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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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a place where i belong

also on ao3 // 13k words cw: verbal abuse; gaslighting; family angst; smut/nsfw

He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. Standing by the sink and downing a painkiller, shoes on, jacket on, car keys in hand. He pauses when he hears it, hypervigilant as always, freezing without swallowing the gulp of water, the pill floating in his mouth for a moment as he realizes.

A car pulls into the driveway.

He swallows, closing his eyes and sighing heavily, and he sets the glass in the sink.

He’d forgotten they were coming back today. It’s been on the calendar, marked with a vague, innocuous red dot that he’d begun to look past, to look through, to ignore without meaning to. He’s been too focused on everything else, on his own messy handwriting reading Lucas basketball - 3pm and kids theater - noon and Max physical therapy - 1pm. His weekly hours are jotted down on a piece of paper that’s stuck to the wall next to the calendar, updated every Saturday evening. Robin’s handwriting is just as bad as his, but he’s gotten better at reading it, the same way she’s gotten better at reading his.

Steve rests his back against the counter by the sink, taking a breath, steeling himself. He crosses his arms, clutching his keys in his hand so tightly the teeth bite into his palm. He looks at the ground. Follows the lines between the tiles with his eyes like he’s mapping out a maze. Or an escape.

He hears the front door open. Hears some shuffling, some muttering, the clunking of suitcases coming through the entryway.

And then he hears, “Steven, your car is filthy, when was the last time you had it washed?”

His eyes get stuck on a tile, at the corner of it. The tiles used to be a pristine, shining, sparkling white. When Steve was a little boy, they were always sparkling. Glistening. Always freshly mopped, scrubbed, waxed. They don’t look like that anymore. They’re dull now, still white but just barely grey. The one Steve is looking at has a crack in it. It’s a tiny crack, thin as a hair, branching off from the corner, but he sees it from where he’s standing.

“A few weeks ago,” he says, even though he knows it’s been months. “I don’t know.”

The house has aged with him, he thinks. His parents stopped making sure the floors were being taken care of when they started leaving. They stopped making sure the chimney was cleaned, the pool was cleaned, the walls were sturdy. Steve gave up on keeping everything in order when he started high school. When he started to question whether or not they were coming back at all instead of what day they’d show up.

Steve stares at the tile. Traces the crack in it.

“Steven, I paid good money for that car, I expect you to take care of it.”

He nods at the floor.

Quiet.

Good.

He hates when they come home. It’s like the house gets a little colder, like the echoes of the kids’ laughter get sucked out the windows. Like the last burning embers in the fireplace have turned to ash.

It doesn’t happen often, them coming home. But when it does…

“Goodness, this floor is filthy. We need to get these tiles replaced.”

He blends into the walls. Turns to mist that they look right through. Fades back into the little boy he used to be, too small to look into his father’s eyes or to reach the liquor cabinet, quiet and well-behaved and good.

They keep talking. He doesn’t hear his name. He keeps looking at the floor. He decides he likes the crack in that tile. He kind of wishes they were all like that. It took almost twenty years for that crack to appear, that tiny, thin crack. He wonders how many tiles there are in the whole room, wants to multiply that number by twenty. See if he’ll still be alive when they’re all like this one, damaged so subtly he has to look for it. He imagines it, the tiles grey and dusty with age, cracks spreading across them like a spiderweb across the floor. In his head, it’s beautiful.

And then he remembers that they want to replace them now. Because they’re not as shiny as they used to be.

Steve doesn’t feel very shiny. He doesn’t think he’s ever been shiny.

They’re still talking. Steve exhales.

His eyes find a scuff on his shoe. He blinks at it, trying to remember where it came from, and for an awful, awful second he thinks it’s from gym class, from basketball practice, from fucking around in alleyways, before he remembers.

He thinks it’s from the Upside Down. From running, hiding, fighting.

The keys bite into his palm, and he loosens his grip, inhaling sharply as his brain registers the pain. He looks at his hand, holding his fingers open to make sure he isn’t bleeding. He isn’t. His skin is red, indents from the teeth of the keys sharp in his skin, in the creases of his palms.

Fuck.

He looks at the clock across the room, and for a moment he wants to just leave silently, to walk right past them to the front door. But he doesn’t.

“Uh,” he says, quietly enough that he isn’t really interrupting them. They both look at him, turning their heads a little but still glancing at him out of the sides of their eyes, and he finally looks at them. Sees them. They look older than he thought they did, lines around their eyes and mouths and on their foreheads. His father’s hair is mostly grey now, his mother's still dark red. It looks fake, just like the pearls around her neck. “I need to… go.”

“Go where?”

“To— To pick up some kids.” He stutters. He hates stuttering. “And take them home, I— I told their parents I’d get them home by six.”

Walter sneers.

“Why are you driving children around?” he asks. But he isn’t really asking anything at all. He’s just… commenting. Like he always it. Your grades are shit. Your car is dirty. Why are you driving children around?

“I’m their babysitter,” Steve says. He used to hate that word. It felt so demeaning. He remembers his babysitters from when he was little, teenagers that only took the job for the money instead of for Steve, teenagers that would spend hours in the living room smoking or nursing beers and watching movies while Steve played by himself upstairs or in the corner.

But he doesn’t mind it now. Being the babysitter. Driving the kids around. Making sure they’re okay, they’re safe and healthy and happy. Even though he tells them to shut up, he likes hearing their laughter and relentless bickering from the backseat. Even though he calls them little shits, he thinks he loves them.

“Babysitter,” Walter repeats dryly. He’s making that face again. He’s always making that face at Steve. Like he smells, like he’s a stain on the carpet. Like he’s a dirty floor tile. Walter sighs, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “We’re going to need to discuss your career plans, Steven, you can’t go on with your life babysitting.”

Steve stares at him blankly. He won’t meet Steve’s eye.

He’s wearing a suit. He’s always wearing a suit. Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him in anything else.

And now, come to think of it, Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him.

It’s been months that they’ve been away. Months since they’ve stepped through the front door into the boring entryway, through the boring hallway, into the boring kitchen. With no greeting, no Hi, Steve, how’ve you been? No We missed you, how are your friends? What happened with the earthquakes and the serial killer? Are you okay?

Nothing.

A comment about the dirt on Steve’s car, and the dull floor tiles, and Steve’s future career. He wonders if they even know what color his eyes are.

“Right,” he says finally, his hand clenching around the keys again. “Well, I’d love to have that conversation with you, but I really need to go, so…”

“We just got home,” Catherine says sharply, looking at him from where she’s sitting at the table, unbuckling her high heels. “You haven’t seen us in months, Steven, and this is how you greet us?”

Steve looks at her. At her hair. It’s stiff with hairspray, piled up on top of her head in fake curls. Her makeup is creasing in her wrinkles, and her lipstick is faded around the center of her lips. Steve blinks.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here right now,” he says carefully. “And I already told the kids’ parents I’d have them home by six, it should only take a few minutes.” He pauses, looking at her but feeling Walter’s eyes on him. Like he’s analyzing him, looking for faults. He can’t see the scars under Steve’s shirt. “I can’t just leave them there,” he says, pausing, thinking about how worried the kids would be. How they’d blow up the walkies trying to contact him, calling Eddie and Robin and even Nancy to ask if they know where he is, if they’ve heard from him. But he knows Walter would just laugh. “I’m responsible for them,” he finishes.

And he starts toward the door.

“When did you turn into such a little adult?” Catherine says lightly behind him, teasing. Careless.

He stops walking, fist tightening on the keys again. He’s facing the doorway, and the room is quiet except for the soft shuffling of her shoe on the ground as she undoes the buckle. And he feels like his whole body is aching and sore, because he was nine.

The first time they left him home alone. It was just a few days while they went to Indianapolis, but he remembers how quiet the house was. How he suddenly missed the smell of cigarettes and weed, how he missed the indistinct chatter of the television, of his babysitters’ voices muffled through the walls while they talked to their friends on the phone. He sat on the stairs for a while after hearing their car pull out of the driveway. Like he was waiting.

He realized after a few hours that without a babysitter, he could go outside. It was his first time outside without supervision.

He just tried to catch the fireflies.

Steve turns around and looks at them. They’re both looking back at him, eyebrows raised curiously at the way he stopped short, at the way he froze.

“Probably when I turned into an actual adult,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends.

Walter scoffs.

Steve feels like he just plunged into Lovers’ Lake again. Ice cold all over, in the dark. Eyes straining to see what’s ahead of him.

“You’re an adult when you finish high school, Steven. You’re a child.”

Steve blinks.

His gaze shifts over to him, to that fucking expression, at the earnestness in his eyes. The fucking ignorance. And Steve, inexplicably, laughs.

It’s a short laugh, but it’s almost hysterical, and he really just doesn’t know how the fuck else to react, to respond. They’re looking right at him. And they can’t see the age in his eyes, in his height, his face. They don’t even know him. He’s a stranger in their house.

They’re strangers too.

“I’m an adult, Dad,” Steve says dryly after the laugh, still half-smiling, even as the expression on Walter’s face deepens. Condescending, and mean, and judging, and even with the grey hair and the wrinkles, he’s the same man that Steve used to look up at as a child. “I graduated high school,” Steve says before Walter can say anything. “Two years ago.”

Walter blinks, making a face and looking at Catherine, who just raises an eyebrow at Steve.

“You were in Italy,” Steve says, trying as hard as he can to remain light, nonchalant, to keep his voice soft and sweet and quiet and good. “I sent you an invitation to the ceremony.”

“Oh, Steven, you know we never check our main when we’re abroad,” Catherine says lightly.

Steve looks at her. The faux kindness in her eyes. The smile gracing her red lips. Like it’s Steve's fault. Like he’s a child.

He hates her.

“Right,” he says softly, nodding slowly, looking away. “Silly me.”

“So you think finishing high school makes you a grown-up?” Walter says, amused. Steve looks at him.

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“...Steven, you have no idea what it means to be an adult.”

Steve looks at him. At his face. The condescending shine in his eye, like he’s talking to a kid, like Steve isn’t his height. (Maybe taller. He’s too far away to tell right now.)

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

Steve nods. Puts his keys down.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

The phone is in the living room, near the doorway, and he closes his eyes as he picks it up, taking a deep breath before he dials the number he memorized within a day of learning it.

“Munsons.”

“Hey,” Steve says quietly. “Uh, would it be cool if you picked the kids up from the arcade for me?”

“The arcade…” Eddie repeats, his voice more distant like he’s leaning away from the phone. “Weren’t you getting them today? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve lies easily. But Eddie’s always able to know when he’s lying. Steve doesn’t know how he does it. Every time Steve lies that he’s fine, that No, my head doesn’t hurt, and I didn’t have a nightmare, I just wanted to get some water, and I feel fine. Eddie just… looks at him.

“Steve.”

And Steve always breaks. Lets the brick wall between them crumble to dust.

“Uh.” He pauses, glancing down the hall. He feels like they’re listening. “My parents came back a minute ago. We’re talking.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says. “Is everything okay? Do you need backup?”

Steve smiles into the phone, closing his eyes as his stomach flutters.

“No, just… It’ll be fine. We’re just talking.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and Steve can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get the little shits, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“‘Course, Stevie.” Steve’s stomach flutters again. “Good luck with your parents.”

“Thanks.”

They hang up. Steve presses his face to the wall for a moment, taking a slow breath before he exhales.

He goes back to the kitchen.

Leans against the counter by his keys. Crosses his arms and looks at the floor. Finds the cracked tile and stares at it.

It feels farther away now. Like he’s gotten taller.

“You don’t think I know what it means to be an adult,” he says.

“No, Steven,” Walter says lightly. Jovially. Condescendingly. “I think you’ve lived a very sheltered life. You haven’t seen the world, or experienced anything that could push you into adulthood. But that’s okay,” he adds like it’s reassuring. “You’re fortunate, you know.”

Steve's jaw twitches. He grinds his teeth. Stares at the tile, then the scuff on his shoe.

“Do you wanna know what I think?” Steve asks quietly.

Walter scoffs again.

The sound grates at the inside of Steve’s skull, and his stomach twists. His lungs feel constricted, like they’re too tight.

“What do you think?” Walter asks. His voice is gentle, so gentle it sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old, humoring him, playing along. Steve lifts his head and levels a gaze on him.

And across the kitchen, in the soft late afternoon sunlight, Steve looks at his wrinkles and his grey hair and his goddamn suit, and he’s just a man. And Steve wonders how the fuck he used to look up to this man, how the fuck he used to think he was anything more than this.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” Steve says softly.

Walter’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head in shock as Catherine lets out an Excuse me!

Steve nods, staring, and staring, and staring, and he can’t look away.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” he says again. “I think I have been… through hell. And you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here,” Steve snaps, his voice a little louder. He uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, and he thinks he is taller than his father. His stomach twists again. “You wanna know when I became a little adult, Mom?”

She stares at him, eyes wide.

“I became a little adult when you left me home alone to fend for myself,” he says forcefully. “When I was a child. And I should have been off playing with my friends, and memorizing multiplication tables, and getting my knees scraped on the pavement.” His heart is pounding now, and he can barely hear himself over it. “I wasn’t doing any of that. I was learning how to fucking cook, because there was no one else to do that for me. I was learning how to reset the heat in the house, and I was growing up when I shouldn’t have been.”

“So you’ve been through hell because you had to learn how to use the stove,” Walter says dryly. Steve looks at him.

“God, you really have no idea who I am, Dad.”

“I’m your father,” Walter says, an amused smile teasing his lips.

“Is that what you call yourself?” Steve asks. “Is that what you tell people? That you’re a father? Because, I…” He scoffs and shakes his head, and maybe he’s more like his father than he’d hoped he’d be, but he doesn’t care right now. “I gotta tell you, man, that’s gonna be really misleading when people hear that.”

“You don’t think I’m your father,” Walter says. He’s starting to get angry, and a part of Steve feels vindicated. Good.

“No,” Steve breathes.

“How on Earth is he not?” Catherine interrupts, and Steve had almost forgotten that she’s even here, looking up at them from the chair she’s sitting in. “You have his DNA.”

“Right,” Steve says. “So we’re related. Biologically.” He looks back at Walter, and they’re closer than he thought they were, but he can't tell how close they really are. Concussions and trauma do wonders to one’s depth perception. “You didn’t raise me.”

“I didn’t raise you?” Walter says, his cheeks flushing red. Something in Steve cheers.

“No,” Steve says calmly. “You left me alone with teenagers that didn’t know shit about how to take care of children, and you left me home alone. By myself. In the middle of the fucking woods.”

“You weren’t that young, Steve—”

“I was nine.” He looks at Catherine, silencing her. “I remember.” He looks back at Walter. Their eyes meet. They have the same eye color. Steve hates it. “Fathers know their children,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you,” Walter snaps. “You’re my son, Steven, how could I not—”

“How old am I?”

The room falls quiet.

Steve stares back as Walter looks at him. He can hear his own heartbeat, his own breaths. The water tapping in the sink. A bird chirping outside.

And he nods.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re still our son,” Catherine says haughtily.

“...When’s my birthday?” he asks. When they’re silent, he says, “What am I allergic to? What’s my favorite color? Who’s my best friend?”

“The Hagan kid,” Walter says, like it’s an accomplishment, answering one question incorrectly.

“I haven’t talked to Tommy Hagan in three years,” Steve says. “And you didn’t know that.”

Walter huffs and rolls his eyes.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he mutters. “Look, Steven, this…” He gestures aimlessly at Steve, making a face. “Your favorite color, your friend’s name, they don’t matter.” He laughs lightly, dismissively. “You wanna be treated like an adult, but these are the things you care about, Steven, they’re irrelevant.”

“It doesn’t matter that they’re irrelevant, Dad,” Steve snaps, his voice louder. “It matters that you don’t care. I’m your kid, you should care about the things I like, and— and about my friends, and about my fucking birthday.”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” Walter says, his eyes darkening with anger, and Steve aches.

When he was six, he was watching Looney Tunes on the television on a Saturday morning. He laughed a little too loud, and he was sent to his room for the rest of the day. Because his father needed quiet to focus on his work. Walter’s always hated hearing Steve speak, so Steve has kept quiet. Seen and not heard. Fading in the background, hiding in plain sight. But Steve is fucking sick of being looked through. Ignored.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, almost on the verge of delirious laughter. “No, I’m gonna raise my voice at you. Because I’m pissed, and because you never had a problem raising your voice at me.”

“You were a child—”

“So that made it fine? To yell at me? To tell me to keep my fucking mouth shut? That’s all fine to tell a child?” He stares at Walter. “You wanna talk about the shit that actually matters, fine. Let’s talk about the shit that actually matters.”

He’s shaking now, breathing hard and trembling with twenty years of anger that's boiling and spilling over his edges.

“You guys know about Hawkins,” he says, crossing his arms and looking at the floor, avoiding their gazes as he takes a breath.

“About Hawkins,” Walter repeats.

“Hawkins, yeah,” Steve says. “The shitshow that is my hometown, you know all the shit that’s happened here, right? The missing kids, the— the fires, the lab.”

“Of course we know everything about this town, Steven,” Catherine says curtly. “We’ve lived here twenty years.”

“You really haven’t,” Steve says lightly. “But that’s fine. You know about everything.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You know the girl that went missing?” he asks, looking up at them. “Barbara. And the whole conspiracy with the lab and the chemical spill and everything.”

“Yes,” Walter says. “We heard about all of that.”

They’re both staring at him curiously now, quiet while he looks back.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I was involved in all of that.” He watches their confusion deepen the wrinkles on their faces. “She was my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. She went missing from here, from—” He gestures out the window, toward the pool that’s covered with a blue tarp. The water is probably swimming with dead leaves.

“You know anything about Billy Hargrove?”

Catherine blinks.

“The… The boy that passed away in the fire,” she says slowly, remembering. “At the mall.”

The fire.

“The boy,” he mutters to himself before he bites his lip, pausing. “Yeah. The year before he ate shit, he almost fucking killed me.”

They both blink at him, blank.

“And he tried to kill me,” he continues, “because I stopped him from killing a thirteen-year-old.” He takes a shuddering breath, uncrossing his arms, looking at them, and his vision wavers as he remembers it, as he remembers the glass smashing over his head, the floor against his back, Billy’s laughter. The kids’ shouting. “He beat… the shit out of me. Gave me a grade four concussion.”

He looks back at forth between them, waiting for a reaction, but they keep staring. Catherine’s eyes are wide, but Walter just looks angry. Like Steve is wasting his time.

“It took me three weeks to recover from it,” he says. “And you were in fucking Spain.”

His voice shakes.

“The mall fire,” he continues before they can say anything. “You know about it. Fourth of July, thirty dead.”

“Yes,” Catherine says softly.

“Take a wild fucking guess where I was.”

Silence.

Until Catherine’s voice says quietly, “...The mall.”

“Inside,” Steve says softly, looking at her intently. “With my friends, with the kids I babysit— and it wasn’t just a— a fucking fire.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t tell you what really happened, because I signed a goddamn nondisclosure agreement—”

“Steven, what—”

“But I can tell you,” he interrupts loudly. “That I got the shit beaten out of me again.”

A flash of light. A fist cracking against his face. An ache in his ribs, a sharp pain in the side of his neck. His own voice, rough from screaming, broken and pleading.

“Another grade four concussion. The medics asked for my home number so one of you could come to pick me up,” he says, his throat tightening, his eyes stinging. “And I had to tell him that you were in Chicago for a fucking business trip.” His breath shudders, and his vision blurs, and his hands are trembling as he gestures aimlessly, pointing to nothing. “I was driven home by a fucking government agent, because you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You heard about the kids in town that were murdered?” he says, his voice breaking, tears sparking his eyes. “The kids that were fucking… broken?”

“...Of course we heard about them.”

Steve exhales shakily.

“...There was a serial killer loose in town,” he says, fingers curling into fists. “And you never even called.”

“We were working,” Walter snaps.

“You’re always fucking working,” Steve says strongly. “I got used to you not being around, but it didn’t make it any fucking easier. You weren’t here when I had concussions, when I couldn’t fucking see, or when my hearing started going, you weren’t here when I could barely move because my injuries were infected, you were never fucking here.”

“Oh, Lord,” Walter says, rolling his eyes and scoffing, glancing at Catherine. Steve’s stomach twists, and he can’t see clearly. Everything is too bright, swimming in his tears. “How were we supposed to know you were hurt?”

Hurt.

He makes it sound so… little. Like Steve had a papercut. Like he needed a band-aid and a kiss on his forehead to feel better.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Dad,” Steve says adamantly. “Obviously you wouldn’t fucking know, that’s not the problem— The problem is that you weren’t here for any of it, for anything I’ve gone through, and even when you knew what the fuck was happening in this town you couldn’t even be bothered to call, to— to make sure I was okay.”

“You said you’re an adult, didn’t you?”

Steve exhales.

He doesn’t feel like an adult right now.

He feels like a child. Like he’s five years old, searching for his parents’ attention, their affection, anything. Like they’re looking past him, through him, ignoring him in the hopes that he finally shuts up.

Seen and not heard.

“You said you signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Walter says. “Let’s say you really did— You have to be eighteen for contracts to be legally binding. So you’re an adult.” Walter looks into his eyes, like he’s sizing him up. “You shouldn’t need mommy and daddy to take care of you.”

Steve’s lip quivers. He blinks tears back. And he’s stuck here. A kindergartener in the body of a twenty-year-old, the way he was thirty when he was twelve. Unmoving.

Walter scoffs again, looking at Steve trying not to cry.

“Are you done with your little temper tantrum?” he asks dryly, turning slightly. “It was a long trip back, I’d like to take a shower and rest.”

And Steve longs to tell them. About the monsters, the dark, the flickering and flashing lights. About the Upside Down. To show them the scars that cover his skin.

“You weren’t here when I was a child, either,” Steve says, stopping him before he can leave, and Walter turns with a heavy sigh, giving Steve a bored look. Steve’s fists tighten. His nails bite into his palms.

“Steven,” Catherine says, standing from the table like she’s bored too. “That’s quite enough.”

“You weren’t here when I was injured,” Steve says shakily, his vision blurring again. “You weren’t here when I was concussed, and when I couldn’t see, and you weren’t here when I turned twenty, or when I graduated high school, and you weren’t here when I learned how to ride a bike, or how to swim, and you weren’t here when I got my first A, and you weren’t here for parent-teacher conferences— I went by myself,” he adds roughly, gesturing at himself, hitting his own chest.

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here when I had nightmares or when I got sick, I took care of myself.”

“It made you strong—”

“I was a child!”

He’s never raised his voice at them like this. Never yelled. But he’s crying now, tears falling freely down his cheeks as they stare like he’s grown another head, and he can’t help it.

“I didn’t need to be strong,” he shouts. “I needed to be loved, and I fucking wasn’t.”

“How…” Catherin huffs, her face red, and Steve looks at her, taking a hiccuping breath. “You think we didn’t love you,” she says. “But we provided a roof over your head, and—”

“A roof wasn’t enough,” he says, holding back a sob. “I used to— I used to wait after school, fucking waiting for you to come get me, to— to drive me home, I used to watch all the other kids with their moms and dads, I used to watch them laugh, and smile, and hug them, and I fucking waited for you. I waited until nighttime once, and you never fucking came.”

“Steven, that’s just irresponsible,” Walter says, and Steve hiccups.

“I was nine,” he says. “I waited for you, all I fucking wanted was my parents to drive me to school, and you were off in fucking Paris or wherever the hell you were. I had to teach myself how to ride a bike, and I had to take myself, because you weren’t here—”

“I have responsibilities—”

“I was your responsibility,” Steve finally screams. “I was your son.”

He takes a gasping breath as they stare at him again, and he wipes his face so roughly it hurts.

“I missed you,” he chokes. “I needed you.”

“You clearly didn’t need us that much,” Walter says, huffing, gesturing at him. His wedding band sparkling in the sun and Steve wants to melt it. “If you’re doing just fine now.”

“I’m not,” Steve says before he can stop himself.

He’s never said it before. That he’s not fine. Even when he was concussed, when Robin was concerned, he insisted he was okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad, Robbie, don’t worry. And he went home. Turned off the lights. Covered the windows. Laid in bed. Cried.

It’s some cruel, cruel irony that these are the first people to know.

“I’m so fucking far from fine,” Steve says. He covers his face for a moment, and for a brief second, he wishes he was bruised, purple and blue and bloody. He doesn’t know why. Maybe so they could fucking see it. So they’d believe him.

“...The first time my best friend said I love you to me, I laughed.” He looks at them, and he suddenly wants to crumple to the floor, to lean against the wall, to go to bed. Exhausted. “I never fucking heard it from you guys. Never heard it from my girlfriend. I didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know what it fucking meant.”

He looks at them across the room. They’re both near the doorway of the kitchen, both turned slightly toward each other like they’re leaving, hesitating to watch Steve. Like he’s putting on a performance, like he’s pretending.

“You really fucked me up,” he says weakly, tiredly.

They’re quiet for a moment. And he doesn’t know what he expects. An apology. We’re sorry, Steve, we’ll be better parents from now on. We’ll be present in your life.

“I really don’t like the language you’ve been using today, Steven,” Catherine says. Ignoring him. The tears on his face. “It’s really no way to speak to your parents.”

But he supposes he should have seen this coming. The deflection.

He looks away, blinking tears back and exhaling, but before he can say anything, a car pulls into the driveway. He turns to look out the window, wiping his face as he catches the end of Eddie’s van before it’s hidden from view, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

That was quick.

He should have anticipated Eddie coming over as soon as he could. He probably sped on the way here.

“Who…” Walter starts, but he’s interrupted by the front door swinging open. The doorknob hits the wall with a muffled bang, and a moment later, Eddie appears behind in the entry to the kitchen.

Walter and Catherine part, looking him up and down, looking, scandalized, at the rips in his jeans, the swords on his t-shirt that form an upside down star, at his hair. And he isn’t even wearing a jacket or any jewellery, and Steve’s stomach flutters with the realization that Eddie really didn’t waste any time.

Eddie’s eyes find Steve, and he crosses the room, pushing past Walter.

“Are you okay?” he asks Steve quickly, his eyes scanning over his face, his body, lingering on the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” Steve says softly, wiping his face again, and Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. Steve thinks he must be holding himself back; usually after nightmares, he wipes Steve’s tears for him, the same way Steve wipes his. “No, I just…”

Eddie exhales, looking into Steve’s eyes, looking for a lie. He’s out of breath, like he ran here instead of drove, and Steve smiles weakly. Until Walter interrupts.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” he says forcefully, and Eddie and Steve turn to look at him. “Coming into my house.”

Eddie looks back and forth between Walter and Catherine like he’s trying to memorize them both, scanning their clothing the way they scanned his. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are pursed, and even though from here Steve can’t really see him, there’s a warm pit in his stomach, because Eddie’s so beautiful, and he came for Steve, and he’s stepping forward a little bit like Walter is going to try to lay a hand on Steve, and Steve’s never felt so fucking safe before, and he doesn’t know what to do with this, and—

Catherine gasps. Steps back with a slight stumble even though she’s not wearing her high-heels anymore. Clutches at her pearls.

“You’re that boy,” she says, touching Walter’s arm and pulling. “That Hellfire boy, you—”

“Eddie didn’t do anything,” Steve interrupts, his stomach dropping, but Walter recognizes him too, and he turns red, glancing at Steve and then looking back at Eddie.

“Get out of my house,” he says, his voice too loud, and Steve feels so fucking small, and he hates feeling small.

But Walter starts toward Eddie when he doesn’t say anything, and Steve remembers suddenly that he isn’t small anymore.

He steps in front of Eddie, knocking Walter’s hand aside before he presses his fingertips to his chest, pushing him back gently. Walter stares, wide-eyed, red-faced.

“You lay a finger on him,” Steve says too calmly, “and I will fucking kill you.”

Walter blinks, shock coloring his face darker before he laughs, but it’s a forced laugh, and Steve’s never been more serious in his life, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his heart pounding, and Walter doesn’t seem to know that Steve will do whatever the fuck he needs to for Eddie.

“You think you can kill me, Steven?” Steve looks into his eyes.

He’s smaller than Steve. Not by much, but when Steve lifts his chin, he has to look down at him to hold eye contact.

“We just had a whole conversation about how little you know me,” he says quietly. “Do you really wanna fucking test me?”

He hears Eddie exhale behind him, but he doesn’t look away, staring into Walter’s eyes, challenging him, and his hands almost itch. He hasn’t had any fights in a good long while.

Walter looks past him, breaking eye contact, staring Eddie down now, but his eyes flicker like he’s looking across Eddie’s face, analyzing him. Steve knows what he’s looking at. The scar on his cheek, the mangled skin. Steve loves that scar. It had to be stitched together, but it makes Steve think of the constellation Cassiopeia, almost W-shaped. He longs to trace it someday. To thank it.

Walter backs up finally, and Steve exhales, watching him go back across the room to stand with Catherine, who’s still watching, wide-eyed, a hand on her chest over her heart.

“Sickening, Steven,” Walter says, shaking his head and glaring at Eddie. “Really. I thought I raised you to associate yourself with better—”

“You didn’t raise me,” Steve interrupts. “Stop… acting like you were some fantastic fucking father that a fucking stand-up job of raising a son, you didn’t do shit.” He stares, breathing hard, his back tingling with some sort of anticipation. “I did. Not you.”

“So you think you’re so independent?” Walter says with that awful fucking laugh again.

“I had to be,” Steve says softly. Eddie is closer now, still behind Steve, but less like Steve is protecting him, and more like Eddie is here. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

Walter looks at him. At Eddie. He’s holding the back of a chair, exasperated, and he shakes his head.

“Never thought I’d be so disappointed in my own son.”

Steve looks away, hesitating.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. His voice is so kind.

“...Can you go upstairs and pack me a bag?”

“‘Course.”

Eddie touches the small of his back gently as he passes by toward the entryway, where he passes Walter and Catherine with a faux polite nod that’s so on brand for Eddie that Steve wants to smile.

Walter glares at Steve while Eddie goes upstairs, and Steve can hear him breathing heavily. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw him this angry.

And then Walter is standing up straight abruptly, muttering something about fucking trash in my house under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, and Steve’s stomach drops as he follows, his vision blurring as his blood courses in his veins, fingers twitching. But instead of going up the stairs, Walters passes by them, headed toward the master bedroom, and Steve stops, watching. He scoffs when he realizes where he’s headed, and he leans against the wall. He hears a thump upstairs.

“Steven, you really…” Catherine shakes her head in disappointment. She’s got her arms crossed, twisting the plastic pearls of her necklace. “This is all very disrespectful.”

Steve looks down at her.

“...You think you deserve my respect?” he asks quietly. She looks at him like she’s alarmed. “You think I care if you think you do?”

He looks away before she can respond.

Eddie is coming down the top steps just as Walter appears again.

Steve looks up at Eddie.

He’s carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, carrying the nail bat in one of his hands, and he raises an eyebrow as Walter yells at Steve from across the room.

“Where is it?”

“Nowhere you’ll find it,” Steve says lightly, lifting a hand to catch the bat as Eddie tosses it to him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Walter is huffing, and puffing, and it’s kind of ridiculous now.

“What’s he looking for?”

“Gun.”

“Ah.” Eddie is almost smiling. The gun is in the back of his van, taken for target practice when Nancy taught Robin how to shoot.

Steve turns back into the kitchen to grab his keys, swinging the bat. It scratches the tile floor. When he turns back around, Walter and Catherine are staring at it, at the rusted nails and the blood-stained wood.

“What the hell…”

Steve swings it again, moving his keys so he’s holding the one for his car between his fingers.

“You don’t know me.”

Eddie is by the door with the duffel bag when Steve gets to the hallway, and he looks into Steve’s eyes. The light is dimmer now. The sun’s starting to go down.

“Come to my place, yeah?” Eddie says softly, touching Steve’s arm gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his jacket before he squeezes. His eyes are shining earnestly, and Steve’s chest aches. He nods.

They both step out onto the porch. It’s cold out, the air biting at Steve’s face, but it feels refreshing, like inside the house was stuffy and claustrophobic, like he’d been trapped under a blanket for too long. Eddie goes to the van, tossing the duffel bag in as he gives Steve one more look.

“Is there anything else we don’t know about you?” Walter says behind Steve, who turns to look at him again.

Walter’s eyes are lingering on Steve’s arm, like he can see Eddie’s handprint on it, and then he looks into Steve’s eyes, shining with disgust and judgement and hatred, and Steve

doesn’t

fucking

care.

“You’ll never get to know,” he says quietly.

And he leaves.

He’s vaguely aware of Catherine saying something, her voice high-pitched and wavering, and Walter shouting something about the car, but Steve ignores them, blank and empty as he gets into the car and pulls out of the driveway. He glances at the house in the rearview mirror as he leaves. It occurs to him that with the location of it, hidden by trees, away from town, Steve could live in Hawkins all his life and never have to look at the house again.

He smiles.

Eddie and Wayne live in an apartment in town now. It’s two floors above a cafe that opened a little after Starcourt, and sometimes when Steve is going to the door, he smells coffee and baking pastries. It’s nice.

He doesn’t smell it at this time of night, though.

He and Eddie arrive around the same time, and they’re quiet as Steve parks next to the van, grabs the bat and silently follows Eddie to the door. Eddie leads him in, up the narrow stairs, and they’re quiet as he unlocks the apartment, as they step inside and kick their shoes off. Steve leaves the bat resting against the wall by the door in Eddie’s room, and Eddie tosses him his bag.

Steve looks into it, rummages through the bunched-up, hastily-packed underwear, jeans, shirts, sweaters. His fingers brush cold cans that he recognizes as his hairspray, and he smiles, his stomach fluttering because Eddie remembered where they were.

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. He’s leaning against his dresser. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says easily.

“Steve,” Eddie says again, almost whispering.

“I am, Eddie,” Steve says, looking up at him, his hands falling still on top of the bag. Eddie’s eyes are shining with concern, and his arms are crossed. “I really…” He trails off, looking at the ground.

It’s hardwood, the wood faded and creaky, and there are a few gaps between the floorboard. He can see the nails in them, shining in the dim light of Eddie’s room, and it makes Steve think about the tiles in the kitchen at his parents’ house. Faded and dull and cracked because they’ve been walked on. Used.

“I feel great,” he says, looking back at Eddie, half-smiling.

Eddie’s expression softens.

“Just tired,” Steve adds, looking away. “I haven’t… cried. In a while.”

“You wanna lay down?”

Steve hesitates.

“...Can I borrow a sweater?”

Eddie smiles.

“‘Course, Stevie.”

Steve likes it when he calls him that.

It makes him feel little, but not in the way his parents make him feel. Not little like a little boy, like he has to stay quiet, stay still, like he can’t ask for a second serving of dinner or turn the volume of the television up past three in case he pisses them off.

Little like Eddie will take care of him.

Which he does, even though he has no idea how it really affects Steve, how it makes butterflies erupt in his belly every time he touches him, every time he calls him Stevie. He has no idea how hard Steve is crushing on him, and a part of Steve hates him for it. For how sweet he is, how kind.

Because there are nights he’ll call after a nightmare and Steve will look out at the moon while he listens to him cry, while he listens to Eddie tell him he called because in the dream he lost Steve, because he needed to make sure he was okay.

Because Eddie touches him in ways no one else does, in ways no one else ever has. In ways Steve wouldn’t ever let anyone.

He blushes every time he remembers that night, the night he’d spent after staying up too late watching movies with Eddie. He’d had a gruesome nightmare, but as soon as his eyes opened he couldn’t remember what had happened. But Eddie was there, tentatively touching his hand, eyes wide awake, saying Stevie. Stevie. I’m right here. You’re okay. And Steve had just cried, reaching out to Eddie, who took him in his arms.

He held Steve until he stopped crying. And then he kept holding him. Steve had pushed his face into Eddie’s chest, gripping his shirt, listening intently to Eddie’s heartbeat. It was a little fast, but it still helped.

And then Eddie pushed a hand into Steve's hair.

Steve was already falling asleep, and he had let out a soft hum. Eddie pulled his hand away, apologizing.

Sorry, I know you don’t like your hair being touched.

And even half-asleep, Steve spoke.

Only you. Please.

Eddie pushed his hand back into his hair gently. Steve hummed. Eddie’s fingers twisted around the strands carefully as his other hand slid up Steve’s back, and Steve just fucking melted. He let out a whine that he could barely hear, and Eddie’s fingers curled into a fist, gripping his hair in a tightening fist until it almost hurt, and Steve groaned.

Too hard?

Mm. Feels good.

Eddie kept doing it until Steve fell asleep, pulling his hair, squeezing his fist in it, tugging until Steve’s scalp ached dully, and when Steve woke up, Eddie was still asleep, his hand still in Steve’s hair. And then it was normal, every time they slept in the same bed or sat too close on the sofa during movie nights, Eddie’s fingers would find Steve’s hair again.

They both change. Eddie tosses Steve some sweatpants along with the sweater, and Steve smiles, glancing up at Eddie as he changes, facing away from Steve. He’s paler than Steve, and Steve kind of wants to see what their skin would look like side-by-side, pressing close. His scars are mesmerizing. Steve wants to trace them with his fingertips, with his lips and tongue.

Eddie beckons to Steve when they’re climbing into his bed, and Steve sighs. They move into their normal position, Eddie leaning against the wall, Steve between his legs, back to his chest.

He feels little again.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him, hugging him tightly, and Steve lets his head fall back to his shoulder, sighing. He slides his hands over Eddie’s forearms. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, and the fabric is soft. Steve plays with one of the folds, looking around the room, and he realizes they haven’t communicated at all about how long Steve is staying here.

His bag is on the floor by the dresser. It blends right in with Eddie’s dark clothes littered around the floor and hanging out of his drawers, with the dark rug that Eddie bought when he moved in.

Steve’s eyes trail across the wall, across the sliding doors of the wardrobe that are partially open, the interior hidden in shadows. At the CORRODED COFFIN tapestry that’s pinned up, the Judas Priest poster on the back of the door. The photos and magazine pages and posters that are covering the old, faded wallpaper. Eddie’s lamps have a golden glow, and it makes everything look warm. Steve loves it here.

“How long am I staying here?” Steve asks softly, and Eddie snorts, arms tightening, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

“Forever?” he says. “I hope?”

Steve’s stomach flutters.

“You want me to stay forever?”

“Mm.”

Steve exhales when Eddie’s hand finds his, and he watches, spreading his fingers to lace with Eddie’s. His hand is a little cold.

“Sounds nice,” he says quietly. Eddie hums. He sets his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“You still feel okay?” he asks softly, his voice soft and breathy next to Steve’s ear.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He feels so okay. Here in Eddie’s room, in his clothes, in his arms. “I feel good.”

One of Eddie’s arms reaches across his chest like he’s keeping him secure, and he rubs Steve’s upper arm, squeezing gently.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve takes a breath, unlacing their fingers to trace the back of Eddie’s hand.

“It was kind of, like. A lot of stuff.”

“Tell me, Stevie.”

Steve closes his eyes.

“They, uhm. Came back and just… started telling me my car was dirty, started saying the— the kitchen floor was dirty, that they should get the tiles replaced. They didn’t even say hi.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes.

“And when I tried to leave, I had to, like, explain I had to pick up the kids, and Dad started, just, berating me for babysitting, and Mom made this… comment. That I was acting like an adult. And when I said I am one, Dad…” He exhales, pressing closer to Eddie, whose arms tighten. “Said I’d be an adult when I graduated high school.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment before,

“What?”

“Yeah, they don’t— they don’t even know how old I am.”

“Holy fuck, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, squeezing him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Steve ignores the butterflies that erupt in his stomach.

“It’s…”

“You don’t have to say it’s fine.”

“...It’s not fine.”

“‘S right.”

“I tried… I tried telling them, like— showing them how they just don’t know me, but they just— everything I fucking said, they just… Tried to make it so it wasn’t their fault. Pretended it was no big deal, even though— even though it is, I…”

“It is,” Eddie murmurs softly. “It matters to you, they never treated you right, Stevie.”

Steve exhales shakily, relaxing against him again.

“They’re so fucking condescending,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. Eddie rubs his arm gently, reassuringly. “He always does this thing, where, like… If I point something out, or I— I do something, he pulls this bullshit, and he’ll say, like, Oh, let’s say that’s true, as though I don’t fucking know, like I didn’t just fucking tell him.”

Eddie lifts a hand and reaches to touch his hair, running his fingers through it gently.

“He said I’d be an adult when I graduate high school, and then as soon as I told him I did, and I am, suddenly I actually know nothing about adulthood and I haven’t experienced the world, and I’m— Whose fucking fault is that? They never took me along on any of their fucking trips, they left me in fucking Hawkins, Indiana.”

Eddie plays with his hair, listening to him talk. His fingers are so gentle.

“He said I was having a temper tantrum,” Steve says, looking across the room. Eddie’s hand tightens, tugging gently. “I just… They make me feel like— like such a child. And it’s bullshit, because how can I feel so fucking little when they never treated me like I was little when I was?” he rambles. “They acted like I was a grown man when I was a kid, they acted like I knew how to live my life, but they were never there to show me how. And now I am grown, but they tell me I’m disrespectful, and that I’m having a tantrum, and…”

“Take a deep breath for me,” Eddie says softly.

Steve inhales slowly, closing his eyes, and he exhales after holding it for a moment, relaxing against Eddie again, who murmurs a soft, “There you go.”

“Can I tell you something?” Eddie asks quietly. Steve nods, holding his forearm with both hands as his fingers drag through his hair slowly. “...You did everything fucking right, Stevie.”

“...You think?”

“Jesus, yeah. They’ve never treated you the way you deserve, Steve, you have every fuckin’ right to stand up for yourself, to— to tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Steve exhales again, a feeling settling in his chest.

“I hate them,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

“And I hate that fucking house.”

“You’re here now.”

Eddie tightens his fist in his hair, and Steve sighs, closing his eyes.

“Love you,” Eddie says softly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Eddie says that a lot. Every time they say goodbye, every time Steve does something stupid, every time either of them has a nightmare.

It was a nightmare that prompted it the first time. Eddie had slept over at Steve’s, and Steve woke up to Eddie crying in his sleep, his body shaking as he cried into the pillow, whimpering and clutching at the blanket. Steve woke him up carefully, touching his face, his hands, his arms, squeezing as gently as possible, whispering his name. Eddie woke after a minute, his eyes finding Steve in the dim moonlight, and before Steve could even say anything, he was reaching out for him, sobbing and pressing his face into Steve’s chest as Steve pulled him into a hug. He whispered it when he stopped crying, as they were rocking back and forth, as Stee combed the tangles out of his hair.

I love you, Stevie.

And Steve’s world flipped inside out, and he was in pain, every cell in his body on fire, because he was hearing it, because Eddie told him, and because only Robin had ever said it to him like that, all three words, carefully annunciated, intentionally said. And also because Steve knew how he meant it.

I love you too, Eddie.

“Why’d you come?” Steve asks. “After taking the kids home?”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Eddie says. “...Had a feeling.”

“...Thank you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie takes a breath, tugging again before he turns his face and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple.

He’s never done that before.

Steve feels almost sick with butterflies, and he can feel his face flushing with heat, but he can’t suppress his smile. Eddie looks at him for a moment, and then he does it again, slowly. Deliberately.

Steve exhales, letting himself feel it, Eddie’s lips on his skin, his breath warm and close. Eddie’s hand tightens again, his fist squeezing in Steve’s hair before he lets go.

And then Eddie’s lips press to his cheek, slowly and softly, and then again, and again, slowly moving down toward Steve’s jaw. Steve tilts his head, his eyes closed, and he’s scared to open them, scared he might wake up.

Eddie’s lips press under his jaw, sucking a soft kiss into his skin, and when he pulls away, his lips brush Steve’s skin as he murmurs, “So fuckin’ proud of you.”

And Steve whimpers.

He’s gripping Eddie’s arm tightly, and he feels like he might start crying, but Eddie just kisses him again, moving down to the side of his neck, gently pulling his hair out of the way.

Steve bites his lip to hold in another sound, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to it, to Eddie’s lips on his skin, to Eddie’s soft, slow breathing, as he feels Eddie’s fingers tug at his hair. He feels fucking weightless, like he’s floating in the air, like nothing in the world exists right now except for them.

“So proud,” Eddie breathes against his neck, kissing him again.

“Did I do good?”

Steve wants to jump out the fucking window.

His voice comes out weak and breathy, quiet and so fucking desperate that he flushes with embarrassment, and he opens his eyes like he’s going to look for an escape, to leave even though he just got here, but Eddie…

“So fucking good, Stevie,” he whispers without hesitation. “You did so good, I’m so proud of you.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales sharply, his head falling back as Eddie kisses his neck again. It’s wet this time, and Steve keens at the thought of Eddie’s open mouth against him, of his tongue and his teeth and his spit.

“Eddie,” Steve whines breathlessly, squeezing his arm.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks quickly, his hand pausing in Steve’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” Steve says weakly. Eddie hums softly, his hand tightening, and Steve lets out a soft noise before Eddie kisses a slow line up the side of his neck until he finds his earlobe, where he pauses, kissing it before he sucks it between his lips as gently as possible. “Eddie.”

“Alright?”

“Mm. Feel so good.”

Eddie hums quietly, and Steve keens as he nibbles at the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping gently, tenderly. His arm tightens around Steve’s torso, his other hand squeezing in his hair so hard that it hurts, and one of Steve’s hands finds Eddie’s leg next to him, gripping just above his knee desperately.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs into his ear, like he just knows how overwhelmed Steve is, how his whole body is flooding with this feeling.

“You got me,” Steve repeats absently, head lolling back onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“‘S right, Stevie.”

He kisses his neck again, harder, more confidently, his teeth and tongue on Steve’s skin, and Steve fucking hopes he leaves marks in his path. He wants evidence of this, proof that it wasn’t all in Steve’s head like some fucked up wet dream.

Eddie tugs on his hair, moving his hand to the back of his head before twisting his fingers in it tightly. Steve lets out a broken noise, biting his lip to muffle it.

“Eddie—”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes.

“I…”

“What is it?” Eddie whispers, kissing his jaw gently. “Tell me.”

“Need more,” Steve says weakly, his face hot with embarrassment.

“More what?” Eddie murmurs, and Steve wants to be annoyed, to roll his eyes and tell Eddie not to make him say it, but he can’t, because his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and his limbs feel heavy, and he feels fucking high, just because of Eddie’s mouth on him, because of Eddie’s sweet words.

“You,” he chokes. “Please, Eddie, I need you, please—”

“Fuck,” Eddie exhales, tugging Steve’s hair so his head tilts before he leans down and kisses his neck, his lips brushing his skin as he speaks. “I need you too, Stevie.”

Steve stifles a whine, pressing his lips together as Eddie sits up a little, leaning closer to kiss his neck, and he’s almost kissing his throat now as Steve’s head falls back, and Steve reaches up to his head, pushing his fingers into Eddie’s curls messily.

“Eddie, please,” he says softly. “More.”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, breathing hard against Steve’s neck. “Turn around, come here.”

Steve turns, aching when he has to leave Eddie’s chest, and he tries to keep his balance on Eddie’s soft mattress that’s covered in blankets. Their legs tangle, and Steve has to take a moment to sort them out, and Eddie giggles softly, reaching to push Steve’s hair out of his face. Steve smiles hopelessly, moving forward.

Eddie pulls at his legs, tugging him so their legs are wrapped around each other, so their chests almost press, so their faces are close. Eddie looks wrecked, his cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shining like he’s going to cry, and Steve knows he can’t look much better. He exhales, reaching up to trace his scar. It stretches when Eddie smiles. Eddie closes his eyes, turning his head to let him.

His hands slide up from Steve’s legs to his hips, his waist, pressing and firm and gentle on Steve’s sides. Steve slides his hands to hold his face, leaning close enough that their noses nudge together.

Eddie exhales, his eyes fluttering shut, and his hands slide to Steve’s back, pulling him closer as he murmurs.

“So fucking proud of you, Stevie, I can’t even tell you,” he says softly, nudging their noses together again. “No fucking words.”

Steve’s body flushes with heat, and he melts, his hands slipping to Eddie’s neck. He can feel the scars under his fingertips.

He tilts his head, his eyes stinging as Eddie keeps talking, keeping whispering and murmuring about how proud he is.

No one’s ever told Steve that they’re proud of him. He’s never heard it before.

But Eddie says it so earnestly, like he’s fucking reverent, and Steve listens.

And then Eddie is kissing him between words, his lips gentle and a little chapped against Steve’s, and Steve feels like he’s going to fall over with it all, his lips parted because he can barely kiss back. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, whispering to him.

“So proud of you, Stevie, you did so fucking good. So brave.”

Steve’s hands find Eddie’s head again, his fingers pushing into his curls, and he sighs, listening and listening and listening and absorbing the feeling of Eddie’s lips pressing to his softly.

His hands tighten in his hair after a moment, and he pulls Eddie in, shutting him up with a hard, lingering kiss. Eddie’s hands tighten on Steve’s waist, his fingers pressing into the scarred skin, and Steve’s whole body aches. They part with a slick sound and a gasp, but Steve pulls him back in before he can say anything, tugging his hair.

Eddie kisses him back desperately, clutching at his back, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, and Steve thinks he might be dying. It feels so fucking good, and the way Eddie is touching him…

His fingers dig into the knit of the sweater he’s wearing, holding him close as his legs tighten around him, and after a moment, one of his hands slides around Steve’s side, up over his chest slowly until it reaches his neck. It feels like he’s being so careful, gentle like Steve is delicate, and Steve’s never wanted to feel delicate before, but he’s basking in Eddie’s touch like it’s sunlight. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck, and their chests are almost touching as Eddie nibbles his lip the way he did with his ear earlier.

It feels kind of silly, really, in the grand scheme of things.

That they’d survive the end of the world, stop the end of the world, live through horrors beyond comprehension, and Eddie is proud of him for yelling at his parents. And now they’re making out, kissing each other stupid in Eddie’s bedroom, surrounded by his posters and blankets and the glow of his cracked lamps.

But Steve can’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

Eddie is holding the side of his face now, his fingers gentle on his skin, and Steve holds in a groan when Eddie’s tongue slips past his lips, his chest tightening.

Eddie pulls away and they both gasp for air.

“Baby,” Eddie breathes.

“God, yeah.”

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks quietly, brushing his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and Steve closes his eyes as they start to sting. He doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, almost choking the word out. “It was so okay, Eddie, I… Please.”

Eddie kisses him again. Pulls away to breathe, resting their foreheads together.

“Want you,” Steve says softly, whispering.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he can’t take it back.

Especially when Eddie is kissing him like this, like he’d die if he didn’t, like he’s drowning and Steve is air. Steve’s arms tighten around his neck, and he’s shivering, chills spreading over his skull, down his spine, as he listens to the soft breathy hums Eddie is letting out as he listens to the wet sounds of their lips, their tongues. Eddie licks into his mouth, licks his lips and his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Steve lets him, even though their lips and chins are wet now, slick with each other’s spit, and it’s a little gross. Steve doesn’t fucking care. It feels good.

He lets out a whine, letting his jaw drop for Eddie to suck on his tongue for a moment, and his cheeks flush with heat. Eddie smiles against his mouth, kissing him again.

“You still want more?” Eddie murmurs, caressing his cheek. Steve exhales, nodding.

“Please.”

Eddie presses wet kisses over his jaw, down his neck, and Steve melts, his head falling back to give him room. He shivers, tightening, when Eddie’s lips find his throat, pausing to suck on his skin lightly before he continues, kissing across the scars on his neck.

His scars are lighter than Eddie’s. Shallower. A metallic, faded pink that only stands out against his skin when he tans.

His parents didn’t notice them.

Or the scar on his chin, which Steve forgets about himself a lot of the time. It’s from that night at Starcourt. He used to stare at it in the mirror, hating it, hating himself. It’s faded so much it’s barely noticeable, but everyone knows it’s there. Steve knows it’s there.

Eddie knows it’s there.

He kisses it when he finishes with Steve’s neck, holding Steve’s face in place as he presses kiss after kiss after kiss to it, softly and tenderly, and Steve wonders if he looks at this scar the way Steve looks at his scar.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

Steve bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie presses his thumb to his lower lip, pulling it free before he kisses him gently.

“Do you wanna take your sweater off?” he asks quietly, whispering. Steve nods.

“You too,” he whispers, opening his eyes and meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks so… tender. His eyes are shining at Steve, and he’s almost smiling, just barely, and his face is so relaxed, more at peace than Steve thinks he’s ever seen him while awake. “Please.”

Eddie nods, kissing him again before pulling his hands away from his face, and he reaches for the hem of the sweater Steve is wearing.

They have to separate for him to pull it up over Steve’s head, and Steve shivers when it’s off, the air in the room colder than he expected. Eddie tosses the sweater aside, his eyes skimming over Steve’s body, and he feels shy suddenly, overcome with the desire to hide his chest, his scars, the soft rolls of his belly.

Eddie pulls his sweatshirt off, and Steve watches, crossing his arms over his stomach as he looks at Eddie’s pale skin, at the scars that mark his sides, his chest. The art that’s inked into his skin. One of the tattoos is almost gone, the bare edges of it rough around the skin graft on his chest.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says softly, like he’s scared of disturbing the quiet air. He reaches for Steve’s hands, pulling them away from where they’re hiding his stomach, and he leans in to kiss him, pulling his hands to touch Eddie. “Wanna see you.”

Steve kisses him back, squeezing his eyes shut, and he slides his hands across Eddie’s chest to touch his neck. Eddie hums, pulling his mouth away to look at him, and Steve blushes as Eddie’s eyes scan his chest, his arms, his belly.

“So fucking gorgeous, baby,” Eddie murmurs against his mouth.

Steve whines.

He pulls Eddie into another desperate kiss, and he shifts onto his knees, leaning over him, holding Eddie’s jaw so he tilts his head back.

“You too,” he says breathlessly, into Eddie’s mouth. “So fucking pretty, Eddie, you’re so beautiful it fucking hurts.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie pants, and he wraps his arms around Steve’s legs, holding him as they kiss, and it’s messy and sloppy and desperate, and Steve feels like Eddie is touching him everywhere, his callused hands rubbing away every bad feeling Steve’s ever had. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue along Eddie’s, and Eddie’s hands tighten, squeezing his thighs.

He slowly shifts onto his knees too, moving up so they’re face to face, and he hugs Steve’s waist, pulling him against himself. Steve groans softly, stifling it, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s neck again before he slides his hands over his shoulders.

And they can’t keep their hands off each other, palms and fingers sliding and pressing and touching. Eddie’s hand pushes into Steve’s hair, tugging sharply as he sucks on his lip, as his other hand slides across his back, gentle on his scars, and then he’s running his hands over Steve’s waist and chest and reaching down to his thighs, murmuring beautiful into Steve’s mouth, and Steve believes him.

They kiss until Steve’s mouth is sore, until his legs are tired from kneeling like this, until his chin is wet again, and Eddie is smiling against his mouth, still fucking talking, still telling Steve how proud he is, how good Steve was.

He kisses Steve’s neck, and Steve’s head falls back.

“God, baby,” Eddie breathes, panting as he kisses his neck again, and his tongue slips over Steve’s skin. “You’re so fucking good, shit.”

“Eddie,” Steve chokes, pushing his hand into his hair and pulling. “I need— Fuck, I need you, baby, Eddie, please, I—”

Eddie lowers so he’s kneeling, and he pulls at Steve’s thighs again, pulling him so he’s straddling his hips. Steve wraps his arms around him, letting out a sharp breath as he lowers, as Eddie licks a line up his neck. Eddie’s hand runs over Steve’s stomach until it reaches his sweatpants, and he touches him over them, gently pressing against his dick. Steve chokes, hiding his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks breathlessly, his other hand running up his back and holding the base of his skull. Steve nods. “Baby, I need words, please.”

“Yes,” Steve gasps. “‘S okay, it’s so okay, please, just… I need you .”

Eddie does it again, pressing and squeezing, and Steve is so hard it almost hurts, but Eddie is so tender with him, rubbing his back as Steve clings to him. They’re both breathing hard, and Steve is biting his lip to stay quiet, but it’s hard when Eddie whispers.

“Can I take it out?”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “Yeah. Please.”

He holds his breath.

Eddie’s hands are warm. And gentle. Eddie pulls away just enough to glance down to look, carefully tucking Steve’s sweatpants out of the way, and he’s smiling. Steve tugs at his hair, making him tilt his head back so he can kiss him so hard their teeth clash. Eddie is still smiling, his hand moving slowly, carefully.

When they part, Steve is gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, and Eddie notices, reaching up and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“Breathe for me,” Eddie whispers. Steve exhales slowly, looking at him, watching as he nods, and lowers his head. A moment later, he’s letting a line of spit drip out of his mouth to Steve’s dick and Steve groans quietly, pulling him back into a hug as Eddie slides his hand to spread it. Eddie’s other hand presses to Steve’s back securely, holding him close.

“Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s so high-pitched, weak and shaky and breathless and so vulnerable he wants to hate it, but he also doesn’t care, because Eddie is holding him like this, touching him and letting him tremble. “I like it, I like it so much, Eddie.”

“Good boy,” Eddie murmurs.

And fuck.

Eddie moves his hand slowly, and after a moment he shifts so he’s sitting, and they’re back to how they were before, their legs wrapped around each other. Steve keeps his arms around his neck, hiding his face. Eddie slides his other hand into his hair.

“You want me to pull?”

“God, yes,” Steve chokes. “Please.”

And Eddie definitely noticed how it made him feel just a moment ago, because—

“Good boy.”

Steve can hear his smile.

His hand tightens, his fist squeezing in it, and it’s a slow, dull ache that grows on Steve’s scalp. He stifles a groan, pressing his lips together.

“Stop doing that,” Eddie says breathlessly, his hand loosening, and Steve exhales with relief, his mouth falling open. A moment later he processes Eddie’s words, and he hums in confusion.

“Keeping yourself quiet,” Eddie says. “Stop, I wanna hear you.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, his eyes blearily finding the Slayer poster above Eddie’s bed. His vision is blurry, and he feels like he’s cross-faded, out of his damn mind with the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him.

“You don’t want me to be quiet,” he mumbles absently. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“No,” Eddie says softly, twisting his hand. Steve’es eyes close again. “I don’t want you to be quiet. Let me hear you, baby.” He moves his hand a little faster, tightening his fist, and Steve lets out a whine, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Louder,” Eddie says, moving his hand faster, his other hand tugging Steve’s hair sharply.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps before he moans weakly.

“Louder,” Eddie whispers, his hand tightening in his hair. Steve lets out a sob.

“Eddie.”

“There you go,” Eddie whispers, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, and it sounds almost condescending, but it wraps around Steve like a blanket. “Good boy. You don’t have to be quiet, baby.”

So he isn’t.

His mouth stays open, panting against Eddie’s neck and shoulder, letting out soft moans and whines and whimpers and Eddie’s name as Eddie pulls at his hair again, his other hand jerking Steve off, alternating between rapid and fast and slow and tender, squeezing and tugging and drawing it out.

“I love how you sound,” Eddie murmurs after Steve lets out a sob. “So fucking pretty, baby, God.”

“Eddie,” Steve whimpers.

“I got you, honey, ’s okay.” He scratches Steve’s scalp, pulling his hair.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Eddie lets out a soft noise, and he pulls at Steve’s hair sharply, tugging him away from where he’s resting his head, and he kisses him. Steve kisses back after a moment, almost lightheaded, and he clutches at him, at his hair, his arm.

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie pants when they part, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you so much.”

Steve lets out a long groan, squeezing Eddie’s wrist.

“Eddie, I—”

“You can come,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s okay.”

He kisses Steve’s cheek, murmuring as Steve buries his face in his neck again, moaning as Eddie’s hand speeds up again, and Steve is crying into his neck, sobbing as his body floods with heat, as he comes.

“There you go, baby,” Eddie whispers, fingers still working, jerking Steve until he finally slows down. “Did so good, Stevie.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie’s hand finally stops, and he lets go, his other hand running through Steve’s hair comfortingly as Steve catches his breath. He tucks Steve back in his sweatpants carefully, patting his crotch when he’s done, and Steve snorts.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly when Steve is breathing slowly. Steve hums. “That good, huh?”

“Mm. No one’s ever wanted to hear me before.”

“No?” Eddie says, running his hand over Steve’s back, tracing his spine. “But you sound so good.”

“Hm. I don’t know,” Steve mumbles. “One girl commented that I was noisy and it just… made me self-conscious, I guess.”

Eddie hums softly, sliding his hand up to hold the back of his neck, and it feels protective, possessive, and Steve could die happy here.

“I like hearing you,” Eddie says. “Don’t ever want you to be quiet.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck before he kisses him gently under his jaw. “Can I get you off?”

“Mm. Yeah. ‘S not gonna take much, though, I almost came just listening to you.”

Steve giggles, lifting his head and reaching for the hem of Eddie’s sweatpants as their eyes meet. He pushes his hand under them, watching Eddie’s expression shift, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lips part, watching his shoulders slump. He’s still holding the back of Steve’s neck, and his hand tightens.

“Can I take it out?” Steve whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie breathes. “Go ‘head.”

Steve does, licking his lips, and Eddie pulls him in to rest their foreheads together. Steve lifts his hand to his mouth and spits on his palm before reaching down again, touching him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, laughing lightly. “Fuck.”

“You always this easy?” Steve asks softly, whispering. Eddie hums.

“Only when I have the… hottest boy in the world touching my dick.”

Steve giggles, sliding his hand up and down slowly, listening to Eddie breathing heavily. He’s having fun. He’s never had fun like this during sex. It’s always felt like something to just do, to get done, to make his partner feel good. But even as he focuses on Eddie, he can’t stop smiling, watching his own hand on Eddie’s dick, listening to the soft moans and hums Eddie lets out. Eddie’s other hand finds Steve’s thigh and squeezes tightly, gripping so hard Steve wonders if he’ll leave bruises under his fingertips. He kind of hopes he does.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps after a while. “I’m gonna come.”

Steve kisses him. Messily, desperately.

“Come for me.”

Eddie grunts, his hand slipping to hold the base of Steve’s head, and he pants, breathing hard against Steve’s cheek as Steve watches, almost mesmerized by the come dripping over his fingers, his knuckles.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes as Eddie comes down, his grip on Steve’s leg and head relaxing. “You’re so…”

Eddie hums softly.

“So…”

“I don’t know,” Steve says quietly, pulling his hand away as Eddie softens, and he tucks him back into his sweatpants, imitating him with the gentle pat. Eddie laughs. He has a beautiful laugh.

“I’ve heard I’m a lot,” Eddie says.

“You are,” Steve says, looking into his eyes. He smiles, and Eddie tilts his head curiously. “In a good way,” he adds. “I like it.”

Eddie smiles bashfully, his cheeks pink, and Steve nudges their noses together, closing his eyes.

“...Are you gonna talk about it?” Eddie says after a few moments. Steve exhales, swallowing.

His hands are in his lap, and he looks at them, at the come on his hand.

“...I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Eddie touches Steve’s chin, gently prompting him to lift his head. He’s smiling when Steve looks at him, and he leans in to kiss him softly, chastely. Familiarly.

“Cool,” he says, his lips brushing Steve’s. “Same.”

And Steve laughs.

Eddie kisses him again, smiling against Steve’s smile, and Steve wraps his arms around his neck, keeping his dirty hand in the air as his other hand pushes into Eddie’s curls. Eddie’s hands slide across Steve’s back.

Steve pulls away.

“You are getting come all over my back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eddie says sarcastically, and Steve snorts. “What do you think about a shower to clean you up?”

“Ah, that was your master plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, my goal was to get you naked by getting you mostly naked.”

“Pure genius, Eddie.”

“I know…”

Steve follows him to the bathroom after they get clothes. (Eddie just gives him more of his own)

It feels nice when Eddie washes his hair. Even though he forms it into a mohawk with the soap. He’s grinning as he does it, his eyes sparkling, amused, and Steve lets him. It also feels nice when Eddie washes his body, which he does without saying anything, scrubbing him gently, tenderly, washing the soap away with the showerhead and pressing kisses to his wet skin. Steve does the same to him. It feels nice to do this, to help him even though he doesn’t really need it.

Steve kneels to do his legs, and as he does, he kisses his scars. Eddie holds a hand out, blocking the water from hitting Steve’s face. And Steve somehow falls in love all over again.

The tile wall is cold as Eddie pushes him against it to kiss him, but he doesn’t mind.

They separate to dry themselves off, and Steve stops him when he starts to scrub his hair dry with the towel. He scolds him lightly, pulling close and taking over, scrunching the ends and drying it gently, noting that he wants to get some product for him. Eddie just gazes at him silently, his hands on Steve’s hips.

“I love you,” he whispers when Steve hangs the towels.

Steve hugs him, and Eddie hugs him so tightly that he lifts him up a little bit, his toes touching the ground.

“I love you too.”

Over his shoulder, Steve can see them in the reflection of the mirror. It’s fogged over from the shower steam, but he can see the shape of them, their dark clothing in the bright light of the bathroom, and Steve sighs.

They go back to bed, arms around each other as they find their places again, Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest. Eddie kisses his neck. Steve closes his eyes.

“So what do you say about forever?” Eddie asks quietly as Steve is starting to drift off. He hums, turning to tuck his face into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie pushes a hand into his hair, holding him gently.

“Forever sounds nice.”

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nanaminokanojo · 4 months

Text

BAD NEWS (part 58)

-just when you thought you were over your humongous crush on your older brother’s best friend, geto suguru, you couldn’t have been more dead wrong, except satoru doesn’t like suguru for you because he knows his kind all too well: a huge ass playboy who breaks hearts like he changes socks. but you think, MAYBE you’ll be the exception…maybe not.

CHARACTERS: drummer!geto suguru x you/afab reader | gojo satoru | various jjk characters

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 58 next>>

A/N: Smutty things ahead, be warned. Panels 3 to 10 at the end. 😊

Red-bottoms in hand, you slung one arm over Mai's shoulder, both of you dissolving into giggles when you started dancing barefoot on the stone steps that led to your doorstep while her twin looked on in abject annoyance. It was mostly about Mai who insisted on coming out of the car to walk you to the door and you basically encouraging it. She didn't know what was worse, this or when you guys jumped into a loud discussion about your favorite pro footballers earlier during the ride.

"What's the code to the door, Y/N?" Maki asked you as she hoisted Mai over to her other side to split the two of you up.

"Code? Code..." You swayed dangerously towards the side of the elevated step by the door, and she was only able to pull you in time before you fell on the rose bushes. You laughed at how she rolled her eyes before stumbling towards the door, almost hitting your head against the hard wood. Still, you repeated the same word over and over again, thinking long and hard about what to punch on the glowing blue buttons.

"Well?"

"Ah!" you responded, raising your index finger up. "Toru...it's..." You swallowed hard, the action coming with a little hiccup that sent Mai into another round of giggles, also triggering you.

"His birthday?" Maki supplied for you and you nodded vigorously, about to raise your arms but you hit your shoe against the door, gasping as you checked for scuffs as if you could see straight.

Shaking her head, she punched the numbers into the keypad, successfully opening it. "Get inside. I'll help you to your room."

You waved your hands at her. "No, no...'m fine, Captain." You stepped in rather unsteadily.

"You sure?"

Again, you snickered at the way her brow arched but nodded nonetheless, doing a little dance as you said goodbye to Mai whom Makit dragged away to the car just as you were closing the door.

"Toru?" you called, but got no answer, swaying towards the stairs and haphazardly holding onto the banister whilst you still held onto your heels, careful not to drop them. One wobbly step at a time, you pulled your weight up, snickering when you nearly tripped. You did that halfway up and made it the rest of the way crawling on all fours.

You blindly made your way to the second room from the stairs, slowly and quietly pushing the door, or at least as quietly as you can in your drunken state. It's more like you pushed your way in, hand faltering several times on the knob. When you finally stumbled in, it was dark. You didn’t turn on the lights, you were not confident you can find the switch anyway, so you just started stripping your clothes off until you were just in the tiny, form-fitting dress you wore to the club, your heels dropping with loud thuds on the laminate floors.

You still had the mind to think about washing the makeup off of your face, marching towards the wall you knew your dresser was at, but you didn't see it there.

"Huh," you muttered under your breath, the effort you exerted trying to walk without falling making your head spin even more. There was no way you were making it anywhere else, so you opted for the bed which was closer, and finally fell into it.

You could have sworn you heard someone groan somewhere near you, but you couldn’t care less, giggling when you felt an irregular lump on where you had fallen. You nearly slipped off the bed, but somehow, you didn't, a warm, snug feeling engulfing you as you lay face down, comfortable on the spot you've chosen. You clung to that feeling of sleep starting to devour you, afraid that if you opened your eyes, your world would start spinning again so you screwed your eyes shut, and soon, you were dead to the world with nothing but the feeling of warm hands soothing your back.

Wait...hands?

The idea seemed ridiculous to you. You kept your eyes closed, thinking it was just the alcohol and that you were probably just imagining things. Very specific ones involving a man with beautiful, long, ebony hair and the way he smelled – smoky wind in a pine forest with hints of something akin to limes and sandalwood – along with that familiar warmth that reminded you of home and everything else familiar to you.

You were still too dizzy, but not without any coherent thoughts as you seemed to lack just moments ago. How long you've been trying to get sleep in the suddenly uncomfortable position you were in, you didn't know. But you were slowly realizing that something was amiss, making your heart thud heavily in your chest. You, however, couldn't pinpoint just what it was in your state of inebriation.

Just then, you felt the "bed" you were laying on shift, and you could have sworn you felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around your shoulder and waist, gently easing you to your back.

"Kitten?" came those deep mellow notes you'd know anywhere, and something seemed to click in your brain, the dress you were wearing suddenly feeling too tight as heat flared up all over your body. Ironically, you felt like shivering.

In the seconds that followed, the cogs in your brain moved and you realized you made a bed out of someone, and when you finally came to full awareness and opened your eyes, you were confronted by the face of your older brother's best friend, mere centimeters from yours, slowly breaking into that lopsided smile, faint dimples making themselves known as he looked down at you sleepily. The action enhanced his features even in the semi-darkness, hot-wiring your already addled brain.

You wanted to bolt right out of bed, but his steady amber gaze held you there, not to mention the alcohol in your system. “Su...suguru?” You chuckled, torn between thinking your seeing the real thing or some specter of your fantasies. But at that point, who cares?

You tilted your head to the side, flashing him a sultry smile even as his brows furrowed together. "Whatchu doin' here, sexy?" you slurred.

“I slept over,” he answered, grinning cheekily at you as he got rid of some stray hairs on your cheek, his cold fingers brushing over your skin. You inched towards his touch, humming in satisfaction. “What are you doing here, kitten?”

You did a little scoff or something close to it. “This is my room.”

“No, sweetheart, this is the guest room.” His voice sounded so velvety, making you shiver visibly.

“Well shit…” You chuckled as you closed your eyes, willing the nausea away. “Give me a sec.”

You felt Suguru move closer to you, your foreheads touching as he wrapped his arms tighter around you as he laid back down, guiding you to lie on your side. “I don’t mind.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t either.” You looked at him unsteadily, seemingly unable to focus as you blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what you were currently seeing. Without thinking, you placed a hand on his cheek, running the pad of your thumb over his skin. And then you broke into a smile. "I can never seem to reach you..."

Suguru placed a hand over yours. "What do you mean? I've always been here," he whispered back. "You'll always have me, kitten. You know that."

You shook your head. "No..."

"No?"

"Not..." You breathed in, moving your fingers over the line of his nose, trying to be gentle, afraid that he will disappear. But when he didn't, you dared to touch his cupid's bow, tracing along it as you slowly released your breath a little at a time. "Not like this."

Suguru looked at you in confusion now."Not like what, hm?" At that, he started nuzzling you on the cheek until your lips were mere millimeters away. "Care to explain that?"

"Like this."

"Mhmm?" He brushed his nose against yours.

"This close..."

This can't be real, you thought, your heart sinking in your chest. In the slowness of your mind, you suddenly had so many things making themselves evident. You hated how even in your drunken moments, it was only Geto Suguru that you could think off; how your longing was conjuring images in your head so damn real, it made your yearning even stronger. You've wanted him for so long that your brain is making things up.

You sat up, easing his arms off you gently, but then, the look of disappointment on his face made you stop.

"Y/N, what's wrong?"

"This whole thing – this...y-you, here, right now. This isn't right – You're not even real, why am I talking to you?"

He, too, sat up, his face inching closer towards you as if daring you to move farther from him, but you didn’t. "I am real, Y/N. I am in front of you."

You chuckled as you felt your resolve faltering, submitting to your daydreams and imagination, making you lose yourself enough to believe what this version of Suguru was telling you.

“I’m still drunk, right?”

Suguru snickered, nodding. “Pretty much.”

You leaned closer. “Good. At least I have an excuse.”

"Excuse for?"

Instead of an answer, you cupped his face as you rose to your knees, crashing your lips to his slightly parted ones, hoping and praying to every higher power that this was real, and not just happening inside your head.

How could you tell him he wasn't real? You weren't real. None of this was.

It's not real that you just strolled into the guest room Suguru happened to be in, drunk to your toes. It's not real that you just decided to make a bed out of him. It's not real, everything that you said to him. It's not –

Oh. But this felt real – the feeling of your skin against his, warm and flushed and so smooth under his calloused palms; your presence as you weighed down on him, hands firm at the sides of his head as you coveted him; the feel and taste of your plush lips, a cocktail of your lip gloss, alcohol and whatever you were made of, pressed against his, the air you were breathing one and the same.

This was real. It's happening. And he wanted it. Oh, how much he had longed for it...waited for it. Before he knew it, he was opening his mouth, fingers delving into your hair to hold you in place, returning every adamant movement of your lips, giving it back with his. It's been over a year since you left him with the taste of you lingering at the back of his mind and the tip of his tongue, thinking he will never have the pleasure of ever knowing it again. And yet there you were again, in his arms, him locked in yours, giving him what he's always wanted and filling that void that he tried so hard to fill when you went away without acknowledging matters between you.

"Suguru," you spoke against his mouth, almost begging, trapping him in a bewitching spell from which he never wanted to snap out of as if you were calling his very soul. He never thought his name ever sounded so good coming out of someone else's mouth, and yet you seemed to be giving it a whole new meaning.

Entranced and enchanted, he unconsciously took the initiative, recapturing your lips as he pulled you even closer to him. A nagging voice at the back of his head told him to stop, but it went unheard when you slid your tongue between his lips, the sound of your moaned out triumph rendering what's left of his capacity to reason useless. You took your fill of him, giggling when you found that piece of silver embedded on his tongue, reaching for it with yours.

With a whine, you anchored yourself on his shoulder, kneeling astride his lap and leveraging the tangle of sheets below you to push him backwards until he was lying against the pillows. You followed after him, in hot pursuit of his lips which momentarily detached from yours, eyes glazed and wild as you laughed quietly, the sound almost sounding like a purr.

Getting a bit of clarity, Suguru pushed himself up, steadying you by the waist to stop you from going even further. "Kitten," he shook his head, "Y/N, you're drunk – mmmff –!"

Huge mistake as you were having none of it, your lips immediately finding his like a homing missile that's got its target locked. And if that didn't make a hot mess out of him, you deliberately ground your hips against his, the fabric of his sweats and your underwear providing much of the friction both of you yearned for yet not enough. You gasped as the apex of your thighs rubbed precisely over his hardening length, but it didn't even take you a second to do it again, unable to get enough.

"Kitten, don't – holy shit, baby..."

"Want you," you mumbled against his lips as you continued to grind against him, your hand reaching underneath you as you grabbed fistfuls of his gray sweats, clawing at the fabric and along the skin of his iliac furrow, making him hiss as you managed to pull it off of him. He held onto your wrist in an attempt to stop you again, but to no avail.

Suguru knew you had a one-track mind, and like Satoru, if you wanted something, come hell or high water, you will get it. The means didn't matter. You were both such brats growing up that he knew as much. And it seems it didn't matter what state of mind you were in either. You sought and you took without thinking twice, the same way you saw your goals on the field and executed them. This time he was the field, and you were going to conquer him regardless.

You bent down, kissing him senseless again, your hand firm on his nape while the other one guided his hand under your dress. You smirked into the kiss, nipping at his lower lip before letting go and saying, "Take it off."

"A-are you –"

"Yes."

You didn't have to tell him twice. In the next second, your pesky underwear was out of the way and your bare, wetness was pressed down midway his cock, pinning it flat against his stomach. Your grip on his shirt was tight as you started to rock back and forth over his length, setting your rhythm.

Again, as much as he thought it wasn't really happening, that his mind was probably trapped in a perpetual oasis of dreams that were solely made of you, Suguru was much too awake to deny it, all his nerves firing within him as the realization dawned that you were there. Crazy drunk. On top of him. Chasing your pleasure and taking you with him.

His hands were all over you, not knowing where to touch until he finally found purchase on your ass, kneading your flesh as he directed your movements closer to his tip until it was repeatedly catching into your slick folds while also simultaneously stimulating your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your snagged breaths and airy moans made him want to just topple you into the bed and take over you, but Suguru kept his restraint, merely satisfying himself with the view of you dominating him, your lips parted as you threw your head back in pleasure.

This was about you, and he wouldn't have it any other way. If you wanted him, you can have him, use him to your heart's content even if it meant you will forget when you wake up.

Do you even realize what you were doing? He wondered at that, feeling a twinge on his chest at the thought that you'll slip from his grasp again when daylight comes.

No, he thought. Not this time.

He felt your movements grow erratic, your nails scratching at the skin of his chiseled abdomen.

"Fuck, baby, right there," he encouraged you, helping your movements as you evidently grew tired chasing your high. His fingers will bruise your hips with how tight he was gripping you, intensifying the heat between where you were touching until you were spasming and letting out high-pitched moans, your release fueling your movements as it dripped onto him.

"Sugu...ru..." you called his name, mostly broken parts of it as he let you ride your high, eventually leading to his own undoing.

"K-kitten – fuck!" he let out along with his stuttering breaths when he, too, came hard, staining his stomach and the inner side of your thighs.

He breathed deeply, sweat matting his skin. He let out a quiet chuckle as he watched you listing towards the side, all spent and succumbing to the exhaustion, coupled with the alcohol still in your system.

Before you could fall, Suguru got up, gently laying you down on the bed before removing his shirt and silently making his way to the bathroom, suddenly reminded that Satoru was just at the end of the hallway.

He's fucked, he knew that, but he couldn't help but smile to himself as he watched you squirm and groan in your sleep while he cleaned you up and changed your clothes, patiently removing your makeup even when you swatted at his hands irritably.

After all that, he carried you back to your room, making sure you were comfortable, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead, the act seemingly chaste and out of place after all that you two have done.

He sighed, much too awake to get back to sleep, his mind on the consequences of the night's events, but he couldn't care less, not even at the thought that Satoru might hate him.

Because Geto Suguru may be damned to the deepest pits of hell, but as long as he has you, he'll gladly suffer in the flames for it.

TAG LIST: @lilc77 @strxkbylightning @lavender-hvze @maya-maya-56 @kibananya @nerdisthenewcool @darkstarlight82 @lysaray @ti-mame @ri-sa20 @diogodxlot @starlightanyaaa @sugurubabe @guacam011y @yeehawslap @luvvmae @s-j320 @ichorstainedskin @iaminyourfloors @tanchosanke @hellyyy06 @tacobellfreshavocado @mrs-monkey-d-luffy

PHOTOS/IMAGES/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS GO TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

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apollonshootafar · 3 months

Text

The Second Mate

Also on AO3

Chapter 1

Something was going to happen today.

She wasn’t sure how or when or if, but something inside her screamed imminence. Of course, it could be her anxiety that she was taking a pharmacy’s worth of meds for; Nevertheless, something felt off about today.

It was first day of 12th Grade in a new school in a new town, and after looking around a bit she was sure she was the only immigrant there. She was, however, used to being the outsider. She was a 200-pound-something, Foreign nutjob with mental illnesses that would petrify a small Victorian child. ADHD and Anxiety was pretty common to be fair but she was pretty sure Psychosis wasn’t.

She went through her morning routine as usual. It was more of a ritual than a routine at this point. It had to get done otherwise something bad would happen. She started her routine by doing her skincare routine. Face wash first, then toner, then serum, moisturizer and SPF. She had to look her best at all times otherwise… well there was no otherwise. She had to look perfect. She continued with brushing her hair and tying it into a neat ponytail. She then brushed her teeth for exactly 60 seconds then followed up with mouthwash for 30 seconds.

After finishing her ‘ritual’ she left her little en-suite and went back into her cozy little bedroom. She decided on a beautiful dress with tiny pink flowers on it. She forwent a bra as she usually did (they were evil boob prisons) and put on her white frilly socks. She put on a pair of gorgeous but fake pearl earrings and necklace and went downstairs to leave the house.

“You’re going to school, not a fashion show,” greeted her mother. She ignored her as always and went out the door after picking up her backpack, which was pink of of course, and wearing her her shoes. It was time.

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

“Are you sure we’re meeting her today?” Asked Emmet, who was excited but suspicious he would finally be meeting his second mate after waiting nearly 70 years. Rosalie, on the other hand, was anything but excited. She did not like the thought of sharing her only mate to a puny little human girl. She frowned.

“Yes! Stop hounding me, I saw it happen, you’ll meet her today!” Alice being Alice didn’t really mind sharing hers. She was actually kind of excited too.

“Are you sure?”

“YES, EMMET!”

Jasper, however, wasn’t sure what to expect today. He too had waited for nearly 70 years for his second mate alas he was more apprehensive then excited. He was scared. She was human and humans were fragile little things. What if he broke your hand while trying to hold it, or finally broke his streak and ate you?

“You’ll be fine” declared Edward. The little asshole couldn’t help listening his thoughts.

Jasper ignored his brother and gave a big sigh. He followed the rest of his siblings to their cars that would be taking them to school today; Rosalie’s red Cadillac and Edward’s silver Volvo.

The ride to school was terrible. Though at least Emmet was happy. Jasper could feel his giddiness. He kept hounding Alice questions about their mate except he didn’t allow her to answer any of them.

“How does she look like?”

“Is she short, or tall?”

“Is she a blonde or a brunette?”

“Will she like us?”

“Do you think I’m her type?”

“When will we meet her again?”

“SHUT UP, EMMET!”

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

She was lucky she lived only about 30 minutes away from school. Americans would probably think that an absurd amount but where she was from it was a perfectly acceptable distance.

She wiped the sweat off her face and stared at Forks Highschool. It was definitely one of the smaller schools she’d went to. As she was walking into the building to find the secretary she was stopped by a small girl.

“Hi! You must be the new girl! We’ve been expecting you for ages!”

Her cheeks blushed a soft pink. She didn’t know she’d be this popular already.

“Hi, umm yeah this is she- I mean I am her.” Fuck, she was awkward. Come on sertraline, do your job!

Alice giggled, Jasper’s mate was cute. “I’m Alice, and these are my siblings.”

Just as she was about to wonder where they were, four beautiful pale strangers appeared before her. Her heart was fluttering like crazy, the blond and the brunet guys were HOT.

Alice went on to introduce Edward, who gave her a small smile, then Rosalie, who had already decided to hate her and answered with a glare. The giant brunet left Rosalie’s side to her dismay and extended his hand and gave a charming smile: “I’m Emmett, we’ve been expecting you.” Just as she was about to answer Emmett she was interrupted by the tall blond guy. Well, his sudden departure.

Her heart was palpitating, what had she done? She had just met them she could not have possibly offended them already, could she?

“Jasper is just anxious, nothing to worry about.” Edward had heard her thoughts and decided to take pity on her.

“Oh, okay…” He answered her thoughts as if she spoke them out loud, was she that obvious? Alice meanwhile had linked their arms together and was dragging her to the school. “You have AP Gov first period, let me take you!”

Wow, how did Alice know what her first period was? She decided she would not be friends with the beautiful pale siblings. They were weird and they overwhelmed her senses. She removed her arm from Alice. “Uh, I’ll just have to go to administration before class. You can go ahead, don’t miss class for me.” She didn’t care if Alice and the beautiful pale siblings following behind her missed their classes; she just did NOT want to be near them anymore.

Rosalie suddenly huffed and left their side, which led Emmet to follow behind her after giving her a wink and an excited smile. Edward gave a sigh of exhaustion and left after giving them a small wave. She was alone with Alice now.

“No worries! I’m sure Mr. Webster will understand when I tell him I was helping the new girl!” Her smile never left her face. It creeped her out to no end.

Alice took her arm without even allowing her to give a reply and dragged her to what she thought was administration. She had a feeling she could not escape Alice, nor the other siblings.

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theoutsiderscomfort · 3 months

Text

Time for the final outsiders gang headcanon before I have to come up with more ideas.

Sodapop Curtis Headcanons

Usually I don’t jump straight into the neurodivergent headcanon but today I am

This guy has raging ADHD

He is the definition of ADHD. When you look it up in a dictionary, it’s just a picture of Sodapop

He can never sit still. He is always fidgeting in some way

His teachers used to hate him being in their class because he wouldn’t sit still for more than 5 minutes at a time

He also has a undiagnosed learning disability/disabilities

He had a teacher call him dumb when he was in 2nd or 3rd grade and it has stuck with him all these years

His teachers thought he was never listening in class but he was, he just didn’t understand when they explained it

He is a very hands on learner which is why he was good at mechanics and gym

Ask him what Shakespeare meant in that line from Romeo and Juliet? No clue. Ask him why the car sounds like it’s rattling? He is explaining every possible reason why

Honestly could ramble about adhd and learning disabilities headcanons for Soda all day but that’s not what you are here for

He was the kind of kid growing up, who would trip over, scrap their elbows and hands yet still get up with a massive smile on his face

This guy forgets to put on his shoes more times then he will admit

At least a few times a week, Steve has to remind him to put on his shoes for work

He has a massive sweet tooth. I mean he canonly puts jam with his eggs, something that doesn’t usually need a sweet element

He was a big mamas boy growing up. He just loved spending time with his mom

He didn’t even care if they just went to the hair stylist. He liked the pretty ladies who would talk about how cute he was

Both of his parents deaths hit hard but his moms hit just the tinest bit more

I had to put a tiny bit of angst in

He eventually starts working part time with horses

Training them, cleaning their stables, riding them, just anything to do with horses

He would eventually have enough money to buy his own horse

Someone give this man a horse because I will never get over Soda losing Mickey Mouse

I don’t know what’s with the Curtis brothers and my ability to ramble about my neurodivergent headcanons for them

#the outsiders #the outsiders hcs #the outsiders headcanons #sodapop curtis #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #darrel curtis #dally winston #dallas winston #two bit mathews #johnny cade #steve randle

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lululandd · 1 year

Note

Ok I can't stop thinking about the froggie statues in the plants. (Find all the froggie figurines!) Reader should keep a teeny tiny one in her pocket so that when (if?) Ghost eventually invites her inside, she can sneak one in his apartment. 🐸

at peace;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

wordcount: 1205

warning: fluff, froggies, simon riley is a fucking mess, part 2 of this fic

note: also on ao3

summary: what tendy said.

The last time he felt nervous to the point of nausea was a year ago, when he learnt of Graves and Shepherd’s betrayal. But today he felt even worse than that. He saw a glimpse of her daily, sometimes once every two days. The woman saunters to his balcony, waters his plants, wipes the little frogs clean—apparently he missed a little purple one by the orchid—and goes back upstairs.

He bought different kinds of teas the other day, not knowing what kind she would like, and now the possibility of her not liking tea at all made bile rise up to the back of his throat. Why is he feeling like this? She’s just his neighbour. He’s just being polite by repaying her for making his fire escape look decent. He’s killed men numerous times before and felt nothing, but why is asking his neighbour to come insi—

Realisation hits as he ran for the sink.

He’s never invited anyone in before. Not even Johnny knows where he lives. This would be the first time since he moved here that he would invite someone inside. He looked around the place. Is this how normal people live? Could it be too… pristine? Too immaculate? Should he have at least one picture on a shelf? He glanced at the gloomy state of his apartment and decided he needed to add a little more…. life to it.

He was caught off guard on his way back from his third trip to the store. He had a little shoe rack and some books on the backseat of his car.

“Hey neighbour!” He heard her speak.

Fuck.

“Allright?”

She nodded. The woman had a cup of something he can’t distinguish but recognise the café it came from. “You need help?” She gestured at his car.

“Yes.” He answered without thinking. The word just fired out of his brain like a bullet; straight out of his mouth. He didn’t need her help, didn’t want her help. There’s a very empty picture frame on the desk next to the telly and he’s fairly sure she’d be weirded out by. “In a bit.”

She visibly backed off and he thought he had said the wrong thing when she just nodded, “I’ll swing by in an hour? That allright?”

“Yeah.”

He fixed his empty frame problem, placed the books down, and arranged all the extra knick-knacks he bought to somewhere he thought would look normal and presentable. It was after spraying his living space with some air freshener that he started questioning what he was doing. Why was he doing this? To what extent is he going to pretend he is a functioning human being? Would he have done the same thing if Soap was to come over?

A knock on his balcony door lets him know if he would pass as being normal to a civilian. He was greeted with a decent sized tupperware of brownies half shoved into his face. “So what am I helping with?”

Shit.

In his daze to make his place seem normal as possible he had cleaned and put everything in its place. “Sorry, fixed it actually. Fancy a cuppa instead?”

She handed him the brownies so she can take her shoes off. She left them outside by the plants, and saw they were just like them, colourful. He gestured to the sofa as he walked to the kitchen, “Any requests?”

He was unimpressed when she skipped the sofa entirely and walked with him to the kitchen. The girl probably doesn’t trust him with her tupp—

“Any would be fine, I’m not picky.” She instead sat on the dining chair that previously held his dying plant. The plant that started all of this.

“There’s a couple. White, black, earlgrey, chamomile, matcha, as—.”

“No way. Matcha? Do you have that whisk thingy too?” She moved her wrist around.

He opened a drawer and grabbed the wooden whisk and proudly held it up. “You want matcha?”

To his dismay she shook her head, “I’ll just have whatever you feel like having right now.”

“Guest’s choice.”

“I brought brownies. Host’s pick.”

“Matcha goes great with brownies.” He lied. He just wanted to see her eyes light up like earlier.

She nodded enthusiastically, “Whatever you say, you’re the tea expert.”

Fuck. She was just being polite and leaves everything to him because she thinks he’s knowledgeable. He needs more info about tea if he— If he what, actually. Why does he keep thinking about what she wants and what she thinks of him? Would he have thought the same if it was Price thinking he knows more about tea than he really does?

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that when he turned around to hand her the tea, she wasn’t in her seat anymore. She was looking at the books he had put on the shelf. He had to walk over to hand her the mug.

“You a fan?” She pointed at his freshly purchased Dune books, he sees the sparkle in her eyes again and he has to disappoint her for the second time today.

“Haven’t read ‘em yet. Thought the covers looked interesting.”

“So you just… bought the whole hardcover set because they looked… pretty?” He notices the many crinkles at the edge of her eyes when she smiles. He would like to coun—

“Gotta match my new garden.” He nodded at the balcony. It was utter horseshite from his part but he must admit that the books did make the view prettier. He needs to take that into consideration when buying things now.

The way her face lights up to look up at him mimics the first time he had offered his space to her. “You mean it?”

He took a sip of his tea with one hand and crossed his heart with the other. He hoped this would distract her from his face because he was sure he was blushing. Where’s his mask when he n—

No.

Ghost doesn’t belong here, not now. Ghost will be needed someday when someone bothers her. Ghost will be sorely awakened that day when she tells him she shouldn’t be coming over anymore, but for the time being Ghost doesn’t belong here.

He reminded her about the brownies and glad that whatever bollocks he spewed earlier turned out correct. Matcha did go with brownies. The girl said so herself.

“I’m Simon, by the way.”

—

He got a call from Price that night, and for the first time, he was sad he had to leave. His mind wandered to his books and wondered if he will ever even read past a quarter of the first one. As he walked over to look at them, he noticed something.

There was a skinny little frog covered in glitter—standing upright with an unamused face—hidden behind the books and the empty basket he had up there. He then moved the frog front and centre, where it really belongs.

Or, that’s where he thought it does, until a week later. The glitter caught his eye as he scans the room one last time before leaving, so he snagged it from its perch and slips it into his inner jacket pocket, comfortably held against his heart.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty imagine #call of duty #scuffed writing

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the-phantom-author · 3 months

Note

because of the dilf!hasan mention the other day it’s all i thought abouttttttt.

like him doing things to take care of you or the babies while you’re pregnant like he’s bringing you your prenatal vitamin everyday because he knows you’ll forget it.

him putting the cribs together (insert that one debby ryan gif from radio rebel) he’s got his shirt off and in a pair of shorts, you’re sitting with him in the nursery but he’s not letting you do anything so you’re in one of the rockers. and with pregnancy hormones……. watching him has you like 🤤🥵🫦

him carrying both of the boys’ car seats…….. he’s already a big dude with big muscles but combine that with sweet tiny babies, you’re a puddle in the floor.

him folding their teeny tiny laundry (even though you guys lose all the socks and can never keep up with them because they’re so freaking tiny) while you nurse the boys, him standing at the end of the bed and just watching and talking to you.

getting him something funny for his first father’s day, like a hat or an apron that says worlds hottest dad or something.

and going back to the other day, you two putting the boys down for a nap and he grills out👁️👅👁️ still in swimsuit, you two in and out of the kitchen and stealing quick kisses and touches with the baby monitor nearby 🥹

Dilf!Hasan being dilf!Hasan, we love to talk about it

He's absolutely bringing you your prenatal everyday. It beings it to you at the same time he gives you your breakfast. Tbh, no matter how pregnant you are he spends the mornings kind of hovering around you help you twitch things. He's putting your shoes on, grabbing you your jacket, anything he can think really, he's doing.

Him putting the crib together by himself did start a little argument. You wanted to be involved, but he was like "I got it™" and told you to just sit pretty in the rocking chair. He makes some promises about what the two of can do after the cribs are put together that makes you be okay with just watching him, him being shirtless was just an extra bonus. He'll also mention that he can feel you staring at him.

The first few days at the hospital and house with the twins always had you melted, because look at him. Him carrying the boys out of the hospital in their car seat just makes you 🥺🥺. And just seeing him randomly through the day having one on one with each of the twins, he's just siting on the couch in the front room or in the nursery, shirtless with one of the twins sleeping on his chest.

He loves doing their laundry. He doesn't have an answer if you ask why, he just likes doing it. Hell always be surprised with the size of the clothes, like they were so small when they were first born, but they grow so large so fast.

I can see it being a thing that y'all just buy a new pack of baby sock everytime you go out shopping, just to replace the one that have lost.

He would totally want the "the words hottest dad" hat all the time tho. Like it quickly becomes a favorite of his. That's not to say you didn't do anything else for his first father's day, you made him all of his meals, he got a new jacket, you brought him flowers, and a couple more things.

After putting the twins down for a nap, y'all are just soaking up the extra attention from each other. It's not like you two haven't seen each other with this much skin showing since the twins were born, you have, it's just different to see each other with this amount of skin showing for this long without any kind of insecurity rearing it's head around. Hasan is so much more touchy this day, you literally can not be within arms reach of him and he not be touching you.

#hasanabi x reader #hasan x reader #hasanabi #dad!hasan #bohogothic

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mynameisjag · 4 days

Text

From a fic I never finished, Bruce and Damian enjoy a day out. That's it, just them having a good day.

It wasn’t often that Bruce went out into Gotham as well, just Bruce…not Batman or Brucie Wayne.

Just Bruce.

Changing into simple clothing, letting his hair air dry and just heading out like that and the public didn’t recognize him.

No slicked back hair or suits of any kind.

Just a t-shirt, his favorite throw over cardigan and what Dick insisted was mom jeans, a five o’clock shadow, and he was ready to go.

Just a quick trip to the shopping center to pick up some office supplies for his home office, a few groceries for Alfred, some snacks for the Batcave, and he probably needed to check the family chat to see if anyone needed anything while he was out.

A quick glance at his messages as he began to head out, already on his way to the garage, Dick was trying his best to convince him to get…strawberry flavored Batty-O’s with crackling and popping sprinkles…sounds horrible and right up his eldest alley…also full of terrible sugars…

Alfred would hunt both of them down if he brought this home.

He’ll just order it and have it shipped to Dick’s apartment…

Jason wanted him to fuck off…Bruce sent off a xoxo and a request to come over for tea in response to that. He got a thumbs up and a middle finger.

Tim…is either half asleep and texting or is trying to send out a code for everyone to decipher…both was possible…adding melatonin to the list…

Cass was sending happy faces, so it’s seems she’s good at the moment, sending her a heart, ballet shoes and a crown. His dancing princess.

Duke sent a thumbs up and got one back in return.

Steph was just saying she’ll just take what she needs from his place whenever…time to restock the “hidden” care packages then.

And Damian…Damian was staring him down from the passenger seat of the car…

“Damian…is there something you need that you couldn’t put in chat?”

“I am coming with you.”

“…you hate the public…”

“I will overcome my distaste of others and escort you, Father, you shall not face the scrutiny of the common by yourself.”

Aww, he just wanted to spend time together and Bruce could never refuse the baby of the family, “Of course, I appreciate your concern.”

His darling just puffed up with a smug smile, proud that he managed to get his way without any argument, “I’m glad you are agreeable.”

Look, they are communicating!

Not well, but it was a step forward!

Besides Damian even took the effort to dress more ‘civilian’, the green sweater with a little tiny bird stitched in with the words ‘just a bobbin like a robin’ was definitely a gift from Dick.

Adjusting the seat belt and getting the car out of the garage, Bruce just hummed happily, letting the silence settle between them comfortably. Mentally going back over his list, glancing over to see his son playing on an old handheld game. Something that was more then likely stolen out of Tim’s room, but with the older boy making his own place in the city, it would be awhile before it would be noticed it was gone.

Almost all his children had moved out…he was happy they were moving on in their lives, looking more into their futures but his heart hurt because his babies weren’t actually babies any more. They would have argued that none of them were ever babies with him but he would just ignore that.

He hoped this doesn’t result in empty nest syndrome…

“Baba, can we stop by the game store, I want to see if I can find more interesting games.”

“We can, after we get everything on the list, can you check my phone and see if anyone has sent in anything they want to be picked up-what in Lady Gotham is this?”

Bruce blinked as traffic was stopped to let a…small parade of Batman floats pass by…

“There are copycats out on the street, how dare they parade around as us!”

“…I think parade is the word, look at the banners…”

Batman Day!

“So they are not copycats…but worshippers…”

Bruce tried not to laugh at the thought, "I think the word is…enthusiastics…”

They both watched as a man walked past wearing a banner that said, “Priest of The Bat”.

“…and we will be investigating that later, let’s see if we can park and look around.”

“Time for some detective work, Father?”

“Undercover detective work.”

Damian was eagerly typing away on the phone, “I shall keep the others off our trail so they won’t interrupt our investigation, also according to the online advertisement, the parade will end in the park where the “Batman Day festival” will begin. They will have bat themed mooncakes at certain booths.”

“Are the mooncakes important to the investigation?”

“One must keep all possibilities open, we must check each booth for clues.”

Bruce kept the smile that was threatening to grow held down, he was sure the boy wouldn’t appreciate being cooed over his want of treats being disguised as being extra thorough, more so that he didn’t want his siblings interrupting their day. He was going to have to order everything online and have it shipped to the manor then, mundane chores could wait.

His baby wanted mooncakes.

He will get mooncakes.

It didn’t take too long to park and follow the short parade to the fairgrounds, even with them stopping and staring at the lookalikes, a man giving them a balloon with the bat symbol and the words ‘I believe in Gotham’s local cryptids’, and someone clipping tiny bat wings to the back of their shirts at some point.

Soon the entrance was in view and by that time, Damian was now on Bruce’s shoulders, taking in the crowd, head turning back and forth at the bright lights, the performers in bat themed outfits, wide eyed as a child runs in front of then in a Robin costumes.

Bruce is humming thoughtfully to himself as he eyes a group in clown makeup done up in a Gothic theme, so far all they seem to be doing is some parlor tricks for the crowd around them. Some people even taking selfies, it was a rare sight for a Gothamite to get close to a clown without violence.

He was wondering if he should text the others, surely by now they would be aware of this festival happening, Barbara had to have known…

“Darling, do you want to text your siblings?”

“I can tell them to be on alert for any suspicious behaviors while we blend into the crowd…like the one over by the dart game.”

Bruce could only blink as his head was forcefully turned toward a booth with a bunch of balloons tied to a backboard, “Dart game?”

“Yes, obviously it’s a skill test but what kind? We must investigate.”

Hmm, a skill test that totally didn’t have to do with the giant plush animals as prizes.

“I think I remember Dick saying how these games were rigged,” he watches as a parent carries off their crying kid, wincing in sympathy as the cries get louder.

“No amount of trickery could possibly stop us!”

#jag is in a mood #batman #dc universe #bruce wayne #damian wayne #i just wanted to write some fluff for them #fanfic

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watchmegetobsessed · 2 years

Text

JUST HOW FAST THE NIGHT CHANGES (part 3)

A/N: writing this part took me way longer than i thought but here we are! it's a bit shorter than the prev parts, but its waaay more loaded with emotions!! warning is included down below, but its also kind of a spoiler

WARNING: discussion about miscarriage

PAIRING: Harry x High-School-Best-Friend!Reader

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

SERIES MASTERPOST | SUPPORT ME!

He didn’t feel this nervous before his first Grammy performance. Not even before his Wembley shows. His nerves are on the verge of snapping, his mind racing a thousand miles per second as Friday finally arrives. He wants the evening to be perfect, make you feel comfortable so he can show you how serious he is about reconnecting with you on any level you’ll allow him to.

He’s been up since five in the morning, he went to the market to get the freshest ingredients possible for dinner. He’s been cleaning, polishing the house even though his cleaning lady was there just two days ago. He’s been a tad bit maniac, to say the least, but he just wants to show you how important it is to him. He spends most of the day cooking, a full three course meal will be waiting for you when you finally arrive.

You text him sometime after six that you’re on your way, you’ll be there in about thirty. Mentally he is cursing himself out for not sending a car for you, but he can’t do anything about that now. He obsessively checks his outfit every five minutes, fixing his hair, changing his mind whether he should have shaved or not. Well, there’s not much to do about that either now.

And then the intercom rings through the hallway and he is shooting out of the bedroom, running towards the front door.

“Hi!” he beams, pressing the button and he can’t help the smile that stretches across his face when he sees you on the tiny screen, standing outside his gate.

“Hi,” you chuckle.

“Just straight up, I’ll be at the door,” he instructs you before buzzing the gate open and letting you in.

Throwing the door open he steps out into the chilly winter evening, instantly spotting your approaching form and he stops himself from running ahead like a little puppy welcoming its owner. God, he thinks it’s worrying, how obsessed he has become with you so fast, he shouldn’t be acting like this, he is a grown adult, not a little kid.

“Hi, come on in!” he holds the door open for you.

“Hi, thank you,” you smile shyly, silently assessing the luxurious, yet not too flashy home.

“Let me take this.” He helps your coat off your shoulders and hangs it up in the closet in the hallway while you step out of your shoes and put on the fluffy slippers he left out for you. “Do you want a tour?”

“Sure,” you chuckle.

You follow him around as he shows you the main areas of his home, living room, kitchen, dining room and then he walks you upstairs where you get a glance of his own bedroom as well as the three guest bedrooms.

“This looks amazing, Harry,” you gush as the two of you head down to the kitchen so he can serve dinner.

“Thanks. I’m trying to make it homey, so it actually feels like home when I’m here.”

“Do you struggle with that? Feeling like you’re home?”

“It was hard to pinpoint a place that I could call my home, but I think it’s better now.”

They make small talk as Harry heats up some of the food that’s been ready for a while, and then they move to the dining room where he already set the table.

“You really went all out,” you chuckle, when he opens a bottle of wine and serves dinner.

“Of course. It’s important for me.”

“To show me you can make a fancy dinner?”

“To show you that you’re important,” he simply says without hesitation, his words stunning you for a second as he joins you at the table. “Sorry, that came out weird, didn’t it?” he chuckles awkwardly.

“No, no… it’s just… doesn’t matter,” you shake your head, turning your focus on the food. “Let’s eat.”

The food is delicious and you don’t hold back telling him about it. You never thought he would ever be this good in the kitchen, part of you imagined he is way too used to eating in fancy restaurants that he never even has the time to cook.

You were wrong.

As one course follows the other you slowly start to open up more and more, you tell him about university, how work is these days and Harry listens to anything you have to tell him, drinking up even the smallest information crumb you throw his way.

He tells you stories too, ones you probably haven’t heard if you ever looked him up online these past few years. He lets you in on his private life he keeps locked away from the public and he hopes you see it as a sign of trust.

When you’re both full, you insist on helping him clean up at least a bit, loading the dishwasher while he packs away the leftovers. Then you move to the living room with a new bottle of wine, he even lights a cozy fire in the fireplace as you sink into the soft cushion of his sofa. Now he feels like you’ve loosened up fully. You’re joking, teasing him, letting yourself laugh loud with your head falling back, your legs are pulled up, feet rubbing together under the fluffy blanket he handed you to make you even cozier.

He wishes he could take a picture of you like this, looking so carefree and unapologetically yourself, like you don’t have any worries in the world. Maybe it’s just the wine, maybe not. He selfishly wants to believe that it’s him who finally cracked you open enough to leave your burdens behind even if it’s for just tonight.

He tells you about a time he got drunk a few years ago and somehow ended up outside his hotel room without pants on. Mitch had to push him back into his room before anyone saw him running wild. It makes you laugh so much that you almost spill the last drops of the wine. Harry wouldn’t have minded that either, he would have gladly bought a whole new couch, he’s just thankful to see you have such a good time as he laughs with you.

“I would have loved seeing the headlines following that!” you gasp for air, wiping your tears away from the corner of your eyes.

“Yeah and my publicist would have gotten a stroke at the same time,” he huffs, making you laugh some more. It takes a few minutes for the two of you to calm down and Harry can’t help himself from speaking up. “I’ve missed this,” he smiles over the rim of his glass and you sink deeper into the cushion. “I’ve missed being our old selves.”

“But we’re not our old selves, Harry,” you softly breathe out, the sinking feeling returning in your guts, your laughter now long gone.

“But it feels just like that. It doesn’t matter that we’re older or how much has changed,” he insists.

You turn silent, the smile slowly fading from your lips as you stare into your drink before downing it and placing the glass to the coffee table.

Harry fears he said something he shouldn’t have and he is just about to apologize when you speak up again, dropping a bomb.

“I had a miscarriage.”

The words hang heavy between the two of you and you’re not even sure why you felt the need to share it with him. Very few people know about what happened, it’s not something you can just easily bring up and share with others but now Harry belongs to this tiny circle as well.

Keeping your eyes down and off of Harry you continue speaking.

“The doctors said nothing extreme happened, the baby was just… not strong enough. I have great chances of getting pregnant again. Drew, my ex… ex husband has… had different views though.”

“What do you mean?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you can feel the tears dwelling in your eyes, so you take a moment to try and swallow your emotions back, though it’s quite impossible. It’s been over a year, but you’re still not fully over it.

“He never said it out loud, but it was pretty obvious he blamed it on me in some twisted way. Made me feel like I did something that resulted in losing…”

Harry is quick to move closer when your voice dies down, he places his glass to the table and wraps an arm around you, pulling you against him.

“I swear I didn’t do anything, I was so careful, I even stopped working out, I took days off every time I felt too sick to work… I did everything…”

“I know. I know you did, it wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on top of your head as he patiently lets you get it all out. It takes a couple of minutes before you can speak again without sobbing.

“Drew grew cold, he worked late, always made plans for himself, without me. There were weeks we barely even spoke. Deep down I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with the possibility of my husband having an affair after losing my baby… I should have done something, though…”

“You went through something very hard, he should have been there for you, it wasn’t your fault, Y/N.”

“It’s what everyone tells me, but I don’t feel like it’s the truth,” you let out a shaky breath.

There’s so much Harry wants to say, but he knows he has to hear more to even try to comfort you the right way.

“Want to tell me more about what went down?”

He waits and no answer comes for a while before you take a deep breath and move back from his embrace.

“I think deep down I knew he was cheating on me, but I tried to talk myself down for a few weeks, told myself he wouldn’t do that to me. Guess I was wrong,” you scoff bitterly. “It was with his coworker he swore was not his type. And when I confronted him about it, he didn’t even try to apologize, beg for forgiveness. It’s like… it was a relief for him, that he didn’t have to keep this a secret anymore and he could use it all against me finally.”

Harry exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists as anger rushes through his veins. He never met this Drew guy, but he better pray their paths never cross, because Harry surely would lose his temper.

Wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand you clear your throat as you hug your knees and continue talking, it’s like a plug has been pulled, you feel the urge to share it all with him.

“Anyways, he basically said that he doesn’t see a future with me anymore. We had been married for less than a year at that point. He moved out by the end of the month and we were officially done in six months. I think… Uh, whatever, forget about it.”

“No, you can say it, you can say anything,” he assures you.

“I think that we were over even before I got pregnant. I feel like that was the only reason that kept him by my side. Then we… lost the baby and… I guess he used it as a reason to leave. I just don’t understand why he even married me in the first place,” you add the last part in a whisper as you swallow down another cry that’s bubbling in your throat.

Harry is devastated, in many different ways. He is ashamed for your ex, it’s hard to believe any man would treat a woman like this, let alone a woman like you. He is mad that you had to go through all of this undeservingly, that you had to deal with not just the loss of your pregnancy but also with your husband cheating.

It’s unfair and terribly wrong and the worst part is that he wasn’t there for you and there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he exhales as he wraps his arms around you and you lean onto him, your head resting on his chest, finding great comfort in his closeness. “I know you’ve probably heard it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

You remain silent as you let him hold you and you stay like that for a while. Minutes, maybe hours pass by, you can’t tell, but he doesn’t let go of you until you move back, wiping your cheeks.

“Sorry for unloading all of this on you so suddenly,” you huff out an awkward laugh, now that your head is clearer.

“Oh no, no, no, there’s nothing to be sorry about, Y/N. I feel like it’s wrong to say this, but… I’m glad you shared it with me,” he chuckles.

“I don’t know why I blurted it all out, not… not many people know about this. And please don’t share it with others,” you peek at him.

“Of course, I would never tell anyone. It’s safe with me,” he assures you.

“I kinda ruined the evening, didn’t I?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Not at all,” he smiles. “It’s all good. Thank you for sharing.”

Silence falls over the two of you again, but it’s not at all awkward or frustrating, there’s more comfort in it than in a lot of conversations you’ve had over the years. It’s much needed after all the heavy stuff that’s been just shared and Harry wants to give you time, as much as you need.

Your eyes wander over to him and then down at his wrist. Your gaze lingers there and he catches the gloomy look that runs over your expressions.

He understands it right away.

“I still have it,” he speaks up.

“Huh?”

“The bracelet. I still have it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods smiling.

“Why did you stop wearing it?” you ask, but you realize it might have sounded weird. He is a grown man, why should he wear some silly bracelet he got as a teenager?

“It was–Wait, let me show you.”

He jumps to his feet and shuffles out of the room, leaving you there in confusion. You hear him fumbling around until he reappears and sits back on the couch with his wallet in his hand. You hold your tongue and just watch the events unfold as he opens the wallet and pulls out a little pouch, one they often use for jewelry.

“I was, I think in Paris when it got caught in a doorknob and the string snapped,” he starts explaining as he opens up the pouch carefully. “The beads were all over the floor and our manager was screaming at me because we were late, but I just had to collect the beads.”

He chuckles softly and you watch as he gently shakes said beads out into his palm and your lips part in shock.

“I couldn’t find all of them, tried to fix it, but there weren’t enough left to fit around my wrist.”

He plays around with the beads, letting the roll in his palm, a sad, but somehow still goofy smile tugging on his lips before he looks up and his gaze meets yours.

And he sees just how touched you are.

“I always thought you stopped wearing it because… because we weren’t talking anymore and… you know,” you shrug, unable to find the words as you gulp back your tears.

“That was never the case,” he exhales, realizing how important it was for you and that you lived with this false idea of him up until now. “I still keep it with me. It’s important. It always was,” he quietly adds.

You’re absolutely speechless. All this time you thought he got rid of the bracelet in an act of leaving you behind as he entered his superstar life. You vividly remember when you first noticed it missing from his wrist, you pathetically cried yourself to sleep, hugging a teddy bear Harry got you for one of your birthdays. You felt betrayed, forgotten and unimportant and it never occurred to you something else might have happened.

Now this ultimately sad memory has turned into something so touching and unexpectedly comforting, you can’t remember the last time someone made you feel like this. It’s like the universe has gotten its balance back.

“Thank you,” is all you can say as you cover the beads with your palm.

You stay late, way longer than you imagined, but it’s like you’ve entered a bubble of comfort that you never want to leave. When you start yawning like a baby, that’s when you know you have to head home. Though Harry offers for you to stay the night in one of his guest bedrooms, you feel like that would be over some kind of boundary you’re not ready to cross just yet. So he calls you a car and even packs you some of the food to bring home with you. You tease him about being a malewife, but he just shrugs, accepting his fate.

“Thank you for tonight, Harry,” you smile at him sleepily as you stand by the car’s open door.

“When can I see you again?” he eagerly asks, not even caring if you think he’s crazy.

“Sometime soon. How long are you staying here?”

“I have two shows in Palm Springs on the thirty-first and then on the first as well.”

“Birthday shows?” you chuckle softly.

“Something like that. Throwing myself a party. Do you want to come?” he asks, at first just as a joke, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he realizes he means them.

“To Palm Springs?”

“Yeah. I’ll have a birthday dinner before too. You can fly out with me, I’ll arrange everything for you. A nice little trip, what do you say?”

“I’ll think about it,” you sigh and he can tell you’re not too fond of the idea, but he still has time to convince you. Having you there on his special birthday shows would mean the world to him and it would be the best present as well for sure.

“Alright, it’s not a no so I’m fine with that,” he smirks. “Take care and I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Sure,” you smile as you let him embrace you in a tight hug before you get into the car.

He watches you drive away as he stands by the gate with the cheesiest smile on his face from the connection he was able to rebuild with you, but his chest also aches for everything you shared with him. And if he wasn’t sure about wanting to make everything right before, now it’s more important than anything to be there for you in any way you need him to.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles series #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles oneshot #harry styles oneshots #harry styles fluff #just how fast the night changes

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octuscle · 1 year

Note

Hey Chronivac, could you help me out? My bf is Dutch and we’re in Rotterdam to meet his family. But his dad and brothers are all big bodybuilders and I’m a tiny nerd. Is there a way you could help me blend in and impress them?

Dan zal ik zien wat ik voor je kan doen... Is your friend also a colossus like his father and brothers? If not, you may soon be crushing him….

Your "brothers-in-law" have fun almost crushing your hands when greeting you. And your "father-in-law" greets you with a hug that leaves you breathless. Your friend laughs and tells them to leave you in one piece. You smile and ask where you can put your suitcase. Your friend says that you sleep on the second floor and a brother-in-law asks if he should carry your suitcase up. No, it's okay, you can do it. With the last of your strength you reach the room. You are drenched in sweat. And you ask your friend to excuse you downstairs for a moment. You would like to lie down for a moment. Zeker, geen probleem!

You open your suitcase. What kind of necklace is that? It must be a surprise gift from your boyfriend. It looks damn expensive. And it looks a bit silly around your neck. But somehow it feels good. You grab a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts from your suitcase, change, and lie down on the bed. And immediately fall asleep.

No idea how long you have slept. But you wake up to a crash. And you have a strange pain in your right upper arm. Because you haven't blown up your sleeve yet. You yawn and stretch. You tense both biceps again. And your right sleeve is also hanging in tatters. You have to make a real effort to take off what's left of the T-shirt. And you'd better take off your boxer shorts, too. They won't last much longer either. A glance at your watch shows you that you've just dozed off for fifteen minutes. And that you should slowly do a training session again. The long flight and the drive from Amsterdam have thrown you out of your training routine. Your suitcase is a bit smelly. The sweaty clothes from the training during the stopover in London are not dry yet. But maybe your boyfriend and/or his brothers are up for lifting some weights with you now. So you put on your sweatshorts, tank top, hoodie and your training shoes and run down the stairs. The family is sitting in the kitchen. And your father-in-law seems to read your mind? Do you want to beat jet lag with a good workout? You nod. Jongens, wie komt er? asks your friend's father. And his three sons jump up.

With five people in the jeep, it's pretty cramped. Even though you're the smallest in the group, you all take up a lot of space in each other's shoulders. When the car parks in front of the gym in Sint-Andriesstraat, you breathe a sigh of relief. Because you can get out of the cramped car. And because you can literally smell the iron. The gym is just the way you like it, reduced to the essentials. And a good selection of nutritional supplements. Since the last real meal was way too long ago, you first get yourself a decent protein shake. And then jump rope for ten minutes to warm up. The wimps go on the cross trainer. Only your friend and his father follow your example. Fuck, your friend is really hot, but the thought of a threesome with his father makes you really horny.

It's really cool to learn from experienced bodybuilders. Your father-in-law gives you and your friend a lot of good tips. A lot of it would have helped you in the gym at the university in the States for sure. Shit, you guys could have been a lot bigger. Your friend and you pose in front of the mirror. You are really satisfied. But it goes even bigger. After two hours, the others have no more desire. But you would no longer fit together in a car anyway. "Ga je gang, ik heb nog een uur nodig en dan kom ik met de metro." you call out to them. You need another hour here.

After the workout you need a shake. And you talk a bit with a trainer. He thinks you have a good chance of turning pro. Maybe with an injection cycle. He has some good stuff. Your father-in-law takes it too. Okay, you already thought that. You don't get that big just with good nutrition and hard training. You answer in almost accent-free Dutch that you are thinking about it.

After the workout, just a quick check in the mirror before you put your sweaty tank top back on. Very clever not to take anything with you to change… But you like the picture in the mirror. The chain comes really nicely. Could have been a bit longer. If you develop as planned, it will be too tight on your neck… But now you have to let the air out of your intestines. The protein falls are one of the best parts of the workout.

But now off to the Maashaven stop and then home by train. Maybe you jog the last meters through the Zuiderpark. The sweatier you come home, the better.

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #male transformation #muscle transformation

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fairy-writes · 1 year

Text

JUST KIND

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Demon Slayer

Pairing(s): Kamado Tanjiro x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K (Y’ALL BETTER LIKE IT)

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Immortal!Tanjiro, Gender-Neutral!Reader, Reader has a kid (adopted), Reader is described as smaller than Tanjiro, and takes place in the modern day!

Notes: As with many of my oneshots… catch my doctor who quotes!

Tanjiro is also aged up (I mean, he’s immortal, but asjkhaka, you get what I mean)

The pacing for this is whack, but we’re ignoring that.

__________________________________________________________________________

You first met Kamado Tanjiro on a Friday.

It had been an accident, really. You weren’t looking where you were going, engrossed in Giichi’s antics to pay attention to what you were doing.

The person you ran into was firm, your nose smacking straight into their sternum. You go crashing onto your bum, and your bags of groceries go tumbling.

“Are you okay?! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Came a voice, and you looked up to see a man, around your age, with a scar on his forehead and a kind face twisted with worry.

His eyes were dark red, so very sad, and oh so old.

How can such a kind, young face have eyes so sad and old as his?

You notice he’s still staring in a panic, and his hand extended to help you up. You take his hand, noting how rough and calloused it is.

“I—it’s okay! It was my fault, really. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You reassure as he pulls you up easily.

Abruptly, you realize you’re staring at his face and immediately look down at your shoes.

Was it just you, or did he linger before letting go?

You kneel to pick up the fallen groceries. The eggs are goners, same with the milk, but you can salvage the cans and fruits and vegetables.

Surprisingly, the man kneels to help.

“Oh… you don’t have to do that… I can get it!” You try, and he offers you a warm, sad sort of smile. (Why is he so sad?)

“It’s not a problem at all.” He says quietly. You return with your own smile that you hope is happier and hurry to pick up your fallen items.

In no time at all, the groceries are picked up and in your arms. Luckily, the bags hadn’t split that much, so you could salvage them.

All of a sudden, you hear your name.

Turning, you see Giichi running toward you through the parking lot, an excited look on his face.

Not at all seeing the car rumbling straight through a stop sign and straight for him.

You scream his name but know in your heart you won’t be able to reach him in time.

There’s a gust of wind beside you, whipping your clothes about your body, and suddenly Giichi is in the arms of the man and rolling away from the car. The vehicle screeched to a stop a second too late and would have hit your son if it hadn’t been for the young man.

You set your groceries down as whispers begin to erupt from the gathering crowd. You stumble but get to your feet and sprint toward the duo. The man is getting to his feet—Giichi still wrapped protectively in his arms—just as you reach them. Immediately he’s handing the boy to you, and you’re wrapping him up in your arms, tears welling up and streaming down your cheeks.

You almost lost him.

It was your fault.

You should have been watching him better.

Giichi, thankfully, has barely any idea what’s going on. He’s babbling on excitedly about meeting with Sabito and Makomo next week for Sabito’s eighth birthday party, not at all phased by the fact that he almost died.

The man hands Giichi off to you, and you bury your face in his raven hair and bury a sob threatening to erupt from your throat. You pull back and check Giichi for any injuries. He’s looking at you now with a frown. He calls your name quietly,

“What’s wrong?” He asks in that tiny voice of his. You just give him a watery smile.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” You reply and set him down slowly, still gripping his hand while you turn to the man who saved him.

He’s watching with a fond, wistful smile as if he missed something similar. (Did he have a family? Someone to go home to? Was he married?)

You bow, and Giichi follows suit though he doesn’t understand why,

“Thank you for saving him.” You say earnestly and feel his hand on your shoulders, gently guiding you to a standing position. He offers that bright smile that has your heart twisting.

“It’s not a problem at all. I’m Kamado Tanjiro.” He reiterates and introduces himself, holding a hand out for you to shake. You take it, introducing yourself with a grateful smile of your own.

Then, Kamado kneels and grins at Giichi,

“And what’s your name, young man?” He asks playfully. Giichi’s face splits in a grin of his own, and he jabs a thumb at his chest,

“‘m Tomioka Giichi! I’m seven! My favorite color is blue, and I like swimming!” He says proudly, and Kamado swallows thickly, the light dying from his eyes, and he looks so utterly heartbroken.

It flashes on his face for barely a second, but you still notice it.

Why was he so sad when looking at your son?

Giichi is rambling, as he always does when he meets new people. He’s always been such an outspoken kid. It was something you adored about your son.

Kamado ends up carrying your groceries (much to your protest) to your car and sees you off. As he shuts the trunk of your little car, bags safely stored inside, you turn to say goodbye. He’s watching Giichi in his booster seat, that same heartbroken look on his face.

He looks so lonely and sad that you can’t stand it.

So before you can think, you take a leap of faith.

“Could I take you out for coffee sometime? To say thank you?” You blurt and immediately curse yourself. Being so forward was a surefire way to scare him off.

But…

His face lights up, and there are smile lines around his eyes when the corners of his lips curve upwards. “I’d like that.” He says quietly, and you can tell he means it.

So you exchange information, scribbling your number down on the back of your receipt and handing it to the taller man. His fingers brush yours, and you are again wondering… did his hand linger before pulling away?

Almost a week later, on Thursday afternoon, you finally meet Kamado for coffee.

The coffee shop was quiet, peaceful even. There were a few couples, maybe even a family or two, but your attention is on Kamado. He’s nursing a coffee with some cream and three sugars, and you are stirring your own after doctoring it to your liking.

“So…” You begin, and he looks over at you from where he had been staring out the window, “What do you do for a living?” You finish, and he huffs out a quiet laugh,

“Security at various buildings.” He says, taking a sip from his cup before gesturing to you, “What about you?”

You scuff your foot on the tile, staring into the dark liquid,

“I work at a bookstore. Mostly bookkeeper work, accounting, and things like that. But the hours work well for Giichi’s school schedule.” You say, and he hums, taking in the information.

“How is he, by the way? He’s what… six?” Kamado asks, and you smile at the thought of your boy. He was at Sabito’s eighth birthday with Sabito and Makomo.

“He’s good! And let’s see… it’s July? So he’s seven. He’ll be eight in February of next year. He’s at a birthday party with his friends.” You say and can’t help but chuckle.

“Giichi’s been asking about you.” You say suddenly, and Kamado looks up from his coffee with an eyebrow raised.

“How so?” He asks, and you shrug,

“I explained what happened. You saving him and all. He sees you as something of a hero.” At this, Kamado’s face twists into that sad expression, just for a second, but you still notice it.

But you don’t say anything.

Because what could you say?

“Tomioka seems like a good kid.” He says, and you grin,

“He is. He wants to see you again, y’know.” You reply, and Kamado’s face turns wistful, watching his coffee swirl in his cup as he stirs it.

“I think I’d like that.” He whispers, and your grin widens, if only slightly.

It only takes a few more texts before the next plan is made, and you meet Kamado at the park.

It’s a Saturday, so the park is full of families and children playing on the playground. The air is alight with the sounds of laughing kids and alive with everyone else's chatter.

You spot him on a bench, watching with that same sad expression he always had when he thought no one noticed.

His expression brightened when he heard his name being called. Giichi lets go of your hand and runs toward the man, who gets up and waves. The seven-year-old crashes into him, but he barely moves. He’s as solid as a stone wall.

“How are you, young man?” He asks, and Giichi giggles at Kamado ruffling his hair.

“I’m good! I got to go to a birthday party last week with my friends!” He says excitedly, and you sigh as you set down the picnic basket in your hand. Kamado offers you a friendly greeting which you return.

“Let’s not talk Kamado’s ear off, Giichi.” You say, and Kamado laughs. It’s a full and rich sound, one that has your heart stuttering.

“I don’t mind.” He replies, and you raise your eyebrows in disbelief. Most adults and kids alike didn’t want to hear Giichi’s babbling. He had come home from school more than once in tears because of kids calling him a blabbermouth.

It doesn’t take much for you to convince Giichi to go play while you set up the food.

You had brought supplies for a picnic, it seemed like a safe option, and you only hoped that you weren’t pushing too much or seeming too forward. Kamado’s eyes lit up when you began pulling food out from the basket, having since set up the blanket.

“This looks amazing.” He said, turning that blinding smile toward you, and you duck your head in embarrassment.

He didn’t have to be so kind.

You weren’t a brilliant cook or anything. You told him as such, but he waved a hand,

“I’m sure it’ll taste great.” He reassured you firmly, but you two are interrupted by Giichi plopping himself on the blanket and grabbing a rice ball with sweaty hands. You raise an eyebrow,

“What do we say?” You chastise, and he freezes, half of it already in his mouth.

“Fanks fo gu foof.” He garbles through his mouthful, and you laugh, shaking your head,

“Good enough.” Is all you say.

You hear a surprised noise and turn to see Kamado, his eyes locked on one of the dishes. You frown,

“The tempura? Do you not like it?” You ask worriedly, and he shakes his head vehemently,

“No! I actually like tempura taranome. My mom used to make it all the time.” He says, and you sigh in relief. At least he wasn’t disgusted.

“How is your mom?” You ask, and his eyes turn so unimaginably sad.

You had hit a sensitive subject. You just knew it.

“She was killed. A long time ago.” He says in that quiet voice that sounds oh so small. You immediately panic,

“I’m so sorry—” He shakes his head,

“Don’t be. You didn’t know.” He says, though, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

You feel horrible.

So you take another leap of faith and place a hand over his. He looks at you, surprised and close to tears at the same time.

What had happened to this poor man to make him so sad?

You offer what you hope is a comforting smile.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.” You say, and his eyes widen marginally before he nods wordlessly and wipes any unshed tears from his eyes.

“Sorry. Our second outing, and I’m already crying.” He says, and you laugh,

“I cried when we first met. You’re perfectly fine.” At this, he huffs out his own laugh,

“Your son almost got hit by a car. You had a perfectly valid reason to cry.” He tries, and your grip on his hand tightens. It doesn’t take long for him to turn his hand over and grip yours in return.

“Your reason is valid as well.” Your reply has his smile turning watery again,

“I—”

Suddenly you hear your and Kamado’s names being called, and you both turn from where you were sitting and see Giichi waving from the swing set.

“Push me! Please?!” He pleads, and you look at Kamado, who watches the boy for a moment more before getting up and holding a hand to help you up.

“Let’s not keep him waiting.” He says, looking for all the world as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders.

A single text from Kamado out of the blue turns into two. Turns into six. Turns into an everyday occurrence.

Part of you wonders where this is going to go. The other part of you says don’t worry about it. So you don’t.

You respond, keeping it casual, never crossing a line, never pushing too much.

But things change

A few glasses of wine during the weekend lead to a sorry attempt at flirting, and you wake up in the morning to your phone buzzing. Vague panic sets in as you see Kamado’s name plastered across your screen.

But you pick up.

“Uh… hello?” You say warily and hear a quiet titter of laughter, sending your heart into a tizzy. You like it when he laughs, maybe more than you should.

“Hangover?” Kamado asks, and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“You have no idea.” You say into the receiver and hear him hum. It sounds like he’s reading something. You can hear the flipping of paper as he supposedly scans the pages.

Fuzzy memories start to come back, and you feel a sense of dread fill your belly.

“Listen… about last night—” He cuts you off gently,

“You were drunk.” He says, and you roll off the couch and into a sitting position. You’re glad Giichi isn’t home. You had promised him a sleepover with Sabito for acing his latest spelling test. You were due to pick him up in a few hours.

You rub your face,

“But—well—I don’t know. I just want to apologize. It was rude and improper.” You mumble, and he’s quiet. Then he mumbles something that you don’t quite catch. You as him to say it again, and he fumbles with his words before steeling his voice and repeating himself.

“What if I liked it?” He says boldly.

Your brain stalls.

Caput.

Poof.

“What if you… what?” You stammer dumbly. He backtracks immediately,

“Sorry… Just—forget I said anything—”

“No, no! I just didn’t expect you to say that is all.” You say hurriedly, and he stops in his tracks.

The rest of the conversation is a joke, with you both stumbling over words, and there are even crummy attempts at flirting.

But…

You don’t mind it.

However, it ends all too quickly for your taste.

Your relationship with Kamado changes over time.

And it scares you.

It shouldn’t be. He’s kind and the epitome of the perfect gentleman.

So why were you nervous?

The two of you never really put a label on what you were to each other. But it was clear you were way past being friends.

Yet he hadn’t kissed you. Or hugged you, for that matter.

But he picked you up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after your shifts at the bookstore. He took you out on a date every Saturday when he got off his shift for the day. Sundays were reserved for him coming over to your place and spending the day with you and Giichi.

It felt like nothing you could do in return would make up for it.

He always assured you that you didn’t have to do anything in return, but that didn’t mean you didn’t try. You left post-it notes in his wallet. (which gets left behind at your place more and more, and you were positive it isn’t an accident.) You invited him over for dinner. You even gave him flowers at one point, and he almost cried.

Things really change one night after Giichi is in bed.

You’re both on the couch, wine glasses in hand as you talk in quiet voices so as to not wake your son. You finally have the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at your brain since you first met him.

“How can a man so young have eyes so old?” You mumble, your words slightly slurred as an effect of the alcohol. Your friends always said you were a bit of a lightweight.

But you still don’t miss the look in his eyes as he listens. He sets down his wine glass—which has barely been touched, mind you—and stares sadly at the picture of you and Giichi the day his adoption was finalized.

“It’s complicated.” He says simply, and you frown almost childishly.

“Complicated how?” You ask and notice, even in your mildly drunken stupor, that he avoids your gaze. He fidgets with the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down and keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

“It’s a talk that should be saved for when you’re sober.” He says firmly, and that’s the end of that.

You down the rest of your wine—which isn’t much—and set the empty glass down. Kamado looks at you.

“You aren’t going to have more?” He asks, and you shake your head, leaning to put your head on his shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“You said it’s a talk that should be saved for when I’m sober. I had better start now.” You say and hide a yawn. “Y’know Kamado… I’m happy you’re here.” You finish, and as you fall into unconsciousness, you hear something.

“You can call me by my first name.” He whispers, sounding ancient and devastated.

Why?

You fight to open your eyes, a sleepy smile crossing your lips.

“I’m happy you’re here, Tanjiro.” You murmur before slipping away to sleep and feel his arm wrap around your shoulders, and his head leans onto yours.

When you wake up, it’s to Giichi poking your cheek with a mischievous grin on his face.

“You’re awake! Tanjiro made breakfast!” He cheers, and you sit up, a hand to your head and hiding a groan. Surprisingly, your headache isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. You turn and see two empty glasses and a bottle of multivitamins on the nightstand next to you.

Wait…

You were in bed?

Hadn’t you passed out on the couch?

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and take Giichi’s hand. He’s excited, babbling on about how Tanjiro let him help, and it was now his job to get you out of bed so you could eat.

Whatever Tanjiro was cooking smelled delicious.

He had found your apron, which is several sizes too small, but he makes it work. You lean on your kitchen doorframe, watching Tanjiro move about your kitchen with practiced ease, effortlessly letting Giichi in to help. When he notices you in the doorway, he smiles.

(He looks handsome when he smiles.)

“How are you feeling?” He asks, and you feel your lips tugging upward in your own smile.

“Much better than if it were me by myself. Thank you, Tanjiro.” You say, and he gestures toward your table. You notice his ears are flushed pink.

“Have a seat. I’m almost done.” He says, voice thick with emotion, and you obey without a word, guiding Giichi toward the table. He climbs into his booster seat. Tanjiro comes in with three plates of food balanced on his arm and sets them down.

Breakfast is… oddly traditional, to say the least.

It’s well-balanced but has some food prepared in a way you haven’t seen since your history classes in university. From the Taisho era, if you remember right.

But it tastes good, and Giichi has no complaints, so that’s all you can ask for.

You insist on helping Tanjiro with the dishes. He tries to usher you out of the kitchen, claiming he can clean up his own mess, but you’re having none of it. So there you stood, scrubbing dishes with hot water and handing them to Tanjiro to dry. The silence is filled with your instructions on where things go.

Eventually…

“Why did you get so emotional when I said your name?” You ask quietly, and he pauses where he’s drying a plate.

“It’s just… no one’s called me that in a very long time.” He replies, just as quiet and sounding too much like a young boy scared to be hurt.

“Was it because you were scared?” He stiffens but nods mutely.

“I’ve lost everyone in my life. I don’t want to lose anyone else.” He says, and you stare down at the sudsy water.

What made you different?

Why were you so special?

You ask him as much, and he shrugs,

“I want to get to know you. I haven’t been able to do that in ye—quite a long time.” He says, and you want to ask him about his blunder.

Was he going to say years?

How long had he been alone? Never getting close to anyone? Never properly letting go of his grief?

Because you knew he was grieving. Knew he was mourning something. You just didn’t know what.

You were almost scared to ask.

Tanjiro brings you to meet a friend of his one day when you both don’t work, and Giichi is at school.

The house isn’t large or small, but the lawn is decorated with beautiful flowers that take your breath away. Tanjiro keeps hold of your hand as he knocks on the door with his other one.

He was holding your hand.

It had become a constant thing in your relationship.

It had begun with you holding hands with Giichi and boldly reaching out to take Tanjiro’s in your free one. You fully expected him to pull away, but instead… he intertwined your fingers and held you close.

It was… nice.

The door creaks open and reveals a young girl with black hair, large violet eyes, and dressed in a silken kimono. She watches you warily but visibly opens up when she spots Tanjiro.

“Are you here to see Great-Grandpa?” She asks in a meek voice, and Tanjiro nods.

“Is he well enough to see us?” He replies, and the girl nods, opening the door wider so you both can enter. The two of you change into slippers and follow her down the hall and to the fourth door on the right.

You recognize the person in bed immediately.

Ubuyashiki Kiriya.

The oldest person in Japan and one of the oldest in the world.

Tanjiro was friends with him?

He was mostly bald and looked at you with the same kind but old eyes that Tanjiro had. Except he was warm. Happy. Content. He didn’t have that tragic look that Tanjiro had.

Ubuyashiki looked over from where he had been watching the birds, and a gentle smile crossed his face.

“Ah… Tanjiro… What a pleasant surprise. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? And this is…?” He asked, voice creaky like the ancient wisteria tree with the bird feeder.

You bow and introduce yourself politely before righting your posture as Ubuyashiki beckons you forward. He extends a hand for you to take, and you do, but he doesn’t shake it. He merely grasps it with kind hands that fill you with all kinds of warmth.

He bows and presses his forehead to your joined hands, ignoring your panic at the respect he is showing you. Shouldn’t you be doing that for him? When he straightens, he keeps ahold of your hands.

“They’re someone special to you… aren’t they?” He asks Tanjiro,

“Yes… they really are.” Comes his quiet reply, and you feel embarrassment flush your skin till it’s hot to the touch.

You were someone special to him?

Ubuyashiki gestures for you both to sit beside his bed. You sit with one leg crossed underneath you, your knee brushing Tanjiro’s thigh as he takes a seat next to you.

“How did you two meet?” He asks, and you glance at Tanjiro, who is looking at you with a fond sort of smile.

“Tanjiro, um… well… he saved my son from a car accident.” You decide on the simple explanation. There wasn’t any need to go into a long-winded story. You thought that would be the end of the conversation.

Until Ubuyashiki starts asking more questions.

“How old is he?” He asks, and you bite your lip.

“He’s almost eight. We have about a month left.” You say, and your mind reels at the thought. Have you really known Tanjiro for six months?

It felt like a lifetime.

“What about you? How long have you known each other?” You take the chance to ask a question. Ubuyashiki hums in thought.

“It’s been many, many years. We met in—”

“Kiriya,” Tanjiro says suddenly, his tone warning and almost… dark?

“December of 1915.” The old man finishes, and your world turns upside down.

You whirl to look at Tanjiro, who is yet again avoiding your gaze.

“1915?” You ask quietly, and he flinches.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He whispers in that scared voice of his. Like he was afraid.

“Why do you look so young?” You ask, hesitant or even a bit scared of his answer. He grits his teeth but answers,

“I can’t die. I can’t age. Nothing. I’m doomed to live forever.” He says, and suddenly everything makes sense.

All those sad looks, not looking at you when you ask about his personal life, everything.

How many people had he lost?

How many people had he seen die and not be able to join them?

You reach forward and set a hand on his leg. He looks at you with those big watery eyes that make your heart twist and constrict.

“All that pain, and misery, and loneliness… and it just made you kind.” You whisper, and you mean it.

All those years, being alone with no one to sympathize with his agony.

It must’ve been hell.

He reaches over with a shaking hand, taking yours and ducking his head. You can see tears fall onto his lap.

“Thank you.” He cries softly.

The two of you leave soon after, with Ubuyashiki catching your hand as you stand to leave.

“Take care of him. He’s been through more than he says he has.” He says firmly, and you nod.

“I will.” You say, and he lets go with that same fatherly smile from before.

Tanjiro kisses you six months later.

A year after first meeting him.

You’re back at your apartment again, with you washing the dinner dishes and Tanjiro drying them off. He moves about your kitchen with such familiarity as he puts the dishes away that you forget that it’s only been a year. He acts like he’s lived there for years.

In a way… he has been.

Some of his clothes hang in your guest bedroom closet, he has a special mug in your cupboard, and there’s a spot for his keys and wallet on your desk.

He’s made himself at home.

And you find yourself not minding it at all.

You hand Tanjiro the last of the dishes and pull off your rubber gloves, drying your hands of sweat and turning, nearly bumping into the man behind you.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he looks down at you with a small smile, gently grasping your elbow with one hand and putting a mug—his mug—into the cupboard above your head with the other.

But he doesn’t move away once he’s done.

Instead… he leans down, putting his forehead against yours. You grip his biceps as you back up against the counter, bringing him with you. You tilt your head up, and your noses brush. His eyelashes flutter, and his eyes close.

“I shouldn’t.” He whispers, breath puffing against your mouth. You frown. You weren’t an idiot. You knew what was going to happen.

“Why not?” Your voice is just as quiet as his.

His grip on your elbow tightens, if only barely.

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.” He says, and you move your hands up to his shoulders. They’re broad and strong, well-muscled from years of hard work.

“You could never hurt me.” You reply, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t age. But humans do. Humans decay. You wither and die. Imagine watching that happen to someone that you….” He trails off, and your heart beats hopefully. Someone that he what?

“Someone that you what?” You murmur, and he grits his teeth.

“You can spend the rest of your life with me… but I can’t spend the rest of mine with you… I don’t want that to hurt you.” He says bitterly, and you reach up to cup his cheek.

“You could never hurt me.” You reiterate, and he opens his eyes to look at you with… is that hope?

You keep talking.

“You have been so selfless your entire life. Let yourself be selfish for once.” You say and go to back away. Well… as much as you could against the counter.

But before you can get very far, Tanjiro leans in, and suddenly, he’s kissing you.

He cradles you as if you were a piece of glass. As if you could break at any moment. Your eyes close, as do his, and you lean in, your hands slipping down his shoulders to hold tightly as if he were about to pull away.

He didn’t.

He pulls you closer, hands trailing down your elbows to fit snuggly at your waist. He pulls away briefly and opens his eyes. The distance doesn’t last long, and he leans down to kiss you again.

Tanjiro tastes of sunshine and hope. He feels like galaxies of kindness and summer mornings spent together.

He lets out a whimper of your name that tugs on your heartstrings and pulls you impossibly closer. You grip him just as fiercely, his button-down shirt bunching underneath your fingertips. His lips move against yours until you have to break for air.

His beautiful eyes open, and he smiles at you with the most brilliant smile you’ve seen yet.

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