#this was not good for my mental health at all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cmdrfupa · 3 days ago

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Lifetime

post shibuya!nanami x caregiver!reader

A series dedicated to healing and letting yourself have a second chance in this lifetime.

Inspired by this song that brings me to tears every single time.

content warning: shibuya arc, mentions of death, mental health awareness, angst(eventual comfort), burn victim so expect some detailed imagery.

wc: 4.9k

an: thank you for reading. I love you lots.

Time seemed to trickle as Nanami waited for his physical therapist to arrive.

First at home session since being discharged.

4 days a week, 30 minutes a day.

“Individualized exercise program including rigorous activities as you progress to help you regain your independence.. Sure.” Nanami read from the pamphlet out loud and sighed as he looked over the stack of literature he left the rehab facility with.

He was thankful that he was deemed fit enough to continue his healing at home after 11 weeks in the best facility Gojo could find. While it accommodated every possible concern one could have, he was certain he wouldn’t feel confident in being self sufficient until he was able to put all he had learned into practice at home.

So there he was, sifting through paperwork and sipping his coffee as he awaited his new physical therapist and as Ino finished cleaning his kitchen.

“I think thats it! Lunch is in the black container on the top shelf in the fridge and I’ve prepped dinner for when Gojo comes to cook. Anything else before I’m off?” Takuma grabbed his keys, the jangle bringing Kento out of his reading trance as he looked up.

“Yes, that should be fine. I appreciate you coming over every morning Takuma. But it’s not necessary.”

Takuma scoffed, almost offended at the idea. “Nonsense. Its just a little breakfast and lunch. Its on my way to the school anyway. Consider it a small help.”

He could protest but Takuma would simply find another way to make himself useful. Whether it be taking him to his appointments or coming to slather his injuries: he was going to find a way to be of help.

As he adjusted his cast as best he could, a text popped up from an unsaved number.

>Hello, Mr. Nanami! Currently heading to you. ETA is ten minutes.

Signed with your name, Nanami simply reads the text and reacted to the message with thumbs up.

“Thank you, Takuma. Truly. But I think thats everything. My physical therapist is on their way so I’ll just hang out til then.”

“Alrighty! I’ll be working mostly on campus so just shoot me a text if you need me. Take it easy, Nanami.” with that, Ino grabbed his jacket and proceeded out the front door.

Nanami exhaled and got up to sit at the window. The mid morning sun was gentle but insistent, that soft golden hue brightening everything it touched.

It wasn’t harsh, just warm enough to remind Nanami of the outside world, a quiet promise that time was still moving. The warmth on his right side almost felt foreign as the dust mites danced lazily in the light. He closed his eyes, taking in the fragile sense of something stirring inside of him— reposeful comfort in the way the sun didn’t have a sudden, overwhelming wave of joy but a soft declaration that he was still here.

Nanami hadn’t had many moments to really think about just how life changing the incident had been. Half of his body littered in 3rd degree burns, a third of that, 4th degree. Loss of hair on one side, an eye patch over his eye and a lack of feeling down his left arm.

He’d looked at himself in the mirror exactly once since the incident and didn’t do it again until he acquired his face prosthetic recently.

It was bulky and itchy, but it alleviated the deformities and more importantly, kept him from being too hard on his own appearance.

The moment felt necessary. Reminding him that the sun remained a constant while other things changed.

“I’ll need to see if I can sit outdoors for a few minutes a day. Would be good for me.” he noted outwardly before a light tapping at the front door had him shuffling towards the foyer.

One moment, please.” he paused a few paces before he reached the door to look down, remembering his shirt had a hole near the hem of it. He didn’t have time to change but only hoped the therapist wouldn’t see him as some undetermined slob with no real concern on how he looked.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Mr. Nanami?”

“That would be me.”

“Perfect! Hello! I was sent by the health and wellness agency as part of your transitioning to home health care. We have an appointment. May I come in?”

No scrubs, no accessories to signify you were a medical professional. Just a badge clip holding your ID with “HHA” boldly sitting under your name.

“Sure. Come on in.” He led you into the house, slowly walking into the living room and nodding towards the couch as you stood next to him.

You grin and sat on the far end of the couch, near the window, “Thank you.” you sat your tote littered in small pins on the coffee table and pulled out a somewhat thick file.

“Would you like anything to drink? Water, coffee?”

Shaking your head, you tapped the top of your bag. “No thank you. I have my tumbler. But I appreciate it!”

Nanami slightly bowed his head and sat in the solo chair next to the couch. “Alright so, how do we start this? I was told I’d see you four days a week with one more day possibly if I need to.”

You pursed your lips, looking down at your paperwork before looking back up to meet his neutral gaze.

“I believe that’s your physical therapist that you will be seeing four days out of the week.”

“Then pardon me for being so… impolite. But who are you exactly?”

The laugh that left your lips was a soft one but enough for Kento to lift his lips into a slight smile.

“I realize your discharge team didn’t give you names, faces, or titles. My apologies.”

“It happens.”

You continued. “I’m your Home Health Care Provider. While you were still in recovery, you met with your primary care provider and you spoke of your in home care, correct?”

Nanami nodded. “Yes.”

“Going over the team you’d have for your in housee rehabilitation, you were assigned a home health aide 5 days a week.”

His brow furrowed. “So you are that, I assume?”

“Yes. I will also be the one looking over the full team that provides you with your in-home care.”

“This feels very unnecessary.” The tone in his response was sharp. “I have people who come to help me with my daily needs. Having an entire team sounds like an exhausting back and forth to have coming to my house. A waste of resources.”

Your demeanor remained soft and understanding as you listened to his concerns. “Mr. Nanami. I understand that it sounds overwhelming. If I had to be in the predicament of needing a care team after an incident, I too would be a bit apprehensive.”

“But you aren’t. I am.”

The immediate smile that grew on your face wasn’t one that came from kindness. It was your defense, albeit an understandable one. “You are correct. I’m not. But I implore to at least hear me out on why its important to have us.”

A rush of emotions filled Kento’s chest. He wanted to pull his hair out from sheer frustration. But he remained calm.

His discomfort was obvious to you and you wanted to remedy the ache somehow.

“I want you to have an idea of what this could look like as you approach the first steps of gaining a sense of normalcy. Would you be willing to let me give you an example of what a week may look like for you? And if you don’t like it, we can adjust to a schedule that fits better for you.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Splendid.” You reached into your file and pulled out a thoroughly detailed schedule and turned it for Nanami to look along with you.

“So, this schedule is based loosely on the day to day you had while in the rehab facility. No matter who, anything involving someone from your team wouldn’t be arriving until 10am. This is unless you decide to utilize me. Then I would be here at 7 every morning to aide you with your morning routine.”

“What if I don’t want extensive help?”

“I would respect the boundary.”

Nanami took a closer look at the schedule, seeing the words ‘kitchen prep healing exercise’ highlighted for every Tuesday and Thursday. “What does this entail? Kitchen prep healing.”

“Your passions shouldn’t suffer because of changes. So I created a regimen that would help us get in the kitchen and get busy while making sure we help maintain your range of motion and fine motor skills.”

Nanami looked up at you for a moment, trying to assess just how serious you were about changing what he was uncomfortable with.

“So if I only need you for meal prep and assisting with chores around my house.”

“Then I will only help you with meal prep and assisting with your chores around the house.”

He handed the schedule back to you. “And if it isn’t something that I’ve mentioned?”

Trying to test you. Cute. “If you mention to me that would like me to assist you in going to the grocery store, fixing your bed, helping you get ready for your appointments, then I will. Because my goal is having you confident in yourself and your abilities.”

That nagging feeling of what if filled his chest and mind. Nanami knows he can’t do it alone. But to be a burden is the last thing he wants to ever become.

“I don’t want to become too dependent on you and your teams’ services.” He sat up as best he could, stretching out his legs and wincing at the unexpected intensity of his blood flowing through his left leg.”

Not wanting to lose the momentum, you sat on the edge of the couch alert of and aware of the pain he showed. “Your independence will not falter. We are merely an extension. We are the claw arm that’s in your reach if the jar of pickles are too high up, if you will.”

Nanami tried to stop the half smile on his face but faltered. “I understand.”

“Do you have any questions for me?” You smiled politely.

“A few,” Nanami cleared his throat. “When it comes to changing my dressings..”

“I will be the only one who sees them completely outside of your primary physician.” You answered, as if you were waiting for that specific question.

“Second question: can you properly fold a fitted sheet?”

You laughed, nodding. “The trick is in how you hold the corners. Line up the creases and you’ll always have a perfect fold.”

Nanami nodded. “Interesting.” The intense blood flow in his legs ceased and his body noticeably relaxed. He sat forward. “Final question, if you were to start tomorrow, could we have your start time for 8am? I like having the first hour of the day to myself.”

“If you want me here at 8 am, I will be at the door by 7:55 to knock at 7:59.”

The moment of silence was filled with hope as you realized you got to him. You let him see genuine concern and thats all he wanted. But this was only the beginning. And you were willing to be his guide to a sense of independence all the way through.

___________________________________________

The silence of the early morning was heavier than usual— a quit hum of of the refrigerator reached his room as he slept with his bedroom door open now, a new practice he’s since learned is a response to his trauma.

He sat on the side of his bed, staring down at his slippers that warmly held his feet as the barely visible morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and unrelenting.

“I embrace healing.” He spoke out loud, his voice still low, sleep riddened, as he slowly rose from the bed and grabbed his cane.

“We aren’t going to be hard on ourselves because this is still new to you, Kento. Its okay to not know what to do.”

Mornings were more of a drag than he would like for them to be.

His body was more stiff. More rigid. He needed 30 minutes minimum to sit on the side of the bed and stretch just to muster up enough internal energy to get up and grab his cane.

He sounded off, flipping the bathroom light on and adjusting the sink to run warm water. “Today will be a great day.” He washed his hands, meticulously washing between his fingers and flicking the excess off his fingers before he dried them, reaching for a clean towel and letting it soak under the faucet.

“You will be more than okay.” this time, he spoke as if someone would overhear him talking to his self.

Nanami shook his head, lowly chuckling at what he found himself doing.

Yuji began to send him various videos that initiated ‘positive self talk’ and ‘daily affirmations for healing the body.’ Yuji hoped to try and help expedite a process that Megumi told him more than fives times, would take awhile.

Slowly pulled away the dressing on his cheek, Nanami watched small bits of dead tissue peel away from his healing skin. He threw it in the trash hamper, then pumped a small dot of antimicrobial soap on the wet towel he’d soaked and gently began to wash his face.

He looked closely, inspecting every patch he wiped over to take notice of any changes in how his skin looked. He tried very, very hard to not look into his own eyes.

Rinsing and patting to dry, he washed his hands again then reached for the jar of salve, precisely swiping a thin layer over his left cheek and forehead before he placed his transparent face mask on.

Finishing up his morning bathroom routine went without a rush. Going to throw on yet another loose fitting t-shirt and casual pants before sliding his slippers back on.

Slow and steady. Nice and easy.

“I am going to have a great day today.” the rubber end of his walker softly thudded against the wooden floors as he made his was down the hall. “It is a new day. New chances.”

He wasn’t going to confirm or deny if these affirming exercises were doing anything. But he’d admit that saying them aloud was probably the silliest he’d felt ever doing anything.

The living room held a welcoming warmth as he drew the blinds open that faced the street.

The third floor apartment view was always the one thing that made the asking price of his condo worth it to him.

The patchwork of traditional rooftops and modern buildings met the edge of the cities outskirts. Bare branches stood against the pale early morning winter sky, hints of early plum blossoms added a hint of a spring that would soon come and wipe away the muted landscape.

Kento sat on the window seal, taking in the low mountains in the distance. That thin veil of mist hiding the peaks that were still dusted in snow. With a deep inhale, he looked down at the street to see a bundled up pedestrian loading his car with boxes as another, that looked only slightly familiar, was exiting their car in a slow jog to the front steps of his building.

He glanced over at the clock on the wall.

7:55 am.

“Timely.”

slowly, he went to open the rest of the blinds around the living room, a slow tango that made him a feel like he still had just enough control, timing the last curtain opening perfectly as your soft knock filled the foyer yet again.

He stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the frame, before opening the door and stepping aside in a half step to let you in. His expression was neutral — not unkind, but carefully composed, as if he were still deciding how much space to give you in his life.

“Good morning,” you spoke softly, offering a polite smile.

“Morning,” Nanami replied, his voice low and steady. “I was about to make myself a simple breakfast. Coffee too.”

It wasn’t quite an invitation, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. It was just a statement — a line drawn firmly down the middle.

You nodded. “That sounds good.”

You sat your bag down on the ottoman against the wall and followed his lead. The condo was quiet — too quiet, the kind that felt deliberate. Like he'd stripped the space of anything deemed unnecessary. A few trinkets here and there, clean lines, muted colors.. But the kitchen felt like the homeliest part of the space.

Black stainless steel appliances, cold press juicer and blender sitting on the counter. A top of the line built-in double electric convection wall oven, a display of every herb and spice on a dark mahogany shelf sitting high on the wall.

“You have a very beautiful kitchen.” Your eyes grazed over the quartz cabinets, taking in the light blue finishes until you landed on what you knew to be as the best stand mixer that only experts chefs and bakers would have.

“You have a Bosch… Its even more beautiful in person.” You inspected it as if it were a lost artifact seeing the light for the first time in 500 years.

Nanami cocked his head for a moment. “Are you that taken by a stand mixer?”

“Mr. Nanami, I’d have to work 3 weeks nonstop to not only get the mixer but to financially recover from it.”

Your half suppressed laugh had Kento smiling. “Understandable. It is a big purchase. I use to bake fresh bread for my weekly use.”

“You’ll have to give me a demonstration one day! Would love to see the Bosch in action.”

Nanami raised his brows. “You think I can get back to that one day?”

The small flick of something resembling hope flecked in the richest parts of his brown eyes.

“We can get you back to that. I’m sure of it.”

He nodded, a silent acceptance of an unspoken challenge. He opened the refrigerator, bearing his weight on the cane as he used his dominant hand to grab the butter, holding it out.

“Do you mind taking things as I pass them to you?”

You reached out, taking the butter and placing it on the counter. “Don’t mind at all.”

A pack of bacon, a jar of jam and an orange followed after and you awaited his next instruction.

“I’m going need your help with peeling orange. I believe I can manage the rest.”

With quiet acknowledgment, you grabbed the orange and began to peel as he placed 2 pieces of bacon in the skillet.

It took less than 10 minutes and Nanami moved to the dining table, a slice of toast placed next to his bacon on a plate and setting out a small dish of fruit with the addition of an apple now. You brought out 2 mugs of coffee, placing his in front of him and sitting across from him with yours.

A butter knife rested awkwardly beside the jar of jam he chose. It was clear he had intended to do more, but something had stopped him.

You didn’t move or say anything, you sipped your coffee and watched as he reached for the jar. His right hand gripped the jar while his left hovered over the lid. His fingers trembled — just slightly — but enough that the lid refused to budge.

You didn’t move at first. You’d quickly learned that Nanami wasn’t the type to appreciate overstepping, even if it came from a place of concern. So you waited, giving him the space to either push through the task or acknowledge the struggle.

After a long moment, his jaw tightened. The jar didn’t budge.

You opened your mouth — not to offer help, but simply to ask if he wanted you to hold the base of the jar steady when his voice cut through the silence.

“Can you…” He paused, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. “Can you open this for me?”

It wasn’t a whisper, nor was it loud. Just a calm, measured request, but you could hear the effort behind it — the weight of a man who wasn’t used to asking for assistance.

You stood and went to his side of the table and gently placed your hand on the lid. “Turn when you’re ready.”

His hand dropped away, switching his left hand out for the right gripping the glass part and his left fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. The lid gave way with a soft pop, and you set it down in front of him without a word.

He didn’t thank you, but there was a small nod — barely noticeable, but it was there.

“Would you like me to slice the apple for you?” you asked, careful not to overstep.

Nanami shook his head. “No. I can manage.”

You sat back down, sipping your coffee as he asked you more questions about your fascination with his Bosch.

_______________________________________

The morning moved quickly. Breakfast cleanup was a breeze as Nanami continued his light reading and non rigorous solo exercises.

During breakfast, you’d been given what you called the key to the cupboard by Nanami. He uttered, with few words, that he didn’t want to prevent you from doing your job. While he limited what that might be, he was quick to say how appreciative he’d be if his bed could be made up, his laundry started and lunch done. He’d have a friend come by to do the rest.

You happily complied and began working on laundry the moment he sat down post breakfast. And by noon, his physical therapist had arrived to continue his exercise routine and mobility work.

Despite the pain he would occasionally feel from the intense stretches he felt near his ankles, this was Nanami’s favorite part of his rehabilitation. Feeling the tightness dissipate as he stretched his neck and chest together. He closed his eyes, allowing the PT to guide his body on top of the exercise ball.

“Now a slow exhale as you reach your arms over your head. Nice and easy.”

The short man moved the ball under Nanami and he grunted.

“Sorry Mr. Nanami, too much?”

Nanami wheezed a chuckle out, “Not enough. Can we do this one more often?”

The therapist exhaled and smiled. “We can. Your body is reacting as it needs to and it seems to be the best exercise to get a reaction out of you. Does it feel like your body is loosening up?”

He nodded, slowly sitting up with assistance. “Definitely. My skin feels less taut at my hips and chest when I open up my arms like that. It feels.. good.”

“That’s what I like to hear. We’re going to finish off with some hands exercises then your aide will be tagged back in to finish the day off with you.”

His session proceeded and came to an end before he knew it. He walked with a bit more confidence as he escorted his therapist to the door and went to find you in the kitchen finishing lunch.

Nanami watched you sliced the cucumber. He nodded at the precision of the knife movements, impressed with how perfect each little sliced green disc was as you added it to the salad bowl. He waited to speak once you sat the knife down.

“You have some really great knife skills.”

You looked up and smiled, wiping your hand on the dish towel nearby. “4 years of cooking for a group of broke college students as a college student. 2 of those years were spent dating a sous chef who taught me some of what I know.”

“I’m sure this sous chef would be happy to know you use these techniques so well.”

“We could only hope,” Expertly, you avoided giving that a full response that would push the topic of your ex. “Where did you learn to cook, Mr. Nanami? I’m sure you are amazing with a Bosch in your kitchen.”

Nanami walked behind you, reaching for two bowls out of the cabinets and placed them next to you. “My grandfather wanted me to be self sufficient once I moved out on my own.” He slowly opened the silverware drawer, pulling out a pair of forks and knives. “And cooking in itself is its own therapy for me.”

You finished placing the grilled chicken in the salad bowl and handed over the tongs to Nanami. “How does cooking make you feel?”

He looked down at the tongs, his heart fluttering with an anxiety he couldn’t place. His eyes found you. “Do you think I can?”

“I’m right here,” you slid one of the eating bowls directly next to him and smiled. “What does cooking do for you?”

Nanami put his eyes back onto the salad and took a deep breath. He grabbed the tongs, gripping them, feeling the cold stainless steel rest in the part of his palm that still had feeling. “Cooking requires me to pay attention. Smell, sounds, how my food is looking.”

He widened the tongs, lowering them into the salad and tossing it lightly, as if he’d harm the lettuce if he placed any pressure.

“What do you usually cook with?” You noticed his hesitance in squeezing the tong tips together, his grip faltering as he exhaled from frustration. “I’m going to hover my hand below yours. Claw extension. Only if you need it.”

Nanami closed his eyes, slowly breathing out as he tried to not lose his momentum. “Garlic. Fresh minced garlic.” He tried again, slowly working his hands closed until he had salad gripped between the flat tips. He carefully moved it over to the dish, hand shaking but making it with no spillage. “I prefer to mince it and store it in water. Taste great every time.”

You smiled as he looked at you for a hint of validation and gave a nod of acknowledgment.

He moved the tongs back to the serving bowl with a glimmer of determination in the way he rolled his shoulders back. He grabbed more and placed it into the bowl, releasing a with a bit of force before sitting the tongs down. “I think I want a bit more tomato.”

Fork in hand, trying to pin down a slice of tomato so he could cut it. His right hand hovered awkwardly, meant to steady the cutting board, but his left — the one gripping the fork — trembled just enough to betray him.

The fork slipped.

The tomato skidded to the side, smearing juice across the surface. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

You didn’t speak either. You knew better than to rush in with help he hadn’t asked for yet.

He reset the slice, pressing the fork down again. His grip was too tight — his knuckles pale from the strain — but the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t let up. The fork scraped against the board, missing the tomato entirely this time.

A sharp pain ran through his forefinger and he dropped the fork, cursing under his breath as he massaged his purlicue.

His gaze stayed locked on the tomato, his shoulders tense.

“You did good. You and the tongs are quite the dynamic duo.”

Nanami felt a heated tear well in his eye before he sucked it back in. “This. Its all so hard sometimes. A fork? I can’t hold a damn fork and its been months.”

He needed to let the frustrations out. It was going to be the only way he could get over those hurdles to feeling whole again.

You stood in silence for a moment, giving him space to process and feel. “Don’t give yourself a timeline but do give yourself grace.”

“Is this all worth it?” You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or himself until he took a few steps back and leaned against the counter looking at you. “Will I be the same person I was before all this? Because I feel like even when I’m giving 200%, I’m failing with no progress.”

“This feels like it’s never going to get better,” Nanami said, his voice low — almost too calm, but there was an edge to it. A rare crack in the carefully composed man standing next to you.

The words hung between you both, heavier than the silence.

You gave him a moment before you spoke. “It’s frustrating,” you said softly. “I know.”

Nanami’s jaw shifted, his lips pressing into a firm line. He didn’t respond right away, as if letting the admission sit out in the open was already more than he was prepared for.

His hand flexed at his side — open, then closed — before, at last, he exhaled through his nose. “Can you help me?”

The question was quiet, but it felt like a victory in its own right.

You nodded, letting him take a few steps forward before stepping in slowly so he had the chance to pull back if he wanted. When he didn’t, you picked up the fork, steadying the tomato with your other hand. The prongs sank into the skin with a soft pop — a simple act, but weighted with everything unspoken.

Nanami’s hand hovered near yours for a moment, then dropped back to his side.

He didn’t thank you, but the small, almost imperceptible nod he gave was enough.

You didn’t push for more words. Instead, you handed him the knife, stepping back just far enough to let him reclaim some of the space —he had let you stand just a little closer, and it was a sign that he was willing to let you in to help.

#jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #jjk #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #kento x reader #jjk kento #jujutsu kaisen nanami #shibuya arc #lu.logs

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totallyxtaurus · 3 days ago

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Depollute me, gentle angel

Summary: Sylus is away on a business trip while you sink deeper into your depressive episode. Pairing: Sylus x gn reader Genre: Angst (I guess, I'm not sure lol) Trigger Warnings: depression, mental health struggles, anxiety, self-neglect, and hints of suicide A/N: Soo I was going to make a fluffy/smutty story but my PMDD hit me hard af and then BOOM, this. This was super hard yet easy to write at the same time probably because it's a self insert lol like this is literally me. Sylus' "perfect" persona does intimidate me and I grappled with the thoughts of "what if Sylus was real, could he actually handle this?" I hope everyone enjoys and please please please remember to take care of yourselves! 💗

When was the last time you crawled out of bed today? Your stomach twisting, hunger pangs turn into nausea. But the thought of forcing your limbs to carry you into the kitchen for food feels insufferable. So, you stay buried in the tangle of unmade, unwashed sheets. A hint of fabric softener desperately clinging to the fibers, the stale scent of sweat and skin already taking over. Earlier, you pressed your nose into your shoulder, checking. The sweet floral deodorant from days ago (you think) has spoiled into something sour.

Each day and sleepless night blend together. They become hard to tell apart, except when the phone rings. Work is calling again—probably to ask when you’ll be back in or to terminate you. You know you should care—you do care! Well, you used to. You liked your job; you were good at it. But does it bring you joy? Right now, does anything?

Everything feels like a chore that you can’t be bothered to attempt. Showering? The thought alone is exhausting. But thinking about the steps that come before the shower is enough to make you sit in your own filth. You reach up absently. Your fingers get lost in the greasy roots and tangle in the mess below. Dandruff flakes dust your pillow. You picked at your scalp while scrolling for hours. Anything to pull you out of this pit you’ve fallen into, for a moment of relief. Your stomach churns each time your tongue touches the slimy coating that has built up on your teeth. Panic spikes at the thought of cavities—the decay, a reminder of neglect. Yet, there you lie, paralyzed by your own anxieties. God, you want to move. You really do. But then you tell yourself, I’ll brush them after I eat, for sure. You know it’s a lie. But it makes the guilt easier to swallow.

These bouts come and go, pulled in by a force you can’t escape—because you are the force. Like the moon dragging in the tides, summoning waves too strong to withstand. When you’re up, you trick yourself into thinking that you have it all together, like you’ve cracked some secret code. You throw yourself into work, into people, an endless loop on performance mode. Blissfully numb. Until the crash. The tide swells too high, knocking you under and swallowing you whole. Then you’re here, again. Bedridden. Isolated. Time slips through your fingers. Days, weeks—who knows how long. Until someone notices your absence. Usually, him. Then you have to explain why you vanished and begin to collect the pieces of you that have washed back ashore.

“You should trust Sylus more," your therapist had said, voice gentle but firm. “Let him in during these episodes. He wants to help you.”

You nodded, pretending to consider it, not missing the way they emphasized the "want to help you" part. But the idea was absurd, laughable. Let Sylus see you like this? No, it’s better this way. You can keep your dignity and him, a win-win situation.

This episode—as your therapist calls it—came at the perfect time. Sylus is away on a business trip, conveniently absent when you’ve sunk to your lowest. He gives you roughly three days of no contact before the constant calls start rolling in. This time, luck was on your side, a twisted kind of luck, but still one that was to your advantage. You can’t even begin to imagine the horror that he’d feel if he saw you like this.

Undeserving. That’s the only word that comes to mind when you think of Sylus, especially in moments like these.

Sylus, the man who has everything—and if he doesn’t, he simply acquires it. Always composed, always in control. He’s the kind of person who seems to glide through life, untouchable. You can’t imagine him unraveling, not like this. No, if he ever stumbled, he’d just power through it. There are no obstacles he can’t overcome.

Until you.

You are the only thing he can’t fix. A threat to the pristine world he’s built. Thankfully, he hasn’t seen you like this, and he never will. He can’t.

Your therapist says your way of thinking is the problem. You don’t let him in. You don’t give him a chance to understand. Your therapist doesn’t know Sylus like you do. What if he does understand—but secretly believes you’re too much? And knowing Sylus, what if he doesn’t leave, but worse—stays out of obligation? Out of pity?

Your chest begins to tighten at the thought, your heartbeat picking up. You’d rather disappear completely than let him see you like this.

But before you can spiral any further, the doorbell rings.

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 day ago

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PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome.

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat.

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow.

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out?

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh.

amused.

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship.

or an altar of sacrifice.

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach.

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it.

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again.

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard.

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up.

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you.

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru.

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past.

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome.

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

#pretty dividers by @/strangergraphics-archive & @/hyuneskkami !!#geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #geto suguru x reader #geto x male reader #geto suguru x male reader #geto angst

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leclercsixteen · 2 days ago

Text

𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒂 ! ᶜˡ¹⁶ ᵐᵛ¹

you don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up ⋆˚࿔

𝓬harles leclerc + 𝓶ax verstappen x 𝓶ale reader synopsis: reader was the rookie in the upcoming formula 1 season. his name was in everyone’s mouth and on everyone’s social media page. but, he’s still a person who has homework, feelings, and two nonbiological older brothers—or nonbiological dads, however you want to look at it.

genre: familial, smau and irl, hurt/comfort, fluff warnings: lestappen is shipped but theyre not together, stressed reader, reader replaces liam

author's note: not intended for female readers & not written for female readers. this came to me in a dream.

masterlist. navigation.

Y/N WAS A force to be reckoned with on the track. His talented overtakes and passes on the track helped him climb up the ranks easily. He quickly made his way up to Formula 1, skipping over Formula 2, and became the youngest rookie for the upcoming season. It was no surprise that he was all everyone talked about; Red Bull dropping Liam Lawson to pick up an inexperienced rookie who was still in high school.

He was a high school student by day and a Formula 1 driver, also by day. His schedule was the definition of stressful and he had no competition for the most stressed award. Y/n took online classes seeing as there was no way for him to go to a school while flying all over the world for races. It was surprising to the drivers around him that he was able to do everything, including perform well in his car when it really mattered, and not show any signs of stress.

It was surprising to y/n too; he was covered up to his ears in stress and he felt as though he was drowning every second of the day.

liked by f1, redbullracing, charles_leclerc, and others tagged: charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1

youruser life recently

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userone god i really need to lock in bros life looks amazing and he's younger than me

usertwo i think we're forgetting the fact that he's a student AND formula 1 driver? like i can barely get through just school but he's a double agent liked by youruser

charles_leclerc why that picture :( ⤷ youruser my parents obviously

maxverstappen1 you couldn't've picked a picture that i took with you? ⤷ youruser of course not :)

redbullracing 🔥🔥 liked by youruser

userthree can't wait to watch you kill it this season! ⤷ userfour alr he aint that good bro ⤷ userthree he skipped f2 and red bull literally dropped liam lawson for him ??????? okay ...

charles_leclerc maxverstappen1 why are you looking at me like that ⤷ maxverstappen1 that's how i look at all of my friends ⤷ youruser you guys don't even follow each other still stop flirting in my comments

userfive red bull check on your driver challenge ⤷ usersix wdym? ⤷ userfive i saw y/n recently with max and charles and he just looked so tired and so out of it. it doesnt look like red bull is doing much to help him out with schooling and his mental health liked by youruser ⤷ usersix nah you're reaching 😭😭 ⤷ userfive y/n literally liked my comment but whatever

Y/N THOUGHT F4 and F3 were bad, but F1 was a whole different rodeo. Their schedule wasn't as hectic during F4 and F3 as it is in F1, but it was still pretty stressful having to do homework on the road when you couldn't talk to anybody about it since most of the drivers dropped out of school. F1 was worse; nobody was in school or they dropped out before they could graduate so nobody understood what he was going through, he was shipped around the world on a weekly basis, he had training day in and day out, and he had to do calculus homework in between practices.

He held his forehead in his hand as he leaned his elbow against the table in front of him. Y/n was currently looking at his math homework like it had 5 heads instead of 0 since it was a piece of paper. The eraser of his pencil tapped against the table that distracted him away from his homework momentarily. The problem he was stuck on stared back at him as he felt almost guilty for not being able to solve this problem.

"You okay?"

Max.

When it was announced that y/n would be taking Liam's spot, y/n had already met with Max multiple times. They were trying to see if the team chemistry would be there between a seasoned driver and an unseasoned one. Their relationship formed quickly as Max became an older brother figure to y/n. Max connected him to Charles, both having some idea what y/n was going through. From there, Max and Charles became y/n's mentor's in Formula 1 and helped him through everything he needed to know.

Y/n turned his head away from the worksheet and he looked over at Max, who was walking over in his race suit as he just got done with his FP2. He wore a worried look as y/n was tucked into the corner of the Red Bull hospitality with a confused and frustrated look on his face.

The rookie sighed as he dropped his pencil and hid his face in his hands. "Not really," he groaned as both his arms and head dropped onto the table; his head laying on his folded arms. "Calculus is going to be the death of me, Max. I can't do this," there was a slight waver to his voice, but he refused to cry in front of his teammate.

Max pursed his lips and sighed. He looked around the room to see if there was anything he could grab that might be of service to the young driver. When nothing came to mind, Max sat in the chair to y/n's right and he turned it so it faced y/n.

"Hey," Max said softly as he nudged y/n's knee with his own. Y/n's head rolled to the side so he could see Max's face and Max could see his. Y/n's eyes were starting to turn red, but Max paid no attention to it because he knew y/n would hate him for it. "If you need help, or a break, just ask, or talk to me or Charles. We care about you, y/n, and it sucks to see that they," he nodded over to the Red Bull team who was working on Max's car, "don't care about your mental health or school work. But, Charles and I do, okay?"

Y/n pursed his lips and nodded, blinking away tears that threatened to fall from his stinging eyes. He cleared his throat as he leaned back in his chair, his arms falling down into his lap as he looked back at the table

"Yeah. I care about you guys too," y/n started, looking down at his hands which were starting to fold his fingers together as a distraction, "but it's hard. I never liked asking for help and it's still a hard thing for me to do, even if you and Charles are trying to tell me it's okay to do so." Y/n rubbed at his nose as that too was starting to sting. He blinked away tears once more. "I just wish people understood. Fans and reporters. I feel like they only see me as the rookie that got picked up, and not as a high school student who happens to be good at racing," he looked up at Max, who was nodding along to what he was saying, paying attention to every word he said.

Max smiled sadly and nodded. "It sucks, it really does. They never understand and they don't even try to. I'm sorry about that, y/n, I really am," his eyes were wide and filled with sadness and sympathy. "They don't have to understand, though. You don't have to care about what they think, alright?" His eyes turned serious as he leaned forward and put a hand on y/n's knee. "You just need to focus on your school work and driving. Your real fans understand and they care about you too."

Y/n nodded along and he sniffed before wiping his nose on his hoodie sleeve. His FP2 was before Max's, so he slipped out of his race suit and into comfy clothes quickly so he could hide himself in the corner he and Max found themselves in now so he wouldn't be bothered.

Max's eyes narrowed at y/n before they glanced at his worksheet. "When is that due?" He asked as he pointed at the worksheet, which was halfway done.

"Um," y/n hummed as he looked over at the worksheet. He wasn't sure, so he had to double check. "One second," he said as he opened up his computer that was previously closed and shut off as he kept trying to look at the answer key. He pulled up Google Classroom and scrolled to his calculus class. He clicked his tongue a couple of times before saying, "Not until Monday." He looked back at Max, who had a smile on his face. "Why?"

"Tomorrow isn't Monday," Max smiled at y/n. They had a qualifying tomorrow, but an idea was brewing in Max's head already for tonight.

Y/n's brows furrowed, "I'm glad you know your days of the week, Max."

Max laughed. "How about we do something tonight? Invite Charles and we just go hang out around town?" He asked with a smile.

It wasn't unusual for Charles, Max, and y/n to do some adventuring in the town they end up having races in, but it was starting to get rare as y/n's midterms were sneaking up in the next month or two.

Y/n went to deny as he wanted to finish the worksheet, but Max held up a hand and leaned forward in his seat. "Don't try and get out of this because of your homework that isn't due until Monday. You're still young, y/n. You deserve to have some fun in your life, yeah?"

The younger driver scoffed a laugh as he leaned back in his seat. He shook his head, "You're unbelievable and I hate you." Max raised a brow and he held out his hands as he waited for a confirmation. "What the hell, sure," y/n shook his head as Max smiled and hit his shoulder.

"Alright!" Max smiled and stood. His hands hit his thighs as he stood. "You can stay in that if you want," he gestured towards y/n's oversized Red Bull hoodie and matching sweat-shorts, "but I'm going to take a very quick shower and change. I'll text Charles as well."

Then, Max left towards his driver room.

A smile formed on y/n's face. Even if he was close to tears just a minute ago, his eyes were dry as he packed up his calculator, pencil case, and tucked his worksheet into his math folder. It felt nice to be liked and to be needed. While he did have a loving family cheering him on from home, it was hard to be away from them during the season. It was nice to have two people who could fill in those roles while they were away.

Y/n made his way to the couch that was in the Red Bull hospitality, but not before grabbing a Red Bull from the mini fridge that was at the end of the couch. It was nearing dinner time and y/n was sure he would fall asleep on the couch he just sat on if he didn't have at least a couple of sips of Red Bull in his system.

As Max showered and changed, y/n played a mindless game on his phone that Charles downloaded a while ago after his own phone had died and was bored. Y/n remembers it vaguely; he doesn't remember where they were or what they were doing, but Charles's phone had died and he asked y/n id he had games on his phone, to which y/n responded no and Charles acted as if he killed Leo. Then, Charles said that it was his favorite game and was convinced that y/n was living under a rock because he didn't have it downloaded.

He played a couple of rounds before Max came out of his driver's room in a surprising pair of sweatpants and one of his classic Red Bull collard shirts. It wasn't common to see Max in sweatpants, he usually wore jeans with his shirts. Max typed on his phone as he walked, and he almost ran into the couch, but he stopped right in front of it before he could.

"You ready?" Max asked once he looked up from his phone. He chuckled at the sight in front of him; y/n holding his red bull can close as he was curled in on himself in the corner of the couch. His phone was close to his face as he played his game.

Y/n looked up and nodded, quickly unfurling himself. "Yep," he said, popping the 'p'. He stood from the couch and adjusted his hoodie. "Charles already outside?" y/n asked as Max started to lead the way to the door of the hospitality. He didn't get an answer from Max, but his confirmation was Charles standing in front of the door once Max opened up the door.

"Hey you two," Charles smiled at them as y/n and Max bent down to slip on the quickest shoes they could (sneakers for Max and Birkenstock clogs for y/n). Charles wore a red hoodie with a small black Ferrari horse on the heart with white sweatpants and creme Puma suede shoes. "Let's go, yeah?" He nodded his head toward the car park where all of the drivers kept their cars during race weekend.

Max and y/n stepped out of the Red Bull hospitality with smiles on their faces, happy that their trio was back together. Sometimes it's hard for the Red Bull duo to get together with Charles, seeing as their teams want to make sure their secrets aren't being shared with their opponent.

"Where are we going?" Y/n asked as the trio started to walk toward the car park; y/n was in the middle with Max to his right and Charles to his left. He looked from Max and then to Charles, both having smiles on their faces as they looked at each other past y/n's head.

"Seriously guys, where are we going?"

liked by oscarpiastri, redbullracing, maxverstappen1, and others tagged: charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1

youruser had to buy a swimsuit at the store cause they didn't tell me i needed one when we left

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charles_leclerc do people not go streaking anymore? ⤷ youruser you are NASTY! NASTY i tell you

userseven did you get your homework done

usereight alright ..

maxverstappen1 at least you got a new swimsuit out of it, i just got sandy pizza ⤷ charles_leclerc that was your own fault ⤷ youruser maxverstappen1 free protein for quali!!

oscarpiastri whore behavior on main is crazy ⤷ youruser leave me and my whoreiness alone 💔

usernine i wish i had a relationship like y/n and lestappen ⤷ userten so..parents? ⤷ usernine that was unnecessary

usereleven YOU'RE GOING TO GET POLE POSITION TOMORROW Y/N I BELIEVE IN YOU!! ⤷ usertwelve nah he's washed ⤷ userthirteen it's literally his first season 😭😭??????????

lando high school senior & f1 driver by day WHORE by night ⤷ youruser what's up with the mclaren teammates calling me a whore just say you want me and move on ⤷ lando woah alright i touched a nerve there my bad

TURNS OUT WHERE they were going was a beach—actually, first a clothing store, then a pizza restaurant, and then the beach. Charles and Max only told y/n they were going to the beach after pulling out of the car park in Charles's white Ferrari, so he whined and forced them to stop at a clothing store nearby so he could run in and buy a new pair of trunks and even a cover shirt.

Y/n leaned back on the blanket that Charles pulled out of his trunk when they pulled up to the beach. His elbows and heels dig into the sand as he laid back relaxed. He watched as Max and Charles played in the water like children. They had tried to pull him to the water with them, but he just denied and wanted to stay dry. He pulled on his Red Bull sweatshirt from before as the sun was starting to set and it was starting to get windy on the beach.

He must've zoned out, because suddenly both Max and Charles were laughing right next to him and falling down onto towels that they brought. They were sighing and laughing through breaths as they sat on either side of y/n, Max to y/n right and Charles to his left like before.

"You guys have fun?" Y/n asked, a smile on his face as he looked from Max to Charles, and then back to Max, and repeated that a couple of times before he got an answer.

Charles laughed and nodded, "Yeah. It's been so long since I've had fun in the water at a beach. I usually go on my boat, but I haven't been on a beach in so long."

Silence fell onto the three as they watched the sun slowly set and listened to the crashing of the waves and the chatter of birds that were further down the shoreline.

Suddenly, after a beat of staring at y/n and questioning whether he should actually speak up or not, Max asked, "Are you okay, now?" Y/n turned to Max while Charles turned to watch y/n like Max.

Y/n took a breath and looked back out towards the water. He pursed his lips and after a beat, he nodded. "Yeah," he breathed out with a smile on his face. "Yeah, I am. Sometimes I get too caught up in my own head and I act like I never have enough time for a break, and my life is always go, go, go. While it is that way sometimes, I feel like I never ask for help, or for a break." He took a deep breath in, smelling and taking in the smell of the salt water. Y/n looked to Max and then to Charles with a smile, "Thank you guys. Really. This was really nice, and definitely needed."

Charles smiled back at y/n and he glanced to Max quickly before looking back at y/n. "We're always here for you, y/n. Whether it's for school help, driving help, mental help, or even to kill someone," they all let out a chuckle, "we're here for you, okay? You're special, y/n, and we don't want you to lose your young spark just because you're stressed, alright?"

Y/n smiled, teary-eyed. He nodded, "Alright. I love you guys."

"We love you too, but," Max stood and he bent down to pull off y/n hoodie, which went willingly as y/n rolled his eyes, "it's time to get you in the water."

"Maaaax," y/n whined, but they weren't heard as Charles laughed and joined Max in standing. He helped grab y/n and drag him towards the water. Y/n's yells were helpless as he laughed and squirmed in their grip. "I hate you guys!" Y/n yelled before he was tossed into the cold water.

He came back up with a scowl as Charles and Max laughed with each other at y/n. "I know where you sleep."

liked by youruser, maxverstappen1, f1, and others tagged: youruser, maxverstappen1

charles_leclerc much needed quality time before quali 🌊❤️

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userfourteen bro theyre so cute 😭😭

userfifteen they don't want us to ship lestappen then they post pictures of them playing in the water like alright mate

youruser don't be fooled by the smile on my back, i was NOT happy ⤷ charles_leclerc i don't know i remember you telling us you loved us ⤷ maxverstappen1 you know i remember that too ⤷ youruser i told you guys i hated you actually

usersixteen the only family in formula 1

userseventeen can't decide if y/n is their kid or brother ⤷ usereighteen if we're shipping lestappen, kid. if we're not, brother.

maxverstappen1 ❤️ ⤷ charles_leclerc literally just a heart? damn what the hell ⤷ youruser my parents are fighting 💔

oscarpiastri um where was my invite????? ⤷ youruser you can come when you have a mental breakdown over homework ❤️ ⤷ oscarpiastri oh.. hope you're doing okay ⤷ youruser this made me giggle yes i am doing okay thank you oscar 😭😭

lando BAN family's from formula 1 next thing we know they're going to get 1-2-3 positions for the rest of the season ⤷ charles_leclerc no need to be salty lando nowins ⤷ lando I WILL SLASH YOUR TYRES

usernineteen im living for this family we have in f1 like y/n is literally lestappen's son

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chdarling · 22 hours ago

Text

Frequently Asked Questions

Hi friends, I've decided to turn my ask box off for a while. This is not in response to any specific ask or any drama, I just can't keep up right now, and I continually feel guilty receiving asks I don't have the energy to answer. I've decided that guilt is not so great for my mental health right now, so I'm taking a wee break and figured I'd post some answers to some of the questions I receive the most.

Snippets and Spoilers can be found here.

***

When will TLE3 be released?

I don't have an exact date, but it probably won't be in 2025. I am giving myself the space and time to write TLE3 at my own pace and pleasure, and I plan to have a full draft finished before I start publishing on AO3. I promise when it's ready, you'll be the first to know.

***

Can I print TLE?

Please do not print TLE using any commercial printing service, as this is not legal (at least in the US, which is where I am). If you are printing and binding it yourself solely for personal use and in a manner that is 100% in compliance with copyright law – aka no one at any point in the process can make any money off of it – then I personally am fine with it (and very honored!). However, I cannot give approval for anything that infringes copyright law in any way. Thank you for understanding! I don't want to be sued!

***

Can I translate/create a podfic/create fanart for TLE?

I would be so unbelievably honored! I give a blanket approval for translations, podfics, and fanart, and I'm so, so touched that you would take the time to do this. I just ask that you ONLY post to AO3* and to please mark it as a related work so it's linked to the original. I may be slow to approve the AO3 email linking the fics, but I promise I will! Thank you!!

*except fanart, obviously. Do whatever you want with that. Although if you post it on tumblr, I would LOVE to see it. <3

***

Are you on any other social media sites?

No. I am ONLY on Tumblr, AO3, and the TLE discord. I don’t even use social media in my personal life, so don't try to find me! I'm not there!

***

Do you have fanfic recommendations?

I’m sorry, but I am not a good resource for this. I haven't actually read much fanfic as I spend most of my limited free time writing it. However, I always recommend checking out @jilyawards for a fantastic collection of the incredible talent in this fandom over the years.

***

Do you take requests for one shots/other fics?

No, sorry. I have my hands more than full with TLE.

***

Do you take suggestions for the plot of TLE?

No, sorry. I have the story pretty tightly plotted from beginning until the (very) end, and while I occasionally swerve down new creative alleys, I’m very committed to sticking to my original plan.

***

Is [super specific spoilery thing] going to happen in TLE?

You are of course welcome to ask, but I am almost certainly going to shout “SPOILERS!” and run away cackling.

***

You say this is a canon fic but [super specific thing that I don’t agree with] is included. What gives?

For the purposes of TLE, ‘canon’ means the original seven books. Everything else is dressing. I do include as canon a lot of the lore JKR provided in interviews while the books were being published (for example, James being a Chaser), however I tend to view all post-book authorial additions as mostly optional. I do use a fair amount of Pottermore in my story, but I do not keep up with new HP material, so it’s impossible to stay up to date with everything. For example, I tweaked the Animagus process somewhat to my liking as opposed to what is described in Pottermore. This is partly because I already had my version sketched out before that was published, and mostly because I did not like what was given on Pottermore.

I do not consider any of the films canon. If this alleged HBO show happens, I will not consider that canon. Video game? Not canon. I also simply do not know what the words ‘Cursed Child’ mean, as I am pretty sure this is from an alternate timeline in which I do not exist. Tra la la. :)

All of this to say: The seven books are the framework. However, I feel pretty strongly that within that framework there is room for many, many interpretations – particularly with regards to the Marauders era, about which we know so little. Just because my headcanon or characterization is different from yours (or vice versa!) doesn’t make it less canon. Similarly, just because something is not explicitly described in the seven books, doesn’t mean it is against canon for it to have happened in the background, unnoticed by Harry, or before the timeline of the seven books starts. See: Wolfstar.

***

Wait, there’s wolfstar in TLE?

Yes. There will be wolfstar in the series. I did tag it from day one, please stop sending me shocked and horrified messages! (lol) Because people have such strong feelings about this ship, I always feel the need to give my little disclaimer: There will be wolfstar. Personally, I love it and am excited to write it. However, if you are a fan of exclusively fluffy, happy wolfstar, you might be disappointed. If you are interested in exploring the fraught, occasionally toxic relationship between two angsty, repressed, and deeply traumatized young men during an escalating war…strap in, gird your loins, etc. We're gonna have some fun.

***

Why do you have two blogs?

Because I'm dumb. Because I didn’t know how tumblr worked when I started this whole nonsense and thought that a side blog sounded like a good idea…aaaaand then pretty much immediately regretted it. This was back before you could reply from a sideblog, so everything was a mess. I'm an archivist at heart, so I can't bring myself to delete @chdarling-tle but I almost exclusively use @chdarling these days. Feel free to only follow that one, unless you only want chapter updates and none of my silly reblogs, in which case @chdarling-tle is here for you. Otherwise it's pretty dead over there.

(ok, confession: this actually isn't a frequently asked question at all, but I shoved it in here anyway because the two blog thing annoys the shit out of me and I wanted to give some context for my disorganization. I meant well, once upon a time!!!)

***

Do you have a Patreon?

I’m amazed and flattered that I’ve been asked this enough to include it in an FAQ, but no, I do not. While I am so appreciative that people want to support this project, TLE is a work of fanfiction, created entirely out of and for love, and is in no way a commercial endeavor. I do not make a penny off of this project. I almost certainly lose pennies to this project. But that's okay! Because of the aforementioned love! And, once again, my deep and enduring desire to not be sued!

(One day I do hope to share some original writing, and if you feel so compelled, you may absolutely pay me for that, but I'm not quite there yet. 😉)

***

Ok but seriously when will TLE3 be released?

(sorry I couldn't resist)

***

Ok that's all I can think of right now. Thank you so much as always for your enthusiasm and support. My closed ask box is in no way a commentary on my appreciation for this community, I'm just very, very tired.

lots of love, CH

#ch answers #tle

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jjsloverre · 2 days ago

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blurb of babydaddy!jj and pouge!reader taking a mental day together

in which… babydaddy!jj takes pouge!reader for a mental walk to talk about the pregnancy

contains… pure fluff, a little cliffhangerrrrrr, foreshadowing (not proofread)

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“cmon mama to be! we don’t got all day!” jj yelled for you.

you were getting ready for something. you didn’t even know since jj wouldn’t spill anything about. “coming!” you screamed back. you walked down the stairs and straight into his arms. “hey pretty mama, ready for this walk?” your eyes shot up at him. “walk? why are we going on a walk?”

“for your mental health and just to talk you know? and then i got some pizza in the lil square ways you like em. now cmon and let’s go, we’re walking for an hour!” he exclaimed. “okay baby.” you smile.

as you and jj are walking, your minds go to the topic of your pregnancy. “what do you want our little baby to be?” jj asked you, thinking hard about the question, you find your answer. “i want a girl, what do you want?”

“i want twins honestly, one boy one girl. can’t i just nut inside you and we have twins?” jj asked while he intertwined your fingers together.

“no smart guy that isn’t how that works.” you smile up at his pretty blue eyes. “well how does it work? how can i get you to have twins?”

“um? genetics?”

“real funny ma.”

“i really hope our baby has your eyes, they’re the prettiest color ever.” he smiles hard, his beautiful smile coming out. “i hope our baby has your beauty and brains. cause i don’t have brains for shit.”

“what else do you wanna talk about baby?” you brought your hands up to your lips and kissed his knuckles, (and also biting him per usual.)

“ready for the ultrasound?” jj asked. “really really ready!” you exclaimed. after just 30 minutes, you begged jj to take you guys back to the house, so you could eat the pizza he talked about.

★

“like the pizza?” jj asked. “course i do! it’s really really good, oh and jayj?” you look up at his pretty blue eyes. “what’s up?”

“do you regret this? like getting me pregnant? what if you have other baby mamas?” jj looked at you pretty confused. he didn’t understand where this concern was coming from. but then again, he realized you were pregnant, and probably had millions of questions about his past hookups. “i don’t fuck girls raw, i use protection. and i only didn’t do it with you cause you were my close friend and i trusted you to… i guess fuck raw? i honestly didn’t mean to get you pregnant, but to answer your question… no i don’t regret it. i’ve always wanted kids! didn’t think it would be this early but if it’s with you? wouldn’t want it with anyone else.”

“really?” you whispered.

“really.”

“can we… go to the mall for some stuff? and then a spa?” you cuddled into his arms while he rubbed your growing belly. “hell yeah we can! we can do whatever you want.”

“yay thank you!”

“no problem baby. hey… why don’t you get some rest? got a big day tomorrow don’t we?”

“yeah we do… thank you for this mental day and the walk, i didn’t realize how much it would help me, but it helped so much.” you whispered to jj, falling asleep in his arms.

★

as you went to sleep, jj had a plan that would change everything. he got on the phone with kiara.

“look… we don’t talk but i need a favor, don’t flirt with me either. and i mean it, i need to go ring shopping for y/n, i’m asking you for help since you’re her best friend, differences aside, do this for her and leave my drama out of it.”

“fine…” kie whispered back through the phone. “what time asshole.” jj rolled his eyes. “lose the attitude, the fuck you mad for? just because i rejected you to be with the mother of MY child? that doesn’t matter no more, but anyway… friday at noon while she’s at lunch with her parents. thanks kie.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

taglist: @sturniologirlzz @sturns-mermaid @bee-43 @anacamofficial @superlegend216 @eddxemxnson @sophand4n4 @ethanthequeefqueen @aaliyahsturniolo @always-reading @maybankslover @slut4rafecameronn @leaseyes @sttaejoon-blog @glitterybombshell @idontknowwhyimhere33 @moonywhisp3rs @imsiriuslyreal @sturnioloenthousiast @coalicionees

a/n- a little short but ty for 500 followers! and my bday in 20 days? we bouta t up👅👅 anyway! enjoy this foreshadowing 😉

more babydaddy!jj x pouge!reader here

#jj maybank #outer banks #obx #jayj𓆉 #obx cast #jj maybank fic #jj maybank outer banks #jj maybank angst #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #outerbanks jj #obx jj #jj angst #baby daddy jj

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steviewashere · 3 days ago

Text

Back in My Head Again

Rating: Mature CW: Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Steve Harrington, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use (In Various Points), Mental Health Issues, Past Referenced Parent Death Pairings: Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Father, Steddie Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Making Some Bad Decisions, Impulsive Steve Harrington, Good Friend Tommy Hagan, Protective Tommy Hagan, Tommy Hagan Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Tommy Hagan Cares About Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is Loved, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie & Tommy Bonding About Steve, Childhood Friends, Hopeful Ending This one's a very personal piece to me. So please be kind, but also take care of yourselves. This one gets dark really fucking fast. Read all content warnings and tags, take care! <3 Also on ao3 (because this is long)

☎️—————☎️ Tommy’s the only one who knows what happened to his mom. It’s not that he’s keeping her death a secret, but it’s easier to just not say anything. Sometimes, when he’s quiet in a room, all the eyes around him are a bit more attentive than they’d be if he were just being stupid. He only found out because Steve needed an ear to listen and a brain that remembers when she had been sweet.

Not that his mom hadn’t been nice or sweet or motherly. She was just…different near the end. Combative. Argumentative. Angry. He could breathe the wrong way and receive an earful for the way his nostrils whistle. Had he known the inevitable, maybe he would’ve been a little bit more receptive to her comments, accepted them like soft punches to an even softer pillow, but as it was, he was just as angry—if not more.

With her gone, his dad became worse.

They weren’t, like, buddies before she died. But if they were in the same room? Well, it would take a whole lot of tongue biting, but Steve could manage it. With his nose cradled in the crook of his elbow, all his words muffled by warm skin, and hands curled into tight white fists. At least in the before, there were only a handful of times where he felt the need to be scared of his dad. The one afternoon where he came home from a basketball practice—pent up and exhausted, hungry as hell, sweating where the sun didn’t shine—and his dad had been furious about something probably ridiculous, and charged at him from the other side of the room. Steve had acted on a weakened instinct, one he thought he trained to be obediently dormant, but when his fists went up in front of his face and his eyebrows furrowed into the soft hoods of his eyelids, he knew he’d always had to be ready just in case.

Maybe he was just a spoilt brat. Maybe he was just an angsty teenager with too many misplaced emotions. Maybe he was just naive.

But he had been ready, always, to pack his shit, dodge some punches, and get the hell back. Though, when his mom was alive, he survived on her affection like a sick bee needing sugar. Now, without her? It was a matter of time before his dad starved him. Or worse.

Tommy knew, though, about his parents. That his mom died suddenly and too young. That his dad was an asshole. He knew about the always packed backpack in his closet, the overstocked first aid kit he hid under his bed, and that secret he let spill from his lips too late one evening, beer soaked on his tongue, a hunger for Tommy’s freckles in the deep pit of his stomach—I want to kiss you, is that weird?

Was it maybe too weird that he went to Tommy still? Even after everything? Even after telling him off in that parking lot? Maybe, but Steve’s never been one to make good decisions. But there was a certain sort of security blanket when it came to talking to Tommy.

After a bad hookup? He went to Tommy. Drank a little too much and needed somebody to not judge him for it? He called Tommy. Wet the bed from a nightmare like he did as a kid? To his childhood friend, Tommy, he ran to.

They’ve seen each other at their worsts. Well, the non-NDA, government cover-up worsts. He’d been there for Tommy when his parents divorced. Been there the first time Tommy had been rejected. Been there when Tommy was sick with the flu, threw up a little too hard, and gave himself a nose bleed. And in turn…

Steve trusted Tommy still, despite it all.

Was it unhealthy? To rely on Tommy in certain dire moments and then to recede as if it never happened? Oh yeah, Steve can recognize that. But would he go to Robin with information about his dad? No, unfortunately, he wouldn’t. There’s not enough time and comfort and days spread between them.

He’s known Tommy since he was seven years old.

If they weren’t such big piles of shit, to each other, to themselves, maybe they’d still be orbiting. But. They are, that’s the problem. They are.

Now, though, he needs Tommy.

Hugging a payphone by the nearby park, wrapped up in loose, thin layers, seventeen degrees and lips turning purple, he needs him.

“C’mon, Tommy…c’mon,” he mutters, breath puffing in front of him in a large white cloud. This is his last quarter. His cheeks are searing with tears. There aren’t gloves on his hands, his fingers are fucking numb and bluish. He’d go home, but his dad is there. Drunk and stubborn and angry, his dad is always there.

Finally, on the last ring, it’s picked up. “Hello?” Tommy answers gruffly.

Steve sobs, hard and sour and ugly, “T-Tommy.”

“Holy shit,” he hears, that voice now alert, “Steve, is that you? Oh my god, are you okay?”

His eyes dart around. The street is empty. There’s ice under his stupid sneakers, one wrong move and he’ll give himself another concussion. Words bubble in his throat, but all that leaves him is an awkward, dry retch.

“Hey,” Tommy whispers, “take…take a deep breath for me, okay? I’m—Take a moment, I’m right here.”

The breath stutters in his chest, hiccuping and sharp and painful. He heaves a sigh, is praised for it, and sniffles. “My d-dad f-fucking sucks. I hate him, Tommy. I fucking hate him.”

Over the line, Tommy shuffles—probably in his bed, this late at night; 3:23am, when Steve hazily glances at his watch. “I know,” he says softly, “what’d he do, Stevie? Or is he just…”

“He—fuck—I came downstairs to get some water, y’know, and…and I don’t know, he was just in the kitchen. I could…I could see the alcohol on the counter, so he was drinking, and he’s always drinking, Tommy…he’s always, always—but he saw me and h-he called me an asshole, I know I am, but I just—I was just trying to get some water and he just said it and he—he said it was my fault that my mom, that she…”

The moment ‘mom’ leaves his tongue, the sobs boil again in his throat. Gurgling and wet, he allows it to happen. Bile-laden sobs rip wild through his chest, staining the back of his mouth, heaving out of him because the breath burns through him too fast to mean anything. He blubbers, words incoherent through his teeth, slurred in a way only his dad knows how. And it’s within the blink of an eye, sorry on himself that he’s so close to being just like him, that he’s wrenching something deep from within his pocket.

On his sixteenth birthday, only a few short years ago, his grandpa had still been alive. Happy and well. There was one thing he gave him. A pocket knife. Heavy silver handle, sharpened silver blade, his name engraved in pointed letters. It was for self-defense, a good tool just in case of an emergency.

Is it self-defense if it was himself that he was protecting from?

Is it self-defense if it pierces between his ribs?

Is it self-defense if it was an emergency escape?

“Where are you?” Tommy asks. It’s urgent in the air, as if he’d already been asking it in Steve’s daze, looking down at the pocket knife shiny in his grip. “I’m going to come get you. Where are you?”

He could bite his tongue, he’s good at it.

But one thing about Tommy that nobody else knows is that he’s perceptive as hell.

Steve could swallow his own tongue, but even then, Tommy would pick up that something is going seriously wrong.

“That park near my house,” he mumbles in response, “you know where it is?”

“You see a bench nearby?”

He nods stupidly, humming without words.

“Can you sit on it for me, Steve?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I can do that.”

“Okay,” Tommy sighs, but it doesn’t sound put-out. It’s relief. “Stay on that bench and wait for me, okay? I want to be able to see you.”

Steve hums again. Bobbles his heavy, eyes-burning head. “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry?”

His hand fists tighter around the folded pocket knife. Thumbnail etching into his own name, eggshell white paint chipping at the pressure. One wrong move, one wrong thought, one wrong second—he takes a deep breath, the air burning inside him, and can pinpoint the exact spot where the blade would rest. It’d be just one quick push. One last scream. One last bout of terror. The metal is cold in the center of his palm, yet his fingers haven’t quite picked up on the temperature.

“‘Course,” Tommy murmurs, “I’ll find you soon.”

The phone buzzes dead in his ear. There are tears crisp and hot to the gentle wobble of his chin. He darts his eyes to the nearby park bench, lonely and dark with a gentle spattering of snow along its back, and he begins the gentle path forward. Tiptoeing around sheets of slick, thin ice. Fog in the air hanging, clouding the dark sky to be a semi-permanent pale grey. He settles himself on the bench, the cold seat against his pants.

In his hand, the knife rests uneasily. It’s a light thing, but tonight it’s especially heavy. Especially daunting. He blinks, still looking at it with his tired, seeping eyes, and curls his fingers around it. It doesn’t go back to his pocket, though.

He doesn’t know, really, why he took the little knife with him. As if, possibly, there’d be a demodog out there searching for him—that’s the only truth he can bring to the forefront of his mind. That he’d be hunted down by something he could only control with the folds of his own flesh, but even that’s a sorry excuse; the demo-creatures have long since been rid of, they were connected to Vecna, and Vecna’s as good as dirt. If he had to think of a reason, Steve could conjure up reality with a simple blink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the need had always been there.

To kill himself.

That’s as bluntly as he could put it.

Even that brings a fresh churn to his ever-churning stomach.

The need had been there, though. An etch to the sketch of his whole person. A fleeting thing. Maybe since the first time he’d been left home alone—eight years old and confused. Maybe when he called the police after his dad had hit him the first time—ten years old and told that that’s how bad kids are punished, a spanking. Maybe when he drank himself into near hysteria—thirteen years old and puking up his lungs in his mom’s nice peonies outside the kitchen window. Or maybe it was after the demogorgon—seventeen.

Could’ve been in part because of Nancy or even Jonathan. Possibly Carol. Even Barb. At one point, definitely, Tommy.

But even he knows pointing fingers at friends is pointless.

This need, this feeling, the weight of the knife in his hand—

He’d always held the handle. It was just a matter of sensitivities that controlled the blade.

Why this time?

Why now?

Because he was an asshole? Whatever. He’s been an asshole. Because his dad was home? Whatever. Steve’s always wanted him home. Because his mom was dead? Whatever. She’s been dead for over a year now. No Vecna to get her, no demogorgon to savor her—he had been eighteen, she had been sick, like really fucking sick…it was nobody’s fault.

So why now? Steve couldn’t even pinpoint the reason.

It was a build probably. Unresolved shit from the Upside Down, hand in hand with his failing minimum wage job, with his spiral of never-ending college rejection letters, on and on. He never went through with flicking open the blade. Had to protect and whatnot. Is it because there’s no reason to protect? Is it because he doesn’t have to now?

Sure, he was staying because of Dustin, Max, the lot of them, Robin, and Eddie.

He wasn’t staying for himself, though.

Why would he? Who could?

He’s always had this need to never truly pocket the knife. Despite its name.

It belonged to him. Name on it and everything. And as fate should see it, maybe it was a sign.

Read: Steve Harrington is fucked in the head and is going to do something about it.

Read: Steve Harrington brandishes a weapon and he knows how to use it.

Read: Steve Harrington wants to die and has wanted to for a really long time.

Longer than he cares to admit.

He flicks the handle, blade unsheathing with a quick schtick! It’s shiny and clean. Never used. There’d been a back up pocket knife, one he was given from his dad; it was only ever used for shotgunning beers. Couldn’t bring himself to use it for anything else outside of that. And he couldn’t ever hurt himself, not when he was swimming and playing basketball. Everybody would see. Everybody would know. He was known, sure, but not known, and the prospect of that brings a fresh wave of goosebumps to his arms. Unless that’s the cold. But the point still stands.

The knife he currently has, shiny and clean, it could use a little grit to it. Some roughage.

Why hadn’t he killed himself, though? Was it the blood that made him squeamish? The fact he’d hurt anyway? He could drown, but then there was the problem of his bloated corpse. And there was the possibility of overdosing, but then somebody would go all detective on his stupid body, trace back the ketamine in his system to Eddie…Eddie doesn’t deserve that.

He’s had plans. They were kind of…intrusive, though. Made in a split second decision. The ketamine one, he almost went through with that. Bought as much as he was allowed to purchase in one sitting, whatever Eddie was willing to part with—years ago, he has half a mind to squander, he doesn’t sell like that anymore—and then he’d return a few days later, stock up some more…he was just gonna go for it. All in one sitting. Lock the bathroom door behind him. He had even brought in a dining chair the night he was going to, set it up underneath the doorknob and everything, yet when it came to the actual drugs…

The toilet had a very open mouth and very willing stomach that night.

There was the quarry. He’d only been there a few times. Not since Will’s “body” had been discovered, but he’d been there before. It was always during a morning jog. Crisp autumn air, low hanging fog, nobody on the roads. Steve would make a detour, in his short sleeve t-shirt and even shorter shorts, and he’d jog right up to the edge.

It was farther and farther and farther down the more he went. The more he grew. Even when he sat, he was taller than the time before. Sometimes he’d throw a rock, watch it skitter down the sharp edges of other rocks, listen until the sound disappeared, until the only thing that gave proof it was there were the ripples in the water far below. There was always a passing thought, though, that he’d leave a lot more evidence behind. Every sharp edge stained with proof of him. He wanted nothing left in his wake. Wanted it to look like somebody had just snatched him while he was out, dumped him in the water, had very little care for his body. Because who would care? No, if he went through with his plan, there’d be evidence. The news would break: Steve Harrington, age 15, Death By Suicide. Or would they publish it? Beat around the bush, probably. Save face and all.

Point is, there had been plans steadily over the years. Each one getting smaller and smaller and lesser and lesser. It was always the clean up that startled him. The fear that little bits and pieces of him would be left behind. Vomited foam from his mouth, blood from his head, the wet shadow of his body pulled from the pool. He’d be everywhere. And everyone would know.

Steve Harrington was suicidal.

King Steve Harrington had problems.

Steve Harrington was a scared little boy, hardly a man, and oh how fun that is to laugh at.

Who would miss him? Well and truly miss him?

At eighteen? Dustin. Maybe Nancy. Maybe even Jonathan. They’d would’ve gotten over it, wouldn’t they have? Poor Steve Harrington, the ex and the babysitter. At fifteen? Just Tommy and Carol. He always imagined it, people like Barb and Nancy and Robin and Eddie, all of them adrift by the news, but later getting over it. Just a ‘who cares’ thrown over their shoulder, a ‘good riddance’ in the back of their mind they’d never admit to. At twelve? Bobby in the A/V club, who always welcomed Steve with a gap-toothed grin and his wide bright eyes, making sure there was always space for his confused questions. The kid that some time later, Steve watched get his head swirled in a toilet, laughing at how he sputtered. At eight? His mom. She would’ve been inconsolable. Though, she would be young enough, maybe she could’ve tried again.

Now, though?

There’s…there’s too many people to even name.

God, way too many people.

He was staying for them, never himself. Got a best friend and a few pseudo siblings, his adopted dads in Hopper and Wayne…and he’s got a boyfriend that nobody knows about. He’s got everything.

Why is he still here? With the knife in his hand? In the cold? Frostbitten and scared?

Underneath all the scars, the anger, the hair, he’ll always be that scared little boy. The little boy afraid of his dad—the monster he lives with. Of drunk hands and slurred words, cigar smoke and stale dinners, wooden paddles and leather belts. He’ll always be the little boy that cried in his knees, hidden in the depth of his closet, under tens of old clothes, hanging on for dear life. Always be the kid that called his best friend, Tommy, when things went to shit. Phone cradled to his ringing ear, a slap still stern across his cheek, and needing instructions from Tommy’s parents on how to use a first aid kit.

He’s gotten better at discerning what he needs from the kit. Not because of alternate dimension beings, though. No, due to the monster that sits at his dining table, sipping Jack with glazed eyes and sorrowed brows, angry veins and angrier words. Asshole.

Steve was scared. Vulnerable. Soft-bellied. And he was small, despite being so big, he was always smaller than he showed. Any sign of himself—this true self, squirmy and squeamish and small—that would be it. He didn’t want to be known. Didn’t want to be found out.

But then, here he was, holding the knife.

Distantly, he hears the slow jog of heavy steps. He has the wherewithal to recognize he should stow away the knife, deep in his pocket where nobody can see. Though, as it glistens and blinks—mesmerizing him—he leaves it wide open.

This isn’t the first time he’s been here.

It needs to be his last.

“Stevie!” Tommy shouts somewhere on his left. Steve’s head swivels to the sound of his own nickname. Jogging up one of the clearer snow paths, Tommy’s making quick work of getting to him. He’s in heavier clothes than Steve is: a beat-up Carhartt jacket, thick and long jeans, brown work boots, a tartan red scarf wrapped messily on his neck, mittens, and a beanie with a big pom-pom on the top. As he gets closer, Steve can hear his heavy breathing, see the puffs that emanate from the frigid air. Still got that boyish way to him. A million freckles, those soft brown eyes, his pearly white teeth. The first boy Steve ever thought to kiss; the first and last boy to break his heart. “Steve,” Tommy murmurs now that he’s close, “hey…hey, I found you.”

He can’t move from his spot on the bench. It’s cold. His bottom aches from the chill of the wood, but he can’t make himself get up. Legs like lead. That knife still heavy. And he might cry if he speaks right now.

Tommy can see him. Truly see him.

For the first time.

Steve can catch the exact moment Tommy spots the unsheathed, flipped open knife. His eyes widen a fraction, eyebrows shooting up to the edge of his hat, his light smile fading into the paleness of his cheeks. He stutters in his settling, standing frozen to the spot. Like he became one with the slick ice. He’d do something like laugh at the expression, but again, it may just catch like a sob.

“You…you have a knife,” Tommy dumbly points out. His eyes dart away from the blade, though. He’s forcing himself to not look. To ignore it. Setting his focus on Steve’s face instead. “Your lips,” he whispers, “what’re you doin’ out here without a scarf? And your gloves and coat and…you need to be warm.” With great speed, the same quickness Steve used to see on the high school’s track, Tommy is unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. Gently, he tucks it on Steve’s, forcing it to sit tight against his going blue lips. Then, he’s tugging off his jacket, slipping Steve’s left arm through one of the sleeves. But by the time he makes it to the right—“Stevie, can I…I need to take the knife from you, okay? I need to get you warm.”

He can’t move his hand.

But his eyes stay on Tommy’s. Big on his sunken face, burning hot with fresh tears, chin wobbling. He can’t even ask.

“I’m gonna take it,” Tommy gently says, “put it in my pocket, okay? Just for a little while.” Slow now, he reaches for the knife. When Steve doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even flinch, he takes it in his grip. It’s probably the only thing about him that’s warm, if the surprise on Tommy’s face says anything. But he ignores that, too. Simply folds it up—schtick!—and buries it deep in the front left pocket of his jeans. Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

The outline of its handle in Tommy’s pocket is something, though. Heavier than it seems.

Had it looked like that in Steve’s sweatpants? All weighted and obvious?

He pities himself—the fool.

Tommy continues to take care of him, though, one piece of clothing at a time. The jacket all zipped, mittens on Steve’s numb hands, beanie on his big head. And when he’s done, he steps back with a tight, light smile. “There,” he breathes, “all done.” He tucks the scarf tighter again, as if he can manifest it to be warmer. Then, softly, he takes Steve’s hands in his own, rubbing them with his palms. Forcing them to get warmer. “Can I get you to come with me to my car? Let me turn on the heater and warm you up?”

Steve blinks. The first thing he feels on his face since he finished sobbing on the phone—a single hottear. “Are you taking me home?” he asks, wobbly and so unusual, even for himself. It makes him sound like a little kid. A little, vulnerable, very afraid kid.

“No,” Tommy murmurs—simple—“I’m not. We are going to drive around for a few, so you get warmed up in the car, get you a gas station hot chocolate—which will taste and feel amazing right now—and then I’m going to take you wherever you want to go.” He pats Steve’s shoulders with both of his hands, almost like he’s reminding himself that Steve is still right there. To touch. Alive. “How’s that sound?”

He nods once. Then, he blinks and shakes his head. Nods. Shakes. “I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, muffled by the scarf, “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no, I don’t want an apology. No apologies allowed. I’m glad you called.” Tommy squeezes Steve’s shoulders, looking dead on. There’s something watery in his gaze now. He doesn’t let it fulfill. “I’m really glad you called, okay? Let’s go to the car to warm up. And if…if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk. My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, you know that.”

They make their way back one slow step at a time. Their arms are hooked like they’re on some winter wonderland walk date. It’s fucked sideways, completely fucked, but Steve smiles small behind his scarf anyway. Tommy’s trying to fill the silence, something about baseball and little league and coaching, but Steve’s too lost in the warmth seeping through his body. The heat that makes him feel truly like a dancing flame, alive.

He’s still bad enough to know that once tonight is through, wherever he ends up, he’ll be left bereft with the consequences of his own actions. Probably something about disappearing in the middle of the night from his dad, something worse if his mind’s eye isn’t playing tricks. A lot of people will have questions as to why they’re seeing Tommy Hagan around a lot more—wandering into the Family Video just to talk to Steve, swooping into their local diner just to grab some fries with a wave at Steve, hanging around the arcade just to catch Steve beating his own high score. Nobody has to know what happened tonight.

But if he doesn’t talk, eventually he’ll self-immolate. Implode.

Steve Harrington, 19, Found Dead in Ditch; does not sound appealing. It wouldn’t make sense, he’s a great driver. He’d make it look like an accident, though. He’s still too much of a live-wire for a million and one questions, let alone all the queues being dispersed among so many people.

He needs help, he knows that. How does he ask for it, though? Who’s going to be less judgmental when he finds the strength to ask? Or is it going to be just as he feared? Under a microscope, people poking and prodding, local town pariah for being so mentally unwell. It happened to Eddie’s mom.

Maybe he’d be the only one to truly grasp it.

The conversations that have to be had, though, are daunting. Less daunting, however, than the knife still stowed in Tommy’s pocket.

He’s just sat in the passenger seat, reclined the way he likes with the door shut behind him, when Tommy abruptly turns on the car and starts messing with the dials on his vents. Pointing every single one at Steve, cranking that heat up. His radio is on, too, playing a mixtape on low volume. It’s the one Steve made him in their freshman year—“Nowhere Man” by The Beatles is just starting.

“Rubber Soul?” Steve finds himself mumbling.

“Hm?” Tommy stops moving for a moment, seatbelt halfway to being buckled, darting his eyes to the radio. “Oh—yeah, yeah! Remember, you showed me this album? One of my favorites, man. Always liked this song the most…you put it on this tape twice just to make sure I heard it.” He smiles at Steve. Bright and happy, his eyes squinting and his freckles bunching. It’s always been a great smile.

It’s been a while since it was pointed at him.

He likes it.

Wishes these were better circumstances. That they had been better people. That they’d survived. Maybe if they both weren’t so conniving and embarrassing and crude. One day, he thinks he can forgive Tommy. Not now, not for a while.

Tonight, though, he can learn to thank him.

Maybe that in itself is forgiveness enough for Steve, but even then, it takes more than a few good years of near radio silence to pass them by.

“Let me just”—Tommy whispers, leaning in. He reaches for the seatbelt, stretching it across Steve’s rigid body, and safely clicks it into place. There’s a moment where he lingers, staring, darting his eyes over every minuscule part of Steve’s face. Up close, there are definitely unshed tears in Tommy’s stare, but he just smiles. Small and safe, just for them, he smiles again. He pulls back to his own seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hovering over the gearstick.—“there we go, all tucked away. Sorry if the jacket is a little tight, it was the only winter coat I could find, guess it’s getting up there in years.”

Steve blinks and settles his head deeper into the headrest. Exhausted, he doesn’t say anything else.

Tommy seems to allow it, pulling away from the curb and back onto the empty street. He’s going at a snail’s pace, most likely because he doesn’t have chains on his tires. But he keeps his focus on the road ahead, unlike the him of previous years. Sitting passenger in Steve’s car, talking directly at him, not sparing a glance out the window. Instead, he looks forward, occasionally squeezing the leather of his steering wheel tighter. His eyes are darting, though. Nervous. Scared.

They pass by a few dark houses. Some small stores.

And then the gas station is pulling into view, Tommy slowing to turn into the parking lot, putting it in park. He turns to Steve, eyes big and dark in the dim light of his car. “I’m gonna go in there and fetch a large hot chocolate for you. D’you want me to grab anything else?”

He shrugs.

“Hey,” Tommy murmurs, “let me take care of you for a little bit, okay? Drive you around, get you some things you need.” He reaches out, gently squeezes Steve’s left forearm. His thumb is tracing the seam of the jacket’s sleeve. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “…maybe just some peanut butter cups?”

Tommy nods. “‘Course. Want some Reeses Pieces, too? I remember you liked those.”

“No, it’s okay. Shouldn’t put you out like that anyway.”

The fingers still resting on his forearm tighten. Squeezing so hard, Steve can feel the bite of his fingernails. “You aren’t putting me out, Stevie. It’s no big deal.”

Up close, he can make out the eye bags and dark circles under Tommy’s eyes. The tired fold of his smile. Laziness creeping back onto his face. Probably tired as hell.

“Just those things. Don’t need anything else, promise.”

For a brief, brief moment, Tommy remains rooted to his seat. Something flickers through his face. A shuttering shimmer of daylight, darkening in the edges the way a vignette photograph does. It’s not confusion or disbelief or anger. A sadness, maybe. A fear.

But then Tommy is heaving himself out of the car, keys still in the ignition, radio volume low, heaters pulling their weight.

Steve glances out the passenger side window. At the chainlink fence on the edges of this gas station parking lot, curled into itself and overgrown with wild weeds. Some needles are littered at the base of the fence—he wonders where those people are now. Were they looking for a little relief? Partying with the hard stuff for the sake of it? The thrill of it?

How many of them were like him?

How many were there?

His reflection is blinking in the glass of his window, peering out softly at the needles. What if there was only one? Just as young. Just as scared. With nobody there to pick them up, take them out of their head, be patient. Nobody, not even an old friend, not even a neighbor. He wonders if this person—this figment—was running from something. Feelings, responsibilities, the very thing they feared. Seeking shelter, semblance of a normal in the dark parking lot of their local gas station chain.

Maybe they made it out. Got away from their head in that manner. Maybe they see the needles, too. Putting themself in those shoes, some of them new, some of them dirty, some of them laced, some velcro. He hopes they got their peanut butter cups and hot chocolate. Hopes they got a soft ending; wherever they may have ended up; whoever they ended up being.

Glancing out the windshield, he spots Tommy looking back at him, as if checking to see if he’s still there. His stomach turns over, clenching hard at the reason why. The fact he put that worry there. Shit.

And then, finally, he gets a good catch of himself in his overhead mirror. There are barely any lights around that illuminate his face, just whatever shines outwards from within the little convenience store. His hair is tucked away in the beanie, not wild from the wind like he had been expecting. His cheeks are puffy, starting to redden with color, from the heat in the car. But his eyes.

Flat, pink, bloodshot, yet empty.

No wonder Tommy keeps looking at him. He put that worry there, in the absence of himself, he instilled that worry. The fear.

Tommy eventually comes back out, swinging into the car with a to-go carrier of hot chocolates, and a crinkling plastic bag in the crook of his left elbow. He settles in his seat, off loading the carrier to Steve, regaling him to divvying out the drinks. Once he’s in, buckled and warmed, he reaches for the ignition.

“Can we stay here for a minute?” Steve meekly asks.

All at once, Tommy stops in his tracks. Sitting back. “Y-yeah, dude, sure. Just figured you’d wanna see around first, give yourself some time to…to think, I guess.”

He hands off one of the hot chocolates when Tommy reaches out for it, saying in the process, “I feel like I’ve done enough thinking tonight. Enough for a lifetime.”

There’s a sharp inhale at that. “I get that,” Tommy murmurs, “seems like there’s a lot of empty time on my hands these days.”

Steve sniffs, takes a swig of his drink, hums unconsciously at the flavor. “What are you up to these days? ‘Sides saving my sorry, stupid ass.”

“You’re not stupid, Steve. Don’t say shit like that.” He’s momentarily frozen in his seat, as Tommy’s eyes ice over to him. “And I already told you, I’m glad you called me.”

“You were asleep. You could’ve told me that. I would’ve found somebody else.”

“I wanted to get you,” Tommy insists. “It doesn’t matter how much time or space or whatever other garbage is between us, if you call me, I’m gonna be there. Even if you need me to—fucking, I don’t know—tie your shoes or something.”

Steve traces the lid on his cup with the thick thumb of his mitten. Words caught splintered in his throat, dead.

At his silence, Tommy lets out a sad little sigh. And then he goes quiet for a moment, too.

The air isn’t exactly tense, but it isn’t pleasant either. Thick, heavy, and warm. Maybe it’s the heater vents, the million layers he was forced into, the hot chocolate in his hands. It’s not even a good hot chocolate—Wayne Munson is the king of that—but he can appreciate it for what it is. A chance to make sure that he isn’t going to collapse in on himself.

It’s an appeasement. In a way, he’s being convinced to stay.

“What would it take to show you that you’re worth caring for?” Tommy suddenly breaks through. “Because I…I know I was going to let you talk about it in your own time, but…Steve, I want to be there, but I can’t always be there. And I. I have to be honest, right?

“I’m always going to try and save you. I’ll always come to your side when you call me, even if it’s been months or, shit, even years. But what happens when the next time I’m out here in the cold, your toes are too far over the edge? What if I go to grab the back of your shirt and it rips in my grip? What if…what if you can’t be patient anymore?” He won’t look up from the lid of his cup. Won’t answer, not yet. Right, passes through his head, he’s right. You know he is. Tommy’s gaze is set on his face, shiny in his peripheral. “I love you with every piece of me, again, no matter what, I’m always gonna love you. Just…

“Steve, I’m worried one day I won’t reach you.

“Or that I’m gonna come across…that you won’t be there by the time I arrive,” he stresses, “and I don’t want any of that to happen. Seriously, whether you’re my best friend or fuckin’ best enemy or whatever, I still care about you. You were still my first friend, the first person outside of my family that I was hugging, my first camaraderie, and you were my first wake-up call.”

Finally, he drags his eyes up. Burning, heavy, aching, Steve blearily looks to Tommy. Caught up in the blur of his own vision, unable to see even two feet ahead of him. His whole everything aches. Every ember of his soul. The drip of his blood, rushing straight to his toes, up to his no longer numb fingers.

The world’s a fireplace around him, words sound like near deathbed confessions, and he can taste his stale breath cutting through the chocolate. He never did get his glass of water. Can’t believe he let his dad play into this. Into tonight.

“Tommy,” he chokes out. “I don’t…I don’t know what you want me”—

“Sorry,” Tommy whispers, “I’m sorry. That was a lot and all at once. I just care about you, man.” He reaches out, grabbing for Steve’s forearm once more. Fingers tense and tight in his jacket. “I’d hate to see you gone. You deserve to be here, to be cared for. Please, Steve, just let me care about you for tonight. Please.”

Bending forward, Steve places his hot chocolate in the cup holder closest to him. Having his ear closer to the speaker, he can hear “Nowhere Man” again—or what must be for the second time. Tommy was always trying to make Steve feel better, even if sometimes how he showed it seemed impossibly stupid; but maybe the song wasn’t purposefully put on the cassette twice, he has half a mind to realize, Tommy didn’t want him to feel dumb for what he did.

Slowly, he peels off his mittens, fingers sweating with anticipation to not be so damn hot. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tommy begin to lurch forward, stop him, but Steve only works faster. Just so he can place the naked skin of his right palm over the back of Tommy’s. Their skin joins in a puddle of malleable warmth. And even further, the hand under his turns, palm now up, gripping tight to his fingers. He rests his head against the passenger window, looking out at the bottom of the fence again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs.

“Stop apologizing. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I”—

He’s silenced with an even tighter pressure to the tips of his fingers. So hard that he can feel the way Tommy’s wrist shakes with the force. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not asking for it. It’s not necessary.”

Steve nods against the window. Beanie pushing up, hair falling free against his forehead. “Okay,” he crackles.

Again, Tommy’s moving, his shirt rustling against the leather seat. But he’s closer, if the warmth of his shoulder bleeding into Steve’s says anything. “Hey”—he tugs their joined hands, Steve glances over—“you think you can talk to me? Tell me what happened?”

Shrugging, Steve sighs. “Just…what I said earlier. Trying to get some water, Dad’s in the kitchen starting shit. Guess I just…just pussy-ed out. Went running out the door.”

Tommy swallows hard. “Did he…”

“He tried to get his hands on me,” Steve admits quietly, confessing what Tommy already knew. “But he was so drunk, he swung and stumbled. Made it out of there with my hair still intact.” His shoulder hurts in this angle. But he doesn’t want to pull his hand away, not when it gets another squeeze, not when he earns Tommy’s thumb rubbing into his knuckles. “I think he’s waiting up on me,” he whispers, “I can feel him, even here in the car, standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door. Like he did when I had weed that one time…couldn’t lay on my back after what he did that night.”

“I hate him,” Tommy darkly murmurs. “I’d kill him if I wasn’t so much shorter than that fuckwad.”

Dryly, Steve snorts. Rolls his eyes. “You’d give him a swirly and his face would get all red from how angry he’d be. From humiliating him. We’d call ‘im cherry cheeks for a week. ’Til he caught on.”

In the reflection of his window, he can see Tommy nod in agreement, smug little smirk on his face. “Until he caught on.” He shifts again, shoulder melting into Steve’s. “And then you decided to go on a midnight walk…did he take your car keys or something?”

“I didn’t really think about the car, Tommy. I just went. It was a dumb thing to do. But, well, I don’t make good decisions,” he states bitterly.

“Well, you called me and now you’re here.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that.

There’s a squeeze to his hand that has him looking over. “So…did you…were you planning on…”

He shakes his head. “Guess I grabbed the knife without thinking. Self-defense or something, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Tommy mutters. And there he goes, squeezing at Steve’s fingers again. It’s nice, though. The contact, warmth, the reminder. He twists his head so that they’re looking straight on each other, even as his neck contorts uncomfortably. “I’m glad I got to the park when I did,” he murmurs, “the world wouldn’t be the same without you, Steve. It really, really wouldn’t.”

“You’re just saying that,” Steve mumbles.

“Hey, I mean it. Who else would be there to call your dad cherry cheeks? Tell him he looks like a big, ugly oaf?” He snorts at that, a smile itching to make itself known. Tommy nudges him, shakes him, smirks. “Also, dude, the world needs a little bit more light, don’t you think? Who else is gonna call me on my bullshit? Knock me upside the head to tell me how much of a bigoted turd I’m being. You keep the balance, you bring the laughter, you bring the warmth, man. Nothing would be the same if you just…”—poof!—“left,” he whispers.

“Think someday I’ll believe you.”

Tommy shrugs. “Someday is better than never. But you better. Because I’m right.”

“When have you ever been right about something?”

“Well, I may be kinda thick in the head…but when have I lied to you?”

“I don’t know, think I can think of a few…”

“Those were well meaning lies! Like for your birthday that one year! You almost saw me wrapping up that new pack of baseballs—no way in hell was I going to let your snooping little ass ruin the surprise I had been sweating over for hours!”

There’s a big fat smile on both their faces, mirrored in each other’s all too expressive eyes. Tommy’s alight, Steve’s finally full. The laughter they share trickles out into shaky, steadying breaths. And for a moment, things are just like normal. Another late night with his old best friend, kicking rocks and talking shit. A time before.

Oh so before.

Tommy nudges him again. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Steve chuckles, shoulders jumping with it. “Sure, dude,” he sighs, “let’s get outta here.”

The hand in his lingers for a beat, then two, a third. It tenses, pressing deep into his knuckles. And retreats. Thrown into his lap is the crinkling plastic bag from the store. Inside are at least three packs of peanut butter cups—way more than he asked for.

He looks up at Tommy, ready to protest. Instead, he gets a wink. “Our secret, Stevie-boy, you peanut butter fiend.” And then they’re off, driving aimlessly on the empty streets of Hawkins.

As the sun begins to rise, coloring their cheeks with tangible warmth, snow beading on the sidewalk, brown wrappers tossed aside, Steve is somewhat content. Rustling with nerves, knowing full well that Tommy still has that knife. But he’s…relaxed, nerveless, almost free.

All without the pain. All without the task of planning. All without the fear of saying goodbye—Steve is free.

They wind down familiar roads. Until, eventually, Tommy cracks with a yawn.

“Getting tired?” Steve mumbles.

“Oh, I’ve been tired. It’s fine, though. I can be out a little bit longer.”

“Nah, you don’t gotta. Think I’m ready to hit they hay, dude.”

Tommy sniffs. Runs a hand over his mouth, lets it fall back down to his lap, hitting the handle of the knife with the hilt of his palm. “Where do you want me to take you, Stevie?”

“I…I have an idea. But, uh, you’ll promise to keep the secret to yourself?”

He shifts nervously, catching Tommy give him a confused little quirk. “As long as it’s not gonna hurt you, sure. What…this sounds big.”

Steve swallows, nods, squeezes his hands into fists until his nails just begin to bite. The passenger window is enticing. “Remember that one secret years and years ago? When, uh, when we were kinda tipsy and hanging out by the pool and it was just us and”—

“The kiss thing, right?”

He inhales sharply. “Yeah, the…the kiss thing.”

“You can talk to me, Steve. I’m an asshole, but I’m not Brutus, man. Not gonna betray you for spilling your guts.”

“You promise you’ll keep it to yourself?”

In the blink of an eye, Tommy is pulling over to the curb. Slow and careful like. Twisting in his seat to face Steve, he only swivels his head to follow suit. “My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, remember? Hell, you don’t even need to tell me if you think it’s not safe to do so.”

Steve nods, slowly, absorbing. “Um…I-I have a partner.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Tommy asks, voice dropped low like anybody within a 100 mile radius could hear them. It’s a startling question, but it’s a soft one nonetheless.

“Yeah…he…he’s really good at taking care of me, y’know. And we look out for each other. He tells me I can come to him any time, if I need anything…anything.”

“Is it okay if I know who it is? Or is that…”

“I mean, I figured you’ll need to know to take me there? But, uh, Eddie Munson? Forest Hills?”

Tommy’s eyebrows raise slightly. He blinks. Takes in a slow breath. Then, quietly, “At the far end of the park, right? Near those swings?”

“Um…y-yeah. Yeah, near the swings.” Without responding, Tommy turns towards the steering wheel, shifting gears, pulling away from the curb. He makes a U-turn, back the way towards Forest Hills. “Is that…you’re not gonna say anything, right? Please don’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Tommy repeats. “I’m just…little surprised, I guess. Not about—Not that you two are, like, gay and into each other or something. Just…you guys have things to talk about? Get along okay?”

“He’s crafty. So, sometimes, we’ll watch a game together—whatever’s on—and he’ll listen to me rant and cheer and stuff, ask me about the stats…usually, he sits next to me and paints or draws or whatever. We keep each other entertained.”

Tommy nods in his peripheral. “Good, that’s good. Does he know about your…your mom? Your dad?”

“You’re the only one who knows about my mom. Figured it didn’t matter to bring it up, I guess. I mean, Nancy might know, but…I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“‘Course it’s important, Steve. Her death kinda hit you sideways…in a lot of ways, actually. It’s good, y’know, to talk about that kinda stuff. Plus, well, I’m sure Eddie would understand, right?” Steve shrugs at that. Tommy must be able to see it. “You don’t know about his mom? That’s a conversation you guys should have, dude. That was pretty big, last I remember.”

“Why do you know that?”

“This kid was picking on Eddie back in high school. Picking on him about his mom. Think I gave that kid a black eye or two…what a shitty thing, shitting on somebody ‘cause their fucking parent died.” Tommy begins to slow on the road, blinker clicking as he signals turning into the Forest Hills drive. “But he’d understand, that’s all I’m saying. Plus, you need more people in your corner. More people to rely on. Not that—I mean, I love being there for you, dude. I just…it would be good.

“When my parents divorced, I relied on you, sure. But I had a few other people, too. Some teachers. Principal Higgins. Even Mrs. Byers…which kinda shocks me, considering how I treated her kid. Makes me feel sick thinking about that.”

Steve blinks, notices they’re outside Eddie’s trailer, parked next to his shit-box of a van. He gets a good look at Tommy’s side profile. Gently aged. “You grew up,” he states.

“Best fucking feeling in the world. Should’a followed in your footsteps, Stevie. Should’a quit being an asshole when it was time.”

“But you did eventually.”

Tommy gives a slow nod, unbuckling himself. “Yeah, well. There’s a time for everything.” He looks over to Steve. God, his big brown eyes look even bigger in the sunlight. Even gentler. Even sweeter. “Can I walk you up to the door?”

“I don’t know…Eddie might”—

“I kinda need to talk to him anyway. It’s important.”

“Yeah, okay…okay.”

By the time they make it up the steps, peanut butter cups stored deep in Steve’s pocket, Eddie’s already swinging the door open. There’s a look of apprehension on his face, darting his eyes between Steve and Tommy. A bite behind his lip that he’s very noticeably trying to hide away. “Stevie,” he greets softly, “what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Um…I…I had a bad night,” Steve quietly admits, “thought I’d come here, after Tommy helped me.”

The screen door opens wider. Eddie’s face goes soft, deeper. “Everything alright? Nobody’s hurt, are they?”

Steve swallows, shifts uneasily. “I don’t wanna talk about it right now, please. Just…can I hang out for a bit? Maybe nap?”

Eddie’s already placing a hand on the center of Steve’s back, ushering him in. “Of course, just go in and get comfortable, I’ll meet you inside in a second.”

As soon as he steps inside, the door shuts behind him. Muffled conversation is all he hears, retreating to Eddie’s room. In a matter of minutes, stuffy jacket taken off, he’s dozing.

——— “Alright, what’re you doing here?” Eddie asks, finally addressing Tommy.

In front of him, Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me. I get it. But I…I just need to talk to you, okay? It’s about Steve.”

“If you’re here to talk shit on him after he was lookin’ like that, then you can take your sorry ass”—

“He called me, ‘bout a couple hours ago, sobbing on the phone. His dad’s being a real piece of work. Just a total shitbag, okay? And he called me from the park by his house, talking to me about his dad, and I couldn’t just leave him there. Kept zoning out on the phone, sobbing, I couldn’t just leave him there.” Tommy thrusts his hand into his pocket, producing a pocket knife from it.

Eddie startles back slightly, a half-step backwards. “Why do you”—

“I found him there, completely out of it on a bench, with this fucking knife in his hand. It was open. Like he was…and I took it from him, kept it from him. Took him around town for a bit, trying to get him not to spook, y’know?” The knife is warm, placed heavily in Eddie’s palm, fingers curling tight around it. “He was going to do it. If I hadn’t gotten there, if he had never called me…I don’t even want to think about it.

“But he told me that you guys take care of each other. And he told me that if he had something, he could go to you for it. I’m just. I’m worried, okay? I can’t always be there to save him, he needs more people in his corner—people who are not going to judge him—because I can’t fathom with”—Tommy’s voice wobbles, thickens—“with losing him. And I know you’d be absolutely wrecked, if what he told me ‘bout your relationship is true”—

“You know about us?”

“That’s not important,” Tommy emphasizes. “Just don’t let him get this, okay? Keep an eye on him. He needs it. I care about him, even if it doesn’t seem that way, I do. He was my whole world up until our junior year. If something happened to him—fuck—I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know…I don’t…”

Eddie’s not used to people crying around him. The only people who have are, well, Wayne and Steve.

But Tommy’s shoulders shake, his whole back heaving. Each sob caught on a choked breath. His eyes squinting into themselves, skin going splotchy with the effort.

Without a care for image, Eddie is stepping forward again, wrapping Tommy in a tight hug.

He doesn’t get Steve and Tommy’s whole dynamic. Not at all. All he knows is that they had a falling out. But he gets it, calling on the past to try and ground the present, that’s something Eddie’s been doing his whole life. Nostalgia or something. Relying on the lucidity of memories to bring him back. But if Tommy says something’s bad, sobbing so bad he’s choking with it, then it’s something worth tucking away.

And with that knife heavy in Eddie’s hand, he sees what Tommy’s doing.

He understands it.

He fucking gets it.

“Sorry,” Tommy muffles into his shoulder, “shit, I’m sorry. The world wouldn’t be the fuckin’ same if he—god, shit—he’s too good to do shit like that.”

Eddie’s squeezing so tight his knuckles hurt. “I’ve got him,” he swears into Tommy’s hair, “I’m not letting him get away like this again. I promise, man, I fucking promise.”

“Be easy on him,” Tommy murmurs, “he’s easily spooked.”

“I know, fuck, I know.”

Tommy pats him on the back in that dude-bro way. And then he’s pulling away, wiping hastily at his eyes. “If you guys need anything, you can call me. I know I’m not the best person, but I can try. Fuck, for anybody in Steve’s life, I can try.”

Swallowing down his own wave of tears, Eddie nods. “You in the yellow pages?”

“Yup. Leonard Hagan’s residence. Think it’s somewhere in the 130s.”

“I’ll reach out. ‘Specially if I can’t get to him.”

“I got him some peanut butter cups. Works wonders with trying to get him to open up.”

There’s a small little smile on Tommy’s face, knowing and soft. Eddie chuckles airily. “Yeah, he’s a peanut butter goblin or something. Think he ate eighty percent of my last jar, honest to God.”

“He’ll do that to you. Think he still owes me at least three jars.” Tommy reaches out again, patting Eddie on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Eddie. Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?”

“Nothing else I’d rather do.”

☎️—————☎️

#stranger things #Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington #steddie #steve harrington #tommy hagan #eddie munson #angst #heavy angst #read all content warnings and tags #hurt/comfort #hopeful ending

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