open, the classroom was filled with wooden desks and had a blackboard behind the podium you assumed was the teaching area
the windows were open and gusts of airy summer breeze wafted through the panes. you trailed in after her and noticed that most of the desks were upturned except three in the front row
“this is our classroom” shoko said, trailing her fingers over the desk in the middle. it had scribbled kanji and cartoony digimon sketches on it. “we come here for homeroom and regular classes”
“like math and science?” you asked, raising a brow. yaga hadn’t mentioned anything about formal education when he’d picked you up from the station that morning
“we do english too” she sighs, “it’s honestly such a pain. anyways, the school has training grounds, courtyards, dormitories, common rooms and a bunch of other stuff, what do you wanna see first?”
“the dorms” you hummed, tucking your hands into your skirt pockets, “they’re probably the closest to us”
essentially, you were right. the dorms were less than a minute away from the classroom block. the hallway was wide and had less doors than the classroom’s corridor. the wood looked freshly polished and cardboard signs hung on the sliding doors.
“so these are the dorms” shoko said, “they can be reorganized and decorated as you see fit. like the classrooms, there are many empty rooms”
you can hear the faint sound of heavy metal music and the sound of videogames seeping underneath the doors on your right
“the second years are further down the hallway” shoko says, “satoru and suguru are on the right and this is my room,”
she creaks the door open and you see a flash of pinky and earthy tones. it looks nice, although it’s rather messy. there are piles of clothes beside the window and old soda cans littered on her dresser
“i’m not really the neatest person ever” she giggles sheepishly, before sliding her door shut, “this room is yours, yaga put us next to each-other”
your hand rests on the doorknob, just as you’re about to slide it open you hear footsteps coming towards you.
your eyes fall on a girl with long blackish-purple hair in a traditional miko outfit. she seems mildly irritated and a girl with long blue-grey hair scraped into a ponytail trailed languidly behind her.
“shokoooo” utahime squeals, bounding joyfully towards her favourite first year. her long blackish-purple curls hang loosely in ringlets down her back and her brown eyes sparkled “have you seen that nuisance gojo?”
“no he's not out of his room yet” shoko said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “what has he done now?”
“what hasn’t he done” utahime muttered under her breath, “‘m gonna fucking kill him this time i swear”
“that so?” mei-mei chuckles, “quit swearing in-front of the new first year utahime-san”
“is this the new first year?” utahime asks, snapping out of her angry daze and finally her brown eyes flicker over to you, “sorry about that, that imbecile brings out the worst in me”
“(y/n) this is utahime and this is mei-mei” shoko says, pointing at them respectively, “they’re the second years”
“nice to meet you taiyo” mei-mei hummed, her red painted lips stretched into a lazy smile as she held out her freshly manicured hand. you took it tentatively. “do you mind if we join your tour ieiri?”
“i don’t mind but you should really ask (y/n)” she shrugs
mei-mei shoots you an expectant look, you reciprocate with a nod, “i don’t mind, the more the merrier”
“yes!” mei-mei grins, “i love giving tours, let’s go to the common room and get something to eat”
“can you make us pancakes utahime-san” shoko pleads, batting her eyelashes and clasping her hands together, “or french toast”
“i will, as long as that moron doesn’t get to have any” utahime says, cracking her knuckles, “when i get wind of him i’ll-”
“so the school mainly fronts as a buddhist temple, which is why it has the traditional architectural style and several statues of deities, shrines, and torii gates around campus” mei-mei explained, interrupting utahime who looked very bristled
the quirk in her eyebrow faded into nothing but pure bliss as shoko looped her arm through hers. the pair trailed slowly behind you as mei-mei transversed down the hallway and up the stairs
the rest of the morning is a slow sugary blur. utahime makes her famous pancakes and mei-mei happily explained jujutsu regulations to you while shoko showed you her photo album.
( it was a quarter full, with pictures of suguru and satoru goofing off or utahime and satoru in the midst of some altercation with a few rare photos of yaga sleeping)
“normies can’t see us because we’re hidden by a protective barrier held by tengen-sama, he lives under the school in the tombs of the star.” mei-mei says, after taking a bite of syrupy pancakes, “that’s pretty much everything you need to know”
“thank you for the pancakes utahime-san” you said between bites of fluffy goodness, “and thank you so much for the tour”
“don’t mention it” utahime grins, “consider this your official welcome to jujutsu tech”
the saccharine serenity shatters as satoru — and suguru — make their way into the kitchen. the blue eyed boy is still in his pyjamas while suguru’s dressed in what seems to be his uniform
“yooo” satoru yawns, “ouu hime you made pancakes? don’t mind if i do”
you peered at him curiously. was this the satoru gojo? the esteemed strongest whose birth alone shifted the balance of the jujutsu world? he seemed like an ordinary teenager. gangly legs, pale veiny hands, white unkempt hair, and blue eyes hidden behind weird sunglasses.
he didn’t look like much, childishly swiping a piece of pancake off utahime’s stack and quickly stuffing the sweet batter into his mouth
“you have some nerve-” she grumbled, throwing her fork at him. it bounces off some sort of invisible wall and falls beside his feet, “be more polite to your elders”
“is this the newbie?" satoru asks waving her off, you notice him take off his round sunglasses and his infinitely blue eyes are fixed on you
“i’m pretty sure she has a name” suguru says, nudging him with his elbow, trying and failing to salvage what was left of a good first impression.
“the rookie from the taiyo clan?” he asks, raising a perfectly arched brow “is this the girl yaga was talking about”
he was trying to make headway of your face, to see what you looked like. he was unsuccessful, your eyes were trained on your pancakes and the syrup pooling on the blue ceramic plate
“it’s (y/n)” shoko sighs, “and you were supposed to meet her earlier but you two refused to get out of bed”
“sorry about that (y/n)” geto offers, his apology seemed genuine and heartfelt, “we were up pretty late last night, otherwise we would’ve been there”
you finally looked up from your plate and shook your head before flashing suguru a heart-stopping smile, “you’re all good don’t worry”
for the first time in all fifteen and a half years of his life, satoru seemed to be at a loss for words. he knew he should probably apologise and try to make you view him in a better light. but he couldn’t find the words.
not that it mattered now. you shot him an icy glare as you stalked past him and dropped your plate in the sink. he feels shivers run down his spine.
"i want to show you the morgue and the cursed warehouse!" mei-mei says, throwing an arm over your shoulder, “we can pick out a tool for you”
satoru’s cerulean eyes snapped to yours, he saw a flicker of something he couldn’t quite place passing through them. it didn’t look positive. he sensed aversion, dislike, maybe even hatred?
"see you in a bit" you wave to your upperclassman, and shoko and suguru as mei-mei led you out of the common room. the friendly gesture doesn't extend to satoru. he blinks. once. twice. and then he finally snaps out of it
"she's beautiful holy shit" he whispers incredulously, shaking suguru by his shoulders. then his infinitely blue eyes are fixed on shoko "i would've gotten up if you told me that"
suguru shrugged him off, “you’ve ruined any chances you had of getting with her, i told you you needed to stop being so rude”
“i can fix this surely” he sounds panicked, “do i go after them? or should i wait until she’s alone-”
"what an imbecile" utahime bursts out laughing , slamming her fist down on the table as she shakes with laughter, “can you believe him?”
“you’re too full of yourself” shoko says, shaking her head, “rookie? newbie? that’s really bad even for you i’m sure she hates you now”
“can you blame her?” utahime quips, “it’s only natural to hate gojo” she pushed her chair back and smoothed a hand over her neatly pressed clothes, intending to start on the dishes.
“hate is a strong word” suguru pipes up, pulling out a seat, “they just got off on the wrong foot, classic satoru”
“not you too suguru” he whines, pooling into a puddle of despair and anguish on the tiled floor
“so dramatic” suguru mutters, scooping an untouched pancake off shoko’s plate. they exchanged glances as they watched satoru have an existential crisis beside the counter. summer was going to be interesting
© Y2KUROMI 2024. please do not plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.
#𓂃˖ letters from: satoru#❛ 五条悟 ❜#gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#satoru gojo x you#satoru gojo x y/n#gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#gojo satoru#gojo series#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x y/n#jjk x you#jjk x reader
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Hi, I have some questions regarding confusion over a certain topic. First off, I have a character with a severe scarring on the upper right side of their body. I've heard in some tumblr ppsts that such appearance shouldn't be fetished. Then I stumbled across some posts, mentioning how the character can be described as 'pretty with it'.
For sure, I'm trying my best to normalize the looks. Because I have a love interest set up for them and while they don't mind the looks, I feel confused on how to convey their appreciation for the character's looks even with the scarring. They like the character as they are and stuff.
Sorry if this is a lot, I tend to get confused on how to handle such scenarios. And this sort of varying opinions is making me go '???'.
It's okay if you take your time to answer! Have a good day ahead of ya!
Hi!
"Fetishization of a disability" and "thinking that a disabled person is pretty" are two very different things. Despite the somewhat similar sound, they're not connected by much.
In the context of scars, fetishization would be what I would call the "Zuko situation" (yes, I love ATLA as much as the next guy, let me explain) - the scar isn't really a scar, it's more of a, I don't know, make-up? It's just the color that changes, it's all sharp edges and intricate shapes, the facial structure stays the exact same. There's no physical symptoms. Essentially, it's permanent body paint.
It fetishizes a disability by making it inaccurate, sometimes almost mystical. You don't see anyone fetishizing how real people with facial burns look like because they only like the idea of it. They don't care for us; they don't care for Face Equality or why we are offended by "villain with scar #32482". It's just a fun splotch of color to add to your OC when you're out of ideas.
Another aspect of fetishization is the "a scar is the worst thing in the whole world", the tragedy porn. It's using a disability for cheap drama. Again; it's inaccurate and exploitative. I don't see writers excited to depict my "coming to terms with my facial difference as a teenager, and eventually being proud of it" experience because where's the shock value and pity points? Fetishization, again, is about liking the idea of it, not the real thing.
Describing your character as beautiful, well, isn't any of that.
The point that I tried to make on that post was that a scar is often considered inherently ugly. That it's a stain on someone's beauty, that it would be better if it wasn't there.
"Brown beautiful eyes, thick facial hair, strong cheekbones - he managed to be irresistibly handsome even with that nasty scar going across his nose."
This, well, sucks. It's as if the character's beauty and their disability are contradictory forces that have to fight each other. But in reality, scars and any other visible disabilities are neutral. If the character is pretty, their scar is pretty too. It's a part of them, so how could it not be?
"She was a cute girl; her pastel pink, thinly braided hair framed her face, defying gravity by curling towards her mouth. The burned skin on her lips shifted as she smiled, revealing a tooth gap. She played with her equally pink 'white' cane, holding it between the two fingers she had on her right hand, bopping it against the ground to the rhythm of the song."
This, on the other hand, just states her disability as a part of her person. It's nothing weird or shocking, she's pretty, has a burn on her face, she's blind, she's missing some fingers, she's enjoying the music - it's almost boring when compared to the usual "scar introduction". There's no "even with her horribly burnt face", no "if only she wasn't scarred she would be beautiful", no "poor thing, lost her fingers in a horrific fire" - instead, she is beautiful, and she has scars, and she sure is having fun. That's it.
This is my best shot at explaining the difference between "fetishization" and "yeah they're pretty :-)" ft. my questionable writing - I hope this makes sense.
I definitely took my time to answer, sorry about that. Thank you for your ask!
mod Sasza
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┊Knife Practice┊
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Such a tease you are, poking his mind with a cold metal rod—he can't concentrate when you play dirty.
Warnings - knife kink, smut, oral (m), p in v, slight choking
Words - 1400
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Getting involved—on a physical level, during training—was a colossal blunder—he tried to observe the patterns of his mistakes to see if they were products of some kind of weakness—it’s you, teasing him is his greatest weakness. There is raggedness of his breaths due to fighting you, due to the knife you are pressing at his crotch.
Bucky is in a sitting position and his hands are planted firmly behind him trying to support his weight, trembling—as your legs dig into his thighs—you are greatly excited to toy with him, though you look resolute.
“I shouldn't have expected less of you than to play dirty, should I?”
Reluctantly you lift your eyes to his, pressing the dull side of the knife more.
“Damn it” his voice sounds as though he wants to moan, but is doing his utmost to control it.
“What is wrong, darling?” you ask before laughing, seeing Bucky’s flushing crimson.
There is no way he can reclaim his dominance now—not that he wants to. You lean in, but Bucky doesn't pull back, and you take that as a sign of acquiescence for licking his neck, pleasure zingers across his skin and he shamelessly turns his neck to give your mouth better access.
The knife outlines his cock with light pressure, rubbing the fabric to the head and you smile against his skin in delight at the dampness starting to rise to the gray fabric. You pull back and slowly cut through his pants—the sound of ripping is sinful, a soft invitation to madness, generally a tipping point into insanity.
“Fuck,” he moans, staring down “Enough”
“If you don’t like it, why are you hard?”
Your fingers ghost over the marks covering his neck, his eyes locked on yours wide and wild, nostrils flaring. He stares at you, completely stricken, all he can do is whine softly, defeated and utterly annihilated by your words. You touching him fills him with amazement, purely animal, you let your body act before your mind.
You throw the knife to the side, hands freeing his rigid member, slick and sticky drips of pre-cum covering the tip. He doesn't look at you, instead choosing to focus on the knife for a moment, wishing that you use it more, but you pull him on shore of a new and better sanity when you put his member into your mouth, hands grip his thighs harshly, a moan escapes his chest.
Cool, metal fingers brush your sweaty hair aside and tuck the strands behind your ear before carding fingers through your hair.
You don’t stop; there is no delay when the length hits the back of your throat, your gag reflex non-existent. The taste of him leaves you burning as your lips glide along his cock faster, throat muscles clamping around the tip of his dick—he is powerfully conscious that you are not in any predicament.
“God, yes”
He hisses out, voice a crackling mess of plea and need, heat beginning to thrum beneath his skin as he feels himself getting closer, exerting a bit of force on your scalp with slight tugs on your hair.
Dominance. Control. These things are the roots of Bucky’s character. And it is your duty to defy his dominance and to challenge his control. What a languid woman, a force of gravity by which you irresistibly attract his submission sometimes—fuel a new side to him. You are lovely, vaguely threatening—the obsession with knives is something that you carry from the dreadful past.
He lets out another strangled noise, hips trying to jerk into your hold, but you keep them steady to the ground.
“Please” he moans, low and drawn out, voice already wavering with frustration “I’m so close, snezinka” choking the words out.
Curiosity is gluttony. To see is to devour.
The pleasure stops and when Bucky opens his eyes, you are already looking at him at eye level, blue-less eyes—because they are full of lust—burning just as much as yours. Your gaze is so intense that he wants to look away—or never look away, he can’t decide.
“Please?” you breathe after a few seconds of stunned silence.
He suddenly cups your face in his hands—a kiss is a lovely trick designed to stop speech when words become unnecessary—the kiss starts softly then slowly builds in intensity, his mouth lingering on yours, teeth grazing your lower lip, making you shiver. His hands move from your cheeks to your shoulders and then down to trail across the expanse of your back before pulling back to look at you.
Bucky’s eyes undress his unrevealable needs “Ride me”
Your eyes narrow slightly as you process the words. Such divine orbs—not just one shade of color, but... many, with a hint of mischief glimmering.
Then something unexpected happens. You suddenly get up, fumbling your way out of your pants and underwear. You shuffle up over him, knees spread around his thighs, and you slowly lower yourself to sit on him, shifting your hips back and forth until the firm length of his cock settles just so in the cleft of your pussy. You let out a needy whine, hands making a home out of the crook of his neck—holding your breath, savoring the sensation of every time you grind against his cock.
“Oh, come on, fuck” he moves his hands to your hips, squishing slightly, urging you forward, guiding you up and down his length.
As his breaths become labored, there is a in a crack in his persona—
“Please, just-fuck me”
His voice is a near-moan, and bearing witness to his desperation is all you want.
You gulp, voice breathier than you like as you whisper “Okay” folds flutter as you’re parted by his length, making the cutest mewls as you ease his cock into your cunt, slowly.
His arms encase themselves around your waist, pulling you downwards, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a pleasured cry as he sinks into you, his name slipping from your mouth so fondly, so tenderly that he has to stop your mouth with a kiss as you twine your arms around his shoulders.
You need to regain some control—that’s why you set an unrelenting pace.
And all Bucky can do is leer at your tits as they bounce with every thrust. He squirms with every uneven thrust, your breath growing erratic and his groans growing louder.
Eye contact. There is more in the eyes. More longing. The naughtiness emanates from your eyes—you look at him like you own him. He can feel he is nearing his climax but closes his eyes, trying to restrain himself.
„James“
His name comes on a long-winded breath. To his horror, his body responds in obvious pleasure, his entire body shuddering in spite of his mental denial—having the faintest clue how you do it, and he feels your month against the skin of his throat, licking, sucking, and kissing not holding back your throaty moans.
“Come with me, baby” you whisper softly against the shell of his ear, nibbling at the earlobe.
„I-I will-…soon…“ he groans the words out, only adding to the erotic undertone of his words.
Heat shots through his spine. His muscles clenching as you move up and down his length, your velvety walls sealing around his member, enveloping him perfectly in its embrace. You whine, lower lip quivering as he slowly wraps his hand around your neck, the cold touch makes your body shiver as warmth seeps into you, flooding your insides white.
The motion of his metal hand elicits a loud groan from you, and Bucky captures your lips in a searing kiss, pulling you by the grip on your neck. Your walls clench as your orgasm abruptly erupts and he continues to thrust through your orgasm as best as he can.
He leans in, chasing his lips across your collarbone as his hands gently stroke down your back, your arms.
To allow yourself to trust another person is no small risk, after everything that you've been through. Allowing yourself to be exposed, vulnerable—it is incredibly intimate to Bucky.
“I am taking your knife away for a week” he murmurs into the flesh above your breasts, warmly and good‐humoredly.
“But I have a whole collection” you snap irritably, but then you suddenly smile proudly.
#what is this? this is real#bucky smut#bucky barnes smut#bucky x you#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky x female reader#bucky imagine#bucky fanfic#oneshot#smut
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♡ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ♡
You couldn't not give me Carmilla fucking Carmine and expect me not to go feral over her-
➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !F!Reader
➲ Romantic ☒, Platonic ☐
➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 1,479 Words
➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, these are kind've all over the place, Carmilla might be a tad OOC since this is my first time writing her
➲ There are so many different ways this relationship could possibly start. The mind boggles trying to think of all of them. Just think of all the potential shenanigans that could occur and have fun with that
➲ But lemme just say before anything - This woman is fiercely protective over you. Not in the cutesy, clingy kind've obsessive way, but the silently scary scary-dog privilege kind've partner. The epitome of 'excuse me sir, they asked for no pickles', and, because I love this trope, you are the only person (besides her daughters) that she will ever fully be soft for.
➲ Insert 🥺 right here
➲ Just, get you a woman who looks at you the way Carmilla looks at her wife. That's all I can say
➲ The soft moments in the morning when you can just lay in bed and watch her get ready. Pulling her hair up into her signature, gravity defying buns(?) and delicately slip on and twine her angelic steel shoes. The minutes of her fingers expertly working away in a comfortable silence as you just lay under the comfort of your warm blankets? Those are the moments right there 👌
➲ Probably not one for physical affection, at least not in public. Definitely not in public. Her reputation alone would probably put you in danger, which is, y'know, not good, so no hand-holding in public
➲ (Honestly, one part of her probably prefers not to be seen with you in public for that exact reason. The other part wants to keep you in her line of sight at all times because at least then she can personally keep you safe)
➲ All of that being said, can't deny she'd probably give top tier hugs. Proper bear hugs because this woman is tall and strong and would undeniably make you feel safe whenever you're in her arms. Depending on how tall or short you are, she could also probably pick you up if you really wanted 👉👈
➲ (She could 100% pick you up, and probably with one hand as well)
➲ Gives the most tender of little kisses. Small pecks on the cheeks and forehead whenever she's tired from work, her larger fingers gently grazing the sides of your head as her fluffy hair tickles your face
➲ And the adorable little pet names she whispers to you! Maybe you're just passing by each other in an almost empty street or just relaxing at home together, but she'll always try and take the chance to whisper something like 'mi Vida', 'mi Corazón' or 'mi Reina' just loud enough for the two of you to hear
➲ Let's be real, this woman is really goddamn tall, so you're probably shorter than her and she absolutely loves it and would absolutely tell this to your face just to fluster you. What she loves even more is the way you'd have to reach up on your tippy toes with her leaning down to meet you halfway just to have you playfully kiss her on the tip of her nose or her chin
➲ Maybe, very rarely, if she's feeling extra sentimental, she'd love it if you sat on her lap while she works in her home office, just so she can have your comfort and warmth nearby. More often than not this scenario would end up with you falling asleep in her lap and her carrying you back to bed with the smallest of smiles on her face
➲ If she could really help it, she'd prefer to keep you as far away from her work as possible. As much as she would love to have you in the office, maybe helping her with paperwork or something similar so she could have you at within her reach at all times of the day, arms dealing is a dangerous job. At least her daughter's have each other's backs' when they're out doing business, but you'd probably have to make it on your own or with one of her other employees and that's a big no no in her eyes
➲ Also, speaking of her daughters, your relationship with them would vary wildly depending on when you met them
➲ If you started dating Carmilla when Clara and Odette were rather young, they'd probably cling on to you like a second mother figure. In some cases, they might've even preferred you over Carmilla for the sole fact that their toddler puppy eyes work on you better than their biological mother
➲ Your dynamic would probably just be the three of you racing to see who could give Carmilla a hug first after she gets home from work
➲ (Though, this only works if Carmilla is hell-born seeing as sinner's can't have children)
➲ If you started dating Carmilla when they were older though, there might be a bit of a tense air when you first meet. Carmilla's protectiveness isn't just one way - Her daughters absolutely adore her, and although they definitely couldn't protect her physically, they'd do their damn best to protect her emotionally
➲ They'd warm up to you after some time though, seeing you do truly love their mother with your whole heart. You'd never be a parent to them, barely even a step-parent, but they'd respect you and care for you like family nonetheless because you make their mother happy
➲ Either way, her heart melts seeing the three of you getting alone, and she 100% has a family picture she keeps on her desk for her eyes only
➲ Sometimes she just waits until you fall asleep so she can cradle your head in her heads oh so carefully. She just sort've stares at you, her eyes glowing in the dark with her wild mane of hair spilling out behind her, and she just traces all the intricate details of your face with her eyes
➲ And then she just sort've hugs you closer to her, tugging the blankets a little tighter around the two of you as she presses the littlest of kisses to your forehead before relaxing into the pillows
➲ But just imagine Carmilla with a wife who died so much later after her. Just this tall, scary and proper woman that strikes fear into the hearts of millions with her little gremlin wife who keep talking about shit like reddit that the other sinners just don't understand (not even Carmilla herself, but she finds your antics somewhat entertaining, at least when she doesn't have to act as your self preservation instincts and keep you safe)
➲ Extermination is your least favourite day for multiple reasons
➲ The first being, well, the exorcists descending form heaven to brutally murder sinners left and right, but also because Carmilla changes around this time
➲ It's understandable, especially with what happened in one of the previous exterminations when she and her daughters got caught, but it still scares you to see you usually cool, calm and loving wife turn into a robot who's only goal is to get you and her daughters to a safehouse to wait out the terror outside
➲ Doesn't mean you're not grateful, though. You can look past all of that because you know she's just doing it to keep you safe, and in the end you'd rather be safe and living with your family rather than dead on the end of an exorcist's spear
➲ You probably also have a good relationship with the other overlords, despite never having gone to a meeting
➲ (It's because of this you've never met Velvette or the other Vee's, and if Carmilla has a say, you never will)
➲ Rosie, being the social butterfly she is, loves to talk gossip with you every chance she gets. Zestial likes to join in on your little sessions, not saying anything but bringing tea for everyone to drink and enjoy. Clara also likes to join in sometimes, but her sister would much rather sit with her mother and just watch the chaos unfold in front of them
➲ Almost certainly has caught you trying on her shoes when she's not looking. A part of her is annoyed because she'd rather not have you involved in anything to do with her work, but the innocent look you give her makes her rethink her annoyance in the moment
➲ She'd later found out Clara helped you because you also wanted to try and walk around on pointe like the rest of the family. No idea why you skipped straight to trying the angelic weapon shoes, but Carmilla does offer to help you later
➲ Overall, great wife and I'd give her a 9/10. One point deducted probably because she'd be a tad too overprotective, but everything else about her is great; From her bear hugs to those little moments the two of you share
Rules + Info,
Masterlist,
#carmilla carmine x reader#carmilla x reader#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel carmilla carmine#carmilla carmine#hazbin hotel headcanons#wlw#hazbin hotel x you#carmilla carmine x fem reader
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Maybe It Doesn’t Have To {LN4}
500 Follower Special!!!
Masterlist
Summary: Amid the bustling Miami Grand Prix, Lando Norris and Y/N's once-warm connection had cooled to distant, tension-filled glances, a year after their professional pressures forced them apart. As they navigated their strained dynamic in the high-stakes world of Formula 1, both struggled with the lingering emotions and the possibility of rekindling their relationship.
Taglist
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In the charged, vibrant paddock of the Miami Grand Prix, amid the cacophony of roaring engines and bustling crowds, Lando Norris and Y/N found their eyes locked in a fleeting, tension-filled stare. Once, not too long ago, those glances were warm, filled with private jokes and shared secrets. Now, they were cold embers of a fire that had blazed too bright and burned out too fast.
Y/N had joined the McLaren team as a part of their social media squad two years prior, her creativity and spark immediately catching Lando’s eye. Their connection was instant, easy, the kind that promised something more. Late night strategy sessions turned into early morning coffee runs, and the paddock whispers began to swirl around them. But as the spotlight grew hotter, so did the pressures, and what was once easy became complicated.
“It’s not professional,” they’d been told separately in stern, concerned tones by people whose job it was to care about the image and the optics, not the human heart. They’d nodded, agreeing in principle while their hearts rallied against it in private.
The Grand Prix in Miami was meant to be a celebration, a jewel in the crown of the Formula 1 season, yet for Lando and Y/N, it marked a year since the conversation that had ended everything. That night, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the team’s motorhome, they had decided to step back, to refocus on their careers, promising each other it was for the best.
“So let’s ignore each other, try to pretend the other person doesn’t exist,” Lando had said, his voice breaking, eyes not meeting hers. Y/N had only nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, both of them knowing even then how impossible that would be.
Now, as they stood on opposite sides of the crowded pit lane, pretending to adjust their equipment and check their phones, the weight of that promise hung heavy between them. Y/N could feel the heat of Lando’s stare, the way her heart jumped in her chest as if trying to bridge the gap.
She had thrown herself into her work, her posts and stories gaining the team millions of engagements, her professional face smiling and unblemished by the turmoil underneath. Lando, ever the charismatic driver, continued to charm the world on the track, his performances unaffected, yet those who knew him saw the strain around his eyes, the moments his laughter didn't quite reach them.
Their colleagues, once mutual friends, now navigated this new terrain with caution, a dance of diplomacy that often left Y/N feeling more isolated. At team dinners, she would laugh a little too loudly, staying a little too late, trying a little too hard to appear unaffected.
And Lando, he watched from afar, his heart clenching at the sight of her loneliness mirroring his own. In the confined world of F1, where every move was scrutinized, their earlier decision felt more like a sentence now.
As the race ended and the crowd's cheers echoed off the Monaco cliffs, Lando found her on the edge of the harbour, staring out at the shimmering sea. The sun set behind her, casting a golden glow that framed her like a melancholy painting. Approaching her felt like defying gravity, each step heavier than the last.
“I saw you today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were amazing with the fans.”
She turned, her smile sad, eyes glistening. “We were good at pretending,” she replied. “Too good.”
Lando stepped closer, the familiar scent of her perfume making his heart ache. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
“No, it wasn’t,” Y/N agreed, her voice steady despite the tears that now freely flowed. “Maybe... maybe it doesn’t have to?”
In the twilight of Monaco, with the stars just beginning to claim the sky, Lando and Y/N faced each other, the world fading around them. What lay ahead was uncertain, possibly fraught with the same challenges as before, but standing there, on the precipice of a new beginning, it was clear that some fires, once lit, refuse to be completely extinguished.
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LN4 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @dhanihamidi
F1 Taglist: @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery
#ln4#ln4 x reader#ln4 imagine#ln4 fic#ln4 fluff#mclaren f1#mclaren#mclaren formula 1#lando norris#ln4 one shot#ln4 smut#lando norris fanfic#lando norris smut#lando norris x reader#lando norris imagine#lando norris x you#lando norris x y/n#lando norris x oc#lando norris x black!reader#formula 1#formula one#formula one fanfiction#formula 1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#ln#lando imagine
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The Bride of A Warlord
Summary: You have arrived to what you now call your new home, it was scary and confusing, but at least you have someone else to keep you company.
Characters: Dracule Mihawk x Wife!Female Reader (Amihan). Perona
Word Count: 1,198
Chapter Warnings: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence (I am still in episode 20 of OP Anime so please bear with me on the fucked up timeline of events here)
Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?
You were consumed by a cocktail of fear and excitement.
But that was only natural to feel in your current predicament. Taken from your home due to circumstance that was no longer in your control. You turned to what you now call your husband. Dracule Mihawk was a man not to be trifled with, one of the Seven Warlords and dubbed the Greatest Swordsman in the world.
“I will have your room prepared as soon as possible.” Mihawk spoke, interrupting you from your train of thoughts.
All you could do was nod. You were taken from your own home, miles away from what you had once been so familiar with, a place that you had deemed had become your own prison. Any form of freedom you would take, even if it means being under the circumstantial marriage with one Warlord such as Mihawk.
���Yes, Sir.” You nodded, having no right to complain or react negatively for a short wait.
Even without looking at him, you’ve noticed his sharp yellow eyes glued fall to you. Turning to looking up at him, you noticed his narrowed eyes, a frown that was something you had gotten so used to rest on his lips.
“You will call me by my name, I do not agree to have you calling me of anything else while under you are under my care.”
You gulped, but nodded your head in agreement. This man, as handsome as he was, still scared you. Having caught firsthand the destruction his sword could make to your entire island should his will make it.
“You are not here as my prisoner, you can freely explore the castle should you wish to do so. All I ask is you not to leave unless you tell me or have me to accompany you, is that understood?”
“Yes—Mihawk.” You responded quickly.
As you step off the grandiose boat onto the rocky shore of Kuraigana Island, your heard races with anticipation and uncertainty. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and new adventure, but it’s the sight before you that leaves you breathless. Your new husband’s castle, looms high above, perched on a ragged cliff that seems to defy gravity.
The castle is a dark, imposing fortress, its jagged spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a giant’s skeletal hands. The stone walls are as grey and foreboding as the thunderclouds that hover over the island. You can’t help but shudder at the stark contrast between the castle and the vibrant, tropical island that surrounds it.
Your arrival has not gone unnoticed. From the castle's towering parapets, you catch glimpses of shadowy figures watching your every move. As you start to climb the narrow, winding path that leads to the castle gates, your footsteps echo in the eerie silence.
The closer you get, the more details you can make out. The castle is adorned with intricate, Gothic architecture, with gargoyles leering down from the eaves. The windows are narrow and slit-like, like the eyes of a predator, and they seem to be keeping a watchful gaze on you. The walls are covered in ivy and moss, as if nature itself is trying to reclaim this imposing structure.
You can't help but feel a sense of unease as you approach the massive, iron-bound gates. The air feels heavy with centuries of history, and you can't shake the feeling that the castle holds secrets, both wondrous and sinister, within its ancient walls.
As the gates slowly creak open, revealing the cavernous darkness beyond, your heart pounds in your chest. You have entered a world unlike any you have ever known, a world of mystery and danger. And as you step across the threshold, you can't help but wonder what awaits you in this forbidding castle on Kuraigana Island.
As you step through the imposing gates of Mihawk's castle, your heart is still pounding with trepidation. The exterior of the castle had filled you with a sense of foreboding, but as you cross the threshold and enter the grand foyer, you are struck by a stark contrast.
The interior of the castle is a complete surprise. The space is bathed in warm, inviting light that spills from ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Elaborate tapestries hang on the walls, depicting scenes of epic battles and exotic landscapes. The polished marble floors beneath your feet reflect the glow of the many candles that line the corridor leading deeper into the castle.
Your husband, Mihawk, takes your hand and leads you forward, his expression unreadable. His grip is reassuring, grounding you in this unexpected change of atmosphere. You exchange a glance with him, and for a moment, you both share a silent understanding of the paradoxical nature of the castle.
The air inside is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, and the walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and delicate porcelain vases filled with blossoms.
As you explore the interior of the castle, you discover cozy sitting rooms with plush sofas and grand dining halls set with opulent feasts. The contrast between the grim exterior and the opulent interior is almost surreal, and you can't help but marvel at the transformation.
Mihawk guides you to a balcony overlooking a breathtaking garden bathed in moonlight. The sight of it takes your breath away, and you realize that the castle holds a world of beauty and wonder that you could not have imagined.
As you stand together on the balcony, surrounded by the enchanting sights and sounds of the castle, you can't help but feel a glimmer of hope and excitement for the future that awaits you here, in this magical, enigmatic place.
It wasn’t your home, no, far from it, but with this new found freedom, all you could think of right now is what the world could possibly be able to give you now.
“You have a guest along? That’s surprising from you.”
You tensed, immediately finding yourself stepping closer to the man you now call your husband. Turning to the owner of the voice, the sight of a pink-haired girl over a decade younger than you had floated towards your direction with what you think were ghost accompanying her.
“Not a guest.” Mihawk explained his gaze was on you, you tensed as his hand had rested on the small of your back. “My wife.” He introduce without much of a hesitation in his tone.
“Wife?!” The girl gaped and was immediately all over you, questioning you and your life decisions and how much of a sour sport Mihawk was to her especially as he had left her all alone in the castle.
“You have a daughter?” You inquired.
“No, just an unwelcomed guest.” He explained earning the offense of the girl that you now learned was named Perona. “But she will keep you company for the instance that I will be out for a while.”
You nodded turning your attention to the package that came with now living in the same home, in the same castle, and in the same Island as your new husband. It was a chaos that you were slowly but surely coming to enjoy as time goes by.
#dracule mihawk smut#one piece#opla#mihawk x reader#dracule mihawk x reader#dracule mihawk x reader smut#one piece live action#one piece live action smut#opla mihawk#mihawk opla#opla mihawk smut#mihawk angst#mihawk fluff#mihawk#mihawk smut#dracule mihawk#one piece smut#opla smut#mihawk x reader smut#mihawk opla smut
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Tick Tick Boom
Summary: A tiny glimpse of what it's like to be in a relationship with Leon. More specifically, when Leon gets jealous...
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Fem Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: Fluff
“One more day” you murmur to yourself, drawing a red X with a dry erase marker on the calendar hanging on the fridge door. For a normal person, the fact that there was one more day left until their significant other came back from work would be exciting. Yet, your impatience seemed to overpower optimism at the moment. It was killing you on the inside to wake up to, not him but the lonely indent of his side of the bed instead.
So much so, you didn’t get a blink of sleep since he left. Dark shadows of puffiness circled your eyes, contorting as you impatiently rubbed them in hopes that when you stopped, you would be in tomorrow. But no, life didn’t work like that unfortunately. With a groan vibrating in your throat, you plop onto the couch, propping your feet on the coffee table and point the remote at the tv.
Maybe some tv static would drown out the repeated disappointment of experiencing another boyfriend-less day. It wasn’t guaranteed but you’d do anything at this point to try and ease your anticipation. The Gilmore Girls theme song played as per usual, you bobbing your head along with it, the evidence of some strands of your hair defying gravity exposed by the sunlight projecting through the windows of your apartment. Your eyelids began to slowly slide down, luring you to sleep before quickly snapping up. You keep trying to fight off your body’s need for sleep until your vision immediately goes black.
Back to back the episodes played, but you didn’t notice. Head leaned back on the couch’s head rest, your mouth falls agape from the angle. You were out like a light. So deep in slumber, the jingling of keys and the creaking of the front door left you un phased. Kicking off his boots, Leon drops his luggage at the door and follows the sounds of your snoring. A warm smile forming on his lips as he eventually takes in the sight of you fast asleep on the couch, snoring loudly. An amused chuckle leaves his lips,
Stealthily sitting next to you on the couch, he pulls out his phone and takes a photo. Surely this is what you meant when you asked Leon to take candid photos of you right? Either way, he was keeping it, every picture he had of you, unflattering or not, was adorable to him. Not realizing the flash was on his phone, he blinks in surprise when your snoring abruptly stops. Slowly, you drowsily blink your eyes open and shoot your head back up as you smacked your lips. Squinting your tired eyes to adjust to the sunlight and to figure out who was sitting next to you, you’re met with Leon’s royal blue eyes. A sleepy grin creeps onto your lips as you lean forward to pull him in for a hug,
“You’re home” you say sweetly in a rasp residue of your nap. With a deep chuckle of intrigue, he pulls you into his lap by your waist while you instinctively drape your arms around his neck.
“Sorry I woke you” he murmurs as you sleepily drag your lips along his. He could feel the smirk curling along your lips as the two of you kissed,
“No you’re not” you bluntly retort pulling away to give him a knowing look. He merely smirks back, letting a puff of air exhale through his nose in amusement,
“You’re right, I’m not” his arms tighten around you body as he leans in to feel your soft lips against his. His smirk failing to fade away as he feels and hears you giggle mischievously against his lips. Subconsciously, he inhales deeply and releases in a sigh. Feeling that he can finally relax.
“You’re early” you eventually say after pulling away,
“They let me go for good behavior” he jokes with a grin, clearly proud of his dad joke. Unamused you raise an eyebrow,
“Ha-ha” you deadpan, “I missed you”
“Missed you more” Finding that saying it just wasn’t enough, he proves it by squeezing you tighter with his biceps, earning a strained panic noise from you as you tried to wriggle free,
“Okay, okay I get it” you squeal, patting his biceps, “uncle! Uncle!”
Letting go, he smirks as he watches you pant for air and weakly punch his chest as punishment, “sorry did I take your breath away?” He proudly flirts. You can’t help but snort at his cheesy attempts,
“Jesus Christ you’re on a roll today” you say breathlessly, a smile you fail to control appearing. You can’t help but giggle at this rare sight of cheesy, happy Leon. The rarity of it wasn’t this side of himself in itself but it was coming home from a mission and being this way. Usually, when he walked through the door, he was either exhausted, grumpy, or very very clingy.
Can you blame the man?
This side of Leon that you were currently enjoying was usually cocooned until the next day or two when he recovered from the work that often drained him mentally and physically.
“Yeah I am” he triumphantly agrees, “hey, let’s go do something”
“You’re not tired?” You ask, tilting your head to the side,
“Of course I am, but I hardly get to come home early, we should celebrate” he suggests with a shrug, trying to play it off cool. But, you saw right through his nonchalant act. The excitement that danced in those blue irises was a dead giveaway. Combing his bangs back, you kiss his forehead lovingly.
“Yeah we should” patting his pecks over his t shirt, you hop off him and head to the bedroom to get ready.
—
After a nice dinner at your favorite place downtown, the two of you stroll along the paved streets, and with little convincing, some shopping,
“Thanks for this babe” you coo happily hooking your arm through his and resting your face on his bicep as the two of you walked out of a store with a large paper tote bag in your grasp swinging with every step,
“Any time” Leon modestly responds, a shy smile on his lips as he looks down at you. He felt a twinge of pride that he was able to get this reaction out of you and it only compelled him to want to spend more on you. Before he could continue his mission of spoiling you, however, a voice calls after you causing the two of you to halt and turn around. A man that perfectly resembled the description tall, dark and handsome came running up to the two of you. It was none other than your ex boyfriend,
“Hey! Small World” He greets heartily, seamlessly pulling you into a hug, “Wow you look great!”
“Declan! It’s been a minute” You greet being the first to pull away from the hug and make your way to stand alongside Leon, a sweet smile on your lips. Since the two of you ended on good terms, you didn’t think twice before greeting him happily.
Leon on the other hand, wiped the grin from his face and replaced it with a stoic expression. He took a good look at him, remembering you mentioning his name once. Something along the lines of Declan agreeing with you that you were better off as friends. Yet, Leon had an inkling that was far from the truth. Narrowing his eyes he watches Declan like a hawk as you and him catch up,
“Oh! Declan, this is my boyfriend, Leon” You cheerily introduce, gesturing towards him with a hand. You blink a bit in surprise by the sudden firm grasp of your hand in Leon’s and look up to see Leon with a polite, closed mouth smile. Leon doesn’t say anything and only nods to Declan in greeting.
Don’t show weakness
he thought to himself. Even though he would like to tell this guy to back off his girlfriend, the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass you by making a scene. He didn’t wan’t to show Declan that he was threatened by him either. Even though he was. Just a tiny bit.
“You’re a lucky guy, my friend” Declan charmingly says with a toothy grin,
Friend? We are not friends
His disgruntled thoughts circled around in his brain, yet the polite smile remained. He had some good practice with it, constantly working along side the president. Letting go of your hand, his hand instead travels to your lowerback and pulls you subtley to his side,
“I know” He responds, his tone friendly, mismatched with the triumphant smirk on his face. Declan’s pearly white smile remained, yet his eyes were boring into Leon’s skull like laser beams.
“Well, it was good to see you” Declan eventually bids his goodbyes, “It was nice to meet you, Leon” with a polite yet somehow sour goodbye, Declan leaves the two of you to enjoy the rest of the evening. Leon didn’t mention the encounter for the rest of the night, which would be puzzling to some. However, after all the years you two have been together, you sort of knew how he ticked. It was only a matter of time that he would bring it up and do so abruptly,
“He’s definitely still into you” Leon blurts out, raising his coffee mug to his lips. It was the very next morning, where you two often shared a cup of coffee, hair in disarray from the night before, and you magically wearing the shirt he was wearing last night; a tradition that you two stuck to religiously.
Tick Tick Boom. There it was.
His blue eyes stared at you as he gulps down the remnants of his coffee, nervously. You stifle a giggle at his sudden burst of nerves that he was so desperately trying to hide. You merely shrug and smile at him reassuringly,
“Doesn’t matter, I’m taken”
Eyebrows scrunched together as if processing her response he murmurs softly, almost to himself, “Right” quickly he clears his throat and repeats it more confidently before tilting the mug to sip the rest of his coffee, “Right”
Chuckling and shaking your head, you take his mug from his grasp and place it on the kitchen counter, “Someone’s jealous” you tease in a sing-song voice, wrapping your arms around torso,
“Busted” Leon bashfully admits planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, hugging your shoulders, “I just love you too much to give you away”
“You couldn’t give me away even if you tried” his eyes avert, almost as if he wasn’t sure if he believed it. So, you cup his face with a hand, soften your voice and look into those eyes that captivated you at first sight, “hey, I’m not going anywhere alright?”
Leaning his face into your hand, he turns to kiss your palm, and smiles, this time more securely, “alright”.
#resident evil#re4r leon#re#reader insert#leon kennedy#leon kennedy fluff#leon kennedy drabble#resident evil drabble#resident evil imagines#leon kennedy x reader#spotify#Spotify
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