#every goddamn time it happened the last time i got a call from them too

[ghosthunterbuck]

7x10 coda. beware the spoilers

Three months pass, and Eddie still isn’t used to it. It’s too quiet at home, and too awful at work, and he still grabs two bowls every morning even though he’s the only one eating.

He thinks about quitting, again. Leaving behind Captain Asshole and following Christopher to Texas. He knows he can’t. He’d promised. Eddie clenches his fists and forces himself to finish buttoning his uniform.

He sends Christopher a text, the same one he sends every morning, then shuts his phone in his locker.

“Line up in five,” Gerrard bellows from the loft. “If you’re late, you’ll be scrubbing the rig with a toothbrush, no exceptions.”

Eddie stands mechanically and walks over to the bay.

Another day, another goddamn reason to bury himself in blankets and hide until the world ends.

Buck invites him over for dinner most nights, or offers to go home with him. Eddie says no more than he says yes, but Buck… Buck’s always known Eddie better than he knows himself. He doesn’t stop asking.

“C’mon Eddie, it’ll be fun—you, me and Tommy, we can come up with ways to drive Gerrard insane.”

Buck looks at him, soft and imploring, an expression Eddie rarely knows how to refuse. But despite everything that’s happened, Buck’s managed to carve out a small sliver of happiness, and Eddie doesn’t want to drag him down.

“You go ahead,” he says. “I’m picking up half a shift at  the 136 tomorrow. Need to get some sleep.”

It’s true and it’s not. He is picking up the shift, but he doubts he’ll sleep.

He goes back to therapy, but he never knows what to say. It was all—everything was in his head, last time. It’s not, now. It’s all real, and it all hurts, and no amount of talking about it makes it hurt any less. He says as much to Frank.

“Then why are you here?” Frank asks.

Eddie looks away. “I don’t know,” he says.

That’s not quite true either.

Kim calls him, and Marisol doesn’t. She leaves voicemail after voicemail, apologizing for that night. Eddie can never bring himself to answer the phone. Eventually, he blocks her number.

He texts his own apology to Marisol, but it never goes through. It’s probably for the best—he doubts the message would’ve made either of them feel better.

Eddie needs—he doesn’t know. Before, he would’ve said time. Now though, he’s got all the time in the world, and he’s desperate to get rid of it.

Buck calls. Eddie can’t answer him, either. He lets it ring out, then listens to the voicemail.

“Hey Eds, it’s me. I uh—just wanted to check in. It’s been a couple days. Call me when you can.”

Eddie tells himself he will, but he has no idea when that’ll be.

Christopher doesn’t text him, but he does text Buck.

Eddie never asks what he says, and Buck usually doesn’t offer to tell him.

“Just—he’s okay, right?”

Buck smiles, a little bit sad, and leans into Eddie’s space. “He’s okay,” he says. “He misses you, even if he’s not ready to tell you that.”

Tears streak down Eddie’s face before he even realizes he’s crying. Buck wipes one away and pulls him against his chest.

“What if he never comes home,” Eddie whispers into the soft material of Buck’s sweater.

“He will,” Buck replies. “He will.”

Good morning, Eddie texts on the one hundred and second day since Christopher left. I love you, and I hope you have a good day.

He drops his phone on the table and tries not to hope for a response. A second later, though, it dings. Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat as he scrambles to open the message.

Morning, Dad.

#i've got feelings and making everyone else's problem #911 spoilers #911 #911fic #911 fic #eddie diaz

[dredshirtroberts]

it is not slacking off to write or create it is not slacking off to do things that are fun i am not slacking off or procrastinating right now i'm allowed to do things i enjoy doing for fun including playing games and writing and such

#if i say it enough i will remember it's true #can you guess which aspect of capitalism i'm struggling with today? #it does not help my bones are somehow WORSE than yesterday even after all of the rest i took so that's Super Fun:tm: #so i've got that on in the back of my head #ugh #i... am putting off calling my grandma - i meant to do it last week but i got too in my head about it #and uno reversed myself into forgetting to do it at all until the Worst Times Possible #(generally around Normal Fuckin Meal Times) #i want to call to wish her a belated mother's day and check in re: grandpa but also... #also i don't want to have to do a phone call i don't want to talk to them about anything at all #they stress me out to talk to and it makes me super uncomfortable to be on the phone in general let alone with a Heavy Topic over our heads #like.... i'm comfortable with where i'm at acceptance-wise with Grandpa's whole situation #and i know i am late for a better relationship with the pair of them in general #like i'm not going to repair a relationship that wasn't built to collapse down to this point this is as far as it got built up to #i'm not building more relationship between me and someone who i know is passing soon when they didn't take the opportunity either #like they had just as much chance as me to improve our relationship after i became an adult and they chose to use my mother as #an intermediary which has stunted their connection to me and that's not my fault #i admittedly did not reach out but i was not taught i could safely do that to anyone #because my parents badmouth literally any person they know for one reason or another #i regularly fuck up in conversations with my grandparents because i'll say somethign that is a holdover from my understanding of them #through my parents and it's like. kind of really insulting! and i've been doing it my whole life and i know as soon as i get their reaction #and i can't recover because i don't actually know them at all #so i can't be like ''oh my god i know that's inaccurate i have no idea why i said that'' because i *don't* know until after i've done it #every goddamn time it happened the last time i got a call from them too #like... my bio fam/family of origin is just not good at keeping in touch and i know i'm a product of that #and i know theoretically how to adjust for it but it does require work on the other end of the line too #and unfortunately i know my bio family too well and know they won't do their part #i grew up in the group project everyone hates #and i'm on my way to deciding they can show up to the presentation day without me #i've started a new family project over here with blackjack and hookers

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.

and the smell of camphor dancing in the wind.

✦ info: he didn't know he'd lose you so soon. (come back, please. even if it is just for five more minutes.)

✦ featuring: alhaitham.

✦ warnings: angst, character death (reader), heartache, 1.2k words, somewhat proof-read.

✦ notes: i cried so goddamn hard writing this. why is my first work after hiatus pain. why did i pick up the angst wip. but!! i'm writing again, so that's good. (more notes at the end.)

he didn’t know that it was your last day together. 

he didn’t know that the smile you gave him that afternoon, your eyes sparkling like sunlight upon the serene waves of the ocean, would be the last he’d ever see. that the playful light in your gaze would fade so very soon, slipping through his fingers like sand.

he didn’t know that last night would be the last time he held you close while you drifted off to sleep. he didn’t know that today would be the last time he’d wake up with you.

he didn’t think he’d lose you like this. 

he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to save you from that blow. 

“please, please,”  he begs, both to you and to whatever force that is just barely holding you together. “just stay with me for five more minutes, please. until i can get you somewhere.” 

the rain soaks him to the bone, clothes and hair sticking to his skin. your lips stay motionless, eyes shut.

“wake up, please,”  he bargains. “you can have all the five minutes of extra sleep you want later, i promise. just—”  his vision blurs, and something shines on the ground before it is gone, swallowed by damp earth, lost amidst drops of falling rain. 

desperately, he tears off parts of his traveling cloak to staunch the bleeding. deep inside, he knows it is futile. he knows your wound is too great. he knows what lies ahead. but he cannot help but press the cloths to your wound and pray. 

please, please tell me it’ll be okay. 

please stay with me, beloved. i’ll read you all the books in the world. i’ll sleep in with you everyday, even if we end up whiling away our time. 

please. stay. stay with me. i can’t lose you yet.  

“— just wake up, beloved.” 

by some miracle, your eye flutters. just a bit. just enough to set hope ablaze, just enough for the grip on his heart to loosen a tiny bit. he buries his face in your shoulder, resting his head against your neck, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes. your blood. on his clothes. his hands. everywhere. 

no. no. this can’t be happening.

he feels you strain beneath him, your unwounded arm gently, weakly brushing his back. he jolts upright, eyes trained on your face. you send a frail smile his way. he clasps your face softly as you nuzzle into his palm.

“alhaitham—” 

his full name. archons, how long has it been since you called him that?  

“— take good care of yourself, okay?” you tell him, chest heaving, your fingertips touching a tear on his cheeks. “i love you. so much.” 

those are the last words he hears fall from your lips. he presses a kiss to your forehead, to your eyelids, and to your cheeks and to your lips, over and over and over until he feels your breath slow, hoping they’ll say what he knows he cannot manage to choke out.

i love you. 

he stays there next to you for who knows how long, holding you until the rain slows and a faint rainbow smiles in the sky.

until he can’t smell camphor anymore.

—

every person has their curiosities. 

they’re just the little traits that set them apart from others, the things that make them tick just a little bit differently, the things that make them, them.

for instance, someone may be obsessed with collecting tiny furniture, while another eats the crusts off their sandwich before actually consuming it. someone may have an affinity for the most niche aspects of linguistics, while another can accurately predict the next raindrop that slides down a window pane.

after all, no two people are exactly alike, are they?

alhaitham knows he’s got his fair share of these curiosities himself. his aversion to soup and all things that resemble it, to name one. and with you, he’d noticed two things. 

number one: the scent of camphor that seems to linger on every inch of your person. 

he’d caught whiff of it almost immediately the first time you met. you were but one of his juniors in the akademiya, filled with bright-eyed curiosity and anxiety to match. you had tripped over a stair and bumped into his table in the library, bringing the mountain of books in your arms crashing down.

and with subsequent coincidental meetings, he learnt that the subtle scent of camphor dancing in the air meant you weren’t far away. 

you were, unfortunately, one of the poor souls who seemed to be cursed with constantly recurring minor illnesses, and almost always walked about with a stuffy nose. and so, you always carried a small disc of camphor in a handkerchief, as well as in your pocket.

you swore up and down, left, right and center that sniffing the vapors helped make breathing easier.

‘it’s my grandmother’s remedy, alhaitham! camphor always works wonders. well, that and eucalyptus oil.”

alhaitham may not know the validity of your claim or the legitimacy of the cure, but he knew to never, ever question a grandmother’s remedy. that, and he’d much rather refrain from starting a back-and-forth about something so small.

and number two: your neverending pleas of different variations of ‘just five more minutes!’ 

“five more minutes, ‘haitham. please.” you’d whine grumpily when he woke you up to start your day. “let me sleep in for five more minutes.” 

“five more minutes, habibi,” you’d ask when he put down the story you’d requested he read out to you before bedtime. “read me the part where she finds the music box?”

“five more minutes, baby,” is what you’d tell him when he asks how much longer you’d take getting ready. “you can’t rush perfection!”

those five more minutes were never five minutes long. 

but he’d always, always indulged you and those pleading eyes of yours. as stoic as he appeared to be, you lived in his heart. of course he could never deny you anything under the sun.

—

alhaitham remembers that silly little song you sang over and over, the one you’d learnt from a kid in the bazaar. he’d taken you to see one of nilou’s performances, and, friendly soul that you were, you’d struck up a conversation with some of the eager audience members before the play. 

“oh, how i wish i was a bird flying free,

i’d see the world, every mountain and every sea!

oh, how i wish i was a cloud in the sky,

wouldn’t you like to wave to me as i pass by?”

you’d hum that rhyme on every idle afternoon.

loss is inevitable. he knows that, with how logical and rational and straightforward he is. he’d lost his parents, but he was far too young to remember. he’d lost his grandmother, but she passed in her sleep of old age, serene and wise.

but you? he didn’t think you’d leave him this soon. a singular wish sits in his soul, making its home in his bones. 

a wish that you’d come back, somehow. 

he wishes you gave him five more minutes, just as he always did.  but he knows that you could’ve given him five more hours, five more days, five more years and five more decades and it would still not be enough time spent with you. 

a blue feathered bird comes to perch on his shoulder, interrupting his musings just as he raises his face to the sky. he sees the heart shaped cloud that floats idly above sumeru city.

 he thinks of the rhyme again, and something in him tells him to wave. and so he does. a scent so familiar lingers, faintly brushing his nose in the wind that picks up.

“alhaitham, it's time to go.”  kaveh calls his name softly.

 alhaitham doesn't move. “five more minutes,”  he says, echoing your favorite phrase. “i smell camphor in the breeze.” 

✦ extra notes: my alhaitham characterization for this fic stems from how i believe that when alhaitham is attached, he's attached. so i focused more on that, and less of all that rationality and whatnot. this one loves deeply, yk?

that camphor thing is a real grandma remedy in our household (my mom would tie some in a hanky and put some under my pillow and still to this day reminds me to do it when i'm sick) which is what originally sparked the idea for this

when i'd initially started this wip, i didn't expect it go this way. usually i write with my brain, but i think i wrote this one with my fingers working faster than i can think hsjhsj so sorry if it's kinda out of place lmao but yk what? i'm happy with it still even though i feel like it doesn't have my usual quality.

thanks for reading.

#—🖋 #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗ #astronetwrk #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #alhaitham x you #genshin x you #emotional blabbering ahead in the tags beware #this is hitting me in a place i didn't know existed hjsjs #like. i haven't lost anyone but i have lost my life as i know it? #this past year was full of so many endings and i've been struggling in some way everyday #like i didn't know that the last time i saw my friends would truly be the last time we ever saw each other #i didn't know that i'd be bidding goodbye to my parents as i left home through an airport #ANYWAY ENOUGH DUMPING. ig i'm just telling you to hug the people you love tighter and cherish every moment you spend with them #time goes by really quickly and you don't know where it'll go #ily guys #ew barf feelings </3 /j

[peachsukii]

Burn Out

『♡』  pro-hero fem!reader  x pro-hero bakugo ╰➤ ꒰ pro-hero au | engaged | aged to 23 | bakugo POV! ꒱ -`✧ katsuki bakugo masterlist 

summary: Japan’s #4 Hero, Dynamight, is holding (forced by his agency) a meet and greet with fans - for the fifth time this year - by popular demand. The only difference? It’s three hours longer than the previous four. tags & warnings: fluff, soft bakugo, pro-hero bakugo, reader has a quirk & is also a pro hero, reader & bakugo are engaged! a/n: i thought the idea of reader waiting in line every time he has a meet and greet was such a cute gesture and relaxes him when he’s overwhelmed by fans :) ꒰ Ao3 version | word count; 1,300 ꒱

“I really gotta do this shit for 4 hours?!”

“Sorry, Dynamight. It’s standard hours for meet and greets, plus you get the exposure to retain popularity amongst the public.”

God, what a fuckin’ joke.

How the hell does Deku do this all the time? I’m not a people person, end of story. I’ll sign shit and let them sell it, but actually meeting people? My goddamn nightmare. Especially the damn fan girls, they’re rabid fuckin’ animals. I hate when people only see me a piece of goddamn meat and not a top rated hero.

“Why are you still here?” This agency lady is really pissin’ me off. What the hell else does she want from me?

“Just going over the logistics. You’ll be hosting at a store in Shibuya Crossing from 1PM to 5PM tomorrow. You’ll be doing signatures on pre-approved official photos. We’ll meet at the agency at noon and you’ll get suited up.”

I hate these stupid publicity pricks.

“Can’t I just sign ‘em and you sell ‘em? I really gotta do it in person?”

“No can do, you know the process by now. The hours are just extended to allow as many fans access as we can.”

Why the fuck do fans need “access” to me? They don’t. I’ve got better shit to do.

“Whatever. See ya tomorrow.”

───

It’s almost 1PM and I’m already fuckin’ over being here. Nonstop “do this, not that,” “don’t take too long,” “don’t accept large gifts,” blah blah blah. It’s a damn signing, not a conference, I shouldn’t need to follow some stupid rule book.

“Before settling in for a grueling four goddamn hours, I gotta call my fiancé.”

“Make it fast, you’re set to start in 15.”

Was it an excuse to talk to her? Hell yeah it was. I didn’t need to call her for shit, I needed to get the hell away from that agency lady before I said shit I can’t take back.

Really wish she could sit here with me instead of with the agent with stick up her ass.

───

[y/n] Hey babe, what’s up? I thought your meet and greet was happening now? [Bakugo] Yeah, in 15 minutes. I needed to step out before I sit here for four fuckin’ hours. What are you up to? Sounds like you’re outside or somethin’. [y/n] Nothing really, grocery shopping and boring stuff. Are you nervous? [Bakugo] Me, nervous? Fuck no. I just don’t wanna be here for that long. It’s exhausting. [y/n] I don’t blame you, the last few were much shorter. Do you need me to bring you anything? [Bakugo] Even if you did, I don’t think they’d let me take it from ya. [y/n] That’s so annoying. It’s not like I’m a stranger. [Bakugo] Y’would think so. Fu-dammit, sorry baby, but I gotta cut ya short. This agency bitch has been breathin’ down my neck all week. [y/n] It’s alright. Make sure those fan girls don’t take all of you, I still want my share of the number 4 hero! [Bakugo] Hah, y’know you’re the only one who gets that. I’ll talk to you later baby, love you. [y/n] Love you too, good luck!

───

I. Am. So. Fucking. Tired.

If I hear another person screech over me just looking at them? I’m gonna lose my damn mind - and it’s only 2:30PM.

“Dynamight! You’re my favorite hero, thank you for signing this!”

At least most of the kids that showed up weren’t loud and annoyin’ brats.

“Thanks, appreciate th’ support.”

I’ve signed my name so many damn times that it’s starting to look like gibberish. They wouldn’t even let me use a stamp or some shit like that. Y’think that would appeal to their “access” plan if more people could come and go if it meant signing this shit faster.

───

3:45PM.

Fifteen. More. Minutes.

Exhausted is a goddamn understatement. I don’t wanna talk to anyone for the next 24 hours when this is over.

I’m grabbing the next poster from the agent, tunnel visioned on gettin’ the fuck outta here, when a familiar voice catches my attention.

“Hiya Dynamight!”

I can’t help but laugh. Did she really stand in line this whole time?

“The hell you doin’ here?”

She’s dressed head to toe in my merch - sweatshirt from the winter line, joggers from the athletic set, even her damn shoes are the limited release sneakers from the crossover line with Deku.

“Just supporting my favorite hero. I’d love if you could personalize my poster.”

God, I love this woman.

“Hah, y’got it.”

To my favorite hero, y/h/n, my shining star - love, dynamight

I slide it over the table to her and the look on her face is priceless. Her smile never fails to brighten my day, no matter how shitty it is. Really feels like no one else is here but her in the moment.

“This’ll be worth at least $50 online. Thanks!”

“Hey! That’s special, idiot.”

“I’m kidding, Ka-Dynamight.”

“Did ya wait in line this whole time?”

“I did! I wasn’t shopping earlier, I was in line for you. I wanted to support my soon-to-be husband.”

The high school girl behind her makes a face when she says “husband.” It’s not like our engagement is a damn secret. Can’t help but shoot her a dirty look, hoping she gets the “fuck off” memo.

“Dynamight, 5 minutes until we wrap.”

“Back off! It’s my damn fiancé. I’ll take as long as I want.”

All I wanna do is jump over this table, throw her over my shoulder and blast our way home. Dive onto the couch, crammed together against the cushions and pass the fuck out to the sound of TV static.

“It’s okay, I’ll let you go.”

She leans over the table to whisper, “I’ll see you at home, baby. Love you!”

I don’t really care who hears. I shouldn’t have to fuckin’ whisper to my soon-to-be wife in public.

“Love you too. Thanks, sweets. You’re the best.”

Fuck, her ass looks damn good in those joggers. I’ll never get tired of watching her walk away. The way she sways her hips when she walks is dangerous game for me.

“Alright, Dynamight. Last one.”

Thank fucking god.

“Hey, thanks for-”

“Was that your fiancé?”

These damn high school girls are such a pain in the ass.

“…yes. What of it?”

“Isn’t she, like, number 42 or something super low ranked?”

Not fallin’ for whatever shit she’s trying to pull. I sign the poster and slide it over to her, hoping she shuts the hell up and leaves.

“What, I can’t get a personalized photo like her?”

Well, she asked for it.

“Fine, give it back.”

number 42 and still better than you. fuck you - dynamight

I shove the poster back to her roughly on purpose, crinkling the edge against her stupid long claws-for-nails that were tapping impatiently on the table.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Learn some damn manners.”

I don't feel any remorse as the stupid agent starts scolding me for "mistreating fans." The brat had it comin', what can I say?

"I'm outta here. Later."

"Wait, Dynamight, you need to -"

"No, I don't. Not my problem. I'm done."

───

Finally, home sweet home. "Hey baby, I'm home."

"Hey Kats! Made you some early dinner on the stove and the blanket is nice and toasty for you."

When did she even have time to do that? It's only been 45 minutes.

"Damn, what are ya, superwoman?"

"Hah, I wish. Have you checked your phone yet?"

"...No, why?"

She laughs. "#dynamight is trending again. Somethin' about you signing 'fuck off' on a fan's poster?"

Oops.

"Yeah, well I -"

"Fuck her, she's lucky I didn't smack her upside the head."

And that's why I'm marrying her.

Just a cute little "Bakugo hates people" fluff lol

#bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #pro hero bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #pro hero bakugo #bakugo x y/n #bakugo x you #bnha #mha #katsuki bakugo #☆.rei writes

[bonelotus]

Eddie Munson brain dump because I have too many thoughts to keep contained: Mild NSFW. MDNI

-He has the best hugs. You know the ones where you feel completely safe in their arms? Like nothing bad can happen as long as they're holding you? His hugs are like that.

-This boy is so starved for affection. We saw the way he gave Chrissy a discount just for being nice to him. Anytime you say something sweet or give him a gentle touch he just fucking melts.

-Aftercare king. He can get a little mean when he's in dom!space but afterwards he treats you like a goddamn queen.

-Speaking of queen, absolutely calls you stuff like Princess, Honey, Sweetheart. Refers to you and his guitar as 'his girls'.

-One time, you call him "dungeon master" jokingly but it turns out he really likes it. After that he always makes you call him "master" whenever you're fucking.

-Loves fucking you so good that you cry. At first, he was scared, thinking he hurt you (too much) but once he figured out the tears are a good sign he can't get enough of them.

-Has plenty of experience from the girls in Hawkins wanting to get some strange but has never actually been a relationship before you.

-You can never decide what he's most talented with, his tongue, his fingers or his cock. No matter what he's using, you're coming at least three times before he lets up (unless you've been bad and he's denying you orgasms.)

-Is an absolute dom but secretly gets a thrill and thinks it's ridiculously hot on the rare occasion when you take control.

-The mouth on this man is absolutely filthy. Once he knows you're into both degradation and praise he literally will not shut up when your fucking. Even when he's beyond words he's got the most beautiful moans and grunts.

-His hipbones and happy trail have you changing religion. Forget communion, you've got a new god to get on your knees to worship.

-Will make a point to kiss every part of your body that you're self-conscious about. Seriously, if you've got a hang-up about so much as your fucking fingernails, each one's getting a smooch.

-Fucking adores really sloppy blowjobs with just a hint of teeth.

-But he loves giving head even more than getting it. Eats pussy like a starving man getting his last meal. Would have you sit on his face all day if you let him.

-Loves marking you. Hickies, love bites, bruises shaped like his hands. Wants anyone who so much as glances at you to now that you're owned.

-The first time you get together, you're teasing him, telling him he isn't mean. Saying something like "You're such a sweetheart, the only time you can even pretend to be mean is when you're dungeon master." Eventually he gets fed up and pins you to the wall by your neck. He can feel your throat bob against his palm and you choke out, "I don't think this is having exactly the effect you intended it to, Munson." And when he looks down and sees you rubbing your thighs together the smirk on his face is pure sin.

#eddie munson #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #eddie munson x Reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x reader #eddie x fem!reader

[ramblers-lets-get-ramblin]

[Sin]ema- ex fiance!Frankie Morales x fat! female reader

Main Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Paring: ex husband!Frankie x fat/curvy/plus size! female reader

Summary: You are unhappy in your marriage but trying to hang on. When you ask your husband to spend more time with you, he thinks a movie date is in order. You don't expect to run into your ex fiance, Frankie, and his new wife there.

Rating: E for EXPLICIT MDNI 18+

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: infidelity, unprotected PIV, oral sex f!receiving, creampie, body insecurity, smoking- there are a few things I'm not tagging so as to not spoil them but they are tame.

Notes: I wrote this a while back in response to that dumbass anon and for some reason I just totally forgot about it!

When you told your husband that you wanted to spend more time together, this isn’t what you had in mind. You were hoping for something more like dinner. Out at a restaurant or a quiet night in, it didn’t matter to you. You just wanted to talk. Something your husband has no interest in. As evidenced by the fact that he brought you to the one place you couldn’t talk for your date.  Some days you find yourself wondering if this is all you’ll have to look forward to for the rest of your life. 

You only married him because that was the logical next step. Your whole relationship was just one milestone to the next, as dictated by the expectations society has set for you. Especially for women who look like you. Growing up in the 90s meant you were bombarded daily by the “heroin chic” look that was on the cover of every magazine. You could count the ribs of the models. By the time you hit high school, you had already been taught, however indirectly, that you weren’t pretty enough. There was too much of you. The fat girls in all the rom-coms were always the comic relief. The one someone had to “take one for the team” with. The one who had to settle for what she was given. 

To be fair, your husband never made you feel this way. He was genuinely interested in you. In who you are as a person. But somehow, it always felt like he loved you in spite of. Sure, you were what people would politely call “chubby,” but he loved you anyway. You had learned to love yourself years ago. Not in spite of your body, but because of it. Stretch marks, cellulite and all. You probably wouldn’t even know the difference between someone loving you just the way you are, and someone loving you anyway , if it hadn’t been for Frankie. 

Frankie had been the first man to see you for exactly who you were. Not someone who he could love if you just lost those twenty little pounds. Not someone he could diet and exercise you into being. Just you. And goddamn had he loved you. Every inch. Every roll. Every stretch mark. He reveled in the softness of your body. He worshiped at the altar that lay between your plump thighs. 

But, such things weren’t meant to last. You were engaged to be married, but something happened to him after his first tour overseas. When he came home he wasn’t the same man he had been before. He didn’t laugh as much. His eyes had a far-off look to them. As if he wasn’t really present anymore. He fucked you with an urgency, a fervor, that he never had before. Held on too tightly. Almost like you’d float away if he didn’t. Or he would, you were never really sure which. 

When he came home from his second tour he called off the wedding. Told you that you deserved better. He didn’t believe you when you said there was nobody better for you than him. When you think about what your life has become you almost want to say “joke’s on him.” Is it really, though? Perhaps the joke has always been on you. 

It feels strange to think of him after all these years, seemingly out of the blue. Especially since, or maybe because, you are concerned about the state of your marriage. You’d heard he got married a few years ago. You wonder if he ever thinks of you. Finally, it's your turn to hand your tickets to the theater employee. You don’t even remember the name of the film you are seeing. Some action movie you have no desire to actually watch. At least the previews will be good. 

You walk silently, hand in hand, with your husband to the concessions counter. You wait in line, shoulder to shoulder, without so much as a word passing between you. When you get to the counter he orders for you, a small drink and  popcorn each. When you get your snacks and turn to head for the theater, you are struck still. There he is. Right in front of you. Frankie. 

Even with the hat, you’d know him anywhere. Standing next to him, with her arm threaded through his, is one of the most gorgeous women you have ever seen. Their heads are bent together in laughter. He was always funny. The diamond on her finger reflects the bright lights of the theater lobby. You had played sick and stayed in your bed for three days when the news reached you that he had gotten married. You had found yourself wondering, what does she have that I don’t?

Now, standing before them, you think you might know. She’s all the things you knew you would never be. As much as you hate to think it of him, maybe this is the reason he called off your wedding. You didn’t even know he moved back. Your husband tugs your arm, pulling you from your thoughts. Just before you turn to walk away, Frankie’s eyes snap up and lock on yours. They widen in surprise and his mouth opens in a soft ‘o.’  

You move to walk away, intending to ignore his presence altogether, but he speaks your name. It’s so quiet you almost think you imagined it, until he repeats it, a little louder this time. Your husband nudges you with his elbow and gives you a curious look. Yo know you probably seem like a fucking idiot right now but you just can’t seem to make your mouth form words. 

Frankie catches on quickly and holds his hand out to your husband. 

“Hi there, Frank Morales.”

Your husband’s eyebrows fly towards his hairline as he recognizes the name, and its significance. He extends his hand to return the gesture. Frankie gestures towards his wife and introduces her as well, though you forget her name the second he says it. You shake her hand politely, giving her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. She doesn’t react to your name the way your husband did to Frankie’s. Maybe he never told her about you. Maybe you’ve made the whole thing out to be more serious than it ever was. Than he ever was. You nod along to the small talk you aren’t actually listening to. You can’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart inside your ears. 

Your husband shakes Frankie’s hand again and waves to his wife. You give her a slight wave and lock eyes with Frankie once more. There’s a sad look in his eyes and just maybe, a flash of regret. The corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile as he puts his arm around his wife’s shoulder and heads in the opposite direction. 

Once settled into the packed theater, you are thankful for the darkness. When the movie begins you don’t try as hard to hold the tears back. What are the odds that he would be here of all places, of all nights? You don’t pay any attention to the movie though you stare straight ahead at the screen. You couldn’t recap it if your life were dependent upon it, beyond the occasional explosion and maybe a nip slip or too. 

Suddenly it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. Your heart races and your face heats up. The room feels much smaller, the walls closer than they had been before. You take in a couple of deep, slow breaths, trying to quiet the unease that has taken root inside your body. The little voice nagging at the back of your mind, posing the question you haven’t allowed yourself in years. What if?

You need to get out of here. Get some fresh air. Your husband barely acknowledges your presence as you scoot past him, with a hushed excuse of “bathroom.” You climb down the carpeted steps and glance at your phone. There’s about thirty minutes left in the film and you wonder if he would notice if you just slipped back in just before the credits roll. 

You splash water on your face in the bathroom, drying it and your hands with a paper towel. You look in the mirror and fuss with your hair for a moment. You readjust the thigh high socks and pull your skirt down just a bit. When you walk out of the bathroom into the long hallway you look first left, then right. Left will take you back to the theater, back to the movie. Back to your husband. Right will take you out the side exit. To the alley on the side of the multiplex. 

The hydraulic door makes a loud click when it shuts behind you. A whiff of cigarette smoke invades your nostrils and you turn. Right there, next to the door, is Frankie. His back is against the wall and his right knee is bent, cowboy boot resting on the brick. He blows out another cloud of smoke and throws the cigarette butt on the ground. It rolls, embers still red and smoking, until it hits a crack in the sidewalk. You stand there and watch it until the tip turns dark and the last of the smoke wafts away into the night. 

“Hey there, bonita ”

You try to swallow past the thick lump in your throat as the heat once again flares inside your body. The sticky humidity of the night has your socks clinging to your thighs. The smoldering look in your ex’s eyes causes your panties to grow damp beneath your skirt. He pushes off the wall and takes a step towards you. You are once again frozen in place, unable to think of anything to say. He pulls his cap off by the bill and runs his fingers through his messy curls. You can still remember how your fingers feel tangled in them. How they would tickle the skin of your chest when he would fall asleep wrapped around you. 

“Guess I’ll leave you be. It was good to see you.” He spins on his heel and turns to head back inside. He gives you one last look, brown eyes as sad as you’ve ever seen them. 

Say something you fucking idiot!  

“Frankie. Wait.” 

He turns back around and closes the distance between you in just a few strides. His body crowds yours and you take a step back. Another half step and your back hits the brick. You suck in a deep breath and his arm extends, bringing his hand to rest on the wall beside your head. 

“I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna speak to me, baby.” He rasps, inching his face even closer to yours. 

“I didn- I just- I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” He places his hand at the hinge of your jaw and runs his thumb across your cheek. When you lean into his touch, closing your eyes, he moves his body even closer. 

“I thought maybe you didn’t miss me.” He holds your face just a little firmer, his lips barely brush over yours. “Not even a little bit.”  He smells like cigarettes and movie theater butter. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. Neither of you should. But you just can’t stop yourself from leaning forward a bit, hoping to catch his lips between your own. But just before you can, he pulls back. You open your mouth to protest but he places his finger over your lips. He grabs your hand and pulls you further down the alley. 

There is no light back here save for a single yellowing bulb, and Frankie pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns the flashlight on. Once he’s pulled you far enough away from the entrance to the alley, and any prying eyes, he pushes you back against the wall. He must have already gotten his fill of teasing because he immediately captures your lips in a ravenous kiss and presses his thigh right against your center. You grind down on him while your hands move automatically to his hair, knocking his cap to the ground. 

His hands go to your hips and he moans when the soft flesh yields under his touch. He inches his thigh even closer and you give his curls a tug. He releases your lips and groans low in your ear. His hands slide up your side, caressing the flesh that lives there. He drags them back down, dropping to his knees on the concrete. His fingers dip under your skirt, exposing the tops of your socks. His nostrils flare as he pops the top against your thigh. 

He lifts your skirt higher, until it sits up on your hips and he can see that you are already soaked for him. He buries his nose in the fabric, pressing it into your mound. The wet cotton is cool against your skin but the sensation is opposed by the hot breath he lets out. He inhales deeply and moans against you. He looks up at you and you are already so worked up, just one touch from him is liable to push you over the edge. 

“Fuck, I missed you bonita .”  

Before you can even respond he lifts your leg, resting your thigh on his shoulder. He scoots forwards on his knees until he can’t get any closer. He bites your mound softly through the fabric of your panties and your knees begin to wobble. He pulls them to the side with the hand that isn’t cradling your thigh against his face. His stubble pricks the soft skin there as he presses his tongue lightly against your clit. He doesn’t move it yet, just holds it there, savoring the taste of you. Reveling in the way it throbs against his tongue. 

Only when you start squirming and tugging on his hair does he finally move. He swirls his tongue in slow, precise circles around your clit. He still knows your body so well, even after all this time. He knows exactly how to have you dripping for him, whining for him. 

“Fuck! Frankie, please. ” You beg. 

“I know, baby. You need more.” He whispers. He stands from the ground and you whine at the loss of his mouth. “Turn around.” He instructs. You pout but do as he says. You know that whatever he has in mind, he’s gonna make you feel good. 

“Put your hands on the wall.” You look at him over your shoulder and he just cocks his eyebrow expectantly. “Do it.” 

You place your hands against the wall and your ass sticks out. Frankie grabs the waistband of your panties and drags them down your legs, lifting your feet one at a time for you to step out of them. You expect to hear the clinking of his belt but instead you feel his hand land a swat on your ass. From your position, you miss the look of delight as the flesh ripples from his touch. He grabs a handful of ass in each hand and spreads your cheeks apart. He resumes his previous activities. Long, slow swipes of his tongue. Through your folds and around your clit.

It doesn’t take long to have you teetering on the precipice. He still recognizes the signals your body gives him. He knows you are close. His fingers fly to your clit and his tongue breaches your entrance. His exaltation is rewarded with the feeling of your walls fluttering around his tongue. He laps up everything you have to give him and only stops when you bat his hand away. He plants a kiss on your ass cheek and lands another, softer swat on the other before he rises to his feet. His hands return to your hips and he presses his denim covered bulge against your asscrack. 

“Feel what you do to me, baby?” He asks as he pulls back onto him. Still coming down from your peak you can only nod your head in response. “I think he missed you even more than I did.” 

His hands leave you once more and the telltale sound of his belt being unbuckled and his zipper coming down fills the alley. He rests his cock, thick and uncut, on your bare asscrack. He reaches around you and runs his fingers through your folds, gathering your release. You whimper at his touch, aching for him to be inside you. 

He rubs the head in between your cheeks, down past your asshole until it catches on your entrance. Slowly, he nudges himself inside of your cunt. You’ve had bigger dicks before, longer ones. But you’ve never had one as thick as Frankie. Just on the edge of too big , he stretches you open around him. Your walls give way to him and he buries himself inside you. 

“ Oh fuck, baby!” He cries out, unable to keep his voice down.  

“You’re gonna get us caught.” You turn and look over your shoulder and are treated to the sight of the near-feral look in his eyes. Your insides turn liquid when winks at you. He’s just like you remembered he was, before the war took him away from you, devilish little grin and all. His hands move to the spot where your hips and ass meet. He grips you firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

He fucks into you with the same kind of desperation as the last time you were together. He knows this moment together is fleeting and now you understand the urgency he was feeling back then. With your hands planted firmly on the wall, you meet his every thrust. The slick sound of skin against skin fills the darkness in the alley. Your thighs begin to burn and Frankie’s pace falters. A half a dozen or so thrusts and he’s cursing out into the night. 

“Shit! Ohfuckohshit baby!” He cries and you are so fucked out you can’t even form a coherent thought. He spills inside of you and the twitching of his cock and the way he sounds when whimpering is dragging you over the edge again. He pulls out of you and his come slips out, falling to the pavement in thick globs. He spins you around by your elbow and your back is up against the wall again. 

He lays his head on your shoulder with his nose buried in your neck. Your fingers thread in his hair once more and you just stand there, together. Your chests heave against each other and you just enjoy the feel of each other, the smell. But nothing gold can stay and the moment breaks. You shuffle silently in the near dark, righting your clothes and deciding what to say or not say. Frankie picks his hat up from the ground and dusts it off with the same fingers that were buried inside you moments ago. You pull your panties back over your shoes and up your legs. They stick to your skin from your own arousal and the come that still dribbles out of you. You both avoid the other’s face. 

You walk hand in hand back down the alley until you reach where the light is. When you drop his hand he finally looks at you. 

“I’m not sure what to say here.” He admits and for the first time tonight you cannot read his expression

“It was good to see you.” you reply, mirroring his earlier sentiment. You walk out of the alley and back to the theater. 

“ Bonita , wait.” He calls after you. You slow down briefly, but square your shoulders and continue on. 

You use the bathroom and try to clean yourself up as much as possible before sliding back into your seat. Your husband leans over the armrest. “You okay”? He asks, never taking his eyes off the screen. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You take a sip of your soda, now mostly watered down. 

“You took a while.” He points out.

“Long line.” He doesn’t even acknowledge your response, more focused on the film’s climax. 

The credits roll after a few minutes and you stand. Your shoes stick to the floor in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Your husband grabs your hand at the end of the row and leads you down the steps. In the lobby you see Frankie and his wife coming out of their theater. She’s snuggled up under his arm, in the place that you used to call home. You and Frankie meet gazes for a moment and you both quickly look away. 

On the way home, you feign interest in your husband’s recap of the film and its best scenes. You nod your head and interject with an occasional “mhmm.” he holds your hand the whole way home, rubbing his thumb along your fingers affectionately. Once home, you get into the shower right away, wanting nothing more than to wash Frankie off of your body, out of your body. The smell of him, the feel, the taste. You fucked up. This shouldn’t have happened. The last thing you ever want to do is hurt your husband. Or break up Frankie’s marriage. 

By the time you get dressed and walk to your bed, your husband is already asleep. His face looks so peaceful. If only he knew. 

A few months later

You haven’t spoken to Frankie since that night at the movies. To be honest, you weren’t expecting to. He must have his own share of guilt and regret from that night. Yet, here you sit at a cafe on the opposite side of town. You sip your water and watch the door. You check the time on your phone even though you know it will show that only a minute or two has passed since the last time you looked. 

Finally, that mop of brown curls hidden under his ever present baseball cap appears. He looks around the small dining area for you and his face lights up when he finds you. You give him a small wave and he starts towards your table. When he reaches you he bends down and kisses your cheek, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. 

He’s all smiles when he opts for the chair right next to you, as opposed to the one across. He places his arm on the back of your chair and his fingers skim along your shoulder. 

“I’m happy you called, Bonita. ” 

“I was surprised to find your number in the pocket of my skirt.” You admit. You almost threw it away a dozen times in the weeks after that night.

“I was hoping you would use it.”

“I really needed to talk to you.” You fidget with silverware on the table nervously and Frankie’s brows knit in concern. 

“What’s wrong, baby?”

You reach into the pocket of your jacket and close your fingers around the ziploc bag nestled safely in there. You hesitate a moment before pulling it out and setting it on the table. 

“What’s this?” He asks, picking it up. It only takes a moment for his brain to catch up. “Shit.” He says under his breath as he takes in the contents. 

Funny how something so small, just a couple of pieces of pink and white plastic, can mean something so big. 

“Shit.” He repeats, staring at the bag as that little pink plus sign stares right back at him. 

since tags are being fucky again I'm going to discontinue my taglist for a while. follow me over at @ramble-on-fics and turn on post notifications for updates!

#frankie friday #frankie x reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #fat reader #curvy reader #plus size reader

[elaemae]

The premium version of human is here to wreak house, mfs.

[Twst x ObeyMe!AFAB!reader]

CHP. 7

Again, I thank y'all for the reblogs, likes and comments guys, it really helps me :)

CW: Blue pronouns or address for MC every time they get mistaken for a guy. Also, I'm a potty mouth so MC is too.

Inhale..

Exhale....

Inhale......

Exhale.......

Inhale.........

Ex-fucking-hale.......

You're about to have a stroke right now.

You should've just went back to the goddamn infirmary instead of checking in on these obnoxious, bitch-less, probably father-less, motherfuckers.

It's just cleaning windows!! How the hell can you mess up like this?! Why the fuck did the cafeteria chandelier get involved??

GODDAMNIT!! WHY IS YUU INVOLVED AS WELL?! AHHHH—!

*One eternity of screaming like a banshee later*

After sending those damn kids and cat away to get some sort of magical stone in some godforsaken mine, you wrangled with the headmaster for at least two hours to prevent him from writing up the expulsion papers of Yuu and that Blue-haired kid who was mostly innocent about the ordeal.

(Meanwhile, encouraging him to kick that Ace kid and the damn cat off the school. You ain't about to let audacity run free rn, mostly because you feel yourself start genuinely tweaking as you almost got possessed by the urge to sucker punch someone's soul out of their body.)

[Satan perked up, there it was again.

That distinctive spark of wrath that he can feel through your pact with him is both concerning and comforting.

On one hand, the anger he feels means that you're alive. And seeing that what he's feeling through the pact is mostly annoyance, then that must mean that nothing marginally bad or traumatizing had happened to you yet.

You're actually more pissed off in a 'someone-had-the-audacity-to-eat-my-snacks' kind of way more than anything else, meaning that you're safe for now.

But on the other hand, he doesn't know how long that temporary safety will last.

There's also the fact this is the fourth time he'd felt that spark of 'I-wanna-punt-someone-into-the-fuckin-sun' kind of anger from you, which is worrying because it hasn't even been 48 hours since you were kidnapped by some mf.

He shook his head, calling upon a subordinate (read: Devoted fan) to collect more and more books to learn what type of teleportation and sleeping magic was used in your kidnapping.

With the massive search party spanning all three realms that they'd called upon, they will find you sooner or later.

And once they do...

Well... You'll need to get used to being with someone at all hours of the day.]

*Passive-aggresively reminding Crowley that he can't kick out an innocent kid for something they didn't directly do as they had no way of stopping the events that transpired.*

["You don't want the word to get out that you let an innocent teen roam around in a foreign world with absolutely nothing to their name and nobody to protect them, right?"

"That is true, but I still can't just let this go unpunis–"

"Especially when it's the school's faulty equipment that took them so far away from all of their loved ones and belongings, right?"]

Needless to say, Yuu ended up being "fired" in the end, quite an unfortunate result because they will need to freeload off of you until the end of your stay in this world. (Poor them, they got fired before they knew that they had a job in the first place.)

Oh well, it's better than being kicked out from practically their only way back home right now...

Hays... That cruel crow..

Anygays, it's time to snoop around and hopefully make some connections to the residents of this school.

This is a well-known college, right? So there should be influential people here somewhere...

Hehe.. It's time you bring out your gaslight, gatekeep, gold-digging skills so that you can girlboss your way into stability inside this foreign world.

• • • • • •

Suddenly, more than a dozen individuals felt a strong shiver run up their spines.

Haha... Well that's ominous!

• • • • • •

Ortho deadpanned at his brother.

It seems that almost burning down their dorm room last night isn't enough to deter him from making his [Mr. L/n x reader] fanfiction complete with mandatory fan art for every single chapter.

Haaa....

But at least his brother isn't 'fanboying' about another fictional character again...

Hm... Now that he thinks about it..

Maybe his brother will be more inclined to make friends if it's Mr. L/n!

And thus begins Ortho's journey of being an unknowing wingman as he tries to get his introverted brother to make friends.

• • • • • •

You narrowed your eyes as you looked at the small gift on top of your temporary bed in the infirmary.

Dats suspicious....

Dats weird......

You turn your necklace into a staff and start poking the box, trying to see if it'll suddenly turn into a horrific eldritch monster and jump you. (Won't be the first time that happened.)

• • • • •

"It is done, ××× ×× ××××××" (This is too easy to guess😑)

• • • • •

Diavolo sighed for the tenth time that hour, lamenting how trying to focus on his paperwork is a really hard task when MC gets thrown into the situation.

'Maybe a small break will help clear my head?'

He might as well just go out for a walk in the garden to get some fresh... air...

Oh? what is this?

His eyes scanned the dark envelope he'd seen wedged under the 'To burn' stack of paperwork in his desk.

This envelope wasn't here yesterday...

After confirming that the piece of paper wasn't cursed or charmed, he opened it with apprehension.

...!

This..!

• • • • •

Barbatos appeared in the office, tense as he'd heard his lord call out his name with haste.

Reading the letter shoved in front of his face by the serious Diavolo, Barbatos made a mental note to get the dungeon chambers ready.

They've got themselves a lead.

← Pr.6 | Chapter List | Chp. 1.1 →

Just tell me if y'all wanna get added in the permanent taglist, even if I already tagged y'all here.

That's just so I'll know if you wanna get tagged in all the upcoming chapters of this fanfic.

@caprinaesprout

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@a-traveling-void-human

Reblog or I'll take your ankles😈 (Pls like and reblog, it really gives me motivation🥺)

Also, the next chap is the start of Arc 1: Satan but short.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #crossover #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me satan x reader #obey me asmo x reader #obey me beelzebub x reader #obey me belphagor x reader #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me mephisto x mc #obey me solomon x reader #obey me simeon x reader #twst x obey me #obey me x twst #twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #obey me x twisted wonderland #x reader #reader insert #polyamory #fanfic

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 ao3

When Robin and Eddie return to the trailer, Steve is still unconscious.

“Fuck, should we be worried that—how long can someone…?”

Eddie trails off, goes to check his watch reflexively before remembering that it’s stopped.

Robin shakes her head.

“This kinda thing happened, um. Before. I didn’t see much, but I… I don’t think… Billy Hargrove was completely—well. Steve had to, like, crash a car into him, and I, uh, sorta blacked out? For a bit of it? But he just walked it off, I think. Eventually. Billy, I mean. Like his body wasn’t fully… Like he didn’t really feel it.”

Eddie stares at her, reeling. A dozen thoughts scramble to be heard, many not helpful in the slightest—namely that Billy Hargrove stalked the basketball court like there was something seething within him every goddamn school day, so he can’t even imagine what that combined with the uncanny strength of The Mind Flayer would bring.

And the real major concern is—

“But Hargrove died.”

Robin looks up from where she’s been checking Steve’s head. Her fingertips are flecked with blood.

“He didn’t die from—he wasn’t killed by. By a person,” she says jerkily. “So we… we should be fine to…” She eyes the cistern lid, but her face drains of colour again.

Eddie exhales. “One problem at a time.”

He grabs Steve underneath the armpits, Robin holding his legs up.

They take him to the bedroom. Set him down, back leaning against the cabinet.

Eddie finds the handcuffs and gingerly attaches one end to a drawer handle, the other around Steve’s wrist.

Steve doesn’t even stir at the touch. His head lolls down unnaturally.

“They better not be the shitty plastic kind,” Robin says. “I’m not having him escape cause all you had was a Baby’s First Magic Set.”

Eddie’s startled into a weak chuckle.

“Excuse you, Buckley, these are the bona fide, genuine article.”

It had become a joke in the first place, actually keeping them. A year ago, maybe two. A girl from Loch Nora with a college boyfriend had either naively or intentionally thrown an open invite party—Eddie had only gone out of curiosity, wanting to see just how impressive the living space was.

He’d barely lasted an hour there, because a shithead of a ‘concerned’ neighbour called the cops on young people ‘loitering sinisterly’—as if their precious hydrangeas were in danger of being uprooted and sold.

Eddie got grouped in with a select lucky few accused of stealing. He hadn’t been, but he figured he might as well try and get something out of it. It was either Callahan’s wallet or his cuffs; Eddie picked the wrong pocket.

Now he thinks he actually lucked out, in a grim kind of way.

They take stock of everything they’ve got: lighter fluid; a couple space heaters discovered in the RV, another one found next to Wayne’s folding bed. A few bottles of alcohol along with cloths and spears. One walkie. Lighters.

Rope.

-

Nancy had left with Dustin in the RV. The plan had been for her to drop him off at the Creel House before returning to the Gate at the trailer.

But Eddie caught the steely glint in her eye as she readied herself in the driver’s seat.

Dustin sat by the table. He pinched his bottom lip between his fingers and tugged, harsh enough to draw blood. His hand was shaking.

Eddie couldn’t look at him.

He turned to Nancy.

“You’re not coming back,” he said in an undertone.

It was only once he’d spoken that he realised it didn’t come out as a question.

Nancy grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

“Going to another Gate. Where Fred…”

Eddie understood: it was a last-minute change that she alone was in control of. One that Steve didn’t know.

And if Steve didn’t know, then…

The engine rumbled into life.

Eddie got out—had one last look, hand on the door. There were tanks of gasoline wedged behind Nancy’s seat.

Dread chilled him. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t be alone. That when she burned it all down, she needed someone to pull her back lest she get caught in the flames, too.

He didn’t say any of that.

Because Nancy just looked at him with something close to sympathy, as if she could tell everything he was thinking; it was already clear that whatever he said, it wouldn’t make a difference.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

“Nancy. Be careful.”

She nodded. “You too.”

Eddie shut the door behind him.

He was halfway back to the porch when he realised that the RV hadn’t pulled away. He heard the door opening again, began to turn, and was almost bowled over by the force of Dustin’s hug.

“Hey,” he said softly, once he’d caught his breath.

He ruffled Dustin’s hair and then stopped near the end of the motion, kept his hand there. Just held him.

He didn’t say it was okay, because it wasn’t.

Dustin sniffed. He pulled back and finally looked Eddie right in the eye.

“We’ll get him back,” Dustin said.

His voice wavered in the middle. But his determination was much stronger than the falter had been.

Eddie put his hands on Dustin’s shoulders. Nodded.

It was obvious that when it came to Steve Harrington, Dustin would go to the ends of the earth for him. And here he was, doing the hardest thing in the world: leaving Steve behind.

Compared to everyone else, Eddie thought, his job was simple, really. All he had to do was prove Dustin’s trust in him.

-

Steve’s face twitches when Robin shuts the window.

Eddie watches closely, holding his breath.

One eye opens, barely a slit. Moves sluggishly before finding Eddie.

“Hi,” Steve says.

He sounds… normal.

“Hi,” Eddie echoes cautiously. “Are you—um. Are you…?”

He trails off, feeling immensely stupid. What was he even gonna ask? Are you okay? Like he honestly was expecting Steve to say, Oh, could be better, but the malevolent entity inside me is a fucking bummer, man.

“How’re you feeling?” he settles on, because Steve still hasn’t moved, at least seems in control, and Eddie’ll take any semblance of normality he can get.

“M’okay,” Steve says, after a pause.

He lifts his head up slightly, notices the handcuffs. Gives a faint nod of approval. With his free hand, he gestures vaguely to the back of his skull.

“Feels… distant. I dunno.”

“Good, uh, that’s good,” Eddie says conversationally, like that will take away the reality of what he’s currently doing: tying Steve’s legs together with rope.

Both of Steve’s eyes open, his gaze turns sharper, calculating, and Eddie tenses—

“Eddie,” Steve drawls. He sounds supremely unimpressed. He shifts his legs and the knot Eddie made goes slack. “Tighter, dude.” “Oh, I’m sorry, not of all of us got our Scout’s badge.”

“Here,” Robin says. She nudges Eddie out of the way and binds Steve’s legs; the knots don’t budge. She gives a half smile. “At least Starcourt was educational.”

Steve laughs through his nose, but he grimaces a bit, like something Robin’s said is distasteful.

She puts a hand on his knee, peers at him. “Still here,” she says.

It isn’t a question, but Steve answers anyway. “Still here.”

Robin ties his free hand to another drawer handle.

Eddie catches a glimpse while he’s turning on the heaters, and his stomach twists—unbidden, thinks of Christ on the cross.

Steve nods at the heaters. “Put ‘em closer.”

Eddie does. He keeps waiting for a change, ready to leap back, but it doesn’t come. The only difference is that the pulse point in Steve’s neck starts to jump rapidly when the heaters are tilted towards him, but even that’s nothing like before, nothing like the frenzy in the bathroom.

Eddie puts his palm in front of one of the grilles. It’s only just been turned on, sure, but he can’t help thinking that it’s not nearly strong enough.

He stands in front of Steve, Robin by his side.

No-one moves.

Then Robin speaks out the side of her mouth. “Should you still…?”

Her fingers curl, palm up, and Eddie realises that she’s mimicking fret positions.

“Yeah,” Steve says before Eddie can answer, and Robin jumps. “Should still work.” His cuffed hand twitches. “S’in… Vecna. Me. Not enough… can’t control bats, too. Not—not all of ‘em at once.”

His throat clicks as he swallows, like the words are getting stuck.

“Should follow. Like… like, um.” His eyes widen for a split second, as if in panic, before he swallows again and says, a little clearer, “Pied Piper.”

Eddie glances between Steve and Robin. “Okay,” he says eventually. He steps back while Robin remains where she is. “I’ll—”

“No,” Steve says, and this time the panic remains; he shakes his head urgently. “Not alone. Don’t—not alone with—with me.”

“Steve,” Robin says.

“No,” Steve repeats, and there’s a fierceness to the word—Eddie feels it thrum in his chest, and he somehow knows that it’s not from any unnatural force, that the power is being drawn from Steve alone.

“Buckley,” Eddie says reluctantly.

She squares her shoulders. Takes a step back, eyes never leaving Steve.

Something in Steve unwinds, relaxes. His head droops, almost like he’s falling asleep. A stark vein in his neck pulses.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.”

Robin pauses at the door. Her eyes dart to the heaters, then Eddie.

“Are they…?”

“Highest they’ll go,” Eddie says.

Robin bites her lip.

Eddie knows what she’s thinking: that Nancy said unbearable, and right now barely one corner of the room is being warmed.

“It just takes time to, uh, kick in,” Eddie says.

It doesn’t sound convincing—sounds like he’s free-falling, desperately searching for something to hang onto.

But Robin accepts it, Eddie thinks, because what choice does she have? What choice do any of them have?

“Eddie,” Steve says, just as Robin’s stepped out of the room.

“Yeah?”

Steve wets his lips. Swallows again. It looks painful.

“It’s gonna… make him mad.”

Fear seeps down Eddie’s spine.

“We’ll come back,” he says, because right now, it’s the only promise he can make. “We’re not leaving you alone.”

“S’okay,” Steve says. He’s starting to slur his words. “Better this way.”

-

They tumble through the Gate as quickly as they can, then immediately set up the trailer defences.

“We’re lucky this is here,” Eddie says when they’re done, as he picks his electric guitar off the wall, untouched by vines.

“Yeah,” Robin says. “Lucky…”

She abruptly gasps and runs from the room.

Eddie curses, follows her—flinging the guitar across his back.

But there’s nothing in the living room, no bats to fight—just Robin pulling something out from behind Wayne’s bed, laughing with a touch of hysteria.

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes, “you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Then he actually processes what he’s looking at. Robin’s brought out a space heater, a bulky kerosene-fuelled one, much larger than what they’d originally rustled up.

“But that—that broke last winter,” Eddie says, bewildered.

Robin doesn’t say anything, just turns it on. The effect is almost immediate compared to what they’ve been working with: the heater glows red-hot, and Eddie already feels the urge to take off his jacket.

“Eddie,” Robin says slowly. “It’s 1983.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says. He grabs her by the shoulders. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Robin turns the heater off, drags it to a point just underneath the Gate.

There’s a couple more treasures they manage to stash away: a match box found on the counter, thrown into a deep cooking pot Robin snatches from a cupboard.

“Oh, you mean business,” Eddie says. “That’s the good pot.”

Robin grins, and it makes Eddie’s heart ache—he knows what they’re doing, forcing smiles to hide their shaking hands.

“And what goddamn atrocity befalls it in the future?”

“That’s between me and God.”

They’re up on the roof, Robin crouched by the amp, when Eddie hears the Walkie crackle.

“Max is—bait’s still been taken,” comes Erica’s staticky voice.

“Uh, copy that,” Eddie says. “Sinclair. Henderson with you?”

A click.

“I’m here,” Dustin says quietly.

Eddie breathes out. “Good. Stick together.”

He sets the walkie down and yanks off his guitar pick. He thinks of Chrissy, her body contorting. Of Patrick, dragged from the water.

Steve’s hands clenched around the sink.

“Showtime, Buckley.”

The noise is explosive. It barely takes a few seconds for the bats to start coming; Eddie watches the horizon as his fingers fly over the strings.

Underneath everything, he can hear Robin counting out bars like she’s in band: One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four.

Prestissimo.

“Eddie, two more bars!”

He nods in acknowledgement. Feels his heart pound as if in time with the music.

“Now!”

They run. The bats circle dumbly round the roof, some clustered onto the still ringing amp, like moths drawn to light.

Pied Piper.

“Go, go, go!” Eddie urges.

It’s tricky getting the heater through, but they manage it between them, an awkward handover across the Gate.

And then Eddie’s falling, landing next to Robin, breathless. They sit up as one, give each other a speechless high five.

Robin moves first. But she stops midway to Eddie’s room—like a reversal of when he was first brought to a standstill, seeing Chrissy’s eyelids fluttering erratically.

“Eddie,” Robin says. “You—you closed the door, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, mouth dry.

He knows that for certain because as he shut the door, his last glimpse was of Steve leaning the back of his head against the cabinet drawers, eyes closed.

Now the door’s ajar.

Eddie strains to listen, but he can’t hear anything.

He feels Robin’s hand dart into his. He squeezes tight before letting go. She picks up the heater. He’s got the cooking pot under his arm.

Together, they open the door.

The space heaters they’d left are broken, cracked down the middle. The handcuffs are dangling from the drawer handle, pried open, the ropes frayed apart—and the whole room is littered with…

Shards of wood. Snapped strings.

Eddie’s guitars. They’re shattered beyond repair, the red of the Warlock mixed with the dark wood of the acoustic.

And there, backed into the far corner, is Steve.

He’s cradling his wrist to his chest—it looks badly broken. Even from here, Eddie can see evidence of splinters embedded in both hands.

But above all, what’s drawing Eddie’s attention is that his shirt is off, revealing the state of his stomach, the bandages shoddily ripped away. The wound is oozing slow, thick trickles of black and red.

Steve doesn’t seem aware that anyone’s entered the room, just mutters indecipherably to himself, hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

Eddie manages to set the pot down silently—takes one hesitant step forward, cringes when he jostles a piece of wood.

Steve’s head jerks up at the sound. He stares at Eddie, a crease in his forehead.

“Who’re you?”

Robin lets out a breath like she’s been punched in the stomach.

“It’s…” Eddie clears his throat. Stays as still as he can. “It’s me, man. It’s Eddie.”

Steve doesn’t reply.

More wood scatters across the floor—Robin stepping forward frantically, “Steve, it’s me, it’s—”

Eddie stops her with a touch to the back of her hand.

“Steve,” he says, digs deep to find a calm tone. “Who’s this?”

Steve’s jaw works.

“R… R…”

Robin’s face shatters.

She sets the heater down. Turns it on full blast.

“Robin!” Steve gasps. “Robin, it’s me, I’m still—Robin, Robin, please—”

Robin takes another step—“Careful,” Eddie whispers, heart in his throat—and forcibly shoves the heater across the room.

Steve tries to dodge it, but he’s not quick enough; the grille slams against his arm, and Eddie inhales sharply as the skin blisters an angry, weeping red.

Steve’s cries are piercing.

But they reach a peak than taper off into whimpers; he presses himself against the wall, curls his upper body around his blistered arm.

He starts to sob.

They have to get closer to hear, stepping into the circle of heat radiating from the grille, Eddie just behind Robin; sweat pools in the small of his back.

“No, no…”

It’s a dreadful whisper.

They crouch down. Slow.

It doesn’t look like Steve notices: his eyes are shut tight, lashes damp as he continues to plead, “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”

Eddie can’t blame Robin for what she does next.

It’s instinct—he’d seen it in his peripheral vision at the boathouse, her hand reaching out to comfort, like she couldn’t stop herself.

No, he can’t blame her. Because Steve is hurting, sobbing like his heart is going to break from it, and he’s right there.

Robin’s hand moves forward.

Eddie sees the moment Steve’s eyes open, cold and inhuman, and Christ, for a millisecond too long, he’d forgotten that they had stepped into the ring with a cobra.

“Robin,” Eddie warns, too late, as Steve’s hand seizes her wrist.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and it’s almost perfect, almost Steve’s gentle concern, but there’s something off in the inflection, a misplaced note—“I’m not killing you first.”

He twists Robin’s hand.

She doesn’t scream, doesn’t even try to move, like she’s holding her breath just to stay silent.

“I can…” Steve breathes in and out through his nose. Predatory. “I can feel her.”

“Who?” Robin says.

A vague noise rumbles from Steve’s chest, like he’s searching for a name again.

“N… Nancy,” he says eventually. “She’s dying,” he says, off-hand. “She can’t breathe.”

Eddie reaches behind. Feels carpet beneath his palm. Steve doesn’t track the movement, eyes fixed on Robin.

“She will be like… like her friend. She will know how it feels to die alone.”

Steve grunts, and then…

Eddie has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from making a sound; the skin around Steve’s stomach wound ripples, like there’s something bubbling up underneath, moving, alive, crawling up, up, up—mottled veins spreading, black as tar.

Eddie swallows back bile as his hand finds something solid. Wood.

He feels for the lighter in his pocket.

Steve leans towards Robin, baring his teeth.

“I will—”

Click.

“—consume her.”

The jagged piece of guitar burns in Eddie’s hand.

He throws it.

Sparks fly, land directly in Steve’s eyes, and he yells, lets go of Robin—with such an impact that she’s thrown across the room, landing slumped against the cabinet.

“Robin!”

But Eddie doesn’t have any time to help her, because there’s another click, a crackle, and the walkie comes to life, and it must be on accident because all he can hear is the sound of someone—Dustin and Erica—breathing quickly. Running.

Steve’s eyes narrow.

Eddie thinks of Dustin saying, “He knows where we are, he’ll know—”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses.

He tries, desperately, to turn the walkie off, but it suddenly feels like all the air leaves his lungs, and he’s pinned against the wall, Steve’s hand on his chest.

The walkie’s wedged between them. Steve’s somehow using his broken wrist to still Eddie’s hand, to keep the walkie turned on.

Eddie has no choice but to listen to what comes through the static.

It’s chaos. Heavy, frantic breathing; it’s like he can feel the kids clutching their sides as they run. In the distance, a car, the engine stopping. A door opens.

Jason Carver’s voice. “Did you see them?”

Behind Steve, Eddie spots Robin stirring.

Steve keeps staring down at the walkie.

An abrupt cry of pain, and another voice curses, says, “Shit, Jason, I think it’s broken.”

“El?” Dustin breathes.

Something in Steve’s face flickers, but Eddie’s too terrified to know what it means—tries and fails to turn the walkie off again, but he doesn’t even know what’s the right thing to do anymore. He just wants them to be okay, he just wants—

“Jason, no-one’s fucking there. You—you can’t even stand, I’m taking you to the hosp—”

A car door slamming shut. An engine starting up, fading…

Gone.

Dustin and Erica exhale shakily. Running again, footsteps pounding up the stairs, across floorboards…

The walkie cuts off.

Steve grits his teeth.

“Please,” Eddie whispers.

Robin’s up, moving so quietly—scooping the remnants of his guitars into the pot.

Another crackle.

“Eddie!” Dustin’s voice again, up close. “Max is—the music’s not working! I—I don’t know what to—”

There it is again: that flicker across Steve’s face. A ripple in a lake.

“Max,” he says.

The name cracks with emotion, and although his voice has been used before, an uncanny imitation, Eddie knows this is different, feels it in his gut; it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

The snick of a match being struck.

Steve’s head tilts ever so slightly, but he doesn’t turn around. Like he already knows Robin is right behind him.

Instead—

Steve pries the walkie out of Eddie’s hand. Presses down on the button. Inhales.

“Run.”

The walkie drops with a clatter. Behind them, the fierce roar of flames; Eddie’s face stings.

He can feel Steve’s grip on him loosening, feels himself sliding down the wall.

Steve’s eyes bore into his—and although dark veins have spread across the whites, like spider webs, Eddie can still see the slightest gleam of something real in them.

Something human.

Steve’s lips move, cracked and bleeding.

Now, he mouths.

“Robin!” Eddie yells.

Steve lets him go, and Eddie sees a flash of Robin throwing the entire contents of the pot over Steve, raining fire upon him; Eddie covers his face from the scorching heat, scrambling to get away, relying on touch alone, and his hand hits something, the crunch of plastic, fuck, the walkie—

He’s by the doorway, gasping for breath.

Awareness comes in stages: the fire’s gone out, charred remains of the guitars on the ground where Steve once stood; Robin’s there, her hands red raw, and she’s looking at something, what’s she…?

Steve.

Steve dragging himself across the floor, his broken wrist pressed against his stomach. Crawling to sit next to the space heater, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. Breathing.

Just breathing.

Then, so faintly, Eddie almost thinks he’s imagined it.

“Railroad… Snow Ball… Muppet.”

Steve thumps the back of his head against the wall with each word.

Robin goes to him.

Eddie can only watch. He feels like he’s staring at a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Despite everything, Robin reaches out with her hand again. She touches Steve’s knee gently, and Steve falls silent, stops hitting his head.

Robin smiles, tearful.

“You’ve—you’ve changed that song for me forever,” she says, choked up, and although Eddie can’t really understand, he senses the heart in it, the echoes of their story, of their love hitting him square in the chest.

“Do you remember,” Robin goes on, laughing through it, “the first time we were closing, and you—you got that whole bag of chocolate chips? Tore the corner and just, like, scarfed it. You looked like a chipmunk. It was—it was so gross. And you just said let’s see you do better, then. So we just kept eating them, and we had to pretend we had, like, a whole week where every order had chocolate chips just so we could get another shipment. You… you made me feel like I was five years old. That’s—that’s when I knew.” Robin takes a shuddering breath. Keeps smiling. “Right there. I wanted to be your friend.”

Steve just looks at her. He blinks, and a tear falls down his face, and Eddie can see it, like the sun briefly appearing through storm clouds, can see more of him breaking through, and for a moment, just a moment, there could be a chance, please, please…

Steve’s stomach spasms, and he groans, inhales short and sharp, twists away from Robin’s touch; the litany starts again, fever-slurred.

Eddie rediscovers the walkie. There’s cracks all through the plastic—it might not even work.

But Steve keens, pressing, pressing as blood flows through his fingers, as he trips up on the words, almost insensible now, and Eddie knows he has to take the risk.

His thumb pushes the button.

“Dustin,” he murmurs, “don’t tell me where you are. But if you’re—if you’re safe. Christ, please say you’re… Steve, he—he needs you.”

Silence.

Eddie closes his eyes.

“—safe. We’re all safe. I copy.”

Eddie thinks he laughs or something close to it. Maybe something else, too. He presses his forehead against the walkie. A benediction answered.

“Eddie?” Dustin says, and his speech keeps crackling, keeps threatening to cut out, but he’s there, he’s there.

Steve blinks, turns towards the sound of Dustin’s voice.

But Eddie’s not afraid this time.

“Railroad,” Steve repeats. Soft yet intentional, like he means it with everything he has left. “Railroad.”

Eddie passes the word on to Dustin. Waits.

Dustin takes a little while to figure it out—or maybe he solves it almost instantly, but here, time moves slow: just Robin and Eddie holding their breath, Steve only mouthing the words now. Barely there.

Dustin must push his button down mid-gasp, the words rushing out.

“That’s how we—that’s when everything—”

What follows is a garbled speech Eddie can barely make sense of, as static obscures every third word or so: about the junkyard and demodogs, and tunnels, and…

“D-different details, Henderson,” Eddie says with a choked laugh.

Fondness wells up; for a second it had felt like he was listening to Dustin in the middle of a campaign, on a tangent, and Eddie knows he just has to nudge him down the right path and then he’ll work it out, because the kid’s a goddamn genius.

“Stuff he can feel,” Eddie tries.

Steve looks at him, unblinking, and God he’s still in there, Eddie thinks, there’s so many thoughts, so much of him trapped beneath the surface.

So Dustin talks about Queen playing in Steve’s car, of how the fall leaves looked as they walked, of his shoelaces coming loose, and Steve getting down on his knees in exaggerated exasperation, you’re gonna fall flat on your face, dickhead, we’ve got enough going on.

Eddie takes the thread he’s been given, adds embellishments where he can—the crunch of leaves underfoot, the steady clunk of walking on the tracks, Dustin sometimes hurrying a little, just to match Steve’s stride—and as Steve finally blinks slowly, Eddie prays.

Can you feel it? Please go there. Go somewhere safe. Go somewhere it can’t find you. “What—what else did he say?” Robin says, when Steve lips stops moving, and his eyes close; he looks so tired. “Snow Ball?”

“Yeah, that’s—” Eddie pushes the walkie button again, so Dustin can hear. “Didn’t the Middle School have something… Did you do anything for it? Like put up decorations or…?”

Robin shakes her head.

Eddie furiously racks his brains for one detail, anything—curses himself for not paying attention, for shirking the ‘volunteering’ he was forced to do that December in lieu of detention; for viewing it all with a petty indifference, when for others, it must’ve meant so—

He releases the button.

“Did you say Snow Ball?” Dustin asks, before he launches into Steve shielding his eyes from hairspray, of the forest green gift bag his mom had passed into Steve’s hands, of Steve’s surprise, his shy smile—and then it’s Erica who takes over, calling over somewhere, “Lucas, remember when we came to pick you up?”

And the Sinclairs had stayed much longer than expected because Max’s folks were late in collecting her; and when Steve came to pick up Dustin, he’d noticed and stayed, too.

“He didn’t make a big thing of it,” Max says quietly, somewhere distant; Lucas adds that Steve opened up all his car doors so the tape he was playing could be heard: The Carpenters, some Christmas medley.

“He danced with Max,” Lucas says. “We were betting on how many times he could spin her in a row.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Eddie can hear Max’s eye roll. Her smile.

“And,” Erica says, “he actually enjoyed dad’s small talk. Like, he was fully hooked on mom and Uncle Jack’s gift wrapping contest.”

Eddie smiles, covers his mouth just in case a traitorous noise slips out. The kids sound happy, and he doesn’t want to ruin that for the world.

Steve’s eyes shine, almost like he’s thinking the same thing.

Sorry, he mouths. I’m sorry.

The walkie dies.

Steve groans again, pushing down on his stomach wound. He’s trying to hide it from view, Eddie realises.

Robin keeps reaching for him. “Steve, don’t—let me help. Please.”

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t—can’t hold it back.” His voice is rasping.

“I saw you,” Eddie says, and Robin glances at him. “Last year. At school.”

The memory comes to him all at once, sparked by the kids and the thought of Steve chatting in a parking lot, so at ease.

“I was pissed ‘cause I’d just flunked—doesn’t matter. Was walking it off outside, and you turned into the parking lot, windows down, and you looked so fucking pleased with yourself cause you’d already passed everything. You must’ve had a free period, maybe a double, I dunno. I was,” Eddie huffs self-deprecatingly, “jealous.”

Steve’s head slumps against the wall. His chest rises and falls rapidly, laden with sweat. Eddie tries not to look at the marks—where the burning pieces of wood struck his skin.

Steve’s eyes find his. One long blink.

Keep going.

“You—you were wearing these sunglasses,” Eddie says, and Robin sobs, laughs, like she knows exactly the pair he means. “And you—the radio was on, but I—I can’t remember what was—anyway, you were kinda. Singing. Or, like, humming to yourself. And you were walking to the middle school, you kept throwing your keys in the air. You caught ‘em every damn time.” Eddie chuckles. “Do you know how annoying that was? And I—I just kept watching, ‘till the bell rang, and I just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why you looked so… so happy. But I—” Eddie swallows. “I know now.”

Steve’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile—he’s trying, he’s trying.

“You were gonna go see the kids, huh?” Eddie says. “Surprise them or something, I don’t know. You can tell me later. Promise me? And you—” His voice threatens to go, but he pushes through it, because if there’s one thing Steve needs to hear, it’s this.

Just this.

“You were happy. Because you loved them,” Eddie whispers. “And they loved you.”

Steve breathes in.

And he rises up so suddenly that Robin falls back in alarm. He hits the space heater as he goes, and while it still blisters his skin, he doesn’t cringe away, more deliberately leans into it—

“Quick,” Steve mutters. “He’s mad, he’s mad, we don’t have much—”

And he lies down directly on the bed frame, his stomach still oozing that viscous black and red; Eddie’s stomach drops.

He feels strange, like his body already knows what’s coming before his mind’s caught up.

“Quick, quick—”

The smash of a bottle as Steve fumbles it, spilling alcohol on the floor—he tries again, reaches for lighter fluid and douses the whole bed frame in it.

“Robin,” he says, “Robin, please.”

She’s watching Steve’s every move with wide eyes; Eddie just looks on helplessly.

Fucking move.

“Robin!”

“Steve, I—” She shakes her head, uncomprehending—more like she doesn’t want to understand. “I don’t—”

Steve doubles over, picks something off the floor. Eddie’s distracted—stupid, stupid—watching in horror as more black veins spread up, across Steve’s shoulders, the strained muscles in his neck, and too late, he realises that Steve’s holding a lighter in his hand.

Click.

Steve drops it.

Sets the wooden slats ablaze.

He cries out, back arching—the flames lick higher, higher, and Robin’s screaming Steve’s name, running to him, like she can pull him from the flames…

There’s something else in Steve’s hand.

Robin’s trapped where she’s stood, a broken piece of glass to her neck—and Steve’s struggling against it, but his hand doesn’t move, as beads of blood dot Robin’s skin—

Eddie doesn’t know when it happened. Just knows that he’s holding a spear, and it’s on fire too, flames creeping up…

“Eddie!” Steve says. “Finish it!”

His skin writhes, contorting; Eddie thinks of Chrissy again, of Patrick—and a faint memory of Will Byers, vanishing without a trace.

It was you, Eddie thinks numbly. It was all you.

The glass presses closer still against Robin’s neck. She gasps—

And Steve begs.

“Kill me!”

The stomach wound heaves like a living creature, gaping and monstrous.

“Give him back, you son of a bitch,” Eddie breathes.

He lunges forward.

With all his strength, he digs the spear straight into Steve’s stomach; the flames surge, engulf—

Steve screams.

A black mass pours out of his mouth, and Eddie thinks he’s screaming, too, but he can’t hear anything, can’t hear anything but Steve, the torture in his voice, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and the mass hits him; he flies through the air, feels his head smack against something solid.

Then nothing.

He comes to in the living room. Blood dampens the back of his head.

Sits up. Blinks dazedly at the ceiling. The Gate… the Gate’s gone.

Bedroom. Has to… Steve, Robin. Bedroom.

He shoves himself up, wobbles. Forces himself on.

He knows he’s lost time when he nears the room: a chill hits him from the broken window, and the flames have been put out.

Robin. Robin kneeling by the bed, burns all up her arms.

“—open your eyes,” she’s saying. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

Eddie very deliberately doesn’t fully register who she’s talking to. If he does, he’ll freeze, useless. He will never forgive himself.

“Band lungs, Buckley,” he croaks, and then he falls beside her.

Starts compressions.

You’re not going, you’re not going. You’ve got so many people to see again. No. You’re not going.

He tries just to count out loud, but even as he’s doing it, something crumbles, something breaks apart irreparably inside of him, “Don’t you dare leave, don’t you…”

Robin. Two breaths.

“I wanna talk to you, Steve Harrington, and you’re gonna fucking be there to listen, do you understand, do you…”

He loses track of what he’s saying completely, lost to wilder and wilder promises, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except this, except the desperate push of his hands, the crack of Steve’s ribs, Robin’s long breaths; and God, Eddie would give anything, anything at all, would tear his fucking heart out if it would help, if it meant that Steve would—

“—just breathe!”

Something jolts underneath his fingers; for a moment, it destroys him: it’s back, it’s—

“That’s it,” Robin’s saying, “there, there, that’s—”

Eddie’s head sinks down to his knees.

Wretched coughs. Gasping.

“He can’t—Eddie, he can’t breathe.”

Eddie staggers over to the window. Makes the hole bigger, again and again. Glass slices through his palms.

“That’s better, huh?” Robin’s murmuring, and Eddie can’t look at her, can’t look at who’s in her arms; if he does, the proof will shatter, and that can’t… he has to…

The phone rings.

Eddie goes to it. His arm lifts, heavy and delayed. Like he’s in a dream.

On the other end, a terrified voice.

Mike. Mike Wheeler crying.

“Did it work?”

“I—” There’s a high-pitched ringing in Eddie’s ears; he shakes his head. “I don’t—”

“I-is Nancy there? Where’s Nancy?”

And there’s that gut feeling again, the one that pulled Eddie out of the RV in the first place; “Hang on,” he says to Mike, and he lets the phone fall, pushes the front door open to stand on the porch, breathing in shallow, frigid breaths.

There’s something coming out from behind the trees.

Closer and closer, and Eddie almost assumes the worst.

But it’s Nancy. There’s ash in her hair, and she’s drenched, coated in black sludge; her teeth flash as she smiles, a pocket knife gleaming in her hand.

“I made my own Gate,” she says.

Barely missing a beat, she tilts her head to the side to throw up. She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, spreads more thick tar across her face.

Underneath everything, there’s a scarlet ring around her throat.

“Your brother,” is all Eddie can get out.

Her eyes blaze white-hot.

“Mike,” she says, clutching the phone so tightly, like she would do the very same if she could hold his hand. “It’s gone, it’s all gone.” And then, louder, louder, trembling, “And whoever’s fucking listening on here, get us help. I know you’re there. I won’t stop. I won’t—”

Eddie knows she says more. She must do.

But he can’t stop staring down at his hands. At the blood.

He steps forward—almost sways, and Nancy catches his wrist.

“Don’t go outside without me. Don’t talk to anyone apart from us, Eddie. Okay? They won’t touch you. I won’t let them.”

Eddie thinks he manages a nod. He believes her. Her jaw quivers, but her head’s held up high: if a gun was pressed to her head, he knows the bullet wouldn’t take.

The phone call continues, but the sound is muffled, underwater.

Eddie comes back to himself in the bedroom doorway.

Robin’s still by the bed.

Steve’s lying there, eyes closed. His stomach’s still bleeding, slow, slow, but the veins have gone, they’ve…

“Eddie.” Robin reaches out a hand to him. “Come on. You… you can feel him breathing from here.”

Why don’t you hate me?

He should leave. He should leave.

He doesn’t deserve…

But Robin keeps reaching, and Eddie’s on his knees next to her, a coward, you’re a fucking coward.

“Here,” Robin says.

She guides Eddie’s hand. Places it on Steve’s sternum, above the awful wound, above all the pain Eddie caused—

There. A rise and fall.

Just breathing.

Eddie’s breath catches.

“I thought—” He shudders. “I thought I’d—”

Robin must sense it before he does, before he even really knows it’s happening.

“You’re okay,” she says, and she pulls him into her embrace—keeps one hand on Steve as she does.

Good, Eddie thinks. He needs to know you’re there. He shouldn’t be alone.

He turns his face into Robin’s shoulder, and weeps.

#flayed steve harrington #body horror cw #pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steve and robin #eddie and robin #steve and the party #steve and dustin #eddie and dustin #eddie and nancy #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #dustin henderson

[tired-biscuit]

Warnings: 18+ mdni. established relationship. fem!reader. aged up kat. anal.

a/n: i finally gave in and wrote this filth, ok. it's been on my mind for a while, please forgive me lol.

---

THE moan Katsuki lets out is guttural.

He’s sweating like crazy on top of the navy blue sheets as he pants, the lust-driven look in his eyes purely male. Releasing a small sigh, the freshly-turned twenty-six-year-old smirks at the feverish warmth to surround him by the time his heavy cock sinks fully inside you.

Being balls deep inside your tight ass is pure bliss. All lubed up and twitching in delight to really relish the lewd birthday gift you give him every 365 days, and which he's so very impatient to receive, Katsuki doesn't mind at all that he's one year closer to thirty as he chuckles and shoves himself even deeper carefully.

The short "Hah... Fuck yeah, baby." is purely derisive by the time his entire length experiences the pleasant tightness of the tiny hole you don't allow him to fuck all that often. You're all stretched out as you accept him. He's so lucky.

You squeak when he pushes further inside you slowly; sweat-coated body trembling in the firm reverse cowgirl position he holds you in. Your legs are squeezed together and bent at the knees. He's pushing them further against your chest with the help of his rough hands resting on the back of your thighs, just so that he can actually impale you on his fucking cock. You feel like you're going to explode from how badly he wants in, in, in.

He's relentless.

"Ki," you whisper, brow furrowing at the pang of hot ache to sear through you when he angles himself better and pushes even further. "Easy, baby. I-I know you're excited, but... We gotta take it sl-... Oh, my fucking god, s-slow...! Go slow, baby. Please."

"Mhmmm, goin' slow and easy, pretty... Anythin' y'want," he replies dazedly. His words have nearly become an incoherent slur and twist of tongue from how good you're making him feel, but all the bitter liquor he's drank at the small get-together you've surprised him with - and which he pretended he hated - might be one to blame as well.

After all, the vanilla cake you got him for his 26th birthday was sickeningly cute on purpose; entirely covered in rich buttercream icing and drizzled with colourful sprinkles, which he swears gave him a headache whenever he looked at them for too long.

You've even went as far as to make him blow out the candles that had been propped up in the middle of the giant scribble of icing, spelling out a dramatic: ‘Happy birthday, Katsuki!’ in bright red colouring.

All of it is clearly a symbol of your loving, albeit taunting relationship - he knows it is. You buy the stupid cake for him just to be a menace every year, but he still ate every last bite of the giant piece you handed him at his super secret surprise party - the one that isn't even that much of a surprise, after the third annual time it's happened - even though the bridge of his nose wrinkled in annoyance during the entirety of him chewing the silly thing.

The presents he received from his friends were okay. The texts that kept making his cell phone beep were annoying. The long phone call he had to endure from his mother and father so that they could congratulate their son on turning one year older in his outrageously busy life was outright pesky. Truth be told, Katsuki felt low-key thankful by the time his birthday at long last came to an end and he was able to drop his tired body into bed.

But he feels good now - getting to do anal with you. So good, in fact, that he'd even consider enduring all of the birthday antics you tend to pull on him as some twisted form of a sick joke. Actually, he'd let you watch him suffer in his little party hat, and would let you take photos of him blowing out the shitty candles, if it meant that he would be spoiled rotten like this at least once every few days, every week, every month, every year; not just on April goddamn 20th.

He's just that greedy. That horny for that tight peach of yours.

"Ah, fuck... Ki!" You whine now; this desperate, prolonged sort of sob that yanks him right out of his thoughts as you say, "You feel s'big inside me... So, so big."

"It's 'cause you feel so damn good, babe," he compliments in reply, the tone of his voice so utterly strained. "You've got me s'hard that it makes my fuckin' dick hurt." It's true. He's ready to bust a nut so embarrassingly quick from how good it feels. It's a lucky thing that he's as stubborn as he is to resist it.

There's a wildfire in your eyes that he knows is there, despite that he can't see it when you grit out, "Well, your dick hurts me!" It hurts me so good.

"Yeah?" he says, unable to wipe the crooked, lazy grin from his face now. His hands grab a better hold of your thighs, calloused fingers digging deep into the plush flesh so that he can keep you still when you start to squirm. "Well, it ain't my fault you've got such a fuckable ass, huh? I wish I could see how pretty you look like this... With my dick up that tight hole of yours."

You're about to bite back a snarky remark, though nothing comes out except for a slutty moan the moment his thick fingers find your clit. A waterfall of filthy curses he rarely hears you voice leaves your pouty lips and sticks to ceiling of your shared bedroom at the divine friction he gives you now. It seems that he isn't the only one that gets to be spoiled this year.

He starts to rub lazy circles on the cute, sensitive button - all languid and precise, until the hole that's empty of him starts to flutter in response, and you begin to beg him to start pounding into you so that you can be filled up to the brim with his warm seed as soon as possible. The anticipation makes your legs literally shake. You're barely able to keep it together - and this fast, too.

Katsuki listens to your high-pitched pleas that grow both in fervour and necessity as more and more time passes. He's mindful as his hips begin to rut into you, keenly listening to the lewd squelching noises the lube produces with that heavy pat, pat, pat, and your heavy breathing when he gets an even better angle and strikes home. The clench you give him in response is so potent that he's about ready to lose his fucking mind.

The entire room smells like caramel from how much he's sweating. Salt is literally dribbling down both of his temples, but he still keeps going. He just can't stop. Not when you're about to cum from having his big, fat cock inside your ass.

"Gonna-... Gonna cum soon! Fuck, fuck, fuck - I-I'm so close, Kat."

"Yeah? I gotcha, baby... I gotcha. Imma take care of you. Gonna make you cum, promise."

Your curves jiggle against his abdomen as you take his dick like a fucking champ and keep on bouncing; nearly squealing in a pitch so high it makes his ears hurt when he pinches your puffy clit and turns you so overstimulated that you're nearly ready to squirt and gush all over him. As you squeeze your eyes shut and tip over the edge only minutes later, plunging into an orgasm of a different kind, that you only dare to experience once a year as a treat for your brute of a boyfriend.

He follows not a moment after you've floated up into the heavens and turned brain-dead. Everything feels fuzzy inside your mind as he fills you up with his cum and lets out another broken moan and a grunt of an especially nasty curse, but the warm ropes of white are pleasant as they coat your walls. You can tell he's been barely withholding his own climax; the entirety of his body feels so stiff and hot underneath you. Even his jaw is clenched so tightly that it clicks when he snaps it shut. It's just a different kind of experience, after all. Everything is more intense, hence why his eyes are rolling back and his head is sent tipping into the mattress.

"Maybe-... Fuck, oh my..." You suck in a sharp breath to recollect your buzzing thoughts as the words fade away into silence and you stick to his heaving chest until you're practically glued together. He's cummed so much that his cum leaks out of you even if he's still inside you, dick slowly going soft and tender. The milky release is drooling right down to his balls by the time you finally manage to finish your sentence, "Maybe we should take a picture next year, mm? Since you wanna see me so bad."

"I'd like that," he whispers quietly, pulling you closer and kissing your naked shoulder gently. "I'd like that a whole fuckin' lot, baby."

It's true. Katsuki may not like being the birthday boy and the attention it brings, but it’s different when he gets to spend it with you. The presents you give him on his birthday are always the best, after all.

To say that he can barely wait for the one he'll get for his 27th would be an understatement.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugo x reader #bakugo smut #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader #mha smut

[wordstome]

I am having a goddamn nightmare of a time writing the university au (mostly because I have a shit ton of work to do…for my university…lol) so have some headcanons about the most toxic couple you’ve ever met. mdni under the cut

They’re like the definition of a situationship. They’re dating in every aspect except by name

At first she does try to sleep with other guys like she did before König but that doesn’t last long, because nobody else is as good as him. She will never admit this outside of the bedroom

Meanwhile he literally calls her his girlfriend behind her back

She’s emotionally unavailable toxic, he’s obsessive and possessive toxic

König enjoys the pursuit and just thinks it’s normal for women to be difficult like this. I would say “poor König” but he has a bad habit of picking her up and carrying her places against her will so he’s not that poor

She likes to tell herself she has no attachment to him, but she loves the ego boost he gives her by acting like a lovestruck puppy and following her everywhere. She’s also secretly into him being controlling

She does have her moments of genuinely caring about him, though. She brought him lunch once and he looked at her like she hung the moon the whole day. Her excuse was that she just happened to get/make an extra portion, but she did, in fact, get him a portion on purpose

She basically lives with him after a certain point. Her roommates barely see her anymore since she only comes and goes from her old place to get things. He constantly threatens to change the locks on her, but they both know it’s an empty threat. He much prefers to punish her in sexy ways

She'll just be minding her own business talking to a classmate or perhaps flirting with someone when König will come up behind her and put his arms around her. If she was just talking to someone she'll pat his face before attempting to shoo him off. If she was flirting with someone, she wrenches him off her and storms off in a huff (whoever she was talking to has definitely fled from König's evil eye by that point)

They don't really fight, they just have spats because König is endlessly amused by her anger and she is unable to stay mad at him for long. The one time they had a real fight was nasty, and they didn't talk for days afterwards

She's usually quite a chill, go with the flow person (because if she allowed herself too much stress or anxiety at once it would destroy her), but König brings out the spitfire in her

In equal measure, König is a bit of the shy and quiet giant type, but she brings out the brat tamer in him. They alternate balancing each other out

It's kind of easy to look at them and go "why are they still doing this to themselves" but when they get along (i.e. he's behaving himself and she's not pretending not to know him) they're as functional as any other couple

This definitely goes without saying: the nastiest most bed-breaking sex. They fuck like they’re trying to murder each other

I know it's a pet peeve of many people when they say the reader is ooooo so small and delicate next to the cod men, and I tend to agree. However, unless you are also nearly seven feet tall and built like an olympic swimmer, I'm just gonna say you're smaller than König

That being said, he LOVES using his size against her. Picking her up, bending her over things, bending her in half (mating press, his beloved)

If he wants her to stay, she'll stay. He'll have one hand on her throat pinning her down, the other keeping her open to slam into her

This brat will look him dead in the eye and ask "is that all you've got?", which obviously makes him lose his mind in the best way

She definitely has more experience than he does, which actually works out in his favor: him getting better at fucking really just means he's getting better at fucking her

They're so goddamn nasty they've definitely fucked in semi-public places because she teased him to the point of madness and he popped a boner so hard it was painful

Oh, the dirty talk. König is such a gentleman outside of the bedroom, but the degradation that comes out of him while he's fucking her is toe-curling. A lot of "nobody else can fuck you like this" and "all you're good for is taking me in your tight little hole"

He growls??? I don't know if y'all have heard his voicelines in German but he snarls at her when he's trying to teach her a lesson and it turns her into putty

This post is dedicated to @kneelingshadowsalome, who is waiting for this fic so patiently and is my shining beacon of motivation at this point lol

#könig #cod mw2 #call of duty #konig #könig cod #konig cod #könig mw2 #konig x reader #König x reader #konig x you #König x you #cod #mw2 #König call of duty #könig fanfiction #university au #fic: now playing

[hanibalistic]

WHO YOU ARE, WHO I AM | LEE MINHO.

genre | fluff, angst, (semi) slow burn / arranged marriage au / strangers to lovers / 4th wall break

synopsis | when you wake up to a good-looking man who claims to be your husband, there isn’t much to do aside from assuming you got stuck in a drama.

word count | 12.0k+

warning | car crash / not edited since the first time i posted this story

note | bye-bye baby, i love you baby. more than that body pillow drabble at least.​

parts | one, two, three

After the doctor bandaged your hands and did some checkup on you to make sure you had sustained no more damage from the fall, you were glad to hear that they would take up the responsibility to call Minho’s parents instead.

You could not find the energy to talk to anyone about anything—perhaps you would give Yuna an earful about what happened, but she was gone by the time you got picked up by others around the scene. Tears kept falling down your face when you were getting treated, and the doctor in charge stopped asking you if she was hurting you anymore. It was obvious that your concern lay on someone else.

How did this happen? You always thought you would be so agile and smart during emergencies. The cold water of truth once again splashed down on you, reminding you that just because you think you’d be cool doesn’t mean you would be when your thoughts turn into reality. This isn’t the law of attraction, you can’t manifest the car away and you sure as well can’t manifest peace.

You sighed, your lashes wet and your under-eye pained from all the rubbing. It had to happen this way, didn’t it? The car crash was, unfortunately, essential in your drama. If it wasn’t the kidnapping, it if wasn’t the psychotic mother, if it wasn’t even the love triangle, then it would be the goddamn car crash. And as usual, it was infuriating and you wished it hadn’t happened.

It wasn’t that you minded the car crash (you would like to not see it as a plot device so often, though). You just hoped it hadn’t been Minho who got hit because he cared enough to save you from it. And now you were left here, sitting in the hospital lobby and being haunted by all the gut-wrenching components of a drama car crash.

Broken hands, broken legs, brain dead, blindness, mute, deaf, paralyzed, coma, a sudden discovery of cancer, a sudden discovery of related bloodlines, a sudden discovery of a terminal illness. You squealed under your breath as you went down the list, approaching the most common trait of them all—amnesia.

Sure, dramas usually have this rule where all you needed to endure was one to two months of hardships where Minho would revert to hating your guts, and then he would either fall in love with you again or you would give him the magical kiss of memory revival and he would suddenly remember your past together.

But those are often so unpredictable! You have watched hundreds of dramas that spin down several different lanes, and all of them have left you heartbroken one way or another. And by now you have learned how much different it would be for you to have to experience such events by yourself! If you could cry so hard because of what those pixelated people are going through, how would you begin to cope with experiencing it yourself?

A sob forced itself up to your throat, your chest sustained the pain of holding it in for too long it felt like you swallowed too many things at once, it felt like you were suffocating. You were afraid. So far, you have skated through every event with a very humorous coping mechanism, one that never does any long-term help. But this was different, this could last forever.

No, this wasn’t supposed to be the forever you experience. You two have just begun, you two were just starting to love each other loudly and happily. You haven’t had enough yet, you wanted more time! The gate to Heaven shouldn’t be allowed to close itself at people’s faces!

“Hello? Excuse me?”

You looked up at the doctor standing in front of you and immediately stood up, wiping your eyes on cue even though you had passed the point of crying and ceasing the chaos in your head. “Yes! How–how is Minho?”

“Good. He only got a few fractured ribs, a bad concussion, and a badly scraped forehead. He didn’t suffer any damage to his internal organs and there are no signs of internal bleeding,” the doctor explained. “He just needs to rest for now, but I estimate that he will wake up sooner than expected. You can wait in his room if you want to.”

You heard everything she said crystal clear. You even went so far as to repeat it in your head. Fractured ribs and concussion, ouchie but at least there wasn’t any internal damage that always sounded so life-threatening. This should be great news, but why did it sound so suspicious to you?

“Really? You are sure, doctor?” you asked, “He didn’t like…lost his eyesight or paralyzed or… I don’t know, cancer? Amnesia?”

“This is a car crash, I don’t think it will cause him cancer,” she replied calmly. If she was annoyed at your stupid questions, she was trained well not to show it on her face. “And no, we did all the scans. There is nothing else, I assure you.”

“But I swear I saw blood back then, what does that mean?”

“He scraped his forehead when he fell. We did sutures on the wound, which is going to leave him a scar but we can try to minimize it as best as we can,” she said.

Huh, bummer. Maybe I should order another car crash.

Yeah, now wasn’t the time. My apologies.

You thanked the doctor quickly then, wanting to do nothing more than to see him. But before you could leave, she held you back and shifted through her pocket for something she intended to give you.

"The paramedic stopped me and told me to give this back to Mr.Lee when you guys went in, but I assume it is yours?” she said as she pulled out a dark blue velvet box and handed it to you.

It was a ring box, with your ring stored securely in it. You felt a rush of tears piling at your eyes again but you held them down and nodded. “Yeah, well, let’s hope it’s still for me.”

“Pretty sure it will. He wouldn’t buy you a ring if he didn’t care enough to jump in front of a car for you.” She shrugged. “His room is right around the corner, you can ask the nurses around.”

You bid her goodbye then, watching her rush away as her pager beeped. Then you returned your attention to the ring. You took it out of the box and slipped it on, admiring the way it still fits perfectly around your finger. You became his and you would always be from now on; wearing the ring is an act of taking a physical vow. Clasping the box shut, you put it in your pocket carefully before heading to where the doctor pointed you.

This was painstakingly familiar, Minho thought as he opened his eyes once again to welcome the flood of nausea and ugly ceiling lights. He hasn’t been in the hospital for a long time but he could tell he was in one from the saturated smell of alcohol and the overall sickly atmosphere. Shutting his eyes immediately after waking up, he groaned hoarsely as he recalled what events led up to this moment and realized he would have to be bedridden once more.

What a shame, you would have to take care of him again—hey, hold on a second! Where were you?

Minho snapped his eyes open, panic overwhelming the revolting weight laid atop of his body and brain. He did push you out of the way, right? He remembered he did, but he couldn’t be sure if you both were lucky enough to not have a second careless driver grace the crossroad. Or what if you bumped your head too hard on the ground and got a bad concussion? Or what if he didn’t push you far away enough for the car not to hit you?

He turned his head over to the door, wanting to call for a nurse and ask them millions of unprepared questions, but he stopped in his tracks abruptly when his gaze shivered downwards and he found you sleeping with your head on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t even registered the feeling of his hand being held by yours, the pulse oximeter and the IV on his left arm had taken away most of his sense of touch.

Calming down, Minho relaxed against the pillows and exhaled in relief. He would much rather have you here and sleeping in an uncomfortable position than laying on a bed with a heart monitor beeping next to your bed. Lowering his head so he could look at you, he softened at the way your cheek was squeezed against your forearm and the fading redness visible under your once tearful eyes. Oh, how he longed to reach out and touch you right now, the desire was immeasurable.

His mellow eyes trailed over to your hand, the one laying on the side of his legs, and he frowned slightly at the heavy white gauze wrapped around your lower palm. Getting a scrape when he pushed you away like that is likely inevitable; it got the job done, thankfully, he hoped it didn’t hurt you too much. He was promoted to move his hand when he saw yours, the one you had your own pinned down on the bed softly, and it was then when he felt the roughness of the gauze rubbing against his skin as well.

With a grimace, he looked over to where your hands were stacked on top of each other, and he held his breath when he finally noticed the shining diamond sitting prettily on your finger.

You put the ring back on.

The box must have flown out of his pocket when he got hit. He had been taking it with him everywhere recently just in case the perfect timing to give it back to you turns out to be a place where he couldn’t have access to it immediately. Besides, holding the box in his hand had always reminded him of you, and he liked being reminded of you from time to time throughout the day.

It made him feel less jittery, less annoyed at the general things, and it got him excited to return home at the end of the day.

Minho couldn’t think about anything else at the moment; all that flooded his mind was how much more fulfilling it was to see the ring on your finger rather than in the box, how things should have been this way all along, and what it all meant now that you’ve worn it back.

Forgiveness for his aloofness in the past, a firm acceptance of this marriage, and that he has become someone who can be loved by you.

His shaky eyes were filled with droplets, creating a glassy sight in his already glittery eyes. Feeling you stir on your spot, he slowly moved his head up so he could watch you wake from your slumber. Your grogginess went away as soon as you met eyes with him, and instead of an excited squeal or a surprised gasp, the only thing that glossed over you was an immense relief.

Looking at you, Minho breathed out a quiet laugh, one that even you couldn’t hear. He felt your hand around him still, but your grip more secure now. In an attempt to chase the tears away from your eyes, he joked, “Stop frowning. Your face is gonna get stuck.”

“I’m glad you still remember that,” you laughed, lightly shoving his leg as your voice echoed the room. He gave you a knowing hum as if telling you it would be impossible for him to ever forget the unfunny jokes you liked to tell around the house so much, they were practically engraved in his mind.

Sitting up straighter now, your entire demeanor became gentler. Your senses less alert, your mouth quirked into a permanent smirk, and your fluffy gaze paying a constant focus on Minho. 

“You haven’t forgotten me, have you?” you asked slowly, propping yourself up on your intertwined hands and smiling brightly up at him.

“No,” he replied.

“Who am I?”

“You are [Name]. You have bad humor, you forced pizza down my throat once, and you made me like soap opera,” he said, finding his voice back as more words gradually left his lips. And then he paused for a moment, a dramatic moment where he eyed you lovingly, watching as your brows raised in anticipation. “And I think I might be your husband.”

A joyous sob came in the form of giggle and Minho whined at the strands of tears that danced down your cheeks. He reached out to you, wanting to wipe your tears away for you, but you stopped him and told him not to move. Instead, you got up from the chair and scooted closer to the edge of the bed so you two could be closer at face level.

You slipped your arm under this head and the other reached to cup his jaw. You kissed his forehead, once and twice, then you pulled away just enough for you to look at him fully. Ah, you were so filled to the brim with affection for him; it was so new to you but so real the same time that you were not afraid of diving headfirst into it.

“I think you are my husband,” you whispered with a small nod.

He smiled. “Thank you for having me again.”

You gave him a smile before leaning down to kiss him again. This time you didn’t stop at his forehead. Your soft lips trailed down his eyes, his nose, his cupid’s bow, and before you could kiss him on the lips as you had always wished, you pulled away with a puff of nervous breath. You stared into his eyes, feeling the same longing in the way his hand found your wrist and he held onto you.

What are you waiting for? For permission? For him to get better? Go on, kiss him.

You two will be fine, you won’t hurt each other.

Pressing your lips against his tentatively, you felt a rush of adrenaline racing around your lungs. It made you feel hypersensitive, like a supernatural who could hear and see and feel beyond the human spectrum—the forced nudge of your noses, the beating in your ears, the softness of his lips, your quickened breathes, his soft locks flowing between your fingers, his grip on your wrists tightening to keep you with him.

It was all so overwhelming, the intimacy and the desperation. The emotions came in tiny waves, similar to the way the ocean feels when you stepped your feet on the shore. It drowns you out, it lets you breathe, it drowns you out again. You kiss, you breathe, and you kiss him again. No matter how many times the cycle continues, no matter how many times the seawater brushes past your skin, you get surprised by it and you keep yearning for more.

Your heart was hanging by a thread, any minute now it would leave your chest and land itself straight into Minho’s palms.

Hesitantly pulling away, you kept your mouths close enough for him to still feel you against his lips. He leaned in a little, breathing out a whine that made you realize your heart was already in his hands long ago. Swallowing down a breath, you whispered, “Do you remember, that I love you?”

He nodded, his lashes fluttering as he glanced down at your lips again and back up at your eyes, “I will now.”

Minho’s heart was yours too, long ago, and you’ve learned that.

You jolted awake in the middle of the night. Heavy breaths left your lips as you sat up against the arm of the couch. Your heart was beating quickly like you had just run a mile around the track field.

It was nothing like the way you used to be yanked out of sleep. It wasn’t like your head hitting against your desk in a boring lecture, or when you brutally died in a bad dream. This one was different. You were not falling asleep and you weren’t dreaming. It was different in a way that all you saw during your ‘consciousness’ was blackness, paired with a familiar voice you never thought you would hear again.

“Mom?” you whispered as you quickly scanned your surroundings, looking for the sight of your mother.

But you were still in the hospital room. You were sitting on the couch located at the corner of the room, with your phone and leftover takeaway food resting on top of the small table before you. The moon has gone up and the sky has turned darker than night, you glanced over and found Minho sleeping on the bed as he should.

You were back in where you were supposed to be, but your mother’s voice felt genuinely real during your supposed dream. Sitting up straighter and putting your feet down on the ground, you ran your hands through your hair to force yourself into concentration. Why did you jolt awake at your mother’s voice? There should be no reason for you to find her a threat unless you felt like you were being pulled out of this world.

Like you were falling, like you were falling out of this place, like you were leaving this world and back to reality.

“Oh god,” you gasped as you snapped your head up, your eyes wide.

Great, you were finally piecing the puzzle together, [Name]. I’m glad. 

You have exhausted your one near-death experience when you almost got hit by a car yesterday. If Minho hadn’t pushed you to the side and you got hit then things would have been different; you’d be hit by the car, got sent to a hospital to get fixed, and nothing would have happened. Alas, Minho did push you out of the way, and now you have reached the limit, which was only one. If you remember clearly, the way you arrived to this world was by waking, so when you return home, you would find yourself waking up as well. 

Except this time, you would be alone, and Minho never existed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeated under your breath, biting your nails in an attempt to ease out the spiraling anxiety permanent in your head. It was all hitting you too quickly—the near-death theory, the memories you have of your real life, or the lack thereof, feeling like you were being pulled out of your own body, going back to reality, leaving Minho here.

I reckon this would be better for you, actually. The anxiety keeps you awake, and the pacing around keeps you active and forces your eyes open. It would be sooner or later, though, when you find yourself dozing off due to the inability to stay awake any longer. That’s when things get bad for you because as soon as you fall asleep, you will wake up in a whole different place. A familiar place, but different, nonetheless. 

Oh, but how could this be? You have just worn the ring, you two have just kissed for the first time. You couldn’t fathom the idea of being separated from Minho and you didn’t want to leave him yet! You never want to leave him ever! There was still so much for you two to do! You needed more time. You both needed more time!

“[Name]?”

“Huh–oh, hey, Minho.” You moved over to him with a smile. “Did I wake you?”

He could see the panic in your eyes and he frowned. “Are you okay? You look tired. Maybe you should get some sleep–”

“Oh, I–” Your bottom lips quivered.

How long would you be able to hide it before he finds out? How long could you stay awake and act normal for? How would you be able to explain why you always look so exhausted? Minho should know the truth, he deserved to know that you have been hiding something important from him the whole time. Besides, it would be such a shame if you leave him unprepared for your departure. He’s the one who has to remember, after all. 

“I’m not leaving!”

Oh, yell at me, why don’t you?

“Hey,” Minho grabbed a hold of your hand, his brows furrowed up at you, “what is going on?”

You stayed still to pull yourself together for a few seconds, breathing slowly, and then you looked back at him. “I have something to tell you.”

He could sense the solemnity in your voice and it terrified him. You had shown him a large range of your emotions before, from playful to angry to loving, but he has never seen you look so helpless. Tugging at your hand, he kissed your knuckles softly and nodded. “What is it?”

And you told him everything, struggling to make your story coherent despite only having the absolute truth escaping your lips. You told him from the very moment when you found yourself waking up next to him, and then when you were still figuring out what to do with ‘your’ past broken relationship, to adapting quickly and blending into this world. Everything up until this point, when you were so close to forgetting where you came from only to have reality force itself back into your head again.

It was taking Minho a long time to comprehend all the information thrown at him. When it seemed like he was finally done, he moved his eyes over to you and he tilted his head with a sigh. “That is a very deliberate joke.”

Right, you should have anticipated a reaction like that. It would be too easy if he brought it immediately. You pulled a face. “It’s not a joke, Minho.”

“Oh, so you are trying to tell me you aren’t from this universe and you aren’t even who you are before you came here?” he said, confusion evident on his tired face and his voice rising as he went on. “You are basically suggesting parallel universes exist?”

“No–I mean, yeah? It could be true?” You shrugged, and then you shook your head. “The point is–I can feel myself leaving this place and I am pretty sure as soon as I fall asleep, my time will be up. I just felt like I should tell you because you deserve to know.”

Despite how serious you sounded throughout your entire explanation, he just couldn’t bring himself to take you seriously. It was too absurd, the whole concept of waking up in another place. Sure, you did suddenly change overnight and you did feel much different than you did before, and there had been certain very subtle hints that could back your point up, but it was not enough for Minho to believe in what you just told him.

“You should go to sleep, [Name]. You’ve been really tired,” he said again, trying to persuade you into going back to bed.

Disappointment flashed before your eyes. Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you looked away, unsure what else you could do to convince him. The only thing you were sure about was that you absolutely could not fall asleep, no matter how tired you were. You planned to hang on for as long as you could, and hopefully, Minho would come around and believe you by then.

“I am just gonna go take a walk and come back,” you said, smiling faintly. “You should go back to sleep though.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “You can sleep with me on the bed if you want. I wouldn’t mind.”

“You know I can’t,“ you said. Leaning down to kiss his forehead, you moved away from the bed slowly. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you up with breakfast tomorrow morning.”

You closed the door, leaving him alone in the darkroom. Minho pouted, he was thinking too much to be able to just fall asleep now. The fact that he couldn’t just sleep sort of gave him a sense that he was leaning towards believing it and he was just in the stage of denial. If he really thought it was a joke then he should have no problem brushing it off, right?

He leaned back against the pillow, his fingers grasping at the air and his head filled.

Would you really leave? Just like that? More importantly, would he be able to tell if you left?

"Did you sleep?”

“They did not,” Changbin replied casually as he slammed a plastic bag on top of the table. Leaning down and proceeding to take out the takeaway food, he handed you a small box of food and looked up at Minho again. “They were up the whole night.”

“Did you seriously stay up the whole night?” Minho asked, brows furrowed at the unexpected visit by Changbin. He wanted to ask why he decided to tag along with you, but he figured it was much more important to know what happened with you last night.

“I did,” you sighed, shoving the chicken into your mouth and moaning at its delicious taste.

After realizing it would be almost impossible for you to stay awake on your own, which was such bullshit because you swore you used to have the ability to pull all-nighters like it was nothing, you ended up calling your last resort—Seo Changbin. Feeling bad that you had to wake him up in the middle of the night, you gave him the same explanation you gave Minho, and like your husband, he was extremely reluctant to accept it.

But you weren’t sleeping at all. And while Changbin had the suspicion that you were just taking this 'joke’ a little too far, he decided to humor you for the night and stayed up with you. And you spent the night over at his home, doing anything and everything to keep yourselves from falling asleep.

“Didn’t they tell you about the story?” Changbin asked, popping open a can of soda and looking at Minho as he drank. ��I still don’t believe it but they were so hell-bent on not sleeping, I might just let them have it.”

“What–Changbin, I thought you believed me!” you whined, punching his behind and shoving him to the side.

“If I come over and tell you I’m not actually me and I came from another dimension, would you have believed me?” Changbin retorted, rubbing the spilled drink off his chin.

“I don’t have to because first of all, I met you for the first time at the shopping mall and I know nothing about you,” you pointed out. “Second of all, I am going through it right now. I am telling you, if I fall asleep, you will never see me again.”

“You don’t have proof that you aren’t you, [Name],” Minho chimed in, sighing in defeat as he slumped back against the bed.

Changbin pointed at you with wide eyes then, nodding in agreement. Sitting up from the couch, you turned your head to find Minho grimacing at you, and you heave a sigh. Proof. Where the hell would you find the proof to explain that you are who you are? Identity isn’t a tangible thing, no amount of paperwork can shape it for you.

“Look, I am telling the truth, alright? Or at least I am saying what I know,” you said as you grabbed a box and headed over to the bed. You handed the food to Minho, who refrained from throwing a mini tantrum the way he did before due to Changbin’s presence. Sitting down on the chair you had also pulled over, you sighed. “Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t want to take the risk and sleep.”

You looked at Minho, your brows raising slowly to display a vulnerably honest expression. No malice was hidden behind your eyes, your gaze only directed at him. “I don’t want to leave you, Minho.”

His munching halted. He could feel a hint of unease at the bottom of his stomach, possibly due to what you said and the soft way you said it. As if you were afraid, cautious. Lowering his hand, he inhaled, kind of wishing his inner voice would kick him in the head and give him a little nudge to the right path.

But really, what more was there left to say, Minho? [Name] has said all they could.

“You are not going leave me,” he muttered.

You shook your head. “Not consciously, no.”

Minho pursed his lips. Think carefully; for him to convince himself of what you said, he has to nitpick the past and the present, like separating different colored peas with chopsticks.

Starting from the day you met him, you said you have no idea what his name is and you woke up in his bed even though he had this terrible rule of not sleeping together. That was one. Then you forgot about the marriage; you were surprised by the ring on your hand so much that you even asked him for the price. That was two. You went into his closet, even when you were banned from touching certain things that were his. That was three. These were all rules to be broken, but the old you never had the guts to do that. It didn’t make sense for the courage to suddenly appear.

Asking for a divorce and acting like you didn’t know it was arranged, forgetting that your parents were dead, completely unbothered by Yuna’s presence, suddenly knowing how to cook up a whole meal, eating lots of greasy food, profoundly cursing, being playful enough to give him nicknames and make bad jokes.

Aside from that, he could physically tell, now that he thought about it with a clearer head. You were less timid and much louder. Sure, you have your moments of tenderness, but overall you felt much more energized and much happier than before. It was a difference in your presence—you didn’t use to light up the room when you walk into one, but now all Minho could see was you whenever you come into his line of sight. And that was before he fell so in love with you.

The pieces were adding up to an unbelievable story. 

Minho looked up at Changbin, his gaze hardened. “Can you leave us alone for a moment?”

You widened your eyes at his troubled look, then you turned around and urged your best friend away as well, promising to find him later when your private talk ends. Changbin rolled his eyes and unwillingly left, and then it was finally just you and him.

Minho started without waiting. “Let me recap everything. You came here not knowing who I am or what this place is?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “does this mean you believe me now?”

“Wait–why didn’t you tell me before then?” he asked.

“I thought I would leave soon and return to where I came from. I didn’t expect to stay so long,” you said. “Also, drama taught me it is better to keep my identity hidden.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “So, you suspect that the way for you to go back is through a near-death experience?”

“And falling asleep later,” you hummed. “This one I learned out of instinct, but I’m sure it’s happened before on some show.”

Minho scoffed, “You can’t trust dramas all the time. They’re made up.”

“Yeah, but this feels too much like one for me to ignore it! I mean, look at this!” You pointed at him, smiling bitterly. “Look at you! I would have never been able to snatch a guy like you if I was back in my world. I was a huge loner. All I did was work and have fleeting crushes.”

He watched as you lowered your arm, your smile dimming significantly. “Honestly, I don’t even know if you love me or who used to be me.” You shrugged, not looking at him. “I am a new person to you now, right?”

Minho licked his lower lip. That problem has never crossed his mind before since it was so obvious that he loved you. His affection was never there, it wasn’t affection for you before. But then he started developing feelings of his own for you, steaming from a threatening turn where he might lose the care and obedience he was used to receiving. He just used to like being loved by 'you’, now he liked loving you; he liked the mutual feelings you two shared.

If all were true, then there was a whole world behind you he’s never known. You previous life, your friends, your fleeting crushes.

“Come here,” he said, patting the spot next to him.

You stood up from the chair and carefully climbed onto the spot next to him. You back hit against the side rail, preventing you from falling off, while Minho pushed his hand against your waist to keep you close to him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, a sigh leaving your lips quietly.

“You know, I thought you were funny, back when you first came here,” he said. “A little infuriating, yes, but amusing nonetheless.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” you commented, giggling when he cleared his throat and nudged the top of your head with his jaw.

“You could have totally snatched me up even if we are not in this setting,” he said. “You aren’t like other people. You treat me differently.”

Ah, and the iconic line finally decided to make its appearance. I was hoping it’d at least happen once for you to hear it because you would only be able to hear it from Minho’s mouth.

“What do you mean different? I treat you the same way everyone treats you!” you said, suppressing a chuckle. You weren’t sure if that line had boosted your ego but it sure did make you feel quite special, as cliché as it was, but honestly? As a society, we should all establish that clichés don’t matter.

“No, you were so casual and honest. I think you are the only person who has given me nicknames aside from my old friends back in high school.” He nodded with a shaky laugh. He patted your waist in a beckoning motion, seeming excited. “And you’re even more different than others now because you are the only person I love, in that special kind of way.”

“What are you, five? Special kind of way–that’s lame!” you exclaimed, laughter escaping in between. When you quieted down, you pressed yourself closer to him and looked up.

He only glanced down when he felt your lips at the side of his jaw. And he kissed you then, leaning his head down eagerly to capture your lips. You were careful with moving around, your hand going up to stop at the nape of his neck, rubbing comfortingly as your mouths danced with each other sensually.

This could never be enough. Minho wanted more than this, he thought as he tugged you closer to him, feeling your chest against his side. This could never be enough. He wanted to do more than kissing you in a hospital bed. He wanted to kiss you under the moon, to kiss you at home, to kiss you during a spontaneous snack run at midnight. He wanted to eat junk food and get emotional about fictional characters with you; he wanted to see you read books while he worked on the side.

Minho wants you with him, always.

You pulled away, gasping a little at how teary his eyes had suddenly become. You didn’t need to ask why. You could already tell. “Do you believe me now?”

“I can’t. I don’t want to.” Minho let out a shaky breath. “If I do then I will have to accept the fact that you might leave me soon.”

A sobbing noise spiked from the back of your throat as you reached up to peck his lips. “I will try my best to stay awake for as long as I can, Minho.”

He nodded, even though the fact alone broke him, the fact that you two have to settle for 'as long as you can.’

You jolted awake again, this time in Minho’s workroom with a new book held loose in your hands.

You kept the lights on for the sake of having an awake atmosphere even though you knew very well that would do nothing to help your exhaustion. Looking up from the couch, you found it hard to just squint at the clock hanging above your head, but you saw that it was long past midnight already.

You groaned, throwing your head back against the couch as you kicked your legs in frustration. You were officially three days in, all three days you went without a lick of sleep. And you put in lots and lots of effort to accomplish that, such as eating, doing yoga, shopping, scrolling the internet, and indulging yourself in many new shows filled with more than seven seasons of emotions.

It was painful. Your body felt heavy and your eye bags were probably getting bigger as you went on. Your mind was slow, you zone out too much and you kept dozing off. The only thing keeping you from falling into slumber was the sickening feeling of you astral projecting out of this place.

You didn’t want to cry though. Not only would it make you feel even more exhausted, but it would also make you feel weak, and you didn’t want to feel pathetic that way if you were doing this so you could stay with the love of your life.

Huffing out a groan, you got off the couch and left the room. You were much more familiar with the house by now, you could practically walk anywhere with your eyes closed as long as you knew where you started. You walked down the hallway and stopped abruptly before a pair of doors.

Minho’s closet was as you remembered it was. Black and white, very minimalistic, with clothing racks lining up against the wall. One thing has changed, though, he has opened up a space for clothes you got him from time to time. The ones you thought he would look good in and he occasionally wears around in the house when he didn’t need to be in formal attire.

You flipped through the clothes, remembering where each one of them came from with a smile. It was quite funny as well, to see how the clothes gradually grew to be more accurate in his size with the more you brought.

Pulling a sweater off the rack, you admired the soft material by kneading it between your fingers, then you hugged it close to your chest. You brought the fabric close to your face, inhaling the warm scent you’ve gotten used to smelling on your own clothes as well.

You never tried to look into what detergent the housekeeper used to wash your clothes, but you always thought it had an artificial smell of some type of flower you have never smelt the actual scent of before. It stopped mattering now that you have gotten so accustomed to the smell. It just has the scent of a home, and home is Minho for you.

You inhaled deeply and exhaled out to control your quickened breathing. A sob threatened to break out but you muffled it with his sweater, clinging onto it like it was your life-line.

It has been so difficult for you. Staying awake beyond your limit and trying to smile with everyone else; you couldn’t even tell Minho how you felt when he asked if you were okay because a part of you dreaded that he’d let you go. You felt alone, worrying and fearing for the day you would leave this place.

Standing in his closet and having his scent so close to you pushed you past the breaking point. All you knew was that you wanted to stay with Minho, and knowing how sleep would be inevitable made you cry.

The past three days have only been about that. You couldn’t afford to think about anything else.

You stood there alone and sobbed for as long as your body allowed. When you were done, you dropped the sweater on the rack and took off your own just so you would wear it.

It felt warm, big and warm, just like Minho.

You felt another sob bubbling up.

Minho could tell you have been crying when you arrived to visit him for the night.

It has become increasingly difficult for him not to notice how worn out you were, not to mention having to neglect it and pretend as if nothing was happening. Although you were the one who was so determined to keep yourself in this place, and of course, he too wanted you to stay here, he couldn’t help the gruesome guilt that rips through his veins whenever he sees that defeated state of yours.

You were dozing off on the couch again. He could somehow feel it whenever you’ve got your eyes closed, it was like a tingly sense that shoots down his spine. Even then, he always looks over to check if you are, and you were this time, your chin squished against the base of your palm with your elbow propped up against the armrest of the couch. You were dozing and waking, an indefinite cycle that would only stop until you reach the point of insanity, he supposed.

When this first happened, when he first saw you with your eyes closed and unresponsive, he used to have this knot in his stomach that would tighten harshly in a way that makes him hallucinate pain. The fear used to make him want to throw up, it used to make his face go red and his fist curl until the nails dig deep into his skin. It feigns an anxiety attack for him, and God knows how to properly handle those.

“[Name]!” he repeatedly called for you, feeling the knot inside of him release its chokehold slowly the longer he has to call for you. But you woke up eventually, your body falling to the side and the sudden impact yanking you out to sleepiness.

You looked around and heaved a sigh, whether it was a relieved one was uncertain to everyone, including you. Turning over to look at Minho, you tilted your head and asked, “Hey, what’s up?”

Your posture was terrible, like usual but much worse now that your shoulders were hunched all over and your neck cranked in longing to take a decent break. Your body was fidgety, a habit you picked up to keep yourself active in movement so you wouldn’t fall asleep. The dark circles under your eyes were starting to get more visible than the smile Minho had always paid more attention, and there was no light in your eyes, just a pit of shadowy doom.

Maybe you were trying your best, but you couldn’t look at him like you love him anymore; your eyes physically could not manifest the affection you felt.

This was his fault. Maybe it wasn’t, you certainly would never blame him for this, but Minho still felt like he was the one putting you through all of this. And he hated seeing you so out of place because you haven’t slept in days, and for what? To get a few more days with him? Honest to God, your mind was barely with him these days anyway.

Minho pursed his lips into a thin line, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. And he shook his head. “You should go to sleep. This is killing you.”

You were quick to turn down his suggestion. “No.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to,” you said. “I don’t want to go.”

“Well, you are going to have to go either way so why not make that earlier?” he asked, raising his voice, causing your defenses to build up quickly.

You stood up from your seat, your eyes wide in a glare for the first time in days. “What is your problem, Minho? Do you want me to leave so bad?”

“I don’t–“ he breathed out a sigh, closing his eyes to keep his temper low now that yours have been shorter than usual. “I don’t want you to leave. If I get to choose, I will always choose to have you stay here with me, but look at yourself!”

You raised a brow. “What?”

“You’re tired, you are so tired. You have been crying, you eat slow, your temper is short, you barely react to anything anybody says. Even the nurse who came in to check up on me this afternoon asked if you are okay because you don’t look okay!” he exclaimed. Then, sucking in a breath as if gargling his words, he exhaled through a soft huff before he whispered, “I love you, [Name], so much. But not like this. Not when you are so miserable because of me.”

If his existence is causing you pain then he’d rather not have it. As selfish as he wanted to be, he would choose to let you go.

Your arms dropped to your side and you rolled your eyes up. You have told him the same thing before. God, you felt like one of those female leads who cry every single episode, it was so enraging. Everything you have sought to not become, you’ve become it.

Minho moved to the side on his bed, leaving you a spot, and he called out, “Come here.”

You looked back down at him, your sight blurred at the thought of what he meant to do. You were going to walk over, he would wrap you in his arms, and you would fall asleep to his warmth. He would still be here but you would be somewhere else. It would be quick, it would happen before you even know it.

“Come here, please?” he asked again, softly. “Let me hold you.”

You rubbed your eyes and moved over slowly. He helped you as you climbed onto the bed, snuggling up next to his side with your head laid on his shoulder and his arms securely around your torso. He squeezed your arm and breathed out a joking giggle, mentioning something about you getting chubbier and earning a hit on the chest in return.

His fingers shifted through your hair when you looked up at him, and he smiled down at you like nothing was going wrong. Eyeing his lips once, you didn’t hesitate to reach up for a long, loving kiss, one where your tears were mixed with the taste of his mouth.

When you pulled away, you said, “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “This is actually pretty funny. I am the one who got injured but here we are, crying over you leaving instead.”

You laughed silently, bringing him closer to you. Minho has steady breathing but his heart beat quickly. It rattled against your ears, reminding you that he was as nervous as you were about losing each other. Your senses were shutting down slowly, ready to go into rest when you finally gain the sleep your body has been screaming at you to get.

“I’m sleepy, Minho,” you muttered, adjusting your head.

“I know. You can sleep, it’s okay,” Minho hummed. “You can go. I’m gonna be fine.”

You licked your lower lip, the dryness giving you a sticky sensation. “Love them as much as you love me, alright?”

He couldn’t do that. But he wouldn’t tell you, he wanted you to go without any troubles lingering in your head. He wanted you to leave happily, or as happy as you could be.

Kissing your forehead, he felt your breathing ease up. His hand rubbed your back soothingly as he asked, “Will you remember that I love you?”

You didn’t answer.

Minho stirred uncomfortably in the single hospital bed. As his sense slowly returned to him, he tightened his grip on you, keeping you from falling off. It was nighttime outside, and he supposed a nurse dropped by and turned the lights off when he saw you both sleeping. He could barely remember what happened before he was knocked out.

You shifted slightly by him, head nuzzling against his chest before looking up to find the owner of the body you were cuddling.

“[Name]?” Minho called.

The person jolted from their place. Feet landing coldly on the floor, they fixed their hair and took a wide step away from the bed. “Minho! I’m sorry!” 

His heart dropped. There was his answer: he could tell.

Same face. Same body. Same voice. 

Not you.

Your eyes snapped open and you groaned at the pain oozing at your side. What the hell happened? You could see that you were back in your room, which was weird because the last time you checked, you were on your way to work. You remembered waking up late and rushing out of your apartment, and then everything simply went blank from there.

“Oh, you’re awake! I thought you died or something!”

You sat up on your bed and furrowed your brows at your brown-haired friend. Rubbing your eyes, you yawned and scanned your room, taking in its unfamiliarity with intense suspicion before you turned back to your smiley friend and asked, “Did you move my shit?”

“I just got here like five minutes ago after your mom called me,” he deadpanned. “I was cooking you chicken porridge! She said you blacked out and slept for three days straight, you sleepyhead!”

“Three days–Chan what?” You got off your bed and headed over to your desk where your phone was. You weren’t sure why you needed to check the time, it held no significance to how you were in deep trouble with your boss for ditching work for three days. “Why did no one wake me?”

He handed you a glass of water first, seeing how frantic you appeared right after waking up in the middle of the day. You received it—snatched it—and quickly gulped down the liquid, feeling a sense of relief rush through you when the water hit your throat.

“We tried but you were knocked out cold.” He shrugged. “If you are worried about work, don’t. I talked to our manager for you already. I even exaggerated the part where you almost got in a car crash and died so you needed time to recover from it.”

The water spilled from the glass when you choked in shock. Your brows furrowed harshly as you pulled the glass away, causing more water to flow out of the cup, and you yelled at Chan, “What? I almost got in a car crash?”

He gave you a slow laugh, more concerned than annoyed that you’ve made a mess and yelled at him in the past five seconds. “You almost got hit by a car the other day when you left for work. You were looking at your phone and not paying attention. I had to pull you away from the road! Did you forget all of that?”

You placed the glass of water down on your desk, rubbing your mouth with your forearm harshly. As you brought your hand closer to your mouth, a painful scratch eliciting a yelp from you. Moving your hand away from your face, your eyes trailed up your arm and they widened when you saw the diamond ring located on your fourth finger. You cursed out loud, gaining Chan’s attention, and when his eyes moved towards what you were looking, he too mirrored your confused look.

“What is this!” you asked, looking at him.

“What is what–woah! Did you drunk buy this?” he asked, moving closer to examine the ring on your hand. “You need to return it. You’re crazy. You can’t afford this!”

“I know I can’t afford this,” you exclaimed, glaring at him in defeat. “But I swear I don’t remember ever buying this! Did you see me wearing this when I almost got hit by a car?”

Chan paused for a moment to think. He hadn’t really noticed back then, he was too busy trying to keep your phone-obsessed ass from dying. But if you didn’t have it back then, there should be no way for you to have it now. You have been bedridden, you could not have possibly gotten drunk within the last couple of days, and you would never buy a ring like that when you were sober.

“Did you steal it from someone?” he suggested, feeling the wrath of your impatience as he stepped away from you in precaution. “Oh but you couldn’t–“ 

“No! I don’t know where this ring came from, Chan,” you exclaimed, showing him your hands and grimacing at how perfectly it fit around your finger. “Also, can’t you humor the idea that maybe someone proposed to me?”

“Someone with the money to buy that ring? Uh, no,” he said honestly, putting his hands on his hips in a comical way.

Brushing him off, you slumped back onto your bed with your arm covering your eye. “Whatever. I’ll find out where I got it from somehow.”

“Or you can sell it,” Chan suggested.

You chuckled at the thought. Imagine the amount of money you could get from selling that ring. You did not know about diamonds but you could tell when one looks expensive. Bringing your hand up above your face, you shifted your hand to observe the ring more carefully. A weird sense of comfort rushed through you, making you relax further into your mattress. Coming after the comfort was a very bad sense of nostalgia, one that makes your heart ache for something you couldn’t remember.

“Actually, maybe I’ll keep it,” you muttered, eyes hazy the more you stared at the ring. “I think I want to keep it.”

“Okay.” Chan shrugged at the side. Moving over to your desk, he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Are you gonna be okay? I need to go back to work. Lunch is over for me already.”

“Thank you,” you hummed from the bed, nodding. “I’ll come back to work as soon as I can.” 

“Before you get fired, at least.” He eyed you carefully. You laid motionless on your bed, completely out of it. He nudged your feet with his own to catch your attention. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I am fine, Chan.” You rolled your eyes. “Stop nagging.”

He scoffed, but ultimately his voice was soft when he spoke, “I just want to make sure you are okay, alright?”

The nostalgia hit like a rush this time and you held down a flinch. For some reason, Chan didn’t sound so much like him when he said that, but you couldn’t tell whose voice that was. When you turned your head to look at him, your gaze shifted in rapid sequences, like frames changing on a television screen. Chan’s silhouette shifted in blurry motion into a man of slightly smaller but more visibly muscular stature. You felt your body jolt in recognition. 

Recognition? Pause. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Let me rewind it. 

Chan scoffed, but ultimately his voice was soft when he spoke, “I just want to make sure you are okay.”

You sniffed away a potential sneeze, hearing Chan’s giggle from your ridiculous expression. Throwing your head back against your bed, you waved your hand at him. “Just go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said. “Call me if you need anything.”

You hummed loudly in response, not bothering to look up at him. When you heard the front door lock, you groaned out a frustrated sigh and turned to your side. It has been a weird couple of minutes; you almost got in a car crash but you forgot, you slept for three days and you had no idea, you got a diamond ring on your hand which you have no recollection of ever getting. 

You brought your hand up and frowned. The ring was heavy on your hand and it would most likely disrupt your sleep. But there was something else—the nostalgia that was lapping at your chest one wave after another. A feeling beyond your imagination, resting against your heart carefully yet it rattles you like nothing ever has.

“Where did you come from?” you whispered to the diamond ring sitting perfectly on your finger. 

You decided not to take it off.

Never in a million years did Minho think he’d end up relying on Changbin, but he has no other option due to knowing a shared secret. 

“How are you feeling?” Changbin asked after he plopped down on the study room couch. 

Scatters of paperwork piled on the table were deliberately placed messily to distract Minho from his worries. If his eyes were occupied, his mind may be too. Turning the chair, he eyed Changbin nonchalantly by the desk. “My spouse left me.”

“Not good. Noted!” Changbin exclaimed with a single clap of his hands. He ended up awkwardly rubbing them as they laid themselves on his thighs. 

Silence emerged, much like every other time they’ve hung out together. If he could call it anything different, Changbin would consider these moments more mandatory emotional check-ups than hanging out with good friends. Not only was Minho not a good friend, not even with such a golden opportunity, but Minho was never in the mood for anything anymore. In some ways, he has reverted to his grumpy personality, only this time he knew how to be nice about it. He learned it from you. 

“Do you think they’ll ever come back?” 

Changbin looked up from his fiddling thumbs. Minho’s thousand-yard stare burnt holes through the ceiling, but Changbin wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the particular question he voiced. He’s done his fair share of deep-diving about parallel universes and whatnot. Understanding the theories was one thing; accepting that it has been carried out was another. It still felt impossible. Changbin was holding onto the fact that you have never jumped anywhere, and it was a figment of your imagination that you somehow could portray excellently. 

A character change only takes a good performer or someone fully convinced they’re somebody else. 

The light glimmered as if to add glamour to the rigid atmosphere. Changbin let his neck rest on the back of the couch, and he shrugged. “If they do, you’ll be the first person they look for.”

Light returned to Minho’s eyes. He dreamt about that day. He wondered how it would go. Perhaps seamlessly as the day you first arrived. There won’t be chances of him missing your presence; not only would you make yourself seen, but he was more than sure he would know. A radar within himself would begin blaring sirens—he would just know if you were around again. And it would be a typical day. You would be at home, and he would return home. You would have dinner, you would go to bed together. 

It would finally be a normal day when you come back. 

For now, the glimmer in his eyes fades.

Weeks have passed with the same weight on your shoulders. You have come around to learn how to ignore it. You have learned to distract yourself from it. You work, hang out with people, and entertain yourself with the media. But even then, the grave mistake you made to not take that promise ring off your finger kept reminding you of the shaking sentiment that often shines at the end of the day.

You have looked through different online shops to find out where you could have gotten the ring from. It was a long stretch. You knew it would take ages to find the actual shop, but the promise of long-term confusion somehow assured you that you would have an excuse to keep it with you longer.

It has been weeks, though, and your hope was thinning. You could not find any matches, even after you personally headed over to the shops and asked the staff to take a closer look. You even went so far as to search for the lesser-known brands that would still make rings with diamonds as sparkly and extravagant as the one you got. Nothing, it was like the ring was custom-made, and that made you feel worse about having it.

It must have been really important to the owner, you reckon. It should not be in your hands.

“I feel bad for keeping it,” you spoke to the phone, where Chan sighed on the other side, most likely from irritation. The ring was all you talked about these weeks, aside from occasional work problems and drunken confessions you weren’t afraid to make to him.

“Then sell it.”

“But I don’t want to sell it.”

“Then what do you want to do? I keep giving you suggestions, and you keep shooting me down,” he complained with a helpless whine.

“I want you to tell me what to do!” you exclaimed.

“I say sell it,” he said.

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“I’m hanging up. I can’t take this abuse anymore,” Chan threatened with a yell of frustration. You could imagine him leaning against his chair and pushing it away from his desk, his eyes squinted into moon-shaped smiles, and his nose scrunched up in defeat.

“It’s just… this stupid ring is giving me weird vibes!” You stopped before the road and glanced down at the ring. “I feel sad but also happy when I look at it! Like some sort of deja vu!”

“It’s deja vu. Everyone feels like once in a while,” he said. “Maybe it’s not as serious as you think it is.”

You frowned. Chan was no help at all. From your peripheral vision, you could see that people had started to cross the street, so you followed suit quickly, intending to not block the road and be yelled at by some caffeine-deprived stranger who hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep yet.

“Woah! Hey! Watch the road!”

You snapped your head up. Your eyes first caught the red traffic light, and you gasped. You swore you saw someone move next to you; you should have looked before crossing the road. Turning around and planning to head back to the pedestrian street as it was a shorter distance than moving across the road thoroughly, you could only take one step before honks blared at your ears.

A stranger reached their hand out to grab a fistful of your shirt so they could yank you back to safety. The pull was strong and panicky, like back when you were younger, how your mother would smack you after you did something wrong, but much harder than that. Your gaze wobbled when your head hit a slight whiplash at the force, the sky welcoming your view. Tears unnaturally welled in your eyes as your hands waited for the impact of the ground. 

“No,” you whispered, the blur of a car crash disappearing from your memories. “Minho–“

Minho? Again? Hold on. Let me rewind again. 

“Woah! Hey! Watch the road!”

You snapped your head up. Your eyes first caught the red traffic light, and you gasped. You swore you saw someone move next to you; you should have looked before crossing the road. Turning around and planning to head back to the pedestrian street, as it was a shorter distance than moving across the road thoroughly, you could only take one step before the sight of incoming cars made you freeze. 

A stranger reached their hand out to—

No, [Name]! Wrong! Nothing happens to you! How did you manage to get yourself stuck in a near-death situation twice in a row? What is this, some kind of manifestation theory? Don’t joke around. Let me rewind!

“Woah! Hey! Watch the road!”

You jumped out of the way with a scream, missing the car by a few inches. It scraped past you, causing your body to fall back. Instead of catching yourself in the slow fall, you let your body flail about in the air as more cars slowly closed the distance between themselves and you. Pedestrians standing on the road couldn’t do anything out of sheer intimidation, born from the cars speeding toward you. You looked toward where the honking came from.

I can’t keep doing this. It’s your muscle memory, isn’t it? Damn biology. I really–let me rewind. 

“It’s deja vu. Everyone feels like once in a while. Maybe it’s not as serious as you think it is,” Chan said. “Look, you’ve been thinking about this too much. How about we go get a drink tonight? 

“I don’t know, Chan,” you muttered with a sigh. “I’ve been feeling really depressed lately.”

“I’m surprised you don’t think I can tell,” he said. “How about this–I’ll buy some drinks, and we’ll hang out at yours. Beats heading outside, right?”

You closed your eyes. That could work. One of the biggest reasons the outside was so unappealing was that you had to step foot into it. Even now, with the sun shining down on your head, you’re quickening your pace so you can go home. If Chan was willing to go through the trouble of paying for drinks and hauling them to your apartment, you’ve got no complaints. It might be an excellent way to forget about this whole deja vu situation, too.

“Deal,” you confirmed with a soft smile. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

Chan giggled from the other side, but he didn’t say anything. 

Wait, why didn’t he say anything?

“Woah! Hey! Watch the road!”

What? What happened? Why is this sequence repeating itself? I scratched that off the document!

You snapped your head up from looking at the ground. Your eyes first caught the red traffic light, and you gasped. You swore you saw someone move next to you—stop! Pause! Pause!—Should have looked before crossing the road. Turning around and planning to head back to the pedestrian street as it was a shorter distance than moving across the road entirely, you could only take one step before honks blared at your ears—why are you trying to kill yourself? Can’t you just let me continue with this, [Name]? 

You could see the cars coming, but your feet wouldn’t move. Your eyes stared through the danger into a beacon laid far away, the illusion of a man’s face you should have forgotten. His name echoed silently through your mind, but his warmth remained on your body, in the shape of your arms and the weight on your finger. 

I cannot… I do not have the power to erase what your body—your heart—chooses to remember, only that of your mind. If your first instinct is to go home and return to Lee Minho, I’m afraid I have no power to stop you besides rewinding time and hoping for a change. 

Let me… let me rewind. 

May you two have a joyous reunion… and… thank you for this lesson. 

“Woah! Hey! Watch the road!”

You snapped your head up. Your eyes first caught the red traffic light, and you gasped. You swore you saw someone move next to you; you should have looked before crossing the road. Turning around and planning to head back to the pedestrian street, as it was a shorter distance than moving across the road, you could only take one step before honks blared at your ears. Scared, your knees gave away, and you fell backward.

The screams of others and the urgent car honks were blocked out from your ears. You turned your head to the side and saw a truck running down the road towards you. This one would kill you, you would close your eyes, and you would leave this place. Your lips quirked uncontrollably. 

You would go back to him.

The mesh curtains stayed the same, useless against the sun but pretty with it. The bedsheet was as you felt it the first time, soft and silky yet thick and warm, the ones that make you sleep like you were in a goddamn coma. And Minho was the same as you last remembered seeing him—fluttery lashes, soft brown locks, and naturally pouty lips.

You remembered. 

You pursed your lips into a tight smile to keep a laughing sob from bubbling up your throat. Staring at him, you realize he made you feel the same as you last remembered, and immeasurable affection pulled at your fingertips, longing for a touch of his gentle skin and to feel him close to you. And you did, unapologetically, caressed his face with the back of your fingers.

Perhaps it was a deliberate plan to wake him up, but you wouldn’t admit that to yourself.

Minho stirred in his sleep at the touch. His brows furrowed before he opened his eyes, and when he saw you, his frown only deepened. You (or, well, ‘you’) have never tried to attempt this before, nor has he ever asked for love from them. His mind was occupied by somebody else, someone he thought would never come back to him ever again. Feeling this, having his cheek tenderly stroked in the morning, was surprising and weird.

“Hey, Minho,” you whispered, pinching his cheek slightly.

A shiver so strong it felt like a lightning zap ran down his body. His eyes widened slowly in recognition. He would know. He would just know. Through looking at you, through the feeling of your skin, through the way you space out your words, through the way you control your tone, through the way his ears react to your voice, through everything. He would know. He would be the first to know. 

His eyes moved across your features. You looked the same as he had always seen you, before and after you left. But there was one defining difference he could make: the ring on your hand wasn’t there before. You had taken it with you after you left this place, and now it’s back. 

“[Name],” he croaked out, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder, gripping it gently.

“I’m home.” You nodded with a smile. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you I’ll be late.”

The tears flow freely down his cheeks. It has been extremely difficult for him to revert to his usual lifestyle and pretend to be in love again. He had tried to bring himself to like ‘you,’ but it was useless. They simply felt different despite looking the same as you. 

He had missed your stupid jokes, the way you could come back home with bags of clothes he rarely has the chance to wear, and the food you cook. The little recurring moments he loved with you, he replayed them every night in the room and didn’t dare to allow himself to forget you.

You took the initiative and moved closer to him. Your palm was flat against his cheek now, and after you lovingly nudged the tip of your noses together, you leaned in to give him a long-awaited kiss. He melted against you, against your lips and your hand, with desperation in each curve of his mouth. He felt like he couldn’t let go. He knew he couldn’t let you go this time, never again.

Reluctantly pulling away, your dazed eyes stared right back into his. You touched his face again, smiling. Minho cupped your hand in his, pressing his forehead against yours with a light whisper, “Do you remember who I am?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Who am I?”

The sun shone from outside, casting a ray of warmth at an empty ring box located at the corner of the desk.

“You are Lee Minho,” you said, giving his lips a peck. “You are my husband.”

And you remembered that he told you he loves you, just as you love him.  

#stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #stray kids x oc #skz x y/n #skz x oc #skz x you #skz x reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #lee know x you #minho imagines #lee know imagines #minho x reader #minho x you #lee know x y/n #lee know x reader #minho scenarios #lee know scenarios #minho x y/n

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter sixty nine

close to home | chapter sixty nine

plot: the reader continues to heal, and her and Daryl have a talk

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,084 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd

“Careful, careful… ow! Careful, Daryl.” You winced in pain as your husband pulled off your bandages. They were stuck from the dried blood, and it felt like he was pulling off a million bandaids. 

Daryl rolled his eyes at you as he got the last one off, and you sighed with relief and dug your head further into the pillow to get comfortable. Dog was whining at the foot of your bed, and Daryl had to keep yelling at him to be quiet. 

You looked down at the new scars on your arms. Visions of what happened flashed in your mind, and you had to look away. But of course, the one on your stomach was the most blaring. A direct threat to your life was cut into you. You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked at Daryl, who was preparing the other bandages. 

You set a hand on your belly, which looked almost normal with you lying on your back. It poked out a little, though. And you could tell the difference. 

“‘Aight, lemme see ya arm,” Daryl said as he knelt beside the bed. He carefully laid them out on your arms and then wrapped them. “They gonna be good soon. Maybe another two days.”

“Thank you,” You whispered as you stared at him. He looked so handsome it made your heart ache. When he went to work on your other arm, you brushed his hair back to caress his face. “You’re so pretty.”

His cheeks lit up, and he shook his head, which made you smile.

After tending to your other arm and then your stomach, you grabbed his face and pulled him into a slow kiss. His lips were soft against yours while his hand firmly gripped your waist. When you pulled away slowly, you left a few more quick but soft kisses against his lips. 

“I love you so much, handsome.”

Daryl nodded and kissed you again. You could tell something was wrong when he pulled away, but he said he would take Dog out one more time before you went to bed. 

You sighed when he left and sat up. The worst part that hurt was your nose, eyes, and stomach. But after a few days of rest, you felt better than you thought. Being shot was worse. Physically, at least. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see Alpha’s and Beta’s faces and hear your friends dying.

The room felt too quiet then, and you quickly closed the shutters before taking off your bra and putting on one of Daryl’s shirts. It was cold in the room, but you didn’t feel like sleeping with pants on, so you climbed into the bed and waited. 

And waited.

And waited some more. 

Finally you heard Dog barking at the door and then Daryl walked in. 

“What took you so long?”

“Ask Dog. Needed to smell every Goddamn thing. 

You watched Daryl lie out a blanket for the dog and then change. You wolf-whistled when he took off his shirt--which he replied to with a middle finger--and then finally, he shut the light off and got into bed next to you.  

The bed dipped as you moved closer to Daryl and forced your way into his arms. His arm wrapped around you tightly, and you looked up at him. “You haven’t said much.”

He hesitated for a second. “Just don’ know what to say, I guess.”

“You haven’t said anything about what happened. Talk to me.”

You saw the outline of his hand near his mouth, and you pulled it away to keep him from biting on his nail. He sighed loudly and looked at you, but you couldn’t see his face. “I wanna kill ‘em. Every single last one of ‘em. I want ‘em dead for what they did to ya. For all of it.”

“Me too.”

“I thought I killed him. The one who calls himself Beta. Thought I killed him in the elevator. If I had… maybe-.”

“Daryl, no.” You cut him off. “Don’t even start that game. This wasn’t your fault.”

“She did it to ya ‘cause I didn’ give up the girl. ‘S my fault. ‘M sorry, (Y/N).” Daryl said. His hand pressed against the side of your face as you sighed. You leaned forward, finding his lips in the dark.

“I won’t be able to make you think otherwise, and I’m not foolish enough to try. But Daryl, I don’t blame you. And if you need it, I forgive you. I don’t blame you at all. Okay?” You saw him nod. 

“Why didn’ ya tell me ‘bout the baby sooner? How long did ya know?”

You bit your lip and laid your head back down against his shoulder. “I had a hunch before Tora… before I went on the run with Rosita and Eugene. But I didn’t know for sure until we got back to the Hilltop after finding Lydia.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me? Ya knew, and ya still went out there? Ya put yourself at risk.”

You ran your hand along his bare chest to try and calm his anger down. “I wasn’t going to let you go out there alone, Daryl. I’m with you. Whenever and whatever.” 

He shook his head. “Ya can’t… not anymore. Ya gotta stay safe. If I lose ya, or the baby, I don’t….”

“You’re not going to. I’m fine.” You said. “But after this, once we get back to Alexandria, I promise you I will stay within the walls as long as you aren’t in any danger, Dixon.”

***

Daryl couldn’t sleep that night. Dog kept whining at the door because he didn’t like being cooped up, and there was too much on his mind. He kept replaying the image of finding you, again and again, over and over, in his head. 

He thought you were dead. The way you were covered in blood, limply tied up to a pike with his friends' heads above you. When he lifted your head, and your eyes didn’t open, he was so distraught he lost the small amount of food he’d eaten that day. But when Siddiq said they kept you alive, God, he was so relieved. 

And now you were here, sleeping next to him. You were injured, mentally and physically, so much so that he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to help you. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for you. He didn’t want to. If he did, he’d hunt down every last one of those freaks until they were dead. 

He sighed loudly and rolled over onto his stomach. The bed dipped as you turned as well. Your shirt had rolled up a bit in your sleep, and he could see your belly from the moonlight coming in.  

How could he not have noticed? He felt like an idiot. 

And he was furious with you. He wanted to scream at you for not telling him, even before you knew for sure. He couldn’t believe—well, he could—that you went out with Rosita and Eugene and then with him to find Henry. He wanted to throttle you over it. But he couldn’t. Not after everything you’d been through. And worst of all, he understood. He would do anything for you, no matter the situation, no matter what held him back. 

You started stirring in your sleep, and he felt you start twitching. 

“No…,” You mumbled. “Don’t…” 

“Hey, hey,” Daryl said, immediately trying to soothe you. He set his hand on the top of your head and used the other to gently shake you awake. 

Your mumbles got louder before you started thrashing on the bed. Your eyes finally opened as you sat up and were near hyperventilating. 

“Don’t touch me!” You screamed in horror as the last of your nightmare drifted away. 

“Ya okay,” Daryl said, sitting up. “Ain’ nobody here to hurt ya.” 

Even in the dark, he could see your expression as you looked at him, and it was like a punch to the gut when you started crying and fell into him. “I saw him. I was back there in the barn and.. and…” You sobbed. 

Daryl stayed quiet as he rubbed the back of your head. It was the only thing he could do to keep himself from going to find Beta and kill him. 

Your hands were holding onto his arm desperately, and he pulled you closer. 

“When I was in there, they had me tied up to watch them kill all our friends.” Your voice was a whisper, and Daryl froze. You hadn’t spoken a word about what happened until now. He had the general idea but hadn’t heard your story yet. “I tried to fight. I could kick some of them down, but they just got back up…

“And then, once they were dead, Alpha told me she would kill me first. But she didn’t wanna kill the baby. I guess the womb is a no-go, but once it’s out, it’s natural selection.” He thought about the baby Tammy Rose and Earl had and where the baby came from.

“They both did it. Alpha made the cuts, the threats. But Beta… he’s the one who beat me.” 

Daryl stiffened his arms around you and pressed his lips against the top of your head. He held back his tears to let you find comfort in his own strength. 

“I was so out of it. I could barely remember you guys finding me. I just remember thinking I would die and that you’d find me and…” Your voice trailed off. 

Daryl didn’t know what to say, not that that surprised him. He wasn’t the best at words unless they were in anger. 

“I’m so sorry, Daryl.”

His eyebrows furrowed together, and he pulled away to look at your face. “For what?”

“For everything. For putting myself in danger and not thinking about the consequences. For you to find me like that. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy…” Your voice trailed off, and you set your hands on the sides of his face.

“Don’ even think ‘bout that, darlin’. Ya don’ worry ‘bout me.” 

He closed his eyes when you rubbed your soft fingers against his cheeks and felt his body calm down at the touch. Then you pressed your forehead against his lips, and he kissed it a few times. 

“I love you.” Your voice was a whisper, and he leaned his forehead against yours. He could hear how unsteady your breathing was.

“I love ya too, darlin’.”

Your hands were still tight around his face when you looked up at him. You kissed him gently, and Daryl felt his heart leap like every other time. It didn’t matter how long it’s been since he met you or the first kiss the two of you shared. It always made him feel the same. 

“Thank you.” Again, you whispered. 

“For what?”

“For being you. For being everything to me.” His eyes opened, and they met yours. “I used to think that we only work ‘cause of this world. That before, we wouldn’t have. But I know we would’ve. I would crave your touch like I do now, thinking about you all day. I think we were made for each other. Period.” 

Daryl was glad for the dark, so you couldn’t see how his eyes shone. Your words meant everything to him. They were everything he needed to hear and more. His heart was beating fast, and he bit his lip. 

“Ya really mean that?”

You nodded and leaned your forehead against his lips. He smiled before giving you a kiss. He loved when you did that. When you wanted physical touch and the way you told him without words. It was his language you spoke in, and he savored it. 

“We gonna be okay,” Daryl whispered against your skin. “We gonna get ya home to Alexandria, and we gonna be okay. I promise ya.” 

“I do wanna go home. I wanna be in Alexandria. This room reminds me of everything bad that happened to me.” 

“We can go to Alexandria soon, once ya able to. ‘Mma get ya home, baby girl.” 

You nodded and laid back against the bed, cuddling up to Daryl as soon as he joined you. “Sleep.” He said, rubbing his hand on your back. “Ya safe, Dog ain’ lettin’ anything touch us.” 

***

You and Daryl spent the next few days at the Kingdom before you were ready to go home. Your cuts were just scabs now, and your eyes were yellowing. Your nose would heal soon, but it was still broken with a bandage. 

Jerry made sure you and Daryl had more than enough food to last the way, and it was sad to say goodbye to his family. But it was worse saying goodbye to Carol, who was grieving. The two of you sat and cried for a good hour, and you apologized for not being able to protect Henry, but she wouldn’t hear it. She even came to see you and Daryl off. 

It took a day and a half to get to Alexandria on horseback, and when you finally saw those walls, you wanted to cry with happiness. Aaron wrapped you up in a big hug when you walked through the gate and hugged Daryl, too. 

And, of course, seeing the kids meant everything to you. Judith was ecstatic that you were home safe, and RJ held your hand the entire way back to your house. 

Michonne smiled as soon as she saw you and Daryl and gave you a hug. “I’m so happy to see you,” She said. Then she gave Daryl a hug. “And you, too.”

“We’re happy to be home.” You said. “How is everything here?”

You could see the light in her eyes dim a little, but she nodded. “We’re okay.” 

You grabbed Daryl’s hand and followed the Grimes family into your house. It smelt like home, and you felt yourself relax. 

“I spoke to Aaron. The third floor’s bedroom shared a bathroom with a second room. It’s not finished. But I thought it would give you two more space once the baby moves.” Michonne said.

You sat down at the center island, and Daryl gave you water within a minute. 

“Really?” You asked. “I never go up there, never even thought about it.” 

“The baby is gonna need windows. Can’t keep it in the basement.” Michonne gave Daryl a pointed look. 

“Baby’s a girl.” Daryl sat next to you.

Michonne smiled as Judith cheered, going on about how she was so happy to have a girl cousin, which only made you smile and run your hand against the back of her head. 

After catching up with them, you and Daryl walked to the third floor. You knew it was mostly where supplies were kept: clothes for the kids, winter clothes, and old baby stuff that would come in handy sooner rather than later.

The bathroom was finished, just missing supplies, and it needed painting, and there were broken tiles. Both bedrooms connected to the bathroom weren’t finished; some of the walls were still wood. But it was bigger than your bedroom downstairs, and it would offer more privacy. And you knew how much Judith and RJ didn’t want you to move out. 

“What do you think? We could finish it?” You asked, putting your hand on your stomach as you turned to look at him. 

Daryl was already staring at you. And he had been, from his spot, leaning against the doorframe. 

“I love ya.”

You smiled and walked over to him. “I love you, too, old man.”

#daryl x reader #daryl dixion x reader #daryl fanfiction #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon x reader #twd #daryl dixon #daryl x y/n #daryl twd #daryl x you

[vendetta-if]

Okay... Every. Single. Time. I see the hickey ask on an IF blog I follow, I feel the NEED to post this follow up:

What if very shortly after that, the ROs catch / hear the MC asking someone (or even if the MC asks THEM, depending on the context) if they have something to soothe mild allergic reactions to mosquito bites, because they got one on their neck.

So basically, how would they react when faced to the reveal it wasn't a hickey at all but a dumb mosquito bite!

Here goes out to all of you hickey anons and non-anons 🤭❤️ Also, the link to the infamous hickey ask is here for those who haven’t read it!

Ash

“Wait, wait, Ash!” They hear MC calls out to them and they stop in place. Oh, how they just want to bolt away from this nightmare, but maybe this is also a chance to just face it head-on.

“Ash, what’s wrong?” MC asks as Ash turns around to face them. Ash doesn’t really know what kind of face they’re wearing right now.

“Who was it, MC?” They ask, voice hoarse.

“Who, what?” MC asks in genuine confusion, which just irritates Ash even more.

“The one—The one who gave you… those marks!” They gesture at MC’s neck.

MC’s eyes widen. “What?! No! Nobody gave me these marks. These are goddamn mosquito bites,” MC explains as they scratch their neck. “I swear once I get my hands on those bastards…” They mutter under their breath.

Ash just stands there dumbfounded. “M—Mosquitoes?” Those are not… They glance down and just notice MC is holding a can of bug spray. Oh… Oh no… How could you think the worst of MC, Ash?

“Yeah, pesky bastards. Don’t tell me you didn’t have any in your room last night?” MC says, scanning Ash up and down for a second before concluding, “Oh, you didn’t, don’t you?”

“N—No,” Ash replies truthfully.

“Motherfuckers probably thought your blood is too hot to drink or something,” MC mumbles irritatedly. “Well, I’m gonna spray the whole penthouse now, if you don’t mind.” MC raises the can in their hand like a weapon.

“Uh… Yeah, please do that,” Ash says stupidly. “And, uh… Just forgot what I said earlier…” A surge of relief washes through their whole body, but it soon gets tainted by embarrassment.

“Aww, were you jealous?” MC smirks teasingly.

“Uh—Um…” Ash stammers. “I—I gotta go! See you later, MC!” They splutter in panic before bolting away for real this time.

Oh my God, MC is not gonna let them live this down, won’t they…

Rin

Rin decides not to embarrass themself further and chooses to just ignore MC, pretending not to see or notice them entering the room. They’re not going to lower themself to ask MC about the marks.

Honestly, they’d rather MC leave them alone for now. But of course, the opposite of what they want always happen. They groan inwardly as they see MC walking over to where they’re standing from the corner of their eye.

They steel themself for an unwanted conversation. They’re good at that.

“Hey, Rin,” MC greets them and they just grunt softly in reply. MC doesn’t even notice their curt reply, seemingly distracted by something else.

Oh, I bet their mind is still filled by whatever happened last night…

“Uh, this might be a weird question,” MC begins sheepishly as Rin just keeps staring at them unamusedly. “But, do you know any kind of salve or medicine that can help with these mosquito bites?” They ask, scratching at the marks on their neck.

Rin blinks. There’s no way that excuse would work on them. “Really?” They reply skeptically as they gesture at MC’s neck. “You’re bitten by mosquitoes in your penthouse?”

“I know right? I don’t even know how they managed to get in considering my penthouse is like… at the top floor of a skyscraper,” MC agrees, missing the point Rin is insinuating. “Probably through the elevator or the air vent or something. Anyway, Uncle Luka said he’ll personally get a professional pest extermination service to deal with that.”

Well, Rin did catch their father talking with Luka on the phone about choices of professional pest extermination services available in the city. For some reason, Luka asked their dad as if he knows anything more about it than Luka does. Maybe MC is telling the truth and it’s their paranoia and distrust running rampant once again…

Rin uncrosses their arms—when did they even cross them in the first place? “Uh… Tiger balm works wonder for bug bites,” Rin advises.

“Tiger balm, huh?” MC repeats. “Alright, I’ll just go get it at the nearest drug store. Be right back,” they say before swiftly making their way to the elevator.

Meanwhile Rin is left standing there, still processing what has just happened in the span of a few minutes.

Santana

“Hey, Santana!” MC greets them as they walk over to where Santana is standing.

Santana is already cringing inside at the potential awkwardness of the conversation. They’ll still try their best to try talk normally with MC, but it’s kinda hard with the hickeys still heavy in their mind.

“Um… Hi, MC,” they greet back cordially.

“So, how was your night? Had enough sleep?” MC asks them.

“Well, like usual,” they answer distractedly. “How about you? Seems like you had a wild night…” They gesture at the general direction of MC’s neck.

Oh my God, Santana! What the heck are you doing? Asking about the thing you wanted to avoid talking in the first place?! You idiot!

“Oh, you won’t believe this,” MC begins enthusiastically. “So, I was sleeping pretty soundly for like half the night, before my neck started to feel really itchy. I kept getting dragged out of sleep as I scratched at it. Woke up the next morning, and lo and behold, I just got frickin bitten by the most vicious mosquitoes of Elysium City,” they complain, tilting their head a bit to show them of the “hickeys” which turn out to be mosquito bites.

“Huh?” Santana remarks intelligently as they stare at the marks. Okay, now that they can see them better and closer, they do seem like bug bites instead of hickeys.

“I know right?” MC agrees, with… what? Santana is not sure because their mind is blank right now. “Don’t ask me how the mosquitoes managed to break into my penthouse, which, mind you, is located at the top of a skyscraper.”

“That… That is indeed weird,” Santana replies, chuckling in a mix of amusement and relief. It seems like their fear is unfounded after all.

MC continues their rant about the pesky mosquitoes and their plan on eradicating them from their penthouse. Santana just smiles softly as they listen to every word.

Skylar

Skylar quickly makes their way to MC before anyone else manage to make a conversation with them. MC stops in their track as they notice Skylar approaching.

“Hey, MC!” Skylar greets in faux-cheeriness.

“Oh, hey, Skylar,” MC greets back. “What’s up?”

“Well, I should be the one asking you that,” Skylar says, the grin on their face feels very strained but they hope it won’t show and that it still looks charming on the surface. “Who’s the lucky person?” They ask straight to the point, gesturing at the general area of MC’s neck.

“Certainly not me,” MC groans as they rub at their neck. “Just had one of the worst nights of the month.”

“Oh?” Skylar prompts, hopefulness crammed into that one single sound.

Inside, they’re gleeful though. It seems like whoever MC was sleeping with last night must’ve sucked balls—no possible pun intended. Well, this is their time to shine! Skylar would be more than happy to show MC how it’s really done!

“Yeah! I kept waking up at the middle of the night because these annoying mosquito bites were so damn itchy!” MC complains, scratching at their neck again.

Skylar nods before stopping. Wait, what? Mosquito bites? “What?” They ask, dumbfounded. The marks… they’re not…

MC doesn’t seem to notice Skylar’s confusion as they continue ranting, “I don’t even know how they managed to get in! My penthouse is located at the top of a fricking skyscraper!”

A sense of relief floods through Skylar, and their strained grin has shifted into a mischievous one. “Well, I know of a remedy to help with the bites.”

“Wait, really?” MC looks at them curiously. “What’s that?”

“I heard kisses can work wonder.” Skylar winks before pursing their lips and making kissy noises. “I’m always available to help, you know. Just give me a call whenever you’re ready.”

Skylar can practically see the blood surging up to MC’s cheeks. “Y—You—” they stammer. “You idiot! T—That’s not real! If you’re not going to help, then I’ll go to buy some real medicine for these bites instead!” MC harrumphs adorably, turning away to walk to the elevator.

Aww, MC is soo cute! It makes Skylar feels warm and gooey inside as they chuckle to themself. “Well, my offer will always be open! Whether you have more bug bites in the future or not!” They call out to MC’s receding back.

MC doesn’t even turn and just flips them the middle finger instead before stepping inside the elevator. Oh, they love MC.

#asks #anon ask #if: vendetta #vendetta if #full cast ros #ro reactions #drabble #ro: ash #ro: rin #ro: santana #ro: skylar #if game #if wip #dashingdon #choicescript #cyoa #cyoa game #choice of games #hosted games #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive games #interactive story

[katsu28]

🍭 lollipop -26. “Just breathe. Like that. That’s it” from List 4 with steve pls?? ty<3

i combined this one with another request—"relax, i've got you." because i thought they went pretty hand in hand with each other, i hope that's okay! ty for requesting! <3

dad!steve harrington x pregnant!reader, mentions of pain and pregnancy symptoms, 1.3k

Being pregnant was proving to be one of the hardest things in your life. You’d had enough dizziness and nausea in your first trimester to last you a lifetime, enough achiness and swollen feet in your second than anyone should ever have, and now in your third, you’d discovered something brand new to put on your list of pregnancy woes.

False labor pains, otherwise known as Braxton-Hicks contractions (as Steve had very quickly informed you after a trip to the library that resulted in a pile of what to expect when you’re expecting-esque books residing next to his side of the bed). Paired with an extremely active baby girl with a horse strength kick who loved to make it known 24/7, this home stretch was your toughest one yet.

The telltale open and shut of the front door signaled Steve’s arrival, even before his voice. “Honey, I’m home!!!” He sang.

You made a vague noise of acknowledgement from your sprawled out position on the couch, waving your hand over your head haphazardly. You’d been stuck in the same spot for almost the whole day, seeing as every time you tried to get up, either another well placed kick or a false contraction dragged you right back down.

“How’re my girls doing?”

“Your daughter’s doing her daily karate routine against my organs, but other than that we’re great.”

“Oh so she’s gonna do karate now? I thought she was gonna be a tap dancer? Or a soccer player?” Steve teased gently, tossing his keys into the bowl on the table near the front door. He kicked his shoes off too, hanging his jacket on the hook next to yours before crossing the room to rub your shoulders with a kiss pressed to the top of your head.

“She can be all of them when she grows up, but I wish she’d stop it right now.”

He let out a snort of laughter, rounding the couch and kneeling in front of you. One hand came to rub your belly gently, the other coming to land on your knee. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Tell her to cut it out.” Another laugh from him. “How was work?”

“Pretty uneventful. Robin says hi though, wanted me to ask if you two were still on for lunch on Tuesday?”

“Oh my god, I totally forgot to call her back!” You gasped, hands scrabbling for purchase on the couch cushions as if you wanted to push yourself up.

“Hey, hey, slow your roll, sweetheart. Take it easy, I’ll give her a call later.” Steve eased you back down, shooting you a pointed look when you pouted up at him. “I promise, ‘mkay?”

“‘Mkay.” You sighed, slumping back into your previous position. Then, barely even taking a beat, you shot up straight again, this time moving to grab Steve’s shoulders as leverage.

His brows furrowed in instant concern. “What? What’s happening now? Are you okay?”

“Gotta pee.”

“Jesus, you really scared me for a second there,” He breathed, pressing a hand against his chest but going to help you up anyways.

The second you made it to your feet, you were hit with another Braxton-Hicks, this one so big that you would’ve keeled over at the strength of it if not for Steve still holding on to you. You squeezed your eyes shut, sinking back down on the couch yet again with a choked whimper. For something called false labor, the pain sure was really goddamn real. “Whoa, okay. Relax, I’ve got you. You’re alright, sweetheart, you’re doing great. Just relax.”

“Tell me to relax one more time and I’m gonna wring your neck, Harrington.” You said through gritted teeth, fisting his shirt in your hand as if it would help you ride out the pain.

Steve ignored your threat, because he knew you didn’t actually mean it. You’d been growing a whole tiny human inside you for the past eight months, the least he could do was stomach a few gripes here and there. “Squeeze my hands. Just squeeze my hands, it’ll help.”

You gladly took him up on the offer, borderline crushing his hands with a strength neither you nor him knew you had, but he’d never complain about it. A popped knuckle and temporary loss of blood flow was nothing compared to what you’d been having to endure nonstop.

Tears welled up in your eyes at the worsening spasm in your back and abdomen, like someone had taken your insides and was twisting them around in their grip.

“Just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” Steve soothed, mimicking the deep breaths he wanted you to take. “Like that, that’s it. There you go. Just like that, baby.”

“This is the cramp from hell, Steve, deep breathing isn’t helping anything.”

“Okay, alright, let’s try something else then. Didn’t the doctor say moving around would help lessen the pain?” He suggested, trying his best to rack his brain despite the numbness creeping through his hands. “Or maybe drink some water? I can get you a glass of—”

“Can you just shut up for a minute?” The sharpness in your words shocked you, and should’ve shocked Steve too, but he didn’t seem phased at all, instead just nodding, gazing up at you with wide honey eyes currently filled with concern.

Guilt pooled in you as soon as the contraction finally subsided, and somehow, the guilt felt worse. Steve had been nothing less than the perfect partner this entire pregnancy, and here you were snapping at him for being supportive. Again.

You inhaled a shaky breath, bringing his hands up and pressing a kiss to each of his palms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Stevie, I don’t mean to be mean to you, I just—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, okay? You can do and say anything you want to me, sweetheart, and you never have to apologize. You’re carrying our kid, you’ve got every right to be as mean as you want.” He assured you, cupping your face. His thumbs stroked across your cheeks featherlight despite the firmness in his grip. “I’m a big boy, I can take it. Never be sorry. You don’t have to be.”

“I love you,” You sighed miserably, melting against him like a popsicle on a hot summer day.

“I love you most, sweetheart.” He replied softly, leaning down to press his lips against your belly before adding something. “And I love you most too, baby girl, even though you’re giving your mom a tough time right now.”

“I swear, she’s bullying me more and more everyday.”

He chuckled softly, smoothing a hand down your back in light circles. “I’m sure that’s just her way of saying she’s excited to meet us.”

“I know. I’m so excited to meet her and I know she’s already everything we’ve ever dreamed of, but I’d kill to be able to sleep on my stomach again.”

“One more month, baby. Just one more month and then you can sleep on your stomach all you want.” He murmured, breath ghosting across your skin with each word.

“One more month.” You echoed, curling your hand around the back of his neck. One more month of discomfort for a lifetime of anything and everything with your baby girl. That, you were excited for. Slightly terrified, but definitely more excited. “I’m nervous. Are you?”

“Oh yeah. Nearly-shitting-my-pants nervous. All the time. I don’t think that feeling is ever gonna go away, honestly.” He snorted, nodding sharply. He pressed one more kiss to your belly. “But it’s worth it. As long as I have my two girls, anything is worth it.”

“I hate how perfect you’re being right now.”

“Just right now? I think you mean always.”

You pressed your lips together suddenly, scrunching your nose at him. “Stevie, you’re about to hate me.”

“I could never, but good try.”

“I still need to pee.”

Steve barked out a laugh, heaving himself to his feet and gearing up to help you in your endless attempts at standing up. “C’mon, preggers, let’s get you to the bathroom before karate kid in there decides to try out for a new belt.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #dad!steve harrington x pregnant!reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #kait celebrates 1k!

[myths-tournaments]

Awful Characters Round 1 Part 2 (2/8)

Propaganda under the cut!

MORI OGAI

Yes, he's a horrible person but gd is it cool to see him get serious. I'm excited every time he shows up. Traumatised like The important character in the series and also multiple others. I still like him. He is canonically a pedophile so… understandable why people hate him but also he's fictional and a great character. And yeah, every time he gets brought up people will in fact get called bad for liking him.

BENNY

The first thing that happens in new vegas is that benny fucking shoots your character in the face, steals your shit and leaves you in an open grave. Benny is by all accounts a bastard. He kills you, steals from you, he killed his last boss, he is the single most duplicitous man around. His gang are all about honesty- except him. He's a lying, cheating bastard. The guys who helped him catch you? He skipped on paying them and left them to get shot to death. His new boss, mr.house? He stole his robot, broke it open, got someone to reprogram it and decided to use it to TAKE OVER THE WHOLE OF VEGAS. Benny literally kills people, lies to people, steals their shit and takes charge. That's all benny does. He gets fucking CRUCIFIED if you don't help him out just because so many people fucking hate him. And yet. And yet. Benny is the single most compelling character in the whole game to me. He's just a little guy! He's just there! You can get shot in the head and come back and he goes "what in the goddamn" and then if you try and flirt with him he's like "uhhh sure? Okay?" And leaves you a polite note in the morning. He's fancy. He wears a stupid suit. He has a tiny gun with shitty bullets. He's catholic. He talks like an old timey news presenter. Literally nobody else in the entire game does that. He's got an intelligence of 3. He's my funtime boy. My silly little man. He's so funny. The antagonist in this game is a guy dressed like a tablecloth who looks at all times like a confused dog who doesn't understand what a tv is. And like. He's compelling. He robs from you, shoots you, but…. he never seems to actually wish you harm. He kills and robs and lies but like. He apologises for doing it to you. When he sees you again he doesn't attack you, he's just… confused. He tries to defuse the situation. You can convince him to talk to you, alone, with no guards and it's not that hard. If you spare his life, he doesn't go after you, like. Even if you sleep with him he doesn't take advantage of that and kill you, even if you try to. He… he just leaves. He gives you an apology. If he gets kidnapped by Caesar He just… apologizes again. He tells you his whole plan to take over the city, too. He thinks he'll die, and he wants something of him to survive. He's happy that you made it. And if you let him free, he just… leaves. He knows he's beat, he doesn't want to cause any more trouble. He walks out and leaves. The NCR will kill you if you cross them. The legion will crucify you. House? He'll blow you the fuck up. But benny, the guy who lies and cheats and schemes, he's honest. He's polite. He's… harmless. You can kill him with a single shot if you want. And he can't kill you. He doesn't kill you the first time, and he'll never really hurt you again. Benny just wanted to win. When he knows he's beat he just leaves. No lingering, no harm, he's off, off into the desert heat, and never seen again. Isn't that just insane? like have you ever known an antagonist so polite? He just leaves!! He offers you a drink!! His plan is genuinely probably the best one for the people of new vegas!!! He's. Benny is Benny.

Anyway if you want to see some REAL propaganda go to the blog @letmebegaytodd and look in the #benny tag. You'll Understand < https://www.tumblr.com/letmebegaytodd/717051175751614464/in-another-life-i-wouldve-really-liked-just> <- look at this shit man

pollrunner's note: yet again another case of ''it's all supposed to be one quote block, but tumblr hates me''

#awful characters tournament #tournament poll #awful characters round 1 #bungou stray dogs #bsd #mori ougai #bsd mori #fallout new vegas #benny gecko #benny fnv

[findafight]

Thinking about a pjo au where Steve's been a permanent camper for...forever. idk I only have two vivid scenes of it in my mind.

First, Dustin is a son of Hephaestus and has been trailing after Steve since his first summer when he was ten and was stuck in the Hermes cabin while he was unclaimed. (The Hermes cabin is really split into Hermes kids and Unclaimed kids. It's big and warm but there's still that unspoken divide there. Hermes, it seems, despite being the patron of the unclaimed children of his godly peers, is always quick to claim his own. They'll be in the cabin together anyways but, well. He seems to see their pain of being unwanted more than others.) So whilst there Dustin, ten and fascinated by camp, imprinted on the oldest, snarkiest unclaimed kid there. The unofficial Head Camper of the unclaimed (as you cannot be a head camper if you are unclaimed), Steve.

Which is how Steve ended up going to Hawkins for the summer before camp three years later with Robin (daughter of Selene, who he met the year before and got on with like a house on fire) at his side, in the stupidest uniforms known to man.

And working at scoops is how they end up finding Eddie, who seems to be able to see through the Mist just fine, and who monsters are after. Which, shit. Means he's eighteen or nineteen and has lasted in the outside world without camp, a remarkable feat. But! They've got bigger fish to fry! Like getting to camp.

Dustin babbles as Steve drives, Robin in the passenger seat, all the way to long island. He tells Eddie about camp, about sword fighting and capture the flag and the banquets and campfires. He tells Eddie about the forge he spends so much time in, all his friends, the Party, the way he's wired the radios to work across the country so he can speak to Suzie (daughter of Athena, a secret kept from her adoptive mother who was told Suzie was her father's cousin's child) all the way in Utah in the fall. Robin pipes in, every now and again, offers information about the gods, how camp runs.

Steve focuses on the road. He talks about the kids, Dustin's friends mostly, and Robin, and the rest of camp. It irks Eddie, that this guy who took out a Chimera with a baseball bat studded with, apparently, magic nails, isn't really adding anything. Dustin's been at camp every summer since he was ten, Robin came two and a half years ago, and Eddie knows their godly parents too. So he leans on the driver's seat, close to Steve.

"so." He says. Casual-like. "Who's your" he wiggles his fingers "godly parent?"

Steve shrugs. "Unclaimed." He says. His hands grip the steering wheel.

Eddie hums. Notices Robin glancing at him and shaking her head. Ignores it. "Well. Bummer. How old were you when you found camp or whatever?"

Steve's knuckles turn white. He answers.

"six months."

Eddie doesn't get it.

"you've only been at camp six months? But-you talk like you've been there for longer. When you guys found out how old I was you were all surprised, wh-"

"you asked how old I was. As far as Chiron and Mr. D can tell, I was six months old when I was dropped off with a note that had just my first name on it at the edge of the woods. Dryads brought me to them when they found me. Been a full time camper ever since."

There's. Heaviness, in the silence that follows.

Eddie knows about abandonment and wanting more and knowing he deserves more. Knows how much it means to him that Uncle Wayne took him in and calls him son so affectionately it may as well be true. And. Steve said he was unclaimed. That he's been at camp since he was six months old. He's been a full time camper his entire goddamn life. Ain't that a kick in the pants.

Steve shrugs again. "Neither of my parents want me, my mortal parent couldn't get rid of me fast enough and my godly one hasn't made a peep. So. I look after the other unclaimed kids. It's how I met Dustin."

They don't talk about parents so much after that.

and idk plot things happen blah blah blah

THEN.

Steve sees a kid, maybe ten, on the edge of the woods. He pauses, concerned. Camp is safe for the most part, but there are still monsters in the woods. Drifting over, he sees the girl has a scarf loosely over her head, like a veil, letting dark curls fall in front of her eyes from how she's pulled her knees up to sit. He doesn't recognize her, but that doesn't really mean much.

"hey! You okay over here?" He says, hopes he comes off as friendly. His nerves have been frazled and he just wants to sit by the peer and watch the sunset with Robin and Eddie after dinner. Breathe easy for a little while.

The girl smiles at him, tilts her head to the side. He kneels in front of her, trying to make himself smaller so she's not afraid.

"I'm Steve. You doing okay here? It's not really safe to be alone in the woods..."

The girl reaches a hand out, her skin baby soft. She sighs. "I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington." She says.

Her eyes, he realizes, are so much older than a ten year old's. He says nothing as they look at each other.

"do you remember," she starts, "when you first gave your offering to me, specifically?" And Steve knows, even though he already knew, who this is.

He nods. She brushes her thumb across his cheek, tenderly, motherly, for all she looks nearly half his age. "You were four. Barely old enough to really understand what the offerings of food you scraped into the fire were for. But you did it, and you did it for me. Very few ever do it just for me. But you were looking for a home, and I was the one you thought could help you find it. You kept doing it for me, giving up your best bite, every day after."

"yes." He says, because what else do you say to a goddess? To a goddess you have prayed to when you could think of no one else who would care to listen?

She releases his face and stands, slowly, before reaching out her hand for him to take as he gets up himself.

"I have a proposition for you." She says, swinging their hands between them, as children are wont to do.

"oh?"

She squeezes his hand. "Yes. I cannot tell you your godly parent, even if I knew who, as my siblings and peers have made it clear that sharing that type of secret is not allowed." She gazed up at him, big dark eyes surrounded by tight black curls escaping her veil. "And what a shame that is. Leaving you Unclaimed."

Steve squeezes her hand back. They slowly walk towards where they shall eat. "well. That is the gods' prerogative."

She hums. "They are a fool, whoever they are. But. Their foolishness is my reward. That brings me to my offering for you." She stops, they are near the amphitheatre, turning to face him fully and holding out her other hand for him to take. "I have heard your prayers to me at each meal, seen you care for your fellow campers. I have watched you grow and change into someone trustworthy, someone loyal and caring. I have seen how the children gather around you for comfort and how you freely give it, how you take comfort in your service to others." She breathes deeply, as though to steady herself. "I have seen my fellow gods look over you, an Unclaimed child of no-one, who never truly lived in the outside world before coming to the haven they made, and I have been angered by it. You are steadfast and loyal. You are brave and protective. You have worked hard to create not only a place that is safe, but a home that is welcoming."

She smiles widely now, giddy. Steve still does not speak. A lump caught in his throat.

"it is that last fact, that has led me here today. I offer you this, Steve. My cabin is yours to do with what you will, to give a home for those homeless. For so long as you tend my hearth and keep the home, should you accept it, I would give you my patronage." She releases his hands to reach up to cup his face between her small hands. She brushes away the tears that have gathered on his cheeks.

"I offer you the home you have given so many, the place to belong you have been building for others, Steve of Camp Half Blood. Will you accept this? The one gift I can give my most loyal knowing worshipper since the Vestal Virgins?" They both giggle, absurdly, at this.

Steve nods. "Yes." He whispers, "yes, Lady Hestia, I accept your patronage."

She pulls his face down, goes up on her tip toes, and places a gentle, loving kiss on his forehead. When she pulls back, her eyes reflect the bonfire that has been lit beside them.

"go, then. And tend to my hearth and your home." She says, and releases him fully at last.

He turns to the fire, to the tables laid out, to his fellow campers watching him and the goddess from their benches. He scratches the back of his neck. Smiles.

Dustin, as he so often does, breaks the silence. "Holy shit!"

Beside Steve, Hestia is gone.

#steve harrington #platonic stobin #robin Buckley #eddie munson #dustin henderson #steddie #only hinted at but eh #stranger things #fics #also Eddie's mum is Hecate because i think itd be funny #also. im emo about this. #finda writes stuff #finda's rambles #pjo stranger things #and in last olympian hestia takes the form of s young girl so