#backstroke for days

[soundingstars]

@swimmingforthegold x

Makoto had been looking into possible camping spots for the two of them to visit as a way to have a weekend getaway just for the two of them. He managed to figure out a few places that would be perfect, he just needed to see if Rin wanted to go. 

It seemed that he was interested because of the excitement that crossed his face. It was enough to make Makoto smile. 

“Then we will go, I have a few places picked out but I want us to decide which one to go to. Just us this weekend, no one else.”

[soundxofstars-archived]

@sharkteethandduckfeathers

It had been Makoto's decision to buy the cabin that lingered in front of him since he thought that it would be something different from what they were used to. The cabin sadly was something that he was unable to see, but the state was awful from just where he stood. It was going to take a bit of work to fix the miss that lingered on the inside and the outside of the building.

He knew that he had a lot of work in front of him. He just needed to figure out where to start. It was going to take time to make everything into something that a person would be able to live in it. Makoto just didn't know where to start.... It was going to be a long day once again.

Winter was going to be here soon which gave him a limited time to try and fix up the place, he needed to hurry. That was easier said then done though while there was a lot of cleaning that needed to be done as well. Cleaning that Makoto was still working on because of the ruined wood to the furniture which was a disaster. Everything about this was a disaster.

He should have looked more into this before buying the cabin from the man who was unable to continue caring for it. He was exhausted mentally and physically from the night before, it had been another cold one.

Letting out a small breath, Makoto moved to sit down on the steps of the somehow still standing cabin trying to chase the exhaustion that lingered over his head.

[historias-multorum]

if you need a break, you can set me down. (Makoto!)

PROMPTS FOR CARRYING/BEING CARRIED

@pluviacuratio

"Don't worry, I'm fine." Makoto said. "I'm a lot stronger than I look, and you're not that heavy in my arms."

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

usually im very content with my life and disability and chronic illness n stuff but sometimes i miss playing sports so much it hurts

[designation-miracle]

what if i were to tell everyone i remember nothing abt free. i watched the first 2 seasons in one go when i was 14 and didnt watch anything that came after it. TO ME the free canon is a weird blend of filthy halls and 50% off. i dont think this is ever going to change

[bamboo-muse]

I see you all the tags lol

As far as I'm concerned the universe owes me a day so I didn't include it.

That being said February 29th still exists and I'm going to pick a day at random to not exist this year.

[astonmartinii]

false start | lewis hamilton social media au

pairing: lewis hamilton x fem swimmer reader

some people are getting a bit too ahead of themselves

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

.・゜゜・ part of the aston martini summer olympics ・゜゜・．

espn

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, lillyking and 509,455 others

tagged: yourusername & lewishamilton

espn: the 2024 paris olympics kick off tomorrow and we'll be keeping a close eye on the pool. and despite being one of the biggest names in the sport and the fiance of seven-time f1 world champion lewis hamilton, we don't predict to see y/n y/ln on the podium this summer.

view all comments

user1: when will y'all learn?

user2: i swear they did this back in 2021, saying she wasn't good enough any more and then BAM she won double gold and they were suspiciously quiet after

user3: i hope she dunks on their heads again

charles_leclerc: STOP UNDERRATING HER I SWEAR TO FUCK

user4: bro hasn't even started as lewis' teammate and he's already ready to throw down for y/n

charles_leclerc: i have been a fan of the queen since before i even started in f1 - no one disrespects her in front of me

user5: espn better be shaking in their boots after that

lewishamilton: 😐

user6: the king has spoken

user7: it's an emoji babe

user8: real lewis fans know that this is worth a thousand words

user9: the picture with the double gold is going to hit like crack i fear

user10: best believe i know that they'll tag espn just to be messy

user11: i'm sat. i'm so sat. the cinema workers have told me she doesn't compete for a couple days but i'm simply so sat

yourusername: ⏳

user12: OKAY SLAY

user13: i need these golds like i need air

user14: okay queen i need you to run back the celebration from last olympics

user15: time to become an honourary aussie for a couple weeks to support y/n

user16: LET'S FUCKING GO KANGAROOS

user17: run me my passport australia

user18: when will lewis get his australian citizenship

lewishamilton

liked by georgerussell63, charles_leclerc and 1,459,833 others

tagged: yourusername

lewishamilton: go get em'

view all comments

user22: gIVE ME ONE CHANCE PLEASE GOD PLEASE

user23: sorry to everyone else at the games, but the hottest couple has arrived

user24: tiktok girls PSA: if i don't have ten alchemy edits of them on my desk by tomorrow morning THERE WILL BE ISSUES

yourusername: for you sir, anything

yourusername: ugh your ✨ title ✨ is so hot

lewishamilton: let's win and then put it to good use 😉

landnorris: do you people mind?

yourusername: why are you always in our business? don't you have your own little guppy to follow around in paris?

lewishamilton: he's just lonely? or not? i can't keep up with his relationship drama

landonorris: EXCUSE ME?

yourusername: you're excused? we've been together for like eight years we aren't used to whatever drama you've gotten yourself into

lewishamilton: eight years, six months and 237 days :P

user25: first espn and now lando? they're not holding back this summer

user26: fucking around and finding out is what summer 2024 is all about

georgerussell63: good luck y/n !!!

yourusername: thank you georgie :)

georgerussell63: and i checked, i don't think there's any gb swimmers in your events (other than the relays) so you'll have my full support

yourusername: thanks?

lewishamilton: he's a little confused but he's got the spirit

user27: i need y/n to win and come to the paddock with her medal for zandvoort

user28: i am seeing it and i need it to happen

olympics

liked by lewishamilton, pierregasly and 893,209 others

tagged: yourusername

olympics: never in doubt, y/n y/ln takes gold in the 100m backstroke final!

view all comments

user29: RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

user30: suck on that espn

user31: espn admin come outside rn please i jUST WANNA TALK

lewishamilton: @espn KEEP MY (soon to be) WIFE'S NAME OUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH

yourusername: that was so hot

lewishamilton: you wiping the floor with the whole pool was so hot

lewishamilton: but then again you're hot doing literally anything

yourusername: says you mr model

lewishamilton: i got a few things i wanna model for you ...

yourusername: is it my gold medal and nothing else ?

lewishamilton: how did you know ???

user32: so winning a gold medal really does make you horny on main

user33: some of us lived through them with no PR managers, this is tame

user34: they're one couple where it really wouldn't surprise me if something got leaked

yourusername: can confirm it tastes as sweet as it did in tokyo

oscarpiastri: could you hear me cheering? i was so loud :)

yourusername: funnily enough, no

oscarpiastri: oh :(

yourusername: but i felt it in my spirit!

oscarpiastri: good :) because i think i have slightly deafened your husband 🤷‍♂️

lewishamilton: my ears are still ringing but i'll take it because you were supporting y/n

yourusername: awwww you cuties

user35: yall saying that kimi antonelli is lewis' grid kid but it's clearly oscar

user36: if i watched lewis put yellow and green glitter on oscar's face on live tv it's not a conversation to start with

yourusername

liked by georgerussell63, jensonbutton and 1,459,783 others

tagged: olympics & lewishamilton

yourusername: gold in both 100m and 200m backstroke is more than i could've ever dreamed coming into these games, thank you to my family, friends and wonderful fiance for their support. and to the others, you know who you are, be careful on all those false starts you keep making ;)

view all comments

user38: where are you ? LET'S BE HAVING YOU !!!

user39: her winning the golds regardless isn't enough i need a gun

espn: ... i'm sorry?

lewishamilton: YOU SHOULD BE

espn: sir, i am just an intern who posts what i am given

yourusername: well now you're making me feel bad

espn: i can give you my boss' email?

lewishamilton: YES PLEASE LET ME AT EM

user40: bullying works?

lewishamilton: i'm so so so so so so proud and so so so glad that everything lined up for me to be there and witness your excellence in person 🙇🏾

yourusername: i love you so much and couldn't have done it without you, all those facetime dates and missed anniversaries are worth it in the end

yourusername: although i am looking forward to following you around the world again for a bit

user41: thank fuck you're not retiring ????

yourusername: who said that ??? @espn was it you again??

espn: not this time i swear!

yourusername: i can confirm that i am not retiring, us terrorising all the youngsters in our sport is kind of our whole bit

lewishamilton: although some people could learn to walk away - cough @fernandoalo_oficial

yourusername: really?

lewishamilton: beef waits for no one

fernandoalo_oficial: well i personally was cheering on y/n, you can choke

user42: how does y/n look so good even after racing?

yourusername: getting laid well and often 👍🏼

lewishamilton: you're welcome

yourusername: i love you 🥰

lewishamilton: i love you more

fin.

note: hope you guys enjoyed!! swimming is always my favourite olympic sport (i also swam for ten years so that's probably why lol)

[covenofagatha]

Hii can you please write athlete-student fem reader x Professor Agatha, where she is her favorite student and they have a close connection despite Agatha's cold demeanor. So one day y/n comes limping to Agatha's class bcuz she got injured during the practice and her coach kept pushing her, without letting to rest, so the injury got worse and now y/n can barely step on her leg. Agatha takes notice of that and asks y/n to stay after the lecture, where Agatha discovers the truth about abusive coach. So Agatha helps Y/N to her car and takes her home, where Agatha takes care of her and they finally kiss or maybe even smut if you are good with it please. Kinda like hurt/comfort with possesive Agatha

Thank you for all your amazing writing💜

As a former swimmer with a coach that was fired for emotional/verbal abuse I fucking loved this request so thank you and I hope you like!

Swimming into her arms

You hurt your leg during practice and your coach makes it worse, so Professor Agatha has to take care of you

Word count: 3400

Warnings: hurt/comfort, slight possessiveness, oral sex, soft

“Coach, can I talk with you for a second before we get in?” You ask, stepping gingerly over to him. He barely even glances at you, just waves his hand to tell you to get on with it. “I just hurt my knee during weights and the trainer said that I shouldn’t kick that much until I can go see a doctor.” 

Now he looks at you, displeasure written all over his face. Your swim coach is not known for being nice and you inwardly wince to brace yourself. “What did you do?” 

“We were doing band jumps from the pullup bars and I landed weirdly and there was a pop from my knee. It hurts to walk and I’m really not sure I should swim.” 

He scoffs and straightens up against the fence where he was leaning. You cross your arms over your chest, wishing you were standing in more than just your swimsuit. You should’ve worn clothes to come talk to him, but deep down you knew how this was going to go. 

“We have a meet this weekend and you’re our best backstroker somehow, despite your awful underwater kicks. You’re swimming.” 

The dig about your underwaters doesn’t even phase you now, having heard it enough times already. But the thought of bending your knee like that makes you brave enough to protest. “Can I just pull for today? I’ll try to get to the doctor this afternoon.” 

You feel your stomach sink as he rolls his eyes. “I don’t need damaged goods on this team so if you’re not going to get in the pool and you’re going to be weak, then just get off the deck and come back next week. Don’t expect to be put in any more meets though.” 

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep your jaw from dropping. You nod and turn around to hide the tears stinging in your eyes and put your cap on. You’re on a scholarship at the university for swimming, so if you quit or he lets you go, you’ll most likely have to drop out.

“That’s what I thought,” you hear your coach huff quietly behind you. “Let’s go. You’re five minutes late getting in.”

The moment you jump into the pool and push off the wall for warm up, you know you’ve made a mistake. Your leg is screaming. Every kick is pure agony and you try your absolute best to not move it more than you have to. But each flip turn makes you want to cry. You barely make it through the warm up and your heart drops when you see the main set that your coach wrote on the board. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if he changed it up and made it harder just to mess with you.

Your lanemate asks if you want to go first and all you can do is shake your head. If you speak, you’re afraid you’re going to fall apart. You refuse to take your goggles off because your eyes are red and teary. 

One round in, your coach stops you on the wall. “Are you even trying?” He demands. 

“My knee,” is all you can get out before your voice wavers. 

He squats down so he’s closer to you. “I’m 55 years old. My knees hurt every day and you don’t see me whining about it. Now either do the set right, or you’re off the relay.” 

This time, when you push off the wall, you kick with both legs. By the end of the 25, you’re already sobbing into the water, choking on gasps when you turn your head to breathe. You’ve never felt pain like this before in your life and you are convinced that something is really wrong. 

At one point, you think you almost black out. 

You fall behind in the set because you physically can’t kick fast enough to make the interval so your coach makes you stay behind late to finish it, despite you telling him that you have to get to class. 

When he finally lets you out of the pool, there’s twenty minutes until your class starts and you still have to shower, get dressed, and somehow walk across campus. 

Some of your professors would be chill if you walked in late. Hell, most of them were happy if 75% of the class actually showed up. 

But not Professor Agatha Harkness. She was feared by everyone on campus, even those who weren’t in her class, for her stony cold demeanor. There were rumors that she made students cry just by looking at them. 

Although, she wasn’t like that with you. While she was still tough, there was a softness in her eyes when she looked at you, a certain fondness in her smile. You weren’t sure what it was about you that made her like that, but you and Agatha had grown quite close over the past semester. You would go bother her during her office hours and she would patiently answer all your questions and help you with her assignments. You knew you could talk to her about anything, and you often did. Friend drama, other classes, swimming, you name it. The way she made you feel heard and seen, plus with how hot she was, had you falling for her. 

The only thing you hadn’t really opened up on was how mean your coach could be. 

But just because of your relationship with her didn’t mean she would allow you to be late to her class. 

For now though, your task was to get out of the pool without screaming. Your coach would throw a fit if you didn’t “get out like an athlete” by putting your knee in the gutter instead of your foot, but you weren’t sure you could do either. You maneuver yourself up using the handles on the starting blocks so you’re sitting and then push yourself up. You try to put weight on your hurt leg and you gasp loudly. 

That’s not going to happen. 

Your coach walks over to you and you think that he might offer some sort of help or an apology or anything, but all he says is, “See you tomorrow.” 

Your head falls back in frustration and you experiment with some different movements to see which is the best for your knee. You can slide it a little on the wet ground for now to get to the locker room, but when you go outside with shoes on, you’re going to have to figure out something new. 

You shower in record time while still getting all your tears out and throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt, putting moisturizer on your face while your hair is twisted up in your towel. The warm water did a little to help your leg so you’re able to put the tiniest bit of weight on it now. However, it doesn’t hide the evidence that you were clearly crying. 

Still, your class starts in five minutes. The building her lecture is in is four minutes away with a good leg. 

Hobbling while whimpering every step takes eight. 

You try to open the door as quietly as possible, and you succeed, but your bag swings and clangs onto the metal trash can that is right in the doorway. Because of course it is. 

Silence falls through the room as the sound echoes, and Agatha looks up from her place at the front of the room. You offer a shaky smile and limp down the aisle to your spot in the second row. Going down the slanted floor is a new type of pain that has you grabbing onto chairs. 

“Stay after class so I can hear your excuse about why you’re late,” Agatha says coldly once you’ve sat in your usual seat, sighing when the burn in your knee dies down to a dull ache. Your heart squeezes but you do see some concern in her eyes. You realize that her tough exterior just now was an act. You nod, not able to look at her for fear that she’ll see right through you, and you dig in your backpack for paper and a pen for notes. 

The hour lecture goes so slowly, your knee now starting to throb from sitting. You’re not really sure what you’re supposed to do to get it to stop hurting. 

Finally, Agatha releases everyone but you stay seated. While you’re in pain sitting, you know it’s much worse if you stand up. She doesn’t seem to mind, just comes to stand on the other side of her podium and lean against it. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it before and you just start hysterically crying. She looks more taken-aback than you’ve ever seen her and walks over to crouch next to you and rub a hand comfortingly up and down your arm. “Sweetheart?” 

Your breath catches at the pet name and you hiccup. You swipe furiously at your eyes, embarrassed to show this much emotion in front of the older woman. When you open your mouth to start talking though, you can’t stop. “I hurt my leg in weights and I tried to tell my coach that the trainer said I shouldn’t swim and that it hurts but he made me get in anyways because we have a meet coming up and told me I wasn’t doing good enough and I had to stay late to finish the set and my knee hurts so fucking much I can barely walk.” You don’t even have it in you to apologize for the swearing and Agatha doesn’t care either. 

She cups your tear-stained cheek, thumbing at it, and you meet her eyes with your watery ones. You’re a little surprised to see pure anger in them.

“That is not okay,” she says seriously. “He should be fired for doing that. He deliberately put you in a situation where you’re only going to be more injured and now look at you. This is unbelievable. I’m going to talk to the athletic director, someone needs to know about this.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, Professor, you really don’t have to, it’s not–” 

“It is a big deal,” she cuts you off firmly. “There need to be consequences. He fucking hurt you and he’s going to pay!” Your heart skips a beat at how protective she’s being and she seems to realize what she said because she immediately changes gears. “Do you need help?” 

It’s the first time anyone has asked you that all day. Even the trainer or your weight’s coach didn’t offer. It almost makes you start crying again. 

“Yes, please,” you say and she holds out your hands, pulling you up out of the chair. You put your hurt leg on the floor and buckle into Agatha’s arms. “M’ so sorry, oh my god,” you stammer as she’s practically holding you now. 

She uses her strength to get you standing straight again, and without saying anything, slings your backpack over her shoulder and puts her other arm under yours so she can act as a crutch for you. 

“I’m sorry about your coach,” she finally says as she’s working on steering you out of the building. 

You wince going down the steps and shrug. “He’s not a bad coach. Like his sets are good and stuff and I’ve gotten faster for him. Just not a great…person. Where are we going?” You’ve finally realized that she’s not helping you back to the dorms. 

“My car,” she says matter-of-factly. Your heart skips a beat and you crane your head to look up at her. She has a variety of emotions struggling on her face and you’ve never felt so taken care of. 

“Why did you park so far away?” You groan and she chuckles. It feels like you’ve been limping for a mile. Luckily, there’s not too many other people outside right now to see Agatha helping you like this, but you do find it oddly touching that she would risk her heartless reputation for you. 

At last, you get to the lot where the professors park and she basically drops you into the passenger seat, sliding into the driver’s side once she puts your bag in the back. 

“Thank you for helping me,” you say quietly once she’s reversing out of her spot. She pauses for a second to look at you, a new expression on her face that you’ve never seen before. 

“Of course, sweetheart.” 

Once again, she goes in an unfamiliar direction. Maybe she’s taking you to a doctor? 

Nope. 

You’re still confused, even when Agatha turns into a quaint suburban neighborhood, but you think you figure it out when she stops in front of a house. 

You turn to gape at your professor. “Is this yours?” She gives you a look that says obviously and then gets out of the car quickly so she can come get you out. She doesn’t grab your bag from the back but you don’t need it. She helps you hobble inside and brings you over to the couch so you can lay down on it. You swing the bad leg up and then the good one and she hands you a pillow to put under the hurting knee. 

The elevation helps a little and while Agatha walks out of the living room, your eyes close, head resting on the back of the couch. It feels like you have been drained of all your energy from weights, practice, and then your knee. 

You think you might doze off just a bit because you startle when you hear Agatha entering. She’s carrying a bag of ice in one hand and a plate with a sandwich and raspberries in the other. You scooch into an upright position and graciously accept the food, instantly taking a huge bite. You moan at the taste and then notice that Agatha is standing next to you, bag of ice in hand, looking at your sweatpant-clad legs. 

Her eyes dart to yours and then back down. “Do you think you can take these off?” She asks, tapping your leg and your cheeks turn almost as red as hers. 

“Um, oh, sure,” you answer, mouth full of food. You set the plate down on the coffee table and raise your hips so you can get your pants off. You refuse to look at her as you basically undress in front of her. 

And then you begin to struggle. You can bend one leg just fine, but you don’t even want to risk moving your right knee in the slightest. The problem is, you’re nowhere near flexible enough to take your pants off while keeping one leg straight. 

Thankfully, Agatha completely understands without you having to ask, saving you from that embarrassment. She reaches across your body and gently slides the sweatpants off your bad leg. And then your entire bottom half is naked except for your underwear. 

You know why you’re blushing, but why is Agatha? 

She clears her throat and arranges the bag of ice on your knee, but it won’t stay because your leg is slanted up on the pillow. 

“Um, can you…” she trails off like she’s trying to figure out how to word it. You also understand what she needs, so you move your left leg so it hangs off the couch and she can sit in-between your legs and hold the ice to your knee. 

“Are you okay?” You ask after the two of you have been sitting in silence for a little bit. It’s comfortable, but you can still see the outline of grimace on Agatha’s face. 

She sighs heavily and runs a hand through her hair. “It’s just hard,” she admits. “Seeing you in pain like this.” 

“Why?” You dare to ask, the question barely louder than a whisper. She looks at you and then back to the ice. 

“I care about you a lot,” she says, like it pains her. It feels like all the air has left your lungs. 

“I care about you, too,” you reply, hoping more than anything that she means it the same way as you. 

She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Is there anything else I can do to help?” 

“A kiss?” It’s meant to be a joke, like when your mom would kiss a paper cut or a scrap just to make it feel better. And then you inwardly kick yourself because you know you did not just ask stone-cold Agatha Harkness to kiss your knee. 

But she smirks and then you realize that you never specified which part of your body you wanted her to kiss. 

She leans in, hand grabbing onto the arm of the sofa next to you to hold herself up and she brushes her lips against yours. It’s barely anything, easily written off, but when she pulls back, her eyes are dilated. 

“Did that make your knee feel better?” She asks playfully. 

You pretend to think about it for a second and then you tilt your head. “You know what? It did. Better do it again so it helps even more.” 

This time, her tongue parts your lips and licks into your mouth. Her other hand slides under your shirt to feel your stomach and heat starts to course through you. You moan into her mouth and wrap your arms around her so pull her even closer. She shifts and accidentally bumps your knee and you hiss in pain. 

“Fuck, sorry!” She exclaims, jerking back like she was burned. 

“No, you’re okay,” you groan. “I just don’t know if this is the best way to do this.” You pout because you want to keep kissing her, you need to feel her. 

A sly smile spreads onto her face. “I know something else that might help.” You raise your eyebrows in question and inhale sharply as she carefully moves down your body so her head is right by your underwear. She toys with the waistband, checking to make sure it’s okay. You nod more eagerly than you ever have in your life. “If it hurts your knee, let me know.” 

“Okay,” you breathe and you shiver when she pulls your wet underwear to the side and the cold air hits your pussy. 

And then she lazily licks through your folds, swirling her tongue on your clit and your back arches off the couch. 

“Fuck,” you moan, one hand tangling in her hair and the other grabbing the side of the couch. She continues softly lapping at you, fingers digging into your hips to keep them still so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself by moving. Agatha takes her time tasting you, making a noise every and then that makes your head fall back. 

Your pleasure slowly builds from her hot, careful mouth on you, but Agatha doesn’t seem to mind. She alternates dipping her tongue into your pussy and then sucking your clit and back again. She gets more enthusiastic about it once she feels confident that she’s not hurting you and begins to be a little rougher. 

“I’m getting close, Agatha,” you whimper and it’s the first time you’ve ever called her by her first name. She must realize it too because she groans into your pussy and sucks hard on your clit, sending you over the edge. Sounds fall out of your mouth as you cum, hips trying but failing to buck against her tight grip to ride it out. 

“Is your knee okay?” is the first thing she asks when she stops licking at you. You laugh at the timing of the question. 

“Yes, it feels totally fine.” 

Agatha leans down to peck your lips. “Okay, good. Still, I’m going to make an appointment at my doctor this afternoon. I’ll take you.” 

Even though she just ate you out, this is the sexiest you’ve ever seen her. So caring, so protective. Your heart yearns for more of this woman. 

“You don’t have to do all that,” you protest though, not wanting to ask for more than she’s already given you. She waves her hand to shush you. 

“Nonsense. I’m going to take care of you because apparently no one else can. And I want to.”

You smile fondly at her and tug at hair to bring her in for a deeper kiss this time. “I want you to as well.” 

And she does.

[splitt-spectrumm]

Lmao damn straight 😌😄 <3

[brasildaily]

Gabriel dos Santos of Brazil wins the gold medal in the Men's Swimming 100m Backstroke S2 Final on day one of the Paris 2024 Summer Paralympic Games at Paris La Defense Arena on August 29, 2024 in Nanterre, France

[soundingstars]

@swimmingforthegold x

He couldn’t help, but give a smile with the reaction that Rin decided to give because of his teasing. Anyone who knew him could consider his teasing to be a rare occurrence since it didn’t happen too often, but he couldn’t resist when it came to his boyfriend sometimes. 

“The look on your face tells me otherwise. I can tell that you are, Rin.”

[after-witch]

To the Top [Yandere Chuuya x Reader]

Title: To the Top [Yandere Chuuya x Reader]

Synopsis: Over the past few months of your pregnancy, you’ve never been sweeter to Chuuya. Little does he know that for every smile you’ve given him, you’ve stashed away something for your escape. 

Word count: 3100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, reader is pregnant, abusive behavior  (chains, restrictions, food control, etc)

Life in this shut-up penthouse was never exactly invigorating--but over the past few months it has become unbearable. And that unbearable, stifling heaviness weighing you down every single day has taken its toll in more ways than one. 

It’s made you feel like you’re going to lose it at any moment. It’s made you feel like you’d rather be anywhere than here.

You want to get out.

Chuuya had rules for you, of course, when he first started keeping you here. They came slow--a leash that tightened before you realized it--and sure. 

But now, with your belly swollen and growing bigger by the day, he’s completely taken control. 

You’re not allowed to go outside, even with Chuuya, even surrounded by bodyguards ready to take a bullet or unload them into any would-be assassins. Those brief bouts of fresh air were one of the few bright spots in your life, now blotted out from Chuuya’s paranoia of losing you. 

You’re not allowed to use your exercise bike or take a swim in the heated indoor pool tucked in the basement. It doesn’t matter how much you argue that you should be exercising for the sake of your health, because Chuuya says he does let you exercise. According to him, anyway.

He only lets you do the mildest--and you do mean mildest--of aerobic exercises in the pool. Only under supervision, and the moment you look like you want to start leaning into the water and getting in a nice backstroke, Chuuya orders you out and you’d best comply if you ever want to see the pool again for the next 2 years.

You’re not allowed to eat whatever you want, even when your cravings feel like they’re going to eat you from the inside out. He doesn’t starve you, no, no, no. But you can’t have a big juicy cheeseburger topped with bacon and a side of onion rings, a heavenly concoction that makes you drool just to think of it. 

If you must have a burger, and it’s a big if--Chuuya allows you to eat a made-from-scratch ground turkey burger with low fat cheese and a side of mashed sweet potato (no butter, no extra salt!) all courtesy of the well-trained personal chef Chuuya hired to live in the building. 

They’re the reason you are eating three square meals and two snacks a day, and the reason each and every meal is perfectly designed to eat every nutrition goal. Everything you eat is always nutritious and sure, the food isn’t disgusting… but it’s not fucking fair, is it, that you can’t just eat what you want when you want. 

Chuuya insists you eat only the best of foods. He makes sure every meal comes with a little cup of medicine--prenatal vitamins and anything else the doctor thinks will help keep you safe during your pregnancy. 

He doesn’t let you run around or fret or clean or do much of anything at all. He doesn’t want you to exert yourself, he says. You can’t eat what you want or do what you want or go where you want. 

It’s all too much.

You fought at first. You argued. You pleaded. But it didn’t do anything but make Chuuya tighten his hold on you.

And that’s why you accept his rules now with the utmost of patience and sweetness that you can muster. Oh, you haven’t given in. You aren’t meekly submitting to Chuuya and agreeing that he surely knows what’s best for you.

You’re just biding your time for the day when you can get the hell out of here.

Besides, you needed a little bit of freedom if you were going to escape. And a little bit of freedom was all you were going to get.

Early on in the pregnancy, Chuuya kept you locked in the bedroom when he was away because you fought him too much. A chain around your ankle kept you from even trying to get out the bedroom door.

Yes, you were given food by a stoic bodyguard throughout the day and it wasn’t like you were left to fend for yourself, but still. It would be impossible to leave if you were stuck in the bedroom all day.

Now, though, Chuuya lets you walk around the penthouse when he’s gone. He allows the chef to premake some of your meals so that you can microwave them if he’s not here to feed you; you can watch a movie in the living room or take a nap on your shared bed or whatever you’d like, as long as it’s quiet and calming. 

Because you’re good, and you’ve behaved, and you let him do what’s best for you. 

It’s not a lot of freedom. But it’s enough to give you the chance to start stashing away supplies for your escape; it’s enough to give you the perfect moment to pretend to fall asleep on the sofa before Chuuya leaves one day, so you can look just in time to see the passcode he enters on the electronic lock attached to the front door.

It’s enough to put you on the path towards freedom. 

--

Chuuya paces back and forth so rapidly that you’re starting to feel a bit dizzy. There’s a framed picture of flowers--your favorite--on the wall behind him, and you focus on that to keep yourself steady. Chuuya… flowers… Chuuya… flowers. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight. I could send someone else for this.”

“Chuuya.” 

“Or I can send one of my guards to stay in the apartment while I’m gone. Just to be safe? Shit, I don’t know.” 

“Chuuya.”

“Fuck it, I’ll call it in, I’m not going--”

“Chuuya.”

He stops, and you take the opportunity to step forward and grasp both of his hands in yours. You pull them against your chest and watch as his expression goes from agitated and fretful to sweet, almost puppy-love. Every time you touch him without being told, it’s like you can see a sweet light spark in his eyes. Too bad you lost your spark a while ago. 

“Go,” you say, soft and sweet and so fake you wonder that he can’t see through it. “I’ll be fine. The building’s being guarded, and the door will be locked.” The tension begins to melt from his shoulders, and you continue. “Just come home safe, all right?”

His frown holds for only a moment more, then it splits into a grin.

“Yeah. Yeah… You’re right.” He lifts his hands, taking yours with them, so that he can press a short kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll be back in the early morning--don’t wait up for me, you two need your sleep. Got it?”

We won’t be here when you get back, you think. “I know. We’ll go to bed early,” you say. 

And then you lean forward and kiss him softly on the lips, your stomach brushing against him as you do. 

He expects a kiss whenever he leaves and you’re almost happy to give it, tonight, because you know it will be the last one he ever gets from you. 

--

You don’t act right away. You’re not stupid. It’s about 2 hours after he leaves that the plan is ready to set into motion. In the meantime, you’ve read and reread the same page of your book a thousand times; sweat has begun to cling to your back as your eyes dart from the page to the clock. 

The sensation of your stomach in knots is equaled only by the frenzy of activity inside your belly--you swear they can sense what’s going on. Can they feel how your heart has begun to race? Can they tell that your muscles are tense? That your ears are strained, listening for the sound of his footsteps, in case he changed his mind?

You’re thankful that you’re not alone when you finally retrieve your bag from its hiding spot. You’ve got supplies. Some cash, food, a few water bottles. Underwear, clothes--yours and the babies--and some of the baby things Chuuya has already picked up. A blanket, a package of bottles, in case he doesn’t take to the breast.

It’s not a lot. But it will be enough to get you through to safety and freedom, and that’s all that really matters.

The bag shifts on your shoulders as you stand at the door, heart pounding, breath coming in short puffs. The guards outside the door are doing their rounds--back and forth, stopping in front of the front door of the penthouse and again at the door of the elevator just a few steps away, then going round the corner to complete a circle. 

It takes them 15 seconds to walk down the hallway once they walk away from the elevator. And you have about 60 seconds to get from the front door into the elevator before they come back. Maybe 90 seconds, maybe 2 minutes, if they stop to chat. They don’t do that with any regularity, so it’s impossible to plan for it. So you don’t. 

Instead, you count, one hand on your belly, one hand poised above the numbers on the electronic lock. It makes a noise so you have to wait to just… the right… time…

Now.

Despite all of the careful planning that went into this, as soon as your fingers press the code in, all thinking seems to cease. You are running on pure instinct. The door opens and you don’t even look to make sure the guards aren’t there, instead you fly right to the elevator door and push down.

It could all go wrong here. If someone is in the elevator, if someone is coming up from the floors, if the elevator didn’t return to the top after Chuuya left.

But the door has mercy and opens right away, and you rush into it, almost tripping over the threshold. Your finger trembles onto the close door button and it shuts. You don’t hear shouts. You don’t hear panic.

They didn’t see you.

Timing, again, is everything. You press the fifth floor so that the elevator will stop there long enough for the guards at the bottom to--you hope, you hope, you hope, if you timed it right--be around the corner as well. But there’s no telling if your timing is correct here. Maybe they don’t leave the doors at all, on the bottom floor. Maybe there are more guards, maybe they take shifts. All these maybes ball up in your stomach and take the air out of you as the elevator reaches the ground floor and opens.

You rush out without looking, but no one is there. You’re at the private back entrance and you don’t waste time thinking about how lucky you are or what to do next; you simply push yourself out the door and begin to run down the street.

It doesn’t take long for your feet to hurt. The house slippers Chuuya gives you are not meant for concrete, not meant for uneven sidewalks where people occasionally drop glass bottles and cigarette butts. 

You don’t let the pain stop you. You never have before. 

As you run, solid thoughts finally begin to return to your mind, which feels less fuzzy and more aware of the danger that you might be in. You did it. You’re out. You’re gone. You’re free. 

But not just yet, right? You need to stay hidden. You need to be safe.  You need, above all, to get off the highly visible streets. 

A sign for a bus stop catches your eye. Yes--a bus. You could let it take you as far as it will, and then go from there. But the sign says the bus stops on the hour, and there’s still 30 minutes to go--you can’t stay out on the street that long.

Instead, you slip into an alley just a little bit away from the sign. It’s close enough that you could press yourself against a wall and still keep an eye out for when the bus arrives. Will it be comfortable? No. Will it be smelly? Probably. Will you be out of public view? Yes--so that’s what you do.

You slip into the alley and immediately every nerve on your body raises because there is someone here with you.

No. Scratch that.

Two someones.

There is a man standing that you can only see from behind. He is shrouded in the shadows of the alleyway’s end, which isn’t lit by anything but the hint of light from the street. 

And there is a man on the ground, pressed against the farthest end of the alley, begging for his life. You only catch some of the words that tumble out of his desperate lips: I didn’t betray you, I swear, I swear, I can tell you everything you need to know, it wasn’t me, oh please, fuck, I swear--

And then he doesn’t speak anymore because the first man shoots him in the head. He falls backward and something hits the wall and you can't help the noise of startled horror that slips out of your mouth.

The man turns around, gun drawn, and you have just enough time to think--this is it--before he steps forward. 

And… says your name?

The man is Chuuya.

The man is Chuuya, who holsters his gun and, mouth gaping, has his hands on you before you can even think about running. He’s checking you over--for bruises or cuts or who knows what else--and his grip on your forearm is relentlessly strong. 

“What the fuck? What the fuck?” He says, not believing the sight of you, even as he touches you. “Babe, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Where’s--”

And then he sees the bag slung over your shoulder. Sees how full it looks. He glances down at your stomach. Then back  up at your face.

“You were trying to leave?”

The hurt on his face might induce pity, if you weren’t currently dealing with the most horrific adrenaline rush in the world. 

“No,” you sputter. “Yes. No. I--” 

And it’s then that your body and mind crash together, and the realization that you’ve been caught catches up with you. You should run. You will run. 

And you try, but it’s a lost cause. You don’t even have enough leverage to take a step back with how tightly he’s holding you. Your mind knows this, but your body doesn’t accept it quite yet, and you squirm fruitlessly against him.

He only needs one hand to keep you by his side as he takes out his phone and barks out an order at someone to come take care of the body of the poor dead man in the alley.

Then he looks back at you and hurt, fear, anger, play out on his face in a series of moments. 

“We’re going,” he tells you. He’s back on his phone, another order. A car to pick you up. 

His voice promises locked doors and lost privileges, yes, but there’s something else simmering in there that has you yanking back feebly as he drags you out of the alley and into an unmarked car.

--

Every guard Chuuya crosses stammers out apologies, swears they don’t know how this happened. Chuuya deals with them in clipped tones that make you wonder if they’ll survive the night. Reassigned, if they’re lucky.

The penthouse is just as you left it. Quiet. Clean. A now runny smoothie, fortified with vitamins and calculated with the perfect natal nutrients, sits on the counter; you didn’t drink it tonight.

Chuuya drags you through to the bedroom. All this time, he hasn’t let go of your hand. There will be finger-shaped bruises tomorrow.

You expect him to scream at you. Maybe even hurt you. A physical slap might hurt less than this all-consuming fear as he pulls you into the bedroom and gently guides you to sit down on the bed. What will he do? What will he say?

Your hand grasps your belly--please don’t hurt me.

Chuuya growls out bubbling anger, turns, and punches the wall so hard that his fist goes through the drywall. His knuckles have freckles of blood on them.

The sound, the sight of the blood, the anger pressing down on your shoulders--it’s all too much and hot tears spill over your lower eyelids and down your cheeks, salty, burning. 

He’s on his knees, immediately, wrapping his arms around your midsection and pressing kisses to your tear-stained cheeks.

“Babe, I’m sorry--I didn’t mean to scare you.” He hushes your hiccuping sobs, wiping and kissing your tears in alternate measures. “I was just so fucking mad.” 

At me? You think. 

“Those guards,” he continues, frowning. “They weren’t watching you like they should.”

“But I…” You don’t finish: But I’m the one who ran away.

Your confusion must show on your face, because he presses a kiss to your cheek, to your lips. 

“Hush. I know you’re prone to fits like this. I don’t mind. It’s why I do so much to watch over you, y’know?” He rubs at your cheeks with this thumb and cracks a smile. From the corner of your eye,  you can see the blood on his knuckles. “It was either the wall or one of those guys’ heads, right?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he kisses you, more lingering this time.

“You make me crazy,” he whispers against your lips. “You know that?”

“Chuuya,” you whisper, breath mingling with this. “Please, I want to… I want to…” Leave. Be free. All words you could say, that never make their way past your lips.

He sits up taller on his knees and rests his head against your stomach. There’s a flurry of movement inside you--does the baby know he’s there? What does the baby, in all its primordial growth, think of any of today’s events?

“I know it’s scary,” Chuuya murmurs. “You don’t have to tell me. We’re about to be parents. Anyone would be worried.” 

That’s not what you wanted to say. It’s hard to say if Chuuya knows it and pretends otherwise or simply doesn’t acknowledge your resistance at all. 

He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes.

“I’ll have to bring the chain back out for a while. Maybe until the baby comes.” He opens his eyes just a little and glances up at you with a smile. “But I can make it long enough for you to walk around. Doctor said you needed to stretch your legs every day, babe.”

He closes his eyes again and you don’t know what else you can do but reach out and rest your palm against his head. He leans into your touch.

“I know,” you croak out. There’s a few beats--of your heart?--and your fingers curl against his hair. “I’m sorry I went outside.” What else can you do, but lean into Chuuya, but apologize for doing what he insists you never do. Leave him, be free, live your own life.

He sighs and nuzzles himself against your stomach. He presses a soft kiss to it before pulling himself off the floor, leaning down, and kissing you on the head.

“I know, babe. Don’t worry. I’m not mad.”

You wonder what Chuuya might have done if he had gotten angry at you.

Perhaps it’s better not to know.

[historias-multorum]

"Mako-chan how does it feel being team mom? Does it get tiresome sometimes?" - Nagisa

@strawberrycolaaa

"Not at all. I love you guys and I don't mind being the mom~"

[ladykailitha]

The Au Pair Boy Part 1

Surprise!!! I have six chapters of this and really need to start getting it out, so I figured with Act 1 ending last week and my backlog on this and Of Butterflies and Backstrokes (Olympic Swimmer) being so low thanks to me trying to the Halloween themed sequel to Icarus (Metal Band) that I would put this out until I build that back up and lower the amount of backlog this one has.

Summary: Eddie Munson is a in bind, set to go on a three month reunion tour, he is in need of nanny for his twin girls Janice and Joan since his partner, Ethan blew up their lives a year ago. Enter nanny extraordinaire, Steve Harrington. Both men struggle with treading the line between boss/nanny and their strong attraction to each other. Will Eddie learn to trust again? Will Steve realize that he was always meant to be right there by Eddie's side?

~

Eddie hung up the phone with a sigh. He wanted to do the tour, because of course he did. But he also had two very rambunctious little girls now. Eddie was a good dad, but he wasn’t the nurturing kind the way Ethan was. But sometime in the last year, Ethan had changed.

He had grown distant and cold, going as far as yelling at the girls which he never used to do. So Eddie quit producing music to give Ethan some much needed time for himself. Fat lot of good that did.

Because apparently Ethan was banging...well, just about everyone but Eddie’s friends. The pool boy, the guy who delivered their food, the cleaning lady, their personal trainer, hell even the barely legal dog walker got more of his husband’s dick than Eddie did.

Which he didn’t find out, by the way. Ethan had told him after handing him divorce papers and legally renouncing parental rights to Joan and Janice. He threw it in Eddie’s face the numerous affairs he had. The one thing he wouldn’t tell him was why.

Why was Ethan so unhappy when Eddie had done everything right?

He buried his head in hands. Janice and Joan were only four and they had been adopted at birth. They never met the mother and were only told that she didn’t want them and never wanted to see them ever again.

So how could Ethan look at those two little angels and decide the same?

Eddie was heartbroken and not ready to move on. So he had agreed to the tour as a way to cope with the sudden explosion of his life. His friends knew Ethan had left, but they didn’t know the extent of his ex’s destruction.

He thought about taking the girls with him, but they were too little. They wouldn’t have fun and would be more terrified then thrilled. So live-in nanny it was.

Thankfully he had a month to find someone who would cook and clean and watch the girls. Especially after having to fire all of his help in the wake of Ethan’s destruction.

He had this.

~

Eddie did not in fact have this. He only had three more days until he left and he was at his wit’s end. He had rejected candidate after candidate for a myriad of reasons. One only wanted part-time despite the ad before a live in nanny. Another said she was strict disciplinarian and thought spanking was the only way to teach a child. And even another just gave off weird vibes.

So he called the agency one more time.

“You’ve gone through all of our female nannies,” the woman huffed on the other end of the line. “We only have male nannies left, surly you don’t–”

“Just send the best male nanny you’ve got!” Eddie barked. “I don’t care about gender for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m not sure–” the woman protested but Eddie hung up on her.

He didn’t have time to listen to whatever excuse she was going to come up with. He was running out of time before the tour and needed someone. Anyone.

He got a call back five minutes later from another woman telling him that they would be sending over their best male nanny at 2pm if that was acceptable.

He sighed with relief. “Yes, that will be perfect. The girls will be down for their nap then.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Munson,” she said cheerfully. “The gentleman we are sending over, his name is Steve Harrington, and I sincerely hope he will be a good fit for you.”

“You and me both,” Eddie sighed again. “You and me both.”

~

When Steve got to the house, he would have liked to have said that he wasn’t impressed because he had seen dozens of large houses and even larger sprawling mansions in his time as a full time nanny, but he was. Very much so.

It wasn’t a gaudy modern monstrosity for starters. It liked a Victorian era manor that had been modernized for living in today. It gave off a spooky vibe, but in a fun way and not a horror movie way. Like the Addams family or the Munsters kind of vibe.

He really dug it.

He went up and knocked on the door. It swung open almost immediately to reveal a pretty, petite woman with sparkling green eyes and strawberry blonde hair. She had a sweet smile.

He knew this wasn’t the mother, the file said that it was a single father of twin girls. A rockstar of some sort, though Steve didn’t recognize the name. This must be some kind of servant or PA or something.

“Hi, I’m Steven Harrington,” he greeted putting out his hand for her to shake. “I have a two o’clock appointment with Eddie Munson about the nanny position.”

Her smile widened, dimpling her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Chrissy Cunningham, I’m Corroded Coffin’s manager. Come on in, he’s waiting for you.”

Steve followed her through the house. It was just as impressive as the outside. It was beautifully decorated in dark browns, reds, and black. God, he hoped he got the job. He could really see himself living here.

She opened the door to the office allowed him to walk through, closing it behind him. Which normally wouldn’t have been a problem for Steve but now he was in a room with the hottest guy he had ever seen in his life and he really didn’t need an erection at a job interview.

Eddie looked up, and yup. Steve was done for. He had the biggest brown eyes he had ever seen outside of a Disney cartoon.

“Mr. Munson?” he said, reaching out for a handshake, mustering up every ounce of professionalism he had. “Steven Harrington, how do you do? You can call me Steve.”

Eddie grinned back. “Hey, Steve. Thanks for coming at such a short notice. I understand you’ve been brought up to speed on everything I’ll be needed you to do?”

Steve crossed his legs and put his hands on his lap. Shit, even his voice was sexy as fuck.

“Yes, I’ll be watching the children twenty-four/seven,” Steve recited dutifully, “with doing all of the cooking and some of the cleaning.”

“That’s right,” Eddie said. “That normally wouldn’t be the case, but I’ve had to recently fire all of my staff. In fact, if you are hired on, you’ll be working with Chrissy over the next couple of months to help bring staff back on. I would be putting a lot of trust in you not to fuck me over.”

Steve nodded. It was a bit like Robin’s period dramas. He would be running the household while Eddie was away.

“Wouldn’t Chrissy be needed on tour with you?” he asked, not sure what her role actually was.

Eddie shook his head. “She usually does, but I need her here to help to get this house running again. It was hard enough trying to explain to the girls why everyone had to leave. Especially their other dad. She just has her own place and a very demanding job. And the other people I trust with my kids are going on tour with me, so...”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Steve said huffing out a chuckle. “I’m willing and able to take the job. There is just one more thing we have to do first.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side. “I don’t think I offered you the job yet.”

Steve burst out laughing. “No, I don’t suppose you did. But you really should. I’m really good with kids, I’m great cook, my references are impeccable, I have a degree in early child development, and you’re desperately out of time.”

“I noticed that all your previous families had older kids,” Eddie said picking up Steve’s resume. “Can you explain that?”

“Yes,” Steve said with a sigh. “Unfortunately, despite being practically perfect in every way,” Eddie huffed out a small laugh, “if I was a woman I would be the most sought after nanny in the whole god damned state. Even more so if I was older fifty. But because I’m a young man not even thirty yet and all they see is a predator.”

Eddie winced. He held up a finger. He picked up his phone and called the agency. “Hello? Hi Nancy, this is Eddie Munson. Yes, I will be taking Steve Harrington on as my nanny. Thank you so much for sending him over. Can you tell me who it was the first person I spoke to this morning? Yes, yes that’s the one. Kindly inform her that pushing harmful stereotypes only makes you look stupid. Mhmm. Yes. Yes. I want her fired. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Steve looked at him in awe. “Oh wow.”

Eddie grinned at him but before he could open his mouth to say something more, Chrissy poked her head in. “Sorry to disturb you but guess who woke up?”

“Janice?” Eddie replied with a fond smile.

“And guess who woke up her sister because she wanted someone to play with?” Chrissy said.

“Also Janice.” He sighed and turned to Steve. “You want to meet my little monsters?”

Steve smiled and stood up. “That was the one thing I was going to suggest we do before you hire me, is meet the girls. But having met their dad, I can already tell they’re going to be a handful.”

“Hey!” Eddie protested. But Chrissy laughed.

“Come on,” he said grumpily, “let’s go see the munchkins.”

Chrissy opened the door all of the way and Eddie and Steve followed her out. They reached the kitchen and there seating at a table were two of the cutest kids Steve had ever worked for. They both had light, curly brown hair and deep brown eyes, but that was where their similarities ended.

The one of the right had her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with a denim overalls over a pink shirt. The overalls had a cute pink kangaroo on the pocket on the front. The girl on the left had her hair carefully braided and wore light blue shirt and a black pleated skirt. They were both munching on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“Meet Janice and Joan,” Eddie said brightly. “Janice is the one on the right and the other is Joan. Janice is the oldest by seven minutes and she never lets Joan forget it.”

Joan stuck her tongue out at her dad around her sandwich and then went back to munching on it. Janice looked over at Steve and cocked her head to the side.

“Who’s that, Daddy?” she asked. And suddenly Steve was struck by how much the little girl acted like her dad.

“Girls,” Eddie said sternly, “do you remember when I said that Daddy was going to be gone for three months and you were going to be looked after by a new friend?”

Joan scrunched her nose and Steve was endeared. “Is he like one of those nannies that were so mean to us?”

“No, of course not, Joanie,” Eddie said, “not a nanny...” He looked to Steve for help.

“I’m what’s called an au pair,” he said brightly. “I’m here to watch over you and do a little of the cooking and cleaning, too. A nanny wouldn’t do that right?”

Joan and Janice shared a glance. And Steve was struck for the first time that they were really were twins. They acted so differently that he had already put them in separate boxes. But they moved in unison as they both shrugged.

“I guess not,” Janice huffed. “Are you going to be fun like Chrissy or strict like Daddy?”

The adults laughed as Steve walked over to the table. “My hope is to be somewhere in the middle. But I guess we’ll just have to see.”

He turned to Eddie and Chrissy. “If it’s all right, I’d like to get started now, give the girls time to get use to my presence while you’re still here, Eddie. That way we can smooth out any real problems before you go.”

Chrissy and Eddie shared a glance.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “that’ll be fine. Great even. I’ll give you a couple of hours to get your things and come back here. Would you be okay making us dinner?”

Steve beamed at him. “Sure, give me an idea of what you guys like and I’ll find something to make you. Let’s consider it part of the interview.”

Eddie smiled back. “Well I think you have yourself a deal.”

Steve and Eddie shook hands.

This was either going to the best decision of Eddie’s life or his worst. Currently the jury and his brain were still out on that one.

~

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Tag List: CLOSED

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[dare-to-dm]

The summer Olympics are the one time I miss having live TV.

In any case, as a former swim team captain, let me share my favorite fact about the sport of swimming with you.

You've seen the events called "freestyle", right? Well, unlike backstroke, breaststroke and butterfly, freestyle is not a stroke. You're allowed to do any kind of stroke you want in a freestyle event (as long as you stay in your lane).

Everybody does the front crawl because it's the fastest stroke we know how to do. But I eagerly await the day someone goes into a freestyle event with a new crazy strategy. Either for the spectacle or because they've broken new ground in "go fast splashy splash" maneuvers.

[riality-check]

TW: past verbal and emotional abuse

The Harrington house is a game of perfection.

Steve has known this fact for as long as he can remember. There is a right way, a narrow way, a rigid way, of doing things. Numbers dictate all: rebounds, points, and assists for basketball, new PRs in freestyle and backstroke for swim. The numbers themselves do not matter; all that does is that they grow and shrink appropriately.

Infinite growth is not sustainable; not for Steve's stats, not for Richard's stocks. Both of them strive for it anyway.

The house must be clean. The parties can't be busted. The people of Hawkins will only say good things about the Harrington family. Gloria strives for these things, day in and day out.

The Harrington house is also a game of Perfection.

Steve hated that game growing up. The one with the little yellow pieces and the blue board. He was never able to get all the pieces in the right spot before the board spit them all back out.

It made a ticking noise, like a time bomb. Steve doesn't know when he started associating that sound with his parents.

It fits. It fits almost too well. They're fine, at least for a little while. The ticking starts quiet, then grows louder and louder until everything blows up.

The thing is, in Perfection, that the board blows up even if you put all the pieces in the right spots in time. The thing is, in the Harrington house, that everything blows up even if Steve does everything right.

The ticking lasts for days sometimes, weeks others. It's impossible, random, and impossibly random.

The only consistent thing is the board blowing up. And when that happens, so does the shouting.

The Party thinks that Tommy and Carol taught Steve to be cruel. That they're the ones who taught him how to bare his fangs and spit venom. That once he left them, the rage left him.

He's okay with letting them think that. It's easier than explaining that Richard and Gloria are the ones who taught him how to snap and shout, how to tear holes in other people with a few well-spoken barbs.

When Steve thinks of his parents, he thinks of fighting. He thinks of his father calling him useless and his mother calling him an idiot. He thinks of his mother calling his father dirt and his father calling his mother a bitch.

There are never any apologies. "I'm sorry" is never said in the Harrington house, even when the board gets reset.

They say "I got you pizza for dinner." "I saw this at the store and thought of you." "Do you want to come with me to get gas?"

And with that, the ticking starts up again.

Horrible things are said when the board blows up. Steve says horrible things when the board blows up. He's called his father an asshole and his mother self-absorbed and apologized without any apology at all.

He cleaned the pool instead.

Steve doesn't want to the board to blow up in the middle of the Munson trailer. It's why he's keeping his mouth shut while Eddie yells at him.

"What the hell, Stevie?" Eddie shouts, arms flying. "I told you that you can’t do that!"

“You told me you don’t want me to,” Steve says, staying calm and measured.

Calm and measured. Not blowing up. Steve isn’t going to snap or shout or bitch. He isn’t.

“Fucking semantics!”

“They were saying-”

“I don’t care what they were saying!” Eddie roars. “I don’t give a shit what they say about me!”

It’s true. Wayne calls Eddie “Teflon,” says that nothing sticks to him, least of all anyone’s opinion. Steve knows that Eddie doesn’t care about what most people in Hawkins think about him.

But he cares very much about what the people who care about him think.

Steve can say a whole lot of things right now. He’s angry, physically biting his tongue to ground himself. He can say a whole lot of things to cut Eddie to the bone, to end the argument and then some.

But he won’t.

Love is knowing how to hurt someone and choosing not to. It’s using a knife to split an apple to share instead of to cut skin to ribbons.

Steve can’t trust himself not to slash Eddie open. He says awful things when everything goes to hell like this, snaps back hard when snapped at first, operates purely on instinct.

He doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I care that you could have gotten hurt when you swung at those assholes,” Eddie continues. “I care that I wasn’t there with you when you defended yourself. I care that you won’t let me take a look at your hands and make sure they’re alright.”

Steve squeezes the knuckles of this right hand in his left. It stings, but he’s fine. Nothing broken. He knows from experience

“Stop it, you’re hurting yourself,” Eddie barks.

Steve lets go of his hands, lets them hang loosely at his sides.

“So, what the hell, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, still loud, still snappish.

A variety of terrible answers surges to the front of Steve’s mind. Eddie’s biggest insecurities, the things he’s only told Steve when he thought he was asleep. Ways to wipe the anger off his face and replace it with stuff easier to manage: shock, hurt, sadness. Things he would say if he didn’t particularly like Eddie, if he were still in high school, if he were still in his parents’ house.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He keeps the knife in its drawer. He closes his eyes tight and breathes in once, then again.

“Hey,” Eddie says, softer.

Steve opens his eyes to find him a step closer, hands up in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

Oh.

Well.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s said it before. Of course he has. He knows the words, knows that he needed to say them to Dustin and Robin and Max, and he has. He’s stepped too far with jokes and forgot about some things and missed some things they’ve said.

But he’s never yelled at them. They’ve never yelled at him.

This is not how this is supposed to go. Eddie isn’t supposed to apologize. He’s supposed to clean Steve up or make him dinner or invite him along to go grocery shopping.

And Steve was supposed to snap back.

“It’s okay,” he says because that’s what he’s supposed to say, yeah?

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It was bound to happen.”

Eddie stares at him, big doe eyes shining, like he has five heads. It makes Steve want to put his bloody hands behind his back, make him shrink.

He swears he can hear ticking, but the board just reset. Didn’t it?

“What?” Eddie asks.

Steve shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I got scared, but that doesn’t mean I get to yell at you. That’s not okay.”

What does Eddie get to do, if not yell?

I deserve it, Steve thinks, but he’s smart enough to know that saying that out loud will just lead to another fight.

There’s been barely any time to put the pieces back.

Steve doesn’t get it. But, he figures he’s always been a little slow on the uptake, so he can watch. Observe. Figure it out later on his own. He’s pretty good at that.

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he holds his hands out for Eddie to take.

He’s dragged along to the sink, where Eddie rinses the cuts out with cool water before bandaging them up with the remnants of a box of Band-Aids from the bathroom. When they’re dry and finished, he presses a kiss to each knuckle, feather light.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking at Steve very seriously.

“Me, too,” Steve says, voice a little hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

It feels good to say. It feels good to mean.

Standing there in the kitchen of a trailer in Forest Hills, looking at the mismatched furniture and half-full ashtrays of the living room, holding hands with his boyfriend formerly accused of murder and apologizing for the first time and meaning it, Steve feels like he can finally breathe.

The ticking has finally stopped, and silence sounds so sweet.