#but he's still soft and friend-shaped and that's the important thing

[bliss-in-the-void]

My actual canonical interpretation of SatoSugu?

I believe they were the bestest of friends, inseparable soul mates who were mutually in love with each other, but never confessed the depth of their feelings, never discussed their relationship, and never actually made anything out of it.

I believe that Suguru had a massive crush on Satoru throughout their high school years. Satoru was more dense on the other hand and did love Suguru but didn’t know how to place his feelings exactly. Suguru was always by his side and that was enough, he felt secure, so why look into it deeper?

After the trauma from the Star Plasma Vessel mission, Suguru was heartbroken that Satoru left him alone a lot. He missed Satoru and spiraled, self-isolated, started becoming obsessed with his own self-talk about ‘monkeys’ and ‘creating a new world with sorcerers only’. He and Satoru both became self-absorbed. Suguru lost that crush and admiration he had for Satoru even though he still loved him. He wanted his own goals more. So he left.

The second he left, I bet that’s when Satoru realized what Suguru meant to him. That’s probably one of the reasons that Satoru is stuck in the past, because he finally placed his feelings for Suguru, realized he was in love with him, and kept replaying those moments they had together, realizing he never noticed Suguru sending signals, mad at himself for never noticing. He regretted it so badly that he just couldn’t stop living in the past with Suguru. If he’d just paid attention, if he noticed Suguru’s signals, his spiraling, maybe he could have stopped it.

That moment where Suguru returns to the high school to declare war only to leave again, when Satoru watches and watches, (according to the JJK 0 Light Novel) his “eyes kept following the shape of Geto’s soul”. He couldn’t look away. He was filled with so much regret. His entire creed is to raise strong sorcerers together so that no one has to be alone the way Suguru and he ended up.

And when the time came for him to kill Suguru, because last words are so important to him, he finally told Suguru what he should have told him when they were high schoolers. “I love you.”

Suguru, who’d long buried those feelings, probably realized that the things he’d told himself about how Satoru viewed him were wrong. This whole time, Satoru really did love and trust him still. That’s why he smiled. He was loved in return.

“You should at least curse me a little at the end.”

He wishes Satoru would have hated him because now he’s filled with regret. If only they’d had talked sooner, none of this would have happened. Suguru had always placed emphasis on ‘found family’. We see this when he calls Kuroi “Riko’s family” and when he adopts Mimiko and Nanako, as well as the rest of the sorcerers/curse users he rounds up for the Night Parade of 1,000 Demons. With that said, I know for a fact that when they were in high school, he saw Satoru as his family. He saw him as home, as safety, as love.

Really, the only time that he and Satoru aren’t putting on some sort of act is when they’re alone together. It’s strange to see the two of them so serious, especially Satoru, who deflects with humor like his life depends on it. But it’s fitting. They’re just comfortable around each other, there’s no need for masks. They never even seriously raised their hands against each other, nor fatally hurt each other’s family/students.

Now, fast-forward to a year later in Shibuya, when Kenjaku uses the love Satoru and Suguru have for each other against Satoru. How does he know seeing Suguru would have such a drastic effect on Satoru that it would immobilize him completely? Did he watch from afar? Did he keep tabs on them? Or did he see Suguru’s memories somehow? Could he feel how Suguru felt when around Satoru? I’d like to think it was both—Kenjaku kept tabs on them before Suguru died, and gained access to his memories after taking him over.

He even knew the tone Suguru used to use for Satoru’s name. The soft way he called his name. He knew the only thing in the entire world that could stop the strongest sorcerer in modern times was using the love of his life against him.

The smile Satoru had when he thought it was Suguru makes me believe that the only thing he wanted was to see him again.

Then, when he realized it wasn’t him, Kenjaku said “how sad, you don’t recognize me?”

As if to say Suguru would be devasted that Satoru didn’t recognize him. Kenjaku knows how Suguru feels about Satoru.

Then Satoru calls him on his bs and he says “creepy, how did you know?”

Creepy?

The only other time Kenjaku is creeped out is waaaaaaay later in the manga (spoilers ahead) when Satoru sets the fight day to Dec 24th Kenjaku acknowledges that it’s romantic, and that “having a date with him on the 24th gives him the creeps”.

Oh, I know he’s grossed out with how much they love each other. Like. How the hell else do you interpret that???? Come. On.

Add in when Suguru somehow comes back from the dead for a moment and tries to choke his own body to save Satoru. Kenjaku is baffled—that’s never happened before. That is a demonstration of love everlasting, absolutely.

Then you have Shoko’s “I’d never fall in love with either of you, but you were still never alone” to SatoSugu, basically confirming that she knew the two of them shared a romantic bond that she couldn’t replicate the depth of.

So. Yes. They were very very much in love with each other and to this day Satoru loves Suguru with every fiber of his being and lives his life dedicated to atoning for his (self-perceived) failures to Suguru. He thinks about him everyday. He says he was his only friend. He has Shoko, Ijichi, Mei Mei, and Utahime and yet he only sees Suguru. He only sees Suguru.

#this was a rant my bad #but i stand by this #there is no way they weren’t in love #satosugu #satosugu analysis #satosugu headcanon #stsg #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satoru gojo #suguru geto #jjk spoilers #jujutsu kaisen

[disneyprincemuke]

you say nothing back

being in the hospital has never left a good taste in your mouth, even more when it’s your boyfriend that’s on the bed with an iv line connected to his elbow. it’s unsettling, saying ‘i love you’ to someone who’s in the depths of his medication.

you sigh and rest your chin in your palm, propping yourself up with your elbow by the edge of the bed. “you should wake up so i can say it to your face, you know.”

you stare longingly at his still hands when you feel something weigh your chest down.

you haven’t been with oscar considerably long. well, to both of you — and at your ripe ages of barely even turning 23 — 7 months is a very long time to be with someone. though, you find that your more experienced friends and mother disagree that it’s a significant amount of time to be head over heels for a boy.

one thing that they all agree on is the fact that you should have made your feelings clear instead of staying in the grey area together like two idiots. there should be a known status.

but you didn’t feel like you needed it. you and oscar have both agreed that you’re happy where you are, and that things should go at its own pace. take it one day (date) at a time.

these past few days, however, have felt like a fever dream. last week, you almost blurted it out to him when he had driven you home from a full-day date. luckily, you’d caught yourself at the last second and bit your tongue.

you weren’t sure, at the time, that it wasn’t just something you were saying out of habit. you’re usually very loose with the phrase: with your best friends, family, even sometimes yelling it in the bathroom of a club in the late hours. not saying it to oscar felt off to some degree.

in some way, it also felt right.

you can’t believe that it took an accident for you to realise that you are damn sure about saying it to him. now you’re here in oscar’s hospital room with a heavy heart and droopy eyes — you’ve been here for hours waiting for oscar to regain consciousness.

you sigh again, slightly louder this time, and trace shapes over the back of oscar’s hand. “it’s kind of unfair; i said it while you’re unconscious and you’ve said nothing back.”

“because i was unconscious,” you hear oscar croak out, eyebrows furrowed and his head moving slightly as his eyes slowly open.

you barely process the fact that he’s awake. all that floods your head is the fact that oscar has managed to turn his hand over to hold yours in his, giving it a soft and gentle squeeze. he smiles when your eyes widen and lips part at him being awake. “what did you say to me?”

you purse your lips together, face carving into confusion. “what?”

“i was just waking up when you were saying something about saying something to me and not getting a response,” he laughs, adjusting himself to sit up. you scramble to your feet, helping him adjust the pillows behind him to give him a structure to lean on. he thanks you softly, pushing you down gently to sit you back down in your seat. “i was, in fact, unconscious. so you should tell me again so you can get a response.”

immediately, you shake your head and push your seat away from oscar to keep your distance. you’re not risking embarrassing yourself simply because you can’t control yourself any longer. perhaps that’s actually a good thing? maybe you just need to get it over and done with.

“no, it’s really nothing. it’s not even important,” you laugh, hiding your face away to shield the blush that’s creeping onto your cheeks.

“come on,” oscar laughs. “tell me, please?” he gestures to himself with a small pout. “look at me — how can you say ‘no’ to me?”

“you can’t use that as a bargaining chip. that’s foul.”

“there are no rules in life, dear.”

“you’re in the hospital for something that could have been entirely avoided.”

“it’s just an allergy attack.”

“i know! could have been entirely avoided if you’d just told me that you were allergic to seafood, oz!”

“that’s besides the point!” he throws his head back, sniffling softly. he reaches forward for your hand and pats the back of yours. “what is it? you know you can tell me anything.”

you sigh and shake your head. “i can’t. and, it’s really not important.”

oscar drops your hand. he grabs your cheeks, lifting your head to meet your eyes. “please tell me? i promise i’ll listen.”

this is the first time you’ve ever been scared to tell someone you love them. it’s just always come so naturally to you because some small part of you always knew that you’d get a similar response. with oscar, it’s different.

it could be the constant stoic stare or the way that he isn’t typically a person with many words. he’s very reserved and careful with his words; often soft-spoken and not quick with his anger. it’s new to be associated with somebody who is so thought out with himself.

one would even wonder how someone like yourself ended up with oscar in the first place. not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just that you’re opposites. but oscar loves to argue that it’s your extroverted nature that made you fit so well together. you love talking, and he loves listening. if you asked him again, he would tell you that he loves your voice, your accent — hearing you talk.

“oz.”

“just say it,” oscar scoffs, a small smirk stretching his lips. he exhales softly and blinks slowly. “i have a feeling i know what you’re about to say to me. for the record, i feel the same way.”

@cashtons-wife @darleneslane @nikfigueiredo @happy-nico @namgification

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke isily

[rottiens]

DO YOU GET DÉJÀ VU? | RYŌMEN SUKUNA

✮ about. . maybe a family dinner is not the best place to clarify your feelings with your situationship, but you couldn't wait.

✮ tags. . modern au, fem!reader, situationship, all characters are adults (21+), confusing emotions and mixed feelings, mentions of alcohol consumption, lovesick sukuna and reader pretending they are not, suggestive, mostly fluff. divider creds: cafekitsune.

✮ word count. . 2.6k

A couple of days ago you found out what love languages are, totally against your will and completely thanks to Itadori, who forced you to take an online quiz he found completely by accident and clicked on even though you warned him over and over again not to (distrust of links coming from strangers and all that), plus all the information was recorded on the library's free and public wifi.

As always, your warnings and advice went unheeded by your friend who not only filled out and sent the link to the friends group chat, but made you answer the questionnaire as well because he claimed it was something of utmost importance for him to know in order to improve his relationship with you and understand you better.

Itadori has always been interested in the aspects and topics of psychology and now that you were spending more time together, due to the fact that you are always now in his apartment, apparently there was an unspoken contract signed in which you are also committed to take an interest in psychology while giving your devoted attention to itadori when he rambles on about it.

The point is, ever since you got the results about love languages you haven't stopped thinking about it. Yes, maybe at first you were incredulous and somewhat reluctant to the idea that an online test could describe you correctly as if it were some kind of witchcraft, the truth is that to your surprise, it got it right and thanks to that you have realized that sukuna's love language is probably, physical contact.

It was ridiculous the number of times you've almost been caught being in some situation that compromises the status of your "unofficial relationship" and all because he can't keep his hands to himself when you're around.

The last time was weird…and awkward. You were supposed to have the apartment to yourselves, sukuna explicitly asked his brother to take at least two more hours doing the shopping, adding things like extremely soft tissues and spaghetti shaped like squares he needed for his cooking course, sukuna was sure this would make his brother take as long as necessary for you two to have a moment alone.

However, surprise was marked raw on your face as you heard the keys in the front door. There was no longer time to move or run away, you were on sukuna's lap watching a series in the main room, his arms were strangling your waist, his legs intertwined with yours to such an extent that they seemed as one and his face felt warm on the line between your neck and shoulder.

Trying to get away from him as quickly as possible you got tangled up with his legs and your pajama pants falling to the floor, hitting your mouth and, of course, breaking the coffee table in the middle of the mess.

You want to forget Itadori's face and his eyebrows rising to his hairline that appears every night since then before you fall asleep. And you swore, you shouted at sukuna, never to set foot in his apartment or his room again because it was always you who had it in for him.

You look at him out of the corner of your eye, wishing he could read your mind and realize you were still angry, yet you never expected him to be looking at you first. Your eyes return to the plate in front of you, and seeking to distract yourself you pinch off a piece of some vegetable with your fork and bring it to your mouth chewing ferociously.

You should be paying attention to itadori and his grandfather discussing a topic you are sure is very important while choso nods euphorically agreeing with itadori, as always. You should be paying attention to the delicious dish the itadori family had prepared for you, to his grandfather who is recovering after weeks in the hospital, yet all you can think about is sukuna, and in his language love… and deep down you hate yourself for it.

You wanted to force yourself to be present and bind your thoughts here. But you couldn't help that they all ended up in sukuna and it's the same thing that has happened the previous weeks, all your thoughts and conversations ended up around him, because you can't tell anyone about you two or how he makes you feel or how really "not so bad" he is deep down.

You stop in the middle of bringing your fork to your mouth, the wheel that keeps coherent thoughts in motion stops and you look at him. You wonder what he's doing, he wonders the same.

As the conversation continues at a perky pace, under the table one of his long fingers reaches for yours, reaches blindly for your hand, first stumbling over your bare knee and then, succeeding, curls your index finger between his and holds you there, in an act that seems both innocent and childish.

He continues to eat as if he has done nothing, now laughing, covering his mouth with a napkin at Grandpa Itadori's reaction to something to which Choso intervenes and says some seemingly funny comment that you should be paying attention to.

You should be paying attention, in fact—

Because when Itadori later talks to you about how much he was bothered by something sukuna said, you won't be able to respond because you were too distracted admiring his older brother's perfect jawline and cheekbones.

You take advantage of the fact that no one is noticing you to wipe the corners of your mouth with the napkin and drag the chair under your weight, the wood creaks against the floor but passes unnoticed due to the scandal that ignites like a fierce flame and the instrumental music in the background. You look at choso with a chagrined face and ask him to tell you where the bathroom is, only before you can finish the sentence Sukuna is interrupting you, rising from his chair to offer to take you to the bathroom himself and you were about to tell him no, that you were fine, because you know where this would lead only once again, you are interrupted because he takes your hand and helps you out of the dining room leading you to the uncertainty of the hallway behind you.

You prefer not to say anything the whole walk because what you have to say may not be what he wants to hear, you follow him silently, the heavy footsteps of his bare feet can be heard much better now that the fuss is behind you. Your lips are halfway to a thank you when he stops in front of a door you assume is the bathroom, only your words are replaced by a gasp as he pushes you inside without warning.

"Uhh!" you groan at the force with which he stamps your body against the door, you smack his chest, joking, complaining that he's a brute. "You need to stop doing that."

Sukuna smiles because you still do nothing to escape him, you stand there looking at him with your arms crossed and your nose wrinkled. Sukuna stretches his arm behind you to your right and in the blink of an eye the light expands across the room shutting out the shadows. Your eyelids flutter to adjust to the sudden change in lighting and just as you had imagined, you were not in the bathroom, of course, but in some sort of study.

"I was bored listening to them argue," he purrs, lowering his face to you. "You weren't?" his hand cradles your cheek tilting your face closer to his, waves of the taste of the alcohol he was drinking escape into your mouth along with his natural scent now covered by the perfume he wears (hints of dark leather and spice).

Sukuna doesn't let you think about what he just said, since before you can speak he rests his lips on you silencing any protest, but this time it's different from any kiss he has given you before… his hands are not on your ass pushing you against his erection or lifting the hem of your dress to push your panties aside, on the contrary, his hands are on your cheeks; holding you there as if he was afraid you were going to move somewhere.

You are in control, unlike other encounters. You push further into him to take over his mouth and mark him as yours and he allows you to, blindly, the touch of his fingers creating an electric path that leads to your waist and there he stays still for a moment until he chooses to move to your lower back and pulls you to him. Sukuna says your name in the middle of the kiss and your knees buckle a little.

You pull away to breathe, but he comes back to you this time pinning you more against the door and leaving you helpless he works his way up to take hold of your tongue. A desperate moan tears from his throat when you don't give in to him and instead join in his game by biting his lower lip, your noses stumble and sukuna pushes you much harder, this time clearly, allowing you to feel the effect you have on him.

His cock is throbbing with need against your thigh, his hands are squeezing your waist, pouncing on you to wrap around your back in a strange embrace that forces you to hold his neck to keep the position comfortable for both of you.

As you pull away again there is only raw desire in the room, slowly, the atmosphere fills with a tension you can both feel as you drown in that sort of fog of lust.

"I need to take you," he says then.

"Here?"

"Fuck, yes. Here."

Guilt assaults your stomach.

"Your grandfather… the dinner…"

You were as heated and thought clouded as much as he was, but you force yourself to remember the only coherent words that come into your head. His fingers exert pressure on your waist as if seeking some self-control not to attack your mouth again.

"You know how I feel about the dinner or how little I care what they think we're doing."

You try to pretend everything is fine and plant your best fake smile… unfortunately, you've never been a good actress.

"What's wrong?" Sukuna asks immediately and it makes you think that maybe he knows how to read your mind after all, or that he just knows you better than you think.

The false smile you built crumbles, turning into a tight line that forces your lips not to tremble.

"This is the reason you invited me to come with you?"

Was that the question you wanted to ask? No. But it was the first thing you thought of and the doubt that has gnawed at your thoughts since you stepped in the doorway.

"…"

The tight line of your lips quivers, morphing into a pout for a millisecond.

"Hmm right. I think we need to go back."

You try to struggle to get away though it's clearly in vain and you give up, stop struggling, instead filling your lungs with a breath of air that brings with it courage and its damn addictive scent.

"W-wait, what?"

"I've been thinking and I don't feel comfortable doing this," you try to point out the space between you but you're so close together it's nonexistent, so once more, you give up and drop your hand down again, adding, "You're my best friend's brother."

"And?"

Your eyebrows draw together in desperation to keep your cool in the face of a situation that is obvious to you.

"That's just why we shouldn't keep sneaking around like we're doing something wrong. It's unfair that I can't talk it over with Kugisaki or Yuuji."

"Then you want to… what?"

You realize this is just the reason why Nobara didn't support your "relationship" or secret sneaking around with sukuna, she doesn't like him and you understood why, but you still wanted to give him a chance and prove her wrong, that he could be more than that. Maybe it's you who was wrong.

"Forget it, Ryōmen." You try to force yourself on him to escape before you say something you don't mean and this time he relents, taking a step back, except that before you can open the door and run to the dining room, his fingers hover around your wrist making you a prisoner once more.

"Hey, hey. Wait. You want to make it official? Is that it?"

You pause to look at the grip on your wrist, then move up to his eyes.

"I want you to do what you feel. I don't want to tell you what to do."

Sukuna licks his bottom lip, you notice his chest rise and fall under the white shirt. Slowly he pulls you closer to him again and you let him, you let him guide your hand to his chest and with the help of his hands he makes your open palm just above his heart.

"I'm not so good with words and I'm sorry." His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it made your hand tremble, it scared you what you felt, the way his chest was vibrating with the force of his heartbeat was perhaps stronger than yours. "But I want you to be mine, it's all I ever wanted…all those times I teased you when we were kids…it was me scared because I didn't understand what this was that you made me feel."

You couldn't look him in the eye, and yet you forced yourself to; your foot shifting restlessly on the floor and your free hand trembling.

"Don't leave me. I want to be yours, even if it means having to hold your hand in front of Nobara and having to share you with my brother. Just… stay, please."

You'd never heard him ask for anything. Not to you or his brothers, everything in front of you was new, even to Sukuna himself. He'd never met someone before that made him run his feelings for them out of control the way you did, but the idea that you were going to break up with him there, in his childhood home, with his family outside where he'd have to pretend he didn't care about you, made him much more afraid than he'd like to admit.

Finally, he pulls your hand away from his chest and brings it up to the level of his mouth where he kisses your knuckles and then the back of your hand.

"Let's go back to the dining room," he murmurs against your skin.

You, still with your feet in the clouds, sigh. You bite your lip to find coherence and restraint in your thoughts. "Yeah… I'm a little dizzy still."

He laughs. "Too much wine?"

"It's just you." You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying the next three words that are on the tip of your tongue, your system needs to expel them somehow to keep you from choking on them, so you disguise them. "I love your perfume. It smells so good."

"It's okay to say you like me."

Sukuna leans towards you with a mischievous smile and you close your eyes to feel his loving lips on your forehead. Then suddenly, footsteps coming from the hallway make you startle creating deja vu. It was probably Itadori, who would find the two of you sneaking kisses in his grandfather's study like teenagers in love, but at least after this you didn't have to hide anymore and that was all that mattered.

#wr #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna fluff

[xxchumanixx]

Like a Dream

Tim Bradford x reader

Summary: Waking up from a beautiful dream never felt this bad.

Warnings/Tags: hurt, angst, mentions of an injury, fluff Word count: 2.235 Authors note: Hello my lovelies! I had this idea out of nowhere and it helped me get my mind off of other things. There are some requests I'm currently working at, but I had to finish this first. Enjoy!

"Hey!" you giggled, trying to slap his hands away as they reached for your sides, tickling you. "That's not fair!"

He chuckled in return, his hands stilling on your hips, tugging you closer with a grin on his face.

He inched closer, his breath fanning over your face, as his lips ghosted over yours. Growing impatient, you grabbed his shirt, pulling him towards you and connecting your lips with his.

They molded together like one, his lips being the perfect shape for yours. They were soft, yet demanding as he pressed himself closer, deepening the kiss with his tongue caressing yours.

You whimpered, trying to bring him even closer, but your phones vibrating at the same time caused you to part, a groan leaving your lips.

You knew who it was - or rather what: work.

"Seriously?" Tim grumbled, his brows furrowed in confusion and anger. Rolling your eyes, you checked your messages, rolling them again as you read what they had texted you.

"Let's get going." you mumbled, fixing your clothes, before you trotted to the front door, grabbing your shoes. Tim sighed loudly, clearly unhappy about the interruption, as he followed you.

"Don't worry, babe." you told him, looking at him over your shoulder, as you grabbed your jacket. "We're gonna make up for it."

He smiled at that, as his hands found your hips again, pulling you towards him. His lips met yours in a chaste kiss, before he leaned closer, whispering in your ear. "There will be a lot to make up for."

Cheeks reddening, you chuckled, slightly pushing him.

"We have to go." you reminded him smiling, grabbing your keys, as he put on his shoes.

____

"Do you remember the guy that had swallowed a cherry stone and thought he'd have a tree growing in his stomach?" Tim asked, popping a berry into his mouth, as he chuckled.

Your brows furrowed, turning the blueberry in your hands over.

"He was so frantic, he wanted to cut it open and take the tree out, before it gets too big." he continued, one arm over your shoulder as you tried to decide what to watch.

"You weren't there, Tim." you noted, glancing at him through your peripheral vision. "Did I tell you? I can't remember." He faltered, clearing his throat. "You told me, Y/N." he reminded you, planting a kiss on your temple.

You simply nodded, deciding to let it slide, even though you weren't sure if you really told him about it.

"Hey, what do you say we go out for dinner tomorrow?" he asked, smiling at you. You nodded, a smile of your own forming on your face. "Yeah, sounds nice." you agreed, handing him the remote.

"You choose. I can't decide."

____

"You hate it." he said, biting his lip as they threatened to split in a smile. Shaking your head, you pouted. "No, I love it."

His brows rose, as he sent you a pointed look.

"Okay, maybe it's a little crooked, but who cares?" you gave in, smiling at him with pride in your eyes. "As long as it tastes good, I'm sure it'll be great."

He had tried to bake you a cake for your birthday. It was a little crooked, but that wasn't important. What counted most, was that he made an effort by baking something, even though he wasn't that good at it.

He did it because he loved you.

Taking a knife, you started to cut the cake, so you could serve it to your friends that were waiting in the living room. Your eyes widened, as you spotted the inside of the cake. It was layered in multiple colors, forming a rainbow.

Mouth agape, you looked at Tim, who again bit his lip, his smile widening.

"And you're trying to tell me that the cake isn't beautiful?" you asked, shock written across your features. He huffed, pecking your lips. "I'm glad you like it." he spoke softly, eyes meeting yours, as his arms wrapped around your waist.

"Told you I love it."

He rolled his eyes playfully, before he started to help you serving the cake.

"Wow!" Nyla made, as she saw the cake. "Who did this?" Motioning at Tim, you handed her the plate, handing Angela the other one. "No way." Angela made, eyeing Tim.

He huffed, shaking his head at her.

"Better believe it." he told her, sitting down, when he had handed out the plates he was carrying.

Brows furrowing, you played with the fork in your hand. You knew Wesley wanted another baby, but since when was Angela actually pregnant?

And it wasn't that she just gained some weight, no, she clearly was expecting. She had to be at least in the sixth month.

Biting your cheek, you forced yourself to smile at the others, as you dug into the cake.

____

Biep, biep, biep.

Since when did your alarm sound this strange?

And - somehow - not like an alarm at all.

What the hell?

Squinting, you tried to get used to the blinding light surrounding you. Didn't you close the blinds when you went to bed?

Sighing, you looked around you, noticing that you in fact weren't in your bed - no, you were in the hospital.

Hospital? Why am I in the hospital?

Your breathing quickened, heart starting to race as you frantically tried to remember what happened.

But you couldn't.

You felt the tears sting in your eyes, as you slowly panicked. When you were about to stand up, wanting to remove the cables from your body, the door opened, causing you to halt in your movement, hands wrapped around the cables.

Tim entered, coffee in hand. His brows furrowed, before his eyes widened, as he turned back around, calling for a doctor.

Then he came towards you, a smile on his face.

"You're awake." he spoke, setting the coffee aside, as multiple doctors entered.

Your eyes widened in fright, not sure why there were so many of them. They checked you, before the doctors left, only one staying.

"Do you know, why you are here?" he wanted to know, reading something on his chart, before he looked back at you. Shaking your head, you frowned. "No."

He nodded, clearing his throat.

"You've been shot during an operation." he started, causing you to frown even more, as your hands began to shake. "Because of the severity of your injury, we had to put you into a coma."

Your gaze found Tims, your breathing faltering as you tried to process the doctors words.

"Your wound has healed enough, that we were able to wake you without any consequences." the doctor continued, drawing your eyes back to him. "We have to do a few more tests, but then you'll be free to go."

Swallowing, you nodded, hands in your lap, as they kneaded themselves in a nervous habit. The doctor nodded, before he left.

You still couldn't believe it. You've been shot?

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Tim asked, dragging a chair closer, sitting down. Huffing, you looked up at him. "Honestly? I feel like shit." you answered him, sending him a crooked smile.

His mouth twisted, as he nodded slowly.

"I could use some of those pancakes, when I'm home." you told him, feeling like you hadn't eaten in days. His brows furrowed, seeming confused.

"You good?" you asked, unsure.

Did something happen?

He tilted his head, eyes squinting. "I don't know what you mean." he admitted, slightly leaning forward. Your brows furrowed as well, not sure how to react.

"I-I mean those pancakes that you made when I broke my arm." you tried to explain, heart racing. His brows furrowed more, as he slowly shook his head, mouth agape.

"I'm not sure, what you're talking about…" he gave back, and your heartbeat faltered. "When you broke your arm back then, you stayed at your sisters place, don't you remember?"

You felt the tears burn in your eyes, when suddenly, realization hit you straight in the gut.

It wasn't real.

It had all been a dream.

Gasping for breath, you tried to calm yourself. Your heart beat faster than it would have been healthy, your hands sweating as your mind had trouble catching up.

One after another, the tears broke free, rolling down your cheeks and leaving a hot trail in their wake.

"Hey, what happened?" Tim shushed, scooting closer, one hand brushing over your back soothingly. Shaking your head, you tried to suppress a sob, wiping the tears away.

"It's nothing." you told him, sniffing. But he didn't believe you, you saw it on his face. The way his forehead creased and his mouth twitched, nose scrunched slightly.

Sighing, you knew he wouldn't let the topic slide, but you tried to win some time, anyway.

"What happened?" you wanted to know, swallowing down your nerves. The strokes on your back faltered, as he hesitated. "We went to a call - homicide." he started, clearing his throat. "When we thought the area was clear, someone shot you down."

Swallowing, you nodded, as the memory slowly returned, sending chills down your spine. "Hit you pretty badly." he added, licking his bottom lip. "We were lucky that we had the ambulance already on the way."

It grew quiet for a few seconds, neither of you knowing what to say.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Tim inquired, tilting his head to catch your downcast gaze. "What do you mean?" you gave back, even though you knew exactly what he meant.

He sent you a pointed look, asking you to be honest with him.

Rubbing your eyes, you sighed, still hesitating a little. "I had a dream." you began, biting your cheek. He nodded, waiting for you to continue. "Uh... There were a lot of things, that were different. I... we..."

You hesitated, breathing in shakily.

"We were together." you admitted quietly, looking away in shame.

You could practically hear his brows raise, as he inhaled sharply.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you felt the tears resurface. What would he think of you now? Would he judge you?

"Was it a good dream?" Tim wanted to know, causing your gaze to snap back to him, as your tongue licked over the salty remnants of the tears on your lips.

He seemed hesitant, but not angry.

"What?" you questioned, leaning towards him. One of the corners of his mouth lifted up slightly. Was he making fun of you?

"Was it good? I mean, were we happy?" he repeated, leaning forwards on his elbows, his face suddenly very close. Cheeks reddening, you fought not to break eye contact.

"Yes." you breathed out, not able to find your voice properly at first. "Yes, it was good."

His lips twitched in a short smile, huffing silently. He confused you - you had loved him for a while now, but you were sure that you'd never have a chance.

Why wasn't he angry at you?

"Why aren't you angry with me?" you asked, curiosity taking over. He leaned back in his chair, eyes leaving yours. He remained silent, pondering.

"I'm not angry, because…" he hesitated, looking back up at you. "Because I... I like the idea." Your breathing faltered, eyes widening slightly, as your heart stumbled.

"What do you mean you like the idea?" you asked out of breath, belly churning. Somehow, you were scared of his answer.

His lips pressed together, as he sat straighter.

"I like the idea of us being together."

It felt like your whole world came to a stop all of a sudden. Like he had pressed the pause button.

A tear slipped from your eye and he came closer, his thumb carefully brushing it away. "Why are you crying?" You saw fear flash through his eyes, afraid you didn't like what he said.

"I'm crying, because for the last - days or whatever, I thought that we're together." you explained. "I was happy, but then I woke up and everything was gone. I had all I ever wished for, and I lost it in the blink of an eye."

He nodded, sighing.

"I have feelings for you." you blurted out, more tears falling. "I have for a very long time now, and I know, that I wouldn't stand a chance." His brows furrowed, as he breathed out a sigh of… relieve?

"Of course, you would stand a chance, Y/N." he almost chuckled, holding your face in both his hands. "I have feelings for you as well. I just didn't know if you'd date a cop, especially a coworker. So I never asked you out, but I know now, that I should have."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"Do you really mean it?" you questioned, alternating between chuckling and crying. He huffed, like you just questioned his sanity.

"Of course, I do." he spoke softly, smiling at you.

You laughed shortly in relieve, returning the smile through the tears still falling. His thumb caressed your cheek, as he closed the distance between you, connecting his lips with yours.

You returned the kiss and it felt even better, than in your dream. You tasted the saltiness of your tears, mixed with the sweetness of his lips.

When you parted, he placed a kiss on your forehead, before he let go of you, instead taking your hands.

"Let's make your dream come true, then."

#the rookie #the rookie imagine #the rookie x reader #the rookie x u #tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x you #tim bradford imagine

[shayyprasad]

intellectual | peter parker

summary: you overhear something you weren't supposed to, but it shouldn't have been said in the first place. in result, you can't help but wonder if peter wants something different.

warnings: implied smut, mentions of sex, insecurity, use of y/n

pairing: bimbo!reader x frat!peter

word count: 3.0k+ words (my longest fic yet-)

a/n: in no way is use of "bimbo" meant to be a patriarchal stereotype. please do not take it offensively, this is a work of fiction.

M.LIST | RULES/REQUESTING | ABOUT ME

peter was totally smitten by you. really, he was. after all he's been through, it was kind of nice having someone who adores him as much as he does, even if you are... a tad bit dim-witted.

while he grew up surrounded by death, trauma, and more, you were raised sheltered, hidden away from all the bad things. and even though peter's been through some shit, he finds it to hold you so gently, like the pretty thing you are, as if you were stained glass; fragile, but so beautiful.

when he's holding you, all his soft, brown eyes can focus on are how your soft, manicured hands wrap around his rough, calloused ones. you're always careful not to hurt him with your acrylics.

even though you can be slow at times, it's almost impossible not to admire the way your clothes always hug your curves, glossed lips pulled into a pretty pout.

peter could have just about any girl he wanted on campus, but he didn't want any of them.

he wanted you, and only you.

maybe it's because you were different, and no, not in dim-witted nature. but because of how soft you were. you didn't know, and even if you did, understand the horrors he wittnessed out there everyday.

you were protected by a little (very pink) bubble that you lived in, so when he came home to you, it felt as if he was in a different world altogether. you were so damn good at distracting peter, and you didn't even know it.

you were in your own dorm room, watching a silly rom-com while peter was with his friends, he told you not to wait up for him, given that he would be up 'til the early hours of the morning. but you decided that peter and his goodnight kisses were slightly more important than your beauty sleep.

slightly.

you furrowed your neatly shaped eyebrows at something that one of the characters said, tilting your head.

ram-i-fic-a-tion? you thought, humming. pulling out your phone, you googled the word.

noun plural noun: ramifications

a consequence of an action or event, especially when complex or unwelcome. "any change is bound to have legal ramifications"

"legal ram-i-fic-a-tions?" you wondered aloud.

you skimmed the rest of the definitions, still confused. surely peter wouldn't mind if you gave him a quick ring? so you went ahead in did that, letting the sound echo in the room.

when he didn't pick up, you frowned.

"ummm..." you trailed off, calling one of his friends, spencer, instead. you weren't a stranger to him, but more of a mutual. after all, your roommate was dating him. actually, you'd ask alyssa, your roomie, but she wasn't here.

much to your happiness, spencer did pick up. "hiii, spence."

"y/n?" he said, slurring slightly.

"what does, like, ram-i-fic-a-tion mean?" you asked, careful to enunciate.

spencer was aware of... how your brain worked, and he wasn't a jerk about it (unlike some people). he was one of peter's closer friends, so you felt comfortable around him.

"ramification? oh, uh, it's like a consequence."

you frowned dumbly, "to what?"

"to an action. if you don't study for the final, you might not do well. that's a consequence to your action. a ramification."

"oh. oh! okay. thank you!"

he didn't disconnect right away, and you could hear one of his frat brothers, you were unsure who, talking. and of course, you strained your ears to listen.

"it doesn't get annoying or anything?"

you heard peter's voice come next, and instantly perked up. "what?"

"dude, be so for real. she's hot, but like, as dumb as a third grader. do you have to talk to her like that too?" he laughed.

oof, you thought, sucks to be whoever it was they were talking about.

"sometimes. she's good in bed, though."

wait. he was talking about you. your jaw dropped. i mean, you were stupid, but not this stupid. so this is what "saturday night with the boys" was all about?

you heard collective laughing. you did stupid things sometimes, but never had the mental compacity to be embarrased by them. this, though? this was different.

you trusted peter.

he was the only person who never, ever, spoke to or about you like that. in fact, it was one of the reasons you'd grown to like him so much. because he was patient, he was kind, and never did he once judge you.

well, that's what you thought.

but you were dumb enough to think that just because he never spoke about it to you, he never spoke about it all.

you immediately disconnected the call, dropping your phone. trying to focus back on the movie, you nibbled on a piece of popcorn.

but you just couldn't get over it. did it bother him?

all the questions? the dim-witted stupidity? all the pink?

reluctantly, you glanced the hot pink bowl that held your snack.

you didn't mean to be so... like that. you were just being yourself. did peter not like you being yourself? no, no, of course not. if he didn't, then why would he be with you?

a little voice in the back of your head rang out; "because you're good in bed."

maybe it wouldn't hurt to try and raise your iq?

you turned off the tv, hot pink popcorn bowl forgotten. alyssa wouldn't mind if you borrowed something, right?

you opened her room door, walking over to her bookself. wrinkling up your nose, you scanned her shelf. how could someone like reading so much?

it was so... gross.

oh, well. maybe peter was into intellectuals. and you had better become before he left you for someone like that.

your eyes paused at a book titled "the hobbit".

"what's a... hobbit?" you asked, not to anyone in particular. you skipped it, looking at her other ones.

"'twisted love', 'the fault in our stars'... what'd the stars do?" picking up the book, you read the back. "huh," you remarked, putting it back.

instead, you grabbed a couple self-help books, struggling to hold them with your acrylic nails, which, of course, were bright pink... accentuated with big charms; bows and hearts.

you went back over to your room, dumping them on your bed. checking your nails again, you drummed them against your palm to make sure they were intact.

you started reading the first one, curling up in a blanket, but you kept getting distracted. every five seconds, you look up to make sure your lashes were still in place, or that your skin wasn't to shiny, or that your hair was still perfect. and to be honest, you didn't really understand any of it.

like, who actually had the patience to read through all of it? how could a book cure all your crap?

and why would you read a book to feel better, when you could go to a spa, or a shopping spree.

credit cards were invented for a reason.

but you powered through, at the very least, you skimmed the words. there was no way you could read it word for word. but you wanted to try... for peter.

you wanted him to stick around, to love you, but not superficially. not for sex.

you stayed up until 1:30 (mostly reading, and you still didn't understand how people did this for fun), but didn't call peter. you'd talk to him tomorrow, maybe. first, you needed to get your facts straight. eventually, you got ready for bed.

this included showering, taking off your makeup, putting your hair in rollers, and your fifteen-step skincare routine.

you may have been half asleep, but you'd never skip a step.

peter came over around noon monday, when neither of you had classes. "jeez, babe," he groaned, you in his lap, "i've got so much to do. seriously, i'm never gonna get it done."

you twirled your hair, appearing nonchalant, "your mindset is either your best friend, or worst enemy."

you kept your eyes trained on your phone, waiting for peter to respond. looking up, you saw him blink. "uh... yeah. that was- that was very... un-y/n-like."

to be honest, you didn't even know what the saying meant. you just memorized it from your book. "was it dumb?"

"no, it was smart," peter replied, kissing your hairline.

"i'm normally dumb?" you asked, tearing up. lips pouted, voice moist, you made eye contact with him. you knew you were a little slow, but dumb? really?

"no! that's not what i meant. it just sounded- well, i- cause you never say stuff like that. you're my smart, pretty girl."

"oh, okay," you said, your nails tracing the curve of his back. you pecked him on the lips, but he brought you back for a longer kiss.

you giggled as he flipped your positions, peter on top.

"can i show you just how pretty you are?"

he didn't have to ask twice.

you were in the dining hall, sitting with some of your friends, mixed with some of peter's.

they were talking as you picked at your salad, leaning into peter.

"ugh," sarah, you kind-of friend started, "my boss gave me a premotion."

"what the fuck are you complaining about?" alyssa scoffed.

"because! it means that i have to do more...! like, i'll have to get up earlier. i dunno if i'll take it. it's cooler than the one i have now, but but it's not as comforting."

you spoke up, completely confident, "commit to change. either embrace the challenge of pursuing your destiny or shy way and live in regret."

collective "oohs" and "damns" were heard around the table, and you reveled in it.

"okay, girl, you go."

"parker, when did your girlfriend get a braincell upgrade?" you looked at peter, waiting for him to shoot something back, but he didn't. you frowned slightly, going back to the salad.

it went on like that, you would pipe in and offer self-help advice (not really knowing what it meant) hoping for peter's attention. sometimes you got it, and sometimes you didn't.

it was fine, you wanted him to notice you. after all, you weren't reading for fun. you were doing it for him, so... just, like, notice already.

you'd been focusing so much on the self-help books, your nails had grown out, leaving space between your nail bed and acrylics. deciding to take some time away from the books and all their un-understandable wisdom, you wanted to paint your nails.

nothing to big, but more simple. you were finding it hard to turn the page with the large charms on the acrylics you normally had to.

you found some 100% acetone in your bathroom, so you soaked your nails, waiting for the acrylics to come off. once they got loose enough, they came off easily.

you did some prepping, then picked out two different shades of pink. you were about to start when you heard two long knocks, then two short ones.

(it was peter's special knock, so you'd always know when it was him.)

"come in!" you called out, and you saw a head of fluffy brown hair peek in.

"hey," he said, slipping in your room.

"hi, petey!"

he came up from behind you, hugging your waist. "whatcha doing?"

you opened a bottle of nail paint, "painting my nails."

"cute colors," he kissed your cheek, and you leaned in.

"right? pink is so pretty," you gushed.

"what are these?" peter asked, and you looked over curious as to what he was talking about.

"oh, just, like, lyss' books."

"yeah, but why're they in here?" he read the back of one, raising a brow.

you continued painting your nails, trying to appear chill. "i was reading them."

he seemed to do a double-take, and you frowned, "what?"

"nothing- nothing, i just..."

"i know how to read," you said, shoulders sagging. "i'm smarter than a third-grader," you didn't catch the slip-up, but he did.

that caught him off guard there, "what?"

"what?" looking up, you finally met his eyes.

"you said you- well, yeah, i know. you just don't-" he paused, "self-help books didn't seem like your thing is all. oh, is that why've you been saying all that?"

"saying what?"

"all the-" he didn't want to hurt your feelings, but if he was right, he already had. "the, um, advice?" he stammered. peter didn't trip over his words often, and you knew that.

you were sure that he knew that you knew, but you weren't sure if he knew for sure.

you shrugged, "doesn't it sound smart?"

"no, yeah, it does." he's treading very carefully. it was quiet for a brief moment; "did you hear?"

"hear what?"

"the... the comment i made?"

"oh, that one about me being stupid, but good in bed?" you said it so casually, as if it didn't bother you at all.

but it did. he knew it did.

he sighed, "i'm really sorry, baby."

"for what?"

"for saying that."

"no, you're sorry you got caught. you wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it."

"i didn't- i was drunk," peter tried again.

"drunk words are sober thoughts," something else you read, you aren't sure where.

he was starting to get really nervous. he didn't know what was going through your head, normally he had a good idea, but it wasn't anything like this. it didn't seem like you hated him, but he wasn't about to take advantage.

"no, i-"

"it's okay. i'm working on it," you said, trying to make him feel better. as if you were the one who'd messed up, not peter. the idea itself was insane to him, and it only made him feel worse.

"angel," peter started, "this is not your fault. please don't make it your fault. i'm the one who messed up, and what i said was not okay. it was a stupid, drunk joke, and i shouldn't said it."

you blew on your nails, blinking back your tears. mascara, the good stuff, was expensive. you looked up, shocked to see tears in his eyes. you don't think you've ever seen him cry before. well, maybe once, when you watched "titanic" with him.

peter wasn't one to get emotional, he still denied ever crying over that movie.

"it's okay," you repeated again. you were dumb, you knew that. it really wasn't his fault, you shouldn't have pushed him to feel like that.

"but it's not. and i know you know that, please tell me what i can do to make it better."

"but-"

"no, it's not," he said sternly, "and i cannot stress that enough. i'm really sorry, baby."

you capped the polish, you didn't know what to say. it wasn't your fault? okay, fine.

maybe he was right.

"i got really upset," you admitted.

"i know, baby," the tears are falling, he quickly wipes them away.

"did you really mean it?"

"no, no, no, of course not. i absolutely love you the way you are, and you shouldn't have to change yourself for anyone- especially not for me."

"so you don't think i'm only good for sex?"

"baby, no, baby, no!" baby, he used that word for affection; when he was guilty, trying to prove something to you... in this case, how sorry he was. "you are good for so many other things," he paused, "okay, that didn't sound great."

he took a deep breath, taking your freshly painted hands in yours, "don't mess up the polish," you warned, even though you were tearing up.

peter smiled slightly, that meant you weren't too upset, right? that he hadn't fucked everything up by great means?

"i haven't ever met someone like you, who loves me the same back. and i don't mean generally, but romantically. lots of people can't put up with me," he started, "but you do, and jesus, baby, i'm so greatful for that- and you," peter added.

"you are the bright pink light of my life. you're so different from other girls i've been with, you see me. you don't look at me, you see me. like, okay, maybe you aren't the greatest at math, but you don't have to be a s.t.e.m. genius to be smart."

peter was getting raw, he was getting vunerable. "i don't know how to use a curling iron for the life of me, i don't know the difference between mascara and eyeliner. well, i do, but i didn't before you."

you looked at him, opening your mouth to speak. you wanted to tell him he'd lost you somewhere along the line, but figured it was important for him to get this out.

"you've got a different mindset than me, and i love that. you're the biggest feminist i've ever met, and wait until you meet may. i think it's interesting that your entire personality doesn't revolve around your degrees and resumes, because, god, people like that are annoying. most of all, you're confidence is amazing. i never had anything like that in high school."

you knew that he was a nerd, kept his head down, shoulders sagging. "i just... i'm sorry. i don't know why i said it. i'm a huge insecure jerk that thinks he can get away with crap by projecting it onto his lovely, amazing, wonderful girlfriend. you're my favorite person, and i can't help but think you'll leave me one day. i thought that if i acted like i didn't care... i don't know. i- i don't... i'm sorry."

you took moment, that's the longest he's ever spoken to you, but he wasn't done, apparently.

"also, i don't care about sex. i mean, it's nice and whatever, but what's the point of it if i don't have you. what i'm trying to say is, i'd pick you over that any day, okay? it doesn't matter to me. i'm not with you for that."

"thank you," you said, it seemed appropriate. basically, he just compliented you a whole lot, and it worked; you seem to have a thing for praising. "and i forgive you. also, i hated those stupid books, and if they weren't, like, alyssa's, i'd burn them."

you shuddered, "i can't believe i read them."

"really?" peter asked, hopeful. you kissed away a stray tear, looking into his wet eyes. "we're okay?"

"we're so okay," you paused, "but you have to watch bridgerton with me."

he groaned, "fine." (you knew he liked it, he just wouldn't ever admit to it.)

"wait, so just checking, you aren't into, like, intellectuals or whatever?"

"i'm into you," he said, "whether or not you idenify as one."

taglist: @whatsupstark @ell0ra-br3kk3r @idli-dosa @susvale @kdbsr-h @littlemsbumblebee @sflame15-blog @twinsunkithies @chocolateshepherddreamclod

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #peter parker #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #spiderman #angst #tom holland x you #fluff #peter parker imagine #bimbo!reader #frat!peter #frat!peter x bimbo!reader #frat!peter x reader #peter x bimbo!reader

[bunnyreaper]

plush

pairing: soap mactavish x f!reader wc: 1.5k warnings: 18+/nsfw, slight plushiephilia (?), magical fuckery, instalove vibes, shitty ex notes: an unofficial entry to my own valentines writing challenge, for my beloved aj/@kitkatscabinet <3 its short and a bit shit, but its the thought that counts, right? peep my amazing tumblr style valentines day card here!!

You remember the day you got him vividly, recalling every detail like it was yesterday, and not necessarily for the better. 

It was the first Valentine's day you were to have with your now ex-boyfriend, an occasion you'd been looking forward to for months. He wasn't the most romantic man in the world, but he knew how important the day was for you, knew how you dreamed of just having one day where you were spoiled rotten and doted on like a princess.

The day of, the man had forgotten. 

All the build up, anticipation, and excitement for nothing. He'd told you the morning off that he was off to work, with no real acknowledgement of the day or the significance it held for you. 

You had been entirely crushed, only somewhat soothed when he came home with an oversized, fluffy teddy, just for you. 

Despite the gift being mostly an afterthought—the receipt still in the bag told you he'd gone to the store on his lunch break—the bear was just so enchanting, so soft and cuddly that when you had it squeezed in your arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care about much else in the world.

That night, it was your plushie you had curled up with in your arms, your face snuggled into his brown-grey fur. That night, you'd drifted off to sleep, selfishly thinking of what it would be like to fall asleep in the arms of someone who made you feel as safe as your new fluffy friend. 

This year, you were determined for things to be different. Despite still reeling from your breakup, you resolved to make the day exactly what you'd always dreamed of,even if you were alone. 

So you started the day with a bit of pampering, climbing into sexy lingerie underneath a fresh, oversized shirt and barely-there shorts. You glammed yourself up just a little and spent the day at home surrounded by lit candles, heart-shaped balloons and the scent of freshly-baked cookies. 

When the night grew dark, you tucked up into bed to watch more movies until late, spending the entire time snuggled up with your precious plushie. It was normal for you to whisper sweet nothings to the wolf pup before bed, to throw out your usual movie discussion to him, and tonight was no different. 

You drift off with ease, feeling a sense of peace you haven't felt in a long time.

When your eyes flutter back open, you expect to see your vision obscured by fur and your room filled with light. You don't expect to see a pair of sparkling blue eyes twinkling in the dark, a pair of blue eyes you're all too familiar with.

"I'm still dreaming." You whisper in complete disbelief, yet the longer you look into the not-so-stranger's eyes, you find yourself not even believing those words. It's not a dream, he's real, and he's here. 

Your eyes rove over him and his handsome, masculine features, you take in the warmth that radiates off of him. 

"No dreams here, bonnie girl." His smile is wolfish, just like his plushie counterpart—full of mischief and mirth. "Couldnae stand seeing you so sad. It's our day." 

His grip on you tightens, pulling you deeper into his chest for you to cuddle close—to feel at home.

"Our day." You mumble, mostly to yourself, as you tangle yourself within him until you become one. You press your forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut as you embrace every euphoric feeling flowing through you.

The safety you felt when hugging him as a plushie is multiplied, as now he grips at your flesh and his breath brushes across your lips. 

He chuckles, a sweet sound you'd imagined a million times before. "Dinnae tell me you forgot when we first met." He teases. 

Valentine's day, that Valentine's day—when he'd been the only thing that made you smile. It's hard to comprehend that this time last year you were muffling your tears in his plush body, and now you're smiling so unstoppably in his embrace.  

"Of course I didn't." You whisper.

You feel his fingers brush over your curves as he eagerly takes you in, too. Unbeknownst to you, he's been aching for this moment since he first set his eyes on you—biding his time trapped inside the plush, until his love was strong enough to break him free of the curse that held him there. 

He'd watched in anger as you were mistreated, frustration as he witnessed your ex's attempts to please you between the sheets, and sadness as he watched you mend your broken heart. 

Unbridled energy thrums through him, a combination of returning to his human form and the overwhelming feeling of finally getting the woman he's loved from afar all this time. "Been waiting so long to finally have ye in ma arms." 

You bring your hand up to stroke at his stubbled cheek, as you try to ground yourself in the reality of the situation. You don't know how, but somehow all your fantasies had come true. "You're real." 

"Am real, lass, and am all yours." He swears solemnly. Neither of you know how long you have, but you know that no matter what, his words are the truth. "Can I kiss ye?" 

"Please." You whisper, before eagerly closing the gap between you, unable to wait even a moment longer. 

The second your lips touch, something in your heart feels like it slots right into place, and a sense of alignment washes over you, unlike anything you've felt before. This kind of peace is something you never felt with your ex, and barely seems real at all. 

Your lips continue to melt into his as he kisses you with fervour, equally hungry and sensual, deeply passionate and full of pent-up longing. 

You pull away, breathless, head spinning with lust and affection, as well as a lingering sense of confusion. It's obvious that he's actually in your arms, and you're not imagining it, but it's so wonderfully beyond your comprehension. 

"But how--" You start, before cutting yourself off. Too many questions, not enough time. 

"Conversation for another time." You both say in sync, rushing to return to each other's lips as you pour your love into each other. 

His kisses move from your lips to your soft cheeks, the curve of your jaw, the expanse of your neck. He nuzzles against you, nips with his teeth, then soothes them with kisses. You can feel his unrestrained smile against your skin, the eagerness in the way he grips at your hip and ruts into your clothed core with his hardness. "You feel better than I imagined." 

As his erection nudges against your clit, a shaky exhale passes your lips, a name uttered purely on instinct after a year of it tumbling around your head. "Johnny..." 

Something surges through him then, Johnny, something animalistic, as he rolls you beneath him and cages you between his arms. His hips slot against yours insistently, his eyes battle between darkening with arousal and sparkling in delight. "You know ma name." He almost growls. 

"I don't know how, but I do." 

His hands claw at your shirt, pushing it up your body to reveal the lace underneath. You hadn't worn it for him intentionally, but it also seems like the fates had called to you to put it on this morning, to be ready for this moment. 

He purrs, hungry like a true wolf, as he paws at the delicate material. "Need you, lass, cannae take it anymore." 

You push your hips into his, chasing more and more contact, more of the pleasure he so easily gives you. "Me either. Can't wait, please." 

For a moment, your mind flickers to your ex, how even on the rare occasions he tried to warm you up, he'd still struggle to make you feel much at all. With just a few kisses, and the feeling of his body against you, Johnny has you gushing, leaking down your thighs and aching with need. 

Thick fingers make their way across your delicate skin, leaving shivers in their wake. He pulls back enough to rid you of your panties, before his fingers find your sweet spot and start working on melting you beneath his touch. It was easy for Johnny, having seen the way you'd touched yourself so many times before. 

Whilst the sensation feels heavenly, and Johnny's eyes remain focused on yours as he drives you wild. You need more; you need him. 

"Please." You whine, unable to summon much more in the way of words as his fingers dip down to tease at your entrance.

Johnny fumbles with his clothes quickly, and sinks into you with an animalistic growl as his thick cock stretches you open in the most divine way. 

"Feels like home." He purrs, as he lays his muscular body over you and cages you in between the mattress and his cock. Once more, he nuzzles at your neck, as his cock kisses your insides and you adjust to the feeling of him inside you. 

You wrap your arms and legs around him instinctually, willing him closer and closer in to you, entwining yourselves completely. 

His hips remain still inside you, as the two of you embrace the feeling of finally being where you belong. He kisses you gently as he whispers, "All mine. Never letting ye go now." 

#soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #bunny writes #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfiction #be my valentine

[munson-blurbs]

086: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Series

Chapter 002: The Devil Has Come to America

Summary: Following orders and toeing the line is your specialty, but when Patient 086 tries to bargain with the doctors, you're tempted to step out of your comfort zone.

Warnings: dark themes, mostly canon-compliant (Eddie lives), violence, blood, restraint, amnesia, abduction, that scene at the end of S4E9, flashbacks, drug/alcohol use

WC: 5k

Divider credit to @saradika

October 30, 1984

“Have you seen the new guy?” Heather giddily asks you and Carol through a mouthful of macaroni salad. A soft blush creeps into her cheeks as it often does when she gets flustered. 

Carol nods enthusiastically. “He sits in front of me in algebra.” She offers a smarmy grin as she tucks into her own lunch. “Let me tell you, I might actually show up to class every day if I get to stare at his ass all period.”

Heather laughs, covering her lips with a manicured hand. “Don’t let Tommy hear that,” she jokes.

“Don’t let Tommy hear what?”

Carol swats at her boyfriend as he sits down next to her, giggling as she explains the situation. “We were just talking about the new kid, Billy…something-or-other.” She waves it off; clearly, the shape of his butt is more important than his last name. “I think he’s from California.”

Tommy nods knowingly. “Yeah, I have phys ed with him. I was gonna see if he wants to go out for basketball this year. He’s pretty damn good.”

“Better than King Steve?” Carol snickers, reaching onto Tommy’s lunch tray and swiping a French fry. “Or should I say, Mr. Nancy Wheeler?”

Heather laughs at this, too, but you can tell by her unnatural lilt that it’s forced. She’s been doing that a lot more often lately–pretending to be amused by Carol and Tommy’s antics just to fit in with them.

Tommy throws a letterman jacket-clad arm around his girlfriend. “And, uh, speaking of dudes who are totally whipped,” he says under his breath, eyes sweeping to the corner of the cafeteria where the Hellfire Club sits. You know exactly what he’s looking at; sure enough, when you drag over your own gaze, there’s Eddie Munson, staring longingly at your table. 

“Ooh, I’ll bet he’s gonna be selling at Tina’s party tomorrow!” Carol flashes you the grin you only get when she needs a favor. “Can you talk to him? You know he’ll give you a discount.”

Never mind the fact that you didn’t smoke, or that the last time you’d done this for her, she hadn’t paid you back a single cent. The question is a simple formality: you will get cheap weed from Eddie, whether you like it or not. 

“Y’know,” Tommy breaks in smarmily, eyebrows raised like he’s offering classified information, “I heard he flunked last year on purpose so he could keep selling at high school parties.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. He could’ve graduated and still swung by to sell.”  The retort spills from your lips before you can stop yourself, but it’s true. It’s not unheard of for recent grads to pop in to snag some beer or jungle juice. 

Your words are met with glares from Tommy and Carol; Heather’s foot brushes your own with a dual meaning of are you okay and don’t get us in trouble. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, desperate to avoid the unwanted social consequences that await you and Heather if you mess this up. “I can, um, talk to him at the party tomorrow.”

Flirting with him for discounted pot doesn’t sit right with you. But since Heather is your only friend, and she’s now friends with Carol, you can’t risk losing her. 

You let yourself look over at the young man who’s been harboring a crush on you since this school year began, feeling a pang in your heart. This is the last time, you tell yourself, and then I’m done leading him on. Carol can buy her own shit, full price. 

But when you hear Heather laughing again, you realize that you’re only lying to yourself. The only thing worse than high school is enduring it alone, and if that means temporarily turning into someone you hate, then so be it. 

March 30, 1986

“EDDIE!”

The shouted word reverberates around Patient 086’s skull as he wakes up suddenly, body trembling from the nightmare and from the headache forming behind his temples. He winces when he opens his eyes, the overhead lighting only enhancing the pain.

“Eddie,” he whispers to himself, letting it melt on his tongue. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” He smiles despite having every other reason not to.

I’m Eddie. My name is Eddie. 

His joy dissipates when he fails to recall whose voice was calling out for him. It’s a balloon that keeps getting whisked away in the wind, just out of reach.

Eddie grits his teeth, overdue tears streaming down his scarred cheeks. I know this–it’s…it’s…

“Fuck.” The swear is all exhalation, hardly any force behind it. His shoulders shake as sobs wrack through him, his quest to remember seemingly still fruitless. He’s so close, but still too far away.

The door to his room swings open without warning, one of the doctors from his earlier scuffle standing in Eddie’s line of vision. It isn’t the one he’d bitten–Dr. Snell–but the one who appeared to be the leader. His mere presence unsettles Eddie, like there’s an invisible evil seeping from his pores.

“086.” An unfriendly grin stretches his lips. “I take it you’re feeling rather…well-rested, yes?” He takes immediate notice of the way Eddie’s hands clench into fists, one by his side and one still cuffed to the gurney. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, 086. Perhaps we should start fresh, now that you’re aware of our non-compliance protocol.”

“Eddie.” Eddie grunts, not daring to make eye contact. “My name is Eddie, not 086.”

The doctor’s eyebrows furrow in momentary confusion before he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Yes, right. I forgot that 055 accessed that memory.” His signature smirk returns as though it never left. “We use numeric identifiers here. Easier to keep track of our patients. So while you may have been Eddie, you’re now 086. Understood?”

But Eddie’s mind remains trained on the doctor’s previous statement. “Someone…accessed my memory?” He curls inward at this privacy violation. A person he didn’t even know was able to see his memories–yet he still couldn’t.

“Very briefly,” the doctor confirms. “It was more difficult than anticipated because you were sleeping. We will require your cooperation for this task.” His arched gray eyebrow informs Eddie that this is not up for discussion. “Be aware that while it is challenging for 055 to access your memories while you’re asleep, it’s not impossible. If you choose to behave as you did earlier, the consequences will be the same.” He holds out a water-filled paper cup and a small container of two pills, chuckling at Eddie’s ambivalence. “Just some ibuprofen for the headache. They’re standard after memory accession.”

Every muscle in Eddie’s body tenses, his already-dry throat feeling like sandpaper. He gulps down the medication, utterly defeated. “C-Can I just ask…why do you need my memories?” What secrets could he possibly hold that interest them enough to steal them from his unconscious brain?

The doctor sighs, weighing the options of honesty and deceit. He speaks after a moment with a carefully curated response. “The place we rescued you from was nowhere you should have been. Nowhere anyone should ever be.” His lips purse in concentration. “We need to know who, if anyone, was with you to ensure their safety and wellbeing.” The doctor lowers his voice as though revealing priceless information. “What if they’re trapped there, 086, just as you were? We can’t know unless you allow us to see.”

Eddie doesn’t miss the faintest smile, disappearing almost as soon as it forms, as though the doctor is proud of his presentation. Like he’s telling an elaborate fictional story rather than insinuating true mortal danger. 

“Okay,” Eddie pauses but agrees, despite the nausea pooling in his stomach. There may have been people with me. Family or friends or anyone links to my past. To who I am, or who I was. “I’ll do it, but I want to see more than just the end. I want happy memories pulled, too. Can 055 do that?” He keeps his voice as insistent as possible, vaguely aware that he just may be making a deal with the Devil himself.  

“Of course she can.” He eyes Eddie’s singular restrained wrist; for a second, Eddie thinks he’s going to let him go, but the man just continues speaking. “I’ll bring her in as soon as she’s ready.”

He’s too quick and too smug in his response, but Eddie has no choice but to believe him. It’s the last bit of hope that he has. 

October 31, 1984

You can hear music blaring before you and Heather even pull up in front of Tina’s house. She’s meticulously checking her lip gloss in her compact mirror, one manicured fingernail scraping around her mouth to remove any nonexistent excess. 

“How do I look?” She asks, eagerly awaiting your opinion. It’s a seemingly stupid question; she always looks gorgeous. It’s almost unfair how beautiful she is, not to mention an impossible comparison standard to which you’ll never measure up. 

She’s truly outdone herself tonight, dressed as Wonder Woman. The corset amplifies her cleavage and the blue barely-there shorts showcase her long legs. Diana Prince’s signature crown is perched atop her hair. 

“Amazing. Billy’s gonna lose his shit.” You smile as she blushes and gets out of your car, excitedly slamming the passenger door behind her. There’s no point in fielding her the same question; she’ll placate you with an untrue compliment that won’t do anything to boost your ego. 

You adjust your black mask and step out, cautiously teetering in your high heels. It was Heather’s idea for you to be Cat Woman, claiming that she couldn’t dress sexily without you, but you feel like a fish out of water. The latex suit just doesn’t look right on your body, or maybe the problem is that your body doesn’t look right in the suit. 

Heather waits as you get your bearings, hooking her arm with yours and bringing you an immediate sense of comfort. This is the Heather Holloway you’ve grown up with, the one who’d encouraged you to face your fears and ride a two-wheeler bike, the one who’d used her own allowance to buy you a new pair of pants when you got your first period in the middle of Sears, the one who’d let you sleep over whenever simmering arguments with your parents reached a boiling point. Regardless of her newfound affiliation with Carol–and Tommy, by default–she’s still your best friend.

Someone lets out a low wolf-whistle as you two walk through Tina’s house and to the backyard. Heather holds her head high while your gaze stays glued to the ground, unwilling to make eye contact with the perpetrator. It’s highly unlikely that the flirtation was intended for you, anyway. 

Outside, the crowd is chanting as Tommy stands beside the keg, propping up a guy in a leather jacket. Heather squeals and tugs on your sleeve excitedly. “That’s Billy!” she exclaims, discreetly pointing to the man currently upside down, guzzling beer like his life depends upon it.

After twenty-two seconds, Billy motions to be lowered back to the ground. Foam spews from his mouth and drips down his chiseled abs, slick with sweat.

“We got ourselves a new…keg…CHAMP!” Tommy announces, slipping a lit cigarette between Billy’s fingers.

Billy takes a triumphant drag, exhaling smoke as he declares, “That’s how you do it, Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” He looks around the party with a squared jaw, assessing who is impressed by his feat besides the Tommy Hagan-shaped puppy yipping at his heels.

You turn to Heather, trying your best not to roll your eyes while she outwardly swoons. “There’s your Prince Charming,” you mutter, stomach curdling as Billy’s blue eyes flicker up and down her body, a predatory smirk crossing his ale-drenched lips.

Heather saunters over to him with a confidence you haven’t seen from her before. One hand wraps around Billy’s bicep, pulling all of his attention to her. “That was really cool,” she says breathily, biting her lower lip and peering at him through mascaraed lashes.

Billy shakes his mullet of curls, inhaling from the cigarette again before he speaks. “Yeah, well, someone had to breathe life into this shitty excuse for a party.” He sighs and stretches, causing his muscles to ripple underneath his jacket and snaking an arm around her waist to tug her closer. “But it looks like it just got a lot more interesting.”

He’s a walking cliché, the absurdly attractive new kid obnoxiously strutting around like a proud peacock while girls fall at his feet. You can’t blame Heather for being entranced; you just wish she could see through the shiny exterior and realize that, to him, she’s just another pair of panties on his bedroom floor.

An impatient tap on your shoulder draws you from a disbelieving stupor. Carol stands behind you, arms folded across her chest as though she’s irritated with you before you can even say a word.

“Freak’s here,” she reports flatly, shoving a crumpled bill in your palm. “Whatever twenty bucks can buy.”

Right. The second reason you’ve dragged yourself to this party, in addition to being Heather’s loyal sidekick, is to awkwardly flirt your way to a weed discount.

You shuffle back into the house, spotting Nancy Wheeler sloppily ladling jungle juice into a cup, swaying with the beginnings of tipsiness. Your heart sinks; it seems like everyone is enjoying themselves at this party–or is trying to, at least–except for you.

Why are you like this? Why can’t you just be normal and fit in? It was simple for Heather; Mrs. O’Donnell had assigned her and Carol to be lab partners, and within a week, she’d begun her ascent up the social ladder. But you were resistant, remembering Carol’s constant barrage of snide remarks hurled your way, never trusting her the way your best friend did.

“C’mon, don’t you want to be popular? To finally be noticed?” Heather had pressed, eyes shining with the prospects of landing on Hawkins High’s proverbial A-list. “You can’t just let people trample over you for the rest of your life.”

And so you’d tagged along for the ride, only to find that you’d graduated from punching bag to doormat. You did what they asked because they had the power to obliterate your already meager social life, and they knew it. 

That’s why you currently find yourself looking over at Eddie Munson as he digs through his tin lunch box. He takes a handful of bills from Linda Becker and gives her a pre-rolled joint, shoving the cash in his pants pocket. He shakes his mop of curls out of his eyes and moves onto his next customer, a junior who just crushed a Miller Lite can on his head. 

Eddie only sticks around these parties long enough to sell whatever’s in his stash before he slips away; if you put this off any longer, you risk pissing off Carol, which will upset Heather and further strain your friendship. 

You take a deep breath. It’s just some harmless flirting; you’re not proposing marriage, or even sleeping with him. Bat your lashes, tell him he looks nice, ask him about his day, and get some weed. Yeah, you can do this. 

Here goes nothing. 

One hundred eight…one hundred nine…

The squeak of his door opening disrupts Eddie’s meticulous wall tile counting. Annoyance prickles under his skin when he loses focus. He tries not to let it show, keeping up the cooperative façade so the scientists will be willing to give him what he wants–a glimpse into his past. Not just the parts of 086 they deem important, but the smaller moments that comprise him. The parts that make up Eddie.

The man he’d bitten—Dr. Snell—stands in the doorway with what appears to be another patient. She wears a hospital gown identical to his own, and her hair is also cropped close to her scalp. 

Dr. Snell speaks first. “086, this is 055,” he says, gesturing to the young woman to his right. Eddie tries to get a better look at her, but it proves to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. She doesn’t allow her gaze to meet his as though she’s afraid to be seen; ironic, considering she’d infiltrated his mind just hours earlier. 

“Um, hi,” Eddie sputters awkwardly, not quite sure how to navigate this unique introduction. Thanks for uncovering my memories? Sorry for whatever you find in there? Also, if you could look past the bloody mess and let me know who the kid screaming my name was, I’d really appreciate it?

He sighs when you offer only silence in response, using his untethered hand to scratch a spot on his scalp where his hair is shaved a bit too close. Impatience gnaws in his chest. “So, uh, we gonna get started on this memory pulling thing?”

Dr. Snell nods, hesitantly making his way to Eddie’s bedside. “086, I am going to remove your restraints. When I do, I expect you to continue giving us your full cooperation. Is this understood?” He conspicuously fiddles with a button hanging from a cord around his neck; Eddie can only assume it’s used to page the other scientists in an emergency. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” The doctor pulls a key from his pocket and plunges it in the slot that joins the clamps together. The metal digs into Eddie’s wrist before the pressure disappears altogether, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

“Now,” Dr. Snell continues, turning to 055, “you will continue revealing 086’s memories of the Nether. You’re going to determine who else was there and what they may have seen.” He ticks off the two agenda items on his pointer and middle fingers as though it’s a simple task. 

Eddie watches as 055 pulls up a chair across from him, still avoiding making eye contact until it’s absolutely necessary. “Sit up.” It’s an order, but a polite one, and Eddie follows it without a second thought. “I need you to take the memory I pulled and think about pushing it to the surface of your mind. Do your best to focus only on that, and it’ll make my job a lot easier.” 

There’s a familiar cadence to 055’s voice, her last sentence laced with both honesty and a hint of humor. Eddie’s surprised to find himself relaxing a bit, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. He reflexively closes his eyes. 

“N-No…leave them open.”

His eyelids flutter open, embarrassment pinkening his cheeks as though this was something he should have known. He concentrates on the already-fading memory of the boy shouting for him, biting into his lower lip so hard that it draws a bit of blood. The metallic taste stirs something within him, his ribs suddenly aching where they’re scarring.

An earthy scent overtakes his next inhale, a stark contrast from the sterile lab environment. Eddie’s moving too fast to be on foot, the bicycle wheels spinning across dirt and sinking into the mud as he frantically pedals. Something weighs on his back, but he can’t reach back to feel what it is.

He leaps off of the bike without warning, faintly hearing it clatter in the distance, but it’s quickly drowned out by violent shrieking. The sound tornadoes around him as he grabs the items from behind him: a makeshift spear and a garbage pail lid with nails driven through it. 

Clang! Clang! 

The flying objects ricochet off of the lid, the spikes not impaling them enough to do much damage. The shield begins to bend under their impact, but Eddie continues swinging with all of his might. His grunts are barely audible over the screeching bat-like creatures. His chest tightens as he musters up his remaining strength and courage, bellowing into the wind.

“COME ON!!!”

The scream provides no intimidation; it only further depletes his already-limited energy. He pauses for a second to take another breath, but his air supply is cut off by a barbed tail wrapping around his throat.

Eddie instinctively drops the spear to unravel the beast’s grasp from his neck, but he knows it’s too late. He’s done for. While he wrestles with the bat, others latch onto him and drag him to the ground to feast on his flesh. 

“EDDIE!”

The boy.

Eddie hears him over the blood pounding in his ears, willing him to stay away, go back to safety, but shock has rendered him wordless. 

And then the shrieking stops, leaving only the sounds of his own ragged breathing.

“Eddie!” The boy’s voice is quieter but still panicked, his face coming into view as he tends to Eddie’s wounds. Shiny braces adorn his teeth and mucus muffles his speech. “Oh my God, Eddie.”

Eddie can only look straight into the misty darkness, unable to move his body. “‘S bad, huh?” he manages through terse lips. 

“No, nononono, you’re gonna be fine,” the boy sputters, trying to convince himself more than Eddie, “we just gotta get you to a hospital, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees too easily, feeling the fight leaving him with each passing second. 

The two of them grunt in frustration and agony as Eddie uses his friend as a crutch, but he knows it’s no use. There isn’t any sense in this kid wasting his precious energy saving him from his inevitable demise. 

“Just give me a second, okay?” Blood pools in Eddie’s throat; he swallows it down and forces a small smile. This is it. He has nothing left to give. 

His gaze meets the boy’s, and they share an understanding glance. There’s nothing that either of them can do: Eddie is going to die. 

“I didn’t run away this time, right?”

“No, nonono. You didn’t run,” the boy reassures him with a swift shake of his head, his curls held in place by a thick band. 

Eddie grabs his hand, shiny eyes flitting over so he can drive home his point before it’s too late. “You’re gonna have to look after those little sheep for me, okay?” 

“No, you’re gonna do that yourself!”

“Nah, man.” He needs this; he needs this promise fulfilled before he can fully let go. “Say you’re gonna look after them.”

The boy almost starts to deny it again, but Eddie’s steadily loosening grip informs him that his time is limited. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna look after them…” he chokes out, no longer able to look Eddie in the eyes. 

“Good.” Haziness engulfs him, blurring his thoughts into a swirl of memories that has no beginning or end. “Because I’m actually gonna graduate…” He punctuates the statement with a small snort as he laughs through the pain. 

The boy lets out a strained cry, pity and sadness and the early stages of grief rolled into one small sound. 

“I think it’s my year, Henderson. I think it’s finally my year.” Eddie’s eyes glaze over; with his final breath, he ekes out a promise of his own. “I love you, man.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s the last thing he hears before the world goes black. 

Eddie’s eyes snap open now, the dull roar of a headache barely affecting him. The present bleeds into the past, tile and disinfectant replacing dirt and overgrown moss. He blinks a few times to adjust. 

“H-Henderson,” he stammers, looking between you and Dr. Snell. “My friend—Henderson—he was with me there. Dustin Henderson!” He snaps his fingers excitedly, pushing away the discomfort from the rapid movements. “I think we go to school together. Oh, my God, Dustin Henderson!” He laughs aloud, beaming from ear to ear. He remembers Dustin Henderson’s name, which means other memories of him can’t be far behind. 

Eddie turns back to you as you wipe away the trail of blood under your nose, speaking so eagerly that he’s tripping over his words. “Okay, I’m gonna—I’m gonna keep thinking about him, and you pull more memories.” He looks you directly in the eyes, emotion written all over his own. “His name is Dustin Henderson. Got it?”

Before you can answer, the doctor cuts in. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today, 086.” He doesn’t seem apologetic in the least, practically baring his teeth in a sinister grin. 

“N-No, he said—he promised,” Eddie sputters, feeling increasingly pathetic. 

Dr. Snell shakes his head. “Who’s ‘he?’” he sneers. “I don’t recall making any promises to you.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. 

“The other doctor—he said that she,” Eddie glances at you, “could pull more memories. Good ones.”

Your blood runs cold; this is the first you’re hearing of this, and you suspect it’s one of Dr. Moseley’s many empty promises designed to foster compliance and break spirits. 

Eddie’s throat goes bone-dry and his stomach curdles as the doctor says nothing more, cuffs him back to the bed, and leads you away from the room. You look back for a split second, briefly making eye contact with him, but quickly turn around. 

Please, Eddie begs silently, please help me remember. There had to be some good in my life, and I need to know what it was. 

Cynicism chips away at his waning hope as you get farther down the hall until he can no longer hear your clipped conversation with the doctor, your presence becoming a memory in itself. 

Your time in the lab thus far has been spent obeying orders and doing your best to remain inconspicuous whenever your services are not needed. Your allegiance, coupled with your refusal to make waves, is what’s kept you from experiencing the scientists’ wrath. Silent unless spoken to. 

Guilt gnaws at your insides, churning bile in your stomach, and you know what you have to do. 

“Dr. Snell, I have to use the restroom.” You push the words out in a single breath, lungs tightening when he actually stops in his tracks and faces you. Skepticism is written all over his face, and with good reason, but you double down on your statement with the three words that fluster nearly every man: “Got my period.”

Sure enough, his cheeks turn magenta as he sputters, “Yeah, yes, of course.” He steps aside as you rush back towards the bathroom, your urgency very much real though the excuse is a blatant lie. You stand behind the door and silently count to five, peering out to ensure that the coast is clear. There’s no sign of Dr. Snell–or any of the scientists, for that matter–so you make your way to Eddie’s room, cursing the soft noise your bare feet make on the tile floor. 

Turn back. Don’t risk your safety to play the hero. 

If you’re caught, there will be repercussions. You could easily find yourself strapped to the bed or thrown in isolation for days on end; all of the trust you’d built up with the authorities will be tossed in an instant. 

Something propels you forward; perhaps it’s the desire to do what’s right, but you know it’s mostly the guilt of what happened between you two, whether he remembers or not. 

“Ed—086,” you quickly amend, your voice barely louder than a whisper. Eddie looks around, disoriented and fighting the post-accession headache. 

“Y-Yeah?”

You tiptoe closer to him, doing your best to ignore how vulnerable he looks right now. If you think about it too much, you might cry. “You need to obey the doctors, especially Dr. Moseley,” you say. 

“Why?” Eddie spits back. “I tried, and they fucked me over. Why should I help them?”

You lean over and tug on the handcuff. “You see this? Notice how I don’t have one?” You shake your free wrist to emphasize the point. “That’s because I do as I’m told and fall in line.”

“This whole place is a goddamn prison,” he retorts, rolling his eyes. “Who cares if I’m strapped to the bed or not? Where the hell am I gonna go?”

“You’re not hearing me.” You want to scream, and it takes everything inside you to hold back. “The less trouble you give them, the less they’ll watch over you, and the more I can access your memories. The ones you want to remember.”

This throws a temporary wrench into his anger, scowl softening until he recalls how he’d recently been tricked. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”

You cut him off, grabbing his one free hand without warning. Staring into his fear-filled eyes, you pull a memory, though he doesn’t know that it’s easily accessible because it’s one of your memories, too. 

That’s a conversation for another day. 

The smell of stale beer and unfiltered cigarette smoke clouds the bar while a band of four boys plays onstage. Eddie has one ring-clad hand wrapped around the electric guitar’s neck and the other strumming intensely as he launches into the song’s chorus. 

For whom the bell tolls Time marches on For whom the bell tolls!

He turns around and faces the drummer, grinning headbanging along to the beat. The kid behind the drumset is a bit younger than he is, and considerably more nervous, but Eddie’s encouragement allows him to lose himself in the music. 

You end the memory before present-day Eddie can hear the applause; you know you were the one cheering the loudest that night, and you can’t let him recognize you. 

“There will be a lot more of that if you fly under the radar and give them a reason to back off,” you tell him, plucking a thin tissue from a nearby box to clean your nose. “Trust me, they don’t want to watch over you 24/7. They have bigger issues they need to deal with.”

Trust me. The last time he trusted you, it destroyed him, whether he remembers it or not. This is your chance to make it right. 

“Just think about it,” you plead, adrenaline waning and anxiety drawing you back to your room. “Help me help you.”

You leave him with even more questions than he had before. Hopefully, that’s incentive enough. 

--

tag list (still open)

@munsonmuses @vintagehellfire @chrissymjstan @munsonology @lady-munson @roadkill-writes @randomreader1999 @babez-a-licious @madelynraemunson @the-unforgivenn @nailbatanddungeon @lokis-army-77 @laurenlokirby @american-idiot-jpg @str4ngergirlw0rld @tlclick73 @gnrquinn @katethetank @inourtownofhawkins @munson-addict

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #086

[gvtted-ratz]

read all our tags/ratings. they r important n give u all u need 2 decide if u wanna actually read or not. do not like the tags/rating? do not read.

FEM ALIGNING/IDENTIFYING PPL (unless mutuals/friends) DNI WITH OUR MLM WORKS. fem ppl can still request tho. respect our wishes or get blocked. yes we do read/check everything. we tag appropriately/use tags that go with our posts.

want 2 request? find the rules: here!

want 2 see all the fics? find em: here!

Soft To The Core

König x M!Reader

Last Edited: 03/01/23

TW: death mentioned

AO3 LINK -> HERE

anon: 4 with König and he/him male reader. That is all <- frothing at the mouth but being SO COOL about it (4. accidental touching!!!!)

Word Count: 767

Notes: hey again bestie… i see u. i have our dms about the man n u frothing btw. Also. ik absolutely nothing about guns n stuff so uh. oop ig… also. i made the reader like. kinda techy n speak some russian? i was listening 2 gore by graveyardguy as i wrote this just so u know. Didn’t influence much of the thing but the title is definitely from the song.

You hum as you clean your sniper rifle; the disassembled piece of metal all over your lap. Usually, you would be around a table or even in your own assigned room. However, today they had a mandatory room check. While you didn’t mind it, having all the tables and sitting areas taken out in the cafeteria as well as the shooting range didn’t help. This leads to you sitting underneath a small pine. It’s fairly young, being only large enough to cast enough of a shadow to give you cover from the sun.

While you don’t mind cleaning your gun, making sure your laptop was in better shape or needed to be put back together was more interesting. While you’ve done it a hundred times before, for you, it never got old. You enjoyed taking apart the electronic gadgets and putting them back together. Seeing how they work and even improving them intrigued you more than going out on the field and sending bullets people’s way to splatter their blood everywhere. The missions they assign you in KorTac have been nothing but boring or a pain. You’ve never actually trained for this part or even with the rifle at all. You are more of someone who hacks cameras, reads coding to try and find anything that could give enemies away, and even disarm some bombs via the tech you have on hand during said times.

Now, while it’s not something you prefer doing, you can’t help but enjoy at least one of your members. König, or King as many call him, is your favourite man. Despite his awkward social interactions, he’s never been particularly rude to you. Nor has the giant Austrian ever tried to get on your nerves. He keeps to himself mostly, leading to you having to seek him out if you want company. Sometimes he’s out and about, though he’s either alone or towering over the other soldiers.

Of course, that doesn't mean he’s not deadly. You’ve seen him out on the field. He’s truly a rampaging beast. He picks up enemy soldiers and cracks their backs over his knee. He’ll gun them down or snipe them, giving a laugh or giggle. He’ll yell out in a happy tone “I have some cash!” whenever he gets his hands on even a single coin. He’s wilder and more brutal. And you couldn’t help but notice. However, despite noticing it, you didn’t treat the man any differently.

A large pair of military-issued boots appear in front of your crisscrossed legs. Looking up, you see the man you’ve been thinking of as you cleaned the barrel of your gun. “Ah. König,” You say, giving him a small smile. “Привет! How has my favourite man been?” König’s hands are loosely holding each other, nearly touching his stomach with his chosen position.

“Ah… Ich meine, es lief gut…” He says, looking uncomfortable standing there. You gesture to the ground next to you, letting him know that he can sit beside you. With confirmation now obtained, König lets himself fall into a seated position right next to you. He ends up knocking his knee into your thigh; you wince at the sharp pain but laugh it off.

“I’m so sorry..! I did not mean to hit you. Bitte vergib mir!” The large man starts to apologize immediately, already beating himself up over the accidental touch. You wave him off, trying to make your smile softer to try and reassure the Austrian.

“ нет, нет! Все хорошо, ты в порядке!” Your words seem to calm him down a bit, despite him not exactly understanding your words. “Besides, König, I say you’re sharp as a knife but Soft To The Core.” You’re not sure why, but the words felt right to say.

“Ja? Well… They do say beauty is on the inside, Freund,” He tells you; a nearly inaudible chuckle escapes him. You feel another smile pull at your lips at his words.

“They sure do, мой возлюбленный. They sure do.” You mumble. With some silence between the two of you, it’s easy to hear the shout of one of your captains letting you all know that the mandatory room clearance has been finished. You playfully smack König’s shoulder, clasping it as you stand. “Let’s go back, да?” When he gives you a nod, you shove your gun parts into the duffle bag you brought just for it. “Let’s go then! Maybe we can grab some food once these bozos clear out.” With those last words, you take the lead, König following behind you quietly and with genuine happiness shining in his eyes.

#x male reader #x reader #my fics #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #cod x reader #cod mw 2 x reader #cod x male reader #cod mw2 x male reader #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig x male reader #konig x male reader

[johnwickb1tsch]

Young!John Wick x Model!Reader Imagine

masterlist

deux

-Nearly a year goes by before you meet again in a club in London. You are celebrating Sebastiano’s sold-out Spring collection with some friends when he appears at your side by the railing overlooking the dance floor. You were wearing a crimson red slip dress by Yves Saint Laurent. He gets your attention by running his fingers ever so lightly down your bare spine. You’ve had a few drinks, and when you turn to see it’s him you are too overjoyed to play it cool. You mould yourself against him, and he happily folds you into his arms. Everyone else in the room melts away when your lips touch his. “I missed you.”

Your career did take off after that fateful week in Paris. Your face can be seen on ads for everything from makeup to clothing and sexy underthings. You’ve met so many people and gone so many places in this whirlwind of a year, but you never forgot about your tall dark stranger from Paris, and you never stopped longing for him.

“Likewise,” he tells you with a close-lipped smile that still brings a melting warmth to his dark eyes. You convince him to dance a little with you before you retreat to a dark booth in the corner to make out. You wish you could blame the drinks, but you know you are just absolutely drunk on him, his soft lips on your mouth and your skin. His hair has grown longer, and you love grabbing fistfuls of it as you kiss. It does not even occur to you to protest when his hand slides under your skirt, pushing your panties aside to slip his long fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit bringing you to paradise. You moan your pleasure into his mouth, and you feel his lips curve in a smile against yours.

“You are so beautiful, y/n.”

You hear that a lot. It’s kind of your job, after all. It’s never meant so much to you, as when he says it to you.

You reach for his belt, as though you aren’t in a public venue, desperate to touch him. But he catches your hands in his, dwarfing your little mitts in his calloused ones. “Where are you staying?” he asks.

“The Ritz.” You’ve moved up a bit in the world.

“Can I meet you there in an hour?”

For a moment you’re confused. “You want me to leave?”

He nods, looking around the room. There is something sharp in his gaze now. Something almost predatory. “You should.”

“Why?”

“Please? For me?”

“Okay…”

You do as he asks, because the thought of having him all to yourself in your ridiculously opulent hotel room is far more appealing than the crowded too-loud club. But in the back of your mind you know there’s something off.

There’s a knock on your door exactly at the hour. You pause for a long moment to look at him in the doorway, so tall and darkly handsome, his high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes that are filled with a smoldering warmth just for you. Greedily you pull him into the room, your trepidation forgotten. But there’s a speck of something red on the front of his stark white shirt. Before you can examine it further he literally sweeps you off your feet. “What would you say to a bubble bath?”

You think it’s a fine idea.

-Six months later you see John again in Rome, at a party with Sebastiano at the villa of an insanely rich Italian family. The D’Antonios, you think is their name? The elder sister, Gianna, loves Seb’s designs and buys a lot of his pieces. You’re not entirely sure how they made their money. Imports, is the party line. You are learning in this world of high-powered people that’s code for don’t ask. There’s no room to worry about such things in the fashion world. Seb makes clothes for People With Money, and he says it’s not his job to worry about how they got it. You are still naïve enough in all your youth that that is good enough for you.

A proud young man is trying to chat you up on the balcony overlooking a magnificent garden. He claims he’s the descendent of Italian nobility. This is vaguely interesting to you, but he melts away entirely when you spy a familiar set of broad black-clad shoulders making their way through the crowd.

John brings you a glass of Prosecco, fixing the young Conte with a hard look. This is a side of John you’ve never really seen before, the rules of the jungle at play, and it seems your erstwhile lover may sit at the top of the food chain. Your suitor scurries off with a frightened look and some mumbled excuses, leaving you alone with John. When he looks at you it’s as though a switch has flipped, a roguish heat filling his dark eyes.

He hasn’t even touched you, and already your panties are drenched.

This time you manage not to lose your cool at the sight of him. “Fancy seeing you here.” You’re almost not surprised. He pays you a smile, though there is a tension in the corners of his eyes you don’t entirely understand. It isn’t long before you slip away to a room upstairs, a high-ceilinged bedroom painted with pastel frescoes of chubby putti fluttering on the ceiling. You can’t help but feel like they’re watching you as John pushes your black lace skirt by Dolce and Gabbana up your thighs, and takes you to heaven with his wickedly clever tongue.

You manage not to say it aloud, somehow, but you know as you curl against his muscled chest in the quiet afterwards that you are in love with this man.

“What happened?” you ask as you trace a long scar over the ripples of his abdomen. You can tell it was a serious wound, and the thought of him hurt like that sends ice through your veins, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It must have taken some time to heal. Did it hurt? Had he been all alone?

“I had an accident,” he sighs, bringing your hand to his lips.

“It looks like it was painful.”

“Yeah.”

You can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, so you let it go, pressing your lips to the top of the scar in a gesture meant to soothe yourself as much as him. It’s fine. He’s fine. He is warm, and solid flesh beneath your lips, and he always comes back to you. “Poor baby.” He moans as you make your way down, tracing the raised tissue with your tongue. His fingers slide into your hair as the velvety tip of his now erect manhood brushes your chin. You take him into your mouth, circling the swollen head with your tongue, and his big hands clench in your hair.

“Fuck, y/n.”

Maybe you’re no good at getting him to talk about his life, but at least in this area you can make him come completely undone for you. It makes you feel powerful, and even if you know it’s an illusion, it’s all you have.

Later you snuggle into the warm bend of his neck, brushing your nose against the soft scruff of his beard. He holds you close with strong arms, newly marked with fresh ink on his shoulder. You don’t quite get up the courage to ask what the cross means.

You don’t take him for a religious man.  

-Later you’re sitting with your friend by the pool, painting your toenails. “Where did you disappear to last night?” 

“I left with someone,” you answer vaguely. 

“I hope your hookup was better than mine. I would sacrifice a goat to find one man who knows where my fucking clitoris is.”

You press your lips, thinking about your scintillating evening with John, and the way he somehow took exactly what he wanted, but brought you to heights of pleasure you never knew existed before him. You shudder with the memory, lost in your own world for a few long seconds. Later you realize she is watching you. “Jesus, y/n. That good, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. 

“Are you going to see him again?” she asks slyly. 

You shrug, because you want to, but don't know how. This is the third time you've trysted with this man, and you still have no way of contacting him. You wonder if this is the way it will always be…

-This goes on for years. In Paris and New York, Milan and Madrid, Oslo and LA he makes love to you before disappearing again. As usual, you are left with more questions than answers, but the tenderness in your kiss-swollen lips and the ache between your thighs keeps you from demanding to know where he goes in the agonizing interim between. In a way, in the very back dungeon of your mind, you already know. You take an accounting of his new scars with your lips and your tongue every time you see him. Always, they multiply, and you have watched as a certain hardness settles over his features, that only softens for you. You're not stupid, despite the stereo types about your profession. But that man... you would follow him to hell itself, if he offered you his hand. 

-Luckily you have plenty to keep you busy. You’ve started taking photos more than being on the other side of the lens, and your work is well-received. You know that your initial fame and the public’s fascination with you helps that along, but hey. That’s just the game, and you’ve learned to play it well.

-Then, an entire year goes by without seeing hide nor hair of John. In the early days of your acquaintance you can’t say you were exactly celibate, but over the years you lost interest in any one’s arms but his. Not seeing him for so long hurts like a blade twisting between your ribs.

It’s always been up to him when you meet up, but this time you decide to take things into your own hands...

---------------------------

&lt;<PART 1 PART 3>>

#john wick #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick x reader #john wick x helen #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x you #keanu x you #keanu reeves x reader #john wick imagine

[sidekick-hero]

I still keep hoping (someday, I’ll be falling without caution)

(steddie | teen | 2.3k | AO3 | @steddie-week | fluff and/or angst)

Eddie has always been a romantic, but he never believed in love at first sight. Still doesn't, but his heart stutters in his chest and the world around him grows distant and quiet. He smiles softly at the man, hoping his thoughts don't show on his face. Thinks they might, because the smile he gets in return is dazed, wondrous. Eddie wonders how he's not used to people fawning over him, throwing themselves at his feet, vying for his attention. Before he can do anything stupid like walk over to the man and catch his perfect lips in a devouring kiss, Gareth taps him on the shoulder. "You okay, man?" "Why wouldn't I be?" "Don't know, but if you tune the strings any tighter they'll snap."

A sweet laugh rings through the warm spring air, bright and playful like a wind chime dancing in a gentle breeze. It's a beautiful sound, full of joy and giddiness and love. It tugs at Steve's heart, a bittersweet ache he's come to recognize and accept around Nancy these days.

He watches as she walks down the aisle, her white dress with the baby blue ribbon complimenting her petite frame, her big azure eyes sparkling with the promise of a happy life with the other half of her heart.

Steve gives her a soft smile, hiding his sadness and melancholy, because Nancy doesn't deserve one of the most important days of her life to be tainted by Steve's longing.

Neither does Robin. She's standing next to Steve, who is her best man of honor as she’s calling it, dressed in a burgundy tuxedo, her face nearly split in two at the sight of the love of her life walking toward her. She threatened to shave his hair off if he ever told anyone she called Nancy that. As if the way they were together could mean anything else.

They don't have eyes for anyone but each other, and before Nancy even reaches the altar, Robin steps forward, too eager to hold Nancy's hands in hers to wait any longer. It's not even funny, but Nancy throws her head back and laughs again, this time louder, uninhibited in a way she's never been with him. Not really.

And that's okay, because he realized that it hadn't been love between them. It had been the idea of love, the dream of the white picket fence life. They had wanted to be in love, and for a while they thought they were. Nancy, always smart, always curious and quick to figure things out, had been the first to realize it and had broken up with him over it. Steve had always been a little slower. It had taken him seeing Robin and Nancy together to finally realize the difference between wanting to be in love and being in love.

He remembered the day Robin came to him at seven-thirty in the morning, before the classes they were teaching even began, literally giggling and kicking her feet. She had told him with bright, excited eyes that she had met someone at the public lecture on how language shapes societal beliefs, or something equally nerdy. Not just someone, but "the most perfect woman that has ever existed, Steve, like, oh my God, you should have seen her, she's so beautiful I wanted to cry and then she opens her pretty mouth and she's also so smart, Steve, so much smarter than me, like, how is that fair, she’s perfect," she rambled on and on.

A few weeks later, Steve found out that the beautiful, smart woman was none other than his ex. Robin had fallen in love with the first girl he ever thought he loved. The one who made him realize there was more to life than popularity and doing what was expected of you. The one who broke his heart into a million pieces. The one who had made him cautious in a way he’s never had been before.

It had hurt, at first. It hadn't been easy watching his best friend, his platonic soulmate, get the love he once had while he went from date to date, bed to bed. Steve soon realized that it didn't hurt because he was jealous of Robin. It hurt because he was jealous of what Robin and Nancy had that he didn't.

Now, four years later, most of that was gone. He is so, so happy for them, his heart full of love for these two wonderful women who still acted like they'd just started dating.

He thinks of the way they still giggle together at the breakfast table, of the way Nancy always makes fun of the way Robin gets during the holidays, all stressed out and frenetic, going all out with the decorations and the presents and the traditions. The way Nancy wears that indulgent, gentle smile that is only Robin's when she does it. Or how Robin still kisses the ring Nancy's been wearing since their first anniversary whenever they haven't seen each other for more than a few hours. The ring they told everyone didn't mean they were engaged, even though they were. A secret only Steve ever learned, something he'll take to his grave.

As they stand before the officiant, holding each other's hands, lost in each other's eyes, and say "I do," Steve wonders if he'll ever find what they have. He wants it, wants it so bad that he can feel it sitting on his chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs. It feels like he's walking through life with Yearning at his side, holding his hand, lying in his arms at night, kissing his lips good morning and good night. It's the longest relationship he's ever had.

After the ceremony, the wedding party mingled while waiters walked around with champagne flutes, and Steve grabbed two and downed them in quick succession. The hardest part is over, he tells himself, now buck up and have some fun, for Robin and Nancy, if not for yourself.

Steve nods to himself and grabs another flute.

He can do this.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Playing in a wedding band was not exactly what he had in mind when he told his uncle that he wanted to make a living with his guitar. And yet here he was with Gareth and Jeff and Grant, setting up their instruments in fucking tuxedos instead of the ripped jeans and leather and chains they usually wear to their concerts. He really doesn't get paid enough for that.

But he does get paid, more than he can say for most of the gigs they play in clubs and bars around town. So wedding band it is. For now.

Eddie's eyes sweep over the crowd, landing on the happy couple chatting with some of the wedding guests. He liked them, especially the taller of the two, Robin (like the bird, he thinks, and it helps him remember her name), because she had also been in a band, and they had bonded over the horrors of being a band geek and theater kid in high school. He had given her a social pariah discount after that.

He lets his eyes wander further, taking in the mingling guests, chattering and laughing in small groups, before they land on a man standing all alone at the bar, and the first thing Eddie thinks is, he looks so lonely, followed by, that's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, why is he all alone when everyone should be drawn to him like bees to the most enticing flower.

Just as he thinks that, the guy looks up from his empty flute and their eyes meet across the room.

Eddie has always been a romantic, but he never believed in love at first sight. Still doesn't, but his heart stutters in his chest and the world around him grows distant and quiet.

He smiles softly at the man, hoping his thoughts don't show on his face. Thinks they might, because the smile he gets in return is dazed, wondrous. Eddie wonders how he's not used to people fawning over him, throwing themselves at his feet, vying for his attention.

Before he can do anything stupid like walk over to the man and catch his perfect lips in a devouring kiss, Gareth taps him on the shoulder.

"You okay, man?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't know, but if you tune the strings any tighter they'll snap."

That's enough for him to tear (most of) his thoughts away from the lovely angel who is standing just a few, endless feet away, and back to what he's doing. It's not his sweetheart, but his uncle gave him this guitar, an acoustic, the one he learned to play on. She's his lucky charm, and he strokes her in silent apology.

When they're all set, he steps up to the microphone and greets the wedding party.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, it's an honor to witness and celebrate the union of those two lovebirds over there," he points to Robin and Nancy, "with you. We're here to give this joyous occasion the soundtrack it deserves, and we hope you enjoy it. Requests are welcome, and the cuter you are, the more likely we are to play them." He winks at the crowd, thinking of a certain someone who could probably ask for any song, and Eddie would at least try.

He's got it bad.

"But first we have the opening dance. Please give it up for Mrs. and Mrs. Wheeler-Buckley."

With that, the two women make their way to the center of the dance floor, hand in hand, and Eddie begins to strum the first few notes. Everyone is quiet as the newlyweds begin to dance across the hall.

As Eddie sings the lyrics to the song the brides have chosen to declare their love, he can't help but look for the man from earlier.

'Cause it's you and me And all of the people with nothing to do Nothing to lose And it's you and me And all of the people And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you

He finds the man looking right back at him, eyes wide and dark as they watch him, and Eddie knows he has to talk to him, has to at least try, because he feels like he's on the verge of something monumental, something terrifying and wonderful and exhilarating.

It's almost an hour later when he gets his chance. They play their last song before the first break of the evening and Eddie can't wait to get a cold beer and smoke a cigarette outside before he talks to Mr-Too-Gorgeous-To-Be-Real.

Only Mr-Too-Gorgeous-To-Be-Real has other plans, because that's when he approaches the stage and stands right in front of Eddie, looking up at him through long, dark lashes and tousled honey-colored hair. His eyes are hazel and droopy, the sexiest bedroom eyes Eddie has ever seen, and he's glad to have a guitar in his lap.

They finish the song and the cute guy starts clapping before he realizes he's the only one and stops with the most adorable blush on his cheeks. Eddie is a total goner. Cute, sexy and a dork? He never had a chance.

Leaning over to him, Eddie asks in a hopefully sexy, sultry voice, "You're cute enough that I would even play Last Christmas if you asked. And I hate that song."

The blush deepens, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that Eddie is dying to see more of. "Oh, how do you know my favorite song?" he says, batting his eyelashes at Eddie and smiling in a way that is both a challenge and an invitation all at once, and before he can help himself, Eddie starts to strum on his guitar.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart But the very next day you gave it away This year, to save me from tears I'll give it to someone special

Eddie feels the stares of his bandmates at his back. They know how much he despises this song, have to listen to his rants about it every December, but he doesn't care what they think. He doesn't want to go home with them.

Pulling his guitar over his head and gently setting it on the floor, he jumps off the stage and lands next to the star of many dreams yet to come.

"I'm Eddie," he says, holding out his hand.

"Steve, nice to meet you," Steve says, taking Eddie's hand in his goddamn paws and Eddie's brain takes a short vacation. He silently thanks a God he doesn't believe in and vows to spend a lot of time on his knees with God's name on his lips whenever his mouth isn't full.

"Steve, what do you say we get out of here for a while?" Eddie knows he's being very forward, obvious in a way he usually isn't. He likes to play with his prey, draw it out, let the tension build. But right now he just wants to ask Steve if he can see him again. Preferably tomorrow, for breakfast at the latest.

Good thing Steve seems to be on the same page, because without another word he grabs Eddie's hand and pulls him towards the patio door leading to the grounds.

They both grab a beer from the bar before stepping outside into the bright May sun. There's a secluded area a few yards away from the main building with a small pond and a bench right under the cherry blossoms, and Steve sits down on it, beckoning Eddie to join him.

Eddie does, sitting as close as he can without being in Steve's lap, and Steve laughs, bright and happy, looking at him like he's something special.

"Tell me about you," Eddie says, and Steve laughs again.

"Like what?"

"Like everything."

Now Steve looks doubtful, almost nervous, as if he thinks Eddie is joking, and Eddie wonders how many people have ever bothered to get to know Steve.

He adds a please through his pouting lips, making his eyes big and round and batting his eyelashes for good measure. Steve snorts, but the lines around his eyes and mouth disappear.

Steve talks until Jeff comes and finds them to tell Eddie that their break ended 10 minutes ago and that he'd really like to get paid for this gig, thank you very much.

Eddie jumps up and runs toward Jeff, but pauses mid-step, turns around, runs back to Steve and tells him, "We're on until midnight, after that I'm free. I really want to dance with you, so please tell me you won't turn into a pumpkin at midnight."

Steve scrunches his nose, confused. "Why would I turn into a pumpkin at midnight?"

"Never mind. Will you save me a dance?"

Jeff clears his throat loudly behind them, and Eddie flips him the bird without taking his eyes off Steve.

"I'd love to."

#steddieweek2023 #steddie #steddie fanfic #stranger things #my writing #fluff #like whoa so fucking fluffy #in my head this is the same universe as my last one - basically their origin story #Ronance #teacher!steve #musician!eddie #modern au

[say-al0e]

Put Up or Shut Up

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Steve hadn’t been looking for love when he drove to Eddie’s, certainly hadn’t expected to find it in the shape of you perched on the soft couch with kohl rimmed eyes and chipped black nail polish, but maybe that’s what made it so special. | ft. “You’re really not together?” “No.” “You wouldn’t mind if I asked her out, then?” requested by anon.

Pairing: Steve x fem!Reader 

Warnings: Set in season 4 but no spoilers aside from Eddie/Hellfire’s existence. No physical description of reader other than dresses in black/alt style, Eddie’s the annoying best friend who is enjoying seeing Steve suffer (in a friendly way, of course), and, uh, I think that’s it?

Word Count: 6.1k

Stranger Things Masterlist 

“No, man, you gotta tilt the - here, let me help.”

Steve huffed, the sound exaggerated and infinitely exhausted, as Eddie - who’d been content criticizing the decorations from the sidelines instead of actually hanging them for the better part of an hour - pressed his cigarette into the ashtray and crossed the backyard to reach for a corner of the homemade banner.

The paper was filled entirely with a hodgepodge of drawings - the only ones with any sort of artistic merit belonged to Eddie and Will - all in celebration of you. It included scribbled messages, little well wishes and inside jokes, as well as a handful of stick figures drawn in your favorite colors. Eddie was right, it was mostly crooked, as were the other decorations Steve had strung up since stepping into his backyard, but Steve knew it would make your day.

A small part of him hoped you might tear up - happy tears, never sad, elated at the thought and love that went into making the day special for you - just so he would have a chance to pull you into an embrace. It would give him an excuse to hold on to you tight, to wrap you in his arms and keep you close as you attempted to keep the others from seeing your red-rimmed eyes, and as pathetic as it was, it was all he could think about as he tacked his edge of the banner a little higher up the fence.

Though silence was unusual for the both of them, a hush that Steve had learned to anticipate when left alone with Eddie befell them as they worked. Their friendship was still uncharted territory, not exactly uncomfortable but not quite established enough to be completely at ease as they were both so different.

It was built around a shared fondness for a group of outcast children - no longer children, teens, edging into that age they both recalled with a grimace as they anticipated the hell they would soon be put through - and had moments of understanding, moments they were completely on the same page, but Steve was often reminded that Eddie had the upper hand.

Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will all deemed Eddie significantly cooler than Steve - Max called them both losers, El liked both well enough - and Steve blamed it all on Eddie’s hair and metal and fondness for Dungeons and Dragons. Still, that was of little significance when something even more devastating was happening.

Somewhere between driving Dustin to Eddie’s for what the fourteen year old menace deemed to be the most incredibly important conversation of all time - it wasn’t, it was about a one-off campaign Dustin wanted to DM, with Eddie’s blessing - and Eddie crashing into Family Video in search of a new horror film with you in tow, Steve developed a crush on Eddie’s best friend.

That first trip to Eddie’s trailer was the first time you met - not really; Steve was reminded that you were in his graduating class, that you sat a row over from him in at least two classes, but he spent most of his high school career with his head so far up his own ass that it was a miracle he’d remembered anything at all. 

When Steve first saw you, you were perched on Eddie’s couch, dressed mostly in black and grinning as you watched Eddie and Dustin roughhouse in the living room. You looked markedly different than the last time he saw you - something he realized after taking a look through a high school yearbook when he couldn’t sleep, flipping pages until he came across a familiar face - but you still smiled at him, friendly in a way he hadn’t expected, and greeted him by name.

There was nothing there at first, other than an acknowledgement on Steve’s part that he found you attractive. Something about your look - messy eyeliner, dark nail polish, and silver rings all topped with a sunny smile - caught his eye in a way it never had before. The shorts and skirts you wore were different than the modest, muted tone pieces he’d seen you wear in high school and he could admit that he appreciated the change.

The more Steve was able to interact with you, however, the more smitten he became.

At first, your interactions were fleeting. Steve saw you with Eddie whenever he dropped Dustin off or picked him up, felt his heart beat just a little faster when you smiled at him and laughed every time you leaned in to share conspiratorial whispers about how the pair of you were being replaced by your respective friends. He saw you when you ventured into Family Video with Eddie, laughing as the metalhead sorted through the abysmally understocked horror shelf with a pout, before you seated yourself on the edge of the counter and asked about his day.

Slowly, and almost without his notice, you became a bigger part of his life. Dustin dragged Eddie - who, in turn, dragged you - into movie nights, all stuffed into the Wheeler’s basement or scattered around Steve’s living room. Robin invited you to swim with them, sat with you under the umbrellas on the deck and laughed as you watched the children gang up on him and Eddie. You began to wander into Family Video on your breaks from the music store across the street, usually with some kind of treat in hand for both him and Robin, just to spend a few moments with people your own age.

Steve imagined you all got along so well because you all lacked friends your own age - he had Robin, now he had you and Eddie - but he soon realized that he genuinely enjoyed getting to know you. It had nothing to do with wanting to expand his social circle beyond a group of children, he truly liked having you around. He enjoyed your company, soon realized that seeing you was the highlight of his days, and was almost upset when he realized that his initial observation that you were attractive had developed into a full-blown crush.

Initially, Steve tried to keep his crush to himself. It would go away - the feeling of liking someone again was novel, juvenile, something he hadn’t felt since Nancy, and he just needed time to get it out of his system, just as he had when he’d initially crushed on Robin - so there was no need to make things difficult. He was glad to have another friend, someone he could count on, and the more he was able to observe you and Eddie, the less likely he deemed it that you would be interested in him, anyway.

However, Steve’s poker face was dreadful, almost nonexistent, and the more time he spent with you, the more obvious his crush became to everyone.

Robin realized it first, not long after Steve did - a realization he felt certain was due to how difficult he found it to just be normal in your presence, how hard he found it to stop thinking about kissing you or holding your hand after he realized his feelings truly were less platonic and more romantic. She’d seen enough of his attempts at flirting over the course of their friendship to recognize the look in his eyes when you wandered in, could see the way his gaze followed your form as you flitted around the store, and was the one who broke the news to Steve that you were single.

Upon learning that you were just friends with Eddie - physically close, comfortable with one another, but just friends - Steve fell even harder and Robin resurrected her scoreboard from the dead. Each interaction with you seemed to earn Steve a tally mark on the ‘you suck’ side of the board but he decided he would take it, just so long as he was able to see you smile.

Eddie was next, slower to realize but able to catch each of Steve’s tells the moment he did, and was delighted by the turn of events. He wasn’t exactly fond of the idea of them together but he was amused beyond belief and made it his personal mission to irritate the hell out of Steve any time he had the chance. Eddie dropped hints so large they may as well have been anvils, hints that landed at your feet but never seemed to make you blink while Steve was constantly on the verge of an aneurysm.

The friendship you shared with Eddie was always physical - one of the reasons Steve initially assumed there was more than friendship between you - but he played it up any time you were in Steve’s presence, always keeping an arm around your waist or shoulders, and grinned each time Steve rolled his eyes.

If you noticed, you never said anything. Though, as time wore on, Steve began to imagine that you simply hadn’t realized. Like him, feelings weren’t exactly your thing - you joked that you sometimes felt like an alien, not quite in touch with them in a way so many other people were - and Steve knew that if anything were to happen between you, he would have to make a move.

And the more time you spent together, the harder it was for him to keep from acting on his feelings.

To everyone around you, it was obvious that you had more in common with Eddie. You shared the same taste in movies, music, books, hobbies; your sense of humor was the same, a little odd and a little sarcastic; you both looked like darkness incarnate, dressed mostly in black, but smiled more than nearly anyone else. Still, you and Steve complemented one another in a way that made his heart soar.

The pieces that were so different - the hobbies, the taste in music and movies and books, the general disposition - filled gaps that had evolved due to your respective comfort zones. Steve could count on you to introduce him to new things, things he would’ve never given a second thought otherwise, while he gave you a glimpse into more popular culture. You brightened his day, gave him reasons to smile that would’ve never occurred to him otherwise, while he encouraged the sarcastic streak he’d only seen you use with Eddie.

Time spent alone, together without Eddie or Robin or the kids, began to happen more often and Steve knew that he was fucked. He didn’t need to remember that he was throwing you a surprise birthday party, hidden away in his backyard with your best friend - with whom he had so very little in common, other than you and the friendship of a wayward teenager -, to be reminded of that.

Still, Eddie never passed up the opportunity to remind Steve of just how bad his crush had gotten.

“Y’know,” Eddie hummed, breaking the silence that had grown suffocating as they worked to string lights along the edge of the fence. “A pretty little birdie told me you like Bradbury.”

Steve wasn’t much of a reader - that was a fact most people knew - but you were and he could hear the implication in Eddie’s tone. A small part of him was elated that you talked about him, overjoyed that you’d talked about him to Eddie, potentially in the same way he talked to Robin about you, but the bigger part was embarrassed that he’d been caught.

The only reason he’d picked up a Bradbury book in the first place was because he was your favorite and Steve knew that was a fact Eddie also had tucked away in his memory. Eddie’s snicker made Steve roll his eyes, even as he felt an embarrassed heat creeping up his neck and settling in his cheeks. “I know this might surprise you, Munson,” he huffed, a little too defensive as he focused on tracking a strand of lights to the fence, “but I can read. I graduated, remember?”

“Ouch.” From the corner of his eye, Steve watched as Eddie recoiled dramatically and threw a hand to his chest. Ringed fingers clutched at the denim and leather, gasping all the while, and Steve sighed as he turned to face him. “Low blow, Harrington,” Eddie declared, though he was grinning as he spoke. “I’m just saying, I never took you for a contemporary American literature kinda guy, let alone a sci-fi kinda guy. I Sing the Body Electric! isn’t exactly a part of Hawkins High’s English curriculum.” Steve spared a glance at the worn paperback - sitting abandoned on the table, left where he’d tossed it the moment Eddie stepped into his backyard with a bagful of supplies - with yellowed pages and dogeared from his attempts to read through it, as Eddie snickered. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

Eddie was right - Steve knew that, had admitted it to himself - but he’d never dream of speaking that aloud. Eddie had enough ammunition as it was, could see right through Steve without him admitting what everyone already knew to be true. Instead of huffing something witty, snapping back with a quip that would make Eddie laugh, Steve turned his attention back to the remaining decorations.

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and help me get the lights up, dude. Everyone will be here soon.”

The party was a joint effort, something he and Eddie decided to do for you with little discussion, and he was glad this was where they’d ended up. As much as Steve loved spending time with you alone, he truly enjoyed seeing how seamlessly you fit into the group of misfits that he loved so much.

Though you were a relatively recent addition to his life, it seemed as if you’d always been a part of it and, as he waited for you to walk through the gate, he knew that he wanted you to continue being a part of it for as long as you’d have him.

Everyone loved you, a fact that was made evident by the effort they all put into helping prepare for the party, and he could practically feel the excitement as they all began trickling into the backyard. The kids had a gift for you - a walkie of your own, just like the one he’d been gifted only a year prior - and nearly blew the entire surprise the moment they heard your car pull into the driveway.

Robin had been charged with keeping you distracted, something Steve knew she would do well - though he’d questioned it when Eddie first proposed the idea, wondering if she would distract you so well she forgot about the party or accidentally let it slip - and stepped through the gate first. He could see the struggle to hide her smile, the way she lifted her hand to her mouth to cover her face, and would’ve rolled his eyes had you not followed so close behind.

The moment you stepped through the gate, the world around him disappeared. You were all he could focus on. The dress you wore was one of his favorites - a dark blue one, just a little shorter than most of the others in your closet, that was always accompanied by that denim jacket covered in patches and pins - and he was left to wonder if you’d worn it because Robin told you you’d see him later. Each time he saw you, he was struck by how beautiful you were; could feel it weighing on his chest, heavy and warm, and curling around his lungs in the most pleasant way.

In the flickering fairy lights and fading sunlight, Steve could see the warmth illuminate your eyes. Just at the sight of all your friends, before anyone could even yell surprise, he saw a burst of something fond and so grateful it almost hurt cross your face as your lips parted in surprise. And when the disjointed yell filled the night air, rang in his ears and settled heavy on his chest, he could see that he’d gotten his wish.

Even in the low light, it was obvious that you were blinking back tears - as tough as he considered you, as tough as everyone saw you, you had a marshmallow heart, easily dissolved by those around you, and it only made Steve fall harder - and Eddie was the first to reach out for you. Though he only held you for a moment, Steve felt anticipatory jitters fill his stomach as you turned to him with a watery smile.

Before he could so much as blink, you closed the gap and tossed your arms around his waist. Steve exhaled at the contact - relieved to feel your warmth bleeding through the layers of your dress - as his own arms wound around your shoulders. His hands pressed to your back, fingers dipping beneath denim to pull you in closer, and he laughed quietly as you buried your face in the cotton covering his chest.

“You’re gonna get makeup on my shirt, you crybaby.” The tease came out softer than he intended, a whisper into the breeze and so fond he knew there was no way you’d take it to heart, as his hands brushed along the expanse of your back. He’d let you ruin every shirt in his closet if it meant having you this close, though that went unsaid as your shoulders shook in quiet laughter.

“M’not sorry.” Though he couldn’t see your face, Steve could hear the grin in your voice - a little watery and just as fond as his own teasing had been - and laughed a little louder as you wrapped your arms tighter around his waist. He was grateful you couldn’t see him, couldn’t see the pink dusting along his cheeks or the red tips of his ears, as you whispered, “Thank you. This is really nice, Steve.”

Desperate to regulate the beat of his heart, calm it to a reasonable hum, and swallow the butterflies swarming in the pit of his stomach, Steve squeezed your shoulder. “It’d be a lot nicer if you took a look around, sweetheart. I decorated.”

Behind you, Eddie scoffed and reached for the pack of cigarettes stuffed into the pocket of his leather jacket. When Robin shot him a look - one Max and El mimicked and held with a conviction that made everyone else snicker - he huffed and returned them as he clarified, “We decorated, Harrington. It was a joint effort, man.”

Steve felt the shake of your shoulders as you laughed, the puff of your breath warming his skin even through the fabric of his shirt, and never wanted to release his hold on you. You fit perfectly in his arms, as if you were made special for him, and the warmth of your body pressed to his filled his chest with an ache he hadn’t felt in years.

Still, there was a party to be had and the knowing smiles of all of your friends made him roll his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten anything done without your supervision, Munson.” Steve squeezed you once more, his fingers pressing into your hip as you laughed, before he released his hold on you and gently nudged you away. “Everyone helped with the banner. Go check it out so you can cry some more,” he ordered softly, grinning as he caught sight of your glittering eyes.

The smile on your face grew tenfold as you caught sight of the banner. It was unlike any Steve had seen from you before, so bright and happy that he’d gladly throw a thousand more parties just to see that smile again, and he couldn’t help but laugh as your eyes watered.

“I don’t expect gifts, but I hope someone got me a box of tissues. Talk about useful.” The joke earned a round of laughter - everyone was starting to realize just how soft you truly were, how easy it was to dissolve you into tears -  as the kids wandered closer to point out their contributions to the banner.

Though you weren’t looking at him, Steve still raised a brow as he leaned against the small table filled with the widest selection of junk food Bradley’s offered. “We were supposed to get gifts?”

Steve grinned as you shot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed playfully, and watched as you shook your head. “You’re the worst, Harrington.”

“Only for you, babe.”

The conversation tapered off then, left with fond smiles shared across the back yard and faded into a buzz of overlapping chatter as the kids swarmed you. He caught bits and pieces as they began recounting details of their day - little moments that earned a comment from Eddie when they mentioned Hellfire or a teasing gasp from Robin when teenage drama became the topic at hand - and he watched fondly as you took it all in stride.

There were gifts, he’d made sure of that. The walkie was the biggest - all the kids chipped in and, when they fell a little short, he, Robin, and Eddie picked up the slack - but there were a handful of little parcels, all badly wrapped, stacked behind the piles of junk. Eddie got you a cassette, some metal band you both loved; Robin, a new bracelet from the thrift store you both frequented. Will painted you a beautiful nature scene, inspired by a photograph you’d taken, Dustin had worked with Eddie to build you your own Dungeons and Dragons manual, and Max refused to tell anyone what her gift was but Steve knew it was bound to make you tear up yet again.

An increasingly familiar warmth, one he only seemed to feel in your presence, settled in the hollow of his chest as he wandered over to a lounge chair. It nipped at his skin like the warmth of summer - fitting, given the scent of your perfume, the way it always reminded him of a warm summer day - and crumbled the remaining desire to try and hide his smile as he observed the scene at hand.

Like him, you had a small family. Your parents were around, always eager to welcome him, Eddie, Robin, and the children into their home, but no siblings and few close friends outside of the people inhabiting his backyard. You once confided that you found solace in the chaos, found it comforting to be confronted with the chatter of a handful of children and a few seemingly out of place young adults, and he swore that was the moment he knew his heart belonged to you.

“You’re staring, Harrington. It’s getting creepy.”

Eddie fell onto the lounge chair beside Steve, soda in one hand and a cigarette in the other, as the kids competed for your attention. You’d been talking to Max, spent most of your time listening as she filled your ears with words he’d never even attempt to guess, and Eddie pointedly kept his gaze on you - eyes following your every move, watching fondly as you moved to ruffle Dustin’s hair - while he glanced down at the Coke in his hands.

There was no way to pretend he hadn’t been caught - no way to pretend he hadn’t spent the last hour observing you, watching from a distance as you relished in the time you were spending with everyone - but this was a conversation they’d had a thousand times already. Eddie caught Steve staring, poked and prodded until Steve got annoyed, and ultimately ended up leaving with you instead of leaving you with him.

Tonight was going to be different, though.

Steve ignored Eddie’s observation, deemed it unworthy of a response, and instead turned to him with a concentrated frown. “You’re really not together, right? No feelings, no secret crush, nothing more than friendship?”

A question repeated a thousand times, asked one too many times to be excused as casual interest on Steve’s part, that never failed to make Eddie roll his eyes. He took a sip of his soda before he sighed. “No.”

It was a conversation they’d had a thousand times by now but that didn’t stop Steve from asking a question he knew the answer to. “Then, you wouldn’t mind if I asked her out?”

Eddie scoffed as he finally tilted his head to fix Steve with a look he couldn’t quite read. Eddie sized him up, eyes narrowed in a concentration Steve wasn’t exactly used to seeing from him, before he laughed. “I wouldn’t,” Eddie assured him, “but it’s not like you’re going to. You were going to ask her to see a movie. Then, you were going to ask her to go to the diner with you. Then, it was that museum in Indianapolis she kept talking about. We’ve had this conversation so many times, I think I can have it entirely by myself at this point, Harrington.”

Steve knew what Eddie meant. The conversation was routine at this point, something they both expected to happy nearly every time they occupied the same space, but he still huffed as he cut his eyes at Eddie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Eddie declared, standing and poking an accusatory finger at Steve, “that it’s time for you to put up or shut up, Harrington. Ask her out or stop asking me the same questions. Not to be a dick, man, but everyone knows. If you’re serious, it’s time to do something about it.”

As Eddie walked away, wandering in the direction of the group - eager to claim the attention of the children and buy you a moment - Steve reminded himself that the touch love act was just that. He’d tried being nice, coaxing and encouraging, and Steve was grateful that Eddie hadn’t given up yet.

Though he could annoy him to no end, Eddie loved you and had grown on Steve in a way he’d never expected. He wanted the best for both of you, his best friend and the guy who - he begrudgingly admitted - made her happy, and Steve was grateful for the push as he watched Eddie nudge you in his direction with a raised brow.

Robin met Steve’s as you crossed the concrete deck, brows raised and the question of whether this would be the moment burning bright, but he ignored it - rolled his eyes, even as his cheeks flushed a warm pink - and let his attention role solely to you.

Before he could so much as blink, you settled into the chair Eddie occupied only moments earlier and tilted your head to grin at him. The night had gone dark around you all, the air had grown cooler, but in the twinkling string lights, Steve still marveled at the brightness of your eyes.

“Hi, stranger. I feel like I haven’t seen you all night.” You hadn’t - Steve knew that - and he was partially to blame. As much as he’d wanted to monopolize your time, spend the night celebrating by your side, he’d been selfish. There were so few moments he was given to just sit, to observe without fear of being caught, and he’d taken full advantage of the chance to watch as you floated around his backyard.

“The kids have been glued to your side. Think Henderson’s annoyed Eddie gave you an out.” From across the deck, Steve could see the suspicious look in Dustin’s eyes as he watched the interaction. As much as Dustin loved Steve - and Eddie - he’d lamented Steve’s crush on more than one occasion and made it clear that if Steve fucked up, there would be no help as he sought redemption. “They all love you. You know that, right?”

That knowledge wasn’t the most important thing in the world and it changed very little - there wasn’t much to be gained from the love of a group of teenagers you known less than a year - but Steve was grateful that you treated it as if it was.

The curve of your lips, a soft smile that you reserved for him, blinded him. Nothing else existed, nothing else compared, and he nearly missed the soft laugh that escaped as you tilted your head to glance at the group who’d since set their sights on Eddie. “If I didn’t before tonight, I totally do now.” He caught the way your eyes lingered on the small mountain of treasure, the few little trinkets you’d been gifted, and felt his skin heat despite the cool night air. “I’m gonna have to stuff the walkie under my bed to get some sleep, though, huh?”

It was a moment of levity, needed as the air suddenly began to feel a little too stifling, and Steve laughed. “Oh, yeah. Can’t tell you how many times Henderson’s radioed me in the middle of the night because he was bored. He spent thirty minutes talking to me about Suzie last week.”

“It’s sweet,” you cooed, grinning at him as you reached out to grasp his forearm. “Young love and all. Max has gotten to the point where she’ll say something about her and Lucas before she realizes what she’s said. It’s too much for my heart.”

Steve’s mouth felt a little too dry, full of cotton and words he imagined should remain unspoken, as your fingers trailed over the back of his hand. He had no idea what shapes you were tracing against his skin, couldn’t focus long enough to decipher them, but that didn’t matter when you glanced at him from beneath your lashes and smiled.

“Who would’ve thought,” he hummed, a little breathless and with far less bravado than he intended, “that the pretty metalhead would be such a hopeless romantic.”

“I wouldn’t call it hopeless,” you teased, grinning as your eyes met. “Hopeful, maybe. An optimist, despite the black clothes and metal. I don’t think you have much room to talk, though, Romeo.”

The thud of his heart against his ribcage sounded a little too loud, felt a little too hard, as you shifted closer. The creak of your lounge chair and the scruff of metal against concrete should’ve grated on his nerves but when you shuffled close enough for him to smell your shampoo, everything outside of you ceased to exist.

“No, I think I’m pretty hopeless,” he teased, light but self-deprecating in a way that made you frown.

“Steve.” The chiding was soft, lacking the necessary heat, but he still flipped his hand to brush his thumb across your palm in apology, anyway.

“You didn’t let me finish, babe.” He levels you with an unimpressed look, lacking any real disappointment, as you shake your head. “Hopeless, but a little optimistic, too, especially when it comes to love.”

“That why you keep going on all those dates?”

Weeks had passed since Steve had last gone on a date. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t really fathom the idea of going out with someone who wasn’t you. But, maybe you had a point. He’d gone on a thousand dates - not really, but that’s what it felt like some days - in search of love, someone to hold close and make laugh.

As his eyes returned to yours, bright and warm even in the dim light, Steve smiled. “Maybe, but I think I know what people meant when they said you find love where you’re not really looking for it.”

Steve hadn’t been looking for love when he drove to Eddie’s, certainly hadn’t expected to find it in the shape of you perched on the soft couch with kohl rimmed eyes and chipped black nail polish, but maybe that’s what made it so special. There was no forcing it, no expectations beyond getting to know someone he should’ve known a long time ago, and though Steve was terrified to fuck it all up, he hoped you’d give him the chance to explore the warmth filling his chest.

“You think you’ve found love?”

The raise of your brows was wary, cautious, but a little amused as your fingers drifted higher to trace the band of his watch. He wondered if you really had no idea, if you really couldn’t see the way he looked at you, especially when it seemed so fucking obvious to everyone else.

“I’m not sure.” His answer was syrup slow, nearly a whisper in the darkness as he glanced at you from beneath his lashes. “But maybe you could help me figure it out, let me take you on a date.”

Wide eyes, blinking slow and a little dazed, lingered for a moment as your lips parted in surprise. Steve could see the flicker of emotion as you processed his request but before he could grow nervous, afraid of what your response might be, your mouth turned up at the corners.

“Depends, Harrington. Where’re you takin’ me?”

Steve’s grin matched yours, a little blinding and a little giddy, as he shifted his body just enough to reach for the small box he’d hidden. “This was going to be the plan for our first date. It gave me a deadline,” he explained, only a little heat flooding his cheeks as he passed you the box, “but it’s in three weeks and I don’t think I can wait that long.  Maybe our first date can be at the diner, or the drive-in?” He missed the warmth of your hand immediately, wanted to chase it with his own, but knew that could wait as he studied you.

“The diner sounds nice, but so does the drive-in. Honestly, I think we could just sit in the park and I’d be happy to call that a date.” The honesty was not new - Steve expected blunt, soft but straight to the point - and felt a little dizzy as your words rang in his ears. “But now I’m curious.” He barely remembered the gift, a rectangular box that was lighter than anything else, until he heard your gasp. “Steve, holy shit.”

Two small pieces of paper - pieces he’d gone to Indianapolis to pick up, nervous all the while on the chance you turned him down - peeked out over tissue paper. They were tickets to see Tom Petty, an artist you both agreed on and listened to amicably in the solitude of his car, away from the teasing of Eddie and Robin and the kids, and he could see the glittering of your eyes as you raked a finger over the paper.

“It’s not metal,” he teased, grinning a little as he pressed his hand to your knee. “But I thought it could be fun. Neither of us have seen him so I figured we could make a day of it. Go to that museum and walk around the city a little, just to explore, before the concert. What d’you think?”

“I think I’m going to cry again. You gotta stop reducing me to tears, Harrington, s’not nice.”

“Not my fault you’ve got a marshmallow heart, babe. C’mere.”

Steve grinned, heart light and head fuzzy, as he pushed himself into a seated position on the lounge chair and held open his arms. With no hesitation, you closed the gap and settled on his lap with your arms thrown around his neck. He could feel your breath fan across his skin, sticky and warm and a little dizzying, as he inhaled the scent of your shampoo.

“Thank you, Steve. I’m so excited.” The words were muffled by his skin, spoken into his neck in a way that made him shiver, and he tightened his arms around your waist as he hummed. “Is tomorrow too soon for a date? I know we’ve both got to work but, you know, maybe after?”

“If I wasn’t worried the kids would trash my house, I’d take you out right now, babe.” He wanted to, would have were it not for the children shouting across the deck, but tomorrow would do. He’d waited months already, could wait less than twenty-four hours, and you seemed to be of the same opinion as you lifted your head to glance at the rowdy bunch as they cornered Eddie.

“That’s fair. Tomorrow, then. The diner, after work?”

When you looked at him like that, soft and sweet and so fucking pretty, Steve would’ve said yes to anything. So, he nodded. “It’s a date.”

As hard as he tried, Steve couldn’t keep the smile off his face the rest of the night. No matter where you went, it was never far and his hand rarely left yours. He was grateful that the teasing had been staved off - likely a kindness granted for your birthday, one that wouldn’t be extended beyond the night - but knew he wouldn’t be so lucky when you were out of earshot.

The next morning, when Steve wandered into Family Video with a spring in his step and a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, he was met with the sight of Robin standing behind the counter. She held her board in one hand and a marker in the other. When he raised a brow, she drew a single tally under the ‘You Rule’ heading.

“Way to go, dingus. You got the girl.”

Steve Harrington got the girl and he was going to do all he could to keep you.

______________________________________________________

Author’s Note: I’m playing softball for the first time in like ten years and I think I have heat stroke, send help. Or Steve. Either one works. I always get so nervous to write Steve. I feel like he’s so ooc. Ugh. I’m trying my best, I promise.

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff​, @valthevalkyrie-main​, @crying-caro​, @inglourious-imagines​

If you’re not tagged, it’s because Tumblr wouldn’t let me!

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #v's fics

[https-furina]

henloooo

congrats on 100 followrrs!!

could i get 4. “it was just a nightmare, it’s okay.” with kazuha please?

✎ just a nightmare.

ft. kaedehara kazuha x gn!reader

prompt: "it was just a nightmare, it's okay."

w.c. 682 words

content: fluff, established relationship, angst undertones for reader w/ past trauma! - minorly hints at anxiety, abandonment issues & attachment issues, kazuha is the most comforting man ever to exist

notes: thank you so much anon! this one lowkey got me sobbing. what a man, i hope i do him justice

kazuha lost track of the time ages ago, in between the scrolls and tomes of poems scattered on his side of the bed. the bedsheets are ruffled on your side, a bare leg almost hanging out the bed from the odd position you're laying in. the only things to keep kazuha company in the moment are the gentle sounds of your breathing and the glow of the pale crescent moon basking inazuma in a cool light. he was unable to sleep, burying his head in endless counts of poetic literature instead of facing the reality that he would be leaving to travel with captain beidou in a mere few days.

there's a noise coming from you, barely audible but it's not your breathing, kazuha determines as his warm gaze falls to watch your sleeping form, tussled under the sheets messily. your breathing once shallow is now laboured and heavy as if you're struggle to grasp at your breaths. kazuha brows knit in worry, shuffling closer to you all while minding his mess of parchment that he is starting to regret. minorly calloused hands stroke at your hair, brushing it from your face - if any. kazuha notices the skin of your forehead is clammy, stray strands of hair sticking to it and kazuha begins to wonder if you're simply hot under the covers. the thought lingers as kazuha pulls the silk flower sheets imported from liyue down your body but he catches the prickling of your skin and occasional shiver from the temperature change - ah, so you wasn't just hot.

it only takes a few seconds before you're crying kazuha's name out into the open air, thrashing as if you're fighting something while he tries desperately to coax you out of your nightmare.

"y/n, love," kazuha's words are soft and hushed as his hands lightly shake you awake. your eyes are quick to widen, startled and panicked as you gasp for air, "deep breaths for me, can you do that?"

"z-zu- storm a-and-" you're babbling incoherently, stuttering and stumbling on your words as you choke out a sob. kazuha pulls you into his lap, resting his cheek against your head as you cry into the crook of his neck. a bandaged hand wanders up and down your back in soothing motions as he hushes you, whispering small words of reassurance.

"it was just a nightmare, it's okay," kazuha coos, pressing his lips to the sticky skin of your shoulder as you hiccup from your bout of crying, "i promise it wasn't real, love."

kazuha cannot help but feel remorse that you'd had another nightmare regarding him travelling with beidou. they were consistent, stemming from your anxiety every time he leaves to go to sea. you have withdrawals in his absence, struggling to cope with being separated for so long - due to this, kazuha has it set up with your best friend yoimiya that you stay with her for his durations at sea. it doesn't fix the hole in your heart when you're without him, like a puzzle missing a piece but it stops you being entirely on your own. you're scared of losing him at sea, tidal waves crashing against the alcor and lightning striking the horizon. he reassures you as much as he possibly can but he knows it'll always nag and eat at you.

his neck and shoulders are damp from your salty tears and snotty nose but he could care less as his fingers lightly trace patterns and shapes onto your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"i love you, zu." you mumble against his neck and the man smiles ever so slightly, his hands going still as he simply hugs you close. he's warm, oh so warm, blanketing you in the most comforting air. it's in moments like these where you realise home isn't the four walls encompassing you but it's him.

his breath tickles the shell of your ear as he finally gets it in him to respond to you, lips brushing against your ear as he nuzzles his nose into your hair, "i love you too."

© https-heizou 2023.

#— 🧁 sugar ‘n’ spice #https-heizou #genshin x you #genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fluff #kaedehara kazuha x reader #genshin kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #genshin kaedehara kazuha #genshin fluff #genshin x reader

[continous-mistakes]

First Fic: Thank You for the Topic of My Next Therapy Session

Crossposted on ao3 Leave a comment if ya like it or have ideas!

Inspiration: BioDad!BruceWayne

Chapter 1 of 4

Marinette has not been having the best few weeks lately. Akuma Attacks are becoming more frequent and violent, Luka has just been turned into an Akuma (again), and she is having to deal with a life-changing revelation (also again!?) that she should have been ignorant of for the next few years! But no. Her Ladybug luck just had to be with her as she opened her mother’s important documents drawer while in search of something significantly less important than what she did find! Her Maman only asked her to find her pearls, but what Marinette found were lies and significant emotional damage.  

That happened weeks ago. She refuses to acknowledge it, so Sabine has no idea that Marinette knows, and honestly? Marinette would like to keep it that way. For as long as possible. Which might not be very long at all with the way this day is shaping up.  

Luka Couffaine, an amazing boy who Marinette genuinely cares about and trusts as a friend and permanent member of Team Miraculous, has been akumatized into Truth (AGAIN! Can Hawkmoth be original? For once?) because she refuses to admit to being stressed and yes she was fine, Luka. There is no need to be worried. Now, he is gunning to expose her secrets. Starting with her classmates who are with them on the Liberty.  

“What is Marinette’s biggest secret?” Truth demands, enforced by the magic eye-thing strapped to his back. Hawkmoth’s really pushing it with these Akuma designs lately. Like, the black with the blue assented suit is nice and the glowing three eyes are a cool touch. What Marinette draws the line at is the frEAKING HUGE HUMAN EYE THAT IS HANGING JUST BEHIND HIS HEAD. Safe to say, she is not impressed.  

“Marinette has a crush on Adrien!” Each student yelled when hit by a beam of white-colored light. Right, the Akuma is trying to find her secrets and should be taken down without getting hit. She can do that. Also, this is exactly why she will not be sharing Ladybug's identity with you, Alya. Just because you are part of the Underground does not mean you are privy to all of the secrets. 

“Everybody knows that! That’s not a secret!” Wow. Like... ow. Truth is just being mean at this point. Marinette can keep a secret! She has been Ladybug, Multimouse, and the Guardian for years with nobody finding out her civilian identity unless given permission. ALSO! She can confidently say that she has gotten over her crush on Adrien Agreste. Was it hard? Yes. Will Marinette always have a soft spot for the boy who was also her partner in cri- heroism? Absolutely. Did she realistically have time between being Ladybug, running the Underground as Multimouse, going to school, completing commissions as MDC, and helping her parents in the pâtisserie for a crush? No, she did not. The stress of doing so was actually the main motivator to let the crush go (unknowingly advised by said crush before the reveal).  

Though it is a bit freeing to know that she now blushes, not from the reveal of her once crush on Adrien, but because everyone still believes she hasn't worked past it. Which... wow, that really says something. Something that Marinette will put on her "deal with later" list. 

Oh no, Truth is looking at her. He must have heard her sigh. Fuck 

“Ladybug, tell me your biggest secret!” he demands. If she was just a bit faster in hitting the deck, she wouldn’t have been hit on her right foot. was touched by the compelling laser. Double Fuck.  

The distinct purple moth mask appears over the face of Truth. Hawkmoth was watching, the psychotic bastard. Marinette has run out of fucks to give. Three is too many.  

“M’lady!” yells her partner, Chat Noir. He must have seen her get hit because he began to run at her, unbuckling his belt. Thank all that is good, for she had the same thought as Chat to use the belt as a gage. The problem with that idea is that it is assuming that he can get it to her before she spills any secrets. You know what they say, assume makes an ass out of u-and me.  

Marinette could tell from the sudden tension on the boat that everyone on that boat, Hawkmoth, and the thousands of people watching on the live stream Alya's blog was hosting were waiting for the admission of her civilian identity. It was what made Chat Noir run faster. What made the students (and Hawkmoth) hold their breath. It was not, however, what was causing Marinette to go through three panic attacks at the same time. No, that went to the knowledge that written on her birth certificate, in the space that was for the name of the birth father, was Bruce FREAKING Wayne. Also, the adoption papers claim her as Tom Dupain’s daughter.  

Her birth father wasn't the man who raised her! The man that she has grown up loving and hugging and bonding over video games with wasn’t her blood. The man who was her blood didn’t want her. And she knows this because she found no divorce or marriage certificates between her mother and Bruce Wayne: meaning he got her mother pregnant in a one-night stand or broke up with her as soon as he found out she was pregnant!  

Then he went and adopted Richard Greyson only a few months after she was born, making her self-confidence dive off the Eiffel Tower! The emotional weight just got heavier as she researched, and Instagram/Twitter stocked her would-be-siblings in the weeks since she found out. They looked so happy and comfortable! Happiness she could have been a part of if she had reached some type of criteria her father had that the others did. Marinette is sure that she would get along super well with them, yet she couldn't be claimed as their sister when Bruce had so easily thrown her away. 

Under no circumstances can she say all that as Ladybug, though. It could lead anyone curious enough to look to find out her identity. Good thing she knew Bruce Wayne was Batman. A startling realization at the time, but ultimately made sense. Didn’t make the feeling of inadequacy any better. Against her will, she opens her mouth and just barely finds the mental strength to switch the names Bruce Wayne and Batman before speaking.  

“My father isn’t my father! My bio dad is Batman, and he abandoned me, and my mother doesn’t know that I know now... FUCK.”  

Silence. Pure silence. Able-to-hear-a-pin-drop silence.  

“...what?” The silence is broken. Chat stands stunned staring incredulously at Ladybug like everyone else on the boat, but with the added layer of actually knowing her civilian identity. If Marinette could see Hawkmoth right then, she would have seen the same state of shock as her classmates. The would-have-been-helpful belt lays limp in Chat’s hand as they all try to reboot their brains. Truth rebooted faster than the others.  

“Why did he abandon you?” Ladybug, mentally screaming, couldn't move before the laser hit.  

“The hell if I know, he left as soon as he found out my mom was pregnant!” An assumption on her part, but pitying and sympathetic looks come from her classmates anyway. Chat is still stunned. The chat on the live stream Marinette had forgotten about stops for a second before rapidly whizzing by with many expletives and shocked face emojis. This will hopefully be a moment to laugh at in a few days... oh Kwami, please. 

“Do you resent him for it?” Ladybug tried to dodge, but her section of the boat was small and open. She got hit.  

“Yeah, a little. He abandons me and my mom and then a few months after I was born, the first Robin comes into the picture. So, it kind of hurts.” At this point, the students are too invested to move, and it is safe to assume that Chat will not be of any help during this fight as he is too far gone.  

“Are you jealous of the first robin?” Ladybug has no choice but to charge head-on and take the laser.  

“I don’t think so. I’m more hurt by the fact that he continued to adopt more kids, but never came back for me. And STOP ASKING INVASIVE QUESTIONS!” He engages her in hand-to-hand combat that has her performing awe-inspiring acrobatics to get around the eye. She lands a solid punch to his liver that has him doubling over just as the next question is asked.  

“Would you want a relationship with your siblings?”  

“I have always wanted siblings, but I don’t know if I can even call them that since Batman didn’t choose me but chooSE THE OTHERS!” Her last words were yelled in exertion as she judo-flips Truth over her shoulder with impressive agility and core strength. She is quick to snatch the akumatized necklace and break it. Purifying the Akuma and Amok, Marinette looks to the sky and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Holy FUCK Batman. Thank you for giving me the next topic of my therapy sessions.”  

The French Government issued a blackout of all things Akuma-related at the beginning of this whole fiasco to keep from attracting the Justice League and their million-dollar guarantee solutions. It did not, however, withstand France's 64.6 million citizens working towards the same goal.  

They loved Ladybug. Like they loved her. She is the hero that created the team they can always depend on to save the day anywhere in France! Much more than the Justice League who had ignored her repeated calls that were sent outside of France and the blackout (It was a busy week for reporters when their beloved heroin had gone public with the ignored request for help. Fuck you Green Lantern).  

They loved her so much that to not only find out that Ladybug is the daughter of the American vigilante, detective extraordinaire, Batman, but that he also abandoned her, their displeasure will not go unheard. Every one of the thousands of people tuned into the Ladyblog’s live stream had saved it, cut it to manageable bits, and then sent it to everyone they knew on every internet platform they were on. 26 hours later, the rest of the world was calling for an explanation for the viral video that kept changing titles to not get deleted.  

The French government had no choice but to lift the blackout.   

As a result, the Ladyblog skyrocketed in viewership and recognition for its consistency in recording the Akuma fights (much to Alya’s delight and her friend's bemusement). Many viewers would just watch the saved live stream. More would watch the rest of the videos. News articles are read, websites visited, and people watched the Duo of Paris and, later, their Miracle Team take down villain after villain, day after day, battle after gruesome battle. With the Parisian public singing their praises, it wasn’t long before the rest of the world adored the Parisian Heros just as much as the locals - if not more so.  

All that the world was waiting for at this point was the inevitable reunion of the "Batfamily" and the Justice League's response to the Heroes of Paris. 

#maribat #bio dad bruce wayne #bruce wayne #batman #hawkmoth #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #batfam #light angst #ish #maribat fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

[andguesswhat]

I wanted someone cute for Willy to have for Christmas, that's all 🤷🏼‍♀️ Christmas fluff 🎄with chocolate balls 🍬 and a bit of icing ☃️

Willy Wonka and the thing called love

*

The thing was this: It wasn't that Willy had anything against love. He loved many things. Chocolate in every imaginable shape and color, he loved inventions in every imaginable form. He also loved people. His mother, for example. Noodle, of course... and the friends he had met at the laundry factory. In a way, he even loved Lofty, the grumpy Oompa Loompa.

But when it came to an intimate relationship with another person, things became difficult. It just never matched with the women who wanted to get to know him better. He really tried, but it hadn't worked. Instead, he had kind of accidentally kissed his best friend once. But of course that hadn't ended well either. The thought of how his best friend, who was no longer his best friend afterwards, had looked at him still made him blush to this very day.

He had long wondered why he couldn't just fall in love with a nice girl and be happy with her. He really had no explanation for it. Except that he had always been different, so he was probably different in love, too.

He had to accept that and had decided that love relationships probably just weren't his thing.

But everyone had needs, of course, and so did he. And because he didn't want to feel bad about it, one day he developed a chocolate all for himself that could satisfy these needs. He took all the ingredients he thought would work - traveling around the world he had found all kind of unusual fruits and plants - and formed them into a round purple chocolate ball in his small laboratory in the factory.

With this chocolate, he would lie down comfortably in the evening between his cotton candy clouds, gently push the ball between his lips and let it slowly melt in his mouth...

The chocolate became soft, spread velvety on his tongue, while the sweet taste of love and lust unfolded and began to flow through his body. The individual particles of chocolate dispersed in every cell... It tickled, his body began to tingle, his eyelids fluttered, he felt hands, he felt lips, he felt hot breath on his skin. His whole body was electrified by these sensations, so that Willy soon began to gasp and pant until he finally reared up --- and whoosh, like an incredible flash of icing - even though Willy unfortunately had already realized early in his teenage years that it didn't taste like icing - it shot through his body, through his lap and out of his body.

"Aaah!" his lustful moans echoed through the factory and Willy was far too blissful to be shocked about that.

Exhausted, he let his body fall back into the clouds and smiled happily.

He had found a solution to his problem. And it was wonderful.

He snuggled into the cloud, content and exhausted, his whole body still tingling slightly, as if he could still feel the caresses on his skin, the gentle kisses...

WAIT!!! WHAT?

His smile evaporated instantly and he straightened up in irritation, his eyes wide... hadn't he felt stubble on his skin, too?

He frowned.

But then something clicked in his brain, which it often did when something was bothering him, something was released that felt like liquid brain chocolate and covered everything which could be called anxiety with a soothing comfort and just like that the unsettling feeling was gone.

The stubble had probably just been a coincidence. Perhaps he simply needed to change something in his recipe. After all, the most important thing was that he had found the solution to his problem. Everything else would work itself out.

But as it was with problems, as soon as you solved one, the next one popped up.

Though it didn't look like a problem at first. Or rather, it looked far too attractive for one.

Shortly after his first attempt with the chocolate, a man came into his store, a young father with his two children to be precise. He was tall and handsome, his clothes were not expensive but not ragged either, from the rims under his eyes he seemed to work a lot or sleep badly, but that didn't seem to stop him from being affectionate towards his children and devoting all his attention to them.

Willy watched him furtively out of the corner of his eye. There was nothing wrong with looking at a good-looking man. Beauty was universal for Willy. There were so many beautiful things in the world, lying in a meadow of flowers in spring, feeling the snout of a giraffe in the palm of his hand, the breeze tickling your nose from snowy roofs. Of course, women could also be beautiful, so why not a man, this man?

With every step this man took through the store with his children, he was beaming more with joy. And if Willy was honest, it always made Willy particularly proud when he could bring out this childlike joy in adults.

When the man with those shining eyes then paid for the two big bags of sweets that his children had filled to the brim, and Willy thanked him for his purchase with a "Thank you, sir!", Willy's heart warmed even more when the man added in a very melt-in-the-mouth dark chocolate voice, "Thank you, for making this day a fairly lovely day."

Of course, there was nothing wrong with this encounter, but when Willy went back to his special purple chocolate balls in the evening and wanted to enjoy them between his clouds, this time after the chocolate had melted in his mouth again and he had felt all sorts of wonderful things, just before he exploded, he had the feeling that those same shining eyes were suddenly looking at him and whispering something to him. In this very melt-in-your-mouth dark chocolate voice.

"Aaahh!!!"

It hadn't stopped him from filling the halls with his loud moans again, in fact, if he was honest, he felt like it was even stronger this time and had almost shaken the cotton candy around him from it, but of course this couldn't go on like this. First the stubble and now this... !

He would have to change the recipe again.

Two days later, the man was back with his children.

"They fell in love with this store," he said, as if to apologize, and something in Willy's body vibrated again at the sonorous voice, so that he forgot to answer for a second.

"I'm glad they did," he finally managed to say, smiling a little nervously, because those shining eyes reminded him of the night he had splashed a lot of icing on that sight.

That evening, he decided to leave his chocolate balls alone for the time being. He didn't want anything else to go wrong. Besides, there were more important things to do: Christmas time was just around the corner and what could be more satisfying than sweetening Christmas for everyone from young to old?

He invented little snowmen covered in powdered sugar, he invented little gingerbread houses that tasted like a cozy evening in front of the fireplace, and he invented little reindeer cookies that blew the cold wind of a snowy landscape around your nose.

On the first of December, the father and his two children came back to the store.

"I've decided that they can choose a little chocolate every day until Christmas. They deserve some little joy every day."

Willy felt a lot of emotions when he heard that. It was a real whirlwind. First of all, why hadn't he come up with this fantastic idea? Every child should be able to sweeten their time until Christmas with a small piece of chocolate every day. Secondly, his heart skipped a beat at the thought that the man would now come into his store every day, and he didn't really want that at all. Or maybe he did? And thirdly, his heart became very sad because he was beginning to wonder where the mother of these children was and the sad look on the face of the lovely man who wanted to be so brave when he said those words gave him a lot of clues.

But Willy now had 24 days ahead of him where he would see this man, so perhaps some things could be found out.

And so it was.

Every time the man came into the store, Willy dropped everything, shot up to the two children, whose names were Max and Thea, by the way, and who were sweet as sugar, had them open a little box with a small chocolate, and while the children played in the store, Willy sat down with the man for a few minutes in a little sofa corner made of rainbow liquorice, slipped him a piece of his favorite chocolate, put his head in his hands and listened to him attentively.

The lovely man's name was Arthur and at the very back, in the most convoluted corner of his brain, Willy thought of the sound he had made when he was lying in his cotton candy cloud and the purple ball had brought him to climax, and that it had almost sounded like that name.

Arthur worked in a newspaper factory and the mother of his children – as Willy had feared - sadly already died, Willy's heart sank when he heard this, she had left them in the spring and this would be the first Christmas without their mother. Despite the amount of work Arthur had, he wanted to be there for his children as much as he could. Fortunately, he still had the grandparents to look after them, but it wasn't easy.

Willy took his word for it and he made a mental note to himself that he absolutely had to invent something for these children so that they would have a nice Christmas despite everything.

Willy really liked Arthur. Arthur was not only very likeable, but also very educated and, above all, very funny. His sadness just didn't really allow it yet, Willy could tell. In any way, as well as they got on, Willy was sure that they would become really good friends.

And so the few minutes of conversation soon turned into half an hour a day, during which the children played in the store and Arthur and he had time to talk about everything. Because Arthur was also very curious to find out everything about Willy and Willy liked the way Arthur looked at him when he told him something from his life. It left a feeling of sugar coated fireworks exploding in him.

Every day Willy could hardly wait to see Arthur again and it made him want to jump with joy to see that Arthur's disposition was getting a little better every day. And though the circles around his eyes didn't get any smaller, his smile widened unmistakably.

But then one day the children came into the store without him and with their grandparents instead.

"Is everything okay?" Willy asked worriedly.

"Yes, yes, he just needs some rest," replied the grandmother, somewhat sternly but kindly. "Working every day, then the children... Every day they come here to the store. Sometimes he just takes on too much. We'll take over the visits from now on."

Willy nodded sadly and felt a little bad at the same time. He shouldn't have extended their conversation like that. Maybe Arthur had just been friendly and hadn't wanted to offend him.

Something in Willy's heart suddenly hurt a lot. Of course he wanted Arthur to rest... but did that mean he would maybe never see him again?

Lost in thought, he handed the children their daily chocolate. He had been so looking forward to showing Arthur his latest creation. But maybe Arthur needed something else this time...

"Wait a minute, please..."

Willy quickly ran into his study. This time he wanted to give Arthur a chocolate to cheer him up and give him energy. He opened the drawer in which he kept his latest creations, pulled out the cheering-up-energy-chocolate, slipped it into a small bag, hurried back to the children and grandparents and handed them the bag.

"Please give this to Arthur with my best wishes."

"Today's chocolate was extra delicious, Willy, thank you very much!" beamed Thea at him and tugged at his coat. And Max said, "No, it was extra, extra delicious today."

Willy laughed delightedly. He had become really fond of Arthur's children by now.

Fondly he waved goodbye to them.

He waved and waved until they were out of sight, and Arthur got lost in thoughts again. He was thinking of Arthur. He thought of Arthur, how he would hopefully feel better again after eating the chocolate. Thought of Arthur eating that chocolate. Biting into it. Biting into the purple chocolate ball..

Willy's smile froze.

What? Wait?? Purple?

Oh, no, that couldn't be true!

He didn't have....!

He ran into his study, hastily pulled open the drawer and there he saw it: he had given the grandparents the wrong chocolate! He had given them the purple ball instead of the pink one! The pink one was still in the drawer!

That couldn't be true!

Oh no, oh no!

He looked out of the window but the children and grandparents were long gone.

Willy sank into his chair in despair. He would die of shame! How could this have happened to him? He felt like crying. He didn't want to lose Arthur as a friend! What would he think of him now? Why did that have to happen?

Frustrated, he lay down on the cot in his study, put his arms around his legs, and didn't show his face in the store all day, even after Noodle's request.

The next day, he still didn't want to get up, his mind still thinking the most terrible thoughts it could think of.

In the afternoon Noodle told him that Max and Thea had asked about him and were very sad that he hadn't been there. But Willy really couldn't face them after what he had done to their father!

"What happened, Willy?"

Noodle was really worried now, and he didn't want her to be. "I did something bad." He really couldn't explain it any further. "Don't you sometimes wish you were different, so you'd be less different from everyone else?"

Noodle thought about it, then shook her head. "Since I met you, not really, no." She sat down next to him on the cot and hugged him. "You're the epitome of how being different can be something magical, something beautiful, something endearing. I don't want you to think that's bad."

Willy looked at Noodle. He wished she was right. He thought of all the beautiful things they had experienced. Of all the people they made happy.

And then something clicked in his brain, because whenever something made him too sad for too long, there was a little explosion of chocolate bits in his brain, like a wake-up call that told him: he couldn't just lie here and mope around forever, he had to do something!

"I'm going to invent a new chocolate, Noodle. There are so many children at Christmas without parents, I want them all to feel loved, to remember this love without being sad. With a tear in their eye, but with joy in their heart, you know?"

Noodle hugged Willy and gave him a big squeeze. "Do that, Willy. I couldn't wish for anything more beautiful for Christmas."

So Willy sat down at his little chocolate inventing machine and started experimenting. If he had already messed things up with their father, then at least he wanted to do something really good for the children.

*

The store had long since closed when Willy was still experimenting. He somehow didn't succeed. Something was still missing. Exhausted and tired, he looked at the bubbling tubes when he suddenly heard a knock on the door downstairs in the store.

He went down to check.

Arthur was standing in front of the door.

Willy's heart sank, so afraid was he of this encounter, but he opened the door carefully nonetheless.

Arthur took off his snow-covered cap and smiled at him lovingly. "I'm sorry to show up here like this... but I... I still saw light…. "

Willy was very glad that Arthur didn't seem to be mad at him, he was adorable as ever. He looked happy. A little nervous, but happier than he had ever seen him before.

Willy hoped that it meant, he hadn't even tried the chocolate.

"Yes, I'm still experimenting a bit. When something doesn't work, something is missing, I sometimes can't stop."

Arthur smiled at him curiously. "Can I watch?"

Willy turned dark red.

He didn't know why. It wasn't anything illegal what he was doing. But somehow Arthur's question felt so intimate.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." Arthur was now uncomfortable, too.

Willy tried to pull himself together, his concerns about whatever were ridiculous. "No, no, of course you can ... watch. Come in."

Willy closed the door behind Arthur and went up the stairs, Arthur following him.

"Thanks for your chocolate, by the way..."

Willy's eyes widened and he quickened his pace. He didn't want to hear anything about that but Arthur unfortunately kept talking.

"I don't know if it was the chocolate and just the fact that you had it brought to me..."

Willy went hot and cold, his steps quickening even more.

"But ... when I ate the chocolate, I thought…”

Oh, no, this couldn’t be happening!

“- of you."

Just at that moment, Willy pushed open the door to his study and said a little too loudly and nervously, "Here we are!"

Arthur stepped in and looked around in astonishment. “Wow, this is... amazing!”

Here in Willy’s study were the most colorful vials and ingredients up to the ceiling. And although it was a laboratory, it didn't look like a laboratory, but had the charm of a cozy witch's cottage.

Once Arthur had got over the initial amazement, Willy pointed to a chair on the wall. "You can take that... And sit next to me, if you want."

But when Arthur sat down right behind him, Willy thought that he would have preferred Arthur to sit against the wall.

It was kind of nice to have him so close, but it also made Willy so incredibly nervous.

He tried to concentrate, looked at the vials… and got lost in time and space.

... and I thought of you.

What was he going to do again?

"What's missing?" he heard Arthur's soft voice say next to him.

"Huh?" Willy turned to him and looked into the most incredibly gentle eyes.

"You said, something was still missing?"

For a small second Willy closed his eyes, he didn’t want to get so lost in those eyes, in that man. He opened his eyes again and looked fixedly at the vials.

"Well, ... the joy is there," Willy said almost absently, "the sadness is there... but... "

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur slowly raise his hand. The next second Willy could feel Arthur’s thumb on the back of his neck, gently stroking the area at his hairline.

"Maybe love is missing," Arthur whispered softly and Willy immediately began to tremble.

This couldn't be right! This wasn't right! What was Arthur doing? But instead of stopping, Arthur just kept stroking him, speaking to him in that soft, loving voice.

"Shh, it's okay, Willy.”

Nothing was okay! He wasn't okay, and apparently neither was Arthur!

Arthur’s hand was now stroking his cheek. Willy felt bad, really bad.

"I'm so sorry I jinxed yo too, now, with that chocolate,” he stuttered. “I swapped them by mistake. I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry..."

Arthur took now both hands and hold Willy’s face, his look almost sternly but his voice still soft. "Stop, Willy, stop."

Willy bit his lower lip and tried not to say anything, just looked into Arthur's eyes that were so gently looking at him and made him feel things he had never felt before.

"My father died young, when I was still very small,” Arthur said. “My mother brought me up with her friend Maria. They were happy together, really happy. And I had the two most wonderful mothers one could wish for. My mother told me, ´If you someday realise you are like me, don’t tell anyone. But if you find the right one, show him your feelings. Don't let the chance pass.´”

Willy’s heart hammered while he tried to process these words.

“Every day we would stop at the window of your store for awhile." Arthur continued softly. "And while the children looked at the display in the window, I would secretly watch you. Your kind nature, your pure, shy smiles. It was only two days, Willy, but I missed you so much. And when I ate the chocolate, I felt you, Willy."

Willy’s mind got dizzy.

He really wanted to believe Arthur, really, but...

Arthur ran his fingers through Willy’s hair and it felt so good, but...

Arthur's lips approached his. He wanted to kiss them so badly, but...

Arthur smelled so good too, he wanted to put his nose in his hair but...

"Can I kiss you?" whispered Arthur softly.

"Okay," Willy replied in a daze, "but -"

But by then, Arthur had already placed his lips on Willy's and it was such a beautiful feeling that Willy's concerns all flew off in a whoosh. Something like this could not be wrong.

His whole body exploded with joy as he finally let all his feelings run free. He hungrily kissed Arthur back, he felt Arthur, Arthur was so beautiful, so lovable, he wanted to crawl into him, he felt so good with him, he was on the sweetest cloud ever.

And speaking of clouds, soon Willy pulled Arthur by the hand into the factory, pulled a few levers so that his cotton candy clouds floated down and pulled Arthur onto one. All his doubts were dissolved, he tugged at Arthur's clothes as much as Arthur tugged at his. He wanted to feel everything, kiss everything.

Only when Arthur crawled down to his lap and suddenly did things that no one had ever done for Willy before, Willy's excitement was mixed with a little nervousness. "You don't... You don't have to..." he gasped, while Arthur lay between his legs, ignored his words and continued, making Willy gasp even more. Willy tried again. "It doesn't taste like..." Oh my god, he didn't know what to do, it all felt so good, he was floating without floating chocolate, but..., but... "It doesn't taste like..." and then it shot out of him, he couldn't help it, "... icing!" he gasped desperately, but by then it had already happened and it was too late.

Before Willy could even think straight again, Arthur had crawled up to him and smiled lovingly at him. "I know. But if you love the person you get it from, believe me, it's as good."

Willy looked at Arthur completely mesmerized, still a little incredulous but deeply relieved.

"Ok, I might try that, too, then?" he said with a smirk, still out of breath, his curiosity slowly taking over.

But when he was about to lean down, Arthur stopped him and looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "Uhm, I’ve already… uhm, the cotton candy was so soft... then the sight of you... it all felt so good, you looked so beautiful. …” He sighed. “I'm afraid my icing might have landed already on your candy floss. I'm so sorry that I have stained it."

Willy chuckled. "Don’t worry. Have you tried the candy floss though? It tastes like cherry mint."

He plucked off a bit of the absorbent cotton and held it out to Arthur. But instead of taking it with his fingers, Arthur grabbed Willy's wrist and tasted the cotton candy right off his fingers, licking them clean.

It made Willy feel all kinds of feelings. It triggered every imaginable fantasy in him, he had a thousand ideas of all the things he wanted to try with Arthur and he was sure that one would be more beautiful than the other.

He cuddled up to Arthur.

"All of this is ... awesome!"

Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and Willy tasted the cherry mint. "Yes, it is, I agree."

"Will you stay with me?"

"As long as you want."

*

The days until Christmas flew by like a dream.

Willy added the missing ingredient of love to the Christmas chocolate and it turned out exactly as he had hoped. On Christmas Day, they distributed them to all the orphanages in the city and gave them to anyone else who wanted and needed them.

In the evening, they had a wonderful, big Christmas feast. Everyone was there, Noodle, Noodle's mother, Lofty, Albacus, Lottie, Piper, Larry, all with family and friends, and of course Arthur with his children.

They ate festively, laughed, sang and danced, it was a magically wonderful night.

When all the friends had happily and contentedly made their way home and Thea and Max were put to bed in their newly built beds of soft marshmallow, Willy and Arthur made themselves once more comfortable on the cotton candy clouds.

Arthur took Willy's hands in his and caressed them.

"I didn't think I'd have such a magical Christmas, I couldn't be happier. Thank you, Willy."

Willy's nose crinkled automatically at these words, he smiled happily, leaned over and kissed Arthur. He was surely the happiest man in the whole world.

"I couldn't be happier either."

If it weren't for the tingling sensation.

And all these endless possibilities of things that were running through Willy's head.

"But?"

"Huh?" Willy couldn't even concentrate on whether Arthur meant ‘but’ or ‘butt’, he was tingling so much.

"You look like there is a ‘but’ to your sentence."

"Nooo, there's not a `but´ to my sentence,” and added quietly more to himself, “at most a ‘butt’.”

Arthur looked at him questioningly.

“There are just so many things I'd like to try out with you,” Willy admitted a little embarrassed but added hopefully, “Would you be up for it?"

"Sure, always. What is it?"

"For example…” Willy took a deep breath, squinting his eyes. “I'd love to bathe in liquid chocolate with you, would you like that?"

He was more than relieved to see Arthur smiling at him curiously. "That sounds delicious. I would love to try that."

The way Arthur had answered, though, Willy knew Arthur didn't understand when Willy wanted to try it, that he didn't want to wait any longer, so he simply held out his hand and started singing softly,

"Come... with... me…”

And Arthur took his hand and let Willy guide him.

*

*** Merry Christmas ***

#wonka 2023 #wonka movie #wonka fanfic #Wonka x OC #Wonka x male OC #timothée chalamet #Christmas fluff #plus some icing and chocolate balls #timothee chalamet #wonka fanfiction #willy wonka fanfiction

[lollytea]

(Part 4 of La La Land Machine exposition posts!! I know I've made way more than 4 but this is the part that's going in chronological order. Like I've talked about Hunter and hunlow in this au before but this is his formal introduction, like Willow got in part 1. I also got quite a lot more followers since I last rambled about this AU so linking the other parts if they wanna catch up. And if they want, they can look through the tag for all the additional info.

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

Anyway, I lied. We are only BEGINNING to talk about the hunlow slow burn. It's taken me long enough to set up Hunter and everything he's got going on. It sets up hunlow but they're not really close yet. But it won't even take that long to get the next post out because I am so excited to talk about them more)

Hunter Wittebane has lived his whole life wearing masks. He's been an actor before he developed object permanence. He was memorizing scripts by ear before he could fully read by himself.

Job after job, set after set, role after role. His environment is not only cutthroat competitive, but it's always in motion. Things never sit still. The biggest stability in his life was his Uncle Philip, whom Hunter loved intensely. Even if it felt like the only way he could express it was by bleeding.

But Hunter was only allowed to bleed in private. And if he wanted his Uncle to stroke his hair back and keep telling him he was special, he needed to prove it. He needed to be the second chance that he was born to be.

Hunter struggles to really understand who he is. Because he is seldom himself. If he's not playing a character, he's only known as the legacy of the Hollywood gem, Caleb Wittebane, Hunter's late father.

Hunter was quite sheltered as a child. Other than being out and about for business reasons, he didn't really get to experience much of the world. If he wasn't working, he was usually confined to his Uncle's house. Or hotel rooms. The only outings he goes on that are considered "personal" are to church.

He loves to read and he'll devour whatever book he gets his hands on. Unfortunately his options are limited to what his Uncle believes is appropriate. Philip views the world as a depraved and lecherous place, as are the people that inhabit it. If it weren't for this world and its poison, his brother would still be alive.

And then he wouldn't need to waste his time replicating his brother's likeness in some aimless weak willed child who can barely comprehend how important his performance is in all of this.

Philip refuses to allow outside forces to contaminate his nephew. If Caleb's soul is going to live on in the way it should have, they can't make a repeat of last time. Caleb's replacement has to remain on the right path, or his legacy goes up in flames.

The Bible is one of Hunter's top comfort reads. It's the only book that his Uncle seems pleased to know he's interested in. And he's pored over the pages so many times that the familiarity is soothing. It also puts the fear of God in him. As do Philip's frequent lessons. He's shaping up to be a very faithful little Christian.

Hunter also watches a lot of (Uncle approved) television. He's a tiny chatterbox but is pretty starved of socialization. If his Uncle isn't around, he's stuck with the family assistant Kiki, who usually ignores him. TV and books are mostly responsible for Hunter's expansive vocabulary.

As a shy but precocious little boy, his best friends are sweet, comforting preschool cartoon characters.

Even though Philip's life seemed to orbit around Hunter and he worked day and night for the sake of his nephew's success, a lot of the time he just....wasn't around. Sometimes Hunter went weeks without hearing from him and was left in the "care" of Kiki.

Hunter was always left wanting. On those lonely nights when Philip was away, he would beg Kiki to call him so Hunter could at least say goodnight. All for the sake of holding the phone tight against his ear and hearing his Uncle's soft spoken "Sleep well, Hunter," so his world felt a little less cold.

If Philip even answered.

But when Uncle was home, Hunter found himself with some very guilty feelings and ungrateful thoughts.

The details are not important. By that, I mean Hunter is quite uncomfortable recounting the things that used to happen in the Wittebane house when his Uncle was home.

He said them aloud once. At the age of sixteen, when his breathing was in sync with the girl he had fallen in love with and her fingers were tracing gentle paths down his bare back. He felt like he had melted into a world where he could say anything.

It didn't stop his voice from wavering nor his throat from threatening to close up. It was like he was having a full body rejection of the admission. These were secrets meant to remain locked up in his chest until his heart went still.

But he said them. And after that, they couldn't go back to being unsaid.

He didn't say them again for many years. It wasn't until he was a grown man. He wrote them down and he told the whole world.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

The point is that when Philip was away, Hunter got lonely and wanted his Uncle back. When Philip was home and focused all of his attention on his nephew, Hunter wanted nothing more than for him to be gone again. He knew that was an awful thing to want and the guilt ate him alive.

Did he not love his Uncle? Of course he did! He loved him more than anything.

That's why it hurt so much.

Sometimes, his Uncle was a comfort to Hunter's anxious heart. He held him in his arms and hushed him when Hunter had nightmares. He was safety.

And other times, he was the reason for those nightmares and Hunter didn't feel like he could be safe until that man was out of the house again.

Maybe, no matter what happened, he'd never be truly happy with any situation he was put in. Maybe the state of "being happy" just wasn't real, but a thing TV made up. There was just something inherently empty and scary about being alive.

At least that's the conclusion the small boy came to. This remained his mindset as he navigated the big loud upsetting world around him, which only got bigger and louder and more upsetting as Hunter got older and his career grew.

The most glaring problem Philip encountered grooming Hunter in Caleb's image was that there's a drastic difference between a man who achieved the most undiluted burst of stardom in his twenties and a toddler. Hunter can not immediately slide into the dignified shadow his father left behind, because he's too young for the kind of dramatic roles that Caleb had dazzled the world with.

There was nothing available to little Hunter that Philip felt lived up to the standards of Caleb in his prime. Which was understandable but disappointing. So, with a heavy exhale, which made Hunter worry the hem of this shirt ("Am I doing something wrong, Uncle?") Philip relented. Hunter would need a lengthy portfolio by the time he was older, so it was now time to start building this budding actor from the ground up.

Commercials, TV appearances, small film roles. Though it pained him to do so, Philip abandoned all the initial integrity he attached to his brother's legacy, and focused primarily on simply getting Hunter's face on a screen, any screen, whatever it took to get him entrenched in the industry.

Hunter was a lot more sensitive than other children. When he was very little, he had a bad tendency to get distressed over things like bright lights and unfamiliar places and weird textures. This led to a lot of on-set tantrums and he was deemed a difficult and entitled brat.

His "brattiness" never quite went away as he aged. But Philip did manage to curb those tendencies to be far less frequent. It involved brief private conversations in the nearest dressing room. When Hunter emerged, he was quieter and a lot more willing to co-operate with what the adults needed from him.

Hunter learned that misbehaving had consequences. He learned to swallow whatever obscure distress he was feeling and just do his job.

This didn't make his tantrums stop. They just shifted from regular occurances to big nasty explosions that build up over a period of weeks to months.

He eventually gave up trying to suppress them. It doesn't work. So, he just allows his emotions to burst out of him in the most humiliating public display a human being can put on, and then takes his punishment.

Uncle keeps telling him that people are going to think there's something wrong with him if he keeps doing this.

Hunter begs him to believe that there's not. There's not something wrong with him.

While it was happening, Philip would consider the 90s as a rocky beginning to his nephew's career. He didn't care much for any of the films or television series' Hunter appeared in, likely because he didn't care much for any production that included small children. So he was uninterested by default in any of the roles Hunter managed to book.

Regardless, this didn't make Philip any less demanding. Even if it was all tripe, and by God, he was very vocal about it all being tripe, he was still strict about Hunter's work ethic. The boy was expected to pour everything into his performance, and through there were very irritating child labor laws, Philip turned a blind eye to directors pushing the limits every now and again.

After long work days, Hunter would listen to his Uncle tear his current acting job to shreds. The stupid demeaning script that Caleb would be appalled at, but Hunter had no choice but to take, because he simply doesn't have the privilege to be picky.

Hunter felt a deep humiliation by his own career before he was even ten years of age. There was nothing that Philip held to Caleb standard, which left Hunter a paranoid wreck most of the time, fearing that he was always doing something wrong but never knowing how to fix it.

When he thinks back on being a little kid, he has a lot of memories of tearfully begging his Uncle to stop thinking of him a certain way or looking at him the way he does. He remembers his throat hurting. Things must have gotten loud.

An older Hunter would wince as he makes that connection. He remembers his throat hurting but not the consequences of raising his voice.

Every so often, a more prestigious opportunity presented itself to him (like the role of the protagonist's son in a film adaption of an American classic), and Hunter got so overwhelmed by the pressure of finally having something that could possibly hold a candle to Caleb Wittebane that he completely flubbed the audition and failed to book the role.

He knows that were dire consequences for not getting it. Although, once again, he doesn't remember the details of the punishment. But he remembers how tightly Uncle gripped his wrist as they walked out of the building. He remembers sitting perfectly still in the car, scared to make a sound by wriggling in his seat. Scared to breathe.

That was the 90s. That was Hunter's experience as a young child actor.

By the year 2000, he was ten and that's when Philip quietly realized something.

Hunter currently resembled Caleb Wittebane in miniature. He had his strong nose, his ashy hair, his dark eyes. Philip had always anticipated that there may be a bit of her in his nephew's appearance, but there wasn't a trace. It was beyond ideal.

This is when things should have gotten easier. This is when dignified job opportunities should have begun rolling in. This is when the world should have taken notice that Caleb Wittebane was not dead.

But this was not the case.

What Philip did not anticipate was that the industry had changed significantly since the 80s. It was the year 2000 and a young Caleb Wittebane was not what the industry wanted the future of film to look like.

He realized this in his study late one night as he obsessed over old video tapes. And once the truth had sunk in, he called Hunter into the room.

Hunter remembers wearing red pajamas patterned with beagle puppies. He has a memory of liking those pajamas a lot but can't recall the disappointment of growing out of them and throwing them away. It makes him suspect that at some point he just stopped wearing them.

On that night, a part of Philip gave up completely. He decided that this attempt of reviving his late brother's career was a failure before it had even started.

However, Philip was a deeply complex man. A remarkably stubborn man. So even when a part of him died, another part flared with life. It was the part of him that wanted to dig his heels in and say he wasn't done yet. Maybe they didn't want Caleb now, but this world was fickle. Who knows what they'd want in five years? In ten?

Hunter would continue making a name for himself, Philip would make sure of that.

Hunter would be something special if it damn near kills him.

And if he fails, Philip would kill the boy himself.

So, Hunter continues working diligently, attempting to find his footing in the rapidly changing environment. The early 2000s seem to be working overtime to distance itself from the 90s and it certainly takes some getting used to.

When Hunter is around eleven, he is told for the first time that he is not very nice to look at. According to various make up artists and hair stylists who he is left in the custody of when Kiki is god knows where, it's very easy to be cute as a small child. Baby fat n' all. But at a certain age, you start outgrowing it and that's when it becomes apparent whether you're going to be a handsome young man or not.

They gently break the news that there are not a lot of promising signs for Hunter. As one of the women, maybe in her late twenties, cups his face in her hands and tilts it towards the light (he really hates when strangers touch him), she sucks through her teeth and winces, as though she's trying to dig something out with her eyes but is coming up short. Nothing about his features reads as a future leading man. He can still have a steady acting career of course. But it's important he not get his hopes up too high. He's doesn't look like the typical Hollywood star.

Hunter argues with her. He riles himself up until his face flushes with rage. He looks just like his father, who was one of the most famous leading men of all time.

"Who's your Dad?" The woman asks.

Hunter frowns. He's never said the word "Dad" in his life. But the full name is familiar on his tongue when he answers the question.

"Oh, yeah," She says vaguely. "I think my parents used to watch his movies. I guess he was what they considered handsome in the 80s but..."

He doesn't like the way she trails off. He doesn't like all the new information being presented to him. He doesn't like her saying Caleb Wittebane wasn't handsome. In the world Hunter lives in, the man is picture perfect in every discernable way. He's never heard a bad word spoken of his father before, not even of the shallow variety. Uncle only lets him speak to people with nice things to say about Caleb. It's so jarring that it makes him feel nauseous. This isn't the way things are supposed to be.

And what's even worse, does looking like Caleb Wittebane not even matter?

Does this legacy he's supposed to carry on not matter?

That's always been one of his biggest fears, but he can not think about it for too long or the meltdown gets bad. But this new realization about his apparently mediocre looks catch him so off guard that he can't help it this time.

Hunter proceeds to hyperventilate in a supply closet for the next twenty minutes. He had never thought about what he looked like before. He had never really cared. He didn't know his appearance could hinder his career. He didn't know everything could fall apart just by having the face he does.

This is when a deep seated insecurity centered around his body image began spiraling out of control. It was also around the time that Hunter's dietary restrictions were being implemented, as were the intensity of his ballet lessons. This certainly did not help his already deteriorating self confidence.

From that point, Hunter is far more conscious of his own ambitions as an actor. He believes he is more than just a little boy who performs because it's what his Uncle tells him to do. He's a young man who wants to become a success like his father before him. He wants recognition. He wants acclaim. He wants...he wants....he wants something that he does not currently have.

As an adult, Hunter can only drag his fingers through his hair and sigh sympathetically at the thought of his young self believing that his determination to be a successful was ever for himself. It was for Uncle. It was for Caleb Wittebane. It was for everybody but himself. He was just a stupid kid who thought he wanted this because he knew nothing else.

The 2000s are a time when Hunter simultaneously starts slipping out of his iron confines, while getting reeled back tighter than ever. As he grows older, his curiosity becomes more and more insatiable and current pop culture is not as easy to shield him from. Especially when it's such a huge part of his life as an actor.

By the age of twelve, he's such a boring obedient self sufficient little robot that Kiki doesn't even bother monitoring him as severely as she once had. What's he gonna do, really?

And though Hunter is adamant that he never breaks his Uncle's rules, he finds himself shattering them to smithereens on a regular basis.

"I like authority. And rules," He says, ignoring the fact that there are piles of teen magazines tucked away under his mattress. Ignoring the hour of TV he sneaked in that Philip would have shattered the television screen over.

And no matter how many times Hunter wrinkles his nose in disapproval at how rowdy and frivolous today's youth are, he's still reading those trashy articles, desperate to find some connection. His small bubble of worldliness is beginning to grow.

It is slowly occuring to Hunter that he is much different than other kids. But that's a good thing....right? He's on a cleaner path than they are. None of them are being led by Philip Wittebane.

This is a good thing, he tells himself. This is a good thing, this is a good thing, this is a good thing--

However, Philip does crack down on an aspect of Hunter's autonomy that has been mostly ignored until now.

Though he tries not to think about it, as it gives him the most splitting headache, Philip must internally acknowledge those rumors from an age ago. The word of mouth telephone that crackled with the events of that one ridiculous party. Caleb Wittebane, age 17(!!!!) with his tongue down some filthy girl's throat.

The news hadn't been as scandalous as Philip viewed it as, and the world forgot about it remarkably fast. But he never forgot. And he never would. It was a pesky stain on the otherwise clean image that Philip was trying to preserve.

It hadn't been Caleb. It wasn't like him at all to behave in such an indecent way. It was her influence. It always was. Sometimes his blood boiled when he remembered how deeply interwoven she had become in his brother's life. How the child wouldn't even exist without her. It was vile. Eternally contaminating a narrative she had no business being a part of.

Obviously, he never told Hunter about all this. About the party. About the tongue. About the girl. He never mentioned the girl. She was a footnote at best.

Anyway, Hunter was almost thirteen. He was tumbling into adolescence. And no matter how singleminded and sensible he tried to act, there would be challenges to this physical and mental development. And Philip knew from personal experience that there was nothing more damaging to a clean Christian boy than fizzling teenage hormones.

There would not be a repeat of last time.

On Hunter's thirteenth birthday, his Uncle gifted him a chastity ring, like many of the other young people that attended their church.

Hunter was so floored by the gift he forgot how to speak. And when his Uncle put his hand on his shoulder and murmured "I know you won't let me down," Hunter had nodded solemnly, suddenly feeling so much older than he had been a moment before.

He now had a responsibility to refrain from things he hardly understood.

Philip felt this would be an effective precaution. It made Hunter feel important and Hunter loved to feel important.

All that concerned Philip was that the boy stick to his morals.

Keeping his stupid tongue in his stupid mouth was only the tip of the iceberg of what the rules of the chastity ring entailed, but Philip stressed the importance of it nonetheless.

And if the boy failed to do this one simple thing, Philip was going to gouge his eyes out.

A few months later, Hunter was hired to appear in an advertisement produced by his family's church. He, and several other actors in his age range, promoted the rings they wore to the children watching at home.

Hunter was very proud to be a part of it. He rarely got to do anything educational.

When Hunter was fourteen, he surprisingly booked a role as Sir William in some medieval fantasy film for swoony teen girls.

He rolled his eyes over it, but this was the point when Philip made it apparent to Hunter that swoony teen girls was a huge chunk of the target demographic of any actor his age so he best begin pandering. He was no Edric Blight (Hunter fucking hated Edric Blight) but he'd probably appeal to some.

The means of obtaining the role was not Hunter's talent alone, but it was because of a perfectionist director who wanted raw, emotionally gripping action scenes, and was disappointed that all the hazardous exploits in the script would require stunt doubles. No parent in their right mind would allow their child to be put in such dangerous conditions.

Enter Philip Wittebane and his nephew Hunter.

The film's shooting schedule had a rough history. And after a few months, production had to stop altogether when an on-set accident resulted in Hunter being sent to the hospital.

He remembers the hospital, specifically the very uncomfortable bed. He remembers rarely sleeping through the night unless he was drugged, as he kept waking up with panic attacks about all the money he was causing the studio to lose by not healing faster.

By the time the film released, Hunter was fifteen and already moving forward with his next project.

The Golden Guard was a TV adaption of a well loved comic book series that was currently in the development stages. Hunter has never read the comic (he's never read most comics, other than newspaper funny pages) but he's been informed that he is the spitting image of the titular character.

Initially he was skeptical. Who wants a famous superhero on their screen who looks like him? Certainly not current networks who have a very limited view of what leading men should look like, regardless of the comic it's being adapted from.

Apparently, a lot of negotiations have been taking place with the Golden Guard's creator, in order to obtain rights to the series. After months of arguing, they wore him down, as they always manage to wear creators down, and he agreed to hand over his baby.

The one condition that he managed to secure was that the boy cast for the screen resembled the boy on the page.

Hunter was fully aware that if it weren't for that old man's stubbornness, there was no way he would have been eligible for the role. He remembered seeing him appear once during a screen test and had wanted to thank him. The speech that fell out of him was flustered and clumsy, but it made the man smile.

"There are going to massacre the Golden Guard," He said with a bitter smile. "But I think you'll do well."

He never saw him again after that. And though Hunter did not have the frame of reference to have an opinion, the girl he would inevitably fall in love with happened to be a huge comic book nerd, being especially infatuated with the Golden Guard. And her opinions were strong.

"He was right, y'know," She would inform Hunter. "Your show is a steaming pile of shit." She would then kiss the tip of his nose. "But you're the best part of it."

Speaking of girls,

Hunter met Emira Blight a year prior when she and her twin brother also showed up for the chastity ring promotional ad. The two of them would have gotten fired for vandalizing the set and pranking the director if they weren't the most well known stars associated with the project.

Someone had tried to contact their mother to come get her children under control but she had failed to pick up the phone.

"Our precious little Mittens has an audition today," Emira explained, hands placed angelically behind her back.

"Until further notice, Mom has forgotten she has two other kids," Added Edric.

Emira smiled. "Like the next time she notices her stretch marks <33"

The two of them burst into giggles. They were left to be "disciplined" by members of the crew, who hadn't the faintest idea how to handle either of them.

Hunter had tried to avoid them while on set. He never had any personal encounters with them but he was well aware of their existence. They had been starring in twin centric comedies for the last decade or so, and were beloved talk show guests for being chatty, mischievous and overall "adorable."

Hunter found them obnoxious.

Edric more so than Emira. Especially lately, as the two were finally branching out into their own separate careers, rather than remaining a double act. Meaning Edric could be found sniffing around in the same auditions rooms as Hunter, going for the same roles.

Edric had a perfectly structured face, devoid of blemishes. He had the most photoshopped nose Hunter had ever seen, except he looked like that in real life apparently. He looked perfect and he was already a star to begin with. The roles were his the moment he stepped into the room.

But this wasn't about Edric. Edric was off somewhere else, performing the leading role in some teen musical movie that was going to become a worldwide phenomenon the moment it hit television screens.

This was about Emira, who had just been cast as Ruby Green, the Golden Guard's love interest.

Emira Blight was one of the most beautiful teenage girls in the entire world. Hunter knew this because he read it in a magazine once. More specifically, she placed 4th on the list, but that was still a pretty impressive accomplishment.

Hunter always had a difficult time deciphering the exact definition of beautiful. It was apparently a far different thing than what you would initially imagine.

From what he had gathered, it had nothing to do with being particularly interesting to look at, but having a nice and tidy face with all its features being a specific size and shape. He couldn't understand how one girl on that list could be in 8th place, while another could be in 3rd, as they all looked so startlingly similar.

That was what beautiful meant, he supposed.

There were definitely people that Hunter saw as beautiful in their own peculiar way. In the way that wasn't correct. Sometimes he saw them in movies from the 80s-90s. Sometimes he saw them in audition rooms, but they rarely booked the role.

Sometimes he even saw them on the street as the car drove past, people who made him sit up and want to look at them a little longer--

Girls. Girls on the street. Just girls. Only girls. It was only girls that he looked at on the street. It was only girls that he looked at ever.

Emira Blight had Edric's perfectly structured face, which made her beautiful in a celebrity kind of way, but also made Hunter want to look at her less. She had Rapunzel hair and a rail thin frame and, much to Hunter's dismay, she was taller than him.

The wardrobe department were given notes to add an extra few inches to the Golden Guard's boots.

"Little Prince indeed," The head stylist had murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Hunter to hear. An furious flush set his face aflame.

There were no screen test to determine Hunter and Emira's chemistry before the latter was cast, which resulted in hours of reshoots where they were chastised for the lack of romantic tension that they were putting into their performance.

To be perfectly honest, Hunter disliked Emira quite a bit and she disliked him too.

She carried her troublemaking tendencies from the promotional ad to the Golden Guard set, frequently wreaking havoc on the cast and crew.

Hunter had blown a gasket and berated her for it several times, but all she had done was smile her insufferable smile, roll her eyes and sing songingly tease him for being so uptight.

She made him mad. So uncomfortably mad. If he pulled the kind of stunts she pulled, without caring about the consequences, he would probably be dead by now.

Emira rarely got angry. Everything she did had this air of impish joy, but based on the way she spoke to Hunter, her opinion of him wasn't exactly glowing.

She called him arrogant, bossy, egotistical, to which he practically exploded in response. And then she made fun of how red in the face he got.

The only time Hunter ever saw Emira as anything less than her usual bombastic self was early in the morning, during hair and makeup.

"Are you washing your face, honey?"

"Yes," Answered Emira, looking smaller than ever in the makeup chair.

"Drinking plenty of water? Eating healthy? Staying away from junk food? Getting plenty of exercise?"

"Yes, yes, yes and yes," Emira's voice was quiet and automatic.

After a pause, she continued "It's not my fault."

The makeup artist hummed, unconvinced, which made Emira grip the seat so hard her fingers shook.

But the woman didn't push the matter any more and got to work on painting Emira's face into the porcelain masterpiece that made its way on to magazines.

Hunter watched in fascination as a few minutes of work with sponges and brushes wiped her skin clear of acne. And then she was what everyone around here would call beautiful once again.

When Emira noticed him looking, she said, in her usual playfully indifferent voice "I think Hunter's eyebags are getting worse."

"We know," The woman replied, exasperated.

The comment wasn't much, but it successfully corralled Hunter into his default mood. Not being enough. Any thoughts about Emira flew out the window, and he was back to fretting about his own inadequacy.

"And he's more sickly looking than usual," Emira decided to add.

"Well, maybe if he laid off the coffee. It's got him looking like a half-dead ghoul. No wonder it takes so long to make him look presentable."

It was a bad time for Hunter to be taking a sip of his takeaway cup. He frowned. "I've been awake since 4:30am."

"You should go to bed earlier then,"

"But I--"

"And kids shouldn't be drinking coffee at all."

"I'm not a kid!"

"Hush up. We've got work to do on this face and the last thing I need is to listen to you bitching again,"

Hunter glowered at her.

"You're gonna have wrinkles before you're 18 if you keep pouting like that."

He was so preoccupied with not throwing a temper tantrum that he didn't notice Emira leave the room.

The worst thing she ever did was while they were filming episode 3 and she had decided that Hunter's uptight behaviour deserved a humbling punishment. He didn't know how but she had somehow managed to break into his trailer and scavenged the place for something embarrassing.

This resulted in his stuffed frog Sprig being paraded around the set in Emira's arms as she declared the toy's owner to everyone who would listen in a high pitched trill. Everybody. She told everybody. Everybody knew about his toy. And now nobody was going to treat him seriously.

And when Hunter finally processed what was happening, all he had wanted to do was cry.

But he couldn't cry. Because fifteen year old boys don't cry. But he wanted to cry so badly that his usual screaming rage was nonexistent. He was just completely deflated.

He silently took the frog from Emira's possession and walked away. She had seemed confused, not understanding why he was not turning his funny red colour and yelling his head off.

She didn't bait him as much after that. She rarely spoke to him at all, outside of filming.

At one point she had randomly burst into his trailer, brandishing a magazine full of women in bikinis.

"For you!" She announced proudly. "A gift."

Hunter was a little slow on the uptake because a bikini magazine being within ten feet of his person was so incriminating that immediately thinking of the consequences nearly made him black out.

When he could speak again, he exploded "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?? GET THIS OUT OF HERE!!"

"No, no, listen," Emira insisted. "I know your Uncle is like. Super Christian--"

"So am I!"

"And I know you're never gonna get your hands on this stuff by yourself. So, I'm helping,"

"Why do you even have this?" Hunter demanded, disgusted.

Emira took more than half a second to answer. "It's Ed's."

As if anything on earth could have made Hunter want to touch the thing less.

"Why..." He began, lost. "Why would you ever think I would want this?"

Emira cocked her head at him, puzzled. "You're a boy."

"Get out."

At the time, Hunter had presumed this to be another means of humiliating him, because he had quickly written Emira off as inexplicably cruel. But in hindsight, she had probably just been trying, in her own emotionally stunted way, to apologize to him. She had known next to nothing about boys and she knew even less about herself, other than she was a thing boys were meant to be obsessed with.

They were both just stupid kids who couldn't communicate properly to save their lives, because they had never learned how.

As a child, Emira ranged from a mild bully to an indifferent co-star, to an acquaintance of Hunter's. As an adult, she was the close friend in his Instagram comments section who kept hitting on his wife.

She still never figured out boys, but she figured out herself.

But again, getting ahead of ourselves.

Despite being the only two teenagers on set, Hunter and Emira did not spend much time together unless they were working. Once she settled down and stopped causing problems, Emira spent a lot of her time across the studio to visit her little sister, who was filming some preteen comedy show.

Hexside it was called. Some some vapid sugary husk of a television production that had magic and witches, yet not an ounce of dignity. Hunter had become quite a ruthless critic when it came to TV and film, mostly because he had spent his whole life in the company of a man with sky high standards.

It also helped him feel better about his own work as an actor. The glass half full method. Maybe the Golden Guard was not going to be the most brilliant show of all time, but at least he wasn't working on Hexside.

He had caught glimpses of Emira's sister a few times around the studio, mostly because her hair had been dyed a bright garish teal, so she was impossible to miss.

There were other cast members scattered about, you could usually tell from the explosion of layers and clashing patterns they were dressed in. Chunky belts, brightly coloured converse, weird pointy hats, jangly jewelry. They were a visual overload.

On one occasion, Hunter was waiting in line at the canteen. He was feeling lightheaded again, like if he didn't eat something in the next hour he would probably pass out while shooting. The last time that happened, it was really embarrassing.

He was a little zoned out, so he didn't pay them much attention at first. But then the poofy tutu-like skirt and zebra print leggings caught his eye, if only for him to wonder how in the Lord's name these young actors ever signed up for this ridiculous show.

It was a girl and a boy and their conversation entailed some familiar words and names that Hunter hadn't heard said in months.

Ah. The movie. The swoony teen girl movie. That had just released in theaters, hadn't it?

That's when the girl brazenly stated "I wanna sink my teeth into Sir William," successfully knocking Hunter straight out of the realm of sensibility.

What. In the name of all that is holy. Is that supposed to mean???

And also.....he's Sir William.

"You want to BITE ME??" Hunter finds himself blurting out, completely flummoxed. Was that a threat of violence? Did she not like his performance? Did she find his voice annoying like those other film critics? He used to get a lot of death threats for that when he was younger but...

It didn't really sound like a death threat. It was was just....absurd. How was he supposed to take this?

The girl whipped around, flashing Hunter with a very bright pair of green eyes. They were blown wide in panic, and she looked at him like he was the one about to bite her.

(He wasn't about to bite her.)

The girl wasn't tall, but she was big. Broad shoulders and a thick chubby build. Her face was rounder than he usually saw in young actresses, and her nose was wide and flat.

All he could really think as he was digesting these all details at once was....she was interesting to look at.

Hunter watched as a fluorescent shade of pink burned across her lightly freckled cheeks and the girl scurried away, flanked by the younger boy, calling after her.

For some reason, Hunter turned around to watch her leave until she was completely out of sight.

He was left more confused than ever.

What did he do that deserved biting? He never found out.

(Well, he found out eventually but....)

He continued to see that girl around the studio sometimes, as well as the young boy that accompanied her, and Emira's little sister.

The bigger girl usually tried to hide whenever she saw him, though Hexside's flamboyant wardrobe department made that nearly impossible. Hunter presumed she was embarrassed by what she said, though he really wasn't all that offended. He had heard way worse. The thing that drew his attention to her was actually the lengths she would go to to make herself invisible. He watched her dive under a table once.

Hunter usually just stared, not remembering until an hour later that embarrassed people don't like being stared at.

Eventually, Hunter and Emira started spending occasional school hours with the Hexside cast's tutor, which resulted in them all being lumped in a room together.

Her name was Willow Park, he learned. And with a little exposure therapy, she stopped blushing every time he was within ten feet of her. Though they still never really talked, she seemed to become a little more comfortable with his existence.

She didn't look at him much though. Or anybody for that matter. She seemed to be very guarded and closed off whenever they were in the school room. Hunter had also noticed that the tutor had to spend more time with her than anyone else.

But Willow Park was not currently where Hunter's head was at the moment. He had other things to deal with.

The recent Golden Guard script had been delivered to Hunter and did not really like what it had to say.

Apparently several episodes of the romantic tension that Hunter and Emira were famously bad at was finally coming to fruition in this big grand dramatic kiss scene.

Hunter did not think about kissing much because it made him feel very weird and squirmy, but he was always well aware that if he was ever kissing a girl anytime soon, it would probably be circumstances like this.

His opinion on romance in general is that he wasn't quite sure if it was something that could really happen in real life or if it was just a concept made up for TV.

First kisses were considered a milestone in the shows and magazines Hunter had secretly devoured. Something sacred and significant. It can't be with just anyone.

Admittedly, it had Hunter second guessing himself a little bit. Is his first kiss important? Or is that just a bunch of silly TV fluff with no grounds in reality?

It doesn't matter if it's Emira, does it? He's read books where first kisses are supposed to feel like you've been electrocuted. But in a good way. He can't imagine being electrocuted in a good way.

He gets his answer on the day of shooting when the kiss is ordered of him.

He should be grateful that they've been directed to keep it chaste. They both wear rings after all, and this is a family show.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, because eyes are always shut when people kiss in movies. And his mouth pricks Emira's mouth. And that's it. That's his first kiss over and done with.

And when he opens his eyes, a little underwhelmed and vaguely wondering why everything feels the exact same, Emira looks disappointed too.

That's when he realizes that the significance of first kisses is all lights and cameras. It's made up for TV. None of it is real.

But what he can't understand in the moment is why he feels a bit sad. There's no reason to feel sad.

But it's an annoyingly heavy emotion that sticks with him for the rest of the day.

They do a million shoots. Or what feels like a million. Hunter kisses Emira what feels like a million times. He had gone from having never kissed before to having kissed far too many times in one day.

And not a single kiss felt like anything but the usual emptiness that Hunter was used to.

During shooting breaks, he thought a little too much about how everything was just going to be like this. Forever. All of his experiences. Scripted. Made up. Not real.

Nothing was ever going to be real.

He didn't usually think about things like that. But now he was finding it hard to think about anything else.

Hunter couldn't sleep that night. You would think he'd sleep soundly when he had to get up before the crack of dawn, but he continued to struggle. Too much caffeine, too much brain bees that never shut up.

Tonight it was that one single thought of an entirely artificial lifetime.

Hunter was never going to be real.

After hours of restless tossing and turning, he left his bed and went downstairs, his footsteps expertly navigating across the creaky floorboards. He would watch something terrible on TV and he'd get so distracted by hating it that he'd forget his own problems.

After pushing a button, the first thing that appeared on Hunter's screen was a familiar girl's rounder than average face and bright green eyes.

Apparently, the Hexside Pilot had premiered recently. Hunter scoffed, making himself comfortable and deliberately tuning into whatever brain rotting stuff he was about to experience.

Unsurprisingly, he hated it. It was terrible. Cheap jokes. Flimsy plots. An obnoxious laugh track. He had never seen a worse show in his life.

Nothing is real, I'm not real, I'm not real, Nothing is real, I'm not real....

The costumes looked just as ridiculous on screen as they did in the studio.

Nothing is real....

The sets were cheap.

I'm not real....

Hunter abruptly paused mid laugh track, and stared at Willow Park's interesting face for an additional moment.

He knew absolutely nothing about this girl. Absolutely nothing.

The character she played was borderline illiterate, and Hunter genuinely could not say how much of her he was seeing was a script and how much was her.

But she was very lookable.

Are you real?

#tw child abuse #a lot of it!!!!! #tw for....belos in general #how do i even tag this. he's really creepy and it delves into a few uncomfortable subjects #some very weird policing of teenage bodies. it is meant to be weird i promise you #tw religious trauma #THATS IT!!! that is certainly a thing that is happening #La La Land Machine AU

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - chapter seventeen

well it's love, make it hurt series

seventeen: it's you I can't deny

series masterlist | prev chapter | epilogue

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 4.7k

Summary: You and Din learn to know each other again.

Warnings: bdsm, d/s dynamics, enthusiastic consent, preestablished safeword etc, dom!din djarin x sub!reader, soft din djarin, din djarin is a good dad, long distance relationship, vaginal sex, oral (m & f receiving), communication, angst, major life decisions, author plays god with the timelines (sorry), canon adjacent?, canon divergence?, no use of y/n

a/n: my friends, this is the end. the epilogue will be posted on December 18.

i love you, and thank you for spending time with these two. it means more to me than you'll ever know.

also um just bear with me about what I've done to the canon timeline. it's only a little wonky.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

9 ABY - Fall

Despite his intentions, you don’t talk every day. It’s just not feasible. And maybe nights pass when you’re already asleep when he calls, but if it happens, he doesn’t mention it. You think he’s still afraid to scare you.

What scares you is how much you wouldn’t mind, and even that isn’t so frightening these days. This is easy, far easier than having to be stuck in hyperspace while you learn how to know him again.

When you ask him to tell you the story of how the kid became more than a bounty, you can hear the smile in his agreement. Can hear how glad he is that you want to talk to him, that you want to know.

He tells you the whole thing, and another night, he tells you about the Purge.

You didn’t ask about that one, could never have. It’s an awful, agonizing story, and it leaves you raw. But it feels important that he shared it with you, allowed you to take on some of his pain, and bear witness to his sorrow.

One night, after a few of radio silence, he calls to tell you he’s in a town on Tatooine. There’s a sick anger in his voice as he describes the man who was not a Mandalorian and the agreement they made.

“Should have just killed him and taken it,” you grumble.

“I think he might be a good man,” Din admits.

It’s high praise, you think, coming from him. He might be the only good man you’ve ever met.

He promises to call after, and you don’t worry, even when several days go by.

You don’t.

The way your body feels warm for the first time in days when he finally calls has nothing to do with it.

You roll your eyes at his story, of how Vanth almost ruined the whole thing by refusing the Tuskens’ drink, of how he blows off defeating a krayt dragon as something simple. It surely wouldn’t have been without him, from the sounds of it.

Later, when he tells you the full story, you take back all of the compliments you had given his strategy and competency. (But you forgive him. He wasn’t wrong, really. You weren’t ready to hear it then.)

9 ABY - Winter

You tell him the things you held close before. The things you kept stitched up, that you thought would make you more of a person than an idea, if he knew them.

Some of them were the building blocks you knew would betray you—the day your parents died. The first time you sucked cock for food. Your first kill.

Stories you’d never shared and tried your best to forget.

Moreso, though, you try to share the little things. The things that you wouldn’t have had to share before when you lived your days side by side.

You bitch about bounties.

You gossip about your neighbor Moshi’s on-again-off-again relationship with the Rodian couple down the street (they’re on again right now—you know because you get a lot less sleep lately).

You tell him how you went to the market for new shoes and came back with a little gorg-shaped instrument that makes croaking sounds for the kid instead.

(“How loud is it?” he asks, with no small amount of apprehension. “Loud,” you tell him with a grin.)

He sulks a little the next time he calls. He wanted to see you before moving on, but the next lead was time-sensitive and drawn out.

“That’s too bad,” you say, voice soft and low.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” He almost restrains the hope in his voice.

You’d laugh, but you’re honestly a little nervous. But it’s easier to say this than any of the other things haunting your mind during those sleepless nights. “Oh, I don’t know. Been thinking a lot about having your cock in my mouth again.”

There’s a strangled groan from the other side of the comm. “Cyar’ika,” he warns.

“You don’t want me to get on my knees for you?”

“I do, but I can’t talk about this right now.”

“You don’t have to talk,” you say. “You can just listen.”

In the end, he has to lock himself in the fresher. When he can’t help but cum, you think you might understand why he likes to have power over you.

He does promise to get you back for it, though. If it’s supposed to be a threat, it’s not a very effective one.

But Din being Din, he throws you off balance. “Don’t you dare touch yourself until I get there,” he says after. “If—if that’s still alright.”

A shudder runs through you. “Yes, sir,” you whisper. It aches in your throat on the way out, but you’re not afraid.

He means to tease you next time. Instead, you know something’s wrong as soon as he calls.

He deflects. He’s not ready to think about it, about Bo-Katan Kryze and what she had said about his people. You let him change the subject without pushing it, but he knows you’re not happy about it.

And he knows that not knowing will be worse for you. That you’ll think he just doesn’t want to talk to you. That you’ll simply shut him back out.

So he tells you. He tells you how angry he is at them for their disrespect. “It’s got to do with why our people were so divided before,” he admits. “I can accept that they have different beliefs about what it means to be a Mandalorian. But—”

“But they didn’t have to be such bitches about it! She straight up said ‘cult’?”

He laughs. Your righteous indignance soothes his anger. “You going to fight her for me, sweetheart?”

“What, you don’t think I could take her?”

“Well, she’s got head-to-toe beskar.”

“But she takes the helmet off, so all ll I have to do is punch her in the face.”

He can’t help but laugh again, grinning foolishly in the empty hull of the Crest.

“You know, you’re being pretty rude to someone ready to fight a trained warrior for disrespecting you.”

“I’m not. I just—thank you.”

“You’ve lost it.” You roll your eyes when he just laughs again.

“I might have,” he admits when he’s settled down. It wasn’t really funny, after all. But the abrupt switch from betrayed fury to the overwhelming affection made him feel happier than he had in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly soft and serious.

“What?”

“I miss you.” It was the first time he had said anything of the sort on these calls. But the danger of setting off your alarms, of causing you to run, seemed so much less these days.

You’re quiet for a moment. You let the feeling sink in and breathe through it. It’s okay, you remind yourself, it’s not a dangerous thing. He’s not asking you to run away with him.

He’s not asking you for anything.

“Yeah, I miss you, too,” you say. You’re quiet, like it’s a secret, and you guess it kind of was. A secret you’ve spilled now, and can’t just wash away.

He doesn’t know what to say. He said it because he wanted you to hear it, not because he ever imagined you’d admit it, too.

But he doesn’t have to figure it out. You surprise him again, and ask, “How far is Corvus?”

“From Batuu? I’m not sure. I’ll look it up later.”

“No, I meant from you, like how long until you get there.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not going there first. I’m coming to you.”

“Are you sure? Don’t delay your mission just because I—”

“I’m not delaying it because you miss me. I’m delaying it because there’s time and I miss you. The nav was set before I called.”

You meet him at the docking bay. Well, you time your dinner around his estimated arrival, but it’s basically the same thing. A compromise you made with yourself.

Rather than waiting there, feeling stupid in public, or waiting in your apartment, still feeling stupid but alone, you’d just get something to eat. Still, you can’t help but watch out for the Crest on the horizon. When you spot it, the nausea you’ve been fighting in the four days since he told you he was coming returns tenfold.

It doesn’t take him long to find you, sliding into the seat beside you. It’s all very smooth, the way he wraps an arm around your waist and presses his helmet briefly to your forehead.

You flush and try to focus on your tip yip and grains.

“You know,” he says, letting you go so you can eat. “If you want to fight people for disrespecting me, start with the di’kut trying to pass that stew off as Mandalorian. It’s a joke.”

You cover your mouth when you laugh so you don’t drop rice all over. “Oh, I know. I told him there was no way it was really Mandalorian. It was edible. My face didn’t even come close to melting off.”

He shakes his head, bumping his shoulder against yours. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle it.”

“Maybe you’re just a bad cook.”

“You never complained about anything else I made.”

“Well, yeah, almost anything’s better than ration packs.”

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he insists. “That’s what makes it tiingilar. It can’t be called tiingilar if it doesn’t make your sinuses burn.”

You grin up at him, eyes bright, before the look falls abruptly off your face, and you turn back to your food.

He’s not sure what he’s done.

But you take a minute, take a breath, and swallow down the terror. “Sorry, I got a little overwhelmed. It’s still weird, you know. To see you,” is what you finally say.

“It’s okay.”

From anyone else, you’d bristle at the platitude, but from Din… well, you know he means it. It really is just okay. You set down your spork. “He asleep?” You nod at the closed pram.

“Yeah, just fell asleep before we landed. Should be out for a while.”

Another grin creeps across your face, sly and pleased. “So, we’ve got a few hours?”

His fingers twitch into fists for a moment. “You, um. Are you done eating?”

You laugh, standing up and closing the lid of the takeout box. By the time he stands, you’re walking down the road. “You coming or what?”

He catches up with you easily, the pram trailing silently behind. “You first,” he promises, taking your free hand in his.

After he parks the pram in the living room, he stops and studies you, head tilted. “We don’t have to,” he starts. “I didn’t—I want to spend time with you, it doesn’t—”

“Din,” your voice is soft as you approach him, winding your arms around his neck. “I don’t think you’ve been talking to me practically every night for months, all just to get your dick wet.”

“I don’t want to screw this up.”

You don’t know what to say, so you pull down on his neck until he leans forward. You press your forehead to his helmet.

His hands find your waist and hold tight. For a moment, you find peace in the solidity of him after only having his voice for so long.

His embrace feels like coming home.

After several reassurances that yes, you did want this, he finally beckoned you to your bedroom without a sound. You found yourself knelt between his thighs at the end of the bed, moving on instinct with him and reading his intent in the line of his body.

“Open,” he says, voice soft but firm.

You obey. The command has you a little dizzy, and how is this so easy? So easy to slip right back into your place at his feet, so easy to just listen.

“Oh, cyar’ika,” he lifts your chin with two gloved fingers, “You want to be so good for me, don’t you?” He’s close enough like this that you can hear the way he croons, voice velvet beneath the crackle of the helmet.

You give a small nod, not wanting to knock his hand away. He rewards you by sliding it up to cup your cheek in his palm. You waver, but don’t melt completely, not yet.

“I know,” he says, running his thumb over your tongue. The glove is rough and metallic, and you whimper with the effort of keeping your jaw stretched open, aching to take whatever he’ll let you. He chuckles, shoving it further into your mouth.

“Go on then,” he says with a slight tip of his helmet. Immediately, you wrap your lips around his thumb, gently licking and sucking on the coarse tip, pushing it deeper so you can reach the leather at his knuckle.

“That’s it. You feel better already?”

You groan around your mouthful, eyes falling shut. He shifts his grip on your chin to the other hand in order to thrust the digit deeper, brushing against the roof of your mouth. It tickles in the worst way, and you attempt to choke down the cough by swallowing more of him. He pulls his thumb from your mouth.

Your heart sinks, but the whine that sneaks out is muffled by two long fingers, two long, bare fingers that are unceremoniously shoved down your throat. He curls them a little, pressing down on the back of your tongue, and lets out a soft groan when you fight the urge to gag by swallowing hard, the soft walls clenching around his fingers.

“There you go,” he whispers, bringing the other hand—now also bared—to hold the side of your face. Between the feeling of his skin against your cheek and the salty taste of his fingers on your tongue, you don’t even notice as you start to slip. Eyes fluttering shut. Drool leaking between his fingers from your stretched lips. He continues to murmur, but you hear little beyond the rumble of his voice.

He taps his hand lightly against your cheek, just firm enough to be on the sharp side. You blink, taking in the way he’s leaning back, head cocked to the side. He pulls the fingers out of your mouth and just sits there for a second.

Oh kriff. He asked you something. “Um,” and your voice creaks a little, “what?”

He shakes his head, neither cruel nor dismissive. “Cyar’ika,” the baritone is a notch lower, “I need you to stay with me for now.” His thumb rubs circles on your cheek. “I’ll help you down when we’re ready.”

“Okay,” you say, little more than a whisper.

“What do you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” His cock throbs a little when a shudder runs through you at the praise.

He can’t wait any longer. He doesn’t think you can, either. You're staring at the line of his cock through his flightsuit.

Despite his urgency, he moves slowly, making sure you’re following his hands as they rub over his length through the fabric. He chokes back a moan and is rewarded for his silence by hearing yours.

Your mouth is still open. Waiting. Your hands are on your knees, fingernails digging in through your trousers.

He pulls his cock out, and you whimper, but don’t falter. “Look at you,” he murmurs, holding himself in one hand and your chin in the other.

He doesn’t make you wait longer, can’t. He holds you in place, groaning as he settles himself on your tongue.

You moan at the taste, and he takes the opportunity to grab your hair and thrust in. You gag but don’t tap out, instead pushing forward to take him deeper.

“Fuck,” he moans, already panting with the effort to hold back. He tries to hold still, to let you take what you need from him. He can feel the way you’re still trying to pay penance for a sin he doesn’t think you’ve committed. He doesn’t like it, but it’s less desperate than when you begged him to hurt you for it, so he lets you offer yourself this way. It’s safer, controlled.

And he can’t say he’s not enjoying being the focus of your worship.

You think fleetingly of him asking you to stay present, and grab at his hand while you drool around his cock. With his fingers in your grasp, you tug a little and whine, throat fluttering around him.

“Go ahead, ner kar’ta,” he says, clasping your hand in his and stroking the other through your hair. “I’ve got you.”

So when you start feeling like you’ll float away, you let it happen. Your mind quiets in the way only he has ever helped you achieve, and with his hands tethering you, you give yourself to him completely.

He fucks into your mouth roughly, now. You take everything he gives, and more, still licking and sucking when he allows. When he abruptly pulls out, you whine but don’t move, swaying a little where you kneel, eyes closed.

“Up, cyar’ika,” he says, and helps you climb onto the bed. You peer up at him as he arranges you how he wants, arms above your head with your hands clasped, knees bent and spread wide at the end of the mattress.

He turns the light off.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper.

The hiss of his helmet follows. Your window is closed, curtains drawn, and no light sneaks into the room. His hands find your thighs and squeeze, reassuring you of his closeness, and giving you warning as he sinks to his knees and licks from your cunt to your clit with no hesitation.

His hands slide down to hold you open, and it doesn’t take long before you’re begging. You had already been soaked from sucking his cock, anyway.

He pulls back minutely. “I don’t know, cyare, you weren’t very nice, teasing me the other night.”

“Please, sir, I’m sorry,” you cry.

His thumb flicks at your clit. “I’m just teasing you, pretty girl. Cum all you want tonight. I’ve got five years' worth to collect.”

And who the fuck just says things like that? But you don’t consider it long, because the second his tongue is back on you, you cum, crying his name.

It sounds just as irresistible as he imagined. He’s already starving, but it makes him ravenous.

He pulls two more orgasms from you before he stands up and sheathes his cock in your warm cunt, swearing as you bear down around him, pulling him in.

“Such a good girl,” he bends over you, your legs around his waist, and presses his lips to every inch of your skin that he can reach. His teeth catch on the line of your neck and the curve of your breast before capturing your bottom lip, pulling you open for him to push inside your mouth. He consumes without restraint, gorging himself on your moans and cries.

When he buries himself as deep as possible and cums, you join him, enveloping him in the heat of your release. He stays rooted inside you, looming over you, as you shake and start to cry.

It’s wrong, though.

It doesn’t feel like the way you used to crack open under his fingers and let him carve out all your distress. It’s not a burst of catharsis or a moment of blossoming under the deluge.

“Cyar’ika,” he cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” you plead between sobs that wrack your whole body. “I’m sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

He carefully extracts himself and lays beside you, gathering you into his chest. “It’s okay. I understand,” he says, even though he thinks maybe something inside him isn’t going to survive this.

You don’t hold him back, arms folded into the space between you. But you do bury your face into him and sob until you can breathe again.

“Din,” you whimper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Can you tell me why?” he asks. He presses a kiss into your hair, though he knows he shouldn’t, not now.

You let out a shaky sigh that threatens to crack into a new round of cries. You shouldn’t let him; you should stop him, but the sobs get stuck in your throat and fade when he kisses you.

It gives you the nerve to speak. “I love you.”

He freezes, baffled. “What?”

“I love you, Din. I thought I could ignore everything and be happy with whatever you could give me, but I can’t do it again. I can’t.” You also can’t stop talking, now that you’re finally admitting it all to him and to yourself. “There’s no place for me in your life, and I just. I’m not doing that to myself. I can’t watch you leave again.”

“So come with me,” he whispers, both your hands clasped in his. It’s still flawlessly dark, but he has his sweaty forehead against yours, and you can feel the curve of his nose with your own. He steals a kiss. “Please, cyare.”

“My whole life is here,” you tell him again, but it feels like a lie with the way your lips chase his for more. Your apartment is here. Your possessions are here. But there wasn’t anything you couldn’t walk away from. That wasn’t really the issue.

“So keep it. Keep the apartment, the connections. We’ll come back after.”

“Din, I—” you try again. The words are scrambling to leave you, only restrained by the horrible anxiety of having to hear the truth spoken aloud.

“Tell me exactly what you’re afraid of, cyare. I can help. We’ve always been stronger together.”

“What happens after?”

“After what?”

“I don’t know. After. When you go home, and I can’t go with you. I can’t do the same thing again, Din; I’m not made for it. Not for what you’re asking me to give in between.” It wouldn’t—couldn’t be casual, this time. Not with the way his love for you has survived the last five years. And if you’re really honest, not with the way your love for him has survived, too.

It’s a petrifying thought. Except it isn’t quite. Not anymore. Maybe it’s why you’re confident in these boundaries, ready to admit you aren’t capable of the same untethered companionship. You’ve loved and lost him enough to know it has to be all or nothing.

And he can’t give you all. So it has to be nothing.

His shaky breath floods across your lips. “What if you could go with me?”

You sit back a little, but don’t pull your hands from his. His thumb is tapping against your knuckle. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m putting any pressure on you. I just want to—it’s just an option, okay?”

“What’s an option, Din? You’re making me nervous.”

He takes another deep breath with a slow exhale. “I think I’ve told you before, but being a Mandalorian is a Creed. A choice. There are no rules about who can or can’t swear it, as long as they’re committed.” He pauses, and when you don’t react, he adds, “and you can walk away at any time. It doesn’t have to be until death. You just can’t come back if you leave.”

You do let go of his hands, now. Not because you’re pulling away from him, but because what you think he’s trying to say is overwhelming. You bury your face in your palms and try to parse his words.

“I’m sorry, that’s—I shouldn’t ask that much of you.”

You put a finger up and remember that he can’t really see. “Shh, just give me a second, okay?”

You mull the concept around. It seems like such a monumental thought, an idea of incredible ridiculousness.

But really, what would change about your life? You would hunt. You would carry a small arsenal of weapons.

What would you lose? The ability to show your face?

It meant nothing in comparison to what you could gain.

“What if I went through everything, and then you decide you don’t want me?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Din. I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, ugh,” you grind your teeth. “I need to know, realistically.”

“Realistically? Then when you kick my ass for it, you’ll be in full beskar, and it’ll be a fair fight.”

You can’t help but laugh, even if it's a weak, shaky thing stolen from your breath.

“Cyar’ika. I have no intention of being apart from you if I can help it. But I promise that if something were to happen, there would still be a place for you with the Mandalorians. We don’t abandon our own.”

It doesn’t quite compute. He knows that. Knows the way that even before your parents died, there was no one else. Everyone always willing to cut you open and take. But, if you do this, you’ll learn.

And he wants so badly to give that to you. A family. One way or another.

He takes advantage of your silence, rolling onto his back and pulling you against him, tucked into his arm, where you should be. He kisses your hair and rubs a hand over your back, nails gliding gently over your shoulder blades. Every touch you let him steal while you think over his proposition gives him hope.

You’re not running. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But you don’t answer him that night. Instead, you let yourself be lulled to sleep by his warm body and soothing motions. He takes it as a good sign when you drift off.

The kid wakes first in the morning. It’s for the best, since he forgot to put his helmet back on when he fell asleep. Din regretfully slips out of bed, tucking you in. He helps himself to your kitchen and starts a pot of caf before working up a breakfast.

He’s frying eggs when he hears you up and moving around the bedroom. He keeps to his cooking, trying to temper his expectations by reminding himself that you very well may slip out the window.

But you don’t. You come out of the bedroom and sit on one of the metal stools tucked under your countertop.

“Good morning, cutie,” you say to the baby, who is sitting in your sink with the faucet running, filling a bowl, and dumping it out over and over. The drain is open, making sure no water accumulates, and he seems fascinated by the flow. He abandons it, however, when he sees you, cooing and reaching his hands out to you.

“I don’t know, buddy; let me grab a towel first.”

Din tosses you one from your drawer without breaking away from his task.

“Look at that,” you tell the baby. “Like magic.”

Din snorts under the helmet. If only you knew.

Actually, he thinks, he should probably tell you.

But later. When he’s not struggling to keep focus, pretending like his hands aren’t shaking, like he’s not waiting while you hold his heart in your palms and decide what to do with it.

While you dry the kid off and let him climb on your shoulders and head, he plates the meal, setting his own aside.

The kid lunges for the plate, but you catch him. “No way, it’s still hot. Be patient,” you tell him.

Din catches himself staring right as you do.

“What?” you say.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head and pries the kid off you, untangling his little claws from your sleep-addled braid so you can eat in peace.

You thank him quietly when he sets the plate in front of you, and you start to eat, though you mostly just push the food around with your fork.

“Did you mean it?” you ask finally.

“Completely.” His voice is thick and heavy with hope.

“You want me to become a Mandalorian.”

It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway. “Yes. I want you to come home with me. I want to be by your side, always, if you’ll have me.”

You hum, falling back into thought, and eat your breakfast. When you’ve finished, you push the plate away and stand up. “I’m going to get dressed. Let me know when you’re done eating.”

He knocks on your door ten minutes later, having taken an extra few minutes to wash the dishes. When you open it, you’re in one of your go-to hunting outfits, and your pack is strapped to your back.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. Take me home, Din.”

*title from "My Blue Heaven" by Taking Back Sunday

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian smut #dom din djarin #make it hurt verse