#and its sad thinking how this will happen one day a this rate

[gomzdrawfr]

End of the Year Asks: 14 and 18!

14. Favorite book you read this year?

I was gifted Sea of Strangers and it was one of the few books I finished reading so I'll pick that one!

My favourite was this:

It's over, she said. It was many years later when the quiet realization dawned on her. It's over, her heart whispered.

lot's of yearning and breakup stuff, I loved it

18. A memorable meal this year?

ohhhhhhhhhhhh had to think a long time for this...but I'll settle with: a burger lunch set by my nurse. Long story short, I didn't bring enough money for lunch, and so I stayed back in the ward to study. The nurse saw and asked why, I told her I just didn't felt like eating but she went ahead and got me food anyways....I cried afterwards LMAO restored my faith in some healthcare practitioners...(especially since THAT particular week in the new department was EXTRA gruelling and I was just having a bad fucking time overall....but that nurse really boosts my mood for the next few days)

[queenerdloser]

i picked an apartment (NOT the church remodel one lmao) and signed my lease and i have a car now so most of what was stressing me out this month is now wrapped up, which explains why my body decided i had Done Enough and gave me a head cold to force me to rest in bed.

[stevie-petey]

episode one: the hellfire club

Robin waves her hands in the air as if to get Steve’s voice away from her. “Ew! Gross, don’t say boobies–” “Boobies! It’s not a big deal–” You make a face. “It isn’t the most pleasant word.” “Oh, c’mon. You like boobies, Robin likes boobies, and we all know I love your boobies specifically–ow!”  You hit the back of Steve’s head with annoyance to get him to stop talking about your boobs. While he winces in pain and rubs his tender head, you turn towards Robin. “What my darling boyfriend is trying to say is that everyone likes boobs, and Vickie definitely likes them too.” 

Summary: el writes to you as if youre her husband away at war, you debate the intricate nature of liking boobies with robin and steve, lucas is your beloved while eddie munson is your sworn enemy, steve accidentally exposes your (horribly hidden) daddy issues, dustin is an angsty teen, and jonathan really loves to drop emotional bombshells on you. can you believe this all happens in one day ? lol cheers to senior year !

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of abuse, allusions to bullying, trauma lol

Words: 13.5k (wrote half of this in one day)

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!!! SEASON 4 !!! this season terrifies me. i spent so much time outlining and making sure it was perfect. i have some changes i want to do, some ideas, and its scary because we dont have season 5 yet and i hate messing with canon ,,, alas: here she is. my baby. my beloved. quick fun fact: theres a scene in here ive had planned since season 1 so .... enjoy !

–

March 21st, 1986.

Dear Y/N,

Congratulations on New York University! Joyce tells me that it is a very good college, and everyone was extremely happy when Jonathan told us the news. He even had a smile on his face! It has been a very long time since I have seen him smile, especially without that weird smell on him (am I allowed to tell you about the strange plants that Jonathan seems to like now? He says that you cannot find out about it, but friends don’t lie and he is your bestest friend). 

I asked Will about it, and he says that Jonathan now smells because he misses you. If you ask me, I think that Jonathan smells because he is scared. We are still waiting for his college letter, afterall. I know you want to go to school with him, but so does Nancy. Is it possible to go to two colleges? Anyways, it must be a lot of pressure, even more with all the waiting we have to do, but Joyce told us that sometimes colleges take a long time to respond. 

While I am positive that Jonathan will figure it all out soon, he pretends he does not care. But he is a very bad liar. He was very upset that Nancy could no longer visit us in California. Will was bummed too, but he was more sad that it was not you who was visiting. Joyce says that the Byers boys were born to miss you, and I think she is right. 

I also miss you. I am still bummed I never went to school with you. I bet Mike is over the moon to have you with him for high school, Dustin and Lucas also. How is Max? Is she still sad? I know school has been hard for her. I will admit that it is hard for me, too. While I am good at maths, and my grammar is getting better, I am still unsure when to use conjunctions or why Angela does not like me. Will tells me to ignore her, but I want to be her friend. She is nice to everyone else. It confuses me that she is not nice to me.

A lot about California confuses me. The flowers here are different, and sometimes I forget that I cannot go and visit you. I miss the smell of Bookstrordinary (did I spell it right?) and your cookies. Please send more as soon as you can. Will and I are almost dying to taste them again! Mike says he will try to bring some on the plane, but I am scared he will be told no by those scary airplane people.

Speaking of Mike, he is coming to California this week! I am very excited to see him. It has felt like years, I think I am even going crazy. I have planned everything for his week here. Spring break will be extra special! It will be a fun distraction from Angela and school. This week I can pretend to be someone else, someone cool, and Mike will be very impressed. I know you tell me to always be myself, so I hope that I can make you happy by taking your advice on focusing only on the good. 

To prove I will focus on the good from here on out, here is a good things list: 

Mike is visiting!

Will has almost finished his painting. I am very curious to see what he has made. He is really talented, he shows me the drawings he sends you sometimes. 

You got into NYU! Is this the correct way to abbreviate? I am still working on conjunctions, but I think I am supposed to use the first letter of every word in the school’s name to shorten it. At least, that is what Joyce says. 

Jonathan’s new best friend, Argyle, will give us free pizza to celebrate Mike’s arrival. It is really good pizza. 

Tasting your cookies again. Fingers crossed Mike’s plan succeeds!

I am sure there is more, but I am too excited about this week and my mind is going very fast. I miss you tons, maybe even more than Will and Jonathan do. Please come visit us soon. Like Joyce says, the Byers boys were born to miss you. Although I am not a Byers boy, I am still a part of the Byers family, and I miss you. 

Love, El.

P.S., thank you for the grammar books. I will be sure to become the best writer ever in California. 

–

Sweet, gentle, El. You can almost hear her voice, reading aloud to you as you used to do when she lived in Hopper’s cabin. She would stumble over the letters, ask you how to sound out particularly difficult words in Spider-Man comics; they helped her learn how to read. Now, almost a year later, she’s writing you letters. 

El has grown up so much within such a short few months, although it doesn’t surprise you.

Laughing softly as you reread the final line she’s written, you wipe your eyes and place El’s letter onto your desk. The piece of paper joins the others, nestled gently with a pile of her other letters that are housed on your desk. El sends you a new letter every week, detailing silly stories about Jonathan and Will or concerned ramblings about Angela.

The letters make you miss El terribly. They make you miss everyone terribly. 

Next to the letters are drawings from Will. He’s become such an artist during his time in California. He sends you beautiful sketches of landscapes in their neighborhood, doodles from class, and incredibly detailed drawings of you and the party. The drawings are Will’s special way to keep in contact with you, and it’s something you cherish so deeply. However, you didn’t know that he was working on a painting, and you’re curious to see what El is talking about. Eventually he’ll reveal his art to you, he always does.  

Skimming a finger over one of the more recent drawings from Will, your hand catches on the walkman that lays next to it. Jonathan’s messy handwriting is scrawled on the mixtape that sits within it.

For bug.

The words, familiar and loved, stare back at you. The mixtape contains songs that Jonathan so carefully chose for you. He spent countless hours selecting songs that he knew you’d love, songs that reminded him of you. It had been his gift for you before he moved away. And now he’s gone, and you miss him so much more than you ever thought you would. More than you ever thought you could miss anyone.  

Jonathan never did end up coming to Hawkins for spring break. 

“Dusty, what’s going on in there?” The sound of your mother pounding on Dustin’s door breaks you from your thoughts. “You’re gonna be late.”

“Don’t come in, I’m naked!” You hear the boy screech back at her, which you roll your eyes at. Steve will be here to pick you guys up any minute. Dustin knows he should be ready by now, the schedule has never changed. 

Throwing on the cardigan Steve got you for Christmas last year, you grab your walkman and storm over to Dustin’s room. At the same time, your mother nearly crashes into you in the hall. Her face is pale, horrified of the idea that she almost saw her son naked, and you pity the woman. Dustin has become relentless lately, even more difficult to deal with. 

“Y/N, my dear,” your mother clutches at her chest and fans her face. “Can you please make sure your brother is ready? I think that boy is trying to give me a heart attack.”

You sigh, figuring you would have to do so anyways. “Yeah, sure. Go finish getting ready, I’ll handle him.”

“This is why you’re my favorite daughter!” Your mother kisses your cheek before running off towards the kitchen to make her morning coffee. 

Once she’s gone, you immediately start banging on Dustin’s door. He knows you hate being late. Plus, it’s the Friday before spring break. You’re getting antsy waiting for this week to end. “Dustin Henderson, you have three seconds before I kick this door down.”

“Not now, Y/N!” Dustin shouts back, frantic and desperate. 

You narrow your eyes. He’s using his suspicious voice, the one he only uses when he’s doing something he absolutely shouldn’t be doing. Glancing down at your watch and noting the early hour, you curse in disbelief. “It’s not even seven yet, what the hell are you up to so early in the morning?”

“Nothing! Just go away, I’ll be out soon–”

“I swear, if you’re trying to sell my limited edition comics again I will hurt you.” You throw your body against the door, causing it to fly open as you stumble inside. Dustin is at his computer and he nearly falls off his chair in his haste to cover the screen from you. He’s remarkably horrible at playing cool. You’re about to tell him this when Suzie’s voice crackles through his radio’s speakers. 

“Yikes, Dusty.”

“Suzie?” You walk over to your brother and shove his hands off the computer screen. He falls to the ground with a loud thud, which pleases you. He may be a teenager now, but you’re still stronger than him. At least for now. “Why are you calling her right now–” Your eyes land on the screen and you recognize Hawkins High’s familiar orange and green school colors. “Is this the student gradebook?”

“No!” Dustin exclaims, but Suzie’s small and soft voice responds, “Yes.”

“Oh my God,” you cannot believe he’s making his girlfriend hack into your school’s database. Sure, she’s a genius, but you also know she’s incredibly religious. “Dustin, this is so illegal and goes against, like, all of Suzie’s religious morals–”

“I will repent later.” Suzie interrupts you, and you raise your eyebrows at what she’s just said. Before you can question her, Dustin’s computer refreshes. 

He leans forward, eyes scanning to see if they’ve succeeded, and he seems to like what he sees. Suddenly Dustin lets out a sudden whoop and fist bumps the air. “God, I love you Suzie.”

Curious, you lean over and read the screen as well. There, where you know Dustin had a D- in Latin not even a day ago, is now an A. There’s no possible way he was able to raise his grade in under twenty-four hours. He sucks at Latin, he hates it, which means… She did it. Suzie changed his grade. All she had to do was press one single button to save Dustin’s GPA. 

You have to admit, it’s impressive. And shamefully genius. 

“Hey, Suzie.” You bring the radio to your lips, shoving Dustin away when he tries to take it from you. “Do you think you could change my grade in calculus? Jonathan was the only reason I passed any of my other math classes.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Suzie’s voice raises a pitch, she doesn’t want to tell you no. She likes you, she really does, but her God figurine stares down at her with a disappointed look in his eyes. She’s sinned for love, but she doesn’t think she could ever do it again. 

You’re about to plead with Suzie, tell her NYU really prioritizes their student’s grades, but the sound of a car honking outside catches your attention; it’s Steve. Dustin yanks the radio from your hand and shoos you away. “Go, leave without me.”

“What, why? We always drive together.” You frown, feeling like a little kid when you cross your arms. Dustin smiles apologetically, a smile you’ve become familiar with. Your mood darkens, anger rises to your cheeks. You know exactly why Dustin is now skipping out on you. “Don’t tell me it’s that stupid Eddie Munson–”

“He wants me and Mike to work out some campaign details before lunch today!” Dustin scrambles to mediate. He hates that you don’t like Eddie, and you like everyone. It’s unnerving how much disdain you seem to carry for his friend. “Nance is driving us, but I swear I’ll ride with you and Steve after break!”

You scoff at Dustin, not at all believing his promise to you. Ever since September your brother has been at Eddie Muson’s beck-and-call, who dictates everything Dustin says or does. At first it was innocent enough, choosing to sit with the guy instead of you at lunch. Skipping out on a few weekend plans with you and Steve to campaign with Eddie. You’d been happy for Dustin. He was making new friends, no longer your little shadow; he was his own person with his own priorities and interests now.

But ever since getting into NYU last week, Dustin has been pulling away even more from you. You don’t know why, but he’s become even more obsessed with Eddie and his stupid Hellfire club. 

Eddie Munson is the air your brother now breathes, stifling the air Dustin once breathed for you.

And it seems to only be suffocating you, not him.

“Yeah, whatever.” Halfheartedly you ruffle Dustin’s hair, and he leans into the touch. You don’t want him to know his repeated absences are upsetting you. Deep down, you know you’re being irrational. You’re almost eighteen, soon you won’t even be living under the same roof as Dustin. He’s allowed to live his own life. “I guess I’ll see you at the pep rally. Tell Suzie I said bye, please?”

Dustin nods, though you don’t linger in the doorway like you desperately want to. Instead, you shut the door behind you and place a swift kiss to your mother’s cheek as you leave. 

Steve’s car is parked in its usual spot at the end of the driveway. The teen’s arm hangs out the window and his face breaks into a smile when he sees you approaching. Steve’s smile is infectious, it’s always charmed you, and it settles the ache in your chest from your brother’s earlier dismissal. Feeling a smile spread across your own face, you run towards Steve and poke your head through the open window.

“Hi,” you breathe out, nose almost bumping against his cheek.

“Hi, angel.” Steve kisses you, solidifying your morning tradition. Neither one of you really remembers who started it, but sometime during the school year you began to slip your head through Steve’s car window so that he could kiss you slow and sweet. 

And, as tradition follows, Robin starts boos. “Do you have to do that every morning?”

Steve makes a face at her and she punches his arm. He yelps in pain and you roll your eyes at the two of them before running over to the passenger’s side where Robin sits. Her window is rolled down as well and you duck your head inside. “Aw, Robin. If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just said so!” 

“A kiss–?” Your lips press against Robin’s cheek, smushing against her face while making a dramatic sound. She squeals and pushes you away, wiping her now wet cheek in disgust. “That is not what I wanted.”

You giggle at her and finally get into the car. It’s getting late, you see the assortment of Robin’s limited makeup dumped into her lap haphazardly. She’s been stressing about this morning’s pep rally all week, and clearly she isn’t coping very well. Trying to cheer her up, you flick her shoulder. “I’ll have you know that my cheek kisses are cherished in Hawkins.”

“How many people’s cheeks are you kissing?” Steve turns in his seat to face you, slightly alarmed. Then, noticing that there’s only one Henderson in his car, he frowns. “And where’s little Henderson?”

“Eddie Munson.”

“Woah, wait, you mean Eddie as in where Dustin is, right? Not, like, you’ve been kissing his cheek? I’m right, right? Please tell me I’m right.”

You roll your eyes fondly at Steve while Robin rolls hers in displeasure. “Just drive, Steve.”

–

It becomes pretty apparent five minutes into the car ride that no one seems to be having a good morning. Robin has spent the majority of the drive applying and reapplying her mascara while messing with her hair. She groans every time she looks in the mirror and her eyes lack their usual brilliance. 

Meanwhile, Steve has been complaining about yet another fight with his dad. Apparently they argued during breakfast, something that has become a common occurrence in the Harrington household. 

“The asshole again reminded me that I’m turning twenty soon. As if I don’t already know that! I mean,” Steve laughs in exasperation. “For weeks now he’s been asking me what my plans are, as if working at Family Video just isn’t good enough for him. As if my dad isn’t the sole reason I had to get a lousy minimum wage job in the first place!” 

“Family Video isn’t a lousy job–”

“Yes it is.” Both Steve and Robin say at the same time, which you sigh at. Can’t really argue with that. 

“Okay, yeah. It’s pretty lousy.”

Steve rubs his eyes tiredly. “And that isn’t even the worst part. There I was, pouring syrup over my pancakes, trying to enjoy the fact that my parents are actually home for once, when my asshole of a father tells me that if I don’t have a respectable job by the time I’m twenty, he’ll kick me out. I mean, can you believe that?” 

You suck in a breath. “Steve…”

Richard Harrington is a cruel, awful man. 

While you understand his frustrations towards Steve, it’s completely unreasonable to expect him to get a reputable job in a few short months without any college education. Steve’s right, it had been Richard’s idea to make him work at Scoops Ahoy in the first place. When the mall burned down, he had no other option but to work at Family Video soon after. 

“I’m sorry, honey.” You intertwine your fingers through Steve’s hair and rub your thumb up and down the nape of his neck in a soothing manner. Steve allows the touch, but he’s still tense. Guessing that he’s uncomfortable feeling so pitied, you try to make light of the situation with humor. “But hey, who knows? Maybe you can come live with me in New York if he ends up kicking you out.”

Steve risks a look at you, taking his eyes off the road for a few moments, and his eyes shine. He’s ecstatic over what you’ve just said. He looks like a little kid on Christmas Eve. “You really mean that?”

“Well, I mean…” It had mostly been a joke, a throwaway comment to try and get him to smile. But Steve’s body finally relaxes under your touch and you can’t tell him no. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You hear that, Robin?” Steve preens, wanting to get her attention. However, when he realizes that she hasn’t been listening to the entire conversation, he makes an offended sound. “Robin, are you listening to me?”

“Uh, yes?” Her eyes meet yours in the mirror, startled that she’s been caught. “You were-uh. Talking to Y/N about your dad. We-we hate him! Yeah, we hate the guy. He really… grinds my gears?”

Steve groans. “We all hate my dad, but that wasn’t what I was talking to you about!”

“Cut me some slack, please. Your relationship with your father is one of labyrinthine complexity–”

You poke your head between the two teens. “Actually, it’s not that complicated.”

Robin covers your mouth with her hand and continues with her rant. “It’s seven in the morning, we have the stupid pep rally, and I woke up looking like a total corpse!” 

“I think you look lovely as always, Robin.” You mumble through the girl’s hand, barely coherent.

Steve, however, isn’t as supportive. “You’re worried about a pep rally? You really expect me to believe that?”

“Yeah, so?” Robin removes her hand from your mouth and goes back to doing her makeup. She’s avoiding the conversation now, which only means that Steve is onto something. Why has she been so obsessed about this week’s pep rally? Robin has been in band for years now, she’s done a million pep rallies during her high school career. It can’t be performing that makes her nervous. 

Which means it has to be about someone. 

Locking eyes with Steve, he seems to be thinking what you are. “I think we all know what this is about, okay? Y/N and I aren’t buying that bullshit.”

“This is about Vickie.” You finish for him, a smirk on your face. For weeks now Vickie has been all Robin has talked about. Her hair, how pretty her smile is, how cute her freckles are. Vickie also happens to be in band with Robin. “C’mon, you can’t tell us we’re wrong.”

“I absolutely can tell you you’re wrong.” Robin denies what you and Steve are implying.

Steve shakes his head. “You know we’re right! And you know what else we think?”

“I really don’t care–”

“Y/N and I think that you gotta stop pretending to be someone else when you’re around her, okay? You just gotta be yourself.”

Robin doesn’t want to hear any of this. At least not from you and Steve. “You guys are biased, you do realize that?”

“What do you mean?” You’re practically laying across Steve’s car console in order to be a part of the conversation. “I think we’re objective people.”

“You’re telling me that all I have to do is be myself and Vickie will want to date me?”

You frown. “Yeah? What’s wrong with that?”

Robin throws her head back. “Because it took Steve months to ask you out. Mind you, this was when you were already in love with the guy! And he knew you were in love with him!”

“Okay, hey–” Steve doesn’t at all like what she’s insinuating. He didn’t necessarily know you were already in love with him, he just… had a small hunch. 

“I’m not done,” Robin holds her hand up. “All Steve had to do was man up and admit his feelings for you. He didn’t have to agonize over whether or not it’d blow up in his face. There was no risk, no danger, no world ending consequences. I mean, if you had rejected him then maybe Steve’s ego would’ve been bruised. But if I ask out the wrong girl? Bam! I’m a town pariah.”

“This is true,” you reluctantly agree. While you could never envision a world where you’d ever say no to Steve, you also recognize that the world where you somehow do wouldn’t be the same world as Robin’s. Things are different for her, whether you like it or not. Robin has to live with this knowledge, and her conversation with you about luck and love from last summer echoes in your mind. 

Steve places a hand on his chest, betrayed. “Whose side are you on, Y/N?”

“True love’s side.”

Robin snorts and Steve doesn’t bother to hide his smile. He wants to tease you for being a hopeless romantic, but now isn’t the time. Instead, he continues the previous conversation. “True love aside, we can’t ignore that Vickie is definitely not the wrong girl.”

“Oh, she definitely isn’t straight.” You agree.

“We don’t know that!” Robin quickly sprays some breath freshener in her mouth and gags, which you cringe at. Vickie is one lucky girl if Robin ever manages to become her girlfriend. 

Steve doesn’t let up, he’s convinced he has it all figured out. “She returned Fast Times paused at fifty-three minutes, five seconds.”

“The bikini scene, mind you.” You butt in, and Steve nods eagerly.

“And you know who pauses Fast Times at fifty-three minutes, five seconds? People who like boobies, Robin!” 

Robin waves her hands in the air as if to get Steve’s voice away from her. “Ew! Gross, don’t say boobies–”

“Boobies! It’s not a big deal–”

You make a face. “It isn’t the most pleasant word.”

“Oh, c’mon. You like boobies, Robin likes boobies, and we all know I love your boobies specifically–ow!” 

You hit the back of Steve’s head with annoyance to get him to stop talking about your boobs. While he winces in pain and rubs his tender head, you turn towards Robin. “What my darling boyfriend is trying to say is that everyone likes boobs, and Vickie definitely likes them too.” 

Robin can’t even look at the two of you, appalled by how many times the word “boobies” has been uttered during the duration of the conversation. You can’t blame her, the word has practically lost all meaning for you as well.

Steve, however, can’t seem to get enough of it. “It’s boobies!” He exclaims again to no one in particular.

You and Robin lock eyes, and then, without saying anything, your hand covers Steve’s mouth while Robin flicks his forehead, effectively putting the boob conversation to an end. 

– 

The moment Steve’s BMW slows in front of the school, Robin throws the door open and rushes out with a quick “see you later!” to you as she runs to follow after her bandmates. Steve waves weakly as she goes and sighs in disappointment.

“She’s never talking to Vickie, is she?”

“Not a chance,” you sigh as well, watching as Robin’s figure disappears in the crowd of students. Spring break looms over the student body, everyone buzzes with excitement over their week of freedom and tonight’s basketball game. The pep rally in just a few short minutes only adds to the exhilaration. Leaning forward, your lips graze against Steve’s. “Anyways, see you tonight?”

He bridges the gap between your lips, skin meets skin and warmth floods your stomach. “Of course, angel. I love you.”

“I love you, too, honey.” And with one last kiss, you exit Steve’s car and make your way towards the school. As always, Steve waits until you’re safely on the sidewalk before he pulls away and heads towards Family Video. He’s started picking up morning shifts to fill the time he isn’t with you.

On your way inside, you see Ms. Kelly talking to Max near the buses. The conversation is short, doesn’t last much longer than a few seconds, and when Max turns away you notice Ms. Kelly’s patient smile drop. Clearly Max still isn’t being cooperative when it comes to their sessions. She promised you she would start trying, but Max Mayfield has always been stubborn and you’ve always been slightly overbearing.

Not the best combination, honestly.

With a sigh, you make a mental note to ask Max about what the counselor talked to her about later. There’s too much going on this morning to focus on it, and you’re already pushing Max by having her attend the pep rally anyways. Originally she had wanted to skip it and hide in the stairwell, but after begging her about it, Max finally agreed.

The conversation can wait. For now, at least she’ll be next to you in the bleachers alongside the boys to cheer on Lucas.

The thought was enough to brighten your mood a little, but it quickly became a pain in the ass to corral the party into sitting together. It took you almost fifteen minutes to find Mike and Dustin in the mass of students heading into the gym. You’re not necessarily sure how it took so goddamn long given the fact that Mike towers over half of the students anyways. He’s grown freakishly tall since starting freshman year. It unnerves you. 

While his towering height annoys you, Mike likes that he can finally, literally, look down on you. 

“There you guys are!” You grab the back of Mike’s shirt and he lets out a startled yelp. Dustin stumbles back as well, and an annoyed sophomore glares at the three of you. Ignoring her, you grab your brother’s shirt and start dragging the two boys towards the bleachers. “Thought we agreed on meeting at the water fountain that squirts water in your face?”

“I thought it was the library?” Dustin gives you an odd look. “Wait, is there even a water fountain in the library?”

“You amaze me.” You remark, not even bothering to answer his question. He listens like a bag of rocks. Mike just allows you to pull him, not at all contributing to the conversation.

Max waits for you in the bleachers. She’s saved you seats, something that you feel slight relief over. The simple gesture is small, but it sparks just enough hope within your chest to make you exhale softly. Hope that she’s getting better. Hope that she’s finally trying again.

Thanking Max, you and the others fill the seats as the gym quickly fills with more and more students until it threatens to overflow. The roar of the crowd is nearly deafening. Across from the bleachers resides the marching band. They’re playing the school’s anthem as the cheerleaders start their routine. Chrissy Cunningham leads them, her smile lovely and beautiful, she shines so brightly upon the crowd that you can’t help but fall in love with her.

In the midst of the cheerleaders’ twists and flips, Robin manages to catch your eye from across the room.

You eagerly wave at her and mime playing the trumpet, copying her movements as she actually plays one. Robin laughs, and next to her is a girl with fiery red hair who laughs as well. She’s pretty, you’ve heard countless sonnets about her red hair and dotted freckles. Knowing the girl is Vickie, you point at her as you wink at Robin, who scoffs and goes back to playing the trumpet. 

Next to you, you catch the tail end of some bizarre conversation between Mike and Dustin.

“Look, I’m not saying that my girlfriend is better than yours.” Dustin is clarifying, glaring at you when he hears your sarcastic snort. “It’s just that Suzie’s, like, a certified genius.”

Mike crosses his arms, looking towards you as if somehow this is all your fault. “Your brother realizes that El saved the world twice, right?”

“Admittedly that is hard to beat,” you shrug. “That, and she has cool powers.”

Dustin points a finger at the two of you. “And yet Mike still has a C in Spanish while you’re barely passing calculus.”

Mike rolls his eyes and you shrug again. Your brother isn’t necessarily wrong either. El’s saved the world, Suzie has saved his GPA. Both are nearly impossible feats. “Touchy subject, but touché.”

“And what can your boyfriend do, Y/N?” Mike asks, now bringing the attention to your love life.

“He’s good with a bat.”

Both Dustin and Mike groan, but you shush them when the school’s broadcaster announces the Tigers basketball team. Applause breaks out across the bleachers and you notice Max looking around for Lucas. Though she tries to hide it, you can see the interest and excitement in her eyes. She’s happy for him, but it breaks your heart that she feels that she can’t show it.

Jason Carver, captain of the basketball team and former Scoops Ahoy patron before Steve spilled ice cream all over his pants, runs out first. The crowd goes wild, but you don’t start cheering until you see Lucas. He’s smiling wide, proud to be a part of the team. You scream as loud as you can for him, he’s come so far since confessing to you about wanting to join the team earlier this year. As Jason starts his speech, dramatic as he always is, Lucas sees you in the bleachers and waves shyly, a blush creeping across his face. Then, seeing Max next to you, his confidence seems to grow as he waves more enthusiastically at her. 

The moment is sweet, it makes you smile. 

Except Max doesn’t wave back. She crosses her arms, pretends she hasn’t seen him, and your smile drops alongside Lucas’. 

You know they’ve been having some trouble recently. With Max pulling away more and more each day, Lucas struggled to hold onto the fading girl. Despite his pleas and reassurances, Max still seems to be icing him out. According to Dustin, they broke up almost a month ago now. 

But they’ve always had a tumultuous relationship, long before nightmares and monsters darkened everything. The news hadn’t worried you at first, you thought it was simply another one of their weekly breakups over something small, innocent. Afterall, they were just kids when they first started dating. Their breakups were always childish, though endearing, and always temporary. 

Now, you’re scared that this time it’s permanent. 

You’re not sure what that means for Max. She already has so few people left in her life to tether her. Billy died, her mother works two jobs and is never home anymore, El is in California, and you and Lucas are breaking skin trying to claw onto whatever small hold you have left of the girl.

Another loud cheer from the crowd breaks you from your thoughts. Jason must’ve just said something important, something worthy enough of a roaring reaction. He’s always been popular in Hawkins, Steve used to complain about him to you back when he was still on the team. But when Steve graduated and Billy died, Hawkins High had needed a new King to crown.

Jason Carver was more than happy to ascend the throne. 

“Chrissy, I love you, babe.” Everyone awes and you see Chrissy blow Jason a kiss. It’s sweet, you suppose. They fit together nicely, head cheerleader with the star of the basketball team, and they seem genuinely happy. Chrissy’s shy and kind demeanor balances Jason’s loud and charismatic boldness. They truly are a good match. 

“I think I can speak for all of us when I say it’s been a tough year for Hawkins.” Jason continues his speech, the room is eerily silent as everyone listens with baited breath. “So much loss…” The gym almost exhales simultaneously, remembering all the people who died last summer.

Your own breath exhales, and beside you Max tenses. Billy’s ghost floats through your minds, in through hers and out through yours. Hopper’s own ghost follows after him, only he doesn’t haunt Max the way he haunts you. He lingers over you, his final words to you engraved into your skin. 

You’re the best of them.

“And sometimes I wonder, how much loss can one community take?”

Enough to fill a mall of burning bodies, you think bitterly. 

Jason paces the gym’s floor now, he almost seems to glow before the crowd. He rambles on about needing something to believe in. That everyone should be doing something to honor all the lives lost in July, that playing basketball can absolve all the despair. As if it can bring them back.

Deep below your ribcage, nestled right underneath your scar and just in front of your stomach, rests a pit of anger that always simmers. You were born with it, it has always followed you. It has grown with you, the anger almost possessed your body when your dad left. Now, hearing Jason recite all the names of the ones who died that Fourth of July, the anger’s low simmer heats into a soft boil. 

You try to quell it. Jason means well, he’s only trying to uplift the community in a passionate, albeit uncomfortably pastor-y way. He’s only doing what he knows best; he’s being a leader. In another life, one where Demogorgons never harmed you, you think you would’ve really admired Jason and his resilience. 

“Think of Billy,” Your breath stills, yet your hand instinctively finds Max’s. She turns away from you, but the room is spinning and you can’t remember how to inhale. But Jason keeps going. “Think about our heroic police chief, Jim Hopper.”

Next to you, in your haze of grief and panic, you think you can feel Mike and Dustin shift uncomfortably. Grief sinks her claws into the kids, and you want nothing more than to puncture Jason’s lungs with them. 

This was supposed to be a pep rally for the Tigers, it was supposed to be joyous, an opportunity to bring Max out of her shell. To distract her from the hell that she calls her life. The entire school knows what happened to Billy, they know that he had a little sister named Max Mayfield.

You hate Jason Carver.

But you’re here for Lucas. Today is about him. He’s finally happy, he’s smiling again. The least you can do is swallow down the anger and grief and hope that you don’t end up choking on them later. That they don’t strangle you in your dreams.

“And now tonight, we’re gonna bring home the championship trophy!” Jason screams into the mic, erupting a volcanic roar from the stadium. People throw paper into the air, whistling and jumping up and down at the prospect of Hawkins High finally winning a championship.

“Tonight?” Dustin’s agonized exclamation causes you to jump. He looks at you, bewildered and panicked. “How is that possible?”

Your heart still hasn’t steadied from the surge of fury Jason evoked. Swallowing once again, you clear your throat and shake your head at your brother. “What, you guys didn’t know about the game tonight?”

“They call it a tournament,” Max explains for you, figuring you need some time to clear your head. You squeeze her hand appreciatively. “You win one game, you go on until there’s only one team left.”

Mike and Dustin exchange frightened looks, and you eye them suspiciously. “Did you guys really not know? I thought Steve explained all of this to you already. Why is it such a big deal, anyways? I mean–wait,” the boys won’t meet your gaze. They avoid facing you, Mike stuffs his hands into his pockets and Dustin pretends to read someone’s poster. 

You know the fearful look on their faces. It’s the same look Dustin gave you this morning when he ditched you to ride with Nancy and Mike. 

Goddamn Eddie Munson. 

“Oh, don’t you guys dare.” They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t fucking dream of missing one of Lucas’ games for a stupid club centered around some guy with enormous ego problems. “I swear to God, if you two skip the game tonight–”

“We won’t! I-I mean… Well. It’s, uh. It’s complicated” Dustin gulps, elbowing his way through the crowd of departing students as the pep rally ends. Mike follows, ready to step in at any moment, while Max slips away before you can stop her. Seeing how contorted your body is from anger, Dustin tries to appease you. “Look, I can’t promise anything, alright? Eddie is… Eddie.”

You’re about to scream some very choice words about that curly haired emo asshole, but Lucas intercepts the group and joins you guys. He looks between you, Mike, and Dustin, sensing some underlying tension. “What about Eddie?”

Mike quickly explains, and the more he talks, the more you want to shove your knives down Eddie’s throat. It’s one night, one goddamn night, and here Mike and Dustin are, almost shitting their pants at the idea of missing one Hellfire meeting to support their friend. While it’s unfortunate that all of this is happening on the same night, and though you recognize how long a campaign can take and how much the game means to the party, for once you can’t bring yourself to understand Dustin’s side. 

A championship game versus one single campaign meeting that can easily be done tomorrow instead.

Seems like a pretty easy decision to you. 

Lucas doesn’t understand why Mike and Dustin are so conflicted either. “I don’t get the big deal.” You’re all outside now, heading towards the main building for your classes. “Just talk to Eddie. Get him to move Hellfire to another night.”

You nod, agreeing with him, and Dustin rolls his eyes. “‘Just talk to Eddie.’”

“You can’t be serious right now,” your shoulder brushes harshly against the boy’s. You’re barely containing your anger right now. “Why does Eddie have such a strong hold over you guys? Hasn’t he repeated senior year twice now?”

“Why does that matter?” Mike looks at you as if you’re the scum of the earth that he just so happened to step on. “Why can’t Lucas just talk to his coach and get him to move the game?”

Dustin quips that he thinks Mike’s idea is a great one, but you shove between them and throw your hands in the air in annoyance. “You can’t possibly think that’s the same thing, right? A nationally organized game being postponed for a board game.”

Mike and Dustin both gasp at you, acting as if you’ve just threatened to kill a baby bunny in front of them, which only annoys you more. Sure, maybe you’re being a little mean right now, but you’re not appreciating how they’re treating Lucas. He’s never done anything to warrant this blatant disrespect from them. They’re refusing to see his side, too lost in their Eddie induced high. 

“DnD isn’t just a board game, Y/N! I’m honestly disappointed that you of all people would even say that. You’ve seen the intricacies of a campaign. You know I’ve spent all month now preparing for the end of Eddie’s campaign!” Dustin waves his hands in front of him, he’s in his own ecstasy of anger and annoyance, something innate in the Henderson bloodline. “A semester of adventuring has led to this moment, and we need Lucas.”

“Yeah, and the Tigers don’t.” Mike looks over at Lucas. “I mean, no offense, but you’ve been on the bench all year–shit!”

You swat the back of Mike’s head, the sound of his yelp satisfying and the sting of the hit soothes you. He looks at you, offended, and you just shake your head at him. “No, that was out of line and you know it.”

“One day I’m gonna be too tall for you to hit me, you know.” Mike scowls at you as he rubs his head. 

“And I’ll mourn the day when that happens,” you respond dryly before pointing at Lucas. “Now, apologize to him before I hit you again.”

Lucas lowers your finger and shakes his head. “It’s fine, Y/N. Me being on the bench isn’t the point, anyways.”

“Please, arrive at the point.” Your brother drops his head back and closes his eyes. He’s tired, he regrets even starting this conversation in the first place. The more the four of you talk, the angrier he can feel you become. Mike’s head may now be sore, but Dustin lives with you. If anyone here is in danger of your lecturing, it’s him.

“If I get in good with these guys, I’ll be in the popular crowd, and then you guys will be too.” Lucas explains, looking between Dustin and Mike as he urges them to understand, but they don’t. Mike claims that they don’t want to be popular, something that Lucas doesn’t believe. “What, you wanna be stuck with the nerds and freaks for three more years?”

“We are nerds and freaks!” Dustin exclaims, causing a few students in the hall to look at you guys. You wave at them awkwardly, you’re starting to regret following the boys. This conversation feels personal, like you shouldn’t be intruding. Though you think Lucas has every right to want a good high school experience, you also think Mike and Dustin deserve to have their own experiences as well. If they don’t want to be popular, then that’s their decision just as much as it’s Lucas’ to want to be. 

You step between the three boys, finally getting their attention. “Guys, no one here is necessarily right or wrong. Lucas has every right to want to be a part of the basketball crowd, and you two,” you raise your eyebrows at Mike and Dustin, “have every right to want to stick with Eddie’s crowd.”

Dustin sighs, “thanks, Y/N–”

“I’m not finished,” you hold a hand up and shush your brother. “What isn’t right, however, is abandoning one another. You guys are friends, and right now Lucas wants you at his game tonight to support him. Tonight is special, everyone will be there, and I want you guys there as well. I know high school is hard, but it’s even harder when you’re alone.”

“Says the girl who is adored by everyone in this shitty town.” Mike huffs, he can’t believe how hypocritical you’re being. “You’ve never had to deal with what we do. No one has ever laughed at you or tried to make you jump off a cliff just because you’re different.”

You clench your jaw. Dustin looks at you wearily, he doesn’t like what Mike is saying, but he also can’t help but agree with his friend. You haven’t ever been bullied. All your life you’ve blended in, stood out only when you were kind to others, admired for your selflessness, but never enough to be invited to parties or dumped behind a dumpster.

“Mike…” Your brother tries to pull him away from you, but you both stand your ground.

“You’re right, Wheeler. I don’t know what it’s like.” You stare up at the boy, and Mike’s expression softens only slightly. He’s just as stubborn as you are, it’s why the two of you admire the other so much. “But you forget that I’m Jonathan’s best friend. The creep, the loser, the psychopath. Kids may not have ever targeted me, but I’ve seen what they do to the people they hate.”

All the times you had to ice Jonathan’s bruised face. The nights you spent in his room holding him as he cried because Lonnie’s fists and Tommy’s cruel words were too much. The sneers, the stares Jonathan received because he was different. Quiet. Being your best friend hadn’t lessened the blows. 

For years you wish you could’ve done more for Jonathan. Now, presented with Lucas’ opportunity to befriend the crowd that once was so cruel to your friend, you refuse to lose it. “That’s why I don’t want Lucas skipping the game tonight.”

It’s silent for a few moments, all three boys don’t know what to say. Taking a deep breath, Lucas stands beside you and breaks the silence. “We came to high school wanting things to be different, right? Now we have that chance. Like Y/N said, if I skip tonight, that’s all out the window. So I’m asking you guys, as a friend, just talk to Eddie. Get him to move Hellfire.”

Lucas pauses, he wets his lips and looks between his friends again. He feels so small, pleading for their attention. “Come to my game. Please.”

The bell rings, ending the conversation, and Lucas spares one last look at Dustin and Mike before mumbling a soft goodbye to you. He leaves you alone with the boys, who in turn mirror conflicted expressions. 

“Shit!” Dustin kicks his foot out and looks at you. “This is all your fault, you know that?”

“What is?”

“Me having empathy. I hate this. Why couldn’t you have raised me to be an asshole?”

You snort at Dustin before pulling him into a weak hug. You only have a few more minutes before you need to get to class, you can’t stay very long, but you also don’t want to leave the boys without some semblance of comfort. “You’re too charming to be an asshole. Just… Come to the game, alright? Both of you. I’ll even make brownies if I have to. I just-I’ve missed you guys. This will be good for all of us.”

Mike ducks his head and Dustin sighs once more. Neither want to say anything else, so you reluctantly release your brother and leave them alone to wallow in their self-created misery. 

They’ll do the right thing. You’re sure of it.

– 

Lunch comes and Alex sits next to you. He started sitting with you at lunch just after winter break, and you’re endlessly grateful for him. You’re no longer alone, and he’s good company. A part of you regrets that it took the two of you three years to grow your friendship outside of Bookstrorindary. 

You’ll miss him when you graduate. 

Max is with Ms. Kelly today, a change in their usual meeting schedule of Tuesdays and Thursdays, meaning you had been right. She did skip their meeting yesterday and the counselor had to corner her this morning to schedule another one. 

“Be honest, how excited are you to move to New York this summer?” Alex asks you, taking a bite out of his carrot stick. You’ve come to learn that he has a weird obsession with the vegetable, always packing at least twelve of them every day. 

You pick at your own lunch, a wilted salad and sandwich your mom left for you this morning. “Honestly? It hasn’t really hit me yet. I mean, I only got in last week. I think my mind is still trying to catch up with reality.”

“Oh, c’mon. You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little excited.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh and nudge the boy. “I’m a little excited. I just.. Haven’t really had time to think too much about it, you know? Between work, my brother, Steve, the kids, and…”

“Jonathan?” Alex finishes for you. He’s the only one who knows about how distant Jonathan has been. You’ve confided in him about how worried you are, about the phone calls while he’s high and the way Jonathan’s voice no longer sounds like his. 

You shove your lunch away, no longer hungry. “Yeah.”

“You guys call every Friday, right? Maybe tonight will be different!” Alex tries to cut through the tension that now corrodes your demeanor, which you smile at him gratefully for. 

“Yeah, who knows.” A piece of hair falls in your face and you push it behind your ear. Picking up your fork again, you attempt to finish your meal, but a sudden commotion interrupts the low buzz in the lunchroom. 

“As long as you’re into band, or science, or parties.” Eddie Munson sneers from the cafeteria table he’s standing on. He looks around the room as if everyone else is beneath him. Not worth his time just because they enjoy different things. Looking at Alex, you both sigh and prepare for whatever Eddie has to say today. His voice grows louder, shouting across the room towards the basketball team’s table. “Or a game where you toss balls into laundry baskets!”

Jason stands up and a few students whoop and cheer. “You want something, freak?”

Eddie sticks to fingers up behind his head as he creates little devil horns, snarling with his tongue out and hissing. Jason grimaces, you do too. 

“He’s a little much, isn’t he?” You say to Alex, relieved when Eddie starts to step down from the table. 

“He terrifies me.” Alex breathes out, not taking his eyes off Eddie in fear he’ll somehow cast a spell on him.

You laugh at your friend’s unnecessary fear. Eddie is harmless, Hellfire isn’t a demonic cult like some students at Hawkins seem to think. It really is just a club centered around a board game with impressive storytelling and detailed plotlines. From what Dustin has told you, Eddie truly is the best dungeon master in Indiana. 

And while you believe him, you can’t wrap your head around why your brother idolizes Eddie so much. The fascination runs deeper than just DnD. Dustin has spent almost every day of his freshman year wrapped around Eddie’s finger. He spends all his time with the teen now, rarely with you, but you’re not bitter. Of course you’re not. Dustin can have his own friends, you know this, but you also feel so… unneeded. 

Your little brother doesn’t need you anymore, and it’s a hard pill to swallow.

Truthfully, Alex’s question earlier about moving to New York in the summer sparked more than just your usual anxiety over Jonathan. It also reminded you that in only a few short months you’ll be in an entirely new state, a new city, far away from Dustin. 

“Y/N!” Dustin flies into the seat next to you, nearly upending the table itself with how violently he throws himself down.

Alex shrieks and you steady the table before anything can fall. Heart pounding, you clutch at your chest as your nerves settle. “Why must you always be so violent?”

“Because it’s fun,” Dustin responds, not even bothering to acknowledge Alex’s presence. Instead, his eyes are only on you, and there’s a crazed spark in them. He’s breathing heavily, frantic, and you dread where this is going. “Look, I need to ask you a huge favor.”

“Do you realize that this is the first time you’ve sat with me at lunch since the first day?”

He winces. “And I will repent every day for my horrendous sins. I promise, I just–Jesus you’re terrifying when you don’t blink.” Dustin removes his hat to fix his hair, a nervous tick of his. He’s stalling, he should’ve never come here. Gulping, he rips the band aid off. “I need you to sub for Lucas tonight.”

“I’m sorry?” You’re giving him an out, one chance to back down before you strangle him.

Only Dustin tightens the noose even more. “Please, Y/N! Eddie won’t move the campaign. He said something about sheep and-and finding subs because Mike and I are, uh. I guess the future of Hellfire and he needs us and did I mention how important this campaign is? It’s super cool, super gory and totally up your alley and–”

“No.”

“N-no?” Dustin practically deflates in front of you, the light in his eyes dies. 

You shove him away from you, you don’t want to look at his pathetic pouting. You’re so unbelievably hurt right now, so fucking infuriated. “You have spent every goddamn waking hour ass kissing Eddie. You haven’t so much as looked at me during lunch this entire year as if I’m a fucking plague. You’ve canceled plans, you’re hardly ever home, and now you expect me to abandon Lucas, someone who has spent time with me this year, someone who has made this entire year less lonely for me. Something, by the way, that you haven’t even noticed, all because you finally need me?”

Dustin’s mouth opens and closes, he doesn’t know what to say, but for once you don’t care. How could he possibly think you’d miss Lucas’ game tonight? You adore the boys, each and every one of them, and now Dustin expects you to just abandon one of them for the others? 

“You’re only here because it’s convenient for you.” You hiss, venom pouring from your voice. “For Eddie.” 

“Y/N…” Dustin’s voice breaks, he sounds like a little kid again, the baby brother you doted on your entire life. “Please.”

“No!” You scream at him. 

The word echoes throughout the cafeteria. A few students turn to you, some curious, some annoyed. Alex draws into himself, wishing he were anywhere but here right now. Dustin’s eyes widen, his skin pales, and you clamp your hand over your mouth, completely and utterly mortified. 

You’ve never, ever yelled at Dustin like this before. Not with so much malice, vitriol. 

You feel like you’re twelve again, your anger hurting your baby brother. 

Red hot with embarrassment and shame, you quickly get up from the table and flee the cafeteria. Dustin calls after you, but you stumble through the hallway towards the nearest bathroom. Tears burn your eyes, guilt wracks your body in painful thuds. 

By the time you lock yourself in the bathroom’s stall, your sobs have begun to claw their way out of your throat. Pressing your back against the wall, you sink to the ground and pull your knees into your chest as you finally allow yourself to cry.

Abandonment makes you cruel. Your father taught you that.

– 

You don’t see Dustin for the rest of the day. He’s missing Lucas’ game and you’re angry with him for that, but you also feel such an intense guilt over your outburst. You can’t stomach the thought of seeing him. 

School ends and Steve drives you to work. The shift will be a short one due to the championship game, and Steve is staying with you so that you can drive to the game together. However, the moment you get into his car, he notices the dried tears on your face and the redness in your eyes and immediately throws his arms around you. In between shaky breaths and cries, you explain what happened to Steve.

He soothes you, tells you that you can always talk to Dustin after tonight’s game. Right now you and your brother need space from one another, and you hate that Steve’s right. You’ll force Dustin into a code blue, you’re long overdue for one, anyways. He’s been acting weird for weeks now. Someone has to give in, you know this, and if it has to be you then you’ll do anything to get your brother back. 

For now, Steve holds your hand as he guides you through the crowd of people in the bleachers. They all cheer for Hawkins High, the energy in the gym is electric. Faces are painted, cheerleaders wave their pom-poms, and you’re wearing Steve’s old Tigers jersey. You’re not much for school spirit, but Steve almost crashed the car when he realized you were wearing the jersey, and you know Lucas will appreciate it too.

“Y/N, over here.” Steve’s hand falls onto the small of your back as he gently pushes you towards some open seats he’s found. You lean into his touch and sit beside him. With his body against yours, you try to immerse yourself in the joy from the crowd. 

The entire town is here tonight. Everyone is smiling, kids laugh and parents wave posters for their sons. Tonight will be a good night, you’ve decided this to be true. 

The national anthem is announced and everyone rises in their seats. When the broadcaster announces that Tammy Thompson will be singing, you and Steve look at each other incredulously. Laughter rises within you and you cackle when Robin finds the two of you in the crowd. There’s no way this won’t end in disaster. 

Tammy walks out, wearing a horrendous faux cowboy outfit, and almost immediately sings off-key. You cringe, ears stinging from the attack, and try desperately not to let out any laughter as she continues to butcher the song. 

Steve whispers over to Robin, “told you. Muppet.”

“Okay, she does sound like a muppet.” Robin agrees, which only makes it harder to contain your giggles. Tammy is worse than a muppet, she sounds like a goddamn muppet that broke into her dad’s alcohol stash. 

“You sound better, angel.” Steve whispers into your ear, breath warm against your skin. 

You lean back against him and smile sarcastically. “Anyone can sound better than her.”

Steve chuckles and you can’t help but join him. You know it’s rude, that Tammy is honestly not that bad, though definitely not good enough for Nashville, but you can’t help it. You can’t believe Robin ever had such a huge crush on the girl who now drones the national anthem like a dying parrot. 

In between breaths of laughter, you see Lucas looking up at the bleachers. His face is grim, he doesn’t see Mike or Dustin or Max. None of his friends showed up, and you watch him with sympathy. You can’t believe them. 

But then Lucas sees you, and he gives you a weak smile. Your attendance isn’t enough, you know it isn’t, but you hold up the poster you made for him and he laughs despite himself. 

The game starts, and from the moment the whistle is blown, it’s intense. The Tigers are neck and neck with the Falcons. Steve tries to explain what’s happening throughout the game, but it all goes over your head. The energy in the room is intoxicating, though. You lean forward in your seat, you cheer when everyone else does, boo when you think you should.

“Carver just loves hogging the spotlight, doesn’t he?” Steve says with disdain as he watches Jason side sweep his teammates to score. 

You poke his side, you know he’s only saying this because he’s still bitter that Jason tried asking you out last summer. “Honey, your jealousy is showing.” 

Steve tries to deny this, but then a player gets injured during a foul from Falcon, causing you and Steve to both spew insults at the player. You have no idea what the foul even is, but you’re enjoying the chaos of the game.

In the midst of your uproar, you almost miss Lucas being sent into the game. You slap Steve’s chest repeatedly to get his attention, you almost don’t believe what you’re seeing. “Steve! Is that–”

“Sinclair!” He whoops, but he quickly scrambles to catch you as you nearly throw yourself off the bleachers in your blind excitement cheering. You’re screaming your head off, hardly even registering Steve’s hands on your waist. You’re incoherent and ecstatic, drunk on adrenaline. 

Lucas is playing.

The game only gets more brutal from there. The points even out, both teams neck and neck. Anxious, you squeeze Steve’s hand with anticipation. Everything happens so fast, Lucas plays so naturally with the others, as if he was born to be there. 

“Go, Tigers!” You jump up and down as Lucas runs after Jason. They’re doing a new play, attempting to score the tie breaker. Jason shoots, the ball hits off the backboard and onto the rim. Your breath catches, there’s only three seconds left on the clock. The ball falls, and there isn’t any time left.

Until Lucas catches the missed shot. He dribbles the ball, you clutch Steve’s hand, neither one of you utters a single word as Lucas makes the final shot. It’s an all or nothing throw, a risk, but he takes it anyways. The ball soars through the air, hits the rim. The buzzer sounds, the game is over, and the ball spins around the rim before finally sinking through the net.

Your chest burns as you violently cheer, Steve flings himself into your arms. You’re both jumping around, screaming together like little kids. “Hey did it!” You scream, and Steve shakes you in his arms with the biggest smile on his face.

“Sinclair did it!”

Down below, Lucas’ face lights up as the crowd goes wild for him. This is the happiest you’ve seen the kid in so long. The entire basketball team swarms Lucas, they lift him into the air and you cheer alongside them.

Steve tells you he’ll go warm the car up and you practically run outside to find Lucas as soon as the game is done. Your body buzzes, you’re still breathless with exhilaration. When you find Lucas, he’s just left the crowd of teenage boys. Wanting to surprise him, you creep up slowly before throwing your arms from behind him. “There’s the star!”

He stumbles from your weight, but he knows it’s you. Laughing, he turns around and you pull him into a bone crushing hug. “You came!”

“Of course I did, you moron!” You giggle, pulling away to straighten his jacket. “I made you a poster and everything.”

Lucas looks down at the poster that hangs by your side. His eyes light up, he remembers seeing it in the stands at the beginning of the game, but he hadn’t been able to read it from so far away. “Can I see it?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t want to see it.” You unroll the poster and present it with a grand flourish. “Tada!” 

Sin to win, Sinclair!

You’re incredibly proud of the wordplay, and Lucas chuckles. It’s good, he has to admit. You’ve left no white space on the poster, littering with small 8’s for his jersey and millions of small stickers and decorations. The poster was made with love, and Lucas knows you spent hours making it.

“I love it, Y/N.” He does. It will hang on his wall as soon as he gets home.

You beam at him. Then, from behind you, you hear your brother’s own cheers as a door opens. Lucas’ smile fades, hurt creeps upon his face. Frowning, you turn and find Dustin and Mike high fiving their Hellfire friends as they all celebrate the end of their campaign. Erica is with them, cheering with everyone else. 

“Lucas…” Your breath gives out. He doesn’t deserve this. Tonight was supposed to be his night. You turn to him, wracking your brain to try and figure out what you’re even supposed to say at this moment. Fifty feet away Lucas’ close friends are celebrating a night without him, his sister overjoyed as well. They’ve forgotten about him.

For once, you can’t find the right words to say.

“Thanks for the poster, Y/N.” Lucas doesn’t want your sympathy. He leaves, crestfallen, and you’re left standing alone holding the poster he had been praising seconds ago. The late March air chills your bones. 

You’ve never been so disappointed in your brother before.

– 

Steve drives you home and you’re silent the entire time. 

“Dustin isn’t a bad kid, Y/N. You know that.” Steve tries to reason with you, but what your brother has done tonight leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m sure by tomorrow he’ll realize he was a jerk and apologize. He always does, he’s just being a stupid teen boy right now.”

You face the window, watching the trees fading into the distance. You know Steve is right, you know that Dustin is still growing up, making mistakes. Hell, no one is perfect at fifteen. When you were his age you were falling in love with your best friend as you hunted monsters together. Neither you or Jonathan or Nancy knew what the hell you guys were doing back then.

But this is different. Dustin has never betrayed his friends like this before. He, out of all of them, should understand the pain of being left behind. He spent half the summer upset that the party ditched him, and now he’s ditching Lucas?

“You know, I used to be a stupid teen boy.” Steve says, trying again to get you to say something. To look at him, at least.

It works, a small smile turns your lips. “I never knew.”

He laughs at the sarcasm in your voice, but he plays along anyways. “Oh, I totally was. I just hid it really well by, you know, making you hate me for a while by being annoying. But hey, look at me now! I’m still annoying, but at least I have it all figured out with you.”

“And what do you have figured out, honey?” You turn your head towards him, watch the street lamps illuminate his face.

Steve smiles. “Us. Our future. Sure, I may not know if I’ll ever get a better job, but I’m sure as shit staying with you, starting a life together so that I can annoy you for all eternity.”

“How romantic,” a giggle falls from your lips. You’ve been with Steve for nearly a year now, but you haven’t really talked about the future yet. At least not so intimately, with so much assurance that in the end it’ll be the two of you. “And where will we live, Romeo?”

“New York, obviously. As soon as you graduate, we’ll find some horrible, run down apartment that’s barely big enough for two people. We’ll move in, but there won’t be any air conditioning so we’ll almost murder each other in the heat. Everyone will hate the place, but we’ll love it.”

As Steve talks, the smile that had once been on your face begins to fade. He rambles on, not noticing the shift. He dreams up the plans, how he’ll stay home while you go to class. How he’ll fix the leaky faucet that will inevitably annoy everyone. Steve envisions himself waiting for you to come home after a long day of classes and falling into his arms. 

“Steve–” But he doesn’t hear you. He’s busy explaining how he’ll probably have to sell his car to afford the apartment, but that he doesn’t care, and you feel sick. It’s too much, he’s giving up too much. He’s willing to give up his entire life for you, drop everything and follow you without any questions asked. 

It’s what your mother did for your father. They met in college, both attending Purdue. Their relationship had been a whirlwind. Love at first sight, married as soon as they graduated, your father convinced your mom to follow him back to Virginia. To abandon her family and move two states over while pregnant with you. She didn’t know anyone in Virginia, her father moved them to a small town where only his name was known. 

The divorce that followed twelve years later ruined your mother’s life. She had been left all alone, no family to support her, no friends, in a state she never grew up in.

And now Steve wants to do the same for you.

Raising your voice slightly, you try to interrupt him again. “Steve!”

“What?” He looks over at you, words finally dying. “Do you want to keep the car?”

“You… you can’t.” 

Steve frowns. “I can’t what?”

Your hands shake. Your heart trembles. Your words die in your throat. There’s so much you want to say, you can feel the pit in your stomach build into a fist. You can’t let Steve do this. He doesn’t understand that he deserves more than this. “You-you can’t come to New York.”

Everything stills. You don’t dare to breathe, to disrupt the silence. Your words come out all wrong, you know they do, but they’re out in the open and Steve doesn’t look at you as he pulls into your driveway. Silent, he turns the car’s engine off.

“Y/N…” Steve still can’t look at you. He places his hands on the steering wheel, as if bracing himself for whatever will unfold tonight. He’s scared, he doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. His mind flashes, and for a brief second he’s back at the Halloween party and you’re Nancy in his passenger seat. “Do you not see a future with me?”

“I do!” You sit up in your seat, reach over to touch Steve’s thigh. You need to feel him, to ground yourself to him. Everything about this feels wrong. As if you’re hanging over the edge of a chasm with a long, long fall. “God, of course I see a future with you, I just-this isn’t what you really want.”

Steve doesn’t want to move to New York, even if he doesn’t realize it now. What he’s really doing is chasing after a dream that isn’t his. The timing of this is off, he fought with his dad this morning about a future he was unsure of. You know Steve, maybe even better than he knows himself; he’s not doing it for your relationship or out of love. Steve only wants to appease his father, fulfill whatever desire he thinks you have. This isn’t what he wants, and he’s worked too hard to build the life he has now, without you, to simply throw it all away.

But he can’t see that right now.

“Of course this is what I want, Y/N! All I want is you.” Steve finally looks at you, but there’s a hardness in his eyes. He’s detaching himself from you, putting his walls up. “You and me, that’s what I want.”

You grab his hand, you try to keep your voice calm. “Steve, I love you so, so much, but I can’t-I can’t let you give everything up for me. Your life is here, in Hawkins. You have a job, you have your friends and-and your family, and it wouldn’t be fair to either one of us if you abandon it for me. You could-you could resent me for it later, you could realize you hate our life and wish you never followed me and–”

“Y/N, what did you think was going to happen when you were applying to all those colleges?” Steve runs a hand through his hair, he thought you were beside him this whole time. He assumed you’d been carving out the same future he had been. But he was wrong. “Did you really think I’d just stay behind and wait for you to come home every break?”

“I…” Shamefully, you hadn't been considering what would happen between you and Steve. In your mind, he was your future, he was in it, but the details were hazy. You weren’t sure how, or why, or when, but you knew that in the end, Steve was the person you’d spend forever with. 

Steve takes your hesitancy as his answer. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Steve–”

“You were just going to leave me.”

He tears his hand from yours and you blink back tears. You’ve never fought with him before, not like this. “I wasn’t just going to leave you! I just-Steve, please just listen!”

“I am, Y/N!” Steve exclaims, voice reverberating the car. You flinch away, and he immediately lowers his voice, apologetic. He hadn’t meant to scare you, he hadn’t meant to make you cry. Ashamed, Steve turns away from you. “I-I’m sorry.” 

He wants to wipe the tears he’s caused, but selfishly he also wants you to hurt like he’s hurting. You don’t see a future with Steve. You were going to leave him just like everyone else does. 

Steve should’ve known all of this was too good to be true. 

“I love you,” your voice is almost inaudible, the three words barely reach the light before they disappear into the dark night. You’re not sure why you say them, the words had built in your chest, the pressure heavy, and you needed to release them. To remind Steve of your oath to him. 

Silence fills the car. Steve doesn’t look at you, his shoulders are drawn together. His jaw clenches and you know he’s trying desperately to bite his tongue, withholding the cruel words that only heartbreak can provoke. 

“Honey,” you beg him to say something, anything. “Steve.”

“I think you should go.”

The dismissal punches your throat, knocks the wind out of you. He’s shutting you out, closing himself off from you, and you don’t understand how the two of you got here. “I… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Steve’s words are cool, composed. Indifferent, almost. He still doesn’t look at you, his eyes remain focused on something in your driveway. “It’s late, you should get some sleep.”

“Okay,” you don’t want to leave, you know it isn’t good to go to bed angry with the one you love. Anger should never simmer, it should never be left unwatched. But Steve is silently asking you to give him space so that he can hurt, and you aren’t selfish enough to deny his request. And yet you’re selfish enough to press your lips to Steve’s cheek, but he doesn’t lean in like how normally does. Instead, he remains stoic, and you swallow down your tears and open the door to leave. “Drive home safe, honey.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he starts the car as soon as the door is closed and drives away. He doesn't look back, he doesn’t wait to see if you’ve made it inside your house safely. 

Tears spill down your face as you blindly walk towards your front door. Your argument with Steve replays over and over again in your head. You analyze every second, every word, you try to understand when everything fell apart. 

It’s dark in your home, your mother is asleep and Dustin’s door is closed, but right now all you want is your brother. You need to talk to him, cry into his shoulder and smell the shampoo he’s used ever since he was a baby. Your feet carry you to Dustin’s room and you pound on his door, begging him to let you in. You don’t bother masking the tears in your voice, you’re too exhausted to hide them from him. “Dustin, please let me in.”

“Go away!” There’s a thud on the door, he’s thrown something at it to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear some stupid lecture right now. He knows he was an asshole tonight, he regrets it, but right now all Dustin wants to do is sleep. He’ll deal with you tomorrow. 

“Code blue,” you press your forehead against the door, your tears fall to the ground. “C-code blue.” Your voice hiccups, more tears come, minutes pass, and your brother never answers.

For the first time since you were kids, Dustin rejects your request for a code blue. 

The phone rings. The sound pierces through your ears, cuts through the headache that is starting to form. It’s Friday night. Jonathan is calling. 

Squeezing your eyes shut as you head pounds, you inhale shakily. You have to answer him, otherwise he’ll only call over and over again with concern. You’ve never missed a phone call, not once in the months since Jonathan has moved, but tonight you’re exhausted. 

“Can we call tomorrow?” You’re too tired to greet him and voice cracks, revealing far too much already.

“Bug?” Jonathan’s high, he’s always high. And yet even in his cloudy haze of smoke he can hear the anguish in your voice. “Is everythin’ okay?”

His question only makes you cry more. You’ve always tried your best to put up a front for others, to pretend that everything is okay. You’ve never wanted to worry people, you’ve always pushed aside your own hurt for the sake of others. Now, as anger and grief and despair clasp their hands around your throat, you’re terrified you’ll suffocate. 

You’ve never been able to lie to Jonathan, and tonight you don’t think you can. “I’ve had… the worst night.” You confess to him, wiping away tears.

You tell him everything, your fight with Dustin, how you think he may resent you leaving for college. You tell Jonathan about Lucas, how you were so disappointed in Dustin and Mike. Choking through tears, you explain to Jonathan your fight with Steve. How your words failed you, how hurt he looked, that you can’t explain to him how he only wants his future to align with yours, but not with your relationship. 

Even though you know that Jonathan won’t remember any of this tomorrow, for once you’re grateful that he’s too high to remember anything. It feels good just being able to say it all out loud. 

“‘M sorry, bug.” Jonathan mumbles over the phone once you’ve finished explaining everything. He sounds far away, figuratively and literally. You can’t imagine how much his drugged mind retained, but you’re thankful to have gotten it all off your chest anyways. 

“It’s fine,” you inhale again, you’ve finally stopped crying, though your chest still hurts and your head still pounds. “Steve and I… We’ll figure it out.”

Jonathan pauses, and for a moment you think he’s fallen asleep, but then his voice floats through the telephone line. “Do you.. Do you ever wonder if we’ve made a mistake?”

He strings his words slowly together, says them one by one with a hesitancy, and you frown. You don’t understand what he’s trying to say. What mistakes could you have made together? “What do you mean, bee?”

“I just… everythin’ is so hard. With Nance. Feel like… like ‘m never enough for her. And you, Steve. ‘S hard between you guys.” Jonathan’s words slur, he’s almost too incoherent to understand, and later you will wish that you hadn’t been able to understand him at all. “But you ‘n me? ‘S easy. Always so easy.”

His words toe the line between you, he can’t mean any of it. You don’t want him to mean any of it, because then the fallout would be too catastrophic to contain.

He’s Jonathan. Your oldest, dearest friend. Your best friend. Years ago, you could’ve been something more, you almost were something more, but the time has passed. 

You’re with Steve now, you’re happy and so, so in love with him. Even though everything is tangled between you right now, even though you’re fighting, you know that you and Steve will figure it out. He’s the one. He’s the man you want to marry one day, if he’ll allow you to. 

Jonathan is your past, Steve is your future, and right now you’re terrified that soon you’ll lose them both.

“Jonathan,” you finally say, his name now heavy on your tongue. It feels like you’re betraying someone while saying his name, but you need to end this conversation. Before Jonathan says something he’ll regret in the morning. “You love Nancy, I love Steve, and you need to go to sleep.”

“Love you,” Jonathan’s words slur even more, his voice drifting off. “You, always you…”

You slam the phone done, ending the call, as a chill runs down your spine. Silence encases you, the house is still. The strings and threads from years ago constrict around your throat. You choke on the lines Jonathan has crossed tonight, the tightness in your head stabs against your skull. 

There is no one to hear you, no one there to hear your final words to your best friend. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

-

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[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 32. Reunification Day

Summary: Reunification Day. A day of celebration for most of Navarre. But not for everyone. Sometimes it's best not to judge a book by its cover.

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

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Dahlia

Another year, another Reunification Day. A day I never enjoyed celebrating even though I should. It signified the end of the Rebellion. And yet it never sat right with me. Something always feeling off about what had happened. But maybe that was because I never trusted my father. A father who would definitely have my head if I didn’t turn up. I adjust the sash, knowing if my uniform is less than perfect I would get a talking to. Like it would matter. I was bound to get a talking to tonight regardless of what I did or how I looked.

I give myself one more glance in the mirror before pushing open my door and locking it behind me. Dain would be here any moment and I’d rather not give him the opportunity to come into my room. As I step back into the corridor I collide with someone walking behind me, both of us stumbling at the impact.

”Sorry I-” My words die in my mouth as I turn and see Garrick standing behind me.

For a brief moment he looks sad, but as his eyes travel down my body I watch them harden as he takes in my uniform. His jaw ticking with irritation.

”You ready to-” Bodhi joins us in the hallway, stopping as he notes the stare down Garrick and I are locked in.

”Of course you would be celebrating today.” He mutters to me with a shake of his head, any hint of sadness I’d seen gone.

This was the first time I’d been close to Garrick since that night. Only seeing him at a distance around the Quadrant or in Battle Brief. No longer turning up after hours at the gym like he use to, or sitting with us at meals when he could get away with not sitting with leadership. And now being this close again, I was suddenly reminded of the sting of betrayal I had felt that night. And I hated how my body responded to him. Hated how my heart rate picked up as I look into his hazel eyes. Hated how my body relaxed as his familiar smell of leather, smoke, mixed with the woodsy spice of cedar and sandalwood.

”Not that I owe you any explanation, but if I had the choice I wouldn’t be going. They might celebrate, but I do not. I unfortunately have appearances to up hold.” I hiss at him, Bodhi looking between us as if unsure he should stop what was going on.

Garrick scoffs at my words, shaking his head again at me. “And here I thought you didn’t give a shit about appearances and what people thought of you.” He snarls at me.

I inwardly flinch at his words. He was right. But there was another meaning to today. One they didn’t know about and one I wouldn’t indulge in. “You’re right, I don’t. So I don’t care what you think about me right now.”

An awkward silence falls over us, Bodhi still looking torn if he should step in or let this play out. I note both of them aren’t dressed in dress uniform, both of them dressed in flight leathers instead. I don’t blame them. If I could be out flying I would join them.

”Dahlia.” Dain calls from a few doors down. Least he knew to keep his distance.

I turn and walk towards him, hearing the scoff from Garrick loud and clear as if he was standing next to me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does way more than it should. I hear Bodhi talking to him behind me, but I block out whatever they say, not needing it to play on my mind. Not today.

”What did they want?” Dain asks as he falls into step next to me.

”Nothing important.” I tell him bluntly as we join the crowd heading to the celebrations.

Garrick

“What the hell was that?” Bodhi barks at me, shoving me in the shoulder.

I shove his hand away, turning my back on the crowd of cadets heading towards the celebration of our downfall.

”None of you damn business.” I grumble at him as we head towards the door at the other end of the first year dormitories.

”Like hell it is. I’ve watched you pinning over her for the better half of this year. I was literally pleading your case to her when you stumbled through around the corner with your tongue down some random girls throat.” He nearly yells at me.

I turn on my heel, stopping in my tracks as Bodhi walks into me, stumbling back a few steps from the impact. “I am very aware of the fact I fucked up. I’m very fucking aware that I threw any chance I had with her down the drain because I got drunk and then thought I’d never have a chance with her. And then I realise I did when I saw how broken she looked because of me. I don’t need you reminding me!”

”So what are you going to do about it?” Xaden states from behind me. I look over my shoulder to see him leaning against the archway giving me a pointed stare, though I note it’s lacking it’s usual edge. He’d been through a lot recently and today was just icing on the cake for the mood he’d been in.

I shake my head, “It doesn’t matter. Nothing I do will change what she thinks of me now.” I mutter before turning and pushing past Xaden towards the flight field.

Every time I looked at her it was a damn reminder of the stupid decision I had made that night. I had convinced myself that it didn’t matter what I’d done. That I’d actually done what she’d wanted from me to even give me a chance. Unaware that Bodhi had actually pleaded my case to her. Had actually convinced her the rumours that had spread in the Quadrant were actually true. But as I’d met her eyes that night I knew I had messed up. That I’d fucked up any chance I’d had with the girl I’d told myself time and time again I didn’t want, didn’t need. But I did. I wanted her more than anything despite everything telling me I didn’t. She was an Aetos. A daughter of our enemy. The daughter of someone who stood by and watched it all happen. And yet time and time again throughout this year she had proved that she was not. Time and time again she had proven me wrong, met me step for step and had schooled me multiple times. And each time she did she wormed herself in more and more without even knowing what she was doing.

”So what are you going to do about it?” Chradh states in my head, no teasing tone that usually comes with anything to do with her as I step into the flight field.

I look up at him from the entry to the flight field. “Like I said to Xaden there’s nothing I can do. You saw my memories. You saw how she looked at me. There’s nothing I can do to fix that.”

”I honestly didn’t think you’d give up this easily.” He challenges, narrowing his golden eyes on me.

”Then what do you think I should do?” I snap at him.

”Go show her you actually care. Open up to her and let her in.” He drawls as if now bored with the situation. “Or don’t. But don’t you dare mope around if you choose to do nothing.”

I turn around, pushing past Xaden and Bodhi who look confused at my sudden change in direction.

”Where the hell are you going?” Bodhi calls out to me.

I turn to look at them, “I’m going to prove her wrong.”

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore

[pyxxiestyxx]

Don't Worry, Fragile Flower

"What's the harm, little one?"

You had been invited to a bit of fun. One of your old friends was celebrating her Domestication Day, and you had agreed, thinking it was a small little get together where you shared a few drinks with her and her Master (a lovely old fellow that gave you fantastic advice).

When you got to her place and saw they had temporarily removed her house and installed a pavilion, you realized you may have assumed a bit too much.

"It's just a little bit of fun, you know. Class A xenodrugs like this one are rated for you, I already checked with your Vet."

You were one of the few independents there, with the rest being an absolute gagglefuck of florets and Owners…and quite a few affini looking for a meet-cute. Including the one currently boxing you in a corner, all four of her eyes trained on one thing: you.

"It will be a quick little prick, and then you get to feel everything so much….brighter. So much more. Does that really sound so bad?"

You shift uneasily at the vine she held between you, the pale yellow flower on its tip seeming to glow gold in the setting starlight. She was apparently a friend of a friend, or something. Maybe she was just a random affini who had wandered to the commotion. There really wasn't any way for you to check, unfortunately.

"Is something wrong? Plenty of respectable independents enjoy a bit of fun, you know. Unless…" She leans in closer, pressing the vine against your stomach and chest. You can't look at both her and the flower anymore, so you keep your eyes trained on hers.

"Unless you're one of those." Her voice drops to a whisper that rolls over your ears, as if it was a secret to share between you, as if you weren't complete strangers.

"Unless you're a floret, and just don't know it yet. It happens, oh yes. Far, far too often, really. A silly little sophont sees their friend enjoy a new life, and gets an uncomfortable knot in their stomach. Anger and sadness and jealousy. Because deep deeeeeep down, they want it sooooo badly. But they don't know how to say it, so they wrap it up all snug in a blanket of denial."

She peers at your face, searching for something in your eyes. You hold your breath, thoughts sparking out in bursts of energy, nothing useful or usable.

And then you feel the sting of a needle, though not the one resting on your chest. It was, you belatedly realize, just a pretty distraction.

"Don't worry about all that anymore, petal. You can't hide from meeee~ now then."

Her eyes pulled you forward and down as if gravity itself had changed. As you tipped onto your knees, she caught you by the throat, letting your knees dangle just slightly off the ground. Her smile was everything at the moment, a blazing star of emotion that smoothed all the worries in your brain.

She giggled, triumphant. "Say 'Thank You', dear~"

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #09 死

† leather jacket †

“You always knew alcohol could be intoxicating in its own way—but sometimes it takes a few more drops of vodka and some leather jackets for the effect to really seep into your veins."

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⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 5.5k

rating: mature

content: drinking, lowkey hints being dropped, sope bantering like a married couple, truth or dare, V being a lil shit, clothes swap, sexual tension, leather jackets and their scent lingering on your body

☠ author's note ☠

OOOOP? Early chapter drop? Yup yup! Your support and enthusiasm reaching the goal for FMU 14 has truly motivated me and I was honestly SO hyped to post this and see you guys reactions? 👀

Not me having written a completely different version of how this chapter could have gone and keeping it from you all… (◕‿◕✿)

What can I say? That's what happens when you’re sad and horny. Don't worry though, I've saved it for… research purposes???

ANYWAY! There will be time for that in the future. Many times. Many, many times. cackles maniacally while typing

Is the slow burn slow burning enough for you? I don't know about you, but I LIVE for that charged atmosphere where every accidental brush of hands feels like someone dropped a toaster in a bathtub. The lingering stares! The almost-moments! The internal screaming! Beautiful stuff, truly.

And we're finally delving deeper into the plot! Nine chapters in and you finally know the reason behind the number one rule of the gang. Took long enough, right? In my defense, building tension is an art form, and I am but a humble disaster pretending to be an artist.

Also, yes, the goal is right below at the end of the chapter. It's ridiculously high because you all TERRIFY ME. Last time I set it at 100 thinking "this should take them a few days at least" and y'all demolished that in less than 24 hours. :))))) So suffer the consequences of your own enthusiasm, hoes lovely people. 🥰

Also because smut is on the horizon, and I'm 100% going to make you work for it because I'm the god of this fictional universe and chaos is my love language. Start engaging, peasants! Your frustration fuels me. 🙂‍↕️

(A bit unrelated but if you’re feeling particularly generous, I’d appreciate if you could go give some love to the stories on my wattpad? Our numbers are quite low over there! Also—reminder that the goal in Wattpad is a lot lower and it works the same as the one here, so… just sayin’.)

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The walk back to the bonfire feels like playing hopscotch between shadows and firelight. There's gang members scattered around like party decorations, laughing and drinking like it's literally their only worry.

You reach Jeon first, holding out his whisky. When his fingers brush yours, something electric zips through your skin. He takes the glass quickly—but not quick enough to hide that moment of hesitation.

"Thanks," he mutters, voice softer than usual—not as stormy as it usually is.

You just nod, trying to ignore how your skin tingles where he touched you.

Stop being a stupid bitch. 

You fish out a beer from your hoodie and pass it to Takama.

"Here."

"Thanks!" Takama's grin is always genuine, you notice.

You drop onto the bench next to Yunjin, whose bubblegum hair looks almost neon in the firelight. She brightens when you hand her the other beer.

"You're actually the best," she declares, popping the tab. "What'd you get?"

You lift your glass. "Vodka lemonade. Moon knows his stuff."

"It's weird seeing everyone so... normal," she muses, watching the crowd. "Like we're just regular people having drinks."

"Right?" You take a sip, enjoying the perfect balance of sweet and sharp. "No ranks, no murder plots. Just vibing."

She hums. "Moon's got skills though. That drink looks good."

"He's amazing at it." Another sip confirms it. "Said he wanted to own a bar once. Can you imagine? Our Deputy Commander mixing drinks in some cozy pub?"

"That's... actually kind of perfect for him?" Yunjin tilts her head. "He's got that whole calm, 'everything's under control' energy. Makes perfect sense as to why RM would choose him as his right hand."

"Yeah." You swirl your drink, thinking about what he said earlier. "Makes you wonder what everyone else wanted to be before... all this."

She goes quiet for a moment. "Weird how we all ended up here, huh? Different paths leading to the same psychotic family."

"At least the company's good." You bump her shoulder with yours.

"Yeah." Her smile turns soft. "Really good."

The vodka warms your chest, or maybe it's just the way Yunjin leans against you, comfortable and familiar.

Eunchae suddenly throws her arms around you and Yunjin, all tipsy affection and bright smiles. Her body sways slightly, using you both for balance.

"My favorite bitchessss," she sing-songs, words already slurring. "How're you doing?"

Yunjin melts into the group hug, giggling. "Just vibing. How many drinks have you had?"

"Who's counting?" Eunchae's laughing in that drunken way she has when she's on her third glass of rum. "It's a party!"

You snort, patting her arm. "Maybe slow down though? Night's still young."

"And I plan to make the most of it!" She beams like it's the most brilliant plan ever.

The moment shatters when V practically twirls into the firelight, radiating that chaotic energy that always accompanies him wherever he goes.

His smile, of course, is all teeth—sharp and bright.

"Heeeey everyone!" He throws his arms wide, commanding attention like he was born for it. "Let's remember why we're here! Celebrating our dear leader taking over after his brother got fucking murdered!"

The crowd actually cheers—because of course they do. V could probably announce the apocalypse and make it sound fun. But J-Hope steps in, doctor mode activated.

"V." His tone carries a warning. "Dial it back."

V rolls his eyes like a teenager caught sneaking out, but his grin never falters. You sense weird vibes oozing off him under that playful expression he wears—but it's like he's wrapped it in enough charm that it goes unnoticed.

Or maybe you're reaching?

"His brother's dead?" The words slip out before you can stop them. You turn to J-Hope, curiosity burning. "What happened?"

J-Hope sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His fingers tap against his thigh—a nervous tell if you know how to spot one.

"It's not exactly classified," he says carefully, weighing each word. "But it's... complicated. RM wasn't always in charge. The gang belonged to his brother first."

You exchange looks with Yunjin, both leaning in slightly. This is the kind of story that explains so much about how Kkangpae operates.

About why certain rules exist.

J-Hope's face contorts in the dim light, shadows dancing over his features he debates how much to share. V watches from across the flames, that sharp smile still in place, like he's enjoying the tension he's created.

"His brother?" Yunjin's eyes go wide with curiosity.

"It's about betrayal," J-Hope says, voice dropping low. "RM's brother led Kkangpae before him. His fiancée sold him out to MDF, and..." He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air.

A chill runs down your spine despite the bonfire's warmth.

"So RM had to take over?"

J-Hope nods, running a hand through his hair.

"Nam—" He catches himself, clearing his throat. "RM stepped up when everything was falling apart. Gang was splitting at the seams, losing territory to MDF."

"Built it back from nothing," Chaewon adds quietly. "That's why he's so strict about relationships. He's seen what they can do to people."

You notice Jeon tense at that last part on your periphery, though he's trying to look uninvolved. Something flickers across his face—pain maybe, or guilt—before his expression locks down again. His fingers twitch toward the cigarette pack he can't use.

"That's..." Yunjin leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. "It explains a lot about how things work around here."

"Heavy legacy to carry," you murmur, watching RM across the fire. He's laughing at something Moon said, but there's weight in his shoulders that makes more sense now.

"Can't forget where we came from." J-Hope's eyes drift to his glass of water. "Makes us stronger, but also more careful. Trust is..." He shakes his head. "Trust is complicated here."

The conversation dies out naturally, leaving you all to digest the story. Smoke from the bonfire drifts up in weird rivulets, as if dissolving the thick fog of tension that seems to have settled over all of you. You find yourself studying RM with new eyes, seeing past the white hair and commanding presence to the brother who had to rebuild from ashes.

You can't help but wonder how many other secrets this gang holds, how many other stories wait in the dark corners of the castle.

"Must've taken some serious balls," Yunjin says softly, respect clear in her voice. "Building everything back up like that."

"It did." J-Hope responds in a hushed tone. "RM rebuilt from scratch—new recruits, stronger divisions. Dragged us back from the edge. Now look at us."

You let the weight of it sink in, watching the flames dance. Because this? This explains so much. About everything and everyone.

The strict rules, the emphasis on loyalty, why everyone walks on eggshells around certain topics.

"That's why we celebrate." JM appears beside you, hands tucked into his oversized cardigan. "Remembering where we started, how far we've come."

The energy shifts suddenly as RM approaches, beer in hand, firelight catching on his dyed hair. His smile is crooked, eyebrow raised like he knows you've been talking about him.

"Why's everyone looking so serious?" He asks, though playfully.

V materializes like he's been summoned, snatching someone's beer out of their hands like it's normal. He clinks his bottle against RM's with dramatic flair.

"Oh, just sharing tales of our glorious leader." V grins, and it sounds almost mocking—were it not for the respect clearly coloring his tone despite all that theatrical bullshit.

RM's eyebrow climbs higher, amusement flickering across his face. He takes a slow sip, eyes scanning your little group like he's reading a particularly interesting book.

"Legendary tales?" He chuckles, the sound warming the night air. "Should I be worried?"

"Just telling it like it is." J-Hope's smile is soft. "What you've built here."

Silence falls, but it's not weird, or tense or uncomfortable. Rather, it's like a brief respite where everyone can gather their thoughts, really look at RM and ponder all he has achieved.

No wonder everyone respects him so much.

"Not just me," he says quietly. "Every person here made Kkangpae what it is today."

You watch him immediately work the crowd, joking and talking with members from every division. It's impressive how he balances it all—being both the guy who can order executions and the one who remembers everyone's birthday.

You know now why people would literally die for him.

RM is not only a leader—but a mentor. A companion. A friend.

AD finally graces everyone with his presence about twenty minutes later.

And holy shit, he's wearing actual pajamas with a puffer jacket thrown over them—giving exactly zero fucks about dress codes or basic social norms.

His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he approaches, moving with his usual 'everyone here is an idiot' energy. The crowd parts for him automatically—partly out of respect, partly because nobody wants to deal with his grumpy ass when he's been interrupted mid-game.

"This meat better be worth dropping League for," he announces to no one in particular, a mix of annoyance and vague threat.

A few people laugh because, well, of course AD was gaming. Man would probably try to finish a match during the apocalypse.

You catch Jeon using the distraction to slip away, moving toward the BBQ area with that silent grace that makes him such a good sniper. His timing is s̶u̶s̶p̶i̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ perfectly calculated to avoid AD.

Takama notices too, because that man apparently notices everything. He gives the group a small smile.

"Going to help with dinner prep," he says casually, but the knowing look in his eyes says he's well aware of what he's actually doing—running interference between two of Kkangpae's most complicated relationships.

You watch Takama head for the grill, where Moon and Jeon are already setting up for dinner.

AD drops into a spot near the fire, his puffer jacket rustling against pajama pants. Only he could show up to a gang celebration dressed for a gaming marathon and still command respect.

The perks of being a genius, you guess.

"He's always like this." Yunjin whispers, leaning her pink head against your shoulder. "All grumpy but like... in a way that works?"

"Yeah." You watch AD pull out his phone, probably checking League stats. "Like he exists in his own dimension but somehow still runs cyber security for a whole criminal organization."

Eunchae sways closer, definitely past tipsy now. "He's literally just a cat in human form." She giggles. "A really smart, really angry cat who can hack the government."

"That's AD for you." J-Hope's smile is fond despite his words. "Brilliant bastard works best when we leave him alone with his computers."

The conversation drifts into lighter territory, gang members sharing stories about missions gone wrong and parties gone wild.

Someone brings up the time V tried to convince everyone he could parkour off the castle roof (he couldn't), and another mentions how AD once hacked the castle's speaker system to blast K-pop when RM pissed him off.

At some point, your eyes end up drifting to the grill again, where Jeon's rolled up his sleeves to help with the meat. The distant light catches on his silver chain, on the tattoos snaking down his arms, and—

Noooope. You take a long sip of your drink.

Tonight's about having fun with your friends, not staring at your division chief like some horny teenager.

After a couple minutes, RM's got everyone hooked on some wild story about a past operation. He's actually a good storyteller—knows exactly when to pause for dramatic effect, when to throw in a joke. His white hair glows as he gestures, painting pictures of close calls and clever escapes.

Everyone goes quiet as he hits the climax, especially the new recruits like you.

Because this is more than just a story—it's their story, really. All the shit they've been through together, all the wins and losses that made Kkangpae what it is.

Movement catches your eye as Jeon comes back from the grill, empty-handed but smelling like smoke and grilled meat. His eyes sweep the crowd before landing on you for a beat too long. You don't know why you shift in your seat.

The smell of dinner gets stronger, making your stomach growl. Moon and Takama have outdone themselves, judging by the heavenly aromas drifting over.

You stretch as you stand, joints popping after sitting so long. Everyone migrates toward the food like moths to flame, and you walk behind everyone right along Yunjin.

Once it's your turn, Takama hands you a plate with a little bow, looking stupidly proud of himself. The grill's loaded with enough food to feed an army, everything sizzling and perfectly charred.

"What'll it be?" He grins, waving at the spread. "Got spicy pork, garlic shrimp, Moon's fancy chicken..."

You're still trying to decide when Jeon appears beside you like a s̶e̶x̶y̶ stealthy shadow. The heat from the grill has nothing on the warmth he radiates like a fucking stove.

"Try the bulgogi," he says quietly, like he's sharing a secret. "Moon's got a special marinade."

You turn to him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah? That what you usually get?"

His lips quirk up slightly, pupils reflecting the firelight. "I know good food when I see it. Trust me on this one."

"Fine," you match his almost-smile. "But if it sucks, I'm blaming you."

Something flickers across his face—amusement maybe, or satisfaction. "Deal. But it won't."

Takama watches this exchange with poorly hidden surprise.

"He's right though," he adds, grinning. "Moon really outdid himself tonight."

Takama loads your plate with bulgogi and all the fixings, somehow making even serving food look elegant. You catch Jeon watching you, his dark eyes lingering on you for a hot second before snapping back to the grill.

The plate feels heavy as you turn away.

Was that—

No.

You definitely didn't just see the ghost of a smile on Jeon's stupidly p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ annoying face.

You shake your head, trying to dislodge that thought along with the weird flutter in your chest. Walk back to the bonfire, where everyone has gathered once again.

You catch AD practically drooling over his plate of meat when J-Hope strikes like a particularly aggressive mother hen. In one smooth motion, he swaps AD's feast for what looks like a garden threw up on a plate.

"What the fuck?" AD stares at his new plate of greens like it personally offended his entire family. "The hell is this shit?"

J-Hope grins, way too pleased with himself. "It's called vegetables, genius. Some of us care if you die of scurvy."

"Did I fucking ask?" AD's eye twitches. "Give me my food back before I hack your medical license."

"Not happening." J-Hope holds the meat plate higher. "Your blood work was atrocious last check. You need fiber."

AD rises from his seat like a hissing cat. "Listen here, you overgrown nurse—"

"Fucking—!" J-Hope dances backward, still holding the plate hostage. "I swear to god, you're worse than a toddler—"

"At least toddlers don't have to deal with control freak doctors!" AD lunges for the plate. "Give it back before I reprogram all the hospital equipment to play Baby Shark!"

"Try it!" J-Hope dodges. "I'm not letting you die of a heart attack at thirty just because you refuse to eat a vegetable!"

They chase each other around the fire like two cats fighting over territory, completely forgetting they're supposed to be respected Council members.

Truly, the sight of Kkangpae's scariest hacker trying to tackle their head doctor over grilled meat is... something else.

J-Hope scurries away from AD's grab, his face scrunching with frustration. "God, you're so difficult. Maybe if you ate a vegetable once in your life, I wouldn't have to babysit you!"

"Fuck off!" AD snarls. "I survived this long without your fucking helicopter parenting."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it's thanks to my job as Chief Medical Officer?" J-Hope throws his hands up.

"Which you're gonna lose if you—that's it." AD's eyes narrow dangerously. "I'm revoking your med bay access. Have fun treating patients from the parking lot, doc."

"Are you actually insane?" J-Hope's voice rises. "You want people to die because you're throwing a tantrum over vegetables?"

"There's plenty of doctors in your division." AD's voice drips venom.

"You little—"

"Give me my damn food," AD cuts him off, eyes glinting with malice, "or I'll double your clinic hours too."

J-Hope hands the plate back with a heavy sigh. AD's victory grin would be cute if he wasn't such an insufferable brat about it. He tears into the meat like he hasn't eaten in days, and J-Hope watches with the tired resignation of someone who's fought this battle too many times.

You don't miss how V drapes himself over JM like an overly affectionate puppy, all charm in one package. His voice drops low, honey-sweet with poison underneath.

"Your hair's like moonlight on the Han River tonight, Chim."

JM flushes pink, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized cardigan. It's weird seeing the Finance Chief so f̶l̶u̶s̶t̶e̶r̶e̶d̶ vulnerable—usually he's all gentle smiles.

"Stop it, Tae," he mumbles, but there's no real protest in it.

V leans back, looking way too pleased with himself. His laugh sounds like dark chocolate tastes. "What? Can't admire how pretty you make yourself?"

"Not for you," JM says, but his lips twitch upward.

"No?" V's eyes glitter dangerously. "For the stars then? Giving them competition?"

JM shakes his head, laughing despite himself. "You're absolutely ridiculous."

"You love it though." V tilts his face skyward, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But you've seen him throw knives without blinking. "Admit it, Jimin. You'd be so bored without me."

"Maybe." JM's voice goes soft. Fond.

You watch them, these two opposite forces... It's like watching a mouse play with a snake, except the mouse knows exactly what game they're playing.

The fire makes V's face look almost tender, and you wonder if that smile is sincere at all.

The bonfire's died down to a gentle pulse now.

Most of the gang's cleared out, leaving just the Council and a few others scattered around.

You smell it in the air—woodsmoke and lingering BBQ smell, plus that weird mix of everyone's signature scents—cinnamon, sandalwood, fresh lemons.

Pine.

AD sways on his feet, drink sloshing dangerously in his hand.

"One more round?" His words blur together, eyes squinting like he's trying to focus on three J-Hopes at once.

SMACK.

J-Hope's hand connects with the back of AD's neck. "You're already wasted, dumbass. Put the glass down."

"Fuck off," AD rubs his neck, scowling like an angry kid. "I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what? Your last functioning brain cell?" J-Hope's eyebrow shoots up. "Remember last time? When you redecorated my clinic walls?"

"That was—" AD waves vaguely, almost falling over. "Different."

"Right." J-Hope's voice drips sarcasm. "Just like when I had to carry your drunk ass upstairs while you rambled about beating RM at Mario Kart?"

"Never happened." AD tries to stand straighter, fails spectacularly. "I never lose Mario Kart. 'Specially not to that... that dimpled nerd..."

"Sure." J-Hope watches him sway with tired resignation. "I'm not playing nursemaid tonight. Last time I practically had to read you a bedtime story."

"Got there fine myself!" AD protests.

"After decorating the hallway with your dinner!" J-Hope throws his hands up. "The recruits thought someone had poisoned you!"

Everyone laughs, because watching Kkangpae's scariest hacker get mothered by their head doctor is honestly peak entertainment.

The fire catches on AD's blonde hair as he wobbles again, and you catch J-Hope tensing, ready to catch him if needed.

For all their bickering, it's kind of s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ amusing how they look out for each other.

"Let's play truth or dare." AD's eyes gleam with drunk mischief. "Keep the party going without dying of alcohol poisoning."

Everyone shuffles closer to the dying fire, and you settle between Yunjin and Eunchae, feeling the warmth of both the fire and the vodka in your system.

"No life-threatening dares," RM warns, using his Commander Voice™ despite the slight slur in his words.

Eunchae bounces in her seat, hair vibrating with her. "I'll start!" She zeroes in on JM. "Truth or dare?"

JM fidgets with his cardigan sleeve, firelight catching on his round glasses. "Truth."

"Ever stolen from anyone here?" She leans forward, grinning.

Pink creeps across JM's cheeks. "I... maybe borrowed V's favorite lighter once? But I gave it back!"

"Knew it wasn't just misplaced." V drapes himself over JM's shoulders, smile sharp. "My little thief."

The nickname makes JM flush darker. Everyone laughs, and he quickly redirects attention to AD. "Your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Dare." AD's still rubbing his neck where J-Hope smacked him earlier. "Do your worst."

"Most embarrassing mission moment. Spill."

AD's cocky grin falters. "Fuck. Fine. Had to hide in a dumpster once. Got attacked by this demon cat for two hours straight. Came back looking and smelling like actual garbage."

You snort so hard your drink almost comes out your nose. Even Jeon's lips twitch, which is practically rolling on the floor laughing by his standards.

"Yeah, yeah." AD waves off the laughter. "V, truth or dare?"

"Dare, obviously." V's eyes glitter dangerously.

"Do your best Flower impression."

V stands with theatrical grace, straightening his posture until he looks eerily like your division chief. His voice goes sharp, nailing Chaewon's don't test me tone.

"Listen up, you worthless men. Touch my girls, I remove your hands. This is a crucial mission—no room for your masculine incompetence. Follow the plan or face consequences. I hate all of you equally." He pauses, then adds sweetly, "Except Jimin, of course."

Everyone loses it at V's impression, especially JM who's clapping like an excited seal. V takes an exaggerated bow before dropping back down next to JM.

"Not bad." Chaewon tries to hide her smile and fails. "But we'll work on that impression later."

"My turn." V's eyes lock onto RM with some kind of sharp focus he gets sometimes. "Boss man, truth or dare?"

RM sets his drink down, looking thoughtful. "Truth."

"Ever regret any decisions as our fearless leader?"

RM goes quiet. Something dark passes over his face, and you remember what J-Hope said earlier about his brother, about betrayal and loss.

"Yes." His voice comes out rough. "Leadership comes with its share of regrets."

Silence descends, only the crackling fire interrupting it. It's like momentarily, everyone is holding their breath, like they've stumbled onto something they weren't meant to see.

"But that's in the past." RM shakes it off, mask sliding back into place. "Jessi, truth or dare?"

"Dare." She sits up straighter, ready for anything.

"Dance around the fire." RM's smile turns playful again.

"Pffft. Easy."

Jessi jumps up without hesitation because of course she does. She moves like she fights—confident, though clearly powerful. Everyone cheers her on, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter.

"That was fun." She drops back into her seat, grinning. "Moon, truth or dare?"

"Truth." Moon adjusts his glasses, looking amused.

"Got any secret wine stashes in that castle of yours?"

"Not so secret now." He chuckles. "A man needs his vices, and good wine happens to be mine."

The game continues, everyone getting progressively bolder with their challenges as the alcohol flows.

You're about to call it a night when V's eyes land on you.

A dangerous sparkle glints on them, and you don't like it one bit.

"Your turn, princess. Truth or dare?"

You blame the vodka for what comes out of your mouth next.

"Dare."

The way V's smile spreads across his face makes your stomach drop. He looks like a cat that just cornered a mouse, which is never a good sign.

"Swap clothes with Jeon."

The group goes quiet. Your eyes snap to Jeon automatically—he's gone rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. His eyebrow piercing glints as he quirks it up.

"Pick something else." Jeon's voice is sharp and direct.

"Nope." V pops the 'p', clearly enjoying this. "Rules are rules."

"This isn't—"

"What's wrong?" V cuts him off. "Scared of a little clothing swap?"

Jeon's gaze goes rigid. The fire catches his silver chain as he shifts, and you catch a whiff of pine and mint. His eyes meet yours for a split second before darting away.

"Fine." He practically spits the word. "But just the jacket."

Everyone goes quiet, heads swiveling between you and Jeon. You can practically hear V's inner thoughts as if he's considering pushing for more, but even he knows when he's pushed far enough.

Your heart does a stupid little flip when Jeon shrugs off his leather jacket. Because it's going to smell like him, you realize. Like pine and wood and s̶m̶o̶k̶e̶ whatever.

This is fine. Everything's fine. 

He walks over to you, jacket finally off him—the one he practically lives in, and jesus christ—the black turtleneck underneath fits him like a second skin. Your eyes trace the way it clings to his shoulders, his chest, every muscle clearly defined under the fabric.

You peel off your hoodie before you can overthink it, though it catches in your hair because of course it does. When you finally emerge, your white turtleneck suddenly feels too tight, too revealing.

Especially when Jeon's eyes darken as they sweep over you, and his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

Something hot coils in your stomach.

You try very hard not to stare at his mouth.

His gaze feels like a tongue licking down your neck, lingering where the turtleneck hugs your curves. His Adam's apple bobs, and he wets his lips again.

You catch yourself wondering what that lip ring would feel like against your—

Stop being horny around your superior, damn slut.

The night air raises goosebumps on your arms, but you barely notice. You're too busy trying not to gawk at him again, to openly stare at how his turtleneck stretches across his pecs. Your fingers itch to trace the lines of muscle you can see through the fabric.

But then V's laugh breaks through the tension like a bucket of cold water.

Right. You have an audience.

You thrust your hoodie toward Jeon, desperate to end whatever this heat is.

His fingers brush yours during the exchange, sending electricity shooting up your arm.

You slip into his jacket and immediately regret everything.

You were wrong.

It doesn't smell like pine and wood and whatever.

It smells like leather and tobacco and something wild, like pine trees after rain. Like a fresh breeze coming through the forest on an autumn morning.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as his scent wraps around you.

Jeon looks almost p̶a̶i̶n̶e̶d̶ uncomfortable as he pulls on your hoodie. His usual fluid grace is gone, movements stiff and awkward. The hoodie that drowns you barely fits across his shoulders, and something about seeing him in your clothes makes your pulse skitter.

Okay, no. This is not fine.

Because his goddamn shoulders strain against your hoodie like it's trying to contain a force of nature.

It's weird seeing him in something so... soft?

He moves, trying to adjust in the smaller piece of clothing—clearly not his size. So it rides up, revealing a strip of tattooed skin right above his waistband.

You've seen his tattoos before.

Yet, somehow, this accidental glimpse feels more i̶n̶t̶i̶m̶a̶t̶e̶ inappropriate than all your training sessions combined.

His eyes snap to yours, catching you staring. Suddenly it feels like all oxygen has been depleted. His jaw clenches, the muscles working under his skin in a way that's suddenly very distracting.

Everything feels magnified—the rise and fall of his chest under your hoodie, the flex of his fingers at his sides, the way his silver chain slightly bounces with his breathing.

The party fades to background noise, and all you can focus on is how his presence seems to fill every inch of space around you.

He looks impossibly hot, and it's unfair, really.

It's unfair how your heart pounds so loud you wonder if he can hear it. It's unfair how there's something magnetic about him tonight, something that makes you want to step closer even as your brain screams to maintain distance.

It's in his stance, his gaze, the storm brewing behind his dark eyes.

And then he speaks, low, gravelly and utterly, utterly unfair.

"Looks like it fits you better than it does me, sunshine."

It sends shivers down your spine, that nickname again. Because the way he says it? Like it melts down his lips like honey dripping right from the comb?

Not fair.

But nothing about Jeon has ever seemed fair.

Not now, not before. Not even as you two make it back to your previous sitting spots.

But you saw it—the way something flashed across his face when he said it, like he was allowing himself that tiny reprieve. Something so wild and unguarded that had disappeared so fast you almost think you had imagined it.

Truth or Dare keeps going, each round getting bolder, but you're having trouble focusing. Your brain keeps circling back to the leather jacket wrapped around you, to the scent of forest that's definitely not helping your concentration.

Jeon's eyes find yours across the fire for the hundredth time tonight. The way he's looking at you now... It's definitely different. It makes your neck burn hot.

Because it's like every time your gazes lock, the air gets a little thicker, a little harder to breathe.

"You good?" Yunjin's whisper cuts through your thoughts. She bumps your shoulder, pink hair falling in her face as she studies you with that too-knowing look of hers.

"Yeah, just thinking." You manage a smile, hoping the firelight hides how warm your face feels.

Someone then dares AD to do aegyo and nearly gets their laptop privileges revoked. You laugh, enjoying the moment with your crew.

But you can't lie to yourself. You're still stuck in this weird bubble where all you can focus on is how Jeon's jacket feels against your skin, how it carries his warmth like it's trying to brand you.

It's not long before the bonfire burns low, casting longer shadows across familiar faces. People start drifting away in twos and threes, sleepy and dizzy.

RM stretches. "Time to wrap it up. Early start tomorrow."

"Ready to go?" Yunjin tugs at your sleeve. "I'm about to pass out."

You nod, pushing yourself up on slightly unsteady legs.

The walk back to the castle feels dreamlike, caught between the quiet forest sounds and your own thundering heartbeat. You tell yourself it's just the alcohol making everything feel so intense.

Yunjin is chattering about something and you feel kinda bad—because you're not really listening. Your brain's too busy replaying every moment by the fire, every loaded glance, every touch.

Your room feels smaller somehow when you finally get there. You close the door and lean against it, trying to get your head straight. The fabric over your shoulders heavier now that you're alone, like it's carrying more than just Jeon's scent.

You shrug it off slowly, fingers catching on worn spots in the leather. The smell of pine and wood hits you again, making your stomach do that stupid little flip thing.

You don't want to analyze what that means.

Taking a deep breath (that definitely doesn't make your head spin with his scent), you lay the jacket at the end of your bed.

It looks wrong there, too dark and dangerous against your regular bedding.

You change into pajamas quickly, like you're trying to outrun your own thoughts, and the truth is the cotton feels too soft after the weight of leather, too normal after everything that happened tonight.

Sliding under the covers, your eyes drift back to the jacket.

It's just clothing, just leather and zippers and thread. It lies there, so inanimate—and yet, somehow, so full of meaning.

The castle creaks and settles around you, leaves rustling outside your window as you wait for drowsiness to drag you under.

You tell yourself the only reason you're not hanging the jacket up is because you're too tired.

goal: 300 notes. next chapter will be posted immediately AS SOON as the goal is reached. 🧚🏻 do your thing kiki nation. <3

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[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Hii I was wondering if you could write like eyeless jack x reader who like cries about everything because they find things really sad like out of the blue the reader will start crying about the fact that Jack will die one day? 🫶🏻😊

Summary: Eyeless jack x Sensitive!Reader who cries at the thought of him dying

Genre: Hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings: Mentions of death, creepypasta things

Credits: Eyeless Jack- Creepypasta, Blue Heart Rate Monitor divider- bernardsbendystraws on tumblr, Meat divider- bernardsbendystraws on tumblr

A/n: This is so me LOLLL i cried when i had to give up my robot baby after my weekend was up for my child development class

Thank you so much for requesting!!

It's a known fact that you are rather sensitive. Especially to your boyfriend, Jack. You cry to him about a lot of things. About how good your day was, about how you accidentally squished a bug, about a particularly good movie, the list goes on. It warms his heart that you are so comfortable around him to show such a vulnerable side of yourself, as common of an occurrence as it may be. Every time he reassures you that its ok to cry, and that you just feel deeper than most other people, which isn't a bad thing! He likes you much better as a sensitive person than he would have if you were more stoic. Because of this, he has plenty of water bottles for you in his room, as well as some comfort items such as an old hoodie of his, your favorite blanket, etc.

This time however, was a little bit different. You came into his office where he was cleaning his tools, and hugged him from behind tightly. He could tell by your sniffles (and the wet spots forming on his back) that you were crying. He put his stuff down and turned around to face you, pulling you into a hug and rubbing your head. "What's wrong, love? Another bug?" You shook your head and let out a small hiccup. "Did Jeff say something?" You shook your head again and looked up at him. "It's just....I got thinking about you and how much I love you..." He let out an adoring sigh and cupped your cheek, rubbing a tear away "I love you too, darling-" You shook your head again and cut him off "But after I thought about that, I thought about growing old with you..." You let out a sob "And then I realized that someday you're gonna die!" You'd barely managed to get the sentence out before another round of crying came about.

Jack was shocked, he hadn't even pondered the idea of his death. He'd never been scared of death, and he'd live a lot longer than you anyways so why were you so worried? He cradled your head into his chest and let out a small laugh "Darling, you know I will live for hundreds of years, right?" You nodded. "And you know that you will be long gone by the time I die, right?" You nodded and looked up at him again. "But you'll be so lonely!! I won't be able to sit with you, or tell you how much I love you!" You buried your face into his neck. "It's just so sad!!"

"Oh, love..." he mumbles as he begins to rub your head again. "You don't need to be worried, I'll come visit you at your grave everyday! And as long as you're useful to Slender, chances are he'll keep you living until you aren't useful..." He rambled on until you had long stopped crying, feeling a little bit better about it all. It took him a moment to realize you'd stopped crying but once he did, he looked down at you and asked "Do you feel better?" You looked down and nodded, sniffling once more. He kissed you on your forehead, and then the tip of your nose. "Don't work yourself up over such things, no matter what happens, we'll figure it out"

[thechildofshadows]

A DAY FOR LOVE

Avery Grambs/Jameson Hawthorne - 2k

Alright!!! This is my sad, sad attempt at fluff, and I also haven't written since like June, so I've had about half a year to lose my writing skills to the mess that is social media. This fic happens between The Hawthorne Legacy and the Final Gambit. When we first see our OTP, they've just told the world that they're dating, and they're preparing for a charity gala. (anyone can read- I rated this General Audiences on Ao3) have fun!

T-MINUS FOUR HOURS (BEFORE THE GALA)

“You’re nervous.” The statement came from Jameson, who saw right through her rapid finger-tapping as more than just an outlet for boredom.

Out of all of the things Avery needed to do that day, filling out forms seemed like the least stressful- and yet, it didn’t seem to curb her anxiety.

She looked up from her desk, and watched Jameson lean his back against the doorframe, putting her in the center of his field of vision.

“Of course I’m nervous! The Hawthorne Foundation Gala is today, and for some reason I’m doing taxes-“

“-and for your pain and suffering, you deserve at least a year’s worth of chocolate donuts!” Xander burst into the room, bearing said chocolate donuts and nearly knocking over Jameson. He tossed his brother a donut before taking a better look at Avery. “I fear you may require a stronger source of sugar with the amount of stress coming from you.” he placed the donuts on her desk.

When Avery didn’t take a donut, he raised an eyebrow. “Does this have nothing to do with taxes and everything to do with an upcoming press release involving the two of you?”

Avery looked at him, seeming close to panic, and both of Xander’s eyebrows went up. “I will take that as a yes, leave this room, and strongly recommend you lovebirds speak to each other.”

Jameson left the door and stood against her desk, facing away. “Do you regret this, Heiress?”

Avery stood and braced herself on the desk. “Of course not. You know that, I know that, but does everyone else know?”

Jameson looked at her. “We’re doing this so that everyone knows. I don’t know if they’ll believe us, but they’ll be informed.”

Avery turned around, and leaned against Jameson. “They’re never going to believe or accept it. This community is weird, Jameson. They hate me enough as is, they’re never going to accept us together.”

Jameson raised an amused eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“What?”

“Look, you gave Alisa the picture and the caption yesterday. She posted it about two minutes ago-“

“-when the donuts came?” Avery’s shock was mixed with anger and relief and it caused Jameson to give her a small smirk.

“-yes, when the donuts came. I think you’re prepared for the worst, Heiress, but maybe not as prepared for the reception we’re truly receiving.” He handed her her phone.

Avery rapidly opened up Instagram and found her phone filled with notifications. She checked her latest post and found a picture of herself and Jameson covered in paint, from the day the two had built and painted her desk. In the photo, she gave Jameson a kiss on the cheek and it was captioned ‘first love ❤️❤️’.

It had over a million likes.

“Wait, a million?” Jameson leaned over her shoulder to look at her phone. It felt oddly domestic and she embraced the feeling. “Alisa said it had 10,000. It’s been less than five minutes, how is the app still running?”

Avery shrugged, a smile finding its way onto her lips. She opened up the comment section.

angel_face222 THEYRE SO CUTE

SONICSCREAMS people date this guy?

reply from lia-eliza dude imagine the kids 😍😍

HOT_TO_GO OPPOSITES ATTRACT CONFIRMED?????

      reply from SONICSCREAMS didn't she date his brother 😭 like that one interview

laffytaffyhappy does this mean he’ll stop being all law-breaky or will she start doing illegal shit.

my-name-is-slim-shaky wait, I lwk never imagined this, but they work so well together, it's my new OTP

theCALENDARRR oh to be young and in love.

      reply from I_is_calculator you're like 16

      reply from theCALENDARR shut up Jessica

      reply from I_is_calculator my name is Elena 😭

Jameson stopped her from scrolling further. "Look, the reception isn't all going to be puppies and chocolate donuts. But I think you're doing pretty good if Instagram thinks it’s not propaganda.”

"Jameson, that was five people out of-" she checked the phone again. "nine thousand comments."

Jameson shrugged. "I highly doubt they're the only five positive ones, Heiress, you would've had a harder time finding it otherwise."

Alisa, who Avery hadn't seen since that morning, walked into the room holding a large garment bag, followed by a makeup artist. "Congratulations, Avery. That's one of the most positively recieved posts I've ever seen on your account."

Jameson raised an eyebrow at Avery, giving her a look that said I told you so, and Avery let go of a breath she didn't even know she had been holding. "You're not joking?"

"Have you ever known Alisa to joke?" Alisa glared at Jameson, who punctuated the statement with a smirk.

Alisa turned to Avery. "About 95% of the general public reacted well, and out of that 5% that didn't, most were teenage girls."

Avery sighed. "As expected."

With the problem mostly settled, Alisa clapped her hands. "Okay, then, onto the rest of our duties. Avery, you have a gala in about four hours. Jameson, get out."

Jameson opened his mouth to protest and then decided against it, for he closed his mouth and dropped a kiss on the top of Avery's head before leaving.

Avery turned to Alisa. "You didn't have to kick him out."

Alisa closed the door behind Jameson, before ushering Avery to the bathroom. "Once you figure out how to get your makeup on while holding a conversation with him, he'll be allowed to stay. We need you both there on time, and you take significantly longer to get ready than he does."

T-MINUS ONE HOUR (Before the gala)

Jameson wasn’t exactly one to panic, but neither was Avery. He began tapping his foot and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

Alisa had left him a selection of four ties and matching pocket squares, and Jameson assumed he was supposed to wear them with a tuxedo. He pulled out the garment bag containing the black one, and began slowly buttoning his shirt.

The sounds of Hakuna Matata filled the room while he tucked his shirt in, and Jameson sighed before picking up his phone. Xander had set his ringtone over two weeks ago; Jameson hadn't gotten around to hacking it yet.

"How are ya doin', Jamie?"

"You live three doors down, why don't you tell me?" he hung up the call.

Not two seconds later, Nash strolled into his room, wearing flannel over jeans and a band t-shirt.

"You look like a waiter. Didn’t Grayson ever teach you to dress yourself?” he took a look toward the rest of the clothing Jameson had set out to wear.

Jameson ran a hand through his hair. “I look the same. I wore this last week.” 

“And then someone asked you for champagne. And you socked them in the face.”

He then proceeded to walk into Jameson's closet -"There’s nothing wrong with what I'm wearing!" "People are gonna ask you for more caviar; Grayson told me to not let you leave the house like that."- and after rummaging for two minutes, found a waistcoat that he didn't even know existed. It was the exact color of the tie Jameson wanted to pick, but Nash procured a black tie and pocket square.

"I think this is the same color as her dress, but honestly, it's gonna be dark, who's gonna see?" Nash held up the waistcoat, as if the nonexistant light would help him see better. 

Jameson took it from him. "Have I ever worn this?"

"Maybe. You were also drinking a lot, so I doubt you or the news remembers." Nash sniffed the cloth. "You would never even know. It doesn't even smell like bourbon."

Jameson raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he began to put his tie on.. “Don’t tell me you’re being serious.”

Nash crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I couldn’t tell you whether it was true or not, Jamie, you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”

Jameson buttoned up his waistcoat. “A wise man takes all truths with a grain of salt.” 

“Bullshit.” Nash drew out the first syllable.

Jameson gave his brother a smirk. “Don’t you know it.” He grabbed the suit jacket and left.

1.5 HOURS IN

“Oh hello dear!” The sound of posh over-confidence crept up behind Avery, who quickly turned.

“Mrs. Anderson!” The woman was one of the slightly pushy heads of a charity created to support budding culinary minds. While incredibly specific, the charity had sent over a thousand students to culinary school, who went on to open restaurants that were all doing pretty well. Avery didn’t mind the woman; she was a lot nicer than most of the attendees, and used her reach to benefit the people who needed it. “How are you, ma’am?”

“I’m doing great, darling, but we need to talk about that dress. You look stunning!”

Avery was draped in dark red silk, covering one arm, and hugging her body until it hit her hips, where it flowed in waves, just shy of reaching the ground. The asymmetrical neckline and bottom of the skirt were covered in minimal silver embroidery-visible when the light hit just so. Alisa had shoved her in a pair of black stilettos, and curled her hair, painting her lips with the same red as her dress. A silver choker was clasped around her throat, matching her earrings and the bracelets on her left hand.

She thanked the woman, handing her a glass of champagne, and asked, “Have you heard about the charity we’re sponsoring today?”

Avery and the woman chatted for a couple of minutes as Avery convinced her to donate thousands of dollars out of pocket.

“Cancer truly is a scary thing.” Mrs. Anderson smiled softly. “I lost my husband to lung cancer. I doubt the majority of these people consider the research worth funding.”

“They think they’re untouchable.” Avery said.

“Precisely, my dear.” The woman grabbed another glass of champagne before looking behind Avery. “Oh, I must add, you and Jameson Hawthorne are a beautiful couple.”

Avery felt her cheeks heat and she looked down, but Mrs. Anderson hadn’t finished. “The amount of love you two have for each other is simply incredible. Just being in the same room as you two makes me feel like an outsider; your bond is so sweet.”

Avery paused. Same room? She turned and saw an incredibly familiar face.

Jameson Hawthorne had finally showed up. He wore a dark grey suit-so dark it was nearly black, with a waistcoat the color of wine and silver chains. His tie matched his suit jacket and his hair was artfully arranged, neat with enough personality such that he still looked like himself.

Mrs. Anderson gave Avery a soft smile. “You two look at each other like a man seeing the stars for the first time in years. If this isn’t true love, I don’t know what is!”

Avery’s lips parted. “Really?”

“Oh trust me darling, you and Jameson are something that happens once in a lifetime.” The woman winked and walked away, exchanging greetings with Jameson, who was headed Avery’s way.

She motioned towards the side of the room, and he showed up a minute later with two wineglasses.

She leaned on a pillar and he stood her to her. “You look beautiful, Heiress.” Jameson handed her the wineglass as he said the statement.

Avery smiled. “And yet, you still upstage me by millions. How has this gala gone so far?”

Jameson grimaced and drained the wineglass like a shot. “All people want to talk about is the fact that I’m ‘off the market and it’s such a shame and won’t I please put in a good word for Grayson’ - if I hear another woman tell me any of that, I’m going through the old man’s whiskey stash.”

Avery suppressed a smile and switched their glasses. She doubted she would drink the wine, and Jameson seemed like he needed it more than she did. Jameson wasn’t usually this open, and she wondered if the wine wasn’t his first drink of the night. “You seem like you’ve had fun.”

Jameson shot her a smirk. “And you should be prepared for more, Heiress,” he clinked his glass against hers, “because I believe the slow dances just started.”

For the few hours, Jameson and Avery alternated between spinning around the dance floor and resting at the bar. Their routine was occasionally interrupted by a speech, a person or both, but by the end of the night, they had raised over a million dollars to charity. The venue closed, but they stayed for an additional thirty minutes to supervise cleanup.

  It took about forty minutes to get back to Hawthorne House and once they made it to Avery’s room, she tossed her heels into her closet and sat on the nearest chair.

Avery sighed. “I am never doing this again.” She stood up and began removing her jewelry, shedding her media persona for the sake of comfort.

Jameson unzipped her dress. “I highly doubt that.”

Avery shot him a look and she had to stifle a laugh when he mirrored it.

Once they were both changed and under the covers, Avery turned to Jameson and propped her head on a hand. “Do you know what day it is?”

Jameson’s eyes glittered and Avery knew he knew the answer. “The fourteenth?”

Avery rolled her eyes. “Valentine’s Day.”

Jameson smirked. “An astute observation, Heiress. And while one AM is a perfectly reasonable time to exchange gifts and other things, I don’t think you want to leave this bed right now.”

Avery nodded. “Definitely not.”

“Then Happy Valentine’s Day, Heiress, and I’ll see you when we inevitably wake up in six hours.”

Avery laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. When they broke apart, she whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jameson.”

And if she woke up the next day with several news articles focusing on the gala (or rather its hosts), well, she was going to ignore it all and spend the entire day with her amazing boyfriend.

fin.

Alright- 2.5 thousand words later, I wish you a happy Valentine’s Day!

(or just a happy Friday if you don’t have plans like me 😄)

(dividers are from @/cafekitsune)

please like, reblog and leave feedback in the comments. Or just throw tomatoes at me. Anything works.

I also realize now that im going to keep writing even if the reception is negative, so if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

expect another fic in 1-2 weeks, more likely 2 than one.

[avocado-writing]

Gale Anon returns to Say: Yes absolutely the Mummy fic. I''m requesting more good boy Gale if you happen to have more thoughts on it. Or maybe a dirty talk Gale? Follow your heart. Thanks again for ur time, ur writing, and ur filthy mind.

well this got a lot more kinky than I meant it to oop. Thank you to M for helping me flesh out the idea!

cw: kinda cnc?; mild bimboification; mild puppy play; consent checks; excessive use of the words “good boy”; sub!gale; dom!reader

rating: E minors dni

Poor Gale is having a hell of a time of it.

Between teaching his classes; all the admin that the college has him doing; and his wizarding duties outside of academia, he’s barely had a chance to rest. Every night he stumbles home exhausted, barely able to keep up conversation with you, let alone indulge in any more intimate activities. It makes you so sad to see. You thought that after the Absolute was dealt with he’d have more control over his life - but it seems like the exact opposite has happened.

It’s been ages since the two of you were able to indulge, since you’ve been able to lay him out on your bed and ride him into oblivion. Reduce him to a quivering mess who’s barely able to speak or think. It’s something both of you enjoy, you getting him to let go and be a good boy for you.

That’s the issue, really; he’s been using his brain too much. He needs a break. To let himself go lovely and empty-headed, sweet and pliable under you. Let you decide what he needs.

When the college breaks for its spring holiday, he comes home to you so desperate that you think he might cry. You’re sitting in your reading nook when he appears, collapses to his knees in front of you and l buries his face in your lap.

“Today,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and emotion, “it needs to be today. Please.”

There’s only one thing he can be talking about.

Sometimes it takes a little while for him to empty his head. After all, if you’re as brilliant as Gale is, your mind is always thrumming with ideas and duties, a veritable beehive of thoughts. Usually you’re able to get him there using your myriad of tricks, but sometimes you’re worried it takes too long for him to fully enjoy the session.

So the two of you have been working on a spell.

It is, at its core, a rework to be a far less powerful scroll of Feeblemind. Designed to put its target into a sweet, thoughtless state for a handful of days, where all they can do is experience pleasure and praise. No room for thinking, just feeling. 

The two of you have been refining it for a while now, and though you’re certain it will work - and is able to be lifted with no adverse effects - you still chew your lip, nervous.

“Gale, love, are you sure? If I cast it, you know you’re probably not going to be able to tap out.”

Gale groans and nuzzles into your further, pressing his face into your leg for comfort.

“I’m aware of that, but gods I need it. I trust you entirely with it, with me. I want you to take complete control over me. I want you to take care of me until I’m too boneless to move. Please, my love. Please.”

When he asks like that, how can you say no?

That night, he sits on your bed in only his smallclothes, cock straining in excitement despite his tiredness. You give him a long, sweet kiss, before pulling away.

“Last chance, darling. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he affirms, and you begin to cast the spell.

As you chant, you see Gale begin to go a little vacant. His body relaxes, all the tension immediately flooding out of it, the only thing remaining rigid being his cock. Soon there is only a sweet emptiness on your lover’s face, a dopey smile, eyes soft and aroused as he looks at you.

“Gale, are you with me?” 

He turns his head to the sound of your voice, managing an ‘mmm’ of affirmation but no words along with it. You reach out to cup his face and he immediately presses into you, mouth seeking out the warmth of your palm to kiss at it. You giggle.

“Gale!” you squeal, and he gives you another sincere, saccharine smile. Interesting…

“Aren’t you a good boy?” you hum, and his lips open just enough to let out a little moan. He twitches in his underwear. Despite his current state, he still responds to your praises, and you intend to use that to your advantage. 

“You’re so lovely, Gale. My handsome wizard. You’re so clever, but I love having you like this, just a silly boy who wants to behave for me. To be good for me. Don’t you want to be good for me, Gale?”

He nods, tears of desperation forming in his eyes. He scoots forward on the bed until his length is flush with your thigh and gently starts to rock his hips up into you, so needy for any kind of stimulation like this that he’d fuck your leg. 

“Awww, you want to get off, baby?”

Another moan of confirmation. You card your fingers through his hair and his eyes roll back in pleasure. You continue to pet him through your steady stream of praise. 

“Always so good for me, my good boy. Go on, honey, fuck yourself up against me. Let me just pull these down…”

You reach to his underwear and tug at the waistband, allowing his cock to spring upwards. He mewls at the cool bedroom air on his tip, already dribbling with precome, and begins to rut against you with more enthusiasm now that he has your consent. His face is buried into your stomach as his arms wrap around you to hold you close, his hips pressing against you in an erratic pace. When he comes for the first time it’s with a relieved little whine from the back of his throat. He coats your skin with his release, shiny and pearlescent; you feel him collapse into you. 

“Good boy. Good boy, Gale.”

He hums happily. You pet him some more.

“You know what good boys also do? They don’t leave a mess. Why don’t you clean me up, sweetheart? And use your tongue, hmm? Alright?”

Gale looks up into your eyes, soft and sweet and pliable, nodding enthusiastically at your suggestion. He’d do anything to get your pretty words anyway, but like this he is even more open to your kindness. He drops to his knees and begins to lick his spend from your thigh, lips trailing upwards from your knee where it has started to drip down. It is a powerfully erotic image to see him so thoroughly at your beck and call. Your leg is left damp when he is done but he licks his lips to show you that he’s finished and ready for more instructions. 

Oh, you are going to have a wonderful few days. 

In order to keep him near you, you decide to employ the use of a leash. The collar is snug but comfortable around his neck and he’s happy to go wherever you bring him. There’s no point in him wearing any clothes as the tower is always at an ambient temperature, so he spends his days nude by your side. Whenever he’s desperate for attention he searches out your warmth and buries his face into you, and you either run your fingers through his hair if he’s looking for sweetness or use your hand on him if he’s looking for stimulation. Either way he’s left a dizzy mess afterwards who you coddle and praise. 

He’s so relaxed, and it’s an utter pleasure to see. You sit on the sofa, propped up with plush pillows, while he reclines at your feet with his cheek resting on your leg. His proximity to you is a calming presence for him, and often he turns his head to press a kiss into your skin for no reason other than he wants to.

He loves you so completely. In return, your heart is entirely his. 

Occasionally he gets very needy and presses open your thighs, hitching up your robes and nuzzling into your sex.

“Gale, are you sure?” you ask, his glassy eyes shining with surety as he nods. He fucks you with his mouth as if it’s his gods-given duty, ekeing as many orgasms out of you as you’re able to give him. When he’s done and his face is shiny with your come, you see he’s spent on the floor; it is a simple order for him to clean up leaves him moaning in arousal. 

He is thoroughly taken care of. You’re never far from him to offer comfort, constantly checking in that he’s happy. He always nods his affirmation but lets you know if there’s anything the matter; hunger or exhaustion weighing on him. 

You feed him. You don’t need to, he’s capable of doing it himself, but he gets hard as he sits in your lap and you offer him bites of sandwich from your hand, face in a permanent grin of adoration. 

The last night you expect the spell to last is when you finally ride him. The two of you have had so many orgasms over the past few days you’re surprised that there’s anything left in the tank, but you still find it in yourself to fuck him into sweet oblivion. He’s able to clutch onto your hips and moan your name, pleasure his only feeling, your love the only thing he knows.

You fall asleep entwined in an embrace, gorgeous little words dripping from your lips until you drift off. 

The next morning you wake and the bed is empty, but you can smell bacon being fried in the kitchen. You groggily drag yourself along its scent until you find Gale standing at the stovetop, in his purple dressing gown and an apron, humming happily to himself. A couple of sleepy steps forward allow you to embrace him and tuck your face between his shoulderblades.

“The plan was to bring you breakfast in bed, but you seem to have thoroughly waylaid it,” he remarks. You can hear the smile in his voice. He’s verbal again - you’re glad he seems to be back to his usual self. 

“Mmm, I just wanted to see you. How are you, love? Are you alright? I tried to check in with you as much as I could…”

He turns to face you, and you’re immediately struck with how relaxed he looks. His eyes are soft, jaw loose, none of the tension he was carrying apparent any more. 

“My heart, I’m more than alright. I’ve never been so thoroughly taken care of. I’m so glad - blessed, really - to have you to look after me. I love you.”

He kisses you, and it’s long and delicious. 

“So, successful experiment, Professor Dekarios?” you ask, a cheeky grin on your face. He groans at that title, and you feel his cock throb. 

“I think you might have drained me dry over these past days, but I’m more than willing to see if I have one more in me…” he mutters, stepping forward to trap you between his body and the table. 

“It’s for research, after all.”

taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13@trappedinlimbo15@infinitely-kate@dhampling@wereallbrokenangels@tilldeathdonugget@useless-contributions@beardedladyquee

[prettypumpum]

Title: Crossed Dimensions I Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: strong language, mentions of violence, depression, anxiety

Summary: You were living an ordinary life until the day a portal throws you into the Marvel universe. Trapped between an unbearable Deadpool and a Wolverine as troubling as he is charming, you discover powers you didn't know you had and an unknown past with certain heroes. As your anxiety grows in the face of this new reality, will you be able to find your place and perhaps become the hero they need?

Word count: 1,136

"I have good news and great news," Wade began when I returned from the bar bathroom where our pilot was supposed to meet us. "Enrique transferred the money, so for now, we're rich. And drumroll," he said, gesturing for me to tap on my thighs, "Elis is delayed, so we're stuck here until tomorrow morning," added the mercenary cheerfully.

"You think that's good news?" Logan asked, ordering another drink. We’d been here for three hours, and at this rate, the bonus would be gone.

"Are you in a rush to see him again? Need to hear more about that seafood restaurant in Barbados?" I asked Logan, who grimaced, remembering just how annoying our pilot could be.

Our conversation was interrupted by Wade's phone. He showed us the screen: it was Al. She’d be pleased; Enrique had even given us a little something extra in kind.

"So, tell me, how’s my favorite girl?" Wade asked, answering the call. "I meant the dog, you old fossil! She’s saying sweet things about you," he said, pressing the phone to his chest and stepping outside, leaving Logan and me alone.

"How’s your injury?" he asked me.

"It’s completely gone."

He nodded and went back to drinking. I nervously played with my glass; it was my sixth mojito, and I still didn’t feel anything. Now and then, I’d glance at the man beside me. He had never told us what had happened to him or why he was the way he was. He seemed so sad and angry. I’d started to think that this new universe was a second chance for him, too.

"Thanks for helping me with my powers; you must’ve been a great teacher," I said with a small smile, to which he only responded with a grunt. "What did you teach?" I asked, trying to fill the silence that was becoming awkward. We were the only customers in this dingy bar. I’d never been the most social person, but I needed to talk, and Logan was the only one who could understand since he was in the same situation as me, especially with Laura.

"We don’t have to do this," he said, setting down his empty glass and ordering another. It was four in the afternoon, and I’d already lost count of what he’d drunk. I nodded, hoping Wade would come back soon. "I taught history," he finally said after a long silence.

"I used to be a dancer." I wanted to slap myself; I didn’t know why I’d said that—it was like my mouth had a mind of its own. "Well, not in the end… I worked in a bookstore in Brooklyn."

"You could ask Wade’s friend to find you a job."

"I wasn’t that kind of dancer; I performed in Broadway shows," I said with a smile. "I ran into your Variant from my universe during one of my auditions… well, I saw him walking from far away and from behind, but that counts."

"What the hell was he doing at a Broadway audition?"

"He had the lead role in one of the shows."

At least it made him laugh. It was nice to see him in a good mood, even though I quite liked his grumpy expression.

"No kidding!" he said, disgusted, taking another swig of his beer. "If anyone had ever told me I’d end up drinking in a bar with Dreamwalker," he said, more to himself than to me.

"What was I like in your universe?" I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"You were a real pain in the ass," he replied before taking a sip of his beer. "But you weren’t the worst."

I nodded, unsure of what to say. I’d been taken by the TVA because I was an anomaly; I’d started to develop powers in a world where that wasn’t supposed to happen. And after meeting Wade, he’d explained who I was while we looked for a Wolverine.

"For what it’s worth, I’m sorry," I said awkwardly.

"You’re not her," he said. "No, you’re definitely not her," he muttered, giving me a look full of meaning.

I wasn’t sure if it was because he’d nearly drunk the bar’s entire supply or if I was imagining things because of the stress and fatigue. But I willingly joined him in this little game.

"Is that right?" I asked, unsure where I found the courage to keep this conversation going as I kept my gaze locked on the mutant’s. His beautiful brown eyes were growing darker and darker.

Our noses were almost touching, and I could feel his breath, tinged with beer and whiskey. His gaze never left mine; it was so dark, almost animalistic. I didn’t know if he was going to bite me or kiss me. The scariest part was that I didn’t know which I’d prefer.

*What am I doing?* My reason was screaming at me not to play with fire, but my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I knew this wasn’t a good idea, that Logan wasn’t the kind of man you approached without leaving a piece of yourself behind. And yet, I was here, unable to pull away. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood, knowingly choosing to play with the wolf, fully aware of what that meant.

"Everything’s fine!" Wade yelled as he reentered the bar, snapping both of us out of that suspended moment. Logan and I quickly pulled away from each other; I turned my attention to my drink, trying to hide my flushed face, and calm my heart, which was about to leap out of my chest. Reality had just jolted me out of that daydream in a brutal and familiar way—of course, nothing was going to happen, not between Logan and me. As if someone like him would actually let himself go for someone like me. I lowered my gaze, hoping Wade wouldn’t notice my flushed cheeks, trying to ignore the painful void left by that stolen moment.

"Did I interrupt something?" Wade asked, curious. I shook my head, staring at the little umbrella in my glass while Logan stayed turned away, still drinking. "Are you sure?" he continued.

"How’s everything at home?" I asked to change the subject. "She got in a car accident," Wade replied calmly.

I still couldn’t understand how a blind old lady addicted to cocaine had a driver’s license.

"Oh my God, is she okay?" I asked, concerned for the old lady.

"She’s in the hospital with a bunch of fractures and a concussion," Wade replied calmly. "But my little Mary Poppins is fine; she’s with Vanessa. Aren't they just adorable together?" he asked in a schoolgirl’s voice, showing me a selfie where Vanessa was holding Dogpool, with Al in the background, clearly in pain.

"Adorable," I replied.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: When Everything Goes Wrong, Go Right

Author: Ryan_A

Artist: Aceriee

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester Garth/Benny Dean/Lee (breakup) Castiel/April (past)

Length: 100000

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Rape/Non-Con

Tags: Russian Alpha Cas, Omega Dean, Gentle yet Badass Cas, Secret Identity, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Castiel likes his knives, Car Chases, Dean makes alphas eat his Impala’s dust, Gabriel’s Wonka-like Bakery

Posting Date: November 7, 2024

Summary: Dean swears the universe is out to get him. It’s bad enough he was born a rare omega in a world that sees them as freaks, but after ruffling the feathers of a relentless gang of alphas, he’s on the run, fleeing for his life. His Impala might be a beast of a muscle car, but even it can’t outrun the weather or the universe that insists on toying with him like a cat with its prey. Dean evades his pursuers only to end up trapped by a severe storm in a remote town in South Dakota. Drenched to the bone and unable to fix a flat tire in the woods, a strange blue-eyed alpha in a trench coat comes to his aid like a guardian angel. But Dean doesn’t trust alphas. And not everything is as it seems. With the universe still pulling its strings, Dean’s days of fleeing aren’t over yet.

Excerpt: “Cassie? What the hell happened to you?” Gabriel exclaims, eyes wide with shock. “The bridge was washed out. Had to swim across.” Gabriel curses under his breath and shoos Castiel toward the staff room. Castiel doesn’t miss how his older brother glances toward the hidden camera in the coffee maker, raising his hands to profess his innocence to the unseen audience. But he does hear Gabriel leave and return with a towel muttering, “At least stop making a puddle.” Castiel catches the towel, the fabric soft against his cold skin, and starts drying off. “I tried to call, but the phone lines are down from the storm.” Gabriel's face tightens with concern. “She's watching right now, isn't she?” Castiel asks, already knowing the answer. Gabriel doesn’t respond, instead suggesting, “Go use the shower upstairs. I’ll find you dry clothes.” “No.” Castiel shakes his head, water droplets flying. “I have to swim back.” “Eto pizdets,” Gabriel curses in Russian and scrubs his face. “I want you to stay put on the other side.” “But mandatory check-in—” “I’ll take care of it with Pakhan Mikhail. God knows Mother’s giving him an earful right now, seeing the state you’re in. My phone will be ringing as soon as you leave.” “It’s just water. I’m perfectly capable of swimming—” “Don’t you even think of it. Your lips are blue, Cassie. You think Mother can’t see color through that camera? She’s gonna hit me upside the head for this.” Castiel reaches for one of Gabriel’s freshly baked blueberry muffins with the compelling urge to package one up to bring to Dean. A gift. To provide for him like a good alpha. “Oh, Cassie.” Gabriel sits back on the sofa, his tone turned upbeat. “You got that look in your eye.” "What look?” Castiel glares, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. “Like you picked up a stray. What is it this time? You rescue a drowned cat?” Gabriel leans forward, his grin widening as Castiel remains silent. “A dog? Did it show up at your door all sad-eyed, and you had to take it in?” Castiel stays silent, discomfort prickling at his skin. Gabriel's eyes narrow with discerning curiosity. “No . . . this is different, isn’t it? Something else. Something untamable. And you like it. A challenge. I’d say you took in a raccoon, but that doesn’t feel right either.” Gabriel taps his fingers over the top of the sofa. “Come on, tell me.” “No.” “Tell me or I’m gonna swim over there myself and find out what you’re hiding.” Reluctantly, Castiel mutters, “I rescued an omega.” Gabriel's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “She hot? Tell me she’s hot,” he asks with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle. Castiel sighs. “She’s a he.” “A rare male omega? The odds of—” “1 in 1.3 million. He had a flat tire outside my cabin.” “Whoa, bro. The chances of that are about the same as getting struck by lightning.” “He nearly did.”

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[kingofbodyrolls]

Of Salt & Shadow (m) | myg

Yoongi has always been the embodiment of salt and shadow—a creature of the deep, shaped by the weight of tides and secrets, masking his wounds behind icy detachment and a stoic facade. But then there’s you, a flicker of warmth in his endless gray. You stay when others drift away, your words like whispers of sunlight breaking through his storm. Slowly, you unravel the delicate threads of his pain, exposing the fragile heart beneath his hardened exterior. Yet, the question lingers like a distant tide: can he rise above the currents of his past, or is he destined to drown in the cycle of his own making?

→ Pairing: yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: mermaid!au, fantasy!au, magical!au → Trope: one night stand to lovers → Genres: fluff, smut, ANGST, drama → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 9.6k → Warnings (general) + triggers: mention of childhood trauma, FEELINGS, ANGST, brokenness, love, hope, healing, yoongi has a fuckboy attitude, and he really just needs a hug, insecurities, abandonment issues, mention of past suicide (it’s a very minor characher, not one of the tannies), emotions. → Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex, mention of multiple orgasms, oral, creampie, it’s just very light, poetic and sweet. →  Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: This story is for all of you I had to leave behind, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. To every one of you who reached out, checking in on me, making sure I was still breathing and dreaming—I’m doing okay. Not amazing, not terrible—just somewhere in between, like a song stuck on a bittersweet chord. I’ve been on a break from Tumblr and writing fanfiction, but then it happened—one ordinary day at work, inspiration hit me like lightning. The final piece of this story clicked into place, and I knew exactly how to make it ache. Sad and raw, angsty enough to sting, but with the kind of happy ending you’ve all been hoping for. This one’s for you—for caring, for asking, for being such breathtakingly kind humans. I love you. I adore you. I hope this story brings you something—a spark, a feeling, a tear, or maybe even a little healing. Fair warning: it’ll probably make you cry, but I promise, it’s beautiful. The smut? Oh, it’s feather-light, soft and poetic, just what my heart wanted to write right now. And please, when you meet this Yoongi in the story, wrap him in the biggest, warmest hug you’ve got, okay? He needs it 🥹

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a collection of series that are stand-alone one-shots, but all of them are set in the same universe. They are slightly connected though 🤭

Life feels like a washed-out canvas, smeared with ash and shadow, even as the bass thrums through his veins, loud enough to shatter silence but not the emptiness. The cup in his hand is an elixir of forgetting, filled with fire meant to scorch his senses and cauterize the wounds of what he’s about to do tonight. Again.

He exhales, the weight of the world dragging him down like chains, his shoulders curving inward as he sinks against the cold, indifferent embrace of the bar stool. His eyes sweep the crowd—a kaleidoscope of strangers: glittering, laughing, unknowing. The usual suspects. Painted lips, swaying bodies, secrets exchanged between half-hidden smiles. But then there’s you.

He sees you. And then he doesn’t. He forces himself to look past you as if you’re a ghost, a memory he refuses to resurrect. But your presence has a gravity of its own, pulling at him like the moon calls the tide. Against his better judgment, his gaze drifts back, and when it lands on you, he feels the punch of it, sharp and breathless.

Your eyes—damn them—look so raw, so fractured, as if you’ve been waiting for him to glue the pieces together. Don’t look at me like that, he thinks, biting down on his bottom lip until the metallic tang of blood blooms on his tongue. The taste is grounding. It reminds him of who he is, of the rules he’s made for himself.

He takes another slow drag of his drink, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache clawing at his chest. He tells himself not to care, not to notice how you linger, how your fingers tighten around your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the room.

Why can’t you see it? The warning etched into every move he makes? He’s a tempest—beautiful to watch, but fatal if you step too close.

No. He can’t do this. Not again.

The decision is made before the thought fully forms. He drains the rest of his drink in one defiant gulp, the liquid fire smothering whatever ember of guilt still glows within him. His eyes catch a flash of gold in the crowd—a blonde, smiling, unaware—and he latches onto her like a lifeline.

He moves to her with practiced ease, whispers into her ear words he doesn’t mean, words that make her laugh as if they’re true. Her hand slips into his, and together they disappear through the pulsing haze of neon light.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. He knows you’re still there, still watching. He knows your expression, the same way he knows the sting of regret that waits for him in the quiet hours of the night. But regret is a demon he’s learned to live with, and tonight, it won’t be you who haunts him.

“Hyung!” Jimin’s voice cuts through the shimmering expanse of water, desperate and unyielding as he surges forward, his limbs slicing through the waves with frantic determination. The ocean is a mirror of emotions—ripples distorting the light above, casting fleeting patterns over the seafloor.

Yoongi slows, his movements fluid and effortless, a predator at ease in his domain. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak, simply lets his younger friend close the gap between them. Silence is his armor, but it also leaves room for the currents to carry truths neither of them want to face.

“I’m sorry for what Tae said,” Jimin gasps, his voice heavy with guilt as he treads water beside him. His eyes glisten—not with the saltwater, but with something far more fragile.

Yoongi huffs, the sound rough, like the grind of a stone against the seabed. “Don’t apologize for someone else,” he mutters, the words carrying the sharp tang of dismissal.

Jimin’s lips curve into a wry smile, but there’s no humor behind it. “Fine,” he says, exhaling. “But you’ve got to see it from his point of view too.” His tone is coaxing, like someone trying to tame a storm, but Yoongi doesn’t want to be tamed. He doesn’t want to see anything. Not now.

The accusation still clings to him, stinging like brine in an open wound. Fuckboy. The word slithers into his thoughts, unwanted and cruel. Yes, he sleeps around—he won’t deny that. But somehow, hearing it aloud, weaponized, leaves him hollow.

“I don’t want to explain myself,” Yoongi says, his voice dropping into something quieter, something broken. “I don’t need to.”

“I know,” Jimin says softly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He didn’t mean it.”

But as if summoned by the apology, Taehyung swims into view, his silhouette framed by the flickering sunlight above. His arms are crossed, his expression thunderous.

“Oh, I meant it,” he spits, his voice cutting through the water like a blade. “Yoongi just likes to get his dick wet and doesn’t give a damn about the girls he leaves behind. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit their mark. Yoongi flinches, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second before he tightens it again, a coil wound too tight. Anger blooms like ink in water, dark and suffocating.

Jimin, ever the peacekeeper, senses the shift. He moves quickly, placing himself between them, his hands raised as if to hold back a brewing storm. “Tae, stop—”

But Taehyung isn’t done. “Hobi told me everything,” he presses, his voice relentless. “How every night it’s a new girl. Don’t you ever feel it? The emptiness? The loneliness?”

Yoongi’s blood surges hot, his patience snapping like a frayed rope. He surges forward, his presence suddenly immense, like a shadow swallowing the light. Their faces are inches apart now, the tension crackling like lightning.

“Listen to me,” Yoongi growls, his voice a deadly whisper, his teeth bared. “I don’t owe you, or anyone, an explanation. We’re friends, Tae, but if you don’t shut the fuck up, I swear—” He gestures sharply toward a jagged underwater cave in the distance, its dark maw gaping like a warning. “I’ll make you regret it.”

The threat lingers, cold and sharp. Taehyung swallows hard, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Yoongi’s glare. “Fine,” he mutters, backpedaling. “I’ll go. Whatever.” He turns and swims away, his retreat quick and graceless.

The silence that follows is heavy, the ocean itself seeming to hold its breath. Yoongi exhales, his chest tight with anger, frustration, and something he can’t name.

“Yoongi…” Jimin’s voice is quiet now, careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what remains of his friend’s resolve. He stays close, his presence a tether to reality. Yoongi wishes he wouldn’t—wishes Jimin would let him drown in his own anger, his own choices.

“We just want you to be happy,” Jimin says, his hand finding Yoongi’s shoulder. His touch is grounding, warm.

Yoongi laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter sound that leaves a sour taste in the air. “Sleeping around makes me happy,” he says, trying to sound convincing. But the words betray him, falling flat, stripped of all conviction. Even he doesn’t believe them.

Jimin doesn’t push. He simply pulls Yoongi into a brief hug, a silent reassurance, before swimming back toward the others.

Alone, Yoongi sinks lower, his tail brushing the sand. The seafloor stretches endlessly before him, littered with clams, kelp, and scattered stones. Tiny crabs scuttle past, fish darting in pairs—happy, connected, alive.

He stares at them, his chest tight with the crushing weight of solitude. He is surrounded by life, by warmth and light, yet it all feels so distant. He is an island, untouchable, unreachable. And though he tells himself it’s by choice, deep down, he knows the truth:

He has nothing. And no one.

—

You’re back at the bar again, the air thick with smoke and music that throbs like a heartbeat, and there he is—Yoongi. The man with skin pale as moonlight and hair dark as obsidian, a creature carved from the night itself. His presence is magnetic, an otherworldly pull you can’t resist. Yoongi. His name echoes in your mind, a soft whisper that lingers like a spell cast two weeks ago, when you let him into your bed and, briefly, your soul. He told you then that he doesn’t do relationships, his voice cold, his eyes distant.

And yet, here you are, back at the club every night, hoping for a fleeting glance, a flicker of acknowledgment. But Yoongi doesn’t see you—not anymore. He lets other women take him home instead, their faces blurring together in the low, shifting lights of the club. His detachment should disgust you, but instead, it hurts. Not because you love him—you don’t. Or at least you tell yourself you don’t. But there’s something about him, an unspoken ache that calls to you, as if you were meant to carry part of his burden.

He seems so lonely. So unbearably sad. His face, stoic and cold, masks something deeper—a raw, unhealed wound buried beneath layers of indifference. It makes your heart ache, not because of his beauty or the ghost of his touch, but because he looks like a kicked puppy, or a man drowning in an ocean of his own making. You see through the cracks in his armor. You feel it in the way he avoids your gaze, in the heaviness of his sighs when he thinks no one’s watching.

There’s more to Yoongi; you know it as surely as you know your own name. And you’ve made up your mind—you’re going to find out what lies beneath. It doesn’t matter how many girls he lets lead him away into the night. This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about the way his sadness haunts you, the way you can’t help but want to see him smile, even just once.

A few days later, you’re back at the club. The air feels heavier tonight, almost electric, and your eyes immediately find him—Yoongi. But this time, he’s not alone. A man with fiery red hair sits beside him, his smile warm and radiant, a stark contrast to Yoongi’s storm-cloud demeanor. If Yoongi is the night, this man is the sun, shining unapologetically.

For weeks, Yoongi hasn’t looked at you, hasn’t acknowledged your presence. But tonight, you’re done waiting. With determination in your step, you weave through the crowd, your heart pounding with every beat of the bass, until you’re standing at his table. Without hesitation, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down.

Yoongi’s eyes snap to yours, startled and—yes—a little annoyed. His lips press into a thin line, while his friend looks at you with an amused grin.

“Hi, Yoongi,” you say softly, offering a smile that doesn’t waver under his glare.

He grunts in response, his gaze flicking away from you.

The red-haired man leans forward, his grin widening. “Hi, I’m Hoseok,” he says, his voice bright and inviting.

“Yoongi told me about you,” Hoseok adds, laughter dancing in his tone when Yoongi rolls his eyes dramatically.

You blink, surprise coloring your expression. “He did?”

“Not in detail, or many words,” Hoseok chuckles. “But yeah.”

Your lips curve into a small, almost shy smile. “I know Yoongi’s a man of few words,” you tease, leaning forward slightly. “You’re more the listening type, right?”

For a fraction of a second, Yoongi flinches—barely noticeable—but you catch it. He recovers quickly, his expression hardening. Another grunt escapes him, which only makes you and Hoseok laugh.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” you say lightly, though your voice softens as you add, “But I’d love to hear more about you.”

“There’s nothing to learn,” Yoongi replies, his tone flat and unyielding. “I told you before—I don’t do relationships.”

The words sting, but you push the feeling aside. You lift your chin, meeting his cold gaze with calm resolve. “Who said I wanted a relationship?”

Yoongi scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t sleep with the same person more than once.”

“Who said I wanted sex?” you counter, your smile unwavering. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Hoseok hiding a laugh behind his hand.

Yoongi freezes, his expression momentarily slipping into something vulnerable, like a crack in ice. He looks at you as if he can’t decide whether to be insulted or intrigued.

Taking your chance, you lean closer, your voice lowering just enough to draw him in. “Listen, I won’t deny that you were amazing in bed. But this isn’t about that.” You pause, your gaze softening. “You seem… broken.”

The word lingers in the air between you, heavy and raw. Yoongi’s reaction is immediate—he stiffens, his eyes widening like a cornered animal. For a moment, you think he might run. You reach out, gently placing your hand over his, grounding him.

“I know it’s not my business,” you say softly, “but you can tell me. I can be your friend.”

His hand retreats from yours, his movements abrupt, his walls slamming back into place. “It’s not your business,” he says, his voice colder than ever. Then he stands, turning away from you without another word.

You watch his shadow retreat, your heart sinking as you lean back in your chair with a sigh. Beside you, Hoseok lets out a chuckle, his eyes sparkling with something between pity and admiration.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hoseok says, “that’s exactly how he treats his friends.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

“But,” Hoseok continues, his voice more serious, “you should try again. Yoongi’s got a hard shell, but sometimes, the ones who seem the most unreachable are the ones who need someone the most.”

He slides a drink toward you, his smile kind, and you take it with a grateful nod. As you sip, your thoughts linger on Yoongi, on the mystery of him, and on the ways you might find the cracks in his walls.

Yoongi is trying to fill the void again—just like every day. The club, with its pulsing music and flickering neon lights, has always been his preferred poison, a place where the noise drowns out the silence inside him. But lately, it’s been harder. Harder to find someone, harder to slip into his usual rhythm.

Because of you.

You’re always there now, sliding into the booth across from him with a brightness that’s almost jarring in the shadowy haze of his world. You talk—about everything. Your life, your friends, your work, your family. At first, it was all surface-level chatter, the kind of words people throw out to fill silence. But over the days that stretched into weeks, the conversation deepened. You’ve started sharing your dreams, your struggles, your quiet hopes for the future. And still, Yoongi listens in silence.

He doesn’t mind. In fact, he hears every word, even if his eyes occasionally drift to the dancefloor, to the swirl of bodies moving to the beat. But something has changed—his heart feels heavier, more unsettled, every time you speak. It’s as if your words are planting seeds he doesn’t know how to nurture. And he doesn’t understand.

Why do you keep talking to him, when he offers you nothing in return? When every night ends the same, with him slipping away, letting someone else take him home? He can see the flicker of hurt in your eyes, the way you mask it with a soft smile, as if you’ve already accepted his nature. But Yoongi isn’t blind—he knows he’s hurting you.

And yet, you stay.

You should run, he thinks to himself, over and over. But you don’t.

And he doesn’t understand.

He’s not special. He’s nobody. Just a hollow shell drifting through life, alone.

“Yoongi?” your voice cuts through his thoughts like a bell, and he blinks, realizing he’s blanked out again. The sound of his name on your lips pulls him back into the present, and he takes a sip of his drink, stalling for time.

“That’s why you’re like this, right?” you ask softly, your eyes searching his face with an intensity that unnerves him. Yoongi stares at you, his mind scrambling to piece together what you said before. He feels his pulse quicken, feels the weight of your question pressing on him like a heavy stone.

“Someone hurt you?” you ask again, your tone quieter this time, sadder.

He huffs a laugh, low and bitter. “Nah, darling. No one hurt me,” he lies, his voice rough and strained, as if the words have clawed their way out of his throat.

You tilt your head, your gaze piercing, and he feels like you can see straight through the facade he’s spent years perfecting. “You and I both know that’s a big, fat lie,” you say with a knowing smile, taking a sip of your drink. “But okay.”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard. How do you know? How can you see the pieces of him he thought he’d hidden so well?

As if reading his mind, you add with a grin, “Don’t worry, I can’t read your thoughts. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so… cold.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, leaning across the table with a gentleness that takes his breath away.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “You don’t have to tell me. Not until you’re ready. I don’t want to force you.” And then, without hesitation, you reach across the table and take his hand.

The touch is soft, grounding, and yet it sends something blazing through his veins—something foreign and unnameable.

Since that moment, things have shifted. Yoongi still shows up at the club every night, but now, he doesn’t leave with someone else. He stays. He lingers. He sits with you, and for the first time, he talks.

At first, the words come slow, halting. But as the nights go on, he finds himself sharing bits and pieces of himself, fragments of the person he’s hidden away.

“My friends wouldn’t believe me if I told them I’m actually talking to you,” he says one night, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.

“Why?” you ask, leaning closer, as if the world beyond the booth has faded away.

“Because,” he replies, his voice tinged with self-deprecation, “like you said all those weeks ago, I’m more the listening type. Actually, I’m not really a ‘people’ type of guy.”

You stare at him for a moment, your gaze steady and understanding, before nodding.

After a beat of silence, you speak again, your voice softer now. “Do you want to meet me at the pier tomorrow?” you ask, a shy smile gracing your lips. “Maybe we could hang out somewhere else for a change. Somewhere… quieter?”

Yoongi leans back, his lips curving into a small smirk. You’re right—the club is loud, chaotic. How the two of you have managed to hold any kind of conversation here is a mystery. “Sure,” he says, the word slipping out before he can overthink it.

The smile that lights up your face sends something bubbling in his chest, something he doesn’t have a name for yet. And though he tries to push it down, to keep the walls around his heart intact, he can feel them beginning to crack.

Yoongi awakens to yet another day, the soft, golden sunlight filtering through the water, its gentle rays cascading down to the room he shares with his younger brother, Jimin. The light dances across the rippling surface above, a delicate ballet that makes their underwater world shimmer like a dream. Yoongi stretches, his body arching fluidly like the waves outside their window.

Beside him, Jimin stirs, his sleepy voice breaking the tranquil silence. “Do you have that date thingy today? With that human girl you’ve been talking to for weeks?”

Yoongi freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. He almost blushes—how ridiculous. Him, blushing? And in front of Jimin of all people? There’s no point in trying to look tough. Jimin sees through him anyway.

“Yeah,” he stammers, his voice barely audible. He feels his skin grow warm—uncomfortably so, like the temperature in their room had suddenly risen.

Jimin’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile. “I hope it goes well.”

Yoongi just grunts in response, his tail flicking in irritation. He doesn’t want to say he hopes so too—doesn’t want to jinx it. But Jimin already knows. He always knows.

With a slow sway of his tail, Yoongi swims to prepare himself. He’s never put this much effort into anything before—not like this. He’s never even had a date before, if this can even be called that. You didn’t call it a date, after all, but to Yoongi, it feels like one. Just the two of you, meeting under the open sky in the middle of the day. Why, then, is his heart pounding like this? The unfamiliar sensation makes him clench his fists, trying to will it away.

Languidly, Yoongi swims toward the surface, the sunlight growing brighter and warmer as he ascends. When he reaches the shore, he finds a hidden spot, the transformation from tail to legs smooth and practiced. Behind an ancient tree, he retrieves the clothes he’d stashed away: simple sneakers, faded jeans, and a hoodie to ward off the sea breeze.

The pier stretches out before him like a bridge to another world. Small boats bob gently in the water, seagulls wheel lazily above, their cries sharp yet soothing. Yoongi sits on a weathered bench, his gaze tilting upward to the endless expanse of sky.

How free they are, he thinks, watching the gulls soar effortlessly. Free to roam wherever the wind takes them. Are they happy? He wonders. He is as free as they are—free to swim the vast, sprawling kingdom of Naraeum. Yet, for all its beauty, it cannot take him to the place he truly craves.

His throat tightens as unwelcome memories rise like shadows from the depths. He tries to push them back, clenching his hands against the swell of emotions threatening to drown him. Not now. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about them. About what they did. About what you lost.

“Yoongi… Are you crying?”

The soft voice pulls him back to the present, and his head snaps down from the clouds. There you are, standing before him, radiant in a summer dress that flutters gently in the breeze. The sunlight catches in your hair, and for a fleeting moment, you look like something out of a dream. Your smile is warm, but your eyes are filled with concern as you step closer.

Before he can respond, you sit beside him, your arms wrapping around him in a gentle, unexpected hug. He stiffens, caught off guard, but doesn’t pull away. He can’t. He doesn’t know how.

He says nothing. He doesn’t think he can.

The tears he tried so desperately to hold back slip free, falling silently onto the strap of your dress. And still, you hold him, your voice soft and steady. “It’s okay, Yoongi. Crying isn’t bad.”

He scoffs, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t like to cry,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost to the wind.

You hear him anyway. “I think it’s a sign of strength,” you say thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, you add, “Or maybe… maybe you’ve been strong for so long, you’re finally breaking.”

The words hit him like a tidal wave. Time seems to freeze. How? How can you see him so clearly when everyone else only ever looked through him?

You smile, a little awkwardly, and say, “Or, you know, maybe the wind just hit your face too hard.” You laugh softly, but Yoongi doesn’t. As much as it stings, he prefers the moments when you’re real, when you say the things that cut to the core.

“Maybe I am breaking…” he whispers, the words so soft they feel like a secret shared only with the breeze.

Without warning, you shift the conversation, your voice light and curious. “Have you slept with anyone lately?”

The abruptness catches him off guard, his head snapping toward you. “No,” he says, his brows furrowing. What does that have to do with anything?

But when he sees the way your lips curve into a gentle smile, he realizes. He hasn’t sought out anyone else’s touch since he started spending time with you. He hasn’t tried to fill the emptiness with fleeting nights and hollow embraces. He hasn’t needed to.

You rest your hand on his knee, your touch grounding him. “Maybe you’re healing,” you say simply.

Healing. The word lodges itself in his chest, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. Could it be true? Could you—you—be the reason he’s beginning to feel something other than the ache of emptiness?

He wants to tell you this, to share the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind, but before he can, you speak again, your tone soft and hesitant. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

He turns to you fully now, his eyes locking onto yours. “What is it?”

You look up to the sky, your eyes tracing the same infinite blue Yoongi gazed at just moments before. The breeze tugs at your hair, a playful reminder of the world’s ceaseless motion. You inhale deeply, as though trying to draw courage from the air itself, and then your gaze lowers, heavy with hesitation.

Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch the way your fingers curl around the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric like you’re wringing out your thoughts. He wonders what storm you’re holding back, what truth is weighing you down, and if he’s ready to hear it.

“I don’t have many friends,” you begin, your voice quiet, fragile—like a single note trembling in a vast, empty room. You turn to face him fully now, and Yoongi watches the weight of the words settle in your expression. “Actually… I don’t have any friends,” you continue, your voice cracking under the strain. “Not since my best friend… took his own life.”

Yoongi feels the breath hitch in his chest. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move. He knows what it’s like to tread these waters, the ones that pull you under no matter how hard you swim.

“I guess…” you pause, looking down at your hands as you push a strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe I saw some sadness in you, and it scared me. I wanted to be there for you, even though I didn’t really know you. Maybe I still don’t.” Your voice dips into something softer, more uncertain. “But…” you trail off, running a hand through your hair in frustration. Yoongi notices the way your cheeks flush slightly, and somehow, he finds it endearing. You’re endearing.

You exhale shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”

He surprises himself by laughing—low and soft at first, then louder as he fails to hold it back. You stare at him, bewildered, your expression a mix of confusion and irritation.

“Sorry,” he says, trying to smother the sound with a cough. “But if anyone’s a mess here, darling, it’s me.”

You blink at him, and your lips curve into a tentative smile. “I just wanted to tell you… you matter to me. Since that day we—” You hesitate, the memory flickering in your eyes before you look away. “Since that day we slept together. I know it didn’t mean the same to you, and that’s okay.” You shrug, but Yoongi sees through it. The slight tremble in your shoulders, the way you avert your gaze—it’s all there, laid bare for him to see.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But you shouldn’t care about me so much.” His words are a shield, one he raises instinctively, though he knows it won’t stop you. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Why?” you press, leaning forward, the intensity of your gaze almost unbearable.

“I just don’t,” he says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest like a child refusing to admit they’re wrong.

“But why don’t you think you deserve friendship, or love?” you ask again, your voice softer now, the sadness in your eyes like a dagger to his heart.

Yoongi says nothing. He stares at the ground, his jaw tightening as memories rise unbidden to the surface—memories he’s spent years burying beneath layers of denial and indifference.

“I just don’t,” he repeats, his voice weaker this time, like the weight of his words is dragging him down.

You take a deep breath, your next question as gentle as a whisper. “Because you lost someone?”

His body stiffens, his tailbone aching with the ghost of a movement—the urge to run, to dive back into the water and escape.

“A sibling?” you ask. “A friend?”

The ice in his chest spreads, freezing him in place. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too heavy all at once. But for some reason, he doesn’t run.

“My parents,” he says finally, the words breaking free like stones tumbling off a cliff. His hands are trembling now, damp with sweat—or are they wet from something else?

“Oh, Yoongi,” you breathe, and before he can react, your arms are around him. He freezes at first, but then he feels the warmth of your embrace, the way it softens the edges of his pain.

The tears come without warning, spilling down his cheeks and onto your shoulder. “They left me to die,” he chokes out, the words raw and jagged. “They didn’t want me. They didn’t love me.”

Your hand moves in slow circles across his back, and though you don’t say anything at first, your presence speaks volumes. For the first time, he lets himself feel the depth of his loss.

“I’m so sorry, Yoongi,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. And that’s when he realizes—you’re crying too.

“Please don’t cry,” he says softly, the sound barely audible over his own sobs.

“It’s okay,” you reply, dabbing at your tears with the back of your hand. “I feel sad for you. And it’s just feelings. It’s okay.”

He nods slowly, his tears ebbing like a tide retreating from the shore.

“Thank you for telling me, Yoongi,” you say, your voice steady now, though your eyes still glisten.

He looks at you, his heart aching with something unfamiliar—gratitude? Hope? “I’ve never told anyone before,” he admits. Then, after a pause, he adds softly, “And… I’m sorry about your friend.”

You smile, though it’s bittersweet. “I always feel like I didn’t do enough for him…”

Yoongi shakes his head gently. “I’m sure you did everything you could. You’re doing it now—for me. And you don’t even have to.”

You huff, crossing your arms in frustration. “Will you stop thinking so low of yourself? I do care about you, and before you try to argue, let me just say this: You are a lovable person, okay? Got it?”

The sheer conviction in your voice startles him, and he can’t help but smile. It grows into laughter, and soon, you’re both laughing—soft, genuine, and unrestrained.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” you ask through your laughter. “To hang out, nothing else,” you quickly clarify, your cheeks turning pink.

Yoongi feels his own face warm at the memory of the last time he was there, but he pushes it aside, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide his sweaty palms.

“Sure,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, though his heart is racing again.

It’s been weeks, and Yoongi feels it—feels the shift in his chest every time he looks at you. It’s in the way his breath hitches when you laugh, how his heart steadies when you sit close, and the way his walls crumble entirely when he’s tangled with you in the quiet sanctuary of your bed. You both promised this wasn’t what your friendship was about—something deeper, something purer—but somewhere along the way, it happened. Your body became his solace, your presence a balm to wounds he thought would never heal.

He wonders if this is what love feels like: to be seen—not for what he can give, not for his strength or his silence—but for the person beneath it all. The boy who’s carried too much for too long. With you, he’s slowly unraveling the stoic mask he built to shield himself. You’ve coaxed out the softness he buried long ago, showing him that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s courage.

You’re the good kind of different, the kind he never believed could exist. His friends tease him mercilessly for it, saying he’s “whipped,” calling him “domestic,” but he doesn’t care. Not when being with you feels like this—like the world could break apart, but so long as you’re with him, he’d survive it.

He’s always treated intimacy like a bandage for his fractured soul, a fleeting comfort to dull the ache. But with you, he’s learned it’s more than that. You’ve shown him that the most profound intimacy doesn’t lie in physical connection alone but in baring the parts of himself he once kept hidden—the pain, the doubt, the fragile hope. You let him shatter in your arms without judgment, kiss the tears from his face, and remind him, again and again, that he’s strong. Strong for carrying his burdens for so long, but stronger still for letting them go.

And to Yoongi, there’s nothing sexier than the way you cradle his fragility, whispering that it’s okay to break, to be human. It’s a new kind of addiction, this trust you’ve built together, and one he never wants to let go of.

On a warm summer morning, the world outside hums with life—birds singing, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze—but Yoongi’s world is here, with you. The sunlight filters through your window, casting golden streaks across your skin, and he’s utterly mesmerized. His lips trail down your body, worshiping every curve, every scar, every piece of you, until he’s between your legs, breathing in your scent like it’s air itself.

“Yoongi, oh—right there,” you gasp, your voice raw and unrestrained, fingers threading through his hair like you’re anchoring yourself to him. He grips your thighs, spreading you open as his tongue moves with deliberate purpose, savoring every sweet taste of you. The way your body arches, the sounds spilling from your lips—it’s a symphony, one he never tires of hearing.

“I’m close,” you pant, your voice trembling, and Yoongi hums against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. He doesn’t stop. His tongue traces the places he knows will drive you over the edge, lapping and sucking with a devotion that borders on reverence. He’s not in a rush. This is about you, about giving you the pleasure he’s memorized in his mind like scripture.

When you finally shatter, your body trembling, a soft cry slipping past your lips, Yoongi feels the heat of your release like a wildfire burning through him. He watches as your chest rises and falls, your face glowing with the aftershock of bliss. It’s beautiful, and it’s enough to make his own need surge to the forefront. But he holds back, his focus still entirely on you.

He doesn’t say it—not yet—but in the quiet moments after, as he rests his head against your thigh and listens to the rhythm of your breathing, he knows the truth: he’s falling for you. He’s already fallen. And for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel afraid of what that might mean.

“Yoongi…” You moan his name like a hymn, your trembling hands caressing his cheeks, now slick with your essence. His dark eyes meet yours, and in their depths, you see something raw, something reverent. Your own gaze is weary yet soft, radiating warmth, like the flicker of a hearthfire on a cold night. He licks his lips, leaning in to taste you once more, but you halt him, your thighs squeezing gently around his head, urging him to pause. You sit up, your skin glowing with a sheen of sweat, and the words that leave your lips are unguarded, crystalline in their sincerity.

“You’re incredible with that tongue of yours,” you murmur, voice tinged with a teasing smile, “but I want you inside me. You must be so hard, Yoongi. Why don’t you fuck me real good?”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he sits up, pulling his sweatpants down with one swift motion. His cock springs free, thick and aching, slapping against his abdomen, and for a moment, his breath stutters as he strokes himself, a groan spilling from his lips like honey. You recline again, spreading your legs, inviting him in, and he aligns himself with your entrance. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pushes inside, your walls clenching around him, drawing a strangled moan from his throat.

“Shit,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips as if to anchor himself. Your moans spill into the air like a prayer, and the tightness of you has his mind spiraling, clouded with a pleasure so consuming it feels otherworldly. He begins to move, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, until your bodies find a rhythm, a harmony that feels eternal.

Yoongi has never been one for positions like this—too vulnerable, too raw—but with you, it’s different. Everything about you makes him different. Your chest heaves, your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, and you’re radiant, glowing in a way that makes his heart ache. You’re unafraid, unapologetic, giving him all of yourself, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more alive.

“Shit,” he gasps, his pace faltering. “I’m not gonna last long.”

You chuckle, even as your breaths come short. “Come inside me, Yoon,” you whisper, your voice like velvet, and it’s all he needs. His thrusts grow erratic, and with a deep, guttural moan of your name, he spills into you, his entire body trembling as he finds his release.

“You didn’t come,” Yoongi pants, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

You smile, stroking his flushed cheek. “I don’t have to. You already made me come three times. And feeling you come inside me is the best feeling ever.”

His cheeks flush a deep crimson, and he averts his gaze, embarrassed but touched. Slowly, he pulls out, his softened cock glistening, and a mixture of your shared pleasure trails down your thighs.

“Maybe we should take a shower,” he murmurs, chuckling softly as he admires the beautiful mess you’ve become.

Flustered, you laugh. “You go fill the tub. Add some bath salts if you want.”

“And you?” He leans down, stealing a soft kiss, his lips lingering against yours.

“I’m cleaning up. The sheets are a disaster,” you tease, shoving him lightly toward the bathroom.

He grumbles in mock protest but obeys, making his way to the bathroom. Inside, he turns the faucet, steam curling up as water fills the tub. He finds a jar of lavender and chamomile salts, sprinkling some into the water. The scent fills the air, calming and warm, and for a moment, Yoongi pauses, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror.

He looks… happy. Happier than he’s ever seen himself. There’s no trace of the shadows that once haunted him, no lingering ghost of his past. Just him—content, smiling. He enters the tub and soaks in the water that wraps around him like a familiar blanket, warm and soft, and he sighs, relaxing into it. But his smile falters as a familiar, unsettling sensation ripples through him.

“Babe!” he shouts suddenly, splashing water as panic creeps into his voice.

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes from the bedroom, growing closer.

“Nothing!” His voice cracks, betraying his discomfort. “But… uh… was there sea salt in those bath salts?”

“Yeah, why? Don’t you like it?”

Before he can respond, you enter the bathroom, naked and holding fresh clothes that tumble to the floor as your gaze locks onto him. Your mouth falls open, and your eyes widen, taking in the sight of him in his true form.

“Yoongi…” You say his name softly, stepping closer to the tub. Your gaze is transfixed on his tail—glossy black scales that shimmer like obsidian, the translucent fins catching the light. It’s otherworldly, beautiful.

He flicks his tail nervously, water spilling over the edge of the tub. “I… I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmurs, his voice thick with uncertainty.

“Can I touch it?” you ask, your voice quiet but filled with wonder.

He nods hesitantly, watching as you kneel by the tub and run your fingers along the smooth, cool scales. His eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch, and for the first time, he lets himself relax.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why would I be?” You meet his gaze, smiling. “You’re still Yoongi. That’s all that matters.”

Your words make his chest ache in the best way. When you tell him to scoot over and climb into the tub beside him, he’s stunned. No one has ever stayed—not like this. Not when they’ve seen the truth of what he is. Not that a human has ever seen his true form, but as soon as he’d shown how fragile he really is, people tend to leave.

“So, you’re… a merman?” you ask, your voice soft, curious, like a whisper carried by the tide.

He nods, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips, though his eyes glimmer with something unspoken, a secret weighed down by the ocean’s depths.

“And your parents… they’re merpeople?” you venture cautiously. But the flicker of pain in his gaze stills you, and your words falter. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about them if it hurts.”

He exhales a sigh, long and heavy, like the pull of a distant current. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with bittersweet acceptance. “Yes, they are merpeople.”

Silence stretches between you, a pause as vast as the open sea. You hesitate, unsure if you should ask the question weighing on your mind, but finally, you gather your courage.

“Are they still alive?”

Another sigh escapes him, deeper this time, carrying the ache of a wound long scabbed over but never truly healed. “I think so,” he murmurs. “I don’t really know. They left me when I was three years old.”

The words fall like stones into the still waters of your heart, rippling outward. He takes a steadying breath, his gaze drifting as if he can see it all again, playing out before him like a dream fading into a nightmare.

“They told me we were going on a trip to another city. I was so happy, so excited—I’d never been away from Naraeum before. That’s the name of the city I’m from,” he adds softly, a faint smile flickering for a moment before it’s swallowed by the tide of his memory. “We swam for hours, far from the coral spires and glowing reefs I knew as home. Eventually, we stopped at this cave to rest, to sleep. But when I woke up, they were gone.”

His voice wavers, and you see the boy he once was—small, scared, alone. “I waited for them. Days turned into nights, and I tried to search, but I wasn’t strong then. I was tired, hungry, terrified. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just… waited.”

You feel your chest tighten as he pauses, swallowing hard. “One day,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “I heard something outside the cave. I thought it was them, finally coming back for me. I swam out, desperate to see them again, but… it wasn’t them. It was someone else—another pair of merpeople from our cove. They had a baby with them, Jimin.” His lips curl into a faint, bittersweet smile. “They took me in, made me their son. Jimin became my brother. And that’s… that’s how I survived.”

You reach out, your hand trembling as it finds his chest, resting over his heart. Beneath your palm, you feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat—proof that he’s here, that he endured.

“You’ve been through so much,” you whisper, your voice breaking with emotion. “And yet, you’re still here. You’re so kind, so gentle, despite everything you’ve suffered. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Your words are a balm to his aching soul, and as you move closer, your arms wrapping around him, he feels something shift inside him—something that feels a little like hope. Your skin presses against his, warm and tender, your embrace like the tide itself—gentle, enveloping, unyielding.

The softness of your chest against his makes his breath hitch, not with desire but with something deeper; a feeling that he is no longer alone, that for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to tread water to stay afloat. Your warmth seeps into him, filling the cracks he thought could never be healed, and he closes his eyes, letting himself be wrapped in the sanctuary of your love.

“I told you he’s head over fins for this human,” Taehyung says, rolling his eyes in dramatic flair, his tail flicking against the current.

“He’s in love,” Jimin retorts with a huff, crossing his arms. “Don’t judge him.”

Yoongi wonders—not for the first time—why he bothers letting his friends meddle in his life. Don’t they have better things to do than dissect his feelings like fish in a net?

“I think it’s great, hyung,” Namjoon says, his voice warm, his smile kind. “She’s good for you. And now that she knows you’re a merman… maybe it’s time you show her Naraeum? Show her your world.”

The idea lingers in Yoongi’s mind like a whispered tide. Show you Naraeum. The city of his origins, a place of glowing coral spires, shimmering schools of fish, and seas that held as many memories as wounds. It makes sense, doesn’t it? To take you to the other half of his heart—the one that doesn’t belong entirely to you yet. But how? How can he merge these two pieces of his life, these two homes, when they feel as distant as the stars above the waves?

Mark’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a jagged reef. “Don’t you think you’re just going to hurt her? Do what you’ve always done?” His tone is sharp, indifferent, like a hook slicing through flesh.

The words hit Yoongi harder than he expects, making him flinch. His chest tightens, his mind spiraling. Hurt you? Leave you? The thought feels foreign—and yet, uncomfortably familiar. Because once, that was who he was. He’d flee at the first sign of intimacy, drowning in his fear of vulnerability. And if he’s honest with himself, a small part of him is still scared. Scared of you leaving him. Scared of not being enough.

His heart pounds like a storm-tossed sea. The doubt, planted by Mark’s careless remark, takes root. It twists through him, a dark, creeping thing.

“Don’t say that, Mark,” Jimin snaps, his voice sharp as breaking waves. He pushes Mark back with an annoyed flick of his tail.

“Yeah, how can you be so inconsiderate?” Taehyung chimes in, his glare cutting through the water like sunlight through the shallows. Namjoon nods, his silent support steady as a reef.

But their words can’t reach Yoongi, not when his mind is a whirlpool of insecurities. His throat feels tight, like the ocean itself is pressing against him. He wants to believe you love him—you stayed when you found out he wasn’t human. You didn’t run. But what if you’re just tolerating him? What if you think he’s too broken? Too weak? Too… unlovable?

“Hyung,” Jimin says gently, trying to pull him back to shore. “Calm down. Don’t listen to him.”

But Yoongi shakes his head, the weight of his fears pulling him under. “What if he’s right?” he whispers, his voice cracking like fragile glass. “What if she doesn’t really love me? What if she’s going to leave me?” He pauses, his words trembling with raw vulnerability. “I don’t deserve her.”

Jimin’s face twists with frustration. “You’re not making sense, hyung. Of course, you deserve her.”

But Yoongi’s voice drops to a hollow murmur, barely audible over the rushing tide. “I don’t deserve to be happy.”

And with that, he turns, his tail flicking once, twice, before he swims away, leaving his friends behind. Jimin calls after him, but the sound fades as Yoongi dives deeper into the sea.

He doesn’t stop swimming until he reaches the cave—the place where his pain began. It’s here, in the shadows of jagged rocks and the soft hum of the ocean’s lullaby, that he lets himself break.

He screams, the sound raw and guttural, muffled by the water. He cries, tears lost to the sea that surrounds him. The words Mark said play on an endless loop in his mind, each one carving a deeper wound. Is it only a matter of time before he hurts you? Or worse—before you hurt him? Everyone else has. Why would you be any different?

Days pass, and Yoongi is a shadow of himself, a ghost haunting the waters of Naraeum. He avoids you, thinking it’s for the best. But as the days stretch into lonely nights, a part of him stirs. You deserve closure, he thinks. You deserve an explanation. Even if it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

That’s how he finds himself at your door, long after the world has fallen silent. His hand trembles as he knocks, the sound soft but resolute.

When you answer the door, your emotions collide—a tempest of fear and relief swirling in your chest. You step aside, letting him in, though his presence feels heavier than the crashing waves of an approaching storm. He enters with a sigh, already cloaked in guilt. Guilt for being away, for the words he’s about to deliver, words that taste bitter even before they leave his lips.

You greet him with a soft, trembling smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Both of you settle onto the couch, the silence between you taut as an unstruck harp string.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your voice gentle but laced with unease. He flinches, your concern cutting through him like shards of glass.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words escaping him in a broken whisper. He can’t meet your gaze—if he does, he knows the dam will break, and the flood of his own emotions will drown him.

Your breath catches, fear rising like a tide threatening to pull you under. “What do you mean?” you ask, voice quiet and fragile, as though afraid the answer might shatter you.

“I can’t be with you anymore,” he says, his hands clenching tightly, his lip trembling as he bites down on it. He tells himself this is the right thing to do—leave before you have the chance to hurt him.

Tears spill down your cheeks, glistening like liquid starlight. “Why?” you choke out.

“I wasn’t looking for love,” he lies, each word a dagger he twists deeper into both your hearts. “I was just looking for some fun. I told you I don’t do relationships.” His voice is sharp, cold as the abyss, but you both know it’s a mask. He clings to it, his last line of defense, because if he lets the truth slip through, he’ll unravel.

“How can you say that?” you cry, your voice raw, your tears falling faster now.

“I don’t love you,” he says, the words tasting like poison.

Your sobs grow louder, shaking your frame, but you press on, your voice breaking with desperation. “How can you say you don’t love me? After everything we’ve been through? After everything we’ve shared?”

His resolve falters for a moment, your words piercing through his armor. Damn it, he does love you. He loves you so much it terrifies him. But he’s too afraid—afraid of the pain you might bring, afraid of the inevitable heartbreak he’s convinced himself will come. To survive, he has to end this now, even if it means destroying himself in the process.

“You were just a good fuck, that’s all,” he says, forcing himself to look up. The moment he sees the agony on your face, he feels his heart crack, fissures spreading deep within him. You believe him now, and it’s killing him.

You’re crying so hard it’s difficult to breathe. “I’m not crying because you don’t love me,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with pain. “I’m crying because I still love you, even though you don’t love me.”

The weight of your words crushes him. He feels like a monster, a wretched creature unworthy of the love you so freely offer. He can’t take the words back now. He’s too far gone. He feels hollow, a shell of himself, and every beat of his heart screams that he’s made the worst mistake of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking under the weight of his regret. “I told you I wasn’t good for you.”

You sob into your hands, and he watches, helpless, broken. Slowly, he rises from the couch. He knows he can’t stay, can’t bear to see the pain he’s caused you. He’s fractured, and now he’s fractured you, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

Through your tears, you cry out, “Why do I always fall in love with people who want nothing to do with me?”

He freezes, your words slicing through him like a harpoon. He knew you carried your own wounds, scars you never fully revealed, and now he’s only deepened them. He feels like the worst kind of coward. He thought he was protecting himself, but he’s only destroyed something beautiful.

Still, he runs. It’s what he does best. The sound of your cries follows him, haunting him, but his heart is a storm, drowning out everything else. He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t dare.

When he finally returns home, his body trembling, Jimin wraps him in a firm embrace, whispering, “You’re so stupid, hyung, but you’re loved. You’re loved even when you don’t think you deserve it.”

Seokjin, ever the voice of reason, glares at him. “Go back to her. Apologize. Tell her you were wrong and scared.” His words are sharp, biting, but laced with truth. Yoongi knows he’s right.

But he can’t. Not yet. Not when he feels like he’s drowned in his own guilt. He’s afraid—afraid that you’ll never look at him the same way again. And that fear keeps him paralyzed, even as the longing for you claws at his heart.

It’s been almost a year since Yoongi disappeared—since he ran not only from you but from himself. You’ve replayed those moments endlessly, searching for clarity, clinging to the truth you both felt: what you had was real. It thrummed between you like a shared heartbeat, too raw, too wild to ignore. But fear has a way of stealing even the purest things. You’re certain he left before you could leave him—though you never would.

Not a day has passed without you searching for him. You’ve wandered to the edge of the sea, his home, calling his name to the waves. The ocean, vast and unyielding, has given no answers. It feels cruel, as though it conspires to keep him hidden from you. And now, summer has returned, and with it, the town’s festival.

The streets are alive with lantern light, laughter, and music that spills into the air like the hum of magic. You move through the crowd like a ghost, drifting past merchants hawking trinkets and sweets, their cheerful cries fading to a dull hum in your ears. You don’t belong here—not without him.

Then you see him.

Or you think you do.

A man with raven-black hair stands in the distance, his profile soft beneath the golden glow of festival lights. Your heart stirs to life, pounding wildly against your ribs. Could it be?

Your feet move before your mind catches up, weaving through the crush of people, breath hitching as you near him. You’re running now, every step a prayer whispered into the night. And then, finally, you’re there. Your hand reaches out, trembling, and taps his shoulder.

He turns.

Wide, startled eyes meet yours, and the world stills. Time seems to ripple, folding in on itself, carrying you back to the moment he left, the hollow ache he carved into your soul. But now he’s here, flesh and bone, and you feel as though the universe has just exhaled.

It’s him.

The regret in his gaze hits you like a tidal wave, his anguish laid bare in the depths of his dark, glassy eyes. Your breath catches as you bite your lip. What were you thinking? He left. He doesn’t want you.

This was a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears. His hands curl into fists at his sides as if bracing to run again, and your heart splinters all over. But just as you’re preparing for the inevitable—the shattering of hope—he moves.

He collides with you, his arms wrapping around you with an urgency that takes your breath away. The softness of your summer dress flutters around you both as his body presses into yours. You feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest, frantic and raw, as if trying to prove he’s real, that this moment is real.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he buries his face into your shoulder. His tears warm your skin as his body trembles against yours. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his black hair.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes shimmering with vulnerability. “I won’t run anymore,” he says, his voice like a solemn vow, a plea carried on trembling lips. “Do you still want me?”

And in his words, you hear the echo of every moment you spent missing him, every wish cast into the sea for his return. You press your forehead against his, the answer trembling on your lips, carried by the truth you never stopped feeling.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv @mikrokookiex @rapmonjoon94 @parkitrighthere

→ Taglist: @allie-in-the-moon @jeonsbabygirlsworld @bangtannie7 @suker4angst

→ Author’s endnote: I don’t really know what I think—just that I’m proud I wrote it, that I finished it. One less mermaid tale to tell, with just one more left swimming in my mind. And yes, I’m going to write that one too—because I owe it to you. I’m sorry for the way I disappeared, like a ghost slipping through a locked door. I’m not back—not really—but something sparked in me, and it felt like a crime to let it fizzle out. So here we are. There are still three stories waiting in the wings, three restless works-in-progress that will meet the page when inspiration decides to knock. Will they be any good? Who knows. My writing feels like a mess, like a tangled net that catches doubt instead of stars. Maybe that’s why I wrote Yoongi this way—because, surprise, I’m Yoongi in this one. Hahaha, the plot twist no one asked for! Trauma makes excellent fuel for fiction, doesn’t it? (For the record, no, my parents didn’t abandon me—this story has truth, but not all of it belongs to me). Anyway, this little corner of Tumblr is my new blog, but I won’t use it much. I’ll post the final mermaid story when it’s done (+ the rest I mentioned above), and after that, the curtain falls. If you’re looking for my old work or want to dive into the rest of the mermaid tales, you’ll find them tucked safely on my AO3. Thank you for reading—for caring enough to stay, even when I didn’t. And hey, in case no one has told you today: you’re extraordinary, you’re seen, and you matter to me🫂 © @/kingofbodyrolls 2025 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[jensenscomedyelbows]

edit by the amazing and talented and generous @lemondropsonice

SPN FIC REC FEST #11

All-Time Favorites/Free Recs

The only pairing is Wincest

Most are explicit, but those that aren’t are marked accordingly.

THE FIREFLY THAT LOVED METALLICA by fleshflutter

Rated R, but WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH/RESURRECTION. I passionately adore this indescribably poignant story. Get tissues.

LIKE STARING INTO THE SUN by nyxocity

It was never about the girls. It was about them.

A new OFC in each part, until there are no more FCs at all and it’s just them.

There is also a sequel, linked to the original

RUN IT ALL OVER (THE WEST SERIES) by runawaydr3amer

I LOVE this series with a passion not too dissimilar from Sam and Dean’s for each other

When you live a life like theirs, chasing tail isn't always an option. But sometimes you just want someone to touch your dick, and your brother’s hand is as good as any.

THE LAST OUTPOST OF ALL THAT IS by gekizetsu

I’m sure this will end up on multiple lists during this event, as it’s a fandom classic that everyone loves. I don’t even want to try to describe it. 60K words. Casefic. First time. I think there’s some H/C. Beautiful. So so sad. Joy amidst the wreckage and heartache. I love it so much I should probably get the title tattooed on my body somewhere

NOT FOR SAMSON IN THE TEMPLE by maygra-fic

Coda to my all time favorite, see above. You have to read that one first to truly appreciate how this coda maintains the tone, voice, and prose quality. You feel like it’s from the same author, but surprise! it’s not, and that’s remarkable. Mature Sam and Dean. Elderly Sam and Dean

THE GHOST OF SOMEBODY AT HIS SIDE by runedgirl

Prepare to weep. When I need pain, this one guarantees I’ll get it. Author Description: The night before Sam Winchester meets with his 12th grade guidance counselor for the second time, something very bad happens. One of those somethings that takes only a ridiculously short amount of time – in this case, about three minutes – yet manages to change the course of two lives forever. Or: Sam goes to Stanford, and takes most of Dean's heart with him.

COGNITIVE DISSONANCE by Morgan

This one just…stuck with me. The events that unfold are awful for Dean in particular, but I’m sure it wasn’t a great time for Sam, either. Bobby makes an appearance. Angst for daaaaays, and NON CON/DUB CON warning is red-flag-level. Author Description: Sam loses his mind. It's that simple. Dean doesn't know what to do, but he's not going to walk away from this, he's never backed down in all his life. If you're looking for happy endings, don't come here. This shit is dark.

THE SILENCE OF A SUMMER DAY by wanttobeatree

***Everyone who loves the Winchesters should read this amazing future fic***

Rated PG. The world has moved on. This is their legacy. Haha, yes, of course I’m recommending this one again. No sex whatsoever! Weird, right?!?!

@spnficrecfest

RESTRAINT by DarkEmeralds

Free rec. Rated M. 200k+ words. It's not Spn or Wincest or even J2, not really. I guess it’s technically a J2 AU. I’m sneaking it in here because it’s an all-time favorite of mine. This might not be your cup of tea, fanfic wise. I certainly didn’t think it was mine. But but but…it’s absolutely lovely, it’s extremely well-written, the tone/voice/verbiage is accurate for its time, and it has a happy ending that made me cry HAPPY tears when I was finished. If you like historical romance, you’ll like this. It’s set in Regency England! Author Description: The calling card said Tristan Jarrett, Viscount Penrith. Beneath that, in a lazy scrawl, was the addendum Mr Acklebury, be so good as to wait on me tomorrow, number 10, Half Moon Street. Yours, &c., Penrith. Mr Acklebury was not sure how he felt about being thus summarily commanded to paint his lordship's portrait.

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Promptcation. two fills in one day wooooo that's how much i hate my job lolol]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) 24: imperfect (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

The silence that greets John as he walks up the seventeen steps, bags of groceries in hand, is perfectly ominous. He's only been gone two hours, for God's sake.

… but he's kidding himself if he thinks Rosie & Sherlock can't do a significant amount of damage in twenty minutes, let alone two hours.

He resigns himself to a huge repair bill and/or an angry Mrs Hudson, and opens the door.

Sherlock is stood in front of the sitting room table, holding a squirmy Rosie. 'Hello, John.'

'Hi Daddyyyyy.'

John raises an eyebrow. 'She's very excited about something.'

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down momentarily. 'Yes. Well. We may have had an exciting…incident.'

John sets the bags down on the kitchen table then walks back to face them. He runs his eyes over his daughter, but doesn't see any obvious damage. 'Any blood?' 

'Absolutely not,' Sherlock says immediately.

'On either of you?' John amends.

Sherlock shifts Rosie in his arms. 'Not important.'

'Alright, I'll bite. What is important, then?'

'Well, first we need to apologise, because we may have--'

'Broke bowl,' Rosie interrupts him firmly.

John shakes his head. 'We break bowls all the time, I don't--'

Sherlock moves aside, and John sees what's on the sitting room desk behind him.

'Oh,' he says shortly, his heart plummeting somewhere into his belly. On the table sits a sad pile of ceramic shards where once a handmade bowl had stood.

His eyes start to sting. John has very little left of his mum, and she'd been especially proud of that bowl. He can feel his heart rate increase as anger begins singing through him.

'I'm so sorry, John.' Sherlock's voice is low, and John's gaze snaps to him. His cool eyes are muddled with worry, and that's enough to jolt John into action.

'Need a minute, thanks,' he says, enunciating clearly, and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to nod, then reaches for a toy with which to distract Rosie.

John closes his eyes and doesn't count to ten; instead he forces air into his lungs, pictures his baby girl, and begins to count her toes and fingers. This he does, over and over and over again, until he can breathe, until he feels the anger slip and slide on its way, transforming into resignation and maybe even a glimmer of acceptance.

It is what it is.

He opens his eyes and breathes out. His body feels loose, almost depleted, but the red haze is gone. 'What happened?' he asks, throat a bit rough, as he approaches the table. Part of the bowl is actually intact, though there are a few small cracks running along it like wrinkles.

'We were playing aeroplane,' Sherlock explains, 'and her feet made an unexpected landing, one could say.'

John's lips twitch. 'And you're all right? You didn't try to heroically save the shards and end up slicing your hand open?'

Sherlock's face-- John's not sure what to make of it, exactly, but he has the feeling that as soon as they've settled in for the night he's going to have the living daylights kissed out of him. He is very much on board.

'It's just a little cut,' Sherlock says. 'And I already have a plaster on it.' He shifts Rosie and holds up the wounded finger in evidence.

It's a Sesame Street plaster, and that for some reason breaks John. He feels laughter shake through his limbs. 'Oh, Christ,' he says, wiping his eyes and looking up at Sherlock. A final chuckle escapes him, then he nods. 'You know what we're going to do?'

'What are we going to do?'

'We're going to declare that what was once a bowl is now an ashtray. In its final form, like.'

Sherlock lets out a surprised huff of laughter. 'An ashtray, you say?'

Rosie is not to be left out. 'What's ash tray?'

John and Sherlock exchange a look, but Sherlock speaks first. 'Something that will sit on our shelf, right here--' He walks over to the bookshelf by the fireplace. '--right next to the one that we s--'

John clears his throat.

'--acquired from the Palace.'

Rosie perks up, no longer interested in the ashtrays one little bit. 'Palace?'

Sherlock realises he's landed into some Prince & Princess Time a split second too late to do anything about it. 'Yes, palace,' he ad libs. 'In the sky!'

Rosie's eyes go wide, and the corner of John's mouth turns up. 'Well done.' He walks over to where they're standing and kisses them both. 'I'm going to put away the groceries and see about tea, all right?'

Sherlock leans in and kisses him again before he can move away. 'Thank you,' he says quietly while shifting Rosie to his other side. 'I know that's difficult for you.'

John nods in acknowledgement, and picks up the newly-christened ashtray one more time. 'Looks a little… rough, but should work fine.'

'It has character,' Sherlock replies.

'Personality.'

'An origin story.'

'A palace!' Rosie interjects, throwing her hands up in the air.

John's grin matches Sherlock's smirk. 'Close enough.'

[ <3 ]

And we get a little further from perfection Each year on the road / I think that's called 'character'; I think that's Just the way it goes

[inspired by 'Imperfectly' by Ani Difranco, from the album Imperfectly, which I have been listening to obsessively bc of this, and it's been a marvellous, self-indulgent time.]

[hungermakesmonsters]

Congratulations for the first 500!!! 🎇🎆🌞😎

I'd love something with Billy Russo. (With a Reader would be lovely, but he is fine alone too.) For reasons unknown I was reminded of Hulme's poetry. I hope that maybe this fragment inspires you.

That warmth’s the very stuff of poesy.

Oh, God, make small

The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,

That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

So, I wasn't familiar with that poem but after reading it, it gave me major angsty vibes (I'm so sorry if that's not what you were wanting/expecting). It wasn't the sort of angst that I could really attribute to any version of Billy I've written so this is a sad little stand alone thing. And I kind of strayed from my normal style for this one, so I hope you like it! 😅😅

Cold

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : PG 

Warnings : angst and suggestion of cheating (though in my head it probably wasn't more than kissing)

The night sky used to be a comfort.

As a child he'd look up and see all the stars in the sky and think about how big the universe must be and it made him feel less alone.

But now — now it was suffocating its vastness, empty, lonely. Smothering.

The stars no longer shine like fairy lights, instead they're pinpricks in the sky letting all the light and joy seep out.

The world is cold and destitute, it's empty and lonely.

And it has been since the day you left.

He's a broken man now, made of fractured pieces held together by nothing more than some sick cosmic joke. All because of you. All because he dared to love you in the only way he knew how. Poorly.

Your words still echo in his mind as he walks, a half burned down cigarette all but forgotten between his fingers; 'when will it be enough, Billy? When will you have enough?'

He didn't know then that he already had everything, that he had the whole world in his hands. So, he kept wanting, kept chasing more and more, not realising that you were slowly slipping from his grasp.

Warm moments became cold as the distance grew between you.

He thought you were pushing him out but, really, he was the one finding it harder and harder to close the distance between you.

Drink tells him to blame his childhood, his malformed understanding of love — he's broken, you should have known that from the start, and you shouldn't blame him for what happened because of it.

But, even in his stupor he isn't that selfish, that ignorant.

He doesn't want to admit it, but it was easy. Far easier than he ever would have imagined; drink and playful words whispered in the wrong ear, hands straying to places they shouldn't. It was an empty display that left him with nothing but regret and the knowledge that he was going to lose you.

He broke your trust.

He broke you.

The dying embers of the cigarette burn his fingers and he thinks that it's the only thing he's felt in weeks. The first sensation in his numb body since you'd slapped him, since you reached into his chest and tore out his heart with nothing but two little words. It's over.

The love was gone, just like that.

And for what?

He can't say. Even now, weeks later, he doesn't understand why.

Maybe it's some fault of his character, some defect he can't correct. Or maybe it was fear — fear of allowing himself the happiness that he found with you, fear of it being taken from him. He cut off the limb early and cauterised the wound before there was even an infection to stop.

He hurt himself then to save himself from agony later.

But, as he walks — stumbles, really — he knows that he was wrong, that it was too late. The infection had already spread. It was him all along, he was the infection, the rotting flesh that needed cutting away in order for you to be free.

He loved you.

He loves you.

His eyes flicker skywards again, hoping for something, some spark of the comfort he used to find there, something to see him over until he's with you again, until he wins you back.

Even the familiar streets mock him, taunt him with memories of you; huddled beneath a blue umbrella together in the rain, or you snuggled into your hat and scarf when it snowed. How many times did you walk these streets together? How many times has he taken this path to meet you?

The road seems longer alone, like he'll never reach you, never find his way back to you.

Billy knows that he shouldn't be there, that you don't want to see him or hear from him again — dozens of unanswered called and text messages are a testament to that — but he can't stop.

You're the only light he sees at the end of a very long tunnel.

The stairs to your door feel insurmountable, his lungs straining in his chest with every step.

How long has he been walking in the freezing cold, no coat, no jacket to protect him from the winter wind?

His hand trembles and aches as he grips the rail, closing the distance step by step. He has to see you — even if it is just one more time. He thinks that maybe he'll survive this if he gets that much; one last chance to see you, one last chance to say goodbye.

When he reaches your door, he thinks of the spare key in his pocket and ow it probably no longer fits the lock. He doesn't try it. Even in his desperation to see you, he knows that that wouldn't be fair.

So, he knocks.

And he waits.

And waits.

And when the door opens and he sees you again, he realises what he's lost and that the pain he feels will never go away.

"Billy?" You say.

And it just too much to hear your voice after so long without it. His legs buckle and he drops to his knees, and all the sobs he's held back for weeks claw their way to the surface, leaving him a broken mess in front of you.

"I'm sorry," he gasps out as his body shakes from the cold and the force of his sobs. "You were right about everything."

He doesn't know how long he stays there, how long he cries and apologises before you drop to your knees and gather him in your arms, letting him feel your warmth again.

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (22)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: E (Dirty talk, PIV) Words: 1.6k Summary: Make me immortal

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

They ain’t watching him near as close as they oughta.

It’s been four days of cross-country trekking, and by his count they couldn’t be more than another day or two from the Stateline. Any moment now they were liable to run into some patrol and while this bunch were treating him like a colleague it was anyone’s guess what Nero’s own crew might do.

His time was running out.

Unfortunately, they were keeping double watch now - one person always watching her and the other keeping a more general eye on things. It made taking them by surprise difficult, and they weren’t quite stupid enough to arm him.

Tonight was the first exception. They’d made camp in an old building that happened to have working doors. After a pretty thorough check they’d locked her inside, tied to some piece of the structure.

“I hear fellas like you can live a long time,” Sancho says after some time passes. His name weren’t Sancho but Cooper hadn’t been arsed to learn his name the first time around and he wasn’t starting now.

“Depends on what you think is long.”

“I heard of a guy who’s been alive since before the bombs fell,” Panza chimes in. Panza isn’t his favorite, he’s the one who hit her. He’s going to die soon - he just doesn’t know it yet.

“Ain’t no one been around that long,” Sancho scoffs.

Cooper barely pays them any attention, staring into the small fire. Well, past it actually, where the youngest of the three had disappeared not ten minutes ago.

It’s been dead silent since. He’s not sure he’d even be able to hear them talking, but he’s pretty sure he could hear her if she screamed. That door wouldn’t do jack shit to stop him if she did.

“You know we ain’t sharing the bounty, right?” Panza asks with a small frown. “Ain’t nothing against you, ghoul. Just that three’s two too many already if you ask me.”

Cooper cuts his eyes the man’s direction. “I ain’t looking for the bounty - hoping I might be able to find more work. Something to do. Getting bored out here with you shitheads.”

The man laughs just as Cooper intended. “Well that’ll be-”

The door slams open and the Kid stomps out, clutching the water and the small bag of rations. “She says she don’t want nothin’.”

“What do you mean… tell her she ain’t got a choice. She ain’t eaten since she tried to run off.”

“I tried that, but you said-”

Cooper’s on his feet already, seeing the opportunity and taking it. “I’ll do it.” The trio eye him skeptically and he cocks his head at them. “She trusts me. ‘Sides, this way you only got one thing to guard.”

None of them trusted him, which was fair, and he’d slept like a baby even as he listened to the racing heartbeat of whoever had been assigned watch the last few nights. He was counting on lack of sleep being a helluva persuader.

“Nah, you’re right. We’ll unlock you in the morning.”

Perfect.

Cooper waits for the door to close, adjusting his eyes to the dim light from above. The room is solid walls with a dirt floor, the only point of entrance the gaping hole in the ceiling and the woman tied to a post in its center.

“Brought you some vittles.”

“I said I wasn’t hungry.”

“You need to put some food in your system or you won’t make it to the Stateline.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide and sad and it’s a kick to the gut. “When will we get there?”

“Tomorrow, I reckon. Maybe the day after.”

She nods thoughtfully and rests her head on her folded arms once more. The ropes around her ankles shift slightly as she moves and he maneuvers carefully to sit beside her, leaning back against the same rock.

“If you plan to starve yourself to death you’re going to need more time.”

She laughs softly, “Not sure I even could. With how I heal and all.”

He considers that for a moment and passes her the water. After a long moment she takes it, gulping it down before handing it back. “Reckon tonight is our best chance to get free.”

“I don’t think-” she starts and he turns on her sharply. When he doesn’t say anything she continues, “I think I have to go, actually.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? After all this fuss you’re just going to give in?”

If looks could kill he’d be a pile of ash. “I have to put a stop to this - to more people like me and assholes like him buying them.”

“Ah,” he says softly. “So this is a vengeance mission.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Not a bit, I’ve been on a fair few in my time.” He passes her some food and she eyes it before nibbling on the edge. “The problem is those kinds of journeys tend to be one way.” She shrugs and it makes something in his chest hurt. “Now darlin’, you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“I’ll do what I have to,” she pauses, then gives him a sidelong glance, “anything I have to.” Suddenly she turns to him fully, those gorgeous eyes of hers shining in the moonlight. “You think we’ll get there tomorrow?”

“Or the next day, it ain’t far now.”

She nods, biting her lip. And then she’s in motion. Before he can think. Before he can block her. Before he can do anything - she’s in his lap, throwing her arms over his head, and she’s kissing him.

She’s kissing him.

Whatever the danger is, it’s too late now. He sinks into it, wrapping an arm around her waist and reaching one hand up to clutch at her shoulder. Her tongue is everywhere, licking along his lips and teeth and he meets her with equal fervor. It lasts so long he runs out of breath, breaking away with a gasp and staring into her eyes.

He waits.

Nothing happens.

No light-headedness. No burning. No neurotoxin or chemical or anything at all in fact. Hell, other than a raging hard-on he feels exactly the same.

She looks dazed, blinking up at him before pulling him back for another kiss.

He ain’t ever been one to tell a lady no.

He guides her legs over his hips, settling her in his lap while she tries to suck his soul out of his mouth. Everything is hot and wet and he can feel her through his pants, soaking the fabric.

“Ah sweetheart,” he groans, slipping his hand under her panties to cup her ass. She grinds down in return, rocking on top of him in a mimicry of exactly what he wants as well.

“Lift up,” he tells her, “let me get these off of you.”

She does as he says, coming to her knees and letting him pull her panties down til they hang on one ankle.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls, licking into her mouth. “Tell me to fuck you, just like this.”

“I want it,” she nearly sobs, fingers digging into the back of his neck, “Fuck me, fuck me just like this.”

They moan together when he slides inside. It’s just as he remembers, tight and hot and so unbelievably good his eyes roll back in his head. Her mouth is everywhere, sucking on his neck, licking up to his ear, teeth biting at his lips. He tries to slow her down, to guide her with a hand on the nape of her neck, but she digs her fingernails into the back of his head and he lets her take the lead.

Lets her take him.

Everything is gasping softness, breaths mingling as they pant into each other’s mouths. He brings his hand around to cup her jaw, urging her to take his tongue. To give hers in return. And the entire time she’s moving on top of him, clutching him inside her.

“Ah fuck darlin’,” he groans. “I ain’t gonna last. Can you come like this?”

“Maybe,” she gasps in return. “I don’t know.”

He moves his hands to her waist, guiding her body into slow undulating rolls. “What do you need?”

“Make me,” she moans, pulling him in for another kiss, “tell me what to do. Make me yours.”

A low growl rumbles from his chest and he shifts so he can get his knees under him. Now he has power behind his thrusts, fucking up into her and touching something so deep it makes her whimper. 

“That’s it, fuck yourself on me,” he tells her. “And when I tell you to you’re going to come. Ain’t that right?” She nods, mouth open on his cheek and he grins. “That’s a good girl.”

One hand claws at the front of her dress and she helps him, moving her arms so he can shove it down and watch her breasts bounce with every roll of his hips. He covers one with his hand, catching the nipple between two fingers and pinching it hard.

“Come for me, come all over my cock.”

She does. Oh how she does. She screams and he cuts her off with his mouth, swallowing it down and feeling her pussy milking him so hard he comes too. Spilling inside and filling her up just like he’d been thinking of doing since the first moment he saw her on that damned radio tower.

Only he had never imagined that she would kiss him so sweetly afterwards. That she would pull bound wrists from behind his neck and cup his face in her hands and fucking make love to his mouth with the gentlest of nibbles and sweeps of her tongue.

“Again?” she asks once she catches her breath. Her mouth covers his and he can barely think straight as she licks inside.

Yeah. Sure. Again. Anything she wants. Always.

☢ ☢ ☢

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