#fic: inevitably yours

[clumsy-jiminie]

ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟʏ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ | ᴘᴊᴍ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ

❝ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ꜰʟᴀᴍᴇꜱ ❞

↣ summary :: Kiara Smith had dreamed of true love for as long as she could remember. from being obsessed with the Disney princesses who found affection in the strangest situations to dressing up as a bride from kindergarten to fourth grade. it was the only thing she ever truly desired, so much so that a pleasant smile and kind eyes could have her smitten in seconds. right when she thought she found the one, a chance encounter with Park Jimin—the city’s famously perfect fuck boy with a smile so warm and a heart of ice—has her feeling quite the opposite. he knocks her off her axis and derails her life as she knows it, yet the universe seems to have another plan for the two.

↣ rating :: 18+

↣ genre :: fluff, angst, smut, e2l, slow burn

↣ pairing :: business owner!jimin x fem!artist!oc ft. taehyung

↣ word count :: 4.7k

↣ chapter warnings :: mature language, questionable yoga poses, sexual fantasying, intimacy

↣ notes :: :) surprise :) the amount of sexual tension in this chapter makes me wanna smush their faces together and yell KISS ALREADY also JIN IS BACK JIN IS HOME WORLD WIDE HANDSOME HAS RETURNED 🥳 I was so happy to see our king of chaos return and spend some time with the rest of the boys!

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if you have any questions, comments, or concerns PLEASE don't hesitate to message me or send me an ask! my inbox is always open. 💖

"you're watching, I feel it. I know I shouldn't stare. I picture your hands on me. I think I wanna let it happen."

-liar, camilla cabello-

Amber eyes met with chocolate irises. After staring at each other with a widened gaze of disbelief, both pairs respectfully narrowed at each other.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Kiara dropped whatever stretch she was about to do, turning to face the blonde man who seemed equally, if not more, annoyed than the girl.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" She whispered harshly so she wouldn't cause a scene.

Jimin couldn't help but tilt his head to the side curiously, switching arms to stretch the other one out. "I thought it was pretty obvious."

Her eyes burned a hole into him. "No shit! I meant here, at this studio, when there are hundreds, if not thousands, of other ones!"

The man shrugged, "This one was in the area. Technically, I should be asking you what you're doing here. Aren't you supposed to be in Long Island?"

Kiara opened her mouth and prepared for a slick response, but the words died on her tongue. He had a point, but she wouldn't let him know. All she wanted was to relax; with everything else going on in her life, this was the one place guaranteed to provide some tranquillity. But now that was tainted by the blonde's mere existence.

It was like the universe was playing some sick joke on the woman, interweaving her life with someone as insufferable as him. Her existence became a reality TV show for the gods above and below, making Kiara and Jimin the main characters. 

"What happened to your hair?" Jimin asked suddenly, filling the air of silence that grew between them. He had only checked out the woman because her hair caught his attention. So curly, wild, and free—he liked it, but it was Kiara's, so he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to pull on her curls strand by strand to watch them recoil back to the loose spring. Plus, Kiara had straight hair—she always had straight hair—she couldn't just suddenly change it on him.

"Fuck off," she quipped while she placed her hands on her hips for a moment. Kiara didn't wear her hair curly for this exact reason; someone always had something to say about it. Whether it was white women and children reaching out to touch it without her permission, black men insisting she was anything other than black when trying to talk to her, and random Hispanic people speaking straight Spanish to her as if she understood. Kiara didn't like the attention it brought her. That's why she kept it straight. The only thing people would do was compliment her hair. The less attention, the better.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, trying to find the calmness she once had before Park Jimin had entered. If she couldn't, she would hightail it out of here and back to Little Latte to give Jeongguk an earful. She knew she should've stayed at his place and made his bed into a lovely, comfy depression nest. An overwhelming feeling sat in her gut as soon as Jeongguk mentioned the outside world. 

"Was it on purpose? Like you meant to walk outside like that?" Jimin started to lean side to side casually, hiding the smirk that desperately wanted to form on his lips. 

Kiara glared at the blonde, her fiery gaze meeting his playful one. So he thinks this is a joke? "Fuck you and ya motha."

"Oooh," Jimin chuckled, hiding his attraction to her accent. It was the first time he heard it so prominently. Did she know she had a voice that deserved to be in porn? He could listen to just her speaking with no direction at all and get off. "Insulting people's mother's now? Someone's a little feisty."

"You're right," she stepped off her mat and bent over, beginning to roll it up. Jimin's eyes lingered over the woman for more than what was appropriate. "Your mother is probably a wonderful lady. I bet she tried everything for you not to grow up a pretentious asshole, but unfortunately," she grabbed her mat and water bottle, "some thing's can't be helped."

Jimin's upper lip twitched, threatening to curl from the bold assumption that his mother was anything excellent. He should’ve told her off—let her know just how painfully wrong she was—but that little smirk playing on her lips stole the words from his tongue. All he could do was sigh deeply, exhaling all the words he wanted to say as he stared into those eyes of gold that threatened him as much as his own. Just as she stepped away from him, assuming the woman was going to leave so they both could have peace, a door opened. The duo turned their head towards the noise that interrupted their tension.

"Good morning, my blessed rays of sunshine and daring rainbows!" A short girl with wavy dark brown hair walked in, followed by a tall man with deep skin. With the amount of pep in her step, one would think she was skipping. She made her way to the front of the room, standing before the mirror on top of a mat. The woman was very petite, standing at 4'10 at most. In contrast, the man beside her had to be at least 6 feet tall. It was an odd couple, but Kiara didn't care as much as she wondered why there were two instructors instead of one.

The woman smiled brightly at the room as the chatting people from earlier slowly started to join the center. "It's an honor to have you join us for this couples class."

The duo's eyes widened with disbelief before releasing an aspirated sigh. "Ah, shit," they mumbled as they looked around the room. Everyone had a partner beside them, leaving them as the only pair. 

"Today's class is designed for you and your partner to sync until you are one."

Kiara quickly raised her hand, promptly grabbing the instructors' attention. They nodded towards her, prompting her to speak. "What if you don't have a partner?"

The room erupted in tiny giggles like she said a joke, but Kiara's face remained unchanged. She stared at the two instructors, jaw clenched with an unamused expression spread amongst her features. She folded her arms over her chest, waiting for whatever response the two would conjure up.

"Oh, you were serious?" The man asked before Kiara nodded. He pursed his lips briefly before his eyes landed on the man beside her. Jimin looked at Kiara, wondering where she expected this route to lead her. It was only until the overwhelming feeling of someone staring at you that he pulled his gaze away from the girl and looked at the male instructor. "Do you have a partner?"

The blonde's eyes went wide before he cleared his throat. "Well, no, but—"

"Ah! So problem solved!" The male grinned before looking off at the rest of the class.

"No!" Kiara's voice pipped up before the female instructor could speak. "Problem not solved! Problem far from solved!"

"You're welcome to walk out," the short woman stated. She stared at the other woman, her warm blue eyes freezing over suddenly. That didn't stop Kiara from bending over again, preparing to gather her things until the woman's voice cut through the air. "But we don't offer refunds here."

Kiara stopped and froze, debating for a moment before slowly standing up. She had to dip into her savings fund to pay for this class, and she didn't want to waste money she shouldn't have been spending in the first place. Her shoulders dropped in defeat as she realized she was not only going to be stuck in the same room with Park Jimin, sober, for a whole hour, but now she was also to be his partner.

"Problem solved?" The female instructor asked with a tone of impatience lingering behind her words. Kiara nodded silently. The woman's eyes then traveled to Jimin, who met her gaze with a glare. She raised a questioning brow, tempting him to take a chance and try her also. And Jimin would've. He didn't need the money, nor cared so much for the class. He could've left, found another class at a neighboring yoga studio, and pretended he never ran into Ms. Kiara. But that was the issue. All it took was one glance at the woman who seemed to shrink into herself from embarrassment.

Jimin tilted his head back as he shut his eyes, letting out a small sigh of defeat. He placed his hands on his hips, gathering all the positive energy lingering in his system. He looked at the instructor once more, offering her his charming smile. "Problem solved."

The instructors seemed pleased, going on to resume their introduction to the class. Kiara found herself slowly shuffling towards Jimin. She leaned in subtly towards him. "Just so you know," she whispered, "I'm going to hate every second of this."

Jimin stifled back a dry scoff. "Likewise."

After the introduction, the instructors started the class with a simple breathing exercise. They demonstrated the position, causing Kiara's eyes to widen before she glanced at the blonde man beside her, who did not react. Soon, everyone, including Jimin and Kiara, got onto their mats and copied their position.

Kiara stared at Jimin while he avoided her gaze completely before cautiously sliding into his lap. The instructor pulled the shades on the window down, blocking out the natural sunlight before dimming the fluorescent lights. Speakers quietly played calm notes of guitar strings plucking and wind instruments. Despite the elements around them, the duo was anything but relaxed. Kiara tensed at the feeling of Jimin's hands on her back while hers wrapped around his neck loosely. Jimin tried to steady his breathing, praying that she couldn't feel how fast his heart was beating. They don't like each other; they haven't liked each other for months, so why did he need to feel close to her?

Kiara inhaled deeply, letting her eyes shut as her breathing began to sync with Jimin's. It was fast at first and slightly concerning until her fingers absentmindedly found the little hairs on his nape. He seemed to relax at the feeling of her fingertips stroking his hair. For the first time today, Kiara felt some sort of peace.

She wanted to pretend it was Taehyung's arms wrapped around her. She wanted to pretend it was his hands gently rubbing against her cool skin, warming her. She wanted to pretend it was his incredibly addictive scent she was breathing in. The sweet smell of citrus and pineapple colliding with a slight spice of black pepper and juniper berries with a heavy hint of vanilla lingering in the background was comforting. Disrespectfully intoxicating. Soothing. She wanted to pretend, but she couldn't.

All of his qualities were opposite of Jimin's.

Taehyung was naturally rougher and more dominating. Slow moments like this didn't come often, and if they did, it would always end with a hand on her ass or boob, groping her and telling her how horny he is. Sometimes, she just wanted to be held, to feel skin against hers in the most innocent ways. She didn't want her body to only be touched for someone else's pleasure. 

Her boyfriend also smelled like a teenager who put on too much axe body spray. Kiara preferred something sweeter, more inviting, and easier on the nose, while Taehyung wanted people to smell him before he entered the room. His colognes contained more notes of cedar woods, bergamot, and various citruses—powerful and entirely too much for Kiara. Maybe that's why she found herself snuggling closer to Jimin, her nose pressing against the crook of his neck, causing the area to tense from her simple touch.

"Someone's close," Jimin whispered lowly, causing a pleasant chill to run down her spine. She didn't know his voice could get deeper, and it was a dangerous ability for him to have. His silk voice was already soothing on the ears, but this made it far more enjoyable.

"That's the whole point of the exercise," she mumbled, subconsciously pushing her body against his.

Jimin inhaled sharply, her curls tickling the tip of his nose. He couldn't slow his heart. He couldn't stop his mind, not while she was this close to him. All he could think about was how divine she smelled—a delicate mix of berries with hints of whipped vanilla. Sweetness seemed to be her signature, which he didn't mind. He just ran his fingers up and down her spine, instinctively pulling her closer by her hips. The woman couldn't help the gasp that escaped from her lips as her fingertips gripped his black shirt.

Kiara shouldn't be enjoying this. It was wrong on so many levels. Still, she couldn't help but let her eyes flutter close as she melted into his embrace. She imagined a world where the events leading to their distaste for each other didn't occur. A world where Jimin met her before Taehyung. A world where his gentle touch was normalized, yet still made goosebumps arise on her skin as if it was foreign.

The instructor's voice cut through their moment of peace, placing them back in the reality where they disliked each other. Their separation was slow, almost as if their bodies were rejecting the idea of it. Kiara's eyes met Jimin's briefly before she slid onto the floor and to the space beside him. 

The class continued with some regular solo poses before another couple exercise. Kiara sighed deeply, dreading the moment she had to feel Jimin's hands against her skin. This is what she should be feeling, right? Then why did it feel forced?

The class watched as the male instructor demonstrated the pose. It was relatively easy, like the first one, yet Kiara's face flushed with heat. This class was truly meant for couples. She wondered if Taehyung would be interested in attending one with her, but she already knew his answer would be no. The activity was too boring, and with the closeness he would convince them to ditch and never return.

"You nervous or something?" Jimin whispered, sounding almost genuine as he pulled her from her thoughts.

"No!" She snapped at him quietly.

His brows furrowed as he gestured towards the space in front of him. "Then get in position." His tone matched hers without a second thought. 

The woman glared at him despite being the one to start the trouble. Regardless, she did as she was told and stood before him. Sweat began to form in the palms of her hands as she felt his hand rest on her hip. She took a deep breath, slowly bending forward as the hand resting in the middle of her back guided her. She grasped her toes between her fingers while keeping her knees straight, causing the back of her legs to stretch. Typically, this was a very relaxing pose, and she usually would've gone a step further and wrapped her arms around her calves, almost pulling her head between her legs. Jimin's presence was a distraction—too significant not to notice—stopping her from stretching further. He wasn't doing much, but his hands gently persuaded her to continue the stretch by applying light pressure on her back while her other hand firmly kept her in place to ensure she didn't lose balance. It caused her face to flush, the feeling of his hands so gentle yet so commanding.

Curiosity flooded Kiara's mind briefly, leading her to glance at the mirror before them. And god, she wished she hadn't. It was enough that she found Jimin attractive—you'd have to be blind to say he wasn't—but with his dark eyes peering over her frame as he stood directly behind her and his brows somewhat furrowed with his head tilted to the side a bit, Kiara was surprised she didn't turn bright red at the sight. Her mind strolled to a dark area, wondering if this were the picture an onlooker would see if he was fucking her from behind. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as she quickly looked away. She cursed at herself softly, knowing that specific scene would plague her thoughts for the next few nights.

Jimin inhaled deeply, trying to convince himself to remain calm. She was such a sight to see already, but bent over? It took every ounce of concentration he had not to allow blood to run opposite from his head. Despite wanting to fill the gap between them and press his hips against the woman, he stayed frozen in place. You know better, rang through his head like a mantra. Curse this class for being so sexually charged, as if couples couldn't also mean a pair of friends who like yoga as well. It felt as if the instructors were punishing the duo for speaking up against them. Although, he was pleasantly surprised with how flexible the woman was. He prayed for the moment when the instructors called for a new position, not wanting to deal with this level of torture any longer. And when they finally did, he only removed his hand from her back, allowing her to return to an upright position slowly. He watched Kiara through lowered lids. Why did it seem as if everything she did was purposely seductive? It was like the girl had lust running through her system, expressed through the way she moved and spoke. Jimin didn't back off until he got a face full of her sweet fragrance.

Kiara swiftly returned to her mat. She unzipped her hoodie, feeling as if the area just went up 20 degrees. The woman rid herself of the black fabric, leaving her in a cropped white camisole. She used her hand to fan herself, hoping that the lack of clothing and the cool air would allow her face to return to its usual shade. Jimin glanced at the girl, subtly doing a double take as her chest barely moved up and down to accommodate her breathing. He stared ahead, cursing himself mentally, as he felt he was just about to lose the fight between his head and dick. He made it through having the woman sit in his lap and bent over directly in front of him, but her standing in a camisole was what would do him in?

Fuck, he thought to himself as the instructors started to talk. Hopefully, the shrill voice of the fake-peppy woman could stop him at a chub so he could avoid the embarrassment. The sweatpants he decided to put on weren't necessarily boner-proof. Her curves were so noticeable, so divine, blessed by Aphrodite herself. He totally understood why Taehyung was drawn to her, but how he put up with her slick tongue every day during their relationship was beyond him.

The class resumed its regular poses once again, giving Jimin a break as he focused on his posture. Kiara couldn't help but glance at him now and again. The regular poses had them remain close, causing their limbs to brush each other occasionally. The slight touch was more than enough to cause goosebumps to rise on either party's skin. Almost touching each other should've burned. It should've made them recoil strongly like the heat of a nearing fire. Stolen glances between the two should've created flames fueled by disdain for the other.

But it didn't. For the first time since that fateful night when everything went to shit, they were coexisting. Neither decided to question it; instead, they just lived in the moment, considering it would be the last.

The instructors demonstrated another pose, prompting the duo and the rest of the class to follow. This one didn't seem as sexually charged. Jimin sat on the mat with his legs wide open, allowing Kiara to place herself between them. She leaned back into him, resting her head on the upper portion of his chest. The curly-haired woman tried her hardest to relax against him, knowing that this particular stretch could end with her pulling a very uncomfortable area if Kiara wasn't careful. She let her eyes flutter shut as she tilted her chin toward the ceiling. Her hands rested comfortably on Jimin as if this was just an everyday thing with him—like being comfortable with him was normal.

Jimin was utterly focused. Having Kiara this close to him again could cause some trouble for him. He had already proved to himself that his mind could go to that place easily regarding the woman. The blonde wished he could blame it on the lack of pleasurable activities, but that would be a lie. As Kiara sunk into him, her curls tickling the side of his neck, he reached forward to grab her ankles. He lifted her legs into the air, slowly but surely pulling her limbs to either side of her. Jimin's brows furrowed as he continued to pull farther than he expected her to handle. She let out a soft hum, sounding pleasant to the ears.

Jimin inhaled deeply. He had the girl spread eagle in his lap, pulling her legs back until the side of her head. He averted his eyes, looking anywhere besides the place where any other guy would gaze. He even caught the male instructor staring in her direction for too a little long. The blonde instantly narrowed his eyes at the other, jaw set and tongue ready to slit his throat if the gaze proceeded. Luckily, the man was smart. He was instantly unsettled by his gaze, looking elsewhere while pretending to help another couple. Jimin couldn't help but roll his eyes, lip curling at the thought of him possibly checking out another woman while seemingly in a relationship. Though it was an assumption, Jimin could usually tell taken men from single. The former seemed to move more cautiously or didn't care for anything else around them. The latter always had a wandering eye, interacting with the world's opportunities of the beauties bestowed on him.

Kiara opened her eyes, meeting with the ceiling before looking ahead. The way Jimin had pulled her legs, stretching her abductors pleasantly, felt amazing. She looked at their reflection, gazing at his surprisingly strong arms. Her mind traveled to a darker place where they sat in a similar position, in front of a mirror in the privacy of her home, with a lot less clothing. Kiara was so caught up in her imagination—something she definitely shouldn't be indulging in considering the state of her relationship status—that she didn't notice Jimin's gaze slowly fall upon her, their eyes meeting in the mirror once again. She seemed in a daze to him; eyes glazed over with developing lust. He only wished to get a peek inside of that mind of hers.

When she finally came to, noticing how her eyes locked with his, she glared at him and quickly averted his gaze. Her face flushed with heat, a tedious habit when it came to this man. Kiara hoped he wouldn't see the embarrassment hiding in her rose-stained cheeks, but Jimin only chuckled at the sight, and she was unsure if that infuriated her or granted her relief. She wasn't allowed to ponder her feelings as the instructors commenced wind down, consisting of the duo separating and laying next to each other on their mats. They were only a few inches apart. Jimin's finger twitched, craving an action he knew he very well shouldn't. An hour of grasping her soft skin in his hands should've sufficed him. Yet he was greedy, wanting more of her than they both knew she could give.

Kiara stared up at the dimmed, round light fixtures that hung from the ceiling until little flashes of color invaded her line of vision. She let out a deep sigh, letting her eyes shut. Her mind was a tsunami of thoughts when it was supposed to be a calm lake. Three men crashed like tidal waves on her beach of sanity, when she hoped this class would get rid of them only for a second. She didn't want to think about her annoying boyfriend, her best friend whose eyes seemed to cover hidden feelings or the blonde whose looks should match his ugly personality to make things easier on her. She attempted to drown them with silence—push them so below the surface that it would take days for them to reach the top of the wave again. 

The room became brighter as the fluorescent lights turned on, and the instructors raised the shades to let in natural lightning. Kiara heard the other occupants get up and retrieve their stuff, but she remained glued to the floor beneath her. It wasn't enough time. This class achieved the opposite of why she attended. She still felt tense, and on edge, waiting for someone to push her over.

"Well, that wasn't a total nightmare," said a voice above her. The smug tone wrapped around his words dropped like acid onto the girl's face. Opening one eye, she was graced by the image of Jimin slightly bent over, hands in his pockets, with golden hair loosely spreading out and around him like rays of the sun.

"Says who?" Kiara scoffed as she sat up, a cloud blocking his rays. Most of the class had packed their stuff, leaving a few chatty stragglers beside the duo. She gathered her things before standing up and looking at the blonde. Looking up at him, she never noticed how much she needed to tilt her head back. Why did he look like he was glowing under the fluorescent lighting? His honey-glazed skin was smooth and supple, with the faintest freckles on his cheeks. 

"Considering the fact that we've survived an hour of pretending we could tolerate being close to each other, let alone touching each other, I'll take that as a win," Jimin smirked while folding his arms over his chest.

"Fucking perv," Kiara grumbled. "You liked putting your grimy little fingers on me, didn't you?"

"Don't act like you didn't enjoy it. I saw your face."

Kiara's eyes went wide for a moment before she unknowingly mirrored Jimin's stance by folding her arms over her chest as she shifted her weight to one foot. "I have not the slightest idea of what you're talking about."

The blonde couldn't help but smile as he watched her lips form into a subtle pout, her chin tilting upwards as she tried her hardest to appear snobby. Too bad she couldn't sell it. All she managed to do was look cute. "Yeah, OK, Kiara. Whatever will help you sleep better at night."

"Of course, you would think about how I sleep." Kiara quipped. She didn't know why she always dragged out conversations with Jimin. All she had to do was ignore him and walk away, but something about his little jabs made her want to fight.

Jimin let out a loud scoff. "Don't flatter yourself. You live far from my thoughts at night."

Kiara's brows furrowed, not understanding why that comment would leave her with an uncomfortable pit in her stomach instead of swelling with relief. "Yeah OK." She bent over to pack up her equipment, knowing Jimin's eyes were gazing upon her. She slowly stood up again, regaining control of the situation. She could see how Jimin's eyelids had lowered, plump lips ever so slightly agape as if he was trying to breathe out the lingering desire in his system. "So we're just gonna pretend like you weren't just staring at me, right?"

Jimin's face suddenly twitched, like he was snapping himself back to reality. Heat followed afterward, flushing his skin with a pretty pink. Kiara giggled softly, causing his lips to tug into a small smile despite the embarrassment swimming through him. How the woman managed to shut him up, not once, but twice now, was beyond him. Jimin was the king of clapbacks. There wasn't a soul that could escape his wicked tongue until he met the beautiful girl with wild hair and a smile that could light up even the darkest of nights. He could only sigh, feigning annoyance though he was rather impressed. 

"You really think I was staring at you?"

"I know it."

Jimin didn't bother testing his luck again. Something about her threw him off his game, which was not his proudest moment. The blonde couldn't do much but watched as she swayed her hips, strolling towards the door until she stopped suddenly.

"Guess you'll have something to think about at night now," Kiara said just as she walked out of the room. Jimin's jaw fell slightly before he collected himself, scoffing quietly. A part of him was tempted to follow after, to continue the banter they had fallen into.

But he knew better than that.

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[hitlikehammers]

💅That One Time Mommy Harrington Came Home Early and Found Her Son In Bed with A Man and Had To Square With The Reality of Her Baby Boy Growing Into a Man+Building His Own Family (Without Her)

and/or Being a Better Man of the House Than His Father Ever Could Be

🌼OR: 2/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

She’s slipped her heels off by the time he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Mom.”

Diane Harrington is not the type of woman to be caught back-footed in conversation. And she does suppose that lasting two decades without ever catching her son in flagrante is better than most mothers can hope for. She was admittedly unexpected—their arrival wouldn’t have been until next week if all had gone to plan. Richard’s secretary—not the young woman Diane caught him with last night, shockingly enough—but the secretary always sends Steve certified letters to make sure he’s aware they’re returning to Hawkins.

So she was unexpected. And she’d heard noises, crying out, when she’d cautiously entered after her flights were delayed past nightfall—there’d been a very suspicious and unfamiliar van in her garage where she’d expected Steve’s BMW to be parked, he’d always cared so diligently for that car but it was in the drive, and had shoe-prints on the dashboard she could see through the window. That, added to foreign articles of clothing strewn like evidence of a tussle, a hard-worn leather jacket and a pair of jeans darker than anything she’d ever seen her son so much as glance at, then the baseball bat dropped, perhaps, near the front door when no one in this house had ever played—though Steve had wanted to, as a boy, but swim will get you noticed for college, Steven, Richard had always insisted—it had all sent her chasing the noises up the stairs to Steve’s room, throwing her shoulders back and forgetting that she had no implement for defense as she opened the door and heard—

Well. Heard more clearly the words accompanying the cacophony of noises, paired with the image of her son on top of another man, the two of them very much notcovered by the sheets nearly kicked clear off the mattress.

They’d frozen when they saw her—and she’d frozen in kind upon seeing them, processing in slow-motion how her son was not in fact in mortal peril, or battling an intruder.

Not…even close.

But when the boy below him had looked up and met her eyes, she’d seen absolute terror, and then her legs had remembered how to move, and she’d dashed back to the stairs with a gasp, heels clacking on each step of her mad descent.

She’d checked for wine like an instinct—none in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to go to the cellar in the basement. She honestly didn’t know if her legs would give out on her for the climb, given the way the adrenaline was leaving her swiftly, with just the shock left to drop her into a chair at the kitchen table.

And she’d stared into the middle distance with little anomalies catching her attention through a sort of syrup, through a daze: snacks Steve never gravitated toward before, but even without accounting for shifting tastes, the sheer volume is confusing.

Pizza boxes waiting to be broken down for the garbage—but likewise, far too many—a party, maybe, but then why was the house not still in full swing?

The entire wall behind the countertops snaking about the room: lined with empty bottles of Yoo-hoo of all things, like modern art, some kind of statement.

The unmistakable marks of girls in the house: hair ties and neon scrunchies wrapped at random about the room. Bottles of nail polish by the little basket meant for keys. A young girl’s lunchbox, open in the corner, sitting at an odd angle on its hinge. Like it’s out to be fixed.

The fact that the dining room table is bigger, but farther—and instead this mostly-for-show kitchen table’s been stretched to its maximum length, exceeding both the dining room’s capacity and also the space made for this one, here, with all the long-abandoned leaves added in, and chairs surrounding it from anywhere and everywhere, hardly any matching. Scuffs in the wood mostly buffed but some a lost cause. Like it’s been lived on.

Then the refrigerator, that’s never once had anything hanging on it, practically plastered now in its entirety with…Polaroids. Drawings, some maps, maybe. To-do lists, only a handful for groceries from what can be read. Colorful letter magnets, as if for a toddler. School exams with varying marks but also varying levels of difficulty—different grades, perhaps? A calendar, with so many notes. Like life was busy enough, here, that each and every day was filled to the brim.

It’s not…she doesn’t understand—

It’s in the empty blinking, the confusion, that Steve calls to her. She regrets that that’s exactly the same gaze she turns on him, at first.

It’s nothing to do with him. She just…she’s been absent too much and too long, she knows. But when her child calls for her, her first move is to look.

It always will be.

“We didn’t expect you back yet.”

He doesn’t apologize, for how she found him; what she saw, or who. She’s unexpectedly, but undeniably and expansively proud, in the face of it.

She clears her throat, still a little stuck in the molasses-slow fog of…this. All this.

All this unexpected living.

“You’re…” she swallows, blinks, wills away the clinging fingers of the trance still lingering in her eyes, on her mind; she needs to see her son—

“You’re being safe?”

Steve’s jaw drops a little, and it’s so…defined. He’s…he’s a man now, and he’s staring at her like he doesn’t trust her, not entirely, both of which break her heart a little, one way or the other.

But he looks like he distrusts her, but doesn’t want to. Like she may have hope of salvaging something.

Like he’s found something—more likely someone—that he values deeper, cherishes closer, to be wary of anything that could bring harm to them.

That…that also breaks her heart. That she’s something to be wary of, in service of the people her Steve loves.

“Why is that your first question?”

Steve asks…too blank. She’s mourned that sin of her husband’s, privately above most others—the way he’d slowly and carefully worn Steve down to fit the mold he liked best, not the shape Steve blossomed into all on his own.

The way Steve juts his hips and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe—so unlike Richard would have tolerated—and does it well balanced and worn-in; she wants to believe this version of Steve has taken root, has become his honest everyday self. That he’s left that limiting mold behind.

But he’s asked her a question, and is eyeing her—rightly—in anticipation of answer.

Which he deserves. And she’ll give him in honesty—not least because she really was both lucky, to have drawn out having to catch her son in the act this long, and so much more unlucky, that she’s likely been able to cheat the whole affair this long largely because she wasn’t there for the possibility, before now.

“Any questions about whether it’s serious, or how you feel about him, are irrelevant,” she tells him, keeps her tone open and warm but doubles down on both when Steve’s eyes narrow; seek out any hint of insincerity, or likely more often necessary to target, and far worse: of judgement.

“Not just because it’s not my business, so long as you’re happy,” and she means that truly; with her entire heart she means that, even if Steve doesn’t see it, or hasn’t had enough chance to know her heart enough to recognize it—her heart for him, her own boy’s happiness as her most fervent wish—but she makes her voice warmer still, expansively open from there to continue on; “but more because you’ve already more answered them.”

Steve looks at her, still so blank, blank but…somehow not the same as before. How blankness can change is beyond Diane’s ability to put into words but she doesn’t need to, really; she sees something softer, something with more forward possibilities in this blankness.

And Diane Harrington would never, could never be accused of not finding opportunities to encourage the best case scenario.

The result where maybe her son can look at her without suspicion.

“I’ve been down here almost half an hour, Steve,” she makes sure to call him by the name he’d always told his parents he preferred, and to do so without fanfare, without making a point of anything less; she’d always bristled when Richard used his full name as a rule against his wishes.

His eyes still widen, a little, when she says it like it’s a given. She should have fought Richard harder on the little things; the little things that meant everything.

Their son’s sense of himself.

But to the point, which she owes him, and so much more:

“You didn’t come rushing to explain.” It’s the most important thing, because she can read people well, wouldn’t be successful outside her marriage otherwise, just a housewife making dinner—and she thinks her son has the same gift, just maybe aimed differently, and maybe exponentially expanded, if the hints around the house are things she guessing at correctly—and she’s so impressed with how no part of Steve is apologetic. Is even hinting a considering trying to distance himself from what she walked in on. Not even for the sake of defiance—more as a matter of course: and it’s impressive to witness. How tall he stands when she’s still the threat, much as it pains her.

But because she can read people, she sees that he doesn’t see the reasons she sussed out so quick and clear, despite all the other haziness.

“You’re not embarrassed, or ashamed,” and he isn’t, at all, and she hopes she sounds nothing like expecting he should be; prays she sounds half as overjoyed as she is that this is the man he’s grown into—

“So I assume you spent that time taking care of him,” she leans in a little, tips her head forward and tries her damnedest to project that joy, for him, for what she thinks he’s found, for what she sees in his eyes, eyes she doesn’t entirely recognize anymore—her fault, again, her fault—but she can see it in anyone: love.

Her boy is in love.

And even if she couldn’t read it off him—

“And a mother may never want to see her child in such a state,” and Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable even as Diane bites her lip against a smile at how it reminds her of him as a tiny boy; “but I heard you, not just the noises but the words, before,” and she leaves it there, because they’d both know those words well enough, the love you, love you so much, would die for you, again and again, you’re my whole heart and soul, you fit just right, you’re made for me, we’re forever, we are always, I love you—

And certainly, people do say wild things in passion. But…odd as the circumstances? And as badly as she’s fumbled for the task of motherhood over the years?

Call it a mother’s intuition, nonetheless.

“So,” she claps her hands a little, finally, but more on the way to folding them, leaning her chin on the platform they make: “those questions wouldn’t be needed anyway.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t like that. But then, she’s not sure what she’s hoping he would say, what would even suit the moment.

She thinks she just wants to hear him speak some more.

And besides, she’s given him his answer. She…maybe she isn’t entitled, but she would still like to know for her own peace of mind:

“But you are being safe?”

It’s dangerous these days, after all.

“We are,” he answers, quicker than she expects, and it’s more a relief than she expects, too—and she’d expected it like walking back from a cliff’s edge, but still it’s more. He nods, and she accepts that that’s all she’ll get, and she doesn’t truly believe she deserves more but: something.

Something in him, things she doesn’t know and couldn’t begin to see; or else maybe something in how she looks to him, in her face, in whatever her expression gives away—he says more, he gives her little gems of who he’s become:

“He’s my first, like that,” and he lifts his chin, defensive; or no. Not that.

Defending.

And he takes the posture of it like it’s second nature; easy as breathing. She hates that there must be a reason to it, one bigger than just her absence—or Richard’s even limited presence.

She feels a need to know, and yet an equal-opposing need not to press this thing, to reawaken that initial cause. She isn’t a threat.

She needs to listen, for now. Soak up his words.

“And Hawkins is,” his one hand reaches to gesture broadly, in a world-weary way she doesn’t expect until she sees it; that’s so far beyond his years—before he tucks that hand back into the protective cross of both arms over his chest. “He didn’t have the opportunity, before, with here being…here. So.”

The words are clipped. But they’re…they’re words. Firm. Real.

Her boy is nowhere to be found in any of it, save as the foundation for this commanding force, this presence of a man, a shining, radiatingly good man, standing in front of her.

He is nothing like his father. It’s everything that she hoped could come of their absence—despite it.

Because of it.

“Good, that’s good,” she exhales, nodding to herself—her son, safe, grown, protecting himself and his lover, maybe his beloved, from the ills this life might set upon them, this good man—

Then she revisits her words and feels herself blanch a bit.

“Not good that this town is,” she gestures, and realizes: that’s what Steve had done, for the exact same thing, in the exact same way; “but,” she looks to him, beseeching a little, but his lips are quirked the slightest bit, his shoulders that little bit more relaxed against the wood.

“I got it.”

Diane nods, sniffs, and then sighs. It’s not…it’s late. She is exhausted.

And she doesn’t know how to talk to her own son.

“Noticing my absence isn’t his strongest suit,” she jumps at the easiest topic to follow on with because it’s probably obvious, but: she needs to make sure Steve knows that Richard’s not here, and not immediately on his way. Things would have looked very different, had he opened Steve’s door.

“That said, he may or may not be here soon. But in case—” she glances meaningfully to the stairs. They can’t continue to keep the door unlocked, at the very least.

“Of course,” Steve says, solemn while simultaneously appalled that she’d imply he’d even risk it, tone tightening a little. “Tonight was going to be the last time we, here, given I thought you’d be back next week.”

It’s not censure. But it feels like it should be. Or wants to be. Because…

Because Steve is the man of the house now, isn’t he? No matter whose name is on the deed. This is his domain. He’s kept it as to quickly enough be reverted for neither of his parents to notice, if they stuck to their schedules, if Diane hadn’t acted impulsively, too fed up with her husband’s indiscretions—but even if he keeps it hideable, this is Steve’s house.

Diane finds himself wanting to know all about the ways, and the whys for all the changes she sees. And all that she hasn’t, yet.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, so soft, eyes prickling; “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.”

It’s not enough. The words are so far beyond insufficient.

“Me too,” Steve says and again: not a censure. But it should be.

It wants to be.

But the fact that it’s not maybe means he wants to meet in the middle. Maybe he’ll listen if she shows she means it, if she demonstrates how she cares, even if it hasn’t been enough—it’s never been wholly absent. It’s never been nothing.

“You never pick up the phone.”

She does not actually mean to say that, at all, and certainly not like it tumbles out: juvenile almost. Petulant.

God, but the day’s catching up to her. She’s usually so much more composed than this. More polished.

But then: this? This is her son.

Steve’s as taken aback as he rightly should be, and she knows she’s mistepped when he balks a little, when his tone hardens like he’s…like he’s very well practiced at scolding wayward children.

“Excuse me?”

Very good at scolding wayward children, somehow. She has no idea where the skillset came from but damn it all, she wants to learn. She wants to know if it’s connected to the assignments and drawings on the refrigerator. She wants to know if the scrunchies aren’t from ex-girlfriends but kids he cares about, and how they came to be under his protection, his unwavering care.

His narrowed gaze—more pertinent in the now—as she herself sits more like the wayward child.

But she’s begun the point, and it’s not in her nature to fail finishing what she starts.

“When so many terrible things have happened,” she says, voice low as her mind flickers through the devastating headlines of the past few years; “when I call to check, once I hear what’s happened, and it’s always reported with such a delay, it’s unconscionable,” she’s even called the mayor’s office about that, she shouldn’t have to see her son’s whereabouts in flames weeks later when she checks, because she does check. Because Steve doesn’t tell them, and contrary to some of her missteps: she worries.

She constantly worries because she is a mother, and she will worry until she’s quiet in her grave: she will worry until her dying breath about her son.

The fact that their town seems to court the apocalypse in regular intervals now certainly doesn’t help, but she’d worry either way.

“But I call, to see if you need,” she starts, and is a little surprised by how tight her throat is, how much feeling’s overcoming her.

But only a little surprised, if she’s wholly honest.

She takes a deeper breath, and starts again.

“I call, no one answers. The tape in the machine’s been full for over a year.”

She knows. Because the line just rings, plays the horrible out-of-space message—and Steve’s own line never had a machine. All she gets is endless ringingwhile her heart pounds every time for the fear that it’s not just because the tape’s full.

“I,” Steve starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes dart to the machine, or no: next to it. A…what looks like a carphone, maybe, for the size, but it’s more a metal block, really, with knobs and buttons and lights and—

Maybe whatever it is, is how the people Steve knows would need him can get in contact with him. An overgrown pager she doesn’t have the number to.

She understands it, maybe even deserves it.

That does nothing to dull the sting.

“I have learned to call the police chief,” she says, dropping it conversationally when she hopes the gravity of going that far will convey some of how serious she takes all this, feels all of this; “someone must have a dire grudge against the man, I was told one time that he was murdered!”

She absolutely does not expect the snort that escapes Steve, at that.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, a twisted, almost crazed sort of smile spreading for a few seconds. She’s never seen that look on her son, and it doesn’t last long enough to examine before he turns more serious, takes the conversation in his hands without direct prompting, which Diane will gladly call progress.

“I didn’t know you called Hop.”

Hop?

“And his wife, as necessary,” she huffs a little, set on conveying her determination to at least get some confirmation of life about her first-and-only child. “I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with local law enforcement.”

She’s not sure if that’s a net positive or negative, but the smile—maniacal as it’d leaned—at least suggeststhe former.

“He’s,” Steve’s smile is softer now, more…normal. Genuine. “He’s a lot like family. Joyce too.”

Diane aches to know how it happened to be that way. Hurts to presume part of it was because Steve’s own blood wasn’t in the picture enough. But—

“I knew Joyce Byers, when we first moved back here,” she says softly, her own genuine smile curling her lips; “I remember her as a tough woman. Resolute,” she recalls her pregnant and pushing a stroller, never stopping on her way through for groceries; “but always observant, especially of what others needed. Always kind.”

Steve’s face is unreadable, but what she can make out is the affection in it. Some things must not change in this town, then.

Enough about the past, though.

“Back to your gentleman upstairs,” Diane raises an eyebrow, but makes sure it’s a soft thing. A welcoming thing. “You are serious, yes?”

She doesn’t even have to try to sound soft or welcoming, with the words. Because she hopes very much that her son wouldn’t risk what he is for casual; she hopes even more that she’s right about reading love in him.

“I think,” Steve finally says after a long, thoughtful pause—he always had been careful with his words when they most mattered. “I think if ‘the one’ even exists?” he looks at her then; meets her eyes and oh yes.

She saw true, when she saw love.

“It’s him.” And the way Steve says it, so certain, almost makes her want to cry.

“And if it doesn’t exist,” he adds on with a shrug, like reality is relative, just semantics; “he’s it, anyway.”

She doesn’t fight the tear that drops to run down to her smile as she stands, approaches Steve cautiously—wants to hug him, hold him; isn’t sure if she’s allowed.

He doesn’t come to her. But he doesn’t move away.

“You’ll leave here?” she reaches for his hand and he reaches back. Her heart beats a little extra hard for it.

He nods. Her baby.

“When the kids graduate.”

Which makes no sense, but would explain so many of the bits and pieces she’s already picked out around the kitchen. He’s…he’s made a family.

In the absence of the one he was born in; even just looking at the trailings of it, she can tell it’s a more vibrant one.

She’s failed him, in so many ways, and yet he stillbecame this.

“Do you know where you’ll go?” she asks, her voice only a little choked.

“Not yet,” and his voice goes gentle, tender in response—he was always a softhearted child, and Richard tried to train it from him as a weakness. The man reaching for her other hand, and squeezing both in reassurance—he is anything but weak.

“We have other people to think about staying close to,” he adds, something settled and easy in the way he says it, something Diane doesn’t even think she knows or can claim at her age now, vibrant and unshakeable in her beautiful boy as he rubs his thumbs over her knuckles; “at least close enough,” he tags on, a little joke in it that she doesn’t understand, but relishes anyway to see it at all.

She may not be able to take much credit for the person her son has become, this pillar stood before her, giving simple solace where he scarcely owes her—but she still bore him from her body, she still loves him in the cells of her. She is…

It is not hyperbole to say that she’s a little in awe.

“Before you decide on the right home, the one that fits you perfectly,” she starts, ready to list off the top considerations for house hunting and finding a good neighborhood, open and accepting in all the right ways, to guide her boy as true as she can with all that she knows, but he cuts her off with a laugh, first.

His laugh is different than how she remembers it last. Freer but also somehow hard-earned. Like he was as a child, but bruised from the journey back.

Stronger for it. Worth more, but more than slightly soul-crushing, nonetheless.

“Mom,” and his voice is so warm, she may cry more for it; “he’s my home. He’s the right, perfect fit,” and he’s so earnest, so settled in that truth that she feels buoyed for it just the same by proximity. “All the rest is just,” he huffs, rolls his eyes and flicks his hand: dismissive.

Everything else is window dressing, or less than.

And she lets go of his hands then to reach for him, takes the chance and fears she was foolish when he hesitates for a second but then he gives, he hugs her back.

This man in her arms is so much more than she could have raised, even if she’d been here every moment. It’s humbling.

But it’s also beautiful.

She doesn’t want to let him go, now that she has him, but she’s reminded starkly in that moment that she couldn’t have raised him—and Richard would have crushed him by force, even if he didn’t recognize it. Her husband isn’t a wholesalely bad man, but he is a horrifyingly careless one. Wasn’t always, but has certainly gotten worse with age.

She needs to act before he gets here; in case he gets here.

Just in case.

She kisses the side of Strve’s cheek—without her heels she’s not a small woman, but she’s smaller than him—and goes to where she dropped her purse on the counter, suitcases still near the door. Her checkbook is always at the bottom, so she pulls it out, flips it open, glances at the balance ledger and confirms she can write this immediately without issue.

In the note section she writes, after pulling it free form the carbon copy:

for the perfect fit

“Then you, and your perfect fit,” she says with a smile, rounding back to where she left Steve standing, watching; “you deserve the most amazing setting for your story to unfold upon,” she hands him the check and kisses his forehead this time, now in reach as he looks down to read what he holds: “and nothing less.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as his jaw drops:

“Mom, this is way too,” he tries to protest, and looks honest about it—he never was so concerned with the money. Not like his father.

But they have it, whether he shares the obsession. They have it. Which means Diane can share it with him regardless.

“It’s the most I can give just now, with it drawing from the account that’s only mine,” she explains, a little apologetic, because while Steve seems to think the number extravagant, it’s less than a drop in the bucket. “I know it’s not much, but if you plan to stay here, at least for awhile, I will get you the rest as quickly as I can,” she promises him, she promises; “your trust, the money from your grandfather,” she pauses, worries her lip.

“I can’t guarantee your father won’t write you out of the will if he finds out,” she doesn’t have to say whathe’d need to find out, for that; “but as long as I’mhere, I will do what I can.”

And she means that, with all her heart. And she doesn’t mean only money. They’ve traded primarily in dollars for so long, it’s the quickest way to act, the easiest form of support but…she may be out of practice.

But she doesn’t just mean money.

“You don’t have to,” Steve starts again, sounds resigned but she doesn’t want him to even land there in accepting what’s rightfully his, and beyond that, something on,y just close to what he’s due and deserves.

“Very little of what I’ve done in life was what I had to,” she draws him close again, now, wraps arms around him; “and too much of what I’ve done was less than what I had to,” and she holds to him fiercely even before his own arms return the embrace.

“I did not do right by you, my petite étoile,” she murmurs; she always called him that. She doesn’t speak French, doesn’t even know if she pronounces it right, but she’s fairly certain he was conceived on her honeymoon, in Paris. It was her own treasured little name for him as he grew in her, as she felt him and spoke to him in her womb, as close to her heart then as he’s always stayed.

“Let me do this,” she hisses a little too desperate; or maybe not even close to desperate enough; “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She hears Steve’s throat click around how he swallows, how he nods, doesn’t say anything.

She finds another wild and vibrant emotion to associate with her son for it: respect. Such…suchrespect.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as if it can even scratch the surface of what feels like meeting a whole new person, in some ways, and then the boy who curled up against her when he was sick, who was soft before he was formed into doubting all that he was at his heart. “I barely know you, and it breaks my heart, but it’s my own doing,” and it is. It is her own doing.

She’s the reason she’s only just meeting Steve, a man now, with his whole heart on display like a challenge, like a warning—brazen and full enough to stand formidable. Magnificent.

“Yet I can see you’re not my little étoile anymore,” she kisses his cheek again once, twice, shaking a little with so much feeling she knew she’d buried inside for a very long time but didn’t…didn’t think it was this much.

“You,” she pulls back only enough to look him in the eyes, frame his cheeks in her palms as she declares with all that shaking feeling in her:

“You’re a full-grown sun, soleil courageux,” and she doesn’t speak French. Not a lick. Probably says it wrong.

But that cannot matter more than meaning it wholly, and then some.

“And if you find it in you to give me the chance,” she heaves a shuddery breath; “to have the privilege to truly know my brave, brave son,” she strokes back and forth over his cheekbones, cherishing him; “and where he’s put his lion’s heart?”

Because whether he grants her this or not: she needs him to know. She needs him to know that she understands that to learn her son is to learn is love. To meet Steve is to meet the man waiting in his bed.

And she wants to know both, more than anything in the world.

“And either way, wherever you land,” because she needs him to know this part too—she is not his father. Her love and her commitment is not conditional. “You’ll know where to find me,” she kisses the side of his head one more time and whispers fierce there:

“I’ll come however far I need.”

She will. She’ll trek the globe on foot if she has to. She’s wasted so much time already, she’s—

“I love you, mom.”

And with those words, those heart-swelling words, she’s pulling him back to her chest and he lets her, falls into her for the first time in so long after saying those words for the first time in so very long—

“Oh darling,” she breathes, nothing short of tearful; “I may not have shown it as I should have, or even as I wanted to in my heart of hearts,” and her heart of hearts is beating riotous in her chest, and all she can do is clutch her little star, her courageous sun all the closer to it so he knows.

“But I hope you never doubted that I loved you more than life,” and life has given her many more blessings than trials, but none among them could ever compare to her baby boy, could not even hope to try; “that allmy love in this world is fixed on you,” and it’s true—her family is mostly gone now, none close left on her side, and her husband, well.

Even if they’d all been there, with her marriage in its fullest bloom: as soon as she found she was pregnant, it was all peripheral. There was love as she knew it, and then the moment when love split into two things: her child, and then all the rest.

The rest landing kind of…kind of like window dressing.

“If you were ever unsure,” she says, hesitant because she fears the answer, the truth; steadfast because this is an opportunity to make it right, or at the least to start to: “please know now, the best I can still manage,” she tips her head to Steve’s shoulder, breathes him in like she used to—he doesn’t smell the same as a baby in her arms, of course, but there’s…there’s something there she would recognize anywhere.

“You were the love that pulled me through some very dark times, my brilliant star,” she whispers, getting teary again, lord, she hasn’t shed this many tears in years. “I love you.”

“Stevie?”

They both turn, though Steve’s slow, calmer. Diane recognizes the hair on the boy in the archway first from just the moments she’d caught them—and then the eyes.

Only slightly less terrified than before, here and now.

“Sorry, to interrupt,” the man pulls a thick bunch of hair across his mouth; “I just didn’t want you to be…”

And his eyes land on Steve, and Diane recognizes that kind of look: protective. Assessing. Making sure Steve’s okay.

Maybe her son wasn’t the only one on the lookout for threats to his love.

“Ah,” she says, looking at the boy—she doesn’t even know his name yet, but she already feels a fondness in him as she cups Steve’s cheeks again, but still looks the other, fearful boy square-on even as she speaks to Steve knowingly, but loud enough the whole room can hear:

“You found a courageous heart to match your own, hmm?”

And Steve huffs, a smile stretching his lips like he can’t help it and wouldn’t dream of wanting to, and when he reaches for the boy, that boy answers exactly the same. For love.

The perfect fit.

She offers an open arm herself, should he want to take it, suddenly overcome with a maternal instinct she hasn’t felt so strong before, for the doubling of its targets.

But before he can accept it or reject, before he’s close enough yet to decide either way, or even close enough to take the outstretched hand Steve’s beckoning him with; before any of that she whispers into Steve’s ear:

“Please tell me you’re teaching him to condition that hair. Those curls could be devastating with the proper routine.”

And when Steve catches his beloved hand, it's on a crest of laughter.

Diane has the clear feeling now that it’s not the first time this house has seen such unbridled joy, such unsheltered care in the way two hands slide into one another—has a feeling this is more routine than otherwise, but Diane hasn’t seen it. Not in a…a very long time.

It’s wondrous. It’s…

Steve’s done an incredible job with the place. He’s built an incredible life.

“Mom?” Steve shakes her back to the moment; he’s watching her, careful again but this time also hopeful. It’s a potent mix. He glances to the boy now tucked against his side, now melting into his space—she never had that with Richard.

Real love. That’s all she could have hoped for, for a boy who was born with the biggest heart for the world that she’d ever known.

One that’s only appeared to get bigger, once it was free to, and safe to, if the way her son locks eyes and gently guides his perfect fit to turn into a hand on his cheek; to let him hold, and soothe, to reassure and promise: safety.

And forever.

“This is Eddie,” Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he says it, and those eyes say all anyone could ever need to know: love.

Love, love, and more love to bursting.

“Eddie,” Diane says soft but with a glowing kind of joy, gratitude that Steve could have found someone who moves to make clear the way they’re suited to the genes in them.

“I’m sorry I barged into your home,” she says, because she knows what she’s seen and she meant what she felt: this is Steve’s house. And Eddie and Steve belong to each other. “But it’s an absolute privilege to meet you.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the dimples hiding behind the fear mean what she’d suspect, and then the skepticism softens into unmitigated trust in Eddie’s expression at Steve’s side: it’s the way those dimples pop in the end as Eddie looks at her and takes her hand, too, that makes it clear as day.

Granted: she always was good at reading people.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

💐

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💫for @penny00dreadful—happiest of happy birthdays, my lovely 🖤

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[cheaploafs]

Ruin each other like star crossed lovers…

[thesummerstorms]

The other thing that I think I would want in an Annabeth Wayne AU that I don't think I've seen so far is Bruce being absolutely pissed at Athena.

It was bad enough with Talia and Damian, but Athena is a literal god of wisdom who should know better AND he doesn't even have the "culpability" of having slept with her.

She one hundred percent saw Batman, tactician of the Justice League, was drawn in by her aspect of the Goddess of Strategy, and proceeded to create a child without his consent, a daughter who she didn't even raise before the child became a weapon.

And like whatever else, however fucked up Damian was by his own training to become a child-weapon, at least Talia loved Damian.

Whereas Athena loves Annabeth in the way a Goddess loves, not the way a Person loves, and I don't think Bruce, whose entire identity is so fixated on his relationship with his own parents, would recognize that as love at all.

And, like, Talia put Damian through a lot of shit. I think Bruce would be angry there too. But when push came to shove, she at least at some point brought him to Bruce because she thought it was in her son's best interests.

Athena actively lead Annabeth away from Bruce and into the streets at the age of seven, which Bruce would never see as in her best interest, whatever Athena's godly perspective is, however badly he reacted after Jason's death, even though he couldn't see (and dismissed the idea of) the spiders and the monsters. She was seven. In the streets of Gotham.

Athena let Annabeth fight a major role in two wars back to back without being there to train her or protect her or love her or even advise her. Athena advocated for the cold blooded murder of the other children who had actually tried to keep his daughter safe. Athena sent Annabeth against Arachne when Athena's children have universally died on that quest for a thousand years.

Athena let Bruce think he had gotten Annabeth killed because of his own inability to handle his grief. Let him think his daughter was dead or worse for years. Would have let him keep thinking that if the Fates didn't have other plans.

And just, in true fashion for all of my ideas on a PJO x DC crossover, everyone really comes out more traumatized than before. This includes Bruce.

Because now he wasn't just used unknowingly for a child just once, but twice. And in both cases he's going to have to live forever with the guilt of not having been able to protect his kids from what their other parent wanted to make of them

(On top of all the ways he has directly failed them and made any complexes worse, of course )

[transvampireboyfriend]

my thing is, yeah, sure, he wouldn't say that, they wouldn't talk like therapists, they wouldn't stop for consent, etc. i get it.

but also, sometimes i want them to get therapy, and if i can suspend my disbelief for a while i can get their best friends giving them that therapy and i love that.

sometimes i want them to stop and have a big emotional talk the next day instead, and i can get that and i love that.

so if you're an author that writes that kind of thing, and you're reading those posts and thinking maybe you should change because your audience wants you to, you should know some of your audience (ME) also enjoys these things, even though we (I) know real life is not that way.

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #144

Peter Parker sounds just like Spider-Man. This is something that the students of Midtown find hilarious

Soon, Peter's getting comments in the halls like, "Hey are you that kid who sounds like Spider-Man?" "Uhhh I mean -" "Holy shit it's truuue" and, "Hey Parker, say, 'Hiya Mister Criminal'' "(sigh) Hiya Mister criminal-"

It becomes a daily bit on the school news: they put Peter in the cheapest, most ridiculous Spider-Man mask imaginable and get him to say wild stuff, whatever Midtown students can think of. Like that bit at the end of Honest Trailers.

(Peter may or may not go slightly viral saying some Stuff about the Rogue Avengers in his "Spider-Man voice." Tony may or may not nearly piss himself laughing about it when he finds out.

Spider-Man himself has yet to comment.)

[fandomfourever]

I know so many people think we'll get a sad ending for Squid Game, but honestly, I think there's a good chance we'll get a happy-ish or at least hopeful ending.

Why?

Because of the end of Season 1. Specifically the scene with Gi-hun and Il-nam. If HDH wanted to make things completely bleak, he could have easily written that homeless man dying out there, "proving" Il-nam right. But he didn't. In the end, we see someone helping the guy, proving Gi-hun right, that there are still other good people in the world.

I feel like that's good foreshadowing. Not saying there won't be sad moments coming, but I think in the end, we'll get something similar. A glimpse of hope and goodness, if not an outright happy ending.

Personally I'd be happy with the following scenarios:

In-ho gets a redemption arc and helps Gi-hun and Jun-ho put a stop to at least the Korean games. Possibly gets arrested but doesn't die.

In-ho starts to get a redemption arc. Gi-hun and In-ho team up as Front Men and it's implied they'll work together to take things down from the inside, but the games are still continuing currently, maybe with modifications.

Darkest I'd go with: Gi-hun genuinely becomes another Front Man with In-ho (does have a lot less faith in humanity), and there's no indication the games will stop, but Gi-hun manages to make things a little more fair for the players.

Anyway, just some thoughts I had. I'm honestly sick of super downer endings for shows. It's tedious and done to death, imo. I'd like to think HDH would rather leave us with a potentially hopeful ending. Especially since I'm pretty sure he said somewhere Gi-hun is based a little on who he used to be? If I'm remembering that right, then I'd hate to think he'd leave us with a hopeless ending.

[clumsy-jiminie]

"Fine. Just for tonight and we never speak of it again."

"Like I'm gonna speak to you after this."

"Is this you promising to actually leave me alone? I might need to this this in writing."

ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟʏ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ | ᴘᴊᴍ

↠ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜɪɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ. ↞

"we're not lovers, we're just strangers with the same damn hunger to be touched, to be loved, to feel anything at all."

- ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀꜱ, ʜᴀʟꜱᴇʏ & ʟᴀᴜʀᴇɴ ᴊᴀᴜʀᴇɢᴜɪ -

↣ summary :: Kiara Smith had dreamed of true love for as long as she could remember. from being obsessed with the Disney princesses who found affection in the strangest situations to dressing up as a bride from kindergarten to fourth grade. it was the only thing she ever truly desired, so much so that a pleasant smile and kind eyes could have her smitten in seconds. right when she thought she found the one, a chance encounter with Park Jimin—the city’s famously perfect fuck boy with a smile so warm and a heart of ice—has her feeling quite the opposite. he knocks her off her axis and derails her life as she knows it, yet the universe seems to have another plan for the two.

↣ rating :: 18+

↣ genre :: fluff, angst, smut, e2l, slow burn

↣ pairing :: business owner!jimin x fem!artist!oc ft. taehyung

↣ status :: ongoing ✍🏽

↣ notes :: this is something I've been working on here and there for a couple of years now, and I have fallen in love with kiara and jimin's relationship. their banter and how they bounce off of each other is so funny sometimes. these have been my favorite characters to write right next to broken codes. I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

main m.list

if you have any questions, comments, or concerns PLEASE don't hesitate to message me or send me an ask! my inbox is always open. 💖

© all rights reserved @clumsy-jiminie 2024

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ

↣ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇʟᴠᴇ

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

a knife in the dark, pt. 3

[adar/oc]

read part 1 | part 2

Set in the "Awake, Arise"-verse (I'd recommend reading at least chapters 1-9 if you haven't already to get the history of these characters) PREMISE: Erenyë is reembodied in Valinor, but Mandos shrouds her memories of Utumno, hoping to spare her pain in her new life. But she is restless in Aman, sensing that something is missing... She boards a ship heading for Middle Earth, hoping to discover just what that is.

OKAY PEEPS AS PROMISED, HERE'S THE SPICE. [cw: blood, knife-play, implied previous dubcon/noncon, related to the creation of the orcs]; M rating applies.

ENJOY. (don't look at me.)

Cuiviénen.

Her blood sings at the sound of the word. She does not know how it could be true, only that it is. She begins to pick up the scattered pieces, the visions that she had seen: a lake under stars… water flowing over stones… tall, primordial trees…

With eyes full of questions, she lets the dagger fall away from his throat. “And you…”

“I was yours,” he says, tremulous and yearning. “And you were mine.”

A breeze moves gently through the glen, and in her mind’s eye, she catches a glimpse of him, young and uncorrupted—his skin unblemished as he steps into a patch of moonlight, breathless after chasing her through the wood.

She remembers how she’d led him through the trees after he’d caught her, down to a secluded place by the waterside. She remembers how they’d spent blissful hours discovering one another beneath the stars, how much she’d hungered for him.

She realizes then that she knows his name—for it is an inextricable part of her own: Eren.

“Oh,” she gasps, struggling to reconcile that vision of Eren with Adar who sits before her now, still bound to the tree. She can still make out unmistakable traces of his elvenness—his pointed ears, his high cheekbones—but his terrible transformation from elf to orc is clear.

She squeezes her eyes closed, overwhelmed suddenly by more memories of her own—of time spent in darkness and torment. For she had not escaped a similar fate…

Despite the strengthening sunlight, she is suddenly pulled down, plunged into icy waters—she is drowning in cold, swimming in a sea of terrible truth.

“I was with you,” she says, discovering it slowly. “In that dark, nameless place. They brought me to you, after I had been changed… after I had forgotten your name, and mine.”

She lets out a strangled sob, remembering the chamber, remembering being held down, remembering Morgoth, watching. “He forced us.”

As quickly as they’d returned to her—those blissful memories of starlit Cuiviénen—they are eclipsed by this single, horrible fact. As quickly as everything had come together, it now smashes, like a pane of glass against stone.

Erenyë crumbles with a terrible cry, wrenched from the depths of her soul as she comes to full understanding. They had been used—both of them—by Morgoth, to create the race of the orcs. She hearkens back to the hordes of snarling creatures that had attacked her party earlier. With a wave of nausea, she realizes that they are descended from her.

She looks back at Eren—Adar, she reminds herself. He is Adar—an orc, an enemy. She considers leaving him there, bolting off into the forest, returning to Pelargir, forcing the ship to turn around and return her to Valinor.

But Valinor is not her home…

At last, she understands the reason why she’d always felt incomplete. She never belonged in Valinor, not truly. She belongs with him—he is her purpose, her place in this world.

But she does not know how to have him now, after everything.

She is no longer the wild elf-maid who had danced carefree through the forests at Cuiviénen. Now, she feels broken and afraid—and she senses that he is, too. They are both changed, though her body bears the physical scars no longer.

“Erenyë.” His voice, barely a whisper, pleads with her. “Á cene ni.”

Look at me.

His unlovely face is bathed in golden sunlight. As the moments slip past, she allows everything else to fall away, piece by piece, until she focuses only on him. She allows herself to see him—to see in him that which Morgoth could never destroy, and what even the turbulent storms of ten thousand years could not weather away. She feels a hunger stirring deep within her, a hunger that only he has the power to slake.

She is utterly at a loss for how to proceed, but she feels a faint flicker of the boldness she’d once possessed, and it helps her to take the first step. She returns, kneeling over him, straddling his legs, reaching out with her free hand—the one not still clutching the dagger.

To her great surprise, he recoils from her, shaking his head.

“I do not deserve your touch,” he says, his voice thick with self-loathing. His eyes fall to the knife in her opposite hand, and she understands that given the choice of pain or pleasure, his preference now is for the former.

With a terrible pang, she wonders if he can even remember what tenderness feels like.

A part of her is angered by his denial, but she strives to accept it. They are neither of them who they once were, she reminds herself. They must forge a new path through the ashes.

She raises the dagger, letting it rest lengthwise against his cheek. Taking a steadying breath, she digs it into his skin enough to make him wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

“How are you here?” he murmurs, incredulous, as a single tear escapes.

She leans in, tilting her head toward him until they are almost nose to nose. She breathes him in, her body slowly relearning how to be close to his. She shifts, rolling her hips tentatively, experimentally against his legs, feeling heat kindling to life deep within her core. Her lips move close to his ear. “I am here,” she replies.

He shivers, leaning into the blade like a caress. Angling it carefully so that it will not rend, she traces it down the side of his face. His eyes open, and they are tinged with the haze of deep memory.

“I watched you die,” he says, laying his anguish bare before her, and it is a gaping chasm so wide and deep she fears her own heart to be in danger of splitting into and falling into it.

She had been so caught up by her own harrowing discoveries, she had not yet fully contemplated that while she had lived long in ignorance of their torment, he had wandered the world carrying the full weight of everything that had befallen them under Morgoth’s hand.

“I came back for you,” she breathes, seeking to reassure him, to assuage his anguish as best she can. She wishes he could accept softness, and she offers up a silent prayer that in time, he might come to do so. But for now, she drags the blade again, letting the tip of it settle at the center of his lower lip. He is trembling now, and his breathing is heavy as he begs her silently with his eyes.

She lets the dagger pierce him, splitting his lip in two and drawing blood. And then she dives, hungrily, unwilling to wait any longer, swallowing his gasp of surprise with her mouth. He resists at first, but she moves the blade to his throat—a gentle but direct threat. He acquiesces, opening himself to her kiss. She does not try to be sweet; she devours, letting their teeth gnash together before moving to nip and suck at the wound she’d made.

He moans against her mouth, and she remembers the thrill of being needed by him. How, she wonders, had she survived for so many years without this?

She twists the fingers of her free hand into his hair, pulling his head back so that she can assail his neck. She nicks him with the dagger several times in succession, letting him feel pain for only a moment before allowing him the balm of her lips. His black blood tastes bitter on her tongue, but she savors it, nonetheless.

With a sharp intake of breath, he shifts beneath her and she grinds herself down hard against the cradle of his hips, the heat between her legs blooming until it is slick and wet and impossible to ignore.

She pulls back, lowering the dagger to the cord of elven rope that binds him. Hesitation flickers across his face, but she grips his chin in her free hand, jerking him toward her to claim his lips again. “Grant me this,” she says when they are both breathless, resting her forehead against his.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the base of his throat, and she prepares her argument, but he interjects before the words reach her lips.

“Grant me one thing in return.” He leans back ever so slightly, his eyes raking over her face, coming to rest on the long, dark braid draping over her shoulder. “Your hair,” he implores. “Undo it.”

Warmth floods her chest. It is such a simple request, but as she moves her hand to undo the cord, he watches her with a startling intensity, and as she begins to finger the strands free from the braid, she realizes that she had never worn her hair this way back in Cuiviénen, and that his request is born out of a desire to see her as she had been then.

His breath hitches as he watches her, and she slows her movements, taking deliberate care as she unwinds the rest, combing through her dark locks carefully until they fall free at last, framing her face.

“There was starlight in your hair on the night of our awakening,” he murmurs, his voice dreamlike. “I have never forgotten it.”

His desire for her is so guileless, so open, as it ever had been since their earliest days, and she feels a sudden burst of incandescent joy amid all the anguish that had passed between them during their reunion.

She takes his face between her hands, heedless of his earlier talk of undeserving, and kisses him fiercely, thumbing over his scars and broken skin. Then, with haste, she reaches down for the dagger she had dropped, and slices cleanly through the elven rope, freeing him, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms enveloping her.

But he does not match her fevered pace—and when he does reach for her, it is to lightly stroke her hair. He does so with reverence, as though handling a holy relic. She leans into his hand, placing her palms upon his chest to brace herself, for even under this lightest of touches, her knees grow weak.

His armor is firm and solid—an outer shell that she longs to remove. She wants nothing between them, just as it had been when they had lain together in the eldest of elder days. But as she gropes for the fastenings, he catches her wrists, and the pained look in his eye tells her no.

She wants to ask if he means never or not yet, but she is frightened to learn the answer, so she leans in soundlessly, winding her arms around his neck, knitting her body against his, coaxing his lips to part for her once more.

She is confused by his unwillingness and wracked by feelings of selfishness for wanting him so recklessly. She prays he will not notice her hot, anguished tears as they begin to fall. But she soon tastes their salt, and she knows he can, too. He pulls back, and she drops her eyes immediately, ashamed.

She feels the cold kiss of metal as his gauntleted hand tips her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His face is contrite yet pained—he hides nothing from her.

“For you, it was once,” he explains, and she knows immediately that he is speaking of their violation in Utumno. She clenches her jaw, feeling the icy, sick sensation overwhelm her again as he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “For me, it was… many times. Always at Morgoth’s command.”

Her heart shatters at his confession. The death she had suffered—it had been a mercy. She understands that fully now. Her tears fall faster as she aches for everything she imagines he’d endured, alone. Without her.

She yearns to comfort him, but to her distress, she realizes that she does not know how—she does not know anymore what will soothe him, or if there is anything that can.

With a shuddering intake of breath, he continues. “Being lost to lust—I fear it now.” He looks to her mournfully. “But I do long for you.” His unclad hand caresses her now, sliding slowly down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, over her belly and down to the cleft between her legs. “Oh, how I long for you,” he growls low, stroking her there.

She cannot contain the cry of pleasure that breaks free, and to her surprise, he smothers it with a sudden, scorching kiss.

His hands move to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall away behind them. Snatching her around the waist, he tips her back, laying her out on top of it, a silken barrier between her and the ashes that lie beneath it. He kneels carefully over her, and she watches a silent struggle play out upon his face. He breathes in deeply, finding steadiness within himself.

She waits, as patiently as she can manage, though every inch of her feels raw, and in desperate need of his hands. One by one, he undoes the fastenings of her tunic, unfolding the fabric gently, unwrapping her, letting the morning sun soak her pale skin. A ripple of delight courses through her as she watches him look down upon her, followed by a surge of impatience. She thinks she sees the edges of his lips curl up ever so slightly as he slides his fingers beneath the hem of her trousers, as he begins to tease them slowly down her legs.

His unhurried pace is maddening. She bucks her hips as he strips the garment finally away, releasing a pathetic whimper. He returns it with a satisfied growl that sounds from deep at the base of his throat, before lowering his head, planting a chaste kiss on the skin just above her hip. His bare hand moves to cover her breast, fingers sinking into a slow caress as his lips forge their own path across her abdomen and lower.

When he reaches the place where she needs him most, he delays no further—her legs part as his tongue finds her center. She undulates in pure, simple, velvet-soft ecstasy, as half-conscious sighs and moans fall freely from her lips.

The sensation of his mouth upon her sex makes her deliciously weak, but she summons enough strength to raise her head enough to look down and watch him, his dark head between her thighs, eyes closed in concentration, his grey hand kneading her breast, his iron gauntlet gripping her hip, the sharp spikes of his fingers sinking into her flesh.

Within a few moments, she is finished, reduced to quivers and cries as she comes undone beneath him.

His face swims into view above her, wan and satisfied, his green eyes cloudy with arousal. She clasps him around the neck, pulling him down to kiss her, catching the trace of her own tang still upon his tongue. Finding more strength, she rises somewhat clumsily, moving to straddle him once more, so that his back is against the tree.

They are both breathless, and for a moment, they linger in stillness. Her hand drifts to his forehead, brushing strands of dark hair away from his face. Then she leans forward, kissing along his jawline before teasing at his ear with her teeth. He gasps at the sensation, hands digging deliciously into her bare back.

She presses her body close to his, flattening her breasts against the hard plate of his armor, rocking so that she feels the friction of his mail against her flesh. Her hunger for him—having been momentarily sated—comes roaring back, and her motions grow more frantic as she confronts again a deep sense of emptiness between her legs, aching to be filled. She trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, each an invitation.

Please, she begs in between them.

His hands abruptly leave the base of her spine, and for a moment she fears that they have reached the end—that she has asked too much, pushed too far.

She buries her face in his neck, unwilling to tear herself away. But then she feels something brush against her—something hard that teases at her still-weeping entrance. She sucks in a sharp breath, glancing down at the space between them. He is holding the hilt of the dagger against her slit, clutching it in his own hand by the blade, and she can see a thin rivulet of black blood running down his fingers. He winces, but she reads in his face just how much the pain grounds him, and she remembers his earlier words, his fears of being fully lost to lust.

This, she realizes, is what he can offer her now. All she can do is accept it and be content, and live in hope that together, they might conquer the rest in time.

It is a challenge that she is more than willing to accept for him, and she tells him so with a deep, passionate kiss. Pulling back, she locks her eyes onto his, letting herself sink down onto the hilt, as a breathy moan begins at the back of her throat. He manipulates the dagger gently, pressing it inside of her as the sound deepens and lengthens. His forehead droops against hers and they breathe in time together with each thrust until she comes, and his hand is covered in blood.

With her body still quaking from the aftershocks, she wastes no time in tending to him. Reaching for her cloak, she tears a strip of fabric and binds his mangled palm. When she finishes, she holds his hand carefully in both of her own.

Where will we go now, she asks him, suddenly fearful of what may lie ahead.

Home, he answers. To Mordor.

...y'all still with me?

want more?

[i have some ideas]

lemmeknowkthanksbai

[headfullmanythots]

band of brothers fic recs !

OK HI GUYS yes it's 5am and i've been making this rec list for the past 3 hours but it's worth it for the fandom (is what i'm telling myself)

i've compiled some of my fav BoB fics here, with descriptions, content warnings, and my thoughts on them. please read the navigation page for important notices and tips to navigating BoB fics in the fandom!

if you read any enjoy any of these fics PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD leave kudos and comments !!! our fandom writers are so so important and your support means a lot! i will know if you don't and i will find you :)

originally for my very awesome moot @uwumoth, and now for the fandom at large!

[drewlover]

clarisse has a fatal flaw of honor in this essay i will

[kaurwreck]

Hi! I was reading your post about Kyouka and Lucy, and I would be really interested in just about any thoughts/takes you have on bsd women if you want to share them. I feel like fandom in general leaves so little space for women and it is very frustrating. Also if you did post exclusively Yosano&Naomi fics I’d read the heck out of that lol

I have lots of thoughts/takes on women in bsd, but I wouldn't know how to write anything on "bsd women." They're each individuals whose bsd characters, irl works and irl lives have depth, thematic relevance, and narrative-driving force in bsd. It would take me hours to write a post on my thoughts on each individually, all of them tossed in together would be a small academic text.

That said, I do have some existing posts on some of the women in bsd (in addition to other, just-for-fun posts, and where they come up in my other analyses):

Yosano, Dazai, and Mori

Yosano and Eroticism (based on the outsized scandalized reaction folks had while rewatching the bsd episode in which she heals tanizaki; with excellent commentary from @homoesia)

Kouyou's Role in the Port Mafia

On Louisa and Little Women (with excellent commentary from @sarahworm)

The Implications of Teruko's Backstory

I also very much recommend @ice-devourer's Yosano takes, which can be found here:

Yosano Analysis

Asks including information about irl Yosano's Early Life and irl Yosano's Childhood Grief

Also, @sarahworm is a scholar on women and Higuchi especially. Although I haven't convinced her to write a comprehensive analysis on irl!Higuchi and bsd!Higuchi, I did bait her into sharing some of her thoughts on my birthday post for Higuchi (which also contains a light smattering of my own thoughts about irl vs. bsd Higuchi).

[allthistrashtalkmakemeitchin]

"You don't get to call it stupid, because you took a chance on yourself. Thousands of kids your age dream of this once-in-a-lifetime chance, and you got it. You have a talent, ace." "But I failed, Dad. You don't get it. I failed."

GHOSTWRITER

Wattpad // AO3

[rhymaes]

Mysterious Lotus Casebook, Ep. 40 // The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, John Steinbeck

[teh-nos]

I watched Avengers: Age of Ultron (apart from I skipped some overly long action sequences) and I am not sure so can someone tell me whether or not Tony Stark was the baddy in that film? Because about halfway through I was sure he was but then it was maybe just an evil robot after all and I am confused because either this film was surprisingly subversive or it was about robots hitting each other.

[batbirdies]

You know I’m really not a member of the “you must comment on any fic you enjoy ever or else you do not deserve to read my free content” ie the “fandom is dying” crowd for many varying reasons.

But I’m equally not a member of the “be grateful anyone comments at all even if they’re rude, don’t be so sensitive” crowd for many more varying reasons.

Like both of you need to learn some balance I think.