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san8ny · 9 months ago

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Intermission

Ellie Williams <3

Synopsis: Ellie and you haven’t spoken since highschool, you two never really that close. One day, the all-star hits you up upon getting kicked out. You down to help her steal from her own childhood home or nah?

w.c: 4.1k / warnings include: Ellie is a bit rude in the beginning, some Joel slander, she’s just hella uptight, mutual pining, kissing, she makes out with your hooha, but it’s hot. ;-;

“Am I even doing this right?” you mutter down at the pocket knife you had angled, poorly sharpening it’s blade with the edge of the worn-down whetstone you and Ellie happened to find upon arrival to Joel’s cabins.

She gives you, and both the board, a once-over before turning back to the picture frames lined up on the wall, “Sure.” Rolling your eyes, you throw the knife onto the counter, “You know, I didn’t know he had such a swanky place.”

“Yeah. Reeaal swanky.” She huffs, scrunching her brows in annoyance when the clatter of the knife you’d just thrown doesn’t quiet down immediately, “You find the checkbook yet?”

Ah, the checkbook. You almost forgot she recruited you out here to practically rob her adoptive dad blind.

I mean, fuck, had you had the luck of being in her place— living so lavishly, you’d let the bastard yell at you all he wanted.

Dragging your finger tips across the wooden counter, careful to not splinter them, you push yourself off where you were leaning, and walk towards the stairs, “Doesn’t it make sense for him to like, I don’t know, have it upstairs?”

Ellie runs a hand down her tired face, letting out a huge sigh before turning towards when you stand near the railing, your foot already placed on the first step. Why didn’t she think of that before? She gives you the green light, following behind as you ascend up the stairs. She finds her breath hitched and her eyes closing in further irritation when you suddenly stop, her face parallel with your lower back due to the step-to-height difference.

“Is that you?” You say, a smile stretching on your face as you point towards the meek framed photo that hung above the handrail, depicting a pre-teen Ellie in a science museum tee, Joel slightly crouched behind her with two thumbs up. You almost would have missed the small smile she has in the snapshot had you had nor squinted, “Didn’t know you had a dimple. Do still have it?” You ask, turning down towards where she stood.

“No. Now move.” She huffs, bumping your shoulder as she takes lead, climbing up the rest of the stairs. Rude. Nonetheless, you follow her as you enter into the main hallway. How the hell was a cabin this big? you’re only in it for, like, less than a season— Right? Not like you would know, the fanciest thing you’d ever seen was the time you went to Dina’s Bat Mizvah down at the community center and got to see a chocolate fountain, granted it was years ago, it’s the closest thing you’d ever experienced comparisable to ‘upper echelon.’

She seemingly notices your distant stare, harshly bringing her palms together in a large clap thus pulling you out of your thoughts. Clearly taken aback, you meet her blank gaze, “You take the attic, i’ll take the main bedroom”

“Where—

“Down the hall, to your left. You’ll see the ladder cord hanging.” She cuts you off, already walking away and into one of the many doors you could only assume led to Joel’s bedroom. Okay! This should be easy!

It was not easy.

On your hands and knees, you cough uncontrollably from the dust that blocks insulation. It errupted when you pulled the damn ceiling ladder cord down. All this money and they couldn’t fucking dust it once in a while? Wait, when was the last time this place was even entered? That was the question you asked as you slowly tip-toed up with wide eyes. immediate, you’re met with U-haul boxes, plastic dinosaur figurines and some comics.

In that moment, you smile a bit as you kneel on the floor, grabbing the Stegosaurus and T-rex as you gently knock them against eachother, playing with them.

Though you swear you were being satirical when you began toying with them, you couldn’t help thoughts drift to a younger Ellie playing with these like you were. She’d probably always call dibs on the Carnivore, giving the other person an eyeroll when they cry at how unfair she was being for never giving them a turn at being the razor-bearing predator. ‘Skill issue’ she’s also snicker when the kids run back to their parents.

When you finally put them down after some time, you walk over to one of the several moving boxes. Some tattered, some dirty and some even still closed up. It was wrong for you to have been snooping around her childhood home, sure, but she’s also stealing from her own said home— so you can’t be that bad. Reaching into the closest one near you, you pull out a small velvet belt. One that stroke resemblance to the ones you’d see in the cheesy karate-cop movies your dad had been a fan of. Another, and another and shortly, you have a large array of belts, with at the very bottom of the box containing a small plaque of achievements, ‘Ellie Williams’ printed in fine, gold lettering, ‘Graduate from the Jackson institute of Martial Arts.’

Of course, she was a prodigy at everything. What wasn’t Ellie good at? She’d been your highschool’s valedictorian a couple years back when you both were about to graduate, given the golden chance to speak at the commencing, well, was. That was before passing the chance onto the second runner without a second thought; she claimed she wasn’t the talking type and just casually went about her day, like it wasnt the opportunity most students would have killed for. Students like you, who spent all night and day to even make a dent in the social stratosphere that was highschool.

Given now you both were in your early 20’s, you still hold admiration for Ellie. Maybe that’s why when she randomly called you to hangout after years, you didn’t question it, or even second guess yourself.

How long Ellie had been standing there watching you coo over her baby pictures was something you, and both she couldn’t answer. Originally wanting to smack you on the head or scare you, she couldn’t help but lean against the attic wall, eyeing the way you carefully place her achievements down like they were the most important thing to you.

You’d always been like that since Ellie can recall meeting you. Always so nice, so sensible, always the first one in the room to make light out of nothing. You definitely would have been burnt on the cross or something for just how smiley you were if you were alive back in that day. Ellie found you interesting in ways she couldn’t configure why.

She and Joel had a falling out a couple of weeks ago. He cut her off of all financial support, insisting she get a job or a higher education like her peers were. A few profanities and insults were thrown around, leading eventually to her getting kicked out. Funny. Though she never cared about being embarrassed or the opinions of others, she did feel some sort of seeping humiliation. So, with the money she had, she booked a hotel and called you up. She chuckles when she remembers the first time she sent the address, your hesitancy to type back as you get the wrong, but expected idea,

‘ .’.im not fucking u lol’

‘wth no I got kicked out’

‘OHHH srry!!! D: ‘

The chuckle that hears behind startles, your grip seemingly loosening on the picture frame you had in-hand meeting the floor in cruel shatters. Quiet consumes you both with your hands shaking erratically, “O-oh my god? i’m so sorry, I don’t even know why I did that. fuckfuckfuck!! It was an accident. I can pay for that! Like, i’m so so sorry—l” you frantically plead with her, your eyes alternating from her and the bloody gla—bloody?

“You’re bleeding.” Ellie sighs, softly reaching forward to grab your wrist, pulling you around the mess you caused. You didn’t even realize you were until you felt the blood drip from your ankles down to your shins, staining your bleach-white socks in scarlet droplets.

“I messed up, Ellie, i’m really sorry.”

“Can you like, stop apologizing? It’s fine. Didn’t even know when that picture was taken anyways.”

Somehow, her words worsen your hysteric state, you sinking down back onto your knees as you sob. Oh god, she didn’t even know when that picture was taken meaning it’s that long ago. Ellie stares at you clearly with a panicked look, not really knowing how to comfort you— or anyone for that matter. Again, you were more of the sensible one between them, even if you two hadn’t exactly been all that close growing up in the same town, school and similarly interconnected friend groups. ‘What would you do?’ So, Ellie slightly crouches down, her squeaky sneakers noising as she awkwardly encircles her arms around you. Clearly taken aback by this gesture, you peer up from where your head was buried inbetween your knees and instead, at Ellie, who’s usual laid-back expression is replaced with furrowed brows, her eyes not meeting yours and some reddening on her cheeks. “Y-you’ve seen the picture frames around, man, I see myself all the time. It’s fine.”

You sniffle abit before giving her a coherent answer that isn’t just hiccups, “Im sorry.” She sighs before slightly reaching up to pat your head, “Please stop crying, I think i’m more off-put by your ugly cries than you breaking shit.” That tugs a laugh out of you, pushing Ellie away as she matches your grin. “I mean look, you ruined my tee.” She wasn’t lying, you look down to her white tee and it was absolutely soaked with shed tears belonging to you. You gently run your thumbs over her chest in a bad attempt to wipe your embarassingly smeared mascara off, but it only recieves a small whine from Ellie, who backs away immediately. You’re left confused when she gets up, clearing her voice. “We should continue searching.” With that, she leaves the attic, leaving you up there and with multiple. How could ones demeanor change that often? You almost noticed the sensitivity in her chest.

“Pfft, softie.” You mutter, a smile on your lips as you follow her down. Eventually, Ellie is the one to find the book, it’s placed inbetween some folded jeans. ‘Fuck yeah..’ She bites her chapped lip as she flips through it. Enough pages for her, and a good forged signature she’d mastered when he’d be too lazy to sign her field trip permission slips— guess something did pay off. You stand there with crossed arms, feeling a bit squeamish all of a sudden, like the thought had hit you finally, Ellie is moving away. She notices you when she lifts her gaze up, puzzled with your stance, “I told you it’s okay, the picture frame can be replaced.”

“I don’t want you to move away.”

“What.”

“I won’t repeat myself.” You shake your head defiantly, standing your ground when she towers over you, all these years and when you two have somewhat of a bond, she wants to move away? And maybe yeah, you had it coming, being easily-attached to somehow who’d you’d only started recently hanging out with. “What makes you think I care?” She mocks, looking at you like you’d grown an extra head, she’s almost astonished with your stupidity, why would she have dragged you all the way here to just, stay? Something with the way she says those words churns humility deep in your gut, who were you to even admit that to her? You flail around your arms passively as you back away, a croak in your throat, “Just something I said. You’re a cool person.”

“Right, well, I got the checkbook meaning we can get the hell out. Seeing this place almost makes me want to not drain Joel’s pockets.” She yawns, throwing you the book before retreating into one of the previous rooms, though before, she asks, “Say, where’d we put the keys?”

Who had the keys?

Comically enough, sirens began to faintly hear in the back, and your gaze locks onto Ellie’s, “Fuck— find the keys.” She says, running back into the room. How petty was her dad to call the police on them? Well, petty enough to have alarms laying around incase his thieving daughter comes around. You, instantly begin to eye around for them, palms growing clammy at the aspect of being arrested now comes into plan as the sirens grow closer. Finding them, you call out to Ellie who seemingly was already on her way once she heard the jingles of them, “Out the back. You’re gonna run, and not turn back, ‘alright?” She whispers, grabbing you and running towards the kitchen door once the front door is knocked.

Once it’s kicked in, Ellie manages to get out with a groan, definitely a bruiser, but nonetheless, they make it out of the area without getting caught. While she hasn’t broken a sweat yet, you were coughing up a storm like you were earlier, eyes tearing up as you let them out in fits. She gently rubs your back, looking around for where their parked car was, it was a good idea they’d parked so far away- granted it was flawed in multiple ways, it came out in their good favor. Once you’d caught your breath, Ellie hums, “You know where we parked?” You nod, looking around, “Yeah. near the marked tree, you smeared my lipstick over it..” She scrunches her nose to prevent a loud laugh from coming out, your sadness over lipstick being funny to her, “Right. That way.”

You both find the car and enter, ellie starting the car as she backs up and maneuvers around the various tall trees it was parked around before getting onto the main road. You don’t say anything for the majority of the one hour ride, those 60 minutes feeling like the longest ones to Ellie who’s gotten use to your talkitive habits. So when she asks you if you want aux, you shake your head— deflating her mood. She sighs, lighting up a cigarette at the light and rolling down the window. You just lean your head back and rest your eyes, emotions running through that you couldn’t even seem to process. Tiredness, embarrassment of her flat out saying she’d never stay for you, getting almost booked by the police, and just ones you didn’t want to acknowledge at all. You wanted to just, go to sleep.

Ellie, on the otherhand, feels nothing but anxiety gnawing at her. Why does she care so much whether you talk to her or not? She’s never even liked talking, and somehow, the thought of never speaking to you again after this makes her feel nauseous. Would you text her? Call her? Visit her if she left? Would you buy the nearest train ticket if she told you one day to come when she settles into her new place? Or would you just move on? Would you move onto some cooler girl in town to befriend? Some other girl you’d look up to, some other girl who would show you the hidden gems around town you’d been asking her to, Fuck— some other girl you’d give all your affection to. Ellie swerves the car, and had it not been your quick-wit to pull the steering back, she might have crashed the vehicle.

Pulling over, she places her head lightly on the leather wheel while you stare at her in bewilderment, “Are you crazy?! What was that?!” You say with a slight twitch in your eye at her loss of control.

“I don’t want to move away.”

“You literally have to, we’re on the side of the road and your emergency lights aren’t on so.”

“I’ll stay.”

“You can’t, that’s like, against the rules. I don’t know, my permit is expired.” First order of business, obtain a license.

“In Jackson. I’ll stay in Jackson.” She mumbles, lifting her head up to stare at you. This feels like a joke to you, like Ellie might just begin laughing at you when you show the tiniest bit of you of relief. So, you just match her stare, tiling your head. “Why?” Why? What do you mean why? Ellie wants to scream, why don’t you look happy? She’s staying for you.

“Just..wanted to.” She says after a beat or two, pulling the car back onto the road as she nears your house. Giving a curt nod, you look out the window, your knees feeling wobbly like a teenage girl all over again as you suppress asking questions to the clearly disoriented freckled girl. Once on arrival, Ellie expects you to leave and slam that door but instead, you sit there for a bit.

“My mom isn’t here.” You say, chewing your inner-cheek.

“You don’t have a spare key or ‘sum?”

“No no I do, it’s just— want to come in?” You ask her with big eyes, your hands folded on your lap like a child on their best behavior to get something.

“Did your mom bake that pie you got me last time?” She’s referring to the Cherry Pie your mom made last time you two hung out.

“Is the sky blue?” You say, with a smile, trying to lighten the mood that’ll need more than just that to recover.

“It’s grey but I see your point. I’ll go park, leave the front door open.” She smiles when you nod, skipping out of the car and into your home.

When she does so, and enters your door, she’s met with a warm wafting smell of baked goods. Ellie might gave been fairly thin, but she had a nose on her, leading her to the kitchen. You’ve changed out of your dirty clothes, she notices, you now wearing some small pajama shorts and a tanktop. You’re bent over the oven, grabbing the treats out of the pre-heated oven your mother had likely left them in to retain warmth.

“You’ve got to stop doing that.” You mutter, almost dropping the tray of food while Ellie smirks

“Can’t really promise accepting an apology if you dropped those.” She says, walking on over to where you stood by the kitchen island. Something in the way she says that so..flirtatiously, makes you look back at her twice. “Whatever. Do me a favor, take the plates out while I cut the pieces.” Ellie nods, walking over to the several arrays of cabinets. Though, upon doing so, she notices your refrigerator, decorated in colorful magnets, children’s literature and most of all, a picture of you, and an older woman. You were younger, hair a bit longer than you had it now, and a wide grin with your front tooth missing. You couldn’t of been older than 6, Ellie thinks. Smiley.

“This your mom?” she asks, running her fingerpads alongst the smooth film while you hum, nodding. “Yeah, it’s my mom” You say, handing her a slice of piece when she gives you the plate, “You look alike.” Ellie concludes when you two begin walking upstairs to your room.

It was certainly your room, is what the auburnette thinks as she sits on your bed. Messy bedsheets you never got to make, clothes scattered near your closet and other things you never got to clean up when she’d called you up this morning at such an ungodly time to divulge you in on her scheme,

though now, upon her decision to stay in the town, it seemed a bit for nothing. It’d be a funny story to tell with you. With you, she thinks, watching as you chew the treat and sit on the rugged floor as you flip through TV channels. Eventually settling on some show Ellie never knew was still even airing. She quietly sinks from the bed, onto the floor herself, sitting close to you as your gaze stays glued to the blaring screen, flashes of color reflecting onto your face as each scene passes. Ellie finds herseld staring at you, a person she once found so inconspicuous now becoming the very reasoning she stays in a town she hates so much. Whatever you had the girl under needed to be looked at.

“Do you like me?” Is what she wants to ask, but “Do you have a boyfriend?” is what she settles for.

You turn to her, meekly shaking your head. Since when was she sat so close to you?

Ellie nods, looking back at the show to get you to, before asking another question, “Girlfriend?” You shrug, “I mean, I use to talk to this one girl..”You mutter, before Ellie finds herself furthering it, “What happened?”

You sigh, before pointing a finger, “Don’t laugh.” you glare. Ellie smiles, nodding. “She told me she was straight after like 2 days AND THEN, i saw her kissing on Judy.” Ellie snorts, “No fucking way, Judy the librarian?” You nod, burying your face in a nearby throw pillow.

“I need a drink.” You mutter, getting up and leaving the room with Ellie in it. You return shortly after with a bottle of wine and some glasses. The girl groans as she stretches, “Now you’re talking. Pour me some.”

Eventually, the topic heads in the way of relationships once more, with you two telling each other of your awful sex lives in the majority straight town Jackson was as you sip.

As Ellie tells one, you find your eyes feeling heavy, alternating between her green eyes down to her pale pink lips. You nod, poorly attempting to give the illusion you were following along with whatever she was saying. Ellie, herself, wasn’t all that there but she was better. She’d stopped talking long ago and was just moving her lips with no dialogue coming out whatsoever, seeing if you’d ask why she halted her story. She licks her lips, leaning back as she places her glass down on the nightstand near her— jean-clad thighs spread tantalizingly as your gaze drops to them.

Her years of martial arts and track did her well, you admit, hoping it wasn’t obvious you were ogling the girl.

“Were you mad at me earlier?” you whisper, fidgeting with the loose seam of her jeans as you notice the difference in how she was acting at the cabin, and how she is now. Ellie hums, matching your small voice. “I was more so mad at myself.” She answers you, her hand finding where yours toys with a string, “Not at you.”

You nod, not really having anything to say.

“Can I kiss you?” you finally utter, liquid courage taking over as Ellie thumbs your soft hips from where you sit so closely. She gives you a soft ‘yeah’, pulling you onto her lap. You begin by littering feathery pecks along her jaw, her sensitivity earlier when you touched her chest beginning to make sense when goosebumps begin to arise along her pale skin, her nipples hardening as the hair on her neck stands before kissing her deeply.

You two kiss slowly for a while, finding some rhythm as it slowly turns into something else. You gently gasp when Ellie rocks your hips onto her thigh, making you detach from her mouth and straddle it the way she wants you to. The rough texture against her jeans on your soft shorts makes you huff a bit, face burning up as you grip her shoulders.

“You’re my sweet girl, you can do it.” She murmurs lowly, watching you grind all over her, your slick slowly starting to seep onto her denim pants— all like she wanted. You nod, frustrated to the brim of tears when you can’t seem to fuck yourself on her thigh well. Ellie pushes you down, caging your legs in between her hips as she tilts her head back down, "Seems like you're not the only sweet girl wanting my attention.." She smiles as you moan, the heel of her palm placed directly on your touch-starved mound, giving it just enough pressure and angling to make you whine out a small 'Ellie..'

She gives you finally what you want, sliding your shorts to the side and sighs when she sees just what a mess has been waiting for her.

No underwear?

You attempt to leverage yourself by sitting up on your elbows but Ellie pushes you down, hiking your hips up even more with a singular grasp of your shins as she kisses directly on your puffy pussy, your messy sap smearing all over her lips before giving you a grin,

Oh, you'd pay her what she was worth alright. Maybe returning Joel's checkbook can wait after this.

[All credits to the owner of the picture above!! i got it from popipa on pinterest]

#tlou 2 #Ellie Williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x f!reader #wlw #tlou 2 smut #sapphic #ellie williams blurbs #ellie williams hcs #ellie williams smut #the last of us hbo #the last of us game

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paceprompting · 2 months ago

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paper kiss

written for ‘mistletoe’ wc: 982 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no warnings apply | tags: pre-relationship, pining, fluff, werewolf steve, human eddie

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Steve had a problem.

Call in the troops, all hands on deck, cannot afford to fail level of problem.

Except he couldn’t exactly go around blabbing this issue to the entire party. Dustin alone would blab in five seconds, and he’d never hear the end of it for as long as he lived.

How was he supposed to admit the simultaneously best and worst idea he’d ever had to kiss Eddie for the first time?

Eddie had never the opportunity for the romantic nonsense, even if he rolled his eyes or stuck out his tongue at any sight of it. Eddie’s walls were covered in thorns and bristles from years of needing to bite first what usually came to harm him.

Steve, on the other hand, was highly practiced in romantic nonsense.

So, clearly: Christmas time equaled mistletoe.

Genius in its simplicity.

Idiotic in that it was fatal.

Because now he was basically supernaturally allergic to the stuff.

You get bit by one demodog and you had severe drawbacks, go figure.

It was hard enough trying not to stick his nose in Eddie’s collarbone—scenting, Robin called it. He didn’t want to know what the hell she was reading—and envelop himself in Eddie's forest, smoky scent while leaving his own behind. Even though he was literally the only person in Hawkins who could smell the difference, getting bit had come with all these other weird instincts.

Somehow, dealing with the transformation every full moon was easier than navigating daily life when every slight against the kids, against Robin, against Eddie had his claws and fangs bursting out with an inhuman snarl.

That he needed nearly two and half times more calories than ever just to not feel like he was going to pass out by midday.

When every time he looked at Eddie, he wanted so intensely his jaw hurt until they were close enough Steve could catch his scent. Close enough to always know he was okay because Steve was close enough to get to him.

Steve sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter.

“I’m just going to buy some.”

Robin leaned into his eyeline, a fearsome frown on her face, and jabbed her finger into his chest. “You’ll die, dingus.”

“Only if I directly inhale it.”

She flicked him. “Why is it important?”

Eddie wasn’t at the house, yet. He had chauffeur duty for the impeding Christmas-ification of Steve’s house—tinsel, garlands, lights, the whole nine yards—and the plan had led to Steve’s badly wonderful idea.

The kids would be so distracted decorating/devastating his house, Steve could easily pull Eddie aside for a private moment.

And they had both been too much shit. Eddie was worth more than a plain old kiss.

The kids entered the house in a whirlwind, shouting and laying out boxes and shopping bags to tear into without so much as a hello. Steve chuckled to himself.

He smelled Eddie before he saw him, and raised his head. His dark curls were dotted with melting snow, cheeks pinkened by the cold. Eddie stared intently at them, with something hidden in his hands.

Robin dismissed herself, hissing quietly at him before she darted off, “Just do it.”

Eddie didn’t watch her leave, slowly stepping into the kitchen until Steve met him halfway. Steve still couldn’t see what he was holding, Eddie’s fingers curled around something small.

Steve breathed in his fresh scent—pine forest and smoke—the tension in his shoulders fading.

“Um, I had this, sort of…thing. An idea,” Eddie started quietly.

“Do I get to hear it?”

Eddie started to roll his eyes, and then stopped himself. Like he was trying not to fall into old habits. Strange.

This idea had to be something special.

“So, I really want to kiss you.”

Steve’s heart pounded so loud in his ears, he hardly processed that Eddie had kept speaking, his enclosed hands moving in their usual way. Drew Steve’s attention all the more to what he was hiding.

“I thought, Christmas, mistletoe. Perfect opportunity.” Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling, since Eddie had gone onto the inevitable conclusion. “And then I remembered that would probably kill you before we ever got to enjoy it.”

Steve clicked his tongue. “Yeah.”

“So, instead, I made this.” Eddie opened his hands, and extended out what looked like a small plant with oval leaves and red berries.

Hesitantly, Steve reached for it. Eddie wasn’t about to poison him, but Steve wasn’t sure what to expect as he grabbed with two fingers at the nearest leaf. The thing crinkled as Steve lifted it.

“Paper,” he said with a soft smile.

He held the faux-mistletoe in one hand, examining it with the other. Stems of green oval leaves, tiny red berried and tied together at the top with a white ribbon. It was soft and slightly fuzzy like construction paper, and Steve faintly smelled Eddie’s pine forest all over it.

“And safe,” Eddie said.

All this to overcome Steve’s werewolf allergy. Because they both wanted to kiss.

For some reason, particularly under mistletoe.

Steve looked at Eddie, his eyes wide and waiting. He chuckled. “We have made this so complicated.”

Eddie arched a brow.

“You transform into a hairy beast every full moon and I really want you to hold me down and lick me all over the rest of the month. Let’s just say our lives haven’t been simple for a while.” He stepped close, plucking the mistletoe from Steve’s hand to run it over his lips.

He flicked his eyes toward Steve over the paper leaves, playful and heated. A pleased growl rumbled through Steve’s chest, and Eddie’s eyes just gleamed. They had moved close enough that all one of them had to do was drift that much closer.

“Are you going to kiss the mistletoe?” Steve asked, peering at Eddie’s mouth and imagining the taste of pine and smoke. “Or me?”

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie microfic #steddie drabble #werewolf steve #fluff #pining #mistletoe #pre relationship #if you've seen that one doctor who episode #you know where i got the allergy idea from

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vrystalius · 4 months ago

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Learning to accept love with every bite.

You packed lunch for Obanai and Kaburamaru. He planned on skipping breakfast and maybe even lunch altogether, but your packed meal changed his mind.

Pairing: Obanai x gn!reader

(TW: Obanai’s troubled relationship with food, spoilers on why Obanai wears a mask)

Usually, Obanai’s mornings usually are the same; waking up being held by you, getting out of bed to feed Kaburamaru a small treat, heading of to the bathroom to freshen up, eat a small meal before wrapping the bandages over his scars and then heading out for training or a meeting. He noticed the lack of your warmth pressing against his back, wich he usually wakes up to in the mornings, and rolled over on the bed, noticing that your side of the bed was already neatly tucked in. Seems like you headed out early today without telling him. Where do you even have to go out this early? Errands can wait, why not spend some time with him? Tch. After groaning and stretched his limbs out, savouring the warmth of the bed a little longer, he finally forced himself out of the warm bed.

Obanai stepped closer to Kaburamaru’s enclose, giving his companion a couple head-scratches before slipping him pre-made snack cubes into the enclosure. The rest of the morning continued as usual, just a little more lonely. Normally, he’ll eat breakfast for your sake. You remind him to take in his meals regularly with proper portions he feels comfortable eating. Without you, Obanai’d probably fall back into his old habit— skipping meals in favour of training. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

You knew that your boyfriend has a troubled relationship with food. You didn’t know everything about his childhood or past and you never pushed him to reveal things about himself he didn’t want to share, he might need time to proper process his own troubles before sharing it with you, but on the other side you’re also totally fine if he’ll never share those things with you. You’re patient with Obanai and love him for the way he is, so why force him into opening up? Forcing him to talk about his troubles will do more damage than good, so you leave those worries be and focus on better things. That’s what he appreciates being with you so much. He almost feels insecure about you being so good with him, while he barely gives anything back in return…

He stared at his bandages for a good minute. If he wears them now, he won’t eat breakfast. It’s too much of a hassle to slip food between his bandages without staining them, so he’d rather not try. If he eats breakfast now and slips the bandages on then, Obanai will loose valuable time he could be using to train and spar with other hashira. He promised Sanemi to show up early to his manor for training sessions, so why make him pissed by being late? He knew you’d probably disapprove, but Obanai began wrapping the bandages over his jaw and mouth, deciding to skip breakfast for today. He tries to talk into himself that he’ll just eat more lunch but failed, resulting to silently curse at himself.

After letting Kaburamaru join him by making himself comfortable around his neck, he finally made his way downstairs to equip his katana and head out. That’s where he spotted a small bento box prepared on the counter, alongside a sealed paper bag with holes right next to it. His brows furrowed together in slight confusion as he inspected the bento, lifting the lid. He was met with a small letter placed right above two compartments placed inside the box. Scanning the letter, Obanai recognised your terrible handwriting.

Made this for before I headed out, Tengen called me over for an emergency of sorts. There’s some Gyoza so you can eat with your mask on by slipping it through the bandages, it should’t crumble too much, plus they are small enough. I also some vinegar soaked kelp (I know it’s your fav~) if you want to eat without it or alone, so you can choose what you want to eat! Love you lots ♡

PS: I spend most of my morning catching lunch for Kaburamaru, it’s in the bag, hope he likes it!

Obanai felt his cheeks heat up beneath his bandages as a smile started spreading. He folded the letter and tucked it back into the bento box to read again later, inspecting the meals you prepared. There were three Gyoza dumplings tucked into one compartment, the portion he usually eats, and some vinegar soaked kelp in the other, again, the amount the one he likes to eat. He slipped bandages down and grabbed some strands of seaweed with his fingers, stuffing them into his mouth. His smile grew even more as the familiar taste spread in his mouth, but for some reason it tasted even better than usual. After slipping his bandages back over his mouth and putting the lid onto his bento box, he unwrapped the top of the brown paper back and glanced inside. Kaburamaru curiously leaned down as well after noticing the smell of food— there was a poor mice trapped in the bag. You seriously caught this? For Kaburamaru? You do really pay attention to both Obanai and his little companion.

He obviously released the poor mouse since he already has enough snake-friendly food stored in the pantry. He appreciated the effort, but storing a mice in a paper bag for a whole day was a little inhumane, even for Obanai.

After packing the bento box and equipping himself with his katana, he headed off to Sanemi’s, already looking forward to eating the home cooked meal with his friend, being able to show off the lovely bento you prepared for him and only him, while Sanemi is stuck with a random thrown together meal.

🎃

Whumptober prompt: Recovery

I was seriously nervous about posting this. As I mentioned in a post before, I really am insecure about writing for Obanai XD last time I wrote for him was two months ago in my second ever post (Love Languages of the Hashira pt.2)— So I hoped you enjoyed this!! Let me know what to change or add about Obanai! Also, I know pet snakes eat mice and life small preys and stuff but I didn’t want to write about that part so I simplifies it to “snack cubes” or whatever I called them XD Hope that’s okay!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!

Take care of yourselves <3 I appreciate every single comment, repost and like. Thank you for supporting me for so long!

Here’s my event Masterlist 🎃

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eyesofshinigami · 10 months ago

Text

3, 2, 1, Fight!

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Meet Ugly, Steve and Dustin are brothers, pre-relationship

Written for the STWG daily drabble prompt: not a meet cute but a meet ugly

This is not at all how Steve pictured his Saturday going. He could be anywhere, instead, he’s standing in a comic book shop, fighting over a toy with another grown man who looks like he’s going to beat Steve over the head with it.

“Let go!” the guy yells, trying to tug the action figure out of Steve’s hands

“No, you let go!” Steve yells back, yanking it back. He has to give the guy props, though. He’s just as relentless as Steve is.

The guy sputters, an attractive shade of pink coloring his cheeks as his curly hair falls in his face. Wait, what? “Fuck off, why are you even here? Don’t you belong in a gym or something?”

Steve scoffs, still yanking. “Does it matter why I’m here? Just let go already!”

Dustin had been asking for this action figure for months now, talking about it and showing Steve newspaper clippings and TV commercials. Steve, being the good big brother he is, promised their mom that he would do his best to get it for him for his upcoming birthday. He’d be damned if he was going to let some punk, albeit a very attractive punk, take it away from him. Why did they only put three out on the shelf anyway?

They play tug of war for another few minutes, until the bewildered clerk, who had been watching their exchange, finally butts in and says, “Uh, I think I might have another one in the back? Can you wait here?”

They both nod, neither of them letting go of the toy. “I wish he would have said that in the first place,” Steve grouses, watching the clerk disappear behind a door. “Why they only put out a couple of copies of a toy I will never understand.”

It’s Hot Guy’s turn to sputter. “Toy? TOY? This, sir, is the limited edition statue of Kas the Betrayer that Wizard of the Coast put out to celebrate the anniversary of his DnD release! Not that you would care about any of that, you troglodyte.”

Steve has no idea what any of that means. “Oh, so that’s why Dustin wanted it. Makes sense now. He loves that guy.”

“Wait, it’s not for you?”

“Uh, no? It’s for my kid brother’s birthday. He loves that Dorks and Dragons game and he ran a Kas… uh… campaign? Last year? It was his first time. Kas is kind of a big deal to him.”

The other guy starts to look a little contemplative, but that’s when the clerk appears with another, much less rankled looking box. Steve immediately lets the one in his hands go and takes that one instead. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

The clerk shrugs and heads back behind the counter. Meanwhile, Hot Guy tugs his hair in front of his face. “Uh, look. I’m sorry I said such shitty things over a toy. It’s just, Kas is kind of a big deal to me too. You could have just said.”

Steve waves him off. “No worries, I get it. But now we both have one.” He pauses and considers a second. It’s worth a shot. “You could make it up to me over lunch in the food court.”

Hot Guy’s eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

Okay, wow. “Well, I was, but you can just say no, you don’t have to-“

“No, no, no!” Hot Guy says, waving his arms around, nearly dropping the box he fought so hard for. “No, I’d like that. Eddie,” he says, holding out a hand. That pretty pink flush is back. Steve kind of wants to see how far it goes down.

“Steve. Now let’s go, before any more wayward nerds decide they want to fight us over these.”

Eddie, dork that he is, bows and motions towards the cash register, “By your leave, my prince.”

Steve rolls his eyes. He always did like the nerdy ones.

#les writes things #steddie #stwg #demogorgon_dailies

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

can we see what christmas is like with eddie, reader and roan? 🫶

the munson family and their pre christmas priorities ♡ (step)mom!reader, 1k

“I'm sick of being a dad,” Eddie says. “I'm done. You're going to live with your Uncle Wayne.”

Roan roars with laughter, her hair dusting the floor, her t-shirt dipping down to expose her chubby belly where she hangs from Eddie's hands. “Dad, pick me up!”

“I'm Eddie now to you.”

“I'm,” —she cackles— “sorry! Pick me up!”

Eddie gives her a last good shake before gently lowering her to the floor. She's all flushed cheeks and big eyes, her hair a riot around her head as she wipes stray strands from her mouth. “I'm sorry, daddy,” she says, pouting, her thin brows rising up her forehead. “Don't be mad.”

“I'm furious.”

“No, you're not! You're not angry, dad, you're smiling.”

Eddie forces his lips into a deep frown. “I told you to keep her in line!”

You huff from your place by the Christmas tree. “Give it up, Eds. Santa doesn't come for grown ups, I already told you that.” You place a final small gift atop the small mountain of silver-wrapped boxes and straighten it to perfection. “So I have to make sure you get what you deserve.”

“What was I s'posed to do?” Roan asks, sitting up. Her pyjamas are just a little too big, the shirt falling to her thighs and the pants covering her toes.

“Restrain her,” Eddie says, grabbing Roan under the arms to help her onto her feet. “Let me roll your pants up, babe.”

“I shrank in the night,” she says.

Eddie smooths her hair out of her face as he kneels in front of her. “You're so funny. Santa will bring you all kinds of new pyjamas tomorrow, he told me. But don't tell him I told you.”

“Did you get me anything?” Roan asks.

If only she knew. “Yeah, we got you some gifts too. But we're gonna put them out when Santa does, okay?”

“Okay.” She beams. Eddie pulls her pants from under her little feet to roll the hems up, worried she'll slip and smash her face on the wood floors.

“You're excited,” Eddie says, moving to her second leg, “I can feel you vibrating like a dog.”

“Woof,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. She's in a very cuddly mood tonight.

“Oh, what a beautiful puppy I have. She's so cute.” He hugs her lightly, black curls trapped either side of them. Eddie sits back on his calves and she lets herself fall into his lap. “What kind of puppy are you? A poodle?”

“No, I wanna be a dalmatian!”

“Of course,” he hums, stroking her hair. “How could I forget? You love damn-nations.”

You stand up from the tree to poke at them with your foot. “Can we have hot chocolate now?”

“Yeah!”

“Puppy's can't have chocolate,” Eddie says, encouraging Roan back to tuck her hair behind her ears. “So you'll have to be human Ro again.”

She sighs forlornly. “Okay.”

You make your way into the kitchen, paper chains hanging in the doorway and snowflake stickers holographic against the dark window. It's only 5PM, but the sun has firmly set, leaving the outside world in total darkness. You flick on the kitchen light and immediately head to the stove to heat the stove top kettle where it’s lived this last month on the back hob. “Milk, please?” you ask.

Eddie's already in the fridge. He passes you the milk, ignoring the mounds of foil wrapped meats and cheeses, his stomach aching in longing. “One more sleep,” he says, hooking a pint of milk on his pinky.

Roan attempts to climb your legs. You pick her up and put her on the counter, shielding her from the stove with your body. “What's for dinner?” she asks you.

“How about soup?” you ask. When Roan wrinkles her nose, you add, “With croutons? We could have yummy vegetable soup with crispy croutons.” Still wrinkled. “Or we could have tomato soup and grilled cheese?”

“With extra cheese?” Roan asks.

“Sure, princess. Lots and lots of cheese.”

Eddie opens the kettle. “What was in here?”

“Milk last night, but I already washed it. I knew we'd be having more hot chocolate,” you say, words shaped by your smile as Roan pulls you in for a hug. “It's so cold, huh, baby.”

“My nose is cold.”

“I can feel it!”

Eddie pours the entire pint of milk into the kettle. It'll be just enough for all three of you to have a full mug, and if he uses the big mugs there'll be no risk of overflow once the whipped cream and marshmallows have been added.

The milk doesn't need to boil, only warm. While it's heating he takes the hot chocolate powder from the cupboard and throws in a couple of heaping spoonfuls. The milk quickly turns a rich brown.

“Should I put some real chocolate in there too?” Eddie asks.

“Duh, dad!” Roan says.

You second her agreement more kindly, “Yes! Definitely yes. It's always best with the real stuff too.” You rub Roan's shoulders. “Yeah?”

Eddie's getting jealous, honestly. He ignores you both, shutting the lid on the kettle and easing his way between your arm and Roan's. “Let me in,” he demands.

You curl an arm behind his back. When you look up into his face, you couldn't look more in love. There's a shine to your eyes, a reverence he can't miss, and he's expecting your compliment before you give it.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you say, kissing the side of his chin.

He drops his head onto yours and pulls Roan in as close as he can without knocking her off of the counter. The air has already begun to smell of chocolate, though the smell of honeyed ham lingers. Roan herself smells like no tears shampoo. Eddie sniffs you curiously.

“Stop sniffing me.”

“What do you smell like?”

“Nothing. I'm not wearing any perfume.”

You smell like yourself. He can't explain it, but he likes it, hiding his nose in the seam of your hairline.

Roan cracks first, pushing you both away. “How long will it take?”

“Any minute now,” Eddie says, kissing your cheek before pulling away. “Let me get that chocolate.”

“You didn't put the chocolate in? Dad.”

787 notes · View notes

stylesonfilms · 17 days ago

Text

ink & innocence - 28

word count: 5.1k

i need to up my game on this story im SORRY! <3

The party downstairs carried on, its energy buzzing through the walls like a live current. Music thudded against the floorboards, muffled but persistent, as Aspen and Harry descended the staircase. Harry stumbled over a step halfway down, prompting Aspen to stifle her giggle behind a hand. He turned to her with a faux-serious expression, his brows furrowed, though the tips of his dimples betrayed his amusement.

“Did that on purpose,” he slurred lightly, his grip on the railing tightening in a show of mock confidence.

“Sure you did,” Aspen teased, her voice lilting with laughter. She grabbed his free hand, steadying him as they made their way down. Harry’s fingers wrapped around hers with a lazy, possessive grip, his thumb brushing along her knuckles in a way that sent warmth spreading from her fingertips up to her chest.

When they reached the living room, they settled back into their earlier spot on the couch. Kirsten, to Aspen’s quiet relief, was nowhere to be found— likely off somewhere with her hookup. Isobel sat nearby, her legs draped lazily across Zayn’s lap as she sipped on something new, her lipstick staining the rim of the glass.

“That was pretty badass,” Isobel declared, tipping her drink toward Aspen with a playful smirk. Her hand shot out to lightly fist-bump Aspen’s knee, the motion casual but full of approval.

Aspen huffed and rolled her eyes, but her lips curled into a reluctant smile that she couldn’t suppress. “Whatever,” she replied softly, her attempt at brushing off the compliment falling short when Harry leaned forward to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of her neck. His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt his hum reverberate softly.

“Only my girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears, his tone brimming with quiet pride.

Before Aspen could respond, Louis appeared in front of them, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. With one hand, he slipped a red solo cup into Harry’s grasp, and with the other, he placed a juice box squarely on top of Aspen’s head.

“Stay hydrated,” he quipped with a laugh as the box toppled onto her lap. He tossed a tin container onto the coffee table before flopping down beside Niall, his laughter loud and carefree.

Aspen glanced at the tin, her brows knitting in curiosity. She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a better glimpse of what Louis had brought to the table— literally. When he flipped the lid off with a dramatic flourish, her eyes widened. Inside was a neat row of pre-rolled joints, their paper pristine and almost professional, with a small lighter tucked alongside them.

Her gaze darted to Isobel, who was already reaching out to grab one. Zayn followed suit, his easygoing demeanor unchanging as he took one between his fingers and lit it with a flick of the lighter. The sharp, familiar scent of marijuana quickly filled the air, blending with the faint sweetness of spilled drinks and the tangy smell of snacks lingering on the counter.

Harry, however, made no move to join in. His arms remained firmly around Aspen, his cup now balanced precariously on her knee as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder. His lips brushed the exposed skin there, soft and warm, and she felt his low chuckle vibrate through her.

“Oi, Harold, snagging one?” Louis called, holding out a joint in Harry’s direction with a waggle of his brows.

Harry didn’t even glance up, shaking his head as he pressed his lips against Aspen’s shoulder again. “Nah,” he replied casually, his voice muffled but certain. “Got my lady tonight.”

The words sent a flush of heat to Aspen’s cheeks. She turned slightly in his lap, her wide eyes scanning his face. He looked at her with a lopsided grin, his green eyes heavy-lidded from the alcohol but still sharp and focused on her. He gave her hip a playful squeeze, his thumb brushing idly over the girl's skirt.

“What?” he asked, his grin widening as he caught her staring.

“Nothing,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile. She tapped his nose lightly with her finger, unable to stop the warm flutter in her chest. “I just didn’t know you smoked, is all.”

Harry’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Is that a problem?” he asked, his tone light but edged with genuine curiosity.

Aspen shook her head quickly, the movement making her hair brush against his arm. “No, not at all,” she assured him. Her voice was steady, though the smell in the air tugged at a faint memory from her past. “I just didn’t know that about you.”

Her sister used to smoke a bit while their parents were out of town, needing a relief from the mess that their parents were. As Aspen was under her care most of the time, it was a regular routine for her to experience.

Harry nodded, his hand slipping down to take the juice box from her lap. He carefully poked the straw through the foil and handed it back to her, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t do it all the time,” he admitted, his voice softer now, like he wanted her to understand. “Just when work gets... a lot. Zayn, Niall, and I will hang out at my place and smoke, but I wouldn’t do it around you.”

Aspen tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Why not?”

Harry shrugged, his free hand rubbing small circles into her hip. “I don’t want to expose your little innocent mind to that,” he said with a teasing smirk. “And I want to take care of you.”

Aspen felt her heart skip a beat, her fingers tightening slightly around the juice box. “But you can drink?” she teased, her lips curling into an amused smile.

Harry laughed, the sound low and rich as he tipped his head back slightly. “Alright, y’got me there,” he admitted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just say the word, and I’ll never touch another bottle.”

Aspen shook her head with a soft laugh, her chest warming at his sincerity. “No, H. It’s okay. I... trust you. I know you know what you’re doing.”

Harry’s lips parted in a slow smile, his lip piercing catching the light as he rolled it between his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her eyes sparkled as they met his, the warmth between them palpable even amid the haze of smoke before the sound of Isobel's giggles broke through the median noise.

"Zayn, stop!" Isobel huffed out into a fit of laughter as her boyfriends fingers dug through her sides in a tickling manner.

"You stole my joint!" He protested, laughing as his actions came to a halt, plucking it back between his fingers.

Harry’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, his breath warm against Aspen’s shoulder. “God, those two…” Aspen muttered under her breath, her lips quirking upward in a wry grin as she glanced toward the chaos on the opposite end of the couch.

Harry shook his head, leaning closer to Aspen, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “He’s havin’ me tattoo somethin’ for her next week before the shop opens,” he said, the warmth in his voice laced with amusement. “Did she tell you?”

Aspen turned back to face him, her curiosity piqued, her laugh from moments earlier fading into a softer smile. “No,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

Harry clicked his tongue, smirking as he swirled his drink lazily in his cup. “No can do,” he teased, leaning back slightly against the couch. “Must be a surprise, then.”

Aspen narrowed her eyes at him, the playful challenge in his tone sparking something within her. “Please?” she pleaded, her voice dipping into a slightly dramatic whine as she pushed out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I won’t tell. I just want to be nosy and silently happy for my friend. Pleaaaase?” She grinned as she grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders, shaking him lightly for emphasis.

Harry chuckled deeply, the sound rich and gravelly as he balanced his cup on his knee. His green eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced from the couple back to Aspen. “Alright, fine,” he relented, his lips curling into that signature smirk that always managed to make her stomach flip. “But you cannot tell.”

“I won’t! I promise!” Aspen beamed, leaning in closer, her expression practically glowing with excitement.

Harry raised a brow, his smirk widening into something more mischievous as his gaze flicked pointedly down to her lips. “You know,” he started, his voice dipping into a slightly lower register, “I like it when you beg f’me, doll. Trying to send me a message?” He wiggled his brows dramatically, his teasing tone both playful and suggestive as a puff of laughter escaped him.

Aspen’s eyes widened, and a soft, scandalized gasp slipped past her lips as she lightly shoved his shoulder. “Harry!” she hissed, glancing around quickly, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.

Harry only laughed harder, his dimples deepening as his shoulders shook. “Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all.

Aspen huffed softly, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside as she darted a quick glance at the others. None of them seemed to have noticed Harry’s cheeky comment, but the coil in her stomach tightened anyway. She could still hear the rasp in his voice, thickened by the alcohol, his accent drawing out the words in a way that was both casual and impossibly magnetic.

She turned her focus back to Harry, who now rested his arm lazily across her lap, his cup in hand. His lips tilted into a lopsided grin as he spoke again, his gaze flicking briefly toward Zayn and Isobel. “He’s gonna get her eyes right on his chest,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he turned back to Aspen. “I’ll one-up him, though. Get your whole face smack-dab on m’back.”

Aspen rolled her eyes with a laugh, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t you dare,” she replied, her voice tinged with playful exasperation. “And second, I think that’s sweet. She’s got cute eyes, and she’s going to absolutely freak when she sees it.”

Harry snickered, shaking his head. “Zayn described them as ‘hot blowjob eyes,’” he added, his words tumbling out between bouts of soft laughter as he brought the cup back to his lips.

Aspen froze for half a second, her head tilting slightly as she processed the comment. Harry’s hum of amusement only deepened as he swallowed, his gaze warm and teasing when it landed back on her.

“‘S what a girl’s— or guy’s, I suppose— eyes look like when they give a blowie,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact despite the wicked glint in his eye. “Down on their knees, lookin’ up type of thing.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she wrinkled her nose, a mix of surprise and embarrassment rippling through her. The thought of Zayn saying something like that about Isobel sent a swirl of conflicting emotions through her chest—discomfort, amusement, and secondhand embarrassment all at once. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself momentarily speechless, her eyes darting toward Isobel, who was obliviously laughing at something Zayn had whispered in her ear.

Harry’s quiet chuckle beside her pulled her back, his hand giving her hip a small, reassuring squeeze. It was a fleeting touch, but one that grounded her, reminding her that despite his teasing, there was an ease to their connection that felt natural. She exhaled softly, shaking her head at him as her lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile.

"Do you think that?"

"Think what?" Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eye betrayed him.

She huffed softly, her cheeks tinged pink. "That she has... those eyes."

His lips curved into that all-too-familiar smirk, the one that sent her heart into a frustratingly uneven rhythm.

"I've seen better," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low rasp that curled around her like smoke. His hand gave her hip a firm, reassuring squeeze, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of her shirt. Before she could even think to respond, his touch shifted, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her lower back with an unhurried ease, his thumb tracing gentle arcs just beneath the hem. "Possibly the fuckin’ best."

Her breath caught, a quiet gasp hitching in her throat as the intensity of his gaze pinned her in place. His green eyes, darkened by the dim light and whatever alcohol lingered in his system, locked on hers with a look that was equal parts teasing and reverent. She felt like prey caught in the sightline of a hunter—cornered and vulnerable, her defenses melting under the weight of his attention.

Aspen’s lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Her thoughts tangled, incoherent, as heat crept up the back of her neck and bloomed at the tips of her ears. His stare stripped her bare, not in a crude or obvious way, but with a quiet, steady persistence that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his movements unhurried, calculated. His hand abandoned her back, trailing along the curve of her waist before settling firmly on her thigh, his touch just below the frayed hem of her denim skirt. The heat of his palm bled through her skin, amplified by the cool press of the silver rings on his fingers. The juxtaposition of warm and cold sent a shiver coursing up her spine, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled to catch up.

The scent of weed continued to waft through the room, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol and the subtle notes of Harry’s cologne— something musky, with a hint of cedar that clung stubbornly to his clothes. The voices of their friends became a muted hum in the background, drowned out by the steady pulse of music. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Liam ask Harry if he needed another drink, but his voice barely registered. Harry was far too preoccupied to notice— or care.

All of his focus, every ounce of his attention, was on her.

Harry’s eyes roamed her face with a quiet intensity, as if committing every detail to memory. The way the loose strands of her hair framed her cheeks in soft waves, the way her lips curved naturally into the slightest pout, their rosy hue deepened by her nervous habit of biting them. He thought of the way the sun caught her features earlier that day— how her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the warm light brought out the flecks of hazel in her otherwise brown eyes. He’d seen it a thousand times before, but still, he’d swear she was something out of a dream.

“Picture fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, though the words carried enough weight to send her heart into a chaotic flutter.

Before Aspen could fully process what he’d said, his fingers slid further, dipping just beneath the edge of her skirt. The movement was deliberate, slow, as though he wanted to give her a chance to stop him— but she didn’t. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the cool metal of his rings creating a stark contrast that left her reeling.

Her breath hitched audibly, the sound so soft it barely reached her own ears, though Harry caught it immediately. He tilted his head, his smirk widening just enough to deepen the creases around his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, betraying the slightest hint of amusement beneath the layers of something darker.

Aspen’s fingers tightened around his shoulder, her nails pressing faint crescents into the fabric of his shirt. The action wasn’t forceful— more a reflex than anything. She wasn’t pushing him away, nor was she pulling him closer. She was caught somewhere in between, her body betraying her confusion as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t need to speak for Harry to know what she was feeling. The subtle shift of her breathing, the way her pupils dilated as her wide eyes searched his face, the faint tremor in her hand as it gripped his shoulder— it all told him everything he needed to know.

And yet, Harry wasn’t rushing. He wouldn’t. Every touch, every glance, was measured, deliberate. He was entirely in tune with her, and it wasn’t just about the physicality—it was about her. How she’d respond, how she’d feel. The anticipation thrummed between them, heavy and heady, as though the entire room had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the two of them in its wake.

"H, what're you—."

"When are y'gonna let me see those eyes again, huh?" He murmured, his tongue slow and deliberate as it came out to wet his lips.

Harry tightened his grip on her thigh, kneading the flesh between his palm. Aspen couldn't help but follow the movement of his tongue with shy eyes, meeting his again. Only to have them looking right back at her.

"I believe I asked you a question, little mouse. Are y'gonna be good and answer me?"

Aspen couldn't help but squeak out a noise, about to turn her head to make another check before he caught her chin.

"You're going t'give us away, Asp. Now, answer me."

She huffed through her nose, and despite the blush on her cheeks from embarrassment, her chest ignited.

"W-whenever," She whispered, her brown eyes flickering to his lips and back to his eyes.

He chuckled softly, low and slow as he brushed the tip of his pinky along the thin material of her panties that covered the mound of her cunt. She sucked in a small breath at the touch that took her by surprise, fisting the shoulder of his shirt momentarily before relaxing again.

"Whenever, huh? Even if I took you to the guest room again? Or what about in the Uber back to my place? What if when we got back to mine," another brush of his pinky, "and the moment I closed the door? Would you let me push you down to your knees? What about wakin' me up and givin' me those sweet eyes from under the blanket, hm?"

Harry's hand took another firm grip of her thigh again, his eyes still locked on hers. He knew well enough that his friends were busied with themselves, talking on and on about hula-hoops to skateboards to weird laws in Switzerland.

Aspen's breath hitched at his words and his gaze. The girls lips parted, as if to say something, before they shut once more. The feeling in her tummy boiled up to her chest and she wanted to scream for him to have mercy on her soaked panties. She shifted in his lap and swallowed, nodding after a few moments.

"Y-yes, all of those..." She brushed her fingers along the tattoos of his neck, suddenly becoming so interested in the line work that trailed up.

"Y'know what I think?" Harry mused, taking another sip from his cup as he took a look around before back at her. "I think you want it as much as I do. Just need your taste of havin' my cock in your mouth, don't you?" He murmured carefully, cracking a smile when he saw the way her cheeks tinted and her gaze stay on his neck. His shy little girl.

"I've corrupted my sweet little virgin, but don't get me wrong. Fucking love this side of you. Do you understand me?" He squeezed her thigh once more, making her squeak and nod.

"Aspen..."

"Y-yes, I understand," she breathed out, biting the inside of her cheek. She was about one second away from grinding into his hand, her body betraying her better judgment, when the sharp sound of Niall's voice cut through the smoky haze like a record scratch. The sudden intrusion yanked Aspen back to reality so fast it felt like whiplash.

Harry’s hand slipped from beneath her skirt in a practiced, nonchalant manner that almost convinced her it hadn’t just been there at all. He turned his head towards Niall, his features relaxed, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance that crossed his face—a frustration he quickly masked with ease.

“Refills!” Niall called, his voice carrying over the music as he swaggered towards them, the nearly empty bottle of liquor in one hand and his joint balanced between his lips. He leaned forward dramatically, tipping the bottle over each person’s cup with a lopsided grin. The sweet, bitter tang of the alcohol hung heavily in the air, cutting through the musky scent of weed that had settled in the room like a thick fog.

When Niall waved the bottle in Harry’s direction, Harry shook his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “I’m done for tonight,” he said, his voice even but edged with amusement.

Niall raised a brow, the smirk on his face widening as he plucked the joint from his lips and took a slow drag. Smoke curled around his head like a halo before he barked out a laugh. “Oh, Harry’s lookin’ to get some tonight, is he?”

The words hit the room like a bomb, and every head turned toward them in a wave of collective curiosity. Aspen froze, her body going rigid against Harry’s side as heat flooded her cheeks and neck. She let out a soft whine, burying her crimson face into the crook of Harry’s neck, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole.

Harry laughed at her reaction, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek where it rested on his skin. He gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze, his fingers lingering just long enough to ground her, silently reminding her that it was just Niall being Niall. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he shook his head, his amusement clear.

“Speaking from jealousy, Ni?” Harry quipped, his tone smooth and dripping with mockery.

Niall’s eyebrows shot up, and he smirked, gesturing lazily with the bottle. “Jealous? Me? Woah, woah, who says I won’t get any either, huh? Safe to say we might all be occupied tonight, eh?” He nudged Zayn to his right, then Louis on his other side, his grin widening at his own joke.

The room erupted into a mix of groans and laughter, their friends rolling their eyes in unison. Even Aspen couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips despite her embarrassment. As much as Niall’s teasing grated on her, it was impossible not to laugh when everyone else was.

It was true, though. Everyone in the group acted like drunken rabbits once the alcohol hit and the inhibitions dissolved. Niall’s comment wasn’t so much a joke as it was a painfully accurate observation, and that fact only made it worse.

“Well, that’s our cue…” Isobel’s voice rang out, light and sing-song, as she wobbled to her feet. She tugged on Zayn’s arm, giggling as she stumbled slightly. Her sheepish smile did little to disguise the blush creeping up her cheeks.

Zayn caught her with ease, his hands steadying her with practiced familiarity. He chuckled, shaking his head as he allowed her to drag him toward the front door. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, waving a sloppy goodbye over his shoulder.

“Bye, lovelies!” Isobel added, her voice cheerful and slightly slurred as she threw exaggerated kisses to the group.

Harry hummed, patting Aspen’s thigh softly before rising to his feet. He extended a hand down to her, his smirk firmly in place as he pulled her up with ease. “It’s best if we go as well,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “For Isobel, of course.”

Aspen rolled her eyes, her blush still clinging to her cheeks as she tucked herself under his arm. “Of course,” she muttered, the sarcasm in her tone light but not unnoticed.

Harry grinned down at her, his arm snug around her shoulders as they made their way toward the door. Aspen reached out, returning high fives and fist bumps from their friends as they called out a chorus of goodbyes.

Her stomach fluttered as Harry guided her forward, his hand resting comfortably on her side. The air outside would feel cool against her heated skin, and she couldn't wait for the slight reprieve. Yet, when she glanced up at him, his jaw sharp in the low light, she couldn't quite fight the small smile that tugged at her lips.

And if Harry turned back to their friends as they walked out, mouthing “Score!” while silently pumping his fist in victory, well, that was for him to know.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of the house, wrapping around them and carrying the lingering smell of smoke and spilled liquor. Harry tapped on his phone with the precision of someone used to keeping his wits about him, even while a slight buzz hummed in the back of his mind. The glow of the screen cast soft light across his features, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw as he confirmed the Uber. His fingers moved fluidly, almost automatic, while his thoughts drifted back to the feel of Aspen against him moments ago, her skin warm beneath his touch, her laugh like a melody he hadn’t realized he needed.

Zayn stood a few feet away, similarly engaged with his phone as he finalized the ride for himself and Isobel. He was grinning faintly, undoubtedly replaying some moment from inside. When Harry tucked his phone into his pocket, his eyes instinctively sought Aspen, and without thinking, he pulled her to him, sighing heavily as she melted against his chest.

The scent of her shampoo, sweet and slightly floral, mixed with the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to their clothes. Harry rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the peace of having her in his arms. Her hands slid up his back, her palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and the tension in his shoulders eased. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and distant laughter from inside, the world around them fading into the background as they simply existed in each other’s embrace.

Aspen’s heart beat steadily against his chest, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk to himself, thinking about how easy it was to feel at home with her like this. She was his calm in the chaos, even if she didn’t know it.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the moment. “I need to pee. Come with,” Isobel slurred, stumbling slightly as she made her way over, her eyes glassy but bright with mischief.

Aspen pulled away reluctantly, looking up at Harry with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be back,” she promised softly, her hand briefly squeezing his before she turned to follow her friend back into the house.

Harry watched her go, his smirk softening into something fonder, though he’d never admit it out loud. He slid his hands into his pockets, glancing over at Zayn, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look.

“You’re whipped, mate,” Zayn teased, his grin crooked.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Like you’re one to talk.”

Before Zayn could retort, the faint hum of an engine drew their attention. A sleek black car rolled up to the curb, its tinted windows gleaming ominously under the streetlights. Both men exchanged a glance, their relaxed postures stiffening as the car came to a halt.

The passenger-side window rolled down with a faint mechanical whir, revealing Leone’s face partially obscured by the glow of his cigarette. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with the crisp night air, and the tension between the three men became palpable.

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he muttered, “Great.”

Harry leaned against the car, ducking slightly to meet Leone’s gaze. His green eyes were sharp, calculating, though his tone was deceptively casual. “What do you want?”

Leone took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke billow lazily into the air before speaking. “I need you two boys next Thursday. Big dealers coming in.” His voice was gravelly, laced with authority that demanded attention.

The cigarette’s ember glowed brighter as Leone took another drag, his free hand shifting slightly. That’s when they saw it—a gun resting casually on his lap, his fingers running along the barrel as if it were a natural extension of his body.

Zayn’s hand twitched at his side, but he kept his voice steady. “You can’t come showing up like this,” he hissed, his tone low and sharp. “Not so public.”

Leone chuckled bitterly, a sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “I own you fools,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding. “And I’m always careful.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he leaned forward slightly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thursday. Be there. Don’t make me have to fuckin’ find you twats.”

The window rolled up smoothly, cutting off any response they might have had as the car pulled away from the curb. The taillights disappeared into the distance, leaving Harry and Zayn standing in heavy silence.

Zayn let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “I hate that prick,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly my favorite person either,” he bit out, his voice low.

The weight of the encounter lingered between them, unspoken but understood. They had no choice, and both of them knew it.

The sound of laughter broke through the tension as Aspen and Isobel stumbled back out of the house, their arms linked and their cheeks flushed from the cool air. Aspen’s eyes found Harry immediately, her smile softening as she made her way over to him.

“Everything alright?” she asked, her voice light, though her gaze flicked between the two men, sensing the shift in their moods.

Harry forced a smile, his hand reaching out to pull her back under his arm. “Yeah, just talkin’ shop,” he said smoothly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Zayn and Isobel exchanged a brief glance before their Uber pulled up to the curb. Isobel tugged Zayn toward the car, waving a cheerful goodbye to Aspen and Harry as they climbed in.

A few moments later, Harry’s Uber arrived, and he opened the door for Aspen, letting her slide in first before following suit. As the car pulled away, the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased slightly, though the encounter with Leone lingered in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. For now, he focused on the warmth of Aspen beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as the city lights blurred past the windows.

#harry styles #fanfic #one direction #zayn malik #niall horan #fanfiction #wattpad fanfiction #wattpad #louis tomlinson #harry styles fanfiction #smut #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing

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goldfades · 2 months ago

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𝟎𝟎𝟐 UNDER THE MISTLETOE ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚. RAFE CAMERON

12 days of christmas celebration!!

as holidays approach, it’s important to remember those who are facing hardships, such as the people of palestine. in times of crisis, solidarity matters more than ever. you can support palestinian communities by donating to reputable organizations providing aid, such as food, medical supplies, and shelter. help palestine with a click | heal palestine | unrwa | resources for palestine

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | At a posh Tannyhill Christmas party, you get caught under the mistletoe with none other than Rafe Cameron. Friends egg you on, but what starts as a joking kiss turns into something much deeper.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kinda a fluffy slow burn? rafe being a little ass (but still sweet obvs), one kiss, nothing else!

There’s something different about the Outer Banks when Christmas rolls around. The air isn’t colder—it never really is—but it feels sharper, fresher, like the breeze carries more secrets than usual. The usual salty tang is sweeter now, tinged with the scent of evergreen wreaths hung on shop doors and strings of twinkling lights snaking through palm trees. Tannyhill, though, is where the real magic happens.

Or at least, where it pretends to.

It’s the kind of place that looks like a Christmas card came to life: wreaths on every window, a tree the size of a lighthouse in the foyer, and catering staff that fuss over candy cane platters like they're hosting royalty. For the Camerons, appearances are everything, especially at this time of year.

“You’re really going to wear that?” Sarah’s voice cuts through your thoughts as you stand in front of her mirror, smoothing the hem of your dress. She’s perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pinned up in half-done curls, a bottle of champagne tucked between her legs. It’s not even six, but she insisted tonight required proper pre-gaming.

You roll your eyes and turn to face her. “Yes, I’m wearing this. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just… safe,” she says, raising a brow. “It’s Christmas at Tannyhill. You’re supposed to be…” She waves her hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…a little dangerous.”

“Dangerous like you?” you quip, nodding toward her shimmering red dress that somehow manages to be both floor-length and scandalous.

“Exactly,” she replies without missing a beat, taking a triumphant sip of champagne. “Anyway, I’m just saying. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight. Could be worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?” you laugh, but it’s a little hollow, your gaze drifting back to the mirror.

You’ve been to these events before. You know how they go. It’s all champagne flutes, polite smiles, and whispered gossip. Nothing remotely risky. But still… there’s something about the way Sarah looks at you that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t.

The mirror’s reflection isn’t much help. The dress is nice enough—a deep green velvet that hugs your frame, with thin straps and a hem that stops just above your knees—but “dangerous” isn’t exactly the vibe it’s giving. It’s more “holiday cocktail party chic,” which, to be fair, is exactly what you were aiming for. But Sarah’s words buzz around your head like a pesky gnat. Someone’s bound to notice you tonight.

“Maybe I like being safe,” you counter, but the words sound less convincing the moment they leave your mouth.

Sarah snorts, setting the champagne bottle aside and rising from the bed. “Oh, please. You don’t come to a Cameron Christmas party to blend in.” She strides over, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and spins you to face her. Her eyes narrow in assessment, scanning you from head to toe. “Okay. Hair? Gorgeous. Dress? Very… respectable. But—” She steps behind you, pulling a strand of your hair over your shoulder, “—you need something to make people stop and stare.”

You watch as she opens a jewelry box on her vanity, her fingers rifling through an assortment of glittering pieces. “Ah-ha,” she says triumphantly, holding up a delicate gold necklace with a teardrop pendant. “This. It’s simple, but it catches the light just enough. Trust me.”

Before you can protest, she’s clasping it around your neck. You glance back in the mirror. She’s right; the necklace adds something—a quiet elegance that makes the whole look seem intentional, like you tried just hard enough to care without overdoing it.

“Better,” Sarah says, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied smile. Then her eyes narrow mischievously. “Now, shoes. Please tell me you didn’t bring flats.”

You groan, nodding toward the corner where a pair of nude heels sit. Sarah clicks her tongue in approval. “Good girl. If you’d shown up in ballet flats, I would’ve sent you home.”

“Why do I let you do this to me?” you mutter, sitting on the edge of her bed to strap the heels on.

“Because deep down, you know I’m right,” Sarah says, smirking. “And because you secretly love the drama.”

She’s half right. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but there is a part of you that loves the energy of these parties—the music swelling as the night goes on, the clinking glasses, the undercurrent of excitement that hums through the air like static electricity. It’s impossible to ignore. The Camerons don’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to Christmas.

“I just hope I survive the night without falling on these death traps,” you say, standing up and wobbling slightly as you adjust to the height of the heels.

Sarah grabs her champagne bottle, lifting it in a mock toast. “To surviving the night—and maybe even having some fun while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. “Cheers.”

By the time you both make your way downstairs, the house is already buzzing with life. The foyer is packed with people, a mix of family friends, business partners, and the kind of people who always seem to be at events like this but never seem to actually belong anywhere. The smell of pine, cinnamon, and something faintly citrusy hangs in the air, mixing with the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the next room.

Tannyhill looks like something out of a magazine spread, with garlands draped over the banisters, twinkling fairy lights tucked into every corner, and an absurdly large Christmas tree that dominates the main hall. Ornaments catch the light like little stars, and at the very top, a glittering silver angel tilts slightly to one side, as though even she’s exhausted by the sheer extra-ness of it all.

“Remind me again why I let you drag me to this?” you whisper to Sarah as you both pause at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below.

“Because you love me,” she says sweetly, linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward. “And because this is way more fun than sitting at home watching Hallmark movies alone.”

You’re about to argue when you catch sight of Rafe Cameron near the bar, and your heart stutters. He’s standing with a group of his friends, all laughter and easy charm, a glass of something amber-colored in his hand. His hair is perfectly tousled, his suit crisp and tailored to perfection, but it’s his smile that catches you off guard. It’s sharp and confident, but there’s something about it that feels… dangerous. Like Sarah said.

And, just for a moment, you wonder if tonight might be more than just another Cameron Christmas party.

The party is a well-oiled machine by the time you and Sarah descend the staircase. Conversations buzz, laughter punctuates the hum of polite chatter, and the clink of glasses mingles with the soft holiday music floating from the grand piano in the corner. It’s glamorous, sure, but you can’t help feeling like an outsider looking in.

Sarah tugs at your arm as you reach the bottom step. “Alright, split up. You mingle, I mingle, and we reconvene for champagne refills. Sound good?”

“Wait, what? I thought we were sticking together,” you hiss, but she’s already slipping away into the crowd, greeting some distant cousin with a dazzling smile.

You sigh, smoothing your dress nervously as you scan the room. No familiar faces—well, not anyone you’d feel comfortable just walking up to. Except... your gaze flickers back to the bar, where Rafe stands. He’s laughing at something Topper just said, the sound loud and unapologetic. Kelce is leaning on the counter, gesturing wildly as he tells some animated story.

You’ve been in the same circles as Rafe Cameron for years, thanks to Sarah, but he’s always felt like… a lot. He’s intense in a way that makes him hard to pin down. Most of the time, he’s all bravado and sharp edges, but every now and then, you catch glimpses of something softer beneath it all. Not that you’ve spent much time trying to figure him out.

Still, as if drawn by some magnetic pull, your feet begin to carry you closer to the bar. Not to him, specifically. You’re just heading in that general direction, you tell yourself. It’s not your fault he happens to be there.

As you approach, you catch snippets of their conversation.

“—and then the idiot didn’t even see the wave coming,” Kelce is saying, his words punctuated by Topper’s loud cackle.

“Classic,” Rafe says, smirking as he takes a sip from his glass. His eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the room even as he listens to his friends. It’s like he’s always on high alert, even at his own party.

You hesitate, hovering a few steps away, trying to decide if you should keep walking or stop for a drink. The bartender glances your way, and before you can chicken out, you step up to the counter.

“White wine, please,” you say, your voice steady despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach.

As the bartender pours your drink, you feel eyes on you. Sure enough, when you glance over, Rafe is looking right at you. Not in the casual, friendly way people look at someone they sort of know. No, this is something else. His gaze is sharp, piercing, like he’s sizing you up, trying to figure you out.

“Didn’t know you were coming tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth. It’s not a question, but it feels like one.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Sarah dragged me along.”

His smirk deepens. “Sounds about right. You let her boss you around like that?”

“She’s very persuasive,” you reply, taking a sip of your wine to steady yourself.

Rafe chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, she is.” He leans back against the bar, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your plan for the night? Stand around sipping wine, or are you gonna do something interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Define interesting.”

Topper, ever the instigator, interjects before Rafe can answer. “Oh, she’s a wild card. Watch out, Rafe. She might even… I don’t know… dance under the mistletoe.”

Kelce laughs, nudging Rafe with his elbow. “Yeah, or start a snowball fight with the fake snow machine. Real party animal.”

Your cheeks heat at their teasing, but Rafe doesn’t laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, his smirk softening into something that feels almost curious. “Maybe we’ll find out,” he says, his tone light but with an edge you can’t quite place.

Before you can respond, Sarah reappears at your side, her timing impeccable. “There you are,” she says, looping her arm through yours. Her gaze flickers to Rafe, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Causing trouble already?”

“Me?” Rafe says, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, pulling you away before you can say anything else. “Come on,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get you in a prime spot before the games start.”

“What games?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder to find Rafe watching you as you walk away.

“You’ll see,” Sarah says with a grin, her tone conspiratorial. And just like that, you know the night is only getting started.

Sarah doesn’t give you much time to process the interaction—or the way Rafe’s gaze seemed to follow you, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you leave. She’s already pulling you through the crowd with purpose, weaving between glittering guests and servers balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the central hall, where the Christmas tree stands tall, glowing with soft golden light.

“Okay,” Sarah says, stopping abruptly. “Here’s the deal. Wheezie has this whole mistletoe situation set up.”

You blink at her, confused. “What?”

She grins mischievously, clearly enjoying your bewilderment. “She’s been on a mistletoe kick all week. She got the staff to hang them in, like, every doorway. It’s ridiculous. But tonight, we’re turning it into a game.”

“A game?” you repeat, feeling a sense of foreboding creep in.

Sarah nods, her grin widening. “Every time two people end up under the mistletoe, they have to kiss. No exceptions. Wheezie’s patrolling to enforce it.”

Your eyes widen. “Sarah. You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement. “And don’t even think about trying to dodge it. Wheezie’s got this sixth sense for people sneaking around.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?”

“Badly?” Sarah repeats, feigning offense. “This is the best part of the party! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? A little harmless fun never killed anyone.”

Before you can argue further, a familiar voice calls out.

“Sarah!” Wheezie appears out of nowhere, clutching a clipboard of all things. Her excitement is infectious, her cheeks flushed pink as she skids to a stop in front of you. “Did you tell her about the mistletoe?”

“Oh, I told her,” Sarah says, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “She’s thrilled.”

You glare at Sarah, but Wheezie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Good,” she says, beaming. “Because I already saw, like, three people cheat, and I had to threaten them with no dessert.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sarah says, high-fiving her little sister.

Wheezie turns to you, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re not going to cheat, right? Because I’m keeping track.”

You force a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Wheezie hurries off to continue her self-appointed duties, leaving you and Sarah standing near the edge of the room.

“I’m going to regret this,” you mutter, taking a long sip of your wine.

Sarah just laughs. “Not if you end up under the mistletoe with the right person.”

You’re about to retort when the sound of laughter nearby catches your attention. Rafe, Topper, and Kelce are heading your way, all of them holding fresh drinks and clearly in high spirits. Your stomach does a little flip as Rafe’s eyes find yours again, that same sharp intensity from earlier still lingering.

“Speak of the devil,” Sarah murmurs, her tone teasing.

“What?” you ask, your voice a little too high, but she just smirks.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “But maybe Wheezie’s mistletoe isn’t such a bad idea after all.”

The night progresses in a blur of laughter and champagne. Guests drift from one room to the next, admiring the decorations, exchanging pleasantries, and inevitably finding themselves caught under Wheezie’s strategically placed mistletoe. You spot her several times, clipboard in hand, ushering reluctant participants toward their obligatory kiss with all the authority of a seasoned party planner.

It’s silly and lighthearted, but every time you see a pair of people beneath the mistletoe, your stomach tightens. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-wondering when—or if—you might end up in the same predicament.

And then, of course, it happens.

You’re standing near the fireplace, chatting with a distant family friend of Sarah’s, when someone brushes past you, drawing your attention. You turn—and immediately regret it. Rafe is there, his broad frame just a little too close, his expression unreadable as he looks down at you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your pulse quicken.

“Hey,” you reply, your voice a little breathless.

Before either of you can say more, Wheezie materializes out of nowhere, her eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “Oh my gosh, you guys!” she exclaims, pointing above your heads.

You don’t even have to look. The knowing smirk that spreads across Rafe’s face tells you everything you need to know.

Mistletoe. Of course.

Your heart plummets straight to your stomach as Wheezie bounces on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well?” she says, grinning like she just uncovered the juiciest secret. “You have to kiss! Rules are rules!”

Rafe leans against the edge of the fireplace, casually glancing up at the offending sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ornate mantle. His lips twitch into a smirk as he looks back at you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are.

“You heard the boss,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “Rules are rules.”

Your mouth goes dry. Of course, this is happening. Of course, Wheezie—sweet, well-meaning, meddlesome Wheezie—would find a way to make this the most embarrassing moment of your life. You try to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky, barely convincing.

“This doesn’t count,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. “We were just—”

“It absolutely counts,” Wheezie cuts in, clutching her clipboard like it’s a gavel. “You’re right there. No cheating.”

Rafe tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s sizing you up. You hate how effortlessly cool he looks, like this is all just a game to him. And maybe it is.

But for you, it’s anything but.

Because standing this close to him—so close you can catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy—you’re dragged back to a version of yourself you thought you’d buried years ago. A younger you, sitting cross-legged on your bed, scribbling in your journal about Rafe Cameron like some lovesick fool.

You had a crush on him once, back when you were too naive to realize what it meant to like someone like Rafe. It started the summer he came to one of Sarah’s golf lessons, tagging along out of boredom. You’d been there, too, struggling with your swing and trying desperately not to let anyone notice. But they did. A couple of boys from your class—Topper included—had decided to make you their entertainment for the afternoon, mimicking your stance and snickering loudly enough to draw everyone’s attention.

You’d been mortified, red-faced and blinking back tears, until Rafe—taller, older, and impossibly confident—had stepped in.

“Got something better to do?” he’d said, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Or is bullying girls your new hobby?”

The boys had stumbled over their words, mumbling excuses before scurrying off, and Rafe had shrugged it off like it was nothing. But for you, it wasn’t nothing. For you, it was everything.

You never told anyone—not even Sarah—how much that moment stuck with you, how it planted a seed of something small but stubborn in your chest. A crush, yes, but more than that: an infatuation with the idea of him, the version of Rafe who might actually care.

But crushes fade, and years pass, and you convinced yourself that Rafe was just a fleeting thing, a schoolgirl daydream you outgrew. Or so you thought.

Until now.

Now, he’s standing in front of you, taller and sharper than you remember, and the way his gaze lingers on you makes it impossible to breathe.

“You okay over there?” Rafe asks, his voice cutting into your spiraling thoughts. He’s smirking, of course, because why wouldn’t he be?

“I—uh, yeah,” you stammer, cursing yourself for how obvious it is that you’re not, in fact, okay.

“Sure?” he presses, taking a deliberate step closer. “You look a little nervous.”

“Stop,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

“Stop what?” he asks innocently, though his grin says otherwise. “I’m just standing here. You’re the one making it weird.”

You glare at him, but it’s weak at best. “I’m not—this isn’t weird.”

“Oh, it’s definitely weird,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his voice now, one that sends your heart racing. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

Behind him, Topper and Kelce are already snickering, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just kiss her already!” Topper calls out, his voice loud and obnoxious enough to make a few heads turn.

“Yeah, Rafe, show her what she’s been missing!” Kelce adds, and you want to sink into the floor.

Rafe shakes his head, laughing softly under his breath. “You guys are the worst,” he mutters, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes you think he doesn’t mind the attention.

Then, before you can think or move or even breathe, he closes the distance between you.

The kiss starts slow—surprisingly so. His hand brushes your arm lightly before settling on your waist, steady and sure, and his lips are soft, warmer than you expect. The world around you seems to blur, fading into the background as he deepens the kiss, just enough to make your knees weak. It’s not a joke, not teasing—it’s deliberate, measured, and devastating in its intensity.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, his smirk softer now, almost curious.

“There,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

In the background, Topper and Kelce erupt into a chorus of cheers and whistles, and Wheezie claps her hands in triumph, shouting something about how this is how the game is supposed to be played.

But you’re barely aware of any of it. All you can feel is the ghost of his lips on yours and the weight of his gaze, still locked on you like he’s trying to figure you out.

And for the first time all night, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he feels the same pull you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

Your face burns as the cheers and whistles rise around you, but Rafe doesn’t move away. He stays close, his hand still lightly resting on your waist, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it feels like the two of you are suspended in a bubble. His expression is unreadable, a mix of amusement and something softer, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Man, look at her face!” Kelce crows, doubling over with laughter. “She’s blushing so hard right now.”

“Classic,” Topper chimes in, grinning like an idiot. “Rafe, you’re out here making girls fall in love under mistletoe. What a gentleman.”

You flinch, wanting to glare at them but too mortified to do much more than focus on breathing. Rafe, however, seems entirely unbothered by their antics. If anything, their comments only deepen his smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving them off without looking away from you. “Go bother someone else, will you?”

Kelce and Topper groan dramatically but wander off soon enough, still laughing and elbowing each other. Wheezie lingers for a moment longer, beaming at you both like she just orchestrated the match of the century before skipping away to enforce her rules on the next unsuspecting pair.

Finally, it’s just you and Rafe, standing far too close for comfort in the shadow of the grand fireplace.

“You good?” he asks, his voice quieter now, a little more serious.

You blink up at him, your thoughts still scrambled from the kiss. “What? Oh—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “You sure? You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m sure,” you say quickly, your voice an octave too high. You take a step back, desperate to put some distance between you, but the movement feels clumsy, like you’ve forgotten how to use your own legs.

Rafe chuckles softly, and you hate how effortlessly cool he is, like kissing you in the middle of a crowded room was just another thing he did to pass the time. “Relax,” he says, his tone lighter now. “It’s just mistletoe. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. Right.

“Right,” you echo, forcing a laugh that you hope sounds convincing. “Totally not a big deal.”

But it was a big deal—at least to you. Because no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist. You can still hear the way your heart pounded, loud enough to drown out the world.

And worse, you’re starting to realize that all those old feelings you thought you’d buried years ago? They’re not as buried as you’d like to think.

Rafe seems to sense your discomfort because his smirk softens into something almost... kind. “Hey,” he says, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “You don’t have to overthink it, you know. It’s just a kiss.”

You nod, though the lump in your throat makes it hard to speak. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, straightening up again. But then his gaze dips to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—and your stomach flips all over again.

“Rafe!” Sarah’s voice cuts through the air, startling you both. She’s weaving her way toward you, her champagne glass in hand and her eyes sharp. “Stop tormenting my friend.”

“I’m not tormenting her,” Rafe says innocently, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story.

Sarah rolls her eyes and loops her arm through yours, tugging you away from him. “Come on. You’ve spent enough time under his spell for one night.”

You let her pull you along, but as you glance over your shoulder, you catch Rafe watching you again, his smirk still in place. There’s something in his expression, something almost... contemplative.

For the next few days, you try to shake him. You really do.

You fill your hours with anything and everything that might distract you. You hit the beach early one morning, hoping the salty air and crashing waves might clear your head. It doesn’t. You sit on your towel, staring out at the horizon, only to find your thoughts drifting back to the kiss—the way his hand lingered at your waist, the infuriating confidence in his smirk, the warmth of his lips.

Next, you try golfing with your dad, thinking that muscle memory and the sharp focus the sport demands will drown out the noise in your head. It doesn’t. Instead, your dad spends half the morning teasing you about your distracted swings, and you nearly send your nine-iron into the pond after imagining Rafe standing behind you again, casually correcting your form like he’d done at Sarah’s lesson all those years ago.

Even shopping—your fail-safe remedy for every stressful situation—proves useless. You wander aimlessly through the boutiques in town, running your fingers over racks of clothing you barely glance at. It’s like he’s everywhere, lingering in the background of your mind, taunting you with his too-perfect grin and that stupid, stupid kiss.

By the fourth day, you’re ready to admit defeat. Whatever spell Rafe Cameron cast on you under that mistletoe, it’s clearly working.

Then Sarah calls.

“Dinner at ours tonight,” she announces, her voice cheerful. “Seven o’clock. No excuses.”

You hesitate. The thought of being at Tannyhill again, surrounded by all the memories of that night, makes your stomach twist into knots. “I don’t know, Sarah. I’ve got a lot going on—”

“You’re coming,” she interrupts firmly. “Rose’s in a rare good mood, and Wheezie’s been talking about it nonstop. Plus, my dad will be grilling, which means no catering disasters. Just come. It’ll be fun.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she barrels on before you can get a word in.

“And before you ask—no, Rafe won’t be there. He’s got some golf thing with his buddies, so you’re safe. Okay? Seven. Be there.”

“Fine,” you sigh, knowing better than to argue with her. “I’ll come.”

Tannyhill is as breathtaking as ever when you pull up to the sprawling estate later that evening. The driveway is lined with twinkling lights, and the sound of soft laughter and clinking glasses drifts out from the open veranda doors.

As soon as you step inside, Sarah greets you with a hug and a glass of wine, chatting easily as she leads you out to the patio. Wheezie waves excitedly from her seat at the table, and Mr. Cameron gives you a warm smile from his spot by the grill. It’s all perfectly normal, perfectly comfortable, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relax.

And then he appears.

You catch sight of him out of the corner of your eye, and for a second, you think you’re imagining it. But no—there he is, walking toward the patio with all the easy confidence in the world, wearing a plain gray t-shirt and faded jeans that somehow look like they were tailored just for him.

“Rafe,” Sarah says, her tone sharp with surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were golfing with Topper and Kelce.”

“They canceled,” he says casually, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling on his sister. “Figured I’d stop by. Didn’t realize we were having company.”

You’re frozen, clutching your glass of wine like a lifeline as his gaze drifts back to you, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a little too knowing.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly small.

Rafe leans against the edge of the patio railing, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes linger on you just a second too long. His smirk is back, subtle but

persistent, like he knows exactly how much space he’s taking up in your head and plans to keep doing it.

“You’re just in time,” Sarah says, her tone tight. She shoots you a glance—half apologetic, half questioning—but you can’t muster a response. “We’re about to eat.”

“Perfect,” Rafe replies, his voice laced with a casual charm that feels anything but casual. “I’m starving.”

You focus on your wine, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Sarah said he wouldn’t be here. But now, he’s standing just a few feet away, and it’s like the air itself shifts around him, crackling with something unspoken.

Dinner is a blur. You sit between Sarah and Wheezie, trying to focus on the conversation and ignore the fact that Rafe is directly across from you, his presence magnetic even when he’s silent. He doesn’t talk much, content to let the others fill the space, but every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you, his smirk barely concealed.

At one point, you drop your fork, and when you lean down to grab it, you swear you hear him chuckle softly, low enough that only you notice.

“You okay?” Sarah whispers beside you, her brow furrowing.

“Fine,” you say quickly, sitting upright again. “Totally fine.”

But you’re not. Not even close.

The kiss, the mistletoe, the way he looked at you that night—it all comes rushing back, as vivid as if it just happened. And the worst part? He knows. Every time his eyes meet yours, you can see it: the awareness, the confidence, the silent challenge in his gaze.

By the time dinner wraps up, you’re practically vibrating with tension. You help clear the plates, grateful for an excuse to leave the table, but as you step into the kitchen, you hear his voice behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

“Come on,” he says, his tone amused. “Let me help.”

Before you can argue, he’s next to you, reaching for the stack of dishes in your hands. His arm brushes yours, and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“You don’t have to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts, his voice low and teasing. “I’m just being polite.”

You glare at him, but it lacks bite. “You? Polite? That’s a stretch.”

His smirk deepens. “Ouch. I thought we were past all that.”

“Past what?”

“You pretending not to like me,” he says simply, his eyes locking onto yours.

Your breath catches, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin. “I don’t—”

“Sure you don’t,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me all week, right?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you lie, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

He chuckles softly, setting the dishes on the counter before turning to face you fully. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Hiding it,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. His gaze flickers to your lips, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again. “You might’ve fooled Sarah and everyone else, but not me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. The air between you feels charged, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

And then, just as quickly as it started, he steps back, his smirk firmly in place.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, his voice light and infuriatingly casual as he strolls toward the door, leaving you standing there, your pulse racing and your head spinning.

You scoff under your breath, abandoning the plates on the counter and following him out of the kitchen, your irritation bubbling over. “What is your problem, Rafe?” you hiss, grabbing his arm before he can make it back to the patio.

He stops, turning slowly, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Problem?” he repeats, like the word itself is foreign to him. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You know what I mean,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you glance toward the dining room to make sure no one’s listening. “All this—this... thing you’re doing. What’s your deal?”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What thing am I doing, exactly?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “You’ve been messing with me all night. Ever since the mistletoe. Ever since... I don’t know. Just—stop.”

He tilts his head, his smirk reappearing. “Messing with you? I think you’re imagining things.”

“Imagining things?” you repeat, your voice rising slightly before you catch yourself. “You’ve been looking at me like... like—”

“Like what?” he presses, stepping closer, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Like you’re trying to get in my head!” you whisper-shout, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And guess what? It’s working. So congratulations, Rafe. You win. Happy?”

His smirk falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, more serious. He straightens, his easy posture stiffening as he steps closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You think this is a game to me?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Yes!” you say, though your voice wavers slightly. “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Play games? Mess with people’s heads? Well, I’m not Sarah or Wheezie, and I’m not going to just—”

“God, would you shut up for a second?” he growls, and before you can even process what’s happening, his hands are on your face, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours.

It’s nothing like the kiss under the mistletoe. There’s no teasing smirk, no slow build—it’s raw, urgent, and impossibly overwhelming. His hands cup your face firmly, holding you in place as he kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the contact.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to react. But then your body betrays you, melting into his touch as your hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your mind is screaming at you to stop, to push him away, to demand answers—but your body has other plans, and you give in, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours.

“Still think this is a game?” he murmurs, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Your brain is short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between disbelief and the lingering haze of his kiss.

“I’ve been trying to get in your head,” he admits after a moment, his tone softer now but no less intense. “Because you’ve been in mine. Ever since that night. Hell, maybe even before that.”

Your heart stutters, and you pull back just enough to look at him, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is serious, his eyes locked onto yours with a weight that makes your knees weak.

“I—” you start, but the words die in your throat, your mind too jumbled to form a coherent thought.

Rafe exhales sharply, his hand slipping from your face to rest on your waist. “Say something,” he mutters, almost pleading.

You bite your lip, your mind still spinning. Finally, you manage, “You’re an ass, you know that?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, something almost vulnerable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

And before you can second-guess yourself, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him again, pouring every ounce of confusion, frustration, and unspoken feeling into it. This time, there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt—just the two of you, tangled in something you’re no longer sure you can fight.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality. You pull away quickly, your face burning as Sarah stands in the doorway, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

“Really?” she says, her tone equal parts annoyed and amused. “My kitchen? Now?”

You glance at Rafe, who’s grinning unapologetically, and groan, covering your face with your hands.

This is going to be impossible to live down.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving you and Rafe alone once more as if she knows she couldn't stop it, even if she really wanted to. And, she didn't—it was bound to happen. She calls it, "best friend intuition", or something like that.

"So," he says, his voice dropping slightly as he takes another step closer. "Are you done pretending you don’t feel this, or should I kiss you again and really settle it?"

You glare at him, your pulse quickening. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch, "you’re still standing here."

Your brain is screaming at you to walk away, to put some distance between you and the boy who’s been driving you crazy for years. But your feet don’t move, and when he leans in closer, you know you’re not going anywhere.

"Rafe—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, softer this time but no less consuming. And despite everything—you kiss him back, giving in to the pull you’ve been fighting for far too long.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

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atimeofyourlife · 1 year ago

Text

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles warm up round: bakery au rated: t | wc: 840 | cw: none | tags: pre-steddie Eddie never got involved in the upside down, he and Steve meet again a few years later in a bakery in Chicago

The bakery was Steve's pride and joy. It was something that he had accomplished and built up by himself, without the input from his parents. No financial assistance from them, no help in learning how to manage a business. It had been a lot of trial and error, and incredible support from his friends, but he had succeeded. He'd brought the small unit in Chicago using most of the hush money payment over the Upside Down. It needed a lot of work doing to it before he was ready to open it, but once it was open it just took off. Constantly selling out of most of the bakes by lunchtime each day, having to take on extra staff to keep up with demand.

After nearly two years, he had a number of very loyal regulars, the ones who would come in at the same times and same days each week, always ordering the same things. The local workers that would always come in before work or on a morning break for a sweet treat everyday. The older couples that would come in twice a week, once for a dessert for their weekly date nights, and once for treats for their grandchildren. The college students that were adamant that Steve's pastries were infinitely better than the ones they could get on campus.

But the newest regular, one his staff had nicknamed 'Mr Metal,' Steve had yet to meet. From the name, Steve assumed that he worked in the new record store that had opened across the street, but the man always managed to be in and out while Steve was still working in the kitchen, setting up the next batch for the oven or decorating what had just finished cooling.

One Friday morning, he was carrying out the boxes ready to restock the counter, when he heard the voice of Zara, one of the cashiers.

"Uh, I'm not sure. Give me a minute, I'll just have to ask the boss."

"Ask me what?" Steve asked as he rounded the counter, the stack of boxes obscuring most of his vision.

"Please tell me that those boxes have lemon cream cheese pastries and apple pie cookies in them." She replied, sounding a little stressed.

"Yeah, lemon are in the top box, apple in the bottom." Steve replied as he put the boxes down on the side, and started unstacking them. He glanced up at the customer, a vaguely familiar, handsome man, and from the long hair, piercings, and the Black Sabbath t-shirt, this had to be the Mr Metal that all the staff kept mentioning. "How many of each did you want?"

"Two of each." The man replied, staring hard at Steve.

"Uh huh." Steve worked quickly to box them up. "Are you aware of our Friday five for four offer? Five bakes for the price of four, so you could get another of your choice at no extra cost."

"I get them for me and my coworkers, theres four of us so I don't think we can split a fifth four ways without fighting over who gets what."

"I can always bag it separately, so you can slip it in your pocket. They don't have to know a thing about it." Steve offered with a wink.

"You drive a hard bargain, Harrington. I'll take another apple pie cookie."

"I-" Steve looked at the man, confused. Unsure how he knew his name. "Did you go to Hawkins, then? I'm sorry, I don't think I remember you."

"You got a table round here? I could climb up and start talking about jocks and conformity." He looked Steve up and down. "Though, you don't seem to conform to the jock image any more, big boy."

It took another moment, but the name hit Steve as he was bagging the extra cookie. "Munson. Used to buy weed off you."

"I don't know if I should be honored that the king remembers me, or wounded that it took so long."

Steve rolled his eyes at the dramatics, it reminding him even more of high school. "I don't remember most people now, too many concussions."

"Shit. But now you're boss of a bakery. How life changes."

"Yeah. It only took three serious concussions, two major disasters in Hawkins, and one disownment after getting caught behind The Hideout with Matty P. But then I realized that this is what I want to be doing."

"What were you doing behind The Hideout with Matty P? Smoking weed or something? I know you never hid about that."

"We had been smoking, but at that point my mouth was, uh, otherwise occupied." Steve admitted.

"Oh, shit." Eddie choked back a laugh, then looked at his watch. "I'd love to hear more about that, but I've got to get back to work."

Steve quickly wrote his number on the bag with the extra cookie, before handing it over. "Call me sometime, maybe we could spend some time together outside of work."

"You're on, Harrington." Eddie winked at Steve, before leaving the bakery.

im not the happiest with the end of this bc it was rushed after my brain turned to mush from migraines

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #pre steddie #steddie fic #steddieholidaydrabbles #atimeofyourwrites

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hydrngea · 2 years ago

Note

Rafe x reader

They grew up together and as kids Rafe got reader a necklace and she still wears it to this day but Rafe doesn’t notice until she’s all dressed up for midsummer

(This is really random but I thought it was cute lol)

Ur writing is amazing btw! 🫶🏻

perfect pick

a/n : thanks sm!!! i appreciate the compliment :)) i didn’t completely answer the prompt but i might do a part 2 in a couple of days :))

notes : rafe cameron x reader, au to some extent featuring rafes mom before she disappeared.

masterlist | PART TWO

————

rafe could care less about your tenth birthday. in fact, the only reason he even knew it was coming up was because it was all you and sarah could ever talk about lately; what the theme would be, what kind of cake would be the best to eat, who should and should not be invited.

rafe cameron does not care about your birthday- which is why when his mom forced him to come along with her to pick out a present for you, all he wanted to do was jump out of the car and run away.

“but she’s not even my friend.” he whined as they entered the mall, keeping the door open for his mom to go in with wheezies stroller.

“no buts. she’s family, rafe.”

he groans, his steps heavy against the large and perfectly square porcelain tiles of tiffany’s.

“just because she’s your best friends daughter doesn’t mean i have to get her a present.”

his mom shushes him as they approach the jewelry counter, placing a hand on his shoulder before smiling at the associate.

the associate is too enthusiastic to be genuine at this time of day. rafe rolls his eyes at her sickly sweet tone while she asks what they’re looking for. he feels a nudge at his side and his face twitches with annoyance.

“a necklace.” he says under his breath, planning on choosing the first one the associate suggests.

she leads them to the left side of the store, hand gesturing to an array of really expensive necklaces for them to choose from.

“i’ll be right where you found me if you need any help with specifics.” she smiles before abandoning them.

rafe turns to look at his mom, who holds wheezie on her hip. “so?” he shrugs.

“hm?”

he shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, “what one do you want?”

his mother laughs, adjusting wheezie on her hip and grabbing her hand, stopping her from dirtying the display with her chubby fingers. “i don’t want any of these. which one does y/n want?”

the question makes him think for a second. he doesn’t know what you would like. he flips through his memories for some sort of indication, but really he should just point to a random piece and call it a day.

red. he thinks, he remembers you saying your favorite color is red- on multiple occasions.

it was red like ladybugs 4 years ago. then red like pretty roses. red like red pandas a couple years before. red like taylor swifts iconic lipstick now.

he shakes his head, then points to a silver chain with a little red charm in it. “that.” he shrugs and then turns on his heel, before his mom can question if its the best choice.

…

he fidgets with the black ribbon wrapped neatly on top of the gift box theyd put the necklace in, eyes tracing over the bolder lettering over and over again as they walked back to the parking lot. he avoids making eye contact with his mom, like for some reason it’d trigger her to go on another rant about how he should act gentlemanly when he gives her the present or at least act like he cares.

they make it to the car without any conversation, save for some half-coherent blabber here and there from wheezie. he slips into the passenger seat while his mom buckles in wheeze into her carseat, the box still in his hands.

halfway through the car ride, the silence between them is broken. “i know you don’t like to talk about your feelings rafe, but you don’t do a great job at hiding your facial expressions.”

“mom,” he groans, leaning the back of his head deep into the leather seat of her escalade.

“i can tell you have a soft spot for her.” she continues, pressing on the brakes as they approach a red light.

“i don’t.” rafe grumbles, fingernail digging into the box and leaving a mark.

“deny all you want, but i saw the way you looked thinking about her. it’ll catch up to you one day.”

he finally brings his gaze to her, his blue eyes meeting her mirroring irises with a glint of curiosity over what her words mean. he makes to open his mouth, to ask what she means by the look. to ask what’s going to catch up to him. but then reminds himself it doesn’t matter and stops himself.

he doesn’t have anything to catch up to him, because he doesn’t have any sort of feelings for y/n.

there’s no way he feels something towards you- could he?

he shakes his head, putting the box to his side and out of his lap and flickering his eyes to his window. why is he letting his mom get into his head?

he doesn’t care about you. doesn’t care about hee stupid birthday, or even care much about the stupid present he chose for you.

—————-

your tenth birthday party is excatly how you wanted it to be. it’s perfectly decorated, with red streamers hung all over the downstairs of your house and taylor swift themed snacks and games. you were having the time of your life, drunk off shirley temples in fancy alcholol flutes.

you notice a stain on your birthday sash and you pout. quickly excusing yourself to drop off the sash in your room, you rush out of your back patio and into the house, making your way towards the stairs when you bump into someone’s solid chest.

here’s one thing to note; regardless of what everyone says, you do not like rafe cameron. “oh, rafe.” you say, taking a small step back-you can feel your cheeks burn under his gaze.

okay fine, the previous statement was a lie. but not completely, it was only a small crush. tiny. as big as the sprinkles on your birthday cake.

“here.” he shoves a small gift bag into your hands and then hastily walks away before you can ask what it is.

the interaction leaves you somewhat disoriented but also flustered, skin pink and pulse fast.

on your past birthdays, you always get one present from sarah and one from her parents. and that’s what you think it is, a present from sarah’s family.

you bring the bag up with you into you room and pull the sash off your body, throwing it into a random corner of your room.

you know it’s bad etiquette to open presents before it’s time, but for some reason you’re too drawn to the gift bag to wait. you peak your head out your bedroom door and find that the coast is clear, and open the bag, pulling out a small teal box with a black ribbon wrapped around it. you shake it close to your ear, guessing it’s some sort of jewelry and grin to yourself when you realize you’re right

you open the box and find the most perfect necklace ever. it’s silver, with a small red heart attached to its chain with your initial engraved onto it.

you’ll have to thank mrs and mr cameron for the gift. it might be even better than the one sarah got you.

you hear your mom call for you from the bottom of the stairs and you quickly shove the box into the top drawer of your dresser, leaving the bag on top of your bed before hurrying back downstairs to rejoin the party.

——-

you’re confused when mrs cameron hands you another gift bag when it’s time to open presents.

“another one?” you ask with your brow furrowed, though you aren’t complaining.

“from me, ward and wheeze.” she hands it to you with a warm smile and a quick wink.

that’s when it clicks that the present wasn’t from who you thought it.

you slip away from the party and rush back up to your room, grabbing the original bag and digging inside for a card or an indication form who it could be from.

there’s a note stuck to the bottom of the bag, made of ripped loose leaf and written with a dull pencil.

“happy birthday” it says, with no signature. but you don’t need one to know who it’s from.

suddenly, your heart starts hammering and your face starts to swell with a smile.

you can’t believe it- rafes the one who got you the necklace, and somehow he managed to make it perfect.

—-

authors note part 2 : i want to say this is extremely UNEDITED so i apologize for any errors and incoherences etc ! there’s a 90% chance i’m gonna take this down and repost this with edits lol.

taglist : @mrsstarkey1 @maybankslover @of-many-fandomss @dearreader03 @penny4yourthoughts @willowpains

PART 2

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vacate-et-scire · 2 months ago

Text

───Love Notes

Synopsis: Otoya likes leaving small love letters for you to find.

Warnings: [stupidly whipped Otoya] [pre established relationship]

w.c 480

It started with one small note. You’d found it tucked into your bag one day—a scrap of paper with a hastily scribbled message:

"You dropped this: my heart. Handle with care."

At first, you thought it was a joke. Otoya had a knack for playful teasing, so this kind of thing wasn’t unusual. But the next day, there was another one, tucked into your coat pocket this time:

"Are you an angel? Because I’m pretty sure heaven’s missing one."

You couldn’t help but laugh when you found it, shaking your head at how absurdly cheesy it was. But then the notes kept coming. Each one was just as corny as the last, and yet, they somehow managed to brighten your day every time.

The real kicker came when you found one slipped into the book you were reading. It wasn’t even a love note this time—just a short little doodle of a heart with an arrow through it and the words, “Thinking of you!” scrawled beneath it.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” you said one day, waving one of his notes in front of him.

Otoya just grinned, leaning lazily against the counter. “What can I say? Keeping you smiling is a full-time job.”

“You don’t think this is a little much?” you teased, though your cheeks were warm with affection.

“Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “If anything, I’m holding back. I’ve got an arsenal of lines that would make you swoon on the spot.”

“Sure you do,” you said, rolling your eyes.

But you didn’t realize how serious he was until you found yet another note—this time, stuck to your mirror:

"Your reflection might be beautiful, but you? You’re breathtaking."

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, even as you groaned at how shameless he was.

Later that day, you confronted him again, this time brandishing the mirror note like evidence in a trial. “Explain this!”

Otoya looked up from his spot on the couch, feigning innocence. “What? Can’t a guy appreciate his favorite person in the world?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, flashing you a playful grin, “you keep every single one of them.”

You froze for a moment, caught off guard. He wasn’t wrong—you had been keeping them. Every single note, every doodle, every cheesy one-liner was stashed away in a small box in your room.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back without missing a beat, pulling you down onto the couch beside him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple, his voice softening. “I just like seeing you smile. Makes it all worth it.”

Your heart melted a little at that, and you leaned into him, your earlier protests forgotten.

Even as you rested your head on his shoulder, hiding your face, you couldn’t help but wonder when you'd find another.

#bllk #blue lock #x reader #fluff #otoya eita #otoya x reader #bllk otoya #blue lock otoya #otoya eita x reader

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rakurairagnarok · 1 year ago

Text

JUICED UP

Commission for @creativly-bankrupt

Jordan, Matt and Isaac looked their eyes out on the beach. The college sophomores were almost drooling by the massive amounts of babes that walked around in their skimpy bikinis. Their plump lips, hourglass figures, and sun kissed skin were enough to send all three boys' hormones into overdrive.

"Alright, first who scores a chick gets to command the others for two weeks!" Jordan says with a sly smirk.

"As if any woman would even let you talk to them." Matt retorts.

Isaac meekly looks around, as his friends go opposite ways. He wasn't really an outgoing person, but he got invited by his friends to leave his musky dorm room to go to the beach, relax and look at the gorgeous women that were always hanging around the sun heated sands.

He sighs as he slowly makes his way to the small bar at the other side. He wasn't going to pick up anyone, so getting sunburned wasn't really worth it. He ordered a coke light and while waiting he looked out over the white beach.

He wasn't ugly perse, but he had no game, no money and definitely no muscles to seduce any of the 10/10 ladies that were trotting around.

He turned back to the bar man only to notice a different man standing in front of him, his face inches away from his own.

Isaac let out a small yelp and almost fell of his stool, but the man quickly grabbed Isaac's arm and pulled him back up.

"T-thanks" Isaac mumbled.

"Like, no probz, bro!" The man smiled as he let go of Isaac's arm. "You, like, look totally out of it brah, what’s wrong man?"

Isaac looked the man up and down. He was huge. He was wearing a large Hawaiian shirt, with not a single button closed, revealing his massive pecs, washboard abs and a generous treasure trail to his groin. His arms looked trapped in the sleeves, almost as if one sudden move could tear them to shreds.

"Y-yeah, I guess you could say that..." Isaac sighed as he saw the slight confusion on the mans face. "My friends invited me here, but now they are running around trying to pick up chicks, when I'm not even confident enough to ask for extra sauce at a restaurant..."

The man let out a bellowing laugh. "You, like, totally remind me of me, when I was your size brah."

Isaac rolled his eyes.

"But I got like, totally, the thing for ya bro."

He dove under the counter loudly rummaging through countless boxes and drawers. "Ah, totally got it”.

He came back up with a pink can with bright blue letters on it. "Jockcy" There were some other words on it, but it was hard to make out.

"Ra-rai- Inc.?" Isaac gave up. "So, what is this?"

"Its like, this totally awesome drink that like, totally gets you super pumped and shit bro!"

Isaac laughed. So, either alcohol or some weird soda pre-workout? No thank you.

"I think I'm good, I don't really..."

"Nah nah brah, I like, totally insist. It got me super jacked look!" He flexes his left arm, and as predicted, his sleeve tore open, revealing his massive bicep.

"Oh fuck... I totally destroyed that" He chuckled and flexed his other arm as well. "Now I’m totally even again" he said with a massive grin as his other sleeve fell to the ground.

Isaac rolled his eyes again. Not seeing another way out, he cracked open the can and took sip. It was... not that bad... pretty good actually. He smiled as he took another sip. And then another. And then a big gulp, and another. And then... it was empty. Isaac let out a large belch. "Oh shit"

"Oh shit..." the big man looked shocked at Isaac.

"You like... drank it all?"

"Yeah, it was ...BUUUUUUUURP... really good... oh Fuck" Isaac put a hand on his stomach as he felt it churn and rumble. "GODDAMNIT FUCK, I LIKE, SHOULDN'T HAVE LISTENED TO YOU" He shouted as he ran to the toilet.

The big man just stared at the pink can on the counter as Isaac ran off.

"Ooo... I like, totally forgot he was only supposed to take few sips."

A sly grin appeared on his face.

"Well, I think that’s an experiment in the works then. Got to see these test results”.

He snickered as he turned around to help other customers. On the back of his shirt were the words, RAKURAI INC. in large bold letters.

-------------------------------------------------

Isaac burst into the small bathroom and locked the door behind him. The room was spinning, and he was drenched.

"What the fuck... what the fuck was in that..."

His stomach rumbled as another large belch escaped his lips. He rubbed his stomach, which by now was protruding quite a bit.

"I'm like... so totally bloated."

Isaac froze. His vocabulary was a lot more expansive than for him to use those unnecessary, and dumb words.

"Like... what the fuck... I'm like totally not..."

He grabbed his head, the room started spinning more and more.

"Like what the fUcK"

His eyes widened. His voice. It cracked? No not quite. It.

"It’s getting deeper?"

Isaac's jaw dropped. Then... a smile appeared, and he began to laugh. A deep, bellowing laugh like the one the bar man had.

"I like... sounds so totally sexy now brah."

There it was again, stupid vocabulary.

Isaac couldn't help but laugh.

As he laughed, he didn't notice that with each breath, he seemed to grow. At first, it was hardly noticeable but after a few more he shot up. His former measly 5'6 now replaced with a very respectable 6'3. Isaac looked down, and almost tripped. The floor was so far away.

"Did I like... grow?" Isaac laughed again, a bit softer now, a tinge of anxiety slipping into his voice. He heard a rip behind him and turned around. Another rip, and another. He took a deep breath and... RIIIIIIIIIIIP. His loose oversized t-shirt slowly dropped to the floor, in tatters. Isaac looked down and saw his torso had broadened to unbelievable proportions. His shoulders were almost three times as wide! While slowly exploring his widened physique, he took another deep breath, which caused his flat chest to expand into two giant muscle balloons. Isaac ran a hand across them and squeezed sending a massive wave of pleasure through his whole body, which made him throw his head back in glee. At the same time his glutes bubbled and grew, giving him a massive bubble butt, and an almost permanent arch in his back.

"Uhm... this feels like... totally amazeee" Isaac's voice dropped another octave and at the same time his IQ seemed to plummet. He dropped onto the toilet, which groaned under the weight of his massive tits and ass. Isaac giggled. Tits and ass that’s what he came here for, but now he got them. His hands, which by now had turned into big meaty paws, ran down his massive torso. His stomach was still sticking out, but there were some slight imprints of abs visible, stretched out over the gut.

Looking down and taking another deep breath, Isaac quads take on an enormous size. Doubling, tripling in size, they tear open the board shorts Isaac was wearing leaving him with only his speedo. Speedo?

"No, I was like... Wearing boxers" Isaac groaned as he watched his bulge pulsate. Intrigued, he groped his package, and felt it grow. He kept groping, and it kept growing. A loud churning could be heard form underneath him and he watched in awe as his bulge kept growing and growing, and his balls started to feel heavier, slowly dropping, nearly falling out of the tight confines of his speedo.

A weird scent caught the attention of the horny giant. He looked around as he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He moved his head and saw that his bicep was growing. He lifted his arm and a massive wave of the scent blasted in his face. Immediately Isaac buried his face in his pit, which was steadily growing hairier. A loud moan escaped Isaacs lips as the musk invaded his brain. More IQ dropped from his skull into his balls, sending another wave of pleasure through Isaacs whole body. At the same time thousands of pinpricks spread across his body. He looked at his massive arms and saw intricate patterns appear. Some tribal tattoos wrapped around his giant biceps. Isaac looked at his arms with glee as he flexed every muscle in his body.

A slight burning sensation spread on his head, as his dark auburn hair began bleaching itself. Along with the colour of his hair more IQ dropped into his already growing dick and balls. A thick scruff spread along his slowly squaring jaw, and his mouth was stuck in an almost permanent state of awe.

Isaac walked out of the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He still had his memories, he still knew who he was, why he had come here and what he had looked like before. He just did not give a single fuck anymore. He looked, smelled and felt amazing, and it was time to share that with his friends. He walked to the beach quickly locating both his friends who were desperately trying to get the attention of some girls in the water.

Isaac made his way to the water and walked through it, his massive build slowing him down somewhat but his muscles giving him the strength to push forward.

"Hey guys, like... you guys totally haven't gotten any chicks yet have ya bros" he said with a big grin.

Matt and Jordan turned around to see a massive guy walking towards them.

"Yeah, so what dude" Matt sneered, annoyed at how easily their intentions were spotted.

"What you gonna show us how it's done or something?" Jordan snickered. No way a meathead like him was going to pick up any self-respecting woman here.

"Like... sorta brah" Isaac grinned as he grabbed both boys by their necks. He pushed Jordan in his pit while he pulled Matt towards his face, quickly pushing his tongue into the boy’s mouth. They both briefly struggled, but the musk of the pit, and the pleasure of the kiss quickly drained both their bodies of any resistance. A quick swap of the boys and their bodies began to change. Jordans lanky body shrunk down a bit, while packing on some lean muscle. Matt on the other hand grew a few inches, but contrarily beefed up quite a bit. The trio now looked like an example graph of muscle, lean, bulk and beefy.

After finally letting go, the boys looked up at Isaac, who was still towering above them both.

"Like... what the hell happened to us"

"Yeah, we like... totally look super hot now... but"

"Yeah, I'm like... so not attracted to girls anymore."

Isaac laughed. "Yeah bros ... were gonna have like... so much fun at home."

He wrapped his beefy arms around his new boyfriends and took them home.

In the bar the huge bartender was on the phone.

"Yeah, it seems a whole can give infective properties to the consumer... what was that? That's good news? Right... I'll let the lab know."

The man laughed. "I should totally have given him my number."

He frowned for a second, before slamming an "on break" sign down on the counter and running after the trio.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you guys enjoyed it and especially you @creatively-bankrupt.

Seems Rakurai INC. is spreading to other kinds of products!!! What else could they have in store???

#transformation #male muscle growth #gay tf #rakurai #male transformation #musk #dumbing down #commission #straight to gay

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silence-ofthe-llamas · 14 days ago

Text

The Mecha AU-AU continues. In todays episode; the Protectobots exist, Trepan is weird, and Vortex gets a pleasant (?) surprise.

I've also written an UNGODLY amount of Combaticon pre-mech content so ig that's gonna have to escape containment at some point, weeh.

“Hey, isn’t that Felix?”

Hot Spot watched the TV in the break room intently as he drank his coffee. His cereal sat half-eaten and forgotten on the table in front of him. Blades looked over from the toaster, flinching when his toast popped up.

“Felix?” Blades asked. “What, on TV?” He asked in disbelief. He rounded the counter and jumped over the back of the sofa to sit next to his commander. “No way.”

“Seriously – look!” Hot Spot grabbed the remote and rewound, pausing when Felix had come up out of the joint of a mech, looking at something behind the camera in pure relief.

“Holy shit. That is Felix!”

“Look – he gets into that mech.” Hot Spot wound it forwards, showing the brief moment of Felix climbing up and slipping into the face of the mech, the visor snapping shut behind him. “Do you think he’s a pilot?”

“No, no way – he’s a medic. He never ever wanted to pilot, they’d have to be really desperate for them if they’re resorting to using their medical crew.”

“He seems way too comfortable getting into that thing.” Hot Spot shuddered. “It looked like it was eating him.”

“Don’t, that’s creepy.” Blades cringed, climbing back over the sofa to rescue his toast.

“Stop that.” Hot Spot scolded. “Just walk, it’s not far!”

Blades ignored him. “Have you heard the rumours about that base? With all the body bags? I wonder what that was all about.”

Hot Spot rolled his eyes and returned to his cereal. “No idea. I guess when you’re fighting quintessons your life expectancy isn’t great.”

“Neither is ours, and we don’t have giant metal exoskeletons or unexplainable numbers of body bags. What’s their excuse?”

Hot spot shrugged. “No idea. Why don’t you ask them?”

“Oh, good shout – I’ll text Felix.”

“Blades-”

“Relax! I’m not going to say anything stupid.”

“You said that last time and look where that got us.”

“Yeah, right, fair, whatever.” Blades waved him off dismissively. “I’ll just mention I saw him on TV, see?” He turned his phone around to show Hot Spot. “Totes fine, perfectly safe, nothing could possibly go wrong. Worst case scenario, he ignores me, best case he says ‘haha yup’ or something and that’s the end of that.”

“Don’t make him uncomfortable. You know he asked to be left alone.”

“We send each other reels on Instagram again, I think it’s okay if I reach out.”

Hot Spot sighed and unpaused the TV.

-------------------------------------

The tech was too new when they shoved their first AI’s into it.

They’d tested a connection between live pilots already - two separate units that operated as one. They found that it worked, to a point. The two consciousnesses would wave, but never shake hands - the physical contact snapped their psyche. It was only when they had developed the RABIT units that they could truly operate as one – but the pinch point had always been getting them into the same machine . It just did things to people.

Prowl and Jazz had been their best duo’s team, their dark horse - the pair flew under the radar until they were fitted with the experimental tech and blew the project out of the water straight into the lap of investment. And, Swindle noticed, into the scope of

Trepan.

He giggled as he watched them, humming and hawing. Which one? Which one would be his sacrifice?

They’re married , they argued. You can’t force one to pilot the corpse, that’s wildly unethical.

Fine. Then we find a new pilot.

Swindle could only watch. If he objected now, he’d cast doubt onto himself. Vortex would be in more danger. His team might stay in that poxy little box forever.

Vortex himself was a monster. As a prototype, he was huge. Way too big. The technology hadn’t been fine tuned yet to bring the scale back down - and so he towered above them, a monument to their attempt at survival.

And he’d survived. The experimental tech, too fresh and too new, had destroyed the rest of his prototype cohort. Out of the original 15, he alone survived. The 11 carved into his shoulder shone in the red of the blood that they had spilled to get there.

The next cohort was smaller. Swindle hadn’t put forwards any of his team.

You want people who will survive - these guys ain’t it. I know my team, they haven’t got the moxy. The tech needs to be more stable.

Trepan didn’t raise his brows. He seemed to delight in his harsh words, and selected 5 other banked sacrifices.

They all died too. Burned out. Literally. They’d decreased the size of the mechs, the faults and failures of the predecessors informing their design.

Vortex stood alone.

Swindle chewed his nails until they bled fretting over his mental state. He couldn’t get close to him, he couldn’t go and check - he couldn’t even acknowledge him. The magnifying glass pinned him, every breath studied. The tech was so new. Was it really still

Vortex in there? Was he recognisable? Did he know what was going on? Did he know anything ?

God Tex, I’m so sorry.

The pilots falling out of him started telling horror stories.

There was something else in there with them. Something beyond the AI, a malevolent presence in there that wanted to hurt them. The researchers had been dismissive, but Trepan had been intrigued. Swindle had been corralled by him, armed with questions.

What had Svastjan been like in life? Did he have the same devotion to violence in life as he did in death? Was he particularly skilled with any weapons? Were any other members of his team like him? Or was he alone in his brutality?

He told him the truth. He was like this. He had a tendency to jump on the heads of the ones he’d knocked to the ground, to force himself through their body. Pistols and knives were his speciality. And no – he was alone. The others were what they liked to call well adjusted.

The expectation he had was that Trepan would be disappointed, but he had just hummed and nodded his head, quickly returning his attention to the next mech to come off the assembly line.

He uncomfortably ran a hand through his hair as he saw the footage that aired. Trepan was sat beside him, still as much of a crane of a man as he had been back in the research lab. He sat with his legs daintily crossed, his hands resting on his knees as he sat up perfectly ram-rod straight.

“Who is the man so comfortable with our pet?” Trepan asked.

He’d started referring to Vortex as his pet as some kind of cute nickname for him – he’d survived so much and had given him so much information to chew on that he’d grown a real soft-spot for him.

“That’s Felix.”

“His pilot?”

“Correct. First one he hasn’t outright murdered or mentally destroyed.”

“Fascinating.” He steepled his fingers together, eyes wide and beady, taking in all the information on the screen. “He seems to be very familiar with the mech.”

“Felix is a weird one.” Swindle knew he had to toe the line, to act as a gossip to displace the suspicion, to offload it somewhere else. “He’s weirdly attached to his mech – he’s always around it.” He hoped the look on Trepans face wasn’t a bad sign.

“Vortex is a success. Finally.” He leaned back in satisfaction. “We can justify further use of his batch. As their guardian… choose. Who is next to be interred into living metal?”

Swindle remembered the day the experiments came to an end vividly. He hadn’t been able to stomach it after they’d all started screaming for each other – and they weren’t using their call-signs, either. The time for that had long gone – it was their real names that had come spilling out. The ones their mothers had given them as they first swaddled them in blankets. The ones that had been carried on the wind when it was time for dinner. The ones now spoken in hushed voices after dinner.

All he had left of them was a fucking box. He could hold all four of them in one hand. Small components that were welded into the motherboard. A collective century of experience and knowledge and history condensed down into four identical electrical components.

Swindle wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and cry and throw himself off of the bridge, swept away by the current and buried under sediment and rubbish and corpses. But he couldn’t - he had to hold it together. If he broke now, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. There was a job to be done.

Vortex was the obvious first pick. The next pick was harder. Significantly so. Who next? It had been a question that had haunted him ever since.

Swindle felt himself break out into a cold sweat. The tech wasn’t anywhere near where he wanted it to be, and the thought of having to try and wrangle two of them had him sprouting greys. He ran through them in his mind, counting it off on his fingers.

Onslaught. His commander. He’d trusted him with this, and he was certain to be disappointed with how it had all worked out, but he was also the one who could keep Vortex in line. However, Vortex was currently staying firmly in line and was studiously behaving himself now that he had Felix. It seemed that he’d cottoned on to the fact he was now the bargaining chip, and he was determined to play the part of a good little boy in order to keep his favourite toy.

Brawl. His personality was explosive, and any mech they made for him would have to have the thickest armour available, and even then that probably wouldn’t be enough. They weren’t at the point of making a viable mech for him yet, which left…

Blast Off. Their unifier. The centre of their team, their point of gravity. Damn, it was fucking obvious now – if Trepan was keen to crack the mausoleum back open and bring his team online, then he’d have to start with the one who kept them from cannibalising each other.

Trepan was looking at him expectantly, a small smile on his face.

“Jean-Luc B. Ollier.” Swindle promptly replied. “Code name: Blast Off. He’s a sniper and a navigator – where are we at with that gun? He’d be a great test for it.”

“Not Oscar Den Koning? Juan Perez?”

“Oscar will be hard.” Swindle replied. “Very strong personality – if we want him, we’ll need the others all up and operational first. Juan was our demolitions expert – we don’t have the ability to make armour strong enough to withstand the beating he would put it through right now.”

Trepan nodded like a priest having sins confessed to him. “Very well. I will pass this on. Thank you as always, Swindle. This has been most enlightening.”

“When will the designs be ready for viewing?” Swindle asked.

“Very soon, I hope.”

And with that, he was gone. Swindle exhaled slowly before breathing in deeply, holding it there in his lungs, and slowly exhaling.

Fuuuuuuck.

-------------------------------------

“Did you hear? They’re making a new batch of mechs.” First Aid conversationally said as he scrubbed the floor panels of the cockpit with a toothbrush. Despite his best attempts, there was still some dirt and grime in there – he was starting to get a little sick of noticing it every single time he got into his mech, so he’d decided that today, his precious day off, he’d dedicate it to making him sparkly clean.

On the inside, at least. The outside he’d leave to the professionals.

[OOOH? TELL ME MORE <3]

“One’s a prototype mech – apparently it’s going to be designed to be more like you? Something about balancing out what a powerhouse you are. Might end up being on loan to the Shatterdome to the south, apparently they’re having real big issues at the moment.” He sighed and rolled back to sit on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hands. “What did you even do back here? It’s still coming up red – I’ll need to pop the panel off!”

[THIS.]

An arm swooped down from the ceiling, sharp implements spinning and twisting on the end of it. First Aid yelped and scrambled backwards, and Vortex rumbled in a laugh.

“Why do you even have that?!”

[HACKED A MAINTENANCE DROID. HACKED TWO MAINTENANCE DROIDS.] He corrected himself.

“And they just let you keep it?”

[AS IF I’D LET THEM STOP ME.]

First Aid hummed, running his fingers across the offending metal. “I need a toolkit to get this up. I’ll be right back – I think I saw one in the cupboard…”

[LATER BABE <3 BE QUICK.]

First aid hopped out with ease and quickly whipped off his gloves, hanging them over his belt. He rubbed his hair from his eyes and silently wished he had a hairband when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Curiously, he slipped it out – he wasn’t expecting any messages from anyone, and he couldn’t think of who would text him out of the blue-

His pace faltered when he saw the name.

Blades.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and the message to the back of his mind. Later. He’d… He’d deal with it later. Right now, Vortex was waiting for him, and he was so close to getting that panel clean.

-------------------------------------

Having a chatty little man like Felix around had its perks for sure. Such as giving Vortex such useful bits of information, like new mechs.

Each time he learned that new mechs were being added to rosters around the world, he went digging. He’d brute force his way in, hammering and chiselling away until he got what he wanted. Information. Something that gave him an idea of who they’d stuffed into them.

He wondered what Trepan would think if he knew that he wasn’t as brain-dead as he was meant to be, that he wasn’t a silly little AI that said ‘yes, sir!’ and did as he was asked, that he still remembered who he was and clung onto it, that he knew exactly what had happened to him and let it burn inside of him to the point of consumption. Sometimes he wondered if any of the other mechs on base remembered who they once were too, but then that implied that they still hadn’t figured out the damn tech yet, and at least one of the pilots would have gone squealing. Prowl definitely. The man was such a tattle tale.

Huh. Maybe that was why he’d been shipped off to the States? That would be so fucking funny. Jesus.

Anyway. The digging.

He’d poked and probed where he could, the enjoyment he got out thinking of Swindles face when he realised it was him spurring him on, and eventually – he cracked it.

Felix was popping the panel off on his floors when he got hold of the file. A small batch – just five of them. Apparently investors hadn’t bitten as hard as they’d hoped. And they’d had to cut it down by two thirds – ouch. That had to sting. Swindle must have been chewing the walls. Giggling to himself, he began flicking through the folders within, plucking out bytes of information, straightening out the ones and zeros until they were in a format that he could understand-

His lights flickered, and First Aid froze, abused and beaten toothbrush in hand.

“Vortex?” He quietly asked. “I’m sorry – did I knock something?”

[YOU’RE ALRIGHT, HONEY.] He managed, not quite thinking of his reply more than it instinctively coming up on his display. Because he was alright. He hadn’t done anything.

Trepan, however, clearly had his paws on this batch.

SNIPER, the document read. LONG DISTANCE SHOOTER. LIGHT ARMOUR FOR MANOEUVRABILITY. DESIGNATION: BLAST OFF

Motherfucker.

Even the mech somehow managed to look like him – the armour followed the same patterns as the armour that he’d worn on the field, albeit significantly brighter. They could afford to be bright and gaudy when they were made of metal – they wanted to attract the hits. And a bright purple chest was just begging to get punched.

Eagerly, he flicked through the other documents. Brawl? Onslaught?

No. He didn’t care about these names – he didn’t give a shit about them. Not a goddamn single shit. He childishly mentally threw the file over his shoulder, his frame creaking ominously and the wiring under the panel Felix had removed sparking. Trepan was doing this on purpose, he could feel it. He was denying him his team, he was savouring their torment for as long as he could. Fucker. He’d crush him himself.

#tf mecha universe #llama writes #tf vortex #texaid #tf first aid #maccadam #tf swindle #mecha pilot au #No warnings for this one!#Amazingly despite Vortex existing

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mokulule · 2 years ago

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Ghastly Glacial Goodies

What is this Moku? Another AU? Yep, sorry not sorry. It's cute okay! I'm gonna be doing illustrations and stuff. Also ice cream, who doesn't love ice cream? I blame this like 70% on @clockwaysarts cause they were playing around with a blob popsicle design (a blobsicle XD) and this thing spawned. Thanks to the people who took part in brainstorming on the Dead on Main server.

Chapter 1 - Polaris

The evening was dreary that day. Jason couldn’t tell you what had made him want to take a pre-patrol walk of all things. The light drizzle wasn’t terrible, but he’d been out so long his hair was plastered wetly to his forehead. The sun hadn’t quite gone down yet, but the clouds stole a lot of the light. A white mist had rolled in from the bay, softening the corners of buildings, and it almost made the world feel unreal. It dampened the sounds of the city and echoed his steps.

That was when he heard it, like little bells or a music box, a haunting tune. He frowned and followed the beckoning sound. He knew that melody, though it played a bit slow. What was the name again? He walked, unknowingly matching the notes as they slowly gained speed. A sense of urgency rose in his chest. He turned a corner and froze, stunned.

In the light from a hazy streetlight was an ice cream truck.

In this weather? Jason’s befuddled brain protested as he took in the downright baffling sight of the truck and the surprisingly many customers in line as well as the groups of people chatting and smiling eating ice cream in the rain.

The truck was all soft rounded edges with minty green accents, a cartoon ghost that looked as surprised as Jason felt with wide eyes and a mouth in an o decorated the side of the truck beside the counter. A quaint canopy stretched out over the counter. Its white and pastel pink stripes ended in festive tapered triangles which looked more at home at a fair, than some random street in Gotham. Apropos Jason looked up trying to figure out where he was, but didn’t find any street signs, just the sign telling him this street was a dead end.

The music was still playing, pleasant bells clinging softly. It didn’t feel so urgent now. He remembered the song suddenly: In the Hall of the Mountain King. A strange song for an ice cream truck, Jason thought as he walked to the back of the line. In the play wasn’t it for when Peer Gynt was escaping the mountain? That seemed in a way like the opposite of what an ice cream truck should signal. But then again as long as people recognized the song that would draw them in anyway. It was still a very impressive line for the weather.

The line moved slowly but steadily. The happy chatter was like a comforting blanket of background noise and Jason felt his shoulders slowly relax. He reached a sign that showed off various shaped ice creams on sticks in the shape of what looked like cartoon people and a happy green… blob? with red eyes called a blobsicle. It was a ghost Jason suddenly realized, of course that was the theme going by the truck.

Polaris the sign said in big swirly letters and then underneath in a smaller type it said “Ghastly Glacial Goodies” - someone had really wanted the alliteration there, Jason thought bemused. That person might be the young man behind the counter who just wished a girl and her mother a good night, before turning to the last person before Jason. I was hard to judge the man’s height since he was inside the truck, but he struck Jason as short, he was on the slender side an impression only enhanced by the formfitting green striped west and the way he whipped around inside the truck filling the newest order.

Apparently the current customer was buying for his friends, there had been pointing to a waving group standing a few yards away. It gave Jason another moment to ponder his options. The glass shield had stickers on it detailing the various scoopable options - they included such gems as Booberry, Spookistacchio and Rum and Raising, which had a small cartoon zombie on its sticker. Jason felt almost like he could have stayed there all day chuckling over all the silly puns, they had certainly committed to the bit.

Finally the last order was handed over with a wide smile. The ice cream guy exuded such a genuine warmth, that had nothing to do with the actual temperature - in fact it was really cold Jason noted as he sniffled to stop his nose from running.

Finally ice cream guy, Danny his name tag said, faced Jason in his classic ice cream man glory; striped vest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows he even had a silly little hat in his unruly black hair, it was a miracle it stayed on.

Danny looked a bit startled to see him, but then his smile was back and he leaned on the counter slightly to be eye level with Jason. Jason felt his breath hitch just slightly in his throat; It was almost like those blue eyes sparkled like stars.

“Why hello there, haven’t seen you around Polaris before.”

Jason shook himself out of it, grasping for something to say in return, what popped into his head was the oddity of the music, what came out was, “So are you the Troll King?”

For a moment everything was silent, then Danny burst out laughing. Hand over his mouth, he leaned on the counter. His shoulders shook as he tried to contain his snickering.

“You-“ he lost control and laughed, “are the first person” - more laughing - “to remark on the music.”

The laughter was infectious and Jason found himself chuckling. His cheeks hurt slightly from smiling. He wasn’t sure when he’d last smiled this much.

Danny finally gained control over his laughter. He peeked up at Jason through his fingers from where he was practically lying over the counter.

“Not quite the Troll King,” he snickered again before straightening up and gesturing around himself “but welcome to my castle of ghastly glacial goodies.”

“Did you have to think hard on that one?”

Danny’s face turned mock serious. “You have no idea, there were even thesauruses involved.” Then in a lower voice he added to himself, “violent little bastards.”

“What was that?” Jason said, not sure he heard that right.

“Never mind,” Danny smiled, “so what can I do for you? You’re my last customer of the night.”

Jason frowned confused and looked around. To his shock, somehow everyone had left without him even noticing, it was just him, Danny and the truck in the lamplight. He had to be really off his game tonight maybe he was coming down with a cold. He sniffled again and saw Danny frown worriedly. Ice cream wasn’t suitable for the wet weather, but it seemed silly to have stood in line and not get any.

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“Well, all ice cream is made by yours truly so I can’t really pick a favorite, but bloop of the month is Rum and Raising.”

Of course it was the zombie one, wait-

“Bloop?”

“Yeah instead of scoops? I was told it was cuter than gloops.”  Jason blinked.

“Here let me show you.” Danny grabbed a cone and expertly swirled the ice cream scoop round his fingers once before scooping up a mostly round ball of Rum and Raising and plopping it in the cone, he then considered for moment before adding another scoop, this time of “Cosmic Crunch”. He then pressed four small round red gummies into the ice cream, two on each “bloop” and held it out for Jason to inspect and huh, they had eyes now - a bit similar to the Blobsicle actually, except these were stacked on top of each other. It was a kinda cute idea, kids probably loved it.

Jason took the ice cream.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Four dollars, and this is on the house.“ He pushed a cardboard cup of steaming coffee towards Jason on the counter. “That will bring back a bit of life to you, you’re looking a bit ghastly.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Jason rolled his eyes, but he was feeling pretty cold and he sniffled again as he found the money and put it on the counter next to the cup. “But thanks anyway.”

“Have a good night.” Danny smiled warmly and Jason couldn’t help but smile in return. He lifted the cup as a salute and turned around to walk away. He took a small sip and instantly felt warmth spread in his chest. That really hit the spot. He kept sipping at the coffee until a drip of melted ice cream hit his fingers and reminded him of the ice cream.

Oh yeah, he had paid for this.

He licked at the droplet and quickly followed it back up the cone to make sure there would be no more dripping. Cosmic crunch he quickly discovered was hazelnut with lots of crunchy nuts and he didn’t really know how to classify the rest. There was something indefinably delicious about it. Yes, it was all the things ice cream should be, creamy, smooth, rich, but there was something more. Like something he never knew he needed. Before he realized it he was down to the last bits and biting into the cone. Only a few more bites and it was gone.

That was-

It was easily the most delicious ice cream he ever had, but not only that; he felt sated, calm and almost floaty. Was the ice cream drugged? Alarmed at the thought, he spun around, but all that met him was a long empty street with no ice cream truck in sight.

Had he really walked that far already?

He would track down the ice cream truck later. He looked at his phone, it was almost midnight. How odd… He must have stood in line longer than he thought. No patrol was happening tonight, he realized with a yawn. He was much too tired.

The walk to his apartment was a blur, and it felt like it was only a couple of steps until he fell over on top of his bed, clothes and all. Everything was so fuzzy and nice.

Jason slept with no nightmares.

Okay, so this is definitely a small back burner project I'm working on, so don't expect any regular-ish updates, they are gonna happen when they happen. And now that I've gotten that out of my system I can hopefully focus writing the next bit for Catnip.

#dp x dc #dead on main #it's cute #and kinda spooky #Jason has no idea what's going on #do you?#Danny is indeed not the troll king but he is something of a troll #Danny has an ice cream truck AU #cause he's got ice powers #it needed to happen #was considering for a moment if Danny would freeze actual blobs for the blobsicles #or if just ectoenhanced ice cream #Jason is dead adjacent #Polaris #ghastly glacial goodies

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skzsauce01 · 1 year ago

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What Was I Made For

Synopsis: College is hard, but it's even worse when you're a pre-med student and it's even, even worse when you don't want to go into medicine. Fortunately, the ghost that haunts your apartment is more kind, more annoying, and more helpful than you ever thought possible. College AU, ghost AU.

Warning: alcohol, bad parental relationship, mentions of death

Word Count: 6.2k

Pairing: f!reader x ghost!Kim Seungmin

A/N: Good luck with exams and classes!

“Honey, I’m home,” you call. The handles of the reusable grocery bag you picked up from a club booth at the beginning of the semester are already starting to fall apart, so you’re forced to flip on the light switch with your shoulder blades. You glare at Seungmin, who is lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Could you at least pretend to help?”

“What’s the point? I can’t even eat whatever you bought.”

You sigh and set down your haul onto the tiny kitchen island that doubles as a dining table. When you make a big production of taking out your groceries, Seungmin still doesn’t look up. Despite his inability to eat food, he usually shows some interest, if only to judge your snack choices.

On the counter, bananas in a plastic produce bag to prevent fruit flies, and a new roll of paper towels. On the top shelf of the fridge, a tub of Greek yogurt that Seungmin makes fun of you for liking. Assorted salad mixes in the crisper. A whole rotisserie chicken and a carton of eggs on the middle shelf. In the cabinet goes a party-sized bag of barbeque chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies you don’t want to discuss how much you paid for, and a box of protein bars.

You take the last item out of the bag and hide it behind your back. You hover over Seungmin. “Guess what I got?”

“A bag of potatoes that will grow spuds because you can’t finish them all.”

“That was one time! Try again.”

He guesses wrong again and again, so after the fifth attempt, you hold your prize in front of his eyes. “A better vegetable peeler, just like you told me to. Are you proud of me?”

For a moment, his sullen eyes brighten at the memory of you struggling with your old peeler. He watched with great amusement as the flimsy blade repeatedly got caught on carrot skin and you grew more infuriated with each catch. In the end, you gave up and ate the skin, fuming with each bite of your meal. Seungmin laughed so hard, you thought he would lose control of his physical form and slip through the floor.

He sighs, all of the joy escaping through his lips. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, it’s just one of those days.”

“We all have them. Hey, why don’t we do something tonight? I’m done studying, so we can watch a movie or play Mario Kart or something.” You plaster a smile on your face. “Fun, right?”

“You’re never gonna get into med school if this is how you work.”

Despite his admonishments, he sits up and swings his legs off the couch to make room for you. He didn’t choose an activity so Mario Kart it is. You leave your peeler on the coffee table and grab your joycons. When you flop beside him, tossing the blue one in his lap, he grumbles as he’s jostled around.

“I don’t even wanna go to med school,” you remind him. He already knows since it’s all you complain about these days as the MCAT draws closer, but that’s never stopped you from repeating yourself.

“Wow, what a problem. I’d die to go to med school.”

Without thinking, you snort. “Too late for that.”

Seungmin has been dead for nearly two years. The old apartment complex burned down in an electrical fire, and due to the housing demand in the area, the university quickly built a new one in its place. Sure, you suspected it was probably haunted, but rent was on the cheaper side, especially for a single room, so you moved in and learned about your unofficial roommate during your first night. You thought you were going to faint when you saw a stranger leaning over your stack of practice books, and you thought you were going to be killed when he simply said, “I was also pre-med.”

“Sorry,” you meekly say. Why is the Mario Kart music so cheerful? It would be worse if it was sad, but the upbeat tune just makes your mistake more poignant. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he interjects. “Doesn’t matter. You better not pick Birdo this time.”

While you normally would have fought him six ways from Sunday for Birdo, you choose Yoshi instead and pick his favorite circuit to start off the night. He makes no comment about your sudden generosity, but you both know the reason. There’s no such thing as pity in this household, but apologies are aplenty.

When you come back from your anatomy lab the following day, whatever guilt you felt is gone when Seungmin holds up your pack of cookies with a disapproving look. You must have forgotten to put it back in the cabinet before you left. Either that or Seungmin rummaged around your belongings when the roommate contract stated that he could not and would not.

“You seriously paid for these?” he says.

“They’re good! And artisan,” you huff as you snatch the package from his hands. You hope you didn’t crush any cookies in the process. “I support small businesses.”

“They haven’t been a small business or artisan in, like, twenty years. How did the cat dissection go?”

You reach for an overpriced cookie and snap off a piece with more force than necessary. “Fine. A little gross, but I guess I’m used to that by now. You wanna see the pictures I took?”

He tries to feign nonchalance, but his body seems more substantial, less ghost-like as you scroll through your camera roll. Even though he oohs and aahs at the most inappropriate images—you really don’t think the digestive structures of a cat deserve that much admiration—you can’t help but smile. He hasn’t looked or sounded this lively in weeks. You thought it might have been your snark rubbing off of him, but he always has a biting remark at the ready, remedied only with his good-natured demeanor. Of course, that demeanor has been slowly crumbling, so to see him be his usual self again feels good.

Satisfied, he lets you take your phone back. “Sometimes I miss lab. I hated doing the lab reports though; have fun with that.”

And just like that, your happiness goes out. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. I should study before work. You wanna help me out? I hate physics.”

Look, if your roommate were a pre-med student, had unlimited time, and no other obligations, you would force them to help you study, too. Plus, Seungmin loves MCAT practice, so it’s a win-win.

To your surprise, he doesn’t jump at the opportunity like he typically does. Under normal circumstances, he would be scouring the living room for where he last left his flashcards. Instead, he says, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“A break? You, of all people, suggest that I take a break when you were just telling me about my bad study habits? Who are you, and what have you done with Seungmin?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you wanted to do physics that badly.”

“I don’t. This is weird from you though.” However, after a moment of contemplation: “Whatever. Pick a show to watch. I’m gonna draw.”

He selects House because he’s still Seungmin after all. This is the show that inspired him to go into medicine, and is, as he’s mentioned many times before, “the greatest show on the planet.” It’s entertaining, you admit, and you do like seeing all of the obscure medical cases Dr. Gregory House solves, but it’s a grim reminder of your parents’ dreams for you. With the dialogue of the characters echoing in your head, you sketch a frog sitting on top of a stack of pancakes. You initially bought your tablet for note taking, but it really is much better as a tool for art.

“It’s always animals, plants, or dessert now,” Seungmin remarks, craning his head to get a better view while you continually pull your screen away. “What happened to your big fantasy pieces?”

“Rule one: no looking until I say so. Rule two: no questions unless I say so. Remember?”

He ignores you. “You used to do a lot of those things when you first moved in. With the crazy landscapes, guys with abs in crop tops, cat-ear ladies with fancy dresses, villains who you definitely wanted to—”

“I get it!” Your face is blazing. He makes your artistic—purely artistic—interests sound so much worse than they are. “I’ve just been busy with life, so I don’t have time to work on them anymore. Anyway, animals, plants, and desserts are cute.” In a smaller voice, you add, “And they make me happy.”

Just like pictures of a flayed cat makes him happy.

He goes quiet and lets Dr. House fill the air. While he pretends to be engrossed in the show, you turn back to your sketch to fix your frog’s eyes to be less downcast. No sad frogs allowed.

You don’t remember exactly when the dread began, but you do distinctly remember glancing over the syllabus for your genetics course and wanting to collapse. Each item was manageable by itself, but the totality of the class, of your future classes, of your future hurtled at you at full force. For so long, you convinced yourself you could do it. You would complain the whole time, but at the end, you would be addressed as ‘Doctor’ and you would be happy. Your parents would be happy, so you would be happy and realize that it was all worth it.

Even if you cried every night, it would be worth it.

You took a deep breath, looked at the list of assigned textbooks, and pulled out your credit card. You went through more dire situations than this stupid course. This would be easy enough.

Two weeks after the art fiasco, you finally test out your new vegetable peeler on potatoes. Your friend gave you five for free since she was having trouble finishing the large amount she bought. While you stand over the sink, humming a song your neighbor has been practicing for the past week, Seungmin is hunched over the coffee table, doing something secretive with flashcards. He’s been working on a new set of them since the art fiasco, which makes no sense since you have a perfect set of a thousand that you bought online. But no, he has been toiling day and night to create handmade ones. You don’t even want to know where he got the supplies.

Well, you already know where and how, but if your neighbors come knocking, you know nothing.

In fear that you’ll “ruin the surprise,” you have been forbidden from even stepping foot onto the living room carpet. Really, there’s no point because you can get a glimpse if you lean across the island. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes on the growing pile of potato skins. You have five potatoes worth of fries to make.

Ten minutes later, when you have moved onto slicing, Seungmin declares that he’s done. He places the baking sheet you left on the island onto a chair and triumphantly sets down his masterpiece.

When you pick up the topmost one, you can’t help but smile. Alongside the words “absolute threshold” is a cartoon rabbit with alert ears. Tiny music notes are dotted on the top edge of the card.

“To make your studies less stressful,” he says.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re always some degree of stressed but nevertheless thank him. The flashcards are adorable, even if Seungmin’s drawing skills aren’t the best. “Newton’s first law” has an indistinguishable creature kicking a ball, and “law of independent assortment” features some of the strangest plants you have ever seen.

“I love them.”

“What do you think of my art skills? Better than you, right?”

You laugh and turn back to your cutting board. “You should’ve considered art school instead of med school. Professional artist Seungmin,” you muse. “I can see you in galleries and museums.”

“Don’t forget the history textbooks. Why didn’t you consider art school? You would be perfect for video games or something.”

For some time, you did consider art school. You spent the first two years of high school daydreaming about sitting behind an easel, translating a model’s likeness onto paper. Perennial paint splatters on your jeans, permanent charcoal stains on your fingers—that was the only way you wanted to study human anatomy.

“My parents. You know how it is. Can you season the fries in the bowl?”

While Seungmin dumps copious amounts of salt, pepper, and whatever random spices he picked from the cabinet, you reflect on your teenage self. A part of you knew that drawing would only be a hobby, but another part kept hoping your parents would come around. When Hyunjin’s parents announced he was going to study chemistry, your mom wondered why he didn’t choose art when he was such a good artist. In fact, half the neighborhood, whose children went into STEM fields one way or another, were shocked he chose chemistry. Of course, if their own kids had opted for non-STEM majors, they would have been livid. Just like your parents had been.

“Did you ever think about not going into medicine?” you ask as you add more potato slices into the bowl.

He adds a swirl of oil to the mix. “No. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I volunteered at the hospital in high school, got an internship at a clinic here. I was studying for the MCAT and then…”

And then the university’s outdated housing killed him. It sounds horrific when phrased like that, but it’s more truthful than “Promising Young Pre-med Student Kim Seungmin Dead After Apartment Fire,” as the city newspaper headlined. His student ID photo smiled earnestly at readers, and a recent picture showed him posing in a lab coat.

It hits you then. Seungmin is dead. You knew this logically; you saw the articles, passed by the vigil, and signed the student letter demanding better accommodations. Then you forgot his existence until you applied to live in this building and when he appeared in your bedroom, you forgot about his death. Despite witnessing him walk through walls and tiptoeing around his deceased status, Seungmin has never really been dead to you. He’s your roommate who sleeps in the living room, your study partner who loves all things related to biology, or your friend. He’s too alive to be anything else.

“Did you preheat the oven?” he asks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your body went on autopilot, and now the baking sheet is covered in pale potato sticks.

You glance at the dark oven and head over to do what you should’ve done twenty minutes ago. “My bad.”

“You’re the one eating these. Can you even finish all this?”

It’s far too much, but what else were you going to do with five potatoes on the verge of going bad? You suppose you could have not accepted them from your friend. “I can try?” you say, more to convince yourself than him. “I’m no coward.”

“Really? Then why do you hide when we watch horror movies?”

“That’s different. Mario Kart while we wait?”

“I call Birdo.”

Despite his declaration, you’re the one playing Birdo while he settles for Waluigi. Seungmin gloats when he hits you with a red shell, laughs when you fall off the track, and celebrates when he gets first place. He’s practically corporeal, alight with hopes and dreams you wish were your own, but he’s only the echo of the past. Meanwhile, blood flows through your veins and oxygen into your lungs, yet you’re stuck in a potential future you don’t even want.

At the end of fall, between your human biology midterm and that stupid philosophy paper, you break. It’s during one of your MCAT practice exams, so you at least can cry at your desk. You can’t even cry without guilt; your mind immediately starts trying to reread the problem you’re stuck on through your tears, as if trigonometry will solve your crisis.

It feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest. Every time you think you’ve calmed down enough to begin again, another wave of sobs overcomes you. Just holding your pencil makes your throat tighten.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin’s voice is slightly muffled by your bedroom door, but you doubt that a thin piece of wood concealed your cries.

You choke out, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“... No.”

You swing open your door with sardonic fanfare, spreading your arms like a ringmaster. Seungmin makes no comment about your swollen eyes or your sniffles. You almost wish he had.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. He takes a tentative step into your room, and when you nod, he lets himself fully in. It’s been several months since he’s last been inside. Unmade bed, cluttered nightstand, paper-strewn desk—nothing much has changed. He sits on your chair, resting an arm on top of the throw blanket you’ve thrown over the back.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say after a moment of silence. “I hate class, I hate work, I hate my life. A breakdown has been long overdue.”

You stare at the floor, afraid to meet his gaze now that he’s seen you like this. Ever since you discovered Seungmin, you’ve crafted the perfect blasé attitude to accommodate your new living circumstances. He leaves you alone sometimes and stays cordoned off in the shared spaces to give you privacy, but you don’t break apart in your apartment for good reason. You’re open and raw like a bloody wound. Will he want to patch you up with bandaids, or will he pick and prod?

Pick and prod, you pray. Make some flippant remark about how easy you have it, how he wishes he could be in your position instead. Because if he does, then the situation must not be that bad.

Softly, Seungmin says, “What can I do to help?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “I don’t know… I should probably get back to studying anyway.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” you snap. Seungmin at least has the decency to look sheepish. “The MCAT’s in July, and I don’t even understand half the things I’m supposed to know. I’m barely getting C’s in philosophy and art history because of it. That’s so humiliating.”

“Have you thought about, you know, not going to med school?”

A harsh laugh rips out of your throat. “Every single day. But it’s too late. I’ve already wasted four years, so what’s another four?” That doesn’t even include residency.

“You’d hate it.”

“Story of my life.”

The room goes quiet. Maybe you were too severe with your words, but how else do you explain it?

“What if you became a medical illustrator?” he abruptly suggests. “You’d know exactly how to draw everything. It’s perfect for you. And it’s still STEM-related.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s in STEM. Your parents laid out your options very clearly: doctor or disappointment. Some career choices were less disappointing than others, but they would still be disappointments.

“I need to study,” you say.

He stands up from your rightful seat at your desk. Softly, so very softly, he says, “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Thank you.”

He shuts the door behind him and leaves you with your despair. True to your word, you return to your practice exam, this time without crying. Your mouth is dry the entire session, but you don’t dare drink any water in fear that rehydration will trigger your tears. It’s stupid but keeps you holding on.

When you check your answers and review terminology, you refer to the set of flashcards Seungmin made for you. He didn’t expect you to use them, but his drawings have helped you better memorize the definitions. You shuffle through them, occasionally trying to figure out the relationship between whatever Seungmin drew and the word written. Other times—but not enough for your liking—you know exactly what they mean.

The rabbit from “absolute threshold” stares at you with lopsided eyes, and Mendel’s warped pea plants grow beneath your fingers. The whole world blurs.

A month after move-in, after too many beers and barbeque chips, you asked Seungmin, “Why do you haunt only me? You can travel through the whole building, but you’re only ever here.”

He gestures at the room with a sweeping flourish. “This used to be my apartment. Sort of. They changed the floor plan, but this is the approximate location of where I lived, so when you moved in, it felt like fate.”

“Ah, a med school sufferer to keep you company.”

He laughs, but it sounds insincere. “How drunk are you right now?”

You glance at the row of empty cans you lined up on the counter. One, two, three, four, five. Five and a half, if you count the one in your hand. “Pretty drunk, I think.”

“So you won’t remember what I tell you, right?”

“Probably not,” you lie. “What is it?”

With a sad smile on his face, he says, “I haunt you because it’s like seeing someone live the life I could’ve had. Would’ve had.”

Your outburst doesn’t go forgotten, but you and Seungmin dance around the topic with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. You show him your grocery hauls, he scolds you for buying expensive cookies. The two of you play Overcooked instead of Mario Kart and pretend that Overcooked will strengthen your friendship instead destroy it even further. Seungmin is really bad, embarrassingly so.

“Are you going to the party this weekend?” he asks as he drops onions all over the floor. There’s no health department in the game.

“I would ask you to be more specific,” you say, “but we both know I’m not going to any parties. Go chop the onions.”

“You need friends.”

“I have friends. Who do you think keeps us giving us potatoes?”

He scoffs. “That’s not a friend. That’s an enemy. We need more dishes.”

While you wash a stack of dirty dishes, Seungmin dashes between prepping ingredients and watching the timer on the soups. As expected, he doesn’t take the pot off the stovetop quick enough, and soon enough the whole kitchen is in flames. You scream at him to get the fire extinguisher, he wades through the sea of onions, and the level ends with a single gold star.

You set your joycon down and lean your head back. “Three stars or nothing” is your motto when playing Overcooked, but perhaps you can make an exception for Seungmin.

“Why’d you ask me about a party?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Seems like a college student thing to ask. And a college student thing to do. Go to parties, I mean.”

“Not for us.” You stretch your arms and legs out, knocking your socked feet against the coffee table. “When have you ever seen me willingly leave the apartment?”

“Never,” he admits, “but you should enjoy your youth.”

Whatever mutual agreement you thought you and Seungmin had does not exist. You have long known that you would have to sacrifice your twenties for your future. There would be good moments among your struggles, but so many of your memories would be of test prep and studying. As your parents so eloquently put it, “You can draw after you retire.”

“That’s funny coming from you,” you say. You wave a hand in front of his face and observe the way his eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you really Seungmin?”

“Do you know any other ghosts?”

“Do you actually regret dedicating so much time to studying?”

“No. I mean, I went out when I could, but you…” He mindlessly thumbs the buttons of the controller as he tries to find his words. “Well, maybe I do a little bit, but it was fulfilling. Or was going to be anyway. You’re miserable. I’ve never seen you without dark circles or eye bags.”

How needlessly observant of him. “Thanks. It’s the quintessential college look.”

“Take care of yourself.” He raises his joycon and nods at the TV. “Let’s go again. Three stars only.”

And just like that, you and Seungmin go back to pretending as if everything is fine, like the last few minutes were idle chatter about the weather. You yell instructions at him, and he retorts back with something snarky; all is well.

You suppose you should have realized why Seungmin asked you such out-of-character questions two weeks ago. Death anniversaries don’t typically go onto your calendar, but you could have made an exception for Seungmin. How did you forget? As you walk down the stairs, a wave of guilt washes over you.

The annual university-held vigil occurs on campus, but the apartment complex has their own small affair in the courtyard. Framed photos of the victims huddle together at the base of a half-wall. Already, there are several flowers and notes strewn about, and you add your own carnation to the pile. You have a note as well, and it burns your hand as you debate whether to leave it or not.

Twelve people died that night. “Only” twelve, as some papers reiterated. Twelve out of three hundred doesn’t seem too horrific given the state of the fire, but that’s still twelve people dead. Plenty more got injured trying to escape, and they aren’t honored at this memorial. The living don’t get commemorated—they live with the memories of the day, and that’s remembrance enough for the public.

“Hey.”

No one else is around, so you say, “Hey,” back to Seungmin. He disappeared for a few hours, and you assumed he would be gone until sunrise. In the days leading up to his death anniversary, he has grown increasingly depressed, looking vacantly out the window and mouthing words to himself. You idiotically thought he was just having one of those days.

“How are you holding up?” you ask.

“Fine, I guess. Good turn out this year,” he remarks as he kneels down to pick through the gifts. “The construction workers didn’t even show up to work because of superstition or something.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, it’s just…” You wave the folded notebook paper in your hand. Maybe you should’ve bought some stationery after all. “Read this later. I’ll see you whenever.”

You gently place it beside your carnation, return back to your apartment, and lock yourself inside your room. It’s too quiet, and you’re too restless. Your head tells you to do practice problems to burn off your energy, but all you’ve been doing as of late is listen to your head.

As you sketch an anatomical heart—underneath a completely necessary and painstakingly accurate rendering of a male torso—your bones say that this is right.

To Kim Seungmin, a star that went out too soon—

You deserved so much more than this. I don’t even know what else to say because nothing feels more appropriate.

I’m living in your old apartment—where it used to be, at least—and I can’t help but feel that I’m living the life you should have had. Sometimes I can feel your presence when I’m studying. I can hear you reciting definitions and shuffling flashcards. When I’m really losing my mind, I can see you sitting on the couch watching House episodes with me. It’s comforting and terrifying.

You already know this, but I don’t want to go to med school. I hate it and I hate being a disappointment to my parents, but I hate being a disappointment to you the most. You should be in my place, so I thought I should try and complete your dream for you at the very least. I’m already miserable, so I should make the most of it. For a while, I thought this would make you happy, but it’s been making you sad and worried recently. I thought if I could make you happy, then it would be worth it, but I’m realizing it’s not, but I’m too scared to leave this path. Sometimes I don’t know who I am without med school looming over me, and it

I wish we would’ve met earlier. You’re an amazing person, full of light and kindness. The world is darker without you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done and for everything that I didn’t do because you deserve so much better than whatever you’ve been given.

“Do you want to talk?”

Seungmin’s upside down face appears between you and the iPad you have been holding up with both arms. Philosophy review is simultaneously boring and maddening, but you have a final to be studying for. You should’ve started much earlier, but twenty-four hours of cramming has not failed you when it comes to general education elective courses yet.

“Not really,” you say as you push his face out of view. He’s corporeal at the moment, so your hand meets resistance rather than going right through. “I’m busy.”

“Did you apply for a ‘biomedical visualization’ program? That’s a medical illustrator thing, right?”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s thrilled. Since the memorial, you began looking into medical illustrators as a backup plan. You only meant to learn about the basic requirements, but curiosity got the better of you, and you attended an online informational session. Seungmin overheard bits and pieces because of how thin the walls are, you got cagey when he asked, and he put his endless hours of free time into detective work.

“I didn’t apply. I’m just looking around. Now go away.”

“The living room is a communal space. So you’re considering it then?”

You don’t respond and bring your iPad closer to your eyes. To read the tiny notes on the margins of your classmate’s notes, of course.

Seungmin cackles and claps his hands. “You are! This is good! Why are you so morose?”

“Because you interrupted my studying? I have less than ten hours to cover three months of content.”

“You’re deflecting. Are you worried about your parents?”

“Morose and deflecting,” you murmur. “Two gold stars for your vocabulary usage.”

“Are you?”

You shut your eyes, envisioning the stern faces of your parents when you announce over dinner your plans to spend your life not being a doctor. Their expressions morph from confusion to anger to grim when they realize how serious you are.

Are you serious about this? You’re not even sure yourself. It feels like you’re in high school again, holding onto a shred of hope for a future you aren’t allowed to have.

“What if I lie to them?” you say. “I tell them I got into a school that’s super far away, go there, and return when I’ve firmly established myself as an illustrator or whatever I end up doing. It’ll be too late for them to do anything.”

“That’s one way to do it. But wouldn’t it be better if you were upfront?”

You groan and turn back to your classmate’s notes. What is it like, you wonder, to not be crushed by the weight of approval? What is it like to know you won’t be scorned for your choices? No matter what you do, someone—your parents or Seungmin—will be upset.

“Upset” is a very mild way to describe your parents’ reactions. After six cans of celebratory beer—you passed all of your classes this semester!—you called your parents to tell them good news. Somewhere between the silent congratulations and questions of your home arrival, you blurted out, “I think I’m gonna do biomedical visualization. Medical illustration. Art. It’s still medical-related, but not a doctor.”

And after a lengthy discussion filled with shouting, you’re not allowed to come home this year or ever again. CALL ENDED flashes on your screen, but you grip your phone so tightly you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips. Your whole body is tense, flushed with indignation and shame. No tears come. You expected something like this but nothing to this extreme. Their words echo in your ears.

Ungrateful. Selfish. Disgrace.

Logically, you know you’re none of those things, but you can’t help but feel they’re at least a little bit right. You sink into your desk chair and wait for the inevitable knock on your door. To step out of your own accord would be mortifying.

“Are you okay?” asks Seungmin.

“I’ve been disowned in every way except legally,” you answer as you let him inside your room. “What do you think?”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s…”

It’s not fine, but your mouth started saying so by default. You perch on the edge of your bed and stare at the stack of practice books that have been untouched for two days on your dresser. They would belong better under your bed where they’ll be out of sight.

Suddenly insecure, you ask, “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You’ll still help me peel potatoes and let me know when my artisan cookies are on sale?”

He chuckles. “The only way you can get away from me is by moving or by graduating. I’ll be here. Instead of nagging you to study, I’ll critique your anatomy.”

“That’s against the rules.” Nevertheless, you smile at the thought of Seungmin hyperfixed at your artistic renderings and comparing them against pictures from a textbook. “Thanks.”

Seungmin smiles back, and he radiates so much warmth that you forget it’s winter.

EPILOGUE

“Honey, I’m home,” you call.

You nearly trip over the door sill in your heels but catch yourself in time. Wearing heels to commencement is a bad idea for more reasons than one. Clutching your friend’s graduation bouquet, you flip on the light switch with the back of your hand and glance over your apartment. Other than the dozens of boxes scattered across the living room and kitchen, nothing else belongs to you; goodbye coffee table you stubbed your toes against too many times; goodbye peeling school-issued couch. You half-expected to see Seungmin lying on it, staring at the ceiling like he used to.

“Seungmin, where are you?” When he doesn’t answer, you try again. “Anyone home?”

You wander around the small apartment, checking behind doors and furniture like you’re playing hide-and-seek. He’s nowhere to be found, and you go through the apartment again in a frenzy. He could be in a different part of the building, but he always knows when you’re looking for him.

“Where are you? Seungmin, this isn’t funny! I know you can hear me.”

It takes twenty minutes, but you eventually realize he’s gone for good. No goodbyes, no hugs, no teasing—he just waved you off to your ceremony and shut the front door. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help you move out, but you thought he would still be here when you returned. He researched additional art classes for you, suggested works for your portfolio, and consoled you whenever you were overwhelmed. It’s a knife to your heart that he’s not here.

In between tears that you don’t allow to fall from your eyes, you carry your boxes of belongings to your car. You have a new place to call home, but two perfectly nice housemates and a dog aren’t good replacements for a ghost who annoyed you from sunrise to sundown.

I hope you find this note eventually. I know we have the rule where I’m not supposed to go through your belongings, but since we’re not going to be roommates any longer, I hope you’re not too mad. Completely unrelated but you’re really good at Mario Kart. So good. Birdo was designed specifically for you.

Congratulations on graduating. You’ve worked hard this year. Could have worked harder sometimes but you did it! Relax a bit during your gap year and enjoy your youth. Those art classes will be easy for you. Biomed visualization will be easy after pre-med studies.

Stop rolling your eyes and sighing. You know I’m right.

I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I know you wanted it, but I don’t think I could have handled it. The truth is that I was ready to go a couple months ago when you started compiling your portfolio. For two years, I didn’t know why I was still here. At first, I thought my unfinished business was about the circumstances of my death. (Stop wincing. I’m dead. It’s a fact.) Then the administration stepped up. They did the bare minimum, to be honest, but at least changes were made. When you turned up, I thought I was supposed to fulfill my dream of going to med school. Turns out, I still have no idea what exactly why I was here, but seeing you live the life you want and choose the future you want makes me feel like business is finished.

To L/N Y/N, a star that will keep shining for decades to come—

I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done so far. There are so many opportunities waiting out there for you, so don’t be afraid to take any chances. I’ll be with you always.

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