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loveshotzz · 4 days

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I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve x fem!reader exes to lovers

Chapter Four -

Honey, on your knees when you look at me

The consequences of your actions hang heavy around you neck when you wake up, so you go to the shop to tell Steve this is definitely not what he thinks it is.

warnings: 18+ slight angst, confused feelings, semi public smut, fingering (fem!receiving), oral (fem receiving), body worship, praise kink, unprotected p in v smut, cream pie, fluff.

wc: 10k

authors note: This chapter has been almost two months in the making between life and writers block, I didn’t think I would be here. Thank you to everyone who sent me messages about this story and about him because of you, I never gave up writing this series I was so excited about. beta’d by: @superblysubpar

series masterlist | series playlist

songs from the playlist that inspired this chapter: Unravel Me, If You Think I’m Pretty, Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, Make Up, Eastside, Holy.

Streams of shining golden yellow make your lids still heavy with sleep flutter, lashes tickling the tops of your puffy cheeks as you surrender to the sun’s wishes to wake you up. The orange shag carpet in Robin’s living room slowly comes into focus, along with the rest of your surroundings as the ends of your palms rub the rest of the night from your eyes. Stretching your legs, they’re met with warmth like the rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds still lingering on the cushions next to you.

¨Shit.¨

Your muscles freeze, threatening to cramp in your calf as the night floods back into your memories. How his plush pink lips slotted between yours like they should never be anywhere else, or how they made your back arch, kissing a messy path down your neck, perfect teeth nipping, threatening to bruise your delicate skin that lights up under his touch.

A shaky breath pushes out of your lungs as you shimmy your body deeper into the couch, fingers finding their way to your chest where you swear you can still feel his smile pressed into your skin, the tips of them hitting something smooth and warm.

A metal chain.

The weight of it around your neck finally registers through the sleepy fog that lifts from your brain. Looking down the slope of your nose, you nearly go cross-eyed when you’re met with the rich yellow gold that matches the sun, especially because It looks just like the one that belongs to Steve Harrington.

“No, no, no, no.”

The realization that it is in fact, Steve Harrington’s kicks in just like your feet in a silent fit, the thin throw he must’ve put on top of you before he left falling to the ground. You remember his plea for a date, and it has panic curling deep in your gut, the consequences of your actions arriving first thing in the morning before you’ve even had any coffee.

There’s a little bit of pride that hides in a small space in your chest that you didn’t just fold and say yes. Something you would have done in high school when he was giving you much less. Still, you didn’t say no. You were just prolonging the inevitable matter of letting him down right? It’s the self-respecting thing, it’s what you told yourself you’d always do.

Say no.

You twist the metal between your fingers, your eyes finding the dust particles that seem to float between the plastic of Robin’s blinds. There’s an ache in your heart at the fresh reminder of what it feels like to be held in his arms, something he rarely did when you were dating, at least not if it wasn’t the dead of night. The sleepovers at his big empty house were your favorite until you realized how sad it was. All his whispered secrets and deep confessions that he only shared when you were lit by the moonlight - the kind that hid all the stars in the sky and that boy he was trying to hide. The ones that kept you hanging onto hope until the last bit of rope tethering you to him, cut your skin. Those were the nights that really made you have to run.

You’re not sure if you could survive it again, and the end of August is only a distant friend. Pushing yourself off the couch, your eyes catch the bright bold numbers on the microwave that read 9:45 AM and you try to remember all the reasons you left in the first place. Not the way he looked at you last night in the kitchen making your best friend’s favorite snack.

Your flip-flops clack loudly against the hot pavement, the determination in your walk up to the shop threatening to set the street ablaze. The spaghetti strap sundress you threw on in a rush trying to be careful not to wake up Robin does very little to help cool you or your mood down when you’re met with the mugginess of the Midwest.

Steve’s chain bounces against your chest with each step, the gold shimmering against the sunlight in a pretty reminder that you still haven’t taken it off yet. One that you choose to ignore in your huff trying to think of all the mean things he's done and not the way he begged you to make it right.

Reaching the end of the block, you notice Eddie’s van is missing from the parking lot, leaving only Steve’s BMW against the side of the shop. It stops you dead in your tracks because the buffer that would stop you from making the same mistake isn’t there. Your proven lack of self-control only a few weeks into the summer has your confidence waver with nerves that try and get the best of you, but with a deep breath, you force your feet to keep moving.

Steve’s side of the garage is the only one open, the faded green metal door at half-mast to keep some of the sun away. Michael Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel bleeds out of the open space, bouncing and echoing off the cars inside, waking up the butterflies and sending them soaring. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you try not to imagine the way he’s probably singing along, or that curl that won’t stay in place, falling over his forehead as he bobs his head to the beat.

Why is Eddie not here?

You see his black work boots first, then the legs that were intertwined with yours just a few hours ago, now adorned by blue coveralls. Walking across the grease-stained cement, he comes to an abrupt stop, and for a second you think maybe he sees you, heart thumping wildly in your chest until he shuffles back a few steps before continuing forward.

He was dancing and you hate the way the corners of your mouth twitch because of it.

The smell of oil is bittersweet hitting your nose as you stop in front of the opening, silently working up the courage to duck under the door. Steve doesn’t notice your sneaky entrance from where he stands at his workbench with his back facing you, completely lost in whatever’s on the paper he’s holding in black-stained hands. It gives you the few minutes you need to get your thoughts together as he bops his head to the music that’s loud enough to hide you a little bit longer.

Your gaze lands on Eddie’s empty office, successfully diminishing the last bit of hope you clung onto that maybe he just didn’t drive today, before your eyes catch the burnt orange of your car tucked away in the corner. A cherry red Corvette sits parked in front of it, making your face sour at the instant comparison. It outshines the car you scraped up enough money to get after moving to the city, sparking the kind of anger you’d been scrambling to cling onto walking up here. Maybe if your car hadn’t broken down, you wouldn’t have kissed Steve Harrington, and then maybe you wouldn’t be standing here secretly wanting to do it again.

Clinging to that notion with everything you have, you take a deep breath, straightening your posture before clearing your throat, letting him know he wasn’t by himself anymore.

”The music’s a little loud don’t you think?”

The pleased grin that spreads wide across your face can’t be stopped when the sound of your voice makes him jump with a ‘Jesus Christ’ so loud you can hear it over the music, crumbling the paper in his hands.

Point one - you.

Your victory is short-lived the moment Steve turns around with his ever changing brown eyes that are somehow warmer in the daylight, reflecting the flecks of green that shine and light up even more at the realization that it’s you and not some random intruder. He runs those long fingers through his hair, trying to tame the mess on top of his head that you made, while his heavy stare fixates on the chain still hanging off your neck. Right where he left it.

Leaning over to turn the volume down on his boombox, he doesn’t break eye contact, giving you that crooked smile that makes your heart skip a beat pushing up the two moles on his cheek. Raising his hands in a silent apology, you try not to think about how big they look or the way they grabbed at your hips last night. It's a fruitless effort, so you try to make up for it with a sassy tongue.

”Wow, I could have easily stolen one of these cars if I had wanted to.”

Crossing your arms, you suck at your teeth, deciding that standing right where you are is the best move, especially when you see the sweat that glistens, beading off of his tan skin, curling the coarse hairs on his chest that’s hardly hidden by the sheer white of his tank top. At least his coveralls are fully on this time.

“Maybe I should report you to Eddie.”

“Most of the cars in here don’t run,” Steve tuts, dark eyes roaming over your curves hugged tight by the soft cotton of your dress unashamed before meeting your narrowed gaze, “You of all people should know that.”

“Sounds like maybe you’re just bad at your job.”

You ignore the uncontrollable press of your thighs that only gets worse the more his smile widens with your attitude, reading your body language like his favorite book.

“Did you come here just to pick a fight?” Steve sighs, carding another hand through his hair, threatening to punch the air out of your lungs when he looks up at you through his lashes “Or do you just want another kiss?”

It’s impossible to sound out the word ‘no’ even though it’s just two letters because watching him lick his full bottom lip before tugging it between his perfect teeth makes you wish it was yours instead.

“Is that it baby?” Steve taunts, pushing himself off the work bench and tossing the crumbled paper aside.

”No,” you finally manage to get out, but the venom you had less than twenty-four hours ago is gone, and it barely stings when you try to deny with a jut of your chin and a quieter than intended, “That’s not why I’m here.”

The little bit of self-control you’ve been hanging onto with an iron grip starts to slip from in between your fingers with each heavy thud of his boots that bring you closer to your demise as he closes the gap.

”Are you sure?” He asks with a glint in the darkening russet of his eyes that land on the gold wrapped around your neck again, close enough now to smell last night's leftover cologne.

“A-absolutely,” you stutter, taking a few steps back, the clack of your flip flops echoing, making you wince with embarrassment as you try to counteract his advances only for your back to hit the cool metal of a pickup truck.

”Hmmm, I know what it must be then,” he hums, a faint hint of smirk twisting the corners of his full lips, big boots stopping with a scuff on the cement floor right in front of your pink painted toes.

Reaching up, his bold fingertips trace the smooth edges of his chain, rough calluses tickling your collar bone daring to explore a little more. The quick rising of your chest spurs him on as he tries to hold his composure, teasing the dip of your breasts, he curls his finger around the metal, lifting the chain a little before letting it fall back into place. Mischief twinkles in his stare that matches the same color staining his hands.

“You must be here to tell me when you’ll be ready for our date later tonight, huh baby?”

It takes your brain a second to catch up, the freckles that spread across his cheeks like wildfire in the light distracting you from this close.

“The opposite actually,” clearing your throat, you try to hide the way your tongue dries when he looks at you like this, “I’m here to say that whatever happened last night doesn’t change anything.”

The corners of his lips twitch, his gaze getting lost in the details of your features like you weren’t denying him, finally giving you the fuel you needed to make your blood simmer, the anger you thought you’d lost forever buzzing under your heated skin.

“So!” You snap your fingers in his face, interrupting whatever daydream he was getting lost in, getting the glare you were searching for, “You better get that out of your head right now. We’re not going on a date.”

Your words finally bite with a tone that almost seems final and for a minute it starts to feel like you have a semblance of your self-control back. Holding your head up high, you try to really end whatever started on your best friend's couch last night.

“We can be friendly for Robin’s sake, but it’s never going to happen again. I’m not your girl, Harrington.”

Steve rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, something you can’t quite put your finger on flashing behind the gold in his eyes. Leaning forward, his hand finds the chipped teal paint of the truck behind you. Caging you in, the spice of his cologne overwhelms you as it mixes with the heat in the garage, and the sweat glistening on his tan skin. The warmth of his breath fans across your cheeks that burn like they’re being licked by a flame, thighs pressing harshly under your dress as you try not to let his gaze swallow you whole.

“If that’s how you really feel, fine.” He says cooly, seemingly unphased and it makes your blood boil more. “I’ll take my chain back now then.”

“No.”

“No?” He snorts incredulously at your refusal, watching the way your fingers come up to play with it. Taunting him.

”I don’t even know why you put it on me in the first place,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes, channeling his nonchalance before ducking under his arm, your escape in sight.

You refuse to look back at him making a beeline to the open garage door, heart thumping wildly in your chest as you do your best not to give away the attachment you have to the weight of it around your neck that you really aren’t ready to unpack yet.

”I left it!” Steve yells hot on your heels, the cracks in his confident demeanor starting to show, “I left it so you didn’t think I just disappeared on you this morning because I personally have zero regrets about what happened last night.”

The sarcastic ‘HA!’ you let out is almost comical, picking up your pace with an extra sway to your hips because you know he’s staring.

”How about this, Steve?” You antagonize, turning around and walking backward with a smug grin that mirrors his from before, “I’ll think about it.”

Steve doesn’t take the bait, instead, he side-steps quickly to smash the round red button on the wall with a deadpan face. Letting the rumble of the garage door coming to life do all the talking for him.

”Are you serious?!“ You shriek, watching it close faster than your feet can carry you, even contemplating a tuck and roll when you see the sunlight and any chance you have at not going back on your promise start to disappear behind it.

“It’s simple honey,” he sighs with an irritated edge, “Give me my chain and I’ll open her back up so you can go run back to Robin’s and pretend like last night never happened. Just the way you want, right?”

”This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Let me out asshole!”

A new level of stubbornness that you never thought you could reach locks you in place, facing him with arms crossed tight over your chest.

”I’m ridiculous?” Steve chuckles darkly, the steel toe of his boots echoing louder now that you’re sealed inside as he walks towards you, “Look at yourself.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap despite the way your teeth gnaw nervously on your bottom lip, greedy eyes roaming his tall frame as your body betrays you for what feels like the hundredth time today when he steps into your space again.

“I know you enjoyed drama club in high school, but you’ve always been a terrible actress.”

“And you’ve always had way more confidence than you should.”

Steve’s nostrils flare, his gaze threatening to set you on fire.

”I’m going to get back to work, you’re free to go whenever you give me my necklace back. I’m getting paid to be here all day baby, you aren’t, so just know that I’ve got time.” He holds your stare for a second longer, sucking at his teeth before turning around. Testing you.

“Come take it off me then, Harrington, if you want it so bad.”

Two can play that game.

He stops in his tracks, shoulders tensing at the implication of your words, turning his head to the side, he gives you a perfect view of his sharp jawline.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warns, with a tone sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

“I said,” your shoulders square with a defiance that matches your glare, acting as if you aren’t sealing your fate with the next four words, “Come and get it.”

Steve’s long strides close the distance faster than you can comprehend. A big hand grabs at your hip, grease-stained fingers digging into your curves, while the other cups the side of your face, surely leaving a mark. He's getting what he really wants.

Gasping into his mouth, the force of his kiss sends a shudder through the garage door when your back slams against it. Lost in the sensation of his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, you barely notice. Your fingers weave through the thick locks of his hair at the nape of his neck as if they were always meant to be there. A harsh tug on the silky strands earns you a groan that's deeper than you remember, and you immediately want to hear it again.

The clash for dominance ignites as your tongues collide clumsily, teeth grazing and noses pressing into each other’s cheeks. His grip tightens on your hip in a warning before his hand trails down to where the bottom hem of your dress rests at the top of your thigh. Pushing up the thin fabric, the blunt tips of his nails skim across your soft skin, goosebumps pebbling despite the heat.

His fingers tease the edge of your panties, tracing the curve where they meet your ass, stealing your whine with a cocky grin that he kisses into your lips. He lingers just long enough to turn you needy before he hooks your knee around his waist, getting the instant roll of your hips and more of your little noises that will haunt his every waking thought after this.

“Steve,” you breathe, tugging your swollen bottom lip between your teeth while he starts kissing a slow, agonizing path down your jaw, tickling you with the stubble on his cheek.

He hums in between kisses, nipping at the sensitive spot behind your ear, he soothes it with a swipe of his tongue before he starts to suck–hard. Your moan bounces off the metal and concrete that surround you, echoing in your ears while your greedy fingers tug even harder at his roots. His grip on you tightens when you start to squirm as his efforts to mark what’s his intensify, leaving a bruise you’ll have to explain to Robin later.

”Yeah?” He mumbles against your heated skin, the tip of his nose running along your pulse point, a saccharine smile pressing into the curve of your neck where his chain still rests.

“Shut up,” you manage to get out, despite Steve leaving open-mouthed kisses on the swell of your breasts, palming roughly at the dough of your ass, encouraging another rock of your hips.

“You're always so mean to me, honey,” Steve sighs, nipping at the supple skin, before meeting your poor attempt at a glare from under the thick hood of his lashes.

”Yeah? And? What are you gonna do about it?” You bite, but it doesn’t sting the way you want it to, not with the way your chest heaves in anticipation of his next move.

Steve flips you around so quickly that the change in position has you gasping, your palms meeting the warm metal of the garage door that bakes in the sun outside. Heavy work boots push your legs apart, while hot breath that rivals the summer dances across the nape of your neck. He presses himself into you, letting you feel just how hard you really have him, the tip of his nose brushing along the shell of your ear. Butterflies multiply, tickling your rib cage just like your lashes that kiss the tops of your cheeks.

“I think it's pretty obvious what I want to do,” he whispers against your neck, lips ghosting across the freshly formed bruise, “The real question is…”

The backs of his fingers brush along the sides of your breasts, goosebumps pebbling across your skin. His big hands follow the curve of your waist, smoothing down to the tops of your thighs. Taking his time, he curls them under the hem of your dress, pulling it up to rest on top of your hips, still giving you the chance to stop him. One you don’t take.

“Are you gonna let me?” His words are gruff coming out next to your ear, your walls fluttering around nothing because of it.

The humid air doesn’t help your sticky thighs that only get worse as two of his calloused fingers trace agonizingly slow along the waistband of the only fabric separating you now. Peppering soft kisses to all the sensitive spots that make your skin come alive, his teeth nip playfully at your earlobe, fireworks lighting up in the sky behind your eyes when he takes it into the heat of his mouth. The sensation has you mewling, jaw going slack as your toes curl into the foam of your flip flops from a feeling only Steve Harrington can give.

”I could be so nice to you, baby,” he whispers, letting you go with a pop, his fingers daring to go lower than just teasing, smirking against your cheek at the gasp you give when he drags them through your slick folds, wrapping your hands around his wrist for support, your hips chase him for more. “Don’t you want that?”

Your pride has your teeth biting into your bottom lip. Refusing to answer his question loaded with too many double meanings for your head to wrap around right now, but you still spread yourself wider for him, because the last thing you want him to do is stop.

“Gonna make me earn it, huh?” He breathes, biting back his groan at how you start dripping down his hand, “That’s okay. I’ll show you I’m worthy.”

His promise is enough to finally draw out the moan you’ve been fighting, the sound making him kick up in his coveralls, while the movements of his wrist become more pointed. Your head lulls back against his broad shoulder, and his cologne smells even better with the way sweat starts to drip from his pores. Your eyes are needy, meeting the black coffee of his and you know it, especially at the furrow of his brows when he looks at you completely transfixed.

“God, I almost forgot how soft you are. How fucking wet you get for me.” He whispers between gritted teeth, awestruck at the feeling of your silk walls begging him for more, daring him to explore, “Bet you taste even sweeter than I remember too.”

Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours, the mint that still lingers on his breath tickling your lips. Your hips roll with the rhythm of his wrist, warmth spreading across your cheeks as the sounds of just how wet you are echo in the big space. Too close to falling apart all over his fingers to care, the blunt ends of your nails dig half-crescent moons into his wrist chasing it.

“Baby, are you gonna come already? I’ve barely touched you.”

His words mock you despite the sugary sweetness they drip with, every swipe against your bundle of nerves becoming unrelenting, determined even. But it’s still enough for you to take the bait and force your eyes open, meeting his hungry stare dead on and say:

”Y- you wish it was that easy.”

Amusement dances across the hard lines of his face, his dark gaze narrowing before something between a laugh and a growl rumbles deep from his chest. The motions of his wrist come to a halt, and it takes everything inside of you not to cry in protest. Pulling his hand from your soaked panties, his wet fingers dig into your hips spinning you around, quick strides pushing you to the corvette that started your spiral.

“What are you doing?!” You squeal, your butt hitting the cherry-red metal of the hood that sticks to your sweat-slicked skin.

He just grins, the pearly whites of his teeth showing as grease-stained hands spread your knees apart enough for him to step between, leaving raven fingerprints in their wake before grabbing at your chin, he forces you to look at him.

“Need you to keep your eyes on me, honey, and remember what you just said.” He pulls your bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb, watching it pop back into place.

Letting go of your chin, he holds your stare, fingers ghosting across the tops of your thighs as he drops to his knees like someone praying to a god. Hooking his arms under your bent legs, he tugs you to the end of the hood with a squeak. Spread wide for him to see, your calves rest on top of his shoulders that you hate to admit you wish you could see. Leaning forward, the tip of his nose traces the wet path of your covered folds, breathing you in like the sweetest summer breeze.

When his big eyes meet yours from between your thighs, just begging you to get lost in them like you used to, it’s almost enough for you to forget the game you’re both supposed to be playing. There’s a softness that lingers inside melting caramel that manages to shine through the black that overpowers it, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

His touch is gentle now, long fingers curling around the waistband of your underwear, silently asking you for permission to cross the line that deep down you know there’s no going back from. Nodding your head with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you even help him, lifting your legs when he pulls them from around your ankles.

Steve stuffs the satin in his pocket ignoring the way you tell him that you want them back. His pink tongue that’s seconds away from being your undoing wets his lips, jaw going tight at the sight in front of him. Roses bloom on his tan cheeks, and he can’t help but run a hand through his hair, the reality setting in that he really has you like this. He looks completely wrecked. At least it isn’t just you.

“Fuck.” He breathes, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the dough of your thighs, shuffling himself even closer, his eyes glaze over.

Goosebumps pebble across your buzzing skin, your velvet walls fluttering around nothing as you lose the witty response you had saved on the tip of your tongue, managing just a quiet, “I thought you were supposed to show me somethin’?”

His lips twitch so close to where you need him most that you can almost feel the curve of them, your knees bending just a little more, urging him on by his shoulders.

“So impatient,” he tsks, the vibrations of his words only making it worse, “My girl needs me huh? She missed me as much as I missed her didn’t she?”

“Steve - shut uhhhhohmygod!”

His mouth latches onto your cunt like he’s thirsty for everything you’re offering him, collecting your dripping honey that’s sweet on his tongue. Running a broad stripe up your folds, his grip on your thighs tightens when you start to squirm, holding you in place, as he swirls messy circles on your bundle of nerves before sucking it hard enough for your head to fall back against the car. Your fingers bury themselves into the sweaty silk of his hair, pulling harshly at the roots, earning the kind of grunt that has you whimpering, dripping down the stubble on his chin as your hips buck up to meet him.

Letting you go with a loud pop, he huffs out a dark laugh at your whine, hardly giving you time to recover before pulling you even further down the hood of the car, till your ass hangs off the edge. The tip of his nose brushes against your sensitive clit while his tongue begins to tease your entrance that quivers just for him. The new angle has you practically sitting on his face, and before you have a chance to overthink it he slowly starts to work you open with his greedy mouth.

”Holy shit I -“ Your eyelids droop, jaw going slack as he starts to move side to side, licking into you like you’re the sweetest prize. His nose adds just the right amount of pressure while he eats you up like a man starved, “You’re gonna - fuck - Steve!”

His hands move from your thighs to the soft fat of your ass, encouraging your hips more, and if you weren’t so far gone, you’d be scared you’re suffocating him. You dare to look down at the scene between your legs, and it’s almost enough to have you cumming all over his face. His pitch-black eyes gaze up at you enamored, completely lost and still hungry because after all these years it’s still not enough. He moans into your folds when you meet his half-lidded stare, the sensation vibrating in all the right places, making your legs shake.

The feeling of your walls pulsing tight around his tongue, knowing how close you are already has him twitching painfully hard in his coveralls. It’s enough to ignore the discomfort of his knees, doubling down on the movements of his jaw. His name bounces off the metal and concrete, while the roll of your hips gets more and more aggressive because it feels like he’s eating you from the inside out, the tip of his tongue reaching the spot that makes you gasp.

“Right there, shit, right there, right there, I’m gonna, oh my god I’m gonna cum!”

Your scream is silent, body going rigid, giving into him already. The muscles in your legs tense, as your thighs squeeze tight around his head while your pussy tries to push him out but he only doubles down with a completely relentless tongue. He moans loud enough inside you to hear through the ringing in your ears, your fingers curling harshly in his thick locks, back hitting the metal of the hood again.

He ignores the first few pushes against his forehead when his kitten licks become too much before he finally listens. Sticky legs fall open releasing him from a trap he never asked to escape from, his shiny wet lips leaving kisses along your shaking thighs, tickling the supple skin with the stubble on his jaw. You feel his tongue dart out to collect everything he missed, earning the kind of sweet noises he can’t wait to hear all summer long.

Steve stands up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and you try to be mad at his smug grin but your body can’t help its reaction to the way he struggles against his coveralls. The hard outline of dick reminds you of the stretch that you know will ruin you for anyone else, spent walls fluttering despite yourself.

”Now what was that you were saying a few minutes ago, pretty girl?” Leaning down, his palms find a new home on either side of your head.

The whites of his teeth shine at the eyeroll you find enough energy to give him, even with your legs wrapped around his waist. His nose nudges the tip of yours, the playful glint in his eyes changes into something lovesick and it brings the ache in your chest back because you know it’s going to hurt even worse walking away again.

“Hey, what’s going on up there?” He questions, placing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as he searches your face for answers.

You don’t give him one, pushing aside the worry for when you lay awake in the middle of the night. Instead, you let your fingers wrap themselves in the cotton of his tank top, pulling him to your lips that silently beg him to help you forget. He meets you with an eager mouth, and a big hand that comes up to rest on your flushed cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the high bone while his tongue asks you for permission for more.

Your thighs lock tighter around his waist, granting him the access he wants, tasting yourself all over him. Shaking fingers find the zipper of his jumper, tugging down the metal, he helps your shimmy off his sleeves. The freckles that dot his shoulders like the night sky beg you to open your eyes as the top of his coveralls fall to his sides, the rock of his hips making you say his name like it’s the sweetest thing.

“Want you,” you whisper with a nip at his bottom lip, ankles crossing at the two dips you know are on his lower back.

”Baby,” He groans, dropping his head down, burying it in the crook of your neck as you roll your pussy over the length of him that’s still covered by the navy blue material you can’t seem to get off fast enough.

He lets you do it a few more times before his hands find both your wrists, pinning them above your head, he peppers kisses along your jaw, letting his fingers glide down the length of your body, making sure to catch his chain still hanging off your neck as he stands back up. You finally get a good look at him, and the sight is enough to know the memory of today will be etched into the corners of your mind, just like the rest of them.

Pink cheeks still kissed by the sun, and dark chestnut hair that matches his eyes twist at its golden ends in an even bigger mess now on the top of his head. The thick thatch of it on his chest curling from the sweat that drips down his neck, leaving translucent patches along the white cotton of his tank top, teasing even more of him to your starving gaze. His uniform hangs low on his hips, giving you a glimpse of the waistband of his boxer briefs, making you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. He grabs at the sides of your thighs, his handsome face going kind.

“You came in here ready to tell me to fuck off,” he laughs softly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles, “I just need to know this is what you really want.”

His words tighten in your chest, forcing you to make a decision so that when you have no one else to blame but yourself when you lay awake in your apartment with a broken heart in the fall, you can’t hate him anymore.

“I really want it.”

The answer stumbles past your lips before you can think too hard about it, pulling the rest of your rucked up dress over your head, leaving you completely exposed for his heavy chocolate eyes to drink in. Despite the muggy heat of the garage, your nipples pebble under it, cheeks going hot because you always feel like the most beautiful girl in the world when Steve Harrington looks at you like this.

It’s all the encouragement he needs to let you go and do the same with his tank top, tossing it to the side before shoving the rest of his uniform down the tops of his thighs. Thick, long and heavy, your eyes widen as his hard length springs free, smacking against the happy trail at the bottom of his stomach. The pink tip leaks for you, shining with precum, while his big hand wraps around it, tugging a few times and making you drip more on the hood.

“I’ll go slow,” he coos, leaning down to capture your lips in something sweeter than the rest of them. “I know you can take it, honey.”

Nodding your head, you look up at him with glassy eyes, completely giving in, shutting off the part of your brain that’s telling you that you know better. Spreading your legs wider, his eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, cursing under his breath at the sight of you like this. He silently thanks whatever gods or girl that got Eddie sick, because this moment shatters any fantasies that have consumed his late nights.

He runs the length of his cock through your slick, spreading you apart around him, earning the kind of mewl that makes him twitch in his hand. Your back arches off the corvette when he does it again only this time with added pressure to your clit. Locking your legs around his waist, you make sure he doesn’t get away.

”So fuckin’ beautiful baby, Jesus Christ, look at you.” Steve grunts, lining himself up with your entrance, pushing just the tip into the tightening silk of your walls before both his hands find their way back to your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. ”Wanna make you feel so good. You gonna let me?”

“Mmhmm,” you whimper a little high pitch and out of breath, letting go of all the control you’ve hung onto for the last five years with a dirty roll of your hips that begs to suck him in.

“Oh fuck, you’re still so - shit.” Steve practically whines, his jaw going hard with eyebrows that pinch together, trying to regain his composure from the way you pulse around him just nudging halfway in, the aftershocks of your first orgasm have you feeling every ridge of his cock, lighting your body up.

The stretch burns, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as flames lick deep in your gut from the feeling you’ll never get enough of. His calloused fingers grab at your chin, demanding your attention. Your lashes tickle the tops of your cheeks as you force them back open, only to find his face is closer now, both his palms landing on either side of your head, black iris’s threatening to drown you, holding your gaze with the kind of intensity that makes your heart palpitate.

”I want to look at you.” He breathes against your lips as one swift thrust has you completely filled up.

”Steve!”

Gasping into his mouth, it takes all of your strength to keep your eyes open, focusing on the imperfect circles of the chestnut freckles that explode across the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah?” He smirks, pressing his forehead against yours, the rough hair on his chest tickling the softness of your breasts, nipples pebbling as your arms wrap around his neck.

“It feels, you feel -“

A loud moan rumbles from the back of your throat when the tip of him hits the spot that makes your toes curl into the fat of his ass, pushing him even deeper, the ends of your nails dig pretty marks all over his shoulders.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” He grunts, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, the roll of his hips becoming a slow grind.

His pelvic bone hits your bundle of nerves just right while the tip of him bullies the spot that has your eyes threatening to close against his wishes, and it has you sounding like ‘Steve’ is the only word you’ve ever known. It’s a hazy mess inside your mind, especially when he looks at you like this. It’s worse than before, and you don’t know how you’re going to find your way back this time, something different inside of his gaze that you know is going to make it impossible.

”Missed you so much, so damn gorgeous angel, think about you all the time. All the fucking time.” Steve babbles, completely drunk off the way you flutter at his words, the angry facade you’ve been putting on crumbling around him as your body lets the truth come out.

The confession makes your chest tighten with all the unresolved feelings you’ve shoved down for so long, the ones you almost forgot were there until a few weeks ago. Fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck you lean up, capturing his lips to shut him up, rocking your hips to meet his thrust. He grunts into your mouth, cock twitching against your walls, eagerly licking into your mouth.

It’s easier to get lost in him without the reminder of what used to be, teeth scraping together as the kiss gets messier. The metal of the car crunches and bends under your movements, but neither one of you can find it in you to care with noses pressing into each other's cheeks, tongues fighting for the kind of dominance your hips are at war about.

Steve is the one that breaks first, coming up for air, with eyes that seem even darker than before as he pushes himself up to stand. Big hands grab at your hips as a loose strand of hair falls across his forehead. Pulling halfway out, he takes a moment to admire the sheen you coat him, pink tongue darting out to lick his swollen lips before shoving himself all the way back in.

”Oh my god!” You gasp, throwing your head back against the hood, your hands landing on top of his, fingernails digging into the tops of them.

“I wanna watch you cum again, can you do that for me, baby?” He tugs you closer, your body squeaking across the metal that tries to stick to your skin, the tip of him hitting that spot again.

Nodding your head, every hard thrust of his hips echoes through the garage, the car shaking underneath you as tires threaten to roll. He feels himself getting close, the pad of his thumb finding your clit to rub the kind of messy circles that have you saying his name just how he likes.

“Come on, let me see how pretty you can get, let me have it.” He coos, finding the perfect combination to make you come undone all over him.

Your walls clench hard enough to try and push him out but he just buries himself deeper, a loud groan rumbling from his chest watching the way your face contorts with pleasure. White dances behind your heavy lids that squeeze shut as your legs start to shake around his waist. You try to shove his hand away, but he refuses, remaining relentless, milking your second orgasm for everything it's worth, making you cum even harder.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s iiiiit, so fuckin’ good for me.” He praises, completely lost in the way your body responds to him and it’s enough to send him flying over the edge he’d been teetering on since had you against the garage door.

A string of curse words falls pretty from his lips, twitching hard inside you and with the last bit of strength you have, you squeeze him even tighter, relishing in the way his jaw goes slack because of it. The movements of his thumb finally end its assault so he can grab onto your sides with both hands, fingers digging bruises as one last hard thrust has his warmth filling you up.

The feeling of being so full sends your body buzzing, watching him fall apart on top of you with sweat dripping off the ends of his hair. His head drops between his shoulders, body shaking as his orgasm rakes through him. Red cheeks and skin so warm it rivals the sun, he lets himself collapse on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck totally spent, still chasing his high with a slow circle of his hips.

Your nose finds its way into his damp hair, inhaling deeply because it somehow smells even better than before. You wrap your arms around his shoulders even though you know you should leave and forget this ever happened, but it feels too good to have hands sliding up your curves as he starts to drip out of you and onto the car.

“God, Eddie’s going to kill me.” He mumbles against your skin, making you squirm because it tickles, and you can feel him smile because of it.

“How’s he gonna find out?” You giggle, the metal of the Corvette popping under your shifting weight.

”Baby.” Steve snorts, leaving a kiss on the curve of your jaw before pushing himself up on his elbows, the endearment falling too easily off his tongue in a casual way, reminding you very quickly of your reality.

It’s harder to meet his eyes that search for yours, but you do anyway. They’re warm again, like a dark sand beach and it's hard not to want to lay out a towel and live inside them. Both of you wince as he pulls himself out, cursing under his breath at your walls staying greedy and trying to pull him back in.

He doesn’t notice the shift in your demeanor pulling up his coveralls and tying the sleeves around his waist, or if he does he chooses to ignore it, grabbing your dress off the floor before offering you his hand. There’s less grease staining them now and you know it's because it's all over you, completely marked by him nearly head to toe whether you like it or not.

Sliding your hand in his, you duck your head down as you take it, legs wobbling when your feet hit the ground, not missing the smug grin that pushes up his cheeks clocking it. You go for your dress but Steve just tuts at you pulling it out of reach, ignoring your scoff he shakes it out before lifting it above your head signaling for you to put your arms up. Rolling your eyes with a smile you can’t fight, you pretend not to feel the butterfly wings tickling your ribcage, turning around and doing as he asks, letting him drag the soft cotton down your body. Calloused fingertips tracing the goosebumps they create.

”Let’s go get cleaned up in the bathroom,” he hums softly, grabbing you by the hips, and pressing a kiss into the fresh bruise behind your ear.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this letting him guide you by the waist and a chin on your shoulder. You think it again when the small space of the bathroom is filled with giggles and bashful smiles as he sits you on the closed toilet seat, wetting paper towels that turn into mache in his hands. You scream at yourself to do it watching him try and fix his hair in the mirror after wiping you down the best he can, pressing kisses on both your kneecaps.

“I’ve been using this new product, but nothing hits like Farrah. I can’t believe they discontinued it. Dustin swears he can find me some, but who knows if you can even trust it’s the real deal, you know?”

Steve interrupts your inner turmoil with a face that’s far too serious for the words that just left his mouth and the thoughts running through your head. Your mood shifts almost instantly with a laugh loud enough to turn his cheeks the color of your toes, giving you an exaggerated eye roll despite the twitch of his lips.

“I can’t believe you still hang out with a middle schooler.” You tease, getting up on your feet, legs feeling a little less like jello but the reminder between your thighs only seems to intensify.

”I told you he’s like 19 - “

”Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Steve,” you grin, taking the break in the intensity of everything to try and work up the self-control to leave, wincing at the echoing clack of your flip flops that give you away instantly.

”Wait, where are you going?” Steve’s brows furrow in confusion, turning around to face you, he tightens the sleeves wrapped around his waist, biceps flexing while all the playfulness drains from his eyes.

”I should go before Robin -“

”What? No, she’ll be fine, it’s like noon. I’m sure she’s not even awake yet.”

“Steve.”

”Honey.”

The two of you face off in a silent challenge, stares unwavering, mimicking each other with arms crossover over your chests.

“Don’t run again.” He pleads with a whisper that’s barely audible against the beating of your heart in your ears, the room feeling smaller.

“I’m not running, I’m walking.” You try to lighten the mood with a joke, the corners of your eyes stinging but you refuse to acknowledge why.

”I’m not letting you walk home.”

“It’s down the road-“

“I don’t care! You’re not walking. Let me close up and then I’ll at least drive you.”

You don’t argue with the hurt expression on his face, you can’t.

It’s somehow even hotter outside when the two of you sneak out the side door of the garage. A different kind of tension hangs thick in the air putting the humidity to shame, even with the sun shimmering from the highest point in the sky. His skin glows like liquid gold in its rays as he walks in front of you, your eyes following the movements of his freckled shoulders that flex with every swing on his arms. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you hate the pit that settles deep in your gut because you don’t want to say goodbye just yet. Another consequence of a choice you made rearing its ugly head.

You aren’t expecting him to open the passenger door for you, the metal creaking loudly breaking a silence that’s filled with a thousand unspoken words just hanging on the tip of both of your tongues waiting to fill up the space. His gaze meets yours from under the thick length of his lashes, the corners of his lips twisting at the way you get bashful from the gesture.

”Thanks,” you whisper, catching a whiff of his cologne as you duck into the passenger seat that’s starting to feel like yours again.

He just hums in response, shutting it quickly and trapping you inside a metal box filled with every smell that reminds you of him. It pulls at your heart, and intensifies the burn between your thighs. Your fingers come up to twist the metal that still dangles from your neck, and you’re not sure you can bring yourself to give it back after this. The already small space of the car shrinks even more when the driver side door opens and he slides in next to you with a huff, keys jingling loudly in his hand closing the door behind him.

His shoulders brush with yours shoving the keys in the ignition, the seat vibrating underneath you as the beemer quietly roars to life. He keeps his hand on the stick shift, sweat slick skin pressing into yours shifting the car into drive. The radio isn’t as loud as you thought it’d be considering the way he was blasting it in the shop. Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love spills out of the speakers and you try not to laugh at the irony, scrambling to think of what to say to him as Robin’s apartment complex quickly comes into view.

But he never stops.

“Steve, what are you doing?” You sigh, crossing your arms across your chest watching the baby blue paneling of her apartments whiz past.

“This is technically my lunch break, and I’m hungry.” He shrugs, glancing at you with something mischievous in his eyes that you want to smack away because it makes your heart skip a beat, “You’re telling me you’re not starving after that honey?”

Smacking your lips together, you roll your eyes as hard as you can, trying to hide the smile that pushes up your cheeks.

“Wow, your confidence always just astounds me.” Shaking your head, your sarcastic laugh only makes him grin.

”I think you like it.”

You can’t bring yourself to deny it, fluttering your lashes at him with an attitude instead.

”But if you really can’t stand the thought of spending like another hour with me, I’ll turn around right now, honey.” You know he means it, feeling his foot slowly press on the brake in anticipation for your answer, “Just say the words.”

‘Say it, say turn around Steve.’

“Take me somewhere with fries.”

When you left Robin’s house this morning, you didn’t think watching Steve juggle two shakes and a large order of fries to the booth you’re sitting at with a heart so full it threatens to crack your chest, was where you’d end up at. His cheeks flush a deep shade red almost losing his footing, lovesick eyes too busy staring at you to watch where his boots land.

God, this was not a part of the plan.

“I got you strawberry,” his grin is proud, remembering your favorite from high school when he drops your cool treat in front of you, and instead of sliding into the seats across the table, he plops down into the spot right next to you, knees bumping underneath the wood.

“What if I wanted chocolate?” You tease, body turning into a lit match pressing into his side.

“That’s what I got, and maybe, if you ask nicely,” he breathes, leaning in close enough for the tips of your noses to brush, “I’ll share.”

You wonder if he can hear the way you swallow at his tone over that oldies station that plays in the Hawkins Diner.

“No thanks, you can keep your cooties.” Sighing, you have to fight the twitch of your lips tearing your eyes away from him to focus on the fried potatoes in front of you.

”I think it’s a little late for that baby, I’m afraid you’re completely covered in them.” He doesn’t hesitate to press a sloppy kiss on your cheek that's loud enough to catch the attention of the girls that’d been staring at him since the two of you walked in.

”Steve!” You try to scold, but the smile that spreads across your face gives you up, even if you wipe the kiss away with the back of your hand.

”What?” He smirks, grabbing a few fries and plopping them in his mouth and you try not to focus on the way his tongue darks out to collect the salt left over on his lips.

“I can’t stand you.”

It’s impossible to keep a straight face around him, even avoiding the playful gold that swirls in his gaze that hasn’t stopped showering you with adoration.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep better at night.” He shrugs, taking a big swig of his shake, subtly scooting closer so your thighs touch.

The two of you eat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, your head swimming with questions as your morning starts to really sink in. But your nerves make it impossible to focus on just one, especially every time you fingers brush, catching his small smirk from the corner of your eyes.

”So tell me something,” you try, ignoring the slight shake in your voice, “How did Steve Harrington, ‘king of Hawkins’, become a mechanic? I always thought you’d be in some big office with a suit working for your dad.”

You notice the sour look that contorts the handsome features on his face at the former nickname again and you immediately feel bad for saying it. His thick eyebrows furrow, marrying in the middle as he tries to shake it off with a few harsh blinks grabbing another handful of fries.

”Umm, I did work for my dad’s firm for like six months actually.” He confesses, clearing his throat before tossing them into his mouth. “I think we hate each other even more now.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude that's not why I asked -“

”Honey, you’re fine.” He smiles warmly, a big palm finding the top of our thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it occupy the space permanently.

”Turns out I’m a terrible office manager. I’d get super overwhelmed, which made me disorganized and we’d lose clients making my dad pissed, then one day I just kinda snapped after he laid into me in his office. Had a panic attack and then never showed my face there again.”

”Steve-“

“I knew he was going to fire me anyway, it’s fine” he laughs, running his free hand through his hair, the other sliding down your thigh so his thumb can rub circles into the soft skin next to your knee cap.

“So I wallowed in self pity for a month before Eddie started needing help at the shop. At first it just gave me something to do, he’d teach me a few things and turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. It honestly feels really fucking freeing to stop being the person everyone expected me to be.”

He smiles with all his teeth, the kind of pride radiating off of him that makes the hard brick wall you’ve built around yourself start to soften, cracks forming in its foundation.

”Well, it looks good on you Harrington.” You have to look away when you say it, the butterflies becoming unbearable, because you weren’t supposed to feel like this. “I guess.”

He snorts at your stubbornness, bumping shoulders with you before snatching your strawberry shake earning the kind of glare that makes him realize he’s never going to get over you.

Steve’s one hour lunch turns into two, almost becoming three getting lost in the kind of conversation that barely scratches the surface of everything you’ve missed. It’s all hushed tones, sweet eyes, and linked fingers that threaten to make you fold again, with the only thing saving you is the reminder of the mess you made on top of his client's Corvette, and Steve reluctantly admitting he needed to leave so he didn’t actually lose his job in the morning.

It didn’t matter though, he got his date.

And when he pulls up to Robin’s he doesn’t hesitate to steal your breath away, grabbing you by the chin, giving you the kind of kiss over the center console that leaves you dizzy, just like in high school. He doesn’t ask for his chain back, and you don’t offer it, bounding up the stairs to the apartment with it shimmering against your chest.

🌻chapter five

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x y/n #mechanic!steve #mechanic!eddie

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epiclamer · 9 months

Note

HELLOO

villain caretaker and a sheepish hero whumpee ????????????????(!;!(&((!(!(' go

for you and your wife : 🌸🌺🌼🍄

Her favourite flower is lavender actually, but thank you.

Soup for the Soul

The scene in front of them was definitely not reflective of their hero. A shivering, shaking, sweating mess of their former self, buried under a mountain of blankets and tissues that fell to the floor after only a minute or so had passed in between the hero’s fingers.

Masking the slight worry in their mind with a smirk as the villain approached the other sprawled out on the couch. “What are you wearing?”

With only a slight delay, the hero’s head perked up from its spot on the armrest, only to fall back down after they had caught a glimpse of their nemesis in the corner of the room. The villain pushed themselves away from the wall and slowly centred around the hero, standing over them at last.

“I mean seriously, what is that?”

The hero sighed, dropping another tissue to the floor in defeat, pulling one more from their increasingly thinning box. “It’s all I have left. Everything else is covered in vomit or snot or some other sick germ.”

Their voice was sick—if their body didn’t portray that enough already—it was a deep sick, like one’s classic cold times eight. Mucus must’ve been coating their entire respiratory system, not to mention it probably fogged their brain up too.

“So you chose to go with the hot pink princess outfit? Made for twelve year old girls?”

“My mom bought it for me.” They snapped, too upset to not set off flags in the villain’s mind.

Idly the villain began reorganizing and fiddling with the medications and dishes on the coffee table at the hero’s feet. “My mom buys me things too, but it sure as hell isn’t from the women’s youth section.” They muttered, both hands filled with dirty dishes as they headed to deposit them in the kitchen. “And even if they were, you wouldn’t catch me wearing them if it meant I had to go to the dry cleaners naked.”

That got a chuckle out of the hero at least, a little bit of life still salvageable. The villain continued their tidying as the hero closed their eyes, shaking their head a little as they grinned.

“My advice? Call your mother and get your receipt to return it for something way more revealing.”

There was a pause, then the hero sighed again. “I don’t talk to her anymore.”

“Maybe your father has it?”

The villain watched as the hero shrugged, eyes still closed. “Don’t talk with him either.”

As much as the conversation had taken a somber turn, the villain had barely any experience with heavy subjects as such. Their main resort was humour, but they doubted that would help in a moment like this. Instead they tried their best to keep busy with their hands, purposefully clanking pots against each other and utensils together to fill the void-like silence.

Food always helped in tense situations like these, especially hot soup for the soul. So they let the silence stretch on until the only thing left to do was wait for a boil.

“If you don’t mind me asking; why?” Quietly as ever, the villain dug through the cabinets in the hero’s kitchen until the pads of their fingers struck gold.

The first aid kit.

The hero hummed, never looking up, focused entirely on relaxing their sore muscles as the villain approached. “We have a history of not seeing eye to eye.”

Dropping the first aid kit to the floor the villain followed suit as they sat. Gentle hands prying over the other’s arm as they got started, mumbling in agreement while they got out ointments, bandaids and gauze.

“But particularly we never agreed on me. My life, my choices, who I am.” Their skin flushed slightly at the touch of their nemesis, goosebumps coating them in a matter of seconds, which in their head they blamed on the cool sensation of the ointment being rubbed into their raw skin. But they knew it wasn’t the truth.

“Those ones are the worst.” The criminal whispered as they kept massaging the ointment into any scabs, scrapes or areas of flaky, dry skin. Their arms both looked a mess of eczema that was left far too long untreated.

The hero couldn’t stop the blush from reaching their cheeks as they watched the villain work diligently on their sorest spots. Noticing their issues and helping them fix it. The same type of care the hero would’ve killed for as a child. “Yeah…”

Embarrassed as they were, the hero was sure that the villain could hear them swallow nervously or at least feel their pounding heart. But if they did, they didn’t mention anything about it.

“Funnily enough, they still message me. Trying to get me to ‘change my mind’ or ‘take a different path’ as if this shit is my choice.”

The villain crooked an eyebrow, eyes flicking up for a millisecond to latch onto the hero’s before returning to their work. “I’m guessing they send you gifts too. Playing off the fact that these clothes look new and not like they were passed through your childhood.”

They nodded, shutting their eyes again as their face got redder. Avoiding any type of glance at themselves and their humiliating get up, the more they thought about it, the more the hero wanted to cry.

A bubbling hiss sounded from the kitchen and the villain shot up and ran to the stove. Immediately shutting off the burner and pulling the pot of soup off to try and stop it’s over-boiling, the villain breathed in content as it calmed down quickly. Taking out two bowls and two spoons as they poured equal parts before carrying it to the couch side where they last were.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” They handed their enemy a bowl and a spoon, relishing in the cute dusting of pink on the tips of the other’s ears. “Eat up and then just relax. I’ll handle laundry and we’ll get you out of that get up, then I’ll treat the rest of you, sound good?”

The hero smiled, nodding their head once more as they struggled up to a seated position and shovelled the hot meal down their throat in seconds. Their parents wouldn’t have approved of the villain either, but they didn’t control the hero anymore.

The villain made them feel free, and that was all they needed.

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dont-blame-it-on-the-kids · 3 months

Text

Linumi Hc

An incomplete and not in order list Because my brain is running a hundred different directionssssss

He is 10 years older than her but nothing starts with them until after the Linzin breakup so Lin’s like 33 ish he’s 43, long after she’s established in the RCPD and Toph and Su are gone.

Bumi wasn’t a violent man towards family and friends but the next time Bumi was in port after he heard what Tenzin did to Lin. Dropping her for Pema. (And expecting a kid within a year of breaking up with Lin) he decked Tenzin in front of Pema and the other air acolytes on ATI. Dropping Tenzin like a sack of bricks to the stone. “That’s for Linny.” He all but spat at the dazed Tenzin.

They write a lot. A LOT a lot. Lin receives several letters at the same time because Bumi has to mail them all at the same port after a while at sea. She saves every one of them but she would never admit it and Bumi assumes she tosses them but they’re hidden under a stone in her house. Lin doesn’t write as often to him as it usually ends up at the wrong port for him to be able to collect it.

They’re actually married but NO ONE KNOWS because Lin won’t wear a ring when she’s at work and no one can catch her when she’s not at work and Bumi doesn’t feel the need to tell anyone if they haven’t figured it out yet (*cough* Tenzin being oblivious)

One time Korra catches Bumi kissing Lin while they think no one was around at ATI and she was shoook

Bumi didn’t get any updates on what happened after Amon until it was weeks after everyone was at Katara’s house and as soon as he heard about it he couldn’t get there fast enough and no one dared tell Commander Bumi II that he couldn’t leave his assignment to get to his wife after what they heard happened.

Lin was in such bad state omg all the other hc injuries and nightmares but she was so pale and sickly thin when he got to her. He pulled her close to him and Lin just breaks down crying and apologizing over and over. (The night terror / comfort ficsssss please I beg)

When Bumi gets his airbending Lin grows distant a bit not really a huge fan of the new development but not discouraging him from his excitement. They do eventually talk it out but that’s kinda post series.

Bumi frantically digging through the wreckage of Kuvira’s mech to find Lin. (A Fog Au where Lin and Su are thrown into the spirit world by the explosion and Lin gets lost in the fog of lost souls- I think I have a few of those posts somewhere still)

Bumi joking that Mako/Rina(oc) or Bolin/Opal need to give him and Lin grankids soon because he’s retired and his niblings are growing up and finding other things to spend their time on than joking around with uncle Bumi.

Bumi loves making Lin smile and always manages to get a smirk at least as he’s goofing off in company. Sometimes he gets a chuckle and his week is made. Nothing can beat his Linny smiling and laughing.

#linumi #hc #also like side note #height hc is that Bumi is like 6’7 he’s stupid tall and Lin’s like 5’3 ish 5’4 #Kyalin has my entire heart but I have two hands lol

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ab4eva · 1 year

Text

‘Tomorrow Will Be Too Late’

Part 5

Summary: Elvis Presley x Reader / For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved two things - Elvis Presley and time travel. After seeing the 1968 Comeback Special for the first time, you decide to try and get back to him for one incredible night, by any means necessary.

Author’s note: I must thank my darling Marina for helping me really flesh out the storyline in this chapter. I came to her with my idea, and she said “Darling, now we’re talkin’ southern gothic and that’s my jam.” She really helped me get the vision for it, talked it out with me and for that I am incredibly grateful. She also contributed a couple of lines so thank you baby! Also gotta shoutout my other two wives, Ally & Birdy, for their constant support, love & creativity. And last but never least, all of you who are invested in this story. You keep me going when I feel like I can’t go on with it. I cherish your screams and your support. 💕

Warnings: Angst, mention of death, sad Elvis, language.

Word count: 4.4k

TWBTL masterlist

I love you more today

More today than yesterday

But I love you less today

Less than I will tomorrow

Elvis grips her shoulders, her body trembling under her thin, white nightgown, her eyes haunted and wild. She lifts a hand and presses a soft, warm palm to his cheek, looking for all the world like she knows him, really knows him, and is sorry for him. Like she’s trying to comfort him. At her touch, the hearing in his left ear vanishes, the chirping birds and crickets filtering through lopsidedly. Elvis shakes his head and a ringing noise slowly filling his ears as his hearing returns, a calmness settling over him. The feeling of deep grief, that heavy ache in his heart, has subsided a tiny bit, the tears that had tracked down his cheeks earlier are dry. Her hand slips from his face with a sigh, and her eyelashes flutter closed as she slumps in his arms. He gently lays her on the grass, smoothing the hair from her forehead and patting her cheek gently.

“Aw hell, honey. Wake up. Please wake up.” A familiar voice floats somewhere above you, a desperate, pleading edge coloring the words. “Aw hell,” you hear him swear again, and struggle to open your eyes. A large, warm hand cups your face, alternately patting lightly and stroking. It feels so nice you’re tempted to let the nothingness pull you under again. There’s a reason you want to let it…you just can’t recall what it is. And that voice, so familiar, yet - not as you remember. It’s higher, for a start, not the deep, rumbling tone you’re used to. And quicker, running words together almost as if he can’t get them out fast enough, like his mouth can’t keep up with the ideas tumbling from his head. You’re used to the slow and steady pace of his thoughts made manifest.

“Come on, be a good girl and open those pretty little eyes for me. I saw ‘em lookin’ at me before, like you’d seen a ghost or somethin’. Now why would you look at me that way, honey? I ain’t ever seen you before in my life.” He carries on a one-sided conversation and somewhere in your foggy brain you find it amusing. “Now, I-I-I don’t know what’s wrong with ya, why y-y-you’re actin’ like this but I-I-I need ya to get up now. You hear me? Wake up, dammit!” He shakes you gently by the shoulders, then a little more forcefully and you can hear the fear in his voice. He’s scared. You hate that he’s scared, hate that you’re the one that’s made him this way. This, more than anything, breaks you from your fog and your eyes blink open. He’s backlit against the pale, misty morning light and for a moment, you can believe it’s your Elvis staring back at you, so eerily similar in their shapes and contours - the sharp curve of cheekbone and strong jaw. The swooping hair and broad shoulders. But…he isn’t your Elvis. And everything comes flooding back in a painful flash that has you sitting up and doubling over, all at once. You feel a light hand on your back as you clutch your stomach, trying to breathe in and out, trying to still the racing of your heart, not to mention the terrifying cacophony of thoughts jumbling your mind.

“Just breathe, baby. Good girl,” he whispers, and it makes your stomach turn. For a moment you’re jolted upside down and back again, his words ringing in your ears, and you’re filled with a coldness so deep you begin to shake. You remember the last time you heard him speak those exact words to you…in the hallway of NBC studios, when he knelt beside you just like this, hand on your back, murmuring quietly as if to a skittish colt. Now his hand begins to rub slow circles between your shoulder blades, his palm barely meeting your skin, an attempt at calming you…but it burns like fire. “You must be cold,” he continues quietly and it makes your arms tighten around your middle as you bend further in on yourself, silent tears falling, short gasping breaths only adding to your chill. You wish he’d stop touching you, wish he’d take his hand off your back. His palm is so feather-light, as if he’s afraid of too much contact now that you’ve come around. It’s a reminder that he isn’t the Elvis you left. Your Elvis would have his arms around you in a heartbeat, he’d be pulling you into his lap, truly comforting you. Your Elvis wouldn’t be afraid to touch you. You scoot forward a little, desperate to get away from his scorching touch.

She’s a curious thing, isn’t she? Elvis thinks, wondering why she’s leaning away from his touch, when he’s used to women doing the opposite. For the moment, his grief is forgotten, moved to the back of his mind. How did she get here? And why? Who is she? These questions and so many more are doing somersaults in his mind, slicing through the overwhelming sadness he had been trying to escape. Early morning walks in the back pasture at Graceland had been the only thing that seemed to calm his spirit since his mama got sick. Since his mama went and left him, went and left him to spend the rest of her time with Jesse. Somewhere in his heart he knew it was selfish to try and keep her from her other son. Jesse needed Mama too, and Elvis took a tiny bit of comfort in knowing they were together again. It wasn’t much but it was all he had to cling to these days.

And then this woman had just…appeared. Out of nowhere, out of thin air. He’d been been walking and crying, talking to God, begging him for a sign that he hadn’t been fully abandoned, completely forsaken. A sign that things would be ok somehow. He had felt so utterly alone since his mama left this earth. He had so much love left for her and he didn’t know where to put it now. Didn’t know what to do with all this love that was running through his veins for her. And then there she was…she knew his name, she seemed to know him. Not like the world knew him, not “Elvis the Pelvis” or “The Memphis Flash,” not even “Elvis the Movie Star.” Just him, just Elvis. Her wild eyes had held so much…love. And pain.

When she touched him he had felt - like he was floating above his grief instead of walking hand in hand with it. A small reprieve. Had God seen fit to take his mama but send him another instead, someone to help him? Help him see a way through this darkness, this despair that was eating him alive, tearing at his insides day after day? A way through the troubled thoughts that too often swirled uninvited in his mind. Dark visions of a river rushing over him, of letting it pull him under, letting it take away the pain. It was almost as if…as if her touch had absorbed his grief, as if she had taken some of it from him and into herself. That must be why she had passed out, why she couldn’t stop crying now. An angel. Angel of Grief. An answer to his prayer. He wasn’t alone, not anymore.

Elvis suddenly wraps his arms around you and the heat radiating off of him warms you almost instantly. You freeze, not expecting the sudden closeness. But you shiver in his arms, and the familiar feeling of them comforts you. His arms are the same - same strength, same bones, same flesh. He’s mumbling something into your hair, you can only make out snatches of words. You hear him whisper “mama” and “…sent me an angel.” On instinct you wrap your arms around his waist, spanning his back as your head falls onto his shoulder and you melt into his embrace. You sit there a minute, each comforting the other, until he pulls away and looks at you, wonder and awe and a little bit of shyness lighting his features.

“You alright? You had me scared there for a minute. You’re not hurt, are ya?” His hands flutter lightly over you, as if to make sure that you aren’t physically injured. His concern makes your heart skip a beat and you open your mouth to respond but your breath catches in your throat. This is as close to young Elvis as you’ve been and you take him in, fully, for the first time. He’s familiar of course, you know him too. Just not in the same way your knew your Elvis. This one you know from his movies, from the countless pictures you’ve seen of him from this time period, from the TV performances. He’s different entirely from the man you left, and now that you’re getting your bearings, you don’t feel quite so shocked by him. His cobalt eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles underneath marring his his beautiful face.

“Is she ok?” he asks suddenly, looking at you expectantly, his eyebrows drawing together as worry etches across his pretty features. You’re confused by this question, seemingly out of the blue.

“Is she…” you start, unsure of what he means.

“Mama…is she ok?” he asks again, waiting for an answer like you’re the only one who can give it. And it dawns on you, remembering his whispered words a minute ago, his sudden closeness. It can’t be. Can it? Does he really think you’re…an angel? You knew Elvis was a spiritual man, always in tune with things not of this world. It makes perfect sense from everything you’ve ever read or heard about him. It just- fits. But how will you explain it to him in the future, your presence here. Does he not remember… Oh. Your stomach drops and you think of all the times he said he remembered you but couldn’t place you. How he insisted that you’d met before. And you passed it off as a man who had met too many people, seen too many faces and you just reminded him of someone else. In his haze of grief he’s convinced himself you’re an angel. You swallow, unsure of how to proceed, unsure if you can actually pull this off. Let him believe you’re not human, an angelic being. It makes you uncomfortable, like you’re lying to him. But the hopeful look on his face and the fact that you have no good reason for being here makes up your mind for you. He’s still looking at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“She’s fine, Elvis. She’s just fine,” you whisper, blinking back tears that threaten to fall again as you cup his cheek, your thumb running over the rough stubble gathered there. “I know how much you loved your Satnin. I know how hard this is for you.”

Elvis looks at her, startled. How did she know…Satnin? No one but family and close friends knew he called his mama that. There’s no way she should know this, but she does. He shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t be shocked but he is. It’s just further confirmation that this woman, this angel, was sent here to help him, comfort him.

“You’re in pain,” he says, eyebrows drawing together again, this time with concern for you. “You took it didn’t you? When you touched me? Took my sadness, took it upon yourself knowing I’d have a chance to heal a little bit. It nearly killed ya in the process.”

This man, your man. Only he would be concerned for a angel, a supernatural being. It’s the first thing that endears you to this strange version of the man you love. He can’t understand the complexity of your pain, the part of you that aches for this boy who just lost his mother, who would do anything to take away his sadness. He thinks you’ve done just that - a small mercy. And the other part of you that aches for the man you love, the man you left, the man you might never see again. And so you say the only thing you’re capable of at the moment - “I’m alright. I’ll be alright,” you reassure him, shivering again, the dampness from the ground seeping through your nightgown. It’s unseasonably cool this morning, a rare summer dawn that holds more chill than warmth at this early hour. Elvis notices and helps you stand, holding onto you while you get your balance.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he says suddenly. “Always helps me clear my head. ‘Sides, got a blanket in my car so you can warm up.” He gently takes your hand in his, tentatively at first but when you instinctively lace your fingers through his, he smiles at you, a small sad smile, and squeezes your hand. Another little piece of your heart clicks into place.

It’s quiet on the road, you wrapped in the scratchy wool blanket Elvis has pulled from the trunk and him in the driver’s seat, absentmindedly tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel to a song only he can hear. He keeps looking over at you, as if to reassure himself that you’re still there, that you’re not gonna disappear on him. You see him breathe a sigh of relief every time, his shoulders relaxing, the small exhale of breath a constant, soothing reminder in the silent car. You’re not sure how to talk to him, still disoriented and shell-shocked as you traverse the empty Memphis streets, the ten-year gap from this boy in 1958 to the man in 1968 becoming ever more apparent the more you drive through town. Mercifully, he breaks the silence with a question.

“Jesse?” A word. Just one word. A word that holds so much hope, and a great deal of fear. It reaches out and takes hold of you, this word, heavy with meaning and love and a strange sort of grief. The kind of grief that is placed upon you by others. Well-meaning, intended with love, but forced upon you nonetheless. It’s mixed with his own grief, the kind he has come to recognize with time and self-reflection and that unknowable ache that is always with him, as near and dear to him as the brother - twin - he lost. You realize he’s asking if Jesse is ok.

“Jesse’s happy. He’s with your mama now…they have each other and they’re ok. They both miss you something awful, though. Your daddy too.” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and see him blink rapidly, futilely willing the tears that threaten to fall to stay put. You bite your lip and look back out the window, feeling like a intruder on his heartache. He sniffs and clears his throat, hurriedly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You alright? Elvis?” you murmur quietly as you cover his hand resting on the seat between you with your own, running your thumb in gentle circles over his skin. He nods, still too choked up to speak, and gives you a quick, watery smile.

“I’m gonna be alright, darlin’,” he pauses, unsure of how to go on. “If I don’t get a chance to tell you before you go…thank you.” You smile, entirely charmed by this sweet and gentle boy, so unlike the man you know.

“She was very special, wasn’t she? Your best girl,” you press his hand, gently encouraging him, thinking maybe it’ll do him some good to talk about his feelings.

“Mama is…was…my best friend. She took care of me, like no one else could, not even Daddy, not even Dodger.” He tries to keep his voice steady, tries and fails.

“You were her special boy, her whole life. She put all of her love and care into you, didn’t she? Couldn’t bear to be parted from you, not even for a little while. Took you with her when she worked the cotton fields…you couldn’t have been more than a few months old when she was dragging you in a sack beside her, picking cotton til her fingers bled. That’s true love.”

He pales, the blood draining from his face as his mouth opens, a sharp inhale of breath the only sound in the car except the pounding of your own heart. You realize your mistake almost immediately. You shouldn’t know that about him. It’s too intimate, too personal. He isn’t so far removed from that life. The problem with Elvis having been dead for over forty years is that every single person who ever knew him feels the need to talk about him. Even those that didn’t know him talk about him, write books and articles and papers about him. Research his life and his parent’s life and on and on.

“How did…” he starts to say, looking spooked, but then his face relaxes and he lets out a ghost of a laugh, a little huff of air that leaves his half-upturned lips and he shakes his head. “Gosh, it’s good to talk about mama with someone who really knew her. Daddy can’t bear to talk about her now…and he’s the only other person who really knew her like I did. Loved her like I did.”

You take his hand again without a word and grasp it lightly, encouraging him to go on. He does, and you talk about his mother with him while he drives and cries, and the sun comes up fully, painting Memphis a beautiful rosy color, the late summer sun bouncing off the brick buildings, the leafy green trees waving to you as you pass. Before you know it, hours have gone by, and you see the gates of Graceland come into view. You can see a crowd gathered there, and it’s a shock to your system after the quiet, cozy drive. You start to panic, there are women with cameras everywhere. You can’t be photographed with Elvis, in 1958. You simply can’t.

“Elvis, I can’t…I don’t…” you aren’t able to finish your thought, you’re getting closer to Graceland by the second and you’re frozen in fear, powerless to do anything about it. Somehow Elvis understands what you’re trying to say, how you feel.

“Just lay down, darlin’, I’ll cover you with the blanket. No one’ll see you, I promise,” he glances at you knowingly, and you slide to the floorboard, your knees hitting the carpet as he pulls the blanket over your head. You peek through your cover and watch him as he pushes his sadness to the side as he pulls into the drive, his fans a comfort to him now more than ever before. Showering him with love, not the kind that he used to get from his mama, but love all the same. And he soaks it up like drought-stricken earth.

You realize with a start that you’ve seen this photograph of him, have alway been enchanted by it. The slender figures of the women outside his gates, cameras raised to hide their faces. Hiding their faces while capturing his. His long, slender arm hanging outside of the open Cadillac, hand drooping lazily as if in invitation. That hair, those sideburns. You’ve seen this photograph a dozen times…you just didn’t realize you’d be next to him when it was taken. And the oddest feeling courses through your veins, not quite deja vu but something hauntingly similar. In a flash, you see all the men he will become. The all-American Army boy: soft and young when he leaves for Germany, lean, older and wiser when he returns. The slick, Hollywood Ken Doll: singing and dancing his way through film after film, a continuous montage of tiny white shorts, red windbreakers and cowboys hats on an endless loop. The slender ‘68 Comeback Special man: a gritty, leather-clad force of nature reminding everyone why he was a star in the first place. The glittery gaudiness of Las Vegas: jumpsuits and karate moves, hundreds of women kissed each week and left begging for more. And finally, as if he somehow knew he was nearing the end of his life, a return to the soft and round form much like the one he had entered the world in.

But all of that was before him still and only you have the privilege and pain of seeing all that he was, all that he would become. Beside you now sits the young and eager boy with his whole life ahead of him. Only you can look into his eyes and see the man you knew and didn’t know. The man you loved and didn’t love. The man who would become more than an icon, almost god-like in his legacy. You ache to tell him all these things, to spare him pain and save him in some way. But you risk losing everything you’ve gained so far if you do, and so you simply hold his hand as he drives you through the gates of Graceland, posing for the girls outside as he does.

In a moment it’s over, this flash of past, present and future that leaves you reeling, suffocating under a blanket and heaped on the floorboard of Elvis’s car. Just when you think you might panic, he pulls the blanket off your head and pats the seat next to him. You manage to crawl back onto the seat just as you’re pulling up to the house and it hits you, why it was so familiar before. This moment has simultaneously not happened yet and already happened, sixty five years prior. Time travel is trippy, you can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

Elvis feels a little bit lighter now, like a tiny sliver of sun peeking through the clouds on a stormy day. Still heartbroken, but maybe like he can go on somehow. The ache is still there, it would always be there. Seeing his mama the past couple of days in the hospital had been unbearable, he had felt so helpless. And then his heart had been ripped from his chest, and everything he had ever loved, everything he had ever held dear was gone in an instant. But this woman - this angel - had helped him when he needed it most. He wishes she could stay forever, he feels so at peace with her near. He knows it’s too much to ask, but he hopes she’ll stay a little bit longer.

In the few hours you’ve spent with Elvis this morning you’ve come to realize that he isn’t so different from the one you love. His spirit is the same, his humor and wit, his love of life and all that it offers. He’s the same man, and you find yourself wanting to inch closer to him, to close the distance between you on the car seat. It hits you like a lightening bolt - you…god help you but…you love him too. Of course you do. Is this why you have an almost unnatural possessiveness over him? When it seems like you shouldn’t, like you haven’t any claim to him. But…he hasn’t met his future wife, not yet. It’s you. Here and now. He’s meeting you for the very first time. Before he even lays eyes on her. Somewhere in the ether you must have known it, in your bones, deep down. He was yours first. You loved him first.

A fire blazes through you at this revelation, taking your breath with it. It’s all starting to makes sense and it frightens you to your core. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You’re not supposed to love Elvis Presley, not like this. He isn’t supposed to know you and you’re not supposed to be here. It’s not in the history books, it’s not what happened. You have to leave. Now. You can’t stay any longer and risk messing things up - messing his life up. He’s too important to too many people, you included. He’s staring at you now like you're the only lifeline he has, like you’re the answer to every problem and every question he has. That heart that was being pieced back together earlier, your heart, now shatters apart. It breaks to think about leaving him like this, so entwined with his grief, so overcome with the hand life has dealt him - cruel and kind at the same time. Your tears pool and fall down your cheeks as you reach a hand out to him, needing to feel his touch again, maybe for the last time. He takes your hand, placing it on his cheek, his warm palm covering yours. He nuzzles it, the scratchy hair of his unshaven jaw tickling you lightly, before he gently places a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist, his tender lips branding you, claiming you. You didn’t think it would be this hard, leaving him. You didn’t think you’d be torn, that you’d actually give a thought to staying. Not when you had someone to get back to. And yet…

“Elvis…sweetheart…it’s time. I have to go now,” you say through your tears, surprised when you feel something hot and wet drip onto your hand still holding his cheek. He’s crying now too, as if he knows this moment holds more significance than he can fully grasp. He shakes his head, no, always stubborn, and pulls you to his chest, clutching you there tightly. Your arms encircle his waist as you hang on for dear life, the waves crashing over you both threatening to pull you under.

“No, no, no….please don’t leave me. Please don’t go,” he cries against your hair, your bodies wracked with sobs as you cling to one another, each mourning the loss for a different reason. You know you’ll never be the same after this. You can never again be who you were before you held a broken Elvis Presley in your arms on the day his mother died. Before you realized that you'd gone and truly fucked up the one life you have. Because now you know. Know that you can’t have a life that Elvis isn’t a part of. You’re breaking in two and he is holding you. And everything is exactly as it should be. And everything is all wrong.

Tags (please let me know if you want to be removed): @meladollsims @godlypresley @jelliedonut @butlersxbirdy @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @powerofelvis @elvisabutler @ccab @richardslady121 @isthlsfate @rjmartin11 @thatbanditqueen @prompted-wordsmith @airyx0x0 @baddieandblue

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deadboyfriendd · 2 years

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The Flea and The Acrobat | E.M.

Summary: 1986 was something that seemed like ancient history to you, something that only existed in the world of your parents' nostalgia and preserved in movies and music- so what happens when you slip through a fray in the tightrope?

Warnings: Time Traveler!AU, Eddie doesn't die, Max lives, Will, El, and Johnathan are still in Hawkins after post-season-4 events, S4 spoilers, drugs (marijuana), depictions of blood and gore, bodily injury, mentions of trauma, some things in the show have been changed to accommodate this storyline but I tried to keep it as close as I possibly could, a little bit of fluff, not beta read

18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 5.6K

Author's Note: This goes along with my TT!AU Headcanons I had a few people ask for a fic so I delivered. I have SO MCUH MORE that I could write for this reader! and this AU, so if there's any engagement I most likely will write more. Enjoy babes <3 Flea

You can’t fathom how you ended up here, nor could you fathom where in the hell you were. It was familiar, yet entirely unhuman. Particles floated through the air in an anti-gravitational flurry, swirling around as you waved your hand through them. There was an immense lack of light here, as if the sun no longer existed- the warmth in the atmosphere sucked through a vacuum seal and was replaced with ice. The nearly unnoticeable hum of the earth had been replaced with a groan, sending the chilled, damp air shooting through your coccyx and ending at your atlas cervical vertebra. You shivered, drawing your hands over your arms frantically- trying to alleviate the goosebumps that raised there.

You had no cell service here. Actually, your phone in its entirety seemed to be fried. At this point, your brain has only created two options: sit here and freeze to death or find a way out of here. With death not necessarily being on your agenda for that day, you pushed yourself up on your hands and started walking, legs creating a ghostly swirl of fog sound your ankles as you disrupted its settlement beneath you. Despite your lack of notice, you cursed yourself for not bringing a sweater.

The smell of mildew was prominent in this place, yet it became more apparent the closer you drew to the nearest dwelling outside of your current forest residence. A foreign sound reverberated off of the modest dwellings and you could barely make out the name on the crooked sign: Forest Hills Trailer Park. This earth’s groan became slowly drowned out by another noise- bulbous and muffled, but distinctly human.

You carefully shuffled your feet across the dirt pathings, not wanting to trip but also trying to listen for the noise. The last trailer was the loudest, your ears ringing- mimicking the screeching alarm of a metal detector. Light pulsed out from behind the curtains and from under the door like a heartbeat- a disgustingly wet squelch succeeding in a gross rhythm. You prayed to whatever god existed in this place that it wasn’t sentient.

The bulbous hum that drew you in became more distinct, noises became sharper and you could almost make out words once your cautiously pushed the thin trailer door open, foot making a muffled thump as it tapped against the carpet.

The sight before you was a scene of grotesque morosity- something that Guericalt himself couldn’t begin to dream up. A fleshy gash spanned across the length of the ceiling, pulsating and slick with a mucous membrane that you didn’t even want to begin to guess about. It was the only sense of warmth in this entire plane of existence, heat radiating off of it like a life form, creating a terrarium of spores and vegetation in the trailer dwelling surrounding it. A light radiated from the other side of the membrane, veins casting a shadow from it like a candled egg.

You don’t know what came over you, but despite your better judgment, you found a large enough piece of splintered two-by-four, dragged the least wobbly remnants of a barstool over towards the opening, and began to stab through the membrane. The pull was immediate and harsh, sucking you upward into a flip and slamming you back down on the ground with a hollowed-out thud. You couldn’t fully assess the severity of your wounds this minute. The only thing you could focus on was the white light in your ears and the blown-out haze covering your ear drums. Within the few seconds it took for your ears to come through, your eardrums were fully able to register the screaming coming from your left, yet you couldn’t yet decipher if it was your own.

Once the spaghetti of your brain untangled itself from the blow of the fall, you realized that the screaming was, in fact, a mixture of two voices. From your corner, you could make out another figure across the room, huddled as far as they could possibly get away from the gash. You realized then that you had probably been screaming at each other, in turn, scaring each other more. Once you finally gained the common sense to close your mouth, you looked around, assessing the immediate danger you could potentially be in. You could tell that at one point, this place was probably occupied and maybe even cozy, but definitely not anymore. It was barely a structure.

The boy in the corner was staring at you intensely, like you could probably kill him. You were probably looking at him the same way.

Words goddamn it. You told yourself, trying to force your lips apart and your larynx to create any sort of sound. A tremor racked through your body, and your voice cracked as you managed a poorly strung-together sentence.

“Where the fuck am I?”

It came out like a whisper, tears you didn’t even realize were there sliding past the ducts and creating a trail through the mucous and dirt caking your face. Your body trembled unwillingly despite the warmth in the air.

Eddie was apprehensive to even begin speaking, his brief encounters with the upside down enough to send someone to therapy for a lifetime. But there’s one thing he did know: those things that tried to kill him had no remorse. None of them cried, and none of them tremored. And none of them looked so… human.

“Hawkins, Indiana.” He forced out, his whisper barely matching the decibels of your own pathetic sentence just a few seconds before. Once he was certain that you weren’t an immediate danger to him, he mustered the courage to speak again.

“You’re bleeding.” He said, waving his hand in homage to your own.

You looked down at your hand, feeling a pang in your stomach at the amount of blood pouring from your hand and your wrist- still not yet able to feel it from the pure adrenaline running through your system. You winced slightly, holding the outside of your wrist with your other hand and clutching the wound to your chest. You used your wounded hand to wipe the tears pooling in your eyes.

He realized that you were just as terrified at him as he was of you when you drew your knees to your chest in a protective manner as he unfolded his own body and started to lean towards you.

He put his hands out in a defensive gesture- in an I’m not going to hurt you gesture. He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, trying not to startle you- or himself- for that matter.

“Can I come closer?”

You nodded your head slowly, watching him with intense, wide eyes as he crept towards you cautiously, hands still out in front of him.

“Can I see?”

He reaches his hand out towards you, just extending it out slightly further than it already was and turning his palm outward towards you. His hand had a slight tremble to it, but he didn’t touch you. He didn’t dare.

“Can I touch you?”

You looked at each other with wide eyes, and you nodded slightly, reaching the hand that you guarded so heavily out to his. His palm was warm, welcoming against your cold, wet skin. You winced as he graced his fingers across your wrist and palm- a nasty gash spread through the skin where a nail from the two-by-four had torn through it in the fall. He never took his eyes off you- still not trusting you completely. Blood still oozed from the wound, with some coagulating and mixing with the inter-dimensional mucous that coated you. You looked up, trying to see his face, and his eyes left the gash on your wrist to peer at you through his bangs.

“I know someone who can fix this.” He said to you, gripping your wrist, softly.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, meeting your eyes once more.

You had no other option, so you nodded, hesitantly, still confused and unable to find your voice. You felt him pull on your wrist, the semblance of him helping you up. You used your other wrist to push yourself up, folding your legs underneath you while he pulled on your other arm. He settled his hands on your waist, steadying you as you wobbled your way out of the trailer and to the rickety old van in front of you.

He made sure you were seated and stable before reaching over you towards the console, pulling out an absolutely ancient walkie-talkie.

“Frodo. God- Pick up Frodo!” He screeched into the receiver, getting feedback from an nearly pre-pubescent voice on the other end.

“What Bilbo, What?” The voice sounded nearly frantic, like it scrambled to grab its own walkie from wherever it fed to.

“We’ve got a real situation, here, buddy. Meet me at the dungeon, now.” He said, before throwing it back into the console and running around to the other side.

He started the van, engine coming to life with a sputtering roar.

“Y/N, by the way.” You muttered, finally finding your voice, fluttering your eyes over to him and finally getting a look. This guy was really into the 80s resurgence, you thought to yourself, only giggling in your brain slightly. He did a double take to look back at you, the cogs in his head turning as he processed what you just said.

“Uh.. Eddie.” He said back, turning his face back to the road.

It was a short drive to the other end of the trailer park, one short enough that you probably could have walked if you were in better condition. He shut the van off quickly, before rushing to the other side to help you out into the newer trailer- the less destroyed trailer.

The two of your got in just fine, Eddie allowing you to lean up against the counter next to the sink while he rummaged around in a few cabinets, clearly panicking as his makeshift medical supplies tumbled out of his arms.

“Hand.” He ordered, dumping everything on the counter with a symphony of crashing, you just shaking your head in return.

“I’ve got it.” you replied, grunting as you grabbed the handle of tequila, flicking the screw-cap off and taking a pull before dumping it over your wrist in the sink, creating a soup of dried blood, mucous, and whatever particulates had followed you into this world. Once you got a clear look at the cut, you realized it wasn’t enough to need stitches, instead, grabbing the crusty bottle of gorilla glue beside you and pressing the skin together at the edges, creating a rough, ruched seam of skin. Eddie looks at you with a grimace- mirroring your own look of anguish as you messily wrap it with one hand.

The door to the trailer flies open, hitting the wall behind it as a gaggle of young teenagers pile through the door- a tall, messy-haired boy toppling through behind them like a caricature depiction of an overwhelmed dog-walker. In the same way that the six children (you counted) and their keeper piled through the door, their questions began to shoot off in a rapid fire succession like bullets on the beaches of Normandy.

“Who is she?”

“You said the Upside Down?”

“How did she get there?”

“Everyone shut up!” Eddie rattled off, causing an immediate blanket of silence and stillness to settle over the circus- creating a tension that could be sliced through with dental floss.

“I was at the old trailer, seeing what else I could salvage and she came out of the gate.” He said, a troubled look settling over his face like they had done this before. The other bigger boy came over, settling a hand over his shoulder as his eyes glassed over. It seemed to reel him back in a bit.

“Okay, big guy, now we need to know where she came from.” The smaller, curly-haired boy said cautiously, taking a step towards him.

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here” You spoke, finally, making them all jump. They stared at you silently for a moment, like you had two heads.

“This one talks.” The gangly, dark-haired boy spoke, more towards the rest of the group that to you.

“This one?” You asked, interjectedly, sort of offended by the reference.

“When El found us, she couldn’t talk a lot.” He replied back, gesturing towards one of the girls in the party. Not wanting to dwell too much on that fact, you continued.

“Well I talk just fine.”

“Then I’d assume you wouldn’t mind answering my question.” Said the curly-haired one, getting a little too big for his britches.

“Well, I leaned back against a tree and I thought I missed and slipped and then I ended up there.” You shuddered, running your hands up and down your biceps like you were still trying to wipe the particulates off of yourself.

“The Upside Down.” The aforementioned girl said, barely above a whisper, her eyes glazing over in the same way Eddie’s did prior.

“The where?” You questioned back, furrowing your brow.

“Was it dark? Cold? Floaty shit and weird groaning? Didn’t really seem like earth? Like here but-”

“Different.” You finished for him, everyone intensely staring at you now.

“But that still doesn’t explain how you ended up in that gate.” Piped the older boy, finally, looking towards you with a furrowed brow and a sympathetic stare- but you couldn’t quite tell who it was for.

“Well, seeing as my only options were to freeze to death, brave whatever was out there, or start walking, I chose to make like a banana and split. I walked until I heard something that sounded at least halfway safe and it sucked me through that hole.” You explained, holding up your wrist as evidence that it did, in fact happen.

“And that’s when she shot through the gate” Eddie interjected, finally saying something after his long bout of silence.

All hell broke loose, the younger teens all turning to face each other and argue back and forth. It was nearly impossible to get a coherent string of words out of anything happening within that conversation. It was overwhelming, to say the least. Just as bad as Wall Street except way less international exchange of goods and monies and way more things that you didn’t understand.

“Listen-” You started, causing everyone else to flinch back into silence again, “-can I use someone’s phone? Something happened and mine’s, like frie-”

You began to pull your cell out of your back pocket, the screen flickering on at the movement but still glitching out. Everyone gasped and took a step back from it, the older boy clutching the shoulder of the young interrogator. This sent them into another Wall Street flurry of stock-and-bond panic.

“What the hell is that?”

“I knew we couldn’t trust her.”

“She’s a spy!”

Their questions and insults rattled off like bullets, you constantly having to bob and weave to avoid getting struck by one. You furrowed your brow again. What fourteen year-old didn’t have a phone?

“What are you guys? Like, some weird offshoot of Amish? Is this one of those weird cults that lives off the grid? It’s a phone!” You said, like it was obvious, waving it around a little. This caused all of them to duck and flinch away from it like a bomb.

“No… This is a phone.” The interrogator said, taking a few steps over to the wall and pulling the landline off of the receiver, a long, curly cord swinging and twisting violently with it.

“She’s fucking with us, she probably came from the lab!” The gangly one shot at you, pointing a harsh finger in your direction.

“What lab?” You asked, returning the energy.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what lab.”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Tell us the truth right now, spy-”

“Shut up. My name is Y/N, Y/L/N, I am from Hawkins, Indiana, and I graduated from Hawkins High School in 2019! I grew up in-”

There was another collective chorus of gasps before, yet another, deafening silence settled over the room. Sixteen eyes bore holes through your skin like burning ants through a magnifying glass as you stared back.

“Say that again.” The oldest boy said, coming up and gently placing broad hands over the caps of your shoulders, looking you in the eyes intensely.

“My name is-” You began, promptly being cut off.

“No not that! Your graduating class.” He said back to you, carefully this time.

“What does that have to do with anything?” You asked, confused expressions clearly registering across your face.

“Just say it!” The interrogator spit towards you, breaking through the room's silence like a rock through stained glass. It made your ears ring.

“Two thousand and nineteen.” You started again, just above a whisper.

Silent panic ensued. They all looked at each other and you went silent, piecing it together. The silence spun around at a rapid pace like electrons, bouncing off of each other and transferring energy between valence bonds. You could almost pinpoint the exact moment each one of them came to the same conclusion independently.

“What year is it?” You asked, a few decibels louder than before.

They continue to stare. At you. At each other. At Eddie.

“I said, ‘What fucking year is it?’” You said again, through grit teeth. Still quiet, but much more forceful.

“I think you might want to sit down first.” The curly-haired boy said calmly, placing his hands on your upper biceps just like his older counterpart had done. It was much more gentle this time, like someone breaking some terrible, awful news.

“Just tell me the fucking year.” You pleaded, voice cracking slightly behind it.

“1986.” He said back to you, with sad eyes.

Radio silence came from you as you tried to process this new development. You had been sent through the wringer today, shot through a dimension and a half, and a new time zone. You were hurt, you were covered in slime, and you didn’t know anyone here. Not to mention that they all thought you were an alien. And finally, the biggest, shittiest cherry on top of this biggest, shittest mountain, is that, out of every single time that you could have traveled back to- the universe decided on the eighties?

“Like Madonna, The Breakfast Club, leg warmers, 1986?” You asked, thinking aloud. Your eyes were still fixed forward in a trance.

Dustin nods, not really understanding what you mean but scared to say anything else for how tight you were gripping his forearms.

“What the fuck.”

Once they group was able to reel you back in from that far-away place, they established a few important things: The first being their names. You learned that the keeper of the group had been Steve. He was their resident chauffeur. The curly-haired interrogator and gangly one had been Dustin and Mike. You also learned Lucas, Max, and Will, though, you couldn’t quite pinpoint what exactly to call the other girl. You learned that there were others in the group too, older siblings that were closer to you in age- and adults who hopefully knew how to handle this.

You also learned that this was nothing new to them.

They sat you down and gave you a rundown from the very beginning, about the other dimension and how they thought they had lost Will. The funeral, the lab, the telekinesis that resulted in migraines and nosebleeds. They recounted the lab and the things that had happened there, monsters you couldn’t fathom, Russian conspiracies that you couldn;t believe actually existed out of your textbook passages about the cold war. It was a whirlwind of science and legalities and technicalities and things that shouldn’t exist but do- like some sick, twisted Flash Gordon.

They told you about the friends they had lost.

And finally, they derived a theory. Sitting sprawled across the linoleum floor of the kitchen, notebook and sharpie marker in-hand, Dustin drew a line.

“This is the plane between two dimensions,” he explained,

“and we-,” he gestured to the group, all also sitting huddled around the page on the floor, “are here.”

He drew a series of primitive stick figures walking along the line.

“You need to think of it like an acrobat walking a tightrope.” Will started, looking up at you from just beneath your shoulder.

“When you think of a rope, you need to see how tightly bound the fibers are. We contain too much matter and, simply put, too big to pass cleanly through the fibers of the rope. So instead, we can only move in a linear fashion, back and forth along this line.”

They looked up at you, making sure you were following along. Dustin uncapped his sharpie with his mouth, starting again through sharpie cap-muffled words.

“But something small, like a flea, can pass between the fibers and travel in multiple directions along the rope.” He said to you, looking up once more.

“Okay, so what’s your angle here?” You asked, not quite understanding yet.

“There’s something seriously messed up with our rope. It’s fraying in weird places, letting our acrobats fall and slip through, along with some of the fleas.” He said, stopping for a brief second before starting again.

“That hole that you went through, we call it a gate. It’s a tear in the space-time continuum, something like a black hole. A fray in our rope- if you will. It was caused by an interdimensional being- a flea- that was powerful enough to open it. Last year, when Eddie and Steve and Nancy and Robin had to go down there, something weird happened.” Dustin continued.

“Yeah- a lot of weird shit happened. We got attacked by bats and we had to talk to Dustin with the lights a-and…” Eddie started frantically, trailing off once Steve brought a hand back up to his shoulder before he could have a full freak-out.

“When we were down there,” Steve started, much more collected than Eddie, “Everything is a mirror image down there. We went to the Wheeler’s house to try to see if we could get some supplies and… stuff was different. It was the same house but, like, a time capsule from three years before?” He explained to you, looking to Dustin for further explanation.

“So what I think happened, is you fell into that time-loop. That fray from forty years from now shot you back to that bubble, and you ended up in its mirror image. Here.”

They gave you some time to process it all, deciding that it was late and that they needed to be home. They made a plan to rendezvous with the rest of the team in the morning, and that, since Eddie had found you, he was saddled with babysitting you.

“Can I please use your shower?” You asked Eddie, timidly, once you were alone. You were so caught up in getting an explanation for what happened that you failed to notice the thin layers of mucous and inter-dimensional grime coagulating in a crust covering your skin.

“Uh.. yeah, let me grab you some clothes.” He said, smoothing his hands over his face in the most stressed out way possible.

He took you down the shallow hall, pushing open the bathroom door and leaving to rummage through his own personal dwelling. You got the shower on quickly, turning the setting to near-boiling and letting the steam quickly tumble out of the confines of the curtain. You stripped your shirt, the back of it peeling off your skin- stuck to you with ectoplasm.

Eddie walked in through the door as your shirt made a wet splat across the floor. He looked at you with wide eyes, face turning a deep shade of maroon when you turned around.

You looked at him funny, considering you were still decent.

“What? Girl next door doesn’t go for runs in sports bras?” You asked him, trying to lighten the mood. He just shook his head, not getting the joke.

“Oh, come on, it’s the 1986 not 1924. Don’t act like you’ve never seen a sports bra before.”

He didn’t seem to laugh at that one either. Tough crowd.

“I’ll just- uh- be out here, you can hand me your clothes from the door and I’ll throw them in the wash. I don’t really know what whatever shit you’re coated in will do to the floors.” He said, turning around and shutting the door quickly.

You finished peeling your clothes off of yourself, wrapping your bra and underwear up in your shirt before handing it to him through a cracked door. You may have been immodest but you weren’t a complete animal.

“I’ll be in my room when you’re done. There should be a towel under the sin-”

“Uh- Eddie?” You asked him, a little too quickly, cutting him off in the process. Your voice sounded scared and timid. His tone softened immediately.

“Yeah?” He asked back, hand freezing on yours for just a second.

“C-Can you stay with me. Like just outside the door or something? A lot of shit has happened today and I’m just kinda scared a-and-” You rambled, but he cut you off.

“Hey, hey, hey. Yeah, I get it. I can stay.” He said back to you, “I’ll just be right here. Guarding the door.” He sighed, leaning against the door frame.

You mustered a quiet thank you before closing the door. You could hear his back slide down the door as he settled on the floor in front of the door. It might not have been much, but his back against the door felt like a brick wall.

Eddie let you steal some of his clothes, considering you had nothing but the clothes on your back when you arrived here. He assured you that Robin and Nancy had been notified and would be donating to the cause, and that you wouldn’t be stuck in boy clothes forever.

“That’s good,” you giggled, pulling the hem of the shirt out to see the Black Sabbath logo cracking across the front of it, the once black shirt worn down to a faded gray, “because Ozzy ages like milk, for future reference.” You said, cheekily, giggling as he looked at you with surprise.

“He’s still alive?” He asked you, not letting you answer before rapid-firing another question, “And you like metal?”

You laugh again.

“Yes, but he’s hanging on by a thread. All that shit catches up eventually. I’m sure without Sharon, he wouldn’t be able to function.” You explained to him, “-and yes, I am into metal, but if we’re talking about this era I’m more of a Mötorhead girl myself.”

He turned around, to rummage through the one organized thing in the entire room: his cassette stand. He pulled out a dusty Mötorhead cassette with a soft aha!, popping it in and coming to sit next to you as the music began to roll.

You sat in silence, head in your hands, clearly stressed despite the music blaring in your ears. You rubbed the front of your cheekbones, drawing your hands back to stretch the skin of your face over your temples and then dragged them back along into your hair.

He dropped down on the edge of the bed, looking over at you. It didn’t feel that long ago when he sat in the same position at Skull Rock, alone. He was still just coming to terms with all of this stuff, and still, he found his mind reeling back into that dark place sometimes. His scars went way deeper than his skin, which was mangled beneath his clothes as well. You still had open wounds, both physically and metaphorically. He wondered if your eyes would glaze over, too. He knew how you were feeling, but questioned how you hadn't had a complete breakdown after today.

But even with the bags under your eyes, you were still pretty. So, so, pretty.

“It’s a lot. I know.” He finally piped up, perhaps a little too loud. You quickly drew yourself up from your own hands to look at him, skeptically.

“I just… I don’t know. I didn’t even know this shit existed until I was sitting in it.” You said to him. It was then that he realized you had been silently crying. Not loud, just tears coming out of your eyes. Your voice sounded overwhelmed and nasal.

“Tell me about it,” He chuckled, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it, “The uh- well- My introduction to this shit was watching a girl die.”

His statement was blunt, and cold. His mind began to reel, and it terrified you. You didn’t press further.

“How long were you down there for?” He asked you, attempting to reel himself back before he floated off into space- unable to be pulled back in.

“A couple hours I think?” You said to him, wiping your eyes with the backs of your sleeves.

“God, I couldn’t imagine. That’s all we were down there for when we got attacked.”

“I’m glad I didn’t stick around long enough to see what that place had to offer me.” you joked, but it was still humorless.

You both stared off in the same direction for a second, purposefully letting the conversation fizzle into nothingness. It was still too fresh for you and it was still too painful for him. It was a good few minutes before he spoke again.

“I think I have something that’ll help, y’know.” He said to you, ever so delicately, he brought his hand up to your shoulder and let it hover there- deciding if touch was what you needed or not at the moment.

“And what is that?” You questioned, turning your face towards him- head still resting in hands and elbows sitting atop your knees.

“Do you partake?” He asked, dipping his head down to meet your eye-level and making a small gesture with his hands- holding an air-joint.

“Everyone does in my time, it’s legal now.” You told him, half smile curling at the corners of your lips.

“Well I’ll be damned, but I bet you’re not getting it at my discounted price- the discount being free.” He mirrored your smile- his escaped the confines of his pretty mouth just a little bit further than yours had. He reached down under his bed, just next to his bedside table, and pulled out a box. Inside was an entire artillery of all things dank.

“Oh good God, no, it's eighty bucks a cart at my dispensary.” You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He gave you a confused look, shifting his gaze from the grinder and then back over to you.

“Cart? Never heard of it.” He questioned, thinking Rick had been holding out of him. If there was new tech in marijuana, Rick would be the one to know.

“I guess those are a pretty recent thing. Now, they extract a concentrate from the cannabis itself and you smoke it that way, kinda. No more smell and no more rolling.” You explained, mimicking the action of rolling with your hands, as he was actually completing the action.

“That’s some high-tech shit. Like The Jetsons.” He chuckled, handing you the joint and his lighter to do the honors.

“One of the many luxuries of modern life, my friend.” You said, words escaping around the joint between your lips and rolling out in the first intense puff of smoke.

“Are we?” He asked, taking the joint as you passed it to him.

“Are we what? Friends?” You asked him back, looking him up and down.

“Yeah.”

“Well… I guess we’re gonna have to be if we’re gonna figure this shit out.”

“Classic rock? Is that what they’re calling it?” He laughed out loud, clutching his stomach as he leaned back against the wall.

“So I’ve heard. You guys are older than shit ‘round my parts.” You laughed equally as hard.

“I guess it all comes back around, we talked shit about Elvis and you guys talk shit about Crüe.” He tried to rationalize, turning his head to meet your eyes.

“Crüe isn’t even metal, though. They’re calling it glam rock now” You said back, raising your eyebrows and looking for his reaction.

“Well if you don’t consider Crüe metal, then what is metal by your standards?” He quizzed. Now both of you were leaning back against the wall, legs splayed out on the bed in front of you. He turned his head to meet your eyes, looking down at you.

“Try cannibal corpse” You giggled softly, the effects of the comedown starting to hit you. You rested your head against his shoulder, and he allowed his to rest on top of yours.

“I don’t think they exist yet, but in a few years, get ready to party.” You giggled again softly.

“What should I look for?” He asked, “I’ll keep my eye out.”

“Their first album was Eaten Back to Life. It comes out in ‘90. There’s some pretty solid ones on there. But you need to wait until ‘92 for The Tomb of the Mutilated, all of their best songs are on it.” He let you ramble on, waiting for silence from you before answering.

“Sounds metal.” He said, back, smelling the smell of his own shampoo on your half-damp hair. He thought it smelled better on you.

There was a lull in the conversation, breaths becoming deeper with the fatigue of the drugs and the long day. You sat, eyes fluttering shut, sleepily, but not sleepy enough to reach out and grab his hand. Your own fingers snaked up his wrist and wriggled their way through the canyon of his palm and in between his fingers, mimicking the way his did when he analyzed your cut. He rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb for a bit.

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna make ‘86 my bitch.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson headcanons #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson fluff #eddie stranger things #eddie munson oneshot #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #flea writes

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beekeeperspicnic · 1 year

Note

What adaptations/pastiche/etc. (if any) have influenced or inspired your writing and development of the game?

Whoops sorry this got long.

Weirdly enough when I think about initial inspirations for the game my mind doesn't immediately go to Sherlock Holmes but to...

...Star Trek: Picard

[IMG, Screenshot from Star Trek Picard. Captain Picard standing in a beautiful vinyard with a stick and a doggie]

Not what Star Trek: Picard actually IS, but what I desperately wanted it to be. See, I really love utopian sci-fi where poverty and hunger and inequality are problems that have been solved, but characters still have to deal with problems of personal purpose and personhood. I love Becky Chambers and Ursula K Le Guin and Ada Palmer.

When Star Trek: Picard was announced I immediately longed to see Captain Picard on Earth in his vineyard, dealing with getting older in a solarpunk utopia. On the Enterprise he had a definite set role in his community - he was the captain. Now he's just a regular member of a post-scarcity agricultural community, being confronted with his own legacy, tackling philosophical conundrums, befriending former enemies, healing from trauma. And y'know... perhaps solving mysteries.

But of course Star Trek Picard wasn't ACTUALLY that.

But I think the desire for that lodged itself in my brain and when I had the idea to do a Sherlock Holmes game, it popped back up like "Hey Picard isn't public domain, but y'know who IS?"

The Granada Lost Beekeeping Footage

In terms of actual Sherlock Holmes media, the INFAMOUS Granada Holmes 'Lost Beekeeping Footage' gets a mention.

This post explains more details, but long story short for the 'Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' series starring Jeremy Brett, footage and photos of a retired Holmes and Watson were taken but never used.

Sadly Jeremy Brett's health declined and the series didn't get to end with that particular Holmes and Watson waltzing off to Sussex together, but it's nice imagining what might have been, and I hope this game can be a little tribute to him and both his Watsons.

I definitely partially pinched Watson's outfit and Holmes' colour scheme from these photos! But my Holmes is wearing his comfy jumper rather than simply... wrapping it around his shoulders?

[IMG Two photos of Jeremy Brett as Holmes and Edward Hardwicke as Watson, standing by a beehive. Holmes is in a cream suit and has a beekeeping hat and gloves, Watson wears a blue scarf and trenchcoat.

The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

Last but not least, The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes, written in part by Arthur Conan Doyle's son Adrian. In the official canon we leave Holmes and Watson on a bit of a sad note - they've drifted apart, both drawn along different paths and war looms on the horizon.

But I never think there's any reason to imagine they didn't both make it out the other side of that - and why shouldn't they get their happy ending?

I guess Adrian agreed because he ends his own dabble in his father's creations with Watson living with Holmes, and describes the Sussex home in more detail than is found in the original canon:

My task is done. My notebooks have been replaced in the black tin deedbox where they have been kept in recent years and, for the last time, I have dipped my pen in the inkwell.

Through the window that overlooks the modest lawn of our farmhouse, I can see Sherlock Holmes strolling among his beehives. His hair is quite white, but his long, thin form is as wiry and energetic as ever, and there is a touch of healthy color in his cheeks, placed there by Mother Nature and her clover-laden breezes that carry the scent of the sea amid these gentle Sussex Downs.

Our lives are drawing towards eventide and old faces and old scenes are gone forever. And yet, as I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, for a while the past rises up to obscure the present and I see before me the yellow fogs of Baker Street and I hear once more the voice of the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.

“Come, Watson, the game’s afoot!”

Extract from ‘Exploits of Sherlock Holmes’ by Adrian Conan Doyle, John Dickson Carr

That's the world I'm wanting to bring to life!

I think that's probably the main influences :D

#faqs #inspiration #the beekeeper's picnic #jeremy brett #edward hardwicke #star trek picard #the exploits of sherlock holmes #acd canon

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hwan-g · 2 years

Text

chapter one ( forget ) ANTHOLOGY.

‘forget everything. open the windows.’ — frank kafka.

pair. hyunjin x reader x felix | warnings. mentions of cheating, angst, heartbreak, mentions of depression, profanity, suggestive behavior, mentions of food and drinking | word count. 10.7k

synopsis. fresh out of your breakup with their best friend, the duo decide it’s time for you to get out of hibernation; so the plan begins. only problem—neither of them drive.

tags. @cb97percent, @ughbehavior, @lix-ables, @hyuneater, @hyun-bun, @j-0ne25, @hellishmoons, @danyxthirstae01, @enluc, @skz317cb97.

June 19th.

Summer shuddered outside your room, trees peeking through the pale curtains.

Wake up, will you? Enough.

You stir in your sleep, face nuzzling the pillow, brain shifting the fog away. And face another day? you groggily think. Maybe tomorrow, maybe when the sun leaves me alone.

No, it must be now— “hey, don’t turn away from me!” Huh?

Your eyes fall open, a familiar figure coming into focus. Distantly, you think you’re cold, so you try to locate the AC unit above your desk, see if it’s still on. It was off. So, a different coldness, then. Or, perhaps, the same one that’s followed you since March. The icy cloud of heartbreak and all its symptoms.

Hwang Hyunjin is standing above your bed, studying the mess of you. Half of you feels apologetic, almost. The other half wants to return to your dream, grapefruit flavored. There, it’s warm. There, there are no lurking shadows, no golf sized hail descending from the sky, no apocalypse swallowing the Earth as you know it.

There, everything just is. As it should be—as you want it to be.

He sighs, and reaches for your arm, sitting you up. You blink at him. He blinks back, raising his eyebrows. Your chest deflates, giving in.

“Alright.”

Hyunjin grins, messenger bag hitting against his hip as he moves towards your closet. “That’s my girl.”

You smile softy, fondly at his back. His hair is back to black, a midnight silky wave framing his pretty features. Fair, lovely—the dictionary bows before him, offering its infinite words. A porcelain doll that came alive as a birthday wish once, or a foreign prince that escaped a children’s fairytale book and has tried to adapt to real life ever since.

Not quite corporeal, not yet. Soon, you think. He’s not ready yet.

He holds up a floral dress for you. A dainty thing, green all over, with thin straps. You grimace, pulling the covers over your legs. Your arms are freezing, the tips of you going numb. This is how it happens—the unfortunate, the terrible.

Your heart. Your stupid heart.

“Jeans, or forget about it,” you threaten.

“I’m doing you a favor here,” he fights back, waving the piece of fabric. “I was kind enough to not mention the state of this place.”

Your eyes squint at him. “Your apartment is covered in paint.” But you knew it was a weak retort, and he’d eventually win.

He was better at this than you. You threw the towel in too fast, grew tired of wit games if they showed to be futile from the start. And you knew, most of all, that Hyunjin was, indeed, only trying to help. Him and Felix filled your inbox with daily worried remarks, most going unanswered, though that never seemed to stop them. The resilient pair, the two of them. Always together, strong in their unity.

Felix had even attempted to bake cookies for you, using his emergency key to come in your house as you remained hermetically locked in your room, your grief contained with you. He’d cleaned a bit, thrown out expired food from your fridge, and made a big bowl of bibimbap, with a note on it.

‘At least eat this, yeah? It’s made with lots and lots and lots of love. Please?’

You did eat it. Two days later, when you noticed it next to the carton of eggs. When your spoon scraped the bottom of the Tupperware, a decision had been made. That night you answered all their messages, reassuring everything would be okay. It had to, eventually. Before you lost your mind, preferably.

A breakup with Bang Chan was tough business, but you’d known all along. This man would be hard to get over—perhaps because you never expected the blow. But you cannot procrastinate the inevitable, no matter how you wish otherwise. Things happen and they stay, they are all you can see, they drown and castrate, sweep you up and down, sideways and all ways, until one day they just—don’t.

Until they seize or subside. So, it would be okay. With time. Always, endless, unmeasured time.

June was a good place to start.

Later, dread showered off, you wore that silly flower dress per request, and sat on the kitchen table eating the sesame bagel Hyunjin had brought you, and was so avidly forcing you to try, when he asked if he could do your hair.

It brought back the memory of him absentmindedly putting your hair in a braid all those years ago, before you run across scorching sand to swim in the vibrant blue of the sea. He’d sat you between his long legs, as Chan threw a frisbee back and forth with Changbin, feet dipped in seafoam.

Now, he does it consciously. Every finger finding its way through your damp locks, pulling it back in the familiar style, away from your, sticky with moisturizer, face. The bagel is nice, perfectly toasted, and the yellow light falling through the kitchen window above the sink doesn’t feel like such a punishment anymore. A dream, this seems, the world has stopped spinning. Hyunjin weaves magic through him, so much so, everything looks a shade brighter, there’s glitter on the ceiling, the flowers bloom on your mini dress.

A moving painting. The power of the artist.

“Felix is stuck in traffic,” he mumbles, tying the hairband on the end of his finished work. “You’d think the taxi driver would go through the streets. Such con men, these people…”

You smile, chewing. “He wouldn’t be, if one of you would just go get your driving license.”

He sighed behind you, patting your head mockingly. “Sweetheart, I am a painter—I can’t possibly be bothered with such a mundane thing, now, can I?”

With an eye roll, you look at the empty paper bag in front of you. “You’re the one complaining…” you trail off, sulkily.

Hyunjin ignores you. “Do you have a ribbon? I think a ribbon would look cute with this dress!” And he’s off, in his own fantastic world of ribbons, and colors, and swirls—patterns, and brush strokes, and ideas.

You wonder what it would be like to live in a world where all is animated, all vivid and quite unreal. Perhaps there, the heaviness in your heart would feel like cotton candy, melting into nothing in your mouth.

Perhaps.

You stare at the duffel bags on the pavement in bewilderment.

When did this happen?

Felix was talking with the driver, ‘It’ll only be a few minutes, thank you for waiting,’ before his face broke into a smile that would put the sun to shame, and rushed to gather you in his arms. Apparently, you were to rewrite the whole planet green, alive with summer, glistening like leaves on a wild field—

Hyunjin smirks down at you, as you look at Felix’s mint colored Converse, wondering how much more of your life went unnoticed by you, how you kept getting coaxed into these peculiar situations unbeknownst to yourself, a stranger in a body you’ve hosted all your life, suddenly forgetting your lines, or how limps moved.

What a strange realization.

“I got the tickets on my phone. The ride is two hours, and then we’ll have to get on a bus,” Felix was excitedly informing Hyunjin of your trip, never once pausing to see your surprised expression.

Hyunjin was nodding along, amused smile tugging on his lips, as he loaded the bags in the trunk of the orange car. When he shut it closed, he turned to your unmoving frame.

“Are you coming?” he asked you. As if you had a choice, when all was packed to go.

Words had left you, but you managed an incredulous “How?” to which he chuckled.

He offered his hand, and you eyed it hesitantly. Felix saw the whole encounter, and his demeanor changed immediately.

“You were supposed to tell her!”

“She’d say no.” Brown eyes pierced you knowingly, hand patient, waiting.

“Well, she’s not saying yes,” the blonde sighed. “We thought you needed a way out. So, we’re taking you away to sea,” he smiled warmly at you.

This is the second part. Lee Felix is made of star powder and pixie dust, absolutely. The garden of him continues to grow over everything, could not be put behind fences, and does not abide by any human rules. Like Hyunjin, he was dreamed up by fairies in a magical forest, where birds sing, and deer can talk. At least, that was the general impression of him. Like a spell, you lay defenseless, agreeing to every word coming out of his mango lips.

Once, for your birthday, he’d given you a friendship bracelet. He was already wearing his, the colorful beads circling around his wrist cutely, the smiley face staring at yours disapprovingly. You think that was when the magic bonded together, when the spell was cast. Yet, taking off the bracelet was out of the question, had never dawned on you.

So, you went. Took Hyunjin’s hand and followed the two of them inside the taxicab. The ride to the train station was filled with Felix’s recommendations of restaurants, and the small history lesson Hyunjin gave the both of you, what he’d heard from his parents of Sokcho, how it has existed B.C, how it started a small fishing village and has come to now be one of the most popular destinations in all of South Korea.

You and Felix listened intently, drinking every word in. When Hyunjin talked, it was water on a stream. Everything became alive, leaned closely. His voice was made of the same magic that existed in your bracelet. Secret, ancient witchcraft, the kind that bewitched the soul, run through your veins acting as your own blood.

Hyunjin was like that—a young God. His actions could only be justified as mystic, coming from an elsewhere, a place that couldn’t possibly endure in the human realm. No one could understand his ways, if they weren’t hooked directly into the heart tree that consists of him. It is why he does not have many friends—

It is the very reason he paints. If Hyunjin did not have an outlet, he’d be a terrible man. Felix knows this best.

The station was chaos. Families on vacation, sleepy children moving sheepishly across the ticket kiosks, holding their parents’ hand; people dressed in formal attire, likely off to business meetings, and thirty story buildings. But the couples—you stopped dead in your tracks, staring at the stolen glances, the intertwining of their fingers, the synchronicity of their steps. So romantic love hadn’t died after all.

You’d thought if yours and Chan’s relationship could flicker out, then no one stood a chance. Or perhaps you’d been fed a lie; you’d played the part that had been given to you a little too well, believed it a little too much. In any case, no Chan standing next to you, holding your hand, carrying your purse on his shoulder. No one at all for you. Not anymore.

Just an excited Lee Felix, followed by photographer extraordinaire Hwang Hyunjin.

Your first friend—first love. Beginning of time, Hwang Hyunjin, and everything that exists in the in between.

The platform for your destination only had a handful of people waiting, the clock reading ten minutes to spare before boarding. By that point, the day had grown unbearably warm, sweat threatening to drip from every pore, sunrays shading everyone a faint flush of red. It was nice, you thought stupidly, it felt very much like being alive, five years old, running around in the backyard of your house growing up, no care for sunburn, or anything, really. Mud on your shorts, wet hair from the water guns that had been an early birthday present the year prior, and popsicle juice leaking down your chin.

Lee Felix swinging his lemonade glass up high, big eyes shining, mischievous expression—poor, much shorter you and your big, dumb emotions spilling out of you even then, even in play, even in pretend. On the first sight of tears, the boy caved, terrified of your sobs, scared he’d get in trouble. He’d never been good at intimidating, anyway, never wanted you to think he was being for real.

What had been real—Hyunjin grabbing the plastic gun, spraying away at the strange boy that had entered their life suddenly, having moved from a place called Australia, so far from where you were. The glass spilling, the boy soaked, you laughing at the two of them, silly silly boys and their silly boy games, tears forgotten, summer raging on and on and on, forever in your memory—

Boys. Your entire life had consisted of them, of all that makes them, all that involves them. You’d been swept away, grown into the shape they’d made of you, waited for their instructions and words that could raise or break you, always them them them, and so little of you, yet if you were to deconstruct everything that was until now, you’d be left with absolutely nothing if they hadn’t been there. If the inner workings of you were to be altered.

“AC would be great right about now,” Felix commented miserably, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

“Dare I mention it again, in fear of being dragged—the DMV is like— thirty minutes away from your place.”

Hyunjin groans, slamming the palm of his own hand against his face. “Not this again.”

“It stands true, you are both adults—” “I don’t see you having a car, love,” Felix interjected, staring pointedly at you.

You scowled, pursing your lips. “I don’t possess the kind of wealth you two have.”

“So, if we bought you a car, would you drive us around then?” the black-haired man turned to look at you, eyes suggestive and smiling.

“No.”

Another protesting exclaim, this time mirrored.

“Oh, thank God!” The train arrived, grand and multi travelled, taking its time to come to a stop, the sudden breeze blowing the three of you back.

“Let’s go,” Felix guided you through the doors, all the way to your seats, Hyunjin trailing behind, a feather of a touch on your shoulder.

Once the conductor checked your tickets, you deflated in the tight space, checking the carry-on underneath you with the heel of your shoe. Hyunjin grinned at you, eyes turning into crescent moons, holding entire planets within them.

“Do you need to look so breathtaking all the time?” you voice your thoughts to him, almost annoyed.

He laughed a full sound, long, slender fingers hiding his mouth, rings adorning them, heavy with meaning. Felix’s identical ones glint under the summery brightness coming from the wide window next to you.

“Not something I can exactly help, sweetheart.”

You see it, then, the meeting of hands between them, the long slender fingers and the shorter chubbier ones, the crescent moons, and the sunbeam smiles. It’s absentminded, it’s nearly muscle memory for them, impossible to miss, like a thought in the back of your head that had once been on the tip of your tongue—a soulmate connection.

The silly boys had grown up to be dreamers, admirers of art, and art themselves under a certain light, in the right angle, at the proper place, and then, before you could’ve even blinked—lovers.

Sometimes. When the darkness is unbearable, when the sky is devoid of its stars. In those spaces of time, they meet halfway, souls bared, hearts beating as one. Your beautiful boys, the forest fairy tale. Who could’ve known, and yet it was so very evident. Still, they never once separated you from their magic, never alienated you from your place in the center, always the center, vital for their existence as much as they were for yours.

You must’ve drifted off after a while, staring at the action of surrender, wondering— if Bang Chan had ever loved you even half as much as you’d loved him, his hand wouldn’t have felt so heavy on yours, weighing, tugging. A cruise anchor on top of a house roof.

Or, perhaps, was it a different love? A love between a man and a woman; Atlas, and the World? Not the push and push back, the warrior and his armor, but the war and Helen of Troy.

Hyunjin’s sketchbook is propped on top of his knees, legs pulled up, pencil dancing on top of rough paper.

Felix was passed out next to him, head resting on the artist’s shoulder, belonging, impetuous. You blinked, and rubbed at your eyes, grabbing Hyunjin’s water bottle and gulping a sip of it down.

A baby was crying in the background, the moving of the train barely a whisper to you now.

“How long was I out?” you ask quietly, not wanting to disrupt the magic.

“An hour and a half,” he replies without lifting his gaze.

Fields stretched out of the window now, acres of them, all wild with color, greengreengreen, endless, shouting. You didn’t bother Hyunjin for the rest of the time on the train, letting him stew in his ideas, and faraway places, his own greens, and blues, suns and universes, the pale haired boy with him, joined, clasping.

When you reached Gangneung, it was already past noon, a few clouds making their way over the light, blue turning pastel. Hyunjin put away his drawing materials, gently shaking Felix, wiping sleep from his face, a secret passing between them in hushed voices.

Felix nodded, and looked at you, the softest smile painting his pink lips. His hair looked fluffy—you wanted to reach out and pass your fingers through it.

“To the bus we go, yeah love?”

Sleep still felt like a good idea, until you sat stranded at the bus station, waiting. And waiting.

And waiting.

“You think we’re at the right place?” you ask an amused Hyunjin, looking around at the absence of people.

“I think we are, angel,” he confirms, that annoying smirk of his growing bigger.

You sigh. “Well, then, where is this cursed bus?”

Felix chuckles next to you, crossing his arms over his lean chest. “Should I ask my magic map?”

“Perhaps. Something of yours is bound to answer one of these days.”

Hyunjin barks, laughter bubbling from the pit of his stomach, as he doubles over with it, a coughing fit following soon after. You watch in confused amazement as he recovers, pushing onyx hair out of his face, eyes animated.

“Felix, our appointed Tinker Bell! Should I shake you a little, see if I can wish a private jet?”

You snort at that, leaning back against the plexiglass. “Now you’re thinking.”

“Neither of you are funny.”

“You’re right—we’re hilarious.” You high-five with your partner in crime.

The bus does come eventually, and you board it at once, becoming random passengers in the humdrum of it all, clutching to your destination as tight as you can, delirious with purpose. You sit next to Hyunjin, while Felix becomes friendly with an old woman, offering her a dashing smile and asking if the sit adjoining her was empty.

Of course, it was. For him.

Hyunjin nudges you, chortling, hands clapping soundlessly, like a seal on mute. You smile, throwing a wink toward Felix’s way, before sitting down, and nuzzling into your friend.

“What a heartthrob.”

“Can I show you something, sweetheart?” He took his sketchbook out of the messenger bag between his legs, opening it to a coal full page.

“Hyunjin.” You looked up at him, mouth hanging. His brows rose at your tone, taking in your reaction.

It was Felix. But it was Felix reimagined as Icarus, free falling into a darkly sketched sea, waves cut sharply, menacing, the wings expanding, beautiful but melting, reduced down to candle wax facing against the scorching sun. The face was disappointed, furious in its failing, but somehow peaceful in the fall, like the fate of him and his father’s wings were dawning on him all at the same time.

It somehow managed to catch the innocence of the action, the naivety. The pride of an unsuspecting boy, and his death because of it. The shading of the features, though, the curve of the shoulders—there was adoration laced in this drawing. A knowing that run deep, deeper than you understood, and deeper still. Why would Hyunjin draw this? Was he trying to tell you something?

A boy lost, blinded by ambition. The inevitable falling. It couldn’t be a coincidence…

“Is everything okay, Hyun?” you ask, hand wrapping around his forearm, trying to meet his gaze.

He gave a small, cryptic smile, but said nothing, closing the book, and his eyes with it. Your mind went over the image of the sketch in your head, and then revisited the moment of their hands on the train. Hyunjin had been busy with his exhibition, and Felix was—well, Felix was Felix, doing whatever he pleased, his bank account loaded with zero’s. He travelled, saw the world, met people, and then met some more, always excited, always searching, curious, energetic.

That’s who he was, who he’s always been. And then a terrifying thought struck.

What if Icarus wasn’t really the pale, the bright, but instead the midnight black, the timid? The Felix that couldn’t be held back, and the Hyunjin that is paying for it.

A sinking, a sacrifice.

You stayed like that, chilled, wrapped around the fusing candle, thoughts of quicksand, and hungry Mediterranean waves enveloping you down under.

By the time you reached Sokcho and got in the cab to the Airbnb you’d be staying at, you were exhausted. The sun beating down on you in combination with all the transportation changes had you feeling nauseous, and craving sleep. In an actual bed.

“We have to try the seafood here. There’s a place by the sea.”

Felix kicked the door open, bags in each hand, checking the place out. White, spacious, smelling of bleach and something sweet, fruity. A dining table, adjacent to a small kitchen, and a living room with a decent sized TV. A staircase led to the bedrooms, while a full wall was replaced by a glass, patio door, leading outside to the small yard with the grill and chairs you passed coming inside.

It was beautiful, felt just like summer vacation. You’d only stay for one night, but as was the true twin style, the accommodations were more than satisfactory. Perhaps a bit extra if you might add.

“Don’t look at me, it was Hyunjin’s idea. He’s stayed here before, apparently.”

Hyunjin took the messenger bag he’d been carrying all day off, placing it on the long table, and rounded his arms around your shoulders, locking you into a giant back hug. You stayed like that for a while, his chin resting on the top of your head, looking out into the scenery.

You could see the beach from where you were. It looked to be walkable distance, and Felix had been nonstop talking about that damn clam soup since before you even left, so you gathered whatever energy you had, and started for the bathroom to freshen up.

Until Hyunjin shot a hand out to stop you. You looked at it, looked at him.

“Come here, will you?” This was your first love, speaking to you.

You went, and he took you in his arms again, this time his head on your shoulder, one hand rubbing circles on your back, the other holding your wrist down. Hyunjin had this ability—he could calm you down with one touch. One look. One word. In no way did you have what he had with Felix, but in your own way, you were soulmates. No one got you like he did, and vice versa.

Nothing more, nothing less. Except at times like these, when lines get blurred, when both of you are wallowing in sadness. You’d been fooled this morning, thinking all was alright with him. Seeing him now, next to the blue of the sea, he looked eternally sorrowful.

“What’s wrong with you, Hyun?” you whisper to him, wanting—needing this private time with him.

He knuckled his eye, sighing deeply. “Nothing. Everything.” And you understood. You understood.

“These rooms are huge!” Felix shouted from upstairs. You smiled without meaning to.

Hyunjin did too, but his looked different. It was that special smile reserved only for Lee Felix. “I love him, you know? But he keeps leaving. I will not keep him down.”

“Love isn’t a cage, Hyunjin.”

He leans back to stare at your face. His eyes are tired, face drained. Mask fallen. “You’re wrong, sweetheart. It is the worst kind of cage. I have the key in my hand, and I keep doing this to myself.”

You kiss him, then. A simple kiss, no meaning behind it. It was meant as a comfort, as a ‘I love you, you’re not alone in this.’ He kissed back, and it felt like you were seventeen again, falling in love with him, not knowing what it meant, what it would be.

“Come on.”

You went. You always went.

Cheongchosu Mulheo was a small restaurant, overlooking water. A little bit after lunch time, it remained crammed with people sitting in big groups around metal tables, laughing over Coke and grilled squid. The atmosphere was lively, the outside warm but not unendurable anymore, and your stomach was absolutely growling its way out of your body.

Hyunjin ordered a platter of raw fish, and noodles, enough for three people, and you all decided to drink later, somewhere more quiet, closer to the sea. Drinking at night was healing, an entirely different experience.

“Alright,” Felix turned to you after all the food arrived. His soup had vanished in minutes, and his smile was restored back to the blinding spitting image of the sun. It hurt to look at him straight.

“What would you like to do? It’s pretty early still,” his deep voice couldn’t contain the excitement, the pure delight that travelling, exploring brought him.

“We should check out the market,” Hyunjin suggested, seeing your lost expression. “Perhaps the Port?”

“Sounds great,” you reply, yet have no idea what any of these places are.

You never travel. You could count the trips you’ve taken in one hand—Seoul was a set ship, your job taking most of your time. Bang Chan hoarding the rest.

But no more of that now. No more of him. No more.

Felix leans over the table and waves his hand over your head. You look up at him. He furrows his eyebrows at you, lips in a thin smile.

“Keep the clouds away, love, no time for that.”

Hyunjin’s hand slips into yours underneath the table. You nod between the two of them, repeating the words out loud:

“No time for that.”

The market was not as crowded, many shops already closed for the day, mainly the fish stands, and some tiny restaurants. You passed a few places selling teokbokki and sliced fruit in bowls, colorful banners hanging all around you, big letters in italics and exclamation marks inviting you left and right. Hyunjin had totally bought into everything, observing, and engaging in conversation with the people.

For no reason at all, you now had a bag of potatoes, and green onions from a friendly grandma that insisted her items were of the best quality and the lowest price. There were other things too—hair accessories, and bracelets, toys, and clothes. Felix picked up a cute claw clip in blue, and pulled Hyunjin’s hair back with it, stepping back to see how it looked on him. Hyunjin modeled for it. The selling couple laughed at the silly poses and gave it to you for free. After thanking them, the three of you got a serving of squid sausage that seemed especially appetizing, after Felix exclaimed rather dramatically that he’s never tried it before.

“(Y/N) how about this dress?!” A maxi floral dress in dark blue, with a peter pan collar, three times your size.

You giggled, but put it on your body, extending your leg, looking at the boys through your eyelashes.

“Exquisite, sweetheart,” Hyunjin commented lovingly, hands still busy with the claw clip.

“Wear it for tonight! Here, I’ll wear this!” Felix snatched a leather vest from the pile of clothes, passing it through his arms. “How about it?”

You and Hyunjin nodded, slowly, marveling at the piece of fabric swallowing your friend whole. “It’s…something, for sure.”

Felix laughed, not a care in the world. “I’m buying it.”

And that was how you three left that local market, each carrying something new, ridiculous in the way happiness feels after a long episode of numb, numb, numb. A season passed amongst dull, grey buildings and customer service, sinking in self-pity, and wishing something, anything, would change, take this weight off your heart, and kickstart it, give you a small push—or a whole kick to the gut—anything if it got you moving, and out of that room.

The kick ended up being Hwang Hyunjin throwing the covers off and grabbing your hand, but it felt all the same at the end. As long as the veil lifted, the clouds dispersed.

It was a sixteen-minute walk from where you were to the Domyeong Port, and you took your time, enjoying the scenery, eating the spicy snack you’d bought with toothpicks. The sound of the waves crashing on shore, a slight breeze blowing your hair away from your face, horns of Vespa’s and pickup trucks alarming you every so often—it was getting hard to differentiate between dream and reality, the endless blue and smell of salt in the air, and the other side, the town, the reminder of people around you, their yelling and jostling. The time on your phone said a bit after six in the afternoon, and yet you swore time did not exist, was not a concept in your own little made-up world, with the boys made of magic, and your friendship bracelets.

Was the wind blowing through you or around you? Were the people all the same, backdrop to your invisible soap bubble with the rainbow edges, held together by spells and soulmate rings or were they talking to each other, individuals with their own voice and life, decisions and choices taking them from one place to the next?

Were you to finally take ahold of the wheel of your story, accept it as it is, and forget about anything that doesn’t turn the pages forward, anything that holds you back? Is it really that simple?

Looking out at sea, watching the waves—it is. It is.

Hyunjin is busy taking pictures with his gigantic, professional camera, while Felix ties his shoelaces, and you realize you’ve reached the Port. The big rocks running across the path to the fishing boats that are floating side by side, a barely visible skerry in the stretch of boundless blue that Felix points out to you.

You’re overtaken with nostalgia, memories of summer vacations when you were a child flashing through your mind, photographs in sepia, the same boats floating, the same shade of blue, the salt in your face, the wind transporting—you feel like crying. You feel like laughing. You feel like running to the lighthouse all the way on the end of the dock.

You take off, the boys yelling after you.

“Be careful, will you?” Hyunjin shouts, a smile evident in his tone.

“Why are we running?!” Felix laughing, angels rejoicing, clouds parting, skies clear.

“Why not?” you answer, your voice suspended in the air, cutting through the silence of the port.

The Lighthouse is monumental, you feel microscopic next to it, but you don’t let it faze you, instead you climb the stairs up to it, hoping for a door, hoping you can see the beacon from up close, see how far it reaches, let the luminescence of it wash over you, wrap around you and carry you over the waves, over the rock islet, past the horizon, further and further, oceans away, until you are transformed, until you too are nothing but light, helping, guiding the way.

It won’t happen, of course, not how you want, the sun is still high up in the sky, the moon barely showing its head, and the Lighthouse does not accept visitors on a Sunday, a sign with black capital letters tells you.

You’re panting by that point, breathing labored, and you double over, hands on your knees, inhaling deeply, shamelessly. The boys reach the top of the stairs a few minutes later, collapsing on the last step, lying their heads on the dirt path.

“I am never running again,” Hyunjin states, fingers clenching his heart.

“You can’t deny—it felt good—right?” More heavy breathing.

“Hyunjin—take a picture. This is beautiful!” Felix steals the camera, snapping a picture as he’s sprawled over the stairs, forehead shiny with sweat, pearly white teeth in display.

The black-haired man has his eyes closed, focusing on the sounds surrounding you.

“Do you hear it?”

“What?”

“Siberian stonechats. Listen.”

The chirps invaded your ears with a sharpness unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. It was nowhere, and then it was everywhere, it was all around you, there were so many birds, all up in trees, flying over bushes, and then more, different kinds, over the coastline, so very alive, demanding to be heard.

“How do you know their name?” Felix asks, amazed by the clear sound.

“My dad liked birdwatching.”

The incantation breaks. Liked—past tense for a person who’s passed, who’s not here anymore. Someone who’s elsewhere, beyond. You look at the hair sprawled, the messenger bag on his hip, the arm over his eyes, and you think it hasn’t been long for him either. And yet here he is, and yet he moved on before the hole turned poisonous, before it swallowed him down under, before it trapped him in a room and locked the door.

Something protruding from the pier caught your eye. It looked like a pavilion, along the coastline, red with a traditional looking rooftop. Felix noticed it as soon as you did.

“We should go,” he told you, and you agreed.

“Help me pick the body up.”

With his help, you brough Hyunjin back on his feet, dusting him off. Wasting no time, he immediately caught both of you in headlocks, pulling you against him. Felix surrendered, but you fought back, tickling his sides as the three of you descended the stairs, making your way to the pier.

“Let’s watch the sunset there.”

“Deal.”

Yeonggeumjeong was the name of it, Hyunjin informed you. He’d gone there once, two years ago, to find inspiration for his paintings. When he went back to Seoul, he was busy for a whole month. Then, finally, around Christmas time, he had his first exhibition.

That’s where you’d seen it before. The bridge to get to the pavilion was beautiful, coming to a curve in the middle, a few couples scattered, leaning over the railings. The couples again. You didn’t know why it was so triggering to you, and this time you waved your own hands over the clouds. You were on a mission here, a mission that had been orchestrated, and you wouldn’t let your efforts, your friend’s efforts, be dissipated by the mere sight of love.

You would stop letting love scare you to a corner. You would open the windows, allow it to flow from everywhere, welcome it inside for tea, a familiar thing that had once been essential for you, for your existence. No more of this frightening, of this hesitancy to acknowledge, to face.

What was the truth—Chan hadn’t contacted you in months. Chan had ended it, because there were three people, not two. Three, so more than a couple, which meant no space. Someone had to go, and even though you weren’t the one doing the leaving, weren’t the one severing ties, doing the hard part, staying felt to you a worse punishment than death.

Staying in love. A graveyard made entirely by being the one left behind. Perhaps that was the fear itself.

Hyunjin accompanied the waving, long fingers picking the stubborn clouds one by one and flicking them off, far away from you. He smiled down at you, moons for orbs, pressing a kiss on your forehead after the hourly ceremony was over, and caught both yours and Felix’s hands, walking you over to the edge of the pavilion.

The beach stretched for miles, sand wider than a highway, people waiting to bear witness to the sunset, feel a little closer to God through the marvel of nature, and all its abilities to appear otherworldly, separate from humans.

“We should rent a car,” Felix spoke, leaning against the railing. “Teach us how to drive, love.”

You eyed him. “Where? I don’t feel like going to jail today.”

“Here,” his hand gestured at the beach. “I trust my teacher.”

The sky was a thousand colors, all blending into each other, and from the corner of your eye you caught Hyunjin taking a seat at the bench in the middle of the decorative building, legs crossed, sketchbook open on top, pencils already in motion. You let him be, figuring now is the time of the painter, the magic crenscendoing to its peak, God collaborating.

You’d take one picture, just one. To remember everything as it was right at that moment; Felix in the background, the couple, always the couple, photobombing on the far left, and you— cloudless, in the center, weightless against the wind, at peace with the unknown at least for that one singular second in time.

Then and then gone. Always.

When it finally happened—the oranges and lilacs replaced by dark hues of blue, moon white in its phantom form, Hyunjin awakening, lifting the blanket of mystical inspiration—there were no words to describe the aloofness in your chest. You didn’t feel quite corporeal, taken away by the actions of the day. Your body was tired, but your mind worked overtime, refusing to let go, to give up, and in its struggle, exhausting you beyond reason. You almost collapsed on the stoned bridge, Felix holding you up by the arm.

“Are you okay?” Voice full of worry.

“Yeah. Yes.”

“We should head back,” Hyunjin’s eyes pierced through you. “Rest for a bit.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

With Felix on the phone, walking ahead, your knees gave way, hands finding your face. Hyunjin didn’t seem surprised, instead squatting in front of you, waiting meekly, guiding people around you with a kind smile. He’s used to this, knows you better than himself sometimes.

“No time for this, yeah?”

You exhale shakily, hiding still. “I know.”

“You’re overwhelmed,” a statement, tone kept calm, steady.

“I need a drink,” you huff out a laugh, peeking through your fingers. You see his lips, the curve of them.

“Yeah,” the word drawls, his head nods. “Sweetheart, I love you, alright?” You feel his fingers around your wrist, there as a comfort, not to pull, not to reveal. “This isn’t you, and you know this. Fight it.”

“I’m tired, Hyunjin.” Finally, the eyes meet. And he understands, he sees it in himself as well. “Somedays I can’t even physically—move. I can’t fucking move.”

His fingers tighten, his handsome features softening. “Because he still matters.” You nod, cheeks wet, green ribbon swaying with the breeze. “He always will. But, angel, let me tell you this. If you do not move—you will die. I can’t let that happen. Not to you.”

It seems Hwang Hyunjin will always be pulling you to your feet, always shun the rain away. He’s better at grief than you. Better at a lot of things. Concealing, especially, but you wouldn’t dare be the first to bring it up. You let yourself cling to him, wishing it will be the last time. If you could just do it this one time, and then you’ll figure out a way to be stronger, move on from this.

The drive was a full twenty minutes back to the house, and with dusk officially covering everything with its thick layer of half-darkness, there was no reason to pretend anymore. While the two boys took turns showering, you slept, tears continuing to fall out of you, dress sticking to your body. Felix stared at your figure curled up on the couch, and threw a blanket over you, telling Hyunjin not to wake you until after they’d got ready.

“Have you talked to him at all?”

“A week ago,” the taller one replied indifferently, slipping into baggy jeans. “He’d gone to Australia.”

“He came back yesterday,” Felix informed him. “He called me because he visited my parents.”

Hyunjin nods, jaw clenching. “Good for him.”

Felix stopped him mid movement, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I know you’re angry. She didn’t deserve any of it, and he still hasn’t apologized. I know.”

Hyunjin shrinks, can’t be mad at the pale haired boy with the freckles to save his life. He kisses him, fast and rough. “I’m sorry, this has nothing to do with you.”

Felix wears the oversized leather vest, smiles at the memory from earlier today. “You still love her. I get it, Jin.”

Hyunjin freezes, hadn’t thought it was obvious to anyone but himself. He’d tried really hard to make it come across as platonic—you were his oldest friend, after all. But you were more than that, and you’d always be. The protectiveness he felt over you never seemed to go away, so eventually he gave up on resisting it. But it didn’t mean anything; he loved you, yes, with all of his heart, but he wasn’t in love with you. Felix owned him by soul. It was fucked, but it worked for him, and that’s all that mattered.

“I just never thought Bang Chan would go back on his word. He didn’t strike me the type.”

They both stopped talking about it as soon as they heard you move up the stairs. But in Hyunjin’s mind, it wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over until that fucker was on his knees, begging for you to take him back.

God knows you won’t live without him.

Renting a car had been easy. Felix paid to have it for the entire rest of the night, and you’d gone to pick it up with the employee. You couldn’t quite believe it until you saw it—an Audi convertible, probably the nicest car in the parking lot. Tinker Bell was fucking crazy for this.

In any case, you wouldn’t complain. It felt nice to know you wouldn’t have to wait for taxi cabs anymore. You just hoped the boys would take it easy, something easier said than done. You pulled in front of the rental place, honking at the both of them standing right outside, staring at their phones.

“Get in, lovebirds.”

You’d forget. For tonight, you’d live.

Felix hopped in, while Hyunjin at least had the decency to open the door. With him in the passenger seat, you felt reassured. Everything would be okay. Putting the car in drive, you repeated that, over and over, the night air feeling good against your face. Streetlights glinting, you sped through the roads, going for the beach.

Hyunjin put a slow song on, a jazzy guitar playing as the soundtrack to this dreamlike vacation to Sokcho. You had to pinch yourself at a red light, just to feel real again. Felix was singing along to the lyrics, while the black-haired boy secured his locks up and away from his face with the blue clip from the market.

“Who wants to try first?” You asked once you pulled to the docks, slowing down for the rest of the way to the sandy ground.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Hyunjin tilted his head towards the beam of sunshine in the back.

Felix all but squealed. “Aw, me, really? You didn’t have to—but okay!”

You shake your head, laughing at the way he climbs to the front seat as you move to the back. “Alright, it’s fairly easy. This is an automatic, so you only have to worry about driving and reversing. Parking is the P all the way to the top, yup, that’s the one. Gently press on the brake, while you put the car back to D. Yes, and then just very lightly press on the gas—FELIX!”

You were gone. You knew you shouldn’t have trusted him, that boy run on a sugar rush at all times. You tried to guide him, tell him to slow down, but he was too busy having the time of his life, drifting, and doing donuts in the flat sand, tornadoes of dust swirling all around you. Hyunjin held on for dear life but was laughing the hardest out of the three of you.

“Fucking hell, Lix, you’re a natural!”

“I fucking told you!”

You drove all the way to the Lighthouse and back, the landmark stealing your breath at night, the light you’d wished to become part of now shining bright under the myriad of stars, winking down at you.

You let go, then, head falling back, as you held onto your seat belt; tiny you in the universe, in a car with two boys you absolutely adored, possibly about to die—but it all felt like blue fire. It couldn’t possibly burn you—injure you, maybe, but you felt invisible, then. Untouchable. The sound of your screams made your heart swell in ways it hasn’t for the longest time.

You welcomed it. You let go. As simple as that.

“Let’s go drink!” Felix suggested, coming to a sudden stop. You almost hit your head on the back of his seat, but even then, you were too drunk on adrenaline to even register the danger of it all.

“Love of my fucking life, Lee Felix,” Hyunjin declared, bringing the freckled boy in for a kiss.

The smile on your face stretched so wide your cheeks hurt for the entire ride to the restaurant. Being back on the wheel brought you back down to Earth, your sanity soothed. It was only a five-minute ride, the place being on the other end of the beach, the only restaurant directly next to the sea. Tables placed on top of the sand, with an orange tent to cut the course of the wind, you were glad Hyunjin had suggested it.

“Finally, my clam soup,” Felix was jittery from the car ride still, his knee bouncing against the plastic table, shaking the utensils that had been laid out for you.

“Soju or meokgolli?” Hyunjin asked you two, smiling politely at the old lady that came for your order.

“Soju with beer,” you suggest, and his eyes lit up.

“You’re talking my language, sweetheart,” he slid his arm across the table, to you. You took his hand, playing with the ring on his index. “Two bottles please, and we’d also like…”

Waiting for everything, you watched as Felix documented everything; the dark sea, the tent, zooming in to catch the name of the small restaurant. And then again, when the drinks and appetizers came, he took pictures of those too, turning the phone around to snap a selfie of the three of you. You waved your chopsticks to it, in the middle of chewing. Hyunjin made a peace sign, his smile that of a sleepy cat.

“Oh my God,” you pointed at the sweet potato. “Try this!”

You hadn’t realized how much you were starving. You didn’t even touch your drinks, too focused on wiping the plates clean. When the main dishes came—buckwheat noodles with squid, the much-awaited clam soup, and Red Snow crab— you wasted no time to devour it all, the sound of waves crushing on shore accompanying your every bite.

“This night calls for a toast, don’t you think?” Hyunjin raised his glass. “To us, being together in this very moment.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Felix approved. “To us!”

“To us,” you joined in, smiling affectionately at them.

The cicadas felt like part of you, their noise incessant, the night warm. You’d easily went through the two bottles, ordering more, Hyunjin teaching you how to shake soju, and mix it in the beer. It was funny—he wasn’t usually the drinking type, his limit preventing him from getting drunk. And yet it felt like tonight would be an exception because tonight wasn’t real—you refused to believe, even after everything you’ve done to ensure you’re not hallucinating. After all, you couldn’t possibly have nice things like this—you didn’t feel deserving enough.

Alcohol made you emotional. Perhaps you should’ve thought twice about downing so much of it so quick. But with these people, two of your childhood friends—you felt the most comfortable you’ve felt since the breakup. You can’t even remember the reason you kept them at a distance for so long. Sadness should be shared, to lessen the burden.

“…so, I told Seungmin he shouldn’t move in with him if he doesn’t like cats this much,” Hyunjin was telling the story of doomed roommates. Felix was snorting beer through his nostrils. “But you know him and his ‘It will all work out,’ so I dropped it because he’s stubborn as fuck, but now apparently, he has a cat allergy! My guy.”

“No!” your mouth falls open. “Shouldn’t he move out then?”

Felix is slamming his hand on the table, wheezing. “That’s such a Kim Seungmin predicament.”

Hyunjin widens his eyes in emphasis and crosses his legs. “Right?! But no, he says the rent is too ideal to give up on the apartment. Plus, having a roommate is convenient.”

“Oh, well then. Serves him right. I remember when I was roommates with Chan. He kept everything so neat and tidy, I was actually so scared of making a mess.”

And then the realization of what he said. Of whom he mentioned. Felix’s mouth snapping shut, gaze apologetic, Hyunjin scowling at him. Your smile froze but did not disappear. You wanted to tell him it was okay, this much was okay, but you’d be lying straight to his face.

Lying to someone you love—it didn’t feel right. Not to you. To other people it came as easy as breathing. You caught the petty, bitter turn your thoughts were taking, and finished your drink at once, forking some squid.

“It’s been three months,” you comment, but it sounds wrong, and they both catch the dejected tone, so you curl into yourself, and then you’re biting your lip.

Before you know it, the tears come again.

“Is he even okay? I haven’t—he hasn’t called me once. I was his friend, too.”

Felix fills up your glass, and Hyunjin hands you napkins, getting up to come sit next to you, rubbing soothing circles on your back. You haven’t cried in front of them about this once, and yet today you can’t stop doing it. Was this why you barely met with them in the months following the Heartbreak? Because you felt embarrassed?

“He’s fine,” the blonde-haired boy assures you. “But fuck him, love. You’re not.”

Everything looked a blur through your wet eyes. You wiped them in hopes they’d stop, but they just—kept—coming. You didn’t want any pity, you fucking hated feeling sorry for yourself, and yet how else were you supposed to feel? If it wasn’t for that, you’d feel nothing. Somehow that’s even more horrifying than sympathy.

“Drink, will you? I said fuck him. He messes with you; he messes with all of us. She wasn’t even fucking worth it—they never even got together.”

“I thought we’d never break up. I’ve known him for so long…he was all I’d known. Felix, how can you do this to someone and not even care?”

“He does care,” Hyunjin speaks this time. “I swear to you, he does. But caring is not enough, angel. Not always.”

You drink to that. You stay like that for a while, quiet, each with your own thoughts, observing the invisible waves, trying to make them out through the shadowiness, until Felix breaks the silence, suggests a game.

“How about twenty questions? Adult edition?” He wiggles his eyebrows, a rainbow after a nasty thunderstorm.

You crack a smile, and Hyunjin exhales deeply in his seat, thinking there’s still hope for you tonight.

“Adult as in sexual experiences or adult as in bottomless fucking pit of despair?” he questions.

“Both. I need therapy.”

“Me, too, baby.”

“Me three,” you reply as well. You all look at each other—and laugh.

It starts drizzling.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin rubs his face raw, stretching his long arms upwards. “We’re too young to be this fucked up.”

“Fucking tell me about it,” you finish another drink, dabbing the napkin in your hand on the edges of your eyes. “I’ll go first. Felix—what’s your favorite memory with us?”

Felix ponders over it for a short minute. “Graduation day. The party Changbin threw for us,” he looks at Hyunjin. The older boy nods, remembering. “You guys were still together, and I remember officiating your fake wedding in the backyard, drunk out of my mind.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hyunjin smiles. “Remember the ring pop?” he asks you.

“I do. I kept the wrapper.”

“If you can’t beat them, join then,” the freckled boy mused, twirling the contents of his glass.

“He was so in love with you,” you tell your fake husband. “The hoodie you’d left at my house after the senior field trip? He wore it every time he came over. It smelled nothing like you by that point, but—you still have it, don’t you?”

Felix nods, a blush creeping up his neck. “I love you for never freaking out on me about it.”

You giggle, feeling loose. “Why would I? You guys are made for each other.”

Hyunjin takes a straight shot of soju at that, wiping his mouth after. His face is somber, eyes dark. You change the subject, knowing the reason for his demeanor.

“My turn,” Felix grins devilishly. “Jin—have you ever painted (Y/N) naked?”

You choke on sweet potato, and Hyunjin hits your back, endeared by the question.

“Huh…have I?” he pretends to think, though you already know the answer. “Was it for your birthday? Should I continue?” he turns to his other half.

“Be my guest. I did ask.”

“Can I tell, sweetheart? We’re all mature here, aren’t we?” his hand is on your thigh, and it reminds you of the times before.

“Of course. It’s only Felix.”

“I fucked you on top of the dryer and filled your hair with flowers from the bouquet I got you. Then you sat naked for me for two hours until I was done with the outline of your body and let me fuck you again after I was finished.”

“Fuck me,” Felix rasped, his voice considerably deeper, imagining the scene.

You blushed. “It sounds way more brass than it really was.”

“No, it doesn’t. I say this in the most respectful way—no girl will ever do it for me like you did.”

You squirm in your seat. “That was years ago, Hyunjin,” you try to reason.

He nods, seeing your point, and fixes himself another glass of beer. “And yet I’m sitting next to you, even when the boy I love is right here.”

Felix says nothing but drinks a lot. You can’t tell if this excites him or is making him jealous.

“Hyunjin.”

“(Y/N).”

“Stop it,” you demand, your defenses weak. “You’re being mean.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you, swallowing the cold alcohol. “Mean? He knows.”

“It’s true.” You turn to the blonde’s indecipherable tone. “He’d never hurt me like that.”

You sit back in your chair, sensing an entirely different game has started now. “We’re going to need more alcohol for this.”

Hyunjin smirks at you and calls for the lady.

“Let me ask you, sweetheart—does Bang Chan fuck better than I do?”

“What are you playing at?”

“It’s a simple question.” His eyes are burning holes through you.

This could set you off—take you places you haven’t even dared go to in months. The way Chris fucked…sometimes it was fucking, but most of the time…most of the time you made love. You’re sure Hyunjin knows the difference, but since he’s never done that with you, since the love has never run as deep, has never taken such an ugly turn, he knows nothing of what he speaks. Chan touched your very soul every time he was inside of you, just thinking about it could destroy everything you’ve build against him, to keep him out, to keep you sane—

“You’re not pitting yourself against him. Next question.”

“He’s no competition for me, I’m not fighting for your heart, angel—but neither is he, yeah?”

That shouldn’t have hurt. But it fucking did.

“Jin,” Felix warned.

“No, she needs this,” he snapped at him. “Tell me.”

“You’re different,” you give in, tears brimming. “Would you say me and Felix are the same? We’re not.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks you, curious. Already knowing.

“Besides the obvious?” Felix mutters to himself.

“He’s of your soul, as Chan is of mine,” you admit to yourself.

Hyunjin seems content with your answer. “And yet you doubt his return? You think he’ll never come back.”

“He doesn’t know,” you say stubbornly. “Why would he leave otherwise?”

“Oh,” Felix inhales sharply. You look at him. “Love…have you ever thought you might terrify him?”

Hyunjin points his finger at the blonde. “You think a love like ours is a walk in the park, sweetheart? Sometimes I feel like splitting myself open.”

“Like shooting myself in the leg,” Felix continues.

“But we’ve known each other since before we knew what a boner was,” the boy sitting next to you explains. “Chan barely just found you…in the grand scheme of time, two years is nothing at all.”

It felt like an excuse. And yet you knew these boys were not on his side—they weren’t on anyone’s side, they just said things as they were. And this might just be the truth you needed all along. But for the empty space he’s left, you need to move on for the very sake of your heart; so, life expands from the small room with the door—so the windows open and stay open.

You were lost again. Point zero.

“What do I do with this information?” you ask, pleading.

Hyunjin feeds you, placing a hand under the fork. You accept the food, chewing slowly.

“You wait. You sit with us.”

“And you drink,” Felix adds with a wink.

A little past midnight, the drizzling turns into full on rain as you leave the restaurant. Your car is parked on the other side of the street, but the alcohol in your system makes you feel miles away from it. And you’re the most sober of the three of you.

The old lady offers to call a taxi for you, but Hyunjin politely refuses, holding Felix upwards. He blows her a kiss, bowing deeply. She shakes her head, but the smile on her face betrays her. No one can resist Hwang Hyunjin—his charm is undeniably irresistible.

“Get in!” you usher them, laughing, pressing the button to close the roof of the car. It takes them a while and a lot of stumbling, but they make it in the drenched backseat, where the dark-haired boy lays Mr. Sunshine on his side, and then proceeds to plop in the seat next to you, climbing his way to the front. Drunk logic, you think, but you can’t even personally find the hole to insert the key.

You sit staring at the steering wheel, praying to somehow sober up, even a little, so you don’t crash and die. This car will be a lot of money. But then again—these two idiots have that. Money. A lot of that.

“Hey, (Y/N), question for you—what do you think about me?” Felix slurs.

Cute, you faintly think. “Forest pixie,” you say out loud.

“Oh. Is that so? At least I upgraded from Tinker Bell.”

“Ha, no, you didn’t. You’re still mine,” Hyunjin says, and hiccups.

“That I am,” Felix giggles.

“What about me? What do you think about me, sweetheart?”

That hand on your thigh, again. The rain hitting against the windshield is making you sleepy. You start the car before it’s too late. Hyunjin plays music—this time it’s lo-fi.

“The whole fucking forest, Hwang Hyunjin,” you admit as you pull out of the parking spot. “All of it.”

He puts the hazard lights on, and you drive at twenty miles per hour, everything turning watercolor outside. You’re very aware of the fingers tapping your skin over the thin fabric of your dress, very aware of the alcohol running through your bloodstream—you think you might do something stupid.

You grip the wheel with both hands, force yourself to focus on the road. There’s barely anyone around at this hour, not in this side of town. The sound of your blinkers fills the entire car, Felix’s soft snores blending with the droplets on your windshield. Magic hour.

The time to swallow your heart and cover your ears. Anything alive will touch back now. Be careful.

“Should I stop now?” the only boy awake spoke. “Pretending? Should I stop?”

You take the turn, drive the straight line that comes, wish for the car to turn into a boat, the rain into river, so you can float, away away away—

“He’s leaving, isn’t he?” The truth. The only truth.

There are no words to follow it. Nothing he can say. So, he cries. He could drown you all if he wanted to, so big his sadness—the sadness shared, the sadness burdened into two—you cannot unsee it once you know. Do not dare.

And where to put it? Where to put it?

“Don’t you think you should address it at some point?”

“And risk him hating me forever? I’d rather burn myself alive.”

You put your signal on. Stop at the side of the road. You cannot stand his tears, cannot stand his despair. You get out. The rain seeps through your clothes, drips from your hair, and you run. Towards the sand, towards the waves that feel like the night sky in motion, and then you halt, sniffling, wiping your face.

Perhaps you’ve gone crazy. Perhaps you’re only drunk. No matter. No matter at all.

“You’ll catch a cold, angel.”

You’re shivering, and he’s right, but you don’t care. You thought lying to yourself wasn’t an option. For him to do this, it was hypocrisy—it was treachery.

“You’re ignoring your own heart and it will betray you, you’ll see. What good will it do if you wait one more day? One more month? You cannot prevent the inevitable, Hyunjin—I tried, okay? It doesn’t work.”

You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you, either. These words are too personal, cut through the magic into reality, somewhere the both of you cannot bare return to.

“I don’t know how to live without him.”

“Well, what are you going to do? Die? Because if so, let me go first, Hyunjin. I’ve been suffering longer than you have.”

His body slams on yours, knocking the very breath out of you. It’s a desperate attempt for closeness, but you get it. He needs this, needs a hug, a fucking hug, and you know what? You need it, too, as plain as it sounds. To know you’re not alone. To know it will be okay.

Your stomach is turning, twisting, and flipping on itself, uncomfortable with all the misery—so you spill out. You cannot forget, but you can cry, so you do.

You cry together, embracing in your shared wretchedness. His arms envelop you whole, take you down. Together you lay in the wet sand— a problem for later.

Sokcho is beautiful in all of its water. All it did today was wash away, clean, reveal.

You cannot forget, but you don’t think you have to. Not anymore.

#stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #hyunjin scenarios #felix scenarios #stray kids #skz hyunjin #skz felix #kpop scenarios #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids felix #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #hyunjin x reader #felix x reader #—mine.

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witchlingsandwyverns · 5 months

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Hello my dear giftee, it is me again, your jolly holiday gifter! You should know I'm thinking about you going into this holiday season. I know you've had a busy few months so I hope you are taking care of yourself, staying hydrated, and enjoying all the great parts of the season! Are you also getting ready for birthday celebrations? How convenient it's the first day of ACOTAR gifting as well!

Your gift is coming along nicely, with the usual struggles of final drafts and editing! But I am getting close and really hoping that you will love it! With that hope in the air I'm sending you a little snippet from the first chapter to tide you over until the next sneak peak!

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“Please, Lady Feyre…”

The warden of the healing wing scuttled behind the female, her steps brisk, his own faltering as he rushed in his voluminous robes.

But both came to a pause in front of the wooden door, one of many in the hall of healing. A cold fog of darkness, whirling and flecked with stars, was pouring from the crack at the bottom.

Feyre Archeron, her face pale and jaw set, looked upon the tendrils of night now lapping up her feet. With a deep breath, she knocked loudly and opened the door.

She did not pause at the wave of cold night that washed over her at the threshold, nor at the brisk “What?” bitten out by the occupant. She only paused when the fog cleared and she saw the patient clearly.

The Prince of Night sat up in bed, framed by outstretched, massive black wings. The span of wings was echoed in swirling black tattoos on his expansive bare chest, split by a wound covered in bandages across his shoulder. His face was fine, if a bit wan, and accompanied by a vicious frown. His glowing eyes quickly snapped to Feyre as she stood in the door. But it was the wings, gleaming iridescent in the light, that took her breath. It looked as if he sat upon a throne ensconced by those vicious and beautiful tokens of death.

Or at least, it did at first. Now that she took a breath she could see the way his wings were scaffolded by light fabric tethers and a framework of wooden dowels. Covered in bandages and oily with salves whose scent filled the room and filtered to her nose. Blood, too, dripped to the floor and across his white silken sheets, and bled through the starched bandages. She saw gashes and holes in the thin membrane of his wings, the skin raw and irritated and covered in healing ointments. Her anger and adrenaline paused for a moment as she felt a wave of pity for the Prince, wounded and swaddled in the fine sheets.

Feyre realized she had been frozen on the threshold of the room, staring at his body. Lifting her eyes, she met the menacing stare of the son of Night.

OMGOMGOMGOMG

Okay first thing, Santa, you are so kind to check in, thank you! Birthday preparations feel a ways out and to be honest, I think I'm just gonna have a quiet night in given how busy everything else (moving house, polishing my own secret santa gift) is. Just a nice dinner, cuddling my animals, and maybe doing some reading...

Which brings me to the second thing, Santa: I have not been able to get this snippet out of my mind since I read it yesterday. You took my fav pairing things and I can see how much they are gonna shine... like. I cannot tell you how much this catnip tease of a fic has squatted in my brain. The grumpy injured trope, the details, I cant wait to find out more! I have never had someone write something for me before, and I am overwhelmingly honored. I CANNOT CONVEY HOW EXCITED I AM TO READ THIS, WOW JUST WOW THANK YOU SANTA 💛✨️

#secret santa #I AM SO PUMPED TO SEE HOW THIS FITS WITH THE MOODBOARD #i cannot even #reading this made my heart go !!!!!!!!!!!

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victorluvsalice · 9 months

Text

AU Thursday: Valicer In The Dark -- First(ish) Meeting

I have been really into Blades In The Dark and thus my Valicer In The Dark AU lately, so I figured this week, I'd share a little bit of fanfic from the verse with you all! Namely, how Alice and Smiler first met Victor -- because, if you recall from previous posts, Alice and Smiler were actually already somewhat acquainted from Alice's previous trips to Silkshore (the pleasure district, and thus the Advocates' main stomping grounds and where Smiler peddles their Joy Serum) to visit Nan. The context is that Alice recently finished her trip through this world's version of A:MR, and has thus realized that Bumby is the one responsible for the deaths of her family AND that he's selling the children under his car to despicable sorts. HOWEVER, in this world, she can't just confront him at a handy underground station and shove him under a train -- not only are subways not a thing in Duskwall, killing Bumby the wrong way in this world might leave a ghost, and the last thing Alice wants to deal with is Bumby ghost! So instead she chose to head to Nan at The Manged Mermaid to discuss with her what to do. She's making her way through Silkshore, wrapped up in dark thoughts about Bumby, when suddenly...

“Hi Alice!”

Alice damn near started right out of her skin, hand automatically heading for her knife – then her brain caught up with her reflexes and provided her with a name to go with the voice. “Oh,” she said, shaking her head as she turned toward the source. “Hello, Smiler.”

“Gave you a bit of a fright, huh? Sorry about that.” Smiler grinned at her over the top of their little carry case/makeshift display for their Joy Serum samples. “You looked awfully deep in thought just then,” they continued, snapping the lid shut and reaching down to fold up the legs. “Everything all right?”

“I. . .” Alice ran her fingers through her hair, staring at the cobbles nearby. “Not really.”

Smiler’s expression in her peripheral vision softened, becoming concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Uh-oh – how safe is it to tell an Advocate that you’re feeling blue? On the other hand, they haven’t tried to stick me with a syringe yet. . .in fact, Smiler’s always been quite respectful of my boundaries. More so than Dr. Bumby, that bastard. . .should I tell them what I’ve learned? I mean, I don’t know them that well. . .but they’ve always been a friendly face around here for me. Quite literally. Always ready with a smile for anyone who needs it. . .and they did just give me a handful of slugs one day when I mentioned I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay for my lunch. Never said a word about if or when I should pay it back. Bloody hell, that probably makes them the closest person I could call a friend in this world, after Nanny. Oh, but would they even believe me if I told them? Bumby’s got such a good reputation, and I’m. . .lucky not to be Hollow.

“You’ll never find out if you keep dithering,” Cheshire told her, batting her foot with his paw. “Thought before action, yes, but you must eventually move to action. I would say the devotee of Mar-Mal can be trusted this far – if only because they have a duty to their less-than-forgotten god to stamp unhappiness out. And Bumby has caused a lot of unhappiness.”

Fair. “It’s – Dr. Bumby,” she began, turning to face Smiler properly. “I’ve – I’ve got reason to believe he’s done something terrible. Is actively doing something terrible, in fact. You see–”

THUMP!

At least this time when she started, Smiler was right there with her. They both whirled around to see a pale man with dark hair and an equally-dark suit lying on the cobbles just behind them, surrounded by mist and fog. He lifted his head slowly, revealing a thin, pointed face with large brown eyes so dark they were almost black. He stared back at them, expression tight with desperation. “Oh,” he breathed, stumbling to his feet like he was unaccustomed to having them. One white hand reached out, almost glowing in the light of the streetlamp. “I. . .are – a-are you alive?”

Oh SHIT – Alice’s hand plunged into her pocket, digging around desperately for the spiritbane charm that lived in there. The pale figure swayed closer as she did, forcing her back a few terrified steps. Not what I need, not what I need –

“Alice!” Suddenly Smiler’s hand was plucking at her sleeve, pulling her out of her own head. “No, it’s okay, look! He’s breathing!”

Alice did look. Sure enough, as she watched, the pale man’s breath fogged in the air, same as theirs. And now that her senses weren’t overtaken with terror, it dawned on her that he looked far too solid to be a ghost. “So he is,” she said, relaxing slightly. “But – where did he come from?”

“Though that – oh. . .” The man frowned at a nearby wall, hand still half-raised to point. “I – um – t-there was a door there. . .”

Smiler ventured closer for a look. “Huh. . .I think I can see an outline,” they reported, squinting. “But if there is a door there, it’s been bricked up for ages.” They glanced back at the man, one eyebrow raised. “So I haven’t the slightest how you got through it.”

“I’m n-not sure either. . .m-maybe it only matters that t-there was a door there once,” the man said, shaking his head. “T-the world looks so m-much different on the – the other side. . .”

“Other side?” Alice repeated. “Of what?”

“Of the f-field. . .please, y-you’ve got to help me,” he pleaded, hands clasped before him. “I – I w-woke someone up I s-shouldn’t have and I’ve been t-trapped on the wrong side of r-reality and I don’t–”

“Victor, darling. . .”

Alice hadn’t thought anyone with skin that white could blanch, but this fellow managed to pull it off. It was honestly impressive. “No,” he whispered, lurching toward Smiler as the closer option. “No, no, p-please, don’t let her f-find me, it’s not her f-fault but don’t let her find me–”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Smiler assured him, wrapping an arm around him. “It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now. We’ll get you out of here, don’t worry. Alice, you were heading toward the Mangled Mermaid anyway, right?”

“I was,” Alice confirmed. “And I don’t think Nanny will mind be bringing along someone who obviously needs a blanket and something fortifying put down his throat.” She waved the two along. “Follow me – we’ll get you there safely, Mister. . . ?”

“Victor,” the man said, shooting them both a grateful look. “Victor Van Dort.”

#valicer in the dark au #valicer #fanfic #victor van dort #alice liddell #smiler alton #the shortest of all the snippets I've written thus far!#be grateful :P #as a reminder 'Hollow' in this universe means that they've scooped your soul out of your body #and are now using that body as a sort of manual labor zombie #a lot of mental patients are given that treatment in my Duskwall #Alice only avoided it by being a minor for most of her time in Rutledge #so she has legit reasons to worry about people not taking her seriously #fortunately as Cheshire indicated Smiler is a friend and would have taken her seriously #had Victor not fallen out of a wall near them #his situation is admittedly very distracting #he's had a rough day too :p #basically everyone has had a rough day except for Smiler #and they're SOON to have a rough day #queued

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pokidot · 1 year

Text

EVERYBODY F**KING DIES! 💥 — childe's loveshack (derogatory)

Y/N - You were almost too dumb to be a victim of anything. It was why you got a hamster from some guy who was chilling in an alleyway, about to die from lupus or something (you admitted him to the hospital, but you never really found out if he was alive or not). You went to college for culinary purposes to prove to your mom that you had supreme Chad energy, but you were out-Chadded and saddled with the inglorious task of being the class dishwasher. To etch the further pain in your skin like salt in the wound, you best friend often laughs at you for it.

CHILDE - Local promising kid goes dark, happily jumps into the loving arms of trying to become a famous YouTuber who does gym workouts and weight checks (do you know anybody like that who's famous?), started going by three names, and then starts coming out delusional. Man completely dropped out of school as soon as he realized he was destined for something bigger. Better. But not smarter. He has moments of genius, probably when the rain and fog clears out from his head but I guess you need more than two functioning brain cells for that to happen from him. You were probably the only one who enabled him other than his family.

LUMINE - She has been the employee of the month for the local chicken shop every single month. Even though she reigned in the idea that she was the best worker there, she knew it was only because nobody was delusional enough to stay there for more than three weeks. It had horrible management, and the walls were so thin in between the front and the kitchen that you can hear the cooks threaten each other in the back. Weird shit happens in this time, but it's not about to ruin her day, who has time to worry about that when she keeps getting compared to the KFC worker Noelle? She'll show her.

ZHONGLI - In terms of ranking, it seems that Zhongli is definitely one of the most naive out of the entire group. He was one of the members of a charity organizations in Liyue a while back to add to his resume, but it ended up being a cult organization he got brainwashed in. You've put your foot in your mouth every single time you jinxed his happenings, and you feel bad about it now, so you often stay near him just to make sure he didn't get swept away. There was a point where he blew up because he looked like some person who used to be on Toddlers and Tiaras who disappeared from the Internet, and ever since then, he was verified on all platforms on happenstance. No matter how much anybody tries to clear up the mistake, it just got worse. Who knew people liked Toddlers and Tiaras that much?

KUNI - His life is a bit of a shit show (edit: a lot of a shit show), so the closest thing he has going for him is making sure Childe is actively being targeted by him. Unlike a ray of sunshine, every time he's around the ginger, it was like opening up Pandora's Box. The box being whatever asinine sentence was going to come out of his mouth. He's one grade under A from being a slab of meat in his mother's kitchen, and he's so close to having his Joker arc that it isn't even funny, but every day he wakes up and puts on that metaphorical clown costume to say 'not today'. You swear you were a bit omnipresent the next time he approached you to help you study, because the very next day you were dreaming about him. And not in the good way, to say the least. This isn't to say you get bad vibes from him, it was just odd.

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#✮ emily writes #childe x y/n #childe x reader #childe #tartagila #genshin #genshin impact #tartagalia genshin impact #tartagalia x reader #genshin smau #genshin fanfic #genshin modern au #smau #social media au #self insert

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misscrazyfangirl321 · 2 years

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Will and his little sister: I feel so sick.

I just realized I messed up on ages a bit here. Evie is 16, and Will is 28. Technically he’s supposed to be 15 years older than her, but just ignore that for the sake of this fic, pretty please.

TW for drug use/withdrawals.

Will hears the footsteps coming, but doesn’t bother to open his eyes. His head is pounding, the lights are way too bright, and his whole body aches. Besides, the only people who have a key to this place are Danny and Kayla, and he trusts them both completely.

It isn’t Danny coming, he knows; the footsteps are too quiet, too close together. Kayla, then. That’s good; hopefully she brought him some food, because he’s starving.

“I feel so sick,” he says, and he knows he’s whining, but he can’t bring himself to care. Distantly, he’s grateful that he has friends he can whine to, friends who will take care of him even when he feels like this: miserable, jittery, in pain, fighting both insomnia and fatigue (always tired, never sleeping, like some sort of twisted fairytale curse). One day, when this is all over, he’ll have to thank Danny and Kayla for letting him crash on their couch (letting him fall apart, and not shaming him as he tries to piece himself back together).

The footsteps reach the living room, then stop, lingering in the doorway. “Will?” The voice is soft, but it cuts straight through him, and his stomach turns. Not her; anyone but her.

She-his precious little sister, the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the only one in his family that doesn’t treat him like a freak half the time-cannot be seeing him like this: burning from withdrawals, fraying at the edges. She’ll never look at him the same way again.

Part of him wants to ignore her, to pretend she isn’t there. Maybe he can convince himself that this is all some sort of dream, or a hallucination of some kind. But… She is there, and already, he knows she’s scared.

Digging up every bit of strength inside him, he opens his eyes, and tries to sit up. Nope, bad idea. The room spins, and he lets his head fall back onto the couch cushion, settling for facing her. “Hey, Evie.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours (and maybe he has; the past few days are a blur in his mind), but he can at least force a weak smile. “What are you doing here?”

She knows something’s wrong; it’s written all over her face. But she’s still young (younger than he ever was at her age; by sixteen he was bitter, and angry at the world, aware of anything and everything that could dull the pain), so as long as he can put on a good show, she won’t figure out what it is. Hopefully.

At last, she speaks, taking a tentative step toward him at the same time. “I just wanted to show you what Mom and Dad got me for my birthday.” It sounds almost like a question.

Wait, birthday? No way; her birthday isn’t for-

Oh no. No, no, no. He’s never missed her birthday. Not once, even from her very first. He’s doted on her with cake, presents, and singing, making sure she knows exactly how important she is to him. But since he missed his first dose, the details of life have gone by the wayside, and now all too soon, she’ll know he forgot (though it’s so painfully obvious, she probably already does).

“What-” He’s shaking, he realizes absently, and tries to force himself still. “What did they get you?”

There has to be something he can do, he reasons. Something he can pull out of thin air, some way to convince her that no, really, he didn’t forget. It should be easy enough-he’s always been a quick thinker-but now it feels like his brain is fighting through a sea of fog, and it’s losing. He’s losing.

“A car.”

“Nice.” Really nice; they definitely never bought him a car (and the anger stirring in his chest must be a withdrawal symptom, because he never even asked them for a car, but it burns all the same).

This isn’t helpful. He needs to focus, but it seems almost impossible. Hunger, pain, frustration, and exhaustion war in his mind, and he can’t seem to push past them. Not even for her.

Against his will, his mind is drawn to his backpack, to the stash even Danny and Kayla don’t know about. It’s just across the room, and it would be so easy for him to get to it. It wouldn’t take long for the effects to hit, and he’d start to feel human again. Just one dose, a voice at the back of his mind whispers. Just one dose, for Evie’s sake. Is there anything he wouldn’t do for her?

And then what? Is he going to quit a second time? To start this misery over from the beginning, and go through withdrawals all over again? No. Deep down, he knows that if he gives in now, this will never end. He’ll always find another excuse, another reason, to take just one more dose. He’ll be trapped in this cycle, never quite able to break free, and he’ll never stand a chance of getting into Quantico.

The thought is enough to steel him. Is he really willing to do that? Give up the chance to put the bad guys behind bars, to save little kids from having to weep over dead mothers? Not for a second. No, taking another dose isn’t an option; he’ll just have to deal with Evie on his own, even if everything in him is fighting back.

Evie’s watching him expectantly, and he realizes she must have answered while he was lost in his own head.

“Sorry, what’d you say?”

But apparently she’s had as much of this as she can take. “What is wrong with you?”

What’s wrong with me? A bitter laugh slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, a thousand answers bubbling up in his mind. Should I start with my childhood trauma, the constant pressure I’m under, or my feelings of isolation? No reason to let that psychology degree go to waste, after all. What’s wrong with me? How long do you have?

Inhale. Exhale. This is his little sister. This is Evie, and he loves her. He will not allow the fire in him to scorch her.

“Stomach bug.” He manages another shaky smile. “Might not want to get too close to me.”

“Stomach bug?” She echoes. Fear gives way to gentle concern, and Will can finally breathe. She’s actually convinced. That’s good, because everything still hurts, and if she doesn’t leave soon, his control might start slipping. It’s taking everything in him just to hold it together.

“Mmm. Something I picked up at Harvard.” It’s not even completely a lie. “Listen, as soon as I’m feeling better, we’ll do something together, okay? You can even drive me somewhere in that car of yours, if you promise not to speed.” How he finds an ounce of teasing to slip into his words, he has no idea.

Pursing her lips together, she seems to weigh her options. “Maybe you should come home. Mom makes a really good chicken noodle soup.”

Soup sounds amazing, and Will’s stomach grumbles (and maybe, just maybe, there’s a child inside him that really loves the idea of going home, of having his family there to help him through this), but he firmly ignores it. Evie may be young and innocent, but his dad and Michelle are not. They’d take one look at him and know, and then their whole family would know.

“I’m okay.” This one is, in fact, completely a lie, but a necessary one. At the very least, he can follow it up with some truth. “Danny and Kayla are taking good care of me.” Then, because he has to ask, “Wait, how did you find me? Did they tell you where I was?”

If they did, he might never forgive them.

“I saw Kayla at the grocery store.” She shrugs. “She was picking up those weird cookies you love so much, so… I had a hunch, you know?”

“And how did you get in?”

She has the grace to look a little sheepish. “I looked around until I found their spare key.”

And part of him wants to be angry-not at Evie, never at Evie, but at Kayla, for giving away his location, or at her and Danny, for having their spare key in such an obvious hiding place-but he forces himself to exhale. This isn’t their fault, he tells himself, and mostly believes it.

Deep breaths. Keep joking, keep teasing, and get her out of here. “Pretty sure breaking and entering is a crime,” he points out, and she huffs.

“I didn’t break anything! I just-” But her voice rises, and Will can’t help but wince, closing his eyes in a helpless attempt to stop the echoing noise. She pauses, and when she speaks again, it’s soft. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, but it’s strained, so obviously a lie that he can’t even look at her.

“I should go. Get to feeling better, okay?” She starts walking; he hears her, but doesn’t bother opening his eyes again. It hurts too much, and besides, he’s exhausted, frayed to his limits in an effort to act somewhat normal for her. “I’ll leave some candy in your backpack in case you get hungry later.”

“Hm.” Candy sounds good, even if walking all the way over there sounds like a lot of work. He’s hungry, so hungry, and Danny and Kayla still aren’t back with food. Maybe he could ask Evie to bring it over to him instead, but he’s already told her he has a stomach bug; she has to keep her distance.

Still, though, surely there’s somewhere closer than-

His backpack.

Horror dawns, and he shoots upright on the couch, eyes flying open. It’s too much, too fast, and his entire body protests, but he ignores it, just focuses on a desperate “Evie, no-”

But it’s too late. When his gaze lands on the corner, he sees Evie: a vial in one hand, a syringe in the other, looking more pale than he’s ever seen her.

No. No, no, no. He has to keep a clear head, has to think this out, but desperation and pain are clouding his mind, and the only thing he can think to say is, “Put that down.”

“What is this?” But she’s sixteen years old, she’s read the label, and innocent doesn’t mean stupid; she knows what this is and what it means, so why is she dragging this out?

“Put it down.”

“Will, what is going on?”

“Evelyn, just-”

“Are you high?”

It’s out before he can stop it. “No, but I wish I was.”

She withdraws as if he’s slapped her, and he has a moment-just a moment-of painful clarity. Reality settles in, not drowning out the aches but mingling with them, nearly too much to handle.

“I’m sorry, I-just put it down, okay?” His control is slipping, and he swallows roughly. When she complies, he continues, “It’s withdrawals, Evie, just withdrawals. I promise, I’m trying t-I’m trying to get better. It just takes time.”

Tears glisten in her eyes, and he can’t stop the panic clawing at his chest. His own vision blurs, but he ignores that. She’s crying. He made her cry, and it’s his fault, all his fault, and he’s so stupid. None of this would’ve happened if he’d just taken one more dose-

No. No, he can’t think like that; it’s not right. Not right. (He’s spiraling, and he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop, mind growing more and more muddled with rage and fear, with desperation, because he made his little sister cry, and-)

“How long?” Her voice shakes, but she holds her ground. “How long have you been-using?” The word sounds like poison on her lips.

He can’t even think to form some sort of reassurance; all he can do is admit, “Since the second week at Harvard.”

“And you’re-you’re quitting?”

“Yes.” He wills her to understand that he means it, that he’s done with that awful stuff for good.

“So I can pour the rest of this out?”

And in spite of everything-in spite of every firm conviction that he’s done, that he never wants to touch that stuff again-there’s a part of him, wild and desperate, that wants to say no. Wants to beg her not to take it from him, or worse: shove her away, so that she’s nowhere near his precious stash.

It’s that last urge, more than any other, that leads him to nod. Because no matter how bad things get, no matter how suffocating, he’s never going to let anyone lay a hand on Evie. Especially not him.

She takes the vial and the syringe, and when she comes back again, she has neither. Wherever they are, they’re gone, and he can never have them again. There’s a pit of loss in his stomach, but with it, something like relief. One way or another, this is over.

“Evie, I-”

“Do Danny and Kayla know?”

“Yeah. They’re taking care of me. Evie, please-” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for at this point. For her to not tell anyone? For her to not hate him? For her to not look at him like a complete failure?

She stares at him for several long seconds, expression unreadable, until finally, he looks away. His back to her, facing the edge of the couch, he waits for her to leave. He won’t blame her, he knows; after everything she’s seen, she has every right to leave him behind. The tears in his eyes slowly start to slip, and he wants to scream. He doesn’t cry in front of Evie, not ever, and-

And suddenly there’s someone sitting on the couch behind him, arms snaking around his waist, and a warm weight against his back. Her tears soak through his shirt, and he’s shaking so hard he can hardly think, but she doesn’t let go, and he reaches up, clinging to her arms like they’re the only thing keeping him from drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he says at one point, or she says; it’s hard to be sure.

At last the tears subside, and she releases him, patiently waiting for him to look back at her. When he finally does, his heart breaks at the calm, steady expression on her face. It’s like she’s aged ten years in as many minutes.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promises, and he’s more than a little surprised. “But you have to get better, okay? Promise me you won’t ever, ever do something like this again.”

“I promise,” he says, and he means it to his bones. No matter what, he’s never going to put her through this again.

“Good.” At last, she smiles, shaky but sincere. “I love you.”

And it’s so much more than he deserves, almost enough to bring him to tears all over again. “I love you, too, Evie,” he says quietly. “We’re gonna be okay, okay?”

Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but someday, they’ll be okay.

#stay tuned to the end of my tags for screaming about the writing process for this fic bcs it was something else #will zimmerman #evelyn zimmerman #sanctuary #my fics #my writing #mine #answered #thanks for the ask!#lattes of love #ec snowed in #okay rant time #this is the fic that i wrote almost in its entirety on tumblr #then lost #i almost immediately tried to rewrite it #but i didn't like how it was going #so i didn't finish #later i decided to pick this story up again but i was like 'yeah that one doc is terrible i'm just opening another one'#and it was... better #i didn't love it #but it was okay #i didn't finish it that time either #i went back later to work on it #and went to the wrong document #anyway long story short i ended up with two nearly completely versions of this story to replace the one i lost #(except the ending. i only wrote everything after the initial confrontation once; i didn't even get there the very first time i wrote this)#so today i opened a new document #and basically copy-and-pasted my favorite versions of each sentence #and reformatted a tiny bit #and when i didn't like either sentence i wrote a new one

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cavalierious-whim · 2 months

Text

The Bitter-Bone Cold Brings the Heat (ZhongChiLi)

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“I can’t feel my hands.”

Childe scoffs. “You’re being dramatic. It isn’t that—”

“If you say that it isn’t that cold—”

“Zhongli.”

Zhongli frowns. At surface level, it had been a wonderful idea, visiting Childe’s family. It isn’t the first time, nor the last. They’ve traveled these well-worn trails enough times that Zhongli no longer needs a map to find their home. They’ve visited enough times that Zhongli has worn a permanent dent into the guesthouse mattress, and knows what every cabinet holds. Morepesok welcomes him with warm arms and food to match.

This year, though, is cold. This year, winter has come several months early, dousing the rural outskirts of Snezhnaya in fresh snowfall to his calf, instead of the soft orange leaves that fall to the ground in piles. His fingers are numb from the knuckles to the tips, and Zhongli shivers despite the blanket he’s wrapped tightly in.

“Ajax.”

Childe is annoyingly dressed down, wearing nothing but dark trousers and a thin linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. No sign of distress, no reddening of his fingertips due to the frigid room, not even gooseflesh pebbling on his skin. He stands in the kitchenette, entirely unbothered as he uses a flint to light the stove.

“Tea?” he asks, setting a kettle over the flame. “It’ll warm you up, at least, if the fireplace isn’t doing its job.”

The fireplace is helping. Zhongli sits beside it, warming his frozen hands as they peek out from the comforter he’s made a home in. “Do not tease me. I’m—”

“All dragon-y,” laughs Childe as he scoops tea leaves into their cups.

Zhongli frowns. He doesn’t mean to lose his grip on himself but the cold makes his joints ache, and his brain fog, so he lets his mortal guise crack apart gently. His tail thuds against the ground, sweeping over the worn floorboards. “I typically would hibernate in conditions like this,” he drawls.

“And waste this tea?” Childe clicks his tongue. “Tonia got this for you. “

Which bodes terribly. There is only one person whose taste in tea is worse than Childe’s, and it is, unfortunately, his sister. “Joy,” is Zhongli’s dry reply. Still, when Childe hands him a steaming cup, Zhongli takes it graciously, warming his fingers.

“I know you hate the teasing,” says Childe as he drops to the ground beside him and settles into the mess of blankets and sheets. “But Zhongli, you’ve made a nest. It’s hard not to poke a little bit of fun.”

“Your family,” replies Zhongli. He takes a sip, finding the tea to be decent at least. A little bitter but tolerable. “That is the only reason I’ve come here—to visit your family.”

Childe pouts. It’s adorable, a soft tug at the edges of his mouth. Zhongli wants to curl close and kiss it away.

“If I could change the weather,” says Childe then, “I would, you know. Snezhnaya hasn’t seen a blizzard this early in decades. Still, it’s cute to see you all bothered.” Childe drags his finger down the length of Zhongli’s nose with a gentle touch. “If you’re so cold, though, I can certainly think of ways to warm you up.”

Zhongli’s expression turns sly. “Do not think that you can butter me up for something untoward.”

“Untoward?” Childe scoffs, leaning close. “What if I just want to take care of you like a good mate? You’re cold and I’m warm. It’s a lazy night. You’ve got tea—”

“And your family can walk in at a moment’s notice.” Despite his complaints, Zhongli still turns to Childe, pressing a hand to his chest. He is warm—blazingly so—and sharing skin may not be such a terrible idea. Still, Zhongli is in a teasing mood. “I, for one, do not delight being caught with my trousers down after—”

“The door is locked.”

“Tonia has a key. Ask me how I know.”

Childe cringes. “Okay, yeah, so I remember that, but—”

“But.”

“I made them promise not to bother us without knocking first.”

Zhongli sips his tea and then sets it aside. “Well, then that settles it.”

“Does it?” Childe arches a brow and presses his hand against Zhongli’s shoulder, fingers tracing the edge of the flimsy robe he wears. “You’re barely covered,” he muses. “No wonder you’re cold.”

“No amount of cloth would fight away the chill in my bones. The fire, though—”

“And your mate?”

Zhongli’s mouth curls into a soft grin. Childe’s hand presses underneath his robe to thumb over his shoulder where it bleeds into charcoal. He pushes, and Zhongli goes, and they tumble to the ground him a mess of limbs and blankets. Zhongli’s fingers hook into Childe’s shirt, tugging him close. “These moments alone are rare nowadays, aren’t they?”

“Isn’t that the draw of seeing my family?”

“I thought the draw was to, well, see your family—”

“And to have my husband all to myself.” Childe’s hand skitters down Zhongli’s side, his palm hot against frigid skin. “No Katya bursting in. No annoying messages, or Hu Tao’s teasing. Just you, and me—”

“And a blizzard,” finishes Zhongli.

Childe hangs over him, a comfortable weight. Zhongli relishes these moments too because he’s right. Rarely do they have a chance for respite and more often than not Zhongli craves just… some time together. And yes, it is bitter cold outside the guest house but the fire inside blazes, Childe is warm, and Zhongli finds himself aching.

His head knocks back against the nest he’s made, antlers getting tangled in the blankets. “You’ll have to get yourself under control,” says Childe, smoothing his fingers over the peach fuzz of his horns.

The way he touches Zhongli helps none. Zhongli arches, the pads of Childe’s fingers leaving searing heat in their wake as they chase next the golden lines etched into his skin. “Ajax—”

“Actually, I have an idea. Roll over for me?”

Zhongli lets loose a sound of annoyance. He grabs Childe’s wrist, sinking his claws into the meat of it.

Childe extricates it easily. He tugs Zhongli’s hand to his mouth for a kiss and says, “A massage to warm those frozen bones of yours.”

Oh. Zhongli’s gaze turns half-lidded. A fantastic idea, Childe’s hands dragging over every inch of him. Zhongli pulls away the blankets and shrugs off his robe, revealing smooth skin.

Childe pulls at his wrist again, nuzzling the fine bone there. “See? Good idea.”

“Rascal,” says Zhongli. He rolls over slowly and settles back into the nest, chest pressed to it.

Childe laughs, delighting in the pet name. His hand rests against Zhongli’s back and drags down the curve of it. “You must be distracted,” he mutters as he thumbs across the bony protrusions that line Zhongli’s spine. Nails skitter across the length of his tail, over glistening scales all the way to the tip.

He is. The last time Childe saw Zhongli so lose with his form was days deep into his last rut. Zhongli moans. The touch is soft and gentle. Childe always loves exploring these bits of himself, and Zhongli welcomes it warmly. “Cold,” he finally murmurs, the word nearly lost into the sheets. He’s spread thin, his mind sluggish as the frozen air tries to tug him into sleep, but Childe’s touch spreads fire through his veins.

Zhongli melts into the nest he’s made, surrounded by warmth, and their shared smell. Childe pulls away and he whines. “Ajax—”

“Hang on, I’m just grabbing—ah. Here it is. This might be cold.” Oil. Childe dumps it onto his back, and Zhongli hisses at the impact. Cold, just as he said. Childe murmurs an apology, pressing his palms into his now slick shoulder blades, smoothing the oil out into his skin.

He must’ve planned for this, thinks Zhongli. The smell of Silk Flowers fills the air and the oil warms quickly as Childe massages it into his skin. The soft dig of his nails trace the muscles of Zhongli’s back. No inch is left untouched as he digs into every dip and curve, kneading at the blurred edges of skin where they bleed into charcoal.

Zhongli loses most of his thoughts. “Mhmn.”

Childe pulls and squeezes at his darkened skin, at the glittering golden lines etched into his limbs. “Handsome,” he says, awed. “You’re always so—fuck.” Childe stills, rolling his hips slightly—and Zhongli feels it then.

Zhongli smirks through his arousal, head tilted in the sheets as he looks back. “Darling,” he purrs, “do you want to fuck me?”

Childe stills, surprised. Zhongli so rarely curses, is so rarely crude. The massage has loosened more than just his bones; his tongue and mouth are freer than usual, and Zhongli finds himself in the mood to tease back. Childe’s hands slide down Zhongli’s sides to slot against his hips. He tugs them back and up, grinding his erection against the curve of Zhongli’s ass.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Or—maybe you could fuck me? Whichever you want, Zhongli. You know I’m not picky.”

What a delightful thought. Zhongli rolls against him, pressing back, moaning at the feel of Childe’s cock against his backside. “Baobei, please.”

“Please what?”

“I—anything.”

Giving Childe free reign comes with its risks but Zhongli will take whatever he’s gifted. Childe leans over him, mouth near his ear. “That’s tempting, laogong,” he murmurs, mouth curling around the endearment. “But I want to hear specifics.”

“Ajax.”

“My fingers? My cock? Or would you like me to roll over and present myself for you?”

Zhongli’s nostrils flare as he imagines Childe on his belly, chest pressed into his nest, asscheeks spread. Whining as he’s opened up on his fingers. Whimpering when filled with Zhongli’s cock which now is hard and aching as hit hangs underneath him. But the opposite appeals to hZhongli as well, Childe’s fingers pressed deep instead, or his cock squeezed between Zhongli’s thighs. Heat spreads through his chest and gut. Zhongli’s cock twitches, wet at the tip, and it takes everything in him to not give it a stroke.

“Oh, I know that look.” Childe’s voice is affectionate. He chuckles and kisses the shell of Zhongli’s ear, and then moans against him long and loud as he ruts against Zhongli’s ass. Making a point. Childe pulls at him, fingers digging into Zhongli’s soft waist, holding him in place. “You can’t pick, can you?” he asks, this time nipping at Zhongli’s pointed ear.

“Both, then,” Zhongli finally says.

“Both.” Childe drops his face to kiss the back of Zhongli’s neck, nuzzling his hair. “Both,” he breathes for a second time, resting his forehead against Zhongli’s oil-slicked shoulders. “Okay. Yes, okay, okay.”

Childe sits up and scoots back. He curls his hands around Zhongli’s hips and tugs them up before smoothing palms over the swell of his ass. “Naked under the damn robe,” he muses. “Though I suppose it’s easier to warm yourself by the fire sans clothing.”

“Or, perhaps I wanted to show off and lounge about on display for my mate?”

Childe’s thumb dips into his asscrack and Zhongli’s breath hitches. “Needy,” he says, swirling the pad of his thumb across Zhongli’s hole.

“Yes, always.” Zhongli reaches back and tugs his asscheek to the side, allowing Childe to get a better view. “But no more so than you. The oil, Ajax.”

He curated the choice and tucked it into their luggage, and now Childe uncorks it for a second time to drip over Zhongli’s hole. His thumb sinks right in to the first knuckle.

Zhongli jerks, and then thrusts back forcing Childe’s thumb deeper. “Ah, like that—”

“And you called me needy.” Childe hooks his thumb, pulling at Zhongli’s rim which is already soft and pliant. “Look at how relaxed you are.”

“It’s warm and soft, so of course I am. The nest I mean. And you—Hah.” Zhongli gasps when Childe pulls his thumb out and presses back in with two fingers. The oil is slicker than Hydro and hotter, warmed but their skin. Childe fucks his fingers and an out, spreading them.

The pressure drives Zhongli wild. The friction, the way that Childe bullies his insides with every swipe of his fingers. Zhongli drops his hips, rolling them back to meet every thrust of his hand. “Ajax. Ajax.”

“Another,” says Childe. His voice is rapturous, and Zhongli doesn’t need to look to know that he’s staring in awe. A third finger slips in and Childe curls all of them to sweep over that bundle of nerves that sets Zhongli’s blood boiling.

Zhongli keens, his tail hitting the ground with a hard thwack. “There,” he blurts, rutting hard against Childe’s hand.

Childe’s fingers press against his prostate again and Zhongli yowls. He pulls at the blankets, claws threatening to shred them. That frigid cold—it’s all but gone now, replaced by heat that coils tightly in his gut. His cock leaks a mess underneath him.

Zhongli doesn’t need to look to know he’s lost his calculated control there as well, and he hopes that Childe is in the mood for… something different.

Childe leans close again, uncaring of the awkward angle. His chest rests against Zhongli’s back, mouth pressed to his ear. “Gods, you’re always so tight. Maybe I should fuck you instead—”

“No.” Zhongli practically growls it, which makes Childe laugh. They’re in too deep. Childe fucks him on his fingers with sweet words, and all that Zhongli can think about is finishing the night knotting Childe until can’t speak.

He reaches back and grabs Childe by the wrist, yanking his fingers free. Childe is about to retort when Zhongli turns, flipping them over until Childe’s back is against the blankets.

“Oh,” he hisses, wincing slightly from the impact. And then Childe looks up and sees Zhongli looking down at him, chest heaving as he struggles to maintain himself. Childe smells and looks divine, the ruddy scent of his arousal filling the air. Zhongli leans over, pulling him closer by the hips, rutting their cocks together. “Oh,” says Childe again when his gaze drops, finding Zhongli’s draconian cock resting beside his.

“I can’t,” mutters Zhongli against his ear. “I can’t think of anything aside from being inside of you.”

“Not even the cold?”

“Ajax.” Zhongli whines softly, pressing his damp forehead against Childe’s.

Childe brushes back his bangs and sighs softly. “You’re burning up, now. I guess the skin-to-skin thing did the trick.”

“I beg of you to stop teasing—”

“Only if you get to fucking me. You can’t bring out that monster and not use it.”

Zhongli takes a deep breath and counts to three. Incorrigible boy. His menace of a husband. Despite these things, there is no one that Zhongli loves more than this rapscallion fool which is why he tilts Childe’s face up and mashes their lips together.

It is a searing kiss, all-devouring, nothing but teeth clacking together, and tongues sweeping deep. Childe moans and rolls his hips, dragging his cock against Zhongli’s own rock-hard erection. Zhongli’s claws sink into the meat of Childe’s thigh before pushing it back and spreading his ass for a better look.

Already slicked with Hydro. Zhongli nudges at Childe’s hole before meeting his face, finding an insufferable smirk there. “Impatient,” says Zhongli. “What am I to do with you?”

“Breed me, I guess.”

No, no, not those words. Those words do things to Zhongli; terrible things that will make him absolutely forget himself. He no longer cares about the winter. Instead, he brings his first and second fingers to his mouth, biting away his claws before shoving them right into Childe’s ass.

“Yes,” cries out Childe, lifting his hips, and begging for more. “Zhongli, please.”

Zhongli is quick with his preparation as he drills them deep before pulling them back, and spreading Childe’s rim wide. Perfect. He’s perfect. “I love you,” he says, watching the way Childe’s hole sucks his fingers back in, swallowing his knuckles greedily. “Archons, how can I not love you when you’re like this for me? Ajax, baobei.”

Childe gives an impatient whine that leaves Zhongli drunk on the sound. He pulls his fingers free and slips both thumbs in next, pulling at his softened rim, seeing how easily it spreads. Zhongli curses at the sight of slick, pink insides, and the way the Childe writhes in the sheets, wriggling his hips.

Zhongli takes his time with the oil, dribbling it over his length, and slicking it carefully. A stroke from base to tip, his palm curling around the spade-shaped head. “Look, darling,” he purrs, “I teased you about how my instincts wanted to hibernate, but then you said to breed you instead, and so…”

The tip of his cock slides in easily. Zhongli hikes Childe’s leg over his shoulder and thrusts deeper, losing himself in the tight, hot grip of Childe’s insides. This cock is more sensitive. The spade-shaped head sinks deep so easily, and Zhongli has to still and give himself a moment.

Childe’s back arches from the floor in an elegant bow. “Gods,” he shouts. He pulls at the blankets, rucking them up, making a mess of Zhongli’s carefully curated nest. He curses in a tinny whine, the sound ripping from his throat as Zhongli pulls out and thrusts back in hard.

Neither of them will last long—Zhongli knows this. Not with the way that Childe cries out for more and how tightly he squeezes at Zhongli’s cock. Winter no longer threatens the air; Zhongli’s skin burns as he fucks Childe, as he watches the way his cock slides home over and over.

He’s empty too—far too empty, something that Childe will have to fix. Nothing will be right until they’ve both spent themselves, until they’re curled against each other in their nest, leeching heat, worn loose and leaking come.

Breed him. Childe asked for it and the thought permeates Zhongli’s hindbrain, sinking in so deep that it taunts him. His chest rumbles as he ruts into Childe’s yielding form, hypnotized by the sight of Childe rising to meet every thrust.

Childe’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. He reaches for it and stills when Zhongli growls. “No,” he says. “You’ll come inside me. When I’m done with you, you’ll breed me next.”

A hitch of Chile’s breath. A wild and glassy look in his eyes. Childe watches him like a hawk, taking in every movement, every twitch of Zhongli’s muscles. Instead of touching his cock, that hand rises to his leg where Zhongli’s claws are latched against his thigh.

Fingers thread together. “Fuck, I love you,” moans Childe, squeezing tightly around Zhongli’s cock.

Celestia above. It feels blasphemous to be enraptured, but how can he not? Zhongli tilts his face to nuzzle the inside of Childe’s leg where it rests against his shoulder. Soft kisses against sweat-slick flesh; doused in the scent of Childe’s arousal—Zhongli groans when he feels his cock twitch, a tell-tale swelling at the base of his length.

Childe notices too. His mouth curves into a devilish grin as the weight of it sinks into both of their guts. “Is that your knot?” he drawls, his voice far too steady for a man who should be fucked loose and wordless. “Zhongli, are you that gone? Do you need me that badly?”

Zhongli shifts, dropping Childe’s leg and tugging it around his waist. His tail curls around one of Childe’s calves, holding it there. He leans forward, close, too close, face pressed against Childe’s nape. He drags his teeth over the column of Childe’s throat. “I was cold,” he murmurs, “and content to fight it away with a nest and a fireplace. Then you teased me, laogong. You teased me by brewing me tea, by warming me up, by massaging away my woes like a good mate. You made me want, Ajax. You made me remember all of the things that I love about you. You cannot beg to be bred and not expect to take my knot.”

“I—”

“Do you want it?” The question comes syrupy-sweet, dripping with adoration. Zhongli nibbles at Childe’s jawline, his forked tongue slipping out to taste his skin. “Ajax, tell me that you want it.”

Childe’s face is flushed pink down to his chest. He moans, hisses, scrabbles against him, raking his nails down Zhongli’s back as he begs and begs. “Yes, yes—”

“Yes, what, baobei?” And perhaps it’s cruel but Zhongli is in a mood, old nesting tendencies bleeding into his veins. He needs his mate to beg for it.

“Give me your knot. Gods, please. Zhongli—” Zhongli pauses and Childe whimpers pitifully. “Wait, no, no—”

“A moment,” says Zhongli, soothing him. He uncorks the bottle of oil once more and slathers the swollen base of his cock with it. Then, he thumbs across Childe’s rim, slicking it more, pressing a thumb in to test its give. It sinks deep alongside his length, and Childe jolts in the blankets. Then he keens, a wanton sound that shows how needy and desperate he is.

Perfection. Zhongli thinks this is a perfect moment as he leans close again, tossing the oil to the side. Slowly, he thrusts into Childe, easing his knot past his tight entrance. A languid pace. Childe moans loudly enough that Zhongli presses their mouths together to swallow it. What a needy kiss, from the both of them. Childe clings to Zhongli as they rock together.

Zhongli grunts as his knot slides home. His eyes cross at the pressure. Suddenly, everything is too tight, too hot, too much. Childe kisses him, encourages him to move, to fuck him, to breed him full—and that’s what Zhongli does. It’s nothing more than wild grinding. Zhongli drowns in Childe’s scent, drowns in the feeling of him, in the tight grasp of his ass, in the want to fill him full of his spend.

“Ajax, I’m close,” he hisses, nipping at his mouth, fangs catching against Childe’s lower lip. “Darling, I’m going to—” He doesn’t get to finish, choking off his words as his orgasm slams into him. It isn’t gentle; it’s like a tidal wave, all-consuming as he comes white-hot into Childe’s warmth.

Childe pets the back of his neck, curling his fingers into Zhongli’s damp hair. He talks him through it, praising him, rolling his hips to grind Zhongli’s knot deeper. Zhongli is the one to whine this time, his gut clenching as his cock twitches with overstimulation. His instincts roar, sinking into Childe’s sweet words against his ear. He sighs at the kisses pressed against his temple, and the way that Childe’s fingertips ghost the curves of his antlers.

Zhongli is still woefully empty. One end is satisfied, but Childe’s cock is still hard against his stomach, no doubt aching. Zhongli wraps his fingers around it and Childe gasps.

“Wait. Zhongli, wait, if you—”

A slow, light-handed stroke from base to tip that leaves Childe clenching around his cock. Zhongli thumbs over the tip, teasing the slit. Then the oil again—that damnable oil. Zhongli is thankful that Childe had the forethought to bring something of such high quality on their trip. This time when Zhongli strokes Childe’s cock it’s almost too wet, too slick, and Childe has to dig his nails into Zhongli’s hips and beg him to stop.

Zhongli manages to ease his knot out of him—it’s gone down, but not entirely, his cock still hard and swollen at the base. Childe whimpers at the loss. He bucks his hips, desperate for relief.

“Ajax,” says Zhongli, climbing across his hips, “I won’t deny you any longer.”

“Zhongli, I’m not going to last. The moment I’m inside, I’m going to—”

Zhongli doesn’t care. He eases onto Childe’s cock in one fell swoop. Full—so full. Childe curses as Zhongli rolls his hips, riding his cock slowly and sweetly.

“Fuck.” Childe tries to bite back the curse, but he can’t. His fingers are tight against Zhongli’s hips as he tries to guide him faster, but Zhongli won’t budge. Solid as stone. Unmoving as he sits astride him. Zhongli wants to watch Childe struggle to hold on, to come quickly as he promised, but at his pace.

Zhongli pulls Childe’s hand to his still hard cock. “Look Ajax,” he purrs. Childe’s hand meets his knot, swollen and aching. Zhongli forces Childe’s fingers to tighten around it, frotting against his palm as he rides Childe’s cock.

Childe swallows thickly. He lies in their nest, watching Zhongli fuck himself, squeezing his knot tight. Divine. Worthy of worship. Zhongli throws his head back and drops his hips faster, finally giving into the pace that Childe was begging for.

“Zhongli,” he gasps, bucking up against him, driving his cock deeper to meet Zhongli’s movements. “I’m—I’m—”

“What a perfect way to chase away the cold,” teases Zhongli, pulling up until only the tip of his cock is left before slamming his hips back down.

Childe comes, arching against him, spilling hot and wet into Zhongli’s ass.

“What a good boy,” says Zhongli, watching him from above. Handsome. So startlingly handsome, gleaming in the sheets, breathing heavily, eyes screwed shut as he rides out his orgasm. He guides Childe’s hand to jerk his cock, fully hard and leaking again. He groans, eyes half-lidded and hazy. Heat rises in his being, filling his veins, his core, every thought. “Perfect husband, perfect mate.”

“Zhongli, come on,” says Childe then. He shifts, sitting up in the sheets, pulling Zhongli close as he still sits in his lap. Full of Childe’s softening cock and his come. A calloused hand on his cock strokes him fast. Childe tilts Zhongli’s face towards his for a kiss. “I want to see you come again,” he says, that second hand falling between them to squeeze around his knot.

Thoughts are lost. Zhongli moans, licking into Childe’s mouth as he cradles his face. Childe’s hands are wicked things, knowing just how and where to touch. Zhongli comes a second time, thin and watery, all over Childe’s fingers and stomach.

It’s bone-shattering. Zhongli falls against him, joints aching, ass aching, everything aching. Childe’s back hits blankets and he tugs Zhongli along with him, his cock slipping out now that it’s fully softened. Zhongli’s knot hangs on, pulsing as it ekes out the last few waves of pleasure that it can. Childe still holds it, cradling it in his palm, squeezing at it lightly as he kisses Zhongli’s brow.

“Better?” he asks with a laugh. “All warmed up?”

Zhongli groans in embarrassment, hiding his face against his neck. “I’m tired of your teasing.”

Childe hums softly before tucking them away in the nest, pulling the blankets around them. “Truth be told, I was cold.”

“You were not.”

“Well, I wanted to touch you, then.”

Zhongli raises a brow. “You always want to touch me.”

Childe settles, facing him, their legs tangled together as they lounge about in the sleepy aftermath of their lovemaking. “We’ll clean up later,” he promises. “I’ll give you another massage and we’ll go take a bath. I’ll take care you of you again—”

“Ajax.”

“Innocently.” Judging by the tilt of Childe’s mouth, though, it’ll be anything but.

Zhongli reaches out to drag his knuckles down his nose. Across his cheekbone, tracing freckles and scars until Childe turns his face and kisses his palm. “I apologize,” says Zhongli quietly. “I hadn’t realized that I… would be so needy. So demanding.”

“Are you going to blame it on the cold again?”

“It is a factor,” replies Zhongli with a huff. “But, we’ve been busy lately. And no, you do not neglect me, before you begin to even say such a thing. It’s merely a quirk of my instincts and nothing more. In the winter months I’m prone to wanting to hide away with my mate.”

Childe knows this. They’ve spent countless winters together at this point, it just came early this year. “So you do feel better, then.”

Zhongli smiles widely, a rare and curious thing typically reserved for his husband alone. “For now. Later though…”

“Mhmn, later,” murmurs Childe, closing the space, hands sliding against Zhongli’s tacking skin underneath the sheets. Zhongli’s tail weaves between their legs, the tuft at the end soft and ticklish. Childe chuckles, and nips at Zhongli’s neck, his jaw, his ear, before kissing him.

These kisses are languid. Searching. Zhongli cups Childe’s face and admires the glow of the fireplace as it dances across his skin. “I love you,” he says. He can never say it enough, even with the sweep of his lips and claws dancing across Childe’s skin in reverence.

Childe’s expression is serene. Relaxed. Boyish, even, carefree in a way that only time has sorted out. “Yeah, I know,” he replies, “you old lizard.”

#Cavalierious Fanfic #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin fanfic #genshin #commisssion #genshin smut #zhongchili #zhongli/childe/zhongli

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