#who's lived a life and was shoved back into the body of a kid. and he's filled with so much anger and fear. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

casuallyimagining · 6 months

Text

Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days.

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified.

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…”

I want to apologize.

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise.

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone.

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering.

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger.

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up.

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you?

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left.

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic.

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees.

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables.

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too.

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled.

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors.

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park.

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died.

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert.

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism.

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it.

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him.

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them.

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know.

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in.

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday.

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel.

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand.

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward.

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue.

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom.

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick.

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room.

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty.

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly.

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter.

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets.

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face.

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading.

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent.

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.”

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar.

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you.

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform.

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you.

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for.

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting.

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him.

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers.

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause.

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space.

At least, you think you are.

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable.

Oh no.

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again.

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger.

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest.

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…”

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed.

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing.

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand.

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response.

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy.

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him. “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible.

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone.

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh.

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings.

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful.

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him.

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch.

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden.

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring.

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you.

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms.

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #myg x reader #bts soulmate au #bts supernatural au #set me free

2K notes · View notes

satoruni · 1 year

Text

☆ the babysitter ☆ dilf!toji f. x reader

WARNINGS: f!reader, age gap, rough sex, unprotected sex, mating press, daddy kink, breeding kink

you had just come back to visit home after you completed one semester of college. college was expensive, especially with the tuition costs, accommodation charges, groceries, etc. also you did not like to burden your parents with your expenses so you sought out for a job in the holidays.

your father recommended a babysitting job for one of his acquaintances, someone named fushiguro. you jump at the opportunity since you had a great time bonding with kids. you shyly wait outside the door after ringing the doorbell once. the one who opens the door had an irritated look on his face and seemed to be sleep deprived. you could also hear the wailing of a baby in the background. much to your embarrassment, you found yourself blushing at the tall and muscular physique of the older man. your father did not mention that he was so handsome.

"what?" he said with a voice laced with annoyance and irritation.

"oh-um, mr fushiguro, i just came to enquire about the babysitting job" you squeaked out, feeling intimidated by the scary man.

toji had welcomed you in after this and you met his son, baby megumi who had promptly stopped crying when he was placed in your gentle arms. you were relieved inside, happy to know that the baby had bonded with you so quick.

toji had felt grateful for everything you did, truly. you were a sweet girl who looked after megumi well like he was your own and had even no problems staying in when his work ran late. you had always greeted him home with that adorable smile of yours, balancing megumi on your hip.

he wished he was ashamed to say this because he really wasn't, but he wanted you. you were so sweet, pliant and caring. you were someone he wanted for himself. coming home after every gruelling day of work to see your illuminating smile and holding his son was his dream. megumi also loved you, seeing you as his mother.

toji's desires got the best of him one day when he cornered you in the living room after you put down megumi for sleep. you fidgeted shyly under his intense gaze, making him even more aroused at your blushing face.

he then crashed his lips onto your warm and plump ones, causing you to moan. he shoved his tongue in your mouth and picked you up easily. you had started to squeak in embarrassment at getting picked up and taken to his room where you were thrown on the bed, unceremoniously.

the rest was a blur when he stripped you and him until you both were naked. you blushed at his scarred chest and toned and lean body. toji looked at your gorgeous body in awe while spreading your legs, revealing your pretty pussy to him while you whimpered shyly. from then, toji lost all composure.

he had you with your legs in the air, while thrusting into your mercilessly. you cry and sob in a sinful mixture of pleasure and pain, as he pounds deep into you, hitting all your sweet spots. toji had one rough hand gripped tightly to your waist, holding you down to your bed to prevent your body from jolting from every harsh thrust.

toji had an immense sexual appetite, already built up from not having sex for so long and he was so experienced too, making you stutter and blabber like a fool. you held onto his muscular arms for dear life while he had his fill.

"d-daddy, its too much!" you hiccup out, trying to adjust to his large size and animalistic pace. toji seemed to like you calling him daddy a lot, as indicated by him going even more deeper and faster into you.

"you can take it" he hissed in your ear, squeezing your tits. he kisses your swollen lips, snuffling the cry that threatened to come. "my good girl" he whispered, making your heart skip a beat at the praise. you felt in come in you, most of it leaking out your quivering pussy.

toji didn't like to see you waste his cum like that, giving you a harsh slap on the side of your thigh, making you squeal. he fucks his cum back into your pussy, making sure it went in deep.

"i'm gonna put a baby in you" he says to you, every syllable make your belly feel warm. "you'd look so beautiful with my kid in your belly"

"daddy!" you squealed, feeling embarrassed and strangely aroused, already imagining yourself as his young, pretty wife.

your arrangement after this slightly changed. after feeding megumi and putting him to bed, toji would come home from work. you would be sitting on his large bed, sitting obediently and naked.

toji would take out all his frustrations from work out on your body and you would be lying under him, pliantly and happy to ease his worries. he would fuck you without abandon every night with would result in you leaving his house with a blissed-out smile. your parents were none the wiser, and were oblivious to the new bruises and hickeys on your body whenever you returned from the fushiguros.

#toji x you #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji fushiguro smut #jjk smut #toji fic #jjk

7K notes · View notes

sarahghetti · 2 months

Text

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

752 notes · View notes

mckitterick · 2 months

Text

Christofascist Republican calls LGBTQ people "filth" during public forum

The culture of hate among Christofascists recently led to the violent beating and subsequent death of Choctaw two-spirit teenager Nex Benedict in Oklahoma.

When questioned about how 50+ anti-LGBTQ bills might have affected this case, State Senator Tom Woods said,

“We are a Republican state - supermajority - in the House and Senate. I represent a constituency that doesn’t want that filth in Oklahoma.”

Several audience members clapped at his statement, while others appeared shocked.

“We are a religious state and we are going to fight it to keep that filth out of the state of Oklahoma because we are a Christian state - we are a moral state,” Woods said. “We want to ... let people be able to go to the faith they choose. We are a Republican state and I’m going to vote my district, and I’m going to vote my values, and we don’t want that in the state of Oklahoma.”

State Representative David Hardin added, “How you live your life personally, that’s between you and God... but what goes through our public schools - I will fall back on my faith. I want to make sure that at least the children in our public schools have that faith... what I want to make sure of is that our young children have the right to grow up with that faith."

After the forum, Woods reiterated his stance on the matter: "I support my constituency, and like I said, we’re a Christian state, and we are tired of having that shoved down our throat at every turn... I stand behind my statement, and I stand behind the Republican Party values."

When asked what he thought of Woods’ characterization of LGBTQ people as “filth,” State Senator Dewayne Pemberton said, “No comment.”

Again and again, today's christofascist Republicans (any other sort doesn't get elected these days) reveal that they want to indoctrinate public school kids into their own bigoted hatred, forcing children to hate anyone who doesn't subscribe to their narrow interpretation of their religious texts. Christofascists seek to impose their personal, misguided religious biases on the general public, including creating laws codifying hate and authoritarian control over the lives and bodies of everyone, not just others in their own religion.

Make no mistake, Nex Benedict's death was caused by christofascist indoctrination of the three girls who brutally beat Nex in that school bathroom. Nex Benedict's death was caused by the school failing to take their injuries seriously, by hate codified in Oklahoma state laws designed to harass LGBTQ folks and normalize bigotry against them, by Oklahoma Superintendent of Public Instruction Ryan Walters appointing hate-speech villain Chaya Raichik (responsible for "Libs of TikTok") to the Oklahoma Department of Education's Library Media Advisory Committee even though she doesn't live in the state (but he likes that she used Benedict's school and teacher for targeted hate). And on and on - it's a systematic attack on personal freedom and human rights - and the lives of queer folks.

Nex Benedict's death is exactly what christofascists seek through indoctrinating children into their hate that perpetuates bigotry into the future and forcing their religious fanaticism into the public sphere through unconstitutional laws built on hate and control.

Do you want to live in a theocracy dictated by those who narrowly interpret their personal religious texts to promote hate? Because as long as citizens fail to speak out against these harbingers of civilizational collapse, they'll only feel more and more emboldened to turn hate crimes into victories.

We must not let another of our people become victim of systemic bigotry. To protect children and end generational indoctrination, we must fire all public officials who subscribe to christofascist hatred and, when appropriate, prosecute them for the violence they incite.

If we fail to end the careers of hateful christofascists, we fail our children.

#Nex Benedict #christofascism #theocracy #fire all republicans

465 notes · View notes

primehyuck · 8 months

Text

MOVES

aka good things take time (the happy ending version)

word count: 11.3k

i first started writing this because i’ve been listening to the song Moves by Suki Waterhouse on repeat, but it became much more than that

contents: long time best friend!haechan, slice of life, pining and yearning, chronological time jumps (mostly college and young adulthood), other members mentioned (Mark and Jeno!roommates), kissing, fluff, wet dreams, a good example of two people who seriously need to communicate, face sitting, morning sex, lots of pet names

“Do you think we’ll be friends for a long time?” Haechan’s soft voice distracts your attempt to focus on a blade of the blurry ceiling fan, unable to keep you cool despite it spinning so fast you think it might fly away.

“How do you mean?” the bed squeaks when Haechan sits up to lean over you.

“Growing up, I feel like my parents didn’t have many friends aside from each other. My mom told me that it’s because when you get older your priorities change and you realize who adds value to your life, and that’s who you decide to keep.” His eyes are glowing with sincerity, body blocking the flow of air from touching you at all “so when we’re older, and married with kids and other priorities, and we maybe live in different cities, do you think we’ll still be friends?”

You stare at him for a moment before shoving his face out of the way of the fans air stream.

“Definitely,” your confidence soothes him enough that he lays back down “if I ever muster up the creativity to come up with a reason to stop being your friend, you have to swear you’ll tell me how stupid I’m being, swear to me.” you smack his chest before he can even answer.

“I swear!” He smiles to himself, staring up at the ceiling with you, rubbing his hand over the warm spot where your hand made contact, melting into the mattress.

———

Growing up people always joked that Haechan and you would fall in love, that it was inevitable, practical even. Because, if you fall in love with your best friend you’ve already conquered one of the highest mountains - finding someone that you like, and who likes you back.

You had both seen the other in a relationship, an inevitability when you’ve been friends with someone since puberty. He’d cheered you on when you had your first kiss during a game of spin the bottle in high school, forced you to come out on double dates with him and a friend of his you didn’t even like just so he could take someone else out, and freshman year of college he’d even introduced you to the person you'd lost your virginity to.

The only time he cockblocked you was when you tried to get to know any of his friends more than platonically, so eventually you gave up and settled for real friendship with all of them.

“Trust me, you don’t want to touch him with a six foot pole.” He’d said freshman year when you had mentioned your attraction to his roommate, Mark.

“He seems so nice, though.” you pouted

“He is nice, but that doesn’t mean you want to be with him.”

“How would you know what I want?” you scoffed, and he looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Has the wind beneath my wings ever led you into the wrong arms?” He was highly animated, offended that you would question his judgment.

By the start of sophomore year it was obvious to everyone else that you were strictly off limits. All of his friends had decided unanimously that even if you did attempt anything with them they had no choice but to shut you down. The cold stare Haechan unknowingly serves them from across the room whenever they got too close was enough to keep them away. None of the boys ever minded the boundaries with you, there always was an ease in your friendship since they all knew it could never go further, but that didn’t mean they never thought about the possibility.

One night, at the end of junior year, Haechan is nowhere to be found at his own party and you graciously accept Jeno’s invitation upstairs when you complain of a headache, “we can play Mario Kart, and it won’t be all competitive like when Haechan plays with us.”

It starts like normal, and you're having fun when you realize that your tipsy brain can’t focus on the screen and the conversation simultaneously, opting for the latter as you relax into Jeno’s pillows. You don’t even notice him inching closer to you until his nose touches yours, tugging at a strand of your hair. This is the first time any of Haechan’s friends have shown interest in you, you’d never even been on the receiving end of a flirtatious stare from across the beer pong table, so you take the reins.

Kissing Jeno feels a little bit like winning, like you’ve finally made it past the invisible forcefield Haechan had put up around his friends. The kiss is lazy and hot, Jeno props himself up on one elbow and presses your back into the mattress with his chest. Your eager fingers run beneath his shirt, his abs tightening when you trail them over his sides. Your spine tingles when he groans into your mouth, the hand on your cheek moving to grip your knee and hike your leg over his hip. His hand holds strong around your thigh, and you sigh when he grinds into you.

Jeno pulls away too soon, stopping your hands reaching for the hem of his shirt with a pained sigh as he drops your leg to roll onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes.

“Fuck, I should not be doing this with you.”

“Why, you don’t want to?” You want to curl into yourself, sitting up to stare down at his shaking head.

“No, definitely not that.” he pulls his arm away to meet your eyes, the alcohol in his veins making him brave enough to admit “Haechan would be pissed.”

“Haechan?” you question “did he say something to you?” Jeno groans, sitting up and hooking his elbows around his knees, staring at the mattress between his legs.

“No, no. He’s never actually said anything,” he knows he’s revealing too much, but he also knows he’s gone too far to stop “we just know he would never want us to cross that line with you.”

“We?” you can feel embarrassment bubbling in your chest at the idea of all of your friends talking about this.

“Yeah, you know, all the guys. We figured you were just off limits, I don’t know.” he grimaces, looking up at you with apologetic eyes when you don’t respond. You huff and climb off the bed, feeling rejected in more ways than one.

You’d crossed a boundary tonight, but Jeno was still a close friend, someone you’d spent a lot of time with since he met Haechan freshman year. He still knows you, so he grabs your wrist before you can leave, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed so he can stand you between his legs.

“I’m sorry, don’t be mad.” He envelops your hands in his and brings them to his chest.

“I’m not mad,” you mumble, avoiding his apologetic gaze “I’m embarrassed that all of my friends agreed not to touch me.”

“Did you really think not a single one of us was ever interested in you?” you shrug and he squeezes your hands tighter, heart tugging in his chest.

“When people don’t act interested, that’s usually a safe assumption.” you pout and Jeno’s laugh buzzes through your linked fingers "I gave up on all of you halfway through freshman year."

“Well, some of us are better actors than I remember.”

He has you laughing by the time you leave his room, sealing the night with one more self indulgent kiss and a pinky swear to never tell Haechan about what happened.

———

Halfway through the first semester of senior year Haechan bangs angrily on his roommates door before swinging it open and Jeno is genuinely shocked that it's taken this long for the gossip to hit his ears. The rest of the boys had clocked Jeno the next morning for being ‘too happy’ and he had to make them all swear not to tell, wanting to protect your pride and his own friendship with Haechan.

"You slut!" Haechan points an accusatory finger in Jeno's direction, dragging his feet slowly toward him until he's so close Jeno has to bat his hand out of his face.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about." Haechan's voice is low and angry, something new and unpleasant sparking in his gut at the idea of Jeno kissing you, touching you.

"No, I don't." Jeno can’t help but antagonize. Pleased with the perfect opportunity to trick Haechan into saying out loud what everyone else seems to have known for years.

"You kissed my best friend!" He shrieks, tossing his hands up in the air dramatically.

"So what, she's not allowed to kiss people?" Haechan squints his eyes at Jeno’s response, scrunching his nose in annoyance “how did you even find out?”

"She can kiss whoever she wants, it's all of you that aren't allowed to kiss her." Haechan waves his hand wildly toward the bedroom door, alluding to the large group of boys living in the house “you know Mark can’t keep a secret, he’s been bursting at the seams for months. All I had to do was ask.”

"It happened forever ago dude, why are you so pissed? You've never even given us a chance to get close to her in that way, maybe one of us could really like her." Jeno reasons, tugging at Haechan's strings, watching the gears in his brain turn as he tries to come up with a real argument.

"She has a boyfriend," Haechan finally says with a frown at the thought of the guy he’d only recently met, he doesn’t like him at all. From his stupid hair to the shoes he wears, there’s not a thing about your new boyfriend that Haechan thinks is good enough for you. He collapses into the gaming chair across from where Jeno is relaxed on the couch, not having moved at all since Haechan stormed in "plus, I think any of you would know by now, you've all known her for four years."

"I think, that it can take a lot longer than four years to realize how much you like someone." Jeno bites, "how long have you known her?"

"Since middle school." He picks at the hole in the knee of his black jeans, realizing what Jeno is alluding to, defensive exterior quickly crumbling.

"Right, I think that if you're blind enough then it can take ten years to realize how much you like someone."

"Well, maybe ten years is too long and that person missed their chance." Haechan turns his head to stare out the window, anxiously spinning the chair side to side.

"You know I'm talking about you, right?"

"God, yes, I know you're talking about me." Haechan glares at his friend, fidgeting stopping abruptly "and I know I've been a complete idiot about it, but like I said, I’m out of time."

———

Haechan can’t stop his free hand from clenching and unclenching as you sob into your pillow, his less angry hand rubbing over your back.

“He told me he saw us moving in together after graduation,” your voice shakes “how do you look someone in the eyes and say shit like that and then sleep with someone else?”

“I don’t know,” Haechan replies earnestly, feeling as helpful as flip flops in the snow from where he sits on the edge of your mattress “I’m so sorry.”

He takes your silence as an invitation, lying on his stomach, face turned toward you, fingers still drawing soothing circles over your shoulder blades. He waits patiently for you to calm down, unease swarming his stomach knowing that even after years of friendship he can’t truly comfort you in this moment.

“I’m so embarrassed.” you sniffle, smearing your face over your pillow before turning to look at him. He holds his breath, waiting for you to collect yourself enough to explain.

“I’m so gullible, he even told me he’s cheated in the past and for whatever reason I believed that he’d treat me differently, that he’d love me enough.” Haechan has to count to five in his head to stay calm before he speaks.

“You have no reason to be embarrassed. The most natural thing you can do is believe someone when they say they love you.” He murmurs, turning onto his side so he can pull you into a hug. When you curl into his body to bury your face in his chest he can only pray you can’t hear his heart pound against his ribs.

“He’s an idiot, and he didn’t deserve any of the love you gave him. I promise, you’re so much better off.”

Haechan hates the piece of himself that’s relieved your relationship has ended. The same piece that hated your ex the minute he met him, that feels heavy in your absence whenever you’re busy with anyone who isn’t him. The piece that crosses it’s fingers whenever you get this close in hopes that you’ll be the first one to cross the line, to finally do what he’s thought about doing for the last few months since he realized exactly how he felt about you.

“Thank you,” you mumble into his tear dampened shirt, lifting your leg over his to cuddle in even closer “thanks for always being my friend, even when I do dumb shit, like let boys be mean to me.”

He nuzzles his nose into your scalp, eyes fluttering shut at the smell of your shampoo “Thanks for letting me. Besides, even Beyoncé got cheated on, so you clearly aren’t that dumb.” the crowd in his brain cheers when you giggle into his chest.

“You’re so annoying.” He holds you even tighter.

———

“I can’t believe it,” your jaw drops and Haechan whips his head up nervously to look at you from across the couch

“What happened?”

“I got it, I got the job!” you shove his feet off your lap to jump up excitedly, bouncing on your toes as you read the email out loud. Haechan’s ears are ringing so loud he barely catches the first half, trying to shake off the dazed look he’s sure appears on his face.

“We were extremely impressed with your resume and even more so with the impression you left on the board during your interview, blah blah blah, excited to offer you this position, blah blah blah, and a relocation bonus to join us in in our new office!” the pitch of your voice rises a few octaves as you finish reading.

Haechan stares at you from his spot on the couch, eyes wide with shock that you’re too excited to notice, skimming your screen as you re-read the details in your offer letter.

His entire body is buzzing, torn between feeling excited at your accomplishment and sorry for himself.

He had a plan, a really good one, he thought. After your breakup you’d made it painfully clear that you wanted to be single for a while, and he knew if he could just be patient, it would all be worth it. So Haechan decided to bottle his feelings up, sitting patiently by your side where he had been for so many years, waiting for you to heal and hoping that when you were finally ready to start dating again he’d have mustered up the courage to make the first move.

“Lee Donghyuck, are you even listening to me!?” you drop your phone to pull him up off the couch, bouncing up and down with your fingers intertwined “I’m moving to my dream city, to start my dream job.” you reiterate and he snaps out of it, sweeping the imaginary shards of glass that his plan had been made out of under the rug and pulling you into a hug.

“That’s amazing, I’m so proud of you.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.” You deadpan, but squeeze him back just as tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to miss you is all.” He admits, "I'd follow you if my job didn't keep me here."

“I’ll make sure you don’t miss me too much, don’t worry.” you plant your cheek on his chest, surprised at the relief you feel in hearing him say it first.

———

This feeling was still a little unfamiliar, nerves. Haechan had never made you nervous growing up; excited, annoyed, passionate maybe, but never nervous.

The nerves began last summer, when he’d come out to visit you for the first time to celebrate his birthday. It was the longest you’d gone without seeing each other since you’d met, almost ten full months and the anticipation was palpable.

When he steps through the airport doors you think that it’s the relief of finally being near him again that knocks the wind out of you. Running into his open arms and being squeezed so tightly in them that you tap his shoulder to let you breathe. Ruffling his hair when he steps back and ignoring the fact that he had grown so much since you’d seen him last.

But as the night goes on, the slight changes to the person you have memorized become glaringly obvious. The way his cheeks have lost some of their cushion, revealing a sharp jaw and pointed cheekbones. The natural wave in his once unruly hair now falling perfectly over his brow bone, he had dyed it a little darker which made his tan skin glow even in dim lighting. Even his smell seemed to draw you into a trance, a much more expensive version of the Haechan you know.

“You know, that group of girls has been staring over at you since we walked in.” You raise your eyebrows playfully, pointing your glass toward the pretty gaggle that keeps walking past the booth you and Haechan occupy.

He doesn’t break eye contact with you before shrugging, “I didn’t come here to see them, I came to see you.” he smiles, punctuating his thought by reaching over the table and tapping your nose.

“I know, I know,” you laugh, batting him away “It never hurts to know when people are staring, though”

His face is unreadable as he rests his arm lazily up over the bench of the booth, body sinking into the seat while he lifts his glass to swirl his drink, biting the words that have been resting on the tip of his tongue the entire trip, and at the end of every phone call since you started your new job.

“How are you, seriously.” You push. In the time since you moved he’d started and ended a relationship with a girl that you’d never met. Your new job kept you so busy that you hadn’t even learned about the breakup until a week later, when you finally had the time to call him back. The guilt of your absence weighs you down, resenting your inability to be there for him the way he had been for you in the past.

“I’m over it, seriously.” You know he’s telling the truth, but it’s in your nature to pry.

“You never really talked about, why, you know.”

“Do I have to?”

“No, I’m sorry, I just feel so behind on your life.” You sigh and push your empty glass to the side, swirling your finger in the ring of cold water it leaves behind.

“It’s okay, really. You’ve been busy, I understand.” He reaches across the table to stop your anxious fingers “I didn’t love her the way I knew I should, that’s all. It’s a good thing that it ended, and I’m happy that it did.”

“That’s all that matters, then.” and he’s grateful that you drop the subject.

You eventually get back to your apartment, both giggly and flush from the alcohol still fogging your brain despite the long walk you'd hoped would lessen it. Haechan holds your hand the whole way back, even when he stops suddenly to pet a dog, dragging you down to the ground with him. He can’t help himself, grateful that at this point you'd touched one another in every way other than what he dreams about most, and you seem oblivious to his need to be so close to you.

As you get ready for bed he lets himself watch you undress facing the wall away from him, unaware of his gaze burning into your backside and the way his fingers tingle at the thought of pulling at the meat of your hips. He scolds his heart for thudding so loud when you squeeze your eyes into a smile at his reflection standing next to yours at the sink while you brush your teeth, the domestication of your friendship that he used to appreciate now suffocating him.

You put on a movie and invite him to rest his head on the pillow in your lap, wishing he could bury his nose into the skin of your thighs beneath it. Halfway through the movie he has to sit up to hide the way his cock is hardening at the feeling of your nails combing through his hair and down his shoulder, occasionally thrumming over his chest. He pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and tosses it over his legs as casually as possible, pulling you into his side by your shoulder, the other arm stretched across the back of the couch.

"Are you cold for the first time in your life?" Haechan never wants to use a blanket, but you’re grateful for the position giving you access to bury your face into his chest, gripping his shirt.

"No, just want to be warmer." he presses a blushing cheek onto the top of your head, trying to think of anything except the way your hair smells, or the feeling of the side of your breast brushing his wrist through your shirt. Haechan feels eighteen again and like he's discovering the connection between romantic and sexual feelings for the first time in his life. He tries to match his breathing to yours, holding his breath whenever you shift in his hold and reconnecting his stomach with your back as quickly as possible. The temptation to pour his heart out is overwhelming, but when he feels your body completely relax into his and your breathing slow down, the words become trapped in his throat, so he lets you sleep.

Haechan had never experienced a shorter 48 hours than that weekend he spent following you around the city you now call home.

You’re shining in your new space, and he happily trails behind you to all the places you’ve discovered in the almost year since you moved. His stomach does somersaults whenever you point something out that reminds you of him.

“I’ve been waiting to come here until you could come with me!” you're so excited to take him to the video game themed coffee shop that your co-workers had recommended “I thought about coming to see if it was even worth it, but I only want to play these kinds of games with you anyway.”

Sometimes he can forget about his feelings for you, when things are just as they always have been. You talk with and touch him the same, laugh at his jokes the same. He thinks that if he were to ever say out loud what he’s been feeling, that the two of you would still be the same but with a little More, ‘you guys’ but on steroids. So when everything is normal he can pretend like it‘a not. He can act like the More is there when you hold his hand to drag him around to the different machines, play games he wants to play even if you don’t want to, you even wipe ice cream off of his chin when his cone starts to melt because he’s talking too much to eat and he wonders why it took him so long to see it this way, and if you could too.

He keeps thinking the moment will come, when he’ll know spilling his guts to you is the right thing to do. But between you gushing over how much you love your new life and your willingness to point out every girl who has blinked at him this weekend, he completely loses the steam he’d gained during his flight, regardless of how his imagination runs wild with the More.

He curses himself the entire weekend for his lack of bravery, hoping that keeping his feelings in is the right decision. After his recent relationship crashed and burned because of his feelings for you he thought he had no choice but to come clean. But watching you, being with you in your new life makes him realize that his role in it hasn’t changed even if his feelings for you have.

The lump in his throat as he stands outside the departure doors is more than just sadness at the thought of leaving you, it’s the realization that he has to let the romantic idea of you go.

“How come you never cry when we have to leave each other,” you hiccup into his chest, and he coos your name lovingly.

“Don’t worry, you know I save my tears for the plane to make everyone in my row uncomfortable.” He knows that you hate that he’s making you laugh at a time like this, pulling away so you can swat his chest and he raises his hands in surrender.

“When will we be able to see each other again?”

“As soon as possible.” He nods reassuringly, wiping your tears with his thumb, heart pounding as he stares into your watering eyes “hey, you’re my best friend in the world, you annoy me every day, and I love you.”

“Whatever, I love you too.” you laugh, but his heart speeds up at the words that you’ve said to him thousands of times. You sweep your arms around him one last time before pushing him toward the airport doors “you better go, if you miss your flight I can’t guarantee I’ll let you leave at all.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He walks backwards slowly, staring at you with a ‘kicked puppy’ kind of face he mastered years ago and you wave enthusiastically, blowing loud kisses into the air that he catches and clutches to his heart.

“This is it,” he thinks, “this has to be it.”

———

Haechan is dreaming about you. He has been nightly ever since he got back from his birthday weekend. He’s grateful the dreams have variety, since some of them overwhelm him to the point of waking up and not being able to fall back asleep.

Sometimes, you’re young again and whenever anyone says “You know, it’s just a matter of time until one of you has a crush on the other.” you both theatrically gag, laughing at each other as if it were the most insane idea in the world. Or, you're sitting on his childhood couch watching your guys' favorite movie for the hundredth weekend in a row, vocalizing the parts of the two main characters and recreating all the best scenes.

Sometimes you’re at his apartment just hanging out together, which are dreams that feel so real he almost expects to see you in his kitchen when he wakes up. Most of these dreams spark a deja vu laced flame in his gut so deep he finds himself confusing them with memories. The ache of missing you wakes him up before his alarm some mornings, and he finds himself face timing you once he knows you're awake just to watch you make coffee and wash your face.

But sometimes, he has dreams that make him feel so ashamed he can barely text you back in the morning. Dreams where he reaches to touch you and you let him, where you tug at his hair and moan his name while he does all the things that he can only do to you in his sleep. He hates to say that these are his favorite, but it's the one dream he knows he'll never actually achieve and he goes to bed every night praying for them.

That’s the kind of dream he’s having when his phone buzzes him awake. He answers without looking because there are only a handful of people who can reach him when he’s on ‘do not disturb’, and you’re one of them. He hums a sleepy greeting into his phone, putting it on speaker next to his pillow and nearly drifting right back into the dream and between your thighs.

“Donghyuck” his eyes shoot open at the sound of your voice “did i wake you up?”

He can practically hear the pout in your voice, squinting at the time on his phone, “Yes, it’s three in the morning,” he stares down to where he’s half hard, running an embarrassed hand over his face even though there’s no possible way for you to know “are you okay?”

“No, well technically yes but I miss you which means things could be better.” you slur your words and Haechan smiles, somehow he's never annoyed that you call him pretty much every time you drink. He thinks it's because he's familiar with this version of you, though he definitely hasn't seen it often since college graduation. This version of you loves him hard, and is never afraid to say it.

"I miss you too," he takes a beat before adding "I was dreaming about you just now."

You gasp excitedly "Really! What were we doing." He smirks at the thought of telling you that you had been sitting on his face, hand reaching back for his cock while he guides your cunt over his tongue until you were shaking above him.

"Just, hanging out." he shrugs. It's his second time this week alone dreaming of your clit bumping his nose, and the thought makes his mouth water.

"I don't believe you." You say accusingly "that's way too boring for a mind like yours to dream up."

"What exactly is my mind like?" He yawns, throwing his forearm over his eyes.

"Oh, you know," you hum "your mind is a galaxy, with at least a billion planets and twice as many stars. I wish I could fly into your head and explore it, but NASA doesn't have the funds."

Haechan holds his breath at your compliment, the smile on his face so wide he can hear it in his own voice "That sounds like an episode of Magic School Bus."

"Your brain is definitely cooler than some cartoon, it's pretty much my favorite place on Earth."

"How would you know, you've never actually been inside?" He shakes his head, teasing you gently. Hearing words like these come out of your mouth breaks his heart and glues it back together at the same time.

"Are you saying you never think about me?" you ask him, not an ounce of sarcasm in your voice.

"I think about you all the time, I promise, all the planets in my brain are shaped like you." You hum, pleased with his response. He shuts his eyes and waits for your answer.

"Yeah, all the planets in mine are shaped like you, too." you pause for a second and add "plus all the stars, I win, I think about you more."

———

This time when Haechan comes to visit you, you know the nerves are more than just excitement at seeing your best friend. It’s a feeling that is nestled so deep in your stomach it makes you a little nauseous. You haven't seen him since you went home for the holidays and he only has one night in the city. You find yourself grueling over your reflection in the mirror, not used to being self conscious in front of him. You’re only going out for happy hour, but you put yourself together to last all night.

When Haechan finally arrives he whistles lowly, making you blush when he pulls out of your hug and requests a spin.

“I appreciate that you got so dressed up for me.” He teases, hoping you don’t catch his eyes sweeping over your legs, wanting to commit you in this dress to memory.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you roll your eyes as if you hadn’t spent the last two hours making sure you looked as perfect as possible. Hoping he doesn’t see the pile of clothes shoved into your closet from all the failed attempts.

“Never,” he grabs your purse off of the counter and opens the door, sweeping his arm out in front of him dramatically “after you. There are some strangers outside who are waiting to catch a glimpse of you, they just don’t know it yet.”

“You are so dramatic.” You lock the door behind you, using the moment facing away from him to collect yourself. Lately you catch yourself wondering if he'd always been so flirtatious, or if you're just forcing meaning behind his words because of how badly you want him to be.

“What, a guy can’t compliment his best friend?”

You smile widely at him and grab your bag out of his grasp, popping your key inside and walking toward the entrance of your building. Praying your fingers stop shaking when you finally get a drink in you. Haechan throws his arm around your shoulders while you walk down the street to your favorite cocktail bar and you're grateful for his usual chatter, talking to you about work and his slow climb up the ladder.

“They put me in a hotel this time, so you don’t have to worry about making me breakfast in the morning.” He smiles at you, sipping his drink gingerly.

“You know I never cook you breakfast.” He feels so far away across the table and you wish that you were sitting next to him instead, shoulders cold without the weight of his arm around them. It feels so good to have him touch you, to feel like you're his. There's a small part of you that feels guilty for using his knack for physical affection to your advantage, he has no idea what the heat of his skin on yours does.

“I know, but all the meetings are in the hotel anyway so it’s easier this time to just stay there.”

You try not to let yourself visibly deflate at the news, wanting to keep him for yourself the whole time he’s in town. His knee presses against yours under the table and you focus all your energy into acting the way you would have before, but you can’t focus on anything else and cross your legs to pull away from him as casually as possible. As badly as you want to touch him, sometimes you can’t.

“What time do you have to be up?”

He groans, leaning back enough that his knee now slides against your shin, “too early,” and glances down at his now empty glass, motioning to the bartender for another “which means you need to drink faster, so I can stop at a reasonable hour.”

You smile, downing the rest of your drink in one gulp, when his foot taps against yours you know it's going to be a long night.

The end of the night finds you together on your couch with a shared bottle of wine sitting empty on the coffee table, his early meetings temporarily forgotten. You and Haechan have been in this position plenty of times, drunk, slap happy and overly touchy in a way that you had always been comfortable being with one another. The difference now is you, this version of you who wants your best friend in an entirely different way.

Every time he pulls you closer you feel electricity shoot straight to your heart so intensely that you have to duck out of his grasp. You don’t know what to do with the feelings that have been growing gradually from your toes up, now practically sprouting out of your scalp with a neon sign blinking “I’m in love with you” over and over.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Haechan whines when you all but flinch away from his hand reaching for his phone near your arm. He’d been aware of it all night, the space you left between the two of you while you walked back from the bar, your sudden inability to maintain the eye contact that he craved. The complete lack of physical touch makes him feel dejected.

“Doing what?” You give him a panicked look, practically sober at the thought of being found out, of what it would feel like to be rejected by him.

“You’re not letting me touch you,” he frowns, and the alcohol buzzes through your veins again “not that you need to let me, but you only avoid it like this when you’re upset. Did I do something?” he pouts, tired eyes low when he flops his head onto his bicep resting on the back of the couch. You forget to breathe for a second when he looks up at you under dark lashes.

“I’m not upset. I wasn’t doing it on purpose.” you’re lying through your teeth, but scoot an inch closer to him to make your point. He doesn’t look convinced, and if you’d had less to drink you may have noticed the mischievous glint in his eye before he grabs you by your arm, knocking you off balance and into his chest.

“See,” he sighs happily, wrapping his arms around your body and you can feel his chest buzz when he hums, cheek pressed to the top of your head. You have no choice but to ungracefully shift your lower body closer to him, making yourself a sponge and soaking in his familiar touch “isn’t that better?”

You nod, “Yes, it is better.” and you really wish he didn’t know you so well, that even in his fifth hour of being drunk he can read your mind. He pulls your ear off his heart to grab your cheeks, smushing them together and whispering your name with a shake of his head.

“What is it?” he urges, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist to loosen his grip. You shut your eyes, take a deep breath and count to three in your head before you can talk yourself out of leaning forward and pressing your lips to his.

You feel him falter for a half second before he’s kissing you back, pulling your face closer and pushing his body toward yours. You can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears when his tongue touches yours, and then suddenly his mouth is gone. He moves so quick you have to put your arms out to stop yourself from face planting into the cushion he had just been sitting on.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” you gasp “i shouldn’t have done that, Haechan, I’m so sorry.”

It takes everything in you to look up to where he’s now standing with his arms crossed over his chest protectively. You have no idea what he’s thinking, staring down at you with wide eyes. Insecurity sweeps through you under his intense gaze, and you almost beg him to say something.

“I’m seeing someone,” the way the confession rings in your ears would have you believing that he screamed the words, but his voice was barely above a whisper “shit, I’m sorry.”

You aren’t sure if it’s your life that flashes before your eyes, or your years of friendship with him, at this point the two tend to blur together.

“That’s-” you sit back on your calves and inhale shakily, knowing it’s not even worth it to attempt to fake any sort of excitement for him “why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs, swallowing thickly and pulling his eyes away from your face to stare at the ceiling “It’s new and I didn’t know how. It just never came up.”

“Well then, I’m sorry that it didn’t. I shouldn’t have done that, I don’t know what came over me.” grateful that he’s finally the one avoiding eye contact with you so he doesn’t see your legs wobble when you stand “probably best to pretend that never happened. I’m just drunk and I missed you-”

Your name sounds so pathetic when he says it this time and you think it’s the eighth wonder of the natural world that you haven’t started crying yet. You shake your head instead, wishing so desperately that you had changed out of the dress you were wearing as you pull the slinky material down your thighs.

“Honestly, Haechan,” You regret your next words before they even hit the air “you should probably go. You have an early morning.”

The shock on his face pains you, but you can’t stand to see what you can only assume is pity growing in his eyes for another second.

“I don’t want to go, I want to talk about this.”

“I’m sorry.” you say again and his shoulders slump in defeat, recognizing that you’d made up your mind.

“It’s okay.” He means it, shuffling forward and the look on your face is nearly enough to bring him to his knees. His breath catches when you shift away the inch he moved toward you, eyes locked on his and he can see the desperation in them before he hears it in your voice.

“Text me when you get to the hotel?” your voice cracks with a heavy mix of exhaustion and embarrassment that makes him nods once, grabbing his things and walking slowly toward your door. He turns to look at you, but his words catch in his throat when he sees your eyes begin to water, mustering up all his energy to offer what he prays is a reassuring smile before letting himself out.

You sink back into the couch when the door clicks shut, head hanging in your hands as the tears finally start to flow. You cry so hard you feel like you could throw up, replaying his rejection over and over in your mind, shame and regret coursing through your veins. Pure embarrassment heats your body at the look on his face when he told you he was seeing someone, and you’re not sure if it was disgust or pity in his eyes.

On top of the rejection, knowing that he didn’t feel like he could share something as big as meeting someone with you was a dagger to the heart, up until recently you had never kept a secret from him, and even this one you clearly couldn’t keep in for long.

You force yourself into the shower, scrubbing angrily at your skin under the scalding water. You get out once your fingers have pruned and your skin feels raw, avoiding the mirror on your way to your bedroom. You kick angrily at the dress you'd left on the floor, watching it land near the pile of outfits you had discarded while getting ready.

Haechan had texted you nearly thirty minutes earlier

“made it back”

you give it a thumbs up before turning your phone off, setting an alarm with the clock on your side table and letting the emotional exhaustion lull you to sleep.

------

Haechan is realizing that there is no way in hell that you need space more than he needs to talk to you. He tries to call you multiple times the first week after you kissed him but you never answered, and Haechan doesn’t want to push you to the point of no return. What he really wants is to go back in time and not leave you that night, but the pain in your eyes was so pronounced he couldn't bare to make it any worse. The only physical proof that you had kissed him at all being the stupid blue thumbs up on the text he had sent you that night. It's followed by a slew of reassuring texts, saying that he broke up with his girlfriend and if you would please just talk to him, that he's not mad.

This is the feeling he carries with him nearly two weeks later on the flight to you, when he’s sure that another minute of silence from you will kill him. By the time he gets to your apartment it’s almost midnight, so he knocks loud enough to wake you up.

When you open the door in a shirt he thinks might be his, Haechan knows he has no choice. He's speaking before you can say anything, before he can change his mind.

"I came here to tell you that I think you're being really stupid." He curses internally for the obvious nerves in his voice, your tired eyes widen with shock at his words.

"Excuse me?"

"Years ago you made me swear that I would tell you if you ever came up with a reason not to be my friend anymore. So I'm telling you now, I think you're being really fucking stupid."

"I'm not doing that" You defend yourself, tearing up at the sight of him. He pushes into your apartment, shutting the door behind him and standing close enough to touch. He’s staring you down with pleading eyes, and you bury your face in your hands so you don’t have to look at him.

“Then why are you ignoring me? Why won’t you let me fix this?”

“I don’t know I just,” you inhale shakily “I don't know how to do it right now, not like this."

"Like what?" He hopes he already knows the answer, but needs to hear you say it, to know that you’re as serious as he is. Your mouth feels full of cotton when he forces you to look at him by whispering your name, pulling your hands from your face and his heart pinches tightly at the tears welling in your eyes "please tell me, please. Like what?"

"You already know," your bottom lip betrays you, voice weak beneath heavy emotion when you speak "I love you, Haechan. I'm in love with you, and I don't know what to do about it. I feel like I fucked everything up, but I can’t undo it."

He feels his lungs fill with relief. Haechan steps forward to close the small gap between your bodies, grabbing your jaw to rest his forehead against yours. You falter, but his hand on the small of your back keeps you from going anywhere, he's practically panting and you can barely stand, dizzy with the feeling of him. You want to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming when he whispers "You didn't fuck anything up."

He ghosts his lips over yours for a moment until he's sure you're not going to stop him. When he finally kisses you it's with years of pent up adoration, directing your arms around his neck and pressing his thumb firmly into your jaw, long fingers wrapping around the side of your throat. He practically whines when your fingers tighten in his hair and your lips part for his warm tongue. His arm wraps around your waist so tightly you have to hinge backward to keep your mouths connected, gasping at the strength you didn't know he had.

He keeps your stomach flush to his own and kisses you until you're practically limp in his arms, pulling away to breathe. His eyes are shut as he rubs his nose over yours

"I love you, too. I've been meaning to tell you for a while." All the blood rushes into your ears at his words and you can't stop your biggest worry from spilling into the air.

“What if you change your mind?”

“I made up my mind a long time ago, there's nothing you could do to change it." He blinks his eyes open, pulling his face away from yours just enough to see you, the trepidation in your eyes makes him say your name quietly.

"It's only me, you know me," he assures you in a hushed tone "you have to know by now that you are my entire world."

You could laugh, only him, as if he hasn’t been one of the most important people in your life since the day you met. As if he isn’t someone who has seen you at every stage of it so far. It’s Haechan, who has always been funny, who has witnessed the worst sides of you and never made you feel bad, who has never left your side.

You kiss him again, fingers wrapping in tight fists around his shirt to keep yourself grounded. Haechan’s heart pounds happily in his chest and he hopes you can feel it this time, both hands nestling into your hair. He kisses you gently in an effort to slow down your urgent movements, moaning at the taste of your mouth. You fall into his rhythm easily, the way his tongue rolls gently over yours makes your body go up in flames. You move your hands to slide beneath his shirt, landing on the strong muscles in his back and teasing your fingers up his sides.

When you finally come up for air he stares at you for a minute before laughing, stomach tightening beneath your fingers when he does.

"What's funny?" you shut your eyes, leaning your forehead into his chest, letting the pretty sound ring in your ears.

"Nothing, I'm just-" he cuts himself off with a shrug, nuzzling his nose into the crown of your head "I love you, and you love me back. That's all, that's how easy it is."

"It hasn't been easy at all, in fact my life has been very very hard since your birthday last year.” He pulls away from your head to ogle at you.

"My birthday last year?" You nod, feeling your cheeks flush under his intense gaze, it had really been that long "God, I'm sorry I'm such a fucking idiot."

He's kissing you again before you can ask him to elaborate, grabbing hold of both wrists in one hand while he walks you backward and guides you up onto the counter as slowly as he has to in order to keep his lips on yours. His hips are the perfect height for you to wrap your legs around, gasping in surprise when he slides his hands around your ass and presses your core tightly against the growing bulge in his jeans.

You feel shy when you pull away to ask if he wants to go to your bedroom, feeling frozen in place when he stares at you with half lidded eyes, his plump lips swollen and red.

"Tonight, I'm just kissing you." Every cell in his body is screaming in protest at his own words. He can't express how badly he wants to do everything else, to recreate his dreams, to learn the parts of your body he'd never seen before. But he can't imagine doing anything but this tonight, just this; his lips on yours, your breath in his lungs and your body melting into his.

"Why?” your eyebrows pull together in confusion. You practically shiver with need, tucking your arms between your stomachs and burying your nose in his throat. His laugh buzzes against your face, rubbing his hands gently over your shoulders and trying to control his own breathing as your lips brush over his skin.

All he can say is, “Because I’ve been needing to for a long time.”

“How long?” You pull away from his chest, leaning back onto your hands and closing your eyes when he runs his own down your sternum and over your waist, groping at the flesh of your hips and trying not to regret his romantic side.

“Way too long.”

“Your birthday?” you ask, tugging gently at his shirt. He plants his hands outside of your legs to lean in close, one corner of his mouth pulling up.

“Much longer.” Your eyes widen in shock, and he interrupts you before you can question him “can we talk about it later? I have something really important to do tonight.”

———

He tells you that he's had feelings for you since senior year of college, when you kissed Jeno. He tells you about his plan to admit everything when he had seen you on his birthday, but that he was too scared. He assures you he ended his relationship the moment he got back home the previous week “because everyone has felt like a matter of 'when' it will end, not 'if',” He tells you that just two weeks of your silence hurt worse than any previous heartbreak, and you agree. And before you fell asleep next to him he tells you again, ‘I'm so in love with you.’ and shimmies excitedly when you say it back before kissing you until you can barely keep your eyes open. He holds your cheeks in his hands and practically lulls you to sleep with his tongue, plush lips pressing to yours so gently you can hardly feel them dotting around the rest of your face. He thinks he could do this forever before sleep finally catches up with him, his arm slung over your side to hold your face to his chest.

You wake up curled into a familiar side, your first emotion being giddy as the night floods back to you. Despite your obvious willingness to go further, Haechan had meant it when he said he'd only be kissing you. It made you crazy at first, but when the two of you were staring at each other in the mirror with shy eyes while moving through a nighttime routine you had gotten familiar with years before, you were happy he had the self control you clearly lack. The idea of him actually seeing and touching you in ways he never had before, of doing all the things you'd found yourself imagining him doing over the last year; it was overwhelming. Kissing until your jaw was sore and your lips were swollen felt easy.

You’re startled by Haechan’s hand reaching for yours, holding your palm and bringing your fingers to his lips to press a kiss to each one, “good morning.” his voice is deep and tired, mouth landing on the crown of your head.

"Good morning." You press your nose into his chest happily, gripping his hand in yours and resisting the urge to squeal with delight.

"What are you so excited about, me?" He teases, hand falling on your thigh to guide your leg up the front of his, stopping just below his crotch and you hope he's going to give you what you'd been wanting all night, for the last year.

"You, I just can't believe how happy I am." You admit, lifting your head off of his chest to smile at him. He pulls you right back down, kissing your lips once before rolling you both over so he's on top of you. He presses a hand over your collarbone and drags his lips down your chin and over your throat.

"You know, this means you're all mine now." he smirks against your neck when you nod, gasping when he sucks gently at the base. He has one forearm on the mattress, the other hand too gentle on your ribs. You can feel that he's hard and you immediately roll your hips up.

"Does this mean you're gonna do more than just kiss me now?" you intend to sound confident, but it comes out as a whimper. His nose brushes over your jaw before he presses lingering kisses to your chin and cheek.

"Yes, baby, if you'll let me." You nod eagerly, shifting your face so your lips are beneath his and sighing happily when he lowers his weight onto your torso, licking into your mouth. You shiver with anticipation when he pushes at your shirt, long fingers tickling up your side before landing on your breast. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes over your already hard nipple.

Your impatience is overwhelming, grabbing the back of his shirt and tugging it up to his shoulders. He pulls away reluctantly, reaching one hand toward his back and pulling his shirt over his head. You gnaw at your lip, running your hands over his stomach and hooking your knees around his hips as much as you can while stretching your arms over your head.

“Cute.” he murmurs, pulling your shirt up and tossing it to the side. He gropes at your chest, tongue wetting his lips before he leans down to wrap them around one of your nipples. He’s trying to act without thinking, to let the dreams he’s had pave the path down your body because he knows the second he acknowledges his nerves he won’t be able to shake them off. His heart thrums when you gasp above him, arching your chest into his mouth. He’s greedy for your sounds, his hands squeezing your breasts together and licking between them to get to the other nipple. When your hips buck up into his he groans, pulling away from your chest and staring down at you with wondering eyes.

“Can I?” He feels unnaturally shy, leaning back on his calves and watching his fingers press dimples into the flesh of your hips above your underwear, tugging at the hem.

“You don’t need to ask.” He smiles, forcing you to sit by grabbing the back of your neck for a kiss. His fingers press into your clothed core and your hips roll into his hand. He sighs into your mouth at your desperation, torn between teasing you and touching you everywhere.

You can’t keep your legs from shutting around his arm when he pushes your panties to the side and slides his middle and ring finger up your wet center, circling over your clit.

You pull away from the kiss, blinking up at him and your mouth falls open when he presses firmly on your clit, rubbing in slow circles. His head hangs as he lets out a quiet “fuck” at your reaction, moving his hand off your neck to stroke over your stomach and without it behind your head you have to lie back, he presses your legs open. Haechan stares at your chest while he settles between your knees, pushing two fingers inside your dripping core. His jaw hangs open, watching his knuckles disappear inside of you.

“So soft,” he breathes, staring down to where his fingers glisten when he pulls them out to rub over your clit again, palming over his cock getting harder in his sweats “want to be everywhere at once.”

“Want you everywhere.” you whine when his fingers pull away to hook into your underwear, tugging them down your legs. Haechan stands to strip and you hold your breath and soak in the soft swell of his hip that leads to where his cock hangs heavy between his legs. It’s pretty like the rest of him, and thicker than you'd expected with a leaking tip that matches the color of his tongue, he strokes himself once and you don’t get the chance to reach for him before he lays back on the bed, rolling you to sit on top of him. You shudder when your pulsing clit rubs over his stomach, inner thigh squeezing into his ribs. He runs his hands up your waist, scooting you an inch higher and grabbing onto your tits.

“Do you remember a few months ago, when you called me drunk and I told you I was dreaming about hanging out with you?” He shivers when you grind down in response, wet pussy sliding easily over his skin “I lied.”

Your hands press into his chest, tilting your head “what were we doing?” you can barely speak above a whisper when he pinches gently at your nipple with one hand, the other rubbing over your ribs when he smirks up at you.

“You were about a foot higher than you are right now,” you gasp and reach out to grab the headboard when he jolts his hips to move you up his chest, staring down at him with wide eyes as he shifts to wrap his arms under your legs, fingers pressing into your thighs.

“You dreamt about this?” you let him bring your hips to hover over his face, hands falling into his hair when he brushes his nose over your clit as he nods.

“All the time,” he moans and drags you down onto his face, lips wrapping around your clit. You shudder above him, letting some of your weight collapse into your heels and he groans happily at the pressure of you on his chin, pressing you harder onto his mouth to fuck his tongue into you. He wants to devour you, every sound you make goes straight to his cock which is already rock hard at the taste and smell of you. Even just thinking about the fact that it's your hips grinding over his face right now is enough to make him moan into your pussy.

You slur out praise, one of your hands shooting up to grip the headboard. His hands wander gently up your sides, eyes opening to stare up to where he plays with your tits, hard cock pulsing at the sight of your head thrown back, hips moving in gentle circles over his face. Haechan’s hand tugs yours down to his hair, trying to restrain himself from thrusting into the empty air at the feeling of you all over him. He hums happily into your pussy when you start to grind over his mouth, flattening his tongue for you to ride until your legs are shaking.

He lets out a deep “mmhmm” when you warn him that you’re going to cum, suckling hard on your clit until you’re practically begging him to let you go, body crumpling forward with both hands tangled in his hair. He's grateful you didn't touch his cock, just the thought of your fingers wrapped around him is enough to make him cum and he has other plans.

You can’t speak when you collapse onto the mattress beside him, immediately warmed by the weight of his body on top of yours as he slots himself between your thighs, sucking a hickey onto the front of your throat.

“Taste too fucking good,” he hums, mouthing over your chin and cheek “been dreaming of eating your sweet pussy for so long.” you practically swoon when he kisses you, pre-cum wetting the inside of your thigh when he relaxes his stomach onto yours.

“Hyuck, want you in me, please” Your vision is blurry, whining into his swollen lips. He works them over your cheek before pulling away from you, bringing one of your legs up to his shoulder and you rest the other knee on his hip. He can feel himself pant when he taps the head of his cock on your swollen clit, practically drooling when he sticks barely the tip inside before pulling back and repeating the tantalizing motion.

“Been waiting for too long to be teased,” you pout, trying to encourage his hips toward yours with the ankle he’s not pressing his cheek into. He smirks and circles his leaking tip over you again, watching his cock spread your arousal around before he pushes into you a little further.

“I’m taking my time with you, feels so fucking good.” He can’t look away from between your thighs, messy hair hanging over his forehead while his fingers grip your ankle tightly. You whimper when he pulls all the way out again, one more hard tap against your pulsing clit before he pushes himself halfway into your leaking pussy. You rise onto your elbows, trying to reach one hand to grab for his hip but he releases the base of his cock to stop you by lacing your fingers together. When Haechan finally looks into your eyes he bottoms out, stretching your leg toward your chest so he can lean in. His hips stutter, a choked groan rumbling deep in his chest.

“Oh my god, Hyuck please.” you beg him to move with a gasp. His forehead presses to your chin, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Fuck, baby, been needing you," he thrusts into you slowly, lifting his head to look down at you glowing beneath him with your eyes shut. He pulls out all the way before thrusting back inside, quickening his hips when your eyes flutter open, the look on your face enough to make his balls tighten slightly, shutting his eyes to regain self control "knew you'd feel so fucking good."

"M’so full, Haechan." you moan at his words and the rapid slap of his hips on the back of your thighs, forcing your eyes to stay open so you can see his face. The way his nose scrunches with focus when he pulls away from your chest, both his hands wrapping firmly around your hips while he watches his cock sink into you. Brown, shaggy hair sticks to his damp forehead, full lower lip taken between his teeth. He’s pure, unadulterated boyish beauty, and he’s all yours.

You squeak when he lets your leg drop off his shoulder, pressing your thigh as far open as it will go with your heel digging into his backside. He fans his fingers over your lower stomach, thumb reaching down to push your clit side to side and your hips tuck up for more pressure, Haechan moans loudly when the movement causes you to clamp around his cock, "Perfect fucking pussy, can't believe it's mine now. Like my fingers on your pretty clit?”

You nod enthusiastically, letting go of your breasts to hold the backs of your thighs, Haechan's eyes move up your body to stare at your chest move beneath him, nipples looking sweet as candy. He’s dying to sink his fingers into the softest part of your stomach, the way you’re moving for him makes his mind turn to sand. You stare down to where his thumb is making circles over your clit, perfectly timed with the head of his cock bruising your g-spot. You feel a second orgasm build and the corner of his mouth pulls up proudly when your legs shake. Your head hangs back as you gasp for air, "yes, please, Haechan feels so fucking good."

"Make the prettiest noises for me, want you cumming all over my cock." he leans forward just enough to trap your throat beneath the weight of his palms, other hand still moving over your swollen clit. You smile at the pressure of his body on yours, eyes fluttering shut while you moan. You nod desperately when he asks if you can do that, "if you can let me make you feel that good, please, my pretty girl."

He takes his hand off your throat when you cum, wanting to hear every sound you could possibly make. You repeat his name like a blessing that has him cumming with you, moaning and breathless as his hips start to slow, milking you both through your orgasms.

You wrap your arms around him when he pulls out of you, reveling in the feeling of him when he lowers himself down, burrowing his face into your neck and warming your skin with his breath. You hold him there for a minute until he pulls his head up, dopey smile lighting up his eyes and making you laugh.

“What?” you scrunch your nose at him “better than your dreams?”

He nods, “so much better, best I ever had, my body belongs to you now.” he smirks at his own words, but his tone is so gentle he can’t even call it a joke.

“Just your body?” you tease, and he leans his nose onto your lips for a kiss that you carry onto the mole under his eye.

“Body, mind, heart, soul,” he sighs happily when you cup his cheeks in your hands, kissing him gently “all the planets in my head.”

"All the planets in my head too."

————

masterlist

authors note // this ended up being much longer than i anticipated, maybe the longest one shot i’ve ever actually written! i appreciate everyone who voted for happy ending because when i was originally thinking of a sad ending it was too hard lol. this feels forever unfinished because there is so much good to this version of haechan, i adore him.

#haechan #haechan fanfiction #haechan smut #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct dream fanfiction #nct dream smut #nct 127 fanfiction #nct 127 smut #nct fanfiction #nct smut

994 notes · View notes

hysteria-things · 3 months

Text

SINFUL DESIRES (part two)

read part one here

read part three here

read part four here

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!nate x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: of course the two of you still “hate” each other. although, it’s not just the sex. you both know that.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, swearing, p in v, spanking, praising, possessiveness, hair pulling, video, pet names (pretty)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 661

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: ask for part two and you shall receive part two!

i’m a lover for nathan. that is all.

jerset part ib jersey by @worldlxvlys :)

the spring breeze hits you, making your hair flow in the wind. your best friend dragged you to a lacrosse game, where you know who plays. she knows you hate him, but she always says that you need to ‘live the high school experience.’

right now, your best friend’s mouth hangs open with utter shock. the game hasn’t started yet, so this seemed like the right time to spill the beans. “you’re telling me that nate — the person you despise — showed up at your house two weeks ago and fucked the shit out of you?”

“yup.” you exhale. “i couldn’t look at my parents for a week. told them i was watching porn and it accidentally connected to my speaker, but i don’t think they believed me.”

“holy shit.” she laughs.

you stand up from the bleachers, shoving your hands in your pockets. “i’m going to the snack stand before they come out. you want anything?”

she shakes her head. “no thanks.”

you step down the bleachers and head to the snack stand. the line isn’t long, thank goodness.

as you approach, a hand grabs your forearm and pulls you to the side. you startle at the contact.

nate’s grinning in front of you, all geared up and ready to play. “nate, what the hell?!” you scream, looking up and down his body.

your eyes start at where his eyeblack is, then to his jersey with the number 8 on it, and lastly to his cleats.

ah, shit.

“hi.” he waves in your face.

you roll your eyes. this kid.

he starts to fidget with your hoodie strings. this is the most confused you probably ever been in your life. “you coming over tonight?” he asks.

you stare blankly at him waiting for more information, but of course, he doesn’t give any. “for what?”

he shrugs. “to hang out.”

“fu-uck!” you moan as nate rails into you from behind, your ass red from the few times he spanked it. the remains of your last orgasm still make a mess on your thighs.

he has you bent over his desk, his hands bunching up the bottom of his jersey that he put on you.

somerville won the game, and according to him, this was his reward. you are his reward.

his eyes are focused on the DOE right above his jersey number. you’re wearing his name, and he’s making sure you know it.

you’re on your tippy toes, each thrust making you quiver with pleasure. your nails claw at the wood beneath you.

“jesus,” he whispers, grabbing his phone so he can record what you look like with his name on. he’s so fucking fascinated by it.

he grips onto your hair. “you look so beautiful getting fucked in my jersey, don’t you think?”

“mhm,” you grumble, your eyes threatening to cross.

he grips tighter, giving you a little spank. “use your words, pretty.”

“y-yes. i—” you’re cut off by a whimper when his tip hits that familiar spot inside of you. “gonna c-cum, nate.”

you squeeze around him as your pussy squelches, threatening to spew your liquid. he groans. “clenching around me so tight.”

you scream when he starts to go faster, hitting inside you deeper than before. your whole body trembles when you spread your cum around his dick. “there you go… that’s it.”

he shoots into the condom short after you, pulling out and throwing it in the trash can that’s set on the floor next to the desk. he places his phone back down.

he turns you around and leans in, kissing you passionately on the lips. he hums before pulling away. “i hate how much i like you.”

you smirk, but the blush on your cheeks gives you away. “i hate how much i like you, too.”

later that night while you’re in bed, you get a text message. you gasp when you open it.

nate.

[attachment: 1 video]

just a reminder

sweet dreams, pretty

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom

#nate doe #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nathan doe #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #nate doe smut #nate doe fanfic

384 notes · View notes

starflirts · 4 months

Text

NO GRAVE CAN HOLD MY BODY DOWN (I'LL CRAWL HOME TO HER)

in which luke is determined to keep you close to him forever. luke castellan x fem! reader, wc: 1.36k, warning: swearing, note: first post dedicated to my favorite villain... enjoy !

"Wha-... what the fuck are you talking about Luke ?" From the edge of his bunk bed, your boyfriend avoids your stare, looking anywhere but at your face. "Look at me ! You can't just drop this upon me and act like nothing is happening !" He can hear the hurt and the confusion in your voice and decides to get closer to you. He wants to hold you tight and never let you go but settles for holding your hand.

"Babe, listen to me. please." He’s the one to look at you with pleading eyes this time, one hand circling yours and the other resting on the nape of your neck. "You know how much I hate Olympus and how they toy with us just for their own benefit. I know you feel the same way, watching kids barely getting here safely only to never be claimed or only when their parent deems it convenient ! Do you think it's fair ? To be used as a puppet so you can finally be worthy in the eyes of mom or dad ? Risking your life to fix their shortcomings ?"

His emphasis on dad doesn't intrigue you, you already know. Everyone knows. His eyes are full of resentment and his scar seems so red, a stark contrast with the unmarred skin. Luke goes on and on about his supposedly great plan and you can only watch in horror as the boy in front of you looks nothing like the one you fell in love summers ago.

Hand reaching for the one still laid on your nape, you look up, brows furrowed. "Does Annabeth know ?"

These three words are enough to make him flinch. He opens and closes his mouth and that tells you everything you need to know. Your face twists with disgust and anger as you shove his shoulder enough for him to stumble back, away from you.

"Fuck off Luke !" you spit, tears cornering at your lash line. "How dare you turn your back on your little sister, on me ?" Your voice cracks but you try to put up a brave front, wiping the corner of your eyes. You can only stare at him in disbelief, even though your hands itch to bring him closer to you, to hold him and to at least try to understand his sudden change of heart.

Luke attempts to step forward but you pull back and he can hear his own heart breaking. He runs a hand over his face before answering you with a shaky sigh: "Look, I’m doing this for everyone at camp, for us ! I want us to live free of that burden. We deserve so much more than what the gods have to give !" His voice falters and he clears his throat. "I don't want to wake up one morning and find out you're gone because of them, because you went on a stupid quest for the sake of your parent who can't even bother to acknowledge you !" He looks at you fondly and sighs. "Do you remember the time I came back from the quest Hermes sent me on ? You were so scared something had happened to me. I can't let that happen again. I can't let that happen to you. I want to protect you, to protect us ! You- you're all I have."

Tears fall freely as you shake your head, hugging yourself in an attempt to calm down. "There’s got to be another way, you can’t… You can’t do this Luke ! I-" you sob.

And you feel so afraid yet you don’t know whether you’re more scared of Luke himself or of the thought of losing him to something this insane. The cogs in your brain turn and turn but you can't bring yourself to drive him out of your life, not when you've seen him at his best and at his worst, when you've been by his side for so long you can't even remember.

In a few steps, Luke is engulfing you in a hug and all resolve you had to push him away crumbles within seconds. He rests his chin on the crown of your head while you cling to his shirt. He holds you tight, as if the mere thought of you walking out of his cabin would become true and you might vanish with the wind.

"Hey hey, it’s okay, we’ll… we’ll figure it out, we still have time." he whispers in your ear and you want to believe him, you really do.

Slightly pulling back, he rests his forehead against yours, hands coming up to cup your face. With a sad smile, Luke's thumbs wipe your tearstained cheeks.

"There, don't cry," he tells you softly, "my pretty, pretty girl. You know I'll never let you go right ? I love you too much to be able to live without you."

His smile is genuine as his hand cautiously takes your own to place it on his chest, right where you can feel his heartbeat. "You’re here, always and forever, no matter what."

Luke's world had crumbled a long time ago, ever since he realized the gods were monsters in disguise. But now that he has you in his life, whatever's left of that sparkle of hope he had when he was fourteen (and when the world seemed so big yet so full of chances) shines brighter. You were the one who rebuilt everything from scratch, who fixed the gaping hole in his heart.

Your free hand comes up to brush his cheek, thumb trailing his scar. You wish you could close your eyes and pretend that the world isn't on the brink of disaster, that your Luke isn't about to change its course.

The love of your life starts again: "I'll be with you at any cost, believe me. And if anyone, so much as the gods or that new forbidden kid attempt to separate us, I'll walk- heck I'll drag myself back to you !"

His promise is sealed with a kiss and you're certain you'd follow him in a heartbeat: "for better or worse ?" you ask in a small voice, lips hovering over his.

He answers you with a smile and shiny eyes: "for better or worse."

#luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fluff #pjo x reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #luke castellan angst #luke castellan fic #percy jackson imagine #pjo imagine

879 notes · View notes

tiredmamaissy · 1 year

Text

At First Sight

Neteyam’s First Rut: Special Episode II

read chapters: one, two, three, four, five

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Characters: Neteyam Sully (18) x Human Reader (18)

Warnings: nsfw, lots of fluff, childhood friend/crush to lovers, masturbation, size difference, first time everything, foreplay, oral sex [f receiving], vibrator usage, consent king nete [you know how I like him]

Word Count: 8k 🧍‍♀️

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for 2000 followers, that’s crazy :’) I love you guys, honestly.

Synopsis: The story of how it all started. Neteyam comes to confess his feelings for you, but accidentally walks in on you using a vibrator.

Intro:

Too young to be put in a Cryo chamber and sent back to Earth, you were raised by the scientists who remain loyal to the na’vi after the war with Quaritch. Despite growing up in a lab, you spent most of your childhood with your friends – Neteyam, Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk. You formed all your best childhood memories and milestones alongside them. They taught you the na’vi language, and their way of life. You did your best to keep up with them, although it proved hard in your human body.

They were always faster and stronger, not to mention bigger. Despite being the same age as them they would always tower over you, almost double your height and width. Regardless, you were determined to live the life of a na’vi, even with your tiny, frail body.

Having this exopack was bothersome, constantly getting in your way and needing to be recharged and cleaned. But it allowed you to be closer to your people, to your secret love – Neteyam. His family always saw you as the ‘lab kid’, especially his mother. Neytiri always insisted that you go back to your people when you came around to visit.

Neteyam was always quick to defend you, standing up against his own parents – something that he rarely did. He never made you feel left out, pacing himself to ensure you’d never get left behind, being extra gentle during games and always making sure to carry a backup battery for your exopack. He knew how careless you were in keeping it charged. He would even steal extra of your favourite sweets from the lab when you had your monthly cycle. You’d always had a crush on him since you were kids, but when you both got into your late-teens things became... different.

He grew much, much taller than you, always towering over you. His muscles filled out, becoming more defined as he went through the rites of passages to become a man – to become a warrior. Whilst your chest became fuller, hips wider and waist curvier. At times, you’d catch him staring at you, lingering his gaze on your chest or pelvis, burning holes through your shorts. It’d make butterflies flutter in your stomach, giving you hope that maybe he saw you in the same way that you saw him.

You spent most nights with your hand shoved down your pyjama pants, humping your fingers to your lewd thoughts of Neteyam without his loincloth on. Oh, the things you’d do just to see what he really looked like underneath. You wanted nothing more than for him to be the one touching you, to make you feel good. At times you’d try to be bold, and make a move, holding a single finger or brushing your chest against his thigh. But he never caught on, or so it seemed.

Under the immense pressure of his parents, he couldn’t spend nearly as much time as he used to with you, but you understood and never complained. You filled your time with Kiri, becoming her best friend. She taught you everything about the flora and fauna of Pandora, and made you want to become a healer one day if you could ever get an avatar of your own.

You wanted nothing more. Well, that was a lie. You wanted Neteyam more than anything on Pandora, but you’d go to great lengths to have your own avatar – to be able to become a true na’vi. Norm and Max always teased you about you getting your own avatar when you were old enough, but you never believed them, you knew how expensive they were to create.

You had no other choice but to accept your fate as the human girl who longed for a na’vi boy, and his na’vi way of life.

Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam felt similarly from the moment he lay eyes on you. He always felt a strong need to protect his tiny, frail human. He hated nothing more than when others picked on you, and made you feel less than all because of how you looked. He never cared about any of that, you were the kindest and most adorable girl he knew. You were a treasure to be cherished – to be protected at all costs.

He knew never to act on his feelings, though. Given the whole different species thing, he quickly accepted his fate as the son of Olo’eyktan who longed for a sky person. He knew it would never be able to work, in any regard. He felt like he’d break you if he touched you. But now that he’s become a man, the desire to touch you has only grown stronger.

The moments between you and him have become tense, and awkward. He’d keep a good distance between the two of you, yet he’d never take his eyes off you, always ensuring your safety. And in those moments – those rare moments – that the two of you were alone, the tension was off the charts. To the point where Neteyam started distancing himself from you even more, picking up more training sessions with his father and going on longer hunting trips.

It hurt you. To see the man you cared for so deeply never make the time to be around you anymore. You often confided in Kiri about this, as she was the only person who knew about your true feelings for him. She always encouraged you to be honest and open with her brother, convincing you that he had similar feelings. Even though you wanted to believe her, you couldn’t bring yourself to because of how distant and cold Neteyam had been.

----

“Is Neteyam coming?” you ask Kiri, watching her hook the mask around her neck.

“No, he’s on a hunting trip with dad. Sorry, y/n.” Kiri purses her lips before taking a swig of air.

“That’s okay. I understand that he’s busy.” you shrug your shoulder, trying to act like it didn’t bother you that he was always caught up with something.

She rests a hand on your shoulder, reassuring you that it’s nothing personal, even though she knew it was. “Don’t worry about it. He’ll come around soon, y/n.”

You nod, keeping your gaze fixed on your feet as you both make your way deeper into the lab. Lo’ak and Tuk follow behind Kiri, gearing up with their masks too. Kiri came to see her mom, Grace, and Lo’ak usually just tagged along to bother Max and Norm. Tuk never wants to be left out, following closely behind her siblings everywhere they go.

You were excited, hoping to see Neteyam so you could finally talk to him about how you felt. But he flaked yet again, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

“Hey mom.” Kiri hums, climbing on top of her mother’s tank, admiring her floating body.

Lo’ak and Tuk make their way over to Norm and Max, trying to convince them to reveal some top-secret information about what they have in development. “C’mon Norm, don’t be a wuss. Show us!” Lo’ak grins, giving norm a playful shove, moving him a great distance, unaware of his own strength. “...sorry, Norm.”

You find yourself thinking about Neteyam again, watching Norm’s small frame next to Lo’ak, and how you look just like that next to him. Huffing out a sigh, you look around at your friends and realize that you’re alone. Everyone’s got someone, except you. You could walk away, and no one would even notice.

So, you do.

Unable to deny the way you feel, as tears well in your eyes and your chest burns hot, you shuffle away quickly to your room at the end of the hallway in the lab.

Really y/n? Crying again? You scold yourself for being so sensitive.

Neteyam will never want me if I’m this soft. You blink rapidly, clearing the tears from your eyes as you turn the knob on your door.

You were so deep in thought that you didn’t even realise you’ve walked into a completely different room. Looking around, you realise that you’re in Trudy’s room, not yours. It’s been untouched since the war; Norm couldn’t bring himself to step foot into her room, much less go through her belongings.

Being here gives you an eerie feeling, right in the pit of your stomach. Just as you were about to turn around and back out, you notice a black, open duffle bag on her bed. Inside it is some sort of object, bright and pink, in some sort of packing with a big red ‘XXX’ on it. It’s hard to miss. As much as you wanted to back out of the room, you find yourself closing the door behind you before making your way over to the bag.

Curiosity got the best of you, making you take it out of the bag to inspect it further. Still brand new in its plastic packaging, the object is slightly bent, with some weird looking rubbery bits that rib around it.

‘Thrusting Rabbit Vibrator – Adult Toy’.

You’ve never seen one in person, only hearing about it on shows you watched that aired in the early 2000’s. It’s... a sex toy – a vibrator to be exact. You flip it over, searching for the instructions.

‘Insert, turn on, and enjoy.’

Seems simple enough. The desire to open it, to know what it feels like grows stronger. You nibble at your bottom lip, trying to talk yourself out of your ludicrous urges. Your heart quickens, thumping violently against your ribcage. Deep down, you know what you’re doing is wrong, invading Trudy’s personal space like this, even worse that she wasn’t here to defend her space.

The sound of a doorknob rattling makes your whole body jolt. You gasp quietly, turning around and hiding the toy behind your back. Norm opens the door, jaw clenched, clearly uncomfortable to be looking in his late girlfriend’s quarters. He scans you up and down, a confused look washing over his face.

“y/n? Why are you in... Trudy’s room?” he asks, not wanting to say her name.

“Sorry. I – I didn’t even realise I came in here. I was going to my room...” you babble nervously, realising that you’ll have to reveal more to make it believable, “...I – uh, felt left out, and I was too caught up in my head. Sorry, Norm. I was about to leave.” you apologize again, knowing this room is off limits.

“It’s alright, kid. Sorry if I sounded upset.” He says, expression softening.

You laugh a little to lighten the mood. “Not a kid anymore, Norm.” you shoot him a smile before shuffling out beside him, walking backwards so he doesn’t see the toy behind your back.

“My bad, y/n.” He closes the door, locking it with his key. He turns around, to see you shuffling away.

“Hey. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. Alright?” he projects his voice as you walk swiftly away, heart thumping in your chest.

You quickly shift the toy to your chest as you spin around and raise a hand in the air. “Alright, Norm! Thanks!”

----

You sit on your bed, staring at the bright pink object sitting on your table, already plotting how exactly you’re going to return this thing. It’s going to be difficult, seeing that he locked the door. It would have to involve some sort of conniving plan to steal his keys whilst he’s sleeping, or something. It honestly seemed like too much, for something so... useless to him.

It wouldn’t even matter right? He’s not going to use it... Would he even realize that it’s missing? You wonder, knowing he’ll probably never step foot in that room again.

You won’t lie, a part of you wanted to know what it feels like. Not only that, but this is probably the only time in your existence that you’d have your hands on such a thing. You’d never ever been able to make yourself climax before, even to your lewd thoughts of Neteyam.

Maybe this would do the trick?

It dawns on you that all you’re doing is trying to convince yourself to use the damn thing. You stand up let loose a loud huff, frustrated with yourself. You pace back and forth in your room, burning a line into the floor with your feet, looking back at the stupid little toy every so often.

You stop dead in your tracks.

“Fuck it.” you mumble, rushing over to the table to rip open the packaging.

Finally releasing the toy from its plastic-y restraints, you bring it close to your face to examine it.

“Whoa.” you mutter, looking at all of the little nubs and ridges on the tip of it, whilst the rest of it is like a smooth silicone.

Grabbing the packaging, you fumble with it a bit before flipping it over once again to read the instructions some more.

‘Clean before and after use. Charge before use. Waterproof. Use on clit or insert inside.’

You make your way over to the bathroom and wash it with soap and water before putting it to charge. Meanwhile, you take a quick shower, thinking about Neteyam the entire time to get you in the mood.

----

“Is she upset with me?” Neteyam asks Kiri, concerned that he’s ultimately ruined the friendship.

“No... I don’t know, Nete. Maybe? She can tell that you’re avoiding her at this point. Just. Go and talk to her, okay?” Kiri encourages her brother.

“Talk to her? And say what? I know we are a different species, but I have feelings for you?” he narrows his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“Yeah. Actually. Exactly that.” Kiri says, scoffing and nodding her head.

“Really?” Neteyam looks at her with a blank stare.

“Yes, really. Just go.” Kiri pushes him out of the tent. “She didn’t even tell us she was leaving... Tell her that I’m sorry, too.”

“Agh. Alright.” Neteyam walks willingly out of the tent, making his way to the lab, eclipse in full throttle.

----

You brush and braid your hair, keeping it out of your face whilst you brush your teeth. Instead of getting into your pyjamas, you opt to stay wrapped in your towel, seeing that you were going to get naked anyways.

“Let’s do this.” you try psyching yourself up, making your way over to the charging object.

You unplug it and fidget with the button. Pressing the button, it immediately lights up and starts vibrating, making a loud buzzing noise. Startled, you quickly press the button once more, turning it off and throwing it on the bed.

Heart thumping viciously in your chest, you feel the flesh between your legs begin to pulse. All sorts of emotions were coursing through you all at once – anxiety, arousal, guilt. You decide that you need to get in the right head space to do this.

You unwrap your towel, resting it on the end of your bed. Crawling on the bed, you get comfortable, propping up your back against stacked pillows and spreading your legs. The cool, crisp air blows against your naked body, making your nipples hard and body shiver.

You reach for the vibrator, allowing it to brush against your inner thigh before placing it on the softness of your plump lips. Closing your eyes, you imagine Neteyam, standing in front of you with nothing but his loincloth on. His stripes are so prominent, much like his jawline and chiselled torso. His muscular chest stood strong, just like his thick biceps and brawny core.

Waist, lean yet robust, back, broad and sturdy – he was everything a girl could dream of. Nothing less than that of a mighty warrior. You feel your clit jump at the mere thought of his torso. As you make your way down his body you chew on your bottom lip, biting back a soft moan.

Breath becoming raggedy, you press the button with a shaky finger, jolting when the overpowering vibration touches your clit. You imagine his lower half – his thick, muscular, toned thighs, coated in a thin layer of sheen from sweat. Feeling yourself heat up from your lewd thoughts, you press the humming vibrator against your clit, trying to find a good spot.

Squeezing your eyes even tighter, you melt into the sheer power of this toy, relaxing your tensed leg muscles. You make your way in between his thighs and imagine his prominent v-lines, that have scant, dark hair – musky with his natural scent – peaking over the band of his loincloth.

Chest rising and falling from your heavy pants, your leg muscles tense again as that familiar hot feeling pools in your chest – you’re getting close. You wet your lips with a quick swipe of your tongue, before parting them to allow little, soft moans to evade your mouth. You find your hips chasing your orgasm, bucking slightly against the length of the toy as you coat it in a thin layer of your wetness.

Working your way to his most vulnerable area, you imagine him hooking his thumbs underneath the band of his loincloth, gently tugging it down his hips. The more he tugs at the thin cloth, the more the thick, blue base of his cock is revealed. Your brows pinch at the sight, you wanted to know what it felt like, if you could even hold it with one hand.

The image of him brings you closer and closer, the heat pooling in your chest overflowing into the rest of your body, forming knots in the pit of your stomach. You always had a hard time with this stage, never getting past it – never making yourself cum.

“Oh, Nete!” you moan, “Make me cum, please.” You quiet down to a whisper, gritting your teeth as you arch your back.

He tugs the material down to his upper thighs, exposing the little dark blue stripes on his thick, veiny member.

“F-fuck!” you squeak, your head sinking deeper into your pillow as your toes dig into the softness of the bed.

He slips the loincloth down to his knees, revealing his throbbing, veiny cock, letting it slap against his belly, leaving a little wet spot as evidence. It’s so heavy, that even though he’s rock-hard, it rests, sheathed and hung, against his thigh.

----

“Thanks, Norm. I apologize again, for coming so late. I just... really need to make it up to her.” Neteyam bows his head quickly, thankful that he let him in the lab after hours.

“Don’t sweat it. She told me earlier she was feeling a little down. Just let yourself out when you’re finished talking, cool?” Norm responds, having more trust in Neteyam than the rest of them.

“I will.” Neteyam says, crouching slightly to make his way down the hallway to your door.

He looks at your door, reading the weird figures above the peep hole, ‘34’.

Three – four, that is hers, yes?

“Oh, Nete!” he hears your faint, muffled cry.

His ears perk up, heartbeat raising.

Why is she calling for me? Is she okay?

“F-fuck!” he hears your soft groan, hushed by some sort of whirring noise.

Oh shit. She sounds like she’s in pain. Maybe cramps?

Neteyam wastes not another second and bursts the door open, ready to help you in any way that he could. Instead, he’s met with the sight of you on the bed – naked – touching yourself.

----

You can’t hear the doorknob rattle over the buzz of your toy, and even if you could, you were too focused on trying to experience your first orgasm. It feels so good, it really felt like you were about to explode. Your breaths become shallow, and quick as you climb and climb towards your peak. All you can focus on, is Neteyam coming closer and closer to you, cock swinging at each step.

“Holy shit.” Neteyam breathes, chest rising and falling quickly, heart thumping violently in his chest. Eyes wide, brows raised, and mouth open, he watches you for a second too long, unable to take his eyes off the carnal sight in front of him.

“Shit.” You gasp, body practically curling up into a ball as you and yank the towel over your body and the toy. “What are you doing here?!” you shout at him, wrapping the towel around you properly as you shuffle your back against the wall.

He immediately drops his gaze, blinking repeatedly as he turns away from you, resting both hands on his forehead. “I am so sorry, y/n. I – I should have knocked. I’m sorry, I was just... coming to talk to you about something.” He babbles, gulping down a wad of his spit.

“About what?! So late?!” you shout, cheeks stained red from embarrassment.

You caught a quick glimpse of the bulge in his loincloth before he turned around. Your heart is thumping even faster, even harder. You just moaned his name.

Shit. Shit. Did he hear me moan his name? Fuck. How long has he been here?

“I’m sorry I upset you. Really. I-it can wait. I will be going now. I am so sorry, y/n.” he apologizes through raggedy breaths, feeling his own arousal.

He quickly leaves the room, closing the door tightly behind him, feeling like he just invaded your privacy – big time. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his heart before walking away. You do the same, taking deep breaths to calm down and figure out what the fuck just happened.

Your hand rests on your chest, feeling the thud of your vicious heartbeats. He does the same, hand on his chest, leaning back against the door as he tries to catch his breath. He wants nothing more than to just go back in the room and tell you how he feels, especially now that he knows you think about him when you touch yourself.

It’s the same for you, wanting so badly for him to just burst back in your room, and confess his undying love for you. But you knew that was too far-fetched, to have the eldest son of Olo’eyktan love a simple human girl like you.

Then, why was he... hard?

You stare at the door, waiting to see if it’d open once more. Neteyam’s on the other side, debating with himself whether he should go back in there and come clean. Shaking his head, he attempts to snap out of his deep thoughts – you were naked, and obviously in the middle of something intimate. If he went back in there that’s just him invading your privacy even more. Deciding against staying, he starts making his way down the hallway.

He makes it halfway down the hallway before he stops dead in his tracks, ears perking up and expression softening.

But she said my name, right? He thinks, turning his head to look back on the ‘34’ on your door.

“Agh.” He growls, snapping his head back down to look at his feet. “Fuck it.” he turns around, storming to the door once more.

Surely, if he came all this way, at this time of night to talk to you, then it must be important. Perhaps, important enough to involve his feelings about you? Either way, it’s gone too far now. You may as well come clean yourself.

Making your way over to your door, you reach out to grab the doorknob, only to see it turn on its own. The door swings open, a gust of air blowing the loose stands of hair out of your face. Where the knob once was, is now where Neteyam’s loincloth rests, almost bursting at its seams.

Directly in your line of sight is his cross shaped ribcage, brutally rising and falling from his heavy pants. Your eyes work their way up his torso, past his muscular chest and carved collarbones, to the stripes on his neck and the flush of his cheeks. Your eyes lock with his amber eyes, searching once another in the silence.

He came back.

She was coming to get me.

You smile in unison, coming to the same realization – there was something deeper going on here.

“Hi.” You breathe.

“Hey.” He whispers.

“You wanted to talk?” you ask, hand tightly grasping the overlap of your towel.

“Yes.” He glances quickly at you gripping onto your towel, before looking away from your chest all together. He wants to be a gentleman about this. “Do you want to talk?”

“Yes.” You say shyly, also noticing his shy demeanour.

He looks back down at you, scanning your facial expression to ensure you were being serious. He crouches under the doorframe and enters your room, walking over to the bed.

Your eyes follow his every move, his every step. “You can sit.” You say quietly, finally shifting your gaze to your feet. “What did you want to talk about?”

He seats himself at the end of your bed, elbows resting on his knees and head hanging low. “I wanted to tell you something, y/n. To tell you my true feelings.”

You heart quickens once more, hearing the words you’ve been dreaming to hear. Now that he’s sitting on your bed, you’re face to face. You take slow steps towards him, standing directly in front of him.

“And what might those be, Nete?” you ask, using two dainty fingers under his chin to have him look at you.

He stares deeply into your eyes, furrowing his brows slightly as a puzzled look grows on his face.

How do I even say this?

“I – I...” he stutters, relaxing his brows and swallowing his spit, “Oel ngati kameie” [I see you]. he confesses, cupping your hand on his chin with his.

You can’t fight the smile creeping on your face. Not only did he confess his romantic feelings for you, but he did it in na’vi. He sees you, not as a little human girl stuck on his planet, but as his equal – his mate.

“Oel ngati kameie, ‘teyam.” You repeat his words, letting him know you feel the same way.

A grin plasters his face, causing his ears to perk up. He pulls you in closer by the hand, situating your tiny frame in between his meaty thighs.

“I have felt this way for some time, y/n.” he continues, inches away from your face, “Since we were kids, playing hide and seek in the trees...” he looks down at your lips, “...since I first lay eyes on you.”

Staring at his lips too, you nod, unable to respond with words.

“I do not care, if we do not ‘work’ together... I cannot ignore my feelings for you anymore.” he places your hand against his warm chest, as he inches even closer to your face. “Feel it... My heart, it beats for you.”

Feeling his heartbeat against your palm, you wrap your dainty fingers around his thumb, gently tugging down your towel with your other hand to expose your cleavage. Inhaling sharply, you place his hand flat against your chest.

“Mine too, Nete.” You finally whisper under your breath. “I-I feel the same. At first sight.” You mumble, now feeling his hot, short breaths against your lips.

Inexperienced lips crash into yours, hungry and eager for your reciprocation. You kiss him fervently, waiting for this moment for practically your entire existence. Bodies pressing together, feeling the warmth radiating from one another’s skin, you fumble with the knot of your towel. A hand stops you, keeping you from untying the loosely wrapped material around your body, he shakes his head side to side.

“Are you sure?” he breathes into your mouth between wet kisses. “I did not...” he kisses you again, “...come back for that, my love”.

“Mhm” you mumble into his mouth, moving his hand away to fiddle with the woven part of your towel once more. You stop and pull away suddenly, coming to the realization that maybe he doesn’t want this. “Do you...want this?” you whisper, resting your forehead against his.

He chuckles breathily, smiling wide before pulling you back in to kiss you again. “How could I not?” he mumbles between sloppy kisses.

Smiling into his mouth, your teeth click together as you feel the pink tinge on your cheeks turn even brighter – even hotter. Breaths heavy and uneven, you feel the thud of your collective heartbeat as you allow your towel fall to the ground. Immediately, he pulls away, looking up and down at your human body.

“Yuey [beautiful]” he says out of breath, mesmerized by the curves and softness of your body.

Allowing his eyes to linger at your chest, he looks up at you briefly, silently asking for your consent to touch your breasts. You nod, pulling his hand up to the soft flesh on your chest before meeting your lips with his once more. His hand completely envelopes your breast, kneading it as gently as he can. His thumb brushes past your hard nipple, playing with it ever so slightly.

Having someone else touch you in this way makes your body shudder. It’s your first time, your first kiss, your first – everything.

A warm tongue presses against your lips, asking for permission to enter your mouth. You grant it, parting your lips and meeting your tongue with his, allowing them to dance with one another in your mouth.

His movements become eager – more impatient. He kneads your breast a little rougher, now gently rolling your small nipple between his calloused fingers. Your body jolts from the sudden pleasure, and a soft moan escapes your mouth into his.

“Feels good, yes?” he returns a moan, making sure you’re okay.

“Yes, teyam.” You nod, moving his hand to your other breast.

Repeating his movements, he gently rolls your nipple whilst kneading your breast. It feels so good, that you can’t help but pant into his mouth, allowing your hands to feel his chest, too.

It’s just as you imagined, his chest is hard yet soft, his skin smooth yet rough, like that of a warrior. Both your hands could fit comfortably on just one of his pecks – his size in comparison to you was no joke. You feel his hand snake around your waist and up your back, calloused fingers taking in the suppleness of your skin.

“So soft” he mumbles, moving his gentle kisses down your neck.

“You, too” you mumble back, moving your hands up to his broad shoulders.

“Not nearly as soft as you, my sevin [pretty].” he smiles into your neck, before planting kisses down to your chest. “May I?” he asks, brushing his lips against your breast.

“Yes. Always yes.” you reassure him, willing to let him do anything he wants to you.

He takes your nipple into his mouth, as well as most of your breast. He suckles as gently as he can, afraid he may nip you with his fangs. Your hands slide from his shoulders, up his neck to his head, where your fingers intertwine with his braids. Using it as leverage, you press him closer into your chest, letting him know he’s making you feel good.

To your surprise, he allows his hands to fall to your hips, pulling you on top of him. It causes him to unlatch from your breast, moving his wet lips up to your collarbones. Your bare pussy is pressed against his bulge, dampening the material that covers it.

“Neteyam” you call for him quietly, feeling so good from his soothing touches.

“Yes, my love?” he responds, pulling away from your shoulders to look in your eyes.

“Can I see... you, too?” you ask shyly, breaking eye contact to glance at his soddened loincloth.

His eyes follow yours, seeing that the thin cloth is soaked. Shooting his gaze back up yours.

“You’re so wet.” he whispers, so enthralled with you that he forgets what you asked of him. He looks at your reddened face, realizing that you’re waiting for his response. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I want to see you, too.” you repeat, dropping your hands to tug at the band of his loincloth.

Smiling, he leans back, supporting his torso with his arms behind him on the bed. You trail your eyes down from his face to his pelvis, seeing the small knot at the side of his loincloth. Fumbling with the knot, your shaky hands try their best to untie the material. He notices, resting his hand over yours before untying it himself.

“No need to be nervous, y/n. We will not do anything you are not ready for, okay?” he reassures you, untying the knot easily.

“Okay.” you nod, scooting back on his lap to make space for his loincloth to come off.

You slowly move the band down, exposing his deep v-lines and scant hair. You swallow your spit before taking it off completely, revealing his huge, thick cock. Your eyes bulge at the sight, eyebrows raising slightly as your mouth opens wide enough for a sharp breath of air to pass through your lips.

“Oh shit.” You pant quietly, surprised because it’s much bigger than you imagined.

The tip of his cock touches the middle of his thigh, the length and thickness of your forearm. Panicked eyes meet his, scared that he’d rip you in two.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned that you’re uncomfortable.

“It’s – you’re, y-you are too big for me.” your lips tremble as the words slip out.

His brows draw together, eyes squinting slightly – a puzzled expression contorts his face. He cups your cheek, searching your eyes for some sort of clarification. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think – uh. I-I don’t think that will fit inside of me, Nete.” you stutter, feeling too shy to say the words.

Neteyam can’t help but laugh a little. “Ma’ yawne [beloved]...” he uses his thumb to rub your cheek, “...you need not to worry about that. I do not want to do anything that will hurt you.”

The words bring serenity to your chest, making the uneven thud of your heartbeat rhythmic. As much as you want to share that level of intimacy with him, you’ve only been able to fit two of your own fingers inside of you. You lean into his touch, rubbing your face against his palm as a smile plasters your face.

Always so protective over you.

Turns out, he was only half-hard. You watch in awe as his member grows, lifting from his thigh to his belly, all on its own. Neteyam looks away to hide his flushed cheeks. You notice and take this as your sign to touch him for the first time. Wrapping your slim fingers around his girth, you find that your fingertips can’t touch each other. His pelvis shifts suddenly from the warmth of your touch.

“Am I making the mighty warrior blush?” you hum, wrapping your other hand around the base of his cock.

His eyes fall onto his crotch, watching as your hands stroke his shaft. He looks back up at you, directly into your eyes.

“Maybe.” his voice is low, and deep.

You never thought you’d even be in this position, stroking the cock of the man of your dreams. Even worse, him staring at you with sultry eyes and a husky voice, telling you that you’re making him nervous.

“Can I touch you, here?” he asks, sitting up fully and resting his hand on your inner thigh.

“Didn’t I say ‘yes, always yes’?” you smile at him, shifting your hips to allow for better access.

Wrapping one arm around his neck, you hold onto him tightly for support as his hand cups your pussy, making you gasp quickly. You feel his finger part your wet lips, searching for the bundle of nerves at the top of your slit. You bury your face into the crook of his neck just as he finds your clit, rubbing circles into it with his slick coated finger.

Hot, quick pants evade your parted lips, blowing directly onto his neck. His lips plant kisses on your shoulder, tongue playing in the dip of your collarbone. You stroke his cock one handed, trying your hardest to provide enough friction for him to feel good too.

“Is this, okay?” he asks breathlessly, moving his finger down to your entrance.

“Yes, my ‘teyam.” you mumble into his neck, bracing yourself for his thick finger to enter you.

“Let me know if it hurts, my love.” he whispers, slowly sliding his finger inside of you.

“Oh! Ugh.” A strained moan is muffled in his neck, as you feel this finger stretch you out.

You shift your hand from his cock and wrap it around his neck, holding on as tightly as you can. His singular finger easily feels like two of yours, not to mention the fact that they’re much lengthier.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers into your ear.

“No. I’m okay, teyam.” you mumble, closing your eyes to focus on the feeling.

“Good. I am going to move now.” he warns, curling his finger directly into your sweet spot.

You gasp loudly, feeling the pressure already build in your bladder. It feels amazing – better than you’ve ever felt with your own fingers. Your hips buck on their own, grinding into the finger that impales you.

Little, sweet mewls escape your open mouth, beads of saliva dripping onto his chest. You’re so focused on the way he’s making you feel you didn’t even realise the volume of your whines and whimpers until he makes a comment about it.

“I like your little noises, y/n.” he says, pumping his finger in and out of you. “Are you... close?”

“I – I don’t know, I’ve never, c-cum before.” Your breath hitches, feeling your chest and stomach tighten.

Your legs begin to tremble, like they’ll give out underneath you at any moment. “Oh, Nete!” you moan his name, catching a glimpse of his ears perking up from the sound of his name rolling off your tongue.

His hips buck, too, thrusting his cock against your stomach. He’s losing it, all from hearing the sweet sounds that come from your mouth. Pulling away from his neck, you look down at his glossy cockhead poking at your stomach, then back up to look into his amber eyes.

“This is where you’d be... inside me.” you breathe, shifting a hand off his neck to press a finger under your sternum, where his tip touches.

“Whoa. Y-you are so, so tiny, y/n. I’m so scared that I will hurt you.” Neteyam confesses, rutting his hips against you.

“You won’t. I trust you, teyam.” you pant, feeling your legs wobble.

Your heads bump together, as your now both grinding into one another. He feels your weak legs shake and snakes his free hand around your back, supporting it as he lays you down on the bed.

He catches sight of the bright pink toy near your head, eyes widening.

“What is that? Where did you get it from?” he asks, still fingering you.

“Ah... haah, I – I kind of found it.” you pant raggedly, “Ngh! It’s a – oh fuck!” you moan, feeling a new sensation in your pelvis grow.

“It’s a ‘oh fuck’?” Neteyam chuckles, picking up speed.

“Neteyam! That feels weird.” You moan, eyes pooling with water from how good it feels.

“Weird, bad? Or weird, good?” he asks, slowing down his pace.

“Good! Good!” you shout, not wanting him to stop.

“Ah. Good.” He smiles, picking back up the speed, “Now, what is that thing?”

“It’s – it’s a vibrator! Fuck. Don’t stop, Nete.” you whisper desperately, arching your back against the bed. “I think – I think I’m close!” you let loose a strained moan.

“I want to taste it. Can I taste you?” he asks, already making his way in between your legs.

“O-okay teyam” you whine quietly, spreading your legs as wide as they can go.

His hot mouth engulfs your throbbing clit, the flat of his tongue shifting from side to side. “Good?” he mumbles into your slit.

“Mmmn! Fuck, yes!” you moan loudly, bucking your hips into his face.

He grabs your hand and places it on his head, you weave your fingers through his braids.

“Another... another finger!” you beg, feeling the knots in your stomach quickly unravel.

He shakes his head side to side, “’til hurt” he mumbles once more, picking up the speed of both his tongue and finger.

“Please! ‘m gonna cum, Nete!” you plead, toes curling into the sheet beneath you.

He gently slides another digit inside you, feeling the tightness of your cunt clenching around it. You yelp out, feeling a hint of pain among the waves of pleasure that crash through you. He pulls his finger back out, lifting his head up, causing your hand to fall from his head.

“See? I told you. I hurt you, didn’t I?” he asks through knitted brows, looking down at your glistening cunt sucking in his finger.

“Only a little, I’m fine teyam.” you reassure him, wiggling your hips back down onto his finger.

He clicks his tongue, catching a glimpse of the vibrator.

“Let us try this... vee-bray-tor?” he says the word slowly, as he reaches for the pink object beside your head.

He presses the button causing the thing to vibrate in his hand, shock plastering his face from the sensation of it buzzing against his skin. Your hips jolt as he presses the toy against your clit, sending shockwaves up your spine.

“Ohh, Neteyam!” you moan loudly, the feeling overwhelms you. “’ts too much...” your hips shift away from the toy, as you try to reach for his head once more.

He chuckles, switching the toy off and throwing it on the floor. “Prefer me?” he asks huskily, pinning down your leg as he leans in to suck on your clit once more.

“Mmmn, mhm!” you mumble, pushing your cunt into his face.

He closes his eyes, tuning in to the filthy noises that evade your mouth, drawing circles into your clit with the tip of his tongue. Neteyam touches himself, finally hearing the sounds that he’s been imagining every time he pleasured himself.

“Neteyam. I’m so fucking close.” you pant quickly.

He picks up the speed, now knowing where exactly feels good for you, and targets those sensitive areas. He rubs his own cock, beads of precum oozing from his tip lubricating his hand, allowing for fast strokes. He’s huffing hot breaths through his nose onto your lower stomach, giving you goosebumps.

“Holy fuck... R-right there” You let loose breathy moans, feeling the swell of your sweet spot pushing against his finger, as he curls it even harder and faster into you.

“Mmmhm” he moans into your clit, looking directly at you, encouraging you with his eyes to cum for him.

Bucking his hips into his hand, he feels his own orgasm quickly approaching. His brows tighten, feel his own knots unravel quickly in his stomach. He grunts into your cunt, finally squeezing his eyes shut as his thrusts become shorter.

You look between your legs, watching his aroused expression, now realizing that he’s pleasuring himself. It makes you feel even hotter – even hornier, sending you over the edge.

“Oh – oh shit, Neteyam! I think I’m – I’m cumming!” you cry out, shoving his face into your pussy.

You feel your cunt go into a frenzy, throbbing and pulsating feverishly around his finger.

His grunts turn into guttural groans, as he tries to concentrate on making you finish while his warm cum slowly pools into his hand. You push away his head, now feeling overstimulated from his relentless licks, for him to sit up quickly, grabbing his mask in a hurry to suck in a deep, long breath.

“You taste sweet, y/n.” he moans breathlessly, gently pulling his finger out of you. He sucks his finger, savouring the flavour of your slick.

Your cheeks heat up, feeling shy to see him taste you on his finger like that.

“That was... the first time.” you mumble wide eyed, breath hitching from you coming down from your high.

He smiles.

“I know. I’m happy I could do that for you, my love.” he projects his voice as he crouches under your bathroom doorframe.

He quickly cleans himself up so he can tend to you, coming back with a dampened cloth.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly, wiping the slick off your thighs, working his way up to the soft flesh between your legs.

“Yes, I’m... more than okay.” You hum softly, chest rising and falling as you try to take a full breath, feeling his tender, gentle touches as he cleans you up.

“Want to shower?” He questions, hanging the cloth against the back of your chair.

You shake your head weakly from side to side, puffy eyes blinking lethargically.

“What about clothes?” he makes his way over to your dresser, resting his hand on the top drawer’s handle, “tis a cold night.”

“Mm... rather you keep me warm.” you blabber, resting your eyes for a minute.

“My pleasure, yawne [beloved].” He smiles.

Tucking one hand under your neck, and the other under the back of your knees he lifts you up, moving you further up in your bed.

“Tired?” he chuckles softly, crawling into bed next to you.

“Mhmm.” You purr lengthily, trying to open your eyes as you scoot back onto him. “Don’t leave, Nete.”

“Alright, my love. I won’t. I will be right here. Get some rest.” He hums, pressing his warm naked body against yours.

He covers you with the blanket first, and then himself with whatever was remaining. He’s too tall for the blanket anyway, as well as the bed, honestly – he’s too tall for this whole place. Legs jutting off the end of the bed, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you even closer to him.

Heavy eyes finally closing, you snuggle into your love, gripping a single finger on the hand are rests on your stomach. He unhooks the mask from around his neck, and straps it to his face, so that he, too, can close his eyes and drift into a deep sleep.

----

Everyone was accepting of your relationship with Neteyam. Surprisingly, his parents were both expecting it at some point, and had already taken the time to come to terms with it – well, mostly Neytiri. Jake was always welcoming of you. Kiri and Lo’ak were happy you two finally hit things off. Everyone, including the members of the clan, could tell that you both had feelings for one another. Even Norm and Max were elated for the two of you, both knowing that there was something more going on between you guys. Norm knew that night would be the night for the both of you to make things official, which is why he granted Neteyam access afterhours.

One day, Norm and Max approach you and Neteyam in your room, knocking quietly on your already open door.

“Y/n. Neteyam.” they say monotonously in unison.

You both look at them, concern growing in your chest after seeing their serious expressions.

“What is it?” you manage to get out, holding Neteyam’s hand tightly, thinking something horrible has happened.

Their expressions soften, a smile creeping on both their faces before they burst out in laughter.

“Just joking with ya.” Max laughs, looking at Norm.

“Yeah. We come bearing good news, actually.” Norm adds, quickly glancing at Max before looking at you once more.

“Good news? What is it?” Neteyam asks, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, calming you down.

“Well, it’s not like you guys don’t already know. You can think of it as a ‘mating’ gift, ya know, seeing that na’vi don’t have weddings.” Max babbles, straying from the point.

“You’re getting your own avatar, y/n.” Norm announces happily, knowing that this is your biggest dream yet.

“What?! Are you serious?” you shriek, jumping to your feet, eyes flickering between the two of them.

Neteyam is still holding your hand tightly, now standing with you, wrapping his tail around your leg. Ever since you revealed your feelings to one another, Neteyam has rarely left your side, always making sure he’s near you – protecting you. You were his mate now, nothing less.

“Yep. She’ll be ready in about four months.” Max smiles, proud that he could pull the strings to get his favourite girl her own avatar.

“Oh, Max. Norm.” your voice cracks, tears welling up in your eyes. “Thank you, guys. I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate this.” You walk swiftly towards them to give them both a big hug.

Neteyam reluctantly lets go of your hand and leg, but follows closely behind you, towering over the two men. He wraps his tail around your leg once more, always needing to touch you in some way.

You hug them both, tippy toeing to squeeze their necks as hard as you can – to show how much you really appreciate what their doing for you.

“Thank you, Max, Norm.” Neteyam says, smiling and bowing his head at them both.

“Our pleasure, guys.” Max and Norm chant together. “C’mere Neteyam.” Norm smiles, pulling Neteyam into the hug.

Photo creds: ?? let me know!!

Tags:@jakexneytiri @sweethoneycn @deadgirl02 @keijis-wifey @pandorxx @swiftielivvie @teyamfangirl @avatar-lover @sooebear @vanillawhale @bxnnywriting @athenachu @trashboat-the-raccoon @avaixe @qweq-6802 @rodeosayu @girlpostingsposts @erinloversworld @agelsully @zetey @raaaaainn @eywascall @yawneneteyam @weirdomcu @pandxrastars @eichenhouseproperty @camgod78 @kibiscribbles @bedofpearls @kurtsworld096 @audrinawf @otukirey @deexdeez @c78r @bby-bo @neteyamsmate4life @wheniseeyouigogonutz @sullymenrhot @jakescumdump @erenjaegerwifee @eywaheardyou @saturnheartz @lovekeeho @afro-hispwriter @lovemyavatar @rainbowsocks @eddiesluvt @etherialblackrose @sleepilysworld @fezandashgirlfriend @kahlowy @babyymeme @lovekeeho @ilove444sworld @kaixiio @becksimagination @ameliestsblog @theycallmesia @boooogieman

1K notes · View notes

corroded-hellfire · 10 months

Text

A First Second Date - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Feeling bummed about your dating life, you have a middle of the night run in with the cute guy who lives in the apartment across from yours.

Note: Me? Projecting? Never. Also, yes, Butterbean is a real cat who hangs around mine.

Words: 2.1k

The apartment still has the warm pleasant smell from your earlier baking as you walk out of your room, shrugging on an oversized navy hoodie. A little baggie awaits you on the counter and you snatch it up and shove it into your hoodie pocket. The heavenly smelling sugar cookies you’d made look too tempting as you pass them by, forcing you to grab one. Then halt in your tracks, turn around and grab a second one, before continuing your way towards the front door.

It’s just before two in the morning and it’s quite possibly your favorite time of day. No one asking you to do anything, no one expecting anything of you, time to just be. The whole apartment building seems to have fallen silent—another perk to this time of night. The sound of your feet padding down the thinly carpeted hallway is all that’s heard.

Coolness kisses your skin as you push outside, making sure not to let the heavy door slam behind you, lest it disturb the peace. Only a few wispy clouds decorate the sky above, most of the frills consisting of the glistening stars and beaming moon.

Dry grass crunches underfoot as you step across the lawn of your apartment building. There’s a small stone wall up near the sidewalk, with a large oak tree conveniently plotted right behind it to give you something to lean back on when you’re lounging on the parapet. Taking up your usual post as the late night watch woman, you take a generous bite into one of the soft cookies in your hand. The vanilla and buttery notes have you letting out a content sigh as you tuck your legs up underneath you and lay your back against the mighty oak.

As if your sigh was the cue he was waiting for, your loyal nighttime companion hops up on the wall next to you. The pale ginger cat greets you with an insistent meow before he begins to rub up against your arms, the calming purr radiating throughout his body.

“Hey, Butterbean,” you say as you reach up to scratch between his ears. The volume of the purring increases as Butterbean moves his head around, letting you know exactly where he wants the scratchies. While he’s in his ecstasy, you finish off the first sugar cookie. As if the sight of your treat reminds him, he looks up at you eagerly, ears high on his tiny head, and his large eyes wide.

“Yes?” you ask.

He lets out another meow and brings his paw up to scratch against the chest of your hoodie.

“Oh, is that what you want?” you tease the feline. “Of course I’ve got something for you.”

Butterbean’s excitement grows as he watches you take the plastic baggie out of your pocket and sprinkle the cat treats on the stone wall next to you. Your pantry has its own little stash of cat treats ever since you befriended this neighborhood sweetheart. He’s gained weight since you’ve begun giving him the food—which he needed. You don’t know where he was before he came into your life, but you prefer to think that the little nub he has on his rear end instead of a tail is just how he was born.

“Glad you like ‘em, kid,” you tell the cat as he finishes eating. Next, he decides it’s time for him to bathe himself right there next to you on the wall.

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back and take a deep breath. You’ve been trying to keep the thoughts at bay for a while now, but now was the time for them to resurface.

What did I do wrong? Should I have offered to pay for dinner? Could he not stop staring at this stupid zit on my chin? Did I say something stupid? Oh, I probably did. And why stop at one thing, there were most likely several stupid things I said.

Letting out a groan of frustration, you run your hands over your face. This was the fourth first date you’d been on in two months. Not a second date to be found. Why was the only one who wanted a second date the one who I wanted to literally run from? You’re about to voice this question out loud to your furry friend, but the sound of footsteps coming up the sidewalk catches your attention. No one’s ever out walking the streets this late at night. It has you on your guard, and you’re ready to sprint for the front door of the apartment if you need to—scooping up Butterbean to bring him to safety as well. But it’s just your across the hall neighbor, Eddie. The one you’ve had a massive crush on since the day you moved in. How could you not when he offered to move the heavier things for you and then gave you that devastating smile? Life would be so much better if you could just date him. But you don’t even let your mind think about that for too long unless you're lying in bed at night with your hand between your legs. Thinking about dating Eddie, about him caring about you, was just asking for more heartbreak than you already have.

“Hey, stranger,” Eddie says as he strolls over to you. Butterbean raises his head to look at Eddie, who waves at him like it’s a common occurrence. “Hello, Ginger.”

You can’t help but let out a snort of laughter at that. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, I named the cat,” Eddie says defensively, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “So what?”

“No, no,” you say with a shake of your head, still laughing. “I named him, too. Just something a little more creative than the color of his fur.”

“How do you know he’s a boy?” Eddie presses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because it’s very rare for an orange cat to be a girl,” you inform him. “It has to do with the chromosomes.” Great job, you think to yourself. Give him a science lesson, that’s how to seduce a man.

“Okay, Miss Smartypants, what did you name the distinguished gentleman?” Eddie asks, with an overdramatic flourish in the cat’s direction.

“Butterbean,” you admit, bashfulness creeping in your voice.

Eddie throws back his head and lets out a crack of laughter. It’s not at you, though, you can tell.

“Oh, I love that,” Eddie says. “So much better than mine.”

A chill breeze blows across the yard, making you tuck your legs up closer to your body. A reminder of what time it is and that you should probably get inside soon. What was Eddie doing out this late? Probably coming back from a date. The thought brings a lump to your throat. If he’s coming back this late from the date, it must’ve gone well. Images of Eddie in some other woman’s bed start to invade your mind and you’re pretty sure you’re physically wincing when Eddie’s words break you out of your thoughts.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Hmm?” You look up to see Eddie gesturing to the second sugar cookie in your hand. “Oh. I made these today. Do you want it? I just had one.”

“I will never turn down free food,” Eddie tells you as he plucks the cookie from your hand. As he bites into it, you watch as the crumbs scatter over his lips and the way his tongue pokes out to collect them. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Holy shit. That is amazing.”

“Y-Yeah?” you ask with a nervous chuckle.

“Hell yeah.” He brushes the sprinkles of sugar off of his hands and gives you a playful smirk. “You’ll make some man a happy husband someday.”

“Ha!”

You didn’t mean to let that out, but it felt like a reflex to respond to the idea of someone wanting to be with you with a bark of laughter.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows at you. “Why’s that funny?”

“Nah,” you say, shaking your head. You don’t want to get into this with him, so you try to just play it off. “S’just I don’t see it happening.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

“No, I do.” You’re speaking to your lap now, and Butterbean has curled up by your side for support. “I just don’t think I will.”

“I don’t understand,” Eddie says with a shake of his head.

“Can’t seem to get past a first date with anyone,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Hey.” Eddie nudges your shoulder, so you look up at him. “Least you’re going on dates, sweetheart. Same can’t be said for everyone.”

The slight downturn of the corners of his mouth makes you frown.

“Wait, you don’t mean you, do you?” The very idea boggles your mind.

“Yep, little ‘ol me.” Now it’s Eddie that seems to look anywhere but at you.

“You’re not coming back from a date now?” Again, not something you meant to let out. Your filter must stop working at two in the morning.

“From a date?” Eddie meets your eyes, his eyebrows raised into his frizzy bangs. “No.” He chuckles as he shakes his head. “Covered a shift at the plant my old man works at. He wasn’t feeling great and he’s getting older, so I said I’d fill in.”

“Oh.” The knot in your stomach from picturing him with a woman starts to untie itself. “Well…you should go on dates.” With me, you don’t add.

“Why’s that?” Eddie counters.

“Because…you’re great.”

“So are you,” Eddie says, jutting his chin in your direction.

“So, we’re both great,” you say. The words hang in the air, and you wonder who will speak first. You’re not sure if he’ll pick up on the implication that you should go on a date together because, well…it was barely there. But you leave the ball in his court, the silence between the two of you only broken by Butterbean’s soft snores.

“Okay, uh,” Eddie starts. He clears his throat before continuing. “Say the next guy you go out with isn’t a total asshole. Where would you want him to take you on a second date?”

“Well, you said he’s not an asshole?” You click your tongue and shrug your shoulders. “That means he won’t want a second date. Only the assholes do.”

“Hypothetically here,” he says, throwing you a small smile.

“Second date…” You purse your lips as you ponder the question. “Where did he take me on the first date?”

Eddie squeezes one eye shut as he thinks of a proper date spot. “Lunch date at Benny’s Diner.”

“Not a bad choice,” you concede. “Second date, hmm. Might not be a step up, probably a lateral move…but Waffle House.”

This makes Eddie laugh. His ring-covered hand comes to hold his stomach and he shakes his head in amusement.

“The Waffle House?”

“Best waffles I ever had,” you tell him.

“All right,” Eddie says as he scratches the slight stubble covering his chin. “So, what would you say if I asked you to go to the Waffle House?”

The cookie you’d eaten only minutes ago suddenly feels like it sprouted wings and it’s flying uncontrollably all around your stomach. Afraid to scare him away by simply shouting YES at him, you take a moment to think of a calmer response.

“I’d say that sounds like a second date spot and we haven’t been on a first yet. But I’d make an exception for you.”

The smile that grows on Eddie’s face baffles you. You put that smile there? That stunning, orgasm-inducing smile? All by saying you want to go on a date with him? Seems impossible.

“I’m honored to be the exception.” Eddie sketches a bow that sends you into a round of giggles. The noise wakes Butterbean up, and he stretches his long paws out in front of him.

“When should I expect this Waffle House invitation?” you ask.

“Hmm. Perhaps as I escort you back inside? It’s pretty late.”

Conceding to his point, you hop off the wall, Butterbean jumping down after you. After rubbing himself up against your legs a few times, he wanders off, only to be seen again tomorrow night when you have his little baggie of treats.

Eddie opens the front door of the apartment for you, and you step inside the building that now feels too warm. The two of you walk side by side up the stairs, and after he holds the staircase door open for you, he clears his throat.

“So, would you like to go to the Waffle House sometime? Whenever you’re free?”

“I’d really like that,” you say, excitement bubbling throughout your whole body. “Are you usually up this late? Because I am and the Waffle House is open 24 hours.”

“I could go for some midnight waffles, shit yeah. Tomorrow?”

Trying to keep your beaming smile to a minimum, you nod your head.

“It’s a date.”

“The first of many, hopefully.”

Maybe all guys weren’t so bad after all.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction

749 notes · View notes

atxxzist · 6 months

Text

sweetest lies | c.s (01)

prologue // next // series m.list

pairing: choi san x f!reader

word count: 3.6k

warning: nothing i can think of

you can't help but to be annoyed as you shove through the crowd, the blasting music and odors of party people something you were once familiar with, but now only serving as a reminder of the person you used to be.

you weren't gonna come, initially--stuck at your job until the evening and your boss incredibly hard to convince, having made sure to tell yunho beforehand there was a chance you weren't gonna make it.

but afterall, it is yunho, and you were most likely gonna do anything, promising your boss you'll work overtime tomorrow if you have to, if he just let you off this once.

it was the fastest you ever got ready, your hair barely done, makeups too light for your liking, and dress thrown on sloppily, but you still look good.

you know you still do by the amount of eyes and heads hurled your direction while you attempt to free from the overwhelming crowd, relieved to finally find a space where you can breathe even for a second.

you turn and sneak glances past many strangers' heads, hoping to catch at least someone you recognize and knows about yunho's whereabouts, considering the text you sent him fifteen minutes ago went completely unanswered.

something you always hated about parties, whether when you were still into them or not, was that you didn't know more than half of the people that showed up, and this one is no exception--despite being held by yunho at one of the smaller estates owned by his family, everyone either looks like rich kids living a double life or three years younger than you.

yunho usually isn't one for parties either, but he needed something different; something new from dinners and sweet smiles with his parents and people twice his age.

"fancy seeing you here," a voice from behind makes you snap around, finding hongjoong with a cup in his hand and something amusing in his eyes.

"thought you got too good for this kind of setting."

the roll of your eyes is apparent, and you don't bother to hide it.

"i'm not here to get high or whatever, i'm here for yunho."

"of course you are," he snides, the tone and attitude all the evidence that you're just wasting time talking to him, and that even after all these years, hongjoong still holds a little grudge for you.

you cross your arms, leaning to one side to show the impatience.

"so it will be nice if you just tell me where he is," you add.

hongjoong shrugs, taking a sip of his drink nonchalantly, speaking in a dull tone, "haven't seen or heard of him since i got here."

"why the hell do i even bother," you mutter under your breath, about to bring the search somewhere else when he speaks up again.

"why don't you ask the one person that would actually know where he is? or are you too good for that, too?"

you squint, confused, until he nods his head another direction and you follow, landing right into the view of the kitchen and to someone you know all too well just from the back.

his hands on some poor girl's waist and lips running along with hers as her grip tightened at his disheveled hair, his body pressing her forward onto the counter, the both of them making out like there won't be a tomorrow.

"no thanks," you dismiss, managing to reframe from an eyeroll, pushing past hongjoong but not before you catch the smirk on him.

you're only here for one thing, and the fact the place's already starting to become suffocating due to hongjoong's jabs alone, a run-in with san will just be one more reason to leave.

you persist through the smell of cigarettes lingering the hallways, couples making out, and people who's entirely not in their right minds, for the next ten minutes--by the time you realize yunho's still yet to reply, you're already upstairs and so sure he won't be in any of these bedrooms as well.

you love yunho, you really do. your heart full of respect and admiration for him, but something that always bothered you is his bouts of silence.

periodic times where he'd just disappear and wouldn't tell you the reasons why, except some quick assurances about the pointless need to worry about it.

you're sure sooner or later, he will make an appearance and you'll both go through the routine all over again, but it's getting a tad ridiculous having to look for him at his own party.

where exactly would a sophisticated and proper man like yunho who doesn't engage in any of the crazy party shenanigans be at?

not downstairs where mostly everyone is, neither is he in the hallways or any of the rooms upstairs, which leads you to the last option of having to look outside in the late november weather that pierces your skin, making you flinch from the cold breeze.

you're more so agitated by the uncomfortableness, the fit you have on not suited for the season at all because you thought you'd be spending most of the time in the house.

so busy being annoyed and bothered, you don't even comprehend it's the backyard you've found way to with a swingset at the corner, your attention finally pulled from the shivering at the sweet sounding feminine laughter.

nothing could've prepared you for what you're about to see.

your face drops immediately at the sight of yunho, who's able to habitually bring a smile out, but your expression stays cold, watching as the man you dedicated almost your entire life to loving, tuck a strand of hair behind someone else's ear, the giggle from her almost too familiar, you don't even want to believe it.

"yunho?" you let out, his name slipping before you can even register, your voice full of hurt and disbelief.

he shoots to the direction of the call, the lovesick expression turning into all kinds of panic and horror, realizing you've been standing there and probably saw everything.

everything he's been hiding, and things that if you had just given him a bit more time, he would've told you... eventually.

"what the fuck?" you continue, unable to read your own tone if it is said out of pain or anger, but you just know that whatever you're feeling right now is a mixture of both.

and just when you think it can't get any worse, your suspicion of the voice and frame turns out to be right as your sister turns head your direction, and if that's guilt in her eyes, you don't believe it.

she knows about your feelings for yunho, and if there's anything she shouldn't touch or mess with (amongst other things she already did), is getting inbetween you and him. yet, she still did.

still chose to get close to him and do whatever the fuck they just did right now.

it feels like every other instances where you lost to her, whether when your parents would flaunt her or when anyone else would ignore you in favor of her.

you wish to say the loss is new, but the only thing different about it is that it's yunho this time.

"y/n, i--"

"--can explain?" you finish for him, one eyebrow raised and anticipating of what kind of lies he'll come up with on the spot. "because it looks like you ignored me all this time because you were too busy with my own sister."

he opens his mouth to say something, but you already very clearly saw the scene for what it is, now backed against a wall with nothing left but the truth to say.

truth he doesn't get to tell because you're already turning your back on them with an unbelievable sigh, yunho knowing how you are and the tendency you have to avoid your problems. run from them and mask them under the pretense of something else.

you want him to come after you, apologize and show even the smallest of guilt that it was a mistake. choosing your sister was a mistake and something he would never do, especially because he knows how you feel about her.

but he doesn't. the only footsteps out in the night are yours heading back inside, and at the small call of his name by your sister, it breaks your heart how comfortable and perfect it sounds coming from her.

once again, you lost.

you can count on two fingers the crushes you've developed over your lifetime, the count stopping shortly when yunho came along--someone who's too perfect in every way, you wonder how someone else is gonna ever beat him, because it truly feels like you'll never get over him.

you were used to disappointment and regrets, but you've never experienced a heartbreak before. that soul crushing feeling almost like grief, going through all the stages of denial and anger, unfortunately still yet to come to acceptance.

that all this time, yunho is seeing your sister behind your back.

you can't even begin to think of how it happened, or the extents they went to in order to keep it from you.

that yunho of all people, the one person you thought could never hurt you, is the one causing you to go through the most painful betrayal right now.

because he knows you and knows that some of your biggest insecurities has to do with your sister.

after running off with yunho nowhere in the line of sight behind you, you wind up at a nearby bar, attempting to drown your sorrow the only way you knew how... by indulging in old addiction and habits.

though you've quit smoking, alcohol is still something you struggle trying to keep away from, a drink way too easier to give into, lying to yourself that it'd be just a few sips until suddenly, you're hazed in the mind and can barely recall where you're at.

but this time, you don't care how much you're drinking as long as it's numbing the ache in your heart.

the bartender's refusing to give any more given your state--head buried inside your arms as you groan into the bar counter with a few passersby lasering you weird looks from behind.

it's probably not very smart, out alone and mind not in the greatest state in such an environment where you could most likely get taken advantage of, so you stay somewhat alerted for that.

just in case anyone tries anything innapropriate, because you know all the tricks by now.

so when you feel a presence slowly taking up the space next to you, the plop as they sit down on the bar stool, your fight or flight is activated, picking your head up expecting to tell another guy to fuck off, only for your jaw to drop slightly at who it is.

"san?" you question, eyes squinting at the same time because you can't think of any reasons why he of all people is here.

if he saw what happened back there, then he's only here to make fun of you for it. insult you and take jabs because it's what he's best at.

san can't possibly give a shit about you.

"yeah?" he answers as he just stares you down, almost like he takes pity on your situation.

"why the fuck are you here? don't tell me you followed me."

"i followed you because i knew you'd do something stupid like this," he says, taking a $100 dollar bill out of his pocket and shoving it toward the bartender because you most likely haven't paid. "now get up."

his command is met by a series of protests, your other hand quickly trying to release the hold he has on your arm attempting to get your butt off the seat, but you're unfortunately not as stubborn and snappy under the influence, unable to hold your ground against a sober san.

your entire body falls forward immediately when on two feet, san catching you with his arms, pressing you against his chest as a smirk creeps onto the corner of his lips.

he knows where the lack of reaction is coming from, but he still can't help but to be smug, seeing you so powerless and weak when you were usually the opposite, opting for yelling about how you want nothing to do with him the normal.

he guides you by the small of your back, fingers on your bare skin that ignites something in him, and trying to exit the bar against your stubborn feet that won't move due to the sleepy state you've somewhat slipped into along the way.

"give me your car key," he says once at the parking lot, watching as you whine groggily while one of your hands dig at your purse in search for the key, passing it to him and almost dropping it in the process.

everything after that is a blur, more so than what already is, only recalling the bits of san settling you onto the passenger seat.

you wake up with a throbbing headache, able to tell right away it's from the drinks you had last night. but other than that, you can't remember anything.

how you got here and where you're at, the place completely unfamiliar, you don't think you've ever been here before.

"oh, good. you're awake."

but the recognizable voice snaps you to his figure sitting at a desk just right beside the bed and on his laptop. it's then that some recollection starts flooding back, all the overwhelming emotions trying to overtake each other.

hurt, betrayal, confusion, and anger.

yunho and your sister for the first half, and san for the other because you can slightly recall speaking to him at the bar before he did whatever he did.

"where the hell am i?" you ask, sitting up to glare at him and checking the room out once more. you suppose it's quite tidy and nice.

your outfit is the same but just slightly washed out and wrinkly, and if you had a mirror, you can already picture the smeared mascara running under your eyelashes.

"my condo," he replies casually, eyes refusing to move from the laptop.

a quick silence passes before a horrible thought comes over, blurting it out the instant it sinks on you.

"did we--"

but the sheer horror in your voice has san turning so fast just to cut you off with a "no", following by a deep, sarcastic chuckle.

"seriously, y/n. what kind of monster do you think i am?"

well, excuse you for assuming because he's given you every reasons to. every single encounter and run-ins, he never missed the chance to throw stupid innuendos about getting in bed with you.

"whatever," you dismiss, yanking the blanket off and scooting to the edge of the bed, making san raise an eyebrow in return.

"where are you going?"

"leaving," you hiss, at the same time pushing your feet into the heels that are found sprawled all over the floor and stealing a quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand that brings out a sigh.

"i'm already late for work and everything seems to be going to shit, so i don't need any of this right now."

san scoffs and you try to not let it bother you, finishing up the last bits of your heels before standing up, so close to leaving the room when he starts talking again.

"a thank you would be nice, you know."

he says it so casually but you know that he's hidden a smirk and satisfaction under all the pretense because he loves it when he has even the smallest of hold over you--whether when he's right or succeeded in convincing you to feel indebted.

"i didn't ask for you to take me home," you reply, arms crossed and turning around, something sharp and meaning to hurt in your delivery.

his attention is no longer on the screen of his laptop and has shifted to you completely, figure walking up to peer down with a look that might intimidate you if this isn't a scene that's already happened one too many times between the both of you.

"if i didn't, something could've happened to you. you were shitface drunk."

you smirk before blowing off the concern with a scoff.

"well maybe i prefer the alternative than to have come home with you."

during university days, all of yours and san's friends were so sure that all the squabbling and jabs at one another was just an outlet to release all the suppressed sexual tension.

though you will admit he's attractive--a fact you've seen him use to his advantage many times, there was simply nothing more to it other than the fact you couldn't stand him and still can't.

"ridiculous," he huffs under his breath, a rare instance of annoyance crossing his expression.

he enjoys bantering with you to some extent, often times intrigued by the outrageous things you'd say because it gets him off in some weird, messed up way.

but it's not fun anymore when you take it too seriously, and especially when he does something genuinely (which he doesn't often) and it still doesn't seem to faze you.

as if you've already built an image of him and refuses to change it no matter the depth he goes to--often times leading to a cycle, because he can get impatient and frustrated.

instead of snarking back, your voice actually drops to a much deliberate tone, the words not wanting to spill because it's still all too painful, but it does.

"if you followed me yesterday, then you most likely already knew what happened at the party and why i ended up at the bar. so if you will just let me leave in peace."

considering you promised your boss to make up for the time yesterday and still haven't even shown almost an hour into the shift, you'll be lucky if he lets you off with a warning.

but it doesn't look like san takes pity on your situation, something shifting in him as he stares at you with a gaze that makes you just slightly nervous.

he clears his throat.

"let me ask you something seriously," he says, taking a step forward that makes you swallow a lump. "did you actually believed that this entire time, yunho wasn't seeing anyone?" he ends it with a head tilt that conjures the lump back.

because you did. the entire time, you really fucking believed he wasn't seeing anyone.

"did you not ever questioned all the times he'd disappear or make excuses? and did you ever stop to think about the improbability that someone of his age never had any interactions with other women?"

the sinking realization is unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and if you thought seeing yunho with your sister back then was awful, this pain can almost kill you.

all this time, you were nothing but foolish and delusional.

san can see both the stages of denial and anger in your face, some tears threatening to get out but you manage to hold them back in. you don't like crying because the last thing you want to be seen as is weak. san knows that.

"if he was fucking other people, then why couldn't he just tell me himself?"

"because he didn't want to hurt you," he unveils, much to your stunned reaction. "he knew you'd lash out and act exactly the way you did when you saw them back at the party."

you can only blink in confusion, like all the information are new and unbelievable. the fact yunho really thought so low of you, one you're not sure how to feel.

but a fact more surprising and intriguing than that, is that the entire time... san knew.

"so you knew about him and my sister and whoever fuck else, but still chose to keep it from me? lie to my face and play along with your brother?"

“you followed me?”

“of course. i heard the conversation at the table. you know, if you’re going to get married off to my brother soon, we might as well get it over with; go into one of these rooms. we might not get the chance ever again. i’ll make it quick, and this will just be between you and me.”

san retracts from the sudden accusation that now all of a sudden, he's become the main culprit. he can't help but to feel some sort of way about it, opting for speaking his mind although it often ends up in destruction.

"it's not like we were ever on good terms and you would've listened to me. but i also don't owe you anything because you never see me in a good light anyways."

he always find himself being hot and cold with you. one second filled with regrets for the terrible things he'd say, then the next, he's spewing some more, and you just so happen to be the only other person just as horrible to say even worse things in return.

"but if i knew your girlfriend was fucking someone else behind your back, i sure would've told you," you spit, eyebrows pinched in the whole time.

"it's not my fault you couldn't get the hint that if yunho actually wanted to ask you out, he would've a long time ago."

san regrets it as soon as he finishes the sentence, but it consumes him completely when the anger on you is no longer but trails of hurt and sadness.

"i--"

"--fuck. you," you cut him off, not sparing another second before you're already out the door.

and if san thinks he saw what looks like a tear, he convinces himself it isn't, because you won't cry in front of him, and you definitely won't cry because of a comment he made.

but he did try to make things right the best he knew how; even then, it's never good enough in your eye.

next // series m.list

taglist: @freeandrealme @shingene @cookiechristie @softie00 @crimson-mia @hexheathen @lixpixstix @atinytease @turtash @moonseonghwa @kkayfan @curryramyeon @justineasian @mikaymee @chickendrum @yujispinkhair @sannie-pudding @itsokaytobedumb00 @nerdy-kimchi @fannyxmh @acciocriativity @mel-the-mad-hatter @eastleighsblog @diorwoo @devilsmatches @kyume02 @distvrbia @wonwowzers @endeav0rsb1tch @sannwa @brown88 @sangiluvem @eburneon @hotteokhatyu @yeosangsbiceps @sankatchu @lynnsqueendom @harusoraa @ad0rechuu @interweab @revehosh @byunniebaekhyunnie @nabi-sannie @gugggu6gvai @rockstarsanie @shakalakaboomboo @yeosangsbbg

#ateez angst #san x reader #choi san x reader #ateez x reader #ateez series #yunho x reader #fic: sweetestlies

256 notes · View notes

casuallyimagining · 7 months

Text

Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always.

Posting October 21, 2023, 8pm EDT

new teaser under the cut

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block, the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

But who’s counting?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

it's finally here! I'm so excited to share this with you. I'd love to know your thoughts and whether or not you're excited!! there's so much more I wanted to include, but maybe (hopefully) there will be a part 2 somewhere down the road.

557 notes · View notes

carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 6 months

Text

Platonic Stobin Mind-Reading AU Part 2

Part 1

The house is quiet when Steve slips in. It always is, now.

He toes his shoes off, unable to bend over enough to untie the laces. His ribs protest the slight hunch of his shoulders, stomach roiling in queasy warning to not curl in further.

The house is quiet, but Steve can almost feel the warmth of an arm around his shoulders. And he doesn’t feel alone. He looks around the foyer, almost waiting for his parents, or hell, the ghost of Hopper to appear. Nothing does.

He’s leaving smatterings of blood and mud with every step, speckling the white carpet in signs of life as he flicks on every lightswitch on his way toward the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, staring up at the insurmountable obstacle to his bed. With a sigh, he turns his back on the climb and stumbles his way toward the couch in the living room, collapsing down into it. Blood is already smearing into the velvety green of its cushions. He ignores the little voice in his head that sounds alarmingly like his Mother, berating him for leaving so many signs of life in her pristine house for lifeless dolls.

Steve falls asleep, alone in his empty house. The comforting weight is still around his shoulders.

It’s still dark when he wakes up, gasping around a nightmare he doesn’t remember having. His stomach roils with fear, like he’s still down in the Russian bunker, begging to keep his fingernails attached to his body. There’s no more comforting weight across his shoulders. He still doesn’t feel alone.

Steve leans across the couch and vomits. There’s very little left in him, popcorn dissolved into green stomach acid. The carpet’s beginning to look like Christmas come early. If she comes back, his Mother will not be pleased.

He doesn’t get up to clean it, exhaustion hitting hard even as the fear persists. He falls back asleep, wakes up mid-nightmare to a pounding at the door.

He stares at the ceiling, stuck still half in nightmare with the pounding of demodog feet echoing through the bunker where Robin and Steve are still tied back to back, her head pressed to the back of his own, Dustin’s screams filling the air as Steve writhes desperately to free himself and protect the kid.

Someone is still pounding at his door. He stumbles off the couch, ribs screaming, head spinning, ears buzzing, eyes half closed against the light as he opens the door, unable to even see who’s in front of him.

“Dingus, where have you been?” they say. Steve forces his eyes open wider past the light and pulsing of his head, willing his swollen eyes to make out Robin’s face. “I’ve been knocking for like five minutes! I was starting to think you were dead! And I was getting so scared that you’d gone off in the woods to die. Cats do that, you know.”

Steve blinks at her, struggling to keep up with her tirade. “Huh?”

Robin rolls her eyes. She steps into the house, making to shove past him where he’s blocking her entry. “Oh just let me in, it’s so hot out–”

She stops talking when her elbow hits his forearm. Stops moving too. Steve stares past her into the empty driveway, wisps of her hair tickling his cheek.

There’s relief coursing through him, thoughts running through his mind that can’t be his own–Thank god he’s alright, I thought he died, what would I have done? Thank god–can’t believe I care about Steve the hair Harrington enough to show up at his house uninvited, what kind of bizarro world are we living in, this is weirder than that flesh monster I swear to god–

Steve stumbles back, spine connecting painfully with the doorknob as the door swings back loudly into the wall with the force of his weight. Robin’s looking at him, eyes wide. There’s a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. Even past the confusion, he’s overwhelmed with the relief that she’s here, standing in front of him, whole and alive.

She reaches her hand out slowly, like he’s a stray cat that could be spooked at any moment. Her fingers latch onto his forearm, curling around it tight enough that her fingers dig into his flesh.

–that supposed to be what a demodog looks like? Dustin was really underselling it, I think I’d take Russian’s any day, aww Dingus was worried about me, wait wait wait, how do I know that he, did he sleep in that stupid outfit? where are his parents? why can I see–

Steve wrenches his arm free, ignoring the stinging of Robin’s fingernails scraping across his flesh. They stare at each other. Steve can feel himself breathing too fast. Wisps of Robin’s hair are sticking to her forehead with sweat. The door is still open.

“Dingus?”

“Good thing you’ve gotta breathe or I don’t think I’d ever get a word in,” Steve says without thought.

Robin brings her hand up to her mouth, eyes widening impossibly further. “Were you thinking about the demodogs?”

“Were you thinking that us being friends is weirder than the mind flayer?”

Robin drops her hand and smiles. “We’re friends?” she asks, voice chipper. “Wait, no! What is going on!”

They stare at each other some more. Robin looks manic, like she’s trying to pop her eyes out of her skull with the force of her stare. Steve, without looking away, reaches behind himself for the knob still pressed into his spin and slowly closes the door.

“Did you have a nightmare last night and throw up?” Robin nods. “Did your Dad have his arm around your shoulders?” Nod. “Well, shit.”

He finally turns away, stumbling back to the couch and gently settling down, leaving enough room for Robin beside him.

They settle like two, hunched quotations, knees settled together, hair brushing with how closely they’re eying each other.

“Anything?” Robin asks.

Steve hums, squinting his eyes with the focus of his concentration. Her eyes are blue, unlined but all but the barest remnants of smudges from her usual make-up. She looks a wreck. He’s pretty sure he loves her.

Are you excited right now?” he asks because he feels it bubbling up his throat, like someone’s just barely holding back a deluge of words, and it’s not him.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes up toward her head. “How are you not?” she demands, pulling her hands away from her knees to gesticulate in the scant air separating their bodies. “This is like superpower territory, Steve! We can read minds!”

Steve swallows around the excitement, feels his own warmth curl up in his chest at her joy. “So far only each others.”

Robin jolts, hands coming to clutch at the fabric across her chest, fist tight. “Oh,” she breathes. “Is that what you’re feeling?”

There’s something else clogging up his throat now. Not words. Tears, maybe. Steve looks down at his own bloody hands, trying to make words where only feelings exist, then remembers he doesn’t have to. He reaches out, snatches her hand, and lets himself feel.

“Why are you picturing us making Thanksgiving dinner together?” she asks, laughing even as tears bubble out of her eyes. Always a sympathetic crier, his own begin to well.

“We’re like, stuck together now, right?” He lets go of her hand, gets rid of the distracting feedback loop of two minds thinking around each other. “That like makes us–family?”

Robin sobs and launches herself into his arms. Unfortunately, the pressure on his ribs is violent enough to almost make him vomit again. Maybe he makes a noise of pain, or maybe she gets some sense of the way his vision is whiting out from pain through his thoughts, but she scrabbles backwards instantly, hands shuffling her further and further away until her back hits the armrest at the other side of the couch.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I just got caught up in the moment, and forgot you’re totally fucked, and dingus! Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? Because all I saw there was a white light, and that doesn’t mean you’re dying, does it? Did I kill you?”

Steve laughs but it comes out more as a cough as agony falls back into the bearable threshold of pain. “I’m fine, Robin,” he says, eyes squeezed closed as he eases himself back into a fully seated position. “I got checked out in the ambulance, same as you.”

Robin, uncharacteristically, doesn’t respond. When Steve opens his eyes, all signs of tears are gone from her face, replaced with a look that clearly shows how done with his bullshit he feels. “And they told you that you were fine?” she demands.

“This all just needs to heal on its own,” he says, gesturing from his face down his torso.

Robin scoots back over to poke his cheek with her finger. He can hear her thinking about the likelihood of him being full of shit, the pros and cons of kidnapping him via her Dad’s SUV. Steve slaps her finger away, but whatever she must’ve gleaned from his own mind satisfied her enough that she doesn’t make a move toward the door or the phone.

She eyes him up and down, gaze traveling down his bloody form, to the splotches he’s left on the couch, and the slowly-developing stains on the carpet, grimacing in disgust.

“Okay, Dingus,” she says, clapping her hands sharply enough to make his ears ring. “Game plan time. You need a shower and a change of clothes pronto. Then–have you eaten?”

“I’ll be in trouble if I don’t clean this up.” He’s too worn out to even bother gesturing at the carnage surrounding them, much less bending around his ribs to scrub.

A furrow forms between Robin’s eyebrows as she contemplates him, mouth pursed like she’s trying to solve complex algebra. Or no, she’smart enough for that to be a breeze. So more like she’s trying to figure out how to scoop his brain out and blow on it until it works better.

“Where are your cleaning supplies?” she asks.

“Robin–”

“No. You’re hurt, and I’m fine. Go take a shower.” Like she can sense him looking, her hand jumps up to cover the singular bruise on her cheekbone. “It’s not the same. Where are the cleaning supplies?”

Her words are so harsh, that he speaks before thinking: “down the hallway in the closet.”

She jumps up, walking with her usual frenetic energy as Steve tries and fails to will himself to get up and stop her. It’s only a few moments after he hears the closet door click open that she shouts, “go shower!”

He goes.

Steve has to peel his uniform off. Mud and puke and blood have dried and merged to his skin. Scabs open where he pulls until he can leave the whole thing crumpled into the smallest ball he can manage in the trash can, salvaging only his nametag as a keepsake, wondering idly if Robin will switch him.

The shower hurts, but he feels divinely clean as he bends over just enough to shuffle into clean sweatpants and an old Hawkins swim team shirt from sophomore year, washed and worn enough to be soft against his skin. He doesn’t put products in his hair, doesn’t even brush it, all remaining energy used in stumbling down the stairs to stop Robin from overworking herself needlessly.

The air smells like a janitor’s closet, enough concoctions mixed together on his Mother’s carpet to wage chemical warfare. Robin’s on her hands and knees, scrubbing ferociously with a scrub brush at the grout between tiles at the entryway. Steve steps around the couch, peering down at the carpet, off-color with cleaner instead of his various bodily fluids. The couch is similarly immaculate, velvety cushions rubbed roughly against the grain from Robin’s ruthless cleaning.

“I threw away your shoes,” Robin calls as she gathers up the cleaning supplies surrounding her and stumbles her way back toward the closet. “There was a concerning amount of blood pooled in the soles, Dingus. Ain’t no way that was all coming out.”

Steve looks around at his clean living room again. All this work, and all he can feel from Robin is pleased satisfaction. Steve feels like he’s going to cry.

“I threw away my uniform.”

Robin laughs. “It’s not like we’re gonna need them anymore.”

Steve pulls the nametag out of his pocket. The stupid anchor is flecked with blood but otherwise it’s pristine. He holds it out to Robin when she troops back into the room.

“You can be me,” he says.

Her eyes light up as she takes it and immediately affixes it onto the front of her shirt. She shuffles back to the side of the couch where she’d tucked her backpack and riffles through it, murmuring quietly enough that he can’t quite make it out. She gives a cute little Ah-ha! When she finds whatever she’s looking for before skipping back over to him, grin crooked it’s so big.

“We can trade.” And there, tucked in her palm is her own, slightly charred name tag. She pins it to his shirt, pricking him with the pointy end before finally settling it in place. “You can be Robin, and I can be Steve!”

It settles easy around his shoulders, like he really can take a step back. Be someone else. Breathe. “I’m Robin,” he murmurs.

She smacks his chest over the nametag, gentle enough to barely hurt.

“Well Robin, what’s for lunch?”

They eat sandwiches in front of the TV. Robin complains about his movie collection, even as she jumps up and down excitedly and puts in Grease. It’s comfortable, easy to forget who’s dead, and who’s injured, and how fucked up their brains are now. It’s between The Breakfast Club and Fast Times that Robin gasps, sitting bolt upright and slapping his thigh.

“Truth serum, Steve! It was truth serum!”

“What was?”

“They wanted to open our minds!”

Steve, up until this point, had thought that was obvious, didn’t realize that for once she was trailing just a bit behind him in the obvious revelations category. “Yeah, and they did.” Robin’s nodding like she can’t stop. He puts his palm flat on her head and holds it still. “Opened them so wide we swallowed each others.”

Steve can’t tell who’s thinking it, but suddenly he's picturing two brains in horrible sailor outfits and terrible mouths that hit a little too close to the demogorgon. One’s mouth is open wide enough to eat the other whole. Then they’re laughing, uproariously, like they’re watching the same funny little show, like the television hasn’t turned to static in front of them.

“Now we can’t keep any of the truths from each other,” Robin says at the same time she’s thinking about that embarrassing crush she’d had on her seventh grade teacher.

In a bid to even the playing field, Steve thinks about little Sally Perkins who he’d liked so much in fourth grade that he’d smashed a grasshopper into her hair and had to miss out on the rest of recess. She’d never talked to him again.

Robin laughs but still shuffles away so his fingers aren’t touching her scalp anymore. Her thoughts flit away, but her hazy contentment lingers.

Steve gets up to switch out the movies, brain buzzing away. “Okay so I feel what you feel, right?” he asks, not waiting for a response. “And I can hear what you’re thinking when we touch.”

“You can hear it?”

Steve starts up the movie and sits back in his place on the couch. Robin looks horrified by this. “You can’t?”

“No!” she shouts, forgetting herself enough to smack her hand into his shoulder, jostling his numerous injuries. Robin grimaces, “Sorry, it’s just, you can just hear what I’m thinking? You can’t like, see anything?”

“You can see things?” Steven demands.

“Holy shit!” Robin bounces up on her knees and just keeps doing it, like a kid excited to open presents on Christmas. “Do you know what this means?”

Steve looks over at her, eyebrow furrowed. “That you’re a–girl?”

“No!” Robin stops bouncing. “I mean, yeah. But no, Steve. What the fuck?”

“I just mean that’s like the only difference between us, right? What else could it be?”

He can feel amusement bubbling up in her stomach, but Robin just stares at him, like she’s too stunned to laugh. “I just meant that some smarty pants scientist should like study us. Because like, we’re proof that some people think differently right? Me all in words and you all in these fancy schmancy pictures! That has nothing to do with our genders, Harrington. That shit’s made up!”

Steve doesn’t know how he feels about being studied by scientists. He’d heard about mini Byers time with those Upside Down quacks and wasn’t sure he was interested in his own stay. It would be nice to have someone who knew what they were doing to help them navigate whatever minefield they’d found themselves in but not at the cost of Robin’s safety. But if they just need a smarty pants who think they know everything then–”Henderson’s smart.”

“You want to call your children?” Robin asks, laughing.

“Think about it!” he replies, slapping the couch. “The lab people are all sketchy, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to be locked up without sunlight for the next hundred years.”

“Okay, yeah but–”

“Your parents aren’t in the know, and I’m practically an orphan. Hopper died.” Steve cuts out, choked up over the thought just like he had been in the mall parking lot when he’d first been told. Robin squeezes his calf. “That takes Joyce out of the running since she's grieving and shit. That just leaves the kids!”

“What about Nan–”

“Things are still kind of weird with Nancy and Jonathan, Rob!” he says, running his fingers through his hair and pulling sharp enough to burn. “If we have to, sure, call her, but I don’t know if this counts as the kind of life or death scenario I would do that in.”

Robin sighs, folding over until her head’s on his thigh, stomach pressed into his calves. “Can we call him tomorrow?” she asks, voice muffled by the cotton of his sweatpants. “My head’s killing me and that kid is so shrill.”

Steve runs his fingers through her hair, coming it back from her face. His fingers come in contact with her forehead long enough to get a quick burst of–feels nice, I wonder if this is why all the girls liked him, or if it was all those rumors I heard about his mouth, eww eww gross don’t think about–before her thoughts cut out. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

They settle in to keep vegetating, Steve slumping further into the arm rest, Robin turning her head and wrapping her arms around his calf. The quiet lasts for ten more minutes before Steve just has to ask, “What do you mean gender is made up?”

Robin cackles.

#this could be read alone. part 1 is more of a prologue #platonic stobin mind-reading au #platonic stobin #steve harrington #robin buckley #stranger things #my fic

340 notes · View notes

xoxoavenger · 1 year

Text

Steve’s Problem

pairing: Steve Harrington x SingleMom!Reader

summary: Everyone knows Steve loves kids. It’s not a problem until he meets Eddie’s hot neighbor who has the cutest kid Steve’s ever seen.

word count: 3838

warnings: single mom reader

series masterlist next part

masterlist

The first time Steve noticed her, it was dark. She was outside of the trailer neighboring Eddie's, her lighter illuminating her face as she lit the cigarette in between her lips. Steve couldn't help but try and see her features, the dark outline of her body on the trailer steps. The light was gone all too soon, not that it mattered, since Robin had shoved him slightly.

"You're holding up the group, Dingus!" She yelled, and Steve watched the girl look up at them, smoke blowing out of her mouth. Steve quickly looked away, walking a bit faster to Eddie's now open trailer. Robin and Nancy followed him in, putting the snacks and the frozen pizza down on the small counter surface.

"Steve staring at the hot neighbor?" Eddie asked as he sorted through the bags, trying to find the VHS that was buried somewhere.

"Oh definitely." Robin answered as Steve said, "She could have been, like, forty, for all I know. I didn't see her face."

"She's not forty." Eddie let out a chuckle, giving Steve a look. Ever since Nancy had undoubtedly shut him down forever and fully committed to Jonathan, Eddie had tried to give Steve advice, trying to get him a wife and not just a date. Steve took his advice with a grain of salt, because Eddie was the one who told him Nancy was still in love with him while she was dating Jonathan.

"Again, didn't see her face. I was just curious." Steve shrugged, watching Nancy and Robin raise their eyebrows at each other. Steve wanted to groan and stomp his feet like a child, because he was so sick of everyone being so involved in his love life.

"Just wait till the morning. She's a real looker." Eddie threw him a wink as he grabbed the VHS, running to the small TV shoved in the corner. Steve's parents had been home since the 'earthquakes' that shook Hawkins, so his house was out of the selection for their movie night. Steve had been spending all his time in between everyone else's houses, because he couldn't stand his parents constant nagging and talks about leaving. He had told them before going to Eddie's that he would rather live in the shed out back than move anywhere with them, to which they both rolled their eyes. His father had told him that he hoped that 'stupid video store you just had to work at' wasn't destroyed, because Steve was on his way to being completely cut out. Steve had just walked out to his car, wishing he could afford to never come back to his lonely house.

"Are you sure your TV works?" Nancy asked, watching Eddie smack the side of it. No picture showed up, so Eddie hit it a couple more times while Robin groaned.

"We should have just endured my stupid house. It's not like it smells much worse than Eddie's." She complained. Her house always reeked of weed, her parents major suppliers in Hawkins. Robin had already began to look for apartments with Steve, knowing her parents were ready to leave the scene as well.

"Even the kids would have been worth it at mine." Nancy commented, causing Eddie to take a deep breath.

"Shut up!" He yelled, silencing them. He gave a final knock on the TV, and miraculously the movie was suddenly playing on the screen. The group cheered, grabbing their snacks and sitting squished on the couch as they intently watched the movie. They had only made it half an hour when there was a knock on the door.

"I got it." Eddie groaned, as if this wasn't his trailer. The rest just continued watching the movie.

"Eddie," The girl on the side said when the man opened the door. That made the trio on the couch immediately snap their heads to the open door, which was blocking their view of Eddie and his visitor. What girl was at the trailer this late? Steve checked his watch, and okay, it was only eleven, but still, he was sure that Eddie didn't have a girlfriend. He was actually pretty sure Eddie wasn't completely into girls, but Robin had told him that no matter how much they both got that vibe, they were not to ask Eddie.

"Y/N," Eddie greeted. The three on the couch looked at each other, but none of them seemed to recognize the name. "What can I do for ya?" Steve wanted to groan, because why couldn't they just watch the movie?

"Do you have any milk?" The girl - Y/N - asked, sounding tired and embarrassed. Eddie sighed, walking back into the trailer.

"I take it James isn't happy?" Eddie questioned, going to his fridge. Y/N stepped in, looking a bit nervous.

"Nope." Y/N shook her head, and Steve made an educated guess that this was Eddie's hot neighbor. She was definitely a looker, as Eddie said, but she looked dissolved. Her hair was piled on her head, her shirt loose and stained. She was wearing sweatpants and no shoes, and Steve wondered who the hell James was and why he wasn't happy. "Fucker even tried to hit me-" Y/N didn't get the rest out before Steve was standing.

"Woah!" He yelled, startling Y/N, who he assumed hadn't realized him and the girls on the couch. "Who the hell is hitting you?" Steve didn't even know this girl, but he knew that abuse was a serious problem, even if no one ever did anything about it.

"My child," She deadpanned, looking at him with wide eyes. He blinked, because of all the people he thought James could be - her brother, dad, stepdad, uncle, boyfriend - child had never crossed his mind. She couldn't be much older than Steve, and so far none of his friends had even had a pregnancy scare. Except Carol, right before his fall from grace, but it was more a joke than an actual problem she had to deal with.

Steve suddenly felt like a normal adult. His past experiences with the Upside Down, having to be the protector while being friends with children had made him feel pulled apart, like a kid who had gotten his youth stolen. But Y/N's casual mention of having a child, of needing milk to feed a human being that she was responsible for not because she had accidentally gotten caught up in a super natural disaster, it made his head spin.

He sat, his cheeks burning. His ears rang as he watched Y/N grab the milk from Eddie and quickly run out the door, back to her trailer.

"A looker, right?" Eddie teased as he sat back down.

"She has a kid," Steve numbly whispered, and Eddie just shrugged.

"I thought you wanted a bunch of kids." Robin elbowed him, and he elbowed her back.

"She's probably taken, dumbass. She can't make a baby on her own." Steve tried to focus back in on the movie, but he had missed too much and now had no clue what was going on.

"Deadbeat dads are all the rage, nowadays." Eddie muttered, and Steve just rolled his eyes.

"There's no way her baby daddy left her." He scoffed, and Nancy just sighed.

"A lot of guys aren't ready for that commitment." She licked her lips as she debated saying something else. "Of course the man gets a choice."

"Her son is the cutest." Eddie sat back on the couch, grabbing a handful of chips and shoving them in his mouth. "If I were his dad, I would never be able to leave him." Why did that make Steve want to see him more?

"Does she come over often?" Steve asked, trying to be nonchalant.

"Steve just wants a head start on that Harrington brood." Robin teased, which made Steve's cheeks heat up.

"I just met her!" Steve cried out, tired of the relentless teasing.

"I'll invite her over soon. Sometime when the three of you can get to know each other." Eddie winked, and Steve just rolled his eyes.

"I hate you all." Steve sat back, arms crossed and pouting like a child.

"I bet you do." Eddie said simply.

It was only a week before Steve saw Y/N again.

He heard a scream, one that definitely belonged to a child. He turned to see Y/N, baby James in one arm, wet clothes in the other. Steve had gone to Eddie's to pick up Dustin and any of the other kids who needed a ride from the club that had continued in Eddie's backyard.

"No, we can't hold those," He heard Y/N patiently say, trying to wrestle the fabric out of his small hands. He let out another scream, flailing his arms. "If you would just let go, this could be done much quicker." She explained in a soft voice, using her hand to try and pry his fingers from what he now realized was a bra.

"Hey," Steve was calling out, running over to her before he could even think. "Do you need help?" He asked, looking anywhere but the bra that Y/N and James were fighting over.

"Yes," He had meant that he was going to help hang her bra, and the rest of her clothes in the basket laying on the grass, but she simply handed him the baby without a second thought.

"Oh," He said under his breath as he took the small child in his arms. James was probably about a year old, give or take a few months. Once Y/N had both her hands free, she quickly rid James' hand of the bra strap and hung it up. She went back to the basket, grabbing another article of clothing and hanging it.

"I know you meant the clothes," She said, not even looking at Steve as she worked. He looked at James, the two of them staring at each other. "But honestly I needed a break from holding him and I don't want you touching my panties." She smirked as he finally snapped his head to her.

"How did you know I wouldn't," He couldn't finish the sentence, because really, what else would he have done if he had been given a baby.

"I've seen you at Eddie's picking up his weird little kids plenty of times." She confided, going back to the laundry basket and moving further down the line. "I didn't know you'd be that good with a baby, though." She paused to smile at Steve holding James, who was just staring at the older man with lips parted and wide eyes.

"I'm just holding him." Steve muttered, but he flushed at the fact that Y/N thought he was good with her baby.

"And he hasn't made a peep since you've had him." She returned to her work with a satisfied smile on her face. He looked down at James, watching him hit Steve'schest and let out a small scream. Steve furrowed his brows.

"That's nice." Steve muttered, shifting to hold James more comfortably. James began to babble, hand grabbing Steve's shirt and shaking his small fist, pulling Steve's shirt away. "Oh really?" He asked, acting like James was saying the most interesting thing. James opened his mouth in a scream, making Steve raise his eyebrows. James threw his head back and then went forward, his mouth landing on Steve's shoulder, a couple small teeth digging into Steve's shoulder.

"James!" Y/N had just finished hanging the laundry when she looked over to see James holding tight to Steve's shirt, gnawing on his shoulder. She went to grab the baby, who screamed as she tried to grab him.

"It's okay," Steve said, thumb rubbing the back of James' onesie. He was enjoying holding James, enjoying the feel of the small baby in his arms. "It's fine, honestly. I need to do laundry anyways."

"He's teething, so it's been difficult." Y/N said, sighing as she went over to grab the laundry basket. "Do you wanna come in? I made some cornbread, and I need someone to taste test it." She's inviting him in. The most beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes on was inviting him in. He was holding her baby, who was drooling all over the shoulder of his shirt.

"I have to pick up my," His words drifted off, and not only because he wasn't sure what to call Dustin. His best friend? His brother? He wasn't sure. He was also thinking about all the times that Dustin was annoying, all the things he could say to excuse the fact that he was going to be so late to pick him up. Dustin wiping his shoes on the inside of his car, arguing with him for no reason, calling him dumb and making fun of everything Steve chose to do, jumping over the counter and knocking down all the tapes Steve had just stacked.

Of fucking course he was going to taste test her cornbread. Dustin could wait for a couple minutes.

"Actually, I love cornbread." He said, walking forward to open the door to her trailer for her. He held James tightly in his other arm, but the kid was koala gripping him.

"Steve!" He heard as Y/N walked through the door. He turned, James still in his arms, and saw Dustin walking from around the back of Eddie's trailer. They must have finished.

That little shit.

Steve gave him a look, one that said fuck off, and then walked all the way into the trailer.

"Does Steve have a kid?" Dustin asked. He was half joking, because he was pretty sure he would know if Steve had a kid. But Steve was holding that baby, who was gripping his shirt like his life depended on it, and then walked into the trailer after a girl. He had even given Dustin the special fuck off look that he only used when he was flirting with girls.

"Not that I'm aware of." Eddie smirked, cleaning up the table. Nancy had picked Will and Mike up as soon as they were done, Lucas went across the street to Max's, and the older members of the Hellfire Club had gone inside Eddie's trailer to get a beer. Erica and Dustin were supposed to go home with Steve.

"He just walked into that trailer holding a baby." Dustin pointed at the trailer next to Eddie's, and other two looked over.

"Oh, that's Y/N's." Eddie said, going back to cleaning. "It was probably her baby." As if that would explain everything.

"Why was Steve holding it then?" Erica asked, arms crossed in her sassy way.

"Do I look like a mind reader?" Eddie sighed, stuffing everything into his bag and then looking at the kids. "Look, she's a nice girl. Really hot. Let Steve get to know her a bit while you go to Max's." He didn't want them at his trailer, because the second he was inside he would be lighting a blunt.

"And watch her and Lucas suck face?" Dustin complained. He was sure he'd rather barge in on Steve and Y/N.

"Yes." Eddie glared at Dustin, somehow knowing where his train of thought was going. "If I see you walk into Y/N's trailer, you're going to sit a watch through the entirely of the next campaign." He threatened. Steve was his friend, and he knew that Y/N and him would get along. He just needed to make sure the two's selfless attitudes didn't get in the way. Steve would do anything for these kids, and Eddie knew that even if he grumbled about it Steve would let Dustin crash his date. Eddie also knew that Y/N would never even think about going on a date without her baby.

Shit. Eddie was going to have to babysit sometime.

"Okay, okay," Dustin raised his hands, clearly getting the memo.

"You don't go into that trailer!" Eddie yelled at them, walking into his trailer. "Don't even look at it!" Dustin flipped him off as him and Erica walked to Max's trailer.

"He looked so at home with that baby," Erica muttered as they crossed the road.

"He's gonna fall in love." Dustin sighed.

"It's my mom's recipe." Y/N muttered as she put on oven mitts and opened the oven, grabbing the tin out of the oven. "She made it the night I found out I was pregnant." Y/N smiled slightly, a sad kind of smile. As Steve looked around the small trailer, he realized it was filled with mostly baby stuff. There were no pictures hanging, no decorations. There was a pile of baby clothes on the couch, a small stack of baby books and a half full bucket of toys.

"It smells amazing." Steve said, letting the sweet bread fill his senses. He watched Y/N cut the bread out of the tin and put it on a plate, and then cut two pieces. She began to butter the bread, and then James pulled on his shirt, screaming.

"James loves cornbread." Y/N said, grabbing the plate with the cornbread pieces and putting it on the counter. "You can put him in the high chair right there." She pointed at the high chair that was next to the counter, and Steve gently put the baby in. Knowing he was going to get fed, James let go of Steve and gave an excited noise, one that made Steve's heart melt even if he hadn't known the kid for that long.

"Your mom makes the best cornbread." Steve said as he took a bite. It crumbled around his lips, and there was a little too much butter, but the bread was amazing. It could have been burnt and he would have said that it was the best thing that's ever touched his tastebuds.

"Oh, I think he knows." Y/N laughed, breaking off some of her cornbread and putting it on James' tray. So many thoughts were going through Steve's head.

Where is James' father? What kind of idiot leaves not only the most beautiful girl but also the cutest child? Where are her parents? Did they leave her? What kind of parent leaves their child?

He asked none of this, because that would be wrong. But as he realized he had to leave, telling Y/N he had to pick up the kids, one question stuck with him.

Was he ready to date a girl with a kid?

"Dustin thought James was your kid." Eddie told Steve a couple days later.

"You're joking." Steve said, taking a sip of his beer. He seriously couldn't believe Dustin actually thought that.

"No," Eddie smirked, taking a hit. He checked the clock, because his master plan had to come into action.

"That kid." Steve shook his head.

"Speaking of kids," Eddie said slyly, knowing that Y/N and Nancy and Robin would be at his trailer soon. "I invited Y/N tonight." Steve almost spit his beer out.

"Nice," Steve said through his coughs. "And she's bringing James?" Steve wanted her to bring James, because his heart melted every time she looked at her baby with so much love.

Shit, he's only met this girl two times and he has feelings already.

"No, no, Max is supposed to babysit." Eddie smirked, because he had come up with this master plan. Steve just nodded, which made Eddie confused because he had done this so that Y/N and Steve could have alone time.

"That's nice of Max." Steve said. Before he could say anything else, Robin was rushing into Eddie's trailer, filling the space with her happiness and her excited nature.

"I've got us the best movie!" She yelled, Nancy following with a smile. "It's new, so new I'm surprised they had it!" She was shoving the movie into Steve's face, and he just smiled and shook his head.

"Wow," He told her, letting her fall partially on top of him and begin babbling about it.

"Remember when we were drugged and we went-"

"You were drugged?" Nancy questions, her and Eddie giving each other a look of shock.

"-movie theater and watched that one movie about that guy who went back in time and fell in love with his mom but that meant he would never exist-"

"Hold on," Nancy tries to stop Robin's rant, but it seems she's not listening.

"-had to make sure his parents fell in love and then he came back to the present - oh! It was called Back to the Future! That was it! Yeah, so this movie is the second one." Robin held up the VHS case, and they all just stared at her.

"Based on that alone, I don't think I want to watch the second movie." Eddie finally let out a chuckle, taking a sip of his beer.

"Can we back up a minute?" Nancy asked, blinking rapidly as a sign of her head churning. "You two were drugged? And then you went to the movies and watched this movie?"

"They seriously made a second part to that shit?" Steve swears he told Nancy about this, so he doesn't answer her.

"Is there anyway we can back the fuck up?" Eddie asks, but before Robin or Steve can explain the door slams open and a baby is crying.

"Max is sick and James won't stop crying so I was wondering if you have ice? We go through ours so quickly and I think he's teething." Y/N rushes out. They all stare, except for Steve who gets up and goes to Eddie's freezer, grabbing ice.

"Don't they make toys for this?" He asks the tired mother, who's eyes look ready to droop at any moment.

"I live in a trailer park, city boy. Ice works fine, as long as we hold it against his gums so he doesn't choke." Y/N says, taking the ice from Steve and holding it to her baby's mouth. He stops screaming and looks at the group with wide eyes.

"You look tired." Eddie raises his beer to her, and she rolls her eyes.

"I think teething is worse than newborn stage." She tells the group, sighing as James puts a tiny hand to her wrist and sucks on the ice.

"You should rest." Steve takes James from Y/N's arms, holding the ice to his gums. She smiled gratefully and kissed James' head.

"Thank you so much, Steve." She way she whispered his name made his heart race. She leaned up and kissed his cheek before walking to the bedroom, not caring about the fact that it was Eddie's.

"Oh, Steve's a goner." Robin said softly so that Y/N couldn't hear when she shut the door.

"He's been a goner ever since he set eyes on her." Eddie smirked, but Steve was staring at James, who was sucking on Steve's fingers that held the ice and looking up at him with the biggest eyes Steve has ever seen. He cannot imagine a world where someone would give this kid up. This sweet, cute baby who Steve already loved.

"Head over heels." Nancy smirked, and Steve finally looked up at them.

"I have a problem." He muttered, eyes wide.

"Ya think?" Robin smirked.

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @roxaya @sadbitchfangirl @gloryekaterina @oblivion-void @alexshaff2002 @m-rae23 @freezaz123 @mads-weasley

#steve harrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve's problem

734 notes · View notes