#( GOD. so much longer than it's meant to be ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ylangelegy · 3 months ago

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cables and crackle ꩜ jihoon x reader.

♬⋆.˚ It's goosebumps when you hear the drums / The running start before the big jump / It's that feeling, so stellar / Bro, if you like her just go and fucking tell her!

🎸╰› includes: f!producer!reader, feelings realization and denial, jihoon has a crush <3, pining/yearning, fluff, [light] angst, first date, confessions, references to producing (that may or may not be accurate).

💽╰› this is part of my ongoing series, buzz (seventeen's version) + this piece is inspired by track 01, buzz. word count: 13,800+

When you first started working with SEVENTEEN three years ago, Jihoon wasn't all that excited to have you around.

Perhaps it was his pride. BUMZU and PRISMFILTER had been the company's go-to's until they decided they wanted to bring in someone fresh, new, up-and-coming. You had been the result: Someone two years younger than Jihoon. Scrappy and hungry. Experimental, ambitious.

His hesitance at your music production has morphed from begrudging respect, to genuine appreciation, to something akin to admiration. Jihoon would never say it out loud, but you've grown to be one of his favorite producers to work with. (He doesn't have to say it, really. Everyone is already privy to Jihoon's biases.)

Now, three years in, Jihoon finds himself trying to reckon with a foreign feeling—

The flutter of his chest as you walk in to the studio. The stutter in his pulse as your fingers lightly brush over the digital audio workstation. The hitch of his breath as your head, ever so lightly, falls on to his shoulder the longer the evening drags on.

Jihoon is a 27-year-old man. As he tries to stay absolutely still, there's only one thing on his mind: Wasn't he too old to have crushes?

You could usually keep up with Jihoon when it came to these long-night sessions. One had to, considering how he was practically nocturnal at this point. But it had been a long day of minor misfortunes, the type that wear you down bit by bit.

You don't even seem to notice that your head is lolling to one side. When your cheek lands on something solid, you might think it's the back of the chair next to you— except it's Jihoon's shoulder, and he absolutely freezes underneath you.

He would be the first to admit that this isn't the first time you've ever been this close. There's been many times your bodies have gravitated to the same spot on the couch, or times when your heads are practically glued to one another while your hands are both at the keyboard, or during the times your feet accidentally meet with each other under the desk.

It's just never been this close, where Jihoon can feel the brush of each of your lashes against his neck every time your eyes fall shut.

He think he might pass out if he dwells too much on it.

He watches from his peripheral vision as your eyes flutter shut, and he thinks, for a moment, that you're out of commission. But then, you mumble, "The reverb on the snare, just now."

If you hadn't been right next to Jihoon's ear, your words might have been drowned out by the speakers. But, as it is, he hears you loud and clear. "Too heavy," you go on to say, without even opening your eyes. "We need to dial it back for a cleaner sound."

There it is, he thinks with both awe and bitterness. Even half-lucid, even half-asleep, you're still as brilliant as you've ever been.

"Mhm," he hums lowly. "I'll adjust it."

He does as you've asked. When he runs the track back, you let out a soft sound of contentment and shift slightly in your seat, blissfully unaware of how you're leaning more weight in to Jihoon's side. It's absolute torture, he thinks.

"Better," you mutter. A beat. Your drowsy inquiry comes in next. "How do you feel about the tempo in the bridge?"

He forces himself to pay attention. He runs the song back once more, this time paying particular attention to the bridge. It doesn't take him long to identify the issue— one of the main ones, anyway.

"A little too dragging," he replies. "It slows the track down a bit too much. I think it disrupts the flow. Makes the chorus—" He suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Because, for some reason, he's become acutely aware of the way your head fits perfectly into the crook of his shoulder.

He's now fully conscious of how close you are. Of the way your breath fans against his neck. Of the way your knee seems to bump against his whenever you unconsciously readjust your position.

Jihoon feels his pulse pound at his chest as he tries to keep his tone steady.

"It disrupts the flow," he repeats, his voice slightly gruff. "Makes the chorus less of a… high, for lack of word."

When your initial response is a thoughtful hum, he bites back the urge to smirk. It should come to no surprise that you're about to disagree with him. More often than not, you butted heads over minor things like this.

"Thought it was too fast," you grumble, somehow sounding a little sulky because of your drowsy state. You're usually a lot more adamant and fiery when it comes to asserting your opinions. But in the late— or early, since it's already past midnight— hour, you've tamped down my temper.

It does absolutely nothing for Jihoon's poor heart.

Your cheek nuzzles against Jihoon's sweater as you shake your head in a very that won't do manner. "The lyrics might suffer. Try slowing it down by 8 BPM so we have more space for vocal delivery."

8 BPM? Jihoon nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh. The number is so arbitrary, so out of pocket. "The tempo's already sitting at 139 right now," he bites out. "It's not like slowing it down by another 8 BPM is going to—"

Jihoon makes the mistake of glancing down at you, and damn it. You're not just leaning against his shoulder at this point.

You've practically cuddled into him.

Jihoon's breath catches in his throat as you shift once more, leaning your chin against his shoulder.

He finds himself wanting to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. Press you into his chest until your cheek is up against his. Until your head is tucked right under his chin.

But then you're grumbling out your next words. "139?" you repeat. "Notch it down by 9, then."

The slur in your tone is just enough to remind him that you're not entirely coherent. He swallows hard, his fingers a little too gentle as he inputs the changes. 9 BPM it is.

It's a bad call, one that's made abundantly clear when Jihoon plays the track back. He doesn't even have to tell you; you're already groaning, pressing your face in to his shoulder. Your words are muffled against the soft material of his sweater.

"You were right. Should have amped it up instead of slowing it down," you mutter, though there's a distracted edge to your tone. He gives it a cursory couple of seconds, letting you gather your thoughts.

"There's an issue with the kick and the bass, isn't there?" you note.

He listens closely— and, as always, you're right. There's a dissonance between the kick and the bass.

Jihoon frowns, a little more focused now. "Yeah, I hear it too," he manages to say succinctly.

His brain is still trying to conjure up a solution when you let out a slight huff and finally peel away from Jihoon's side. He doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed because of it.

You're bleary-eyed and your fingers fumble but your work is efficient as you click away at his mouse, at his digital audio workstation. He watches with a straight face as you add sidechain compression to the bass, as you drag the bridge's BPM up.

It's not just the music that's synced, but the way the two of you work as well. A little push, a little pull, and you manage to find balance. You know exactly what to do, even when you're tired.

Jihoon listens closely as soon as the bridge plays back and he's pleasantly surprised.

"That fixed it," he says, his eyes darting rapidly as he takes in the revised audio levels. "Yeah, I think it's good. We should move on to verse three now."

"Jihoon."

He blinks and glances over at you. You've slumped back heavily in to your chair; it spins slightly on its wheels when you do.

"I'm not going to make it through another verse," you warn. "I think I need, like, a power nap."

"Power nap?"

Despite Jihoon's best efforts, a corner of his mouth twitches. A glance at the clock tells Jihoon that it's past one in the morning. They'd been working on the track for a solid eight hours now.

He lets out a low, considering hum, before looking back at you with a slight frown.

"How long is this power nap supposed to last?" he asks dubiously.

"I only need fifteen minutes," you respond.

There's a decisiveness to you tone, one that brokers no argument even if you're rolling your shoulders from sheer exhaustion.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," he replies, though not unkindly.

He rolls the chair back, moving so that he's facing you fully. One leg is crossed over the other, his eyes studying you carefully. He's going to attempt to convince you, obviously.

"You need a good night's rest. You won't be any use at all when you're this tired," Jihoon insists, but he immediately regrets his choice of words when he sees you wince slightly.

You're no stranger to his bluntness; you know just as well that he can be both brutally honest and painfully inconsiderate. That he shows his care and concern in much more roundabout ways compared to others.

And so when you insist that you'll be good as new in fifteen minutes, he can only sigh, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his knees.

"And if you're still tired after fifteen minutes?" he counters. His tone is gentler, softer, this time.

"I'll go home," you grumble, like the thought physically pains you. "If I'm still out of it after my nap, I'll go home."

Jihoon feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate as you finally agree to a compromise. "Fifteen minutes," he reiterates firmly, holding up a single finger for emphasis. "And if you're not ready to work again by the end of it, I'm driving you home."

You open your mouth, almost like you're about to argue at the thought of Jihoon driving you home, but then you opt to purse your lips. You know how the two of you can go in absolute circles some days and so you merely shoot him a heatless glare before stalking over to his studio's couch.

It's not really the type that should be slept on. With its stiff, black leather, the couch is an awful makeshift bed for anyone. But you and Jihoon have figure out little workarounds after spending so much time working together— like the fluffy, folded comforter at the foot of the sofa and the throw pillow that's shaped like an onigiri.

Jihoon watches with a small smile as you curl up on the sofa, underneath the blanket and with the pillow. "G'night," you call out mid-yawn. "See you in fifteen."

He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing the way your expression relaxes, just a little, as your head hits the pillow. After a moment, he manages to tear his gaze away. He really had to work on his habit of staring.

"Yeah," he huffs as he tries to go get a head start on the third verse. "Night."

It's difficult because he can't help but steal glances, and every single time he does, he's struck by a wave of affection. You're so small, so fragile-looking, burrowed in to the sofa. He notes the way the pillow's slightly squished underneath your head, your face half-buried in the plush material…

He almost feels the urge to take a picture just to capture the scene.

And then he realizes: Why not? You're friends, aren't you? And friends take embarrassing photos of each other.

He picks his phone up from his pocket with one hand and angles the camera with the other. He knows just what he wants to take a picture of. The way your cheek is squished against the rice ball pillow, just barely visible underneath the edge of your tangled mess of blankets. The way your expression is relaxed, softened in sleep, with the slightest pucker to your lips.

He presses down on the snap button, and the shot is just perfect. The way the glow of the monitor catches in your hair, bringing out the natural color. The way your eyelashes fan out over your cheek, and the way the shadows highlight the sharpness of your features.

Jihoon's eyes linger on the image, something akin to longing twisting in his gut.

This time, he doesn't bother to push the feeling away. He does go back to work, though.

Fifteen minutes pass. And then twenty, thirty. The longer you sleep, the more Jihoon's guilt gnaws at him.

He knows he's about to wake you up, to ruin the temporary blissfulness that sleep has brought you. He knows he's about to drag you back to the studio to work again, despite the bags that are under your eyes and the exhaustion that is evident in every line of your body.

He knows he's going to be the cause of your fatigue. And he hates that— hates himself, just a little, for his need, his drive.

Still. At the thirty-minute mark, he makes his way over to your side. He reaches out, fingers hesitating for a second, before he gently shakes your shoulder.

"Hey," he calls, his tone soft and neutral. "Wake up. We need more work done."

It's very likely that the unceremonious way you've been dragged out of your sleep has gotten to you, because how else can Jihoon explain the way you drowsily move to hold him?

Your fingers reach up and curl gently around his wrist. Your eyes are still closed as you exhale, "Jihoon-ah."

It's more of a whine than anything, really, but it's one that he can't deny, not when you clutch his wrist like that. "What," he asks, his tone flat out of panic. "What is it?"

It's surreal, in a way. The way your tiredness has loosened your inhibitions, has stripped you down to the simplest, most vulnerable version of yourself, one that's practically begging for closeness.

You give his hand a gentle tug. "Come nap with me. Y'need to rest, too."

Jihoon's mind goes blank the moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body freezing. Because no, he didn't just hear that, you didn't just ask that—

And then you tug on his wrist again, and he swears his heart stutters.

On one hand, the rational, reasonable part of his mind is screaming at him to push you away, to reject the idea entirely. He needs to focus. He needs to finish the track. He needs to work, not rest.

But then he looks down at your sleepy form, the way you're clinging on to him, and all those thoughts are thrown out the window.

Slowly, Jihoon lowers himself onto the couch, his body sinking against the plush material. It's a tight squeeze. Months ago, the two of you might have called each other ridiculous for even trying to fit in a piece of furniture that was clearly not for two people to lay on.

The thick of comeback season absolutely shatters any attempts of appropriateness or discretion. As Jihoon complies with your absurd request, you somehow manage to throw the blanket over the two of you.

Jihoon isn't a stranger to casual touches— he's had to survive through years of constant skinship between the members— but there was something different about this.

The feeling of your body, curled against his own. The way you hold his fingers in your grip, like a comfort, like an anchor. The scent of your hair, so close he could just nuzzle his face into the messy strands.

He tries very hard to focus on the negatives. On how cramped and uncomfortable the couch is, how he's going to end up with a backache—

— but his mind doesn't want to cooperate. Because all he can see is you, all he can feel is you; the way your soft, warm body is pressed against his own, the gentle rise-and-fall of your chest against his, you, you, you.

His mind goes blissfully vacant, and before he can even think to stop himself, Jihoon is wrapping his free arm around your waist, drawing you in.

Jihoon doesn't mind the sudden increase in body heat that comes with having you pressed so close to him, not when your back is solid and warm against his chest, not when the curve of your hips slots so smoothly against the shape of him.

He lets out a shuddering breath as you press his palm against your stomach, the fabric of your shirt slightly rucked up by the motion. You're so soft.

For once, Jihoon finds himself hating everything else— the studio, the album, the uncomfortable sofa, this damn comeback for robbing him of an opportunity to simply hold you.

Jihoon swallows, his throat suddenly dry as the words slip past his mouth before he can even stop himself.

"You're too close," he mutters in your ear, his lips so close to the shell that he's half-convinced you were going to feel his words against your skin. He's being a hypocrite, really, since he's the one holding you, but he needs to maintain some sense of propriety.

"Mmm," you hum, still more asleep than awake. You exhale an apology as you try to sleepily shift away, mumbling something like "didn't notice" in your languid effort to disentangle.

Your movement has to be the most half-hearted attempt at putting space between the two of you. So Jihoon tightens his grip, his fingers curling over your hip to keep you from shifting away.

He doesn't want you to move, not even an inch— and it's greedy of him, really— but the thought of losing the heat from your body is more than he can bear, not when you're here and you're so close.

His hold is firm, almost demanding. As you settle back down, Jihoon buries his face against the back of your hair, his mind going blissfully quiet.

"Dunno why y're so cozy," Jihoon murmurs, his words slightly slurred with the exhaustion that's catching up on him now, too.

He tries not to think too hard about it, the intimacy of it all. He tries not to focus on how he's practically molding his body against yours.

Just a nap, he thinks. It's just a nap.

Your voice is so soft, so quiet, nearly lost against the sound of Jihoon's thrumming pulse in his ears. He catches it anyway. Your quiet murmur of "G'night, Jihoon-ah."

He feels strangely light-headed. It's hard to focus, hard to think, his thoughts fuzzy around the edges as he slowly starts to succumb to drowsiness.

Jihoon lets his lids flutter shut, his mind sinking into darkness. "Sweet dreams," he mumbles back.

In the end, Jihoon is the one who has sweet dreams.

They're fractures of a bigger picture, pieces to a puzzle he could never piece together.

He sees your tired smile, hears your soft laugh, feels the brush of your hair against his chin. He sees you in flashes, in glimpses, always out of reach. Never close enough.

They're so vivid, these dreams— so real— that Jihoon swears he can almost feel you, can almost hold you. When he reaches out for you, for the dream version of you, it feels like he's grasping at air.

There are hints of other things— flashes of studio lights, melodies and songs that drift in snippets. But they all fade to the background in the face of you, the way you shine in his dreamscape like a sunbeam.

Seungcheol is the one who finds Jihoon and you the next morning— or, rather, the next early afternoon.

He's not surprised to hear that Jihoon didn't come home to the dorm. He's not surprised to find Jihoon asleep in his studio. He is surprised to find Jihoon spooning you— his co-producer, the one they all thought he was a little too soft towards.

Seungcheol's eyebrows raise to his hairline. Jihoon was never the affectionate type. And yet here he was, curled around you like a parentheses. Seungcheol takes a quick picture on his phone before gently nudging Jihoon with his foot.

"Yah," the leader says, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants; his tone, a little too-amused. "Jihoon."

It takes a few nudges for the words to register, for Jihoon's sleeping mind to slowly come back to the world of the living.

He feels… groggy. Exhausted. And strangely warm.

After several long moments, reality catches up with him. As his sleep-addled mind slowly pieces everything together, Jihoon's eyes flutter open and it takes all of two seconds for him to process the fact that he's spooning you.

Jihoon's eyes widen, and his head snaps up to a grinning Seungcheol.

"This isn't what it looks like," Jihoon says immediately, his words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

He almost screams when he tries to move away, when he tries to untangle himself from you, and your soft, sleepy whine sounds more like a protest than anything.

He should've let you go. He should've, but when you make that noise, when you curl in closer to him, the part of Jihoon's brain that's awake shuts down entirely.

Jihoon freezes and tries desperately to ignore the way Seungcheol snickers.

Seungcheol keeps his hands in his pockets as he watches Jihoon with growing amusement. Put-together, frumpy Jihoon, stunned in to silence because his co-producer is latched on to him.

It is, as Jihoon had said, very much not what it looked like. Seungcheol can see that the two of you are still fully clothed. Hell, he wouldn't have even imagined Jihoon going that far when the boy barely thought of romance that way.

Still, it's just a little funny. "Long night?" the leader drawls, not even trying to conceal his sheer mirth at the situation.

Long night is a huge understatement, and Jihoon shoots Seungcheol an acerbic look that's not nearly as effective as it normally might be. Not when he's still trying to detangle himself from you without waking you up.

"You have no idea," he grumbles under his breath, his eyes flickering down to your exhausted expression as you cling to him.

He can feel the way his heart stutters at your closeness, the way his chest tightens. Not the time, he scolds himself.

"We were working on the album," Jihoon says, as if that explains everything.

He's given up on trying to move, because he knows that if he keeps trying, you're going to stir— and the last thing Jihoon needs is an awake you, all warm and soft and adorably disheveled.

"Can you... leave?" he croaks to Seungcheol. Jihoon's cheeks are tinged with a furious red color; he prays to any deity that Seungcheol will simply chalk it up to shame. "I'll give you details later, just..."

Jihoon shifts minutely, and a muted noise of protest escapes from you. He shuts his eyes and sends a silent plea at the ceiling of Please, God, not now.

Seungcheol, for his part, lets out an amused huff, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Alright, alright," the leader says, holding his hands up to show he's conceding. "I'll leave. I'll talk to you later."

He grins. "And try not to have too much fun, yeah?"

The smirk only widens when he sees the flush on Jihoon's face. The leader saunters out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him.

And Jihoon is... well... left with you.

Silence descends, and it's deafening.

Jihoon can feel each and every beat of his own heart, can hear your slow, soft breath coming out in steady, even exhales. You're asleep— still clinging on to him, your body pressed firmly against his own— and Jihoon tries not to focus on the feeling, tries not to think about how you're so soft, so warm.

He should move, he thinks. He should untangle from you, put at least two feet of space between you, and yet.

Jihoon can't, not when you look so peaceful against him. Not when you're making little noises every now and then, the soft, low sounds coming from somewhere in your throat.

It's a special kind of torture, having you so close when he knows he can't do a single thing about it. Just a taste, an inkling of closeness— and now he's hooked, wanting for more.

He knows it's selfish, what he's doing. To have his arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than he should. To relish in your warmth as you sleep— but Jihoon can't help it, not when he knows this might be the only way he could ever get to hold you.

He knows you're not his. You can't be his, for several reasons.

But for this brief, quiet moment in time, you feel like you could be.

There's no way of telling how much longer you stay there. To Jihoon, it feels like an eternity and then some; in reality, it's probably only a couple more minutes. You shift in your sleep, letting out a big yawn. Jihoon tries to not flinch when you stir.

For one ridiculous moment, he considers closing his eyes and pretending to sleep, so he can have a few more seconds, a few minutes longer with you in his arms. But then you're moving again, and Jihoon can feel his heart in his throat as you blink, shifting to look up at him.

"Huh," is the first thing you say as you squint up at him. "Hi."

"Hey," is his lame response, his tone oddly, uncharacteristically soft. He swallows when he catches the way your eyes flicker all over his face, as if drinking him in.

There's a lot to take in, he's sure. His arm is still around your waist and your leg is slotted between his. The blankets are a mess; the noonday sun, peeking through the studio's heavy curtains.

As your mind finally seems to catch up, you let out a groan. "S'rry," you slur, voice still thick with sleep. "We overslept. I'm a bit clingy when 'm tired."

Yeah, right. Clingy is not a strong enough word for what you had become in your sleep.

Jihoon tries to ignore the feeling of your legs tangled together, the way you're practically molding against him. He tries to tamp down the way his breath hitches, to ignore the way his heart skips a beat when you let out a sleep-filled groan.

"You were hanging on to me for your life," he remarks in a tone that is far more amused than exasperated.

"Yeah, I figured," you say wryly, glancing over at the clock to see the damage. Jihoon's eyes follow your gaze. Two in the afternoon. Your shared 'nap' had lasted a full twelve hours.

"Wow," you huff. "We were out for a while."

"That we were," Jihoon agrees, and he's more than a little reluctant when he lets you go, unravelling his own limbs from yours. The space between your bodies feels like a physical blow, but Jihoon tries not to seem too put off by it.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept that long since I was a trainee."

"That's unhealthy."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

There's a calculated casualness in your next words. "Did you at least sleep well?"

The slight concern undercutting your tone makes Jihoon rather light-headed. "I slept like the dead," Jihoon answers easily, and he doesn't even have to lie about that.

His rest had been more peaceful than it had been in years, and if he's truthful, he'd blame it all on the fact that you were wrapped so firmly around him, all soft skin and sleepy warmth. You'd fit so perfectly with him and Jihoon is fairly sure he's never going to get the sensation of you pressed against him out of his mind.

A corner of your lip twitches upward. "Don't say that," you tease as you stretch your arms over your head. "Because we may actually be dead soon enough."

There's still an album to finish. A couple more tracks due in mere days. But Jihoon's suddenly feeling much better in a way that he hasn't in a while.

Even the ever-present stress and exhaustion feels almost like an afterthought, like it's barely even there. In the midst of it all, there's only you, still mussed from sleep.

It helps that you're taking the little cuddle session with surprising grace. "Wanna order in breakfast? Lunch?" you inquire, like you can't quite decide what to call your first meal of the day when it was well in the afternoon.

"Breakfast-slash-lunch sounds good to me," he answers, a hint of a smile visible in the curve of his mouth.

You order Chinese food. Something proper and real, a break from the convenience store rice balls and energy drinks. In the time it takes for the takeout to come, you and Jihoon speed through the song that had been plaguing you both last night. It seemed that being well-rested did you both well.

When the food comes, you go to collect it. In your absence, Jihoon finally checks his phone.

Suddenly, the studio feels ice cold, because he has seventy-something unread messages from his group chat with the boys.

He clicks the little arrow that takes him back to the first unread message, and surprise, surprise— it's from Seungcheol. The stolen snap of Jihoon and you cuddled together glares up at the producer, paired with the world's most annoying message.

🍒: Our Woozi-yah's a big boy now. ㅋㅋㅋ

The messages don't stop there, because Seungcheol had essentially given the others the green light to blow his phone up.

Jihoon scrolls through them, his expression growing more and more irritated as he reads through the suggestive and ridiculous messages the boys have chosen to send.

⚔️: Jihoon-ah~ Who knew you had it in you~ 🐈‍⬛: finally! 🦦: LET'S FUCKING GOOOO

Jeonghan, as per usual, is the worst offender of them all. Jihoon is just about to try and get a word in when a new, rapidfire sequence of texts pop up, the second eldest member clearly having entirely too much fun with this.

👼: So cozy, our Jihoon-ie! So cozy ♡ ♡ ♡ 👼: Finally, our Jihoon found himself a pretty girl 👼: We didn't know you were such a cuddler~~~

Jihoon's fingers are itching to reply something back, but it's hard to even make sense of the messages; they're coming in so fast. Every time he tries to type something back, another notification pops up with more texts, so he's forced to sit and watch as the members tease him relentlessly.

But then—

🐱: Cough up @Joshua @Vernon 🐢: dammit. couldn't have waited four months, woozi hyung? -_- 🦌: I didn't lose as much, so it's okay~ 🐯: WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER

The other boys all chime in with their own odds, and Jihoon realizes with horror that his bandmates had bet on him.

The horror quickly morphs into disbelief mingled with irritation.

So they'd bet on him? And on what exactly? That he wouldn't fall for a girl over the course of three years working together?

He doesn't even look at the odds before he types an aggravated reply.

🍚: You guys bet on me???

No one even tries to deny it. Soonyoung, the menace that he is, is the first to respond.

🐯: Not all of us ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ 🐈‍⬛: and it's just if you'd get with your fav producer. lol

It occurs to Jihoon, then and there, that the boys presume him and you are dating. It's a misconception he has to amend before any of the twelve can make some wisecrack about it in front of you.

🍚: We're not dating.

Jihoon doesn't bother to hide his irritability.

🍚: We were just napping together.

It's not the last of it, as it turns out.

More texts flood in after his message, and while there aren't as many jokes as before, it's easy to tell that the members are just dying to tease him about this whole thing.

When you return to the studio bearing your takeout, you're greeted with Jihoon typing furiously away at his phone, a disgruntled sort of look on his face. "You alright over there?" you call out amusedly as you pad over to the studio couch.

"Yes, and no," Jihoon answers shortly, a hint of petulance to his tone. If he looks up at you, it's only for a moment.

For someone who tends to be stoic and brooding, he's not exactly having the best morning right now. Jihoon is more than a little annoyed from the relentless teasing, and while he tries to fight it, there's a lingering feeling of humiliation, too.

A part of him wonders if this is what he deserves— for having had that moment with you this morning.

"Well, whatever it is—" you give a dismissive wave of your hand before plopping down on the couch.

He almost smiles at that; you've known each other for an odd number of years. It was enough time to be fairly acquainted with each other's habits and mannerisms, to know when something was worth pressing in to or not.

"Come on," you urge him. "The faster we eat, the sooner we can finish."

"Okay, yes, I'm coming," Jihoon answers hurriedly, and he makes a hasty beeline for the coffee table, where your takeout boxes are set out neatly.

He gives the group chat a final glance, just to make sure they're not texting anything too embarrassing. The more he scrolls the more he's bombarded with messages about you, and you would have thought the group chat was dedicated entirely to you, considering the number of texts.

He groans and locks his phone, turning it face down on the table as he takes his seat.

"Here," you say as you gently place Jihoon's order in front of him. Chao fan with a side of sweet and sour pork; a can of cola.

The way you seem to automatically know all the things he orders, the way you know what the right order to pick for him is, it almost gives Jihoon the sense that you've been working with him for even longer than three years.

He's not sure what to make of it, but it feels strangely nice, somehow, knowing that there's always something or the other that you would already know. He takes a bite out of his meal, wondering when it was that this relationship of his with you had become so comfortable.

It's an odd sensation, really.

Jihoon had always been more than content to keep to himself. But there's no denying that he feels a certain kind of peaceful contentedness when he's with you.

Perhaps it's how the two of you work so seamlessly together. Perhaps it's how you somehow managed to get under his skin. There's a certain comfort that Jihoon isn't used to having that's settled around the two of you.

And it's the kind of comfort that might make him vulnerable.

He can't have that, so he privately decides to keep you at a distance.

It's a distance you reciprocate. Both Jihoon and you know better than to tread the careful line of your friendship, especially in your line of work.

The two of you work like a well-oiled machine, like a lit match being tossed in a haystack. Jihoon and you are relentless, as always, and you finish off the rest of the mini-album in the next three hours.

There's still fine-tuning to hurdle through, but as Jihoon and you replay the last track for the first time, he has to concede. The worst is over.

You slump forward in your chair, your forehead resting against the work desk of his studio. "Done," you breathe. After a moment, you add, "For now."

"For now," Jihoon echoes.

There's a long pause between the two of you as you both relish the peace and quiet of a fully completed mini-album.

"Let's go for coffee?" he finally asks, glancing to where you're slumped in your chair.

You tilt your head ever so slightly until your cheek is pressed against the desk and you're looking up at Jihoon. You smile ruefully as you speak, your tone almost apologetic. "No to coffee. I think I want to go home and knock out for twelve hours."

You go on, "You should do the same. We've been in this studio for…" You pause like you're doing the mental math, and then a disbelieving laugh slides past your lips. "About thirty-three hours, Jihoon-ah."

Thirty-three hours is almost incomprehensible. Jihoon isn't even surprised, because of course, that's the kind of work ethic you've come to expect from an idol— but, thirty-three hours?

Jihoon's head is spinning. There's a strange, odd kind of haze settling around him, almost like he's caught between a dream and consciousness. He's tired, yes, he's more than tired, but Jihoon knows that he doesn't really need to go home to sleep.

Except he can't say no, not when your words are coming with all the weight of a command, not when you're looking at him like he's some helpless, pitiful wreck, needing some sort of care. He hates it.

He hates that you see him.

"Okay, okay," Jihoon says in a rush, standing from his chair. "I'll go home."

He's always known that any work done with you ends with him doing exactly as you say. You might have never said the words to his face before, but Jihoon isn't an idiot.

He's wrapped around your goddamn finger some days.

The thought that he's now more than willing to do whatever you want from him has never occurred to him before now, and it leaves him feeling slightly shaken, slightly unsure of everything.

It takes you both about ten minutes or so to get everything in order, then another seven minutes to head out of the company building. The relief Jihoon feels as you finally find yourselves outside is immense, even if it is a chilly, early winter evening.

You glance at your wristwatch before distractedly asking him, "You'll be okay behind the wheel?"

"'Course," he says as he fishes for his keys. For a moment, he contemplates asking if you want a ride home. It'd be out of his way, but it's something he's almost willing to bear.

Almost.

Instead, he forces himself to say, "See you. Take care."

You give the same pleasantries back before beginning your trek to the train station. Jihoon, for his part, finds his car in his designated parking space.

The drive home is the most boring and uneventful thing ever— except when Jihoon looks in his rearview mirror. The sight of you disappearing into the distance makes him feel strangely hollow and a bit wistful.

His stomach gives a weird, twisting lurch, and he's tempted to make a U turn right there and then and find a reason to be back in his company.

Maybe he'll tell you just how alone he can sometimes feel after an album is completed. How there's always this sort of lull in the days, hours after his work; how he fights it off by doing more work, even if it's not all that necessary.

He wants to ask if you ever feel the same way, too.

But you had never really been a part of that loneliness, and now you were leaving. And— just for the night— Jihoon can't help but feel more lonely than ever.

He doesn't want to be lonely.

He wants to be left alone, in a company of his own thoughts, with nothing and no one to distract him. But, for some odd reason, he wants you around.

It's almost too much to bear, so Jihoon turns the radio on louder and lets the sounds of music drown out the patter of his ragged heartbeat.

Jihoon and you are forced to reconvene a couple of days later, albeit on circumstances that neither of you are particularly fond of.

Sungsoo, the company's CEO and executive producer, is already seated at the head of the table when you walk in. Jihoon sees the way your eyes scan the meeting room; he tries not think too much of the way the tension in your shoulders seem to ease when you spot him.

The sight of you makes Jihoon's heart do a little dance, which makes him want to both pull you close and run far, far away from you.

For now, he just gives you a nod of acknowledgement and shifts his eyes back to the older man sitting across the meeting table from the both of them.

You sit across from Jihoon. Sungsoo doesn't even bother to sit; he merely launches straight in to his agenda.

"Good work on SEVENTEENTH HEAVEN," Sungsoo says right off the bat. Jihoon knows it's more of a cursory greeting than anything; there was always going to be more than just a pleasant compliment.

The other shoe drops soon enough. "I think there's more work to be done, though, specifically on three tracks," the CEO presses on.

Three tracks.

Jihoon feels his jaw clamp tightly. He's been through these kinds of corrections before, of course, both from himself and the company. Sungsoo says things about the lyrics of Back 2 Back, and the organization of Yawn, and the chorus of Diamond Days.

And while Jihoon has been through this, has needed to take things apart or put stuff together to appease the higher-ups, it's never any easier. His hands are clasped tight, and he's trying his best to hold himself together, but on the inside, he wants to scream.

This is a part of him. These are all parts of him, big and small, and it's always just a bit of a jab— to have his heart put in someone else's hand, and then to watch that heart be poked and prodded for the sake of... what? Commercial gain?

At one point, Sungsoo pauses to look between Jihoon and you. "Are you not going to take notes?" the older man asks.

You respond before Jihoon can. "Rewrite the second half of Back 2 Back, tweak the instrumentation balance and structure of Yawn, adjust the rhythm for Diamond Days' chorus," you rattle off. "I— we got it, sir."

"Right. Good," he says, and Jihoon doesn't like the condescending tone that Sungsoo uses with you, but at least it's not aimed at him.

The older man sits back in his chair, and Jihoon lets his eyes drift away from the company boss just for a moment to look at you. A strange feeling fills him. He wants to name it appreciation, wants to claim it's nothing more than a little admiration.

But then he'd be lying to himself. Because that warm kind of feeling shifts into— just a little— something a bit more than what he's supposed to be feeling for a co-producer.

Before he could dwell on this thought any longer, Sungsoo clears his throat and Jihoon quickly tunes back in. He's not thinking about that right now, and that's final.

The meeting wraps up not too long after with some parting reminders on deadlines and the upcoming comeback. Jihoon can tell by the look on your face that you're a bit dazed, and Sungsoo's parting words only add gasoline to the fire.

The CEO says both your names as he readies to dismiss you. "The two of you are a good pair," he notes, and Jihoon almost short-circuits.

Pair.

Right. A good pair of co-producers. Not anything else, not anything more.

Both of you mumble your appreciation for the CEO's remark. And Jihoon, like the fool that he is, feels that warm, fuzzy glow bloom again. He doesn't care what it signifies; at the moment, he's just too happy to work with you again.

By the time you head back to his studio, there's not much that either of you can really say. Marathon edits were not new to either of you; you both slide in to work mode without much preamble.

The music starts playing and the edits start pouring in, and the five or six hours spent on the three tracks fly by without Jihoon even noticing it. It gets to the point where he's working on autopilot— one hand on the mouse, fingers flying across the keyboard.

The thing about working on autopilot was that it made the process quicker but left little room to feel or think, which was both a blessing and a curse.

At the six-hour mark, he finally deigns to glance at you. Your gaze is focused on the digital audio workstation as you cut some low frequencies from the guitar on Diamond Days, but there's a slight quiver in your hands as you do it.

While Jihoon doesn't see what you're having trouble with, he can sense that you're off. He knows the signs of stress and exhaustion better than most, what with the hours he puts in.

"Aigo," he calls out to you, and his voice is a little raspy— hoarse— because he's been humming and singing for the better half of the evening. "Are you okay?"

"Still in the green," you say wryly. You had a bit of a traffic light system to refer to when talking about how far gone either of you were.

He watches intently as you implement the changes to Diamond Days, as you give a disapproving shake of your head at the revision. Still not to your standard.

Of course you wouldn't be at the red light stage— not even close, he muses. But in Jihoon's head, there was already one foot on the red light spectrum— and it wasn't just because of the revisions.

"Let's take a break," he suggests.

The idea comes out of absolutely nowhere, even for him. A break—? When was the last time he had voluntarily done that?

Jihoon's been having more questions than answers lately, but he just chalks it all up to being stressed. And maybe a little tired.

Anything except what it really is.

This time, you actually do glance up from the workstation. There's mild surprise on your expression as you tease, "Yah, who are you and what have you done to the indomitable WOOZI?"

"Huh?" he deflects. For a brief moment, he almost feels a little shy around you.

"I'm just bored," he explains, and he's surprised that he can lie so well and sound so casual. "You don't need to come if you don't want to. I just wanted to get some air."

But of course you're coming, already pushing back against the table at the rare invite from Jihoon. "The usual?" you prompt.

To others, a 'usual' might have indicated a trip to the cafeteria, a smoke break on the sidewalk. But Jihoon and you both hated the company's food and neither of you smoked, and so your breaks were spent somewhere a little more unorthodox.

"The usual," he agrees.

He leads you across the company building, the walk to your destination full of comfortable silence. Eventually, you make it to your designated break place: The company's rooftop.

Jihoon takes his usual seat at the far end while you sit closer to the ledge. The atmosphere is thick and humid from the weather, but there's a breeze to keep the heat bearable.

When Jihoon said he wanted to get some air, he meant it quite literally.

He doesn't want to give away his real intentions on calling for the break. Still, he can't help the question that slides out of him as he watches the glittering lights of Seoul beneath the two of you.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, glancing at you.

"I am," you answer quietly, your gaze still fixed on the city. "Thanks, Jihoon-ah. I needed this."

He almost smiles. "Of course."

This was the first time since he's met you that he'd asked you to do something just because he thought you needed it. And it isn't long until that fact has Jihoon wondering why the heck he's been putting things off so much lately.

He doesn't get to mull over his thoughts for long though— not when there's a sudden urge to do another thing that he realizes he hasn't ever done.

He takes out his phone and opens up the camera app. "Yah," he calls. "Look here for a second."

You do as he asks, glancing over your shoulder, and the soft click of his phone breaks through the white noise of the city below. When you let out a surprised laugh, he thinks it's the second best thing he's ever heard. Only after music.

"What are you doing?" you chide, a bit of a giggle in your tone as you raise your hand— palm facing Jihoon— to your face, as if trying to shy away from the camera.

"I don't know," he admits. A laugh tumbles out of him, and he knows he's blushing— but he's not ashamed of it this time, not really.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he assures you. He holds in a chuckle at the way you're blocking your face and snaps another picture.

Maybe he's delirious from all his work. That has to be it, he thinks, as he clicks away despite your sputtered protests.

"Alright, fine," you huff, feigning annoyance. And then— oh.

You brace your hands against the ledge and tilt your head to one side so you can flash Jihoon an easy, practiced grin. "Cheese," you sing-song.

It takes quite a lot of willpower for Jihoon not to just sit and stare, that strange feeling welling inside of him coming to fore. He's not proud of it, but it's there, and the fact that there's something about you that makes him feel this way makes everything a little bit more complicated.

"Cheese," he agrees, taking just one more picture of you.

He knows he's smiling too hard, his eyes turning in to crescents with just how damn fond he feels to be snapping photos at your side.

You can never tell from the expression on his face, but he's wrecked with the knowledge that he had just done three things he had never done before:

He's asked you to do something solely because he thought you needed it.

He's taken a picture of you (with your knowledge, this time).

And he's let this thing he has for you be so in control of him.

It's a damning thing, he muses as he tucks his phone away. What would happen next was up to the universe.

Admittedly, it almost all felt like a test, and Jihoon is terrified he had failed.

But then you reach out, your hand casually resting atop of Jihoon's. You don't clasp your hands together or intertwine your fingers. You merely keep it there as you cast your gaze back down at the city, like you're giving Jihoon a chance to pull away.

It's almost instinctual, how he turns his hand over and links his fingers together with yours. His fingers are longer, so your fingertips curl over his and you’re left holding his hand for the first time.

You don't say a thing about it. Jihoon tries to rationalize the action on your behalf. Maybe you're just delirious and tired, too. Maybe it's cold and you need something to hold on to. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All the while, his heart thumps in his chest.

Did he even deserve this? Was this okay?

Would it be okay if he just sat there, looking down onto the city, holding your hand and nothing more?

His brain refrains the earlier remark he'd given you. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just a hand in his, a quiet evening, a moment that will eventually pass.

It doesn't have to mean anything, but why does Jihoon want it to?

Back in the studio, neither of you say a word. Not about the photos of you that Jihoon now has in his phone; not about the way you initiated holding his hand. Not about how the two of you held on for just a bit too long before heading back from your break.

The two of you do what you do best: You throw ourselves in to the last of your work.

It takes you two a record of fifteen minutes to fix what had been wrong with Diamond Days, and then some twenty more minutes to make sure the three other tracks are alright. Jihoon does the honors of sending them over to Sungsoo for some final checks.

Once the email goes through, you lean back in to the couch of Jihoon's studio. "And now we wait," you exhale, sounding equally exhausted and elated.

With your work for the day done, it feels like whatever veil of formality had held the mini-album together is broken— and you're now just two people in Jihoon's workplace, tired, and done working for the day.

Jihoon stretches his arms out and sags against his chair, letting out a groan.

"And now we wait," he repeats. A beat, as he keeps his eyes trained to the ceiling. Then, softly, he adds, "You did good, you know."

He sees you glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. "You, too," you offer quietly, sincerely. "You did well, Jihoon-ah."

His eyes remain on the ceiling, his mind taking him back to how it felt when your hand rested atop of his. It had felt strange and it had felt good— and the fact that you'd so boldly initiated it in the first place made it even better.

The thought that there was a possibility of it being a one-time thing made him almost want to cry, for whatever reason.

It's just so weird, and Jihoon has never felt like this before. He's never caught in a complicated sort of feeling like this. But the way you'd held his hand was different— and the more thoughts he thought about it, he realized that your touch was different from the touch of anyone else's.

"Can we talk for a second?" is all he finds himself able to ask, and it's a surprise to him— considering how much the two of you have never talked about things that were just about you and him.

Still, he wonders that perhaps now, with everything that's happened here, there was something he needed to tell you. Something he wanted you to know.

He hears you shifting on the couch, spots a corner of your lip quirking upward in a show of interest. When he fully turns to look at you, he notices the way you've braced yourself against the back of the couch to meet his gaze.

"Sure," you say. "What's on your mind?"

Jihoon rubs his hand over his mouth as he thinks of a way to articulate his thoughts.

There are so many words here that don't need to be said. There are some words that he wants to say but that you simply don't need to hear.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he needed to filter them very well because he wasn't sure if they'd cause a misunderstanding.

"I'd like to keep doing this," is what eventually comes out.

His fingers find his earlobe out of nervousness. His heartrate only seems to spike when you stare back at him for a moment, your eyebrows raised like you're waiting to see if he'll elaborate.

And so elaborate he does. "All of this," he goes on. "Producing for the group, collaborating with you, just… seeing you and talking to you and… having you around."

It feels a bit weird to express after three years of working alongside each other, but it's also the first explicit admittance Jihoon has made abut wanting to keep up your collaboration.

He's not surprised when you try to pass it off with some humor. "I'll stick around for as long as you'll have me," you say almost jokingly, but there's almost a desperate weight of truth in your words.

Jihoon sighs, his expression tightening. There was a whole lot he wanted to say to you— he wanted to make a lot of things very clear— but he also wanted to keep whatever was blooming between the two of you going.

He tries not to dwell on it. Not now, with his feelings as fresh as they were.

"I've been thinking," he starts, his voice quieter now. "Maybe we could… get to know each other or something. Spend the day together— away from the company. Away from this life. Just as… two normal adults."

Another pause.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Jihoon-ah?" you kid after a torturous minute.

Jihoon goes quiet for a moment, the gears turning in his head.

He really was asking you out on a date, wasn't he? How would he even spin this as something simple and innocent?

What had he been expecting in return when he asked you? Why did he ask in the first place if it wasn't to actually find out who you were and why you were the only person he could really say he wanted to spend time with?

Questions, no answers. He's going to go insane.

"You know what," he blurts out before he can lose his nerve. "Yeah. Yes, I am asking you out on a date."

You're both stunned in to silence, and you look like you're just about to say what you should. A 'no'. Something about this not being proper.

But then there's a faint ding from Jihoon's laptop, and he glances over just in time to see that Sungsoo had responded in the affirmative to your revisions for the group's eleventh mini-album.

A stuttering, relieved breath escapes you. Jihoon, for his part, lets out a huff, his shoulders falling. He hadn't even meant to ask you out on a date; he was only going to ask you to spend the day with him.

Now, though, it was out in the open. And he'll be damned to take it back.

"Looks like we're free now," he muses, far too prideful to let Sungsoo derail this conversation. Jihoon's voice is edged with hope as he goes on, "So, what do you say?"

Jihoon has no way of knowing this, but you admire his persistence. When you laugh, it's what changes your mind, what privately convinces you to take him up on his offer.

Because Jihoon had still somehow managed to make you laugh despite it all.

"You know what? Okay," you say readily, one shoulder raising in half a shrug. "Let's go on a date next week, Jihoon-ah."

It would definitely beat sitting in Jihoon's studio, alone and bored, until Sungsoo had sent over their next project.

"Okay," he repeats, his lips curling in a tentative smile. "I'll let you know what plans I come up with, then."

"Alright." You're already rising from the studio couch, preparing to take your leave for the evening.

As you gather your things, Jihoon tries to look back at his workstation instead. Like the sight of it might somehow give him the answers to where to take you, what to do, how to go about all this.

You pause at the door of his studio. "Text me," you say.

It's nothing short of a miracle, how Jihoon is able to respond "I will."

And then you're gone, but the loss doesn't feel as prominent as it usually does. Because now, Jihoon has something to look forward to.

He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to be so selfish.

His thoughts over the next few days are consumed with the upcoming date.

Everything he does seems to center around how the date will go, where he'll bring you, and how he would survive a day in your presence without completely humiliating himself.

He takes his time planning. By the time next week rolls around, he's a mess.

His ears are burning as he dials your number and presses the call button.

Your tone is casual on the other line. "Hey, Jihoon-ah," you greet. "What's up?"

Jihoon takes a moment to just hear your voice. He internally groans at how a simple what's up already has his heart rate picking up like nobody's business.

"Hey," he finally says after he gathers himself, his free hand shoving into his pocket. He's pacing his apartment bedroom, fighting for his life to keep calm. "I… just wanted to call about tomorrow."

When you respond, your voice is cautious. "Sure. What about tomorrow?"

There's a slight pause again, and Jihoon can already feel the sweat forming on the inside of his palm.

Surely, you wouldn't think he was calling to cancel? Why would he have waited until the day before?

"Just needed to ask you about something," he admits, his free hand coming up to fiddle with the hair on one side of his ear. "I just wanted to… ask a question. Uh…"

"What… are you going to be wearing?" he finally spits out, his face already going red as the words leave his mouth.

Why the fuck can't he be cool about this? Why can't he be casual and chill about the date and about seeing you? It's so goddamn frustrating— he needed to get a handle on himself and soon, he thinks with despair.

"Oh. Uh…" From the other end of the phone, you seem to be shuffling around. "I was actually going to ask what our plans were," you admit rather meekly. "So I can dress accordingly."

Jihoon's eyes widen, and for a moment, he feels even more like an idiot than he usually does.

You had no idea where you were going, he realizes, and as a result— you had no idea what to wear.

"Oh… right," he says, mentally facepalming himself. He was supposed to be the one giving you information, not the other way around. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

He takes a second or two to collect himself, because— God, he did not want to mess this up. If you found out about the amount of work and effort he'd put in this thing, you'd definitely laugh at him.

"Nothing too formal, but don't be super casual," he says slowly. "You'll want a jacket, maybe. And wear comfortable shoes."

He takes another deep breath, steadying himself before he adds, "And I'm going to pick you up at ten. Is that alright?"

Jihoon's instructions are a touch on the vague side, but you don't seem to mind as you let out a huff of amused laughter. "Dress warm, comfortable jacket and shoes, ten in the morning," you repeat. "Okay. Got it."

You go on, "I'll text you my address. I— we've known each other so long, but I don't think you've ever come over, have you?"

Another good point. Jihoon and you spent most of your time at the company. There were rare occasions where you'd join the group's post-comeback celebrations with the rest of the staff, but those were always at some rented-out restobar.

"Yeah. Well. Just text me, then," he says lamely, already mentally berating himself for how much of a fool he's acting. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Jihoon-ah," you bid, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

Just like that, Jihoon's heart rate picks up again— except this time, it's not just nervousness he feels.

There's that strange sense of anticipation, the slight thrill of excitement he gets with the mere thought of seeing you the next day, and he nearly lets out an exhale to quell all those feelings.

"See you," he says finally, his voice barely above a murmur.

And then suddenly— he's hanging up, the realization of everything finally settling on him. This was actually happening.

He sits on his bed for a moment, just mulling over the conversation, before he lets himself fall back onto the mattress in horror. He had just hung up, hadn't he? Did he even say goodbye? Did he even say something nice? He was a mess.

He lets out a long, pitiful whine in to a pillow as he wonders for a second or two if he should call back just to say good night to you properly.

In the end, he decides against it. He didn't want to come off as desperate and it was pretty likely that he'd just dig a deeper hole for himself.

Still, he can't help but let out an annoyed, strangled sound as he turns to look at the ceiling.

He was going to have to put a lot of effort if he didn't want to embarrass the hell out of himself.

Come the next day, Jihoon is standing outside your apartment at exactly ten in the morning.

He knocks almost tentatively, and he's only a little surprised that you swing the door open without missing a beat.

You flash him a smile in greeting. "Come in," you say, ushering him in to what he can only describe as uncharted territory. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, juice?"

He's so tripped up over how you look— the smart-casual outfit, focused on warmth, as he'd advised— that he almost misses the offer.

"Ah," he stutters. Barely a minute in and I'm already done for, he thinks ruefully. "Do you have— cola?"

You give a small sound of assent as you move further in to your apartment, towards what he assumes is the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," you call, and Jihoon is left to bear witness to your space.

It looks very much like that of an artist's. There's floor-to-ceiling corkboards on almost every wall and a blackboard full of chalk markings— bearing everything from concepts to half-finished lyrics.

You have bookshelves groaning under the weight of music albums— Jihoon sees a number of SEVENTEEN's— and instruments crammed in to nooks and crannies.

He suddenly remembers how, for some reason, you had never really let him come over to your apartment before. And now, he understands why, because your apartment almost felt like a reflection of your own brain— chaotic, but brilliant. It was a creative genius's studio, and it was more than just a little bit captivating.

You return with a can of Coke. "It's a lot, isn't it?" you muse.

Jihoon shakes his head. It is a lot. But also— he knows how gifted you are, knows how driven you can be. Seeing it here, so openly on display, has something stammering in his chest.

"Is this all your work?" he asks a moment later, still glancing around. "Is this… everything you've been working on? You've been keeping it here?"

"Not all of us have separate studios," you shoot back. There's an easy smile on your face, indicating that you're just teasing.

When you seem to realize that your initial jab hasn't answered Jihoon's question, you amend, "It's not all of my work. You should see my childhood bedroom back in Jeju."

"Jesus," he says with a slight chuckle, his fingers pressing around the metal of his soda can.

He doesn't know why the thought of your childhood room in Jeju having more of this surprises him. But, then again, that was just the kind of person you were. An ambitious, freethinking, creative genius, the same qualities he'd grown to appreciate over time.

And now he was about to go on a date with you. How the hell had he gotten this lucky?

He isn't quite sure what compels him. All he knows is that the question, almost rhetorical in nature, is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in.

"You really love music, don't you?"

The question seems to throw you off-kilter, but you recover surprisingly fast. You're thoughtfully smoothing out the patches on your denim jacket as you retort, "I love it about as much as you do."

If it had been any other person, Jihoon might have scoffed, might have privately thought they were cocky or just outright lying. But it's you, and his heart twists in to a knot at the thought of how willing he is to accept that cardinal truth.

That you and him loved music in equal measure.

In a hopeless attempt to collect himself, he shoots back his soda in several big gulps. The carbonated drink burns as it goes down his throat; he forces it to stay down.

"We should probably get going," he prompts once he's done with his drink.

"Right, of course."

You go to throw away his empty soda can for him, and the way you move makes it abundantly clear that you're unaware of the effect you have on him.

As the two of you step out of your apartment and find your way to Jihoon's car, he can only hope that it won't be that long of an afternoon.

Despite the way he keeps both hands on the steering wheel, Jihoon can still feel the nerves racing up and down his spine. He's nervous, excited, his emotions a mess as he tries to get himself together.

He can't believe that after years of talking about music and just working together, after all this goddamn time, you were finally going on a date together.

The car radio is just a touch too loud, which is to be expected, considering that it was Jihoon's vehicle. You have to pitch your voice above it to be audible.

"Where are we going?" you ask as he peels in to traffic.

"You'll see when we get there," he responds.

The disapproving pinch of your expression draws a laugh out of him. He doesn't give you the opportunity to press any longer as he fiddles with the radio dial, upping the volume just a touch more.

He'd planned this date carefully after spending far too much time agonizing over all the details. He was damned if he wasn't going to keep some things in the dark.

It's a quiet drive for the most part, with only the radio keeping the silence from being too deafening. But, frankly, Jihoon isn't too bothered by the silence because it gives him ample time to collect his thoughts, to try not to focus on the way your hand is right there, a few inches away from his on the gear shift.

He keeps his eyes on the road, keeps his expression neutral, and keeps his cards as close to his chest as possible.

Once Jihoon is finally pulling in to a parking lot, he manages to find his voice. "We're here," he notes, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world.

He waits a moment for you to also unbuckle your seatbelts, and only then does he climb out of the car. He quickly walks around to your side, pulling open the door for you and gesturing for you to follow him as he crosses the parking lot.

"What is 'here', exactly?" you ask Jihoon as you walk up to the building in front of you. It looks rather unassuming; nothing on the outside giving out what it might be. Just white walls and a sign outside that's still too far to read.

Jihoon catches the way you try to make out the sign, and he can't help but find himself feeling a touch flustered because goddammit, was he allowed to find everything you did endearing?

He clears his throat before finally answering. "A planetarium."

Now, Jihoon definitely doesn't miss the way your eyes widen, nor the small tone of excitement that betrays the otherwise casualness of your voice.

"That's cool," you say with your hands shoved in to the pockets of your jacket. "Never been to one before."

He can clearly see how excited you'd gotten just at hearing where he'd brought you. And, frankly, it just makes his pulse race all that much more.

"Well, let's go in and have a look then, shall we?" he offers, his voice a little on the quieter side as he tries valiantly to not mimic your excitement.

As you approach the building façade, the signage comes in to better view. It boasts of an immersive planetarium experience, but what stops you dead in your tracks is a note tacked on the front door.

Closed for a private event.

"Oh?" you're saying, a slight edge of disappointment in your tone. "It's looks like it's—"

But before you can finish your sentence, the door is pulling open, and an important-looking man— the manager— is already stepping up to address Jihoon.

"Mr. Lee, right on time," the employee greets with a bow. "We've set everything up for you."

The oh that escapes you, this time, is a lot softer.

Jihoon can't help the small grin that immediately works its way across his lips at your reaction. He'd been hoping to catch you by surprise, and he can tell that it worked.

He gives a polite, somewhat formal half-bow in return to the manager before glancing over his shoulder to you. There's a hint of smugness in his voice as his gaze lands on you again. "C'mon," he says as he starts making his way in to the planetarium.

The inside is mostly dark; Jihoon gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the change. There's no one else here but the two of you, and Jihoon isn't really complaining about the emptiness. It just means he can have you all to himself, without having to worry about having anyone else around.

He can hear your footsteps, following behind him, and he has to mentally remind himself to keep himself together before he finally glances over his shoulder at you.

"Surprised?" he teases, the ghost of a smirk making its way on to his face.

He revels in the look of awe on your face, the way you all but ignore him to pull a couple of steps ahead. You're surveying the lobby like it's already the main exhibit, and Jihoon has the sudden urge to rent out every gallery in Seoul for you to see.

Your next words are one-two punch on Jihoon's poor, poor heart. "I think you've got some nerve, Jihoon-ah, pulling out all the stops on our first date," you muse, your face still upturned to the entryway.

Jihoon almost trips right over his own two feet as the casualness of your words registers in his mind.

Multiple dates. You were implying that there might be multiple dates to follow. That you wanted there to be multiple dates.

He takes a quick breath, trying to maintain any semblance of a nonchalant attitude as he responds. "What?" he says, the smirk just a touch more shaky on his lips. "You think this is 'going all out'?"

He continues to walk, catching up to you a few moments later. "I'm offended. How dare you think that I'd settle for anything less than perfection."

"If this isn't 'all out' yet for you," you quip. "I'm a bit nervous as to what is."

He only responds with a small chuckle. "You'll see."

He leads you to the next room over, and this particular one is far more darker. The only source of light is from the projector against the back wall, projecting a constellation map on the opposite wall.

Jihoon glances over his shoulder once more, watching the small look of wonder on your face. He leads you to a small couch in the center of the room before sitting comfortably beside you on it.

His face is partially illuminated by the lights of the projector, and he can clearly see the way you're taking in everything around him.

"You like it, hm?" he gently prods, watching you again.

It's a lot to take in, honestly. The high ceiling, the projected constellations, the lights dancing across both your faces. Even the way the room has been rearranged— the single plush couch, the type that allows you to recline and gaze up at the faux sky of constellations— is all so damn good.

"I like it," you concede, your voice barely above a murmur. You speak like you're scared that talking any louder will break an illusion. "It's— yah, Jihoon-ah. It's so pretty."

In that moment, Jihoon almost forgets how to breathe.

There's something so soft and gentle and fond to your voice as you speak, and the way your words came out almost reverently does something to Jihoon that he couldn't quite explain.

"Pretty," he repeats, eyes still trained on you. "It is, isn't it?"

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a long time; Jihoon still watching you instead of the exhibit. You didn't just say it was pretty. You'd said it with words and tone and expression that told him just how much you loved it.

Christ, he was a goner. He was far gone for you.

After what feels like both an eternity and a second at the same time, Jihoon finally shifts his gaze away from you, glancing up at the ceiling above him. He's quiet for a few more moments before he finally speaks again.

"Y'know…" He starts, the sound of his voice just a touch quieter than usual. "When I was a kid, I always thought the stars were my favorite thing."

Jihoon glances over at you again, noticing the way you were still practically enchanted by the projected stars above you. It makes him bite back a small, amused smile, before he continues.

"I used to sit out in the field by my house and count them, name them, make up my own stories for each of them. I thought they were the most magical, most incredible things in the whole universe."

He thinks of his home back in Busan, the way the moon reflected over the sea water. He thinks of a version of him from lifetimes ago— a boy he'll never be again.

He almost misses him.

Jihoon lets out a soft huff. "And then I got older, and life got really shitty and busy, and..." His voice falters a bit. "The stars were no longer as important to me as they were before."

He exhales, the sound filling the quiet room. He can feel you listening, can feel you taking in every sincere word of his. And that's enough. That means something.

"But..." He goes on quietly. "Sometimes, there are moments that come, and the only things that matter are the stars again."

It's just like Jihoon to spew something poetic without pretense or shame. In his peripheral, he sees you glancing at him, and it takes everything for him to not let this feeling overwhelm him.

"I hope you have more moments like that, then," you say, your voice equally soft.

There was something so endearing about the sentiment you'd said, and he knew that you meant every word of it. And that made it all so much worse for his heart.

He's so whipped, it almost makes him want to laugh.

This is one of those moments, he almost says. Even if it's not real stars.

He can't help it anymore. Despite all the times he's had to keep up his usually cool, calm demeanor with you, despite his usual attitude, despite his usual shyness, the urge is just too much and—

He slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

That was one thing the stars could do: Give him a bit of courage.

When you don't resist his gentle tugging, he figures he can do just one more thing.

His free hand moves to your chin, gently coaxing your head up so that you’re looking at a specific point up at the ceiling.

You're so focused on the stars, you barely even register the sound of Jihoon’s voice again.

"The most special stars," he murmurs. "They all have names."

He’s still speaking into your ear, and you can feel his warm breath against your skin. "That one," he says, his voice like gravel. He slowly, carefully tilts your chin up just a little more. Coaxing you to look up even further. "Is my favorite."

His calmness is belied by the fact that his heart is a jackhammer in his chest. All he can do, really, is try to get you to look at one of the larger stars that's almost dead center in the middle.

"Why is it your favorite?" you inquire, the genuine curiosity in your tone almost mistakable for breathlessness.

"It's the brightest star in the entire sky." His gaze darts between the star and your face, the shadows of the room hiding the way his chest tightens at the sight of you listening intently. "It's called Sirius."

His voice is still soft, but there's a new note to it that you've never heard before. It's quiet, reverent, almost like he's about to tell you a secret.

"The Romans called it the 'dog star'," he continues. "Because it's the brightest star in Canis Major, the big dog constellation."

He lowers his head a little so that his chin is almost resting on your shoulder, and his arm around your shoulders tightens just a fraction.

"But to the Chinese, it was known as the 'heavenly river commander'," he goes on. "And the Arabs called it the 'chief star in heaven'."

Jihoon is getting nervous, now, but he has to do this. He has to.

It feels like the first flicker of a neon sign as he goes on, "To all those different people, it was all of those things. To me—"

He pauses, feeling the words stick in his Adam's apple.

The brightest star in the night sky.

For the longest time, Jihoon had wondered whether he would find something to call it, too. The closest he's come has been the boys, his music.

But that felt like an understatement. They weren't just a group, after all; they were his whole life. And so it was more apt to describe them as the universe, as the entire planetarium.

Which left him with the brightest star—

"To you?" you repeat, tilting your head back to meet Jihoon's gaze head on.

"What's it called to you?" you prompt.

In the relative darkness, he can't read you as well as he might have wanted.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't change what's he's going to say, anyway.

He gives you his answer—

He says your name.

And then he leans in— his heart at your feet, all yours for the taking.

#jihoon x reader #lee jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #jihoon fluff #woozi fluff #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #jihoon x you #woozi x you #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #ylangelegy buzz x svt #( GOD. so much longer than it's meant to be )#( part two? tbh very unlikely. we must just imagine the happy ending. LOL )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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eurydicees · 1 month ago

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re what they are saying about fiyero on twitter - gosh there is too much stuff. they talk about how uninteresting he is, how his presence has no effect on the leads, how he shouldn’t be elphaba’s endgame and doesnt deserve to be, how they want to delete him from the plot (somewhere along those line), how they want to block anyone making any fiyeraba or fiyero tweets or content and much, much, MUCH more like i genuinely do not understand the obsession?

i of course get not liking him, thats normal about any character lol but the way they just cannot shut up about how they dislike him is so….. like really no one is challenging your gelphie content 😭 we really are not interested to challenge your ship. you really dont need to focus on this guy 24/7 but ig you do you i hope they remain sane amidst all the apparent misery lol

well. you know. disappointed by not surprised. a partial fiyero ted talk under the cut. sorry.

it's like. it's just so frustrating to write him off as uninteresting and as having no effect on either elphaba (or glinda). like guys why is the media literacy not happening right now. also how the fuck would you delete him from the plot???? guys his plan is literally how elphaba escapes dorothy. he's the one who saves her from the gale force, TWICE. he literally sacrifices himself for her escape and its his sacrifice that makes her spiral into "wickedness" during no good deed.

also, fiyero is elphaba's endgame in part because he does what glinda cannot bring herself to do. WHICH IS SO VITAL TO THE ENDING. fiyero is the one who makes all of the sacrifices for elphaba that glinda refused, and he both pays the price for it and reaps the reward of it.

glinda and elphaba have a profound effect on each other, obviously, but it's not like fiyero is left unchanged by elphaba. i dont get where this idea that fiyero and elphaba have no dynamic because like??? that's just not true?????

fiyero goes from refusing to confront the difficulties of life to choosing the more difficult path for the sake of morality and loyalty and love because of elphaba (which is also really interesting given how he's, like, kind of a casualty of war in the book more than he is an actual rebel....mostly fiyero's book to musical adapation is #Rough but that's a cool parallel i hadn't noticed before).

glinda begins to see the flaws in the wizard's society, but she actively chooses to be a part of the system anyway. and she regrets it. that's the whole thing abt thank goodness!!!

fiyero, on the other hand, begins to see the flaws in this society and he chooses elphaba--and the life of rebellion that she's chosen--over everything that glinda admits to being unable to resist.

and GOD. guys that's so interesting. HES SO INTERESTING!!! how are you not interested by all of this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

wicked is such a cool study on morality and what the "right" thing to do in such a world is, and what it means to make the decision to do the right thing vs the comfortable thing. fiyero chooses to follow elphaba and he pays the price, but he also doesn't regret it. glinda chooses the "safe" option--but in the end, even if she chooses good then, she's entirely alone in it all.

and that's SO INTERESTING!!!!!!!!! god. whatever. twitter just doesn't get him like you and me get him, anon.

just. it's totally fine to dislike him! i'm not refuting people's right to dislike him. the nature of fictional characters is that sometimes people will dislike them. like that's fine.

but being incapable of shutting up about how much you hate a character just...it stops being "harmlessly disliking a fictional character" and starts being "you are insufferable to talk to." like sorry you're so miserable about fiyeraba but i'm gonna be over here just having fun because that's what fandom is supposed to be about :)

(also, just a major issue with breaking this movie up into two films released a year apart is that any movie-only fans just don't get the point of fiyero's character. it's kind of devastating. ik not all of the people saying that stuff are movie-only but man. the people who are...im BEGGING you to give him a chance in part 2. literally BEGGING you. fiyero is such a good character. he has so many good moments. let the green girl go lives in my head rent free and if they cut that i'll riot.)

tldr; fiyero is SO neat and twitter is just full of cowards.

#ask #wicked #fiyero tigelaar #fiyeraba #oh my god this got so much longer than i meant it to #remember how i said i could write essays abt him.#i was not fucking kidding.#sorry anon i know you did not ask for this.

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choccy-milky · 1 month ago

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Okay so I read your entire fic in three days and I LOVE IT!? ITS SO GOOD!?! I am supposed to be studying for finals and instead have spent 72 hours definitely not doing that. I originally got into your fic because I saw your drawings from different scenes and OH MY GOD THEYRE AMAZING. The way you draw Seb makes me want to bang my head on the table (in the best way ever)…that boy does things to me. The whole thing is just uGHHH chefs kiss amazing work love it love you amazing

AWW TYY IM GLAD YOU LIKED IT SM (ENOUGH TO BINGE IT AND IGNORE SCHOOL) AND THAT YOU LIKE HOW I DRAW SEB TOO💖💖😍😍😍

LMAOO but fr as a procrastinator and horrible student myself, im pleased with this theme of interfering with ppls schoolwork/thesis/whatever else to read my fic...im dragging yall down with me...just stop using your brain and enjoy sexy seb aha😜 (ILY TOO GOOD LUCK ON UR FINALS)

@jstfndmthngs omg thank you for such a long and in depth ask i hope u dont mind i just screenshotted it and cut it into 2 BAHAHA but THANK YOUU im glad youre enjoying it so far!! 🥹💖AND YESSS BAHAHA IVE ALSO BRAINWASHED YOU TO SEE SEB AND CLORA WHEN YOU SEE A BLONDE + BROWN HAIR COUPLE mission accomplished😈😈 and I LOVE THAT YOU DAYDREAM ABOUT SEB AND CLORA TOO!!! people thinking about your fic/art when theyre not actively reading it is the highest honour fr...😭🙏 AND BAHAHA I REMEMBER THAT COMMENT THREAD ABOUT LEANDER AND HIS LITTLE GARDEN PATCH LMAO and him and seb competing as neighbors/dads over who has the better yard...LMAO im putting in my oneshot that leander lives close by, i might try and find a way to allude to that if i can LMAOO speaking of IM GLAD YOURE LOOKING FORWARD TO THE ONESHOT 💖💖 ive been working on the outline every day the past few days and its 24k words AND THATS JUST THE OUTLINE😭😭LIKE DAWG i was planning on this oneshot to just be short and sweet BAHAHA but i forgot im fluent in yappanese...then i just kept thinking of cute pregnancy moments i wanted to add so it spiralled....BUT ANYWAY I HOPE I CAN FINISH IT SOON!!🙏 also im so impressed you only read 1 chap of my fic a day BAHAHA i admire the self restraint bc i could never...but i feel you with wanting to make things last. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU CATCH UP!!🥳AND TY AGAIN!!💖💖

omg anon this is diabolical...at first i was imagining it as seb being the one caught in the time loop and going crazy, but i actually think its better if its clora... because the idea of seb watching her slowly spiral into semi-insanity while knowing its bc of some weird time shenanigans and he doesnt know how to help would also make SEB go crazy BAHAHAH. i dont think ill ever write this but i just wanted to tell u i love this idea LOL

aw TYYYYY!!! i’m honoured u think so omg😭🥹💖 you sent this a while ago (before all of the recent family posting ive been doing) BAHAHA so i hope youre enjoying the kid content bc u manifested it girl🥰 and trust me i aint doing work for the fandom, the fandom is doing work for ME!!! by continuing to humour my brainrotted ass😔🙏

"they're my legal parents now" followed by "so anyway can you draw them going down on each other" LMFAOOOOO💀💀💀thank you i love you anon. and i HAVE been wanting to draw this for a while so YES!! i just cant guarantee when...but the day SHALL come rest assured🫡😇

#ask #goddammit as i was answering this ask i just remembered a scene i wanted to add to my oneshot that i forgot to include in the outline #GOD!! THAT MEANTS ITS GONNA BE EVEN LONGER THAN 24K WORDS!!! HELP!!! NO MORE!!! NO GOD PELASE NO #i rly should have expected that a oneshot all about seb being excited to get clora pregnant and then being overprotective would ramble on #ive been googling so much stuff about pregnancy and side effects and what happens during which trimesters #i really dont want my search history to think im pregnant LMFAO

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dragonanon · 11 months ago

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can you do a chapter based on your Death!Reader and God!Brother hcs where Death wakes up from her sleep and goes to Heaven to check up on her brother's children and everyone is obviously terrified of her?

Hmmm…I’m not typically one to do requests because the urge to write is so sporadic and random for me. BUT I have been thinking about the initial confrontation in Heaven for a while now, so here are some head cannons for that. >w>

——

- It’s a typical perfect day in Heaven…Until it isn’t. Having seen what had become of your realm and learning Heaven was to blame for it, you’re on your way to rip someone a new asshole.

- Screams erupt from the Angels as the ground begins to shake and the bright sky darkens. Sera and Emily rush out just in time to join the Angels in watching in abject terror as a massive pool of darkness forms on the ground, and from it slowly rises a menacing figure.

- The figure is massive, and it only continues to rise until even the tallest building barely reaches its hips. Its six long horns twist and arch toward the sky, only making the figure appear even taller. Upon reaching its full height, the figure spreads its six mighty wings, each one sporting a menacingly sharp claw and all as shrouded in darkness as the rest of the figure.

- As its wings blot out the sun further, the figure opens its many blazing white eyes; two where you’d normally expect to see eyes, a third in the center of its forehead, and dozens more scattered across its wings and body.

- Sera lost all color as soon as she saw the figure rising, and somehow lost even MORE color when the figure opened all of its eyes. She looks like she shit herself, and Emily is panicking, trying desperately to get Sera to tell her what’s going on; she’s never seen the older Seraph look so terrified.

- With this unimaginably imposing figure now looming over Heaven, Adam decides this is the PERFECT time to attack, having been dumb enough to think this was a Demon attacking Heaven.

- The exorcists fly up towards the figure, ready to attack. This only angers the figure further however, and with a rumble that shakes the ground itself, the figure merely flaps its wings; creating a gust of wind so powerful it knocks all the exorcists back onto the ground.

- It’s at this point Sera FINALLY snaps out of it, rushing to Adam in mad panic and damn nearly strangling him while telling him to call off the exorcists. Which he does, albeit with some reluctance.

- This doesn’t stop him from asking Sera what gives, and her response is “Adam you absolute fucking fool, that is DEATH!”

- Now it’s Adam’s turn to look like he shit himself. “Death? As in, “the big man himself’s younger sister” Death?? As in, “the baddest bitch you’ve EVER seen, but can kill ANYTHING by just touching it” Death??? THAT fucking Death????” Ignoring that last statement, Sera’s frantic nodding in confirmation confirms to Adam that he has indeed fucked up. Big time. Adam then proceeds to lose all color in his face and practically cowers behind Sera as she cautiously approaches you, mentally preparing herself to be reaped on the spot.

- Back to your perspective however, you’re fucking PISSED. So pissed that you don’t even notice or stop to think that most of Heaven’s inhabitants likely have NO CLUE who you are, and are likely legitimately fearing for their lives. Meanwhile for all the older Angels and Angelic beings who’ve been alive long enough to have known you before you went to sleep, like Sera, they’re all still very much afraid, but it’s more in line with the “oh shit mom’s home early and she saw the mess we made in the kitchen, she’s gonna kill us!” kind of fear.

- The fact that they sent exorcists at you makes you even angrier. Like for starters, how fucking weak do they think you are that you could be stopped by just some low level Angelic beings with pointy sticks?? And then the audacity to even attack you to begin with, like THEY weren’t the ones who fucked up and you’re just some kind of strange intruder needing to be slain?? The INDIGNITY of it all!

- Your voice booms throughout Heaven, making even the ground tremble at the sheer intensity of it. “WHO DID IT?” You’re met with only silence, so you ask again with more force. “MY REALM IS A COMPLETE MESS WITH MILLIONS OF DISPLACED SOULS RIGHT NOW. SO AGAIN I ASK, WHICH ONE OF YOU FLAT FOOT CHILDREN DID THIS?!”

- Sera replies, voice trembling slightly. “Are…Are you talking about the exterminations? “IF THAT IS WHAT YOU’RE CALLING THIS MOCKERY OF MY WORK, THEN YES.” Sera looks visibly confused and concerned. “But…That SHOULDN’T be possible!…The exterminations KILL the Sinners; their souls should be gone, not stuck in Limbo! There has to be some kind of mistake here!”

- Hearing this, you can’t help but let out a brief but harsh cackle, making the ground jolt from the abruptness. “DEAR YOU HONESTLY THINK A SOUL COULD BE SO EASY TO DESTROY? A SOUL IS A POWERFUL THING FOR A REASON CHILD, IF THEY WERE SO EASILY DESTROYED THEN NONE OF YOU WOULD BE STANDING HERE BEFORE ME NOW!…SO ONCE AGAIN, WHO. DID. THIS?! AND SO HELP ME, IF I HAVE TO ASK AGAIN THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.”

- Whilst Sera is dumbfounded by this revelation, Adam sees a golden opportunity to save his ass and points at Sera. “I-It was her! Yeah it was all fucking HER idea! I-I tried to tell her it was stupid, b-but she just REALLY wanted to go down and kill those bast- Demons! Yeah she REALLY wanted to kill all those poor Demons, can ya fucking believe this shit?!”

- Before Sera can defend herself, the darkness seems to intensify, and she can just FEEL every one of your eyes glaring daggers into her. “SERA…YOU SIGNED OFF ON THIS?? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, I EXPECTED SO MUCH BETTER FROM YOU! I LEFT EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS FOR HEAVEN AND HELL TO WORK TOGETHER TO SORT SOULS FOR THIS VERY REASON! AND NOW BECAUSE OF THESE BARBARIC “EXTERMINATIONS”, YOU’VE COMPLETELY DESTROYED THE BALANCE I WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE AND MAINTAIN. I HOPE YOU’RE PROUD OF YOURSELF, BECAUSE I’M CERTAINLY NOT!”

- It’s a strange and mildly amusing sight to see the head seraph get scolded like a misbehaving child by this massive dark entity. But here we are anyway!

- At one point during the tongue lashing you’re giving to your niece, Emily buts in and asks for an explanation for what’s going on; having not heard Sera’s previous explanation to Adam apparently.

- Your temper flares for a brief moment, and you just about launched into another lecture at the little shit who DARED interrupt you. But upon seeing Emily, you softened considerably, seeing that she was young and TRULY didn’t understand what was happening.

- “AH…I APOLOGIZE DEAR, BUT I DON’T THINK I RECOGNIZE YOU…COME CLOSER LITTLE ONE SO I CAN SEE YOU.” You slowly crouch down and lower your hand, offering Emily to climb onto it. Emily is hesitant, obviously a bit scared of you. But Sera encourages her to go to you, she knows that you won’t hurt Emily and it’s high time she meets her aunt anyway.

- With the small seraph in hand, you stand back up to your full height and bring her closer to your face. Now FINALLY able to see her properly, you speak. “YOU’RE FAIRLY YOUNG FOR A SERAPH…YOU MUST’VE BEEN BORN DURING MY SLUMBER, AND IN THAT CASE I APOLOGIZE THIS HAD TO BE OUR FIRST MEETING. TELL ME, WHAT IS YOUR NAME CHILD?”

- Her voice trembling slightly, Emily tells you her name and then asks who you are and asks if you’re a seraph like her and Sera. The innocent question gets a genuine laugh out of you, and despite it shaking the ground it’s a lovely sound. “OH CHILD, I AM FAR FROM BEING A SERAPH. THOUGH I CAN SEE WHY YOU WOULD THINK THAT. YOU WERE ALL MADE IN MY IMAGE AFTER ALL.”

- Seeing the visible confusion on Emily’s face, you elaborated. “LONG AGO, YOUR FATHER WANTED TO SHOW HIS APPRECIATION OF ME. SO FOR HIS FIRST SENTIENT CREATIONS, THE SERAPHIM, HE BASED THEM ALL ON ME.” Emily looks surprised, and follows up by asking how you know God.

- You give another genuine laugh at her question. “SWEETY I’M HIS YOUNGER SISTER, I AM “DEATH”, THE GODDESS OF WELL…DEATH. BUT YOU CAN CALL ME “D” OR “AUNT D”, MOST OF YOUR SIBLINGS DO.” Emily’s mind is blown “Wait! YOU’RE aunt D?! Sera told me all kinds of stories about you before you went to sleep, like the time you got into an argument with Father over his invention of the “Snuggie”. I never thought I’d get to meet you!”

- “IT WAS LITERALLY JUST A BATHROBE YOU WORE BACKWARDS, AND I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE HE THOUGHT THAT WAS AT ALL CLEVER.” You huff, feeling amusement and mild irritation at that memory.

- “SPEAKING OF YOUR FATHER, WHERE IS HE?” Sera speaks up, having managed to recollect herself, and explains that no one has seen or heard a word from God since before you went to sleep.

- The irritated snarl that leaves your throat sounds like thunder and shakes the ground, making everyone tremble with fear. “THAT LAZY BASTARD HAD ONE FUCKING JOB, WATCH HIS DAMN KIDS, AND HE COULDN’T EVEN DO THAT?! NO WONDER THIS ALL HAPPENED THEN, HE LEFT YOU ALL UNSUPERVISED!”

- Bending over, you carefully set Emily down before standing back up. “I HATE TO CUT MY INTRODUCTION SHORT, BUT APPARENTLY I NEED TO GO AND HAVE A LITTLE CHAT WITH YOUR FATHER.” You stare pointedly at Sera and continue. “DON’T THINK THIS MEANS YOU’RE ENTIRELY OFF THE HOOK EITHER. WHILE YES, YOUR FATHER’S ABSENCE IS MOSTLY TO BLAME FOR THIS DEBACLE, YOU ALSO KNOW BETTER THAN TO DO SUCH TERRIBLE THINGS. WE WILL BE DISCUSSING THIS MORE ONCE I FINISH WITH YOUR FATHER, AND IF I COME BACK AND FIND OUT YOU HELD ANY MORE OF THESE “EXTERMINATIONS” I WILL TURN YOU INTO A HOLLOW! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” Looking at the ground, Sera nods and says “Yes Auntie D…”

- Satisfied with that response, you bid everyone farewell and slowly melt back into the ground, completely disappearing. Once you’re gone, the sunlight is back and it’s as if you were never there.

- Now the seraphim have to soothe the murmuring crowd while Sera starts attempting to get in contact with Lucifer to let him know that “Hey Aunt D found out about the exterminations and is NOT happy about it. She just got done yelling at me, and now she’s on her way to go read Father the riot act. Just warning you now because once she’s done with him, you’re probably gonna be next.”

- Lucifer receives the message and is now frantically trying to create peace offerings in hopes they’ll make you more amicable, while also preemptively planning his own funeral in case the peace offerings don’t work.

- Meanwhile in God’s palace, God is currently relaxing in an elaborate hot tub and watching American football on an absurdly large TV whilst drinking wine like it’s water. He’s pretty drunk and having a grand time yelling at the TV.

- His fun is interrupted through by you literally kicking in the door and storming in, you’ve shrunken down to your smaller size so all your features are actually visible now and not covered in darkness as you glare at your older brother with an intensity that could peel paint.

- God startled momentarily before seeing it’s you and giving you a dopey smile. He’s also in his smaller form, so that makes things slightly easier for you. “Ohhh heeeyyy Death!…You startled me thereee…It’zzzz beeen awhillle, huh?” You scoff at his slurred speech, in disbelief that he could be so drunk right now.

- “Yes, it HAS been awhile. Good to see that you still choose to spend your days getting completely wasted instead of tending to your children.” You answer tersely, and God rolls his eyes. “Zzstill the saaame old ssstuck up bitch…Tha kidzz are fahine Deee! Yyyoou should cohme haave ah drink wib meee.”

- You ignore God’s offer for a drink and cut right to the chase. “No, your kids are NOT fine! When was the last time you checked in on them?! Do you even know what they’re up to right now??!” God dismissively waves his hand and chugs more wine. “I juzzt checked on thhhem ah couple decades aghooo..They’rrre prohably makinnn neeewh liffe.”

- “God that is a load of shit, and you know it! I was JUST down in Heaven, and the seraphim told me that you haven’t seen or spoken to ANY of them since I left to take my nap eons ago! And furthermore, while you’ve been in here drinking the day away, your children have COMPLETELY destroyed the balance we created! They’ve been mass slaughtering Demons annually for millennia now, and Limbo is a complete disaster right now because of this!” Hearing this, God looks down at his bottle of whine, embarrassed, and mumbles an awkward “oh”.

- Silence hangs heavy in the air for a moment before God clears his throat and says. “Zzsooo…You’rrree NNOT gooing to drink wiff me?” At this you snap and snatch the wine bottle from God and chuck it at the TV, smashing the bottle and the TV. God shouts in anger but before he can ask you wtf that was for, you just lay into him. Calling him a deadbeat and pathetic excuse of a deity.

- “How can you just sit in here day after day, while your CHILDREN are out there causing such mayhem! Do you not love your children all??!” God is shouting back at you, his anger having sobered him up some so he’s not slurring as much. “How DARE you accuse me of not loving my children! I would giive ANYTHING for them and you know that!”

- “Then fucking ACT like it!! Don’t just sit in here and rot your mind with booze and TV!” God growls. “I don’t need you to tell meee how to handle my children! Why do you even care?! It’zzz not like they’re yours anyway!”

- “I care because they are part of MY family, and I want my family to be safe and happy, something that you couldn’t give less of a shit about apparently!” God throws his hands up at this point “Well what do you want from me Death, go hhhold their handz?! My children are ALL capable of thinking and being on their own, they don’t NEED me to do shit for them!”

- “That doesn’t mean that they don’t still need you there emotionally! But with the way you act maybe it’s best you ARE never there! After all, what use could any of them get from your pathetic drunk ass!!” This clearly struck a nerve as God points back at the door you came in through and roars at you to get the fuck out of his house. Growling, you give a harsh “Fine!” and tell him he can sit and be a drunk deadbeat all he wants because you’re done with him and his shit, and he’s NEVER to contact you again unless it’s in regards to his children or business.

- You stomp out of God’s palace and return to Limbo, wanting to start working on getting things cleaned up and cool off some before you go check on things in Hell.

- Once you’re gone though, God slumps his shoulders and hangs his head. With your venomous words echoing his head, he summons another bottle of wine and begins chugging it while he trudges into his bedchambers.

- He flops down onto the bed and picks up a framed photo and slowly brings it closer to his face. It’s an old photo, one taken shortly after God created the first few seraphim. You and God are both standing next to each other, arms around each other’s shoulders and leaning in close while the first seraphim all stand in between the two of you. Everyone is absolutely beaming, and God looks especially happy; so proud of his creations.

- Tears drop onto the photo as God remembers how things used to be back then, back when he was actually NEEDED by those around him and wasn’t just some brand figure who’s only job is to smile and wave. Even as he slowly sets the photo down, tears continue to fall and he holds his head in his hands. “…I’m sorry I’m so damn useless…Hopefully you’ll forgive me someday…Not that I deserve it though…I’m…so fucking sorry…” No one is there to hear God’s sobs, and eventually he passes out. He’d rather be dreaming of happier times anyway.

#damn this ended up being WAY longer than i intended #and with a bit of angst no less!#god isn’t a bad guy he’s just SUPER depressed and suffering an existential crisis #basically after creating the angelic beings he didn’t really have to do anything anymore #because the angels were able to create and think on their own #so there isn’t really anything for god to do now because the angels can do it themselves #with so much time on his hands he started questioning his existence and what he was even meant to do #he feels completely useless because he truly believes that if he isn’t constantly creating things then he has no purpose #he deals with this by holing up in his palace and drinking himself silly and getting high #he has not told you this primarily because he doesn’t know how #he’s much like his son lucifer in that he’s not great at discussing his feelings #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x death! reader #death reader #i like to imagine the seraphim have a group chat and sera just posts in it like ‘aunt d found out about the exorcisms. we’re all dead.’#and it starts blowing up with everyone freaking out and trying to figure out wtf they’re gonna do #lucifer is preparing for the ass whooping you’re gonna give him

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erstwhilesparrow · 5 months ago

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to the surprise of approximately no one, i am thinking about video game mechanics and mcrp and c!owen and violence again. i am thinking about interesting accidental resonances and i am thinking about what someone's medium of choice makes it easy to tell stories about. the thing is, owen's pov of outsiders is a story that, despite being told almost exclusively in minecraft, really does not want to be a story set in minecraft.

what i mean by this is that cc!owen repeatedly and deliberately tries to prevent minecraft logic from existing in the story he is telling. according to him, things operate in the messy space of real-world physics, and the fundamental structure of the world aligns much more with our reality than with, i dunno, a series of 1s and 0s. of course they can't climb the vines to get to the top of the walls, they'd get tired well before the reach the top, never mind that minecraft doesn't have any mechanic in place to keep you from clinging to a vine for as long as you want. of course acho drowning during the underwater maze game could have been from something being wrong with the potions, never mind that minecraft potions come out the exact same way every time. of course it matters that owen punched mohwee for going into the maze, but only once, because he couldn't bring himself to do it again. never mind that a punch in minecraft rarely means much.

a single punch in minecraft doesn't mean anything. or it means almost everything, which is why it doesn't mean anything. but the outsiders, at least for a little while, make a world where a punch matters, where it's the kind of thing you go running to tell other people about because it means a real fight's brewing. mohwee punches graecie, and someone comes running to let owen know. we're meant to react to it the way we would if it happened irl. we're treating this seriously now!

except that's really hard to do in minecraft, because minecraft isn't a game that gives you many avenues for... body language. for the kind of nonverbal communication you do by touching someone gently. try as they might to pretend otherwise, it is built into the bones of any minecraft world that the only way you can touch another person for sure, in a way that the game has an obvious mechanical system in place to respond with, is by punching them. so two things here.

one is that yeah, the outsiders creators stop acting like a punch is a punch not super long into the series, because there is no vanilla mechanic for [grabbing you by the arm and dragging you away from the gates]; you have to use what you have at your disposal (such as the left-click button on your mouse) to gesture at the thing you actually mean. owen emulates the act of dragging someone around by punching magic at one point. nobody, in-universe or out, reacts like he was actually hitting her, and i'm not saying we should. but there is that disconnect between what the story is supposed to be (maybe owen pushes her away from the gates, maybe he's trying to pull her back), and what the game will allow them to do.

two: despite the ways that the game runs counter to the kind of story owen et al. are trying to tell, this limitation wrt punching still produces some really interesting resonances that require us to accept and pay attention to the fact that no matter what owen says, this is a story told through minecraft, inflected by its mechanics.

(side bar: i'm focusing on owen for this, but i think you can expand this idea to other characters, maybe the whole cast, by thinking about how both the story world and the game world are, on some fundamental level, set up to not allow for kind or gentle connections between people. you can't actually put your arm around someone else. you can't actually wipe away their tears or lean on their shoulder. the entire world the outsiders live inside of, both from a game perspective and a roleplay perspective, is designed to funnel them toward big dramatic gestures and cyclical violence. the easiest way to touch someone is violently. and still, there are the gestures of care, carved out of what the game will allow. sharing food. speaking softly to each other. opening the trapdoor to your bunker and letting the people behind you hurry down the ladder to hide. so you've never learned how to touch someone without violence. you can still know how to put your whole body between the person you care for and the danger. you can still die for them. isn't outsiders such a story of caring, despite, despite, despite?)

anyway. about c!owen. i think it's fair to say he's a character shaped by violence from the jump. he comes up the elevator and is almost instantly making and hoarding weapons. he tells himself he has to protect everyone, and the first two ways he decides to do this are by making a sparring ring where he intends to teach them to fight, and by threatening to break their legs. for the latter half of the series, he is literally sleeping on the edge of a sparring ring, all his personal effects literally pushed off to the side to leave room for this sand pit in the middle. even before he gets the memories of his time as a soldier back, we can see that this is how he interfaces with and understands the world. violence is in his bones.

as a result, i am kind of crazy about the fact that the literal game mechanics he engages with reinforce this image of him. there's this brief period of time really early on where i guess they haven't really got the prox chat range to yell to each other from a distance, and owen decides to take his weapon of choice and fire an arrow in the path of the person he's trying to talk to. (i know for sure he does this with rasbi and with at least one other person. forgive me, i don't recall who the other person was.) when you're getting shot at, yeah, you sure do generally want to look in the direction that arrow came from to see who's trying to shoot you! that'll get someone's attention! that is generally how people play the game!

at another point much later in his series, a group of outsiders find an enormous crane towering over a section of the maze, and owen pulls out a bow and aims it upward. it took me a second while watching to realize that it's because when you draw a bow in the game, you also zoom in on the thing you're aiming at. owen was trying to get a closer look at the crane, so he grabbed his weapon and used it to get a better understanding of the world.

more broadly, owen uses spears and arrows to point at things, to check distances and investigate stuff he doesn't want to or can't get close to. when he and magic first notice ash up on the walls, he fires arrows up at her, not really to hit but to see how she reacts. then he keeps firing them, having noticed the barrier blocks (in-fiction, the screen that makes up the false sky). later, while talking to chat in a high-up part of the maze, he demonstrates again that the sky is fake by hurling a spear into it.

out of character, these are just creative workarounds for the medium's limitations. in character, however, these instances make it clear that every single thing about the way owen interacts with his world is coloured by the fact that he has used weapons and will continue to use them, that his reaching for a bow right after waking up wasn't some fluke, that even with his memories wiped out he is a character who has been trained to reach for violence before anything else.

just by playing the game, cc!owen adds another dimension to this character, because he is playing a game where There Exist game mechanics meant to facilitate violence, and this is about the cycles of violence c!owen finds himself trapped in and perpetuating and it is also about how violence is so deeply ingrained in him that it is an inextricable part of his world.

#sparrowsong #outsiders smp #hey. hi. i have a lot of feelings about this topic that i've been meaning to write up for ages #waving my hands around. do you get it? do you get what i'm saying?#this... came out longer than i meant for it to #and there's still a whole separate thing one could write about... unconventional and roundabout ways of expressing care #as enforced by both the way the medium works and the in-universe starr people who are interested in pitting these people against each other #iiii will not be writing that one though. (unless?)#i think one more thing i really want to post from my outsiders watch and then. i will be free. and i can watch more stuff.#god there's so much outsiders stuff to watch.

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readingismyhobby24 · 2 months ago

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Just a "little" rant about something I need to get off my chest. And a moment of just yapping about my kitty 🥺

It's crazy to me how there are people who think all cats are evil, they can't love their owners, and they are vicious little demons (something someone said to me in real life about my own cat). And I'm like? What?

My cat spends his whole day curled up in my lap or hugging me because he can't stand not cuddling with me. My cat has never bitten me or scratched me on purpose. My cat brings me his toys to play fetch with. My cat can literally say my name. My cat follows me everywhere I go, and if I go somewhere he can't, he cries. When I go to work in the morning he sits at the door and waits for me (but my younger sister will pick him up and distract him for a bit). He gives me lots of nose boops (with his nose or paw). He likes to wrap his front legs around my neck in a hug, and rest his head under my chin.

He knows when I'm sad, and if I'm crying he will put the top of his head to my forehead and pur until I stop crying and then cuddle with me.

How is this a vicious demon? How is this evil? What do you mean he doesn't care about me?

Honestly, he understands me more than most people do.

Now, I know most cats aren't completely like this, but even the grumpy and sassy ones love their owners.

So what I'm saying is: cats have emotions, cats can love, and cats care. They are just as precious as dogs and don't deserve to be treated the way they are. They deserve love and compassion too. They are wonderful creatures that God created and blessed us with.

Now, I understand that a cat may not be the right fit for you, and that's okay! They aren't for everyone. Just like dogs aren't for everyone. I'm specifically talking about people who hate them with no valid reason. Like I know someone who hates cats because he knew one cat that didn't like him, but he literally mistreated the cat. What did you expect?

You all are missing out on having a wonderful companion.

So please don't believe that cats are evil little demons! And please never call someone's beloved pet/best friend a demon. Thank you 🫶

This isn't here to offend anyone, but hopefully help someone understand cats more. And cat owners too lol

#wow #this was longer than i meant for it to be #i love my kitty so much #🥺🥺🥺#he saved me and i saved him 🥺#he is my best friend.#i love him so so much #and i thank God eveyday for putting him in my path 🥺🥺#faith's little rambles #cats

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ghosttotheparty · 2 years ago

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leave your crown behind

part 3 of lonely town part 1 // part 2 cw: parental abuse; emotional breakdown; unintentional self-harm; nsfw

Wayne is getting ready for work when the phone rings.

Eddie listens from where he’s laying on the sofa, book in his hands, and he lowers the book curiously when he hears, “Oh, hi, Steve.”

Wayne hasn’t met Steve yet. He’s heard all about him (Eddie can’t shut up, apparently), but he’s never been home when Steve’s come over, and Eddie hasn’t been able to introduce them. Figures they’d meet each other themselves over the phone.

Eddie watches, half-smiling as Wayne’s expression softens. He always looks so serious, a crease perpetually between his eyebrows, but as he listens to whatever Steve is saying, the crease fades and he looks at the ground. But then it comes back, and he frowns.

“Yeah, he’s here,” he says. “What’s goin’ on, are you alright?”

Eddie sits up, closing his book as worry bundles in his chest. Wayne’s always been good at picking up on stuff like this, at knowing Eddie’s had a bad day just by glancing at him. He doesn’t know how he does it.

“Of course you can come over, boy,” Wayne says, his voice softer than it usually is. “You don’t gotta ask, alright? You come on over.”

Eddie frowns as he watches Wayne nod as though Steve can see him.

“You need me to come pick you up?”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he stands, the book falling to the ground.

“What’s going on?” he asks anxiously when he’s closer to Wayne, but Wayne doesn’t answer him. Instead he just sets a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, the way he does when he reassures Eddie that he’s okay, that he’s going to pass a test he’s worried about. Eddie holds his forearm, still watching as Wayne listens to Steve. “That’s alright, then, you come over. …Alright. See you soon, darlin’.”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks anxiously as Wayne hangs the phone back up.

“Steve had a disagreement with his father,” Wayne says gently. “He’s real upset.”

Eddie furrows his brows, frowning, and Wayne rubs his arm.

“He’s on his way over,” he says. “He didn’t wanna be home, so he’s comin’ over here. He’ll be alright.”

Eddie exhales a soft okay, and Wayne nods to the sofa because he knows Eddie would stand there by the door until Steve shows up.

Wayne beats him to the door when they hear Steve’s car pull up, and Eddie stands, twisting a ring anxiously as Wayne opens the door and smiles softly as Steve comes up the steps.

And then Eddie is watching Wayne reach an arm out and pull Steve into a hug, and Steve is hugging him back, arms wrapping around his waist, hiding his face in his shoulder. His hands are shaking.

“You alright?” Wayne asks gently. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, his voice trembling and muffled by Wayne’s shoulder. “He didn’t— He didn’t hit me or anything, just… Said stuff.”

“Alright,” Wayne says softly, running a hand over the top of his hand fondly, and Eddie’s chest aches, and he’s falling in love.

He comes close and touches one of Steve’s hands, and Steve opens his eyes, looking at him over Wayne’s shoulder, twisting his hand to lace their fingers and squeeze. His eyes are glistening, and Eddie wants to scream. He wants to know what the fuck Steve’s dad said, but he doesn’t ask. He just moves closer, around Wayne, to kiss Steve’s shoulder and whisper, “‘S okay.”

“God, sorry,” Steve chokes after a moment.

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Wayne and Eddie say simultaneously, and Steve lets out a laugh, sniffling and squeezing Eddie’s hand again.

“I see where you get it,” Steve says lightly to Eddie, pulling away and releasing Eddie’s hand to wipe his face. Eddie watches fondly. He’s smiling a little bit.

“You wanna tell us what happened?” Wayne asks gently, holding Steve’s shoulder and squeezing it. Steve sniffles and looks at him, blinking his glassy eyes as he hesitates before he speaks.

“He’s just… not very nice to me.”

Wayne nods understandingly, and he squeezes Steve’s arm.

“You don’t have to worry about him here, alright?”

Steve looks at him, and he looks like he’s going to cry again before he nods.

“Thank you, Mr Munson.”

Wayne snorts, shaking his head and laughing lightly.

“Just Wayne, Steve,” he says, touching Steve’s face. “No need for formalities.”

He goes to make Steve tea, and Eddie pulls Steve to the sofa. Steve falls against him heavily, burying his face in Eddie’s neck as he exhales, and Eddie reaches to cradle the back of his head, closing his eyes and pulling him closer. Steve goes easily, sighing as he rests against Eddie, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Got so worried,” Eddie murmurs softly.

“‘M sorry,” Steve mumbles.

“Not your fault, sweetheart.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and kisses his head, smiling when he tightens his arms around him. “Long as you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Steve whispers, and then, “...I missed you.”

“We saw each other at school yesterday,” Eddie says quietly, playing with his hair, scratching his neck lightly. He’s still smiling. He loves how clingy Steve is sometimes, how desperate he seems just to touch Eddie, to hug him and stay in his arms.

“Seeing you isn’t enough,” he complains weakly. Eddie kisses his head again.

“I’m right here, Stevie, you got me.”

Steve lifts his legs up onto the sofa, curling into Eddie’s chest and groaning softly, tucking himself into a ball, small as he can be. Eddie pets his hair softly, resting his cheek on top of his head, and within seconds, Steve’s breathing is slow and heavy, and Eddie smiles.

“He fell asleep,” he tells Wayne quietly when Wayne comes back with the mug of steaming tea. He sees Wayne’s eyes soften, and he sets the mug on the table next to the sofa, within Eddie’s reach, before he crosses the room and gets a blanket from the basket on the other side of the sofa. Eddie’s chest feels warm as Wayne comes back and drapes it over Steve gently, tenderly. They both watch as Steve sighs, pressing his face into Eddie’s chest and relaxing, melting against him. Eddie is smiling.

“You love him,” Wayne says softly.

Eddie looks up at him, blinking, and his smile falters.

He wants to argue. It’s only been a few weeks since that day, since they skipped detention and made their plans in the back of Eddie’s van. Since Steve pulled him into a desperate kiss and climbed onto his lap and wrote his phone number on the back of Eddie’s hand. A few weeks isn’t nearly long enough for that word, for love.

It’s only been a few weeks that they’ve met each other’s eyes in the hallway and lingered just to ask how class was, how a test went. One a few weeks that they’ve slipped notes into each other’s lockers: things like come to mine at 6? and wanna make you dinner tonight. A few weeks that they’ve kissed each other good night, leaning through doorways and smiling and whispering I’ll see you tomorrow. A few weeks that they’ve ignored the lingering stares and raised eyebrows and hushed whispers of gossip and rumors because it’s worth it to look at each other in the daylight. Because it’ll be worth it in a little over a year, when Steve graduates and they can finally leave.

It’s only been a few weeks. It’s too soon for… That.

So Eddie scoffs lightly, even as he caresses the back of Steve’s head.

“C’mon, Wayne,” he says, and Wayne sees right through him, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

“Eds,” he says calmly, reaching down to push his hair back. Eddie looks up at him, blinking, and he feels so small suddenly, like Wayne could squish him like a beetle. But Wayne’s eyes are kind like they always are, soft and gentle as he looks down at Eddie like he did when he was nine, when he moved into the trailer and was scared to sleep alone and scared to call Wayne by his name. “...It’s okay to love him.”

Eddie blinks again. His breaths are short, and his hands still on Steve, freezing, the words rushing over him like rain.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with that,” Wayne says softly. “Alright?”

Eddie stares up at him, taking a slow breath as Wayne blurs in his vision, and he nods.

Wayne stoops down and kisses his forehead softly.

“I’m goin’ to work. You know who to call if there’s an emergency.”

“Drive safe,” Eddie finally says, watching him go, putting on his work boots and grabbing his keys from the hook by the door.

“Always,” Wayne responds like he always does.

It’s quiet when he’s gone. It’s always quiet when he’s gone. If Eddie is honest, it’s what got him into music. Something to fill the air, something to distract his young mind from the absence, from the ache of the loneliness. He started with Wayne’s music, some Status Quo, some Rolling Stones, some Humble Pie and Lynyrd Skynyrd and Grateful Dead, until it wasn’t a comfort thing anymore. It was just the way it was. When it was quiet, there was music. And Eddie found himself biking to the music store in town and spending his time there, looking through records and listening to whatever was playing. And then one day he was admiring the art on one album, and he froze, staring at it as he listened to the song that was playing. It was intense, and a little fast, and as it was ending, Eddie was headed to the owner of the store to ask who it was. Black Sabbath, the man had told him. Children of the Grave. And Eddie bought Masters of Reality with the first payment he got from dealing that year. Embryo was the first song he taught himself to play.

He remembers playing it in his room, practicing and practicing and practicing while Wayne was off at work, trying over and over again until he had to hold his hand in the freezer, his forehead resting between the magnets on the door of it as he hummed the song to himself. Wayne came home one day to find him still practicing, and Eddie thought he would be in trouble for staying up into the early hours of the morning, but Wayne had just lingered in the doorway, watching and listening with his arms crossed. And he’d told Eddie he was good. Really good. And then he told him to go to bed.

Eddie got a weekend job at the music store. The owner, Morgan, was nice. He didn’t look at Eddie like everyone else did, even when he found out about the dealing. He knew how it was, how it needed to be just to make some extra money. When Eddie mentioned he was saving up for a car, Morgan offered his own van. Lord knows I don’t need it anymore. ‘S just collecting dust. Eddie had cried. The only requirement was that Eddie pass his driver’s test. Which he did. Eventually.

Morgan moved away from Hawkins a year and a half ago. The building that used to be his music store is a video store now. Eddie doesn’t go there.

Anyway.

It’s quiet when Wayne is gone.

Usually Eddie would be going to put on some music, or plug in his guitar to play his own, but he’s content here, listening to Steve breathe.

Which maybe could say something about what Wayne said. Eddie ignores it.

He sips the tea that Wayne made so it doesn’t go to waste, combing through Steve’s hair gently, and when it’s dark, he turns on the lamp next to them. Steve doesn’t like the dark.

He’d mentioned it once during a long phone call. Eddie had been sitting on the washing machine, leaning against the wall so the cord could reach him, holding the phone with both hands as he listened to Steve tell him about the most recent basketball game they’d had. He hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten, how late it had become, until Steve’s speech trailed off into stutters and Uhms. Eddie asked if he was okay. Steve asked if he could go for just a second. Eddie said yes. When Steve came back, he told Eddie he just had to turn the light on in his room. The dark, like… I don’t know. Fucks with my head.

Eddie leaves his curtain open now. His window is small, but it lets in enough moonlight that he’s always covered it up, and Steve’s never even spent the night at the trailer, but he does it anyway. Because Steve doesn’t like the dark.

Steve stirs after a while. He sighs and shifts against Eddie’s chest, nuzzling into him before he lets out a soft groan.

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t have to wake up if you don’t want to,” Eddie murmurs, smiling. “I got you.”

“Mm. ‘S okay.”

Steve sighs again, his body tightening for a moment before he relaxes, and then he moves to rest his back against the armrest of the sofa, stretching his legs across Eddie’s lap. Eddie keeps an arm around him, set across his shoulder to play with his hair, and Steve reaches for his other hand to play with his fingers. He likes doing that. Eddie can see him eye them when they’re in the hallways at school, and he wishes he could let him there, in front of everyone. The same way he would if one of them was a girl.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks softly. The light is behind Steve’s head, and if Eddie were to lean forward a little and turn to look at him, it would light up the back of his head like a halo. Steve shrugs, watching their hands as he traces the indents around Eddie’s fingers that his rings usually go in.

“Fine,” he whispers quietly. Lying.

“Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, tracing lines down Eddie’s fingers so lightly it tickles a little. Eddie doesn’t mind. He swallows before he speaks, his voice so soft Eddie almost has to strain to hear him.

“...He called me a fag.”

Eddie’s stomach falls. He twists their fingers together and pulls gently, prompting Steve to look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. But Steve shakes his head.

“He didn’t… He doesn’t know. About— About me. He was just… talking.” His voice shakes. “But if he… If he found out, I…”

“He’s not going to,” Eddie assures him gently, leaning forward. “Okay? He won’t know, and then we’re gonna get out of here.”

Steve smiles weakly, but he still looks so tired. He lifts his chin.

“Can I have a kiss?” he whispers.

“Always,” Eddie whispers back.

He kisses him. Steve lets go of his hand to hold his face, his palms to Eddie’s cheeks, and Eddie thinks the lines of Steve’s palms are maps that he could follow forever. The kiss is soft, and Eddie tilts his head, pushing his fingers into Steve’s hair and tugging gently, the way Steve likes, as he sets his other arm across Steve’s lap. He slips his fingertips under the hem of his shirt.

Steve is smiling when they part, his thumbs stroking Eddie’s cheeks softly.

“I feel better,” he murmurs.

Eddie smiles back.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers. “We have spare toothbrushes. You can wear some of my clothes.”

“Okay.”

The next time they kiss, it tastes like mint toothpaste and Steve is wearing a faded and worn AC/DC shirt. He holds Eddie’s hand as they nestle under the blankets.

“Do you want me to turn a lamp on?” Eddie whispers.

Steve just smiles, half hidden by the too-soft pillow he’s laying on.

“No, ‘s okay. You’re bright enough.”

Eddie snorts even though his cheeks flush with warmth.

“That was awful.”

“Shhh…” Steve shushes him, pulling at his hand so Eddie sets his arm across his waist, smiling. He closes his eyes. “Sleepy time.”

Eddie smiles, slipping his hand under the hem of the shirt and stroking his soft skin. Steve’s hands curl between them, and their legs tangle.

“Goodnight, baby,” Eddie murmurs. Steve just hums in response, already drifting off.

Eddie gazes at him in the dark, in the thin moonlight that’s just bright enough to see when his eyes adjust. His hair is pushed out of his face, off his neck, and his resting face is soft, almost vulnerable looking. He looks so young like this, sleeping peacefully, his cheek and lips squishing against the pillow. Eddie traces lines between his moles with his gaze. He thinks they could solve the mysteries of the universe.

Wayne was right.

Eddie ignores it, the fact that Wayne read him like a goddamn book, the fact that Wayne noticed it before Eddie did himself. He doesn’t say anything.

Steve sleeps over more often when his parents are in town. Wayne doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t mind. He adores Steve now, and Eddie thinks he did before he even met him. But they bond over stupid sports that Eddie never understood or found interesting in the slightest, and sometimes Eddie sits on the floor in the living room while they watch a game, pretending to read a book just so he can listen to them. They can’t see him smile when he sits down here.

Nobody knows about it. Eddie keeps a secret, not quite locked away inside his chest (because it’s not something that can be contained like that. It would seep through the cracks, shine through the keyhole.) but kept inside him. He knows it probably shines through when he looks at Steve. Wayne knows it. Sometimes Eddie thinks the fucking lockers at school can tell.

But Steve still talks with him in the hallways, despite the judging eyes of the other students and the lockers, despite the way Eddie looks at him like he’s the rising sun. He still holds Eddie’s hand while they watch movies, plays with his fingers because he can’t keep still, still kisses him like he needs the air from his lungs to breathe.

— — — — —

Eddie gets worried after three days without hearing from Steve. It’s a Friday. Steve always comes over on Fridays now that they don’t see each other every day at school. He comes over and does his homework in the living room and smiles when Wayne goes off to work, and he and Eddie make dinner with enough for leftovers for Wayne.

But he isn’t at Eddie’s tonight. And he didn’t call yesterday, or the day before to say hi. And Eddie is driving to Steve’s before he can think himself out of it, before it can occur to him that maybe Tommy Hagan is at his house, or somebody might see him there. Or something.

Steve’s Beemer is in the driveway. There’s a dry patch under it despite the rain this week.

Eddie knocks on the door. He waits. He knocks again. He waits. He knocks again. He calls Steve’s name. He knocks again. And again.

It finally opens after another minute, and Steve is there in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and one of Eddie’s shirts, and there’s a bruise on his cheek. It’s purple and green and blue, and somewhere in the colors there’s a sharp red mark, like it’s painted on his skin. Eddie exhales, looking at him.

There’s a storm inside his chest.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

Steve blinks at him.

He looks so… blank. Like he hasn’t even processed Eddie standing here. He’s still holding the door.

“Steve?” Eddie says softly.

Steve blinks again. His eyes focus on Eddie, and he inhales.

“Hi.”

Eddie looks at him, at the bruise, at the blank shine of his eyes, the too-light expression on his face.

“Steve, did your dad hit you?” he asks bluntly. It takes a moment for Steve to respond, and then he nods.

“Mhmm.”

Eddie nods, looking at the bruise. His heart is beating too fast, pounding in his chest, and his hands start to shake.

“Is he here?”

Another pause.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

Eddie will kill him. He’ll search all of Hawkins. He’ll hunt him down.

“...New York,” Steve says softly, like he’s just realized it. Eddie swallows, exhaling slowly. He needs to calm down. Steve is somewhere in his head, floating above the ground, and he needs Eddie. His eyes drift to the ground, unfocusing.

“Steve,” Eddie says gently. Steve blinks, looking at him again. “You wanna go inside? I can get you some ice.”

Steve exhales, his eyes flickering across Eddie’s face.

“I hate him,” he says softly.

Eddie nods. His eyes burn.

“Me too,” he breathes.

Steve is quiet for a moment.

“I hate him,” he says again.

Eddie just looks at him. His eyes look like they’re clearing, but he’s shaking now, his hands trembling by his sides.

“I hate him. I hate him.”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. “Let’s go inside.”

“I hate him,” Steve says, his voice stronger, adamant, like Eddie is arguing with him. “I hate him.”

“I know, baby,” Eddie breathes.

“I hate him,” Steve says, louder. “I hate him, I hate him.”

Eddie’s vision blurs as tears fill his eyes, because Steve is barely even talking to him anymore. He’s not telling Eddie he hates his father. He’s telling the trees. The front porch. The gravel driveway.

“I hate him,” Steve yells, looking at the ground, and as he says it again, his hands raise to his head, fingers threading into his hair tightly.

“Steve—”

“I hate him,” Steve cries, turning away. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I— hate him—” And he’s pulling his hair now, his fists tight in it, and he’s sobbing, choking on his words, yelling it all at the very house he grew up in, kicking at the front door with his bare feet, and Eddie goes up the front steps. He’s crying too. He doesn’t know what to do. He wishes Wayne was here.

“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him I hate him I hate him IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim—”

“Steve,” Eddie says desperately, reaching for his hand and holding his wrists, but Steve is pulling away. “Baby, please, just—”

“I hate him,” Steve wails. “I hate him. I hate him.”

“Stevie,” Eddie says weakly, pulling at his wrists until he’s facing him, and then he holds his face. There are tears streaming down his cheeks, making the colorful bruise shine, and he’s sobbing, but he finally stops as their eyes meet. “Breathe,” Eddie pleads. “Please, just… Breathe.”

Steve gasps, his fingers still tight in his hair, and Eddie nods, inhaling deeply, shakily, and he can’t even see him clearly. So he comes closer, stepping until their faces are almost touching, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks softly.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

He slowly reaches for Steve’s wrists, gently touching them and sliding his hands to Steve’s. Steve exhales shakily. Eddie touches his fingers, brushing over his knuckles lightly, and then he presses, carefully, tentatively uncurling Steve’s hands to make him let go of his hair.

“There you go,” Eddie breathes when he lets go. Steve takes a stuttering, hiccuping breath. He’s still crying. “Let it out, baby, I’m right here.”

Steve lets out a deep sob, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie lets their foreheads press together as Steve clutches at his hands.

“Is it okay if I hug you?” he whispers.

“Please,” Steve chokes.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Eddie says, opening his arms. “I got you, Stevie.”

Steve falls against him, and he’s shaking, his hands trembling as they clutch at Eddie’s jacket, and he sobs into Eddie’s neck. The sobs seem to rip their way out of him, deep and rough and heartwrenching. Eddie closes his eyes, holding him tightly.

“I got you, baby boy, you’re okay,” he says desperately, holding the back of his head as Steve lets out a wail, almost screaming as if in agony. And Eddie sobs, lowering Steve down as Steve’s knees buckle until they’re on the ground, wrapped around each other on the front porch of Steve’s house. Steve’s arms are tight around his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket.

He’s limp when he finally stops crying, and then it’s just Eddie. He tries to stop, but his shoulders shake with every weak sob, and he’s gasping for breath, and Steve just stays in his arms, too exhausted to do anything.

Until Eddie stops crying too.

They’re both messes. Red-cheeked and runny-nosed and trembling. They just wipe at their faces, holding each other, until Steve sits up and turns, and crashes his mouth into Eddie’s.

Eddie lets out a noise he’s never made before, something small and desperate and weak, and he holds Steve’s face in his hands, cradling his jaw. They gasp when they part, their foreheads pressing.

“Let’s go inside,” Eddie whispers. Steve just nods.

They sit on the floor in the kitchen.

Eddie gets him a large glass of water, and he sits behind him as he sips it slowly, running his fingers through Steve’s hair as Steve leans against his back. Eddie presses soft kisses to his neck quietly.

They go home.

Steve goes to bed when they get to the trailer, and Eddie stays with him until he falls asleep before he gets out of bed again, pausing as he watches Steve shift, wrapping an arm around one of the pillows on the beg and pulling it to his chest.

Eddie goes to the living room.

Steve’s voice is echoing in his head.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

Eddie’s never hated anyone more in his life. He’s never wanted to kill someone more than he does now, as he sits on his sofa and waits for Wayne to come home, as he wipes his tears away as quickly as they fall, as his knee bounces up and down anxiously.

Steve is still asleep when the sun comes up, and he’s still asleep when Wayne comes home. Wayne’s eyes catch on Eddie sitting on the sofa as he’s taking off his shoes, and Eddie looks up at him. His skin feels dry from the salt of his tears, and he knows he looks a wreck.

“What the hell happened?” Wayne asks, kicking his shoes aside carelessly and dropping his keys and his bag as he comes toward Eddie.

“Steve’s in bed,” Eddie says quietly.

“What happened?” Wayne asks again. “Did you have a fight?”

“No,” Eddie breathes. “He…” He swallows, and Wayne sits next to him on the sofa, touching his back. “His dad hit him.”

Wayne’s hand freezes.

“There’s a bruise on his face. And his dad’s in fucking New York, and Steve, he… He had some kind of breakdown when I got there, he was… He was screaming and crying and he was— he was pulling his hair, and he was hurting himself, Wayne, I—”

He breaks off when a sob escapes him, and Wayne pulls him into his arms, cradling his head. He reaches to hold Wayne’s arm.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, gasping. “He wouldn’t— He wouldn’t stop, and I was so scared, Wayne—”

Wayne hushes him softly, rocking back and forth with him.

“He’s in bed?” Wayne asks when Eddie’s tears slow. Eddie nods. “He’s alright? Safe? He’s not hurt?”

Eddie nods again.

“I— I got him to let go of his hair,” he says weakly. “‘N he just cried. And cried.”

Wayne kisses the side of his head, running his fingers through his hair.

“Sounds like you did okay,” Wayne says softly.

Eddie shakes his head.

He exhales roughly.

“I’m so fucking angry, Wayne,” he says quietly. “He has no fucking right to put his hands on him, Steve doesn’t— He doesn’t deserve it, he’s just— He’s so fucking good, I—”

“Eddie,” Wayne says softly, his voice low and careful. “I know you’re angry, I am too—”

“I’ll kill him,” Eddie interrupts, looking at Wayne earnestly. “If I see him, I’ll fucking kill him, I swear to God—”

“And I will help you hide the body,” Wayne says, holding Eddie’s face now. He wipes away a tear. “But Steve does not need your anger right now,” he says softly, slowly, carefully. “He needs you.”

Eddie closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, shuddering with it.

“You go hold your boy in your arms,” Wayne says softly. “And you make sure he knows he’s safe here. And when you both wake up, we will do whatever we need to for him. Alright?”

Eddie sniffs, blinking his eyes open, and the sunlight is too bright in his tears, but he can still see the shape of Wayne looking at him, holding him, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

Eddie goes to his room. Steve is still holding the pillow to his chest, his face hidden from the sunlight, and Eddie pauses to close the curtain before he goes to bed. The room dims, still warm and bright.

Eddie carefully pulls the pillow away from Steve’s arm, and Steve sighs, letting it go. He stirs, blinking his eyes open and squinting as Eddie climbs into bed in the pillow’s place. Eddie lays down and Steve shifts closer, laying his head on Eddie’s chest, wrapping an arm around his waist and sighing. Eddie runs a hand over his hair, kissing the top of his head, and rubs his arm gently as Steve falls asleep again.

Eddie closes his eyes, listening to Steve’s slow breaths, and he falls asleep too.

They wake up around the same time, stirring to the sound of birds singing outside and shifting against each other. They’re laying face to face, Eddie’s arm under Steve’s neck, his other hand on his waist, and Steve’s hands are curled into loose fists between them. Eddie looks at them for a moment, at how gentle they look despite how hard they pulled his hair yesterday, how tight they wound the strands around his fingers. Eddie moves his hand to touch them, pulling them a little closer to kiss his knuckles.

Steve’s eyes blink open slowly. Eddie looks at the bruise. It’s healing a little bit, a few days old, and the edges around it somehow match the color of Steve’s eyes.

“How do you feel?” Eddie asks softly, running his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

“…Tired,” Steve whispers. Eddie nods.

Steve is quiet for a moment, watching Eddie’s fingers before he wraps his own fingers around two of them, holding them loosely.

“He doesn’t usually… do that,” Steve says after another pause. “He just talks a lot, he says a lot of things, but he— he doesn’t hit me very often at all, I barely remember the last time he did it.”

Eddie’s chest hurts.

“But he was stressed,” Steve continues, looking at their hands. “About— About the flight, and I forgot to clean the kitchen like he asked, and I kind of talked back, and he just—”

“Steve,” Eddie interrupts. Steve looks into his eyes nervously, and Eddie hesitates. “…This is not your fault,” he says slowly, running his thumb over Steve’s knuckles. “You understand that, right?”

“…I talked back,” Steve says in a small voice.

“I don’t care that you talked back,” Eddie says firmly, ignoring the way his eyes are stinging again. “Nothing you did, and— and nothing you could have done, would warrant him treating you like this. Okay?”

Steve blinks. His eyes are glistening. Eddie squeezes his hand.

“You understand?” Eddie whispers softly. Steve nods. “You come over here if you want to, ever, okay? If he’s being mean, or if he’s scaring you, or anything at all, Stevie, you come here and we’ll keep you safe.”

Steve looks at their hands, and he reaches his other hand to hold Eddie’s between his, squeezing his fingers gently.

“Why do you care so much?” he asks softly, and Eddie wants to set the world alight for ever making Steve feel like this. Like Eddie shouldn’t care, like Steve isn’t worth it.

Eddie gazes at him.

He could say it right now. But the words refuse to leave his throat, to form in his mouth, when he parts his lips.

“You’re my baby,” he says instead, his voice soft and whispering. Steve blinks, his expression softening, his eyes shining vulnerably. “You’re my boy. And I– I’ll be damned if I let anybody treat my baby like that.” His voice breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath, tightening his hand on Steve’s.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie lifts his hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

“I’m yours,” Steve whispers after a deep breath.

“‘S right, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs.

Steve opens his eyes and sits up a little, leaning forward to press a hard, lingering kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie closes his eyes, humming and wrapping his arm around Steve’s neck as Steve hovers above him, pushing his fingers into his hair and combing through it gently. They separate with a slick sound, and Eddie murmurs softly to him.

“I got you, baby, come here.”

Steve buries his face in Eddie’s neck, crying quietly, and Eddie holds him gently, the way he deserves. He slips one of his hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt (which is Eddie’s shirt, really; Eddie hadn’t noticed it disappear, and he wonders how long Steve’s had it), running his fingers over his soft skin. He’s so warm.

When he stops crying, Eddie kisses his head, smiling when Steve groans weakly.

“I hate crying,” he grumbles into Eddie’s neck. Eddie rubs his back.

“C’mon, I’ll get you some water,” he says softly. “And Wayne wants to see you.”

Steve follows him heavily, pausing by the doorway and squeezing his eyes shut, wincing as the dehydration and bright morning light makes his head ache. Eddie kisses his forehead.

Wayne is at the table by the front door with a newspaper and a mug of coffee when they come down the hall. He looks up when they come in, his expression softening as he looks at them, at their linked hands, and he stands up, reaching for Steve.

He touches his face, analyzing the bruise, before he clicks his tongue and mutters, “Bastard,” under his breath and pulls Steve into a gentle hug. Eddie goes to the kitchen and fills a large glass with water.

“Here, baby,” he says softly when he goes back to them, holding it out to Steve, and Steve takes it, lifting his chin up to kiss Eddie chastely.

“Thank you.”

Wayne makes them lunch, and Eddie sits with Steve on the sofa while Steve sips the water slowly. There’s a baseball game on the television, and the volume is down so low Eddie can barely hear it so it doesn’t hurt Steve’s head.

Steve falls asleep with his head on Wayne’s shoulder after they eat, hugging Eddie’s arm to himself. And Eddie falls in love all over again.

— — — — —

Steve’s graduation is coming up.

Eddie is taking extra shifts at the mechanic, saving up as much as he can, and he attends every party he can with his tin lunchbox in hand. He leaves with cash and a smile. He’s been working on the van, too. Making sure everything is tuned up, making sure they have everything they need. Non-perishables, water, blankets, clothes. Eddie’s acoustic guitar. Some books. It’s all sorted in the back of the van, neater than anything else in Eddie’s life.

Wayne helps. He checks that Eddie has certain things, climbs into the back of the van to inspect it. He even has a friend of his come over to make sure the engine’s okay, even though Eddie insists it’s fine.

On the day of the ceremony, Wayne has Steve’s button-down and slacks ironed and laid out on the ironing board in the living room. Wayne can’t go to the ceremony, and they say goodbye in the living room before Steve leaves for the rehearsal.

It’s a long goodbye, drawn out and quiet as they hug each other tightly and Eddie watches. It’s like neither of them wants to let go. Wayne cradles the back of Steve’s head, his eyes closed, and Steve looks little again, young and small, eyes closed as his cheek squishes against Wayne’s shoulder.

“You call me when you can,” Wayne says when they separate, holding Steve’s face and looking at him seriously. Steve nods. “You have Morgan’s and Davis’s numbers for emergencies. Write to me.” He pauses, looking at Steve like he’s trying to memorize his face. “Anything happens, you come straight home.”

Steve nods, his eyes glistening. He hugs Wayne again, his arms somehow tighter around him.

“I love you, Steve,” Wayne says softly, and Steve’s eyes squeeze shut. He’s wrinkling his shirt. But he doesn’t seem to care as he chokes a quiet, “I love you too.”

Steve wipes his tears as Eddie drives him to the school in the van, taking deep breaths.

“You nervous?” Eddie asks, reaching over and squeezing his leg.

“A little bit,” Steve says, touching his hand and turning it over to play with his fingers. “But I’m excited.”

Eddie smiles.

He leans against the van in the parking lot, watching Steve put on the graduation gown. It’s dark green.

Steve zips it and fluffs it out, grimacing and wrinkling his nose at it as he holds his arms out to examine the sleeves before he looks up at Eddie, raising his eyebrows.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

And Eddie represses the urge to push him against the van and kiss him silly. There are too many people here for him to do that right now.

“You’re beautiful,” he says instead, his voice soft. Steve’s cheeks flush.

“You think?” he asks, reaching for the cap that Eddie is holding for him.

“Mhmm.”

“You got a thing for graduation gowns?” Steve teases, pushing his hair back and casting a glance at the cap, but he doesn’t put it on yet, and Eddie knows he doesn’t want to mess his hair up.

“Got a thing for you.”

Steve looks away, suppressing a smile as his cheeks darken, and Eddie grins, tilting his head. Steve looks around the parking lot. There are a few people glancing at them. At SteveandEddie.

Steve huffs, biting his lip and pushing his hair back.

“What?” Eddie says.

“Just… Wish there wasn’t anyone here.” He looks at Eddie, his eyes shining intently, and Eddie’s chest aches a little.

“Me too,” he says softly.

Steve spins the cap in his hands, the corners of it pressing into his index fingers as he flicks it back and forth, and his eyes look Eddie up and down slowly. Eddie’s dressed the way he usually is, jeans and an old t-shirt, but Steve stares like it’s something he’s never seen before.

“What?” Eddie says again.

Steve shrugs, still looking at him. His eyes linger on his waistline, where his shirt’s tucked into his jeans to show his belt, and Steve wets his lips, looking into Eddie’s eyes intently.

“Got a thing for you too.”

Eddie groans quietly, letting his head fall back to the van, and Steve giggles when it thuds loudly.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Eddie says after sighing heavily. “After the ceremony. I’ll pick you up outside the theater.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly.

Eddie watches him go inside, watches him wave the cap at Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers, who are lingering by the entrance of the building, smiling as he approaches to say hi. Eddie sighs again. He sits in the van for a few minutes after everyone goes inside, smoking a cigarette and just sitting for a while.

It feels kind of surreal, looking out across the parking lot of the high school. Dropping his boyfriend off for his graduation rehearsal.

Eddie remembers the first day he biked to the high school by himself, fourteen and angry like a nervous dog. He remembers skirting around the older kids’ cars, trying to avoid scraping them, keeping his eyes ahead as they threw insults and garbage at him because they thought it was funny. He remembers chaining his bike up by the front doors and finding his bike disassembled after school one day, one wheel missing, the handlebar crooked, and he remembers bursting into tears because he knew Wayne didn’t have enough money to get a new bike for him.

When he finally got a new bike, he got special permission from the gym teacher to leave it in the sports equipment shed. The gym teacher was always nice to Eddie, even though Eddie never knew why. He showed Eddie how to use the lock on the shed, and he made sure anybody that might have seen Eddie would know he was supposed to be there, that he wasn’t stealing or anything.

The sports shed was where Eddie was when he first saw some upperclassmen doing drills on the field, training for football season. Some of them were shirtless, others wearing wife-beaters or thin t-shirts, and they were all sweaty, panting, laughing and making fun of each other. Eddie had to start over with the lock five times before he finally got it open, his hands shaking, his eyes wandering. When he got home that day he just laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.

He remembers the first time he drove the van into the parking lot. Someone had called out to him, asked where he got the money for it, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell him it was a gift from his boss. You whoring yourself out? the boy had said, and his friends had laughed. Eddie just tilted his head. You interested? Get my info from your mom. They didn’t like that. Eddie thought it was funny.

Eddie remembers seeing Steve Harrington drive his nice car into the parking lot, remembers seeing his friends fawn over it, remembers seeing Steve get out of the driver’s seat and push his hair back. He remembers hating how Steve pushes his hair back, thinking it was so pretentious and fake casual. But he loves it now. Steve even does it when his hair isn’t styled, when he just wants it out of his face, but since falling in love with him, Eddie’s learned (or rather noticed) that it’s just an anxious habit of his. He does it when he’s shy and when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. And Eddie realized that Steve’s always been like this, shy and nervous and bashful.

And Eddie remembers the night he drove Steve back to his car after Steve kissed him senseless in the back of the van at the quarry. He remembers Steve leaning back into the car to write his phone number on Eddie’s hand (which Eddie still has memorized; he kind of wanted it tattooed just because), and he remembers the way Steve leaned back in to kiss him goodbye.

Eddie sigh, taking one last drag off the cigarette before he stubs it out.

He drives around town. Stops outside the video store Steve worked at for the past year, the store that used to be the music store Eddie worked at. Eddie stopped going after the music store owner moved, and he started going again to visit Steve during his lunch breaks and to pick him up and drop him off after he sold his car. He eyes the sign of the store, thinking about the cute vest Steve had to wear during his shifts. He wonders if he’ll miss it.

He goes home to Wayne. Makes lunch with him. And then he makes Wayne get out of the house, snatches his sandwich to wrap it in foil as he tells Wayne to go to the van. He drives them up to the quarry, and they sit looking over the water.

“This is where we were,” Eddie says after a few moments as they eat. “Steve and me. When we decided to go.”

“It’s a nice spot,” Wayne says, looking out across the quarry, and they listen to the water splash.

“I was kinda scared you’d be mad,” Eddie says after a moment. “That I decided to leave so… abruptly.”

Wayne is smiling, and he shakes his head.

“Couldn’t be mad at you for that,” he says, his voice rumbly. Eddie listens closely. He’s going to miss his voice. “This town’s been nothin’ but cruel to you. You’re allowed to leave.”

Eddie nods, biting his sandwich. His leg is bouncing.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Eds,” Wayne says, and he moves closer, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie falls against him, and he suddenly gets why Steve looked so small today. It’s like he shrinks into Wayne’s side, like he’s gone back ten years, and he’s the little boy he was when Wayne took him in. “It’s gonna be so quiet when you’re gone.”

Eddie laughs lightly.

“Listen to some Anthrax in my honor.”

“You’re not dying, Eddie,” Wayne says, and Eddie feels him shake when he laughs. “You gonna come back for Christmas?”

“We can,” Eddie says, and then, “We can do anything.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Wayne kisses the top of Eddie’s head.

He smiles when he sees the photos Eddie has taped to the wall of the van: one of Wayne sipping from his favorite mug at the table, one of him and Steve on the sofa watching some sports game, one of Eddie and Wayne in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. There’s also a piece of paper taped up with Wayne’s and Morgan’s and Wayne’s friend Davis’s phone numbers even though Eddie and Steve both have them memorized. Just in case.

Eddie gets dressed for the graduation ceremony. He wears one of Wayne’s old shirts that he gave Eddie a long while ago and a pair of unripped jeans, and Wayne helps him tie the tie around his neck. Eddie watches his face as he does it, watches the way his brows furrow in concentration, watches him frown. He sticks his tongue out a little when he focuses. Eddie must have gotten it from him.

And Eddie feels like a kid again, smiling as Wayne fixes his collar and smooths it down.

Wayne’s already dressed for work, wearing an old, stained flannel and stained pants.

“Never thought I’d look more presentable than you,” Eddie says. Wayne smiles, his eyes squinting.

“What a time, huh?”

He holds Eddie’s shoulders. Looks at him.

“I’m gonna be okay,” Eddie says softly.

“I know,” Wayne says. “I trust you.” He sighs, nodding. “You’re gonna be fine.”

They hug for a long time. Wayne tells him the same things he told Steve this morning. Call as often as possible. Call Morgan or Davis if there’s an emergency. Write letters. If anything happens, if anything goes wrong, come home.

Eddie leaves for the ceremony. He wipes his tears on his shoulder as he drives away from the trailer.

He gets stares when he gets to the theater. People recognize him, know his face. His hair. There are some students from his class there, visiting town to see their friends, to see their friends and siblings graduate, and he ignores his own name uttered in hushed voices around as people question his presence.

He spots Steve from where he’s sitting in the audience. He’s looking up at the ceiling, head tilted like he’s bored, and Eddie smiles fondly.

There are so many people here. Eddie looks around at them while they get settled, while they find their seats with their families and friends, while they excitedly look up at the stage. Eddie relaxes into his seat. The man on his left and the woman on his right are sitting as far away from him as they can, leaning toward their relatives.

Eddie watches while every name is called, his ears ringing from the loud applause after each of them. There are a lot, but he can’t tell if this class is bigger than his was.

When Steve’s name is called, Eddie whistles as loud as he can, and he sees Steve turn toward the audience, suppressing his beautiful smile. The applause is loud for him, and the other students on stage clap for him, watching him cross the stage, and Eddie remembers that he’s their king. And then he remembers that he’s leaving that all behind.

The ceremony is long. But Eddie stays awake throughout it all (which he didn’t do even during his own graduation), his knee bouncing in anticipation. The graduates leave before everyone else, out a back door, and Eddie winds his way through the crowd of people that’s leaving, bumping into as few as possible and saying ’Scuse me and Sorry, coming through, ignoring their glances and glares.

He sees the graduates all outside the theater, laughing and celebrating, and his eyes catch on Steve, leaning against the wall, by himself, looking around, and Eddie smiles, his heart pounding as he drives the van around the parking lot. He pulls up next to the lawn and gets out, looking at Steve when Steve sees him.

And then Steve is running to him, holding the cap in his hand, and he’s jumping into Eddie’s arms, hugging him around the neck tightly. Eddie catches him, closing his eyes and smiling so widely his face is sore as he spins him in a circle. Steve is laughing.

Eddie sets him down and looks at him. His eyes are gleaming, excited, and his cheeks are pink. Eddie touches one.

“You ready to go?” he asks softly.

Steve nods.

Eddie takes the cap from his hands and bops him on his head, his heart aching when Steve smiles, his eyes shining. Steve takes off the graduation gown as he goes to get into the van, and he tosses it in the back. As he buckles his seatbelt, Eddie smacks his face with the cap just to fuck with him, and Steve snatches it from him, giggling and hitting him with it before he tosses it to join the gown.

They drive.

There’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd tape playing, and the volume is low, and the sun is setting. The sky is orange and red and pink, and Eddie thinks about how lucky they are that there aren’t any clouds. When he glances at Steve, he can see the sky reflecting in his eyes, like there’s a fire behind them. Steve is smiling.

Eddie reaches over and squeezes his leg, just above his knee. Steve takes his hand and turns it over again, and Eddie thinks he’s going to play with his fingers, but Steve just slides his palm across Eddie’s, locking their fingers together and squeezing.

There’s a sign on the side of the road, dirty red and white, rusted around the corners.

LEAVING HAWKINS COME AGAIN SOON

And as they pass by it, leaving it behind, Eddie hears Steve exhale in relief.

They drive. Steve looks out the window, holding Eddie’s hand and lifting a leg up onto his seat. Hawkins fades from the rearview mirrors.

The sun sets, and the stars appear overhead. The moon is almost full. Eddie sees Steve lean forward to look at it, and he smiles.

They keep driving.

They only stop when the sun begins to rise again. The road they’re on is empty, secluded, because Hawkins is in the middle of nowhere. Nobody comes here.

Eddie pulls over, parking the van so the back is facing the sunrise, and Steve gets out of the van to stretch, groaning softly. Eddie can’t stop smiling, and he opens the back, watching Steve climb in to grab one of their bags, pulling out two t-shirts and throwing one so it hits Eddie’s face. Eddie catches it before it can fall to the ground, laughing and watching Steve unbutton his shirt as he kneels next to their mattress.

The sun is shining on him. Eddie melts a little bit on the inside.

His hair is falling in his face as he looks down at the buttons, and the fabric is falling open, exposing his chest and stomach, the soft hair that Eddie wants to run his fingers through, the moles spotting his golden skin that Eddie wants to kiss. Steve doesn’t notice Eddie watching, pulling the shirt off and setting it aside as he pulls on the t-shirt, and then he rolls the button-down up and sticks it in the bag. He looks up at Eddie, a hand lifting to take his shirt, but Eddie hasn’t moved, still gazing, holding the t-shirt to his chest. Steve raises an eyebrow, smiling.

Eddie sets the shirt down and reaches for his tie, his cheeks flushing with heat, but he can’t untie it, so Steve takes over, crawling so he’s kneeling at the edge of the van and swatting Eddie’s hands out of the way so he can take care of it. The tie slides out of the collar of his shirt smoothly, and Steve sets it aside before he starts unbuttoning the shirt, slowly, carefully, tenderly. Eddie gazes at him. His eyes look like they’re glowing in the sunlight.

Steve’s fingers brush his bare skin as he undoes the buttons, and Eddie bites his lip, watching him. Steve’s eyes linger on the tattoos on Eddie’s chest. He’s seen them before, he’s touched them and pressed soft kisses to them, but he still stares like they’re brand-new.

As Steve undoes the last button, he lifts his head, and Eddie leans down to kiss him before he even thinks about it. Steve sighs, pushing his shirt open and sliding one of his hands across Eddie’s stomach. His hand is warm.

The kiss lingers, and they separate after a moment, smiling. Steve pushes the shirt off Eddie’s shoulders and picks up the t-shirt, waiting patiently as Eddie pulls the shirt off his arms and tosses it into the van. And then Steve helps Eddie put the shirt on, and Eddie is smiling again.

Steve puts the button-down in the bag and zips it back up, putting it away as Eddie gets out the sandwiches Wayne made for them. They’re wrapped in foil.

They sit on the edge of the van, looking at the sun rise over the trees, and they eat in silence. Eddie holds Steve’s leg. Steve lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

When they finish eating, Eddie moves the rest of the food out of the plastic bag Wayne put them in, and he puts the balled-up foil in the bag. Then he moves back next to Steve, and he sighs. The sky is orange again. Eddie is starting to love the color orange.

Steve rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder again. Eddie sets his arm behind his back.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” he asks softly after a few minutes. He’s been thinking about it. If Steve were to decide he didn’t want to leave, even after planning on leaving for over a year. If Steve decides he wants to go back after they leave. Eddie will take him home if he wants to. Eddie will take him anywhere.

Steve lifts his head and looks at him. He looks so warm in the sunlight, almost glowing. He kisses Eddie, touching his face as Eddie exhales slowly. He stares at Eddie when they part, his eyes half-shut.

“I’ve never been happier than I am right now,” he murmurs.

Eddie smiles.

He lifts his chin to ask for another kiss, and Steve obliges, pressing their lips together softly and brushing his thumb over Eddie’s cheek softly. Eddie lifts the hand that’s set behind Steve and presses it to his back, tilting his head. Steve's lips part, and his tongue slips across Eddie’s, and Eddie hums when Steve nips at his lip before he sucks it between his own.

Eddie turns to face his body toward him, pulling him closer, and Steve moves too, pulling a leg up between them and leaning over it to kiss him harder, pressing his hands to Eddie’s face and holding him in place. Eddie furrows his brows, lifting his other hand and setting it on Steve’s hip, sliding it to his thigh and squeezing. Steve hums.

When they part, they’re both breathing hard, and Eddie smiles, blinking his eyes open to look at Steve, whose lips are parted and shining as he pants. Eddie leans close and licks across his lips just because, and Steve lets out a soft sound, lifting his chin to catch Eddie’s mouth in another kiss.

Eddie pulls him closer, twisting so their legs tangle, and Steve’s arms wrap around his neck, his fingers pushing into his hair and tugging as they lick into each other’s mouths. Eddie slides a hand under Steve’s shirt, slipping his fingertips over the line of his spine lightly, and Steve shivers.

Eddie’s desperate now, humming weakly as Steve tugs on his hair and sucks on his tongue, and he pulls at Steve’s t-shirt, pulling away enough to gasp, “Off.”

“Bed?” Steve asks breathlessly, eyes bright, and Eddie nods, grinning.

They haven’t done this before. The farthest they’ve gone is pulling their shirts off while they make out in Eddie’s room, sliding their hands across each other’s chests and stomachs and waists, kissing each other’s collarbones and bare shoulders. There’s a mole under Steve’s left collarbone that Eddie’s had the privilege of kissing.

They’re smiling as they crawl into the van, kicking their shoes off and setting them by the doors, and then Steve is pulling the t-shirt off over his head, tossing it aside as he sits on the mattress and reaches for Eddie, who crawls over to him and kisses him hard. Steve’s hands clutch at his sides, and he pulls away to pull Eddie’s shirt up. Eddie lets him tug it over his head, and then he’s pushing Steve to lay on his back. Steve lets out a soft whine, pulling Eddie down on top of himself.

Eddie lifts a leg to straddle Steve’s hips, leaning down over him and pressing a hand to his chest, running his fingers through his chest hair and humming when Steve’s hands find his legs, squeezing his thighs.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Steve breathes when Eddie pulls away and kisses his cheek, then his jaw, then down his neck.

“Mm.”

He licks a line up his neck, then sucks a kiss just under his jaw, listening to the way Steve is breathing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eddie murmurs. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Eddie, shit.”

His hips jerk up into Eddie, and Eddie gasps, burying his face in Steve’s neck. Steve is hard.

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve breathes, running his hands over Eddie’s thighs, and Eddie kisses his neck, biting his skin gently.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, breathless. “I…”

He lifts his head, looking at him, and all they’ve done is kiss, but Steve looks a mess. His hair is messy on the pillow beneath his head, and his lips are reddened and shining and parted as he breathes hard, and his eyes are glazed and half-shut like he’s high. His cheeks are pink. The sunlight shines around Eddie’s shadow over him.

Eddie must look the same.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says finally, and Steve blinks.

“Oh.”

“If you— If you want, we don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Steve says, sitting up and kissing Eddie so hard their teeth clash. Eddie whimpers, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck as Steve slides a hand to his ass, squeezing. “Are you sure?” he pants when they part, their foreheads pressing together.

“Yes,” Eddie gasps, rolling his hips, and Steve chokes out a quiet moan, his hand tightening on Eddie. “I— I want you in me.”

“Fuck,” Steve says gruffly, kissing him again.

“Do you want to?” Eddie breathes.

“Yeah, fuck yes.”

Eddie grins, and he kisses him again, grinding against him. Steve lets out an open-mouthed groan, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist tightly, pulling him against himself harder.

“Do we—” Steve pauses with a gasp as Eddie leans back down and buries his face in his neck, licking and biting and sucking on his skin. “Do we have stuff?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says into his neck. “I got some before we left, it’s…”

He sits up straight, huffing as he looks at the bags next to them. He kisses Steve one more time before getting off of him, moving to unzip of the bags, rummaging through it for the plastic bag from the drugstore. He looks over at Steve while he’s reaching in the bag, watching him unbutton his pants and slide them down his legs. His skin is warm in the sunlight, his legs covered in soft hair, and Eddie looks through the bag more intently.

He tosses the bag next to the mattress when he finds it, and Steve holds a hand out to him, reaching for him.

“Lay down,” Steve says, moving to kneel, and Eddie moves to lay down in his place, smiling as Steve moves between his legs and reaches to the button of his jeans. Eddie lifts his hips to help him tug them down his legs, and Steve leans down as he tosses them aside, pressing a kiss to his thigh before he opens his mouth and bites down gently.

Eddie giggles, reaching to touch Steve’s hair.

Steve looks up at him, his eyes shining, the sun behind him making his hair light up like flames, and he hooks a finger on the waistband of Eddie’s underwear.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Steve tugs them down, smiling as Eddie sighs and throws his head back. When Eddie looks up again, Steve is shifting farther down the mattress, moving onto his stomach. He touches Eddie’s dick, jacking it slowly and carefully, and Eddie hisses, bititng his lip, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. Steve smiles, leaning his head down and spitting on it slowly, using it to slick his way.

“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie breathes. “I…”

“Can you pass me the lube?” Steve asks, grinning. Eddie nods, reaching for the plastic bag and pulling the bottle of lube out of it. He pauses, resting on an elbow, to open it, peeling away the plastic and tossing it away before passing the bottle down to Steve, who murmurs a soft, “Thank you, baby.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, looking down at him, the sunrise behind him, shining on his bare legs and ass and back, and Eddie’s stomach flips over. He has butterflies.

Steve notices, pausing as he opens the lube, looking up at him.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, one of his hands caressing his thigh gently, comfortingly.

“Only to myself,” Eddie says softly. Steve smiles.

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes,” Eddie says. “I’m fucking desperate for it, baby, please.”

Steve’s smile widens, and he turns his head to press a slow kiss to the inside of his thigh, and then he’s leaning forward to suck the tip of his dick into his mouth, and Eddie whines, his back arching. His mouth is warm and wet and fucking perfect, and Eddie reaches down to touch his hair again, but Steve pulls away after a moment, pushing at the back of Eddie’s thigh.

“Hold your leg up for me,” he says, and Eddie does, lifting his leg and holding it up to expose himself, his face flushing with heat.

“I feel fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, but he’s still smiling. Steve’s hand runs down the back of his thigh to his ass before he clicks the bottle open.

“Well, you look fucking good,” Steve says lightly.

Eddie giggles softly, closing his eyes, and he gasps when Steve takes him into his mouth again, sliding farther down this time, his tongue fluttering against him, and then Steve’s finger is pressing to his hole, sliding inside just enough that Eddie can still stop him. Eddie’s chest feels warm.

“Come on, baby,” he says breathlessly. “I want it.”

He groans when Steve pushes his finger in farther. Steve’s other arm wraps around his thigh, his hand holding onto his hip as his head bobs up and down slowly. Eddie moans weakly, collapsing onto his back and reaching down to hold Steve’s hair, pulling it gently.

He’s gasping for breath, almost lightheaded as Steve fingers him open, pulling away to get more lube. When Eddie looks at him, his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lip between his teeth, and he presses kisses to Eddie’s thigh, to his hip. It takes a moment to notice that Steve is grinding his hips into the mattress, and Eddie giggles.

Eddie bites his lip to keep himself quiet, and Steve bites his thigh before murmuring, “Let me hear you.”

Eddie lets out a loud Fuck! when Steve finally adds a third finger, pushing in slowly, almost meticulous in how he’s taking Eddie apart. Eddie throws his head back, groaning loudly, his back arched.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Steve is still humping the mattress, his fingers pushing in and spreading slightly, stretching Eddie out, and Eddie reaches down to tug his hair desperately.

“Please,” he chokes. “Stevie, baby, I— I need you, please, come on—”

“Get a condom,” Steve says, and his voice is rough, low and gravelly, and Eddie moans, squeezing his eyes shut before he reaches for the box next to the bed. He struggles to open the box, his hands shaking, but he finally gets one out and looks down the mattress to toss it at Steve’s head, grinning when Steve glares at him.

Steve shifts to pull his underwear off and toss it away, and Eddie stares, watching as he opens the foil and rolls the condom on.

“God.”

Steve grins, moving closer and pushing Eddie to lay on his back. Eddie falls promptly, eliciting a soft laugh, and he wraps his around around Steve’s shoulders as Steve pushes his legs farther apart.

“You okay?” Steve whispers, leaning down until their noses brush.

“I’m so okay,” Eddie breathes. “You?”

“Yeah, same.”

Eddie smiles, and they look at each other for a moment. They’re both shaking. Eddie lifts his chin, and Steve kisses him tenderly, smiling against his lips. Eddie opens his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as Steve’s tongue slides against his, and he hums.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers breathlessly.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Eddie kisses him again, pushing his hair back, letting it slip between his fingers. When they part, he stays close, nudging their noses together and breathing hard, eyes still closed. Butterflies swarming.

“I love you so fucking much.”

Steve exhales, kissing Eddie again, biting his lip harder than he usually does, their noses smashing together, and it’s messy and wet and desperate as he licks into Eddie’s mouth. There’s spit on their chins and cheeks, and a string of spit connects their mouths when Steve pulls away, panting.

“I love you so fucking much too.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, lightheaded from the kiss, his head falling back to the mattress. “‘S nice.”

Steve giggles, lowering his head to kiss his neck, sucking on his skin and nipping at it and (hopefully) leaving marks in his path.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, gimme that dick.”

Steve snorts and snickers into his neck, and Eddie grins at the ceiling, wrapping his legs around Steve’s hips as Steve reaches down, shifting. And then he’s pushing into Eddie, and Eddie isn’t breathing, his lips parting and his back arching. Steve pauses, touching his face.

“Don’t pass out,” he says, and Eddie exhales sharply with a laugh.

“Would that be the— fuck— the highest compliment?” he asks breathlessly, groaning weakly. “If I pass out on your dick?”

Steve laughs lightly, his breath on Eddie’s face.

“I guess,” he says. “But if you pass out, I’ll totally panic, so I need you to breath.”

Eddie takes a long, slow deep breath, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest, and Steve presses a kiss to his throat.

“There you go,” he mumurs. Eddie flushes with heat. “You ready for more?”

“There’s more?”

Steve giggles into his neck again, nodding, and Eddie laughs.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps, one of his hands tightening on Eddie’s waist. “You feel so good, Eddie, I…”

“Gimme more,” Eddie says, threading a hand into Steve’s hair. “I want it all, baby, I want all of you.”

Steve gives him all of him.

Eddie is crying, his hand tight in Steve’s hair, and Steve stops when he bottoms out, breathing hard into Eddie’s neck.

“Fuck, Eddie,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps. “That, please.”

“You’re so annoying.”

They’re both breathless as they talk, their hip shifting just the slightest bit, smiling and smiling.

“You’re the one with your massive fucking dick in my ass.”

“Your idea.”

Steve pulls out, and Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t respond, groaning as Steve pushes back in.

“Does that feel okay?” Steve whispers.

“Feels so fucking good, Steve,” Eddie says shakily. “Oh my god.”

“Okay,” Steve says, and Eddie’s eyes are closed but he can hear his smile. “I’ll be gentle, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie says weakly, his voice thin because his eyes are burning because Steve is so good to him. So kind.

Steve is gentle. He keeps his hands on him the whole time, like he’s keeping him grounded, and he’s so soft, his skin warm against Eddie’s. And he’s so goddamn sweet, murmuring softly to Eddie.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes, Steve, fuck—”

“I got you, baby.”

He’s slow with it, carefully moving back and forth, kissing Eddie’s neck and chest breathlessly, until Eddie whines a weak, “Stevie, faster, please,” followed by a sharp, “Shit, yes—” when Steve snaps his hips forward.

“Good?”

“Yeah, Stevie, ‘s so good,” Eddie slurs, almost delirious. “You’re so fuckin’ good to me, I love you so much, baby boy, fuck, fuck—”

And obviously it’s a good thing Eddie already told him, because he isn’t thinking right now, his mind blissfully blank except for SteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteve—

Steve groans into his neck, moving faster, and Eddie throws his head back, his legs tightening around Steve’s hips, the air filling with the sound of their skin slapping, the sound of their heavy breathing and Eddie’s desperate whining, and the van is probabaly shaking as they move.

“Eddie, fuck,” Steve gasps, leaning down so their faces are close, and he licks Eddie’s cheek, panting. “Feel so fucking good, you’re so perfect.”

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, his back arching. “Fuck me,” he moans, pulling Steve’s hair with one hand as the other slides to his arm, holding him tightly.

“You want it harder?” Steve asks breathlessly, and Eddie nods frantically, moaning a loud yes. His stomach flips over when Steve sits up and manoeuvres his legs so they’re over his arms, leaning over him, and the stretch in Eddie’s legs aches. He sobs, clutching at Steve’s arm and nodding, begging, pleading.

Steve fucks him. It’s not like Eddie used to think it would be. He always imagined getting fucked face down, hiding, anonymous. Whoever it was would see his hair. Maybe pretend he was a pretty girl instead of whatever he is.

But Steve…

Steve caresses his face, murmurs to him that he’s perfect. Licks the drool off his face and kisses his neck. Reaches down between them to touch Eddie’s dick when Eddie’s whines go up in pitch.

“Steve,” Eddie chokes, hugging his neck and exhaling roughly. “My baby—”

Steve whimpers, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“I’m so close,” Steve says weakly.

“Use me,” Eddie gasps. “Come for me, baby, please—”

Steve moans brokenly, his hips moving faster, harder, his hand moving in time with it all, and Eddie can’t fucking see, it feels so good, and Steve sounds so good, his voice rough and broken and right by Eddie’s ear, and then Steve is freezing, his hips pushing in again, so hard Eddie wonders if his ass will bruise (which might be a though he likes), and he’s groaning loudly, hips stuttering.

Eddie gasps when he pulls out, and then he looks down, watching as Steve shifts down to lay on his front, pausing to slide two fingers into his own mouth, sucking for a moment before he removes them, taking Eddie into his mouth and pushing Eddie’s leg back up the way he did before so he can slide the fingers into his ass. Eddie groans, dropping his head as Steve bobs his head.

“Holy shit,” he says loudly, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Fuck, baby, please, I’m—”

Steve doesn’t stop, humming around Eddie’s dick, fingers pressing and prodding and pushing until Eddie’s nerves light up, and his back arches again.

“Steve!”

Steve moans in response, pressing into the spot, sucking harder before he lifts his head and looks up at Eddie with lidded eyes.

“Come for me, baby.”

Eddie whines, and Steve slides his tongue up Eddie’s dick, and then he’s coming, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, his fingers in Steve’s hair again, his other hands gripping one of the blankets that’s bunched up on the mattress, and he’s gasping for breath, hips jerking. Steve pulls his fingers out, and Eddie groans, panting and blinking his open to watch as Steve leans over him, sliding his tongue over Eddie’s pelvis, licking up the come.

Eddie opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out before he can even think, and Steve hovers over him, sliding a hand over his chest as he leans down, opening his mouth and letting the come drip into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie moans, reaching up to Steve’s head and pulling him into a kiss, licking into his mouth.

He swallows when they part, and Steve kneels between his legs, breathing hard, his mouth shining.

“Fuck,” he says breathlessly, touching Eddie’s thighs, squeezing.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, closing his eyes for a moment before he pushes himself to sit up.

He reaches out to Steve, who falls against him, burying his face in his neck as Eddie wraps his arms around him, petting his hair as he looks outside. The sun is up now, shining down at them, and the sky is blue, scattered with a few clouds.

“You okay?” he whispers to Steve, who groans, nodding.

“Are you?”

“Steve, I’ve never come that hard in my life.”

Steve giggles, sitting up to kiss him softly.

“I need to take this off,” he says after a moment, moving away and reaching down to take off the condom, hissing and wincing. Eddie watches him tie it off and put it in the plastic bag with the sandwich foil before he moves and falls onto his back, sighing heavily. Eddie smiles, moving closer, pulling his hair so he lifts his head. Eddie moves so his leg is under his head, and Steve relaxes, his expression light as Eddie combs his fingers through his hair.

They’re quiet.

Steve’s hand is resting on his own stomach, rising and falling with every breath, the other touching Eddie’s legs absently. Eddie plays with his hair, gazing at him basking in the sunlight, and after a few moments he reaches to touch his face, tracing lines between his moles. He continues it down his neck, watching Steve smile as he recognizes the pattern, and then his chest before he runs his fingers through his chest hair.

Steve hums softly, smiling.

“We should probably get dressed,” Steve says after a while, his voice slurring sleepily. “In case someone drives by.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says regretfully, looking Steve up and down. He really is so gorgeous.

They dress quietly, slowly, finding sweatpants and boxers and the t-shirts they threw aside earlier. Eddie realizes everything Steve is wearing is from Eddie’s room. He pulls him into a kiss.

They get stuck there for a while, kneeling on the mattress and kissing each other slowly, arms around each other, fingers in each other’s hair.

They tidy up when they finally part, sorting out the clothes and setting the trash bag between a bag and the wall of the van so it doesn’t get lost, and then they get into the front seats. Steve gets a map out, following it with furrowed eyebrows as Eddie gazes at him, at his messy hair and wrinkled t-shirt.

“There’s a gas station a few miles away,” Steve says after a minute, leaning to show Eddie the map. Eddie raises his eyebrows, struggling to find where they are until Steve points, and Eddie is impressed with how quickly Steve figured it out. “And there’s a town a little past it, they might have a gym where we can use their showers.”

“Alright,” Eddie says, leaning over and giving him an abrupt kiss that makes his eyes widen and his lips curve into a smile before he reaches to buckle himself in. “You ready?”

Steve looks at him, and his cheeks are pink despite everything they’ve done this morning.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”

Eddie turns the van on, and the music turns back on, low and quiet, and Steve buckles up after setting the map across his legs. Eddie waits, then reaches over and squeezes his leg, lifting his chin. Steve meets him walkway across the center console with a soft kiss. Steve is smiling when they part, and he looks out the window shyly.

Eddie pulls back into the road after checking both ways even though the road’s been empty for hours. (Wayne would be proud.)

And then he drives, glancing to look at Steve, and even though his smile is soft and small and content, it outshines the sun.

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#good god #this was so much longer than it was meant to be #i know i say that every time i write something but #the majority of the plot in this did not exist in my head until i was typing it out #mind the tags <3 apparenly i cant give steve a break #steddie #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfiction

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