#it's fluff time friends!

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

from the start !

so. . what are we ??

you’ve been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember.

sure, he had never outwardly called you his girlfriend, but when you were both seven years old, he came up to you. chest heaving slightly from running up and down the hill where he had gotten you a freshly plucked out bouquet of flowers. the roots were still clinging to them and he got dirt all over your hands from forcibly grabbing them and shoving the bouquet in them before you could even form a sentence.

“since you accepted the flowers, you’re mine now.” he mumbled, his little hands tightened into fists at his sides and chubby cheeks a cute shade of pink, staring at you as confidently as he could.

a grin grows on his face when you respond with a simple “okay !” and a bright smile. the grin on his face never disappears even as his mom scolds him for getting you both all dirty.

you were katsuki’s in middle school too, when the boys in class decided to play kiss, marry, kill and he had somehow gotten dragged into it. the girls in your class tried their best to seem uninterested, claiming the boys were being childish, but you noticed how hard some of them were straining their ears trying to hear what the guys were talking about in their own little corner of the room. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little curious as well.

katsuki was as ruthless as you’d known him to be, choosing to kill any girl that wasn’t to his liking, which ended up being all of them. much to the other boys’ chagrin, claiming he had no taste.

then your name was brought up.

at that, his eyes widened and he turned in his seat to see if you were watching. you had never turned your head away so fast in your life and you were pretty sure you heard something go “crack”.

he clicked his tongue. mumbling something about how stupid the game was before muttering out a “kiss yn, marry yn and kill that other bitch.” before getting up and stomping away, claiming he had to go to the bathroom followed closely by the whoops and hollers of his two friends behind him.

you both made eye contact when he walked out and you think you’ll never forget how red his cheeks were.

you were katsuki’s when he was the one to walk you to and from school everyday, claiming you would somehow get lost without him. you were katsuki’s when he had begrudgingly shoved homemade valentines day chocolates into your arms, mumbling something about how you had been upset nobody had gotten you anything last year, conveniently leaving out the fact he had scared off all the other guys trying to offer you anything.

you were katsuki’s when he grabbed your hand during the winter because he said you’d “end up dying of hypothermia with the way you’re chittering over there.” and you were his when you were the only person he laughed around. loud, genuine laughter that you and only you could squeeze out of him. you were katsuki’s when he randomly kissed you goodnight at your door one night and he’s been doing it ever since, and gets all pouty when you turn away from his kisses to tease him.

“are we dating ?” you had asked him. you’re both in high school now and you’re in his dorm room. your legs are on his lap and he’s got a comfortable grip on your leg, which tightens after he registers your questions “hah?” he looks utterly confused and a little insulted as he looks back at you, his entire face scrunched up in confusion. you pinch his nose and he swats at your hand.

“are we dating ? like—am i your girlfriend.” you say again and katsuki’s face scrunches up even harder. he huffs and looks back at his phone, landing a little smack on your leg still placed in his lap. “ ‘course yer my fuckin’ girlfriend.” he spits out, obviously irritated. then he looks back at you “I haven’t made it obvious ?” he says sarcastically. one of his eyebrows lifted as he pokes at your leg still very much in his lap.

you simply shrug “s’not that. it’s just because you’ve never actually asked me out before, so i was a little confused on where we stood.” you mumble. he stares at you while you speak and he stares a little longer before sighing. then he leans towards you and flicks your forehead.

“ow !”

“dumbass.” he murmurs. there’s a slight pout on his face and his cheeks are light shade of pink when he looks you in the eyes again. he grabs both your cheeks with one hand and smushes them together to push your lips out and presses multiple wet kisses onto them that have you squealing and squirming. his wet lips are pulled into a smirk when he pulls back and you try your best to at least look a little angry, you really do. but it’s useless when he looks at you like that.

“of course you’re my girlfriend” he reiterates. his smirk’s been replaced for something softer, something more sincere as he gazes at you with so much unadulterated affection it makes your head spin a little. “you’ve always been mine.” he says it in a teasing tone and his hand is still smushing your cheeks out and it hurts a little but his eyes are still the same. they’re warm and soft and so, so enamored with you and only you.

when he finally let’s go of your face and pulls you fully into his lap, you realize katsuki’s been yours for as long as you’ve been his.

you smile brightly at him but turn your nose up when he leans in to kiss you again. “i still haven’t heard what i wanna hear though, mr. bakugou.”

he rolls his eyes and pinches at your thigh as he mumbles out a “don’t call me that.” sighing, he looks at you intensely and you suddenly feel very shy.

“will you be my girlfriend, ya shitty girl ?” and he says it as a joke, you both know it is cus his lips are already forming into a smirk the second he finishes his sentence. and you’re pulling at his nose the moment you register it, but you’re both smiling hard. he laughs and you’re sure you’ll never get tired of the sound. “what’s your answer, pretty ?” he asks playfully and you pretend to really think it over just to mess with him, and giggling out a “yes!” when he suddenly pounces on you. flipping you both over and tickling you mercilessly, calling it revenge for you “taking too damn long to answer.”

you’d been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember, and you hope you can be forever.

[tthoroughfare]

trying to make your ex jealous by using ellie as a prop in your ig story hahahaha

she's been in front of your mirror for, like, ten minutes as you direct her on how to stand, how to put her arms around you. you laugh as you cycle through the pictures you'd gotten, ellie looking over your shoulder.

"ellie, these suck. you look so fucking awkward." none of them actually look like you're with a romantic prospect; it's painfully obvious it's set up, ellie craning her neck to hide her face and looking like she's petrified to touch you. you swipe onto a particular picture, zooming in on her hand. "also, in that one you can literally see your tattoo, you gotta pull your sleeve down more."

she automatically tugs at the sleeve of her hoodie, covering the ink swirling down from her wrist. "damn... yes ma'am. didn't realize it was that serious."

"well, otherwise she's gonna know it's you. and that'd be so fucking embarrassing."

she scoffs lightly. "kind of embarrassing faking photos to try and make someone jealous, anyway."

"oh, please. shut up," you retort, rolling your eyes. she'd seemed to be a little grumpy about the whole thing as soon as you asked her to do it:

"this is stupid."

"why does it have to be me? get dina to do it, she'd love this shit."

"you're so cringe."

you get back into position, gesturing at ellie. "m'kay, come back."

she shuffles closer again, hesitantly going to place her hands on your waist.

"this is why they look stupid, your hand placement's wrong." you gently grasp at her wrist, manually moving her right hand upwards and to the side, wrapping her arm further around you and allowing her fingers to rest just below your left breast. "like, you don't look like you wanna fuck me, you're just... standing there like you're at gunpoint."

"yeah, i am," she murmurs, looking down and gingerly pressing herself flush against your back. you ignore the comment, taking the back of her head and pulling it so that her chin's resting on your shoulder.

"don't worry if your face is in it, i'm probably just gonna crop it anyway," you comment as you snap another few photos, placing your hand over hers. she tries not to pay any mind to the way you subconsciously swipe your thumb across the back of her hand, the way it makes her stomach flutter.

you pivot your phone so she can see it whilst you flip through the new photos you'd taken. you're still running your fingertips over her hand, and she doesn't think you even realize you're doing it. "see, these ones are way better. they look way more realistic."

you go to take some more, and ellie hesitantly leans further in, nuzzling at your neck.

"wait, that's good," you begin. "pull your hood up, so i don't have to crop it."

blowing air out of her nose, she does as you say before returning her hand to its original position. she feels a little emboldened, borderline forgetting the whole thing is pretend as she presses a couple of tiny kisses to your neck; stopping when she feels you tense.

you pause before laughing shakily, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "method acting. nice."

ellie awkwardly laughs along, kicking herself mentally. she doesn't even know why she did it, where she mustered the balls. it was automatic.

you take a final couple, then pull away and sit cross-legged on your bed. she tugs her hood down, running a hand through her hair as she sits next to you, peering down at your phone while you flick through all of the photos.

"i think that one," you say when you stop on a particular image, pressing your thumb to the screen in emphasis. "it's hot, and you can't really tell it's you."

ellie pulls a face as she nods. "go for it."

your brow furrows as you notice her expression. "... what's with you?"

she shrugs, mouth downturning. "i don't know, i just think it's kinda stupid. why do you even want her back? she was, like... a dick to you."

"i don't want her back," you reply. "i just want her to see it and be like... 'oh, shit'."

"but, like, still... why are you even thinking about her?"

you sigh lightly, looking down at your phone. "i don't know... she fucked me over a lot, and now she's trying to act like she's doing all great and everything. just wanna give her something to feel... y'know, a little shitty over."

"fair enough," she replies half-heartedly. "i just don't even think you should care. you can do better."

you scoff. "well, it's not exactly happening for me."

she doesn't say anything back, just looks at you and shrugs, toying with her sleeve. there's a slightly uncomfortable feeling in the room as you meet her gaze, one you don't understand.

"so can i post it, or no?"

ellie's hands turn upwards in gesture. "sure."

"right," you respond, opening instagram and getting the picture up to put on your story, flicking through songs and deciding which one to add to it. she moves closer, watching as you do so.

"gotta be clairo," she remarks, to which you chuckle.

you post the photo, and resist the urge to check if your ex has viewed it every five minutes. ellie puts a silly movie on, and you actually manage to forget about it as you make commentary between yourselves, laughing along.

until your phone buzzes; dina's reacted '😂' to your story, and sent you a reply:

"that's ellie 😭😭😭😭😭 you fucking idiot"

you sit up as you open the messages, covering your mouth and scoffing. turning your phone so that ellie can see, you watch her eyes glimmer in amusement as she lets out a laugh.

"i'm taking it down," you say firmly, between giggles.

ellie raises her eyebrows, training her eyes back on the TV. "told you."

[hairmetal666]

"I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he declares to all and sundry (Steve and Robin) in Family Video.

Steve laughs, ducks his head, hair a bountiful cascade that doesn't move an inch. He's blushing but it's not, like, a reaction to the sentiment of marriage. Steve knows Eddie is just like that, flirtatious and over-the-top and incapable of not speaking his thoughts as soon as they enter his head.

Robin roles her eyes, goes back to flipping through her magazine, something about cinema, and Eddie swipes his just rented movies off the counter.

"You think I'm joking," he twists so he's facing them, walking backwards to the door. "But I swear it, oh, beloved purveyor of movies and deleter of late fees."

"Yeah, yeah." Steve's face is pinker than before and Eddie recognizes and immediately forces himself to forget how cute it is. "But get out of here before I change my mind."

And Eddie, he loves to push his luck and also has very little filter between his brain and his mouth, so he says, "aw, don't be that way, Stevie, you love me."

Robin looks up, then, mouth a pursed twist as she tries not to laugh. "Gross, Eddie." She throws a Sour Patch at him. "Keep all that mushy stuff to when you two are alone."

It's his turn to blush, fierce and raging, and Steve whirls, squeaking, to whack Robin with a Twizzler.

Eddie points at her. "Rude, Buckley. You know I love you too."

"Again, gross." She sticks out her tongue, tinged blue from the Sour Patch.

"We really need to work on your ability to accept affection," Steve tells her.

She scowls, kicks him, makes Eddie laugh.

"I think that's my cue to leave, children." He says. He, quite literally, bows out of the store, just missing the barrage of candy thrown his way.

---

Three Months Later

Eddie stumbles into the Harrington house, kicking his boots off by the door. Steve's in the kitchen, fussing around the stove. His hair's askew and he's--

"Harrington, are you wearing an apron?" He ignores the kick in his chest at the sight. "You'll make a sweet little housewife one day."

"Shut-up," Steve says without any heat. "Try this."

He brandishes a spoon filled with red sauce in Eddie's direction, and Eddie--heart always on his sleeve--eagerly leans in to taste. He closes his eyes, savors, and it's good, truly. Perfect fresh acidity with just a burst of sweetness.

"It's amazing, baby," he says without thinking. He opens his eyes right in time to see Steve turning back to the sauce, blush high on his cheekbones.

"Thanks. You're making me nervous though, hovering." Steve hip checks him. "Go sit somewhere."

And Eddie does, jumps onto the island--the Harrington's are the kind of people who have an island--and chatters to Steve about his day, about his new campaign, about the new song he's trying to learn.

All the while, he's watching Steve cook, in his apron, with such care and thoughtfulness, with true command. Maybe it's the domesticity of the scene, maybe his raging crush, but he has this flash of the two of them in the future. In their kitchen, Steve cooking dinner, and Eddie's arms are wrapped around his waist, he's pressing kisses to his temple, complimenting all his hard work and--

Steve feeds him a bite of the finished pasta, and it's so good that he groans, full-throated, unembarrassed, and says--he says, "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington."

He laughs, face pink, batting Eddie's shoulder. "Go sit down, man. It's time to eat."

---

Two Months After That

Eddie's working on a new campaign when the storm rolls in, wind rocking the trailer, thunder and lightning crackling in the sky. The power doesn't go out, but only just barely, the flickers making his heart pound for reasons that have nothing to do with weather.

There's a knock on the trailer door, and he opens it to find Steve Harrington standing on the porch, hair plastered to his head, clothes soaked. Robin's bike is propped against one of the awning supports. Familiar panic snaps to life in his gut.

"God, Steve, are you okay? Did something happen? That's Robin's bike, where's the Beamer? Is it--is it Vecna? Is--" He's blabbering can't stop, so he shoves his palm against his lips.

"It's not--not Upside Down stuff." He runs a hand through his soggy hair. "Can I come in, man? I--I want to tell you something."

This snaps Eddie out of his panic, and he's moving aside, saying, "Oh my god, get in here, you're soaked. Let me get towels. Do you want a change of clothes, I can--"

Steve catches him by the elbow and he full stops at the look in those big hazel eyes, fearful and sad and he doesn't know what, but his anxiety amps back up.

"I was with Robin and we were--we were talking, you know? And I told her that I like somebody, like really like them, but it was unexpected and--and--it's a guy. He's a guy but I still like girls? Robin said--she said that I'm probably bisexual. That I like guys and girls and--and everyone, I think."

It sends shockwaves through him, and he hopes it doesn't show, doesn't think it shows, but he's having trouble processing. Steve is bi and he likes someone and--Eddie stuffs down the jealousy that claws at him, knows it's more important that he's here for his friend.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart." He reaches out, slow in case Steve doesn't want to be hugged, but he launches himself into Eddie's arms.

Eddie holds him tight, heedless of his wet clothes, can feel his shoulders shake, and it tears Eddie's heart in two. All he can do is hold Steve and offer comfort, jealousy be damned.

"You're so brave, honey," he says once the tears taper off.

Steve gives a wet chuckle, face still buried against Eddie's neck. "I don't know about that. I think I got snot in your hair."

"It'll wash out." He laughs. "Is now the time to welcome you to the family? Apparently, we're growing exponentially."

"Does the welcome include a cake or something? I could really use cake."

And God, Steve, is so fucking cute, so sweet, so--everything Eddie has always wanted, and he--it's an accident, or at least, thoughtless--he presses a kiss to Steve's temple. More than one.

Steve pulls back fast, and Eddie lets go immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I--that was stupid. You like someone already, and I--"

His words are cut off as Steve kisses him. Steve kisses him? His brain can't process, but he kisses back. Can't not, not with Steve. Like, he doesn't know anything, head empty, but his body is with the program.

They break apart, he's breathing hard. Steve is beautifully flushed, mouth red and swollen. "You like someone," is what Eddie says.

Steve laughs. "I like you, Munson. Fucking crazy about you."

He smiles, so big it hurts, so big it grows into a delight laugh. "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he says.

---

Six Years Later

They're in bed, Saturday morning, rain pattering softly on the window.

Steve places slow kisses against his naked tummy, makes him tremble, shiver with overstimulation.

"Baby," he whines. "Sweetheart."

Steve smiles up at him, something cold pressing against his ribs, then into his hand.

It's a ring, black metal, shiny and iridescent as he turns it in the light. "What--Steve?"

With one last kiss to his hip bone, Steve sits up, slips the ring onto Eddie's finger. "I'm going to marry you one day, Eddie Munson."

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Shen Qingqiu may not have done much in his first life, but he did learn, and observe. His older brothers were deeply entrenched in the corporate world, and he had watched them chase success and conquer hurdles.

He had also watched them burnout. He had watched as the fatigue began to linger around their eyes, as their proud shoulders began to bow. He knew how hard it was to recover from chronic fatigue.

Once, his unshakeable Da-ge had broken down in tears, unable to continue.

Shen Qingqiu wasn't heartless.

He didn't want to see someone else he cared about loved go through that. Once was worse enough.

So when he watched fatigue weigh down Shang Qinghua's immortal cultivator's strength, when burnout caused the quick man to crumple, and when instead of crocodile wailing there were dry eyes and wooden smiles, and quietly reserved replies?

Shen Qingqiu would call Shang Qinghua over to the peaceful groves of Qing Jing, to the secluded bamboo house. Often under the guise of discussing their 'gardening' project, Shang Qinghua and Shen Yuan would lounge, snacks and tea abundant, and Shang Qinghua would take to the afternoons like an under-watered plant to rain.

And if Shen Qingqiu purposefully made big huffs about unimportant things so that Shang Qinghua would come over? He was the only one who would know. And Shang Qinghua's work somehow never made it past Shen Yuan's threshold.

And if Shen Qingqiu 'arbitrarily' decided to demand Shang Qinghua allow him to braid his hair, so he didn't 'forget how to', and maybe that Shang Qinghua fell asleep with gentle hands in his hair? And if the An Ding Peak Lord woke with warm arms around him?

It was important only to them, and no one else needed to know.

No one understood how the An Ding Peak Lord kept up his breakneck pace all those years. Many great men had tried before him, and there were even protocols in place on An Ding for the Peak Lord's eventual burnout. Somehow, Shang Qinghua never succumbed.

Shen Qingqiu thought the proof spoke for itself. Melon seeds had a dedicated place in the Bamboo House's pantry. One not even Luo Binghe disturbed.

And years later, when Shen Qingqiu is juggling his duties as Peak Lord and Emperor-Consort, perhaps Shang Qinghua drags him away, needing him 'urgently' for important matters, and taking him someplace where work nor worries could find them.

[nuursartcorner]

finally done!! forgive my poor grammar pls

[zumicho]

stamped

© zumicho all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my works on any platform.

SYNOPSIS : your brother’s best friend is a travelling volleyball sensation. he sends him letters from every country he visits, & you could care less. till.. he starts addressing them to you.

PAIRING ; oikawa tooru x reader SMAU 📼

TAGS / CWS : none of the art is mine unless stated, language, sexual & kys jokes, suggestive, borderline angsty, childhood enemies to lovers *wink wink*

completed 𖦹°⋆ TAGLIST closed

♥︎ .ᐟ.ᐟ FILM BRO POSERS + IWA ; SIDE HOES

────────────────────────

mailbox boy — where it all started

01 . 02 . 03 . 04 . ✎ 05 . 06 . 07 . 08 .

signed sealed delivered — the end of it all

the letters : bonus

────────────────────────

author’s note: it’s over! sad to say this is probably the most poorly executed work on my account — but I’m keeping it up for the sake of those who hold it dear to their heart <3 thank you for reading

@wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @mimi3lover @itsdragonius @vivian-555 @blueberrygeniejam @cryptictheseus @azharyy @yuminako @iluvmang @aliensstolemyheart @ilyless @tojirin @mylahrins @gra-eae @reads-stuff-quietly @neeksnicoboytoy @elliott0o0 @nnnyxie @chizunata @girlkissersco @kiyoomis-side @scxrcherr @causenessus @eggyrocks @phoenix-eclipses @walllflowerrrsss @gsyche @acowboykisser @swag-only @serossidechick @le000xxgrd @eclecticeggknightpsychic @garfieldissocool @dazqa @venusianeros @youmake1mistake @thechaosoflonging @r0seandth0rns @empress-pug-pug @iad0ru @hyenagoated @chemiru

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

thinking about an estranged childhood friends to lovers story with gojo……

you’re a rowdy kid. during one of your adventures, you end up at the gojo estate; sneaking your way into a vast, beautiful garden, pretty pink roses as far as the eye can see. little gojo is crouched down, watching tiny sprouts grow, and you’re too captivated to look away. bright snowy hair, striking blue eyes, all dolled up in a fancy yukata. he turns to meet your gaze — and all you give him is a sheepish laugh, before strolling over to introduce yourself. he doesn’t seem to mind the company, so you keep coming over to play with him. you bring cool rocks, pretty cicadas you caught, a dusty gameboy. he listens to you speak. he watches the way you move, wave your hands when you’re excited. he grows so, so fond of you.

one day, you stop coming by to see him — and he doesn’t need confirmation to know that one of the maids must have chased you off.

twenty years later, you meet him again, in a crowded little café. he calls out for you by name and you have no idea who you’re looking at. a tall, handsome, cheery man… wearing a blindfold? and shooting you a charming grin. you have no idea who he is, but he remembers you. he remembers you a lot more than he should. he chides you for forgetting your very best friend, but there’s nothing but humour in his voice. you watch as he speaks, as he moves, as he taps his feet under the table after insisting you order something — his treat. you still don’t remember him.

but you’re captivated, all the same.

(from underneath his blindfold, gojo watches you smile. he thinks to himself that some things must truly never change; because he still feels that familiar swarm of butterflies, with every move you make.)

[isjasz]

[Day 96]

Together they become GUY!!

(Context: On the stream yesterday they were joking about just combining into one player for decked out LOL)

(And Hermittober: Day 1 Frost ❄️)

[demigods-posts]

i have this headcanon that percy and annabeth are raging accidental flirts. but not with each other. like. they'll go to the coffee shop on fifteenth street. and compliment the barista on his hair and clothes and tip really well. but only for him. and they have no idea this boy is absolutely swooning over them. or. each time they to go the bakery downtown. they take the time to converse with the waitress at the counter as they eat her homemade muffins. and are incredibly vocal about how she's their favorite server. and how much they enjoy seeing her. and suddenly they're the only two customers that can get her services for free. except, they just think she's like that with everyone.

[honnelander]

go fish! part 2

guyssss i did NOT expect this little series to blow up. y'all are amazing! i'm turning into a Sanji writing blog and am i mad about it? no lmao i received a couple of requests and i'll work on them as soon as i can. i'm really in the zone rn so i'll ride this wave as long as i can. if you want to be a part of the taglist for whenever i post new Sanji content, lmk. i hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: none

word count: 2.8k

pairing: opla!sanji x fem!reader

summary: after being humiliated by Usopp earlier, reader stays in her room to decompress. however, she gets a visitor.

prequel part 1 part 3 part 4 masterlist

taglist: @smolracoon25 @mischiefmanaged71 @jovialcat123

Mortified. That’s how you felt. Still. 

Ever since you ‘forfeited’ from finishing your Go Fish card game with Usopp a couple of hours ago, you had taken your glass of water that Sanji had poured for you and boarded up in your shared room with Nami, refusing to come out due to “heat exhaustion”. 

Poor Luffy, ever the golden hearted captain, was immediately worried for your wellbeing as soon as he heard that but after multiple reassurances from you and getting up off of your hammock multiple times to prove you were in fact, just fine, he relented from wanting to stop by the nearest island so he could find a doctor for you. Usopp had managed to convince him as well that all you needed was some water, alone time, and that you would be fine by dinnertime. 

You rubbed your eyes as you let out a sigh, vowing to yourself that the next time you wanted some time by yourself, you should just take a bath or something, since any other excuse would cause someone on the crew (Luffy) to lose their mind at the thought of someone not feeling well. 

You readjusted yourself, sitting more upright, as you downed the last of your water, it being warm by this point since it had been poured by Sanji hours ago. 

Sanji. Ugh.  

Your heart fluttered once again at the mere thought of him, but that flutter was immediately replaced by a wave of crashing embarrassment at the thought of the afternoon’s sequence of events. What had happened earlier wasn’t even anything that groundbreaking or special, but to you? It was everything. It wasn’t common practice in your life for the object of your affections to be so kind towards you, so thoughtful, to read and anticipate your needs before you even knew they were even there. But Sanji? He was all of that and more. And you didn’t even know him for that long! You’ve all been a part of the straw-hat crew for 5 months at this point and it felt silly to admit to yourself that you had developed a crush on one of your crewmates in that short amount of time. 

And having feelings for your crewmate? Someone who you literally couldn’t get away from since you all were trapped on a ship together (not that you would ever want to be away from him or anyone else for that matter, besides Usopp, but still), it felt morally wrong. You guys were all a team. Sure, you all were off to sail around the world and chase dreams, but achieving all of that required teamwork and trust, and that was hard to do if two of those people were caught up with matters of the heart every hour of every day. 

Like, what if things didn’t work out in the end? Would you really want to put the crew’s dynamic at stake just because you thought the blonde guy was cute? No, you wouldn’t. It would be selfish so you would never dare to put yourself or Sanji in that position. No matter how much you liked him. 

So as much as it pained you, you could never tell Sanji how you feel. You would never cross that line of being a ‘professional pirate’ into something more, like a pirate wife. Or a pirate chef’s wife. 

It definitely didn’t help that freaking Usopp of all people on the crew knew about your affections for Sanji. Ugh, you groaned. He was the absolute worst person to know about it too. Why did he have to figure it out? Why did he have to be the one that had put two and two together to equal four? That your random bouts of awkwardness and shyness plus ‘heart eyes’ and blushes whenever Sanji was around equaled to you having a forbidden crush on the crew’s chef? It was embarrassing. And complicated.  

He loved to stir the pot too, so whenever he could tease you for it when you both were alone or in front of a clueless Sanji, he would. You remembered the kiss he had shared with Kayla back when the straw-hats had acquired the Going Merry, so you definitely jabbed him right back when you had had enough, since part of you felt guilty for it since Kayla was thousands of miles away and Sanji lived on this ship with you. Your situations were slightly similar but completely different.  

Also, completely different in the way that him and Kayla were basically dating at this point, albeit long distance, and had shared a kiss while you could barely sustain eye contact that lasted more than 5 seconds with Sanji. 

You were hopeless. 

“Knock, knock,” a familiar accented voice came through the closed door. “Y/n? Are you awake?” 

"Sanji?” you blurted out in complete surprise.  

Shit. You weren’t mentally prepared to see him just yet. At all. You were still replaying the interaction you both had earlier in your head, your overthinking mind going over every minute detail to figure out if Usopp’s careless teasing had given away your affections.  

Usopp, you mentally ground out. You were going to kill him. Sanji had never stopped by your room before so what on earth was he doing here now?  

Suddenly, a thought struck you like a bolt of lightning and made your stomach drop fifty miles below sea level: if Sanji had specifically stopped by your room just to gently let you down, that no, in fact he did not feel the same way about you, that he only thought of you as a member of the crew and nothing more....then yeah, you were definitely going to kill Usopp and throw him overboard. 

Before you could mentally plot out more details on Usopp's murder, the door opened and the straw-hat chef’s blonde head appeared. His eyes quickly scanned Nami’s empty hammock on the room’s left side before turning his head to the right, his blue eyes immediately finding your surprised ones, a (relieved?) smile lighting up his face at the sight of you. 

“So, I take it you’re awake?” Sanji asked in a light, teasing tone but not making an effort to move himself away from the doorway. 

“Uh, y-eah,” you stuttered out in surprise as you just stared at him dumbfounded. You still couldn’t figure out why he was here. 

Sanji continued to lock eyes with you, making your cheeks flush the longer you both stared at each other, and your palms sweat as the silence stretched on, making the tension in the air become thicker by the second. He blinked, his eyes darting to the side in confusion, raising an eyebrow as he asked, “May I come in?” 

“OH! Yes, of course- sorry,” you stuttered as you waved him inside, sitting up in your hammock and mentally face palmed yourself. Of course, Sanji was waiting on you to invite him inside. Like always, he was acting like a true gentleman. “Please, come in. Have a seat. Sorry, that was rude of me. Make yourself at home.” 

Sanji stood up to his full height and walked into your room with an easy smile and a small laugh, closing the door behind him. “Ah, don’t ever apologize y/n. You could never be rude to me,” Sanji rebuttalled and waved off your apology as he looked around and took in your very plain and basic shared room with Nami.  

Your room, or side of the room more specifically, wasn’t much to brag about considering you really didn’t have much to your name but for now, it was home to you. Your side consisted of your hammock, a wooden barrel next to it to act as a makeshift nightstand that housed your only book, a journal, and a lamp, along with an empty wooden crate to act as a makeshift seat and another to hold some of your other clothes and small travel bag. Nami’s side was similar to yours but had a touch more personality as she hung up some maps she found at various markets and drew up herself on her wall. 

You swallowed, suddenly feeling a tad self-conscious about the lack of things in your room considering your current guest was dressed, as usual, to the nines in his signature black suit and blue and white striped shirt complete with a skinny black tie. “Sorry for the sad state of my room-” 

“Sad?” Sanji stopped admiring your room and snapped his gaze to look at you. His eyebrows pulled together as another confused smile adorned his features. “Why would you say that? Your room isn’t sad, I like it. It’s a reflection of you,” his next words came out softer, “and I think that’s beautiful.” 

You could feel heat crawling up your neck at his words as you busied yourself with placing the empty glass in your hand on your barrel nightstand. There was no way Sanji was calling you beautiful, he was just commenting on your room. With Nami. On your shared room that owed any ounce of ‘personality’ to the ship’s navigator because it was obvious you literally brought nothing special to this room whatsoever.  

You stopped yourself from spiraling into ‘I don’t bring anything special to the straw-hats, I don’t know why they keep me around’ thoughts because now wasn’t the time to think about any of that. Those dark thoughts were reserved when you couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night.  

As you placed the glass on the nightstand, you asked, “So, what brings you all the way to my room? Aren’t you usually prepping for dinner around this time?” 

Sanji’s eyes followed your hand and lit up when he saw the sole book on your nightstand. “Oh, a book? I didn’t know you liked to read.” His megawatt smile lit up a couple of notches as his eyes sparkled, he looked like he had just learned one of the universe’s greatest mysteries as he took a seat near you on an empty crate. “What book is that?” 

“Oh, that?” You mentally deflated at the fact you now had to tell Sanji about your favorite book, “It’s Pride and Prejudice.”  

You weren’t ashamed of having that book specifically, you loved it and it was your favorite book of all time, you had lost count at how many times you had read it at this point, but it was the fact that you now had to share this part of yourself with the guy you fancied. Guys normally scoffed and turned their nose up at romance book and romantic things, so you were bracing for Sanji to scoff and laugh at you like all the other guys did (like even Zoro and Usopp did when they first saw you reading it) but it never came. 

Instead, Sanji’s smile remained bright. “Ah, so you’re a lover of classic romances? Pride and Prejudice? Romeo and Juliet?” 

Immediately, you smiled, finding yourself instantly comfortable suddenly whenever you got to talk about one of your favorite things. “Absolutely. I don’t think there’s a problem big enough out there that love can’t solve. Family backgrounds? Wealth and status? At the end of the day, none of that stuff matters. What matters is if two people love each other.” 

Sanji stayed quiet for a moment, looking into your eyes with a twinkle of an emotion that you couldn’t decipher. It made your heart skip a beat. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, never breaking eye contact. “I agree.” 

You swallowed. “You like this stuff too? Have you read Pride and Prejudice?” 

Sanji blinked and that indescribable emotion he had in his eyes was gone. His smile remained, however, and became sheepish as he held up his hands, “Ah ok, you caught me. I’ve never read the full thing, but I know the main parts of the story. My favorite part that I did read though, was the first dinner with Mr. Collins and he complimented the Bennets on their ‘excellent boiled potatoes’.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head slightly as you teased, “I should’ve known that the chef of the Going Merry’s favorite part of the book is when food is discussed!” 

The blonde cook held his hands up again with a good-natured laugh, “Ah, you got me!” His face softened as he asked, “What about you?" He nodded towards the book. "What’s your favorite part?” 

You paused for a second as you mulled the question over. “Well, I'm not sure if you know about this part since you never read the book...” 

“Try me,” he encouraged softly. 

Your face turned to the side, your eyes looking at the wooden wall to your right, unable to bring yourself to look at Sanji as you told him your favorite part of your favorite book. You took a deep breath to steady yourself and calm your nerves, your voice becoming quiet as you told him, “My favorite part is...when Mr. Darcy barges in on Elizabeth for the first time, while she’s at her friend Charlotte’s house writing a letter. He had come to practice ‘conversating’ with her since he admitted that it wasn’t something he was good at and she had told him to practice it. So, Mr. Darcy just barged in and they had one of the most painfully awkward conversations ever...and he did all that just because he loves her. He did something he hated and was bad at, and opened himself up to embarrassment just because he wanted to improve and be better for her. It’s so romantic and beautiful.” 

The air was quiet after your mini monologue and for a moment, nothing could be heard except for their quiet breathing and the occasional crash of the ocean from outside your small window. 

Part of you worried that your little rambling had bored Sanji, so when you finally looked at him, imagine your surprise when you found him leaning in towards you, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes watching you, completely engaged. It was like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Sanji scanned your face for a moment, the corner of his lips curling upwards as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not familiar with that part in the book,” and before you could open your mouth to bring yourself down, he continued, “but, that doesn’t mean your answer is wrong.” He leaned back and slapped his hands against his thighs, “Hell, it’s a much more insightful answer than mine!” He laughed. “I just liked how they were poking some fun at boiled potatoes.” 

You laughed with him because yes, that part in the book also made you laugh as well. But at the mention of food, you realized that you still didn’t know why Sanji was here in the first place. Wasn’t he normally prepping for dinner at this time? He had to be running behind schedule at this point. 

“Why are you here, Sanji? Isn’t it almost time for dinner?” 

“Yeah, it is actually but I heard you weren’t feeling well so I wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re feeling alright and see if you have any special requests for dinner?” 

You couldn’t help the slight smile that overtook your face, trying to hide the blush at the fact that he was kind enough to check in on you and offer to practically be your own personal chef for the evening. 

You hummed for a moment, acting like you were deep in thought before asking with a raised eyebrow, "And what would you say if I requested some boiled potatoes?”  

The smile that lit up the chef’s face was priceless. He had never looked more beautiful. “To that, I would say ‘Absolutely. If that’s what the missus wants, then that is what the missus will get.’” 

Missus. There it was again. You felt all warm inside whenever he called you that, it made you feel like he was your husband and that you were his wife. But that wasn’t the case. Sanji definitely must have called other women that before. You weren’t special to him, he was just being polite.  

You swallowed down your emotions, putting your sudden wave of sadness away for later, putting on a small smile. “Then that sounds perfect. I would like to formally request some ‘excellent boiled potatoes’ as a side for dinner, please.” 

If Sanji noticed your sudden change in mood, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned as he said, “Excellent choice, Madam. Boiled potatoes, coming right up.” As he stood up and made his way towards your door, Sanji did one of the most unexpected things that nearly knocked the wind out of you. With his left hand on the doorknob he said, “And don’t worry, Madam. I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of extra love in there,” he turned and winked at you, “just for you.” 

With that, Sanji left your room, gently closing the door behind him, leaving you completely dumbstruck in your room, your mouth agape and body frozen. 

Did Sanji just say he loved you? 

You shook your head, because there was no way he did, right? He said he’d ‘sprinkle in some extra love’ into your potatoes, not 'I love you". You weren’t a chef, maybe that was a euphemism for something. 

You sighed.  

Those better be some good boiled potatoes. 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 4 - Release

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, smut (oral both receiving, fingering, thigh riding), time loop!

Summary/Warnings: A lot of truths are revealed. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I love making up spn lore. The whole thing is made up anyway. I'm thriving.

Word Count: 6.9k

Chapter 3 - Read on A03!

You’ll have to learn how to entertain yourself.

Some part of you feels like it’s slowly and dreadfully withering away, but you’re here and never leaving, so you might as well make the most of it.

Lying on the sheetless bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing Dean swear from down the hall.

You’ll just have to entertain yourself.

“Son of a-“

You’re out of the bed in a minute. Running down the hall because fuck this, if you’re going to be here you might as well make the most of it, if you’re stuck listening to Dean say everything you’ve ever wanted him to in all the worst ways, you might has well make the fucking most of it. 

You skid to a stop in the kitchen—narrowly avoiding the counter—and Dean stands a little taller, his gaze shooting between you and the mess on the floor as his hand goes behind his back. 

“Morning, sunshine, what are you-“

No more waiting. It won’t matter in the end, and you have to entertain yourself, so any pointless dance around it would be like playing a game you already know you’d win.

You’d much rather have the prize. No matter how quickly it’s snatched from your hands, you really want the prize.

So you slam your lips into Dean’s, yanking him down by his shirt, and everything drains into Dean. Warm and firm against you, taking only a second to get on board with what’s happening and kiss you back. A rough, hot kiss that might have scarred you—teeth and spit, Dean cradling your face between his hands with a starkly different care, but still groaning down your throat and walking you backwards until you’re pinned to the wall—if you didn’t know the burn would be soothed by morning.

It’s why, when he pulls back with ragged breaths and a hooded gaze, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone and the priceless look all over his pretty features, you know what’s coming.

And you don’t care.

“I love you.” He whispers, and the light goes off.

But you’re still rolling. 

“I know.” You start to fumble with his pants, his erection already pressed right to your hips, and you have all the time in the world, but you still don’t want to lose this. “God, Dean, I love you too, but if you don’t- shit-“

You try to fall to your knees before him, to ward off the cut of the cameras just a little longer, but Dean catches your wrist, pulling you back to your feet.

“You feeling okay, baby? I mean, I don’t wanna cut you off from, you know.” He nods down between your bodies. “But you’re getting a little, uh, touchy and frantic, and you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” Your words are quick. Desperate. You want to more than anything, because if you don’t, he’ll disappear. “It’s just been a long few weeks, Dean, and I- I really want to touch you.”

Dean nods, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist and murmuring against your skin. “How about if I touch you?”

His eyes are dark, filled with a promise you’d really like to see him keep, and hungry.

There’s really no point to denying him.

You nod, and Dean’s on you before you can even steady yourself against the wall.

Kissing a sloppy, open-mouthed line down your neck and over your shoulder, leaving small bite marks and bruises as he tugs your shirt up and your shorts down, and his hands are big and rough and everywhere, setting fire over your skin as he rolls your nipple between his fingers and goes down further-

If the fate you’re cursed to is Dean, eating you out like it’s all he’s ever been meant to do, over and over until your legs are shaking and you’re only sobbing his name as you cum on his face, you might be able to make your peace with that. 

You’ll certainly never find it in yourself not to smile as him when he’s done, looking up at you with a wide grin and pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. You let your hand run through his hair, and it won’t matter, but you say it anyway.

“I really do love you, Dean.” 

“I know.” He winks at you, running two fingers between the folds of your pussy with a smug grin, and pushes to his feet with that same hand still lingering on your hip. “C’mon, baby, let’s get you to a bed.”

You won’t be getting to a bed. 

Because you nod, let Dean guide you down the hallway and fold his body over yours to shield your body from possible eyes, and lean into his shoulder with a sigh as you feel it coming.

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

You’re going to fucking entertain yourself.

This time, you go through the motions until you get to the library. Until you’re curled in your chair across from Dean, and he’s getting ready to grumble about the suit from the city. 

“You still seeing that guy from the city?”

You look up at him with a hum and raised brows, and he sighs.

“The suit and tie asshole, from the bar last month.” Dean mutters, and your heart is supposed to tighten and feel like stone here, but it won’t. You won’t let it. “Sam said you were out with him last week.”

“I was.” You shrug, and look over to see Dean scowling at his book. “What are you going to do about it?”

That gets him to look up, wide-eyed and shocked. “I- uh-“

“If you’re so interested in who I’m fucking.” You set down your own book, and move to your feet, walking across the room until you’re standing between Dean’s legs. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, and just fucking say it.”

Dean’s eyes narrow on yours, and you don’t think he’s realized that he’s holding you near him by your hips. 

“I don’t care who you fuck.” He grunts, and you give him a flat look.

“Then why’d you ask?”

“To make sure you’re being safe-“

“Why do you care if I’m safe?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I care-“

“That’s not answering my question, Dean-“

“It’s a goddamn stupid question, of course I care that you’re safe-“

“Why?”

“Because I care about you-“

“Why do you care about me?”

“Because I- Goddamnit, sweetheart, just drop it, I won’t ask about the douchebag again-“

“Why is he a douchebag-“

“Because he’s fucking you-“

“Why do you care who’s fucking me-“

“Because it should be me!” Dean’s shout echoes through the library, and he drops his brow to your stomach as he squeezes your thigh. “Shit, I- I know it’s not my right or whatever, you’re your own woman and all that, but I should be fucking you. He doesn’t love you. I love you.”

The light goes off.

And everything keeps rolling as you fall to your knees, give Dean a small smile, and pull his half-hard dick from his jeans.

You take your time, because the slower you are the longer this lasts, and the more you get to watch Dean fall apart for you. Throwing his head back as you pump his cock with one hand, groaning your name as you swirl your tongue around the head of him, hissing and grunting and fisting a hand in your hair as you take him into your mouth and suck him off like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

In a few ways, it is. 

And you can do this forever, too. Even if you get sick of the fullness of Dean in your mouth, and the salty and purely Dean taste of him on your tongue, you’ll never get sick of him watching you like you’re priceless as you pull away from him. Of his thumb swiping the cum drooling down your chin and feeding it too you with slow grin, and then leaning down with a chuckle to pull you into his lap.

The kiss is long and soft and slow. All affection. All love. 

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

This time, you just call for him before he can drop the frying pan, pulling off your shorts and spreading your legs in a silent invitation.

“Hey,” Dean calls your name from outside, and he sounds a little worried. 

You’ll make it up to him

“What’s- Son of a bitch.”

Dean looks between you and your pussy, already clenching around nothing from his attention, and swallows.

“You, uh- I’m not-“

“Dean.” You whisper, giving him your best doe-eyes. “Please.”

He swallows. “Are you-“

“Please.” You let your hand fall to your clit, rubbing slow circles until your words turn to a moan. “Dean.”

“Jesus- You’re- You’re so fucking pretty, but-“

You whine, and that seems to do it.

“You want me, sweetheart?” Dean’s voice is barely a rasp, and you nod desperately. “That bad, huh-“

“Dean-“

“Keep touching yourself, babygirl. I’m here.”

Dean moves right to the edge of the bed, and resting one hand on your knee to push your legs further apart, and starts to stroke himself to the sight of you.

You hope it’s a good one. Tangled in the sheets, your eyes glossy and not red with exhaustion, your skin flushed and all of it appealing to him.

Based on how Dean’s groaning your name and squeezing your thigh, how his pace had hit a blur of his hand as he doubles over your body and watches you with a starved expression, you think it might be.

He cums over your stomach, painting your skin hot and white, right as you hit your own peak with a breath of his name, and falls over you for a long, deep kiss that presses you into the mattress.

“I love you.” He mutters in your ear, sweeping your hair off your brow, the priceless look bright in his eyes. “Gotta clean you up, baby, I’ll be right back.”

You sigh as the light goes off, Dean pushes himself off the bed, and everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean loves movies. It’s not hard to coax him into the Dean cave and watch a million of them with your head on his shoulder, letting your original plan slide right by in the feeling of Dean, around you and warm and strong and safe.

He’s slung his arm around you at some point, his thumb tracing small, slow circles on your upper arm, and you can hear his heartbeat.

It’s always the same rhythm, every time, without fail. The same pound, and then he’ll breathe in a slow rise of his chest, and you’ll allow yourself to curl a little further into his side. Your head rolling until it’s buried in his chest, and your arms somehow finding their way around his torso, and this was supposed to be about something else, but Dean smells like whiskey and evergreen, and-

“I love you.” 

Dean’s voice is just a grunt in your ear, and you’re not sure he thought you’d hear it. His eyes even widen when you roll over to look at him, his mouth parting as you scan over his handsome, almost nervous face, and he thinks you don’t love him back. So many times you’ve never said it back, but he’s so pretty in the low light of the TV, and this might not be real, but Dean still feels more certain than anything you’ve ever known.

You don’t think there’s a world where you don’t love him.

Where this loop plays over and over, but starts much, much longer ago, and you don’t fall for Dean over and over. Where you’re trapped on that hunt where you met him, and he doesn’t walk into the house, and you’re not gone. Something in your will always body rearrange to fit Dean perfectly—just as he’s holding you so well now, as if wrapped around him is where you’re meant to be—and you’ll always love him. 

In real life, you’d tried to shoot him. He’d burst through the door and narrowly avoided a bullet to the brain, then he’d roared a curse, and you’d fallen in love.

For a brief second, as you watch in him the dark, it passes through your head that the real Dean—the one not stuck in this loop, putting on this show, tormenting you like a puppet for an unknowable reason—really might not love you at all. And if he does, did, could’ve if you’d stayed out there instead of getting lost to whatever this is, you don’t think it was the same blow of lighting up his spine.

You’re lucky that this Dean loves you. It’s going to keep making you wilt, every time he says it, and that light goes off, and you know this will be gone in the morning. 

But you still have him, now, before it all fades.

So you wrap your arm around his neck, pull him down into deep kiss, and let it carry you away. Dean twists you in his arms and pulls you onto his lap until you’re straddling his thigh, and you have this.

Pure, high pleasure as you grind onto Dean’s leg, his hands wandering over your chest and playing with your breasts—thigh squeeze, sunlight and sparks and open wound—the priceless look all over his face as you moan his name. He starts to suck and mark at your neck, and it’ll be gone by morning, but fuck, you don’t care because he’s shoved one hand down your short to rub circles around your clit, and-

You cum with a gasp, fall over Dean’s chest, and his chuckle rolls through your whole body.

“Son of a bitch, that was hot.” 


Yeah.” You nod in a tired daze, and press a kiss to his jaw. “I love you too, Dean. Just so you know.”

“That’s good.” He mutters, combing his fingers through your hair, and it’s starting to creep in.

You’d really like to stay here—warm and molded into Dean, cared for and still riding your high—but it’s not really up to you anymore. Most things aren’t.

“Do we, uh.” Dean swallows, and your hands fist in his shirt. Just to hold on a little longer. “It’s a dumb question, and you know I don’t really do this, but I like doin’ it for you, so do you wanna- Shit-“

“Are you asking me to go steady, Dean Winchester?” You smile into his shirt, and just a little longer. Whatever is doing this to you, you just want a little longer. “You got a crush on me?”

He scoffs, tugging on your hair until you meet his eyes. They’re darkened and hungry, but mostly full of love. You can really see it, now that you’re looking, and you’d like to think that the real Dean has looked at you like this before too, but you don’t really know anything anymore. 

“If you’re gonna make fun of me-“

“You like it when I make fun of you.” You whisper, letting your lips brush over his as you speak. “I’d say you love it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Say it, Dean.”

“I already have-“

“No,” you shake your head, and it’s so close but you need just a little more. “Ask me out. Say you want me-“

“You know I want you-“

“Dean,” you roll your hips down, right over his bulge, and he grunts, his hands on your hips tightening.

“You’re a piece of work, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head. “No one else I’d want to be my- Shit, it sounds so stupid-“

“I-“

"Girlfriend.” He blurts the word like it’s been caught in his throat, and you relax in his arms as the darkness starts to wash up.

You don’t get to say it back, and the anxious, tight look on Dean’s face might haunt you forever. 

Even if he’s going with this loop, you hope he knows that you would’ve said yes. You always would say yes, if it was Dean asking.

And everything fades black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean’s never been to the grocery store before. Not in the loop. So when Dean says Sammy, you goin’ out to get food later, and Sam responds I need to clean up, dude, I just ran ten miles, you cut the beast off at the head and tell Dean that he’s going shopping, with you.

You make it into the car. 

“Sam put pumpkin pie on the list,” you hum, letting yourself giggle at the frown on Dean’s face. “Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get you cherry.”

He pulls over. Suddenly, with his whole body tensed, and his eyes sharp on yours.

“I am not your buddy.” Dean’s voice is barely a growl as something seems to snap in him, and you let him haul you over his body and kiss you stupid, raking your nails over his chest and shoulders.

“Dean-“

“Tell me you want this.” He grunts, resting his fingers on the band of your jeans. “I love you, but you gotta-“

“I want this.” You gasp, pulling him back into another violent kiss. “I love you too, Dean, god, I need this-“

You cum over his fingers this time. Drenching his pants and taking ragged breaths as your brows press together, and Dean watches you come down with the priceless expression all over his face.

“Son of a bitch, that was hot.” He mutters, and you sigh. “If you really love me back-“

“I do-“

“I know baby, but-“ Dean shrugs, watching you carefully. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

You’re going to cry. It’s moving in, but it’s not fast enough to stop the first tears for falling as you shake your head, and cling to Dean like somehow, this time, you can keep him.

“I don’t know.” You whisper. “I really don’t know.”

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean makes it out of the car this time. It’s different, doing this without Cas, but you still end up in the bathroom. Sitting up on the sink as Dean fingers your cunt, gasping his name into his shoulder when he squeezes your thigh, managing to gain enough control after you finish to fall to your knees before him and take his cock in your mouth. 

“Shit- Baby- Need to know where-“

You swallow this time. And there’s the priceless look, and maybe one day you’ll die here. With Dean watching you so reverently, his hand brushing over your face like you’re delicate and worth keeping together. 

“Son of a bitch, babygirl, that’s-“

“Yeah.” You smile up at him, your voice a soft breath as Dean helps you to your feet. “I love you.”

He kisses you, long and deep, and you know he can taste himself on your tongue, and when he groans your knees almost give out.

Dean catches you.

He’d always catch you, in here or out there. And you love him always and anywhere, but you still miss the him out there-

“I love you too,” he mutters against your lips, and you smile. 

This really hurts, but you smile. For Dean.

And everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

In the bar, between Dean’s legs, his hands cupping your face as he grins drunkenly up at you.

“Shit, you’re so fuckin’ pretty-“

You smile, running your hands through his hair as you pay his tab. Touching him makes this easier. Letting his hand squeeze your thigh, letting the wound open once more, not bothering to brace yourself for what’s inevitable. “Let’s go home, Dean-“

“Already home,” he mutters. “Got you. Need you. That was- son of a bitch, is the room spinning for you too?“

“No, I’m not drunk.”

“Huh. ‘M not either, baby.”

“Sure, buddy-“

He slams you into the wall, and you’re not his buddy. He loves you.

You end up sprawled over the backseat of the impala, your legs hooked around Dean’s neck and his face buried deep between your thighs.

There’s really no better sight to have imprinted on your brain that this one.

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

You linger in bed this loop, because it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You can touch Dean and hear him say he loves you a million times, but it’s never real and never permanent and it doesn’t fucking matter.

No sheets on your bed, every morning. Stare at the ceiling like an angel might burst down from the sky to save you, but they won’t. Angels don’t even like you, and they certainly can’t be fucked to drag you from whatever odd, strange hell you’ve caught yourself in. 

It takes a second to hear it. The silence.

No clatter of Dean’s bacon and eggs on the floor. No son of a bitch echoing down the hall in a herald that you have to go make sure the amazing dumbass ices his hand.

Nothing at all.

Something is wrong.

You’re out of the bed in a second. Sprinting down the hall until the wind is whistling and everything is almost a blur, bracing yourself to slam into the doorway or counter, because you don’t care what bruises mark your body—they’ll be gone by morning anyway—you just need to make sure Dean’s okay-

You run headfirst into something thick and warm, and you recognize it as Dean before you even fully know what’s happening. 

His arms around you, holding your steady and firm to his chest, and you’re in the hallway. You shouldn’t be in the hallway. Dean never leaves the kitchen on his own, you have to run through some lines or call him out first-

He grunts your name, and when you meet his gaze, he looks… Different.

For the past hundreds of loops, his hair has been still mussed from sleep, and there’s been a slight pout to his lips from just waking up, but he’s never looked tired. Dean’s eyes have always had a slight spark to them in the morning, because he loves his kitchen, and he loves his bacon, and he loves you.

Dean—at least in here—has always lit up when you see him because he loves you.

And this Dean’s spark is different. Brighter, and longer, and made of less morning, sunshine, and more… relief.

There are bags under this Dean’s eyes, and his hair is more dirtied than messy, and he’s not wearing his hot dog pants. He’s wearing muddied jeans and flannel, his hunting flannel, the green one that he thinks is lucky, and fuck-

That’s relief in his eyes. Exhausted, punishing relief all over his face, and you could swear the priceless look was there too, but it’s buried so deep under the relief that you can’t really tell.

Dean hands have cupped your face as he seems to examine you, and you slowly pry one off. The one he’s burned, every morning, where a long, thin mark should be seared into his palm.

It’s there, but it’s white. Faded and slightly raised.

As if it’s already, mostly, healed.

“Dean,” you whisper, looking back to him with wide eyes. “What’s- What happened?”

He swallows, still not stepping back from you. “It’s- shit. I’ve never done this side of it, shoulda sent Sammy in-“

“Dean-“

“This isn’t real.” He gestures around your bodies, the weight on his face seeming to slump into his shoulders. “I mean, I don’t know why this is what you’re seeing, and I know it’s probably all your dreams or whatever, but it’s not real, sweetheart.”

You think you feel your heart turn to stone. Of course it’s not real. You’ve been so sure it wasn’t real. You’ve known, from the very start, that you might love Dean in every possible world, but he doesn’t love you. That’s just how this goes. 

It still fucking hurts.

And you think, maybe with time, your heart will thaw from only a stone weight in your chest. 

But it will be time that passes, and doesn’t loop. Time where Dean never loves you again, and you just have to keep going in a world where Dean never loved you at all.

Oh.

There it is. 

“Djinn?” You whisper, and Dean nods.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, what do you last remember?”

You let out a long breath, and drop your head to his chest. It’s been a long time since that first loop, but you know he never said it. When you went through this the first time, the first real time, Dean came home drunk, you put him to bed, and he passed out.

That was it. 

Everything else is covered in a thick veil of fog that hurts to push aside, so your just shake your head. Still against Dean’s chest.

He hasn’t pushed you away.

He probably just feels bad.

“I- You went out.” You mumble, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. “Called me drunk, and I sent Cas to get you. Then I helped you get into bed, and-“

You cut yourself with a shaking breath, and Dean squeezes his arms around you.

It’s just sympathy. 

None of this was real.

“What day is it?” Your question is barely audible against Dean’s chest, but he still manages to make it out.

“Monday.” His voice is low. Careful. Like he might scare you off. “I, uh, that all happened on Friday, sweetheart. Saturday we went out to hunt some new type of djinn Sammy had tracked down, Sunday we- I-“ He clears his throat, his grip tightening slightly. “You got lost. Sunday night. Sons of bitches took you, and I wasn’t fast enough to stop them, and you’ve been in here since. ’S Monday afternoon. Or morning. Brunch time.”

It’s Monday.

You got taken Sunday night, and it’s only Monday. It feels like you’ve been here a million years, but really it’s barely been twelve hours, maybe a little more.

And you did live this once, but time kept moving, and Dean didn’t love you.

You push off Dean’s chest with a shaking breath, and his hands stay on your shoulders. Keeping you steady as you stare at the floor.

“I- uh-“ You shake your head, taking a long, slow breath. “My gun is in my room-“

“No!” Dean grabs your wrist, his words echoing down the bunker halls, and you stare at each other for a long second before he coughs, and his voice drops back down. “I mean, uh, that’s not gonna work. Whole new Djinn thing, right? You don’t kill you, you gotta kill some poor sucker in the dream.”

You swallow, your voice growing small. “What?”

“Sam says that this douchebag’s evolved. I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve been calling them groundhogs, cause they set you in a loop. And, uh,” he glances back around the hallway, a slight frown on his face. “You have to kill the reset point in the loop. It’ll be a person, but not you, cause apparently people try to kill themselves in these loops all the time, and the Djinn needs to keep you down until he’s done feeding.”

All of a sudden, you’re really fucking sick of finding out the truth. The truth isn’t freeing, it’s just turning your already stone heart to fucking lead, because it’s really that simple. That torturously, horribly fucking simple.

You have to kill your reset point. Dean loves you in here, and you hate this, but you’ve never even thought to hurt him, because you love him. All the time.

The Djinn could see that, no matter how deep you’d buried it.

And this is going to fucking suck.

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hands, and you’re not sure this will work, but you can’t kill the real Dean. You don’t think it will kill him in real life, but now that you’re really looking at it, this Dean is a little sharper around the edges, and this Dean will remember. He’ll feel it. You’ve felt the Djinn Dean’s hands on your skin, and slam of your body into the wall, and the cold of the ice when you’ve pressed it to his palm.

This is already complicated.

You can’t make it worse.

“I need you to say you love me.”

Dean blinks at you, his whole face going red. “I- uh- I don’t-“

“I know you don’t.” You cut him off quick—you really don’t want to hear that right now—and your voice grows desperate. “But I-“

“No, I don’t- That’s not what I-“

“Dean. Please just say it, say you love me-“

“I can’t-“

“Please- I know you don’t love me, I promise, but-“

“I love you!” Dean grabs your face between his hands, his voice rough and moving through your whole body as the light goes off. “I love you, but you need to calm the hell down and listen, alright?”

You let out a long breath, and nod. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

“Thank you,” you whisper, Dean’s eyes widen as it starts to sweep in, and everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

One last time, something clatters down the hall, and you stare at the ceiling as you pull yourself together. 

It’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay.

“Son of a bitch!”

You have to make it fast. This won’t work if you look at him, or draw it out, or think about it too hard. Your gun is on your bedside table. Dean’s down the hall. 

You need to be free. 

You can do this.

When you make it to the kitchen, Dean’s kneeling on the floor.

He grins when he sees you.

Your heart isn’t stone. It’s a million, tiny, fractured pieces.

“Hey,” Dean says your name with a bright, wide smile, and you have to do this. “I’ve been, uh, can we talk? I gotta tell you something.”

He’s going to say it now. The Djinn must know what you’re about to do, and it’s trying to stop you, but you can’t move because Dean looks so happy, and he loves you in here, and he-

“I, uh, I know it’s kinda out of nowhere, but I-“

The shot echoes through the bunker, and you keep your eyes closed and cover your ears as you wait. You can’t look, can’t breathe, can’t hear Dean slowly die from the bullet wound you put in his body, and fuck, there’s no light turning off so what if this didn’t work, what if you just killed the love of your life and now you’re trapped in here forever, because nothing’s fading to black and you can feel him grabbing at your ankles, and fuck-

——————

Dean’s shouting your name. His voice is rough with strain and not sleep, and you’ve never been here before.

Blinking your eyes open to a gray, concrete basement or warehouse or somewhere new, Dean hold you around your stomach as you slump down over him, and you’re free.

Dean doesn’t love you anymore—in a lot of ways, he never did—but you’re free.

“Son of bitch, sweetheart, I’ve got you, you’re okay, just hold on for me- Sam!” Dean shouts over his shoulder as you wrap your arms around his neck, and you’re so tired. Your limbs feel like putty, and your head is fogged, and you remember everything, so your heart is still stone. 

Sleep sounds nice.

Sleep sounds really fucking nice, because if you think about it, you haven’t actually slept since you entered the loop.

Yeah. 

Sleep.

Your eyes have barely started to droop when Dean grabs your face, shaking your body carefully against his.

“No, fucking- Shit, you gotta stay awake-“ He snaps your name, and it sounds like an order, but you can’t even really move. “Need you to keep your eyes open, just- Sam! Get in here, I’ve got her-“

“I’m fighting the Djinn, Dean!” You can hear Sam’s voice somewhere in the distance, but it’s fuzzy. Everything is fuzzy. “Just get her to the car-“

Dean nods to himself, hooking your knees under his arm and hauling you up with a grunt. 

The sound you make is almost a whine, but you’re so tired. “Dean-“

“I know,” he mutters your name, and you might be getting delirious, because you could swear he’s pressing a kiss to your brow. “Hold on, baby, I’ve got you. Just, stay awake for me, please-“

He sounds like he’s begging, and it’s stinging around your whole body. The stone around your heart is dissolving too fast, but it’s leaving you raw and painful, and you’d really like to make this easier for Dean, to stay awake because he asked you to, but you’re so tired.

He called you baby. Outside of the loop, Dean called your baby. 

That feels like a good way to go.

And this time, when everything drifts away, it’s not because a light went off. 

It’s just flickering. Waning and holding on, letting you rest but clinging to Dean’s voice, saying words you don’t recognize, but still understand. 

You’ll be alright. 

Everything fades to black, and you’re free.

——————

“Is she gonna be alright?”

Something leaves your brow. “Physically, she will be fine.”

“Physically?” That’s a third voice. The first was Dean—you’d know his voice anywhere, including half-conscious—the second voice was deep and careful, and this one is wired and nervous. “What’d you mean physically, Cas?”

The second voice—Cas, which feels obvious now—sighs. “Djinn can be, as I’m sure you are aware, quite mentally draining. She made need space or support from us, depending on what she endured. Dean, I do not know what you saw of her dream-”

“She was in the bunker.” Dean grunts, and you can picture him glowering at the road. “She’ll be okay.”

“I would not make assumptions. If the groundhog put her through more than, say, ten loops-“

“She’d probably lose her mind.” Sam finishes, letting out a slow breath. “Dean, she might need us, and you can’t have just seen the bunker-“

“Sam. Drop it.”

“I’m just saying, I’ve done the time loop thing and it’s hard-“

“And I’m saying fuckin’ drop it. She’ll be okay. She- Shit, Sam, she has to be okay, so just goddamn drop it.”

There’s a long silence, the only sound the rumble of the engine, and Sam clears his throat.

“You never had that talk with her, did you.”

“Sam-“

“I’m not saying you should do it, I’m just saying if she needs us-“

“She will.” Cas jumps in, still somewhere near you in what can only be the back of the Impala. “And if this talk contains what I am guessing, I think there can only be benefit to it-“

“Really, Cas? You’re getting in on Sam’s feeling bullshit too-“

“It is not bullshit. And I- She will be receptive-“

“I don’t care.” Dean snaps, and you think you can hear the thud of his fist on the wheel. “And I swear to fucking Christ, if you two don’t drop it now, I’m pulling over and leaving you on the side of the goddamn road. Got it?”

There are mumbled agreements, the hand—Cas’ hand—presses to your brow as he lets out a long sigh, and sleep overtakes you once more.

——————

You’ve been-

 No.

This is your mattress, and there are no sheets on your bed, and no-

You shoot up with open, frantic eyes and a strangled gasp, and someone shouts your name.

Dean. 

Dean shouts your name.

“Shit, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re home-“

You shake your head, even as you see him at the foot of your bed. You don’t trust it. You don’t trust that it’s real.

“No- Dean, I- My sheets, where are my sheets-“

“In the wash.” He answers in half a second, his voice firm and low, and his hand moves to your thigh.

The other thigh. His touch is carving over a new wound for the sunlight to pour into, but you’ve been here before-

“I told you on Saturday,” he mutters your name, holding your gaze. “You got drunk on Cas’ absinthe, Thursday night. Threw up on Sammy, and I put you to bed. Got you changed, too, but I didn’t look at, uh- The goods. At all. Swear.“ 

His eyes dart down to your breasts, and you realize that you’ve been changed out of your hunting clothes, and into one of Dean’s shirts. 

“Dean-“

“Had Cas change you this time.” He adds, his voice quick. “He thought you should go in my room, but I- That woulda been a weird place to do this, and I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything-“

“Dean-“

“Just, shit- Please just let me talk, sweetheart, I gotta-“ He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Look, you know I’m not good at this, but I’m tryin’, and Sam’s been on my ass about it for months, and seeing you with that fucking douchebag while he fed off you, I’ve never been more scared in my damn life-“

“Dean, please-“

“And I, fuck, I just need to say it now, before I lose the nerve-“

“Don’t!” You almost scream the words, and Dean blinks at you. “I know what you’re going to say, Dean. Please don’t.”

“But, uh-“ He frowns. “You made me say it, in there-“

You sigh, your eyes dropping to your hands. “I know. I still- Just don’t say it. Please.”

There’s a second of heavy silence, and when Dean clears his throat, his voice is low. “What, uh- What was your reset point? When the groundhog had you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You mumble, and Dean’s hands cover yours. Holding them firm, as if he’s afraid you’ll drift away. 

“Is it-“ He swallows, squeezing your hands softly. “You know. What I’m thinkin’?”

You nod, the motion weak. “Probably.”

“Oh.” Another pause. You can hear your heart in your ears. “You had to uh- Kill me, then. Right.”

This time you don’t even bother to speak. You don’t think your voice would work anyway.

“And Cas said you were in there a while- Shit.” You can hear the moment he gets it. His voice drops, and he lets out a long, slow breath. “Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?”

You force your eyes to drag up, back to his, and there’s the fucking priceless look. 

It’s heavier, but it’s there.

And this has to just be another trick. Another way for the Djinn to keep you in its hold, because the first way failed. Dean doesn’t love you, in reality. He doesn’t think you’re priceless, so this is a trick-

“I’m gonna say it.” He grunts, and your gaze is almost trapped on him. 

The priceless look—now, when you really examine it—looks heavier. More gray, like you’re priceless, but Dean’s worried he’s going to shatter you. It’s lined with rust and fear and desperation, but it’s still there. And it’s still Dean.

“I’ve gotta say it, baby.” He leans forward, and he still smells like evergreen, but now it’s also gunpowder and something earthier. Something really, purely Dean. “And I’m gonna stay here, with you, ‘till you believe it, alright?”

You shake your head, and he sighs.

“I- I need you believe it. You don’t have to say it back, but I need to say it now, before I pussy out, and you gotta know I mean it-“

“Dean-“

“I love you.” He murmurs your name, tracing a hand over your cheekbone, and you can feel all of it. Lightning and sunshine and fireworks over your skin, and no light is going off.

The cameras aren’t still rolling, but that’s because there are none. No script. No darkness. Nothing fading away.

And Dean’s not moving for more. It’s all still light, and nothings fading away.

“I mean it.” He mutters. “I love you. Have for a damn long time, but it’s never, I dunno, never known how to say it, but I love you. I really fucking love you.”

He’s never said it this much.

And it’s all still going.

“I love you too.” You whisper, the words alone a careful, desperate gamble. “So much, Dean.”

Something in his eyes sparks, and his voice becomes hoarse. “Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” There’s a pause, then his face splits into a wide, happy, boyish grin. “That’s awesome.”

And you don’t have an idea of what to do. You’ve never been here, not really, and it could go wrong in a million ways with no do-overs. But Dean’s alive, and he says he loves you, and you really fucking believe him. He’s touching you in new ways, and looking at you like he’s as uncertain as you are, but wherever this goes, he’ll follow it. With you.

There’s no way to know where it will go. 

You’d really like to find out. What it’s like loving Dean and saying aloud, without fear that anything will go away.

And it won’t.

Because could be permanent, as long as you make it so. 

Dean loves you. 

“Yeah.” You grin at him, and you hope he sees it on your face. That, at the end of it, Dean is more priceless than anything else in the world. “It is.”

End Note: It doesn't happen on the screen, but Cas did get more Oreos. Just so y'all know.

Thank you so much for reading!! I hoped you enjoyed the miniseries, and if you want more Dean/reader stuff I do have another, bigger series called Babylon the Great that's currently in progress, and updates every Thursday! Big thanks to the anon who requested this, I had a lot of fun with it!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[noorpersona]

Confessions: Kuroo

You knew the day was going to be shit when your coffee spilled on your white blouse before 9 a.m.

The rest unfolded like a cruel joke—back-to-back meetings that ran long, a snippy email from your supervisor that didn’t even pretend to be polite, and a presentation you’d poured hours into that got brushed aside for a 'more time-sensitive matter.' By 5 p.m., your jaw ached from how tightly you’d been clenching it all day.

So when your phone buzzed, and you saw Kuroo’s name flash across the screen, your thumb hovered over the green icon. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to pretend you were fine. But you answered anyway.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar. There was a pause, like he was listening for something in the silence between you. "You sound like you had a day."

You scoffed. “That obvious?”

“You get all quiet when you’re brooding.”

You didn’t reply. The lump in your throat had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the way he could read you like this—without even seeing your face.

He waited a beat, then said, “Come out. First round’s on me.”

You started to decline—already in your sweats, already half curled on the couch—but his voice came again, coaxing.

“C’mon, I’ll even let you rant about corporate dysfunction without rolling my eyes this time.”

That got the faintest laugh out of you. And somehow, twenty minutes later, you were walking into the bar you both loved, the one tucked between a bookstore and a stationery shop, dim and warm and a little too familiar.

He was already at your usual table—second from the back, under the shelf with the crooked leg that made drinks tilt if you weren’t careful. Two pints sat on the table, and Kuroo raised one as you approached.

“Still drinkin’ like a college student?” you teased, sliding into the booth across from him.

He grinned. “Nostalgia’s a powerful thing.”

You took the glass, took a long sip, and finally sighed. It hit your system like a balm.

For the next half hour, you vented. About your boss. About the way the office printer hated you. About how you were so close to throwing your laptop out the window, and how nobody respected boundaries anymore.

Kuroo listened, as always. Interjected only when you needed him to. Smiled over the rim of his beer like he could do this for hours.

Eventually, when the flush of alcohol had softened the edges of your irritation, he leaned forward on his elbows.

“You ever think you’re just lonely?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t flinch. “I mean—you work hard, you don’t really date, you haven’t mentioned anyone in a while. Maybe it’s not just the job. Maybe it’s... everything else, too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I'm a spinster?”

He laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “Nah. Just saying, you deserve someone good. Thought about setting you up with a friend.”

You shrugged, looked down into your drink. “I’m not interested in someone else.”

And that was the truth. You hadn’t been, not for a long time. Not since your second year of college, when Kuroo Tetsurou sauntered into your world like he owned the place—with messy hair, too much sarcasm, and the kind of quiet loyalty that wrecked you. He was all sharp teeth and soft heart, and you’d fallen harder than you wanted to admit. But you’d also accepted, long ago, that he probably didn’t see you that way. So you tucked it down. Smiled when he dated other people. Never said a word.

Until tonight.

You hadn’t meant to get drunk. Not really. You’d planned to drink just enough to take the edge off, to let the tension bleed from your muscles after a long, miserable day. But when the bartender mentioned it was two-for-one night, and Kuroo had raised an eyebrow with that stupid, charming grin, it was all too easy to shrug and say yes.

The drinks hit harder than you expected—smoother, easier, and paired with Kuroo’s low voice and quiet laughter, it was easy to lose track. What was supposed to be one drink became two, then three, and suddenly you were warm in all the soft ways that made the world a little blurrier around the edges.

Your limbs felt too light, your thoughts too soft, and every time he said your name, it rang a little louder in your chest. At some point, you’d slumped further into the booth, propping your chin in your hand and blinking slower with each refill.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice still light but laced with concern as he reached for your nearly empty glass. “You’re cut off.”

You pouted, dragging your eyes up to meet his, but your grin stayed lazy. "Tetsu," you said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re so bossy.”

“Someone’s gotta keep your chaotic ass alive,” he muttered, even as he flagged down the bartender and handed over his card. He didn’t even look at the receipt when it came.

You watched the way his brows knit together slightly, the way he pressed his tongue against his cheek, like he was both irritated and fond at the same time. Familiar. Comforting.

He slid out of the booth and looped your bag over one shoulder, then turned to offer you his hand.

“Let’s go, before you start snoring in public.”

The air outside was crisp. Night had fallen while you were inside, and the chill that hit your cheeks brought a bit of clarity—but not much. You shivered, and Kuroo automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

You didn’t argue. You leaned into his side, let his arm steady you as you walked together down the quiet street. His touch was careful, guiding. You kept catching faint traces of his cologne—clean and woodsy, something subtle but undeniably him.

“You smell good,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

He let out a soft snort. “Thanks.”

The cab ride was even quieter. Your head lolled gently onto his shoulder. You felt warm, and his shirt was soft, and you couldn’t stop your lips from parting with sleepy little compliments.

“I like your voice,” you whispered.

He glanced down at you, mouth twitching. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

“Am not,” you slurred. “You're very kissable. Did you know that?”

Kuroo closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through his nose like he was trying very hard not to react. Under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the city outside the cab, he whispered, "God, it's me again. Let her remember this so I can see the look on her face tomorrow."

When you arrived at his apartment, he paid the driver with one hand and guided you out with the other, keeping his hold steady on your waist. You stumbled once on the sidewalk and clutched at his hoodie.

“Easy,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just a little.

His apartment was dark and quiet when you entered. He didn’t bother with the lights—just led you toward the couch by memory, his hand never leaving yours. You swayed a little as you collapsed onto the cushions, blinking up at him.

“Always takin’ care of me,” you said, voice soft and blurred at the edges. “You’re good at that.”

Kuroo crouched to untie your shoes, brows drawn. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you upright.”

You leaned forward, still gripping the front of his hoodie, and he didn’t pull away. Your eyes met his, blurry but intent, and your lips quirked upward.

“I love you, you know.”

Kuroo froze.

The words were slurred but clear enough to punch the breath out of him.

Your voice dropped lower, more sincere. “I love you. Since the moment I saw you.”

He stopped breathing.

His hands hovered mid-motion over your shoes, his fingers curled like they forgot what they were doing. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head to look at you.

“What?”

But your head tipped back onto the couch, your eyes fluttering shut.

“I love you,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ve always loved you.”

“Wait—” he tried again, voice sharper now, a tremor hidden underneath.

But your breathing was already evening out, lips slightly parted, lashes resting against your cheeks. You were out cold.

Kuroo knelt there for a long moment, just staring. The words still rang in his ears, ricocheting through his ribs like they didn’t quite belong to reality.

He sat back slowly, knees folding underneath him, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Then he dragged his fingers through his hair and stood up, walking into the kitchen without really seeing.

The quiet of the apartment wrapped around him like a weight.

“…Whoa.”

--

The morning comes slowly, dragging a dull headache and a dry mouth with it.

You blink against the sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains, your body heavy, brain sluggish. There’s the faint hum of a coffee machine somewhere nearby. The smell is strong and bitter and achingly welcome.

It takes you a minute to remember where you are. The couch. Kuroo’s apartment. The drinks. Your stomach twists as snippets of the night flicker back—his arm around your waist, the way he guided you up the stairs, the sound of his laugh.

You sit up with a groan, head pounding as the room spins for a second. Your clothes are wrinkled, your mouth tastes awful, and your memories are slippery at best. But when you swing your legs off the couch and catch sight of him—Kuroo, in the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie sleeves shoved up as he stirs something in a mug—you feel it.

That deep, crawling dread.

He looks over as you shuffle in, blinking groggily. “Morning, sunshine.”

You grunt, dragging yourself to the counter as he slides a mug across to you without a word. You catch it with both hands, the warmth seeping into your skin. It’s blessedly hot. And quiet.

You sip slowly, staring into the cup, your head still throbbing. The silence stretches. He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter and sips from his own mug like this is normal. Like you didn’t say something earth-shattering last night.

Eventually, he breaks it. “You remember anything from last night?”

You blink, then close your eyes for a second, willing your sluggish brain to scroll back through the hazy reel of the evening. “We went to the bar,” you murmur slowly. “You were already there when I came in. There was a drink waiting. A pint—of course. I think I complained about work for forty-five minutes straight.”

You pause to take a sip of coffee, your eyes still narrowed in concentration.

“I had the first two drinks faster than I should have. You were teasing me about my tolerance—"

You stop.

The cab. His jacket. His arm around your waist. The stairs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, a spike of panic hitting your chest. “And you helped me back to your pla—OH MY GOD.”

Kuroo raises a brow, trying—failing—to hide the smirk that curls onto his face.

You set the mug down a little too hard. "I didn't mean it," you blurt, voice too high. "I mean—I was drunk. Very drunk. You know how I get, right? I say stupid things, I—"

You wave a hand vaguely in the air, flushing deeper. "It didn’t mean anything. I mean, obviously I care about you, we’ve always been really good friends, and I didn’t—"

Your words trip over themselves like dominoes, spiraling into panic as you try to claw your way out of whatever you admitted the night before. Your face is on fire, your fingers drumming anxiously against the side of your mug.

And Kuroo just watches you, quietly amused. Something fond in his eyes. Like he’s letting you run your mouth on purpose.

Then he sets down his cup, crosses the space between you, and gently cups your face in his hands.

You freeze.

“And here I was thinking I’d break first,” he says, voice low and warm.

You stare at him, mouth parted, utterly lost.

“…But you wanted to set me up…?” you whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence.

He huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, screw that. You’re mine now.”

You blink up at him, blinking hard like your brain is trying to keep up. “Wait, you mean that?”

He nods slowly, his hands still cradling your face. “I do. I meant it last night, too. You passed out before I could say anything, but I meant to.”

There’s a pause, the kind that’s too soft to be awkward—just full of all the things that didn’t have time to be said. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he adds quietly, voice going a little rough at the edges. “Guess I just needed you to drunkenly beat me to it.”

The laugh that slips out of you is half a breath and half a sob, surprised and stunned and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”

He grins, leaning his forehead against yours for a second, and the two of you just stand there, smiling quietly into each other like the world finally makes sense.

Then you squeeze his hands once, step back with a wince, and say, “I’m going to go throw up.”

He lets go of you immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “From excitement?”

You’re already wobbling toward the bathroom, one hand raised in defeat. “Alcohol poisoning.”

He leans against the counter, grinning to himself. “Yeah, that too.”

[slavhew]

i reread this scene and i could just. picture it. so vividly.

[kawareo]

I have drawn these gross old men so much in the last year oh god

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

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divider credit here

[lnfours]

bestfriend!reader craving physical touch but her family never liked physical touch so she doesnt know how to ask for it. lando and her are watching a movie at his place in bed. and she keep glancing over at his lap because she wants nothing more than just to curl up between his legs and have his arms wrap around her, but she cant bring herself to ask!! and eventually lando realizes and nudges her. and he pats his leg and hes like "come here" in the softest voice imaginable - 🍒anon

ANON!!!!!!!!!! screaming into my pillow. also… i kinda did something different towards the end, you’ll see. i hope you like it! 🫶🏻

lando brainrot? lando brainrot.

the movie was like background noise for you. your eyes somewhere else as the light of the tv lit up the dark room.

lando was locked in, his focus on the movie in front of him. which gave you the perfect opportunity to let your eyes rake down his body. your eyes landing on his lap, your mind wandering to think about what it would be like to sit on his lap. his arms wrapped around you, his face nuzzled into your neck. it sounded so heavenly-

“you okay?

his voice pulls you out of your daydream. you meet his eyes, a soft smile on his face as he looks over at you.

“yeah, sorry,” you said, “just zoned out for a second.”

he nodded before he stuck his hand out to you, his voice soft as he spoke, “c’mere,”

you gave him a questioning look, but did as he asked you to. you put your hand in his as he pulled you closer to where he was sitting. he put his hand on your waist, helping you as your legs moved to straddle his, his hands putting your arms on his shoulder.

he smiled at you, eyes bright, “hey,”

you chuckled softly, “hey.”

“is this what you wanted?” he asked softly. you nodded, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the tiny curls on the nape of his neck. he was pretty up close, the little moles you have always wanted to place kisses on now sitting directly in front of your face. taunting you.

his eyes were taking in your face too, how your eyes sparkled down at him. you were stunning, the definition of an angel in his eyes. it was no lie that he had always thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world, but you had been oblivious to his bluntness.

“lan,” you breathed out softly, his hands rubbing small shapes into your hips. he hummed at you, not shying away from the fact that his eyes keep traveling to your lips.

“kiss me,” he said, his eyes finally finding yours, “please.”

you didn’t waste a second longer, your lips pressing against his. he was quick to kiss you back, your lips moving together as he pulled you closer. there was no space between your bodies as he placed a hand on your cheek, deepening the kiss. the line you both had been afraid to cross now left in the dust as you both dove in head first into the uncharted territory.

he moved the two of you, not daring the break the kiss as he placed a hand on your back, guiding you to lay back onto the couch. you did, pulling him with you as he smiled against your lips, him pulling away for a second to breathe. his fingers traced circles onto the outer part of your thigh, a comforting touch that only he could give you.

“i’ve been waiting forever to do that.”

you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close again. he smiled against your lips as you spoke, “no sense in wasting anymore time now.”