Okay not the Ghost x Reader headcanons, but like setup for future stuff. I woke up and had this idea for reader. Below is more like 141 Bravo Team x reader
This isn’t like a written story, more like a verbal vomit rant thing cause I have ideas but can’t word. Also don’t expect any kind of realism, it’s just fun ideas, idk.
You’re a tech hire who deals with team device security and logistics. Like someone has to manage that shit and you are a personal recommendation from Laswell. Price isn’t sure you’ll work out because it sounds like you don’t deal with people very well at times. Your file reads like you don’t like confrontation or do well with it. You have the nickname ‘Buttercup’. Laswell tells him to give you a chance.
So that’s how you come into contact with Task Force 141.
You do not look like you should be working with anything or anyone in the military. Price doesn’t want to doubt Laswell’s faith in you, but he can see you’re shaking a bit when you first meet. Its your quiet “I won’t disappoint you.” that impresses him. Its a statement, it’s not “I don’t want to disappoint you.” its an absolute you will not.
People get glimpses of you on the base as you take tech to work on before scurrying away back into whatever corner of the base you’ve holed up in. Price is the one who checks up on you the most and by extension, the inner circle end up keeping an eye on you too. Somehow the one you’re most intimidated by is Soap because he’s just so loud and unapologetic about trying to be friendly (he absolutely yelled ‘What’s up Buttercup’ and scared you at one point). You speak with Ghost the least verbally, but he is the one who understands your silent looks the most. Gaz is probably the easiest to hang out with mostly because he caught on quick to your favourite snacks and plys you with them; he shows up when you’re working with some snacks and he sticks around while you work.
Some members of the 141, for some reason, take the Bravo Team knowing you as a personal attack of some kind. Or maybe they just needed someone to bully. It’s only a troublesome few who make it their mission to try and make your stay at the base hell. Try. Its frustrating and upsetting. You just want to do your work, finish your contract and move onto your next job, but the bullies sandbag you.
You wonder if there were others who went through something similar, like a hazing ritual. You stared at yourself in the mirror of the bathroom as dark coffee dripped from your hair and over your face and down into your clothes. Tears welled up in your eyes and you thought of how close you were to the end of your contract. You were nearly done with all of it. It would be fine.
When you left the bathroom, you didn’t expect someone to be waiting for you on the other side. Ghost stared at you and you stared back. “Price asked us to step in.” There was something in the way he said it that upset you. You weren’t upset at at him or at Price for the thought, but it felt like a stab at you. Like you were defenseless. Like you were a fragile flower. Like they didn’t come to you for help with something they couldn’t do.
“Don’t.” Your response is in the same quiet determination as your ‘I won’t disappoint you’.
When Price voiced his reservations about you in his meeting with Laswell, all she did was laugh. “You know buttercups are poisonous? They’re tenacious as shit too they’ll take root anywhere - they’re difficult to get rid of if they don’t want to go.” There’s a look in her eye. “Give them a chance.”
Its what they do, after Ghost reports back to Price about your ‘don’t’, but god when they see you almost shyly walk up to you main detractor in the full cafeteria one day they wonder if they’ve made the wrong decision.
“Please don’t bother me anymore.” You don’t ask, but you’re still quiet.
“What? I can’t hear you, speak up.” The soldier sneers back at you and somehow their voice travels and the noise dies down. Or maybe you’re just so focussed you just tune everything else out.
“I said, please don’t bother me anymore.” You state again, unwavering. “Please don’t.”
“Or what? What are you going to do, Buttercup?”
You take in their words. Their confidence. You’re a weed, feeding on it, taking root. Blooming. They start to laugh at your silence, but then you start to name names. Family. You state addresses, where they all live. You know exactly how much is in their bank account. Their debts. You know how many of them there are. You describe intimate pictures they’ve sent, and not to their spouse. Its clear you know everything. There isn’t anything that is out of reach for you. Your bully is seeing red, but with all eyes on the two of you they can’t really do anything. “I will ruin you if you don’t stop. I will destroy everything that makes you, you. If you want to continue existing, please don’t bother me anymore and let me work in peace.”
You stare at each other for awhile before they simply say “Fuck you, cunt.”
And you know you’ve won. You give them a sweet smile while you still have your nerve and calmly walk out.
Except what you really do once you’re out of sight is retreat to your office and start crying because it was all very stressful. It’s not long after you enter your office that you hear footsteps chasing after you. You don’t have to turn around to know its Soap lifting you up in his arms in a bear hug before setting you down.
You’re still crying when Ghost gently pats you on the shoulder. “Good job, Buttercup.” He’s already making mental notes to make sure you aren’t aware of any backlash because technically you’ve admitted to some serious crimes in your threats. For now, you would definitely be able to work in peace.
Price mentions that he has to tell Laswell about this, but you have a feeling she’d get a kick out of it. She does every single time it happens. She was the one who gave you the name ‘Buttercup’ and the one who had recruited you for your talents.
The end of your contract comes swiftly and you’ve done all you can to their tech to keep it updated and secure. Bravo Team are all present while you and Price have a final debrief as you prepare to leave the 141.
“I suppose you should probably read this before you go, Buttercup.” Price hands you a plain folder. “Your next job.”
You’re puzzled, thinking Laswell probably didn’t have time and would make Price send you to your next destination, but when you open the folder, there is a tag with your photo, your name and a ‘Task Force 141’ label. You just gave your temp ID badge back, but then it dawns on you. This wasn’t the temp ID. The team waits patiently as you scan the briefing pages.
Assigned to Task Force 141 until further notice, reporting to Price with external guidance from Laswell.
You peer over the folder to meet Price’s eyes and smile. “I won’t disappoint you.”
You absolutely would not.
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Do not tempt me with your tags...
"Looking for Atlantis" (Shinji Moon) and OPLA Sanji? 'intense eyebrow wiggling*
looking for atlantis
opla!sanji; 1,542 words; fluff, aimless fluff, whipped!sanji, no 'y/n', teeth-rotting fluff, plotless fluff
summary: sanji dreamt of the all blue and wakes up to tell you about it
a/n: there's so very little plot in this, just a bunch of simp!sanji. ur welcome.
Sanji has always been a hopeless romantic. He knows it, Luffy knows it, hell, even the stupid swordsman knows it. But he’s never thought of his propensity for love as a weakness, and he’d always know that he’d find the one for him. And then — he’d met you.
And he thinks he’ll never get tired of this, of the feeling of waking up next to you, of opening his eyes to find you still there, curled up next to him, the splay of your hair across his pillows like spilled ink — something gorgeous and poetic. And like this, he thinks he just might be invincible — trailing soft fingers along the dip of your waist, just to trace your outlines, to memorize the shape and size and weight of you in his bed.
“Morning…” you turn with a sleepy grin, and Sanji thinks himself a gone, gone man.
“Morning, my love,” he whispers, leaning in to ghost his lips against your shoulder. How he wishes he could sink into the butter and milk of your skin, to bask in the warmth of your steady, cadenced breaths, to drown himself in the low, lulling waves of your voice when you laugh, rubbing at your eyes and sighing as you bury your face in his chest.
“Aren’t you gonna go make breakfast?”
Sanji hums as he drops another affectionate kiss into your hair.
“No. Not today.”
“Hm? Why not?”
“They’ve got leftovers.”
You peer up at him over the crumpled covers.
“Lazy,” you accuse, though there’s nothing hard or harsh about the tenor of your voice. He rolls his eyes, nodding as he slumps back down and pulls you into him.
“Sure, whatever you wanna call it.”
The silence stretches gossamer thin, glistening in the early morning light.
“Did you have nice dreams?” you ask.
Sanji grins, nosing into your cheek, ghosting his lips along the soft bend of your cheek till he finds your mouth. He contents himself with kissing you, with swallowing passed your tiny little sigh of contentment, with licking into the warm heat of the roof of your mouth, with pulling back to find you flushed and breathless beneath him.
“The best,” he says, laughing as he lays down beside you again.
“What about?”
“I dreamt… that I found the All Blue.”
“Oh, you did? What was it like?”
Sanji takes a breath, grinning as he pillows his head on an arm, the other wrapped around your shoulders as you shift to lay your cheek on his chest.
“It was… everything that I’ve ever dreamed of — all those fish, all those rare, unknown seagrasses and seaweeds…” Sanji lets out a long, indulgent sigh, tracing abstract symbols into your skin.
“So, what did you make?”
“Make?”
“Yeah — like… food.”
Sanji chuckles, glancing down towards you.
��I… can’t really remember… I think in the dream, I was so excited about showing you… that I didn’t really get to make anything before I woke up.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
“Okay, so tell me now.”
“What… about what I’d make with all the stuff I found in the All Blue of my dreams?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking up at him.
And when he glances down to meet your eyes, Sanji feels strange tugging just behind his navel, like a fish caught on an unsuspecting hook, or perhaps his body pulling him towards where he was always meant to go.
“Alright then…” he grins, sinking deeper into the welcoming warmth of the bedsheets, basking in the soft hsk-hsk of linen on linen. There’s a thick strip of lemon-meringue sunlight creeping into the room from the far window and the world tastes like candy floss on his tongue —
“I’d make all your favorites, except better — that miso cod you like so much? I’d make it with the All Blue Island Cod and miso made of soybeans fermented in blue seasalt.”
“Mm…” you hum, leaning in to trail your lips along the line of his jaw, making his mind go fuzzy, “that sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” Sanji asks, groaning, letting his head tip back. And for a while, you lose yourselves in the silk and shiver of each other, of half-taken breaths and half-drowned kisses. Of half-formed thoughts and half-tasted forevers. Because this is as much a drought as it is a drowning — and Sanji’s never been so parched or so bloated all at once. He is overflowing and yet, he’s never been so, so thirsty.
Sanji finds himself pinned beneath you, your thighs on either side of his hips, your hair tickling the bare skin of his shoulders, and he thinks to himself that he’s always known heaven was a place on earth. That he’d always been so in love with the thought of chasing the impossible, of chasing the shadow of a dream that the first time you kissed him, he almost didn’t believe it.
But then, you’d pulled back, and he remembers tasting the ocean in the dip of your cupid’s bow.
And he knew then, like he knows now, that there are no such thing as impossible places. No such thing as unachievable dreams.
“What else?” you ask, your palms pressing flat to his chest as he grins and slumps back, his head digging into the pillows.
“I — I dunno… hard to think when you’re being so distracting,” he admits.
Outside, a tangerine sun rises high above the horizon line and the sounds of the rest of the crew getting up thunk and echo around the ship. You look up, away from him, and Sanji feels the loss so intimately, he fears he might shatter.
“Hey…” he reaches up to tug your chin back down towards him, to catch your lips in his, to sink his teeth into the plush of your bottom lip just to swallow around the shape of your sigh, the texture of your gasp.
“Meanie,” you murmur, pulling away, though he’s still close enough to taste the grin on your lips.
“Oh… c’mon sweetheart… you know you like it, hm?”
You stare down at him with the entire sky dawning behind your eyes, and Sanji knows himself a lost man. You groan and let your face fall into the crook between his neck and his shoulders, burrowing in.
“Stay in bed with me… just a little bit longer.”
Sanji sighs, curling around you, like a cupped palm of shore around a glittering sea.
“I can never say no to you, can I?”
You laugh, shaking your head, “You’d better not.”
Sanji hums, wrapping you in his arms and placing another sweet kiss into your hairline.
“You never told me what you dreamt of last night,” he says.
And there’s a moment of quiet, a lacuna of silence that pools around you both. Then, you look up, your lashes fluttering, tugging the strings of his heart into something like a symphony.
“I dreamt about a sunrise over the All Blue… and about breakfast, and lunch, and dinner and dessert — I dreamt about all the things you might make once we find it. But mostly… I dreamt about you. That… you were smiling, and happy and so, so excited.”
Sanji feels his throat catch, his lungs seize.
There’s a moth-wing flutter of something in his chest that he’d once upon a time thought was his heart but now… he wonders if it isn’t the flicker of fish-tails or the flash of moonbeam scales.
“I love you,” Sanji hears himself say — and it’s not the first time he’s said it but it is the first time he’s said it like this — like he can’t help but to say it, like it’s the only thing left to say in the world.
You giggle, leaning up to kiss him.
“I love you too,” you say.
Sanji shakes his head, leans down to take both your cheeks in his palms, pressing your foreheads together.
“No, I don’t think you understand — I am so in love with you… I think it might actually drive me mad.”
Your smile never fades, never even falters, “I know… but says who that we weren’t just mad to begin with? And… I think I’d have to be at least a little crazy to fall in love with you.”
Sanji nods, smiling as he leans down for one more kiss, a lingering brush of lips on lips, a light, unhurried, indulgent thing.
“I like a bit of crazy,” he says, shifting to lie back down next to you, even as Luffy’s laughter rings in from outside and the ship rocks with the weight of the anchor being raised.
“So, no cooking today?” you ask, grinning as you snuggle in, letting your eyes fall shut once more.
Sanji shakes his head, “Nope. Leftovers.”
You laugh, “I love leftovers.”
Sanji hums, his own eyes drawing closed, “Yeah… so do I.”
And within minutes, you’re both asleep again, bodies bent around each other, breathing in sync, minds drifting off towards dreams, and dreams, and dreams.
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Fast foodies know the deal
Ghost x reader
(not proof read, this is just fluff straight from the source
Warnings: none, ovulation mention maybe? Its brought up a single time.)
The craving hits around 3 in the morning, it's ovulation week so the idea of not getting chicken nuggets from the drive through makes you want to cry.
You turn towards the sleeping lug beside you. He's on his back, breaths deep and even. Still as a grave but at your movement he takes the arm you had been using as a pillow to drag you further into his side.
Your Simon, took you forever just to get the man to admit he did more than tolerate you. even longer to admit he cared for you. It took you almost using his toothbrush to realize that the man might actually (gasp) like you. That one you didn't push, figured he'd come to terms with it on his own.
As you look at how peaceful he seems you try to fight the urge, you really do, but as you prop yourself up on your elbows and move closer to Simon's ear you resign to begging his forgiveness later.
"Simon, my baby? You sleeping?"
You wouldn't have known he was a awake had it not been for the lone eye opening to check on you
"Was, love. I was. Whats wrong, bad dream? Y' Can turn on the telly to that duck cartoon or the robots - won't bother me none." He rubs a comforting hand up and down your back, he's being so sweet you really do start to feel bad.
"I want chicken nuggets."
Silence.
Both eyes are open now.
The silence continues.
You smile sheepishly.
Wordlessly simon extracts his arm and turns so his back is to you.
"Nnooooooo! Simon pleeeaase. Pretty please? I want chicken nuggets so bad!"
"Go ahead. keys are on the rack, tanks full."
"Nooo you have to take me! come on baby please, for me?"
"My love. Sunshine. Light of my life. If you're hungry i made a perfecly good roast last night. Heat that up and let a man rest."
"I dont want a perfectly good roast! I want chicken nuggets. And a burger. And fries - oh maybe a shake?" You lean over him, hair purposely hung over into his face. He turns quickly and you're nose to nose
"So youre gonna have me get up at 3 fucking a.m. to get you a greasey, artey clogging, cholesterol raising gastrointestinal disaster of a meal - when we have a perfectly good home made dinner in the fridge."
"....please?"
Silence.
A deep suffering sigh.
An ecstatic squee
"Just get your fuckin shoes on"
------
You lean back over into the passenger seat, simon grumpy faced as you insisted that you should be the one to order.
You pat your thighs in glee as he pulls up to the window, gives you a dirty look , and hands the cashier his card.
The second window delivers your meal and drink quickly, you dig in like a starved animal. You're mid chew when he gives a grunt. A snooty sounding eh hem.
You grin and giggle, slowly airplaning him a nugget.
"Give me the chicken or i'll take the whole box"
You squeak and shove it to his lips quickly. His jaws snap around the nugget and it's gone within a single bite - you retract your fingers, still intact but wet with spit.
You give an 'eeeech' and look for somewhere to wipe your hand.
"Any of this ends up in or on my interior and it'll be your arse."
You roll your eyes and reach in the bag for a napkin, knocking the fries over in the process.
Silence.
The car drifts slowly to the left and is parked along the side of the road.
Not a word spoken.
You try to shove as many back into the carton as possible.
He stares at you.
You smile sweetly at him before leaning over the center console and kissing him. You meet his lips, they're stretched into a dangerous grin.
"Love" kiss "did you" kiss "spill salt" kiss "in my truck?"
You might not know a lot, but you know that voice means you're in trouble, which means it's distraction time.
You continue your sweet onslaught of kisses.
"Thank you for taking me baby, I love you so much. ", another smooch
is delivered.
"Youre my person, my favorite guy, love of my life."
He bites at your lip and you barely manage to slip it from his teeth
"Wanna spend the rest of my life with you, grow old with you"
He grips the back of your head and maneuvers your ear to his mouth, in a deep rumble he asks
"Are there fries on my floor, love?"
The dangerous smile still present.
"No of course not baby! i cleaned those up."
"So my truck is fry free?"
"Well - no didn't say that. there's a, a few under the seat"
He's grappling you into his lap now, the man looks a hint deranged.
"And why, my love, are you telling me about them instead getting them?"
he presses.
"'Cause I - hehe - I can't reach!" You giggle out as his hands slink towards your sides.
He pokes and prods at you, growling not unlike a bear while you squeal and squeak out little laughs.
"Gets a man up at ass o'clock-"
"Oh please, you get up early anyway!"
"makes him drive to get congealed grease-"
"you had a nugget too!"
"Then trashes his truck."
"Oh please it's like a handful of fries, I'll get them, i'll get them!"
He frees you with a huff and you dive back over to your side of the car. You pop open your door and hop outside to get a better angle at the underside of the seat. He gets impatient as you fish around for the last few fries, giving a little hurrah as the last one is snatched.
Clambering back into the truck you grin at him, happy as can be. He hums a short laugh, and you're off to home again.
He makes a beeline for the bedroom and you trot over to the counter to finish your meal, most of it having been shared and eaten in the truck. You sit back a moment to enjoy the feeling of fullness when you see Simon emerge again.
"Bed. Now. Kept me up long enough" he's already on you before you can think of a reply, slung over his shoulder. He makes quick work of getting you both situated in your proper spots.
You're snuggled into his side for the night, full and content. He breathes in deep and exhales slowly. you draw nonsensical patterns on his bare chest, playing with the hair there. As sleep overtakes you, your palm flattens over the spot where his heart resides; and you feel him relax just a smidgen more.
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for @quinnick: kiss prompt #4 - lips barely touching
The car is out of gas. Will is about ten seconds away from maybe-dying (again). Mike Wheeler has been abnormally quiet today.
At least of late, one of those things is more abnormal than the others.
The car is always out of gas. Will doesn’t know when the last time they’d filled it up was, but he does know that it’s not his problem trying to figure it out. That’s Hopper’s deal. Or his mom’s, maybe. Or Nancy’s, or Jonathan’s, or–
Whatever! The point is that the car is out of gas, Mike and Will are stranded at the currently closed general store, and they’re probably about to die.
Again.
“Mike,” Will tries, for maybe the hundredth time. “It’s not your fault, okay, it could’ve happened to anyone–”
“Yeah,” Mike grumbles miserably, as they round the corner, from aisle four – cleaning supplies and household items – into aisle five – canned goods. Most of the shelves are empty, turned over. Mike picks up a can of pickled green beans, pulls a face, and puts it back on the shelf. “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to me.”
Will takes a long, deep breath in through his nose. God forbid Mike Wheeler ever let anything go. “You didn’t know,” he huffs anyway. “It’s not your fault.” The store is dark, which is great for being able to roll your eyes without Mike seeing. Will’s flashlight sputters, briefly, the bright circle of light flickering in and out of view. He smacks it against his palm once, twice, and it steadies. “Seriously,” Will adds, as Mike slows to a stop in front of him. “Stop beating yourself up. So we have to wait for a ride. Big deal.”
Mike turns around to face him. His expression is mostly unreadable in the dark, but Will’s flashlight catches the edge of it – worried, a little guilty. “Yeah,” Mike says softly. “Except there are things everywhere and waiting for a ride is just– we’re sitting ducks here, okay,” Mike frowns. “I don’t like it. It feels like tempting fate.”
“Well, the simple fact of my existence feels like tempting fate sometimes,” Will jokes. It works, for a split second – Mike’s furrowed brows smooth out into something halfway amused, and he makes a noise that might be a laugh.
“Not funny,” Mike says anyway. His lips twitch.
“You laughed!” Will insists, smiling. His voice carries down through the hallway in a vibrant echo. “I know you did!”
“Shut up,” Mike whispers, looking away. “Would it kill you to keep your voice down?”
It might. Somewhere in the back of Will’s mind, he’s vaguely aware that they’re not safe here, out in the open, and that the whole point of them coming inside instead of waiting in the parking lot was to hunker down until Jonathan and Nancy could get another car here to pick them up. And also, preferably, get some gas.
Somewhere significantly closer in Will’s mind, though, is the knowledge that this is the most Mike has said – and the closest he’s come to laughing – since the car had stalled on the way from the cabin to the general store ten minutes ago, and Mike had just barely had time to pull into the abandoned parking lot before it had stopped altogether. He knows Mike doesn’t like this – being caught off-guard, out in the open. Even minute changes in the plan – which you’d think they’d all be more prepared for, considering the way things have been going lately – get Mike a little keyed up.
And the sorry, borderline pathetic part is this: despite it all, despite the ever-present threat of danger, and the impending sense of doom that’s been hanging over their heads for what seems like forever, Will feels vaguely pleased with himself anyway, seeing Mike hold back a smile instead of forcing one on his face.
So yeah, it might kill him, if he kept his voice down. That’s okay. Will thinks it would be worth it, sometimes – the danger and the doom and everything else – to hear Mike laugh.
God, what’s wrong with him? That’s embarrassing. That’s so embarrassing.
He shakes the thought off. “Whatever,” Will says instead, praying the cover of darkness is hiding the blush that’s rapidly rising to his cheeks. He angles the flashlight away from them anyway, just in case, and Mike’s face falls back into silhouette. “You know I’m right. You’re doomed just by being here with me.”
Mike shakes his head. “You know I don’t think of you like that.”
Will frowns. “Like what?”
“Like– like a bad luck charm,” Mike waves his hands around. “Or whatever.”
“I didn’t say bad luck charm,” Will exclaims. “Ouch! Stop putting words into my mouth.”
Mike grins. “Would you rather have, uh,” he picks up the nearest can to him, something small and vaguely gray, “tinned sardines in your mouth? Tinned sardines in water? Oh, gross. Never mind, actually.”
“I would rather not,” Will decides, even though the shelves are so bare that they might have to suck it up and take home the tinned sardines in water after all. “Would you like some, uh. Tuna?”
“I guess we know why there’s so much fish,” Mike sighs, leaning heavily against an empty shelf. “Nobody wanted it.”
“You mean the ten people outside of our circle of friends that are still left in Hawkins? Yeah,” Will scoffs, then sets the can back down with a soft clink. “I guess not.”
Neither of them say anything for a moment. It’s quiet in the store, the room dark and lit faintly by Will’s flashlight and the display in the corner. It lights Mike up a faint blue, catches the edges of his jaw and where his hair is curling softly over the hood of his jacket.
Will’s flashlight sputters again.
When it comes back on this time, it’s more faint than it was before. It’s dark in here, Will realizes, a bit belatedly. Like, really dark.
He takes a deep breath and shuffles closer to Mike, just a little, like the shape of his body all leaned against the empty shelves is a grounding force. Mike gives him a look that Will can’t quite decipher in the dark.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Will breathes out. The proximity is helping, a little. “Just– waiting for our ride.”
Mike leans in a bit closer too, places an arm under Will’s elbow. It’s a light touch, nothing forceful, but the semblance of support is there. “You sure? You look a little pale.”
Sometimes, Will hates how well Mike knows him. He doesn’t get antsy in the same way Mike does in situations like these, but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t affect him at all. It should be expected by now, the automatic fight or flight.
For some cruel reason, it still isn’t. “You can’t even see me,” he says, but lets himself lean into the touch anyway.
“I can see enough,” Mike says easily. “Do you want to sit down?”
Will shakes his head. The only thing worse than waiting out in the open is sitting out in the open. At least when you’re standing, you can run. “No. I’m fine.”
Will can’t see Mike either, but he’d be willing to bet real money – that he doesn’t have – that he can tell exactly what Mike’s expression looks like. The pause grows, swells and swells and swells, until Will is sure Mike is going to say something–
There’s a clattering outside.
Instantly, Mike’s hand tightens its grip on Will’s elbow. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Will hisses, twisting around to try and see through the windows. “Of course I heard that, Mike.”
“Do you think that’s–”
“No idea,” Will whispers. With no small amount of reluctance, he tugs his arm out of Mike’s grip. He misses the warmth of it almost instantaneously, and the tugging in his stomach is only amplified by the way Mike automatically leans in behind him, places a hand on his back to replace the absent touch, like it was never gone at all. Will swallows, and flicks the flashlight off. “Now be quiet.”
“The windows are boarded up,” Mike says, decidedly not being quiet. Will wonders where the Mike Wheeler of fifteen minutes ago went – the one that was sulking and fidgeting in silence the whole way down the first aid aisle. “They’re boarded up, so nothing can get in. Right?”
“We got in,” Will points out, which Mike seems to realize at approximately the same second he does. It’s getting a little hard to think, with Mike so close to him.
Will really wishes Mike would pull his hand away.
“Right,” Mike whispers, breath ghosting gently over the back of Will’s neck. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s fine.”
Fine, Will thinks. That’s one word for it.
Another clattering. It’s closer this time.
Will freezes.
Jonathan and Nancy are probably about ten minutes out. Twenty if they had to go back to the Wheelers’ for the other car. So they’d probably be fine if they stuck it out here, because the chance of something happening across them now, in the brief period of time where they’re stuck without a ride, in a building equipped with close to nothing that could help, is small.
Small, but not nonexistent.
Will isn’t really feeling inclined to take that chance. “Come on,” he says, then spins on his heel, grabbing Mike’s hand and tugging him in the opposite direction. “Come with me.”
Mike follows easily, stumbling slightly with the sudden movement. “Wh– where are we going?”
“Just come on,” Will says, then tugs Mike around to the back of the store. He yanks open a door, and shoves him inside. “Get in.”
“Whoa,” Mike says, as Will tumbles in behind him. “Will, what–”
“Would it kill you to be quiet?”
“Sorry,” Mike says, then does, at last, fall silent.
Immediately, Will wishes he hadn’t said that. It’s dark in here – even darker than out in the front of the store – and the only noise is the faint hum of a generator, somewhere behind the walls. It’s grating and stilted. Will wonders when the last time it had been repaired was.
Plus, it’s really–
It’s really fucking dark in here.
Will lets out a long, slow exhale, and reaches out to feel for the wall beside him. His palm comes into contact with chipped paint and he follows the shape of it down, lowering himself onto the ground.
“Will?” Mike says, and Will is in half a mind to say that thing about being quiet again, but–
It’s dark. It’s really dark.
“Yeah,” he says, barely audible even to himself over the faint hum of the generator, and the louder hum – demanding, prominent, persistent – of his blood rushing through his ears. “I just– sitting. I’m sitting.”
There had at least been some light out in the front, but this storage closet might as well be a void. It smells vaguely of dust, something stale and unknown and probably untouched for who-knows-how-long. Will takes another deep breath in.
“Where?” Mike asks. “I don’t want to step on you.”
Will cracks a smile. “Here,” he says, and holds a hand up in the air. “Right here.”
There’s a quiet shuffling sound as Mike moves closer, and then Will feels fingertips brushing against his. Mike latches on immediately, gripping tighter onto his hand and sits down in front of him.
Will still can’t see anything – he can’t see anything – but he can feel Mike’s presence like it’s a tangible thing.
Mike could let go of Will’s hand now. Now that he’s found him.
He doesn’t, though.
“Hey,” Mike says, then there’s another faint shuffling noise. “Where are we?”
“Storage closet.”
“Huh. How did you know it was here?”
Will cracks another smile, despite himself. “My mom worked here, remember? For, like, years.”
“Right,” Mike laughs, and then he’s moving closer, knees bumping against knees in the dark. “I forgot. It doesn’t feel like the same place.”
“Tell me about it,” Will sighs. He’s probably breathing in dust and debris and soot and all sorts of gross stuff, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He presses his knees against Mike’s a little harder, just because he can.
“I remember,” Mike starts, readjusting his grip on Will’s hand – fingers interlocked, a firmer grip – “she’d give me free candy from the front counter. Whenever I came in with my parents, I mean. My mom was so confused about why I kept asking to tag along to Melvald’s with her.”
“That’s not fair,” Will laughs. “She never let me have any candy.”
“You were a menace all hopped up on sugar,” Mike points out. “I knew how to behave myself.”
That’s a damn lie, and they both know it. “Liar,” Will says quietly, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe so,” Mike hums. “But I’m still the one who got free candy, so–”
“Mike!” Will shoves lightly at his knee, and Mike’s answering laugh fills the small space instantaneously. It’s loud – too loud, because they’re supposed to be hiding, goddamnit – but the nagging little voice at the back of Will’s head is vanquished almost as quickly as it came. “Shut up.”
Mike, as always, ignores him. “Why don’t we turn on a light?”
“The fuse is probably blown,” Will responds. “If there’s even a light in this stupid closet.”
“I mean this, idiot,” Mike says, and then clicks the flashlight back on. The batteries must be dying, because it flickers to life weakly, steadying out into a dim yellow-white. “Obviously.”
“Don’t waste the batteries,” Will says at once, trying to grab for it. “Come on, Mike–”
“Jonathan and Nancy will be here any minute and then we can go put in new batteries,” Mike says, holding it easily out of reach. “No point sitting in the dark, right?”
“Mike,” Will tries to protest, but it’s useless. Mike’s made up his mind.
Slowly, and a little far away, Will realizes what Mike is trying to do. He’s not being subtle about it, but subtlety has never been Mike Wheeler’s strong suit. He’s always been exuberant, quick and spontaneous with his actions, and this is no different. Sitting up close, closer than would be strictly necessary in any other situation. Turning the light on, despite the dying batteries. Telling Will about coming here as a kid, all those years ago. Making him laugh. Diffusing the tension.
Jesus, and he’s still holding Will’s hand.
A wave of affection washes over him, sudden and overwhelming enough for Will to feel borderline nauseous.
This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Mike can’t just sit here and touch their knees together and hold Will’s hand, and–
“Look,” Mike is saying, and then he’s holding the flashlight under his chin and grinning. “Don’t I look freaky?”
In all honesty, Mike looks fucking hilarious. The direct light casts long shadows across the dips of his cheekbones, the shapes of his eyelashes distorting wildly as he blinks. “No,” Will snorts, rolling his eyes. “You look ridiculous.”
“Really?” Mike grins, in a way that means he knows just how ridiculous he looks. “Not even a little?” He waggles his eyebrows, and the resulting effect is so comical that Will can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, sharp and sudden and real.
“Mike,” he chides, for the millionth time. “You’re going to kill the battery.”
Mike looks way too pleased with himself. “Worth it,” he says anyway, as he sets the flashlight down. It evens out the sharp angles of his face, now that it’s farther away, lights his cheeks and nose and eyes up into something softer, more open.
Something about the steadiness of Mike’s expression is brighter than any source of light. Suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, it’s blinding.
God. He’s so screwed. “For what?”
“Getting you to laugh,” Mike says, simple and easy, like he’s reciting times tables instead of proceeding to turn Will’s entire world upside down on its pathetic little axis.
Will feels his lungs stutter on his next inhale. He looks away. “Don’t do that.”
The gleeful expression falters on Mike’s face. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t,” Will says, “don’t– you’re being so– so–”
Mike looks caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “So what?”
“So,” Will tries again, and then Mike moves closer, and the difficulty of articulating a halfway decent sentence immediately increases tenfold. “So.”
“So,” Mike echoes, shifting so the side of his thigh is pressed up against the side of Will’s. He’s being slowly backed into the corner, but the thought isn’t terrifying like it might have been five minutes ago. Suddenly, Will is overwhelmed in a completely new way. “So what?”
“Nice to me,” Will gets out. “Stop being so nice to me.”
Mike pauses, then says, incredulously and half-laughing– “What? Why?”
Bad choice of words. “You heard me,” Will says anyway, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “You’re being too nice.”
“I should hope so,” Mike says. “I mean, you’re my friend.”
Maybe Will is imagining it, but the sentence feels unfinished. Like there’s a second half to it that Mike is keeping for himself: You’re my friend – right?
The obvious answer here is that yes, Mike is his friend. But that answer feels unfinished too, like a lie by omission. Will tries to imagine it, doing these things with anyone else – what it would be like if Dustin was holding his hand, or if it were Lucas sitting next to him this close.
The conclusion he comes to, almost immediately, is that it would be weird.
It would be really fucking weird.
That feels like– something. An admission, maybe. Because the fact of the matter is that things with Mike have always been like this, and they’ve never been like this with anyone else, and Will doesn’t think they can be like this with anyone else without it being the most unsettling thing that’s ever happened to him.
The silence, he realizes, has gone on just a second too long.
“Yeah,” he blurts out at last. “Yeah. Obviously.”
Something settles over Mike’s face. “Will–”
“Forget I said anything,” Will backpedals, a little bit desperate. “Never mind. Be as nice to me as you want.”
Mike bites down on his lower lip. It looks like he’s holding back a smile. “As nice as I want?”
Oh, no.
“Sure,” Will tries. “Do your worst.”
Mike lets out a shaky exhale. He presses in further, leans in closer until their shoulders are almost touching. “How about this?”
“That’s not nice,” Will says weakly. “That’s just an invasion of personal space.”
“Seems pretty nice to me,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Will inhales sharply. “Mike.”
“What?”
“What are you– doing,” Will whispers, stumbling over his words, just slightly, as Mike places a hand on his arm.
Mike’s gaze does not waver. “Is this okay?”
Is it okay? Will thinks his brain might be halfway to leaking out through his ears. This is–
This is–
“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Yeah. Great.”
“Okay,” Mike whispers. He’s so close now that Will could count all the freckles spattered across his nose, if he wanted to. He could, and the thought is dizzying, dizzying – suddenly, it’s not the claustrophobia that’s making him feel like this. It can’t be, because Mike is in front of him, and he’s so close that Will could just lean forward and–
He could just–
“Mike.” And maybe he’s a bit of a broken record, but he can’t come up with any words other than his name. He clutches at Mike’s knee and meets his gaze and prays – to whatever deity allowed him to get trapped in a storage closet with Mike Wheeler two inches away from his face – that Mike Wheeler will find the courage in him somewhere to close the fucking gap.
He doesn’t, though, which is a sign that the universe must be majorly fucking with him. Not yet, anyway. Not anywhere near as fast as Will needs it to be – if this is what he thinks it is, it’s nowhere near fast enough.
In actuality, what it is is excruciating – the way Will’s heart is beating so loud that he’s sure Mike can hear it, in the proximity. The slow circles Mike is tracing over his other hand – the hand that he’s still holding. He’s so close that Will can discern the warmth emanating off him, the familiar scent of soap, can feel Mike’s eyes trained steadily on his mouth, and yet–
Either Mike is actually moving at a speed of one nanosecond per minute, or time has slowed to a near-stop around them. Mike’s grip on his hand is agonizing, caustic in all the places where they’re touching, each slow circle of Mike’s thumb against his wrist driving him slowly and steadily out of his mind. Do it, Will thinks, like maybe if he thinks it loud enough, Mike will be able to hear him. Do it, do it, do it.
Mike’s lips touch his.
The world stops moving.
It must, anyway. Or maybe it’s just that Will doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore – he doesn’t know if he can find it in him to remember how. All he’s aware of is this: Mike’s hands on his arm, his wrist. Mike’s leg under his own palm, warm and steady and pressed up against him in a smooth, unyielding line. The pressure of the wall behind him, the strands of Mike’s hair brushing against his face, and Mike’s lips – gentle, gentle, gentle, and nowhere near enough.
It’s like Mike is waiting for something. Waiting for Will, maybe.
God, okay.
Fuck it, Will thinks, from somewhere far off in his own head. Fuck it. Fuck this.
“Will,” Mike whispers, pulling back a precious few millimeters, and that’s it. That’s all Will can take.
Will lifts his hand off Mike��s leg, raises it to his wrist and tugs. Mike topples into him with a small gasp, Will falls backwards into the wall, and then they’re kissing.
God. Okay.
Mike steadies himself quickly, braces a hand on the wall behind them and leans in, firm and enthusiastic. His hand, Will notices, faintly and with no small amount of affection, is shaking. Just slightly. Will’s trapped between them again – Mike and the wall – but this time he can’t find it in himself to care even the slightest bit. As if there’s anywhere he’d want to go that wasn’t here, as if he’d want to be somewhere without Mike’s hand carding through his hair, or without his lips moving softly against Will’s own, or the noise he makes when Will presses forward, too fast, too eager, too betrayed by his own fluttering pulse – something like a laugh, trapped deep in his chest.
Suddenly, it’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s–
“Mike? Will?”
Shit.
In a flash, Mike pulls away, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked and breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
Shit.
“Yeah,” Mike calls, voice cracking just slightly on the syllable. “We’re in here!”
Shit.
“So,” Will says, aiming for nonchalance. He fails immediately. His voice cracks too. Great. “That–”
Don’t freak out, he thinks. Please don’t freak out.
Mike, to his credit, is not freaking out.
“Yeah,” Mike says, voice a little high-pitched but surprisingly even. He clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. You were–”
“Yeah,” Will finishes, rather lamely. He’s grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t even need to look at himself to tell. His expression is mirrored, perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, on Mike’s own face.
The closet door gets thrown open, and there’s a blinding, sudden light– “What the fuck,” Mike exclaims, squinting and throwing a hand up in front of his eyes. “Nancy?”
Jonathan peers around her shoulder. “What were you guys doing in here?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t–
Will can’t help it. He looks at Mike, and they immediately burst into laughter.
Shit.
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